To virtue a few farewell tears, | |
A restless dream or two, some glances | |
At Warsaw’s youth, some songs, and dances, | |
Awaited but the usual chances, | |
175 | Those happy accidents which render |
The coldest dames so very tender, | |
To deck her Count with titles given, | |
’Tis said, as passports into heaven; | |
But, strange to say, they rarely boast | |
180 | Of these, who have deserved them most. |
V | |
‘I was a goodly stripling then; | |
At seventy years I so may say, | |
That there were few, or boys or men | |
Who, in my dawning time of day, | |
185 | Of vassal or of knight’s degree, |
Could vie in vanities with me; | |
For I had strength, youth, gaiety, | |
A port, not like to this ye see, | |
But smooth, as all is rugged now; | |
190 | For time, and care, and war, have plough’d |
My very soul from out my brow; | |
And thus I should be disavow’d | |
By all my kind and kin, could they | |
Compare my day and yesterday; | |
195 | This change was wrought, too, long ere age |
Had ta’en my features for his page: | |
With years, ye know, have not declined | |
My strength, my courage, or my mind, | |
Or at this hour I should not be | |
200 | Telling old tales beneath a tree, |
With starless skies my canopy. | |
But let me on: Theresa’s form – | |
Methinks it glides before me now, | |
Between me and yon chestnut’s bough, | |
205 | The memory is so quick and warm; |
And yet I find no words to tell | |
The shape of her I loved so well: | |
She had the Asiatic eye, | |
Such as our Turkish neighbourhood | |
210 | Hath mingled with our Polish blood, |
Dark as above us is the sky; | |
But through it stole a tender light, | |
Like the first moonrise of midnight; | |
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, | |
215 | Which seem’d to melt to its own beam; |
All love, half languor, and half fire, | |
Like saints that at the stake expire, | |
And lift their raptured looks on high, | |
As though it were a joy to die. | |
220 | A brow like a midsummer lake, |
Transparent with the sun therein, | |
When waves no murmur dare to make, | |
And heaven beholds her face within. | |
A cheek and lip – but why proceed? | |
225 | I loved her then – I love her still; |
And such as I am, love indeed | |
In fierce extremes — in good and ill. | |
But still we love even in our rage, | |
And haunted to our very age | |
230 | With the vain shadow of the past, |
As is Mazeppa to the last. | |
VI | |
‘We met – we gazed – I saw, and sigh’d, | |
She did not speak, and yet replied; | |
There are ten thousand tones and signs | |
235 | We hear and see, but none defines — |
Involuntary sparks of thought, | |
Which strike from out the heart o’erwrought, | |
And form a strange intelligence, | |
Alike mysterious and intense, | |
240 | Which link the burning chain that binds, |
Without their will, young hearts and minds; | |
Conveying, as the electric wire, | |
We know not how, the absorbing fire. – | |
I saw, and sigh’d – in silence wept, | |
245 | And still reluctant distance kept, |
Until I was made known to her, | |
And we might then and there confer | |
Without suspicion — then, even then, | |
I long’d, and was resolved to speak; | |
250 | But on my lips they died again, |
The accents tremulous and weak, | |
Until one hour. — There is a game, | |
A frivolous and foolish play, | |
Wherewith we while away the day; | |
255 | It is – I have forgot the name – |
And we to this, it seems, were set, | |
By some strange chance, which I forget: | |
I reck’d not if I won or lost, | |
It was enough for me to be | |
260 | So near to hear, and oh! to see |
The being whom I loved the most. – | |
I watch’d her as a sentinel, | |
(May ours this dark night watch as well!) | |
Until I saw, and thus it was, | |
265 | That she was pensive, nor perceived |
Her occupation, nor was grieved | |
Nor glad to lose or gain; but still | |
Play’d on for hours, as if her will | |
Yet bound her to the place, though not | |
270 | That hers might be the winning lot. |
Then through my brain the thought did pass | |
Even as a flash of lightning there, | |
That there was something in her air | |
Which would not doom me to despair; | |
275 | And on the thought my words broke forth, |
All incoherent as they were — | |
Their eloquence was little worth, | |
But yet she listen’d – ’tis enough – | |
Who listens once will listen twice; | |
280 | Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, |
And one refusal no rebuff. | |
VII | |
‘I loved, and was beloved again – | |
They tell me, Sire, you never knew | |
Those gentle frailties; if ’tis true, | |
285 | I shorten all my joy or pain; |
To you ’twould seem absurd as vain; | |
But all men are not born to reign, | |
Or o’er their passions, or as you | |
Thus o’er themselves and nations too. | |
290 | I am — or rather |
A chief of thousands, and could lead | |
Them on where each would foremost bleed; | |
But could not o’er myself evince | |
The like control — But to resume: | |
295 | I loved, and was beloved again; |
In sooth, it is a happy doom, | |
But yet where happiest ends in pain. – | |
We met in secret, and the hour | |
Which led me to that lady’s bower | |
300 | Was fiery Expectation’s dower. |
My days and nights were nothing – all | |
Except that hour which doth recall | |
In the long lapse from youth to age | |
No other like itself — I’d give | |
305 | The Ukraine back again to live |
It o’er once more – and be a page, | |
The happy page, who was the lord | |
Of one soft heart, and his own sword, | |
And had no other gem nor wealth | |
310 | Save nature’s gift of youth and health. — |
We met in secret — doubly sweet, | |
Some say, they find it so to meet; | |
I know not that – I would have given | |
My life but to have call’d her mine | |
315 | In the full view of earth and heaven; |
For I did oft and long repine | |
That we could only meet by stealth. | |
VIII | |
‘For lovers there are many eyes, | |
And such there were on us; – the devil | |
320 | On such occasions should be civil – |
The devil! — I’m loth to do him wrong, | |
It might be some untoward saint, | |
Who would not be at rest too long, | |
But to his pious bile gave vent – | |
325 | But one fair night, some lurking spies |
Surprised and seized us both. | |
The Count was something more than wroth – | |
I was unarm’d; but if in steel, | |
All cap-à-pie from head to heel, | |
330 | What ’gainst their numbers could I do? — |
’Twas near his castle, far away | |
From city or from succour near, | |
And almost on the break of day; | |
I did not think to see another, | |
335 | My moments seem’d reduced to few; |
And with one prayer to Mary Mother, | |
And, it may be, a saint or two, | |
As I resigned me to my fate, | |
They led me to the castle gate: | |
340 | Theresa’s doom I never knew, |
Our lot was henceforth separate. — |