IONE.
131
Saw a small glove gleaming whitely upon the mound,
And into the delicate wrist was woven "Ione,"
And he said as he dropped it again his eye did mark—
For this unknown, unhallowed grave had been shunned by all—
A narrow footpath winding through to the lofty wall,
That guards the wild grandeur and gloom of your fa- ther's park.
And into the delicate wrist was woven "Ione,"
And he said as he dropped it again his eye did mark—
For this unknown, unhallowed grave had been shunned by all—
A narrow footpath winding through to the lofty wall,
That guards the wild grandeur and gloom of your fa- ther's park.
'Tis well to put small faith in a simple rustic's eye,
This story your father heard, and haughtily denied,
The grass waves rankly now, and gives the fellow the lie,
How many secrets the tall, deceitful grasses hide,
Patting the turf that covers a maiden's innocent rest,
And creeping and winding old haunted ruins among,
As silently smooth's the mould above the murdered breast,
Smothering down to deeper silence a buried wrong.
This story your father heard, and haughtily denied,
The grass waves rankly now, and gives the fellow the lie,
How many secrets the tall, deceitful grasses hide,
Patting the turf that covers a maiden's innocent rest,
And creeping and winding old haunted ruins among,
As silently smooth's the mould above the murdered breast,
Smothering down to deeper silence a buried wrong.
In your father's gallery once, I saw your pictured face,
Ione you were not always so sad and pale as this,
No beauty in all the long line of your noble race.
Had eyes so softly bathed in bright bewitchment of bliss,
You were just nineteen, they said—it was painted in Spain
The year before you came—it was on your foreign tour,
By an artist too low to be reached by your disdain,
A delicate, passionate-hearted boy, proud and poor.
Ione you were not always so sad and pale as this,
No beauty in all the long line of your noble race.
Had eyes so softly bathed in bright bewitchment of bliss,
You were just nineteen, they said—it was painted in Spain
The year before you came—it was on your foreign tour,
By an artist too low to be reached by your disdain,
A delicate, passionate-hearted boy, proud and poor.
