Oh! wild, proud Clarence Vane!
You'll taunt me with this faithlessness,
Unknowing of this pain!
And we must meet in bitterness,
Who in full faith did part!
Why should I heed reproach or scorn
Breathed by thy lips of art?
And yet I knew that thy strong soul
Gives purest love to me—
Can I not tell a star in heaven
From a star in the sea?
I feel that did an angel sit
And smile upon my brow.
No holier your tenderness
Could be to me than now;
But still I cast that love away—
I banish my sweet trust—
I can not soil my soul's white wings
By stooping them to dust!
If your great mind has been for years
In earthly fetters bound—
If you have stooped your lofty flight.
Base fires to flutter round—
What! though from your soiled pinions
You shake the groveling weight:—
What! though you now soar to the stars,
I can not be your mate;
Ay! deck your glittering palace
With a lover's gentle pride—
And dream of wild devotion—
And murmur of your bride—
Oh! proud and passionate Clarence!
You will never call me wife!
Earth is mournful as the coffin,
And pale sorrow shrouds my life!"
The beautiful young mourner hid her face
In her small hands, and sank upon the earth.
