The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume II Part 48

POET.

O Muse, insatiate soul, demand No more than lies in human power.

Man writes no word upon the sand Even at the furious whirlwind's hour.

There was a time when joyous youth Forever fluttered at my mouth, A merry, singing bird, just freed.

Strange martyrdom has since been mine, Should I revive its slightest sign, At the first note, my lyre and thine Would snap asunder like a reed.

THE OCTOBER NIGHT.

POET.

My haunting grief has vanished like a dream, Its floating fading memory seems one With those frail mists born of the dawn's first beam, Dissolving as the dew melts in the sun.

MUSE.

What ailed thee then, O poet mine; What secret misery was thine, Which set a bar 'twixt thee and me?

Alas, I suffer from it still; What was this grief, this unknown ill, Which I have wept so bitterly?

POET.

'T was but a common grief, well known of men.

But, look you, when our heavy heart is sore, Fond wretches that we are! we fancy then That sorrow never has been felt before.

MUSE.

There cannot be a common grief, Save that of common souls; my friend, Speak out, and give thy heart relief, Of this grim secret make an end.

Confide in me, and have no fear.

The G.o.d of silence, pale, austere, Is younger brother unto death.

Even as we mourn we're comforted, And oft a single word is said Which from remorse delivereth.

POET.

If I were bound this day to tell my woe, I know not by what name to call my pain, Love, folly, pride, experience--neither know If one in all the world might thereby gain.

Yet ne'ertheless I'll voice the tale to thee, Alone here by the hearth. But do thou take This lyre--come nearer--so; my memory Shall gently with the harmonies awake.

MUSE.

But first, or ere thy grief thou say, My poet, art thou healed thereof?

Bethink thee, thou must speak to-day, As free from hatred as from love.

For man has given the holy name Of consolation unto me.

Make me no partner of thy shame, In pa.s.sions that have ruined thee.

POET.

Of my old wounds I am so sound and whole, Almost I doubt they were, nor find their trace; And in the pa.s.ses where I risked my soul, In mine own stead I see a stranger's face.

Muse, have no fear, we both may yield awhile To this first inspiration of regret.

Oh, it is good to weep, 't is good to smile, Remembering sorrows we might else forget.

MUSE.

As the watchful mother stoops O'er her infant's cradled rest, So my trembling spirit droops O'er this long-closed, silent breast.

Speak! I touch the lyre's sweet strings, Feebly, plaintively it sings, With thy voice set free at last.

While athwart a radiant beam, Like a light, enchanted dream, Float the shadows of the past.

POET.

My days of work! sole days whereon I lived!

O thrice-beloved solitude!

Now G.o.d be praised, once more I have arrived In this old study bare and rude.

These oft-deserted walls, this shabby den, My faithful lamp, my dusty chair, My palace, my small world I greet again, My Muse, immortal, young and fair.

Thank G.o.d! we twain may sing here side by side, I will reveal to thee my thought.

Thou shalt know all, to thee I will confide The evil by a woman wrought.

A woman, yes! (mayhap, poor friends, ye guess, Or ever I have said the word!) To such a one my soul was bound, no less Than is the va.s.sal to his lord.

Detested yoke! within me to destroy The vigor and the bloom of youth!

Yet only through my love I caught, in sooth, A fleeting glimpse of joy.

When by the brook, beneath the evening-star, On silver sands we twain would stray, The white wraith of the aspen tree afar Pointed for us the dusky way.

Once more within the moonlight do I see That fair form sink upon my breast; No more of that! Alas, I never guessed Whither my fate was leading me.

The angry G.o.ds some victim craved, I fear, At that ill-omened time, Since they have punished me as for a crime, For trying to be happy here!

MUSE.

A vision of remembered joy Reveals itself to thee once more; Why fearest thou to live it o'er, Retracing it without annoy?

Wouldst thou confide the truth to me, And yet those golden days disprove?

If fate has been unkind to thee, Do thou no less, my friend, than she, And smile upon thine early love.

POET.

Rather I dare to smile upon my woe.

Muse, I have said it, I would fain review My crosses, visions, frenzy,--calmly show The hour, place, circ.u.mstance, in order due.

'T was an autumnal evening, I recall, Chill, gloomy; this one brings it back again.

The murmuring wind's monotonous rise and fall Lulled sombre care within my weary brain.

I waited at the cas.e.m.e.nt for my love, And listening in the darkness black as death, Such melancholy did my spirit move That all at once I doubted of her faith.

The street wherein I dwelt was lonely, poor, Lantern in hand, at times, a shade pa.s.sed by, When the gale whistled through the half-oped door.

One seemed to hear afar a human sigh.

I know not to what omen, sooth to say, My superst.i.tious spirit fell a prey.

Vainly I summoned courage--coward-like I shuddered when the clock began to strike.

She did not come! Alone, with downcast head, I stared at street and walls like one possessed.

How may I tell the insensate pa.s.sion bred By that inconstant woman in my breast!

I loved but her in all the world. One day Apart from her seemed worse than death to me.

Yet I remember how I did essay That cruel night to snap my chain, go free.

I named her traitress, serpent, o'er and o'er, Recalled the anguish suffered for her sake, Alas! her fatal beauty rose once more, What grief, what torture in my heart to wake!

At last morn broke; with waiting vain outworn, I fell asleep against the cas.e.m.e.nt there.

I oped my lids upon the day new born, My dazzled glance swam in the radiant air.

Then on the outer staircase, suddenly, I heard soft steps ascend the narrow flight.

Save me, Great G.o.d! I see her--it is she!

Whence com'st thou? speak, where hast thou been this night?