Poems (Sharpless)/The Crowned Corinne
THE CROWNED CORINNE
"Happy—happier far than thou,With the laurel on thy brow—She that makes the humblest hearthLovely but to one on earth."
At last, alone! shut close the latticed door, Safe from intrusive eyes upon the street;How very sweet to be alone once more, Listening the echo of departing feet,And yield to all the tender dreams that come To glorify my home!
'Twas a proud day! and yet I am more glad And happier that 'tis o'er; this laurel wreathThrills me with joy, and yet a memory sad Quivers with anguish and despair beneath;My country crowns me, yet she seems to say, "Put womanhood away."
I know of dearer things than this, to stand The admired centre of all curious eyes;Where every flower blooming for love's hand In the white glare, pales utterly, and dies,And, like a stranger to your sex, you see What happy women be!
Yes! I remember as we neared the hill Where stands the Capitol, a woman pressedNear to my car, and nearer yet, until I looked upon the baby at her breast;Nestled in loving arms, so trustfully, It slept, unheeding me.
And she—ah me! in that my proudest hour, I could but mark the perfect happinessThat gave to features plain such potent power. My world-praised beauty seemed to me far less:Those tender clinging arms had brought a charm The cestus could but harm.
And there were others, who, with glance at me, Sitting aloft in splendid pomp, would turnTo dearer eyes, as though to bid me see How woman's heart for love, not fame, will yearn.And then I felt, as my proud car moved on, Amid a crowd, alone.
Ah me! my woman's heart! will laurel crown, Triumphal cars, and praises loudly spread,Fill the large soul that must live on alone, Or find companions only 'mid the dead,Whose grand philosophy must ever move More reverence than love?
But if for me love's tender happiness Be all denied, yet thou, my Italy,My heart's own country, hath such power to bless, I cannot but be happy, loving thee:—Poet and artist for thy sake, I lay My womanhood away.
Vanish, ye visions, from my longing eyes, Of sweet, domestic joy, and household bliss;Where lingers earth's last gleam of paradise In hallowed love and childhood's guileless kiss,No myrtle wreath for me shall lover twine,— The laurel crown is mine!