When pain or pity Julia's mirth subdued
She looked like Laura in her pensive mood.
Both felt for Desmond all that friendship feels,
And both, too quickly, all that love conceals.
But Laura hid the passion in her breast;
Whate'er she felt, her feelings she represt.
While Julia sought (more for the triumph's sake,
Than conscious of her happiness at stake)
By many a female wile and winning art -
The envied conquest of the hero's heart.
And each, by Desmond's wavering doubts deceived,
Herself the object of his choice believed.
Unknown to each, he yet was dear to both;
But oh! how different was their passion's growth;
Julia's a light and fickle flame, that played
Around a heart it could not all pervade-
Laura's that lasting love so rarely known,
Which once imbibed, can end with life alone.
And Desmond saw or thought he saw
at length, Her mild attachment's far superior strength : Not wished it less than thought for now his own
No longer doubtful, fixed on her alone.
If Julia's dazzling charms had fired at first
A deeper flame the gentle Laura's nursed,
And soon, her sway confirmed beyond controul, She reigned confest the sovereign of his soul.
From cities far removed, their sire's domain
Formed the rich centre of a rural plain.
Within the spacious garden's blooming bounds,
The brightest spot of those enchanted grounds,
There was an arbour, by their mother reared
In youth for her sake to their hearts endeared;
And since the fairest of her sex and first
In Eden's fragrant shade her flowerets nursed,
No fairer hands e'er dressed a lovelier bower,
Nor lighter hearts reposed at noontide hour.
And brightly blooming round that fairy grot,
The circling scene seemed worthy of the spot.
Here the wild woodbine scents the summer air,
The rich seringa sheds its odours there.
Here drinks the luscious grape ensanguined dyes
Nor asks the solace of more southern skies;
The pensive willow weeps above the wave,
As Beauty bends o'er Love's untimely grave;
And trees of taller growth and statelier mien
Rise o'er the rest, and form a verdant screen.
Beneath, a river winds its murmuring way,
Soft on whose breast the summer breezes play;
And Plenty laughs along the lovely scene,
In fields of waving gold, or glowing green.
While, far beyond, the distant ocean's roar
Dies, faintly heard, along a rocky shore;
So far, the eye but faintly can define
The distant limits of the wat'ry line;
Distinguished solely from the circling sky
By the deep azure of its darker dye.
Such was the lovely scene the Sisters chose
For social converse, or for sweet repose;
And this the spot, his secret to impart,
Where Desmond sought the sovereign of his heart,
Alone he found her wrapt so deep in thought,
No sound of coming steps her ear had caught.
An
open volume on her knee was spread,
On which she gazed, but not as if she read;
Her vagrant thoughts were wandering far from thence,
She saw the words, but not perceived the sense.
Is it a tear that trembles on the page?
What can thus deeply interest or engage?
Slowly at length her downcast eyes she raised,
And, starting, blushed, to find that Desmond gazed. Say lovely Laura, may I ask, unblamed,
What is the happy volume?" he exclaimed,
"That draws those drops of pity from thine eye,
For which, in vain, despairing suitors sigh ?"
Then half in pensive, half with sportive, air,
He smiling took the volume "The Corsair !"
"Is it for fabled woes that Laura weeps,
While for more real griefs her pity sleeps ?"
"Desmond! 'tis not the tale has power to draw,
Sad though it be, the sympathy you saw.
It was th' unhappy bard I thought of then,
Whose deeds but mocked the precepts of his pen.
Oh! Bard sublime! from whose resounding lyre
Flow strains which listening seraphs might admire,
Are they all sound? and is this heavenly strain
Not of thy heart the offspring, but thy brain?
He who could draw a picture such as this
Of faith connubial, and connubial bliss-
Of love that triumphed o'er the lapse of time-
Of constancy that half atoned for crime:
Forgive me, Desmond, since no lover you,
When he was false, ah! who can e'er be true?"
"Are these thy thoughts? oh! deem not thus of all: From lips so mild can such harsh censure fall?
Not yet so far debased is human kind,
That worth and truth can fail the heart to bind.
Yes, lovely sceptic, hear me at thy feet,
Relenting hear, the promise I repeat:
What fair Medora was, be thou to me,
And more than Conrad shall thy Desmond be-
O! I will prove the substance of that shade,
The model of the picture there pourtrayed."
'Twas with a trembling joy that Laura heard
The fond petition which his lips preferred;
Then sighing said, and yet a pensive smile
Played on her lip and blushing cheek the while,
"These are thy words, and well do I believe
No words of thine would willingly deceive;
Yet oh! forgive me, if I half suspect
That ardent love may end in cold neglect,
And he who like the Corsair wooes to day,
E'en like the Bard, to-morrow may betray."
"What do I hear?" exclaimed th' indignant youth. "Does then the lovely Laura doubt my truth? And will not faith such idle fears absorb ?
Then listen to my vow when yon bright orb,
That rolls in summer grandeur o'er our heads,
And from his burning disk the daybeam sheds,
In noontide majesty, shall check his march,
And yield to night's domain the azure arch
Or, when he sinks, slow fading, in the west,
Forget to rise, all radiant from his rest;
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