I TOO have suffer'd; yet I know
She is not cold, though she seems so.
She is not cold, she is not light;
But our ignoble souls lack might.
She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh,
While we for hopeless passion die;
Yet she could love, those eyes declare,
Were but men nobler than they are.
Eagerly once her gracious ken
Was turn'd upon the sons of men ;
But light the serious visage grew-
She look'd, and smiled, and saw them through.
Our petty souls, our strutting wits,
Our labour'd, puny passion-fits-
Ah, may she scorn them still, till we
Scorn them as bitterly as she!
Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers,
One of some worthier race than ours!
One for whose sake she once might prove
How deeply she who scorns can love.
be like the starry lights
His voice like sounds of summer nights
In all his lovely mien let pierce
The magic of the universe!
And she to him will reach her hand,
And gazing in his eyes will stand,
And know her friend, and weep for glee,
And cry: Long, long I've look'd for thee.
Then will she weep; with smiles, till then,
Coldly she mocks the sons of men.
Till then, her lovely eyes maintain
Their
pure, unwavering, deep disdain.
I MUST not say that thou wast true,
Yet let me say that thou wast fair;
And they, that lovely face who view,
Why should they ask if truth be there?
Truth-what is truth? Two bleeding hearts,
Wounded by men, by fortune tried,
Outwearied with their lonely parts,
Vow to beat henceforth side by side.
The world to them was stern and drear,
Their lot was but to weep and moan.
Ah, let them keep their faith sincere,
For neither could subsist alone!
But souls whom some benignant breath
Hath charm'd at birth from gloom and care,
These ask no love, these plight no faith,
For they are happy as they are.
The world to them may homage make,
And garlands for their forehead weave;
And what the world can give, they take—
But they bring more than they receive.
They shine upon the world! Their ears To one demand alone are coy;
They will not give us love and tears, They bring us light and warmth and joy.
It was not love which heaved thy breast,
Fair child-it was the bliss within.
Adieu! and say that one, at least,
Was just to what he did not win.
A THOUSAND knights have rein'd their steeds
To watch this line of sand-hills run,
Along the never-silent Strait,
To Calais glittering in the sun;
To look tow'rd Ardres' Golden Field
Across this wide aërial plain,
Which glows as if the Middle Age
Were gorgeous upon earth again.
Oh, that to share this famous scene,
I saw, upon the open sand,
Thy lovely presence at my side,
Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand!
How exquisite thy voice would come,
My darling, on this lonely air!
How sweetly would the fresh sea-breeze
Shake loose some band of soft brown hair!
Yet now my glance but once hath roved
O'er Calais and its famous plain ;
To England's cliffs my gaze is turn'd,
On the blue strait mine eyes I strain.
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