TO-MORROW, to-morrow, thou loveliest May, To-morrow will rise up thy first-born day; Bride of the summer, child of the spring, To-morrow the year will its favourite bring: The roses will know thee, and fling back their vest, While the nightingale sings him to sleep on their breast;
The blossoms, in welcomes, will open to meet
On the light boughs thy breath, in the soft grass
thy feet.
To-morrow the dew will have virtue to shed
O'er the cheek of the maiden* its loveliest red;
To-morrow a glory will brighten the earth,
While the spirit of beauty rejoicing has birth.
Farewell to thee, April, a gentle farewell,
Thou hast saved the young rose in its emerald
It was now their meeting hour,—
They scatter'd round through grove and bower.
Many a high-born beauty made
Her scat beneath the chestnut shade;
While, like her shadow hovering near,
Came her darkeyed cavalier,
Bidding the rose fade by her cheek,
To hint of what he dared not speak.
And others wander'd with the lute,
In such a scene could it be mute?
While from its wing'd sweetness came,
The echo of some treasured name.
And many a grot with laughter rung,
As gather'd there, these gay and young
Flung airy jests like arrows round,
That hit the mark but to rebound.
With graceful welcome smiled on all,
Sweet nurse, thou hast mingled thy sunshine and The lady of the festival
Like kisses and tears, on thy children the flowers. As a hope, when fulfill'd, to sweet memory turns, We shall think of thy clouds as the odorous urns, Whence colour, and freshness, and fragrance were wept ;
Wander'd amid her guests; at last,
Many a courtly greeting past,
She stray'd into a little grove,
With cypress branches roof'd above;
Beneath the path was scarcely seen,-
Alike the walk and margent green.
We shall think of thy rainbows, their promise is So dim it was, each precious stone
There is not a cloud on the morning's blue way,
And the daylight is breaking, the first of the May.
And never yet hath morning light
Lovelier vision bought to sight,
Or lovelier driven away from dreams,-
-And lovely that which only seems;—
The garden, that beneath it lay,
From flower and fountain sent the ray
Reflected, till all round seem blent
Into one sunny element.
There in the midst rose marble halls,
Wreath'd pillars upheld the walls;
A fairy castle, not of those
Made for storm, and made for foes,
But telling of a gentler time,
A lady's rule, a summer clime.
And all spoke joyousness, for there
Throng'd the gay, the young, the fair,-
The countess wore a meteor shone.
Yet on she went, for naught her heart
In the glad revellings took part:
Too tender and too sad to share
In sportive mirth, in pageant glare;
Dearer to her was the first breath,
When morning shakes her early wreath,
And joys in the young smiles of day,
Albeit they steal her pearls away
Dearer to her the last pale light
That lingers on the brow of night,
As if unwilling to begone,
And abdicate its lovely throne:
Dearer to her were these than all
That ever shone in lighted hall.
The young, the gay, be they allow'd
One moment's pleasaunce in the crowd;
The dance, the odours, seng, and bloom,
Those soft spells of the banquet-room
They last not, but the ear, the eye,
Catch the check'd frown-the hidden sigh,
Which pierce too soon the shining mask, And prove delight may be a task.
Alas! when once the heart shall learn
To gaze on the glad scene, then turn
To its own depths, and sadly say,-
"O, what am I, and what are they?
Masquers but striving to deceive
Themselves and others; and believe
It is enough, if none shall know
The cover'd mass of care below."
Sad lesson for the heart to bear,
Seeing how pass the young, the fair;
Forgot, as if they had not been
The spirit of the stirring scene:
Or sadder still to watch the bands,
With kindly looks and fast-link'd hands;
And know how that a word could move
The fierce extreme of hate from love,-
That, sweep but o'er a fleeting year,
Of all the many gather'd here,
Now claiming friend's or lover's name,
Not one may be in aught the same.
But not like this is Nature's face, Though even she must bear the trace Of the great curse that clings to all; Her leaves, her flowers, must spring to fall; There hides no darker doom behind, Like workings in the human mind, And the buds yield but to make way For leaves or fruits upon the spray ;— Not thus man's pleasures, which depart And leave the sear'd or breaking heart.
On fair CLEMENZA went, her mood Deepening with the deep solitude; That gentle sadness which is wrought With more of tenderness than thought, When memory like the moonlight flings A softness o'er its wanderings,When hope a holiday to keep Folds up its rainbow wings for sleep, And the heart, like a bark at rest, Scarce heaves within the tranquil breast,When thoughts and dreams that moment's birth Take hues which are not of the earth.
But she was waken'd from her dream
By sudden flashing of the wave;
The cypress first conceal'd the stream, Then oped, as if a spirit gave, With one touch of his radiant wand, Birth to a scene in fairy land. "Twas a small lake, the honey bee Cross'd, laden, in security; From it an elfin island rose,
A green spot made for the repose
Of the blue halcyon, when an hour Of storm is passing o'er its bower. One lonely tree upon it stood, A willow sweeping to the flood, With darkling boughs and lorn decline, As though even here was sorrow's sign. 'Twas even a haunted place; one part, Like that which is in every heart. Beyond, the gloom was laugh'd away By sparkling wave and dancing spray ;— One of those glowing spots that take The sunbeams prisoners, and make A glory of their own delight, Below all clear, above all bright. And every bank was fair; but one Most shelter'd from the wind and sun, Seem'd like a favourite: the rest Bared to the open sky their breast; But this was resting in the shade By two old patriarch chestnuts made, Whose aged trunks peep'd gray and bare Spite of the clustering ivy's care, Which had spread over all its wreath, The boughs above, the ground beneath ;Oft told and true similitude
For moralist in pensive mood,
To mark the green leaves' glad outside,
Then search what wither'd boughs they hide.
And here the countess took her seat
Beneath the chestnut, shelter meet
For one whose presence might beseem
The spirit of the shade and stream;
As now she lean'd with upraised head,
And white veil o'er her bosom spread,
Hiding the gems and chains of gold
Which too much of rank's baubles told;
Leaving her only with the power
Of nature in its loveliest hour,
When to its musing look is given
The influence of its native heaven.
Her cheek was pale, the hue of thought,
Like image by the sculptor sought
For some sweet saint, some muse on whom
Beauty has shed all but her bloom,
As if it would have naught declare
The strife and stain of clay were there.
Braided Madonna-like, the wave
Of the black hair a lustre gave
To the clear forehead, whose pure snow
Was even as an angel's brow:
While there was in her gentler eye
The touch of human sympathy,-
That mournful tenderness which still
In grief and joy, in good and ill,
Lingers with woman through life's void,
Sadden'd, subdued, but not destroy'd.
And gazed the countess on the lake,
Loving it for its beauty's sake;
Wander'd her look round, till its sight
Became itself blent with the light;
Till, as it sought for rest, her eye
Now fell upon a green mound nigh.
With ivy hung and moss o'ergrown,
Beside it stood a broken stone,
And on it was a single flower,
The orphan growth of some chance shower,
Which brought it there, and then forgot
All care of the frail nursling's lot,—
A lily with its silver bells
Perfum'd like the spring's treasure cells;
Yet drooping, pale, as if too late
Mourning for their neglected state.
It was the fittest flower to grow
Over the conscious clay below.
Bethought the countess of a tale
Connected with the lonely vale;
Some bard, who died before his fame;
Whose songs remain'd, but not his name:
It told his tomb was by the wave,
In life his haunt, in death his grave.
Sadly she mused upon the fate
That still too often must await
The gifted hand which shall awake
The poet's lute, and for its sake
All but its own sweet self resign,—
Thou loved lute! to be only thine.
For what is genius, but deep feeling
Waken'd by passion to revealing?
And what is feeling, but to be
Alive to every misery,
While the heart too fond, too weak,
Lies open for the vulture's beak?
Alas! for him possess'd of all
That wins and keeps a world in thrall,
Of all that makes the soul aspire,
Yet vow'd to a neglected lyre;
Who finds, the first, a golden mine,
Sees the veins yield, the treasures shine,
Gazes until his eye grows dim,
Then learns that it is not for him;
One who, albeit his wayward mood
Pines for and clings to solitude,
Has too much humanness of heart
To dwell from all his kind apart;
But seeks communion for the dreams
With which his vision'd spirit teems;
Would fain in other cups infuse
His own delights, and fondly woos
The world, without that worldliness
Which wanting, there is no success;
Hears his song sink unmark'd away,-
Swanlike his soul sinks with its lay,-
Lifts to his native heaven his eyes,
Turns to the earth, despairs and dies;
Leaving a memory whose reward
Might lesson many a future bard,
Or, harder still, a song whose fame
Has long outlived its minstrel's name.
'O, must this be!" CLEMENZA said,
"Thus perish quite the gifted dead!
How many a wild and touching song
To my own native vales belong,
Whose lyrist's name will disappear
Like his who sleeps forgotten here!
Not so; it shall be mine to give
The praise that bids the poet live.
There is a flower, a glorious flower,
The very fairest of my bower,
With shining leaf, aroma breath,
Befitting well a victor wreath;
The Golden Violet shall be
The prize of Provence minstrelsy.
Open I'll fling my castle hall
To throng of harps and festival,
Bidding the bards from wide and far
Bring song of love or tale of war,
And it shall be mine own to set
The victor's crown of Violet."
"Tis May again, another May, Looking as if it meant to stay;
So many are its thousand flowers, So glorious are its sunny hours, So green its earth, so blue its sky, As made for hope's eternity.
By night with starlike tapers gleaming, And music like an odour streaming; By day with portals open flung, While bugle note and trumpet rung; Rose Isaure's towers: and gather'd there, Again, the gifted, young and fair Have at CLEMENZA'S summons met, In contest for the Violet.
Her heralds had been to distant lands To call together the joyeuse bands,
And they had hasten'd. England had sent Her harp across the blue element;
The Spaniard had come from the land of romance; And the flower of her minstrels had gather'd in
From far and from near; it was strange to see The bards of Erin and Italy
Mingle together with those that came
From the highland home they so loved to name.
Hark to the sound of yon silver horn, And the sweep of the harp to the distance borne;
"Tis the hour of meeting, and welcome now
To the gifted hand and the laurell'd brow.
Young knight, think not of hawk or hound;
Fair maiden, fling not thy smiles around;
Warrior, regard not the sword at thy side;
Baron, relax thou thy brow of pride;
Let worldly coldness and care depart,
And yield to the shell of the minstrel's art.
"Twas a spacious hall, and around it rose
Carved pillars as white as the snows;
Between, the purple tapestry swept,
Where, work'd in myriad shades, were kept
Memories of many an ancient tale,
And of many a blooming cheek now pale.
The dome above like a glory shone,
Or a cloud which the sunset lingers upon,
While the tinted pane seem'd the bright resort,
Where Iris' self held her minstrel court;
And beautiful was the colour'd fall
Of the floating hues round the stately hall.
In groups around mix'd the gay throng,
Knight, noble, lady, child of song.
At one end was upraised a throne,
On which the countess sat alone;
Not with droop'd eye and bow'd-down head,
And simple white veil round her spread,
As lean'd she o'er the lonely wave,
Dreaming of the dead minstrel's grave;
But purple robe and golden band
Bespoke the ladye of the land;
Rich gems upon her arm were placed,
And lit the zone around her waist;
But none were in her braided hair,
One only violet was there,
The golden flower, which won all eyes,
Destined to be the minstrel prize.
They pass'd around the silver urn Whose lot must fix the poet's turn; To a young Provence bard it came,He drew, and drew CLEMENZA's name. And forth at once young VIDAL sprung, His light lute o'er his shoulder flung, Then paused, for over cheek and brow, Like lightning, rush'd the crimson glow; A low sound trembled from that lute, His lip turn'd pale, his voice was mute; He sent a hurried glance around, As if in search: at last he found The eyes without whose light to him The very heaven above was dim: At once his hand awoke the chords, At once his lip pour'd tuneful words, And gazing on his lady's smile, Bade his soft notes arise the while.
THE FIRST PROVENÇAL MINSTREL'S LAY.
WHERE on earth is the truth that may vie With woman's lone and long constancy? Lovers there have been who have died For the love that they made a warrior's pride; And a lover once, when a world was the prize, Threw away his chance for a lady's eyes: But not his the love that changes not 'Mid the trials and griefs of an ill-starr'd lot; Not like the rainbow, that shines on high Brighter and purer as darker the sky. But woman's creed of suffering bears All that the health and the spirit wears; Absence but makes her love the more, For her thoughts then feed on their own sweet store;
And is not hers the heart alone
That has pleasure and pride in a prize when won?
Her eye may grow dim, her cheek may grow pale,
But tell they not both the same fond tale?
Love's lights have fled from her eye and cheek,
To burn and die on the heart which they seek.
Alas! that so often the grave should be
The seal of woman's fidelity!
On the horizon is a star,
Its earliest, loveliest one by far;
A blush is yet upon the sky,
As if too beautiful to die,-
A last gleam of the setting sun,
Like hope when love has just begun;
The hour when the maiden's lute,
And minstrel's song, and lover's suit,
Seem as that their sweet spells had made
This mystery of light and shade.
That last rich sigh is on the gale
Which tells when summer's day is over, The sigh which closing flowers exhale After the bee, their honey lover, As to remind him in his flight Of what will be next noon's delight.
"Tis a fair garden, almond trees
Throw silver gifts upon the breeze:
Lilies, each a white-robed bride,
With treasures of pure gold inside,
Like marble towers a king has made ;-
And of its own sweet self afraid,
A hyacinth's flower-hung stalk is stooping,
Lovelier from its timid drooping :—
But in the midst is a rose stem,
The winds' beloved, the garden's gem.
No wonder that it blooms so well:
Thy tears have been on every leaf; And, Mirzala, thy heart can tell
How lasting that which feeds on grief.
"Twas a branch of roses her lover gave Amid her raven curls to wave;
When they bade farewell, with that gentle sorrow
Of the parting that sighs, "we meet to-morrow;"
Yet the maiden knows not if her tears are shed
Over the faithless or over the dead.
She has not seen his face since that night
When she watch'd his shadow by pale moonlight,
And that branch has been cherish'd as all that was
left
To remind her of love and of hope bereft.
She was one summer evening laid Beneath the tulip tree's green shade, When from her favourite rose a cloud
Floated like those at break of day ;— She mark'd its silvery folds unshroud, And there a radiant figure lay. And in murmurs soft as those Which sweep the sea at evening close, Spoke the Spirit of the rose :— "MIRZALA, thy lover sleeps While his mistress for him weeps.
He is bound by magic spell,
Of force which woman's love may quell;
I will guide thee to the hall
Where thy faith may break his thrall.
Think thou if thy heart can dare
All that thou must look on there.
Turn not thou for hope nor fear,
Till the marble hall appear.
There thou wilt thy lover see
Dead to life, and love, and thee.
Only truth so pure as thine
Could approach the charmed shrine.
Press thy lips to the cold stone,
He will wake,-the spell be done!
Hast thou courage like thy love?
Follow thou the snow-white dove."
And MIRZALA rose up, and there
Was a fair dove on that rose tree, With white wings glittering on the air, Like foam upon a summer sea. She follow'd it until she stood By where a little boat lay moor'd To the green willow, from the flood But by a water flag secured. She enter'd, and it cut the tide ; Odours and music fill'd the sail, As if a rose and lute had sigh'd
A mingled breath upon the gale.
It was at first a lovely scene:
Leaves and branches wreath'd a screen,
Sunbeams there might wander through;
Glimpses of a sky of blue,
Like the hopes that smile to cheer
The earthliness of sorrow here;
And like summer queens, beside,
Roses gazed upon the tide,
Each one longing to caress
Her own mirror'd loveliness;
And the purple orchis shone
Rich, as shines an Indian stone;
And the honeysuckle's flower
Crimson, as a sunset hour;
But too soon the blooms are past,-
When did ever beauty last?
And there came a dreary shade,
Of the yew and cypress made,
Moaning in the sullen breeze;
And at length not even these,
But rocks in wild confusion hurl'd
Relics of a ruin'd world.
Wide, more wide, the river grew,
Blacker changed its dreary hue,
Till, oppress'd, the wearied eye
Only gazed on sea and sky—
Sea of death, and sky of night,
Where a storm had been like light.
MIRZALA was pale, yet still
Shrank she not for dread of ill.
She cross'd the sea, and she gain'd the shore; But little it recks to number o'er
The weary days, and the heavy fears,
When hope could only smile through tears,
The perils, the pains, through which she pass'd,
Till she came to a castle's gate at last.
"Twas evening; but the glorious sky,
With its purple light and Tyrian dye,
Was contrast strange to the drear heath
Which bleak and desolate lay beneath.
Trees, but leafless all, stood there,
For the lightning flash had left them bare;
The grass lay wither'd, as if the wind
Of the Siroc had mark'd its red course; behind
The bright clouds shone on the river's face,
But the death-black waters had not a trace
Of the crimson blaze that over them play'd:
It seem'd as if a curse were laid
On the grass, on the river, the tree, and the flower,
And shut them out from the sunbeam's power;
And with the last ray which the sunbeam threw,
The dove flew up, and vanish'd too.
And MIRZALA knew she had reach'd that hall
Where her lover lay sleeping in magic thrall;
And she sat her down by a blasted tree,
To watch for what her fate might be.
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