Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unroll'd. And I turn'd and look'd: she was sitting there, I was here: and she was there : And the glittering horse-shoe curved between, From my bride betroth'd, with her raven hair, And her sumptuous, scornful mien, To my early love, with her eyes downcast, To my early love from my future bride One moment I look'd. Then I stole to the door. I traversed the passage, 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 exprest, 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 passShe 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 fill'd 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 But oh, the smell of that jasmine flower! Non ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me! ROBERT BULWER LYTTON. I break all slighter bonds, nor feel A shadow of regret : Is there one link within the Past That holds thy spirit yet? Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge to thee? Does there within thy dimmest dreams Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, Untouched, unshared by mine? If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me, before all is lost. Look deeper still. If thou canst feel, That thou hast kept a portion back, While I have staked the whole, Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so. Is there within thy heart a need One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still? Speak now,-lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay. Lives there within thy nature hid On all things new and strange?— It may not be thy fault alone,-but shield my heart against thy own. Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day, And answer to my claim, That Fate, and that to-day's mistake- Not thou-had been to blame? Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely warn and save me now. Nay, answer not,-I dare not hear, |