Thus pass'd a season; but Ianthe's heart,
Tender and true, confiding, passionate,
Was filled with those warm feelings, which like gold,
Albeit itself so precious, often brings
Misery on the possessor. But to look
On the weak gracefulness of her slight form,
The gentle forehead, the imploring smile
Of the so delicate lip, the tremulous blush,
The full voluptuous darkness of the eyes,
So timid yet so tender,—light and dew,—
To look upon her was to know that love
Would be her destiny. Ianthe loved—
Loved with that womanish idolatry
Which makes a god of the beloved one,
A god for whom no sacrifice is thought
Too great, though life and soul were offered up,—
No worship worthy of the excellence
To which the heart bows down. But happiness,
Though often wooed, is rarely won by love.
Ianthe had to weep the worst of all,—
Ill placed affection.----
She knew that death was in her heart, and pined
Once more to look upon the sunny Isle.
Not even its sweet healthfulness of air
Might save, but it would soothe; she said her breath
Would pass more freely; when its latest sigh
Had a companion in one from the rose.
Again the tall ship bore her o'er the main.
It was a strange, yet lovely, sight to see
How in the moonlight she would sit and watch
The glorious waters, her black hair unbound
And floating like a sail, heavy and dark,
As if an omen that the voyage was death;
And her large eyes, so very wildly bright,
Her low and melancholy song,— she looked
A spirit, paused one moment on this earth,
To chant a requiem over it.---
Sail on thy way, thou stately ship,
Over the deep blue sea,
Beyond thy waves there is a home,
A silent home for me!
