Classic Poem

Moonlight — A Terrace in the Garden of the Palace — Rizzio discovered playing on his harp, and singing — The Queen behind listening.

SONG .

Thou warbling lyre! to thee alone,
My trembling spirit dares to own
Its deep, soul-seated illness;
For the cold world would scorn my grief,
And friends would vainly seek relief,
And foes would chide my wild hopes down,
And she, for whom it bleeds, would frown
My heart to marble stillness.

Sang I of hopes? Alas! for me
This world is but a troubled sea
Of hopelessness and sorrow;
Where my rent heart is wreck'd and lost,
Where I, on waves of passion tost,
Shall know not, in my spirit's blight,
Or cheerful day, or peaceful night,
Save that which knows no morrow.

Would I could mount my griefs above,
And check these tears; this idle love
In my lock'd bosom keeping;
But fires imprison'd fiercest burn,
And their shut cell to fuel turn;
The joyless, hopeless, will complain;
And he who knows his tears are vain
Has greatest cause for weeping.

Queen. Why, how now, Rizzio?
Riz. Most gracious madam —
Queen. What mean this strange confusion, and these tears?
Riz. I was but chanting idly to my harp;
And the damp night-dew on my cheek may show
Like tears, but I am merry.
Queen. Nay, nay, Rizzio,
Then weep again — do any thing but wear
That blank attempt at mirth upon thy lip.
That smile was like the ghost of happiness,
Haunting the place 'twas murder'd in.
Riz. Alas!
Queen. I have observed thee much of late, and mark'd
The change in thy demeanour. Thou hast been
As one whose too aspiring heart was labouring
With wild desires that wither'd in the shade
Of their own vastness. Hast thou learn'd to shed
Sad tears in secret, and to speak thy griefs,
Not to the kind, confiding ear of friendship,
But to the sullen echo, which return'd them
Back to thy heart, to sink more deeply there,
And rankle till they burst it? Now thy songs
Are always melancholy; and when I
Have bid thee try a lighter strain, thy fingers
Have stray'd amidst the strings, faintly essaying
Some glad and mirthful melody, until
They wander'd into one long querulous note,
More mournful than the first. What does this mean —
So young and yet so sorrowful? I thought
That youth was ever joyous — save, indeed,
When greatness was its portion; then the heart,
Lifted too high above the world's low level,
Must stoop until it aches, ere it can compass
The simplest of its wishes. Does thy mind
Hoard some unutter'd crime, or secret care?
Or is thy fond heart wandering o'er the wave
Back to that sunny clime, which holds perchance
The idol of its worship? — Some fair form,
Treading the golden fields of Italy,
With eyes in whose warm beams Love suns himself,
And raven ringlets clustering o'er a cheek,
On which the God of Day has printed charms
Bright as his own Aurora's.
Riz. Oh! no, no —
The idol of my heart is one, compared
With whom, the fairest cheek in Italy
Would wane into the dimness of the stars,
When the moon shines in splendour.
Queen . And is love
The weight which sinks thy spirits to the dust?
Hope is Love's child — her first-born and her fairest.
Canst thou know what it is to love, and yet
A stranger be to Hope?
Riz. Alas! my heart
Is full of unfledged hopes, whose wings, too weak
To soar, can only flutter in their nest,
And shake it with vain efforts.
Queen . Nurse them then —
Oh! nurse the callow brood, until they learn
Those songs which make the hearts of mortals long
To hear them ever.
Riz. Lady, mark yon moon,
Without whom, heaven itself would not be bright;
Such is she whom I love — and as that orb
With its soft influence sways the restless tides,
Though throned so high above them — so she rules
The motions of my heart, and so she mocks them,
As cold, as pure, as lovely, and as far
Above my hope or aim.
Queen . This is mere weakness:
Love, like the grave, levels earth's vain distinctions;
Hearts blend beneath his influence, as the colours
Blend in the rainbow, where each separate hue
Grows faint and fainter, till its varied tints
Fade from our wondering eyes, and we behold
Nothing but heaven. But, Rizzio, canst thou paint me
Those wondrous charms which have thus rapt thy soul?
Riz. Ah! gracious madam, could you read my heart,
There you might see her image, limn'd indeed
In colours like the life — but my weak wit
Fails in the utterance. How can it portray
Her brow? — another Ida, on whose top
Beauty, and majesty, and wisdom sit,
Contending for the prize; her radiant locks,
That o'er her forehead's white float gracefully,
Like waves of gold chafing an ivory shore;
Her lovely lids, fair as those fleecy clouds
Whose dazzling whiteness gems the summer sky,
And, like them, only chided at, because
'Tis heaven's own blue they hide; her eyes, whose lustre
A tender melancholy seems to shade;
Save when deep thought or deeper feeling fills
Those spirit-searching orbs — and then they flash
The mind's magnificent lightnings, and her face
Grows spiritually fine, as though her soul,
(Like a bright flame enshrined in alabaster)
Shone through her delicate and transparent skin,
Revealing all its glory. Then her mind —
Oh! 'tis a sacred hive of hoarded sweets,
Whence her thoughts wander but to cull fresh honey,
And make their dwelling richer: and her heart,
Kind and compassionate to all save one,
Is like the sun, that on the meanest flower
Beams life and warmth, but kills the aspiring flame
That mounts towards it adoringly.
Queen . Peace, peace!
Thou rav'st too wildly. Is it thus thou pleadest
Thy cause to her thou lov'st? I tell thee, Rizzio,
The frigid and unfeeling thrive the best;
And a warm heart, in this cold world, is like
A beacon-light, wasting its feeble flame
Upon the wint'ry deep, which feels it not,
And trembling with each pitiless gust that blows,
'Till its faint fire is spent.
Riz. If my tongue dared
To utter my heart's madness, I would tell thee
How 'tis I plead my cause.
Queen . Nay, let me hear thee.
Sure never at the shrine of matchless beauty
Knelt a more fervent votary.
Riz. Listen then,
While I stand here, and look into thy face:
For thou hast bid me offer up my vows
To matchless beauty; and our Romish creed,
When we're invoking aught divine, enjoins us
To gaze upon its image.

Oh, lady! listen to my lay,
Whilst o'er the lyre my fingers stray
To bid its music rise;
I would but wake its melodies
Once more, before my spirit flees,
And gently, as the evening breeze
Breathes over it, and dies.

I meant this love should secret rest
Within my sad and silent breast
Till life and I should part;
As the swan treasures up her song
Unknown, unheard, her whole life long,
Nor yields one warble to the throng,
Until it breaks her heart.

But now the spell is burst, and now
Anger and pride will cloud thy brow:
Yet thou wilt mourn my lot,
Nor use me for thy scorn or mirth;
For lightnings, that from heaven have birth,
Unlike the base-born fires of earth,
Destroy — but torture not.
Queen . And who is she,
This proud relentless fair, whose cruelty
Methinks but ill becomes her?
Riz. Who she is
'Tis madness to declare, and yet my heart
Swells to my lips — a queen — a gracious queen —
Oh, pity! — pardon me!
Queen . What is't I hear?
Rise, thou rash youth. Rise; thou hast utter'd sounds
More dangerous than is the mandrake's groan.
Away — away!
Riz. Grant me but one word more.
Much have I struggled — much endured. I found
My peace of mind departing — found my joys
Decay, and strove to check this fatal passion —
Yet still it grew, and grew, and flourish'd most,
Like ivy, amidst ruin.
Queen . Prithee, rise: —
Thou know'st thy sorrows have not been unshared,
Or thou hadst spared this boldness — Long, long since
I felt my heart's wreck, yet I strove to hide it
Ev'n from myself; but like the steps of one
Who treads a desolate pile, each sigh of thine
Has woke an echo there, that tells too truly
Its hollowness and ruin.
Riz. Wherefore let
So fair a fabric sink to silent ruin?
Light up love's fire upon its altar — then
All the foul shapes, which haunt its darkness now,
Will vanish like the shadows of the night,
When morning breaks in heaven.
Queen . Oh! leave me — leave me.
Thou shalt hear quickly from me — but beware
Of this betraying passion, and while youth
And health are thine, aspire to emulate
The virtuous and the wise — else shalt thou learn
Thy error when too late, and be as one
Who, having slumber'd while his taper burn'd,
Wakes when its light is spent. Alas! alas!
Virtue is on my lips, but in my heart
There is a false and subtle traitor yields
The victory to the foe.