Præceptor Amat

It is time (it was time long ago) I should severThis chain--why I wear it I know not--forever!Yet I cling to the bond, e'en while sick of the maskI must wear, as of one whom his commonplace taskAnd proof-armor of dullness have steeled to her charms!Ah! how lovely she looked as she flung from her arms,In heaps to this table (now starred with the stainsOf her booty yet wet with those yesterday rains),These roses and lilies, and--what? let me see!Then was off in a moment, but turned with a glee,That lit her sweet face as with moonlight, to say,As 't was almost too late for a lesson to-day,She meant to usurp, for this morning at least,My office of Tutor; and instead of a feastOf such mouthfuls as 'poluphloisboio thalasses',With which I fed her, I should study the grasses(Love-grasses she called them), the buds, and the flowersOf which I know nothing; and if "with MY powers",I did not learn all she could teach in that time,And thank her, perhaps, in a sweet English rhyme,If I did not do this, and she flung back her hair,And shook her bright head with a menacing air,She'd be--oh! she'd be--a real Saracen OmarTo a certain much-valued edition of Homer!But these flowers! I believe I could number as soonThe shadowy thoughts of a last summer's noon,Or recall with their phases, each one after one,The clouds that came down to the death of the Sun,Cirrus, Stratus, or Nimbus, some evening last year,As unravel the web of one genus! Why, there,As they lie by my desk in that glistering heap,All tangled together like dreams in the sleepOf a bliss-fevered heart, I might turn them and turnTill night, in a puzzle of pleasure, and learnNot a fact, not a secret I prize half so much,As, how rough is this leaf when I think of her touch.There's one now blown yonder! what can be its name?A topaz wine-colored, the wine in a flame;And another that's hued like the pulp of a melon,But sprinkled all o'er as with seed-pearls of Ceylon;And a third! its white petals just clouded with pink!And a fourth, that blue star! and then this, too! I thinkIf one brought me this moment an amethyst cup,From which, through a liquor of amber, looked up,With a glow as of eyes in their elfin-like lustre,Stones culled from all lands in a sunshiny cluster,From the ruby that burns in the sands of MysoreTo the beryl of Daunia, with gems from the coreOf the mountains of Persia (I talk like a boyIn the flush of some new, and yet half-tasted joy);But I think if that cup and its jewels togetherWere placed by the side of this child of the weather(This one which she touched with her mouth, and let slipFrom her fingers by chance, as her exquisite lip,With a music befitting the language divine,Gave the roll of the Greek's multitudinous line),I should take--not the gems--but enough! let me shutIn the blossom that woke it, my folly, and putBoth away in my bosom--there, in a heart-niche,One shall outlive the other--is 't hard to tell which?In the name of all starry and beautiful things,What is it? the cross in the centre, these rings,And the petals that shoot in an intricate maze,From the disk which is lilac--or purple? like raysIn a blue Aureole!

And so now will she wot,When I sit by her side with my brows in a knot,And praise her so calmly, or chide her perhaps,If her voice falter once in its musical lapse,As I've done, I confess, just to gaze at a flushIn the white of her throat, or to watch the quick rushOf the tear she sheds smiling, as, drooping her curlsO'er that book I keep shrined like a casket of pearls,She reads on in low tones of such tremulous sweetness,That (in spite of some faults) I am forced, in discreetness,To silence, lest mine, growing hoarse, should betrayWhat I must not reveal--will she guess now, I say,How, for all his grave looks, the stern, passionless Tutor,With more than the love of her youthfulest suitor,Is hiding somewhere in the shroud of his vest,By a heart that is beating wild wings in its nest,This flower, thrown aside in the sport of a minute,And which he holds dear as though folded within itLay the germ of the bliss that he dreams of! Ah, me!It is hard to love thus, yet to seem and to beA thing for indifference, faint praise, or cold blame,When you long (by the right of deep passion, the claim,On the loved of the loving, at least to be heard)To take the white hand, and with glance, touch, and word,Burn your way to the heart! That her step on the stair?Be still thou fond flutterer!

How little I careFor your favorites, see! they are all of them, look!On the spot where they fell, and--but here is your book!