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The Continental Monthly, Vol 6, No 5, November 1864
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Год написания книги
2019
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And, still descending, followed still
The path that wound adown the hill
And by the ruined mill—
Till in its garden I espied
The cottage by the river side
Where dwelt my promised bride.
Beneath the porch no lantern flared,
No watch dog kept his faithful ward,
The window blinds were barred.
Entering with eager eye and ear,
And ushered by the phantom Fear,
I stood beside the bier
Of one who, passing hence away,
Left something more than lifeless clay,
As twilight lingers after day,
The pulseless heart, the pallid lips,
The eyes just closed in death's eclipse,
The fairy finger tips
So lightly locked across the breast,
Seemed to obey the sweet behest
By angels whispered—Rest!
That beauty had been mine alone,
Those hands had fondly pressed my own,
Those eyes in mine had shone.
The open door was banged about,
As wailing winds went in and out
With sigh and groan and shout.
And darkly ran the river cold,
Whose swollen waters, as they rolled,
A tale of sorrow told.
I could not choose but seek that stream,
Whose sympathetic moan did seem
The music of a dream.
O River, that unceasing lay
Charms each fair tree along thy way,
Until it falls thy prey!
O endless moan within my heart,
Thy constancy has made me part
Of what thou wert and art!
And while I stood upon the brink,
And tried to think, but could not think,
Nor sight with reason link—
A form I had not seen before
Came slowly down the dismal shore;
A sombre robe she wore,
And in her air and on her face
There was a sterner kind of grace,
Heightened by time and place—
A sort of conscious power and pride,
A soul to substance more allied—
Than that of her who died.
With scarce a semblance of design,
Toward me her steps she did incline,
And raised her eyes to mine
So sweetly, so imploringly,
I scarcely wished, and did not try,
To put their pleading by,
And, ere a movement I had made,
Her hand upon my arm she laid,
And whispered: I obeyed.
While one into the darkness sped,
I followed where the other led;
Yet often turned my head,
As one who fancies that he hears
His own name ringing in his ears
Shouted from far-off spheres.
Oh! bliss misplaced is misery!
I love the life I've lost, but, see!
The life that's here loves me.
And while I seem her willing slave,
My heart is hid in weeds that wave
Above a distant grave.
ÆNONE:
A TALE OF SLAVE LIFE IN ROME
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Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
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