Poems by George Meredith Volume I Part 25

XII

Not solely that the Future she destroys, And the fair life which in the distance lies For all men, beckoning out from dim rich skies: Nor that the pa.s.sing hour's supporting joys Have lost the keen-edged flavour, which begat Distinction in old times, and still should breed Sweet Memory, and Hope,--earth's modest seed, And heaven's high-prompting: not that the world is flat Since that soft-luring creature I embraced Among the children of Illusion went: Methinks with all this loss I were content, If the mad Past, on which my foot is based, Were firm, or might be blotted: but the whole Of life is mixed: the mocking Past will stay: And if I drink oblivion of a day, So shorten I the stature of my soul.

XIII

'I play for Seasons; not Eternities!'

Says Nature, laughing on her way. 'So must All those whose stake is nothing more than dust!'

And lo, she wins, and of her harmonies She is full sure! Upon her dying rose She drops a look of fondness, and goes by, Scarce any retrospection in her eye; For she the laws of growth most deeply knows, Whose hands bear, here, a seed-bag--there, an urn.

Pledged she herself to aught, 'twould mark her end!

This lesson of our only visible friend Can we not teach our foolish hearts to learn?

Yes! yes!--but, oh, our human rose is fair Surpa.s.singly! Lose calmly Love's great bliss, When the renewed for ever of a kiss Whirls life within the shower of loosened hair!

XIV

What soul would bargain for a cure that brings Contempt the n.o.bler agony to kill?

Rather let me bear on the bitter ill, And strike this rusty bosom with new stings!

It seems there is another veering fit, Since on a gold-haired lady's eyeb.a.l.l.s pure I looked with little prospect of a cure, The while her mouth's red bow loosed shafts of wit.

Just heaven! can it be true that jealousy Has decked the woman thus? and does her head Swim somewhat for possessions forfeited?

Madam, you teach me many things that be.

I open an old book, and there I find That 'Women still may love whom they deceive.'

Such love I prize not, madam: by your leave, The game you play at is not to my mind.

XV

I think she sleeps: it must be sleep, when low Hangs that abandoned arm toward the floor; The face turned with it. Now make fast the door.

Sleep on: it is your husband, not your foe.

The Poet's black stage-lion of wronged love Frights not our modern dames:- well if he did!

Now will I pour new light upon that lid, Full-sloping like the b.r.e.a.s.t.s beneath. 'Sweet dove, Your sleep is pure. Nay, pardon: I disturb.

I do not? good!' Her waking infant-stare Grows woman to the burden my hands bear: Her own handwriting to me when no curb Was left on Pa.s.sion's tongue. She trembles through; A woman's tremble--the whole instrument:- I show another letter lately sent.

The words are very like: the name is new.

XVI

In our old shipwrecked days there was an hour, When in the firelight steadily aglow, Joined slackly, we beheld the red chasm grow Among the clicking coals. Our library-bower That eve was left to us: and hushed we sat As lovers to whom Time is whispering.

From sudden-opened doors we heard them sing: The nodding elders mixed good wine with chat.

Well knew we that Life's greatest treasure lay With us, and of it was our talk. 'Ah, yes!

Love dies!' I said: I never thought it less.

She yearned to me that sentence to unsay.

Then when the fire domed blackening, I found Her cheek was salt against my kiss, and swift Up the sharp scale of sobs her breast did lift:- Now am I haunted by that taste! that sound!

XVII

At dinner, she is hostess, I am host.

Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keeps The Topic over intellectual deeps In buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.

With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball: It is in truth a most contagious game: HIDING THE SKELETON, shall be its name.

Such play as this the devils might appal!

But here's the greater wonder; in that we, Enamoured of an acting nought can tire, Each other, like true hypocrites, admire; Warm-lighted looks, Love's ephemerioe, Shoot gaily o'er the dishes and the wine.

We waken envy of our happy lot.

Fast, sweet, and golden, shows the marriage-knot.

Dear guests, you now have seen Love's corpse-light shine.

XVIII

Here Jack and Tom are paired with Moll and Meg.

Curved open to the river-reach is seen A country merry-making on the green.

Fair s.p.a.ce for signal shakings of the leg.

That little screwy fiddler from his booth, Whence flows one nut-brown stream, commands the joints Of all who caper here at various points.

I have known rustic revels in my youth: The May-fly pleasures of a mind at ease.

An early G.o.ddess was a country la.s.s: A charmed Amphion-oak she tripped the gra.s.s.

What life was that I lived? The life of these?

Heaven keep them happy! Nature they seem near.

They must, I think, be wiser than I am; They have the secret of the bull and lamb.

'Tis true that when we trace its source, 'tis beer.

XIX

No state is enviable. To the luck alone Of some few favoured men I would put claim.

I bleed, but her who wounds I will not blame.

Have I not felt her heart as 'twere my own Beat thro' me? could I hurt her? heaven and h.e.l.l!

But I could hurt her cruelly! Can I let My Love's old time-piece to another set, Swear it can't stop, and must for ever swell?

Sure, that's one way Love drifts into the mart Where goat-legged buyers throng. I see not plain:- My meaning is, it must not be again.

Great G.o.d! the maddest gambler throws his heart.

If any state be enviable on earth, 'Tis yon born idiot's, who, as days go by, Still rubs his hands before him, like a fly, In a queer sort of meditative mirth.

XX

I am not of those miserable males Who sniff at vice and, daring not to snap, Do therefore hope for heaven. I take the hap Of all my deeds. The wind that fills my sails Propels; but I am helmsman. Am I wrecked, I know the devil has sufficient weight To bear: I lay it not on him, or fate.

Besides, he's d.a.m.ned. That man I do suspect A coward, who would burden the poor deuce With what ensues from his own slipperiness.

I have just found a wanton-scented tress In an old desk, dusty for lack of use.

Of days and nights it is demonstrative, That, like some aged star, gleam luridly.

If for those times I must ask charity, Have I not any charity to give?

XXI

We three are on the cedar-shadowed lawn; My friend being third. He who at love once laughed Is in the weak rib by a fatal shaft Struck through, and tells his pa.s.sion's bashful dawn And radiant culmination, glorious crown, When 'this' she said: went 'thus': most wondrous she.

Our eyes grow white, encountering: that we are three, Forgetful; then together we look down.

But he demands our blessing; is convinced That words of wedded lovers must bring good.

We question; if we dare! or if we should!

And pat him, with light laugh. We have not winced.

Next, she has fallen. Fainting points the sign To happy things in wedlock. When she wakes, She looks the star that thro' the cedar shakes: Her lost moist hand clings mortally to mine.

XXII

What may the woman labour to confess?

There is about her mouth a nervous twitch.

'Tis something to be told, or hidden:- which?

I get a glimpse of h.e.l.l in this mild guess.

She has desires of touch, as if to feel That all the household things are things she knew.