The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 96

Well! there in our front-row box we sat, Together, my bride-betrothed and I; My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat, And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad.

Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had; So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was!

Who died the richest and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Through a needle's eye he had not to pa.s.s.

I wish him well, for the jointure given To my lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for years, Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees, together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather;

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), And her warm white neck in its golden chain, And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again;

And the jasmine-flower in her fair young breast, (O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine-flower!) And the one bird singing alone to his nest, And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring.

And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing!

For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over; And I thought... "were she only living still, How I could forgive her, and love her!"

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, And of how, after all, old things were best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmine-flower Which she used to wear in her breast.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold!

Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unrolled.

And I turned, and looked. She was sitting there In a dim box, over the stage; and dressed In that muslin dress with that full soft hair, And that jasmine in her breast!

I was here; and she was there; And the glittering horseshoe curved between:-- From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair, And her sumptuous scornful mien,

To my early love, with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade (In short from the Future back to the Past).

There was but a step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the pa.s.sage; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more.

My thinking of her, or the music's strain, Or something which never will be expressed, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed!

But she loves me now, and she loved me then!

And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again.

The Marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still, And but for her... well, we'll let that pa.s.s, She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face: for old things are best, And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin, And Love must cling where it can, I say: For Beauty is easy enough to win; But one isn't loved every day.

And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back, and be forgiven.

But O the smell of that jasmine-flower!

And O that music! and O the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower, Non ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me!

Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton [1831-1891]

SONG

I saw the day's white rapture Die in the sunset's flame, But all her shining beauty Lives like a deathless name.

Our lamps of joy are wasted, Gone is Love's hallowed light; But you and I remember Through every starlit night.

Charles Hanson Towne [1877-

THE LONELY ROAD

I think thou waitest, Love, beyond the Gate-- Eager, with wind-stirred ripples in thy hair; I have not found thee, and the hour is late, And harsh the weight I bear.

Far have I sought, and flung my wealth of years Like a young traveler, gay at careless inns-- See how the wine-stain whitens 'neath the tears My burden wins!

And wilt thou know me, Love, with bended back, Or wilt thou scorn me, in so drear a guise?

I have a wealth of sorrows in my pack, One lonely prize--

Thy dream--and dross of sin.... O, dim the fields-- I may not find thee in so dark a land-- Yet I await what hope the turning yields And beg with empty hand.

Kenneth Rand [1891-

EVENSONG

Beauty calls and gives no warning, Shadows rise and wander on the day.

In the twilight, in the quiet evening, We shall rise and smile and go away.

Over the flaming leaves Freezes the sky.

It is the season grieves, Not you, not I.

All our spring-times, all our summers, We have kept the longing warm within.

Now we leave the after-comers To attain the dreams we did not win.

Oh, we have wakened, Sweet, and had our birth, And that's the end of earth; And we have toiled and smiled and kept the light, And that's the end of night.

Ridgely Torrence [1875-