The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/The Festival
THE FESTIVAL.
The young and the lovely are gathered:
Who shall talk of our wearisome life,
And dwell upon weeds and on weeping—
The struggle, the sorrow, the strife?
The hours of our being are coloured,
And many are coloured with rose;
Though on some be a sign and a shadow,
I list not to speak now of those.
Thro' the crimson blind flushes the splendour
Of lamps, like large pearls which some fay
Has swelled with her breath till their lustre,
If softer, is as bright as of day.
Beneath the verandah are flowers—
Camellias like ivory wrought
With the grace of a young Grecian sculptor,
Who traced what some Oread brought;
The harp to the flute is replying—
'Tis the song of a far-distant land;
But never, in vineyard or valley,
Assembled a lovelier band.
Come thou, with thy glad golden ringlets,
Like rain which is lit by the sun—
With eyes, the bright spirit's bright mirrors—
Whose cheek and the rose-bud are one.
While he of the lute and the laurel
For thee has forgotten the throng,
And builds on thy fairy-like beauty
A future of sigh and of song.
Ay, listen, but as unto music
The wild wind is bearing away,
As sweet as the sea-shells at evening,
But far too unearthly to stay.
For the love-dream that haunts the young poet
Is coloured too much by his mind—
A fabric of fancy and falsehood,
But never for lasting designed.
For he lives but in beauty—his visions
Inspire with their passion his strain;
And the spirit so quick at impression
Was never meant long to retain.
But another is passing before me—
Oh, pause! let me gaze on thy brow:
I've seen thee, fair lady, thrice lovely,
But never so lovely as now.
Thou art changed since those earlier numbers
When thou wert a vision to me;
And, copies from some fairest picture,
My heroines were painted from thee.
Farewell! I shall make thee no longer
My sweet summer queen of romance;
No more will my princes pay homage,
My knights for thy smile break the lance,
Confess they were exquisite lovers,
The fictions that knelt at thy throne;
But the graceful, the gallant, the noble,
What fancy could equal thine own?
Farewell! and henceforth I enshrine thee
Mid the earlier dreams that have past
O'er my lute, like the fairies by moonlight,
To leave it more lonely at last.
Alas! it is sad to remember
The once gentle music now mute;
Ah! many a chord hath time stolen
Alike from my heart and my lute.
'Tis midnight—but think not of slumber,
There are dreams enow floating around;
But, ah! our soft dreams while thus waking
Are aye the most dangerous found.
Like the note of a lute was that whisper—
Fair girl, do not raise those dark eyes:
Love only could breathe such a murmur;
And what will Love bring thee but sighs?
And thou, thou pale dreamer! whose forehead
Is flushed with the circle's light praise,
Oh! let it not dwell on thy spirit—
How vain are the hopes it will raise!
The praise of the crowd and the careless,
Just caught by a chance and a name,
Oh! take it as pleasant and passing,
But never mistake it for fame!
Look for fame from the toil of thy midnight,
When thy rapt spirit eagle-like springs;
But, for the gay circle now passing,
Take only the butterfly's wings.
The flowers around us are fading—
Meet comrades for revels are they;
And the lamps overhead are decaying—
How cold seems the coming of day!
There fling off the wreath and the sandal,
And bid the dark curtains round close;
For your cheek from the morning's tired slumber
Must win its sweet exile the rose.
What, weary and saddened! this evening
Is an earnest what all pleasures seem—
A few eager hours' enjoyment—
A toil, a regret, and a dream!