LETTER III.
REGRETS.
I.
When I did wake, to-day, a bird of Heaven,
A wanton, woeless thing, a wandering sprite,
Did seem to sing a song for my delight;
And, far away, did make its holy steven
Sweeter to hear than lute-strings that are seven;
And I did weep thereat in my despite.
II.
O glorious sun! I thought, O gracious king,
Of all this splendour that we call the earth!
For thee the lark distils his morning mirth,
But who will hear the matins that I sing?
Who will be glad to greet me in the spring,
Or heed the voice of one so little worth?
III.
Who will accept the thanks I would entone
For having met thee? and for having seen
Thy face an instant in the bower serene
Of perfect faith? The splendour was thine own,
The rapture mine; and Doubt was overthrown,
And Grief forgot the keynote of its threne.
IV.
I rose in haste. I seiz'd, as in a trance,
My violin, the friend I love the best
(After thyself, sweet soul!) and wildly press'd,
And firmly drew it, with a master's glance,
Straight to my heart! The sunbeams seem'd to dance
Athwart the strings, to rob me of my rest.
V.
For then a living thing it did appear,
And every chord had sympathies for me;
And something like a lover's lowly plea
Did shake its frame, and something like a tear
Fell on my cheek, to mind me of the year
When first we met, we two, beside the sea.
VI.
I stood erect, I proudly lifted up
The Sword of Song, the bow that trembled now,
As if for joy, my grief to disallow.—
Are there not some who, in the choicest cup,
Imbibe despair, and famish as they sup,
Sear'd by a solace that was like a vow?
VII.
Are there not some who weep, and cannot tell
Why it is thus? And others who repeat
Stories of ice, to cool them in the heat?
And some who quake for doubts they cannot quell,
And yet are brave? And some who smile in Hell
For thinking of the sin that was so sweet?
VIII.
I have been one who, in the glow of youth,
Have liv'd in books, and realised a bliss
Unfelt by misers, when they count and kiss
Their minted joys; and I have known, in sooth,
The taste of water from the well of Truth,
And found it good. But time has alter'd this.
IX.
I have been hated, scorn'd, and thrust away,
By one who is the Regent of the flowers,
By one who, in the magic of her powers,
Changes the day to night, the night to day,
And makes a potion of the solar ray
Which drugs my heart, and deadens it for hours.
X.
I have been taught that Happiness is coy,
And will not come to all who bend the knee;
That Faith is like the foam upon the sea,
And Pride a snare, and Pomp a foolish toy,
And Hope a moth whose wings we may destroy;
And she I love has taught these things to me.
XI.
Yes, thou, my Lady! Thou hast made me feel
The pangs of that Prometheus who was chain'd
And would not bow, but evermore maintain'd
A fierce revolt. Have I refused to kneel?
I do it gladly. But to mine appeal
No answer comes, and none will be ordain'd.
XII.
Why, then, this rancour? Why so cold a thing
As thy displeasure, O thou dearest One?
I meant no wrong. I stole not from the sun
The fire of Heaven; but I did seek to bring
Glory from thee to me; and in the Spring
I pray'd the prayer that left me thus undone.
XIII.
I pray'd my prayer. I wove into my song
Fervour, and joy, and mystery, and the bleak,
The wan despair that words can never speak.
I pray'd as if my spirit did belong
To some old master, who was wise and strong
Because he lov'd, and suffer'd, and was weak.
XIV.
I curb'd the notes, convulsive, to a sigh,
And, when they falter'd most, I made them leap
Fierce from my bow, as from a summer sleep
A young she-devil. I was fired thereby
To bolder efforts, and a muffled cry
Came from the strings, as if a saint did weep.
XV.
I changed the theme. I dallied with the bow
Just time enough to fit it to a mesh
Of merry notes, and drew it back afresh
To talk of truth and constancy and woe,
And life, and love, and madness, and the glow
Of mine own soul which burns into my flesh.
XVI.
It was the Lord of music, it was he
Who seiz'd my hand. He forc'd me, as I play'd,
To think of that ill-fated fairy-glade
Where once we stroll'd at night; and wild and free
My notes did ring; and quickly unto me
There came the joy that maketh us afraid.
XVII.
Oh! I shall die of tasting in my dreams
Poison of love and ecstasy of pain;
For I shall never kneel to thee again,
Or sit in bowers, or wander by the streams
Of golden vales, or of the morning beams
Construct a wreath to crown thee on the plain!
XVIII.
Yet it were easy, too, to compass this,
So thou wert kind; and easy to my soul
Were harder things if I could reach the goal
Of all I crave, and consummate a bliss
In mine own fashion, and compel a kiss
More fraught with honour than a king's control.
XIX.
It is not much to say that I would die,—
It is not much to say that I would dare
Torture, and doom, and death, could I but share
One kiss with thee. For then, without a sigh,
I'd teach thee pity, and be graced thereby,
Wet with thy tears, and shrouded by thy hair.
XX.
It is not much to say that this is so;
Yet I would sell my substance and my breath,
And all the joy that comes from Nazareth,
And all the peace that all the angels know,
To lie with thee, one minute, in the snow
Of thy white bosom, ere I sank in death!
LETTER IV.
YEARNINGS.
I.
The earth is glad, I know, when night is spent,
For then she wakes the birdlings in the bowers;
And, one by one, the rosy-footed hours
Start for the race; and from his crimson tent
The soldier-sun looks o'er the firmament;
And all his path is strewn with festal flowers.
II.
But what his mission? What the happy quest
Of all this toil? He journeys on his way
As Cæsar did, unbiass'd by the sway
Of maid or man. His goal is in the west.
Will he unbuckle there, and, in his rest,
Dream of the gods who died in Nero's day?
III.
Will he arraign the traitor in his camp?
The Winter Comet who, with streaming hair,
Attack'd the sweetest of the Pleiads fair
And ravish'd her, and left her in the damp
Of dull decay, nor re-illumined the lamp
That show'd the place she occupied in air.
IV.
No; 'tis not so! He seeks his lady-moon,
The gentle orb for whom Endymion sigh'd,
And trusts to find her by the ocean tide,
Or near a forest in the coming June;
For he has lov'd her since she late did swoon
In that eclipse of which she nearly died.
V.
He knew her then; he knew her in the glow
Of all her charms. He knew that she was chaste,
And that she wore a girdle at her waist
Whiter than pearl. And when he eyed her so
He knew that in the final overthrow
He should prevail, and she should be embraced.
VI.
But were I minded thus, were I the sun,
And thou the moon, I would not bide so long
To hear the marvels of thy wedding-song;
For I would have the planets, every one,
Conduct thee home, before the day was done,
And call thee queen, and crown thee in the throng.
VII.
And, like Apollo, I would flash on thee,
And rend thy veil, and call thee by the name
That Daphne lov'd, the loadstar of his fame;
And make myself for thee as white to see
As whitest marble, and as wildly free
As Leda's lover with his look of flame.
VIII.
And there should then be fêtes that should not cease
Till I had kiss'd thee, lov'd one! in a trance
Lasting a life-time, through a life's romance;
And every star should have a mate apiece,
And I would teach them how, in ancient Greece,
The gods were masters of the maidens' dance.
IX.
I should be bold to act; and thou should'st feel
Terror and joy combined, in all the span
Of thy sweet body, ere my fingers ran
From curl to curl, to prompt thee how to kneel;
And then, soul-stricken by thy mute appeal,
I should be quick to answer like a man.
X.
What! have I sinn'd, dear Lady, have I sinn'd
To talk so wildly? Have I sinn'd in this?
An angel's mouth was surely meant to kiss!
Or have I dreamt of courtship out in Inde
In some wild wood? My soul is fever-thinn'd,
And fierce and faint, and frauded of its bliss.
XI.
I will not weep. I will not in the night
Weep or lament, or, bending on my knees,
Appeal for pity! In the clustered trees
The wind is boasting of its one delight;
And I will boast of mine, in thy despite,
And say I love thee more than all of these.
XII.
The rose in bloom, the linnet as it sings,
The fox, the fawn, the cygnet on the mere,
The dragon-fly that glitters like a spear,—
All these, and more, all these ecstatic things,
Possess their mates; and some arrive on wings,
And some on webs, to make their meanings clear.
XIII.
Yea, all these things, and more than I can tell,
More than the most we know of, one and all,
Do talk of Love. There is no other call
From wind to wave, from rose to asphodel,
Than Love's alone—the thing we cannot quell,
Do what we will, from font to funeral.
XIV.
What have I done, I only on the earth,
That I should wait a century for a word?
A hundred years, I know, have been deferr'd
Since last we met, and then it was in dearth
Of gladsome peace; for, in a moment's girth,
My shuddering soul was wounded like a bird.
XV.
I knew thy voice. I knew the veering sound
Of that sweet oracle which once did tend
To treat me grandly, as we treat a friend;
And I would know't if darkly underground
I lay as dead, or, down among the drown'd,
I blindly stared, unvalued to the end.
XVI.
There! take again the kiss I took from thee
Last night in sleep. I met thee in a dream
And drew thee closer than a monk may deem
Good for the soul. I know not how it be,
But this I know: if God be good to me
I shall be raised again to thine esteem.
XVII.
I touched thy neck. I kiss'd it. I was bold.
And bold am I, to-day, to call to mind
How, in the night, a murmur not unkind
Broke on mine ear; a something new and old
Quick in thy breath, as when a tale is told
Of some great hope with madness intertwined.
XVIII.
And round my lips, in joy and yet in fear,
There seemed to dart the stings of kisses warm.
These were my honey-bees, and soon would swarm
To choose their queen. But ere they did appear,
I heard again that murmur in mine ear
Which seem'd to speak of calm before a storm.
XIX.
"What is it, love?" I whispered in my sleep,
And turned to thee, as April unto May.
"Art mine in truth, mine own, by night and day,
Now and for ever?" And I heard thee weep,
And then persuade; and then my soul did leap
Swiftly to thine, in love's ecstatic sway.
XX.
I fondled thee! I drew thee to my heart,
Well knowing in the dark that joy is dumb.
And then a cry, a sigh, a sob, did come
Forth from thy lips.... I waken'd, with a start,
To find thee gone. The day had taken part
Against the total of my blisses' sum.
LETTER V.
CONFESSIONS.
I.
O Lady mine! O Lady of my Life!
Mine and not mine, a being of the sky
Turn'd into Woman, and I know not why—
Is't well, bethink thee, to maintain a strife
With thy poor servant? War unto the knife,
Because I greet thee with a lover's eye?
II.
Is't well to visit me with thy disdain,
And rack my soul, because, for love of thee,
I was too prone to sink upon my knee,
And too intent to make my meaning plain,
And too resolved to make my loss a gain
To do thee good, by Love's immortal plea?
III.
O friend! forgive me for my dream of bliss.
Forgive: forget; be just! Wilt not forgive?
Not though my tears should fall, as through a sieve
The salt sea-sand? What joy hast thou in this:
To be a maid, and marvel at a kiss?
Say! Must I die, to prove that I can live?
IV.
Shall this be so? E'en this? And all my love
Wreck'd in an instant? No, a gentle heart
Beats in thy bosom; and the shades depart
From all fair gardens, and from skies above,
When thou art near. For thou art like a dove,
And dainty thoughts are with thee where thou art.
V.
Oh! it is like the death of dearest kin,
To wake and find the fancies of the brain
Sear'd and confused. We languish in the strain
Of some lost music, and we find within,
Deep in the heart, the record of a sin,
The thrill thereof, and all the blissful pain.
VI.
For it is deadly sin to love too well,
And unappeased, unhonour'd, unbesought,
To feed on dreams; and yet 'tis aptly thought
That all must love. E'en those who most rebel
In Eros' camp have known his master-spell;
And more shall learn than Eros yet has taught.
VII.
But I am mad to love. I am not wise.
I am the worst of men to love the best
Of all sweet women! An untimely jest,
A thing made up of rhapsodies and sighs,
And unordained on earth, and in the skies,
And undesired in tumult and in rest.
VIII.
All this is true. I know it. I am he.
I am that man. I am the hated friend
Who once received a smile, and sought to mend
His soul with hope. O tyrant! by the plea
Of all thy grace, do thou accept from me
At least the notes that know not to offend.
IX.
See! I will strike again the major chord
Of that great song, which, in his early days,
Beethoven wrote; and thine shall be the praise,
And thine the frenzy like a soldier's sword
Flashing therein; and thine, O thou adored
And bright true Lady! all the poet's lays.
X.
To thee, to thee, the songs of all my joy,
To thee the songs that wildly seem to bless,
And those that mind thee of a past caress.
Lo! with a whisper to the Wingèd Boy
Who rules my fate, I will my strength employ
To make a matin-song of my distress.
XI.
But playing thus, and toying with the notes,
I half forget the cause I have to weep;
And, like a reaper in the realms of sleep,
I hear the bird of morning where he floats
High in the welkin, and in fairy boats
I see the minstrels sail upon the deep.
XII.
In mid-suspension of my leaping bow
I almost hear the silence of the night;
And, in my soul, I know the stars are bright
Because they love, and that they nightly glow
To make it clear that there is nought below,
And nought above, so fair as Love's delight.
XIII.
But shall I touch thy heart by speech alone,
Without Amati? Shall I prove, by words,
That hope is meant for men as well as birds;
That I would take a scorpion, or a stone,
In lieu of gold, and sacrifice a throne
To be the keeper of thy flocks and herds?
XIV.
Ah no, my Lady! though I sang to thee
With fuller voice than sings the nightingale—
Fuller and softer in the moonlight pale
Than lays of Keats, or Shelley, or the free
And fire-lipp'd Byron—there would come to me
No word of thine to thank me for the tale.
XV.
Thou would'st not heed. Thou would'st not any-when,
In bower or grove—or in the holy nook
Which shields thy bed—thou would'st not care to look
For thoughts of mine, though faithful in their ken
As are the minds of England's fighting men
When they inscribe their names in Honour's book.
XVI.
Thou would'st not care to scan my face, and through
This face of mine, the soul, for scraps of thought.
Yet 'tis a face that somewhere has been taught
To smile in tears. Mine eyes are somewhat blue
And quick to flash (if what I hear be true)
And dark, at times, as velvet newly wrought.
XVII.
But wilt thou own it? Wilt thou in the scroll
Of my sad life, perceive, as in a hive,
A thousand happy fancies that contrive
To seek thee out? Thy bosom is the goal
Of all my thoughts, and quick to thy control
They wend their way, elate to be alive.
XVIII.
But there is something I could never bring
My soul to compass. No! could I compel
Thy plighted troth, I would not have thee tell
A lie to God. I'll have no wedding-ring
With loveless hands around my neck to cling;
For this were worse than all the fires of hell.
XIX.
I would not take thee from a lover's lips,
Or from the rostrum of a roaring crowd,
Or from the memory of a husband's shroud,
Or from the goblet where a Cæsar sips.
I would not touch thee with my finger tips,
But I would die to serve thee,—and be proud.
XX.
And could I enter Heaven, and find therein,
In all the wide dominions of the air,
No trace of thee among the natives there,
I would not bide with them—No! not to win
A seraph's lyre—but I would sin a sin,
And free my soul, and seek thee otherwhere!
LETTER VI.
DESPAIR.
I.
I am undone. My hopes have beggar'd me,
For I have lov'd where loving was denied.
To-day is dark, and Yesterday has died,
And when To-morrow comes, erect and free,
Like some great king, whose tyrant will he be,
And whose defender in the days of pride?
II.
I am not cold, and yet November bands
Compress my heart. I know the month is May,
And that the sun will warm me if I stay.
But who is this? Oh, who is this that stands
Straight in my path, and with his bony hands
Appeals to me to turn some other way?
III.
It is the phantom of my murder'd joy,
Which once again has come to persecute,
And tell me tales which late I did refute.
But lo! I now must heed them, as a boy
Takes up, in tears, the remnants of a toy,
Or bard forlorn the fragments of a lute.
IV.
It is the ghost that, day by day, did come
To tempt my spirit to the mountain-peak;
It is the thing that wept, and would not speak,
And, with a sign, to show that it was dumb,
Did seem to hint at Death that was the sum
Of all we know, and all we strive to seek.
V.
And now it comes again, and with its eye
Bloodshot and blear, though pallid in its face,
Doth point, exacting, to the very place
Where I do keep, that no one may descry,
A lady's glove, a ribbon, and a dry,
A perjur'd rose, which oft I did embrace.
VI.
It means, perchance, that I must make an end
Of all these things, and burn them as a fee
To my Despair, when down upon my knee.
O piteous thing! have pity; be my friend;
Or say, at least, that blessings will descend
On her I love, on her if not on me!
VII.
The Shape did smile; and, wildly, with a start,
Did shrivel up, as when a fire is spent,
Whereof the smoke obscured the firmament.
And then I knew it had but tried my heart,
To teach me how to play a manly part,
And strengthen me in all my good intent.
VIII.
And here I stand alone, e'en like a leaf
In sudden frost, as quiet as the wing
Of wounded bird, which knows it cannot sing.
A child may moan, but not a mountain chief.
If we be sad, if we possess a grief,
The grief should be the slave, and not the king.
IX.
Yes, I will pause, and pluck from out the Past
The full discernment of my sorry cheer,
And why the sunlight seems no longer clear,
And why, in spite of anguish, and the vast,
The sickly blank that o'er my life is cast,
I cannot kneel to-day, or shed a tear.
X.
It was thy friendship. It was this I had,
This and no more. I was a fool to doubt,
I was a fool to strive to put to rout
My many foes:—thy musings tender-glad,
Which all had said:—"Avoid him! he is mad—
Mad with his love, and Love's erratic shout."
XI.
I should have known,—I should have guess'd in time,—
That, like a soft mirage at twilight hour,
My dream would melt, and rob me of its dower.
I should have guess'd that all the heights sublime,
Which look'd like spires and cities built in rhyme,
Would droop and die, like petals from a flower.
XII.
I should have known, indeed, that to the brave
All things are servants. But my lost Delight
Was like the ship that founders in a night,
And leaves no mark. How then? Is Passion's grave
All that is left beside the sobbing wave?
The foam thereof, the saltness, and the blight?
XIII.
I had a fleet of ships, and where are they?
Where are they all? and where the merchandise
I treasured once—an empire's golden prize,
The empire of a soul, which, in a day,
Lost all its wealth? I was deceiv'd, I say,
For I had reckon'd on propitious skies.
XIV.
I look'd afar, and saw no sign of wrack.
I look'd anear, and felt the summer breeze
Warm on my cheek; and forth upon the seas
I sent my ships; and would not have them back,
Though some averr'd a storm was on the track
Of all I lov'd, and all I own'd of these.
XV.
One ship was "Joy," the second "Truth," the third
"Love in a Dream," and, last not least of all,
"Hope," and "Content," and "Pride that hath a Fall."
And they were goodly vessels, by my word,
With sails as strong as pinions of a bird,
And crew that answer'd well to Duty's call.
XVI.
In one of these—in "Hope"—where I did fly
A lofty banner,—in that ship I found
Doom's-day at last, and all my crew were drown'd.
Yes, I was wreck'd in this, and here I lie,
Here on the beach, forlorn and like to die,
With none to pray for me on holy ground.
XVII.
O sweet my Lady! If thou pass this way,
And thou behold me where I lie beset
By wind and wave, and powerless to forget,
Wilt not approach me thoughtfully and say:—
"This man was true. He lov'd me night and day
And though I spurn'd at him, he loves me yet."
XVIII.
Wilt not withhold thy blame, at least to-night,
And shed for me a tear, as one may grieve
For people known in books, for men who weave
Ropes out of sand, to lead them to the light?
Oh! treat me thus, and, by thy hand so white,
I will forego the dreams to which I cleave.
XIX.
Be just to me, and say, when all is o'er,
When some such book is calmly laid aside:
"The shadow-men have liv'd and lov'd and died;
The shadow-women will be vexed no more.
But there is One for whom my heart is sore,
Because he took a shadow for his guide."
XX.
Say only this; but pray for me withal,
And let a pitying thought possess thee then,
Whether at home, at sea, or in a glen
In some wild nook. It were a joy to fall
Dead at thy feet, as at a trumpet's call,
For I should then be peerless among men!
LETTER VII.
HOPE.
I.
O tears of mine! Ye start I know not why,
Unless, indeed, to prove that I am glad,
Albeit fast wedded to a thought so sad
I scarce can deem that my despair will die,
Or that the sun, careering up the sky,
Will warm again a world that seem'd so mad.
II.
And yet, who knows? The world is, to the mind,
Much as we make it; and the things we tend
Wear, for the nonce, the liveries that we lend.
And some such things are fair, though ill-defined,
And some are scathing, like the wintry wind;
And some begin, and some will never end.
III.
How can I think, ye tears! that I have been
The thing I was—so doubting, so unfit,
And so unblest, with brows for ever knit,
And hair unkempt, and face becoming lean
And cold and pale, as if I late had seen
Medusa's head, and all the scowls of it?
IV.
Oh, why is this? Oh, why have I so long
Brooded on grief, and made myself a bane
To golden fields and all the happy plain
Where once I met the Lady of my Song,
The lady for whose sake I shall be strong,
But never weak or diffident again?
V.
I was too shorn of hope. I did employ
Words like a mourner; and to Her I bow'd,
As one might kneel to Glory in its shroud.
But I am crown'd to-day, and not so coy—
Crown'd with a kiss, and sceptred with a joy;
And all the world shall see that I am proud.
VI.
I shall be sated now. I shall receive
More than the guerdon of my wildest thought,
More than the most that ecstasy has taught
To saints in Heaven; and more than poets weave
In madcap verse, to warn us, or deceive;
And more than Adam knew ere Eve was brought.
VII.
I know the meaning now of all the signs,
And all the joys I dreamt of in my dreams.
I realise the comfort of the streams
When they reflect the shadows of the pines.
I know that there is hope for celandines,
And that a tree is merrier than it seems.
VIII.
I know the mighty hills have much to tell;
And that they quake, at times, in undertone,
And talk to stars, because so much alone
And so unlov'd. I know that, in the dell,
Flowers are betroth'd, and that a wedding-bell
Rings in the breeze on which a moth has flown.
IX.
I know such things, because to loving hearts
Nature is keen, and pleasures, long delay'd,
Quicken the pulse, and turn a truant shade
Into a sprite, equipp'd with all the darts
That once were Cupid's; and the day departs,
And sun and moon conjoin, as man with maid.
X.
The lover knows how grand a thing is love,
How grand, how sweet a thing, and how divine
More than the pouring out of choicest wine;
More than the whiteness of the whitest dove;
More than the glittering of the stars above;
And such a love, O Love! is thine and mine.
XI.
To me the world, to-day, has grown so fair
I dare not trust myself to think of it.
Visions of light around me seem to flit,
And Phœbus loosens all his golden hair
Right down the sky; and daisies turn and stare
At things we see not with our human wit.
XII.
And here, beside me, there are mosses green
In shelter'd nooks, and gnats in bright array,
And lordly beetles out for holiday;
And spiders small that work in silver sheen
To make a kirtle for the Fairy Queen,
That she may don it on the First of May.
XIII.
I hear, in thought, I hear the very words
That Arethusa, turn'd into a brook,
Spoke to Diana, when her leave she took
Of all she lov'd—low-weeping as the birds
Shrill'd out of tune, and all the frighten'd herds
Scamper'd to death, in spite of pipe and crook.
XIV.
I know, to-day, why winds were made to sigh
And why they hide themselves, and why they gloat
In some old ruin! Mote confers with mote,
And shell with shell; and corals live and die,
And die and live, below the deep. And why?
To make a necklace for my lady's throat.
XV.
And yet the world, in all its varied girth,
Lacks what we look for. There is something base
In mere existence—something in the face
Of men and women which accepts the earth,
And all its havings, as its right of birth,
But not its quittance, not its resting-place.
XVI.
There have been moments, at the set of sun,
When I have long'd for wings upon the wind,
That I might seek a planet to my mind,
More full-develop'd than this present one;
With more of scope, when all is said and done,
To satisfy the wants of human kind.
XVII.
A world with thee, a home in some remote
And unknown region, which no sage's ken
Has compass'd yet; of which no human pen
Has traced the limits; where no terrors float
In wind or wave, and where the soul may note
A thousand raptures unreveal'd to men.
XVIII.
To be transported in a magic car,
On some transcendent night in early June,
Beyond the horn'd projections of the moon;
To have our being in a bridal star,
In lands of light, where only angels are,
Athwart the spaces where the comets swoon.
XIX.
To be all this: to have in our estate
Worlds without stint, and quit them for the clay
Of some new planet where a summer's day
Lasts fifty years; and there to celebrate
Our Golden Wedding, by the will of Fate—
This were a subject for a seraph's lay.
XX.
This were a life to live,—a life indeed,—
A thing to die for; if, in truth, we die
When we but put our mortal vestments by.
This were a climax for a lover's need
Sweeter than songs, and holier than the creed
Of half the zealots who have sought the sky.