No varying hues, from red to pale,
Thy inward feelings speak.
Thine atmosphere is festival;
Thy hand is on the lute;
And lightest in the midnight dance
We see thy fairy foot.
The many deem this happiness—
I see it is a task;
Young without youth, gay without mirth,
Thine is the veil and mask.
I mark thy constant restlessness,
Thy eagerness for change;
I know it is the wretched one
Who thus desires to range.
And thou dost flee from solitude
As if a fiend were there,
And communing with thine own thoughts
Were more than thou couldst bear.
Slight are the signs by which I put
Thy mask and veil aside,
And look upon thy wounded love,
And on thy wounded pride.
'Tis not for one, proud, fair, like thee
To perish or to pine;
A higher lot is cast for thee—
A higher will is thine!
Oh! misery to keep the heart
Lone, like some sacred fane,
And when it owns its deity,
Find it was own'd in vain!
