The end of my journey seemed so far to my view;
Of the elm-trees which border the long avenue,
The nearest are only past by;
At the banquet of life I have barely sat down,
My lips have but pressed the bright foaming crown
Of the wine in my cup bubbling high,
I am only in spring,—the harvest I'd see,
From season to season like the sun I would be
Intent on completing my round;
Shining bright in the garden,—its honour and queen;
As yet but the beams of the morning I've seen,
I wait for eve's stillness profound.
O Death, thou canst wait; leave, leave me to dream,
And strike at the hearts where Despair is supreme,
And Shame hails thy dart as a boon!
For me, Pales has arbours unknown to the throngs,
The world has delights, the Muses have songs,
I wish not to perish too soon.
A prisoner myself, broken-hearted and crushed,
From my heart to my lips all my sympathies rushed,
And my lyre from its slumbers awoke;
At these sorrows, these wishes, of a captive, I heard,
And to rhyme and to measure I married each word
As softly and simply she spoke.
Should this song of my prison hereafter inspire
Some student with leisure her name to inquire,
This answer at least may be given,—
That grace marked her figure, her action, her speech,
And such as lived near her, blameless might teach
That life is the best gift of heaven.
A.
