THE GIRL OF OTAHEITE.
("O! dis-moi, tu veux fuir?")
[Bk. IV, vii., Jan. 31, 1821.]
Forget? Can I forget the scented breath
Of breezes, sighing of thee, in mine ear;
The strange awaking from a dream of death,
The sudden thrill to find thee coming
near?
Our huts were desolate, and far away
I heard thee calling me throughout the
day,
No one had seen thee pass,
Trembling I came. Alas!
Can
I forget?
Once I was beautiful; my maiden charms
Died with the grief that from my bosom
fell.
Ah! weary traveller! rest in my loving arms!
Let there be no regrets and no farewell!
Here of thy mother sweet,
where waters flow,
Here of thy fatherland we
whispered low;
Here, music, praise,
and prayer
Filled the glad
summer air.
Can
I forget?
Forget? My dear old home must I forget?
And wander forth and hear my people weep,
Far from the woods where, when the sun has set,
Fearless but weary to thy arms I creep;
Far from lush flow’rets
and the palm-tree’s moan
I could not live. Here
let me rest alone!
Go! I must
follow nigh,
With thee I’m
doomed to die,
Never
forget!
NERO’S INCENDIARY SONG.
("Amis! ennui nous tue.")
[Bk. IV. xv., March, 1825.]
Aweary unto death, my friends, a mood by wise abhorred,
Come to the novel feast I spread, thrice-consul, Nero,
lord,
The Caesar, master of the world, and eke of harmony,
Who plays the harp of many strings, a chief of minstrelsy.
My joyful call should instantly bring all who love
me most,—
For ne’er were seen such arch delights from
Greek or Roman host;
Nor at the free, control-less jousts, where, spite
of cynic vaunts,
Austere but lenient Seneca no “Ercles”
bumper daunts;
Nor where upon the Tiber floats Aglae in galley gay,
’Neath Asian tent of brilliant stripes, in gorgeous
array; Nor when to lutes and tambourines the wealthy
prefect flings A score of slaves, their fetters wreathed,
to feed grim, greedy things.
I vow to show ye Rome aflame, the whole town in a
mass;
Upon this tower we’ll take our stand to watch
the ’wildered pass;
How paltry fights of men and beasts! here be my combatants,—
The Seven Hills my circus form, and fiends shall lead
the dance.
This is more meet for him who rules to drive away
his stress—
He, being god, should lightnings hurl and make a wilderness—
But, haste! for night is darkling—soon,
the festival it brings;
Already see the hydra show its tongues and sombre
wings,
And mark upon a shrinking prey the rush of kindling
breaths;
They tap and sap the threatened walls, and bear uncounted
deaths;
And ’neath caresses scorching hot the palaces
decay—
Oh, that I, too, could thus caress, and burn, and
blight, and slay!
