IV.Swept, swept away is my vaunted prideOn a flood-tide of tenderness;I envy the dog that bounds to his side,And the chestnut mare he is wont to ride'Cross moor and mead when the day is fine,As she lays her head in a mute caress'Gainst the arm ofherlord—andmine!
IV.
Swept, swept away is my vaunted prideOn a flood-tide of tenderness;I envy the dog that bounds to his side,And the chestnut mare he is wont to ride'Cross moor and mead when the day is fine,As she lays her head in a mute caress'Gainst the arm ofherlord—andmine!
V.Ah, silver and gold of the glad June morning—Gold of the sunshine and silver of dew,Dew drop gems all the meads adorning—Are love and the rose-time a theme for scorning?Roses, roses,—dream not of rue!Am I not loved by you?Antiphonal to sweet sylvan singers,The brook with its maddening, gladdening rune!And my lover's kiss still thrills and lingers,Lingers and burns on my tremulous fingers!Ah, birds in a very riot of tunePour out my joy to the heart of June!He loves me—loves me! My heart is singing.—(Heart, oh heart of my heart is it true?)Song on my lips from my soul upringing,A passion of bliss to the breezes flinging,Roses, roses—nor dream of rue!I am beloved by you.
V.
Ah, silver and gold of the glad June morning—Gold of the sunshine and silver of dew,Dew drop gems all the meads adorning—Are love and the rose-time a theme for scorning?Roses, roses,—dream not of rue!Am I not loved by you?
Antiphonal to sweet sylvan singers,The brook with its maddening, gladdening rune!And my lover's kiss still thrills and lingers,Lingers and burns on my tremulous fingers!Ah, birds in a very riot of tunePour out my joy to the heart of June!
He loves me—loves me! My heart is singing.—(Heart, oh heart of my heart is it true?)Song on my lips from my soul upringing,A passion of bliss to the breezes flinging,Roses, roses—nor dream of rue!I am beloved by you.
VI.To be his wife! Calm all my soul is filling,A calm too deep for smiles—or even tears;A perfect trust to slumber subtly stillingMy whilom doubts and fears.Each little common thing to me seems rarer,My life each day becomes more dear to me;Love, am I fair? Ah, fain would I be fairer—And yet more fair for thee.Like to a priestess some loved shrine adorning,I deck the charms but poorly prized, till late,The beauty once I held too slight for scorning—To thee, now consecrate!As if some god of old had stooped to love me—Some star had pierced my darkness with its ray—I worship thee—an idol throned above me—Forgetting thou art clay.Rejoicing in the gift that God has given,I may forget the Giver. Love, I fearLest I shall e'en forget to sigh for Heaven—When heaven for me is here!
VI.
To be his wife! Calm all my soul is filling,A calm too deep for smiles—or even tears;A perfect trust to slumber subtly stillingMy whilom doubts and fears.
Each little common thing to me seems rarer,My life each day becomes more dear to me;Love, am I fair? Ah, fain would I be fairer—And yet more fair for thee.
Like to a priestess some loved shrine adorning,I deck the charms but poorly prized, till late,The beauty once I held too slight for scorning—To thee, now consecrate!
As if some god of old had stooped to love me—Some star had pierced my darkness with its ray—I worship thee—an idol throned above me—Forgetting thou art clay.
Rejoicing in the gift that God has given,I may forget the Giver. Love, I fearLest I shall e'en forget to sigh for Heaven—When heaven for me is here!
VII.Strange that a love supremeShould be swayed by a petty pride,As a straw might turn asideThe swift onflowing tideOf a mighty seaward stream!I know that the fault was mine,But I cannot, will not speak;How should I, suppliant, meek,His gracious pardon seek—Tho' the fault were mine—all mine?Aye, tho' my heart should break,Something—or pride or shame—Forbids me that I should claimAs mine the fault, the blame—Aye, tho' my heart should break!
VII.
Strange that a love supremeShould be swayed by a petty pride,As a straw might turn asideThe swift onflowing tideOf a mighty seaward stream!
I know that the fault was mine,But I cannot, will not speak;How should I, suppliant, meek,His gracious pardon seek—Tho' the fault were mine—all mine?
Aye, tho' my heart should break,Something—or pride or shame—Forbids me that I should claimAs mine the fault, the blame—Aye, tho' my heart should break!
VIII.Last night he came to me,His dark eyes grave and sweet—(Eyes that I could not meet!)To crave my pardon—mine!With that kingly courtesyWhich makes his least deed fine.What fiend took hold on me?I would nor speak nor heed,Tho' he bent his pride to plead—(He, all unused to sue!)Though he sought full tenderlyFor a pardon nothisdue.Fool! to have played with fire—Had I not full often heardHow when his wrath was stirredIt burst all bounds and leaptHigher and ever higherLike flames by the storm-wind swept?Yet—tho' his face was whiteWith a passion that shook his soul—Not once did he waive control,Tho' his heart to its depths was stirred—He leashed his wrath that nightNor uttered one bitter word.Pride held me stubbornly dumb,Stilling what words I would say,While I flung my heart's treasure away,While I tampered with fire—to my cost;Till I knew the ultimate end had come—I had matched pride with love—and lost!
VIII.
Last night he came to me,His dark eyes grave and sweet—(Eyes that I could not meet!)To crave my pardon—mine!With that kingly courtesyWhich makes his least deed fine.
What fiend took hold on me?I would nor speak nor heed,Tho' he bent his pride to plead—(He, all unused to sue!)Though he sought full tenderlyFor a pardon nothisdue.
Fool! to have played with fire—Had I not full often heardHow when his wrath was stirredIt burst all bounds and leaptHigher and ever higherLike flames by the storm-wind swept?
Yet—tho' his face was whiteWith a passion that shook his soul—Not once did he waive control,Tho' his heart to its depths was stirred—He leashed his wrath that nightNor uttered one bitter word.
Pride held me stubbornly dumb,Stilling what words I would say,While I flung my heart's treasure away,While I tampered with fire—to my cost;Till I knew the ultimate end had come—I had matched pride with love—and lost!
IX.What poisoned pen has writtenThe words that bar my breath;What hard, harsh hand has smittenMy soul with death?* * * * *"Love, my love"—these the words I read—"The vision and dream of a life have died.Hurt to the heart by the words you said,Angered, stung by a wounded pride,Mad with the thought that your love was dead—I have wedded a loveless, unloved bride—Would I had died instead!"My heart refuses to understandThe words that burn my brain;Palsied, stunned by a felling blowStruck by a cherished hand,I am all too numb for pain;Dead to a deathless woe,Helpless to understand,Shall I ever feel again?
IX.
What poisoned pen has writtenThe words that bar my breath;What hard, harsh hand has smittenMy soul with death?
* * * * *
"Love, my love"—these the words I read—"The vision and dream of a life have died.Hurt to the heart by the words you said,Angered, stung by a wounded pride,Mad with the thought that your love was dead—I have wedded a loveless, unloved bride—Would I had died instead!"
My heart refuses to understandThe words that burn my brain;Palsied, stunned by a felling blowStruck by a cherished hand,I am all too numb for pain;Dead to a deathless woe,Helpless to understand,Shall I ever feel again?
X.Awake, alive to pain! The first steel gleam of mornStabs deep the heart I thought had shrunk to dust,The love I prayed might die to loveless scornAwakes and cries ... Ah, God, how is it justA fault so slight such meed of pain should pay,That one mad word in pride and anger spokenShould leave two lives forever crushed and broken,Should plait a scourge to lash my soul for aye?How can a just God see men suffer thus?—Unheedful of the cosmic cry of pain,Unmoved by all the pangs that torture us,Knowing our prayers and tears alike are vain—Like to a wanton boy who feels no thrillOf pity for the weak his strength holds thrall,Who pins a helpless butterfly against a wall,Watching the bright wings flutter and grow still.We are the sport of some malignant PowerWho nails us to our crosses, hard and fast,Who sees us flutter for a little hour,Struggle and suffer ... and grow still at last;Who hears untouched the ceaseless, cosmic groanWrung from his creatures' tortured lips alway;He will not hear or heed! What need to pray?There is no hand to help. We stand alone.* * * * *Father, forgive! I know not what I say,Frenzied, tortured, torn on the rack of pain;Teach these pain-writhen lips once more to pray—Help me to trust again!
X.
Awake, alive to pain! The first steel gleam of mornStabs deep the heart I thought had shrunk to dust,The love I prayed might die to loveless scornAwakes and cries ... Ah, God, how is it justA fault so slight such meed of pain should pay,That one mad word in pride and anger spokenShould leave two lives forever crushed and broken,Should plait a scourge to lash my soul for aye?
How can a just God see men suffer thus?—Unheedful of the cosmic cry of pain,Unmoved by all the pangs that torture us,Knowing our prayers and tears alike are vain—Like to a wanton boy who feels no thrillOf pity for the weak his strength holds thrall,Who pins a helpless butterfly against a wall,Watching the bright wings flutter and grow still.
We are the sport of some malignant PowerWho nails us to our crosses, hard and fast,Who sees us flutter for a little hour,Struggle and suffer ... and grow still at last;Who hears untouched the ceaseless, cosmic groanWrung from his creatures' tortured lips alway;He will not hear or heed! What need to pray?There is no hand to help. We stand alone.
* * * * *
Father, forgive! I know not what I say,Frenzied, tortured, torn on the rack of pain;Teach these pain-writhen lips once more to pray—Help me to trust again!
XI.A year! How slight a spaceWhen winged with ecstasy!(An æon dark to me.)He has brought her home—God lend me grace!To-night in the throng I shall see his face—He has long forgotten me.A year! I have learned to smile,I have taught my eyes to lie,I have lived and laughed and sung—the whileI have only longed to die.
XI.
A year! How slight a spaceWhen winged with ecstasy!(An æon dark to me.)He has brought her home—God lend me grace!To-night in the throng I shall see his face—He has long forgotten me.A year! I have learned to smile,I have taught my eyes to lie,I have lived and laughed and sung—the whileI have only longed to die.
XII.I have seen him once again,There in the throng with his wife(An eagle matched with a pitiful wren!)Bitter in sooth has his portion been—Chained to a clog for life!Strange that our eyes as of yore should meetAnd hold each other a breathless space,That the dawn-light of old should illumine his face,That the lips that were stern should an instant grow sweet,Touched with the old-time tender grace.But his eyes were haggard and old with pain(Traitors to thwart his resolute will!)They told me the struggle was vain—all vain!He loves me—loves me still.
XII.
I have seen him once again,There in the throng with his wife(An eagle matched with a pitiful wren!)Bitter in sooth has his portion been—Chained to a clog for life!Strange that our eyes as of yore should meetAnd hold each other a breathless space,That the dawn-light of old should illumine his face,That the lips that were stern should an instant grow sweet,Touched with the old-time tender grace.But his eyes were haggard and old with pain(Traitors to thwart his resolute will!)They told me the struggle was vain—all vain!He loves me—loves me still.
XIII.Cruel! that I should be gladThat he loves and suffers still,Yet how should my soul be sadThat his passionate, resolute willCannot crush the love that is stronger than he,The love that is all for me!The year has left its trace(Cover it how he will!)On the proud, impassive faceAnd I know how he suffers still—Thrall to a love that is stronger than he,A love that is all for me.Surely, ah surely, I knowI who have known his love,I who have loved him so,What such a bond must prove,Linked to a loveless, unloved wife,Chained to a clog for life!
XIII.
Cruel! that I should be gladThat he loves and suffers still,Yet how should my soul be sadThat his passionate, resolute willCannot crush the love that is stronger than he,The love that is all for me!
The year has left its trace(Cover it how he will!)On the proud, impassive faceAnd I know how he suffers still—Thrall to a love that is stronger than he,A love that is all for me.
Surely, ah surely, I knowI who have known his love,I who have loved him so,What such a bond must prove,Linked to a loveless, unloved wife,Chained to a clog for life!
XIV.She loves him not, they say,Save for his lands and gold;She is narrow, selfish, cold,Stabbing and wounding his soul each day,Growing further and further awayFrom the heart it was hers to hold.Yet not all blameless he,A woman is quick to feelWhat man would fain conceal;Surely she can but seeThat naught to his life is she,Nay—nor can ever be!I am happier—happier far—than he;He is meshed in a galling silken hold,Bound with a jewelled band of gold;While I, at least, am free.And I know what his daily life must be.Linked with a nature paltry, slight,He with his generous, kingly soul,Stung and goaded past all controlBy a thousand petty barbs of venom and spite.Once, but once have we met,And we spoke of trivial things,Of the changes a twelvemonth brings,Of late Summer, lingering yet...(Ah, how should a heart that has loved forget?)Traitors ever to thwart his willHis eyes confirm what I half divine.A bitter, bootless victory mine,He cannot choose but to love me still!
XIV.
She loves him not, they say,Save for his lands and gold;She is narrow, selfish, cold,Stabbing and wounding his soul each day,Growing further and further awayFrom the heart it was hers to hold.
Yet not all blameless he,A woman is quick to feelWhat man would fain conceal;Surely she can but seeThat naught to his life is she,Nay—nor can ever be!
I am happier—happier far—than he;He is meshed in a galling silken hold,Bound with a jewelled band of gold;While I, at least, am free.And I know what his daily life must be.Linked with a nature paltry, slight,He with his generous, kingly soul,Stung and goaded past all controlBy a thousand petty barbs of venom and spite.
Once, but once have we met,And we spoke of trivial things,Of the changes a twelvemonth brings,Of late Summer, lingering yet...(Ah, how should a heart that has loved forget?)Traitors ever to thwart his willHis eyes confirm what I half divine.A bitter, bootless victory mine,He cannot choose but to love me still!
XV.Whose was the fault, the blame?She has fled and left him free,Free! but a stain of shameRests on the proud old name.At a bitter cost she has set him free—Free! with a blemished fame.And he with the pride of his race,With a resolute, calm control,Locks in his heart the heart's disgrace,Shows of his shame no subtlest trace,Hiding the hurt of a stricken soul'Neath the calm of a passionless face.He had deemed it a cowardly thing to flyWhile the village prated anent his shame,And an added blot on his noble nameBy his own hand to die.But oft in the deep of night I hearBorne on the wild night wind,The beat of the mare's hoofs thundering past,And my heart is clutched by an icy fearOf a direful thing that may chance at last;For ride he never so far, so fast—Black Care rides hard behind.
XV.
Whose was the fault, the blame?She has fled and left him free,Free! but a stain of shameRests on the proud old name.At a bitter cost she has set him free—Free! with a blemished fame.
And he with the pride of his race,With a resolute, calm control,Locks in his heart the heart's disgrace,Shows of his shame no subtlest trace,Hiding the hurt of a stricken soul'Neath the calm of a passionless face.
He had deemed it a cowardly thing to flyWhile the village prated anent his shame,And an added blot on his noble nameBy his own hand to die.
But oft in the deep of night I hearBorne on the wild night wind,The beat of the mare's hoofs thundering past,And my heart is clutched by an icy fearOf a direful thing that may chance at last;For ride he never so far, so fast—Black Care rides hard behind.
XVI.Last night as I stood in the gloaming's gray,Ere the moon came into the sky,He came to me for a last good-bye—At last he is going away.His face in the dusk showed stern and set,Old and haggard and worn with pain;"Dear, I may never see you again—Mine but the meed regret!How can I ask you to share my shame,How can I give you my blemished name,Yet how shall the heart forget?Naught in my life save a dream have I,A dream—a vision, too fair to be,A rose that blooms 'mid the rue for me—Naught but a dream ... Good-bye."And then, ere he lifted his bridle reinTo ride away down the dark'ning land,He bent and touched with his lips the handI had laid on the chestnut's mane.
XVI.
Last night as I stood in the gloaming's gray,Ere the moon came into the sky,He came to me for a last good-bye—At last he is going away.
His face in the dusk showed stern and set,Old and haggard and worn with pain;"Dear, I may never see you again—Mine but the meed regret!How can I ask you to share my shame,How can I give you my blemished name,Yet how shall the heart forget?
Naught in my life save a dream have I,A dream—a vision, too fair to be,A rose that blooms 'mid the rue for me—Naught but a dream ... Good-bye."
And then, ere he lifted his bridle reinTo ride away down the dark'ning land,He bent and touched with his lips the handI had laid on the chestnut's mane.
XVII.Something ... my senses will scarce recall ...The horror they came in the night to tell ...The mare had galloped riderless home,Blown and bleeding and flecked with foam,And they found him there by the sunken wall,Hurt to the death by the desperate fall.How it had chanced, he could only tell,Ere the merciful numbness stole his brain;How the chestnut rose to the leap and fell....Then his senses closed on the shocks of pain.He spoke, they told me, but once again—To whisper my name with his struggling breath—(Thank God, he suffered so brief a while)Then peacefully sank on the breast of Death,Dead, with his lips asmile.* * * * *How can I wish him alive again,Lying so peacefully, placidly still,With that carven smile on his marble face.How can I pray that his heart should thrillTo waking and waking's pain?Lying so peacefully, placidly still.With the old, sweet smile on his quiet face,Dead to the sting of a heart's disgrace....How should I wish him a lesser grace,How should I strive with a wiser Will?Yet how can the heart that is reft divineDeath's mystical, measureless charity?The cry of the stricken king is mine:"Would I had died for thee!"
XVII.
Something ... my senses will scarce recall ...The horror they came in the night to tell ...The mare had galloped riderless home,Blown and bleeding and flecked with foam,And they found him there by the sunken wall,Hurt to the death by the desperate fall.How it had chanced, he could only tell,Ere the merciful numbness stole his brain;How the chestnut rose to the leap and fell....Then his senses closed on the shocks of pain.He spoke, they told me, but once again—To whisper my name with his struggling breath—(Thank God, he suffered so brief a while)Then peacefully sank on the breast of Death,Dead, with his lips asmile.
* * * * *
How can I wish him alive again,Lying so peacefully, placidly still,With that carven smile on his marble face.How can I pray that his heart should thrillTo waking and waking's pain?Lying so peacefully, placidly still.With the old, sweet smile on his quiet face,Dead to the sting of a heart's disgrace....How should I wish him a lesser grace,How should I strive with a wiser Will?Yet how can the heart that is reft divineDeath's mystical, measureless charity?The cry of the stricken king is mine:"Would I had died for thee!"
Not severed by long leagues of lonely land,Nor sundered by wide wastes of sounding sea;But ever side by side and hand in hand,And yet—apart are we.
Not severed by long leagues of lonely land,Nor sundered by wide wastes of sounding sea;But ever side by side and hand in hand,And yet—apart are we.
He stands storm-browed, imperial, chiefOf all Rome's gladiators; braveBeyond all others; fearless in belief,A captive—but no slave.His brow is like a god's—a brow of power,Lips soft with human sweetness—ere the dayHe entered the arena, and the hourHe first beheld man's life-blood mixed with clay.Felt rise within him bestial strange desiresAnd savage instincts in a brutal heartThat battened on men's blood; burned with unhallowed firesOf slaughter—till—a thing apart,A hired butcher of his fellow men, he standsDaring the fasting lion in his den,Or some fierce gladiator on the blood-stained sands,—A savage chief of yet more savage men!He stands, with massive throat and thews of steel,While loud acclaims the listening heavens fill,And Roman women smile. He does not know; or feelA moment's joy or one triumphant thrill.He heeds them not. He sees as in a dreamHis home and Cyrasella's citron groves;A youth again, beside some purling stream,With gladsome heart and joyous pipe he roves.He sees anon that gentle shepherd boy,Who knew no harsher sound than plaining flute,In the arena stand—Rome's sport and toy—A bestial, blood-stained hireling brute....Then swift thro' every throbbing, pulsing veinThe fierce unconquered spirit of old Sparta ran.Rome's fiercest gladiator is to-day againA Thracian—and a man!
He stands storm-browed, imperial, chiefOf all Rome's gladiators; braveBeyond all others; fearless in belief,A captive—but no slave.His brow is like a god's—a brow of power,Lips soft with human sweetness—ere the dayHe entered the arena, and the hourHe first beheld man's life-blood mixed with clay.
Felt rise within him bestial strange desiresAnd savage instincts in a brutal heartThat battened on men's blood; burned with unhallowed firesOf slaughter—till—a thing apart,A hired butcher of his fellow men, he standsDaring the fasting lion in his den,Or some fierce gladiator on the blood-stained sands,—A savage chief of yet more savage men!
He stands, with massive throat and thews of steel,While loud acclaims the listening heavens fill,And Roman women smile. He does not know; or feelA moment's joy or one triumphant thrill.He heeds them not. He sees as in a dreamHis home and Cyrasella's citron groves;A youth again, beside some purling stream,With gladsome heart and joyous pipe he roves.
He sees anon that gentle shepherd boy,Who knew no harsher sound than plaining flute,In the arena stand—Rome's sport and toy—A bestial, blood-stained hireling brute....Then swift thro' every throbbing, pulsing veinThe fierce unconquered spirit of old Sparta ran.Rome's fiercest gladiator is to-day againA Thracian—and a man!
After the waiting and the anguished weepingHe lies at rest at last.How should we mourn him tranced in peaceful sleeping,His pain all past!The Right's Excalibur his strong arm wieldedA little space lies low;The victor in life's sometime strife has yieldedTo man's last Foe.Late—all too late—our loyal tribute givingA loyal, fearless soul!He whom we honored late—so late—while living,Lies dead beside the goal.Yet this the solace of these long sad hoursWhile we who loved him weep,We breathe an answering message in our flowersTo him who lies asleep.To him whom soon the deep, cold earth must cover,To him whose dying breathLeft to our hearts a message bridging overThe dark abyss of Death.
After the waiting and the anguished weepingHe lies at rest at last.How should we mourn him tranced in peaceful sleeping,His pain all past!
The Right's Excalibur his strong arm wieldedA little space lies low;The victor in life's sometime strife has yieldedTo man's last Foe.
Late—all too late—our loyal tribute givingA loyal, fearless soul!He whom we honored late—so late—while living,Lies dead beside the goal.
Yet this the solace of these long sad hoursWhile we who loved him weep,We breathe an answering message in our flowersTo him who lies asleep.
To him whom soon the deep, cold earth must cover,To him whose dying breathLeft to our hearts a message bridging overThe dark abyss of Death.
To have known Heaven and then to walk in Hell!Is it not hell to know his face no more,Supplanted, spurned and thrust without his door.Seeing another with my loved lord dwellSheltered within the tents of wedded loveWhile I must roam the desert of Despair?Ah, God above me harken to my prayer!Send down thy mercy on me as a doveFolding its white wings on my tortured breast.Let me not see the anguish of my childWith hunger torn, with thirst's consuming wild,Strike us, oh God, into Thy deep dark Rest!Lo! I have sinned. I kneel and kiss the rod,But she, the wife, who cast us forth to die ...I curse her not! Judge Thou between us, God,Which in Thy sight is guiltier, she or I?
To have known Heaven and then to walk in Hell!Is it not hell to know his face no more,Supplanted, spurned and thrust without his door.Seeing another with my loved lord dwellSheltered within the tents of wedded loveWhile I must roam the desert of Despair?Ah, God above me harken to my prayer!Send down thy mercy on me as a doveFolding its white wings on my tortured breast.Let me not see the anguish of my childWith hunger torn, with thirst's consuming wild,Strike us, oh God, into Thy deep dark Rest!Lo! I have sinned. I kneel and kiss the rod,But she, the wife, who cast us forth to die ...I curse her not! Judge Thou between us, God,Which in Thy sight is guiltier, she or I?
They float ethereal, unearthly whiteUpon the bosom of the darkling mere,Raying the dusk with slumbrous silver light—Eidolons of lost moons erst mirrored there.
They float ethereal, unearthly whiteUpon the bosom of the darkling mere,Raying the dusk with slumbrous silver light—Eidolons of lost moons erst mirrored there.
Wooing the wind's wild caresses,Courting the sun's fierce flame—Wantons in cardinal dressesFlaunting their scarlet shame.
Wooing the wind's wild caresses,Courting the sun's fierce flame—Wantons in cardinal dressesFlaunting their scarlet shame.
Like little yellow stars that, fallen down,Hang pendulous, enmeshed among the boughs,Mild golden radiances they gem the crownFair Summer sets upon her beauteous brows.
Like little yellow stars that, fallen down,Hang pendulous, enmeshed among the boughs,Mild golden radiances they gem the crownFair Summer sets upon her beauteous brows.
They bloom in lowly places—Unmeet for fairer beds—Like swarthy Ethiop facesWith yellow-turbaned heads.
They bloom in lowly places—Unmeet for fairer beds—Like swarthy Ethiop facesWith yellow-turbaned heads.
All Orient odors, spikenard, balm and myrrh,Perfumes of Araby and farthest Ind—Sweet incense from the chaliced heart of herShe pours upon the feet of every wind.
All Orient odors, spikenard, balm and myrrh,Perfumes of Araby and farthest Ind—Sweet incense from the chaliced heart of herShe pours upon the feet of every wind.
I.Where fair Ææia smiles across the seaTo olive-crowned Italia, th' enchantress dwells—A woman set about with dreams and spells,Weird incantations, charms and mystery.Most strangely pale and strangely fair is she—Yet deadlier than the hemlock draught her smile,Darker than Stygian glooms her subtle guile....Drawn by her deep eyes' spell, across the seaThe Argive galleys wing, till beached they lieUpon the fatal strand. The Greeks beguileThe hasting hours with revelry and wineWithin her halls.... Eftsoon strange sorceryThe Circe weaves. They who were men erewhileNow grovel at her feet, transformed to swine.
I.
Where fair Ææia smiles across the seaTo olive-crowned Italia, th' enchantress dwells—A woman set about with dreams and spells,Weird incantations, charms and mystery.Most strangely pale and strangely fair is she—Yet deadlier than the hemlock draught her smile,Darker than Stygian glooms her subtle guile....Drawn by her deep eyes' spell, across the seaThe Argive galleys wing, till beached they lieUpon the fatal strand. The Greeks beguileThe hasting hours with revelry and wineWithin her halls.... Eftsoon strange sorceryThe Circe weaves. They who were men erewhileNow grovel at her feet, transformed to swine.
II.'Neath myriad mellow tapers' golden glowA woman stands, proud, insolent and fair;A single gem meshed in the dusk-dyed hairBurns like the evening star descending lowAdown the dark'ning sky. Upon the snowOf her full-blossomed breast deep rubies lie.Her fragrant presence breathes sweet sorcery;The shimmering saffron satin's flexile flowOutlines each sinuous curve; a sensuous smile,A touch that fires to flame each pulsant vein—One draught of eyes more deep than depths of wineThe senses steal, the soul and brain beguileTill all seem merged in feeling ... and againA Circe's spells transform men into swine.
II.
'Neath myriad mellow tapers' golden glowA woman stands, proud, insolent and fair;A single gem meshed in the dusk-dyed hairBurns like the evening star descending lowAdown the dark'ning sky. Upon the snowOf her full-blossomed breast deep rubies lie.Her fragrant presence breathes sweet sorcery;The shimmering saffron satin's flexile flowOutlines each sinuous curve; a sensuous smile,A touch that fires to flame each pulsant vein—One draught of eyes more deep than depths of wineThe senses steal, the soul and brain beguileTill all seem merged in feeling ... and againA Circe's spells transform men into swine.
She is so shy, this little love of mine,So pale and pure, almost I fear to speakThe love that thrills my every pulse like wineYet brings no answering flush to her fair cheek.She is so calm that Passion's stirring strainTo chanson soft and low unbidden dies;The while her longing lover sighs in vainFor one soft love-glance from her down-dropped eyes.A lily she that from its garden bed,Into the golden sunshine glad and sweetLifts to far sapphire skies its radiant head,Unheedful of the base weeds at its feet.Yet—should one loving reverently kneelAnd draw the lily's close-shut leaves apart,Perchance those waxen petals might revealEnshrined within, a glowing golden heart.
She is so shy, this little love of mine,So pale and pure, almost I fear to speakThe love that thrills my every pulse like wineYet brings no answering flush to her fair cheek.
She is so calm that Passion's stirring strainTo chanson soft and low unbidden dies;The while her longing lover sighs in vainFor one soft love-glance from her down-dropped eyes.
A lily she that from its garden bed,Into the golden sunshine glad and sweetLifts to far sapphire skies its radiant head,Unheedful of the base weeds at its feet.
Yet—should one loving reverently kneelAnd draw the lily's close-shut leaves apart,Perchance those waxen petals might revealEnshrined within, a glowing golden heart.
As some poor starveling at a palace gateSees curtained gleams from banquet-litten halls,Hears song out-ringing from the festal walls,Scents viands that shall princely palates sate,Yet in the outer gloom may only wait,Crouched in the cold, thrice-thankful for some leastMean morsel flung him from the plenteous feast—Poor bondman to the ball and chain of Fate!So, lonely at Love's outer gate I standAnd glimpse the brightness and the bliss within,Where love-lit smiles transmute the dark to day—I wait without—I may not enter in;Long, wistfully, I gaze—then void of handAnd starved of spirit, sadly turn away.
As some poor starveling at a palace gateSees curtained gleams from banquet-litten halls,Hears song out-ringing from the festal walls,Scents viands that shall princely palates sate,Yet in the outer gloom may only wait,Crouched in the cold, thrice-thankful for some leastMean morsel flung him from the plenteous feast—Poor bondman to the ball and chain of Fate!So, lonely at Love's outer gate I standAnd glimpse the brightness and the bliss within,Where love-lit smiles transmute the dark to day—I wait without—I may not enter in;Long, wistfully, I gaze—then void of handAnd starved of spirit, sadly turn away.
In pale green twilight landsUnder the seaHer rainbow palace stands,Irised and opaline;Agate and almondine,Corals and pearly shellsSwept from deep ocean dells,Strewing the silver strands,Starring the golden sandsIn the green twilight landsUnder the sea.All thro' the dreamy dayUnder the seaWhere the sea-maidens play,Twining foam-garlands fair,Girding their golden hair,Clad in her moss-robe greenVeiled in her bright locks' sheen—Where the dim seaweeds sway,Trackless her white feet strayAll thro' the dreamy dayUnder the sea.Or like a star she glidesOver the sea,Deftly her steeds she guides—Gold-fish that glint and gleam,Jewels alive they seem—Softly the surges swell,Rocking the rosy shellWhere the sea-maiden rides,Wafture of wooing tides,Swift as a star she glidesOver the sea.One day she lifts her eyesUp from the seaWhere the great sun-god fliesOver the world afar,Guiding his golden car—All his star brow aglow,All his bright hair aflow;Dawn in his radiance lies,Dusk at his coming dies—Hapless she lifts her eyesUp from the sea.Swiftly his steeds speed onOver the sea,Soon is the splendor flown,Lone on the shore she stands.Stretching imploring hands,Lifting impassioned eyesWhere the last sun-gleam dies;All the day's brightness gone,Hapless she stands alone,Heedless the god speeds onOver the sea.Ever her wistful gazeOver the seaYearns on the sun-god's rays—Till by some subtle powerChanged to a golden flower—Still in her robe of green,Crowned with her gold hair's sheenSlight on her stem she sways ...Yet does her yearning gazeFollow the sun-god's raysOver the sea.
In pale green twilight landsUnder the seaHer rainbow palace stands,Irised and opaline;Agate and almondine,Corals and pearly shellsSwept from deep ocean dells,Strewing the silver strands,Starring the golden sandsIn the green twilight landsUnder the sea.
All thro' the dreamy dayUnder the seaWhere the sea-maidens play,Twining foam-garlands fair,Girding their golden hair,Clad in her moss-robe greenVeiled in her bright locks' sheen—Where the dim seaweeds sway,Trackless her white feet strayAll thro' the dreamy dayUnder the sea.
Or like a star she glidesOver the sea,Deftly her steeds she guides—Gold-fish that glint and gleam,Jewels alive they seem—Softly the surges swell,Rocking the rosy shellWhere the sea-maiden rides,Wafture of wooing tides,Swift as a star she glidesOver the sea.
One day she lifts her eyesUp from the seaWhere the great sun-god fliesOver the world afar,Guiding his golden car—All his star brow aglow,All his bright hair aflow;Dawn in his radiance lies,Dusk at his coming dies—Hapless she lifts her eyesUp from the sea.
Swiftly his steeds speed onOver the sea,Soon is the splendor flown,Lone on the shore she stands.Stretching imploring hands,Lifting impassioned eyesWhere the last sun-gleam dies;All the day's brightness gone,Hapless she stands alone,Heedless the god speeds onOver the sea.
Ever her wistful gazeOver the seaYearns on the sun-god's rays—Till by some subtle powerChanged to a golden flower—Still in her robe of green,Crowned with her gold hair's sheenSlight on her stem she sways ...Yet does her yearning gazeFollow the sun-god's raysOver the sea.
What can it profit a man tho' he have the soul of a godSunk in the form of a beast, with a senseless simian face—What can the world perceive of the subtler inward graceBreathing upon the dust of the coarse clay clod?What knows the world of me—the Me that is prisoned within—Seeing only the self that sickens its sensitive eyes—How can it know that this hateful mask hides not the sneer of Sin,That this cloak of crass, crude flesh, is a trusty soul's disguise?What can I hope to win? Which of the gifts men prize?What can I have or hold of the bounteous boon I crave—I, with the coarse stubbed hands, the dull and narrow eyes,The low-browed leer of the brutal, base-born slave?What can I know of Love? I, with my ape-like face,Frighting the tender trust of the timorous, shrinking maid,Who, drawn by my deep soul's spell, half-yields to the soul's embraceThen looks on its hideous mask and trembles and flees dismayed.Yet must the soul of fire chained to this cursed clay,Galled by its fetters of flesh, seared with a thousand scars,Shriek and struggle and beat its breast on its prison barsThro' the night's long dark of despair till the dawning of ultimate day,Till the glow of that ultimate dawn transfigure the tortured faceAnd the sacred fire within crumble the coarse clay clod.Till the Soul, breathed on by an unseen, unknown Grace,Stripped of its bonds of flesh, stand face to face with its God!
What can it profit a man tho' he have the soul of a godSunk in the form of a beast, with a senseless simian face—What can the world perceive of the subtler inward graceBreathing upon the dust of the coarse clay clod?What knows the world of me—the Me that is prisoned within—Seeing only the self that sickens its sensitive eyes—How can it know that this hateful mask hides not the sneer of Sin,That this cloak of crass, crude flesh, is a trusty soul's disguise?
What can I hope to win? Which of the gifts men prize?What can I have or hold of the bounteous boon I crave—I, with the coarse stubbed hands, the dull and narrow eyes,The low-browed leer of the brutal, base-born slave?What can I know of Love? I, with my ape-like face,Frighting the tender trust of the timorous, shrinking maid,Who, drawn by my deep soul's spell, half-yields to the soul's embraceThen looks on its hideous mask and trembles and flees dismayed.
Yet must the soul of fire chained to this cursed clay,Galled by its fetters of flesh, seared with a thousand scars,Shriek and struggle and beat its breast on its prison barsThro' the night's long dark of despair till the dawning of ultimate day,Till the glow of that ultimate dawn transfigure the tortured faceAnd the sacred fire within crumble the coarse clay clod.Till the Soul, breathed on by an unseen, unknown Grace,Stripped of its bonds of flesh, stand face to face with its God!
Beneath thy Midas touch life's sullen graysAre thrilled to sudden gold; as some far gleamFrom wings of Helios athwart thy dreamIrradiates for thee earth's darksome ways.Wild woodland voices ripple thro' thy lays;Sweet silvern murmurs from some deep-delled spring,Brook, tree and flower and each insensate thing,The throstle's call, the calm of sun-steeped days,A glint of sunshine on the swallow's wing,Fern-filagrees, the drowsy drone of beeMade drunk with draughts of purple wild-grape wine;All these Orphèan music holds for thee,And all thy days and dreams companioningWalks Nature with her hand close-clasped in thine.
Beneath thy Midas touch life's sullen graysAre thrilled to sudden gold; as some far gleamFrom wings of Helios athwart thy dreamIrradiates for thee earth's darksome ways.Wild woodland voices ripple thro' thy lays;Sweet silvern murmurs from some deep-delled spring,Brook, tree and flower and each insensate thing,The throstle's call, the calm of sun-steeped days,A glint of sunshine on the swallow's wing,Fern-filagrees, the drowsy drone of beeMade drunk with draughts of purple wild-grape wine;All these Orphèan music holds for thee,And all thy days and dreams companioningWalks Nature with her hand close-clasped in thine.
Morn! and a white sail wingingOver the sunlit waves;A song on the breezes ringingUp from the coral cavesWhere sea-nymphs, white arms liftingWreaths for the sea-god twineOf the frail foam-flowers driftingOn the wave-crests—blossom of brine.* * * * *Night! and a dark rack flyingOver the sullen waves;A dirge on the night winds sighingUp from the cold sea cavesWhere sea-nymphs white arms liftingWreaths for a pall entwineFor a still white face is driftingOn the wave-crest—blossom of brine.
Morn! and a white sail wingingOver the sunlit waves;A song on the breezes ringingUp from the coral cavesWhere sea-nymphs, white arms liftingWreaths for the sea-god twineOf the frail foam-flowers driftingOn the wave-crests—blossom of brine.
* * * * *
Night! and a dark rack flyingOver the sullen waves;A dirge on the night winds sighingUp from the cold sea cavesWhere sea-nymphs white arms liftingWreaths for a pall entwineFor a still white face is driftingOn the wave-crest—blossom of brine.
Strange that across the vast of varied years,Fraught with life's wonted alloy—mingled joy and pain—Sun-kissed with smiles or gloomed with mists of tears,Old memories should wake to life again.Old thoughts and dreams, words breathed by lips long dumb,Songs sung by voices silent now for aye,Like hosts of speechless spectres thronging comeDim formless wraiths of each dear vanished day.Strange that a fragment of a life replete,A few brief hours as men measure time,A chapter in life's book, closed now—yet vaguely sweetAs odor-laden zephyrs from some far-off clime—Should drift across my heart while joysome memories riseOf golden moments snatched from Arcady,Of silver sails and opal-tinted skies,Of viridescent earth and sapphire sea.Of Lotus-land where pleasure dreamful lies,Of kindred souls responsive each to each,Of thoughts half hidden by deep-tinted eyes—(Sweet traitors telling that denied to speech!)The merest fragment of a life replete,A sun-gleam 'mid existence's sombre grays,Eyes, hands and hearts that for one moment meetIn strange, sweet yearning ... then—divided ways.
Strange that across the vast of varied years,Fraught with life's wonted alloy—mingled joy and pain—Sun-kissed with smiles or gloomed with mists of tears,Old memories should wake to life again.Old thoughts and dreams, words breathed by lips long dumb,Songs sung by voices silent now for aye,Like hosts of speechless spectres thronging comeDim formless wraiths of each dear vanished day.
Strange that a fragment of a life replete,A few brief hours as men measure time,A chapter in life's book, closed now—yet vaguely sweetAs odor-laden zephyrs from some far-off clime—Should drift across my heart while joysome memories riseOf golden moments snatched from Arcady,Of silver sails and opal-tinted skies,Of viridescent earth and sapphire sea.
Of Lotus-land where pleasure dreamful lies,Of kindred souls responsive each to each,Of thoughts half hidden by deep-tinted eyes—(Sweet traitors telling that denied to speech!)The merest fragment of a life replete,A sun-gleam 'mid existence's sombre grays,Eyes, hands and hearts that for one moment meetIn strange, sweet yearning ... then—divided ways.