Love Letters of a Violinist and Other Poems Part 6

VI.

For it is deadly sin to love too well, And unappeased, unhonour'd, unbesought, To feed on dreams; and yet 'tis aptly thought That all must love. E'en those who most rebel In Eros' camp have known his master-spell; And more shall learn than Eros yet has taught.

VII.

But I am mad to love. I am not wise.

I am the worst of men to love the best Of all sweet women! An untimely jest, A thing made up of rhapsodies and sighs, And unordained on earth, and in the skies, And undesired in tumult and in rest.

VIII.

All this is true. I know it. I am he.

I am that man. I am the hated friend Who once received a smile, and sought to mend His soul with hope. O tyrant! by the plea Of all thy grace, do thou accept from me At least the notes that know not to offend.

IX.

See! I will strike again the major chord Of that great song, which, in his early days, Beethoven wrote; and thine shall be the praise, And thine the frenzy like a soldier's sword Flashing therein; and thine, O thou adored And bright true Lady! all the poet's lays.

X.

To thee, to thee, the songs of all my joy, To thee the songs that wildly seem to bless, And those that mind thee of a past caress.

Lo! with a whisper to the Winged Boy Who rules my fate, I will my strength employ To make a matin-song of my distress.

XI.

But playing thus, and toying with the notes, I half forget the cause I have to weep; And, like a reaper in the realms of sleep, I hear the bird of morning where he floats High in the welkin, and in fairy boats I see the minstrels sail upon the deep.

XII.

In mid-suspension of my leaping bow I almost hear the silence of the night; And, in my soul, I know the stars are bright Because they love, and that they nightly glow To make it clear that there is nought below, And nought above, so fair as Love's delight.

XIII.

But shall I touch thy heart by speech alone, Without Amati? Shall I prove, by words, That hope is meant for men as well as birds; That I would take a scorpion, or a stone, In lieu of gold, and sacrifice a throne To be the keeper of thy flocks and herds?

XIV.

Ah no, my Lady! though I sang to thee With fuller voice than sings the nightingale-- Fuller and softer in the moonlight pale Than lays of Keats, or Sh.e.l.ley, or the free And fire-lipp'd Byron--there would come to me No word of thine to thank me for the tale.

XV.

Thou would'st not heed. Thou would'st not any-when, In bower or grove--or in the holy nook Which shields thy bed--thou would'st not care to look For thoughts of mine, though faithful in their ken As are the minds of England's fighting men When they inscribe their names in Honour's book.

XVI.

Thou would'st not care to scan my face, and through This face of mine, the soul, for sc.r.a.ps of thought.

Yet 'tis a face that somewhere has been taught To smile in tears. Mine eyes are somewhat blue And quick to flash (if what I hear be true) And dark, at times, as velvet newly wrought.

XVII.

But wilt thou own it? Wilt thou in the scroll Of my sad life, perceive, as in a hive, A thousand happy fancies that contrive To seek thee out? Thy bosom is the goal Of all my thoughts, and quick to thy control They wend their way, elate to be alive.

XVIII.

But there is something I could never bring My soul to compa.s.s. No! could I compel Thy plighted troth, I would not have thee tell A lie to G.o.d. I'll have no wedding-ring With loveless hands around my neck to cling; For this were worse than all the fires of h.e.l.l.

XIX.

I would not take thee from a lover's lips, Or from the rostrum of a roaring crowd, Or from the memory of a husband's shroud, Or from the goblet where a Caesar sips.

I would not touch thee with my finger tips, But I would die to serve thee,--and be proud.

XX.

And could I enter Heaven, and find therein, In all the wide dominions of the air, No trace of thee among the natives there, I would not bide with them--No! not to win A seraph's lyre--but I would sin a sin, And free my soul, and seek thee otherwhere!

[Ill.u.s.tration: Letter VI DESPAIR]

LETTER VI.

DESPAIR.

I.

I am undone. My hopes have beggar'd me, For I have lov'd where loving was denied.

To-day is dark, and Yesterday has died, And when To-morrow comes, erect and free, Like some great king, whose tyrant will he be, And whose defender in the days of pride?

II.

I am not cold, and yet November bands Compress my heart. I know the month is May, And that the sun will warm me if I stay.