Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A TALE, by JAMES GATES PERCIVAL Poet's Biography First Line: He had been touched with grief, and on her cheek Last Line: Only to think of what had been, and grieve. Subject(s): Grief; Sorrow; Sadness | ||||||||
SHE had been touched with grief, and on her cheek Sorrow had left its impress in the pale Soft tint of fading loveliness. She bore Meekly the burden of her woes, and told To none the secret of her heart. It preyed Forever on her life, and blanched away The roses which had bloomed so wooingly And freshly on her laughing lips. Her smile Grew fainter, and it only spread a line Of a most tender carmine, where the snow Scarce had a stain to mark it from the pure And perfect whiteness of her cheek and brow -- So pure, she seemed a living monument Of Parian marble; and the flaxen curls That waved around her forehead, and the arch Darker and brighter bent above that eye, Which through long lashes spoke in looks of fire, And was the only eloquence she used -- These, and at times a gushing to her cheek, Like the first flush of morning, or the faint Fast-dying purple, when the twilight steals Into the depth of darkness -- these were all That told she yet was living, and was not An image of the Graces, or the shade Of a departed maiden, which at night Visits the silent walks she loved, and hangs Over the grave she watered, till she took Her last repose beside it. She had been The gayest and the loveliest, and had moved Through the light dance, and in the bending crowd Of young admirers, like an infant queen Proud of her innocent beauty. There was one Who looked, but spake not; and when others took Her hand to lead her through the merry hall, In steps all grace and harmony, he stole Aside, and wept in anguish. He was made Not for the place of mirth, but for the still And peaceful shade of feeling, and of thoughts, Which have their home in higher souls, and are Lone, and unfriended and unknown below. His was a social nature; yet not made To blend with crowds, but find in one alone, One fairy minister of soft delights, And pure as they are tender, that deep joy, Which none has ever uttered. Long he sought To win her to those calm retreats, and give To her a spirit kindred to his own, And lead her to the one and only love, The harmony of thought, and wish, and life, The union of all feelings, whence the deep Exhaustless fountain of their blended hearts Flows ever deeper, and has ever more Of music in his flow, and more of light And beauty in its fullness. Thus he dwelt On her fresh loveliness, until his life Was linked unto her image, and her form Mingled with every thought, and every spot, Where, the new spring looked beautiful, was filled With her pervading presence; but he dared Speak only to the mountain-winds her name, And only in a whisper. She had marked The silent youth, and with a beauty's eye Knew well she was beloved, and though her light And bounding spirit still was wild and gay, And sporting in the revel, yet her hours Of solitude were visited by him, Who looked with such deep passion. She too loved, And saw more in his melancholy eye, And in the delicate form, and the still look, And that high front of intellect, which crowned Features that were all tenderness and love, Like the fair shrine of poesy, where thoughts Dwelt high and solemn, such as from their seat Of glory visit none, but the great few, Whose language is immortal -- there she saw More that had charms to win her, than in all The light unmeaning swarm, who fawned, and danced, And played their tricks in envious rivalry, Happy to draw from her one scornful smile. She loved him with a true and early love, And with her tenderness there was a sense Of awe, when on those magic eyes she gazed, Which seemed to look on spirits, not on men. Still, in her innocent cheerfulness, she sought To lead him from his solitary haunts, And throw bright smiles upon that shaded brow, And light that eye to rapture from its deep And mute abstraction. So she laughed and sung, And called him to the dance; but with a gush Of feeling irresistible, he stole Aside and wept. Again he sought her ear, And told her his fond tale. First she looked cold And o'er her forehead curled a playful frown; Then suddenly, and with a few light words, She scornfully turned from him, and enjoyed The moment of her triumph -- it was short, For with a firm, fixed look, in which were seen More thoughts of grief than anger, he drew back, And casting one proud farewell glance, that told There was no after hope, he turned away, And soon was gone, an exile, none knew where. He wandered to another land, and found New friends, who sought to cheer him; but a weight Hung on his heart, and would not be removed; The feeling of regret and injury, The love that will not perish, and the pride That quenches love, but does not make it hate; The fondness that will steal at times, and melt The heart to tears, and then the sudden pang Of long-remembered scorn, which freezes fast The fountain in its flow, and leaves the cold Dim glare of one, whose only hope is death. He was in happy regions, and the sky Above him was most beautiful; its blue Was higher and intenser, and it took The spirit on a journey into Heaven, And made it more than mortal: cool, soft gales Stole from a peaceful ocean, whose bright waves Rolled gently on to music, and they blew Through woven trellises of all-sweet flowers, And sported round long wreaths of festooned vines Hung with the gayest blossoms, and o'er beds, That breathed in mellowest airs of balm and myrrh. Music was in those bowers, and Beauty there Crowded in mystic dances, and their nights Were consecrated to the skilful sounds Of a most witching harmony, to choirs Such as once moved in Athens to the voice Of flutes and timbrels. Many an eye was bent Full on the noble stranger, and they sought To win his smile; but yet he would not smile, For all his better thoughts were far away, And when, he looked upon the lovely ones Around him, it recalled with keener sense, Her, who to him was lovelier, whom he loved, But would not in his bitterness forgive. When it was told her that the youth had fled, And fled in anger, then her look was changed, And never more her steps were in the dance, Nor were the cheerful sounds of her sweet voice Heard in the crowd of revelers. Alone She wept the folly which had thrown away The only treasure she had truly loved, And left her in the fairest of her days, The very spring-time of her loveliness, Only to think of what had been, and grieve. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONOMA FIRE by JANE HIRSHFIELD AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARDS by JOHN HOLLANDER WHAT GREAT GRIEF HAS MADE THE EMPRESS MUTE by JUNE JORDAN CHAMBER MUSIC: 19 by JAMES JOYCE DIRGE AT THE END OF THE WOODS by LEONIE ADAMS THE CORAL GROVE by JAMES GATES PERCIVAL |
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