Poems by Walter Richard Cassels Part 2

MABEL.

There is no angel but the angel Death Could sever me from thee who art all my life!

What Heaven is there but that which Love creates?

What songs of Bliss, save those by Love intoned?

Ah! thou to me art as the sun to Day, That dies out with its setting utterly-- Thou art the ever-flowing crystal spring, That keeps the fountain of my being full-- Thou art the heart that beats with measured pulse The joyous moments of my flowing life-- Leave thee? How canst thou wrong me with the thought?

ORAN.

Dear Mabel!--Yet to-day thy brothers came, Taxing me harshly, and in cruel terms, With practising against thy precious life.

MABEL.

Oh, Heaven!

ORAN.

They dread these trances, whose dim fame Hath floated on the ignorant air to them.

They deem this priceless power, new-fall'n on me, And treasured for thy sake, my best beloved, A most pernicious art, that may, perchance, Work evil upon thee; say, dost thou fear?

My Mabel, hast thou faith and trust in me?

Shall I proceed, or break this magic wand, Wherewith they deem that I am dower'd withal?

MABEL.

I trust in thee, my love, with perfect faith-- Am I not as the floating gossamer, Steering through ether on thy guiding breath?

Am I not as the clay within thy hand, Taking the shape and image of thy thought?

Heed not these idle tongues, that launch their doubts In erring love against thy watchful care.

That which thou doest I accept with joy; I wait for thee as waits a full-sail'd bark The coming breeze to waft it o'er the sea.

ORAN.

Fear not! I do well think no peril lies Within this power, but virtue of rare worth, Else nevermore its wand had waved o'er thee.-- Tell me, dost bring no memory back to Earth Of all these glorious wanderings above?

No certain visions of the hidden things Thou seest in that far mystic spirit-land?

MABEL.

Nay! it must be as thou dost tell me oft, The soul doth lose its secrets at Earth's gate, And all the blinding glories it hath known Shed but their mystic influence over life.

Therefore, it may be, 'tis I nought retain Of that which pa.s.seth in these hours of trance.

ORAN.

Yet strive once more to grasp the fleeting dreams, Else shall I doubt that which I fondly hope.-- Sleep, love, and let thy spirit bask awhile In Heaven's own sunshine;--yet forget not me!

[_Makes pa.s.ses over her, which shortly sink her into a state of trance._

'Tis done! she's free! and now this lovely frame Lies tenantless, a casket whose pure gems Now sparkle 'mid the opal lights of Heaven.

This earth seems very lone and cold to me Now she is absent, though a little s.p.a.ce!

My heart goes restless wandering around, Seeking her through old haunts and vacant nooks, Like one who, waking from some troubled dream, Findeth his love soft stolen from his side, And straightway seeketh in a dim amaze All through the moonlight for her straying feet.

[_A pause._

Where art thou, O my dove! about the sky?

Ruffling thy breast across what honey breeze?

Flashing white pinions 'gainst the golden sun, That fain would nest thee on his ardent breast?

Art thou soft floating through the joys of Heaven, With Earth far, far beneath thee, like a star Struggling up through the tremulous sea of light, That sucks its life down from the eye of day?

About the gate of Heaven there floats my dove, Fann'd by the breath of melodies divine; Opes there no cas.e.m.e.nt soft to take her in, And lay her in the bosom of delight?

O dove, white dove, now at the gate of Heaven!

Wilt thou wing homeward ere the eventide, On shining pinions to thine own soft nest?

[_A pause_.

O wonderful! Thou mansion tenantless, Unswept by memory, untrod by thought, Where all lies tranced in motionless repose; No whisper stirring round the silent place, No foot of guest across the startled halls, No rustling robes about the corridors, No voices floating on the waveless air, No laughters, no sweet songs like angel dreams On silver wings among the arched domes,-- No swans upon the mere--no golden prow, Parting the crystal tide to Pleasure's breeze,-- No flapping sail before the idle wind,-- No music pulsing out its great wild heart In sweetest pa.s.sion-beats the noontide through,-- No lovers gliding down sun-chequer'd glades, In dreams that open wide the Eden gate, And waft them past the guardian Seraphim.

Sleep over all the Present and the Past-- The Future standing idle at the gate, Gazing amazed, like one who, in hot haste Bearing great tidings to some palace porch, Findeth the place deserted.

[_A noise without; enter in haste Father, Maurice and Roger._

How now?--Friends, you are welcome!

FATHER.

Where's my child, That you maltreat, most rash and guilty man?

ORAN.

Sir, you are over hasty in your words-- Your child is here.--

[_Points to Mabel, who still lies entranced._

FATHER.

Mabel! wake, Mabel--O my G.o.d! she's dead!

MAURICE.

How!--Dead!

ROGER.

Ay, murder'd!

FATHER.

O! my child! my child!

ORAN.

Peace! she is well--Sleep folds her in his arms, And each upheaving of his drowsy breast Is like a billow upon pleasure's sea, Wafting her on to far Hesperides.

FATHER.