The palimpsest

Love turn’d quite studious, grave, one day, And left his play. He folded close each azure wing, And ceased to sing: Casting from groves reverted looks, Took to his books.

He chose a volume from his store, And ’gan to pore Upon a thickly-cover’d page, Which youth or age Had writ, and cross’d and so recross'd, Meaning seem’d lost.

Yet Love still gazed, all open-eyed, And almost sigh’d. But tenderness was soon beguiled, And so he smiled, As vagrant Memory, hovering near, Whisper’d his ear.

“This manuscript,” cried Love at last, “Contains my past: The tale of passion’s following waves, Which found their graves, Leaving a wrinkle on the shore, And nothing more.

“First on the roll Aglae’s name,-—— My virgin flame! O, how I loved thee! Offering flowers At matin hours, When birds fill’d all the sky with mirth, And joy the earth;

“And should have loved for aye, I ween, Had it not been That Dora’s eyes, so nun-like, sweet, My glance did meet, And drew me, at each vesper bell, To her green cell.

“I could have knelt for ever there, But Sibyl fair Ross, like a conquering star, and then (We are but men) Led me beside her chariot wheel (Dear! what we feel!)

“Over her name I just can trace Thine, sweetest Grace. Thine was the advent of the day: The rest were play. Ah, why should passion’s perfect noon Sink all so soon!

“Next there comes Zoe; then Lucrece (I had no peace!) And here’s a name I can‘t make out,— Much loved, no doubt; And here’s one I have clean forgot, Or, ’tis a blot.

“Then Clarice, large-eyed like a fawn” (Love ’gan to yawn), “And thy full charms, dear Amoret, I ne’er forget; Nor Lettice, frank and debonnaire, I do declare.” Love kept deciphering his past Till sleep at last Drowsed him, but show’d him in his dreams

Beauties in streams, Whose lips still held the kiss he gave When he was slave;

And ears that thrill’d to whisper’d praise; And cheeks his gaze Had tinged so ruddy; all slid on, And quick were gone, As snowflakes that the spring earth pelt Gleam bright and melt.

Murmur‘d the lips of that quaint boy,— “I scatter joy. I’m not inconstant, save in name; My sacred flame Burns ever. Circumstance doth move—— Deathless is Love!