Poems Part 17

The next is written in a languid hand: "Sin hath drunk up my pleasure, as eclipse Drinks up the sunlight. On my spirit lies A malison and ban. What though the Spring Makes all the hills and valleys laugh in green,-- Is the sea healed, or is the plover's cry Merry upon the moor? I now am kin To these, and winds, and ever-suffering things."

Oh, I could blot these words out with my tears!

WALTER.

So could I when I wrote them.

VIOLET.

What is next?

"A sin lies dead and dreadful in my soul, Why should I gaze upon it day by day?

Oh, rather, since it cannot be destroyed, Let me as reverently cover it As with a cloth we cover up the dead, And place it in some chamber of my soul, Where it may lie unseen as sound, yet _felt_,-- Making life hushed and awful."

WALTER.

No more. No more.

Let G.o.d wash out this record with His rain!

This is the summer-house. [_They enter._ It is as sweet As if enamoured Summer did adorn It for his Love to dwell in. I love to sit And hear the pattering footsteps of the shower, As he runs over it, or watch at noon The curious sunbeams peeping through the leaves.

VIOLET.

I've always pictured you in such a place Writing your Book, and hurrying on, as if You had a long and wondrous tale to tell, And felt Death's cold hand closing round your heart.

WALTER.

Have you read my Book?

VIOLET.

I have.

WALTER.

It is enough.

The Book was only written for two souls, And they are thine and mine.

VIOLET.

For many weeks, When I was dwelling by the moaning sea, Your name was blown to me on ev'ry wind, And I was glad; for by that sign I knew You had fulfilled your heart, and hoped you would Put off the robes of sorrow, and put on The singing crown of Fame. One dreary morn Your Book came to me, and I fondled it, As though it were a pigeon sent from thee With love beneath its wing. I read and read Until the sun lifted his cloudy lids And shot wild light along the leaping deep, Then closed his eyes in death. I shed no tear, I laid it down in silence, and went forth Burdened with its sad thoughts: slowly I went; And, as I wandered through the deepening gloom, I saw the pale and penitential moon Rise from dark waves that plucked at her, and go Sorrowful up the sky. Then gushed my tears-- The tangled problem of my life was plain-- I cried aloud, "Oh, would he come to me!

I know he is unhappy; that he strives As fiercely as that blind and desperate sea, Clutching with all its waves--in vain, in vain.

He never will be happy till he comes."

As I went home the thought that you would come Filled my lorn heart with gladness, as the moon Filled the great vacant night with moonlight, till Its silver bliss ran o'er--so after prayer I slept in the lap of peace--next morn you came.

WALTER.

And then I found you beautiful and pale-- Pale as that moonlight night! O Violet, I have been undeceived. In my hot youth I kissed the painted bloom off Pleasure's lips And found them pale as Pain's,--and wept aloud.

Never henceforward can I hope to drain The rapture of a lifetime at a gulp.

My happiness is not a troubled joy; 'Tis deep, serene as death. The sweet contents, The happy thoughts from which I've been estranged, Again come round me, as the old known peers Surround and welcome a repentant spirit, Who by the steps of sorrow hath regained His throne and golden prime. The eve draws nigh!

The prosperous sun is in the west, and sees From the pale east to where he sets in bliss, His long road glorious. Wilt thou sing, my love, And sadden me into a deeper joy?

VIOLET _sings._

The wondrous ages pa.s.s like rus.h.i.+ng waves, Each crowned with its own foam. Bards die, and Fame Hangs like a pallid meteor o'er their graves.

Religions change, and come and go like flame.

Nothing remains but Love, the world's round ma.s.s It doth pervade, all forms of life it shares, The inst.i.tutions that like moments pa.s.s Are but the shapes the masking spirit wears.

Love is a sanctifier; 'tis a moon, Turning each dusk to silver. A pure light, Redeemer of all errors---- [_Ceases, and bursts into tears._

WALTER.

What ails you, Violet?

Has music stung you like a very snake?

Why do you weep?

VIOLET.

Walter! dost thou believe Love will redeem all errors? Oh, my friend, This gospel saves you! doubt it, you are lost.

Deep in the mists of sorrow long I lay, Hopeless and still, when suddenly _this_ truth Like a slant sunbeam quivered through the mist, And turned it into radiance. In the light I wrote these words, while you were far away Fighting with shadows. Oh! Walter, in one boat We floated o'er the smooth, moon-silvered sea; The sky was smiling with its...o...b.. of bliss; And while we lived within each other's eyes, We struck and split, and all the world was lost In one wild whirl of horror darkening down; At last I gained a deep and silent isle, Moaned on by a dim sea, and wandered round, Week after week, the happy-mournful sh.o.r.e, Wond'ring if you had 'scaped.

WALTER.

Thou n.o.ble soul, Teach me, for thou art nearer G.o.d than I!

My life was a long dream; when I awoke, Duty stood like an angel in my path, And seemed so terrible, I could have turned Into my yesterdays, and wandered back To distant childhood, and gone out to G.o.d By the gate of birth, not death. Lift, lift me up By thy sweet inspiration, as the tide Lifts up a stranded boat upon the beach.

I will go forth 'mong men, not mailed in scorn, But in the armour of a pure intent.

Great duties are before me and great songs, And whether crowned or crownless, when I fall It matters not, so that G.o.d's work is done.

I've learned to prize the quiet lightning-deed, Not the applauding thunder at its heels Which men call Fame. Our night is past; We stand in precious sunrise, and beyond A long day stretches to the very end.

Look out, my beautiful, upon the sky!

Even puts on her jewels. Look! she sets, Venus upon her brow. I never gaze Upon the evening but a tide of awe, And love, and wonder, from the Infinite, Swells up within me, as the running brine From the smooth-glistening, wide-heaving sea, Grows in the creeks and channels of a stream Until it threats its banks. It is not joy, 'Tis sadness more divine.

VIOLET.

How quick they come,-- World after world! See the great moon above Yon undistinguishable clump of trees Is slowly from the darkness gathering light!

You used to love the moon!

WALTER.

This mournful wind Has surely been with Winter, 'tis so cold; The dews are falling, Violet! Your cloak-- Draw it around you. Let the still night s.h.i.+ne!

A star's a cold thing to a human heart, And love is better than their radiance. Come!

Let us go in together.

AN EVENING AT HOME.

To-day a chief was buried--let him rest.

His country's bards are up like larks, and fill With singing the wide heavens of his fame.

To-night I sit within my lonely room, The atmosphere is full of misty rain, Wretched the earth and heaven. Yesterday The streets and squares were choked with yellow fogs, To-morrow we may all be drenched in sleet!