And fairy shape breathe but of happiness.
She is most beautiful! The richest tint
That e'er with roselight dyed a summer cloud,
Were pale beside her cheek; her raven hair
Falls even to her feet, though fastened up
In many a curl and braid with bands of pearl;
And that white bosom and those rounded arms
Are perfect as a statue's, when the skill
Of some fine touch has moulded it to beauty.
Yet there are tears within those radiant eyes,
And that fair brow is troubled! She is young;
But her heart's youth is gone, and innocence
And peace, and soft and gentle thoughts, have fled
A breast, the sanctuary of unhallowed fires,
That love has led to guilt. At each light stir
Of but a waving branch, a falling leaf,
A deeper crimson burnt upon her cheek,
Each pulse beat eagerly, for every sound
To her was Fernand's step, and then she sank
Pallid and tearful, with that sickening throb
Of sadness only love and fear can know.
The night pass'd on—she touched the silver chords,
And answered with her voice her lone guitar.
It pleased her for a while:—it soothes the soul
To pour its thoughts in melancholy words;
And if aught can charm sorrow, music can.
The song she chose was one her youth had loved,
Ere yet she knew the bitterness of grief,
But thought tears luxury:—
Oh take that starry wreath away,
Fling not those roses o'er my lute!
The brow that thou wouldst crown is pale,
The chords thou wouldst awaken mute.
Look on those broken gems that lie
Beside those flowers, withering there;
Those leaves were blooming round my lute,
Those gems were bright amid my hair.
And they may be a sign to tell
Of all the ruin love will make:
He comes in beauty, and then leaves
The hope to fade, the heart to break!
