| |
| AT Paris it was, at the Opera there;— | |
| And she look’d like a queen in a book, that night, | |
| With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, | |
| And the brooch on her breast, so bright. | |
| |
| Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, | 5 |
| 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 thrill’d in the strangest way, | 10 |
| As we heard him sing, while the gas burn’d low, | |
| “Non ti scordar di me”? | |
| |
| The Emperor there, in his box of state, | |
| Look’d grave, as if he had just then seen | |
| The red flag wave from the city-gate | 15 |
| Where his eagles in bronze had been. | |
| |
| The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye. | |
| You ’d have said that her fancy had gone back again, | |
| For one moment, under the old blue sky, | |
| To the old glad life in Spain. | 20 |
| |
| Well! there in our front-row box we sat, | |
| Together, my bride-betroth’d and I; | |
| My gaze was fix’d on my opera-hat, | |
| And hers on the stage hard by. | |
| |
| And both were silent, and both were sad. | 25 |
| Like a queen she lean’d on her full white arm, | |
| With that regal, indolent air she had; | |
| So confident of her charm! | |
| |
| I have not a doubt she was thinking then | |
| Of her former lord, good soul that he was! | 30 |
| Who died the richest and roundest of men, | |
| The Marquis of Carabas. | |
| |
| I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, | |
| Through a needle’s eye he had not to pass. | |
| I wish him well, for the jointure given | 35 |
| To my lady of Carabas. | |
| |
| Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, | |
| As I had not been thinking of aught for years, | |
| Till over my eyes there began to move | |
| Something that felt like tears. | 40 |
| |
| 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), | 45 |
| And her warm white neck in its golden chain, | |
| And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, | |
| And falling loose again; | |
| |
| And the jasmine-flower in her fair young breast, | |
| (O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine-flower!) | 50 |
| And the one bird singing alone to his nest, | |
| And the one star over the tower. | |
| |
| I thought of our little quarrels and strife, | |
| And the letter that brought me back my ring. | |
| And it all seem’d then, in the waste of life, | 55 |
| Such a very little thing! | |
| |
| For I thought of her grave below the hill, | |
| Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over; | |
| And I thought … “were she only living still, | |
| How I could forgive her, and love her!” | 60 |
| |
| And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, | |
| And of how, after all, old things were best, | |
| That I smelt the smell of that jasmine-flower | |
| Which she used to wear in her breast. | |
| |
| It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, | 65 |
| It made me creep, and it made me cold! | |
| Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet | |
| Where a mummy is half unroll’d. | |
| |
| And I turn’d, and look’d. She was sitting there | |
| In a dim box, over the stage; and dress’d | 70 |
| In that muslin dress with that full soft hair, | |
| And that jasmine in her breast! | |
| |
| I was here; and she was there; | |
| And the glittering horseshoe curv’d between:— | |
| From my bride-betroth’d, with her raven hair, | 75 |
| And her sumptuous scornful mien, | |
| |
| To my early love, with her eyes downcast, | |
| And over her primrose face the shade | |
| (In short from the Future back to the Past), | |
| There was but a step to be made. | 80 |
| |
| To my early love from my future bride | |
| One moment I look’d. Then I stole to the door, | |
| I travers’d the passage; and down at her side | |
| I was sitting, a moment more. | |
| |
| My thinking of her, or the music’s strain, | 85 |
| Or something which never will be exprest, | |
| 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 lov’d me then! | 90 |
| 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, | 95 |
| 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. | 100 |
| |
| The world is fill’d with folly and sin, | |
| And Love must cling where it can, I say: | |
| For Beauty is easy enough to win; | |
| But one is n’t lov’d every day. | |
| |
| And I think, in the lives of most women and men, | 105 |
| 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! | |
| And O that music! and O the way | 110 |
| That voice rang out from the donjon tower, | |
| Non ti scordar di me, | |
| Non ti scordar di me! | |
| |
