The suitor was denied; and festivals
Were only graced in quiet courtesy
By her sweet presence: but the peasant's hut,
Where want or suffering came, there her low voice
And fairy footstep were familiar things.
Her lute was a companion, and the wind
Caught music from her melancholy song;
And often, in the garden where they met,
She read those old and lovelorn histories
Which, with the poet's aid, wake pleasant tears—
For unreal sorrow is the luxury
Of youth and hope. 'Twas in this happy time
The artist took his likeness of her face.
'Tis a sweet picture. Mid the parted locks
The brow is white and open—it confides
On the fair future which it dreams; the hair
Has sunshine on it; silken robe and gem
Are such as suit a lady in the land;
A chain hangs from her arm, which might have paid
The ransom of an eastern emir, won
By some bold ancestor: but in her eyes,
Her deep, her blue, her melancholy eyes,
Sorrow doth dimly prophesy itself.
Nature and Fortune have no unity—
Or one so young, so good, so kind, so true,
Should have been happy. All too soon the scroll
Came o'er the sea which told her lover's fate:
He fell in battle, as so many fall,
Unknown, unnamed—his energies, his hopes,
His bold aspirings, and his proud resolves,
