Rosalind and Helen

Helen. Come hither, my sweet Rosalind.

'Tis long since thou and I have met;

And yet methinks it were unkind

Those moments to forget.

Come sit by me. I see thee stand

By this lone lake, in this far land,

Thy loose hair in the light wind flying,

Thy sweet voice to each tone of even

United, and thine eyes replying

To the hues of yon fair heaven.

Come, gentle friend: wilt sit by me?

And be as thou wert wont to be

Ere we were disunited?

None doth behold us now: the power

That led us forth at this lone hour

Will be but ill requited

If thou depart in scorn: oh! come,

And talk of our abandoned home.

Remember, this is Italy,

And we are exiles. Talk with me

Of that our land, whose wilds and floods,

Barren and dark although they be,

Were dearer than these chestnut woods:

Those heathy paths, that inland stream,

And the blue mountains, shapes which seem

Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream:

Which that we have abandoned now,

Weighs on the heart like that remorse

Which altered friendship leaves. I seek

No more our youthful intercourse.

That cannot be! Rosalind, speak.

Speak to me. Leave me not.—When morn did come,

When evening fell upon our common home,

When for one hour we parted,—do not frown:

I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken:

But turn to me. Oh! by this cherished token,

Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown,

The pale survivors followed her remains

Beyond the region of dissolving rains,

Up the cold mountain she was wont to call

Her tomb; and on Chiavenna's precipice

They raised a pyramid of lasting ice.

Whose polished sides, ere day had yet begun,

Caught the first glow of the unrisen sun,

The last, when it had sunk; and thro' the night

The charioteers of Arctos wheeled round

Its glittering point, as seen from Helen's home,

Whose sad inhabitants each year would come,

With willing steps climbing that rugged height,

And hang long locks of hair, and garlands bound

With amaranth flowers, which, in the clime's despite.

Filled the frore air with unaccustomed light:

Such flowers, as in the wintry memory bloom

Of one friend left, adorned that frozen tomb.

Helen, whose spirit was of softer mould,

Whose sufferings too were less, Death slowlier led

Into the peace of his dominion cold:

She died among her kindred, being old.

And know, that if love die not in the dead

As in the living, none of mortal kind

Are blest, as now Helen and Rosalind.