AT Paris it was, at the Opera there;— |
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And she look’d like a queen in a book, that night, |
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With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, |
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And the brooch on her breast, so bright. |
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Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, |
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The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; |
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And Mario can soothe with a tenor note |
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The souls in Purgatory. |
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The moon on the tower slept soft as snow: |
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And who was not thrill’d in the strangest way, |
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As we heard him sing, while the gas burn’d low, |
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“Non ti scordar di me”? |
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The Emperor there, in his box of state, |
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Look’d grave, as if he had just then seen |
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The red flag wave from the city-gate |
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Where his eagles in bronze had been. |
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The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye. |
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You ’d have said that her fancy had gone back again, |
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For one moment, under the old blue sky, |
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To the old glad life in Spain. |
20 |
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Well! there in our front-row box we sat, |
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Together, my bride-betroth’d and I; |
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My gaze was fix’d on my opera-hat, |
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And hers on the stage hard by. |
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And both were silent, and both were sad. |
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Like a queen she lean’d on her full white arm, |
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With that regal, indolent air she had; |
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So confident of her charm! |
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I have not a doubt she was thinking then |
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Of her former lord, good soul that he was! |
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Who died the richest and roundest of men, |
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The Marquis of Carabas. |
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I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, |
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Through a needle’s eye he had not to pass. |
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I wish him well, for the jointure given |
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To my lady of Carabas. |
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Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, |
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As I had not been thinking of aught for years, |
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Till over my eyes there began to move |
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Something that felt like tears. |
40 |
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I thought of the dress that she wore last time, |
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When we stood, ’neath the cypress-trees, together, |
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In that lost land, in that soft clime, |
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In the crimson evening weather; |
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Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), |
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And her warm white neck in its golden chain, |
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And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, |
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And falling loose again; |
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And the jasmine-flower in her fair young breast, |
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(O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine-flower!) |
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And the one bird singing alone to his nest, |
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And the one star over the tower. |
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I thought of our little quarrels and strife, |
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And the letter that brought me back my ring. |
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And it all seem’d then, in the waste of life, |
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Such a very little thing! |
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For I thought of her grave below the hill, |
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Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over; |
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And I thought … “were she only living still, |
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How I could forgive her, and love her!” |
60 |
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And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, |
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And of how, after all, old things were best, |
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That I smelt the smell of that jasmine-flower |
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Which she used to wear in her breast. |
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It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, |
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It made me creep, and it made me cold! |
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Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet |
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Where a mummy is half unroll’d. |
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And I turn’d, and look’d. She was sitting there |
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In a dim box, over the stage; and dress’d |
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In that muslin dress with that full soft hair, |
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And that jasmine in her breast! |
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I was here; and she was there; |
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And the glittering horseshoe curv’d between:— |
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From my bride-betroth’d, with her raven hair, |
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And her sumptuous scornful mien, |
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To my early love, with her eyes downcast, |
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And over her primrose face the shade |
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(In short from the Future back to the Past), |
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There was but a step to be made. |
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To my early love from my future bride |
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One moment I look’d. Then I stole to the door, |
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I travers’d the passage; and down at her side |
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I was sitting, a moment more. |
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My thinking of her, or the music’s strain, |
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Or something which never will be exprest, |
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Had brought her back from the grave again, |
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With the jasmine in her breast. |
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She is not dead, and she is not wed! |
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But she loves me now, and she lov’d me then! |
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And the very first word that her sweet lips said, |
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My heart grew youthful again. |
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The Marchioness there, of Carabas, |
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She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still, |
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And but for her … well, we ’ll let that pass, |
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She may marry whomever she will. |
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But I will marry my own first love, |
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With her primrose face: for old things are best, |
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And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above |
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The brooch in my lady’s breast. |
100 |
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The world is fill’d with folly and sin, |
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And Love must cling where it can, I say: |
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For Beauty is easy enough to win; |
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But one is n’t lov’d every day. |
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And I think, in the lives of most women and men, |
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There ’s a moment when all would go smooth and even, |
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If only the dead could find out when |
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To come back, and be forgiven. |
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But O the smell of that jasmine-flower! |
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And O that music! and O the way |
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That voice rang out from the donjon tower, |
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Non ti scordar di me, |
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Non ti scordar di me! |