Part 5

From Thee, Eternal Power, came my life, And by Thee was love born within my soul. Since I have felt Time and the hours toll, And have experienced my heart at strife, And felt it severed oft, as with a knife, I must with one good thought myself console. For since I may not consummate the whole, Nor reach the fulness of love when ’tis ripe; Then ne’ertheless have I account to give When, unfulfilled in happiness, my days In number cease and I on high must go, To render unto Thee the life I live. So be it then, that in these passing lays I prove not faithless to the things I know.

LXXXVI

My hope had been, that I might find in thee The soul’s ideal, as my love’s recompense, That Heaven her fairest flowers might dispense, In prodigal profusion unto me. But with Reality’s cold eyes I see How different doth fate, in truth, compense The disappointment of love’s blighted sense; And turn to rhymes the hope that cannot be. Oh, if thou shouldst outlive my broken heart, And in compassion see thy lover dead, And once behold on earth his crumbling bones, Thou wouldst find in these living lines a part Of what thou hast flung from thee, and must read Love’s epitaph upon the moss-grown stones.

LXXXVII

God, through his offspring Nature, gave me love, Though man in opposition saith me nay, And taketh from my heart its life to-day, As through the valley of the world I rove. Still unaccompanied, within the grove That doth enamored beings hold at play, My spirit must pursue its lonely way, And strive to pluck some flowers that bloom above. Oh, wherefore then doth Nature give desire To have that which mankind may not possess, And force him to endure on earth hell’s fire, And live in one perpetual distress? Some evil power must such love inspire, And with it masquerade in Cupid’s dress!

LXXXVIII

With some, the law of love doth work at ease: To some it doth seem oft to make amends. To some the power of giving birth it sends; To others the dull pain of a disease. And yet how few this passion seems to please. At first its force to extasy it lends, Then deep into the depth of grief descends, And on the beauty of the soul doth seize. Yet, on the whole love is a mad possession, Taking from men the peacefulness of life, Bewild’ring warfare, with the heart’s obsession, That turneth Heaven into ceaseless strife, Now seeking love’s increase, now its repression, Until the maid be merged into the wife.

LXXXIX

Let not the measure of my love make thine Aught else but as it should be, true and sweet, Fair youth, who first thy sweetheart’s eye shall meet, Though thou mayst read the tragedy of mine. Oh, in thy heart make ready Cupid’s shrine. Prepare thy lips, that shall thy mistress greet, For kisses that denial may defeat, And on Love’s altar pour Love’s sacred wine. Let myrtle crown thy brow, lest, like my fate, Thou mayst find poison mingled in thy veins. Make lasting thine embrace, ere ’tis too late, And worms creep in, and mould leave deathly stains. Then may youth’s sunshine warm thy chosen mate; For nought so sweet as love through life remains.

XC

All else may die: the leaves that Nature bore In springtime soon may hear the autumn’s knell, And men likewise feel death’s o’erpowering spell; Ripe youth may fall, and age in time grow hoar; The moon doth wane, the sun sink from the shore; Fresh flowers fade, and lose their sweetest smell; Birds and their songs may vanish in the dell, And crumbling stones of cities be no more. Still shall my love, like love eternal, be Untouched by time; yet chastened by despair, And treasured in my heart, as all may see, Who would likewise their own true love declare. Thus in my soul, dear heart, would I hold thee Till God love’s injury at last repair.

XCI

O thou, fair youth, to whom the gods have given The gift of beauty and the power of love, Forget not that which cometh from above, And that affection is the child of Heaven. Remember in these lines, that I have striven To make thee honest, when, through Cupid’s grove Thou dost with some fair maiden lightly rove, Not caring by what passion she be driven. For what thou hast thou holdest but in trust, Account of which thou must give when thou diest: To honor those, though thou mayst love them not, Who love thy soul, when flesh may turn to dust. For if to honor love thou rightly triest, Thy name shall live on earth without a blot.

XCII

Believe not, gentle maid, that all is won When first thou dost behold thy lover dear; Nor yet that all thy path lies fair and clear From love’s first charm until its work be done. A fickle child thou comest thereupon, Whom thou mayst learn in time to view with fear. Cupid, though young, may cast a shadow drear, Whose chilling gloom shall hide thee from the sun. A lovely valley may thy footsteps lure, All filled with flowers that for the fair are grown, Yet ’neath its depth lie pitfalls for the pure, And deep contagions that are oft unknown. Then happy art thou if thou holdst love sure, Thus to escape the menace of his frown.

XCIII

Love heeds not time, nor space, nor form, nor woe, The seasons, slain by Cupid’s arrows, fade Like misty spectres; and the night, remade, Gives place once more to day’s unceasing show. The past gave joy; the future pain must know. Reflection of itself makes love, ’tis said, Mirror the beauty of its thought, repaid A thousand times to lovers when they go. For which is most, experience or thought? Anticipation or sweet memory? The preparation for what love once brought; Or last, the dwelling on delight passed by? All these love still commands, through battles fought With passion, lust, desire, and life’s stern cry.

XCIV

Happy my heart, and happier far was I, When ignorant of love’s entanglement; When I knew not its art or blandishment, And fearless passed young Cupid lightly by. Oh, happy hour! How vainly do I try To now regain my freedom, and repent The days, the hours, the years that have been In giving birth to an unanswered cry! No. Not in the review of my life’s sin Have I found punishment, or court, or trial, Or sentence of mankind, or prison wherein I might drink drops of poison from a phial, Or retribution that could half begin To be so bitter as love’s cold denial.

XCV

Strive as I would to banish from my mind The witchery that thy fair presence giveth, I cannot kill the flower of love that liveth, By that same witchery, or leave behind The subtle fragrance that doth still remind My soul of one whose song forever singeth, Like some inhabitant of air that wingeth Above those treasures that on earth we find. For it is oft--as I indeed am now-- With those who trample love beneath the heart. The more they seek to kill, or lay it low, The more it liveth with new-fashioned art, That causeth it, unwelcomed, still to grow, And thus deny that from it they shall part.

XCVI

Since on thy form hath beauty laid its hand, And set its snare for thee and me likewise, Yet taught thee the Soul’s beauty to despise; And given thee no power to understand The reason or the influence that planned The depth of life, yet still to temporize; How is such wanton thought to harmonize With love’s fierce fire by my strong passion fanned? O! Waste not then thy beauty in its youth; But turn it to account, lest thine own end Shall find thee, left without an hair or tooth, All stripped of nature’s charm, which now may lend Its power, for thee to reproduce the truth Of that same beauty thou wouldst lightly spend.

XCVII

In those brief moments when thou wert my own, I drank a poison deadlier to my heart Than that which toucheth every vital part, And causeth man to tremble and to moan Until the seeds of death be fairly sown, And he in palsied attitude doth start To rise, before his spirit shall depart, And utter on this earth its final groan. That poison was love’s undisguised belief That I had found eternal happiness, True freedom from all ill, and true relief From weary waiting and from loneliness. Ah! Cruel fate! Thou gavest but new grief, When I believed that Heaven my life would bless!

XCVIII

Let not thy beauty serve thee in the guise Of some dark power, as it hath in the past. Make for thyself some beauty that may last, And for thy friends some gratitude likewise. Best that they should applaud thee to the skies, Than in old age thou shouldst aside be cast, And when thou diest be but death’s repast: Nought but cold clay (from which the soul should rise). Forget not that thy flesh must soon expire, And thy youth’s veil from off thy face be torn. Then must thou from deception soon retire, When outward beauty is by time outworn. Oh! I would see thy soul by love reborn: Thou for thyself; I for my heart’s desire.

XCIX

When I alone unto my chamber go, To fold the shroud of night about my heart, And mourn an empty day that doth depart; And with sad thought compose my spirit so; There cometh to me the dear form I know; And, conjured with imagination’s art, It bringeth thee, so living, that I start; And my glad tears upon thy bosom flow. But oh, for shame! That not thyself entire Be mine, as thou shouldst be, instead of this! On earth both flesh and spirit hold empire, Wherein is man the vassal of a kiss. Yet nature must I thank, as I retire, That though I hold thee not I know thy bliss.

C

When all the world would smile in summer time, And bear the train of nature’s equipage; And love appeareth, as an appanage, To make each lover’s atmosphere sublime; Then would I take this pen and form a rhyme, That singeth of my three years’ vassalage (Still held in love’s unwilling peonage), That doth my spirit and my heart begrime. For how could love exalt, which hath, for long, Reduced me to so destitute a state That through each winter I must nurse my wrong, Until each spring shall bring thee, all too late? And when the summer cometh, my sad song Is only to deplore that I must wait.

CI

A little flower in my garden groweth. “Love-in-a-mist” is given as its name. Another, of blood hue, beside the same, Doth droop and fall upon the wind that bloweth. This is the “bleeding heart.” Like mine, it knoweth The tragic reason for its early fame, By some sad chance, upon the earth it came; But soon, though full of bloom, asleep it goeth. Two emblems have I in these garden flowers. “Love-in-a-mist” thou must be still for me, Deep hidden in love’s own mysterious bowers, Where, all uncertain, I can scarcely see. Yet from my “bleeding heart” I gain new powers, Though trampled under foot and crushed by thee.

CII

My love makes of my life a sad display; All full of good desires within me born, Like youthful verdure in the early morn; Yet by its mischief ruining each day. No more have I the courage that shall say: “From such poor revenue let me be torn, Lest my life’s high estate be basely shorn, And I no longer have wherewith to pay.” No! still I hold to thy heart’s company, That would but seldom grant what I may use, Not knowing by what power thou holdest me; Yet giving all; that all must still refuse; Unless this line be writ upon the sky, And bring eternal life to this my muse.

CIII

If in thyself doth all my love reside; And thou, the storehouse of love’s revenue, Holdest my happiness in full review; In thy dear eyes lies pain for me beside. Upon my heart thou ruthlessly dost ride, Grown callous to entreaty made anew. Though without hope that kindness may ensue, Let my blood flow to satisfy thy pride. Strange cruelty, enforced by Nature’s child! Thou, friendly in thy feeling, but grown cold; I, burned with Cupid’s fire and beguiled; Thou fearful, I the more by thee made bold; Thou, longing to be free, untamed and wild; I, young with love, though by its pain grown old.

CIV

Though my true love should be my own undoing, In leading me where wisdom may disprove, Yet would I choose, in spite of all, to love, So I might have the triumph of thy wooing. Then might I feel that youth I were renewing; My heart’s sad livery for once remove; And I might ride through avenues above The common path that life hath been pursuing. For nought could equal love, my love, with thee; Nor could I ever tire of thy praise, If thou all that I wish wouldst be to me, And my soul unto Heaven wouldst upraise. Since in love’s season lovers all agree, Then give me back what I lose in thy gaze.

CV

Though thou shouldst not perceive how love in me Doth play such havoc with my interest, That I am, as with penury, distrest; All torn by tragic thought and agony; Though thou mayst think it be no harm to see Thy lover with love’s wound upon his breast, Think not that by denying him ’tis best To foster for thyself life’s harmony. For though thou mayst deceive thy heart and mine, Posterity, by me, thy soul laid bare, Shall read the truth within this written line, And judge if in thy love thou hast been fair. All is, eternal honor may be thine, So thou prove not my muse and my despair.

CVI

To thee all life is but a passing pleasure, No deeper than the thought within thy mind; And thy short love is of a lighter kind Than that which bringeth to my heart its measure. How wanton is thy waste of so great treasure! And oh, how little value dost thou find! How vacant is thy vision, and how blind! How empty is thy work, how vain thy leisure! Let all thy faults foregather on that day, When Love shall touch thee with his magic wand, And thou at last unto thyself shall say Thy breast is wounded, but thy heart is fond. Yet shall I love thy spirit, come what may, Though thou be old, and I be far beyond.

CVII

Not clothed in transient beauty nor pale health, Like the night-blooming flower, that displays Its fullest glory when the violet rays Of sunlight vanish, and, as if by stealth, The sable realm of night, the commonwealth Of all deceiving things, appears and stays, Till day doth swift disperse its tricks and plays: Not such art thou, endowed with nature’s wealth. But on thy cheek the peach-blush of the sun Blends with the russet touch of summer’s hand; And in thine eye, fresh youth, that fades not soon, Lives in perpetual triumph, that is won From country joys, waving their magic wand Beneath the sunlit skies or silvery moon.

CVIII

No mind have I to tell thee all thou art, Yet giving half, how can I keep the rest, Since, knowing all, I see both worst and best, And may not then in truth withhold a part? Thy worst is like love’s dagger to my heart; Like Satan, in angelic vestment drest, That bringeth pain disguised into my breast. Such is thy worst. Let me thy best impart. Thy best is all thyself, thy beauty’s charm, Thy glance, thy smile, thy youth’s fair consciousness, Thy power to endear, to twine thine arm With subtle grace about love’s deep distress. Still, be it worst or best, thou dost me harm, Though bringing pleasure with thy soft caress.

CIX

Oh, Love doth play such wanton tricks with men, That all their frailty is at once revealed, However much they wish it were concealed; For common wisdom lies beyond their ken. Like some slain victim toward a lion’s den, So are they led, when once to love they yield. The warrior tamed lays by his trusted shield; The youth, his youth; old age its reason then. In each condition is mankind disturbed, Played false, or in unguarded mood surprised, Made mad by overjoy, or else perturbed Through sudden fear that love must be disguised. By some such thought my love alone is curbed, The which, I trow, thou hast ere now surmised.

CX

Not all the years of my uncounted pain Could teach me wisdom to myself and thee; So I still love, and thou still holdest me; Nor all the torture of thy fair disdain Wring from thy lips confession, or attain The height of misery that love must be When, unexpressed, itself it may not free From silent thought, or find some speech again. Yet love, though long unkind, hath taught me this, That I may find expression on its page; Though not the record of its perfect bliss, Yet, something of its value to mine age, Mixèd with poison from the fatal kiss That love still bringeth in its equipage.

CXI

At least thou canst not say I have not loved, Make accusation fit time’s test of me. Bring all thy grievance to love’s court, and see How truly my devotion hath been proved, And what high motive hath my spirit moved. Bring all the powers to bear that lie in thee. At least thou canst not claim inconstancy As comrade to that love by thee disproved. For this sad company my soul hath still, That is alike companion to my thought, Precursor of my fate and fate’s dark will; My mendicant desire that thou be brought Into my life, my empty heart to fill, And there remain; my own and dearly sought.

CXII

Often do I in meditation dream That in my garden thou art, with my flowers: To watch with me the foxglove, as it towers High o’er the feathery fern above the stream. The waving corn-flower catcheth the sun’s gleam. The yellow poppies, born in summer hours, Now bloomed, shed all their seeds in tiny showers, And nature in a lovely mood would seem. So thou, in my imagination, art. And ’neath the azured canopy of heaven, We twain, like children, each do play a part; Now, by the sun, beneath love’s bower driven; Now, by some wingèd creature, caused to start And leave the goal for which we both have striven.

CXIII

If thou who readst this verse do find herein More tragedy than joyous thought exprest, Oh, marvel not, that grief should not be drest By me, in bright array, to cloak my sin. My sin is love, love which I may not win; And by this fact is my heart overprest With weight of sorrow, and my soul distrest, That I must end where others do begin. So, if thou seekest to find within this line Enjoyment of a jest, pray put it by. ’Tis simply for love’s elegy to twine A wreath of myrtle with a lover’s sigh. For if this verse were gay, ’twould not be mine, Since lacking of my true love’s love am I.

CXIV

Yet ne’ertheless would I make holiday; Exchange love’s martyrdom; be light of heart; Take note of others who enjoy love’s art; Make measurable sport of what I may; Seek men and women who are blithe and gay; Forget the past and love’s more cruel mart, Wherein doth sorrow play so large a part; And mirror life in a more mirthful way. Oh! that I might be now the youth I was, Before love’s mastery enslaved my soul: Free in my fancy, free from life’s stern laws, When love of life alone was my heart’s goal. Then hath it need of holiday, because For long it heareth nightly love’s dirge toll.

CXV

Oh! well have I examined my defect, And all my faults and follies, yet anew (Knowing, alas, too well, they be not few), And marshalled them, that I may thus detect, Which fault or folly love doth not protect, And which would separate my heart from you. From some like cause ’twould seem you must eschew This proffered courtship, and my love reject. Then tell me, dear, the which I do adjure Your honor and your honesty to name. For ’tis my right, while my love doth endure, To ask if fault or scandal shall proclaim Its untoward presence, and your thought allure. For lies should not kill love, nor hurt my fame.

CXVI

Oh! what a thought hath filled my brain this night, And burned my fevered brow, as I suspect That all these years, the love thou didst reject Was, through strange chance, belittled in thy sight By some foul slander or some worldly wight. Methinks some poisonous tongue doth intersect Both love and friendship, and its shade reflect Unseen upon me, like some evil sprite. What’s this, that with a start I do behold, As darkness cloaks me round in cold embrace? Some goblin, born of fear, by fear made bold? Some lie that lives, yet dares not show its face? Some tale that knows ’tis false as soon as told? Such company my love doth poorly grace.

CXVII

And with the morn, though sunrise shall disperse Those phantoms that dark hours oft have sought, The spectral visage of some midnight thought Doth still unite its poison to my verse. In truth, suspicion makes a cruel nurse, A poor companion, that the world hath brought To tend the soul when, ill and overwrought, It reaches by such means a stage still worse. Let not my life, then, kill this tree of love, Nor canker-worm destroy its fresh green leaf, Nor moth devour its foliage from above; So that its ruin shatter my belief In love’s ideal and Cupid’s vernal grove. For love that doth prove false must die of grief.

CXVIII

Not every prince, nor king, nor emperor liveth, After his years upon this earth pass by; Not every painter’s brush, nor poet’s sigh Bringeth to the world the passion that it giveth; Not every sculptor’s chiselled stone outliveth The fell destruction of time’s tenancy; Nor men thought great, nor man’s inconstancy, Commit the sins that life’s last court forgiveth, Not such as these form that immortal band, Whose names adorn the temples of past ages. Nay, those decreed by nature to withstand The deep emotions written o’er life’s pages. Their thoughts with all mankind go hand in hand, Their loves make one with genius and the sages.

CXIX

How shall I all thy virtues here recount, Dear one, within the limit of this line; Or round thy brow a wreath of roses twine, To mark the passage of the years we mount; Or how, in this short verse, describe the fount Of love, within my heart, that is all thine? Within thy soul’s retreat a light doth shine, That maketh my return of poor account. Then of my homage take what is thy due, That which is mine to give, and free the giving. For all I have is now derived from you, The best of all that maketh life worth living: A gift of nature, given unto few, Though, when received, a cause for their thanksgiving.

CXX