Her desolate feelings as she roamed the beach,
Hurled from the highest heaven of happy love!
But evening crimsoned the blue sea—a sound
Of music and of mirth came on the wind,
And radiant shapes and laughing nymphs danced by,
And he, the Theban God, looked on the maid,
And looked and loved, and was beloved again.
This is the moment that the picture gives:
He has just flung her starry crown on high,
And bade it there a long memorial shine
How a god loved a mortal. He is springing
From out his golden car—another bound—
Bacchus is by his Ariadne's side!
Alvine, She loved again! Oh cold inconstancy.
This is not woman's love; her love should be
A feeling pure and holy as the flame
The vestal virgin kindles, fresh as flowers
The spring has but just coloured, innocent
As the young dove, and changeless as the faith
The martyr seals in blood. 'Tis beautiful
This picture, but it wakes no sympathy,
Leonardi. Next time, Alvine, my pencil shall but give
Existence to the memory of love's truth.
Alvine. Do you recall a tale you told me once,
Of the forsaken Nymph that Paris left
For new love and ambition; at his death
He bade them bear him to Enone's arms.
She never had forgotten him: her heart,
Which beat so faithfully, became his pillow ;
She closed his eyes, and pardoned him and died!
Leonardi. Love, yes I'll paint their meeting: the wan youth,
Dying, but yet so happy in forgiveness;
The sweet Enone, with her gentle tears,
Filled with meek tenderness, her pensive brow
Arching so gracefully, with deep blue eyes
Half hidden by the shadowy lash—a look
So patient, yet so fraught with tenderest feeling,
Like to an idol placed upon the shrine
Of faith, for all to worship. She shall be,
Saving thine own inimitable smile,
In all like thee, Alvine! L. E. L.
