Man of My Dreams (Jove Romance)

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She's the grief of my heart, the joy of my eye; And the cause of a flame that never can die! Her mouth, from whence wit still obligingly flows, Has the beautiful blush, and the smell, of the rose. Love and Destiny both attend on her will; She wounds with a look; with a frown, she can kill! The desperate Lover can hope no redress; Where Beauty and Rigour are both in excess! In Sylvia they meet; so unhappy am I!

Who sees her, must love; and who loves her, must die! Tomorrow will come on its green footsteps; no one can stop the river of the dawn.

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No one can stop the river of your hands, your eyes and their sleepiness, my dearest. You are the trembling of time, which passes between the vertical light and the darkening sky. The sky folds its wings over you, lifting you, carrying you to my arms with its punctual, mysterious courtesy. That is why I sing to the day and to the moon, to the sea, to time, to all the planets, to your daily voice, to your nocturnal skin. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except.

I love your arms when the warm white flesh Touches mine in a fond embrace; I love your hair when the strands enmesh Your kisses against my face. So kiss me sweet with your warm wet mouth, Still fragrant with ruby wine, And say with a fervor born of the South That your body and soul are mine. I am not yours, not lost in you, Not lost, although I long to be Lost as a candle lit at noon, Lost as a snowflake in the sea. You love me, and I find you still A spirit beautiful and bright, Yet I am I, who long to be Lost as a light is lost in light. Oh plunge me deep in love - put out My senses, leave me deaf and blind, Swept by the tempest of your love, A taper in a rushing wind.

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?

Kenyon, Sherrilyn 1965- [A pseudonym] (Kinley MacGregor)

Nay, am I not approved by Heaven? Did I not escape from the malice of enemies through its miraculous interposition Oh! I will no longer scan with presumptuous argument purposes that are ruled by mightier hands than mine; I will resign myself to the guidance of what has ever conducted me aright, and which now points out the path to happiness. It is impossible that there should not have been much tenderness in his manner towards this lovely girl; her history, her strange and romantic contemplations and impulses, and the great intimacy which had arisen between them, were sufficient for this.

He regarded her also as a nun; and this made him feel less restraint in the manner of his address, since he feared not to be misconstrued; while at the same time it gave an elevation and unusual tone to his ideas concerning her, that made him watch her every motion with interest. She now approached; and he said playfully, 'Where is thy mark, prophetess? Art thou no longer the Maiden of God?

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For some days thou hast cast aside the hallowed diadem. If it were in human virtue to resist the invitation of this angelic girl, his was not the mind, strictly disciplined to right, self-examining and jealous of its own integrity, that should thus weigh its actions, and move only as approved by conscience.

He was frank and noble in his manner; his nature was generous; and, though there lurked in his heart the germ of an evil-bearing tree, it was yet undeveloped and inanimated ;and, in obeying the summons of Beatrice, he passively gave himself up to the strong excitements of curiosity and wonder. When the silent night was spread over every thing, and the walls of the town stood black and confused amidst the overshadowing trees, whose waving foliage was diversified by no gleam of light, but all was formless as the undistinguishable air; or if a star were dimly seen, it just glistened on the waters of the marsh, and then swiftly the heavy web of clouds hid both star and water; when the watch dogs were mute, unawakened by the moon, and the wind that blew across the plain alone told to the ear the place of the trees; when the bats and the owls were lulled by the exceeding darkness ; it was on such nights as these that Castruccie sought the secret entrance of the Viscountess's palace, and was received by thc beautiful Beatrice, enshrined in an atmosphere of love and joy.

Without vow, without even that slight shew of distrust which is the child of confidence itself; — without seeking the responsive professions of eternal love, she surrendered herself to his arms. And, when the first maiden bashfulness had passed away, all was deep tenderness and ardent love. Yet there was a dignity and a trusting affection in her most unguarded moments, that staggered him; a broken expression would sometimes fall from her lips, that seemed to say that she believed him indissolubly hers, which made him start, as if he feared that he had acted with perfidy; yet he had never solicited, never promised - What could she mean?

What was she? He loved her as he would have loved any thing that was surpassingly beautiful; and, when these expressions, that intimated somewhat of enduring and unchangeable in their intercourse, intruded themselves, they pained and irritated him; he turned to the recollection of Euthanasia, his pure, his high-minded, and troth-plight bride; — she seemed as if wronged by such an idea ; -and yet he hardly dared think her purer than poor Beatrice, whose soul, though given up to love, was imbued in its very grain and texture with delicate affections and honourable feelings all that makes the soul and living spark of virtue.

If she had not resisted the impulses of her soul, it was not that she wanted the power; but that, deluded by the web of deceit that had so long wound itself about her, she believed them not only lawful, but inspired by the special interposition of Heaven. The following short scene where Beatrice is first awakened to the nature of her dreams about Castruccio, is very fine:. Are you again banished? My gentle love, you have talked less about yourself, and about your hopes and desires, than I should have wished : — Do not think me a foolish woman, tied to an embroidery frame, or that my heart would not beat high at the news of your success, or that with my whole soul I should not enter into your plans, and tell you how the stars looked upon your intents.

In truth my mind pants for fitting exertion; and, in being joined to thee, dearest love, I thought that I had found the goal for which Heaven had destined me. Nay, look not away from me; I do not reproach thee; I know that, in finding thee, in being bound to thy fate, mine is fulfilled; and I am happy.

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Now speak — tell me what has disturbed thy thoughts. The words of Castruccio were too plain; she looked at him, as if she would read the secret in his soul, — she did read it ; — his downcast eyes, confused air, and the words he stammered out in explanation, told her every thing. The blood rushed to her face, her neck, her hands; and then as suddenly receding, left even her lips pale. She withdrew her arms from the soft caress she had bestowed; playfully she had bound his head with her own hair and the silken strings entangled with his; she tore her tresses impatiently to disengage herself from him; then, trembling, white, and chilled, she sat down and said not a word.

Castruccio looked on with fear; he attempted consolation. Her tone, full of agitation and grief, sunk into the soul of Castruccio. He took her hand; it was lifeless; he would have kissed her; but she drew back coldly and sadly. I love you ; — who could help loving one so true, so gentle, and so trusting?

Does not your character require it? You will remain here, and I shall go; but a few suns, a few moons, and we shall meet again, and the joy of that moment will make you were forget our transient separation.

It was to his fortunes, good or bad, that she had bound herself, to share his glory or sooth his griefs; and not to be the mistress of the passing hour, the distaff of the spinning Hercules. It was her heart, her whole soul she had given; her understand..

The words of her lover brought despair, not comfort; she shook her head in silence; Castruccio spoke again and again; but many words are dangerous where there is much to conceal, and every syllable he uttered laid bare some new forgery of her imagination, and shewed her more and more dearly the harsh reality.

She was astounded, and drank in his words eagerly, though she answered not; she was impatient when he was silent, for she longed to know the worst; yet she dared not direct the course of his explanations by a single inquiry: She was as a mother, who reads the death-warrant of her child on the physician's brow, yet, blindly trusting that she decyphers ill, will not destroy the last hope by a question. Even so she listened to the assurances of Castruccio, each word being a fresh assurance of her misery, yet not stamping the last damning seal on her despair'.

Farewell, Beatrice! Do you - love another? He was subdued, impelled to reply -. I will remember that name in my prayers. Now, go! Remember these are my words; they are as true, as that I am all a lie. It will kill me; but I swear by all my hopes, never to see you more. Oh, never, never! Castruccio dared stay no longer; he fled as the daemon might have fled from the bitter sorrows of despoiled Paradise; he left her aghast, overthrown, annihilated.

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Beatrice, after a time spent in the utmost prostration and repentance and misery, goes on a pilgrimage to Rome. On her way she comes to the castle of' Valperga, and sees Euthanasia; she will tell nothing of her story, but she had just come, she said, to see and bless the lady. Having done so, she quits the castle alone, barefooted, needing everything, and refusing everything. The Countess, who had in vain endeavoured to detain and to question her, had been so deeply interested by the poor girl's appearance,that she alluded to it the next time" Castruccio came to visit her.

Euthanasia was deeply moved; and earnest pity succeeded to her first astonishment — astonishment for her powers and strange errors, and then compassion for her sorrows and mighty fall. Castruccio, led on by the memory of her enchantments, spoke with ardour, scarcely knowing to whom be spoke; and, when he ended, Euthanasia cried, ' She must be followed, brought back, consoled; her misery is great; but there is a cure for it.

Messengers were sent on the road to Rome, who were promised high rewards if they succeeded in finding her; others were sent to Ferrara, to learn if her friends there had any knowledge of her course. These researches occupied several weeks; but they were fruitless. The messengers from Ferrara brought word, that she had left that city early in the preceding In a pilgrimage to Rome, and that she had never since been heard of.

The Lady Marchesana, inconsolable for her departure had since died; and the good bishop Marsilio, who had not returned from France, where he had been made a cardinal, was at too great a distance to understand the circumstances of her departure, or to act upon them.

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Nor were the tidings brought from Rome more satisfactory: She was traced from Lucca to Pisa, Florence, Arezzo, Perugia, Foligno, Spoletto, and even to Terni; but there all trace was lost. It appeared certain that she had never arrived in Rome; none of the priests had heard of her; every church and convent was examined; but no trace of her could be found. Every exertion was vain: it appeared as if she had sunk into the bowels of the earth. Before, though her atmosphere had been torn by storms, and blackened by the heaviest clouds, her Jove had ever borne her on towards one point with resistless force; and it seemed as if, body and soul, she would in the end be its victim.

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Now the tide ebbed, and left her, as a poor wretch upon one point of rock, when the rising ocean suddenly subsides, and restores him unexpectedly to life. She had loved Castruccio; and, as is ever the case with pure and exalted minds, she had separated the object of her love from all other beings, and, investing him with a glory, he was no longer to her as one among the common herd, nor ever for a moment could she confound him and class him with his fellow men.

It is this feeling that is the essence and life of love, and that, still subsisting even after esteem and sympathy had been destroyed, had caused the excessive grief in which she had been plunged. She had separated herself from the rest as his chosen one; she had been selected from the whole world for him to love, and therefore was there a mighty barrier between her and all things else; no senitment could pass through her mind unmingled with his image, no thought that did not bear his stamp to distinguish it from all other thoughts; as the moon in heaven shines bright, because the sun illumines her with his rays, so did she proceed on her high path in serene majesty, protected through her love for him from all meaner cares or joys; her very person was sacred, since she had dedicated herself to him; but, the god undeified, the honours of the priestess fell to the dust.

The story of Beatrice dissolved the charm; she looked on him now in the common light of day; the illusion and exhalation of love was dispelled for ever; and, although disappointment, and the bitterness of destroyed hope, robbed her of every sensation of enjoyment, it was no longer that mad despair, that. Her old feelings of duty, benevolence, and friendship, returned; all was not now, as before, referred to love alone; the trees, the streams, the mountains, and the stars, no longer told one never-varying tale of disappointed passion; before, they had oppressed her heart by reminding her, through every change and every form, of what she had once seen in joy; and they lay as so heavy and sad a burthen on her soul,, that she would exclaim as a modern poet has since done Thou, thrush, that singest long, and loud and free, Into yon row of willows flit, Upon that alder sit.

Or sing another song, or choose another tree! Roll back, sweet nil, back to thy mountain bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chained! For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustain'd. But now these feverish emotions ceased. Sorrow sat on her downcast eye, restrained her light step, and slept in the unmoved dimples of her fair cheek; but the wildness of grief had died, the fountain of selfish tears flowed no more, and she was restored from death to life.

Man of My Dreams (Jove Romance) Man of My Dreams (Jove Romance)
Man of My Dreams (Jove Romance) Man of My Dreams (Jove Romance)
Man of My Dreams (Jove Romance) Man of My Dreams (Jove Romance)
Man of My Dreams (Jove Romance) Man of My Dreams (Jove Romance)
Man of My Dreams (Jove Romance) Man of My Dreams (Jove Romance)
Man of My Dreams (Jove Romance) Man of My Dreams (Jove Romance)

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