The Exile, XXV–XXX

In silver-crimson trappings gay, His tinkling barbs with billowy manes Toss their strong necks before his sleigh— And he has crossed the snowy plains. She hails him, and, with heart aflame, She wonders how such passion came.

Beauty and man’s strong soul are his. Be the earth bare, paved o’er with ice, ’Tis full even to its dome in bliss: The desert is her paradise, Where now the hourly deepening sky Rains down on her love’s mystery.

She hears his love and hears no more. As waves might cease to beat, as winds Might drop away on some charmed shore, The word a soul-deep echo finds— All her fond life is without breath, And sinks away in rapturous death.

New paths to home are overlaid With such deep sunshine, not a tree In densest woods can cast a shade. Her glorious soul again is free,— Free in those bonds of love that wind In bliss about the heart they bind.

Warmer than in its childhood’s flush Her cheek in this new passion glows; Not softer is the fitful blush Of lily ’neath the swaying rose. Her head droops not as when she pined, Now bowed in love’s own southern wind.

A sun of passion is above; Her home is here,—in cloudless eyes She sees the birth-place of her love, And snows dissolve in burning skies. Palm-leaves above her seem to bow When bridal roses wreathe her brow.