IRIS 
A Message. 
“ Tell him, tell him, that in the hall 
I was the light of the festival, 
Tell him how proudly I paced the dance, 
What powers I bore in a word or glance, 
And how each wave of my careless hand 
Seemed a strong spell, like a king’s command. 
“Tell him, tell him my lip was wreathed 
With a glad, cold smile, when his name was breathed; 
Tell him I laughed with the proud and cold, 
In mockery deep at those days of old, 
Those dreams of folly, the far, the dim, 
When my haughty spirit was bowed to him. 
“But tell him not, tell him not, day by day, 
The light of my dark eye blenched away; 
Tell him not how in hush of night, 
His form would arise to my aching sight, 
Till my hands were clasped o’er my closed eyes, 
To shut out those haunting memories. 
“Friend! gentle friend! thou hast loved me long, 
And thy heart is stirred with my woe and wrong; 
Oh! be it ne’er to the false one known 
That my spirit’s worship was his alone. 
In my dying heart is a gush of pride; 
Tell him not, tell him not how I died. 
“Say that I passed, in my flush of power, 
A rose, dashed down by a sudden shower; 
A string, which burst in the tide of song, 
Touched by a hand too full and strong; 
A star, that shot from its lofty sphere, 
Losing its lustre and glory here.” 
