Chapter 3
Who speaks of glory and the force of love, And thou not near, my maiden-minded dove! With all the coyness, all the beauty-sheen, Of thy rapt face? A fearless virgin-queen,-- A queen of peace art thou,--and on thy head The golden light of all thy hair is shed Most nimbus-like and most suggestive, too, Of youthful saints enshrined and garlanded.
xi.
Thou'rt Nature's own; and when a word of thine Rings on the air, and when the Voice Divine We call the lark upfloats amid the blue, I know not which is which, for both are true, Both meant for Heaven, though foster'd here below. And when the silences around me flow, I think of lilies and the face of thee Which hath compell'd my manhood's overthrow.
xii.
O blue-eyed Rapture with the radiant locks! O thou for whom, athwart the fever-shocks Of life and death and misery and much sin, I'd sell salvation! There's a prize to win And thou'rt its voucher; there's a wonder-prize, Unknown till now beneath the vaulted skies, And thou'rt its symbol; thou'rt its essence fair, Its full completion form'd adoring-wise!
xiii.
Yes, I will tell thee how I love thee best, And all my thoughts of thee shall be confess'd And none withheld, not e'en the witless one Which late I harbor'd when the mounting sun Burst from a cloud,--the moon a mile away, As if in hiding from the lord of day,-- As if, at times, the moon were like thyself, And fear'd the semblance of a master's sway.
xiv.
I love thee dearly when thine eyes are dim With unshed tears; for then they seem to swim In liquid blessedness, and unto me There comes the memory of a god's decree Which said of old:--"Be all men evermore, All men and maids whose hearts are passion-sore, Acclaim'd in Heaven!" and all day long I muse On hope's divine and deathless prophet-lore.
xv.
I love thee when the soft endearing flush Invades thy face, and dimples in the blush Bespeak attention,--as a rose's pout Absorbs the stillness when the sun is out, And all the air retains the glow thereof. In all the world there is not light enough Nor sheen enough, all day, nor any warmth, Till thou be near me, arm'd with some rebuff!
xvi.
And how I love thee when thy startled eyes Look out at me, enrapt in that surprise Which marks an epoch in the life I lead,-- As if they guess'd the scope of Eros' creed And all the mirth and malice of his wiles. For it is wondrous when my Lady smiles, And all the ground is holy where she treads, And all the air is thrill'd for many miles!
xvii.
In every mood of thine thou art my joy, And, day by day, to shield thee from annoy, I'd do the deeds that slaves were bound unto With stabs for payment,--shuddering through and through With their much labour; and I'd deem it grand To die for thee if, after touch of hand, I might but kiss thee as a lover doth; For I should then be king of all the land.
xviii.
But Father Time, old Time with Janus-face Looks o'er the sphere, and sees no fitting place For thine acceptance; for the thrones of earth Are much too mean, and in thy maiden worth Thou'rt crown'd enough, and throned in very sooth More than the queens who lord it in their youth O'er men's convictions; and He names thy name As one belov'd of Nature and of Truth.
xix.
He sees the nights, he sees the veering days, The sweet spring season with its hymn of praise, The summer, frondage-proud, the autumn pale, The winter worn with withering of the gale,-- All this he sees; and now, to-day, in June, He, too, recalls that rapturous afternoon When all the fields and flowers were like a dream, And all the winds the offshoot of a tune.
xx.
So I will cease to clamour for the past, And seek suspension of my doubts at last, In some new way till Fate becomes my friend. I will re-gain the right to re-defend The love I bear to thee, for good or ill. For though, 'tis said, our griefs have power to kill, Mine let me live, in mine unworthiness, That, spurn'd of thee, my lips may praise thee still!
Eighth Litany.
DOMINA EXAUDI.
Eighth Litany.
Domina Exaudi.
i.
It seems a year, and more, since last we met, Since roseate spring repaid, in part, its debt To thy bright eyes, and o'er the lowlands fair Made daffodils so like thy golden hair That I, poor wretch, have kiss'd them on my knees! Forget-Me-Nots peep out beneath the trees So like thine eyes that I have question'd them, And thought thee near, though viewless on the breeze.
ii.
It seems a year; and yet, when all is told, 'Tis but a week since I was re-enroll'd Among thy friends. How fairy-like the scene! How gay with lamps! How fraught with tender sheen Of life and languor! I was thine alone:-- Alert for thee,--intent to catch the tone Of thy sweet voice,--and proud to be alive To call to heart a peace for ever flown.
iii.
Had I not vext thee, as a monk in prayer May vex a saint by musing, unaware, On evil things? A saint is hard to move, And quick to chide, and slow,--as I can prove,-- To do what's just; and yet, in thy despite, We met again, we too, at dead of night; And I was hopeful in my love of thee, And thou superb, and matchless, in the light.
iv.
I felt distraught from gazing over-much At thy great beauty; and I fear'd to touch The dainty hand which Envy's self hath praised. I fear'd to greet thee; and my soul was dazed And self-convicted in its new design; For I was mad to hope to call thee mine, Aye! mad as he who claims a Virgin's love Because his lips have praised her at a shrine.
v.
I saw thee there in all the proud array Of thy young charms,--as if a summer's day Had leapt to life and made itself a queen,-- As if the sylphs, remembering what had been, Had mission'd thee, from out the world's romance, To stir my pulse, and thrill me with a glance: And once again, allow'd, though undesired, I did become thy partner in the dance.
vi.
I bow'd to thee. I drew thee to my side, As one may seize a wrestler in his pride To try conclusions,--and I felt the rush Of my heart's blood suffuse me in a blush That told its tale. But what my tongue would tell Was spent in sighs, as o'er my spirit fell The silvery cadence of thy lips' assent; And every look o'er-ruled me like a spell.
vii.
O devil's joy of dancing, when a tune Speeds us to Heaven, and night is at the noon Of all its frolic, all its wild desire! O thrall of rapt illusions when we tire Of coy reserve, and all the moments pass As pass the visions in a magic glass, And every step is shod with ecstacy, And every smile is fleck'd with some Alas!
viii.
Was it a moment or a merry span Of years uncounted when convulsion ran Right through the veins of me, to make me blest, And yet accurst, in that revolving quest Known as a waltz,--if waltz indeed it were And not a fluttering dream of gauze and vair And languorous eyes? I scarce can muse thereon Without a pang too sweet for me to bear!
ix.
By right of music, for a fleeting term, Mine arms enwound thee and I held thee firm There on my breast,--so near, yet so remote, So close about me that I seem'd to float In sunlit rapture,--touch'd I know not how By some suggestion of a deeper vow Than men are 'ware of when, on Glory's track, They kneel to angels with uplifted brow.
x.
And lo! abash'd, I do recall to mind All that is past:--the yearning undefined,-- The baulk'd confession that was like a sob-- The sound of singing and the gurgling throb Of lute and viol,--meant for many things But most for misery; and a something clings Close to my heart that is not wantonness, Though, wanton-like, it warms me while it stings.
xi.
The night returns,--that night of all the nights! And I am dower'd anew with such delights As memory feeds on; for I walk'd with thee In moonlit gardens, and there flew to me A flower-like moth, a pinion'd daffodil, From Nature's hand; and, out beyond the hill, There rose a star I joy'd to look upon Because it seem'd the star of thy good will.
xii.
We sat beneath the trees, as well thou know'st, Within an arbour which a summer's boast Had made ambrosial; and we loiter'd there Some little space, the while upon the air Uprose the fragrance of uncounted flowers. Ah me! how weird a tryste was that of ours! And how the moon look'd down, so lurid-warm, Athwart the stillness of the frondage-towers!
xiii.
I seem'd to feel thy breath upon my cheek; I vainly searched for words I long'd to speak, But could not utter lest the sound thereof Should scare away the elves that wait on love. And when I spoke to thee 'twas of the spot Where we were seated,--things that matter'd not,-- Uncared for things,--the weather,--the new laws! And, sudden-loud, the wind assail'd the grot.
xiv.
A little bird was warbling overhead As if to twit me with the word unsaid Which he, more daring, when the sun was high, Trill'd to his mate! He knew the tender "why" Of many a pleading, and he knew, meseems, The very key-note to the lyric dreams Of all true poets when, by love impell'd, They search the secrets of the woods and streams.
xv.
'Tis sure that summer, when she rear'd the bower And arched the roof and gave it all the dower Of all its leaves, and all the crannies small Where wrens look through,--'tis sure that, after all, Summer was kind, and meant to make for me A shriving-place,--a lighthouse on the sea Of all that verdure,--that, beneath the stars, I might receive one quickening glance from thee.
xvi.
Oh! had I dared to whisper in thine ear My heart-full wish, undaunted by the fear Of some rebuke:--a flush of thy fair face, A lifted hand to tell me that the place Was fairy-fenced, and guarded as by flame,-- Oh! had I dared to court the word of blame That's good for me, no doubt! at every turn, My life to-day were chasten'd by the same.
xvii.
But I was conscious of a sudden ban Hurl'd from the zenith. I was like the man Who scaled Olympus, with intent to bring New fire therefrom, and dared not face the King Of thought and thunder. I was full prepared For thy displeasure,--for the past was bared To mine on-looking; and, with faltering tongue, I left my languorous meanings undeclared.
xviii.
O lost Occasion! what a thing art thou:-- A three-fold key,--the when, the where, the how,-- The past, the present and the future tense,-- All thrown aside. For what? A witless sense Of some compunction! When the hour is bold Reason is shy, and rapture, seeming-cold, Makes mute surrender of its dearest chance, And all for fear of doubts that might be told.
xix.
But could we meet, oh! could we meet again On some such night, unseen upon the plain, I'd rob thee, Lady! of a tardy smile. I would do this; and, for a breathing-while, I would assert a sinner's right to pray, A sinner's right to choose, as best he may, His patron-saint; and I would kneel to thee, And call thee mine, and dote on thee for aye!
xx.
And then in summer, when the hours are mad, And all the flow'rets in the fields are glad, And all the breezes, like demented things Outspeed the birds with sunlight on their wings, In summer, aye! in summer's gracious time, I might perchance be pardon'd for the crime Of my much love, and win thy benison Ere yet the year has reached its golden prime!
Ninth Litany.
LILIUM INTER SPINAS.
Ninth Litany.
Lilium inter Spinas.
i.
Dearest and best of maidens, whom the Fates have dower'd with beauty, whom the glory-gates Have shown so splendid in my waking sight, Is't well, thou syren! thus to haunt the night And grant no mercy, none from week to week All through the year? Is't well my soul to seek And shun my body? Is't throughout ordain'd That thou shouldst spurn a love so tender-meek?
ii.
It is my joy to serve thee, 'tis my pride To own my follies, though anew denied The chance of wisdom, and for this, who knows? I shall be counted, ere the season's close, A time-perverter. Yes! I shall be shamed, And frown'd upon, and day by day proclaim'd A foe to virtue, though, in seeking thee I seek the goal that Virtue's self hath named.
iii.
O Lily mine! O Lily tipp'd with gold And welkin-eyed for angels to behold When down on earth! Is't well to stand apart And gaze at me and gently break my heart Without one word? Is't well to seem alway So grieved to see me, when, at fall of day, Thou dost accept the reverence of mine eyes, But not the homage that my lips would pay?
iv.
Oh, give me back again, at midnight hour, As in the circuit of that starlit bower, The right to talk with thee, and be thy friend,-- The right, in some wild way, to make an end Of my submission, or to re-bestow My troth on thee,--despite the overthrow Of all my dreams, that were my constant care, Though less to thee than flakes of alien snow.
v.
I will unveil my meanings one by one, And tell thee why the bird that loves the sun Loves not the moon, though conscious of her fame. For he's the soul of truth, in his acclaim, And knows not treason! And of like intent Are all my yearnings, too, when I lament. And, though I say it, there's no troubadour Has lov'd as I, since Cupid's bow was bent.
vi.
I have been wed in sleep, and thou hast been Mine own true bride,--the swooning summer-queen Of my heart-throbs. I have been wed in jest! I have been taken wildly to thy breast, And then repell'd, and made to feel the ire Of eager eyes that have the strange desire To rack my soul, a-tremble in the dark, But not the will to aid me to aspire.
vii.
I should have died the instant that I heard Thy whisper'd vow in slumber,--when a word Made me thy master, for I did receive Thy full surrender, and I'll not believe That all was false; or that my dreaming-power Was given for nought. The Future may devour The facts of earth, but not its phantasies, And not the dreams we dream from hour to hour.
viii.
Oh, thou'lt confess that love from man to maid Is more than kingdoms,--more than light and shade In sky-built gardens where the minstrels dwell, And more than ransom from the bonds of Hell. Thou wilt, I say, admit the truth of this, And half relent that, shrinking from a kiss, Thou didst consign me to mine own disdain, Athwart the raptures of a vision'd bliss.
ix.
I'll seek no joy that is not link'd with thine, No touch of hope, no taste of holy wine, And, after death, no home in any star That is not shared by thee, supreme, afar, As here thou'rt first and foremost of all things! Glory is thine and gladness and the wings That wait on thought when, in thy spirit-sway, Thou dost invest a realm unknown to kings.
x.
I will accept of thee a poison-bowl And drink the dregs thereof,--aye! to the soul,-- And sound thy praises with my latest breath! I was a pilgrim bound for Nazareth, But when I knew thee, when I touched thy hand, I changed my purpose; and to-day I stand Thine amorous vassal, though denounced afresh And warn'd away, unkiss'd, from Edenland.
xi.
O flower unequall'd here from morn to morn, Is't well, bethink thee, with a rose's thorn To deck thyself, thou lily! and to seem So irresponsive to my passion-dream? Is't a caprice of thine to look so proud, And so severe, athwart the shining cloud Of thy long hair? And shall I never learn How least to grieve thee when my vows are vow'd?
xii.
The full perfection of thy face is such That, like a child's, it seems to know the touch Of some glad hour that God has smiled upon. There is a whiteness whiter than the swan, A singing sweeter than the linnet's note. But there is nothing whiter than thy throat, And nothing sweeter than thy tender voice When, love-attuned, it skyward seems to float.
xiii.
Lily and rose in one! To find thy peer Exceeds belief, all through the varying year, For chance thereof, and hope thereof, is none. There comes no rival to the rising sun, And none to thee!--no rival to the moon That sets in Venice on the far lagoon, And none to thee, thou marvel of the months, That art the cynosure of night and noon!
xiv.
Yes, I will hope. I will not cease to turn My thoughts to thee, and cry to thee, and yearn As one in Hell may lift enamour'd eyes To some sweet soul beyond the central skies Whose face has slain him! For 'tis true, I swear: I have been murder'd by thy golden hair, And by the brightness of those fringed orbs That are at once my joy and my despair.
xv.
Winter is wild; but spring will come again; For there's compunction in the fever-pain That earth endures when, clamorous down the steep, The wind out-blows the curse it cannot keep. And so, belike, thy scorn of me may change To something fairer than the fated range Of dole, and doubt, and pity, and reproof; And then my sighs may cease to seem so strange.
xvi.
For thou and I will meet and not be foes, E'en as the rue may stand beside the rose And not affront it,--as a lonely tree May guard a shrine and not upon the lea Be deem'd obtrusive,--as an errant knight May serve the sovereign of his soul's delight And not, thereby, be deem'd of less account Than he who keeps her daily in his sight.
xvii.
Reject me not that in the world of men, Among the wielders of the sword and pen I have, as 'twere, detractors by the score,-- Reject me not for faults that I deplore And fain would alter,--though, if I were wise, I'd blunt the edge thereof in some disguise Approved of thee! For I've a kind of hope That we'll be friends again ere summer dies.
xviii.
If this be true I'll greet thee with such fire That thou wilt throb thereat, as throbs a lyre, And give thine answer, too, without restraint, And neither frown at me nor fear a taint In my much zeal, that knows not any pause But, night and day, is constant to the laws Of its own making, and is fain to prove How leagued it is throughout to Honor's cause.
xix.
I will conceal from thee no thought of mine. All will be clear as signing of a sign On marriage-scrips; and, though I tell thee so, The seas and streams of earth shall cease to flow Ere thou shalt find, in this world or the next, A love so proud, a faith so firmly sex'd, As this of mine. For thou'rt the polar star To which I turn as minstrel to his text.
xx.
But woe's the hour! My heart is wounded sore, And soon may cease to take, as heretofore, Such keen delight in tears that comfort not, But evermore do seem to leave a blot On sorrow's teaching! Shall I muse thereon One season more, till hope and faith be gone? Or must I look for comfort up in Heaven And then be slain by thee as night by dawn?
Tenth Litany.
GLORIA IN EXCELSIS.
Tenth Litany.
Gloria in Excelsis.
i.
O Love! O Lustre of the sunlit earth That knows thy step and revels in the worth Of thy much beauty! Is't thy will anew, Famed as thou art, to marvel that I sue With such persistence, and in such unrest Amid the frenzies of my passion-quest? Wilt look ungently, and without a tear, On all the pangs I bear at thy behest?
ii.
Morning and eve I cease not, when I kneel To my Redeemer for my spirit's weal And for my body's,--as becomes a man,-- Morning and eve I cease not in the span Of all my days, O thou Unconquer'd One! To pray for thee, and do what may be done To re-acquire the friendship I have lost, Which is the holiest thing beneath the sun.
iii.
For what is fame that with so loud a voice O'ersways the nations? What the random choice Of sight and sound which makes the place we fill So fraught with good, so redolent of ill? Where is the thunderstorm of yesternight That shook the clouds? And where the levin's blight That spake of chaos and the Judgment Day? And where the wisdom of a king's delight?
iv.
Could I be kiss'd of thee, or crown'd of men, I'd choose the kiss. I'd be ordained then Lord of myself, and not the slave I seem To each new doubt. Our tryste was like a dream And yet 'twas true. For oft, by wonder-chance, We find the path to many a bright romance, And many a tilt and tourney of dear love In which the brave are vanquish'd by a glance.
v.
To lie alone with thee one little hour, And cling to thee as flower may cling to flower, With no rough thought beyond the peace thereof,-- To be thy comrade, and to don and doff The little chain that hangs about thy neck,-- To do all this, my Fair One! and to fleck Thine eyes with kisses, were a righteous deed, And not a thing for Love to hold in check.
vi.
Nay, there are dimples which I long to taste, And there's a girdle fit for Phoebe's waist Which I would loosen; for I have the skill To handle lilies; and, by Venus' will, I'd handle thee, and comfort thee therein. For love's a sacrament I'd die to win, And not a toy nor yet a subterfuge; And not a pitfall for the feet of sin.
vii.
The searching suddenness of thy blue eyes, The flash thereof, the fire that in them lies,-- All this I yearn to,--all the soul of thee Shown in thy looks, as though to solace me In some disaster portion'd out as mine. Where thou abidest, where thy limbs recline, Where thou'rt absorb'd in silence or in prayer, There stands a throne, there gleams a fairy shrine.
viii.
I am, indeed, more subject to thy sway Than trees are subject, in their tender way, To earth's great king revolving round the sphere. I am thy suffering servant all the year; And when I wake thy name is on my lips, And when I sleep I feel thy finger-tips Press'd on mine eyes, as if thy wraith were there, To save my soul from night's entire eclipse.
ix.
Till I have heard from thee my doom of death I shall be proud to serve thee with my breath, And with my labour, and be thine withal As Man is God's,--content with any thrall That's bound in thee; content with any lot That's link'd with thine, in some secluded spot Which thou hast lov'd, O Lady! in the past, And where remorse and wrong will find us not.
x.
To know thee fair, ah God! how sweet is this; To find thee wavering, and to grasp in bliss Only the dream of thee, how sad the while! And yet, by reason of a moment's smile, How grand to hope, how gracious to forget! Thou false to me? Thou heedless of a debt Of love's incurring? Nay, by Juno's crown, Thy snow-white hand shall be my guerdon yet!
xi.
The spirit-love that leads us to the soul Athwart the body as its fairest goal,-- The love that lives in languor undefined And yet is strong,--the love that can be kind And yet aggressive as a soldier's blade, Keen to the hilt, entranced and not afraid,-- This is the love that will survive the death Of all endowments which the years have made.
xii.
Wilt frown at this? Wilt chide me? Wilt appeal, As some are wont, when lovers, out of zeal, O'erstep the bounds of wisdom which hath ceased To win men's praise? The Matins of the East Sung by the lark,--the Credo of the Cloud Which oft he sings in confirmation proud Of his great love,--all this were mine excuse If I could sing as he, so dawn-endow'd.
xiii.
For I'd be welcome, then, where'er thou art, And gladden thee, and play as prompt a part As Romeo play'd with Juliet at his breast. Who loves not love, who hates to be caress'd, Is Nature's bane; and I'll denounce him, too. For he's a foe to all that's just and true In earth and Heaven; and when he seeks a joy, His quest shall fail,--his hand shall miss the clue.
xiv.
We know these things. We know how dark a word May let in light, and how the smallest bird May mix the morn with music till we think The fire-lit air is wine for us to drink,-- And every drop salvation,--every sound A Muse's whisper,--all the flower-full ground A fancy-carpet fit for knights to tread When on their way to Arthur's Table Round.
xv.
A peevish fool is he who will not raise His hands in prayer, among the danger-days That come to all; for he, when waxen old, Will search the past and find it callous-cold; And all the future, too, will freeze for him. Nor shall he weep aright when tears bedim His desperate, doleful eyes that know not faith; And he shall hear no chants of cherubim.
xvi.