Classic Poem

LAURA HALLERTON, A WOMAN OF FASHION, STRIVES TO WIN THE AFFECTIONS OF TEMPLE FROM FLORENCE DELMAR .

Tem. I cannot bar her image from my thought.
Here too has art shaped in her costlier mould,
The vision of the Carthaginian Queen.
O stone! Thou hast more life than breathing forms,
Save her thou copiest. What sorcery
Masters my will and conscience? In this frame
Two lives are struggling. Now the syren's strain
Allures me unresisting, and anon,
Between its pauses, glides a purer sound,
As 'twere the whisper of some watching star,
The echo of first love. Back! back, while yet
The finer instinct sways me. I'll from hence,
From hence? What! quit the charmed sphere of grace,
Ambition, power — the sun to which all spheres
Beside, are earths? Yet, there to live and peril
For honour's show — itself! The right being clear,
I'll think no more, but act. Who ponders, falls!
Laura. You must no more peruse my face in stone;
I love you not to note it.
Tem. Deign to pardon — —
Laura. Sir, what offence?
Tem. Perhaps an unmeant freedom.
Laura. Wait till I chide you for it. Your report
Of this life-mocking semblance?
Tem. Wondrous skill;
Your look, mould, gesture, air!
Laura. The whole design
Offends me. Round my form the Sculptor throws
The haughty Dido's mantle. See, the foot
Advanced, the head thrown back, the stately height
Proclaim a Queen; no woman weak as I.
Tem. 'Twas well devised.
Laura. You deem, then, pride becomes me?
Tem. When you are proud; when humble — humbleness;
When mournful — sorrow. Differing qualities
Become your mind as various garbs reveal
Alike one symmetry.
Laura. The ice breaks up;
We'll have the current soon. — You're as the rest.
You treat me to the opiate, — soothe the child
With flattery's comfit. There might lurk a heart
'Neath all her humours, — but who cares to find it?
And yet I would not have you think me proud.
Tem. Those gentle tones are subtler than the air,
And steep the brain in music.
Laura There she stands.
Poor lady! Hapless queen!
Tem. You sigh!
Laura. A passing thought.
How might her regal port, that thousands awed,
Have drooped to trembling bashfulness at sight
Of stern Æneas, who so slowly learned
A love he learned — to scorn! Oh, had he fled
Her passion in its dawn!
Tem. He guessed it not.
Laura. He might have done — (for countless heralds, Love
Sends on to sound his coming) — by her voice,
Wont to command, yet for his ear subdued
To faltering whispers; by her eye, whose glance
Was silent fate, yet sank beneath his own,
As if its leave to worship were a bliss
Beyond its asking. He was blind! Be sure
That woman loves who, haughty in the crowd,
Grows humble when with one.
Tem. So melts her voice;
Her eyes so sink! How to translate this? Fool!
This dalliance is guilt. My love! My honour!
Laura. Your silence speaks. You deem my flippant lip
Profanes a theme so tender! Well; believe me
The gilded emptiness, the costly toy,
The rest account me. I can bear it.
Tem. I —
I wrong thee, lady! Ah, you little guess — —
Laura. You will not judge me harshly?
Tem. Harshly!
Laura. No.
I'm sure you will not. Thanks! I'm bold; forgive
The heart's glad impulse. I'd control it — —
Tem. Nay;
The gaoler pines when such fair captive's freed.
Laura. The captive mourns to break so kind a chain.
And yet it must be. In the charity
Of your best moments, if you deign to think
Of me, think thus — that in life's giddy masque,
The visor oft belies the face beneath.