vii.

I was ordain'd thy minstrel, but alas!

I dare not greet thee when I see thee pa.s.s; I scarce, indeed, may hope at any time, To work my will, or triumph in a rhyme To do thee honour; no, nor make amends For unsought fervor, in the tangled ends Of my despair. How sad, how dark to me All things have grown since thou and I were friends!

viii.

It is the fault of thy despotic glance, It is the memory of a day's romance When, true to thee, though taunted for my truth, I dared to solemnise the joys of youth In one wild chant. It is thy fault, I say!

Thy piteous fault that, on the verge of May, I lost the right to live, as heretofore, Untouched by doubt from day to brightening day.

ix.

O Summer's Pride! I loved thee from the first, And, like a martyr, I was blest and curst, And saved and slain, and crown'd and made anew, A grief-glad man, with yearnings not a few, But no just hope to win so fair a troth.

I should have known how one may weep for both When lovers part, poor souls! beneath the moon, And how Remembrance may outlive an oath.

x.

The nymphs, I think, were like thee in the glade Of that Greek valley where the wine was made For feasts of Bacchus; for I dream at night Of those creations, kind and calm and bright; And in my thought, unhallow'd though it be, The sun-born Muses turn their gaze on me, And seem to know me as a friend of theirs, Though all unfit to serve them on my knee.

xi.

They lived and sang. They died as visions die, Supreme, eternal, offshoots of the sky, Made and re-made, undraped and draped afresh, To glad the earth like phantoms made of flesh, And yet as mistlike as delusions are!

They stood beside Achilles in his car; They knew the G.o.ds and all their joysome deeds, And all the chants that sprang from star to star.

xii.

The myths of Greece, the maidens of the grove, The dear dead fancies of the days of Jove, Why were they bann'd? Oh, why in Reason's name, Were they abolished? They were good to claim, And good to dream of, and to crown with bays, Far-seen of men, far-shining in the haze Of withering doubts. They were the world's elect, As thou art mine, to bow to and to praise.

xiii.

Night after night I see thee, in my dreams, As fair as Daphne, with the morning beams Of thy bright locks about thee like a cloak,-- Fair as the young Aurora when she woke At Phaethon's call, athwart the mountain-heights.

I see thee radiant in the summer nights, And, bosom-pack'd with frenzies unrepress'd, I thrill to thee in Slumber's soft delights.

xiv.

I see thee pout. I see thee in disdain Look out, reluctant, through the falling rain Of thy long hair. I feel thee close at hand.

I note thy breathing as I loose the band That binds thy waist, and then to waking life I backward start! Despair is Sorrow's wife; And I am Sorrow, and Despair's mine own, To lure me on to madness or to strife.

xv.

My s.e.x offends thee, or the thought of this; For I did fright thee when I fleck'd a kiss With too much heat. I should have bow'd to thee, And left unsaid the word, deception-free, Which, like a flash, illumed the love within, My wilfulness was much to blame therein; But thou wilt shrive me, Sweet! of mine offence If pa.s.sion-pangs be deem'd so dark a sin.

xvi.

Oh, give me back my soul that with the same I may achieve a deed of poet-fame, Or die belauded on the battle-field!

There's much to seek. My hand is strong to wield Weapon or pen. If thou consent thereto Deeds may be done. If not, thine eyes are blue And Heaven is there,--a two-fold tender shrine Whose wrath I fear, whose judgment still I rue!

xvii.

I am but half myself. The life in me Is nigh crush'd out; and, though I seem to see Glory, and grace, and joy, as in the past, They are but shadows on the cozening blast, And dreams of devils and distorted things, And snakes coiled up that look like wedding rings, And faded flowers that once were fit for wreaths In bygone summers and in perish'd springs.

xviii.

There is a curse in every garden place, And when, at night, the lily's holy face Looks up to G.o.d, it seems to chide me there.

The very sun with all his golden hair Is ill at ease, and birth and death of day Bring no relief; and darkly on my way My memory comes,--the ghost of my Delight,-- To fret and fume at woes it cannot slay.

xix.

Oh, bid me smile again, as in the time When all the breezes seem'd to make a chime, And all the birds on all the woodland slopes Had trills for me, and seem'd to guess the hopes That warm'd my heart. O thou whom I adore!

How proud were I,--though wounded bitter-sore By shafts of doubt,--if, in default of love I could but win thy friendship as of yore.

xx.

Then were I blest indeed, and crown'd of fate As kings are crowned, as bards in their estate Are rapture-fraught, re-risen above the dust.

Then were I torture-proof, and on the crust Of one kind word, though as a pittance thrown, I'd live for weeks! My tears I would disown And pray, contented with my discontent, As hermits pray when storms are overblown.

[Ill.u.s.tration: cherub]

Fourth Litany.

_GRATIA PLENA_.

Fourth Litany.

Gratia Plena.

i.

Oh, smile on me, thou syren of my soul!

That I may curb my thoughts to some control And not offend thee, as in truth I do, Morning, and noon and night, when I pursue My vagrant fancies, unallow'd of thee, But fraught with such consolement unto me As may be felt in homeward-sailing ships When wind and wave contend upon the sea.