Chapter 2

Ishould withhold my raptures were I wise,I should not vex thee with my many sighs,Or claim one tear from thee, though 'tis my due.I should be silent. I should cease to sue!Sorrow should teach me what I fail'd to learnIn days gone by; and cross'd at every turnBy some new doubt, new-born of my desires,I should suppress the pangs with which I burn.

Iam an outcast from the land of loveAnd thou the Queen thereof, as white as doveNew-sped from Heaven, and fine and fair to seeAs coy Queen Mab when, out upon the lea,She met her master and was lov'd of him.Thou art allied to long-hair'd cherubim,And I a something undesired of these,With woesome lips and eyes for ever dim.

Iwas ordain'd thy minstrel, but alas!I dare not greet thee when I see thee pass;I scarce, indeed, may hope at any time,To work my will, or triumph in a rhymeTo do thee honour; no, nor make amendsFor unsought fervor, in the tangled endsOf my despair. How sad, how dark to meAll things have grown since thou and I were friends!

It is the fault of thy despotic glance,It is the memory of a day's romanceWhen, true to thee, though taunted for my truth,I dared to solemnise the joys of youthIn one wild chant. It is thy fault, I say!Thy piteous fault that, on the verge of May,I lost the right to live, as heretofore,Untouched by doubt from day to brightening day.

OSummer's Pride! I loved thee from the first,And, like a martyr, I was blest and curst,And saved and slain, and crown'd and made anew,A grief-glad man, with yearnings not a few,But no just hope to win so fair a troth.I should have known how one may weep for bothWhen lovers part, poor souls! beneath the moon,And how Remembrance may outlive an oath.

The nymphs, I think, were like thee in the gladeOf that Greek valley where the wine was madeFor feasts of Bacchus; for I dream at nightOf those creations, kind and calm and bright;And in my thought, unhallow'd though it be,The sun-born Muses turn their gaze on me,And seem to know me as a friend of theirs,Though all unfit to serve them on my knee.

They lived and sang. They died as visions die,Supreme, eternal, offshoots of the sky,Made and re-made, undraped and draped afresh,To glad the earth like phantoms made of flesh,And yet as mistlike as delusions are!They stood beside Achilles in his car;They knew the gods and all their joysome deeds,And all the chants that sprang from star to star.

The myths of Greece, the maidens of the grove,The dear dead fancies of the days of Jove,Why were they bann'd? Oh, why in Reason's name,Were they abolished? They were good to claim,And good to dream of, and to crown with bays,Far-seen of men, far-shining in the hazeOf withering doubts. They were the world's elect,As thou art mine, to bow to and to praise.

Night after night I see thee, in my dreams,As fair as Daphne, with the morning beamsOf thy bright locks about thee like a cloak,—Fair as the young Aurora when she wokeAt Phæthon's call, athwart the mountain-heights.I see thee radiant in the summer nights,And, bosom-pack'd with frenzies unrepress'd,I thrill to thee in Slumber's soft delights.

Isee thee pout. I see thee in disdainLook out, reluctant, through the falling rainOf thy long hair. I feel thee close at hand.I note thy breathing as I loose the bandThat binds thy waist, and then to waking lifeI backward start! Despair is Sorrow's wife;And I am Sorrow, and Despair's mine own,To lure me on to madness or to strife.

My sex offends thee, or the thought of this;For I did fright thee when I fleck'd a kissWith too much heat. I should have bow'd to thee,And left unsaid the word, deception-free,Which, like a flash, illumed the love within,My wilfulness was much to blame therein;But thou wilt shrive me, Sweet! of mine offenceIf passion-pangs be deem'd so dark a sin.

Oh, give me back my soul that with the sameI may achieve a deed of poet-fame,Or die belauded on the battle-field!There's much to seek. My hand is strong to wieldWeapon or pen. If thou consent theretoDeeds may be done. If not, thine eyes are blueAnd Heaven is there,—a two-fold tender shrineWhose wrath I fear, whose judgment still I rue!

Iam but half myself. The life in meIs nigh crush'd out; and, though I seem to seeGlory, and grace, and joy, as in the past,They are but shadows on the cozening blast,And dreams of devils and distorted things,And snakes coiled up that look like wedding rings,And faded flowers that once were fit for wreathsIn bygone summers and in perish'd springs.

There is a curse in every garden place,And when, at night, the lily's holy faceLooks up to God, it seems to chide me there.The very sun with all his golden hairIs ill at ease, and birth and death of dayBring no relief; and darkly on my wayMy memory comes,—the ghost of my Delight,—To fret and fume at woes it cannot slay.

Oh, bid me smile again, as in the timeWhen all the breezes seem'd to make a chime,And all the birds on all the woodland slopesHad trills for me, and seem'd to guess the hopesThat warm'd my heart. O thou whom I adore!How proud were I,—though wounded bitter-soreBy shafts of doubt,—if, in default of loveI could but win thy friendship as of yore.

Then were I blest indeed, and crown'd of fateAs kings are crowned, as bards in their estateAre rapture-fraught, re-risen above the dust.Then were I torture-proof, and on the crustOf one kind word, though as a pittance thrown,I'd live for weeks! My tears I would disownAnd pray, contented with my discontent,As hermits pray when storms are overblown.

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Oh, smile on me, thou syren of my soul!That I may curb my thoughts to some controlAnd not offend thee, as in truth I do,Morning, and noon and night, when I pursueMy vagrant fancies, unallow'd of thee,But fraught with such consolement unto meAs may be felt in homeward-sailing shipsWhen wind and wave contend upon the sea.

Dower me with patience and imbue me stillWith some reminder, when the night is chill,Of thy dear presence, as, in winter-time,The maiden moon, that tenderly doth climbThe lofty heavens, hath yet a beam to spareFor doleful wretches in their dungeon-lair;E'en thus endow me in my chamber dimWith some reminder of thy face so fair!

Quit thou thy body while thou sleepest wellAnd visit mine at midnight, by the spellThat knows not shame. For in the House of SleepAll things are pure; and in the silence deepI'll wait for thee, and thou, contrition-wise,Wilt seek my couch and this that on it lies,This frame of mine that lives for thee aloneAs palmers live for peace that never dies.

It were a goodly thing to spare a foeAnd kill his hate. And I would e'en do so!For I would kill the coyness of thy face.I would enfold thee in my spurn'd embraceAnd kiss the kiss that gladdens as with wine.Yea, I would wrestle with those arms of thine,And, like a victor, I would vanquish thee,And, tyrant-like, I'd teach thee to be mine.

For, what is peace that we should cling theretoIf war be wisest? If the death we wooBe fraught with fervor there's delight in death!There is persuasion in the tempest's breathNot known in calm; and raptures round us flowWhen, like an arrow through the bended bowOf two fond lips, the quivering dart of loveBrings down the kiss which saints shall not bestow.

The soldier dies for country and for kin;He dies for fame that is so sweet to win;And, part for duty, part for battle-doom,He wends his way to where the myrtles bloom;He gains a grave, perchance a recompenseBeyond his seeking, and a restful senseOf soul-completion, far from any strife,And far from memory of his land's defence.

Be this my meed,—to die for love of thee,As when the sun goes down upon the seaAnd finds no mate in all the realms of earth.I, too, have look'd on Nature in its worthAnd found no resting-place in all the spheres,And no relief beyond my sonnet-tears,—The soul-fed shudderings of my lonely harpThat knows the gamut now of all my fears.

Iwear thy colours till the day I die:A glove, a ribbon, and a rose thereby,All join'd in one. I revel in these things;For, once an angel, unarray'd in wings,Came to my side, and beam'd on me, and said:"I love thee, friend!" and then, with lifted head,Gave me a rose on which the dew had fallen;And, like the flower, she blush'd a virgin-red.

Ifound the glove down yonder in the dale.I knew 'twas thine; its color, creamy-pale,Fill'd me with joy. "A prize!" I cried aloud,And snatch'd it up, as zealous then, and proud,As one who wins a knighthood in his youth;And I was moved thereat, in very sooth,And kiss'd it oft, and call'd on kindly HeavenTo be the sponsor of mine amorous truth.

IEarn'd the ribbon as we earn a smileFor service done. I help'd thee at the stile;And so 'twas mine, my trophy, as of right.Oh, never yet was ribbon half so bright!It seem'd of sky-descent,—a strip of mornThrown on the sod,—a something summer-wornTo be my guerdon; and, enriched therewith,I follow'd thee, thy suitor, through the corn.

Itrod on air. I seem'd to hear the soundOf fifes and trumpets and the quick reboundOf bells unseen,—the storming of a towerBy imps audacious, and the sovereign powerOf some arch-fairy, thine acquaintance sureIn days gone by; for, all the land was pure,As if new-blest,—the land and all the seaAnd all the welkin where the stars endure.

We journey'd on through fields that were a-glowWith cowslip buds and daisies white as snow;And, hand in hand, we stood beside a shrineAt which a bard whom lovers deem divine,Laid down his life; and, as we gazed at this,There seem'd to issue from the wood's abyssA sound of trills, as if, in its wild way,A nightingale were pondering on a kiss.

Alane was reached that led I know not where,Unless to Heaven,—for Heaven was surely thereAnd thou so near it! And within a nookA-down whose covertness a noisy brookDid talk of peace, I learnt of thee my fate;The word of pity that was kin to hate,—The voice of reason that was reason's foeBecause it spurn'd the love that was so great!

But I must pause. I must, from day to day,Keep back my tears, and seek a surer wayThan Memory's track. I must, with lifted eyes,Re-shape my life, and heed the battle-criesOf prompt ambition, and be braced at callTo do such deeds as haply may befall,If, freed of thee, and charter'd to myself,I may undo the bonds that now enthrall.

Shall I do this? I shall; and thou shalt seeSigns of rebellion. I will turn to theeAnd claim obedience. I will make it plainHow many a link may go to form a chain,And each a circlet, each a ring to wear.I will extract the sting from my despairAnd toy therewith, as with a charmèd snake,That, Lamia-like, uprears itself in air.

Or is my boast a vain, an empty one,And shall I rue it ere the day is done?Will hope revive betimes? Or must I standFor evermore outside the fairylandOf thy good will? Alas! my place is here,To muse and moan and sigh and shed my tear,My paltry tear for one who loves me not,And would not mourn for me on my death-bier.

Oh, get thee hence, thou harbinger of light!That, like a dream, dost come to me at nightTo haunt my sleep, and rob me of content,So true-untrue, so deaf to my lament,I must forego the pride I felt therein.Aye, get thee hence! And I will crush the sin,If sin it be, that prompts me, night and day,To seek in thee the bliss I cannot win.

Or, if thou needs must haunt me after dark,Come when I wake. The oriole and the larkAre friends of thine; and oft, I know, the thrushHas trill'd of thee at morn and even-blush.And flowers have made confessions unto meAt which I marvel; for they rail at theeAnd call thee heartless in thy seemlihood,Though queen-elect of all the flowers that be.

Nay, heed me not! I rave; I am possess'dBy utmost longing. I am sore oppress'dBy thoughts of woe; and in my heart I feelA something keener than the touch of steel,As if, to-day, a danger unforeseenHad track'd thy path,—as if my prayers had beenMisjudged in Heaven, or drown'd in demon-shoutsBeyond the boundaries of the coasts terrene.

But this is clear; this much at least is true:I am thine own! I doat upon the blueOf thy kind eyes, well knowing that in theseAre proofs of God; and down upon my kneesI fall subservient, as a man in shameMay own a fault; albeit, as with a flame,I burn all day, abash'd and unforgiven,And all unfit to touch the hand I claim!

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Glory to thee, my Queen! whom far awayMy thoughts aspire to,—as the birds of MayAspire o' mornings,—as in lonely nooksThe gurgling murmurs of neglected brooksAspire to moonlight,—aye! as earth aspiresWhen through the East, alert with wild desires,The rapturous sun surveys the welkin's height,And flecks the world with witcheries of his fires.

Oh, I should curb my grief. I should entoneNo plaint to thee; no loss should I bemoan!I should be patient, I, though full of care,And not attempt, by bias of a prayer,To sway thy spirit, or to urge anewA claim contested. For my days are few;My days, I think, are few upon the earthSince I must shun the joys I would pursue.

Iam not worthy of the Heaven I nameWhen I name thee; and yet to win the sameIs still my dream. I strive as best I canTo live uprightly on the vaunted planOf old-world sages. But I strive not well;And thoughts conflicting which I cannot quellMake me despondent; and I quake thereat,As at the shuddering of a doomsday bell.

To die for thee were more than my desert;To live for thee to keep thee out of hurtAnd, like a slave, to wait upon thy willWere more than fame. And lo! I nourish stillA sense of calm to feel that thou, at least,Art sorrow-free and honor'd at the feastWhich Nature spreads for all contented minds;And that for thee its splendours have increased.

Istand alone. I stand beneath the trees,I guess their thoughts; I hear them to the breezeSay tender nothings; and I dream the whileOf thy white arms, and thy remember'd smile,When, in a spot like this, a year a-gone,I saw thee stoop to pluck from off the lawnA wounded bird that peer'd into thy faceAs if it took thee for the nymph of dawn!

Oh, can it be, as friends of thine affirmThat thou'rt a fairy,—that, from term to term,Month after month, belov'd of all good things,Thou'rt seen in forests and in meadow ringsGirt for the dance? or like an Oread queenArray'd for council? For the woods conveneTheir dryad forces when the nights are clear,And nymphs and fawns carouse upon the green.

The crescent moon, the Argosy of heaven,Veers for the west across the Pleïads seven,And, out beyond the ridge of Charles's Wain,It seems to come to mooring on the mainOf that deep sky, as if awaiting thereAn angel-guest with sunlight in her hair,A seraph's cousin, or the foster-childOf some centurion of the upper air.

Is it thy soul? Has Cynthia call'd for theeIn her white boat, to take thee o'er the seaWhere suns and stars and constellations brightAre isles of glory,—where a seraph's rightSurpasses mine, and makes me seem indeedA base intruder, with a coward's creedAnd not an angel's, though a Christian bornAnd pledged alwàys to serve thee at thy need?

Thou'rt sleeping now; and in thy snowy rest,—In that seclusion which is like a nestFor blameless human maids beheld of thoseWho come from God,—thou hast in thy reposeNo thought of me,—no thought of pairing-time.For thou'rt the sworn opponent of the rhymeThat lovers make in kissing; and anonMy very love will vex thee like a crime.

But day and night, and winter-tide and spring,Change at thy voice; and when I hear thee singI know 'tis May; and when I see thy faceI know 'tis Summer. Thou'rt the youngest Grace,And all the Muses praise thee evermore.And there are birds who name thee as they soar;And some of these,—the best and brightest ones,—Have guess'd the pangs that pierce me to the core.

Thou art the month of May with all its nightsAnd all its days transfigured in the lightsOf love-lit smiles and glances multiform;And, like a lark that sings above a storm,Thy voice o'er-rides the tumult of my mind.Oh, give me back the peace I strove to findIn my last prayer, and I'll believe that HopeWill dry anon the tears that make it blind.

There's none like thee, not one in all the world;No face so fair, no smile so sweet-impearl'd,And no such music on the hills and plainsAs thy young voice whereof the thrill remainsFor hours and hours,—belike to keep aliveThe sense of beauty that the flowers may thrive.Or is't thy wish that birds should fly to theeBefore the days of April's quest arrive?

Thou'rt noble-natured; and there's none to standSo meek as thou, or with so dear a handTo ward off wrong. For Psyche of the GreeksIs dead and gone; and Eros with his freaksHas bow'd to thee, and turn'd aside, for shame,His useless shaft, not daring to proclaimHis amorous laws, and thou so maiden-coyBeneath the halo of thy spotless name!

But dreams are idle, and I must forgetAll that they tend to. I must cease to fret,Moth as I am, for stars beyond the reachOf mine up-soaring; and in milder speechI must invoke thy blessing on the roadThat lies before me,—far from thine abode,And far from all persuasion that againThou wilt accept the terms of my love-code.

OSweet! forgive me that from day to dayI dream such dreams, and teach me how to swayMy fluttering self, that, in forsaken hours,I may be valiant, and eschew the powersOf death and doubt! I need the certitudeOf thine esteem that I may check the feudOf mine own thoughts that rend and anger meBecause denied the boon for which I sued.

Teach me to wait with patience for a word,And be the sight of thee no more deferr'dThan one up-rising of the vesper starThat waits on Dian when, supreme, afar,She eyes the sunset. And of this be sure,As I'm a man and thou a maid demure,Thou shalt be ta'en aside and wonder'd at,Before the gloaming leaves the land obscure.

Thou shalt be bow'd to as we bow to saintsIn window'd shrines; and, far from all attaintsOf ribald passion, thou, as seemeth good,Wilt smile serenely in thy virginhood.Nor shall I know, of mine own poor accord,Which thing in all the world is best to hoard,Or which is worst of all the things that slay:A woman's beauty or a soldier's sword.

Igrieve in sleep. I pine away at night.I wake, uncared for, in the morning light;And, hour by hour, I marvel that for meThe wandering wind should make its minstrelsySo sweet and calm. I marvel that the sun,So round and red, with all his hair undone,Should smile at me and yet begrudge me stillThe sight of thee that art my worshipp'd one!

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