Chapter 4
The parting tune by Anne Bronte. Read for LibriVox.org by Morphine Lolly. The lady of Abiano's hall is waiting on her lord. The blackbird's song, the cuckoo's call, no joy to her afford. She smiles not at the summer's sun, nor at the winter's blast.
He mourns as he is still alone, though three long years have passed. I knew her when her eyes were bright. I knew her when her step was light, and bliesem as the mountain does, and when her cheeks were like the rose, And when her voice was full and free, and when her smile was sweet to see.
But now the luster of her eye is dim with many a tear. Her footsteps of elasticity is timed with grief and fear. The roses left her hollow cheeks, in the low and mournful tone she speaks. And when she smiles, tis but a gleam of sunshine on a winter's day. The faintly beams through dreary clouds, and then a moment fades away.
It does not warm. It does not cheer. It makes us sigh for summer days. When fields were green and skies were clear And when the sun has kinder rays For three years he has waited there Still hoping for her Lord's return
But vainly he may hope and fear And vainly watch, weep, and mourn He may wait for him till her hairs are gray He may wear her life away But to his lady and his home
Her Lord will never come I wish I knew the words she said I wish I could despair These fruitless hopes, this constant dread Are more than I can bear
Then do not hope, and do not weep. He loved thee faithfully, and nothing short of death could keep, so true a heart from thee. Elza he would never go,
and leave thee thus to mourn. He must be dead, for death alone could hinder his return. T'was thus I spoke, because I felt as if my heart would break,
to see her thus so slowly pine, for Abiano's sake. But more than that I would not tell, though all the while I knew so well the time and nature of his death,
for when he drew his parting breath, His head was pillowed on my knee, and his dark eyes returned to me with an agamized, heart-breaking glance until he saw me not. Oh, the look of that dying young man can never be forgot. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.
