Part 5

"Far o'er the sea of old time once a witch, The fair Ææan, Circe, dwelt, so rich In marvelous magic, cruel as a god, She made or unmade lovers at a nod; Ah, bitter love that made all loves but brute!-- Ah, bitterer thou who mak'st my heart a lute To lie and languish for thee sad and mute, Strung high for utterance of the sweetest lay, Such magic music as Acrasia And all her lovers swooned to utter bliss,-- And then not wake it with a single kiss, Ah! cruel, cruel love!"

Knee-deep within the dew-damp grasses there, Against the stars, that now were everywhere Flung thro' the perfumed heav'ns of angel hands, And, linked in tangled labyrinths of bands Of soft rose-hearted flame and glimmer, rolled One vast immensity of mazy gold, He sang, like some hurt creature desolate, Heart-aching for the loss of some wild mate Hounded and speared to death of heartless men In old romantic Arden waste; and then Turned to the one white star,--which like a stone Of precious worth low on the heaven shone,-- A white, sweet, lovely face and passed away From the warm flowers and the fountains' spray. And that fair lady in pale drapery, High in the quaint, red tower, did she sigh To see him, dimming down the purple night, Lone with his instrument die out of sight Far in the rose-pleached, musk-drunk avenues, Far in, far in amid the gleaming dews, And, left alone but with the sighing rush Of the wan fountains and the deep night hush, Weep to the melancholy stars above Half the lorn night for the desired love? Or down the rush-strewn halls, where arras old Billowed with passage of her fold on fold, Even to the ponderous iron-studded gate, That shrieked with rust, steal from her lord and wait Deep in the dingled hyacinth and rose For him who sang so sweetly erst?--who knows?

WHY?

Why smile high stars the happier after rain? Why is strong love the stronger after pain? Ai me! ai me! thou wotest not nor I!

Why sings the wild swan heavenliest when it dies? Why spake the dumb lips sweetest that we prize For maddening memories? O why! O why!

Why are dead kisses dearer when they're dead? Why are dead faces lovelier vanished? And why this heart-ache? None can answer why!

FROM UNBELIEF TO BELIEF.

Why come ye here to sigh that I, Who with crossed wrists so peaceless lie Before ye, am at rest, at rest! For that the pistons of my blood No more in this machinery thud? And on these eyes, that once were blest With magnetism of fire, are prest Thin, damp, pale eyelids for a sheath, Whereon the bony claw of Death Hath set his coins of unseen lead, Stamped with the image of his head?

Why come ye here to weep for one, Who is forgotten when he's gone From ye and burthened with this rest Your God hath given him! unsought Of any prayers, whiles yet he wrought,-- And with what sacrifices bought! Low, sweet communion mouth to mouth Of thoughts that dewed eternal drought Of Life's bald barrenness,--a jest, An irony hath grown confessed When he's at rest! when he's at rest!

Why come ye, fools!--ye lie! ye lie! Rashly! the grave, for such as I, Hath naught that lies as near this rest As your high Heaven lies near your Hell! I see why now that it is well That men but know the husk-like shell, Which like a fruit the being kept, That swinked and sported, woke and slept; From which that stern essential stept, That ichor-veined inhabitant Who makes me all myself, in all My moods the "_I_" original, That holds one orbit like a star, Distinct, to which a similar There never was, and be there can't.

And as it is, it is the best That Death hath my poor body dressed In such fair semblance of a rest, Which soothes the hearts of those distressed; But, God! unto the _dead_ the jest Of this his rest, of this his rest!

THE KING.

A blown white bubble buoyed zenith-ward, Up from the tremulous East the round moon swung Mist-murky, and the unsocial stars that thronged, Hot with the drought, thick down the empty West, Winked thirstily; no wind to rouse the leaves, That o'er the glaring road lolled palpitant, Withered and whitened of the weary dust From iron hoofs of that gay fellowship Of knights which gat at morn the king disguised; Whose mind was, "in the lists to joust and be An equal mid unequals, man with man:" Who from the towers of Edric passed, wherein Some nights he'd sojourned, till one morn a horn Sang at dim portals, musical with dew, Wild echoes of wild woodlands and the hunt, Clear herald of the staunchest of his knights; And they to the great jousts at Camelot Rode pounding off, a noise of steel and steeds.

Thick in the stagnant moat the lilies lay Ghastly and rotting; hoarse with rusty chains The drawbridge hung before the barbed grate; And far above along lone battlements, His armor moon-drenched, one great sentinel Clanked drowsily, and it was late in June, She at her lattice, lawny night-robed, leaned Dreaming of somewhat dear, and happy smiled From glorious eyes; a face like gracious nights, One silent brilliancy of steadfast stars Innumerable and delicate through the dusk: Long, loosened loops and coils of sensuous hair Rolled turbulence down naked neck and throat, That shamed the moonshine with a rival sheen.

One stooped above her till his nostrils drank Rich, faint perfumes that blossomed in her hair, And 'round her waist hooped one strong arm and drew Her mightily to him; soft burying deep In crushed fresh linen warm with flesh his arm, Searched all her eyes until his own were drugged Mad with their fire, quick one hungry kiss, Like anger bruised fierce on her breathless lips, Whispered, "And lov'st but one? and he?" "Sweet, sweet my lord, thou wotest well!" and then From love's stern beauty writhen into hate's Gnarled hideousness, he haled her sweet, white face Back, back by its large braids of plenteous hair Till her full bosom's clamorous speechlessness Stiff on the moon burst white, low mocked and laughed, "The King, I wot, adulteress!" and a blade Glanced thin as ice plunged hard, hard in her heart.