And you, ye eyes so tremulous With lustre all divine, I know how false your splendors are, Where no true love doth shine.
No love mysterious and profound Illumes you with its glow; Nor gleams one spark of genial fire Beneath that breast of snow.
Nay, it is wont to laugh to scorn Another’s tender pain; The fervent flame of heavenly love To treat with cold disdain.
Yet I with thankfulness once more The old illusions greet, And feel, with shock of pleased surprise, The heart within me beat.
To thee alone this force renewed, This vital power I owe; From thee alone, my faithful heart, My only comforts flow.
I feel it is the destiny Of every noble mind, In Fate, in Fortune, Beauty, and the World, An enemy to find:
But while thou liv’st, nor yield’st to Fate, Contending without fear, I will not tax with cruelty The power that placed me here.
TO SYLVIA.
O Sylvia, dost thou remember still That period of thy mortal life, When beauty so bewildering Shone in thy laughing, glancing eyes, As thou, so merry, yet so wise, Youth’s threshold then wast entering?
How did the quiet rooms, And all the paths around, With thy perpetual song resound, As thou didst sit, on woman’s work intent, Abundantly content With the vague future, floating on thy mind! Thy custom thus to spend the day In that sweet time of youth and May!