SYBIL AND MAIDEN.
Reading edition
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BY G. G. FOSTER.
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Sybil.
Why art thou sad? Why droops the willowy lid
O’er the deep fountain of that passionate eye?
What monster in thy bosom’s depths is playing,
And heaving thus those delicate billows, which
The wind of thy sweet breath but dares to swell,
Most daintily, and sighs to fly away?
Maiden.
I nothing know, but that in a dream
A spirit of light on the pale moonbeam
Flew into my chamber—and it did seem
Nought but a brighter and purer beam
That had dropped from the beautiful sky,
’Till I wakened—and lo! a lovely mouth,
Whose breath was sweet as winds of the south,
And an eye flashing soft with love and desire,
Which thrilled all my frame with quivering fire,
Peered out, as a cloud swept by;
And a soft voice whispered a thrilling tale,
And my eye grew dim and my red cheek pale.
Sybil.
Thy guest, fair maid, was Love! Nay, do not start,
And turn thy modest eyes upon the moon—
The god within thee but betrays himself
In every graceful motion. Thou dost pant
To learn the mysteries of thy new found worship.
The secret torrent rushing through thy veins
Makes eloquent music to thy listening heart,
Which beats unconsciously the measure out.
I know thy malady—so come with me:
I’ll cure thee with indulgence.
The maiden bent her white and stately neck,
And sounds of joy flew from her parted lips,
Like birds from roses—and the sorceress flung
A dainty chain of gold and gossamer
About her, and with sound of wings and breath
Of fragrance, vanished.
Maiden, look up! behold!
A dark-haired youth, with eyes of burning light,
Kneels gracefully before her; and his words,
Scarce heard for sighs, thrill to the inmost heart
Of that fair listener. He takes her hand—
His arm is round her—kisses warm and sweet
Rain on her lips and eyes—she gasps with joy,
And melts into his arms.
St. Louis, April, 1841.