« 이전계속 »
Upon the skirts of human nature dwelling
While little sounds of life are round me knelling, And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass, And many a chapel bell the hour is telling, [me, Paining me through : those sounds grow strange to And thou art distant in Humanity.
I know what was, I feel full well what is,
And I should rage, if spirits could go mad; Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss,
That paleness warms my grave, as though I bad A seraph chosen from the bright abyss
To be my spouse : thy paleness makes me glad : Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel A greater love through all my essence steal.”
The Spirit mourn'd“Adieu!”—dissolved and left
The atom darkness in a slow turmoil ;
Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil,
And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil : It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache, And in the dawn she started up awake;
“ Ha ! ha!” said she, “I knew not this hard life,
I thought the worst was simple misery ; I thought soine Fate with pleasure or with strife
Portion'd us—happy days, or else to die ; But there is crime—a brother's bloody knife!
Sweet Spirit, thou hast school'd my infancy: I'll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes, And greet thee morn and even in the skies.”
When the full morning came, she had devised
How she might secret to the forest hie;
And sing to it one latest lullaby ;
While she the inmost of the dream would try.
See, as they creep along the river side,
How she doth whisper to that aged dame, And, after looking round the champaign wide,
Shows her a knife.“What feverous hecticflame Burns in thee, child ?--what good can thee betide That thou shouldst smile again?”—The evening
came, And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed ; The flint was there, the berries at his head.
Who hath not loiter'd in a green churchyard,
And let his spirit, like a demon mole,
To see skull, coffin'd bones, and funeral stole ;
And filling it once more with human soul ?
She gazed into the fresh-thrown mould, as though
One glance did fully all its secrets tell ;
Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well ;
Like to a native lily of the dell:
Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon
Her silk had play'd in purple phantasies;
And put it in her bosom, where it dries
Those dainties made to still an infant's cries :
That old nurse stood beside her wondering,
Until her heart felt pity to the core
And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, Good | And put her lean hands to the horrid thing :
Three hours they labour'd at this travail sore;
Ah! wherefore all this
The simple plaining of a minstrel's song!
For here, in truth, it doth not well belong
With duller steel than the Perséan sword
They cut away no formless monster's head, But one, whose gentleness did well accord [said,
With death, as life. The ancient harps have Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord :
If Love impersonate was ever dead, Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan’d. 'Twas love; cold,—dead indeed, but not dethron’d.
In anxious secrecy they took it home,
And then the prize was all for Isabel : She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb,
And all around each eye's sepulchral cell Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared loam
With tears, as chilly as a dripping well, She drench'd away: and still she comb'd and kept Sighing all day-and still she kiss'd and wept.
Then in a silken scarf,-sweet with the dews
Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby, And divine liquids come with odorous ooze
Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfully, She wrapp'd it up; and for its tomb did choose
A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by, And cover'd it with mould, and o'er it set Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet.
And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun,
And she forgot the blue above the trees, And she forgot the dells where waters run,
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze; She had no knowledge when the day was done,
And the new morn she saw not: but in peace Hung over her sweet Basil evermore, And moisten'd it with tears unto the core.