The Golden Violet with its Tales of Romance and Chivalry and Other Poems/Isabelle’s Songs
Rose-bud mouth, sunny brow,
Wore she, who, fairy-like, sprung now
Beside the harp. Careless she hung
Over the chords; her bright hair flung
A sunshine round her. Light laugh'd she,
"All too sad are your songs for me;
Let me try if the strings will breathe
For minstrel of the aspen wreath."
Lightly the answering prelude fell,
Thus sang the Lady Isabelle.
SONG.
Where do purple bubbles swim,
But upon the goblet's brim?
Drink not deep, howe'er it glow
Sparkles never lie below.
Beautiful the light that flows
From the rich leaves of the rose;
Keep it,—then ask, where hath fled
Summer's gift of morning red?
Earth's fair are her fleeting things;
Heaven, too, lends her angels wings.
What can charms to pleasure give,
Such as being fugitive?
Thus with love: oh! never try
Further than a blush or sigh;
Blush gone with the clouds that share it,
Sigh pass'd with the winds that bear it.
But met she then young Vidal’s eye,
His half-sad, half-reproachful sigh:
His Isabelle! and could she be
Votaress of inconstancy?
As if repentant of her words,
Blushing she bent her o'er the chords;
With fainter tones the harp then rung,
As thus, with bow'd down head, she sung.
SONG.
I have belied my woman's heart,
In my false song's deceiving words;
How could I say love would depart,
As pass the lightsongs of spring birds?
Vain, vain love would be
Froth upon a summer sea.
No, love was made to soothe and share
The ills that wait our mortal birth;
No, love was made to teach us where
One trace of Eden haunts our earth.
Born amid the hours of spring,
Soothing autumn's perishing.
Timid as the tale of woe,
Tender as the wood-dove's sigh,
Lovely as the flowers below,
Changeless as the stars on high,
Made all chance and change to prove,
And this is a woman's love.