The Project Gutenberg eBook of Love Letters of a Violinist and Other Poems, by Eric Mackay.

'Tis a legend of a lover,

'Tis a ballad to be sung,

In the gloaming,—under cover,—

By a minstrel who is young;

By a singer who has passion, and who sways us with his tongue.

II.

I, who know it, think upon it,

Not unhappy, tho' in tears,

And I gather in a sonnet

All the glory of the years;

And I kiss and clasp a shadow when the substance disappears.

III.

Ah! I see her as she faced me,

In the sinless summer days,

When her little hands embraced me,

And I saddened at her gaze,

Thinking, Sweet One! will she love me when we walk in other ways?

IV.

Will she cling to me as kindly

When the childish faith is lost?

Will she pray for me as blindly,

Or but weigh the wish and cost,

Looking back on our lost Eden from the girlhood she has cross'd?

Oh! I swear by all I honour,

By the graves that I endow,

By the grace I set upon her,

That I meant the early vow,—

Meant it much as men and women mean the same thing spoken now.

VI.

But her maiden troth is broken,

And her mind is ill at ease,

And she sends me back no token

From her home beyond the seas;

And I know, though nought is spoken, that she thanks me on her knees.

VII.

Yes, for pardon freely granted;

For she wrong'd me, understand.

And my life is disenchanted,

As I wander through the land

With the sorrows of dark morrows that await me in a band.

VIII.

Hers was sweetest of sweet faces,

Hers the tenderest eyes of all!

In her hair she had the traces

Of a heavenly coronal,

Bringing sunshine to sad places where the sunlight could not fall.

IX.

She was fairer than a vision;

Like a vision, too, has flown.

I who flushed at her decision,

Lo! I languish here alone;

And I tremble when I tell you that my anger was mine own.

Not for her, sweet sainted creature!

Could I curse her to her face?

Could I look on form and feature,

And deny the inner grace?

Like a little wax Madonna she was holy in the place.

XI.

And I told her, in mad fashion,

That I loved her,—would incline

All my life to this one passion,

And would kneel as at a shrine;

And would love her late and early, and would teach her to be mine.

XII.

Now in dreams alone I meet her

With my lowly human praise;

She is sweeter and completer,

And she smiles on me always;

But I dare not rise and greet her as I did in early days.

A MOTHER'S NAME.

I love the sound! The sweetest under Heaven,

That name of mother,—and the proudest, too.

As babes we breathe it, and with seven times seven

Of youthful prayers, and blessings that accrue,

We still repeat the word, with tender steven.

Dearest of friends! dear mother! what we do

This side the grave, in purity of aim,

Is glorified at last by thy good name.

II.

But how forlorn the word, how full of woe,

When she who bears it lies beneath the clod.

In vain the orphan child would call her so,—

She comes not back: her place is up with God.

The wintry winds are wailing o'er the snow;

The flowers are dead that once did grace the sod.

Ah, lose not heart! Some flowers may fade in gloom,

But Hope's a plant grows brightest on the tomb!

A SONG OF SERVITUDE.

This is a song of serfs that I have made,

A song of sympathy for grief and joy:—

The old, the young, the lov'd and the betrayed,

All, all must serve, for all must be obeyed.

II.

There are no tyrants but the serving ones,

There are no servants but the ruling men.

The Captain conquers with his army's guns,

But he himself is conquered by his sons.

III.

What is a parent but a daughter's slave,

A son's retainer when the lad is ill?

The great Creator loves the good and brave,

And makes a flower the spokesman of a grave.

IV.

The son is servant in his father's halls,

The daughter is her mother's maid-of-work.

The welkin wonders when the ocean calls,

And earth accepts the raindrop when it falls.

There are no "ups" in life, there are no "downs,"

For "high" and "low" are words of like degree;

He who is light of heart when Fortune frowns,

He is a king though nameless in the towns.

VI.

None is so lofty as the sage who prays,

None so unhigh as he who will not kneel.

The breeze is servant to the summer days,

And he is bowed-to most who most obeys.

VII.

These are the maxims that I take to heart,

Do thou accept them, reader, for thine own;

Love well thy work; be truthful in the mart,

And foes will praise thee when thy friends depart.

VIII.

None shall upbraid thee then for thine estate,

Or show thee meaner than thou art in truth.

Make friends with death; and God who is so great,

He will assist thee to a nobler fate.

IX.

None are unfit to serve upon their knees

The saints of prayer, unseen but quick to hear.

The flowers are servants to the pilgrim bees,

And wintry winds are tyrants of the trees.

All things are good; all things incur a debt,

And all must pay the same, or soon or late

The sun will rise betimes, but he must set;

And Man must seek the laws he would forget.

XI.

There are no mockeries in the universe,

No false accounts, no errors that will thrive.

The work we do, the good things we rehearse,

Are boons of Nature basely named a curse.

XII.

"Give us our daily bread!" the children pray,

And mothers plead for them while thus they speak.

But "Give us work, O God!" we men should say,

That we may gain our bread from day to day.

XIII.

'Tis not alone the crown that makes the king;

'Tis service done, 'tis duty to his kind.

The lark that soars so high is quick to sing,

And proud to yield allegiance to the spring.

XIV.

And we who serve ourselves, whate'er befall

Athwart the dangers of the day's behests,

Oh, let's not shirk, at joy or sorrow's call,

The service due to God who serves us all!

SYLVIA IN THE WEST.

What shall be done? I cannot pray;

And none shall know the pangs I feel.

If prayers could alter night to day,—

Or black to white,—I might appeal;

I might attempt to sway thy heart,

And prove it mine, or claim a part.

II.

I might attempt to urge on thee

At least the chance of some redress:—

An hour's revoke,—a moment's plea,—

A smile to make my sorrows less.

I might indeed be taught in time

To blush for hope, as for a crime!

III.

But thou art stone, though soft and fleet,—

A statue, not a maiden, thou!

A man may hear thy bosom beat

When thou hast sworn some idle vow.

But not for love, no! not for this;

For thou wilt sell thy bridal kiss.

IV.

I mean, thy friends will sell thy love,

As loves are sold in England, here.

A man will buy my golden dove,—

I doubt he'll find his bargain dear!

He'll lose the wine; he'll buy the bowl,

The life, the limbs, but not the soul.

So, take thy mate and all his wealth,

And all the joys that wait on fame.

Thou'lt weep,—poor martyr'd one!—by stealth,

And think of me, and shriek my name;

Yes, in his arms! And wake, too late,

To coax and kiss the man you hate.

VI.

By slow degrees, from year to year,

From week to week, from night to night,

He will be taught how dark and drear

Is barter'd love,—how sad to sight

A perjured face! He will be driven

To compass Hell,—and dream of Heaven.

VII.

But stand at God's high altar there,

With saints around thee tall and sweet,

I'll match thy pride with my despair,

And drag thee down from glory's seat.

Yea, thou shalt kneel! Thy head shall bow

As mine is bent in anguish now.

VIII.

What! for thy sake have I forsworn

My just ambition,—all my joy,

And all my hope from morn to morn,

That seem'd a prize without alloy?

Have I done this? I have; and see!

I weep wild tears for thine and thee.

IX.

But I can school my soul to strength,

And weep and wail as children do;

Be hard as stone, yet melt at length,

And curb my pride as thou can'st, too!

But I have faith, and thou hast none;

And I have joy, but thine is done.

No marriage-bells? No songs, you say?

No flowers to grace our bridal morn?

No wine? No kiss? No wedding-day?

I care not! Oaths are all forsworn;

And, when I clasp'd thy hand so white,

I meant to curse thee, girl, to-night.

XI.

And so I shall,—Oh! doubt not that.

At stroke of twelve I'll curse thee twice.

When screams the owl, when swoops the bat,

When ghosts are out I'll curse thee thrice.

And thou shalt hear!—Aye, by my troth,

One song will suit the souls of both.

XII.

I curse thy face; I curse thy hair;

I curse thy lips that smile so well,

Thy life, thy love, and my despair,

My loveless couch, thy wedding-bell;

My soul and thine!—Ah, see! though black,

I take one half my curses back.

XIII.

For thou and I were form'd for hate,

For love, for scorn; no matter what.

I am thy Fere and thou my Fate,

And fire and flood shall harm us not.

Thou shalt be kill'd and hid from ken,

And fiends will sing thy requiem then.

XIV.

Yet think not Death will serve thy stead;

I'll find thy grave, though wall'd in stone.

I'll move thy mould to make my bed,

And lie with thee long hours alone:—

Long, lifeless hours! Ah God, how free,

How pale, how cold, thy lips will be!

XV.

But graves are cells of truth and love,

And men may talk no treason there.

A corpse will wear no wedding-glove,

A ghost will make no sign in air.

But ghosts can pray? Well, let them kneel;

They, too, must loathe the love they feel.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

XVI.

Ah me! to sleep and yet to wake,

To live so long, and yet to die;

To sing sad songs for Sylvia's sake,

And yet no peace to gain thereby!

What have I done? What left unsaid?

Nay, I will count my tears instead.

XVII.

Here is a word of wild design.

Here is a threat; 'twas meant to warn.

Here is a fierce and freezing line,

As hot as hate, as cold as scorn.

Ah, friend! forgive; forbear my rhymes,

But pray for me, sweet soul! sometimes.

XVIII.

Had I a curse to spare to-day,

(Which I have not) I'd use it now.

I'd curse my hair to turn it gray,

I'd teach my back to bend and bow;

I'd make myself so old and thin

That I should seem too sad to sin.

XIX.

And then we'd meet, we two, at night;

And I should know what saints have known.

Thou would'st not tremble, dear, for fright,

Or shriek to meet me there alone.

I should not then be spurned for this,

Or want a smile, or need a kiss.

XX.

I should not then be fierce as fire,

Or mad as sin, or sharp as knife;

My heart would throb with no desire,

For care would cool the flush of life;

And I should love thee, spotless one,

As pilgrims love some holy nun.

XXI.

Ah, queen-like creature! smile on me;

Be kind, be good; I lov'd thee much.

I thank thee, see! on bended knee.

I seek salvation in thy touch.

And when I sleep I watch thee come,

And both are wild, and one is dumb.

XXII.

I draw thee, ghost-like, to my heart;

I kiss thy lips and call thee mine.

Of thy sweet soul I form a part,

And my poor soul is part of thine.

Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me, Thou!

But let me be thy servant now.

XXIII.

What! did I curse thy golden hair?

Well, then, the sun will set at noon;

The face that keeps the world so fair

Is thine, not his; he darkens soon.

Thy smile awakes the bird of dawn,

And day departs when thou art gone.

XXIV.

Oh! had I groves in some sweet star

That shines in Heaven the whole night through,—

A steed with wings,—a golden car,—

A something wild and strange and true:—

A fairy's wand,—an angel's crown,—

I'd merge them all in thy renown.

XXV.

I'd give thee queens to wait on thee,

And kings to kneel to thee in prayer,

And seraph-boys by land and sea

To do thy bidding,—earth and air

To pay thee homage,—all the flowers,—

And all the nymphs in all the bowers.

XXVI.

And this our love should last for aye,

And we should live these thousand years.

We'd meet in Mars on Christmas Day,

And make the tour of all the spheres.

We'd do strange things! Sweet stars would shine,

And Death would spare my love and thine.

XXVII.

But these are dreams; and dreams are vain;

Mine most of all,—so heed them not.

Brave thoughts will die, though men complain,

And mine was bold! 'Tis now forgot.

Well; let me bless thee, ere I sleep,

And give thee all my joys to keep.

XXVIII.

I bless the house where thou wast born,

I bless the hours of every night,

And every hour from flush of morn

Till death of day, for thy delight;

I bless the sunbeams as they shine,—

So like those golden locks of thine.

XXIX.

I bless thy lips, thy lustrous eyes,

Thy face, thy feet, thy forehead fair,

The light that shines in summer skies,—

In garden walks when thou art there,—

And all the grass beneath thy feet,

And all the songs thou singest, Sweet!

XXX.

But blessing thus,—ah, woe's the day!—

I know what tears I shall not shed,

What flowers will bloom, and, bright as they,

What bells will ring when I am dead.

Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me, Thou!

But let me be thy minstrel now.

ELËANORE.

The forest flowers are faded all,

The winds complain, the snow-flakes fall,

Elëanore!

I turn to thee, as to a bower:—

Thou breathest beauty like a flower,

Thou smilest like a happy hour,

Elëanore!

II.

I turn to thee. I bless afar

Thy name, which is my guiding-star,

Elëanore!

And yet, ah God! when thou art here

I faint, I hold my breath for fear.

Art thou some phantom wandering near,

Elëanore?

III.

Oh, take me to thy bosom fair;

Oh, cover me with thy golden hair,

Elëanore!

There let me lie when I am dead,

Those morning beams about me spread,

The glory of thy face o'erhead,

Elëanore!

THE STATUE.

See where my lady stands,

Lifting her lustrous hands,—

Here let me bow.

Image of truth and grace!

Maid with the angel-face!

Earth was no dwelling-place

For such as thou.

II.

Ah, thou unhappy stone,

Make now thy sorrows known;

Make known thy longing.

Thou art the form of one

Whom I, with hopes undone,

Buried at set of sun,—

All the friends thronging.

III.

Thou art some Vision bright

Lost out of Heaven at night,

Far from thy race.

Oft when the others dance,

Come I, with wistful glance,

Fearful lest thou, perchance,

Leave the dark place.

IV.

No! thou wilt never flee,

Earth has a charm for thee;—

Why should we sever?

Years have I seen thee so,

Making pretence to go,

Lifting thine arms of snow,—

Voiceless for ever!

Here bring I all my cares,

Here dream and say my prayers

While the bells toll.

O thou belovèd saint!

Let not my courage faint,

Let not a shame, or taint,

Injure my soul!

PABLO DE SARASATE.

Who comes, to-day, with sunlight on his face,

And eyes of fire, that have a sorrow's trace,

But are not sad with sadness of the years,

Or hints of tears?

II.

He is a king, or I mistake the sign,

A king of song,—a comrade of the Nine,—

The Muses' brother, and their youngest one,

This side the sun.

III.

See how he bends to greet his soul's desire,

His violin, which trembles like a lyre,

And seems to trust him, and to know his touch,

Belov'd so much!

IV.

He stands full height; he draws it to his breast,

Like one, in joy, who takes a wonder-guest,—

A weird, wild thing, bewitched from end to end,—

To be his friend.

And who can doubt the right it has to lie

So near his heart, and there to sob and sigh,

And there to shake its octaves into notes

With bird-like throats.

VI.

Ah! see how deftly, with his lifted bow,

He strikes the chords of ecstasy and woe,

And wakes the wailing of the sprite within

That knows not sin.

VII.

A thousand heads are turn'd to where he stands,

A thousand hopes are moulded to his hands,

And, like a storm-wind hurrying from the north,

A shout breaks forth.

VIII.

It is the welcome that of old was given

To Paganini ere he join'd in Heaven

The angel-choirs of those who serve aright

The God of Light.

IX.

It is the large, loud utterance of a throng

That loves a faith-employ'd, impassion'd song;

A song that soothes the heart, and makes it sad,—

Yet keeps us glad.

For look! how bearded men and women fair

Shed tears and smile, and half repeat a prayer

And half are shamed in their so mean estate,

And he so great!

XI.

This is the young Endymion out of Spain

Who, laurel-crown'd, has come to us again

To re-intone the songs of other times

In far-off climes.

XII.

To prove again that Music, by the plea

Of all men's love, has link'd from sea to sea

All shores of earth in one serene and grand

Symphonic land.

XIII.

Oh! hush the while! Oh! hush! A bird has sung

A Mayday bird has trill'd without a tongue,

And now, 'twould seem, has wandered out of sight

For sheer delight.

XIV.

A phantom bird! 'Tis gone where all things go—

The wind, the rain, the sunshine, and the snow,

The hopes we nurs'd, the dead things lately pass'd—

All dreams at last.

XV.

The towers of light, the castles in the air,

The queenly things with diamonds in their hair,

The toys of sound, the flowers of magic art—

All these depart.

XVI.

They seem'd to live; and lo! beyond recall,

They take the sweet sad Silence for a pall,

And, wrapt therein, consent to be dismiss'd,

Though glory-kiss'd.

XVII.

O pride of Spain! O wizard with a wand

More fraught with fervours of the life beyond

Than books have taught us in these tawdry days,

Take thou my praise.

XVIII.

Aye, take it, Pablo! Though so poor a thing,

'Twill serve to mind thee of an English spring

When wealth, and worth, and fashion, each and all,

Obey'd thy thrall.

XIX.

The lark that sings its love-song in the cloud

Is God-inspired and glad,—but is not proud,—

And soon forgets the salvos of the breeze,

As thou dost these.

XX.

The shouts, the praises, and the swift acclaim,

That men have brought to magnify thy name,

Affect thee barely as an idle cheer

Affects a seer.

XXI.

But thou art ours, O Pablo! ours to-day,

Ours, and not ours, in thy triumphant sway;

And we must urge it by the right that brings

Honour to kings.

XXII.

Honour to thee, thou stately, thou divine

And far-famed minstrel of a mighty line!

Honour to thee, and peace, and musings high,

Good-night! Good-bye!

MY AMAZON.

My Love is a lady fair and free,

A lady fair from over the sea,

And she hath eyes that pierce my breast

And rob my spirit of peace and rest.

II.

A youthful warrior, warm and young,

She takes me prisoner with her tongue,

Aye! and she keeps me,—on parole,—

Till paid the ransom of my soul.

III.

I swear the foeman, arm'd for war

From cap-à-pie, with many a scar,

More mercy finds for prostrate foe

Than she who deals me never a blow.

IV.

And so 'twill be, this many a day;

She comes to wound, if not to slay.

But in my dreams,—in honied sleep,—

'Tis I to smile, and she to weep!

PRO PATRIA.

["We have not, alack! an ally to befriend us,

And the season is ripe to extirpate and end us.

Let the German touch hands with the Gaul,

And the fortress of England must fall.

Louder and louder the noise of defiance

Rings rage from the grave of a trustless alliance,

And bids us beware, and be warn'd,

As abhorr'd of all nations and scorn'd."

A Word for the Nation, by A. C. Swinburne.]

Nay, good Sir Poet, read thy rhymes again,

And curb the tumults that are born in thee,

That now thy hand, relentful, may refrain

To deal the blow that Abel had of Cain.

II.

Are we not Britons born, when all is said,

And thou the offspring of the knightly souls

Who fought for Charles when fears were harvested,

And Cromwell rose to power on Charles's head?

III.

O reckless, roystering bard, that in a breath

Did'st find the way to flout thy fathers' flag!

Is't well, unheeding what thy Reason saith,

To seem to triumph in thy country's death?

IV.

If none will speak for us, if none will say

How far thy muse has wrong'd us in its thought,

'Tis I will do it; I will say thee nay,

And hurl thee back the ravings of thy lay.

We own thy prowess; for we've learnt by rote

Song after song of thine; and thou art great.

But why this malice? Why this wanton note

Which seems to come like lava from thy throat?

VI.

When Hugo spoke we owned his master-spell;

We knew he feared us more than he contemned.

He fleck'd with fire each sentence as it fell,

And tolled his rancours like a wedding-bell.

VII.

And we were proud of him, as France was proud.

Ay! call'd him brother,—though he lov'd us not;

And we were thrill'd when, ruthless from a cloud,

The bolt of death outstretch'd him for a shroud.

VIII.

Thou'rt great as he by fame and force of song,

But less than he as spokesman of his Land.

For thou hast rail'd at thine, to do it wrong,

And call'd it coward though its faith is strong.

IX.

England a coward! O thou five foot five

Of flesh and blood and sinew and the rest!

Is she not girt with glory and alive

To hear thee buzz thy scorn of all the hive?

Thou art a bee,—a bright, a golden thing

With too much honey; and the taste thereof

Is sometimes rough, and somewhat of a sting

Dwells in the music that we hear thee sing.

XI.

Oh, thou hast wrong'd us; thou hast said of late

More than is good for listeners to repeat.

Nay, I have marvell'd at thy words of hate,

For friends and foes alike have deem'd us great.

XII.

We are not vile. We, too, have hearts to feel;

And not in vain have men remember'd this.

Our hands are quick at times to clasp the steel,

And strike the blows that centuries cannot heal.

XIII.

The sea-ward rocks are proud to be assail'd

By wave and wind; for bluster kills itself,

But rocks endure. And England has prevail'd

Times out of number, when her foes have failed.

XIV.

And once, thou know'st, a giant here was found,

Not bred in France, or elsewhere under sun.

And he was Shakespeare of the whole world round,

And he was king of men, though never crown'd.

XV.

He lov'd the gracious earth from east to west,

And all the seas thereof and all its shores.

But most he lov'd the home that he possess'd,

And, right or wrong, his country seem'd the best.

XVI.

He was content with Albion's classic land.

He lov'd its flag. He veil'd its every fault.

Yes! he was proud to let its honour stand,

And bring to light the wonders it had plann'd.

XVII.

Do thou thus much; and deal no further pain;

But sooner tear the tongue from out thy mouth,

And sooner let the life in thee be slain,

Than strike at One who strikes thee not again.

XVIII.

Thy land and mine, our England, is erect,

And like a lordly thing she looks on thee,

And sees thee number'd with her bards elect,

And will not harm the brow that she has deck'd.

XIX.

She lets thee live. She knows how rich and rare

Are songs like thine, and how the smallest bird

May make much music in the summer air,

And how a curse may turn into a prayer.

XX.

Take back thy taunt, I say; and with the same

Accept our pardon; or, if this offend,

Why then no pardon, e'en in England's name.

We have our country still, and thou thy fame!

MIRAGE.

A MOTHER'S NAME.

A SONG OF SERVITUDE.

SYLVIA IN THE WEST.

ELËANORE.

THE STATUE.

PABLO DE SARASATE.

MY AMAZON.

PRO PATRIA.

THE LITTLE GRAVE.