Love Letters of a Violinist and Other Poems Part 3

XVI.

And now he is all mine, for my caress And my strong bow,--an Ariel, as it seems,-- A something sweeter than the sweetest dreams; A prison'd wizard that has come to bless And will not curse, though tortured, more or less, By some remembrance that athwart him streams.

XVII.

It is the thought of April. 'Tis the tie That made us one; for then the earth was fair With all things on't, and summer in the air Tingled for thee and me. A soft reply Came to thy lips, and I was like to die To hear thee make such coy confessions there.

XVIII.

It was the dawn of love (or so I thought) The tender cooing of thy bosom-bird-- The beating heart that flutter'd at a word, And seem'd for me alone to be so fraught With wants unutter'd! All my being caught Glamor thereat, as at a boon conferr'd.

XIX.

And I was lifted, in a minute's s.p.a.ce, As nigh to Heaven as Heaven is nigh to thee, And in thy wistful glances I could see Something that seem'd a joy, and in thy face A splendour fit for angels in the place Where G.o.d has named them all in their degree.

XX.

Ah, none so blest as I, and none so proud, In that wild moment when a thrill was sent Right through my soul, as if from thee it went As flame from fire! But this was disallow'd; And I shall sooner wear a winter shroud Than thou revoke my doom of banishment.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Letter III REGRETS]

LETTER III.

REGRETS.

I.

When I did wake, to-day, a bird of Heaven, A wanton, woeless thing, a wandering sprite, Did seem to sing a song for my delight; And, far away, did make its holy steven Sweeter to hear than lute-strings that are seven; And I did weep thereat in my despite.

II.

O glorious sun! I thought, O gracious king, Of all this splendour that we call the earth!

For thee the lark distils his morning mirth, But who will hear the matins that I sing?

Who will be glad to greet me in the spring, Or heed the voice of one so little worth?

III.

Who will accept the thanks I would entone For having met thee? and for having seen Thy face an instant in the bower serene Of perfect faith? The splendour was thine own, The rapture mine; and Doubt was overthrown, And Grief forgot the keynote of its threne.

IV.

I rose in haste. I seiz'd, as in a trance, My violin, the friend I love the best (After thyself, sweet soul!) and wildly press'd, And firmly drew it, with a master's glance, Straight to my heart! The sunbeams seem'd to dance Athwart the strings, to rob me of my rest.

V.

For then a living thing it did appear, And every chord had sympathies for me; And something like a lover's lowly plea Did shake its frame, and something like a tear Fell on my cheek, to mind me of the year When first we met, we two, beside the sea.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

VI.

I stood erect, I proudly lifted up The Sword of Song, the bow that trembled now, As if for joy, my grief to disallow.-- Are there not some who, in the choicest cup, Imbibe despair, and famish as they sup, Sear'd by a solace that was like a vow?

VII.

Are there not some who weep, and cannot tell Why it is thus? And others who repeat Stories of ice, to cool them in the heat?

And some who quake for doubts they cannot quell, And yet are brave? And some who smile in h.e.l.l For thinking of the sin that was so sweet?

VIII.

I have been one who, in the glow of youth, Have liv'd in books, and realised a bliss Unfelt by misers, when they count and kiss Their minted joys; and I have known, in sooth, The taste of water from the well of Truth, And found it good. But time has alter'd this.

IX.

I have been hated, scorn'd, and thrust away, By one who is the Regent of the flowers, By one who, in the magic of her powers, Changes the day to night, the night to day, And makes a potion of the solar ray Which drugs my heart, and deadens it for hours.

X.

I have been taught that Happiness is coy, And will not come to all who bend the knee; That Faith is like the foam upon the sea, And Pride a snare, and Pomp a foolish toy, And Hope a moth whose wings we may destroy; And she I love has taught these things to me.

XI.

Yes, thou, my Lady! Thou hast made me feel The pangs of that Prometheus who was chain'd And would not bow, but evermore maintain'd A fierce revolt. Have I refused to kneel?

I do it gladly. But to mine appeal No answer comes, and none will be ordain'd.

XII.

Why, then, this rancour? Why so cold a thing As thy displeasure, O thou dearest One?