Ardours and Endurances Part 15

The look in thine eyes can change me utterly; Thine eyes challenge: my heart is lighted, I am thy taper, I burn straight-pointed-- Ay, even so doing I waste away.

Bathe me in thy calm eyes' soft glances; I am thy slave, I bow, I worship; Bid me to steal, and I will steal gladly: Ah! bid me not, thou robbest my manhood.

Let thine eyes smile: change comes upon me, I put forth blossoms, flowers of my pa.s.sion, Roses crimson, alas! whose petals, Once white, now blush with blood of my heart.

Gaze not on me: I burn, I perish; Gaze not on me: I am thy servant; Gaze not on me: I sink a-bleeding; Yet gaze! I cannot otherwise live.

LAWFORD, _Easter_, 1914.

IV.--THE PRINCESS BADOURA'S LAST SONG TO HER LOVER

I have poured my wine into a gold cup, I have plucked my roses, unfastened the stone From my bosom. Thou mayest drink my red wine up, Or spill where my jewel and roses are thrown.

The golden-globed night deepens quickly over Me, afraid under its curtains. The spheres Stare. O gather me swiftly, my lover; Make me forget and forgive me these tears.

LAWFORD, _Easter_, 1914.

THE GIFT OF SONG

THE GIFT OF SONG

Beyond a hill and a river, Within a tower of stone, A Princess by a cas.e.m.e.nt Dreamed, sitting still, alone.

Her golden hair hung heavy Over her kirtle green; Her eyes were blue and lonely, Her tender mouth had been

A joy for splendid kisses, It was so red, so red; But it was parted in singing, And, beginning her song, she said:

"Three songs in my spirit: Elusive, tremulous, light.

If you can feel their tremor, This gift is spended aright."

Without in the silent garden The sunflowers dozed in the sun, Bees blackened their tawny faces, Their heads drooped one by one.

Amid a stilly fig-tree, Hidden from sun and sight, A nightingale sang over The songs that rejoice the night.

And browsing upon sweet gra.s.ses In the fair solitude, Half in sun, half in shadow, A lordly bay stag stood.

Upon earth all was silent Save when the hid bird sung; In the dark blue afternoon heavens A silent half-moon hung.

As she commenced singing, The nightingale stopped. In the dead Silence the leaves flicked softly; The great stag turned his head.

Thus sung she alone, and only The stag, the fig-tree, the bird And pensive moon in the darkling heavens Her lovely singing heard.

And as she finished singing, She bowed her golden head Low, O low, on her shaking bosom, And, ending her song, she said:

"Three songs in my spirit: Elusive, tremulous, light.

You have felt their tremor; This gift is spended aright."

The nightingale lifted her voice up, The moon fled out of the skies, The fig-tree split, and two tears rolled Out of the great stag's eyes.

Now, when she had done singing, She closed her eyes, and her breath Went out as she lay down backward And folded her hands in death.

LYME REGIS, _July_ 6, 1916.

FRAGMENTS FROM A DRAMA ON THE SUBJECT OF ORESTES

I.--WARNING UNHEEDED

_Ka.s.sandra._ I cried in the halls where the feast will be set; The hurrying servants whom I met Brushed me aside, asked why I tarried.

On their black woolly heads gold platters they carried, Piled high with rich fruits; betwixt jewelled hands, Goblets of crystal, white blossoming wands, Urns breathing incense: all these to be set Where Truth's feast and the feasters too soon shall be met.

The guest shall turn as he laughs and sups, Reaching his hand for the golden wine; His face shall change as he sees next to him A mouth that mocks, eyes that look through him, A head sink her glistening brow 'twixt the cups, Locks blackening his stoup with a liquor of brine.

In the scrolls of the platter of gold there has bled The juice of fruit battered and hairy and red; The goblets of crystal are fissured and cracked Like ice the bronze tyre of the chariot has wracked, And the blossoms curl withered because of the heat Of urns overset by the slip of red feet When the reveller fell forward unable to save His eyes from the torch, his groin from the glaive.

_Chorus._ For Truth rejected returns as Pain.

_Ka.s.sandra._ Under the trestles the guests lie slain; The curtains upon the gold cords pull Heavily, sagging like nets that are full, For curved in the trough and propped in the fold The red, red catch lies tossed and rolled; The halls and corridors reek with the flood; The pillars are trickled with cyphers of blood; Rent garlands lie trampled over the floors; Rusty footprints lead out through the high bronze doors To the starlit night and the whispering plain:

_Chorus._ For Truth rejected returns as Pain.

_Ka.s.sandra._ I weep for the ruin of a high, proud house; Moths fret the still curtains; down the throne runs a mouse; The sun fades on the floors heaped high with dead leaves; The moon runs on the rills that run from the eaves; Brown clogs the peristyle; the air has a tang; Weeds rot on the terrace; the hanging gates clang; The wind is a weariness; man lives in vain

_Chorus._ Where Truth rejected returns as Pain.

1914-1916.

II.--ORESTES TO THE FURIES

Ye are no madman's dreams, then!...

Out sword! Backward tread O curs that circle the bright blade ye dread.

Back to where dead-eyed Hate, your shameful priest, Prepares your bowl of blood, your fleshy feast: Where in the thronged and long-hushed marketplace Ten thousand faces gaze on one pale face; Where the lost victim feels the lonely ban Of death terrific loosed by man on man; Where black blood froths, where drives the whirring wheel; Where hands, ears, lips fall lopped of instant steel; Where the intent and dazzling pincher plies Till to the silent tortures Anguish cries At once for death! and when sharp death is given, Others, corded and swooned, antic and sick, are driven Under the axe, whose sheeny flash and fall Bids the block ring as pile beneath the maul, Till Man's protest dies to a whisper, dumb Beneath the maddened rolling of Death's drum!