THE MAIDEN ASTROLOGER.
Her thoughts were not like girlhood's; bird nor flower
Gave her affection room; and when her face
Assumed its perfect beauty, never blush
Nor smile spoke vanity or love; her hours were passed
In some old window-seat, whose coloured panes
Shed a mysterious light upon the scroll,
On whose strange characters she pored; the night
Still found her on the terrace, her dark eyes
Filled with the wild light of the stars she watched,—
They say, she read their language.
Over the terrace the bright stars shine,
Who is there but must feel them divine?
Softly the night wind stirs the air,
The breath of the orange and rose they bear;
And the branches in music swing to and fro,
Each leaf like a lute-note, sweet and low.
This is a night for the maiden to dream
Of the love which will colour her life's pure stream;—
This is a night for the maiden to pray,
Whose heart has been given, whose love is away!
Young is the maiden that watches the sky,
There is no love on her cheek, or her eye.—
Love doth colour the young cheek with rose,
Like the tide in the moonshine, it ebbs and flows.—
Now passionate pale—now fain to hide
The sudden rush of its crimson tide;
But the lady's cheek is calm and pale,
It wears no blushes, it needs no veil.—
