They wonder at your silence--smile once more,
Thou queenly one, and send that eager heart
Into a rapturous dream. Upon the floor
There lies his off'ring--turn your steps apart
And crush it not, for he will grieve, Arline,
To see it this.
At last her troubled eyes
Are raised once more, and now a gentle queen
She stands before them all--the shadow dies--
A softened splendor like the night's weird grace
Rests on her brow and faintly-glowing face.
She lifts her head--she sees the eager crowd,
Her blood begins to leap, her eyes grow proud,
Yet still within their liquid depths there lies
A childlike mournfulness, a dread of truth.
Forever fled they are, the dreams of youth,
All broken are the dear and olden ties,
And yet what can it matter to her now
She wears the crown of fame upon her brow.
For those bright laurels that so soon can fade
She's sold her love nor deemed the choice ill made.
Once more upon the silent evening air
Her rich voice ripples like a golden stream
Let loose beneath the sun; a yearning prayer
Within her low-voiced, echoing song doth seem
To lie. The bounding blood now swiftly flows
Along her veins, and on her face it glows
With warm, bright fires. With trembling hands are pressed
The flowers against her heart, a dark unrest
Seems in her soul, yet in those glancing eyes
A tender radiance, like faint sunlight lies.
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