Till, like a sigh, the music ceased, and then
Turned softly to a window, and flung back
The crimson curtain, and saw the cold moon
Shine o'er the olive-crested plain beneath:
It was a window that he loved, it looked
Upon the cottage of the white rose tree—
The cottage of his Love. But morning came
To end their revelling. And strange it was,
And something sad, to mark the sudden change:
The dancers gone,—the music, and the lamps
Dying before the cold gray glare of day,—
The silence, solitude, the withered flowers—
Oh! moral of enjoyment!—scattered, crushed:—
The pale checks of the few that staid, like ghosts
Haunting the footsteps of departing mirth,
While the bright pictures over them looked down
Almost in mockery. And Amirald,
Like his guests, left the hall—was it to cool
His fevered brow with the fresh breath of morn?—
His is a hurried step for that. But see,
A fair shape bounds to meet him. ‘Tis his Love—
The same sweet spirit of the last night's lute,
Bright as a spring day, and as beautiful;
The colour of the morning on her cheek,
Her auburn curls flung loose upon the air,
Their only pearls a few clear dew drops, caught
In passing thro’ the roses. Her sweet face
Is lighted up with gladness, and her eyes
Are laughing as her lips; but in their blue,
Their deep, their changeful melancholy blue,
There is a passionate tenderness, too like
Warning or omen of her destiny.
It is not happiness! "See, Amirald, dear—
(She said, as, stretching forth her small white hands,
She showed them full of flowers)—see, I too have
A birth-day offering for you; take my wreath,
‘Tis bright as hope, and try if you can read
Its gentle meanings; or—no, I will be
My flowers' interpreter: This violet,
My Amirald, is like your Eva's fate;
This rose—is it not summer-sweet as love?
And this green myrtle is our constancy."
