Break, break, my lute! fade, fade, my wreath!
Laurel and lute are dead for me;
Laurel and lute are vowed to Love;
And, Love, I dare not think on Thee.
It was a deep blue summer night,
A night with star gemmed coronal;
And music murmured thro' the dell,
A song sent from the waterfall.
And there was fragrance on the air;
For roses, like sweet lamps, so bright,
So red, so fresh, were shining there;
And jasmines with their silver light.
It was a night, soft as the hope,
Calm as the faith with which I said
Farewell to thee, my lovely one—
My Provence rose, my fair haired Zaide.
She tied her white scarf on my breast,
She gave a bright curl from her brow,
Her rose-bud mouth to mine was prest—
Scarf, curl, and kiss, are with me now.
That kiss has been kept like the leaves
Of the young rose, or ere the sun,
Like love, has opened the sweet flower,
It fades while it is shining on.
That curl has waved amid the light
Of flashing steel and flying spear—
That scarf has been blood-dyed—I fought
In honour of my maiden dear!
And never did I wake my harp
To any name but hers—that one
I taught the gales of Palestine,
I taught the groves of Lebanon.
Again I sought her bower, and brought
A laurelled lute, a laurelled blade;
It was the same sweet summer night,
Of fragrant gales and moonlight shade.
The moon in the same beauty sailed,
The brook in liquid music ranged ;
There stood the old accustomed oak,
But every other thing was changed.
The roses drooped, neglected; dead
Upon the ground the jasmines lay;
And little (my foreboding said,)
Has she thought on me while away;
