Poems Part 1

Poems.

by Alexander Smith.

A LIFE-DRAMA.

SCENE I.--_An Antique Room: Midnight._

WALTER, _Reading from a paper on which he has been writing_.

As a wild maiden, with love-drinking eyes, Sees in sweet dreams a beaming Youth of Glory, And wakes to weep, and ever after, sighs For that bright vision till her hair is h.o.a.ry; Ev'n so, alas! is my life's-pa.s.sion story.

For Poesy my heart and pulses beat, For Poesy my blood runs red and fleet, As Aaron's serpent the Egyptians' swallow'd, One pa.s.sion eats the rest. My soul is follow'd By strong ambition to out-roll a lay, Whose melody will haunt the world for aye, Charming it onward on its golden way.

[_Tears the paper and paces the room with disordered steps._ Oh, that my heart were quiet as a grave Asleep in moonlight!

For, as a torrid sunset boils with gold Up to the zenith, fierce within my soul A pa.s.sion burns from bas.e.m.e.nt to the cope.

Poesy! Poesy! I'd give to thee, As pa.s.sionately, my rich-laden years, My bubble pleasures, and my awful joys, As Hero gave her trembling sighs to find Delicious death on wet Leander's lip.

Bare, bald, and tawdry, as a fingered moth, Is my poor life, but with one smile thou canst Clothe me with kingdoms. Wilt thou smile on me?

Wilt bid me die for thee? O fair and cold!

As well may some wild maiden waste her love Upon the calm front of a marble Jove.

I cannot draw regard of thy great eyes.

I love thee, Poesy! Thou art a rock, I, a weak wave, would break on thee and die.

There is a deadlier pang than that which beads With chilly death-drops the o'er-tortured brow, When one has a big heart and feeble hands,-- A heart to hew his name out upon time As on a rock, then in immortalness To stand on time as on a pedestal; When hearts beat to this tune, and hands are weak, We find our aspirations quenched in tears, The tears of impotence, and self-contempt That loathsome weed, up-springing in the heart, Like nightshade 'mong the ruins of a shrine; I am so cursed, and wear within my soul A pang as fierce as Dives' drowsed with wine, Lipping his leman in luxurious dreams; Waked by a fiend in h.e.l.l!---- 'T is not for me, ye Heavens! 't is not for me To fling a Poem, like a comet, out, Far-splendouring the sleepy realms of night.

I cannot give men glimpses so divine, As when, upon a racking night, the wind Draws the pale curtains of the vapoury clouds, And shows those wonderful, mysterious voids, Throbbing with stars like pulses.--Naught for me But to creep quietly into my grave; Or calm and tame the swelling of my heart With this foul lie, painted as sweet as truth.

That "great and small, weakness and strength, are naught, That each thing being equal in its sphere, The May-night glow-worm with its emerald lamp, Is worthy as the mighty moon that drowns Continents in her white and silent light."

This--this were easy to believe, were I The planet that doth nightly wash the earth's Fair sides with moonlight; not the s.h.i.+ning worm.

But as I am--beaten, and foiled, and shamed, The arrow of my soul which I have shot To bring down Fame, dissolved like shaft of mist-- This painted falsehood, this most d.a.m.ned lie, Freezes me like a fiendish human face, With all its features gathered in a sneer.

Oh, let me rend this breathing tent of flesh; Uncoop the soul--fool, fool, 't were still the same, 'T is the deep soul that's touch'd, _it_ bears the wound; And memory doth stick in 't like a knife, Keeping it wide for ever. [_A long pause._ I am fain To feed upon the beauty of the moon!

[_Opens the cas.e.m.e.nt._ Sorrowful moon! seeming so drowned in woe, A queen, whom some grand battle-day has left Unkingdomed and a widow, while the stars, Thy handmaidens, are standing back in awe, Gazing in silence on thy mighty grief!

All men have loved thee for thy beauty, moon!

Adam has turned from Eve's fair face to thine, And drunk thy beauty with his serene eyes.

Anthony once, when seated with his queen, Worth all the East, a moment gazed at thee: She struck him on the cheek with jealous hand, And chiding said,--"Now, by my Egypt's G.o.ds, That pale and squeamish beauty of the night Has had thine eyes too long; thine eyes are mine!

Alack! there's sorrow in my Anthony's face!

Dost think of Rome? I'll make thee, with a kiss, Richer than Caesar! Come, I'll crown thy lips."

[_Another pause._ How tenderly the moon doth fill the night!

Not like the pa.s.sion that doth fill my soul; It burns within me like an Indian sun.

A star is trembling on the horizon's verge, That star shall grow and broaden on the night, Until it hangs divine and beautiful In the proud zenith-- Might I so broaden on the skies of fame!

O Fame! Fame! Fame! next grandest word to G.o.d!

I seek the look of Fame! Poor fool--so tries Some lonely wanderer 'mong the desert sands By shouts to gain the notice of the Sphynx, Staring right on with calm eternal eyes.

SCENE II.

_A Forest._ WALTER _sleeping beneath a tree._

_Enter_ LADY _with a fawn._

LADY.

Halt! Flora, halt! This race Has danced my ringlets all about my brows, And brought my cheeks to bloom. Here will I rest And weave a garland for thy dappled neck.

[_Weaves flowers._ I look, sweet Flora, in thine innocent eyes, And see in them a meaning and a glee Fitting this universal summer joy: Each leaf upon the trees doth shake with joy, With joy the white clouds navigate the blue, And, on his painted wings, the b.u.t.terfly, Most splendid masker in this carnival, Floats through the air in joy! Better for man, Were he and Nature more familiar friends!

His part is worst that touches this base world.

Although the ocean's inmost heart be pure, Yet the salt fringe that daily licks the sh.o.r.e Is gross with sand. On, my sweet Flora, on!

[_Rises and approaches_ WALTER.

Ha! what is this? A bright and wander'd youth, Thick in the light of his own beauty, sleeps Like young Apollo, in his golden curls!

At the oak-roots I've seen full many a flower, But never one so fair. A lovely youth, With dainty cheeks and ringlets like a girl, And slumber-parted lips 'twere sweet to kiss!

Ye envious lids! I fain would see his eyes!

Jewels so richly cased as those of his Must be a sight. So, here's a well-worn book, From which he drinks such joy as doth a pale And dim-eyed worker who escapes, in Spring, The thousand-streeted and smoke-smothered town, And treads awhile the breezy hills of health.

[LADY _opens the book, a slip of paper falls out; she reads._

The fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays, The churlish thistles, scented briers, The wind-swept blue-bells on the sunny braes, Down to the central fires,

Exist alike in Love. Love is a sea, Filling all the abysses dim Of lornest s.p.a.ce, in whose deeps regally Suns and their bright broods swim.

This mighty sea of Love with wondrous tides, Is sternly just to sun and grain; 'Tis laving at this moment Saturn's sides,-- 'Tis in my blood and brain.

All things have something more than barren use; There is a scent upon the brier, A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews, Cold morns are fringed with fire;

The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breathed flowers; In music dies poor human speech, And into beauty blow those hearts of ours, When Love is born in each.

Life is transfigured in the soft and tender Light of Love, as a volume dun Of rolling smoke becomes a wreathed splendour In the declining sun.

Driven from cities by his restless moods, In incense-glooms and secret nooks, A miser o'er his gold--the lover broods O'er vague words, earnest looks.

Oft is he startled on the sweetest lip; Across his midnight sea of mind A Thought comes streaming, like a blazing s.h.i.+p Upon a mighty wind,

A Terror and a Glory! Shocked with light, His boundless being glares aghast; Then slowly settles down the wonted night, All desolate and vast.

Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod, Sweet tears, the clouds lean down and give.

This world is very lovely. O my G.o.d, I thank Thee that I live!

Ringed with his flaming guards of many kinds, The proud Sun stoops his golden head, Grey Eve sobs crazed with grief; to her the winds Shriek out, "The Day is dead."

I gave this beggar Day no alms, this Night Has seen nor work accomplished, planned, Yet this poor Day shall soon in memory's light A summer rainbow stand!

There is no evil in this present strife; From th' s.h.i.+vering Seal's low moans, Up through the s.h.i.+ning tiers and ranks of life, To stars upon their thrones,

The seeming ills are Loves in dim disguise; Dark moral knots, that pose the seer, If _we_ are lovers, in our wider eyes Shall hang, like dew-drops, clear.

Ye are my menials, ye thick-crowding years!

Ha! yet with a triumphant shout My spirit shall take captive all the spheres, And wring their riches out.

G.o.d! what a glorious future gleams on me; With n.o.bler senses, n.o.bler peers, I'll wing me through Creation like a bee, And taste the gleaming spheres!

While some are trembling o'er the poison-cup, While some grow lean with care, some weep, In this luxurious faith I'll wrap me up, As in a robe, and sleep.

Oh, 'tis a sleeping Poet! and his verse Sings like the syren-isles. An opulent Soul Dropt in my path like a great cup of gold, All rich and rough with stories of the G.o.ds!

Methinks all poets should be gentle, fair, And ever young, and ever beautiful: I'd have all Poets to be like to this,-- Gold-haired and rosy-lipped, to sing of Love.

Love! Love! Old song that Poet ever chanteth, Of which the listening world is never weary.