Ambarvalia/Burbidge/Si Modo

by Thomas Burbidge

SI MODO.

—No, not on earth can such love be!
Though fondest friends that bear the name,
Yet must our deeds by Praise and Blame
Be ruled; to sovran Right and Wrong
Our feelings and our thoughts belong.
Were I my own, while life endures,
So long were I not mine, but yours;
Ours were the Dawns that sprinkle bright
Yon crusted Alps with sparks of light;
Ours thoughtful Eve, her single care
To make some shadowy vale more fair;
Ours Noon, that planes the furrowed sea;
Night, one grand show for you and me.

How is it now? Fast whirling by,
A pomp, a cloudy company,
Sweep the dim Hours: if Love lay hand
Upon a straggler of the band,
It is enough,—the spirit's pride
Of mastery is satisfied:
The rest, as haughty as they go,
Their necks to humbler service owe;

Some need, of sensual nature born,
Subjects the blithest hour of morn;
Eve slaves in beauty to some task
Of Reason, half-ashamed to ask;
Some refuse moments of dull light,
Love's pittance out of all his right
On universal Day and Night.

And yet we love!—

Plongeon, Geneva.