Prometheus Bound (Browning, 1833)/To Victoire, on her Marriage
TO VICTOIRE, ON HER MARRIAGE.
Victoire! I knew thee in thy land,
Where I was strange to all:
I heard thee; and were strange to me
The words thy lips let fall.
I loved thee—for the Babel curse
Was meant not for the heart:
I parted from thee, in such way
As those who love may part.
And now a change hath come to us,
A sea doth rush between!
I do not know if we can be
Again as we have been.
I sit down in mine English land,
Mine English hearth beside;
And thou, to one I never knew,
Art plighted for a bride.
It will not wrong thy present joy,
With by-gone days to wend;
Nor wrongeth it mine English hearth,
To love my Gallic friend.
Bind, bind the wreath! the slender ring
Thy wedded finger press!
May he who calls thy love his own,
Call so thine happiness!
Be he Terpander to thine heart,
And string fresh strings of gold,
Which may out-give new melodies,
But never mar the old!
And though I clasp no more thy hand
In my hand, and rejoice—
And though I see thy face no more,
And hear no more thy voice—
Farewell, farewell!—let thought of me
Visit thine heart! There is
In mine the very selfish prayer,
That prayeth for thy bliss!