Poems (Argent)/Abandoned Dreams

by Alice Emily Argent

PRIMA DONNA.

LET others boast their singers fine—
 Sims Reeves and Mary Davies,—
I know a greater far than these
 A little 'rara avis!'

She equals Santley's purest notes,
 Albani's tuneful measure,
E'en Titiens cannot vie with her
 Or give me half such pleasure.

For me she sits and sings all day,
 A song that none can capture,
It is so fairy-like and low,
 Yet, full of careless rapture.

Then can you wonder that my heart
 Should fondly dote upon her,
And that within my world she stands
 The only Prima Donna!

But you would like to know her name,
 If she be young and pretty?
1 think her both, but you don't know
 My dainty Persian Kitty!

Such eyes she has of golden brown,
 As if the sun had caught them,
Like shining lamps—as if some sprite
 With fire had made and wrought them.

And then what singer on the stage,
 Dressed finely in the fashion,
Can rival her soft velvet fur
 And gaze of wayward passion?

Or own a footfall half as light
 With cushioned feet so tender,
And little ears so quaintly set
 Upon a headpiece slender.

For me she sings with ne'er a thought
 For money or for praises:
Oh! may her grave when she doth die
 Be crowned with simple daisies.

Of cats she is the cat of cats,
 The "Empress" is her title,
But hark! will any one take seats,
 She's giving a recital!!

ABANDONED DREAMS.

THE sunny heights and golden dreams
 That light the path of fame
Are mine no more—I do not crave
 As once I craved a name.
Ah! no, those spires and temples shine
For other brows than these of mine.

The sad unrest of weary hours
 And thoughts all ill expressed,
Which once held thraldom sore and deep
 Within mine inmost breast,
Is past, and now a summer reign
Of peace and love is mine again.

The fiery blood of youth's brief day,
 Its transient joys and woes,
That quiver at each fitful breeze
 That o'er it sweeps and blows,
Now in the tract of Time's great sea
Sleep quiet till eternity.

I ask not now that I be great
 In learning, as of yore,
In classic art or ideal grace,—
 That beauteous dream is o'er.
I only pray my womanhood
Be crowned by being pure and good.

Nor do I long, as most have longed,
 For one dear life to bless
Their own with tenderest human ties.
 That dream of loveliness
Has faded like the mists away;
For such, I may not, dare not, pray.

For now a wider sphere is mine
 In doing all I can,
To bring some daily kindnesses
 Into the heart of man;
How best to learn to serve and wait
The beggar at the rich man's gate.

So fair and peaceful flow the years,
 Like some pure river bright,
Winding serenely to the deeps
 Of love's celestial light.
The mountain heights seem touched with snow,
The valleys keep the warm soft glow.

Thus calmly as the setting sun,
 Within the roseate west,
Sinks peacefully at close of day,
 So may my spirit rest,—
And my life's sun as sweetly glide
Into the light of eventide!