Classic Poem

A FRAGMENT .

H E roam'd, an Arab on life's desert waste —
Its waters fleeting when they seemed most near —
Love's phantom leaving, when long vainly chased —
No aim to animate, no hope to cheer.

His was a heart where love, when once it sprung,
With every feeling would its tendrils twine;
And still it grew, though baffled, crush'd and wrung,
Rankly, as round an oak some noxious vine,

Within the poisonous folds of whose embrace
Withers each generous shoot that quickens there,
Till the proud features we no more can trace,
Which once that noble stem was wont to wear.

And time pass'd on — Time who both joy and grief
Bears on his tireless wings alike away,
As storms the bursting bud and wither'd leaf
Will sweep together from the fragile spray.

Her form matured, with all its girlish grace,
A woman's softer full proportion wore;
And none could look upon that radiant face,
And not the soul enthroned there adore.

Her eye was bright, or should a thought of him
Its laughing lustre for a moment shade,
'Twas but a passing cloud which could not dim
The buoyant spirit in its beams that play'd.

And others bow'd where he before had knelt,
And she to one, who even at such a shrine
Could only feign what he alone had felt,
Did the rich guerdon of her heart resign.

She loved him for — for God knows what — 'tis true
In Fashion's field a brilliant name he'd earn'd;
And, with his full-dress pantaloons on too,
His legs and compliments were both well turn'd.

We love, we know not why — in joy or sadness
We waste on one the fountains of the heart,
The mind's best energies, the — pshaw! — 'tis madness —
'Tis worse than frenzy — 'tis an idiot's part.

This Bertram knew — for his was not the dreaming
Cherish'd illusion of a feeble mind;
He knew, too, that in hours there's no redeeming
A soul like his from bonds which years have twined.

That she ne'er loved him, came the cold assurance
Home to his heart, when all its springs were wasted;
He felt that his had been the vain endurance
Of pangs to her unknown — by her untasted.

Dazzled by the prize his soul, his senses ravish'd,
Rashly he ventured on a dangerous game;
Lost, beyond hope, the stake so madly lavish'd,
And felt his folly was alone to blame.

And then he knew they had not each been weighing
An equal hazard in the chance gone by:
She had but been with the heart's counters playing —
He, he had set his all upon a die.

But to what purpose now avail'd the seeing
That love, such as ne'er did human pulses stir —
Which was to him the very food of being —
Was but as pastime and a toy to her?

Her empire o'er his soul had been too deeply founded,
Too long establish'd to reconquer now;
Still was she doom'd to be the heaven which bounded
The world of all his hopes and fears below.

And were it not so, could the charm around him
Even by a word of his at last be broken,
Fully as now that spell would yet have bound him —
That magic word would still remain unspoken.

One night it chanced, when homeward sadly straying,
Beneath her window that he paused, unmoved,
To watch the light which, through the casement playing,
At times was darken'd by the form he loved —

When through the half-raised sash, the summer air
Brought, through the blind which screened the lady's bower,
Words to the throbbing ear, which listen'd there,
That told him first it was her bridal hour!

The sounds of revelry had ceased — the lights
Were all extinguish'd, except one alone;
'Tis that, 'tis that his straining vision blights,
Dimly as through the half-shut blind it shone!

That little light! The burning Afric sun,
Which pour'd its fierce and scorching noonday blaze
The heroic Roman's lidless eyes upon,
Was not more maddening than that taper's rays.

The light's removed — but still a shadow dim
Upon the curtain's folds reflected falls!
The light's extinguished — and the world to him.

*****