The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA Lover's Litanies

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA Lover's LitaniesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: A Lover's LitaniesAuthor: Eric MackayRelease date: February 3, 2009 [eBook #27971]Most recently updated: January 4, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by K Nordquist, David T. Jones and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Canada Team athttp://www.pgdpcanada.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LOVER'S LITANIES ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: A Lover's LitaniesAuthor: Eric MackayRelease date: February 3, 2009 [eBook #27971]Most recently updated: January 4, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by K Nordquist, David T. Jones and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Canada Team athttp://www.pgdpcanada.net

Title: A Lover's Litanies

Author: Eric Mackay

Release date: February 3, 2009 [eBook #27971]Most recently updated: January 4, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by K Nordquist, David T. Jones and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Canada Team athttp://www.pgdpcanada.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LOVER'S LITANIES ***

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Ave Maria

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Othou refulgent essence of all grace!O thou that with the witchery of thy faceHast made of me thy servant unto death,I pray thee pause, ere, musical of breath,And rapt of utterance, thou condemn indeedMy venturous wooing, and the wanton speedWith which I greet thee, dear and tender soul!From out the fullness of my passion-creed.

Iam so truly thine that nevermoreShall man be found, this side the Stygian shore,So meek as I, so patient under blame,And yet, withal, so minded to proclaimHis life-long ardour. For my theme is just:A heart enslaved, a smile, a broken trust,A soft mirage, a glimpse of fairyland,And then the wreck thereof in tears and dust.

Thou wast not made for murder, yet a glanceMay murderous prove; and beauty may entrance,More than a syren's or a serpent's eye.And there are moments when a smother'd sighMay hint at comfort and a murmur'd "No"Give signs of "Yes," and Misery's overflowMake tears more precious than we care to tell,Though, one by one, our hopes we must forego.

Ishould have shunn'd thee as a man may shunHis evil hour. I should have curst the sunThat made the day so bright and earth so fairWhen first we met, delirium through the airBurning like fire! I should have curst the moonAnd all the stars that, dream-like, in a swoonShut out the day,—the lov'd, the lovely dayThat came too late and left us all too soon.

Ilook'd at thee, and lo! from face to feet,I saw my tyrant, and I felt the beatOf my quick pulse. I knew thee for a queenAnd bow'd submissive; and the smile sereneOf thy sweet face reveal'd the soul of thee.For I was wounded as a man may beWhom Eros tricks with words he will not prove;And all my peace of mind went out from me.

Oh, why didst cheer me with the thought of bliss,And wouldst not pay me back my luckless kiss?I sought thy side. I gave thee of my storeOne wild salute. A flame was at the coreOf that first kiss; and on my mouth I feelThe glow thereof, the pressure and the seal,As if thy nature, when the deed was done,Had leapt to mine in lightning-like appeal.

If debts were paid in full I might requireMore than my kiss. I might, in time, aspireTo some new bond, or re-enact the first.For once, thou know'st, the love for which I thirst,The love for which I hunger'd in thy sight,Was not withheld. I deem'd thee, day and night,Mine own true mate, and sent thee token flowersTo figure forth the hopes I'd fain indite.

Is this not so? Canst thou detend, in truth,The sunlike smile with which, in flush of youth,Thou didst accept my greeting,—though so late,—My love-lorn homage when the voice of FateFell from thy lips, and made me twice a manBecause half thine, in that betrothal-planWhereof I spake, not knowing how 'twould beWhen May had marr'd the prospects it began?

Can'st thou deny that, early in the spring,When daisies droop'd, and birds were fain to sing,We met, and talk'd, and walk'd, and were contentIn sunlit paths? An hour and more we spentIn Keats's Grove. We linger'd near the stemOf that lone tree on which was seen the gemOf his bright name, there carven by himself;And then I stoop'd and kiss'd thy garment's hem.

Igave thee all my life. I gave thee there,In that wild hour, the great Creator's shareOf mine existence; and I turn'd to theeAs men to idols, madly on my knee;And then uplifted by those arms of thine,I sat beside thee, warm'd with other wineThan vintage balm; and, mindful of thy blush,I guess'd a thought which words will not define.

Itold thee stories of the days of joyWhen earth was young, and love without alloyMade all things glad and all the thoughts of things.And like a man who wonders when he sings,And knows not whence the power that in him lies,I made a madrigal of all my sighsAnd bade thee heed them; and I join'd therewithThe texts of these my follies that I prize.

Ispoke of men, long dead, who wooed in vainAnd yet were happy,—men whose tender painWas fraught with fervor, as the night with stars.And then I spoke of heroes' battle-scarsAnd lordly souls who rode from land to landTo win the love-touch of a lady's hand;And on the strings of thy low-murmuring luteI struck the chords that all men understand.

Isang to thee. I praised thee with my praise,E'en as a bird, conceal'd in sylvan ways,May laud the rose, and wish, from hour to hour,That he had petals like the empress-flower,And there could grow, unwing'd, and be a bud,With all his warblings ta'en at singing-floodAnd turned to vàgaries of the wildest scentTo undermine the meekness in her blood.

Ah, those were days! That April should have beenMy last on earth, and, ere the frondage greenHad changed to gold, I should have join'd the ranksOf dull dead men who lived for little thanksAnd made the most thereof, though penance-bound.I should have known that in the daily roundOf mine existence, there are griefs to spare,But joys, alas! too few on any ground.

And here I stand to-day with bended head,My task undone, my garden overspreadWith baneful weeds. Am I the lord thereof?Or mine own slave, without the power to doffMy misery's badge? Am I so weak withal,That I must loiter, though the bugle's callShrills o'er the moor, the far-off weltering moor,Where foemen meet to vanquish or to fall?

Am I so blurr'd in soul, so out of health,That I must turn to thee, as if by stealth,And fear thy censure, fear thy quick rebuff,And thou so gentle in a world so roughThat God's high priest, the morn-apparell'd sunNe'er saw thy like! Am I indeed undoneOf life and love and all? and must I weepFor joys that quit me, and for sands that run?

To-morrow's dawn will break; but Yesterday,Where is its light? And where the breezes' playThat sway'd the flowers? A bird will sing again,But not so well. The wind upon the plain,The wintry wind, will toss the groaning trees;But I, what comfort shall I have of these,To know that they, unlov'd, have lost the Spring,As I thy favour and my power to please?

Ishould have learnt a lesson from the songsOf woodland birds discoursing on the wrongsOf madcap moths and bachelor butterflies.I should have caught the cadence of the sighsOf unwed flowers, and learnt the way to woo,Which all things know but I, beneath the blueOf Heaven's great dome; for, undesired of thee,I have but jarr'd the notes that seem'd so true.

Ishould have told thee all I meant to tell,And how, at Lammas-tide, a wedding-bellRang through my sleep, mine own as well as thine;And how I led thee, smiling, to a shrineAnd there endow'd thee with the name I bear;And how I woke to find the morning-airFlooded with light. I should have told thee thisAnd not conceal'd the theme of my long prayer.

But I was timid. Oh, my love was suchI scarce could name it! Trembling over-muchWith too much ardour, I was moved at lengthTo mere mad utterance. In a blameful strengthI seiz'd thy hand, to scare thee, as of oldDryads were scared; and calm and icy-coldThine answer came: "I pray thee, vex me not!"And all that day 'twas winter on the wold.

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Vouchsafe, my Lady! by the passion-flower,And by the glamour of a moonlit hour,And by the cries and sighs of all the birdsThat sing o'nights, to heed again the wordsOf my poor pleading! For I swear to theeMy love is deeper than the bounding sea,And more conclusive than a wedding-bell,And freer-voiced than winds upon the lea.

In all the world, from east unto the west,There is no vantage-ground, and little rest,And no content for me from dawn to dark,From set of sun to song-time of the lark,And yet, withal, there is no man aliveWho for a goodly cause to make it thrive,Would do such deeds as I would gird me toCould I but win the pearl for which I dive.

It is thy love which, downward in the deepOf far-off visions, I behold in sleep,—It is thy pearl of love which in the nightDoth tempt my soul to hopes I dare not write,—It is this gem for which, had I a crown,I'd barter peace and pomp, and ermined gown;It is thy troth, thou paragon of maids!For which I'd sell the joys of all renown.

Iwould attack a panther in its denTo do thee service as thy man of men,Or front the Fates, or, like a ghoul, conferWith staring ghosts outside a sepulchre.I would forego a limb to give thee life,Or yield my soul itself in any strife,In any coil of doubt, in any spotWhen Death and Danger meet as man and wife.

It is my solace, all my nights and days,To pray for thee and dote on thee always,And evermore to count myself a kingBecause I earn'd thy favour in the spring.Oh, smile on me and call me to thy side,And I will kneel to thee, as to a bride,And yet adore thee as a saint in HeavenBy God ordained, by good men glorified!

Iwill acquaint thee with mine inmost thoughtAnd teach thee all I know, though unbesought,And make thee prouder of a poet's dreamThan wealthy men are proud of what they seem.If thou have trust therein, if thou requireService of me, or song, or penance dire,I will obey thee as thy belted knight,Or die to satisfy thy heart's desire.

Ah! thou hast that in store which none can give,None but thyself, and I am fain to liveTo watch the outcome of so fair a gift,—To see the bright good morrow loom and lift,And know that thou,—unpeer'd beneath the moon,—Untamed of men,—untutor'd to the tuneOf lip with lip,—wilt cease thy coy disdainAnd learn the languors of the loves of June.

All that I am, and all I hope to be,Is thine till death; and though I die for theeEach day I live; and though I throb and thrillAt thoughts that seem to burn me, and to chill,In my dark hours, I revel in the same;Yet I am free of hope, as thou of blame,And all around me, wakeful and in sleep,I weave a blessing for thy soul to claim.

Oh, by thy radiant hair and by the glowOf thy full eyes,—and by thy breast of snow,—And by the buds thereof that have the flushOf infant roses when they strive to blush,—And by thy voice, melodious as a bellThat rings for prayer in God's high citadel,—By all these things, and more than I can urge,I charge thee, Sweet! to let me out of hell!

Is it not Hell to live so far awayAnd not to touch thee,—not by night or dayTo be partaker of one smile of thine,Or one commingling of thy breath and mine,Or one encounter of thine amorous mouth?I dwell apart from thee, as north from south,As east from western ways I dwell apart,And taste the tears that quench not any drouth.

Why wouldst thou take the memory of a wrongTo be thy shadow all the summer long,A thing to chide thee at the dead of night,A thing to wake thee with the morning lightFor self-upbraiding, while the wanton birdInvests the welkin? Ah, by joy deferr'd,By peace withheld from me,—do thou relentAnd dower my life to-day with one love-word!

Wouldst thou, Cassandra-wise, oppress my soulWith more unrest, and Hebè-like, the bowlOf festal comfort for a moment raiseTo my poor lips, and then avert thy gaze?Wouldst make me mad beyond the daily curseOf thy displeasure, and in wrath disperseThat halcyon draught, that nectar of the mind,Which is the theme I yearn to in my verse?

Oh, by thy pity when so slight a thingAs some small bird is wounded in the wing,Avert thy scorn, and grant me, from afar,At least the right to love thee as a star,—The right to turn to thee, the right to bowTo thy pure name and evermore, as now,To own thy thraldom and to sing thereon,In proud allegiance to mine earliest vow.

It were abuse of power to frown againWhen, all day long, I gloat upon the painOf pent-up hope, my joy and my distress,—While the remembrance of a mute caressGiven to a rose,—a rose I pluck'd for thee,—Seems as the withering of the world to me,Because I am unlov'd of thee to-dayAnd undesired as sea-weeds in the sea.

I'll not believe that eyes so bright as thineWere meant for malice in the summer-shine,Or that a glance thereof, though changed to fire,Could injure one whose spirit, like a lyre,Has throbb'd to music of remember'd joys,—The pride thereof, and all the tender poiseOf trust with trust,—the symphonies of griefMade all mine own,—and Faith which never cloys.

How can it be that one so fair as thouShould wear contention on a whiter browThan May-day Dian's in her hunting gear?I'll not believe that eyes so holy-clearAnd mouth so constant to its morning prayerCould mock the mischief of a man's despairAnd all the misery of a moment's hopeSeen far away, as mists are seen in air.

How can a woman's heart be made of stoneAnd she not know it? Mine is overthrown.I have no heart to-day, no perfect one,Only a thing that sighs at set of sunAnd beats its cage, as if the thrall thereofWere freedom's prison or the tomb of love;As if, God help me! there were shame in truthAnd no salvation left in realms above.

Ionce could laugh, I once was deem'd a manFit for the frenzies of the dead god Pan,And now, by Heaven! the birds that sing so wellMove me to tears; and all the leafy dell,And all the sun-down glories of the West,And all the moorland which the moon has blest,Make me a dreamer, aye! a coward, too,In all the weird expanse of mine unrest.

It is my curse to see thee and to learnThat I must shun thee, though I blaze and burnWith all this longing, all this fierce delightFear-fraught and famish'd for a suitor's right;A right conceded for a moment's spaceAnd then withdrawn as, amorous face to face,I dared to clasp thee and to urge a trothToo sovereign-sweet for one of Adam's race.

Iam a doom-entangled mirthless soul,Without the power to rid me of the doleWhich, day by day, and nightly evermoreCorrodes my peace! Oh, smile, as once before,At each wild thought and each discarded plea,And let thy sentence, let thy suffrance beThat I be reckon'd till the day I dieThe sad-eyed Singer of thy fame and thee!

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Again, O Love! again I make lament,And, Arab-like, I pitch my summer-tentOutside the gateways of the Lord of Song.I weep and wait, contented all day longTo be the proud possessor of a grief.It comforts me. It gives me more reliefThan pleasures give; and, spirit-like in air,It re-invokes the peace that was so brief.

It speaks of thee. It keeps me from the lakeWhich else might tempt me; and for thy sweet sakeI shun all evil. I am calmer nowThan when I wooed thee, calmer than the vowWhich made me thine, and yet so fond withalI start and tremble at the wind's footfall.Is it the wind? Or is it mine own pastCome back to life to lure me to its thrall?

Ilong to rise and seek thee where thou artAnd draw thee amorous to my wakeful heartThat beats for thee alone, in vague unrest.I long to front thee when thou'rt lily-dress'dIn white attire,—e'en like the flowers of oldThat Jesus praised; and, though the thought be bold,I'm fain to kiss thee, Sweetheart! through thy hairAnd hide my face awhile in all that gold.

Iwill not say what more might then be done,And how, by moonlight or beneath the sun,We might be happy. In a reckless moodI've talk'd of this; and dreams and many a broodOf tongue-tied fancies have my soul beset.I will not hint at fealty or the fretOf lips untrue, or anger thee therein,Or call to mind one word thou wouldst forget.

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