Well! there in our front-row box we sat And both were silent, and both were sad. So confident of her charm! I have not a doubt she was thinking then I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for years, Till over my eyes there began to move I thought of the dress that she wore last time, In the crimson evening weather; Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), And the jasmine-flower in her fair, young breast; I thought of our little quarrels and strife, For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over. And I thought . . . . "were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her." And I swear, as I thought thus, in that hour, It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet When a mummy is half unrolled. And I turned and looked. She was sitting there I was here, and she was there, And the glittering horseshoe curved between-From my bride-betrothed, 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 My thinking of her, or the music's strain, 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 filled 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 To come back and be forgiven. But oh, the smell of that jasmine-flower! |