The Unknown Eros Part 8

'Clear speech to men is mostly speech in vain.

Their scope is by themselves so justly scann'd, They still despise the things they understand; But, to a pretty Maid like thee, I don't mind speaking plain.'

'Then one boon more to her whom strange Fate mocks With a wife's duty but no wife's sweet right: Could I at will but summon my Delight--'

'Thou of thy jewel art the dainty box; Thine is the charm which, any time, unlocks; And this, it seems, thou hitt'st upon last night.

Now go, Child! For thy sake I've talk'd till this stiff tripod makes my old limbs ache.'

XIV. PSYCHE'S DISCONTENT.

'Enough, enough, ambrosial plumed Boy!

My bosom is aweary of thy breath.

Thou kissest joy To death.

Have pity of my clay-conceived birth And maiden's simple mood, Which longs for ether and infinitude, As thou, being G.o.d, crav'st littleness and earth!

Thou art immortal, thou canst ever toy, Nor savour less The sweets of thine eternal childishness, And hold thy G.o.dhead bright in far employ.

Me, to quite other custom life-inured, Ah, loose from thy caress.

'Tis not to be endured!

Undo thine arms and let me see the sky, By this infatuating flame obscured.

O, I should feel thee nearer to my heart If thou and I Shone each to each respondently apart, Like stars which one the other trembling spy, Distinct and lucid in extremes of air.

O, hear me pray--'

'Be prudent in thy prayer!

A G.o.d is bond to her who is wholly his, And, should she ask amiss, He may not her beseeched harm deny.'

'Not yet, not yet!

'Tis still high day, and half my toil's to do.

How can I toil, if thus thou dost renew Toil's guerdon, which the daytime should forget?

The long, long night, when none can work for fear, Sweet fear incessantly consummated, My most divinely Dear, My Joy, my Dread, Will soon be here!

Not, Eros, yet!

I ask, for Day, the use which is the Wife's: To bear, apart from thy delight and thee, The fardel coa.r.s.e of customary life's Exceeding injucundity.

Leave me awhile, that I may shew thee clear How G.o.ddess-like thy love has lifted me; How, seeming lone upon the gaunt, lone sh.o.r.e, I'll trust thee near, When thou'rt, to knowledge of my heart, no more Than a dream's heed Of lost joy track'd in scent of the sea-weed!

Leave me to pluck the incomparable flower Of frailty lion-like fighting in thy name and power; To make thee laugh, in thy safe heaven, to see With what grip fell I'll cling to hope when life draws hard to h.e.l.l, Yea, cleave to thee when me thou seem'st to slay, Haply, at close of some most cruel day, To find myself in thy reveal'd arms clasp'd, Just when I say, My feet have slipp'd at last!

But, lo, while thus I store toil's slow increase, To be my dower, in patience and in peace, Thou com'st, like bolt from blue, invisibly, With premonition none nor any sign, And, at a gasp, no choice nor fault of mine, Possess'd I am with thee Ev'n as a sponge is by a surge of the sea!'

'Thus irresistibly by Love embraced Is she who boasts her more than mortal chaste!'

'Find'st thou me worthy, then, by day and night, But of this fond indignity, delight?'

'Little, bold Femininity, That darest blame Heaven, what would'st thou have or be?'

'Shall I, the gnat which dances in thy ray, Dare to be reverent? Therefore dare I say, I cannot guess the good that I desire; But this I know, I spurn the gifts which h.e.l.l Can mock till which is which 'tis hard to tell.

I love thee, G.o.d; yea, and 'twas such a.s.sault As this which made me thine; if that be fault; But I, thy Mistress, merit should thine ire If aught so little, transitory and low As this which made me thine Should hold me so.'

'Little to thee, my Psyche, is this, but much to me!'

'Ah, if, my G.o.d, that be!'

'Yea, Palate fine, That claim'st for thy proud cup the pearl of price, And scorn'st the wine, Accept the sweet, and say 'tis sacrifice!

Sleep, Centre to the tempest of my love, And dream thereof, And keep the smile which sleeps within thy face Like sunny eve in some forgotten place!'

XV. PAIN.

O, Pain, Love's mystery, Close next of kin To joy and heart's delight, Low Pleasure's opposite, Choice food of sanct.i.ty And medicine of sin, Angel, whom even they that will pursue Pleasure with h.e.l.l's whole gust Find that they must Perversely woo, My lips, thy live coal touching, speak thee true.

Thou sear'st my flesh, O Pain, But brand'st for arduous peace my languid brain, And bright'nest my dull view, Till I, for blessing, blessing give again, And my roused spirit is Another fire of bliss, Wherein I learn Feelingly how the pangful, purging fire Shall furiously burn With joy, not only of a.s.sured desire, But also present joy Of seeing the life's corruption, stain by stain, Vanish in the clear heat of Love irate, And, fume by fume, the sick alloy Of luxury, sloth and hate Evaporate; Leaving the man, so dark erewhile, The mirror merely of G.o.d's smile.

Herein, O Pain, abides the praise For which my song I raise; But even the b.a.s.t.a.r.d good of intermittent ease How greatly doth it please!

With what repose The being from its bright exertion glows, When from thy strenuous storm the senses sweep Into a little harbour deep Of rest; When thou, O Pain, Having devour'd the nerves that thee sustain, Sleep'st, till thy tender food be somewhat grown again; And how the lull With tear-blind love is full!

What mockery of a man am I express'd That I should wait for thee To woo!

Nor even dare to love, till thou lov'st me.

How shameful, too, Is this: That, when thou lov'st, I am at first afraid Of thy fierce kiss, Like a young maid; And only trust thy charms And get my courage in thy throbbing arms.

And, when thou partest, what a fickle mind Thou leav'st behind, That, being a little absent from mine eye, It straight forgets thee what thou art, And ofttimes my adulterate heart Dallies with Pleasure, thy pale enemy.

O, for the learned spirit without attaint That does not faint, But knows both how to have thee and to lack, And ventures many a spell, Unlawful but for them that love so well, To call thee back.

XVI. PROPHETS WHO CANNOT SING.

Ponder, ye just, the scoffs that frequent go From forth the foe: 'The holders of the Truth in Verity Are people of a harsh and stammering tongue!

The hedge-flower hath its song; Meadow and tree, Water and wandering cloud Find Seers who see, And, with convincing music clear and loud, Startle the adder-deafness of the crowd By tones, O Love, from thee.

Views of the unveil'd heavens alone forth bring Prophets who cannot sing, Praise that in chiming numbers will not run; At least, from David until Dante, none, And none since him.

Fish, and not swim?

They think they somehow should, and so they try; But (haply 'tis they screw the pitch too high) 'Tis still their fates To warble tunes that nails might draw from slates.

Poor Seraphim!

They mean to spoil our sleep, and do, but all their gains Are curses for their pains!'

Now who but knows That truth to learn from foes Is wisdom ripe?

Therefore no longer let us stretch our throats Till hoa.r.s.e as frogs With straining after notes Which but to touch would burst an organ-pipe.

Far better be dumb dogs.

XVII. THE CHILD'S PURCHASE.

A PROLOGUE.

As a young Child, whose Mother, for a jest, To his own use a golden coin flings down, Devises blythe how he may spend it best, Or on a horse, a bride-cake, or a crown, Till, wearied with his quest, Nor liking altogether that nor this, He gives it back for nothing but a kiss, Endow'd so I With golden speech, my choice of toys to buy, And scanning power and pleasure and renown, Till each in turn, with looking at, looks vain, For her mouth's bliss, To her who gave it give I it again.

Ah, Lady elect, Whom the Time's scorn has saved from its respect, Would I had art For uttering this which sings within my heart!

But, lo, Thee to admire is all the art I know.

My Mother and G.o.d's; Fountain of miracle!

Give me thereby some praise of thee to tell In such a Song As may my Guide severe and glad not wrong Who never spake till thou'dst on him conferr'd The right, convincing word!

Grant me the steady heat Of thought wise, splendid, sweet, Urged by the great, rejoicing wind that rings With draught of unseen wings, Making each phrase, for love and for delight, Twinkle like Sirius on a frosty night!

Aid thou thine own dear fame, thou only Fair, At whose pet.i.tion meek The Heavens themselves decree that, as it were, They will be weak!

Thou Speaker of all wisdom in a Word, Thy Lord!

Speaker who thus could'st well afford Thence to be silent;--ah, what silence that Which had for prologue thy 'Magnificat?'-- O, Silence full of wonders More than by Moses in the Mount were heard, More than were utter'd by the Seven Thunders; Silence that crowns, unnoted, like the voiceless blue, The loud world's varying view, And in its holy heart the sense of all things ponders!

That acceptably I may speak of thee, Ora pro me!

Key-note and stop Of the thunder-going chorus of sky-Powers; Essential drop Distill'd from worlds of sweetest-savour'd flowers To anoint with nuptial praise The Head which for thy Beauty doff'd its rays, And thee, in His exceeding glad descending, meant, And Man's new days Made of His deed the adorning accident!

Vast Nothingness of Self, fair female Twin Of Fulness, sucking all G.o.d's glory in!

(Ah, Mistress mine, To nothing I have added only sin, And yet would shine!) Ora pro me!

Life's cradle and death's tomb!

To lie within whose womb, There, with divine self-will infatuate, Love-captive to the thing He did create, Thy G.o.d did not abhor, No more Than Man, in Youth's high spousal-tide, Abhors at last to touch The strange lips of his long-procrastinating Bride; Nay, not the least imagined part as much!

Ora pro me!

My Lady, yea, the Lady of my Lord, Who didst the first descry The burning secret of virginity, We know with what reward!

Prism whereby Alone we see Heav'n's light in its triplicity; Rainbow complex In bright distinction of all beams of s.e.x, Shining for aye In the simultaneous sky, To One, thy Husband, Father, Son, and Brother, Spouse blissful, Daughter, Sister, milk-sweet Mother; Ora pro me!

Mildness, whom G.o.d obeys, obeying thyself Him in thy joyful Saint, nigh lost to sight In the great gulf Of his own glory and thy neighbour light; With whom thou wast as else with husband none For perfect fruit of inmost amity; Who felt for thee Such rapture of refusal that no kiss Ever seal'd wedlock so conjoint with bliss; And whose good singular eternally 'Tis now, with nameless peace and vehemence, To enjoy thy married smile, That mystery of innocence; Ora pro me!

Sweet Girlhood without guile, The extreme of G.o.d's creative energy; Sunshiny Peak of human personality; The world's sad aspirations' one Success; Bright Blush, that sav'st our shame from shamelessness; Chief Stone of stumbling; Sign built in the way To set the foolish everywhere a-bray; Hem of G.o.d's robe, which all who touch are heal'd; To which the outside Many honour yield With a reward and grace Unguess'd by the unwash'd boor that hails Him to His face, Spurning the safe, ingratiant courtesy Of suing Him by thee; Ora pro me!