Young Eliore lay dreaming, and the light
Of the young sun came in, and angel bright
It made her, as within her golden hair
It stole in smiles, and gladly slumber'd there,
Making her head one beaming light and love,
As in our dreams we see the blest above.
She slept the rosy sleep of life and breath—
The other paler sleep we call it death—
But hers was of that joyous time when years
Crown the full heart with tenderness and tears,
And we perforce must dream of all those things
That wave before us bright as angels' wings—
Visions that come from higher worlds, whose tone
Lives for a moment to exalt our own.
Sweet time, when, hardly conscious of a sin,
We paint the world as we feel within,
And dream like Eliore, whose breasts' sweet swell
Rose with her breathing, with her breathing fell;
While on her lips, moist with her purity,
A smile lay soft as woman's smiles can be,
Touch'd into life with the pure thoughts that keep
Their home in virgin bosoms—Let her sleep.
Young Eliore rose up, and, glad and gay,
Look'd from the window on her bridal day—
Her bridal day, in which her maiden life
Would culminate into the novel wife,
And bring new dreams to crown the quiet bliss
When her sweet lips would falter forth their Yes.
And she would hear him whisper in her ear
All tender vows, that none but she might hear,
As looking meekly up, in mute surprise,
Catch all the lover husband in his eyes.
Thus thought she; and she smiled as each new dream
Came up to cheer her with its tender beam,
Till, as she turn'd, she saw, full-blown and fair,
A rose that by the window blossom'd there,
So put her hand forth to possess its bloom;
But ere she reach'd it, like a sudden doom
The leaves fell withering at her feet, and lay
Still as the shadows of a summer day.
Then in a moment every happy thought
Sank in the horror that the omen brought,
And her eyes droop'd, while from the downcast face
All joy had fled, and grief was in its place;
And her crush'd heart beat fainter as she stood.
Half-lifeless in her chamber's solitude.
Might she not thus be snatch'd from life's sweet pow'r,
And droop, all stricken, like this blighted flow'r,
Even on this morn, her happy bridal day,
When all her hopes seem'd perfect in the ray
Of coming bliss, and her delighted eyes
Saw all in view her earthly Paradise
Away, dread shadows! nor with baleful breath
Pour on her heart the taint of early death,
Nor mix in such a gala hour as this
Your saddening hints with those of fairy bliss;
For, hark! glad voices call her, and light feet
Come tripping up, and make the echoes sweet.
They come, the bridesmaids, to array the bride,
And touch her beauty to a fresher pride.
Then let all tears be dry save those of joy,
And omens sink with all their base alloy.
Who would in such sweet moments bid their gloom
Live on, to dull the splendour and the bloom
Of the first feelings that to the pure air
Breathe forth their light as if a god were there?
Mute touches from a heaven that glides away
When we wake up and feel that we are clay.
How beautiful was Eliore! Her dress
Was one that set off all her loveliness.
Pure white, that, like a balmy summer mist,
Clung lovingly around her form, and kiss'd
The ground beneath. And in her hair was set
A rose new-cull'd, whose tiny leaves were wet
With a most tear-like dewiness, that shed
A queen-like lustre on the noble head,
And on the long rich tresses that fell o'er
Her shoulders, that were whiter than the core
Of a great drift of snow, and rich and rife,
But touch'd her bosom, and grew into life
With a continuous motion, as if there
Cupid had nestling stole, and, unaware,
Betray'd with gentle thrills his resting-place;
While in the smiles that play'd upon her face
There seem'd no token of the morning dread,
But joy and happiness was there instead,
Beaming from eyes whose every glance was bright
With lustre like to Heaven's own living light.
And now the rite was o'er, and the sweet strife
Of murmur'd words whose music made her wife,
And guests had wish'd her happiness, and all
That can of good to earthly beings fall,
And he was at her side for whom her heart
Had beat those vows that only could depart
With death itself, if death could so untie
Those links that seem for all eternity;
And she was happy, and around the room
Her bright eyes wander'd, while a higher bloom
Grew on her cheek, as still his manly tone
Lived in her ear and mingled with her own.
Sweet moments these; but, like a flash of light,
A change came o'er her, and her cheek grew white,
And her eyes dimm'd, and tremblingly the lid
Fell slowly down, and all their lustre hid,
And she, half-sunk, ere he who sat beside
Could turn and clasp unto his breast his bride—
His bride no more; for all her love's sweet faith
Fell on his lips in one long passionate breath—
Such breath the spirit utters when it leaves
Its earthly dwelling, and in leaving grieves.
Then her arms lost their pressure, and her head
Fell forward on his bosom. She was dead.
Young Eliore lay sleeping, and the night
Came slowly in and stole away the light,
But still upon that fair young face there shone
A light the darkness had no power upon—
As if the earthly and the heavenly light
Were still to be apart, nor could unite,
For heaven, that we deem so far away,
Comes down to place its seal upon the clay,
Stamping such sweetness on the brow and lips
That we bless death for bringing such eclipse,
And we could weep but for the sacred hush
That floats o'er all. And so in awe we crush
All feelings into one, and bear within
A power to worship with less weight of sin.
She slept the sleep that hath no need of breath—
The calm, long sleep we mortals know by death,
Or silence, for such name is fit for clay
When life has shrunk in purple streams away.
A bride at morn, aflush with life's sweet thrill—
A bride even yet, but ah! how pale and still
And mute those lips, whose music now no more
Might sound for human ear on earthly shore!
And motionless those hands, that on her breast
Were folded there in an eternal rest,
And stirless underneath the heart that now
Could trace no happy flight across the brow,
Or touch the cheek, upon whose paleness lay
The tears of human grief for human clay,
That, leaving the full heart all feeling there,
For want of such sweet freshness were despair.
But sacred be such grief, nor let an eye
Save that of angel view it from on high;
But let the shadows enter in and hide
The mourning husband and the lifeless bride
Waiting for the lone grave, and still in view
The rose upon her forehead—wither'd too.