Poems & Ballads Volume I Part 20

In a twilight where virtues are vices, In thy chapels, unknown of the sun, To a tune that enthralls and entices, They were wed, and the twain were as one.

For the tune from thine altar hath sounded Since G.o.d bade the world's work begin, And the fume of thine incense abounded, To sweeten the sin.

Love listens, and paler than ashes, Through his curls as the crown on them slips, Lifts languid wet eyelids and lashes, And laughs with insatiable lips.

Thou shalt hush him with heavy caresses, With music that scares the profane; Thou shalt darken his eyes with thy tresses, Our Lady of Pain.

Thou shalt blind his bright eyes though he wrestle, Thou shalt chain his light limbs though he strive; In his lips all thy serpents shall nestle, In his hands all thy cruelties thrive.

In the daytime thy voice shall go through him, In his dreams he shall feel thee and ache; Thou shalt kindle by night and subdue him Asleep and awake.

Thou shalt touch and make redder his roses With juice not of fruit nor of bud; When the sense in the spirit reposes, Thou shalt quicken the soul through the blood.

Thine, thine the one grace we implore is, Who would live and not languish or feign, O sleepless and deadly Dolores, Our Lady of Pain.

Dost thou dream, in a respite of slumber, In a lull of the fires of thy life, Of the days without name, without number, When thy will stung the world into strife; When, a G.o.ddess, the pulse of thy pa.s.sion Smote kings as they revelled in Rome; And they hailed thee re-risen, O Thala.s.sian, Foam-white, from the foam?

When thy lips had such lovers to flatter; When the city lay red from thy rods, And thine hands were as arrows to scatter The children of change and their G.o.ds; When the blood of thy foemen made fervent A sand never moist from the main, As one smote them, their lord and thy servant, Our Lady of Pain.

On sands by the storm never shaken, Nor wet from the washing of tides; Nor by foam of the waves overtaken, Nor winds that the thunder bestrides; But red from the print of thy paces, Made smooth for the world and its lords, Ringed round with a flame of fair faces, And splendid with swords.

There the gladiator, pale for thy pleasure, Drew bitter and perilous breath; There torments laid hold on the treasure Of limbs too delicious for death; When thy gardens were lit with live torches; When the world was a steed for thy rein; When the nations lay p.r.o.ne in thy porches, Our Lady of Pain.

When, with flame all around him aspirant, Stood flushed, as a harp-player stands, The implacable beautiful tyrant, Rose-crowned, having death in his hands; And a sound as the sound of loud water Smote far through the flight of the fires, And mixed with the lightning of slaughter A thunder of lyres.

Dost thou dream of what was and no more is, The old kingdoms of earth and the kings?

Dost thou hunger for these things, Dolores, For these, in a world of new things?

But thy bosom no fasts could emaciate, No hunger compel to complain Those lips that no bloodshed could satiate, Our Lady of Pain.

As of old when the world's heart was lighter, Through thy garments the grace of thee glows, The white wealth of thy body made whiter By the blushes of amorous blows, And seamed with sharp lips and fierce fingers, And branded by kisses that bruise; When all shall be gone that now lingers, Ah, what shall we lose?

Thou wert fair in the fearless old fashion, And thy limbs are as melodies yet, And move to the music of pa.s.sion With lithe and lascivious regret.

What ailed us, O G.o.ds, to desert you For creeds that refuse and restrain?

Come down and redeem us from virtue, Our Lady of Pain.

All shrines that were Vestal are flameless, But the flame has not fallen from this; Though obscure be the G.o.d, and though nameless The eyes and the hair that we kiss; Low fires that love sits by and forges Fresh heads for his arrows and thine; Hair loosened and soiled in mid orgies With kisses and wine.

Thy skin changes country and colour, And shrivels or swells to a snake's.

Let it brighten and bloat and grow duller, We know it, the flames and the flakes, Red brands on it smitten and bitten, Round skies where a star is a stain, And the leaves with thy litanies written, Our Lady of Pain.

On thy bosom though many a kiss be, There are none such as knew it of old.

Was it Alciphron once or Arisbe, Male ringlets or feminine gold, That thy lips met with under the statue, Whence a look shot out sharp after thieves From the eyes of the garden-G.o.d at you Across the fig-leaves?

Then still, through dry seasons and moister, One G.o.d had a wreath to his shrine; Then love was the pearl of his oyster,[4]

And Venus rose red out of wine.

We have all done amiss, choosing rather Such loves as the wise G.o.ds disdain; Intercede for us thou with thy father, Our Lady of Pain.

In spring he had crowns of his garden, Red corn in the heat of the year, Then h.o.a.ry green olives that harden When the grape-blossom freezes with fear; And milk-budded myrtles with Venus And vine-leaves with Bacchus he trod; And ye said, "We have seen, he hath seen us, A visible G.o.d."

What broke off the garlands that girt you?

What sundered you spirit and clay?

Weak sins yet alive are as virtue To the strength of the sins of that day.

For dried is the blood of thy lover, Ipsithilla, contracted the vein; Cry aloud, "Will he rise and recover, Our Lady of Pain?"

Cry aloud; for the old world is broken: Cry out; for the Phrygian is priest, And rears not the bountiful token And spreads not the fatherly feast.

From the midmost of Ida, from shady Recesses that murmur at morn, They have brought and baptized her, Our Lady, A G.o.ddess new-born.

And the chaplets of old are above us, And the oyster-bed teems out of reach; Old poets outsing and outlove us, And Catullus makes mouths at our speech.

Who shall kiss, in thy father's own city, With such lips as he sang with, again?

Intercede for us all of thy pity, Our Lady of Pain.

Out of Dindymus heavily laden Her lions draw bound and unfed A mother, a mortal, a maiden, A queen over death and the dead.

She is cold, and her habit is lowly, Her temple of branches and sods; Most fruitful and virginal, holy, A mother of G.o.ds.

She hath wasted with fire thine high places, She hath hidden and marred and made sad The fair limbs of the Loves, the fair faces Of G.o.ds that were goodly and glad.

She slays, and her hands are not b.l.o.o.d.y; She moves as a moon in the wane, White-robed, and thy raiment is ruddy, Our Lady of Pain.

They shall pa.s.s and their places be taken, The G.o.ds and the priests that are pure.

They shall pa.s.s, and shalt thou not be shaken?

They shall perish, and shalt thou endure?

Death laughs, breathing close and relentless In the nostrils and eyelids of l.u.s.t, With a pinch in his fingers of scentless And delicate dust.

But the worm shall revive thee with kisses; Thou shalt change and trans.m.u.te as a G.o.d, As the rod to a serpent that hisses, As the serpent again to a rod.

Thy life shall not cease though thou doff it; Thou shalt live until evil be slain, And good shall die first, said thy prophet, Our Lady of Pain.

Did he lie? did he laugh? does he know it, Now he lies out of reach, out of breath, Thy prophet, thy preacher, thy poet, Sin's child by incestuous Death?

Did he find out in fire at his waking, Or discern as his eyelids lost light, When the bands of the body were breaking And all came in sight?

Who has known all the evil before us, Or the tyrannous secrets of time?

Though we match not the dead men that bore us At a song, at a kiss, at a crime-- Though the heathen outface and outlive us, And our lives and our longings are twain-- Ah, forgive us our virtues, forgive us, Our Lady of Pain.

Who are we that embalm and embrace thee With spices and savours of song?

What is time, that his children should face thee?

What am I, that my lips do thee wrong?

I could hurt thee--but pain would delight thee; Or caress thee--but love would repel; And the lovers whose lips would excite thee Are serpents in h.e.l.l.

Who now shall content thee as they did, Thy lovers, when temples were built And the hair of the sacrifice braided And the blood of the sacrifice spilt, In Lampsacus fervent with faces, In Aphaca red from thy reign, Who embraced thee with awful embraces, Our Lady of Pain?

Where are they, Cotytto or Venus, Astarte or Ashtaroth, where?

Do their hands as we touch come between us?

Is the breath of them hot in thy hair?

From their lips have thy lips taken fever, With the blood of their bodies grown red?

Hast thou left upon earth a believer If these men are dead?

They were purple of raiment and golden, Filled full of thee, fiery with wine, Thy lovers, in haunts unbeholden, In marvellous chambers of thine.

They are fled, and their footprints escape us, Who appraise thee, adore, and abstain, O daughter of Death and Priapus, Our Lady of Pain.

What ails us to fear overmeasure, To praise thee with timorous breath, O mistress and mother of pleasure, The one thing as certain as death?

We shall change as the things that we cherish, Shall fade as they faded before, As foam upon water shall perish, As sand upon sh.o.r.e.

We shall know what the darkness discovers, If the grave-pit be shallow or deep; And our fathers of old, and our lovers, We shall know if they sleep not or sleep.

We shall see whether h.e.l.l be not heaven, Find out whether tares be not grain, And the joys of thee seventy times seven, Our Lady of Pain.