Poems (Terry, 1861)/La sylphide

by Rose Terry Cooke

LA SYLPHIDE.

 

(Béranger.)

E'en reason is not always wise,
 Her torch-light is not always clear,
For your existence she denies,
 Sylphs! charming people of the air!
Thrusting her æis dull aside,
 That rested on my curious eyes,
Lately I saw a sylphide glide.
 Gay sylphs, be my divinities!

Your cradles are the roses' breasts,
 Of Zephyr and Aurora born;
And in your brilliant changes rests
 The secret light of pleasure's morn.
Our tears ye dry with gentle breath,
 Ye keep unstained the azure skies,
My sylphide's charms demand my faith,
 Gay sylphs, be my divinities!

Ah! well I knew her dwelling-place,
 When, at the ball, or at the feast,
I saw her childish form of grace
 Most lovely when arrayed the least,
A ribbon lost,—a jewel gone,—
 More fair as each adornment flies,
Of all your race the loveliest one.
 Gay sylphs, be my divinities!

She adds a thousand graces new
 To your caprices sweet and wild;
A child that's spoiled, perhaps 'tis true,
 But ah! 'tis sylphs have spoiled the child.
I see beneath that listless air
 What dreaming love dwells in her eyes;
Ye who make tender hearts your care,
 Gay sylphs, be my divinities!

But in her gentle childhood dwells
 A mind arrayed in fairer light
Than e'er your dream-enchanting spells
 Threw o'er the sleep of young delight.
From sparkling wit aloft she springs
 And bears me with her to the skies;
Ye who possessed her borrowed wings,
 Gay sylphs, be my divinities!

Ah! like a meteor's rapid train,
 Too quickly to our eyes denied,—
Shall I behold her form again?
 Perhaps some sylph has called her bride.
No! like the bees' mysterious queen,
 In some strange land her empire lies;
Conduct me to that realm serene,
 Gay sylphs, be my divinities!