Collected Poems Volume II Part 85

The long thin flanks, the broad breast, and the grand Heroic shoulders! Look, what lost dreams lie Cold in the fingers of that delicate hand;

And, shut within those lyric lips, what cry Of unborn beauty, sunk in utter night, Lost worlds of song, sealed in an unknown sky,

Never to be brought forth, clothed on with light.

Was this, then, this the secret of his song?-- _Who ever loved that loved not at first?_

It was not Love, not Love, that wrought this wrong; And yet--what evil shadow of this dark town Could quench a soul so flame-like clean and strong,

Strike the young glory of his manhood down, Dead, like a dog, dead in a drunken brawl, Dead for a phial of paint, a taffeta gown?

What if his blood were hot? High over all He heard, as in his song the world still hears, Those angels on the burning heavenly wall

Who chant the thunder-music of the spheres.

Yet--through the glory of his own young dream Here did he meet that face, wet with strange tears,

Andromeda, with piteous face astream, Hailing him, Perseus. In her treacherous eyes As in dark pools the mirrored stars will gleam,

Here did he see his own eternal skies; And here--she laughed, nor found the dream amiss; But bade him pluck and eat--in Paradise.

Here did she hold him, broken up with bliss, Here, like a supple snake, around him coiled, Here did she pluck his heart out with a kiss,

Here were the wings clipped and the glory soiled, Here adders coupled in the pure white shrine, Here was the Wine spilt, and the Shew-bread spoiled.

Black was that feast, though he who poured the Wine Dreamed that he poured it in high sacrament.

Deep in her eyes he saw his own eyes shine,

Beheld Love's G.o.d-head and was well content.

Subtly her hand struck the pure silver note, The throbbing chord of pa.s.sion that G.o.d meant

To swell the bliss of heaven. Round his young throat She wound her swarthy tresses; then, with eyes Half mad to see their power, half mad to gloat,

Half mad to batten on their own devilries, And mark what heaven-born splendours they could quell, She held him quivering in a mesh of lies,

And in soft broken speech began to tell-- There as, against her heart, throbbing he lay-- The truth that hurled his soul from heaven to h.e.l.l.

Quivering, she watched the subtle whip-lash flay The white flesh of the dreams of his pure youth; Then sucked the blood and left them cold as clay.

Luxuriously she lashed him with the truth.

Against his mouth her subtle mouth she set To show, as through a mask, O, without ruth,

As through a cold clay mask (brackish and wet With what strange tears!) it was not his, not his, The kiss that through his quivering lips she met.

Kissing him, "_Thus_," she whispered, "_did he kiss.

Ah, is the sweetness like a sword, then, sweet?

Last night--ah, kiss again--aching with bliss,_

_Thus was I made his own, from head to feet._"

--A sudden agony thro' his body swept Tempestuously.--"_Our wedded pulses beat_

_Like this and this; and then, at dawn, he slept._"

She laughed, pouting her lips against his cheek To drink; and, as in answer, Marlowe wept.

As a dead man in dreams, he heard her speak.

Clasped in the bitter grave of that sweet clay, Wedded and one with it, he moaned. Too weak

Even to lift his head, sobbing, he lay, Then, slowly, as their breathings rose and fell, He felt the storm of pa.s.sion, far away,

Gather. The shuddering waves began to swell.

And, through the menace of the thunder-roll, The thin quick lightnings, thrilling through his h.e.l.l,

Lightnings that h.e.l.l itself could not control (Even while she strove to bow his neck anew) Woke the great slumbering legions of his soul.

Sharp was that severance of the false and true, Sharp as a sword drawn from a shuddering wound.

But they, that were one flesh, were cloven in two.

Flesh leapt from clasping flesh, without a sound.

He plucked his body from her white embrace, And cast him down, and grovelled on the ground.

Yet, ere he went, he strove once more to trace, Deep in her eyes, the loveliness he knew; Then--spat his hatred into her smiling face.

She clung to him. He flung her off. He drew His dagger, thumbed the blade, and laughed--"Poor punk!

What? Would you make me your own murderer, too?"

"That was the day of our great feast," said Nash, "Aboard the _Golden Hynde_. The grand old hulk Was drawn up for the citizens' wonderment At Deptford. Ay, Piers Penniless was there!

Soaked and besotted as I was, I saw Everything. On her p.o.o.p the minstrels played, And round her sea-worn keel, like meadow-sweet Curtseying round a lightning-blackened oak, Prentices and their sweethearts, heel and toe, Danced the brave English dances, clean and fresh As May.

But in her broad gun-guarded waist Once red with British blood, long tables groaned For revellers not so worthy. Where her guns Had raked the seas, barrels of ale were sprung, Bestrid by roaring tipplers. Where at night The storm-beat crew silently bowed their heads With Drake before the King of Life and Death, A strumpet wrestled with a mountebank For pence, a loose-limbed Lais with a clown Of Cherry Hilton. Leering at their lewd twists, Cross-legged upon the deck, sluggish with sack, Like a squat toad sat Puff ...

Propped up against the bulwarks, at his side, Archer, his apple-squire, hiccoughed a bawdy song.

Suddenly, through that orgy, with wild eyes, Yet with her customary smile, O, there I saw in daylight what Kit Marlowe saw Through blinding mists, the face of his first love.

She stood before her paramour on the deck, c.o.c.king her painted head to right and left, Her white teeth smiling, but her voice a hiss: 'Quickly,' she said to Archer, 'come away, Or there'll be blood spilt!'

'Better blood than wine,'

Said Archer, struggling to his feet, 'but who, Who would spill blood?'

'Marlowe!' she said.

Then Puff Reeled to his feet. 'What, Kit, the cobbler's son?

The lad that broke his leg at the _Red Bull_, Tamburlaine-Marlowe, he that would chain kings To's chariot-wheel? What, is he rushing hither?

He would spill blood for Gloriana, hey?

O, my Belphoebe, you will crack my sides!

Was this the wench that shipped a thousand squires?

O, ho! But here he comes. Now, solemnly, lads,-- _Now walk the angels on the walls of heaven To entertain divine Zenocrate!_'

And there stood Kit, high on the storm-scarred p.o.o.p, Against the sky, bare-headed. I saw his face, Pale, innocent, just the dear face of that boy Who walked to Cambridge with a bundle and stick,-- The little cobbler's son. Yet--there I caught My only glimpse of how the sun-G.o.d looked, And only for one moment.

When he saw His mistress, his face whitened, and he shook.

Down to the deck he came, a poor weak man; And yet--by G.o.d--the only man that day In all our drunken crew.

'Come along, Kit,'

Cried Puff, 'we'll all be friends now, all take hands, And dance--ha! ha!--the shaking of the sheets!'

Then Archer, shuffling a step, raised his cracked voice In Kit's own song to a falsetto tune, Snapping one hand, thus, over his head as he danced:--

'_Come, live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove!_' ...