Behold her now amid the crowd That cling round pleasure's idol shrine; Think you that heart hath ever bowed? Think you that spirit could repine? Careless amidst a careless crowd While all the glittering, gaudy throng, Utter their eager praise aloud, And crown her queen of lyric song.
Yet think not that her heart is cold, And to the worldly ones allied; For she is of another mould, The child of passion and of pride. Seest thou the flush upon her cheek, The burning fever in her eye? They're beautiful, but O! they speak A soul that struggles towards the sky.
One that would fly, and not return, On eagle's pinions far away; One that would fain escape the stern, Heart-breaking scenes of every day; Whose thoughts would seek some brighter theme. Than such as to the crowd belong; Whose heart would sleep, and sweetly dream, Reposing on the breast of song.
The cold unsympathizing world Has brought the soaring wing to earth, To droop in gloom, or else, unfurled, To seek the heartless stream of mirth. Like him who hid within the rays That lit the Adriatic's tide, Her heart retires amidst the blaze That lights the halls of mirth and pride.
In vain I for feelings deep and strong Will burst the fetters of despair, Bathe in the atmosphere of song, And grasp a fearful glory there! And those fair thoughts that ever lie Like nuns within the cloistered heart, Will sing their song and breathe their sigh, And sadly struggle to depart.
Alas! how vain—how deeply vain! Fair beings of the convent's cell, Bound in the gloom, there to remain Till earth has said her last farewell. Yet though unseen, a voice is heard, Trembling with saddened sympathy, Like vesper-hymn of some sweet bird, Mourning its long captivity.
So, from thy heart, young child of song, Thy feelings speak a truer tale Than thou wouldst have to them belong; For still each echo is a wail. Though soon by other ears forgot, Making no impress on the mind; Unseen, unknown, unheard, unthought, They leave a world of griefs behind.
A longing for a thing unknown, A something that we cannot name; Alone, yet not enough alone, An ice-like feeling and a flame; A pause so breathless, deep, intense That hope dares not to break the spell; A murmur ever calling hence, A hollow sound, a mute farewell.
These are the mourners of the heart, The dwellers on a deep, dead sea; They look for those they saw depart, They wish for that which may not be— To see the dead return again, With the glad promises they gave, In whispers to the heart, in vain, At once their dupe—at once their grave!
They whispered—and their thrilling tones Awoke a thousand echoes there, And painted fancy's loveliest ones, Of calm, of beautiful, of fair. They whispered, and their tones were heard, Like fragrant breath of summer-flowers, Prom their deep sleep of silence stirred By evening's sighs and golden showers.
But those sighs fainted like the sound Of bright waves murmuring on the shore, And those fair showers were shed around, To gleam a moment and no more; Like memories of bright forms that by Us stand, from which we grieved to part, Dim shadows stand before the eye, Sad voices linger in the heart.
Child of the past! a fearful chain Is round thy heart, that will not break; Though like a bird it strive in vain Its gloomy prison to forsake. The past! thy dwelling is the past, Its spell around thy heart is thrown, Its chain is round thy being cast; In vain thou strugglest thus alone!
Heir of deep feelings and lone tears! A fearful heritage is thine; The buried fires of long, long years Are burning in thy bosom's shrine; And they will burn while one bright thought Remains to feed the undying flame, Till life, hope, thought, remaineth not; All, all consumed—all but a name!
