With the vain shadow of the past,
As is Mazeppa to the last.
"We met we gazed—I saw, and sigh'd,
She did not speak, and yet replied;
There are ten thousand tones and signs
We hear and see, but none defines-
Involuntary sparks of thought,
Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought,
And form a strange intelligence,
Alike mysterious and intense,
Which link the burning chain that binds,
Without their will, young hearts and minds;
Conveying, as the electric wire,
We know not how, the absorbing fire.--
I saw, and sigh'd—in silence wept,
And still reluctant distance kept,
Until I was made known to her,
And we might then and there confer
Without suspicion-then, even then,
I long'd and was resolved to speak;
But on my lips they died again,
The accents tremulous and weak,
Until one hour.-There is a game,
A frivolous and foolish play,
Wherewith we while away the day;
It is I have forgot the name-
And we to this, it seems, were set,
By some strange chance, which I forget;
I reck'd not if I won or lost,
It was enough for me to be
So near to hear, and oh! to see
The being whom I lov'd the most.—
I watch'd her as a sentinel,
(May ours this dark night watch as well!)
Until I saw, and thus it was,
That she was pensive, nor perceived
Her occupation, nor was grieved
Nor glad to lose or gain; but still
Play'd on for hours, as if her will
Yet bound her to the place, though not
That her's might be the winning lot.
Then through my brain the thought did pass,
Even as a flash of lightning there,
That there was something in her air
Which would not doom me to despair ;
And on the thought my words broke forth,
All incoherent as they were-
Their eloquence was little worth,
But yet she listen'd-'tis enough—
Who listens once will listen twice;
Her heart, be sure, is not of ice,
And one refusal's no rebuff.
"I loved, and was beloved again-
They tell me, Sire, you never knew
Those gentle frailties; if 'tis true,
I shorten all my joy or pain;
To you 'twould seem absurd as vain ;
Bat all men are not born to reign,
Or o'er their passions, or as you
Thus o'er themselves and nations too.
I am-or rather was-a prince,
A chief of thousands, and could lead
Them on where each would foremost bleed; But could not o'er myself evince
The like control-But to resume:
I loved, and was beloved again;
In sooth, it is a happy doom,
But yet where happiest ends in pain.-
We met in secret, and the hour
Which led me to that lady's bower
Was fiery Expectation's dower.
My days and nights were nothing-all
Except that hour, which doth recall
In the long lapse from youth to age
No other like itself—I'd give
The Ukraine back again to live
It o'er once more--and be a page,
The happy page, who was the lord
Of one soft heart, and his own sword,
And had no other gem nor wealth
Save nature's gift of youth and health.--
We met in secret-doubly sweet,
Some say, they find it so to meet;
I know not that-I would have given
My life but to have call'd her mine
In the full view of earth and heaven;
For I did oft and long repine
That we could only meet by stealth.
"For lovers there are many eyes,
And such there were on us;-the devil
On such occasions should be civil-
The devil!-I'm loth to do him wrong,
It might be some untoward saint,
Who would not be at rest too long,
But to his pious bile gave vent—
But one fair night, some lurking spies
Surprised and seized us both.
The Count was something more than wroth-
I was unarm'd; but if in steel,
All cap-à-pie from head to heel,
What 'gainst their numbers could I do?—
"Twas near his castle, far away
From city or from succour near,
And almost on the break of day;
I did not think to see another,
My moments seem'd reduced to few ;.
And with one prayer to Mary Mother,
And, it may be, a saint or two,
As I resign'd me to my fate,
They led me to the castle gate:
Theresa's doom I never knew,
Our lot was henceforth separate.—
An angry man, ye may opine,
Was he, the proud Count Palatine ;
And he had reason good to be,
But he was most enraged lest such
An accident should chance to touch Upon his future pedigree;
Nor less amazed, that such a blot
His noble 'scutcheon should have got,
While he was highest of his line;
Because unto himself he seem'd
The first of men, nor less he deem'd
In others' eyes, and most in mine.
'Sdeath! with a page-perchance a king
Had reconciled him to the thing;
But with a stripling of a page-
I felt-but cannot paint his rage.
66 6 'Bring forth the horse!'-the horse was brought;
In truth, he was a noble steed,
A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,
Who look'd as though the speed of thought
Were in his limbs; but he was wild,
Wild as the wild deer, and untaught,
and bridle undefiled-
Twas but a day he had been caught;
And snorting, with erected mane,
And struggling fiercely, but in vain,
In the full foam of wrath and dread
To me the desert-born was led:
They bound me on, that menial throng,
Upon his back with many a thong;
Then loosed him with a sudden lash-
Away!-away!—and on we dash!-
Torrents less rapid and less rash,
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