C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Alexander Smith (1830–1867)

THE LADY BLANCHE was saintly fair;

Not proud, but meek, her look;

In her hazel eyes her thoughts lay clear

As pebbles in a brook.

Her father’s veins ran noble blood,

His hall rose ’mid the trees;

Like a sunbeam she came and went

’Mong the white cottages.

The peasants thanked her with their tears

When food and clothes were given:

“This is a joy,” the lady said,

“Saints cannot taste in heaven.”

They met: the poet told his love,

His hopes, despairs, and pains;

The lady with her calm eyes mocked

The tumult in his veins.

He passed away;—a fierce song leapt

From cloud of his despair,

As lightning like a bright wild beast

Leaps from its thunder-lair.

He poured his frenzy forth in song,—

Bright heirs of tears and praises!

Now resteth that unquiet heart

Beneath the quiet daisies.

The world is old,—oh! very old,—

The wild winds weep and rave;

The world is old, and gray, and cold,—

Let it drop into its grave.