A Lover's Litanies Part 4

ii.

Dower me with patience and imbue me still With some reminder, when the night is chill, Of thy dear presence, as, in winter-time, The maiden moon, that tenderly doth climb The lofty heavens, hath yet a beam to spare For doleful wretches in their dungeon-lair; E'en thus endow me in my chamber dim With some reminder of thy face so fair!

iii.

Quit thou thy body while thou sleepest well And visit mine at midnight, by the spell That knows not shame. For in the House of Sleep All things are pure; and in the silence deep I'll wait for thee, and thou, contrition-wise, Wilt seek my couch and this that on it lies, This frame of mine that lives for thee alone As palmers live for peace that never dies.

iv.

It were a goodly thing to spare a foe And kill his hate. And I would e'en do so!

For I would kill the coyness of thy face.

I would enfold thee in my spurn'd embrace And kiss the kiss that gladdens as with wine.

Yea, I would wrestle with those arms of thine, And, like a victor, I would vanquish thee, And, tyrant-like, I'd teach thee to be mine.

v.

For, what is peace that we should cling thereto If war be wisest? If the death we woo Be fraught with fervor there's delight in death!

There is persuasion in the tempest's breath Not known in calm; and raptures round us flow When, like an arrow through the bended bow Of two fond lips, the quivering dart of love Brings down the kiss which saints shall not bestow.

vi.

The soldier dies for country and for kin; He dies for fame that is so sweet to win; And, part for duty, part for battle-doom, He wends his way to where the myrtles bloom; He gains a grave, perchance a recompense Beyond his seeking, and a restful sense Of soul-completion, far from any strife, And far from memory of his land's defence.

vii.

Be this my meed,--to die for love of thee, As when the sun goes down upon the sea And finds no mate in all the realms of earth.

I, too, have look'd on Nature in its worth And found no resting-place in all the spheres, And no relief beyond my sonnet-tears,-- The soul-fed shudderings of my lonely harp That knows the gamut now of all my fears.

viii.

I wear thy colours till the day I die: A glove, a ribbon, and a rose thereby, All join'd in one. I revel in these things; For, once an angel, unarray'd in wings, Came to my side, and beam'd on me, and said: "I love thee, friend!" and then, with lifted head, Gave me a rose on which the dew had fallen; And, like the flower, she blush'd a virgin-red.

ix.

I found the glove down yonder in the dale.

I knew 'twas thine; its color, creamy-pale, Fill'd me with joy. "A prize!" I cried aloud, And s.n.a.t.c.h'd it up, as zealous then, and proud, As one who wins a knighthood in his youth; And I was moved thereat, in very sooth, And kiss'd it oft, and call'd on kindly Heaven To be the sponsor of mine amorous truth.

x.

I Earn'd the ribbon as we earn a smile For service done. I help'd thee at the stile; And so 'twas mine, my trophy, as of right.

Oh, never yet was ribbon half so bright!

It seem'd of sky-descent,--a strip of morn Thrown on the sod,--a something summer-worn To be my guerdon; and, enriched therewith, I follow'd thee, thy suitor, through the corn.

xi.

I trod on air. I seem'd to hear the sound Of fifes and trumpets and the quick rebound Of bells unseen,--the storming of a tower By imps audacious, and the sovereign power Of some arch-fairy, thine acquaintance sure In days gone by; for, all the land was pure, As if new-blest,--the land and all the sea And all the welkin where the stars endure.

xii.

We journey'd on through fields that were a-glow With cowslip buds and daisies white as snow; And, hand in hand, we stood beside a shrine At which a bard whom lovers deem divine, Laid down his life; and, as we gazed at this, There seem'd to issue from the wood's abyss A sound of trills, as if, in its wild way, A nightingale were pondering on a kiss.

xiii.

A lane was reached that led I know not where, Unless to Heaven,--for Heaven was surely there And thou so near it! And within a nook A-down whose covertness a noisy brook Did talk of peace, I learnt of thee my fate; The word of pity that was kin to hate,-- The voice of reason that was reason's foe Because it spurn'd the love that was so great!

xiv.

But I must pause. I must, from day to day, Keep back my tears, and seek a surer way Than Memory's track. I must, with lifted eyes, Re-shape my life, and heed the battle-cries Of prompt ambition, and be braced at call To do such deeds as haply may befall, If, freed of thee, and charter'd to myself, I may undo the bonds that now enthrall.

xv.

Shall I do this? I shall; and thou shalt see Signs of rebellion. I will turn to thee And claim obedience. I will make it plain How many a link may go to form a chain, And each a circlet, each a ring to wear.

I will extract the sting from my despair And toy therewith, as with a charmed snake, That, Lamia-like, uprears itself in air.

xvi.

Or is my boast a vain, an empty one, And shall I rue it ere the day is done?

Will hope revive betimes? Or must I stand For evermore outside the fairyland Of thy good will? Alas! my place is here, To muse and moan and sigh and shed my tear, My paltry tear for one who loves me not, And would not mourn for me on my death-bier.

xvii.

Oh, get thee hence, thou harbinger of light!

That, like a dream, dost come to me at night To haunt my sleep, and rob me of content, So true-untrue, so deaf to my lament, I must forego the pride I felt therein.

Aye, get thee hence! And I will crush the sin, If sin it be, that prompts me, night and day, To seek in thee the bliss I cannot win.

xviii.

Or, if thou needs must haunt me after dark, Come when I wake. The oriole and the lark Are friends of thine; and oft, I know, the thrush Has trill'd of thee at morn and even-blush.

And flowers have made confessions unto me At which I marvel; for they rail at thee And call thee heartless in thy seemlihood, Though queen-elect of all the flowers that be.