—I.—
Too lovely art thou to behold,
And not to be stung by desire,
To bathe in those ringlets of gold,
To bathe in those glances of fire.
Too lovely art thou to the ken,
And twenty times so unto mine,
Since all the desires are in vain,
With which I am destined to pine:
Not that but I’m agile and young,
And exult in the strength of an arm,
Could shield thee from every wrong,
Could shield thee from every harm:
Not that with a heart-chilling pride,
Thou woud’st hark to my ardent appeal;
Not that thou would’st seek to deride
What thus I am fated to feel.
No, no—for upon thy fair brow
Is the stamp of a heart meek and kind;
And however thy beauty may glow,
It but adds to the charms of thy mind:
’Tis that while the fates have combined
With nature to bless thee, too drear
The lot to thy lover assigned
For aught but the wretched to share.
—II.—
I SAW but once that lovely one,
Nor need I see her twice to love;
She broke upon me like the dawn,
And o’er my soul her magic wove—
Yea, forced the lion stern to own
Himself the captive of the dove.
She brought the morn, she left the night;
Nor strove I to throw off the chain;
But rather felt a sweet delight
To intermingle with the pain
That made my heart’s repose, a blight,
Till madness ruled my thought’s domain.
By night I sought a solitude,
And gave unto the winds a grief
That struggled like the lava flood,
That boils and struggles for relief;
And night still left me in a mood
Unto the voice of reason deaf.
The radiant planets in their flight,
And she the quiet Queen of heaven,
With glory garmented the night;
But not to them the power was given
To kill, but rather nurse the blight
By which afar my peace was driven.
Yet wished I not the sun to rise,
For then the world were up, and then
Were I exposed to wistful eyes,
And questions bold of forward men,
Who deem themselves both good and wise,
Yet neither know nor pity pain.
And what on earth—ay, what in hell
Can be more racking to the thought,
Than that our pangs unspeakable
Should, disregarded, be as nought;
Or look’d upon with looks that tell
In vain would sympathy be sought?
The magic vision fled, and so
Have all those precious feelings, all!
Which gave to life a golden glow—
Which made a joy this earthly ball—
And now, what’s left to me? what, oh!
What, but a cup of very gall?
—III.—
OH, chaunt that theme again, sweet girl!
That theme enchanting more, to me,
Than ocean’s richest, purest pearl,
To miser’s heart could ever be.
Thy lay’s the language of a heart
By blighted hopes delirious grown,
And mine has felt as keen a smart
As e’er to beauty’s dupe was known.
It tells of tears that flowed unseen,—
Of sighs that woke and died unheard,—
Such, such, sweet girl, my lot has been,
And such too oft is faith’s reward.
’Tis something still to know, alone
I have not trod the path of grief;
And joining in another’s moan,
Will give the bursting heart relief.
Then, chaunt that theme, sweet girl, again,
That theme so sweet, so sad to me;
And I will join the pensive strain,
And mourn the lover’s lot with thee.
Other works by Joseph Skipsey...
