The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell Part 10

Here let us pause, and for a moment sever This gleam of sunshine from the sad unruth That sometime comes to all, for it is good To lengthen to the last a sunny mood. 280

PART SECOND

I

As one who, from the sunshine and the green, Enters the solid darkness of a cave, Nor knows what precipice or pit unseen May yawn before him with its sudden grave, And, with hushed breath, doth often forward lean, Dreaming he hears the plashing of a wave Dimly below, or feels a damper air From out some dreary chasm, he knows not where;

II

So, from the sunshine and the green of love, We enter on our story's darker part; 290 And, though the horror of it well may move An impulse of repugnance in the heart, Yet let us think, that, as there's naught above The all-embracing atmosphere of Art, So also there is naught that falls below Her generous reach, though grimed with guilt and woe.

III

Her fittest triumph is to show that good Lurks in the heart of evil evermore, That love, though scorned, and outcast, and withstood, Can without end forgive, and yet have store; 300 G.o.d's love and man's are of the selfsame blood, And He can see that always at the door Of foulest hearts the angel-nature yet Knocks to return and cancel all its debt.

IV

It ever is weak falsehood's destiny That her thick mask turns crystal to let through The unsuspicious eyes of honesty; But Margaret's heart was too sincere and true Aught but plain truth and faithfulness to see, And Mordred's for a time a little grew 310 To be like hers, won by the mild reproof Of those kind eyes that kept all doubt aloof.

V

Full oft they met, as dawn and twilight meet In northern climes; she full of growing day As he of darkness, which before her feet Shrank gradual, and faded quite away, Soon to return; for power had made love sweet To him, and when his will had gained full sway, The taste began to pall; for never power Can sate the hungry soul beyond an hour. 320

VI

He fell as doth the tempter ever fall, Even in the gaining of his loathsome end; G.o.d doth not work as man works, but makes all The crooked paths of ill to goodness tend; Let Him judge Margaret! If to be the thrall Of love, and faith too generous to defend Its very life from him she loved, be sin, What hope of grace may the seducer win?

VII

Grim-hearted world, that look'st with Levite eyes On those poor fallen by too much faith in man, 330 She that upon thy freezing threshold lies, Starved to more sinning by thy savage ban, Seeking that refuge because foulest vice More G.o.dlike than thy virtue is, whose span Shuts out the wretched only, is more free To enter heaven than thou shalt ever be!

VIII

Thou wilt not let her wash thy dainty feet With such salt things as tears, or with rude hair Dry them, soft Pharisee, that sit'st at meat With him who made her such, and speak'st him fair. 340 Leaving G.o.d's wandering lamb the while to bleat Unheeded, shivering in the pitiless air: Thou hast made prisoned virtue show more wan And haggard than a vice to look upon.

IX

Now many months flew by, and weary grew To Margaret the sight of happy things; Blight fell on all her flowers, instead of dew; Shut round her heart were now the joyous wings Wherewith it wont to soar; yet not untrue, Though tempted much, her woman's nature clings 350 To its first pure belief, and with sad eyes Looks backward o'er the gate of Paradise.

X

And so, though altered Mordred came less oft, And winter frowned where spring had laughed before In his strange eyes, yet half her sadness doffed, And in her silent patience loved him more: Sorrow had made her soft heart yet more soft, And a new life within her own she bore Which made her tenderer, as she felt it move Beneath her breast, a refuge for her love. 360

XI

This babe, she thought, would surely bring him back, And be a bond forever them between; Before its eyes the sullen tempest-rack Would fade, and leave the face of heaven serene; And love's return doth more than fill the lack, Which in his absence withered the heart's green: And yet a dim foreboding still would flit Between her and her hope to darken it.

XII

She could not figure forth a happy fate, Even for this life from heaven so newly come; 370 The earth must needs be doubly desolate To him scarce parted from a fairer home: Such boding heavier on her bosom sate One night, as, standing in the twilight gloam, She strained her eyes beyond that dizzy verge At whose foot faintly breaks the future's surge.

XIII

Poor little spirit! naught but shame and woe Nurse the sick heart whose life-blood nurses thine: Yet not those only; love hath triumphed so, As for thy sake makes sorrow more divine: 380 And yet, though thou be pure, the world is foe To purity, if born in such a shrine; And, having trampled it for struggling thence, Smiles to itself, and calls it Providence.

XIV

As thus she mused, a shadow seemed to rise From out her thought, and turn to dreariness All blissful hopes and sunny memories, And the quick blood would curdle up and press About her heart, which seemed to shut its eyes And hush itself, as who with shuddering guess 390 Harks through the gloom and dreads e'en now to feel Through his hot breast the icy slide of steel.

XV

But, at that heart-beat, while in dread she was, In the low wind the honeysuckles gleam, A dewy thrill flits through the heavy gra.s.s, And, looking forth, she saw, as in a dream, Within the wood the moonlight's shadowy ma.s.s: Night's starry heart yearning to hers doth seem, And the deep sky, full-hearted with the moon, Folds round her all the happiness of June. 400

XVI

What fear could face a heaven and earth like this?

What silveriest cloud could hang 'neath such a sky?

A tide of wondrous and unwonted bliss Rolls back through all her pulses suddenly, As if some seraph, who had learned to kiss From the fair daughters of the world gone by, Had wedded so his fallen light with hers, Such sweet, strange joy through soul and body stirs.

XVII

Now seek we Mordred; he who did not fear The crime, yet fears the latent consequence: 410 If it should reach a brother Templar's ear, It haply might be made a good pretence To cheat him of the hope he held most dear; For he had spared no thought's or deed's expense, That by and by might help his wish to clip Its darling bride,--the high grandmastership.

XVIII

The apathy, ere a crime resolved is done, Is scarce less dreadful than remorse for crime; By no allurement can the soul be won From brooding o'er the weary creep of time: 420 Mordred stole forth into the happy sun, Striving to hum a sc.r.a.p of Breton rhyme, But the sky struck him speechless, and he tried In vain to summon up his callous pride.

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