As the cool twilight came, its store
Of seeds and flowers.—There was one,
Who like that dove, was lingering lone,—
The Bayadere: her part had been
Only the hired mourner's part;
But she had given what none might buy,—
The precious sorrow of the heart.
She wooed the white dove to her breast,
It sought at once its place of rest:
Round it she threw her raven hair,
It seemed to love the gentle snare,
And its soft beak was raised to sip
The honey-dew of her red lip.
Her dark eyes filled with tears, to feel
The gentle creature closer steal
Into her heart with soft caress,
As it would thank her tenderness;
To her 't was strange and sweet to be
Beloved in such fond purity,
And sighed Mandalla to think that sin
Could dwell so fair a shrine within.
Oh grief to think that she was one
Who like the breeze was wooed and won:
Yet sure it were a task for love[1]
To come like dew of the night from above
Upon her heart, and wash away,
Like dust from the flowers, its stain of clay,
And win her back in her tears to heaven,
Pure, loved, and humble, and forgiven;
Yes! freed from the soil of her earthly thrall,
Her smile shall light up my starry hall!—L. E. L.
- ↑ In the Improvisatrice version, this and the next seven lines are enclosed in speech marks, as coming from Mandalla
