And worshipp'd at innumerable shrines Of beauty; and the painter's art, to me, Minister to me. But when wearily The mind gives over toiling, and, with eyes Lying awake within their chambers dim, The face of the sweet child I knew at Rome! ΤΟ "The desire of the moth for the star Of the night for the morrow The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow." "L'alma, quel che non ha, sogna e figura." SHELLEY. METASTASIO. As, gazing on the Pleiades, We count each fair and starry one, Yet wander from the light of these To muse upon the Pleiad goneAs, bending o'er fresh gather'd flowers, The rose's most enchanting hue Reminds us but of other hours Whose roses were all lovely too So, dearest, when I rove among The bright ones of this foreign sky, And watch the dancers gliding by, The sad, sweet bells of twilight chime, And love, though breathed but on a word, Though clouds across the sky have driven, We trust the star at last will shine, And like the very light of heaven I trust thy love. Trust thou in mine! ΤΟ "Oh, by that little word THE star may but a meteor be, That breaks upon the stormy night; And I may err, believing thee A spark of heaven's own changeless light! But if on earth beams aught so fair, It seems, of all the lights that shine, Serenest in its truth, 'tis there, Burning in those soft eyes of thine. Yet long-watch'd stars from heaven have rush'd, And long-lov'd friends have dropp'd away, And mine-my very heart have crush'd! And I have hop'd, this many a day, It liv'd no more for love or pain! But thou hast stirr'd its depths again, In tones it cannot choose but hear; And know, at ev'n thy lightest smile, Fail me not thou! This feeling past, Be not less fair than true of heart My loves are o'er! The sun will shine Upon no grave so hush'd as this dark breast of mine. |