Ideala Part 6

O day and night! O day and night! once, all unheeding, By sun and summer wind with tender touch caressed, I wandered where the strains, the sacred strains, were pleading, And, kneeling in the fane, my thoughts to prayer addressed.

And softly rose the murmur'd organ mystery, And swell'd around the colonnaded aisle, Where smiled the pictured saints of holy history On prostrate penitents who prayed the while: I could not pray there, but I felt that G.o.d Himself might smile.

O day and night! O day and night! while I was kneeling There came the strangest sense of some loved presence near; A re-awakening rush of well-remembered feeling Thrill'd thro' me, held me still, with vague expectant fear.

Half turn'd from me, there stood beside the altar, Where incense-clouds nigh veiled him from my sight, A fair-haired priest--my quicken'd heart-beats falter!

Or is he priest, or is he acolyte, Or layman devotee who prays in novice robes bedight?

O day and night! O day and night! whence comes this feeling?

For all unreal seem day and night and life and death, And all unreal the hope that sets my senses reeling, And stills my pulse an instant, checks my lab'ring breath.

Yet louder rolls the mighty organ thund'ring.

And downward slopes a beam of light divine, The perfumed clouds are cleft: he looks up wond'ring-- Looks up--what does he there before the shrine?

He could not give himself to G.o.d, for he is mine, is mine!

O day and night! O day and night! I go forth trembling, He did not meet my eyes, he never saw my face.

My bosom swells with joy and jealousy resembling A war of good and evil waged in a holy place.

No longer soft the day, the sun in splendour Pours all his might upon this green incline; I lie and watch the cirrus clouds surrender, Their glowing forms to one hot kiss resign-- How could he give himself to G.o.d when he is mine, is mine?

O day and night! O day and night! beneath your glory The crimson flood of life itself has turned to fire!

The rugged brows of those old rocks, storm-rent and h.o.a.ry, Are quivering in their grim surprise at my desire.

The mother earth, throbbing with pain and pleasure, Would sink her voices for the languid noon, But light airs wake a reckless madd'ning measure, And wavelets dance and sparkle to the tune.

And mock the mocking malice of yon day-dimm'd gibbous moon.

O day and night! O day and night! a fisher maiden Is wand'ring up the path to where unseen I lie; She comes with some light spoil from off the sh.o.r.e beladen.

And softly singing of the sea goes slowly by.

And slowly rise great sun-tipped white cloud ma.s.ses, Sublimely still their shadows flit and flee: How silently the work of nature pa.s.ses-- The roll of worlds, the growth of flower and tree!

Angels of G.o.d in heaven! give him to me! give him to me!

O day and night! O day and night! the hours rolling Bring ev'ry one its change, its song, or chant, or chime: Now solemnly their sounds a distant death-knell tolling.

And now the bells above beat forth the flight of time.

I lie, unconsciously each trifle noting, The far-off sailors toiling on the quay, Or o'er the sand a broad-wing'd sea-bird floating, Or pa.s.sing hum of honey-laden'd bee-- Angels of G.o.d in heaven! give him to me! give him to me!

O day and night! O day and night! the scene surrounding Grows dim and all unreal beneath the sunset glow; And all the heat and rage pa.s.s into peace abounding, I moan, I fear no more, but wait, while still tears flow.

The warm sweet airs scarce move the flowerets slender, A pause and hush have settled on the sea, A bird trills forth its love-song low and tender: O bird rejoice! thy love and thou art free- Angels of G.o.d in heaven! give him to me! give him to me!

O day and night! O day and night! ye knew it ever!

Ye saw it written in the world's first golden prime!

And smiled your giant smile at all my rash endeavour To s.n.a.t.c.h the cup unfill'd from out the hand of Time.

He comes, O day and night! Spirits attending, Swift formless messengers my ev'ry sense apprise!

He comes! the bright fair head o'er some old book low bending Dear Lord, at last! his eyes have met my eyes-- Gleam of light goes quivering across the happy skies!

O day and night! O day and night! Love sits between us.

Far out the rising tide comas sweeping o'er the sand.

The murmurous pine trees lend their purple shade to screen us, And breathe their fragrant sighs above the quiet land.

And, like a sigh, the sunset blaze is over, The folding grey has veiled its colours bright; While swift from view fade out the gulls that hover, As round us sinks at last, on pinions light, The dark and radiant clarity of the beautiful still night.

O day and night! O day and night! no words are spoken.

Such pleasant joy profound no words could well express: His wand'ring fingers smooth my hair in silent token, And all my being answers to the tender mute caress.

My head is resting on his breast for pillow, And as by music moved my soul is thrill'd; Flow on and clasp the land, O bursting billow!

O breezes, tell the mountains many-rill'd!

Our hearts now know each other, and our hope is all-fulfill'd.

O day and night! O day and night! no shadow crosses This long'd-for solemn hour of all-forgetful bliss; No chilling thought, or stalking dread arising, tosses A poison'd drop of bitterness to spoil the ling'ring kiss: No mem'ries past or future fears a.s.sailing-- As soon might doubt bedim the stars that s.h.i.+ne!

Or souls released reach Paradise bewailing The end of pain, and clemency divine: The glorious present holds us: I am his and he is mine!"

O day and night! O day and night! and was it madness?

Lo! all is changing, even sky, and sea, and sh.o.r.e; The heaving water ebbs itself away in sadness, The waves receding sigh, "Delight returns no more!"

Far down the East the dawn is dimly burning, Its first chill breath has s.h.i.+vered thro' my frame, And with the light comes cruel Thought returning, The air seems full of voices speaking blame; Another day commences, but the world is not the same!

O day and night! O day and night! its rashes pa.s.s'd us, We stand upon the brink and watch, the strong deep tide, And shrink already from the howls that soon must blast us, The world that sins unchidden, and the laws that would divide.

"O Love, they rest in peace whom ocean covers!"

One plunge, one clasp supernal, one long kiss!

Then downward, like those old Italian lovers.

Descend for ever through the long abyss, And float together, happy, all eternity like this!

The charm of the reader's voice had held us spellbound, and the poem was well received; but after the usual compliments there was a pause, and then Ideala burst out impetuously: "I am sick of those old Italian lovers," she said; "they float into everything. Their story is the essence with which two-thirds of our love literature is flavoured. We should never have received them in society; why do we tolerate them in books? I like my company to be respectable even there; and when an author asks me to admire and sympathise with such people he insults me."

"They must be brought in, though, for the sake of contrast," somebody observed.

"They should be kept in their proper place, then," she answered. "You may choose what you please to point a moral, but for pity's sake be careful about what you use to adorn a tale."

"Moral or no moral," said the young sculptor, "I think a new poem of any kind a thing to be thankful for."

"And do you call that kind of thing new?" said Ideala. "I should say it was a fine compound of all the poems of the kind, and several other kinds, that have ever been written, with a dash of the peculiarly refined immorality of our own times, from which nothing is sacred; thrown in to make weight. Such writing,

Like a new disease, unknown to men, Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd, . . . . . . . . . . . and saps The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young.

It is the feeling of the day accurately defined. n.o.body sighs for love and peace now. The cry is for the indulgence of some fiery pa.s.sion for an hour, and then, perdition!--if you like--since that is the recognised price of it."

"Our loves are more intense than they used to be," said the sculptor, sighing.

"Love!" Ideala answered. "Oh, do not desecrate 'the eternal G.o.d-word, love!' There is little enough of that in the business that goes by its name now-a-days. I am a lady--I cannot use the right word. But it is none the less the thing I mean because it calls blasphemously on G.o.d Almighty to help it to fulfil itself."

"Well," said Charlie Lloyd, deprecatingly, "I didn't offer this, you know, as an admirable specimen of what our day can produce. I told you I hadn't read it, and now that I have I don't suppose any one has offered it to the public as a serious expression of sentiment."

"You do not think people write books about what they really feel?" said Ideala. "I believe they do when the feeling is shameful. If you want to keep a secret, publish the exact truth in a book, and n.o.body will believe a word of it. I think people who publish such productions should be burned on a pile of their own works."

"The writer is young, doubtless," I said, apologetically. It gives one a shock to hear a woman say harsh things.

"He was evidently not too young to have bad thoughts," said Claudia, supporting her friend; "and he was certainly old enough to know better."

"He!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Ideala. "It is far more likely to be _she_. Do you read the reviews? You will find that all the most objectionable books are written by women--and condemned by men who lift up their voices now, as they have done from time immemorial, and insist that we should do as they say, and not as they do."