Hyanthe

It was scarcely day when, all alone, I saw Hyanthe and her throne. In fresh green damask she was dressed, And on a sapphire globe she rested. When I beheld that slippery sphere, “Fortune,” I thought, “it must be you.” But when I saw she showed a majesty More lasting still,

I thought my trouble well repaid, If I could finish my discovery.

At my first sight she seemed asleep, As though she had kept watch all night; Beneath her head her hand was spread, Its white support as she reclined. But at a second, studied look I saw a silent dew steal down Her cheeks. Lest it should stain those cheeks Where smiles alone ought to hold sway, Her tears streamed swiftly down and fell In chains of flowing pearl. Fair sorrows, dearer far than joys That are but empty airs and noise, Your drops bestow a richer prize, For they are something like her eyes.

Pretty white innocent! Why have you Been sullied with tears, yet not with sin? Your tears, like polished skies, are bright, The rose-like jewels of your eyes. Yet such strange fates attend them still, It seems your woes will never end. From drops they turn to sighs, and then Those sighs return to drops again. But while the silver torrent seeks The flowers awaiting in your cheeks, Hyanthe's colours, white and red, Turn all her tears to water of roses.

Have you beheld a flame spring up From incense, while sweet curling rings Of smoke attend its last weak fires, And it breathes out its life in perfume? So died Hyanthe. “Here,” she said, “Never let this vial leave you. It holds my heart, though now outpoured And wholly distilled into water. It is constant still. Trust no false smiles: She who smiles but does not weep deceives. Yet trust no tears: the few are false; The tears that are true are many. Trust me and make the better choice: Who has my tears can lack no joys.”