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Updated: August 4, 2024
The crystal casket of a maiden's dreams, Or the last fancy in cosmetic creams? The dark and tender or the fierce and bright, Youth's rosy blush or Passion's pearly bite?
No warmth these lips return by his imprest, And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. Yes, had I ever prov'd that passion's zeal, The change to hatred were at least to feel: But still, he goes unmourn'd, returns unsought, And oft when present, absent from my thought.
War, and the memory of many friends slain and of wealth lightly plundered had unchained men's passion; and where passion's pinions wave, whether in the struggle for mine and thine or for other possessions, ever since the days of Cain and Abel, it is always and everywhere the same."
This is not "Much ado about nothing"; I could not be mistaken in her voice, and such tones, so soft, so insinuating; and, to say the truth, the accents from below were in passion's tenderest cadence too, but of the sense I can say nothing.
And he from fortune's storm at rest Smiles, in the quiet haven laid Who, timely warned, has owned how blest The refuge of the cloistered shade; To honor's race has bade farewell, Its idle joys and empty shows; Insatiate wishes learned to quell, And lulled in wisdom's calm repose: No more shall passion's maddening brood Impel the busy scenes to try, Nor on his peaceful cell intrude The form of sad humanity!
Poor woman! thou art thy passion's plaything: now tender as the morning sky, and now, when jealousy grips thy heart, more cruel than the sea. Well, thus are we made. Soon, after all this troubling, nothing will be left thee but tears, remorse, and memory." And she went forth. Cleopatra went, and for a while I lay silent, gathering up my strength to speak.
Or, if thou fain wouldst look upon the ruin passion's hands Can wreak on lovers, let thy gaze upon my body light.
Forever our hearts fly to meet each other. Must I not draw reflections of my ecstasy From thy radiant, ardent eyes? In thee alone do I wonder at myself. The earth in brighter tints appears, Heaven itself shines in more glowing light, Seen through the soul and action of my friend. Sorrow drops the load of tears; Soothed, it rests from passion's storms, Nursed upon the breast of love.
Vergil, to be sure, is so far obedient to Greek convention as to play with the motive Cupid came to the banquet in the form of Ascanius but only after it was really no longer needed. The psychology of passion's progress in the first book is convincingly expressed for the first time in any literature.
They could not be expected to unfold what they declined personally to examine. But they were not so successful with the lady governing the household, their widowed maternal aunt, Mrs. Lackstraw, a woman of decisive penetration, and an insubordinate recruit of the army aforesaid. To her they were without a mask; John was passion's slave, Jane the most romantic of Eve's daughters.
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