Lover. Forgotten?—no.
Here—erst—when the moon—a bended bow—
Rained its ray-arrows on wave and air,
And their jewelled points illumed thy hair,
I saw thy lips part, and heard thee say,
Thou wouldst love me well till thy dying day.
I am happy!—But Lady, thou wilt not blame
This lip that sad words—sad words—brim o'er
At thought of one whom I may not name.
Wilt thou list my dark story, sweet Leonore?
Leon. I hear thee.
Lover. The stars and the white-armed moon
Are bright in heaven; and the breath of June
In the faint wind liveth. On such a night,
With the sky as blue, with the moon as bright,
I roved with one by a lonely shore;
I have loved another, sweet Leonore!
Leon. I hear thee!
Lover. Wan were the brow and cheek
Of her whose name I may not speak;
And gentle the flow of her long fair hair;
And her azure eye had a beauty rare.
I won that girl to my doting heart:
But a rival came, and his fiendish art
Fell witheringly—as falls the dew
On Brandon night. Her kinsman knew
That 'twas a sinful and deadly stain—
This last wild love—so not again
Met they—the lovers—in peace or pain!
—He who had won by his fiendish art
Died mad; and she of a broken heart.
They made her a grave by our love's lone shore,
And I laughed in strange mirth, sweet Leonore.
Leon. Alas!
Lover. Yet a burning and restless pain
Lived evermo' at my heart and brain.
What balm sought I?—Forgetfulness,
Ah!—wo is me! I had none to bless
My desolate heart: no soothing tone
To cheer my spirit seared and lone:
No hand of love to clasp mine own.
And anguish—great anguish dogged my step,
Till I did swear me that a fiend
Spake in mine ear with a hissing lip.
I bared my brow to the haunted wind
On wintry hills; and then in fear
Would seek my couch most lone and drear,
And mutter a name for the dead to hear.
And in my mad dreams, sweet Leonore,
I shuddered and moaned—"Pain evermore!"
Leon. Alas!
Lover. But time wore fleetly on,
And the lines were less deep on my forehead wan.
I sought to bury my wrongs in wine;
And I sought in the crowd where star-eyes shine
For my thwarted heart a second shrine:—
Yet this in vain! I found it not,
For naught from the book of Time mote blot
The one black page, and Memory ever
Dwelt, till my temples throbbed with fever,
On that stained page and its letters wild.
Leon. And yet thou lovedst!