Till now at noon she slept again, And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, She breathed in sleep a lower moan, Dreaming, she knew it was a dream: And, rising, from her bosom drew Old letters, breathing of her worth, For "Love," they said, "must needs be true, To what is loveliest upon earth." An image seem'd to pass the door, To look at her with slight, and say, "But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone for evermore." "O cruel heart," she changed her tone, "And cruel love, whose end is scorn, Is this the end to be left alone, To live forgotten, and die forlorn !" But sometimes in the falling day To look into her eyes and say, 66 But thou shalt be alone no more." And flaming downward over all From heat to heat the day decreased, The one black shadow from the wall. 66 The day to night," she made her moan, The day to night, the night to morn, And day and night I am left alone. To live forgotten, and love forlorn." At eve a dry cicala sung, There came a sound as of the sea; Backward the lattice-blind she flung, And lean'd upon the balcony. There all in spaces rosy-bright Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears, And deepening thro' the silent spheres, Heaven over Heaven rose the night. And weeping then she made her moan, "The night comes on that knows not morn, When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn." XXX ELEÄNORE 1 THY dark eyes open'd not, Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air Which, from the outward to the inward brought, Far off from human neighbourhood, Thou wert born, on a summer morn, A mile beneath the cedar-wood. Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd With breezes from our oaken glades, But thou wert nursed in some delicious land Of lavish lights, and floating shades: And flattering thy childish thought The oriental fairy brought, At the moment of thy birth, And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore, To deck thy cradle, Eleänore. 2 Or the yellow-banded bees, Thro' half-open lattices Coming in the scented breeze, Fed thee, a child, lying alone, With whitest honey in fairy gardens cull'dA glorious child, dreaming alone, In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, With the hum of swarming bees Into dreamful slumber lull'd. 3 Who may minister to thee? To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded Grape-thicken'd from the light, and blinded And the crag that fronts the Even, Crimsons over an inland mere, Eleänore! 4 How may full-sail'd verse express, Of thy swan-like stateliness, Eleänore? The luxuriant symmetry Of thy floating gracefulness, Every turn and glance of thine, Eleänore, And the steady sunset glow, That stays upon thee? For in thee Is nothing sudden, nothing single; Like two streams of incense free Mingle ever. Motions flow To an unheard melody, 5 I stand before thee, Eleänore ; I see thy beauty gradually unfold, Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, I muse, as in a trance, whene'er The languors of thy love-deep eyes So tranced, so rapt in ecstacies, 6 Sometimes, with most intensity Gazing, I seem to see Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, But am as nothing in its light: As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, Ev'n while we gaze on it, Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow To a full face, there like a sun remain Fix'd-then as slowly fade again, And draw itself to what it was before; Thought seems to come and go 7 As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, Roof'd the world with doubt and fear, Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, Grow golden all about the sky; In thee all passion becomes passionless, In a silent meditation, Falling into a still delight, And luxury of contemplation As waves that up a quiet cove Shadow forth the banks at will: Or sometimes they swell and move, Of Passion gazing upon thee. His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, 8 But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, While the amorous, odorous wind Breathes low between the sunset and the moon; Or, in a shadowy saloon, On silken cushions half reclined; I watch thy grace; and in its place Thro' my veins to all my frame, From thy rose-red lips My name I lose my colour, I lose my breath, I hear what I would hear from thee; Yet tell my name again to me, I would be dying evermore, So dying ever, Eleänore. XXXI THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER I SEE the wealthy miller yet, In yonder chair I see him sit, Three fingers round the old silver cup- At his own jest-gray eyes lit up |