The Gipsy Girl's Prophecy

The Gipsy Girl's Prophecy

Illustration of an Engraving, by Eaton


Come, cross my hand with the silver white,

Fair youth, and I will bring,

From the future's realm of hidden night.

The unknown, secret thing."

He cross'd her hand, and her dark black eye

Was fix'd upon his own,

And in her face was a majesty,

And in ev'ry look, a tone.

"Fond hopes," she said, and her brow grew sad -

"Vain dreams now fill thine eye;

And they heart is lit with many a glad,

Rich thought of ecstasy.

I mark a changing streak of red

Upon thy cheek, that now -

Even as I speak the words, has fled

To crimson o'er thy brow.

It is a mark of passion, traced

So deep, that it will be

Some time, ere Age has well effaced

That mark of pain from thee,

I see, the curling lip of pride -

I view the eye of scorn;

I see, hopes, known to none beside,

All desolate, forlorn!

And in my spirit's prophecy -

I tell thee, Youth, beware,

For thy Hope shall bring no Joy to thee,

And thy Joy shall wake but Care!"

"Nay, Sybil speak not things so dark,

But, from thy skill, portray

The hidden evil, with a mark

From which, my feet my stray."

"'Twere all in vain, to tell thee when

Thy passion's might will rise;

As well define, the varying sheen

Of summer's evening skies!

But, there's a light within a bow'r -

And there's a barque at sea -

From one thou'lt bear a blushing flow'r,

Which one will bear from thee.

And thou wilt wander, sad and wild -

The lights of reason gone,

More helpless than the outcast child -

More desolate and lorn.

And thou wilt call, and none will gear;

Though oftentimes, a sound

Like voice that's fled, will fill thine ear,

And thou wilt gaze around;

Yet even thy wild abstracted eye,

"That sees what cannot be,

Will fail, though much it may espy,

That single thing to see.

Again - a bower is fair and bright -

But one, more lovely still,

Within that bower shall trim her light,

'Till morning's wind grows chill,

A barque is waiting on the sea,

Its idly flapping sail

Seems for its stay, reproaching thee,

And tempts the freshn'ning gale.

The morning dawns, and thou art gone,

The slave of passion then;

But thou'lt return - alone, alone!

And we shall meet again."

William G. Simms, Jr.

1:18, p. 72

1827.07.13