Did'st thou give a white handkerchief, brightly And scented with rose and with amber So sweet, that the scent of it nightly May be smelt in the Bey's bridal chamber?". When this came to the wife of the Bey, She burst into tears as she read: Lest my husband die for it," she said. Then the letter she laid in her breast, If my husband must die, let him die! Since the choice lies 'twixt the one or the other, But the sister that injures a brother Thus shrewdly the matter she saw: "Wife of my brother, the Bey! My husband is well. May naught ail him! And scented with rose and with amber POSSESSION. A POET loved a Star, And to it whisper'd nightly, "Being so fair, why art thou, love, so far? O might I to this beating breast That Star her Poet's love, So wildly warm, made human. And, leaving for his sake her heaven above, The Star's beam, or the Woman's breast?" "I miss from heaven," the man replied, AUX ITALIENS. AT Paris it was, at the Opera there;· And she looked like a queen in a book that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast, so bright. Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe with a tenor note The souls in Purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, "Non ti scordar di me"? The Emperor there, in his box of state, Where his eagles in bronze had been. The Empress too had a tear in her eye: You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, Well, there in our front-row box we sat, And hers on the stage hard by. And both were silent, and both were sad. Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had; So confident of her charm! I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was! I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, I thought of the dress that she wore last time, In the crimson evening weather; Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot) And the jasmine-flower in her fair young breast; I thought of our little quarrels and strife; For I thought of her grave below the hill, How I could forgive her, and love her!" And I swear as I thought of her thus, in that hour, It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, And I turned, and looked. She was sitting there I was here, and she was there; And the glittering horseshoe curved between ; From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair, And her sumptuous, scornful mien, To my early love, with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade, To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door; My thinking of her, or the music's strain, She is not dead, and she is not wed! But she loves me now, and she loved me then; And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again. The Marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; And but for her . . . well, we'll let that pass: She may marry whomever she will. But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face: for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast. The world is filled with folly and sin, And Love must cling where it can, I say: For Beauty is easy enough to win; But one isn't loved every day. And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when But oh the smell of that jasmine-flower! That voice rang out from the donjon tower, Non ti scordar di me!" MISERIMA. YOUNG, rich, and fair, why art thou weeping so? I never was a mother." "No, Dost thou, then, mourn for thy dead husband, say? "I loved him naught." For thy lost lover? “ Nay, Nor loved I any other." Young, rich, and fair, what hast thou lost, then? "Nought. Nor have youth, wealth, and beauty given me aught Yet life for thee has done its best and most. "I weep my useless wealth, my beauty vain, All possible felicities are thine, For what good thing denied thee dost thou pine? Weep on, then! Weep till tolls the passing bell! And live content! Else die, disconsolate one! |