Aux Italiens Shut out the world and wintry weather, 869 Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton [1831–1891] AUX ITALIENS AT Paris it was, at the Opera there;- And she looked like a queen in a book that night, Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe with a tenor note The souls in Purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow: And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, "Non ti scordar di me”? The Emperor there, in his box of state, The red flag wave from the city-gate Where his eagles in bronze had been. The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye. To the old glad life in Spain. Well! there in our front-row box we sat, And both were silent, and both were sad. With that regal, indolent air she had; So confident of her charm! I have not a doubt she was thinking then I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees, together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather; Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), And the jasmine-flower in her fair young breast, I thought of our little quarrels and strife, For I thought of her grave below the hill, Aux Italiens 871 And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet And I turned, and looked. She was sitting there I was here; and she was there; And the glittering horseshoe curved between:From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair, And her sumptuous scornful mien, To my early love, with her eyes downcast, To my early love from my future bride 1 One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, My thinking of her, or the music's strain, Or something which never will be expressed, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast. She is not dead, and she is not wed! But she loves me now, and she loved me then! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again. The Marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still, And but for her . . . well, we'll let that pass, She may marry whomever she will. But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face: for old things are best, And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast. The world is filled with folly and sin, And Love must cling where it can, I say: For Beauty is easy enough to win; But one isn't loved every day. And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back, and be forgiven. But O the smell of that jasmine-flower! That voice rang out from the donjon tower, Non ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me! Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton [1831-1891) "LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG" LOVE me little, love me long! Is the burden of my song: Burneth soon to waste. Still I would not have thee cold- Fadeth not in haste. "Love Me Little, Love Me Long" 873 Love me little, love me long! If thou lovest me too much, I'm with little well content, Say thou lovest me, while thou live Constant love is moderate ever, Give me that with true endeavor,— I will it restore. A suit of durance let it be, For all weathers,—that for me,— For the land or for the sea: Lasting evermore. Winter's cold or summer's heat, Such the love that I would gain, Unknown |