Perle Des Jardins.

What am I, and what is he      Who can cull and tear a heart,      As one might a rose for sport     In its royalty?     What am I, that he has made      All this love a bitter foam,      Blown about a life of loam     That must break and fade?     He who of my heart could make      Hollow crystal where his face      Like a passion had its place     Holy and then break!     Shatter with insensate jeers! -      But these weary eyes are dry,      Tearless clear, and if I die     They shall know no tears.     Yet my heart weeps; - let it weep!      Let it weep in sullen pain,      And this anguish in my brain     Cry itself to sleep.     Ah! the afternoon is warm,      And yon fields are glad and fair;      Many happy creatures there     Thro' the woodland swarm.     All the summer land is still,      And the woodland stream is dark      Where the lily rocks its barque     Just below the mill.     If they found me icy there      'Mid the lilies and pale whorls      Of the cresses in my curls     Wet of raven hair -     Fool and coward! are you such?      Would you have him thus to know      That you died for utter woe     And despair o'ermuch?     No! my face a marble bust!      As the Sphynx, impassioned, stern! -      Passions hid, as in an urn,     Burnt to bitter dust!     And I'll write him as he wrote,      Making, with his worded scorn,      Tyrant, - crowned with stinging thorn, -     His cold, cruel note.     "You'll forget," he says, "and I      Feel 'tis better for us twain:      It may give you some small pain,     But, 'twill soon be by.     "You are dark, and Maud is light;      I am dark; and it is said      Opposites are better wed; -     So I think I'm right."     "You are dark and Maud is fair!"      I could laugh at this excuse      If this aching, mad abuse     Were not more than hair!     But I'll write him as a-glad      Some few happy words and light,      Touching on some past delight,     That last year we had.     Not one line of broken vows,      Sighs or hurtful tears unshed,      Faithless lips far better dead,     Nor a withered rose.     But a rose, this Perle to wear, -      Perle des Jardins delicate      With faint fragrant life elate, -     When he weds her there.     So; 'tis finished! It is well!      Go, thou rose! I have no tear,      Kiss, or word for thee to bear,     And no woe to tell.     Only be thus full of life,      Cold and calm, impassionate,      Filled with neither love nor hate,     When he calls her wife!