Take then the braid of Eastern pearls which once I loved to wear, And with it bind for festal scenes the dark waves of thy hair! Its pale pure brightness will beseem those raven tresses well, And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone convent cell." "Oh, speak not thus, my Leonor! why part from kindred love? Through festive scenes, when thou art gone-my steps no more shall move! How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless throng? I should but miss earth's dearest voice in every tone of song; Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or let me proudly twine Its wreath once more around that brow, that queenly brow of thine." "Oh, would'st thou strive a wounded bird from shelter to detain? Or would'st thou call a spirit freed, to weary life again?— Sweet sister, take the golden cross that I have worn so long, And bathed with many a burning tear for secret woe and wrong. It could not still my beating heart! but may it be a sign Of peace and hope, my gentle one! when meekly press'd to thine!" "Take back, take back the cross of gold, our mother's gift to thee, It would but of this parting hour, a bitter token be; With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but sadly shine, And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer mine! Oh sister! if thy heart be thus with buried grief oppress'd, Where would'st thou pour it forth so well, as on my faithful breast?" "Urge me no more! a blight hath fallen upon my summer years! I should but darken thy young life with fruitless pangs and fears; But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it for my sake, And sometimes from its silvery strings one tone of memory wake! Sing to those chords by starlight's gleam our own sweet vesper hymn, And think that I too chant it then, far in my cloister dim.” "Yes, I will take the silvery lute-and I will sing to thee A song we heard in childhood's days, even from our father's knee. Oh, sister, sister! are these notes amid forgotten things? Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar strings? Seems not our sainted mother's voice to murmur in the strain, Kind sister! gentlest Leonor! say shall it plead in vain?" "Oh! sister, hush that thrilling lute, oh! cease that haunting lay, Too deeply pierce those wild sweet notes-yet, yet I cannot stay; For weary, weary is my heart! I hear a whisper'd call In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the blossom fall. I cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines to dwell Where the world's voice can reach no more! -oh calm thee! Fare thee well!" THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. Suggested by a beautiful sketch, the design of the younger Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rock above the sea, with her lyre cast at her feet. There is a desolate grace about the whole figure, which seems penetrated with the feeling of utter abandonment. SOUND on, thou dark unslumbering sea! My dirge is in thy moan; My spirit finds response in thee, 66 To its own ceaseless cry—" Alone, alone!" Yet send me back one other word, Ye tones that never cease! Oh! let your secret caves be stirr'd, Away! my weary soul hath sought In vain one echoing sigh, One answer to consuming thought Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea! I ask not, alien world, from thee, What my own kindred earth hath still denied. And yet I loved that earth so well With all its lovely things! -Was it for this the death wind fell On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings? -Let them lie silent at my feet! Since broken even as they, The heart whose music made them sweet, Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away. Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name, -With a lone heart, a weary frame- Give to that crown, that burning crown, Bury my anguish, my renown, With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold. Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest, And I, th' unsought, unwatch'd-for-I too come! I, with this winged nature fraught, This boundless love, this fiery thought -Alone I come-oh! give me peace, dark sea! |