Ionica Part 7

Obeisance of kind strangers' eyes, Triumphant cannons' measured roar, Doffed plumes, and martial courtesies, Shall greet you on the Norman sh.o.r.e.

Oh, that I were a stranger too, To win that first sweet glance from you.

I was a stranger once: and soon Beyond desire, above belief, Thy soul was as a crescent moon, A bud expanding leaf by leaf.

I'd pray thee now to close, to wane, So that 'twere all to do again.

A SEPARATION

I may not touch the hand I saw So nimbly weave the violet chain; I may not see my artist draw That southward-sloping lawn again.

But joy brimmed over when we met, Nor can I mourn our parting yet.

Though he lies sick and far away, I play with those that still are here, Not honouring him the less, for they To me by loving him are dear: They share, they soothe my fond regret, Since neither they nor I forget.

His sweet strong heart so n.o.bly beat With scorn and pity, mirth and zeal, That vibrant hearts of ours repeat What they with him were wont to feel; Still quiring in that higher key, Till he take up the melody.

If there be any music here, I trust it will not fail, like notes Of May-birds, when the warning year Abates their summer-wearied throats.

Shame on us, if we drudge once more As dull and tuneless as before.

Without him I was weak and coa.r.s.e, My soul went droning through the hours, His goodness stirred a latent force That drew from others kindred powers.

Nor they nor I could think me base, When with their prince I had found grace.

His influence crowns me, like a cloud Steeped in the light of a lost sun: I reign, for willing knees are bowed And light behests are gladly done: So Rome obeyed the lover-king, Who drank at pure Egeria's spring.

Such honour doth my mind perplex: For, who is this, I ask, that dares With manhood's wounds, and virtue's wrecks, And tangled creeds, and subtle cares, Affront the look, or speak the name Of one who from Elysium came.

And yet, though withered and forlorn, I had renounced what man desires, I'd thought some poet might be born To string my lute with silver wires; At least in brighter days to come Such men as I would not lie dumb.

I saw the Sibyl's finger rest On fate's unturned imagined page, Believed her promise, and was blest With dreams of that heroic age.

She sent me, ere my hope was cold, One of the race that she foretold.

His fellows time will bring, and they, In manifold affections free, Shall scatter pleasures day by day Like blossoms rained from windy tree.

So let that garden bloom; and I, Content with one such flower, will die.

A NEW MICHONNET

The foster-child forgets his nurse: She doth but know what he hath been, Took him for better or for worse, Would pet him, though he be sixteen.

He helps to weave the soft quadrille; Ah! leave the parlour door ajar; Those thirsting eyes shall take their fill, And watch her darling from afar.

It is her pride to see the hand, Which wont so wantonly to tear Her unblanched curls, control the band, And change the tune, with such an air.

And who so good? she thinks, or who So fit for partners rich and tall?

Indeed she's looked the ball-room through, And he's the loveliest lad of all.

So to her lonesome bed: and there, If any wandering notes she hear, She'll say in pauses of her prayer, "He dancing still, my child! my dear!"

His gladness doth on her redound, Though hair be grey, and eyes be dim: At every waif of broken sound She'll wake, and smile, and think of him.

So, n.o.blest of the n.o.ble, go Through regions echoing thy name; And even on me, thy friend, shall flow Some streamlet from thy river of fame.

Thou to the gilded youth be kind; Shed all thy genius-rays on them; An ancient comrade stands behind To touch, unseen, thy mantle's hem.

A stranger to thy peers am I, And slighted, like that poor old crone, And yet some clinging memories try To rate thy conquests as mine own.

Nay, when at random drops thy praise From lips of happy lookers-on, My tearful eyes I proudly raise, And bid my conscious self be gone.

SAPPHICS

Love, like an island, held a single heart, Waiting for sh.o.r.eward flutterings of the breeze, So might it waft to him that sat apart Some angel guest from out the clouded seas.

Was it mere chance that threw within his reach Fragments and symbols of the bliss unknown?

Was it vague hope that murmured down the beach, Tuning the billows and the cavern's moan?

Oft through the aching void the promise thrilled: "Thou shalt be loved, and Time shall pay his debt."

Silence returns upon the wish fulfilled, Joy for a year, and then a sweet regret.

Idol, mine Idol, whom this touch profanes, Pa.s.s as thou cam'st across the glimmering seas: All, all is lost but memory's sacred pains; Leave me, oh leave me, ere I forfeit these.

A FABLE

An eager girl, whose father buys Some ruined thane's forsaken hall, Explores the new domain, and tries Before the rest to view it all.

Alone she lifts the latch, and glides Through many a sadly curtained room, As daylight through the doorway slides And struggles with the m.u.f.fled gloom.

With mimicries of dance she wakes The lordly gallery's silent floor, And climbing up on tiptoe, makes The old-world mirror smile once more.

With tankards dry she chills her lip, With yellowing laces veils the head, And leaps in pride of ownership Upon the faded marriage bed.

A harp in some dark nook she sees, Long left a prey to heat and frost.

She smites it: can such tinklings please?

Is not all worth, all beauty, lost?

Ah! who'd have thought such sweetness clung To loose neglected strings like those?

They answered to whate'er was sung, And sounded as the lady chose.

Her pitying finger hurried by Each vacant s.p.a.ce, each slackened chord; Nor would her wayward zeal let die The music-spirit she restored.

The fashion quaint, the time-worn flaws, The narrow range, the doubtful tone, All was excused awhile, because It seemed a creature of her own.