The New Penelope and Other Stories and Poems Part 35

I pa.s.s by; at thy foot, O, mount of my delight!

Ere yet from out thy sight, I drop my voiceless lute: It is in vain to strive to carry hence Its olden eloquence.

Your sacred groves no more My singing shall prolong, With echoes of my song, Doubling it o'er and o'er.

Haunt of the muses, lost to wistful eyes, What dreams of thee shall rise!

Rise but to be dispelled-- For here where I am cast, Such visions may not last, By sterner fancies quelled: Relentless Nemesis my doom hath sent-- This cruel banishment!

LOST AT SEA.

A fleet set sail upon a summer sea: 'Tis now so long ago, I look no more to see my ships come home; But in that fleet sailed all 'twas dear to me.

Ships never bore such precious freight as these, Please G.o.d, to any woe.

His world is wide, and they may ride the foam, Secure from danger, in some unknown seas.

But they have left me bankrupt on life's 'change; And daily I bestow Regretful tears upon the blank account, And with myself my losses rearrange.

Oh, mystic wind of fate, dost hold my dower Where I may never know?

Of all my treasure ventured what amount Will the sea send me in my parting hour!

'TWAS JUNE, NOT I.

"Come out into the garden, Maud;"

In whispered tones young Percy said: He but repeated what he'd read That afternoon, with soft applaud: A s.n.a.t.c.h, which for my same name's sake, He caught, out of the sweet, soft song, A lover for his love did make, In half despite of some fond wrong:-- And more he quoted, just to show How still the rhymes ran in his head, With visions of the roses red That on the poet's pen did grow.

The poet's spell was on our blood; The spell of June was in the air; We felt, more than we understood, The charm of being young and fair.

Where everything is fair and young-- As on June eves doth fitly seem: The Earth herself lies in among The misty, azure fields of s.p.a.ce, A bride, whose startled blushes glow Less flame-like through the shrouds of lace That sweeter all her beauties show.

We walked and talked beneath the trees-- Bird-haunted, flowering trees of June-- The roses purpled in the moon: We breathed their fragrance on the breeze-- Young Percy's voice is tuned to clear Deep tones, as if his heart were deep: This night it fluttered on my ear As young birds flutter in their sleep.

My own voice faltered when I said How very sweet such hours must be With one we love. At that word he Shook like the aspen overhead: "Must be!" he drew me from the shade, To read my face to show his own: "Say _are_, dear Maud!"--my tongue was stayed; My pliant limbs seemed turned to stone.

He held my hands I could not move-- The nerveless palms together prest-- And clasped them tightly to his breast; While in my heart the question strove.

The fire-flies flashed like wandering stars-- I thought some sprang from out his eyes: Surely some spirit makes or mars At will our earthly destinies!

"Speak, Maud!"--at length I turned away: He must have thought it woman's fear; For, whispering softly in my ear Such gentle thanks as might allay Love's tender shame; left on my brow, And on each hand, a warm light kiss-- I feel them burn there even now-- But all my fetters fell at this.

I spoke like an injured queen: It's our own defence when we're surprised-- The way our weakness is disguised; I said things that I could not mean, Or ought not--since it was a lie That love had not been in my mind: 'Twas in the air I breathed; the sky Shone love, and murmured it the wind.

It had absorbed my soul with bliss; My blood ran love in every vein, And to have been beloved again Were heavenly!--so I thought till this Unlooked for answer to the prayer My heart was making with its might, Thus challenged, caught in sudden snare, Like two clouds meeting on a height, And, pausing first in short strange lull, Then bursting into awful storm, Opposing feelings multiform, Struggled in silence: and then full Of our blind woman-wrath, broke forth In stinging hail of sharp-edged ice, As freezing as the polar north, Yet maddening. O, the poor mean vice We women have been taught to call By virtue's name! the holy scorn We feel for lovers left love-lorn By our own coldness, or by the wall Of other love 'twixt them and us!

The tempest past, I paused. He stood Silent,--and yet "Ungenerous!"

Was hurled back, plainer than ere could His lips have said it, by his eyes Fire-flashing, and his pale, set face, Beautiful, and unmarred by trace Of aught save pain and pained surprise.

--I quailed at last before that gaze, And even faintly owned my wrong: I said I "spoke in such amaze I could not choose words that belong To such occasions." Here he smiled, To cover one low, quick-drawn sigh: "June eves disturb us differently,"

He said, at length; "and I, beguiled By something in the air, did do My Lady Maud unmeant offence; And, what is stranger far, she too, Under the baleful influence of this fair heaven"--he raised his eyes, And gestured proudly toward the stars-- "Has done me wrong. Wrong, lady, mars G.o.d's purpose, written on these skies, Painted and uttered in this scene: Acknowledged in each secret heart; We both are wrong, you say; 'twould mean That we too should be wide apart-- And so, adieu!"--with this he went.

I sat down whitening in the moon, With heat as of a desert noon, Sending its fever vehement Across my brow, and through my frame-- The fever of a wild regret-- A vain regret without a name, In which both love and loathing met.

Was this the same enchanted air I breathed one little hour ago?

Did all these purple roses blow But yestermorn, so sweet, so fair?

Was it _this_ eve that some one said "Come out into the garden, Maud?"

And while the sleepy birds o'erhead Chirped out to know who walked abroad, Did _we_ admire the plumey flowers On the wide-branched catalpa trees, And locusts, scenting all the breeze; And call the balm-trees our bird-towers?

Did _we_ recall the "black bat Night,"

That flew before young Maud walked forth-- And say this Night's wings were too bright For bats'--being feathered, from its birth, Like b.u.t.terflies' with powdered gold: Still talking on, from gay to grave, And trembling lest some sudden wave Of the soul's deep, grown over-bold, Should sweep the barriers of reserve, And whelm us in tumultuous floods Of unknown power? What did unnerve Our frames, as if we walked with G.o.ds?

Unless they, meaning to destroy, Had made us mad with a false heaven, Or drunk with wine and honey given Only for immortals to enjoy.

Alas, I only knew that late I'd seemed in an enchanted sphere; That now I felt the web of fate Close round me, with a mortal fear.

If only once the G.o.ds invite To banquets that are crowned with roses; After which the celestial closes Are barred to us; if in despite Of such high favor, arrogant We blindly choose to bide our time, Rejecting Heaven's--and ignorant What we have spurned, attempt to climb To heavenly places at our will-- Finding no path thereto but one, Nemesis-guarded, where atone To heaven, all such as hopeful still, Press toward the mount,--yet find it strewn With corses, perished by the way, Of those who Fate did importune Too rashly, or her will gainsay.

If _I_ have been thrust out from heaven, This night, for insolent disdain, Of putting a young G.o.d in pain, How shall I hope to be forgiven?

Yet let me not be judged as one Who mocks at any high behest; My fault being that I kept the throne Of a JOVE vacant in my breast, And when APOLLO claimed the place I was too loyal to my Jove; Unmindful how the masks of love Transfigure all things to our face.

Ah, well! if I have lost to fate The greatest boon that heaven disposes; And closed upon myself the gate To fields of bliss; 'tis on these roses, On this intoxicating air, The witching influence of the moon, The poet's rhymes that went in tune To the night's voices low and rare; To all, that goes to make such hours Like hasheesh-dreams. These did defy, With contrary fate-compelling power, The intended bliss;--'_twas June, not I_.

LINES TO A LUMP OF VIRGIN GOLD.

Dull, yellow, heavy, l.u.s.treless-- With less of radiance than the burnished tress, Crumpled on Beauty's forehead: cloddish, cold, Kneaded together with the common mold!

Worn by sharp contact with the fretted edges Of ancient drifts, or prisoned in deep ledges; Hidden within some mountain's rugged breast From man's desire and quest-- Would thou could'st speak and tell the mystery That shrines thy history!

Yet 'tis of little consequence, To-day, to know how thou wert made, or whence Earthquake and flood have brought thee: thou art here, At once the master that men love and fear-- Whom they have sought by many strange devices, In ancient river-beds; in interstices Of hardest quartz; upon the wave-wet strand, Where curls the tawny sand By mountain torrents hurried to the main, And thence hurled back again:--

Yes, suffered, dared, and patiently Offered up everything, O gold, to thee!-- Home, wife and children, native soil, and all That once they deemed life's sweetest, at thy call; Fled over burning plains; in deserts fainted; Wearied for months at sea--yet ever painted Thee as the shining Mecca, that to gain Invalidated pain, Cured the sick soul--made nugatory evil Of man or devil.

Alas, and well-a-day! we know What idle dreams were these that fooled men so.

On yonder hillside sleep in nameless graves, To which they went untended, the poor slaves Of fruitless toil; the victims of a fever Called home-sickness--no remedy found ever; Or slain by vices that grow rankly where Men madly do and dare, In alternations of high hope and deep abysses Of recklessnesses.

Painfully, and by violence: Even as heaven is taken, thou wert dragged whence Nature had hidden thee--whose face is worn With anxious furrows, and her bosom torn In the hard strife--and ever yet there lingers Upon these hills work for the "effacing fingers"

Of time, the healer, who makes all things seem A half forgotten dream; Who smooths deep furrows and lone graves together, By touch of wind and weather.

Thou heavy, l.u.s.treless, dull clod!

Digged from the earth like a base common sod; I wonder at thee, and thy power to hold The world in bond to thee, thou yellow gold!

Yet do I sadly own thy fascination, And would I gladly show my estimation By giving house-room to thee, if thou'lt come And c.u.mber up my home;-- I'd even promise not to call attention To these things that I mention!

"The King can do no wrong," and thou Art King indeed to most of us, I trow.

Thou'rt an enchanter, at whose sovereign will All that there is of progress, learning, skill, Of beauty, culture, grace--and I might even Include religion, though that flouts at heaven-- Comes at thy bidding, flies before thy loss;-- And yet men call thee dross!

If thou art dross then I mistaken be Of thy ident.i.ty.

Ah, solid, weighty, beautiful!

How could I first have said that thou wert dull?

How could have wondered that men willingly Gave up their homes, and toiled and died for thee?

Theirs was the martyrdom in which was planted A glorious State, by precious memories haunted: Ours is the comfort, ease, the power, the fame Of an exalted name: Theirs was the struggle of a proud ambition-- Ours is the full fruition.

Thou, yellow nugget, wert the star That drew these willing votaries from afar, 'Twere wrong to call thee l.u.s.treless or base That lightest onward all the human race, Emblem art thou, in every song or story, Of highest excellence and brightest glory: Thou crown'st the angels, and enthronest Him Who made the cherubim: My reverend thought indeed is not withholden, O nugget golden!

MAGDALENA.

You say there's a Being all-loving, Whose nature is justice and pity; Could you say where you think he is roving?

We have sought him from city to city, But he never is where we can find him, When outrage and sorrow beset us; It is strange we are always behind him, Or that He should forever forget us.

But being a G.o.d, he is thinking Of the masculine side of the Human; And though just, it would surely be sinking The G.o.d to be thoughtful for woman.