The Unknown Eros. Book II

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I TO THE UNKNOWN EROS
  What rumour'd heavens are these
  Which not a poet sings,
  O, Unknown Eros? What this breeze
  Of sudden wings
  Speeding at far returns of time from interstellar space
  To fan my very face,
  And gone as fleet,
  Through delicatest ether feathering soft their solitary beat,
  With ne'er a light plume dropp'd, nor any trace
  To speak of whence they came, or whither they depart?
  And why this palpitating heart,
  This blind and unrelated joy,
  This meaningless desire,
  That moves me like the Child
  Who in the flushing darkness troubled lies,
  Inventing lonely prophecies,
  Which even to his Mother mild
  He dares not tell;
  To which himself is infidel;
  His heart not less on fire
  With dreams impossible as wildest Arab Tale,
  (So thinks the boy,)
  With dreams that turn him red and pale, 
  Yet less impossible and wild
  Than those which bashful Love, in his own way and hour,
  Shall duly bring to flower?
  O, Unknown Eros, sire of awful bliss,
  What portent and what Delphic word,
  Such as in form of snake forebodes the bird,
  Is this?
  In me life's even flood
  What eddies thus?
  What in its ruddy orbit lifts the blood,
  Like a perturbed moon of Uranus,
  Reaching to some great world in ungauged darkness hid;
  And whence
  This rapture of the sense
  Which, by thy whisper bid,
  Reveres with obscure rite and sacramental sign
  A bond I know not of nor dimly can divine;
  This subject loyalty which longs
  For chains and thongs
  Woven of gossamer and adamant,
  To bind me to my unguess'd want,
  And so to lie,
  Between those quivering plumes that thro' fine ether pant,
  For hopeless, sweet eternity?
  What God unhonour'd hitherto in songs,
  Or which, that now
  Forgettest the disguise
  That Gods must wear who visit human eyes,
  Art Thou?
  Thou art not Amor; or, if so, yon pyre,
  That waits the willing victim, flames with vestal fire;
  Nor mooned Queen of maids; or, if thou'rt she,
  Ah, then, from Thee
  Let Bride and Bridegroom learn what kisses be!
  In what veil'd hymn
  Or mystic dance 
  Would he that were thy Priest advance
  Thine earthly praise, thy glory limn?
  Say, should the feet that feel thy thought
  In double-center'd circuit run,
  In that compulsive focus, Nought,
  In this a furnace like the sun;
  And might some note of thy renown
  And high behest
  Thus in enigma be expressed:
  ‘There lies the crown
  Which all thy longing cures.
  Refuse it, Mortal, that it may be yours!
  It is a Spirit, though it seems red gold;
  And such may no man, but by shunning, hold.
  Refuse it, till refusing be despair;
  And thou shalt feel the phantom in thy hair.’


II
The Contact

  Twice thirty centuries and more ago,
  All in a heavenly Abyssinian vale,
  Man first met woman; and the ruddy snow
  On many-ridgëd Abora turn'd pale,
  And the song choked within the nightingale.
  A mild white furnace in the thorough blast
  Of purest spirit seem'd She as she pass'd;
  And of the Man enough that this be said,
  He look'd her Head.

  Towards their bower
  Together as they went,
  With hearts conceiving torrents of content, 
  And linger'd prologue fit for Paradise,
  He, gathering power
  From dear persuasion of the dim-lit hour,
  And doubted sanction of her sparkling eyes,
  Thus supplicates her conjugal assent,
  And thus she makes replies:

  ‘Lo, Eve, the Day burns on the snowy height,
  But here is mellow night!’

  ‘Here let us rest. The languor of the light
  Is in my feet.
  It is thy strength, my Love, that makes me weak;
  Thy strength it is that makes my weakness sweet.
  What would thy kiss'd lips speak?’

  ‘See, what a world of roses I have spread
  To make the bridal bed.
  Come, Beauty's self and Love's, thus to thy throne be led!’

  ‘My Lord, my Wisdom, nay!
  Does not yon love-delighted Planet run,
  (Haply against her heart,)
  A space apart
  For ever from her strong-persuading Sun!
  O say,
  Shall we no voluntary bars
  Set to our drift? I, Sister of the Stars,
  And Thou, my glorious, course-compelling Day!’

  ‘Yea, yea!
  Was it an echo of her coming word
  Which, ere she spake, I heard?
  Or through what strange distrust was I, her Head,
  Not first this thing to have said?
  Alway
  Speaks not within my breast
  The uncompulsive, great and sweet behest
  Of something bright,
  Not named, not known, and yet more manifest
  Than is the morn, 
  The sun being just at point then to be born?
  O Eve, take back thy "Nay."
  Trust me, Beloved, ever in all to mean
  Thy blissful service, sacrificial, keen;
  But bondless be that service, and let speak—’

  ‘This other world of roses in my cheek,
  Which hide them in thy breast, and deepening seek
  That thou decree if they mean Yea or Nay.’

  ‘Did e'er so sweet a word such sweet gainsay!’

  ‘And when I lean, Love, on you, thus, and smile
  So that my Nay seems Yea,
  You must the while
  Thence be confirm'd that I deny you still.’

  ‘I will, I will!’

  ‘And when my arms are round your neck, like this,
  And I, as now,
  Melt like a golden ingot in your kiss,
  Then, more than ever, shall your splendid word
  Be as Archangel Michael's severing sword!
  Speak, speak!
  Your might, Love, makes me weak,
  Your might it is that makes my weakness sweet.’

  ‘I vow, I vow!’

  ‘And are you happy, O, my Hero and Lord;
  And is your joy complete?’

  ‘Yea, with my joyful heart my body rocks,
  And joy comes down from Heaven in floods and shocks,
  As from Mount Abora comes the avalanche.’

  ‘My Law, my Light!
  Then am I yours as your high mind may list.
  No wile shall lure you, none can I resist!’

  Thus the first Eve
  With much enamour'd Adam did enact
  Their mutual free contract
  Of virgin spousals, blissful beyond flight
  Of modern thought, with great intention staunch, 
  Though unobliged until that binding pact.
  Whether She kept her word, or He the mind
  To hold her, wavering, to his own restraint,
  Answer, ye pleasures faint,
  Ye fiery throes, and upturn'd eyeballs blind
  Of sick-at-heart Mankind,
  Whom nothing succour can,
  Until a heaven-caress'd and happier Eve
  Be join'd with some glad Saint
  In like espousals, blessed upon Earth,
  And she her Fruit forth bring;
  No numb, chill-hearted, shaken-witted thing,
  'Plaining his little span,
  But of proud virgin joy the appropriate birth,
  The Son of God and Man.


III
Arbor Vitæ

  With honeysuckle, over-sweet, festoon'd;
  With bitter ivy bound;
  Terraced with funguses unsound;
  Deform'd with many a boss
  And closed scar, o'ercushion'd deep with moss;
  Bunch'd all about with pagan mistletoe;
  And thick with nests of the hoarse bird
  That talks, but understands not his own word;
  Stands, and so stood a thousand years ago,
  A single tree.
  Thunder has done its worst among its twigs,
  Where the great crest yet blackens, never pruned,
  But in its heart, alway 
  Ready to push new verdurous boughs, whene'er
  The rotting saplings near it fall and leave it air,
  Is all antiquity and no decay.
  Rich, though rejected by the forest-pigs,
  Its fruit, beneath whose rough, concealing rind
  They that will break it find
  Heart-succouring savour of each several meat,
  And kernell'd drink of brain-renewing power,
  With bitter condiment and sour,
  And sweet economy of sweet,
  And odours that remind
  Of haunts of childhood and a different day.
  Beside this tree,
  Praising no Gods nor blaming, sans a wish,
  Sits, Tartar-like, the Time's civility,
  And eats its dead-dog off a golden dish.


IV
The Standards

  That last,
  Blown from our Sion of the Seven Hills,
  Was no uncertain blast!
  Listen: the warning all the champaign fills,
  And minatory murmurs, answering, mar
  The Night, both near and far,
  Perplexing many a drowsy citadel
  Beneath whose ill-watch'd walls the Powers of Hell,
  With armed jar
  And angry threat, surcease
  Their long-kept compact of contemptuous peace! 
  Lo, yonder, where our little English band,
  With peace in heart and wrath in hand,
  Have dimly ta'en their stand,
  Sweetly the light
  Shines from the solitary peak at Edgbaston,
  Whence, o'er the dawning Land,
  Gleam the gold blazonries of Love irate
  'Gainst the black flag of Hate.
  Envy not, little band,
  Your brothers under the Hohenzollern hoof
  Put to the splendid proof.
  Your hour is near!
  The spectre-haunted time of idle Night,
  Your only fear,
  Thank God, is done,
  And Day and War, Man's work-time and delight,
  Begun.

  Ho, ye of the van there, veterans great of cheer,
  Look to your footing, when, from yonder verge,
  The wish'd Sun shall emerge;
  Lest once again the Flower of Sharon bloom
  After a way the Stalk call heresy.
  Strange splendour and strange gloom
  Alike confuse the path
  Of customary faith;
  And when the dim-seen mountains turn to flame
  And every roadside atom is a spark,
  The dazzled sense, that used was to the dark,
  May well doubt, ‘Is't the safe way and the same
  By which we came
  From Egypt, and to Canaan mean to go?’
  But know,
  The clearness then so marvellously increas'd, 
  The light'ning shining Westward from the East,
  Is the great promised sign
  Of His victorious and divine
  Approach, whose coming in the clouds shall be,
  As erst was His humility,
  A stumbling unto some, the first bid to the Feast.

  Cry, Ho!
  Good speed to them that come and them that go
  From either gathering host,
  And, after feeble, false allegiance, now first know
  Their post.
  Ho, ye
  Who loved our Flag
  Only because there flapp'd none other rag
  Which gentlemen might doff to, and such be,
  'Save your gentility!
  For leagued, alas, are we
  With many a faithful rogue
  Discrediting bright Truth with dirt and brogue;
  And flatterers, too,
  That still would sniff the grass
  After the 'broider'd shoe,
  And swear it smelt like musk where He did pass,
  Though he were Borgia or Caiaphas.
  Ho, ye
  Who dread the bondage of the boundless fields
  Which Heaven's allegiance yields,
  And, like to house-hatch'd finches, hop not free
  Unless 'tween walls of wire,
  Look, there be many cages: choose to your desire!
  Ho, ye,
  Of God the least beloved, of Man the most,
  That like not leaguing with the lesser host,
  Behold the invested Mount,
  And that assaulting Sea with ne'er a coast.
  You need not stop to count! 

  But come up, ye
  Who adore, in any way,
  Our God by His wide-honour'd Name of Yea.
  Come up; for where ye stand ye cannot stay.
  Come all
  That either mood of heavenly joyance know,
  And, on the ladder hierarchical,
  Have seen the order'd Angels to and fro
  Descending with the pride of service sweet,
  Ascending, with the rapture of receipt!
  Come who have felt, in soul and heart and sense,
  The entire obedience
  Which opes the bosom, like a blissful wife,
  To the Husband of all life!
  Come ye that find contentment's very core
  In the light store
  And daisied path
  Of Poverty,
  And know how more
  A small thing that the righteous hath
  Availeth than the ungodly's riches great.
  Come likewise ye
  Which do not yet disown as out of date
  That brightest third of the dead Virtues three,
  Of Love the crown elate
  And daintiest glee!
  Come up, come up, and join our little band.
  Our time is near at hand.
  The sanction of the world's undying hate
  Means more than flaunted flags in windy air.
  Be ye of gathering fate
  Now gladly ware.
  Now from the matrix, by God's grinding wrought,
  The brilliant shall be brought;
  The white stone mystic set between the eyes 
  Of them that get the prize;
  Yea, part and parcel of that mighty Stone
  Which shall be thrown
  Into the Sea, and Sea shall be no more.


V
Sponsa Dei

  What is this Maiden fair,
  The laughing of whose eye
  Is in man's heart renew'd virginity;
  Who yet sick longing breeds
  For marriage which exceeds
  The inventive guess of Love to satisfy
  With hope of utter binding, and of loosing endless dear despair?
  What gleams about her shine,
  More transient than delight and more divine!
  If she does something but a little sweet,
  As gaze towards the glass to set her hair,
  See how his soul falls humbled at her feet!
  Her gentle step, to go or come,
  Gains her more merit than a martyrdom;
  And, if she dance, it doth such grace confer
  As opes the heaven of heavens to more than her,
  And makes a rival of her worshipper.
  To die unknown for her were little cost!
  So is she without guile,
  Her mere refused smile
  Makes up the sum of that which may be lost!
  Who is this Fair
  Whom each hath seen, 
  The darkest once in this bewailed dell,
  Be he not destin'd for the glooms of hell?
  Whom each hath seen
  And known, with sharp remorse and sweet, as Queen
  And tear-glad Mistress of his hopes of bliss,
  Too fair for man to kiss?
  Who is this only happy She,
  Whom, by a frantic flight of courtesy,
  Born of despair
  Of better lodging for his Spirit fair,
  He adores as Margaret, Maude, or Cecily?
  And what this sigh,
  That each one heaves for Earth's last lowlihead
  And the Heaven high
  Ineffably lock'd in dateless bridal-bed?
  Are all, then, mad, or is it prophecy?
  ‘Sons now we are of God,’ as we have heard,
  ‘But what we shall be hath not yet appear'd.’
  O, Heart, remember thee,
  That Man is none,
  Save One.
  What if this Lady be thy Soul, and He
  Who claims to enjoy her sacred beauty be,
  Not thou, but God; and thy sick fire
  A female vanity,
  Such as a Bride, viewing her mirror'd charms,
  Feels when she sighs, ‘All these are for his arms!’
  A reflex heat
  Flash'd on thy cheek from His immense desire,
  Which waits to crown, beyond thy brain's conceit,
  Thy nameless, secret, hopeless longing sweet,
  Not by-and-by, but now,
  Unless deny Him thou!


VI
Legem Tuam Dilexi

  The ‘Infinite.’ Word horrible! at feud
  With life, and the braced mood
  Of power and joy and love;
  Forbidden, by wise heathen ev'n, to be
  Spoken of Deity,
  Whose Name, on popular altars, was ‘The Unknown,’
  Because, or ere It was reveal'd as One
  Confined in Three,
  The people fear'd that it might prove
  Infinity,
  The blazon which the devils desired to gain;
  And God, for their confusion, laugh'd consent;
  Yet did so far relent,
  That they might seek relief, and not in vain,
  In dashing of themselves against the shores of pain.
  Nor bides alone in hell
  The bond-disdaining spirit boiling to rebel.
  But for compulsion of strong grace,
  The pebble in the road
  Would straight explode,
  And fill the ghastly boundlessness of space.
  The furious power,
  To soft growth twice constrain'd in leaf and flower,
  Protests, and longs to flash its faint self far
  Beyond the dimmest star.
  The same
  Seditious flame,
  Beat backward with reduplicated might,
  Struggles alive within its stricter term,
  And is the worm. 
  And the just Man does on himself affirm
  God's limits, and is conscious of delight,
  Freedom and right;
  And so His Semblance is, Who, every hour,
  By day and night,
  Buildeth new bulwarks 'gainst the Infinite.
  For, ah, who can express
  How full of bonds and simpleness
  Is God,
  How narrow is He,
  And how the wide, waste field of possibility
  Is only trod
  Straight to His homestead in the human heart,
  And all His art
  Is as the babe's that wins his Mother to repeat
  Her little song so sweet!
  What is the chief news of the Night?
  Lo, iron and salt, heat, weight and light
  In every star that drifts on the great breeze!
  And these
  Mean Man,
  Darling of God, Whose thoughts but live and move
  Round him; Who woos his will
  To wedlock with His own, and does distil
  To that drop's span
  The atta of all rose-fields of all love!
  Therefore the soul select assumes the stress
  Of bonds unbid, which God's own style express
  Better than well,
  And aye hath, cloister'd, borne,
  To the Clown's scorn,
  The fetters of the threefold golden chain:
  Narrowing to nothing all his wordly gain;
  (Howbeit in vain;
  For to have nought
  Is to have all things without care or thought!) 
  Surrendering, abject, to his equal's rule,
  As though he were a fool,
  The free wings of the will;
  (More vainly still;
  For none knows rightly what 'tis to be free
  But only he
  Who, vow'd against all choice, and fill'd with awe
  Of the ofttimes dumb or clouded Oracle,
  Does wiser than to spell,
  In his own suit, the least word of the Law!)
  And, lastly, bartering life's dear bliss for pain;
  But evermore in vain;
  For joy (rejoice ye Few that tasted have!)
  Is Love's obedience
  Against the genial laws of natural sense,
  Whose wide, self-dissipating wave,
  Prison'd in artful dykes,
  Trembling returns and strikes
  Thence to its source again,
  In backward billows fleet,
  Crest crossing crest ecstatic as they greet,
  Thrilling each vein,
  Exploring every chasm and cove
  Of the full heart with floods of honied love,
  And every principal street
  And obscure alley and lane
  Of the intricate brain
  With brimming rivers of light and breezes sweet
  Of the primordial heat;
  Till, unto view of me and thee,
  Lost the intense life be,
  Or ludicrously display'd, by force
  Of distance; as a soaring eagle, or a horse
  On far-off hillside shewn,
  May seem a gust-driv'n rag or a dead stone.
  Nor by such bonds alone—

  But more I leave to say,
  Fitly revering the Wild Ass's bray,
  Also his hoof,
  Of which, go where you will, the marks remain
  Where the religious walls have hid the bright reproof.


VII
To The Body

  Creation's and Creator's crowning good;
  Wall of infinitude;
  Foundation of the sky,
  In Heaven forecast
  And long'd for from eternity,
  Though laid the last;
  Reverberating dome,
  Of music cunningly built home
  Against the void and indolent disgrace
  Of unresponsive space;
  Little, sequester'd pleasure-house
  For God and for His Spouse;
  Elaborately, yea, past conceiving, fair,
  Since, from the graced decorum of the hair,
  Ev'n to the tingling, sweet
  Soles of the simple, earth-confiding feet,
  And from the inmost heart
  Outwards unto the thin
  Silk curtains of the skin,
  Every least part
  Astonish'd hears
  And sweet replies to some like region of the spheres;
  Form'd for a dignity prophets but darkly name, 
  Lest shameless men cry ‘Shame!’
  So rich with wealth conceal'd
  That Heaven and Hell fight chiefly for this field;
  Clinging to everything that pleases thee
  With indefectible fidelity;
  Alas, so true
  To all thy friendships that no grace
  Thee from thy sin can wholly disembrace;
  Which thus 'bides with thee as the Jebusite,
  That, maugre all God's promises could do,
  The chosen People never conquer'd quite;
  Who therefore lived with them,
  And that by formal truce and as of right,
  In metropolitan Jerusalem.
  For which false fealty
  Thou needs must, for a season, lie
  In the grave's arms, foul and unshriven,
  Albeit, in Heaven,
  Thy crimson-throbbing Glow
  Into its old abode aye pants to go,
  And does with envy see
  Enoch, Elijah, and the Lady, she
  Who left the roses in her body's lieu.
  O, if the pleasures I have known in thee
  But my poor faith's poor first-fruits be,
  What quintessential, keen, ethereal bliss
  Then shall be his
  Who has thy birth-time's consecrating dew
  For death's sweet chrism retain'd,
  Quick, tender, virginal, and unprofaned!


VIII
‘Sing Us One Of The Songs Of Sion’

  How sing the Lord's Song in so strange a Land?
  A torrid waste of water-mocking sand;
  Oases of wild grapes;
  A dull, malodorous fog
  O'er a once Sacred River's wandering strand,
  Its ancient tillage all gone back to bog;
  A busy synod of blest cats and apes
  Exposing the poor trick of earth and star
  With worshipp'd snouts oracular;
  Prophets to whose blind stare
  The heavens the glory of God do not declare,
  Skill'd in such question nice
  As why one conjures toads who fails with lice,
  And hatching snakes from sticks in such a swarm
  As quite to surfeit Aaron's bigger worm;
  A nation which has got
  A lie in her right hand,
  And knows it not;
  With Pharaohs to her mind, each drifting as a log
  Which way the foul stream flows,
  More harden'd the more plagued with fly and frog!
  How should sad Exile sing in such a Land?
  How should ye understand?
  What could he win but jeers,
  Or howls, such as sweet music draws from dog,
  Who told of marriage-feasting to the man
  That nothing knows of food but bread of bran?
  Besides, if aught such ears
  Might e'er unclog,
  There lives but one, with tones for Sion meet. 
  Behoveful, zealous, beautiful, elect,
  Mild, firm, judicious, loving, bold, discreet,
  Without superfluousness, without defect,
  Few are his words, and find but scant respect,
  Nay, scorn from some, for God's good cause agog.
  Silence in such a Land is oftenest such men's speech.
  O, that I might his holy secret reach;
  O, might I catch his mantle when he goes;
  O, that I were so gentle and so sweet,
  So I might deal fair Sion's foolish foes
  Such blows!


IX
Deliciæ Sapientiæ De Amore

  Love, light for me
  Thy ruddiest blazing torch,
  That I, albeit a beggar by the Porch
  Of the glad Palace of Virginity,
  May gaze within, and sing the pomp I see;
  For, crown'd with roses all,
  'Tis there, O Love, they keep thy festival!
  But first warn off the beatific spot
  Those wretched who have not
  Even afar beheld the shining wall,
  And those who, once beholding, have forgot,
  And those, most vile, who dress
  The charnel spectre drear
  Of utterly dishallow'd nothingness
  In that refulgent fame,
  And cry, Lo, here!
  And name 
  The Lady whose smiles inflame
  The sphere.
  Bring, Love, anear,
  And bid be not afraid
  Young Lover true, and love-foreboding Maid,
  And wedded Spouse, if virginal of thought;
  For I will sing of nought
  Less sweet to hear
  Than seems
  A music in their half-remember'd dreams.

  The magnet calls the steel:
  Answers the iron to the magnet's breath;
  What do they feel
  But death!
  The clouds of summer kiss in flame and rain,
  And are not found again;
  But the heavens themselves eternal are with fire
  Of unapproach'd desire,
  By the aching heart of Love, which cannot rest,
  In blissfullest pathos so indeed possess'd.
  O, spousals high;
  O, doctrine blest,
  Unutterable in even the happiest sigh;
  This know ye all
  Who can recall
  With what a welling of indignant tears
  Love's simpleness first hears
  The meaning of his mortal covenant,
  And from what pride comes down
  To wear the crown
  Of which 'twas very heaven to feel the want.
  How envies he the ways
  Of yonder hopeless star,
  And so would laugh and yearn
  With trembling lids eterne,
  Ineffably content from infinitely far 
  Only to gaze
  On his bright Mistress's responding rays,
  That never know eclipse;
  And, once in his long year,
  With præternuptial ecstasy and fear,
  By the delicious law of that ellipse
  Wherein all citizens of ether move,
  With hastening pace to come
  Nearer, though never near,
  His Love
  And always inaccessible sweet Home;
  There on his path doubly to burn.
  Kiss'd by her doubled light
  That whispers of its source,
  The ardent secret ever clothed with Night,
  Then go forth in new force
  Towards a new return,
  Rejoicing as a Bridegroom on his course!
  This know ye all;
  Therefore gaze bold,
  That so in you be joyful hope increas'd,
  Thorough the Palace portals, and behold
  The dainty and unsating Marriage-Feast.
  O, hear
  Them singing clear
  ‘Cor meum et caro mea’ round the ‘I am,’
  The Husband of the Heavens, and the Lamb
  Whom they for ever follow there that kept,
  Or losing, never slept
  Till they reconquer'd had in mortal fight
  The standard white.
  O, hear
  From the harps they bore from Earth, five-strung, what music springs,
  While the glad Spirits chide
  The wondering strings! 
  And how the shining sacrificial Choirs,
  Offering for aye their dearest hearts' desires,
  Which to their hearts come back beatified,
  Hymn, the bright aisles along,
  The nuptial song,
  Song ever new to us and them, that saith,
  ‘Hail Virgin in Virginity a Spouse!’
  Heard first below
  Within the little house
  At Nazareth;
  Heard yet in many a cell where brides of Christ
  Lie hid, emparadised,
  And where, although
  By the hour 'tis night,
  There's light,
  The Day still lingering in the lap of snow.
  Gaze and be not afraid
  Ye wedded few that honour, in sweet thought
  And glittering will,
  So freshly from the garden gather still
  The lily sacrificed;
  For ye, though self-suspected here for nought,
  Are highly styled
  With the thousands twelve times twelve of undefiled.
  Gaze and be not afraid
  Young Lover true and love-foreboding Maid.
  The full noon of deific vision bright
  Abashes nor abates
  No spark minute of Nature's keen delight.
  'Tis there your Hymen waits!
  There where in courts afar, all unconfused, they crowd,
  As fumes the starlight soft
  In gulfs of cloud,
  And each to the other, well-content,
  Sighs oft,
  ‘'Twas this we meant!’

  Gaze without blame
  Ye in whom living Love yet blushes for dead shame.
  There of pure Virgins none
  Is fairer seen,
  Save One,
  Than Mary Magdalene.
  Gaze without doubt or fear
  Ye to whom generous Love, by any name, is dear.
  Love makes the life to be
  A fount perpetual of virginity;
  For, lo, the Elect
  Of generous Love, how named soe'er, affect
  Nothing but God,
  Or mediate or direct,
  Nothing but God,
  The Husband of the Heavens:
  And who Him love, in potence great or small,
  Are, one and all,
  Heirs of the Palace glad,
  And inly clad
  With the bridal robes of ardour virginal.


X
The Cry At Midnight

  The Midge's wing beats to and fro
  A thousand times ere one can utter ‘O!’
  And Sirius' ball
  Does on his business run
  As many times immenser than the Sun.
  Why should things not be great as well as small,
  Or move like light as well as move at all? 
  St. Michael fills his place, I mine, and, if you please,
  We will respect each other's provinces,
  I marv'lling not at him, nor he at me.
  But, if thou must go gaping, let it be
  That One who could make Michael should make thee.
  O, foolish Man, meeting things low and high
  By self, that accidental quantity!
  With this conceit, Philosophy stalks frail
  As peacock staggering underneath his tail.
  Who judge of Plays from their own penny gaff,
  At God's great theatre will hiss and laugh;
  For what's a Saint to them
  Brought up in modern virtues brummagem?
  With garments grimed and lamps gone all to snuff,
  And counting others for like Virgins queer,
  To list those others cry, ‘Our Bridegroom's near!’
  Meaning their God, is surely quite enough
  To make them rend their clothes and bawl out, ‘Blasphemy!’


XI
Auras Of Delight

  Beautiful habitations, auras of delight!
  Who shall bewail the crags and bitter foam
  And angry sword-blades flashing left and right
  Which guard your glittering height,
  That none thereby may come!
  The vision which we have
  Revere we so,
  That yet we crave
  To foot those fields of ne'er-profaned snow? 

  I, with heart-quake,
  Dreaming or thinking of that realm of Love,
  See, oft, a dove
  Tangled in frightful nuptials with a snake;
  The tortured knot,
  Now, like a kite scant-weighted, flung bewitch'd
  Sunwards, now pitch'd,
  Tail over head, down, but with no taste got
  Eternally
  Of rest in either ruin or the sky,
  But bird and vermin each incessant strives,
  With vain dilaceration of both lives,
  'Gainst its abhorred bond insoluble,
  Coveting fiercer any separate hell
  Than the most weary Soul in Purgatory
  On God's sweet breast to lie.
  And, in this sign, I con
  The guerdon of that golden Cup, fulfill'd
  With fornications foul of Babylon,
  The heart where good is well-perceiv'd and known,
  Yet is not will'd;
  And Him I thank, who can make live again,
  The dust, but not the joy we once profane,
  That I, of ye,
  Beautiful habitations, auras of delight,
  In childish years and since had sometime sense and sight,
  But that ye vanish'd quite,
  Even from memory,
  Ere I could get my breath, and whisper ‘See!’

  But did for me
  They altogether die,
  Those trackless glories glimps'd in upper sky?
  Were they of chance, or vain,
  Nor good at all again
  For curb of heart or fret?
  Nay, though, by grace, 
  Lest, haply, I refuse God to His face,
  Their likeness wholly I forget,
  Ah, yet,
  Often in straits which else for me were ill,
  I mind me still
  I did respire the lonely auras sweet,
  I did the blest abodes behold, and, at the mountains' feet,
  Bathed in the holy Stream by Hermon's thymy hill.


XII
Eros And Psyche

  ‘Love, I heard tell of thee so oft!
  Yea, thrice my face and bosom flush'd with heat
  Of sudden wings,
  Through delicatest ether feathering soft
  Their solitary beat.
  Long did I muse what service or what charms
  Might lure thee, blissful Bird, into mine arms;
  And nets I made,
  But not of the fit strings.
  At last, of endless failure much afraid,
  To-night I would do nothing but lie still,
  And promise, wert thou once within my window-sill,
  Thine unknown will.
  In nets' default,
  Finch-like me seem'd thou might'st be ta'en with salt;
  And here—and how thou mad'st me start!—
  Thou art.’

  ‘O Mortal, by Immortals' cunning led,
  Who shew'd you how for Gods to bait your bed?
  Ah, Psyche, guess'd you nought 
  I craved but to be caught?
  Wanton, it was not you,
  But I that did so passionately sue;
  And for your beauty, not unscath'd, I fought
  With Hades, ere I own'd in you a thought!’

  ‘O, heavenly Lover true,
  Is this thy mouth upon my forehead press'd?
  Are these thine arms about my bosom link'd?
  Are these thy hands that tremble near my heart,
  Where join two hearts, for juncture more distinct?
  By thee and by my maiden zone caress'd,
  What dim, waste tracts of life shine sudden, like moonbeams
  On windless ocean shaken by sweet dreams!
  Ah, stir not to depart!
  Kiss me again, thy Wife and Virgin too!
  O Love, that, like a rose,
  Deckest my breast with beautiful repose,
  Kiss me again, and clasp me round the heart,
  Till fill'd with thee am I
  As the cocoon is with the butterfly!
  —Yet how 'scape quite
  Nor pluck pure pleasure with profane delight?
  How know I that my Love is what he seems!
  Give me a sign
  That, in the pitchy night,
  Comes to my pillow an immortal Spouse,
  And not a fiend, hiding with happy boughs
  Of palm and asphodel
  The pits of hell!’

  ‘'Tis this:
  I make the childless to keep joyful house.
  Below your bosom, mortal Mistress mine,
  Immortal by my kiss,
  Leaps what sweet pain?
  A fiend, my Psyche, comes with barren bliss,
  A God's embraces never are in vain.’ 

  ‘I own
  A life not mine within my golden zone.
  Yea, how
  'Tis easier grown
  Thine arduous rule to don
  Than for a Bride to put her bride-dress on!
  Nay, rather, now
  'Tis no more service to be borne serene,
  Whither thou wilt, thy stormful wings between.
  But, Oh,
  Can I endure
  This flame, yet live for what thou lov'st me, pure?’

  ‘Himself the God let blame
  If all about him bursts to quenchless flame!
  My Darling, know
  Your spotless fairness is not match'd in snow,
  But in the integrity of fire.
  Whate'er you are, Sweet, I require.
  A sorry God were he
  That fewer claim'd than all Love's mighty kingdoms three!’

  ‘Much marvel I
  That thou, the greatest of the Powers above,
  Me visitest with such exceeding love.
  What thing is this?
  A God to make me, nothing, needful to his bliss,
  And humbly wait my favour for a kiss!
  Yea, all thy legions of liege deity
  To look into this mystery desire.’

  ‘Content you, Dear, with them, this marvel to admire,
  And lay your foolish little head to rest
  On my familiar breast.
  Should a high King, leaving his arduous throne,
  Sue from her hedge a little Gipsy Maid,
  For far-off royal ancestry bewray'd
  By some wild beauties, to herself unknown;
  Some voidness of herself in her strange ways 
  Which to his bounteous fulness promised dainty praise;
  Some power, by all but him unguess'd,
  Of growing king-like were she king-caress'd;
  And should he bid his dames of loftiest grade
  Put off her rags and make her lowlihead
  Pure for the soft midst of his perfumed bed,
  So to forget, kind-couch'd with her alone,
  His empire, in her winsome joyance free;
  What would he do, if such a fool were she
  As at his grandeur there to gape and quake,
  Mindless of love's supreme equality,
  And of his heart, so simple for her sake
  That all he ask'd, for making her all-blest,
  Was that her nothingness alway
  Should yield such easy fee as frank to play
  Or sleep delighted in her Monarch's breast,
  Feeling her nothingness her giddiest boast,
  As being the charm for which he loved her most?
  What if this reed,
  Through which the King thought love-tunes to have blown,
  Should shriek, "Indeed,
  I am too base to trill so blest a tone!
  Would not the King allege
  Defaulted consummation of the marriage-pledge,
  And hie the Gipsy to her native hedge?’

  ‘O, too much joy; O, touch of airy fire;
  O, turmoil of content; O, unperturb'd desire,
  From founts of spirit impell'd through brain and blood!
  I'll not call ill what, since 'tis thine, is good,
  Nor best what is but second best or third;
  Still my heart fails,
  And, unaccustom'd and astonish'd, quails,
  And blames me, though I think I have not err'd.
  'Tis hard for fly, in such a honied flood,
  To use her eyes, far more her wings or feet.
  Bitter be thy behests! 
  Lie like a bunch of myrrh between my aching breasts.
  Some greatly pangful penance would I brave.
  Sharpness me save
  From being slain by sweet!’

  ‘In your dell'd bosom's double peace
  Let all care cease!
  Custom's joy-killing breath
  Shall bid you sigh full soon for custom-killing death.
  So clasp your childish arms again around my heart:
  'Tis but in such captivity
  The unbounded Heav'ns know what they be!
  And lie still there,
  Till the dawn, threat'ning to declare
  My beauty, which you cannot bear,
  Bid me depart.
  Suffer your soul's delight,
  Lest that which is to come wither you quite:
  For these are only your espousals; yes,
  More intimate and fruitfuller far
  Than aptest mortal nuptials are;
  But nuptials wait you such as now you dare not guess.’

  ‘In all I thee obey! And thus I know
  That all is well:
  Should'st thou me tell
  Out of thy warm caress to go
  And roll my body in the biting snow,
  My very body's joy were but increased;
  More pleasant 'tis to please thee than be pleased.
  Thy love has conquer'd me; do with me as thou wilt,’
  And use me as a chattel that is thine!
  Kiss, tread me under foot, cherish or beat,
  Sheathe in my heart sharp pain up to the hilt,
  Invent what else were most perversely sweet;
  Nay, let the Fiend drag me through dens of guilt;
  Let Earth, Heav'n, Hell
  'Gainst my content combine; 
  What could make nought the touch that made thee mine!
  Ah, say not yet, farewell!’

  ‘Nay, that's the Blackbird's note, the sweet Night's knell.
  Behold, Beloved, the penance you would brave!’

  ‘Curs'd when it comes, the bitter thing we crave!
  Thou leav'st me now, like to the moon at dawn,
  A little, vacuous world alone in air.
  I will not care!
  When dark comes back my dark shall be withdrawn!
  Go free;
  For 'tis with me
  As when the cup the Child scoops in the sand
  Fills, and is part and parcel of the Sea.
  I'll say it to myself and understand.
  Farewell!
  Go as thou wilt and come! Lover divine,
  Thou still art jealously and wholly mine;
  And this thy kiss
  A separate secret by none other scann'd;
  Though well I wis
  The whole of life is womanhood to thee,
  Momently wedded with enormous bliss.
  Rainbow, that hast my heaven sudden spann d,
  I am the apple of thy glorious gaze,
  Each else life cent'ring to a different blaze;
  And, nothing though I be
  But now a no more void capacity for thee,
  'Tis all to know there's not in air or land
  Another for thy Darling quite like me!
  Mine arms no more thy restless plumes compel!
  Farewell!
  Whilst thou art gone, I'll search the weary meads
  To deck my bed with lilies of fair deeds!
  And, if thou choose to come this eventide,
  A touch, my Love, will set my casement wide.
  Farewell, farewell! 
  Be my dull days
  Music, at least, with thy remember'd praise!’

  ‘Bitter, sweet, few and veil'd let be
  Your songs of me.
  Preserving bitter, very sweet,
  Few, that so all may be discreet,
  And veil'd, that, seeing, none may see.’


XIII
De Natura Decorum

  ‘Good-morrow, Psyche! What's thine errand now?
  What awful pleasure do thine eyes bespeak,
  What shame is in thy childish cheek,
  What terror on thy brow?
  Is this my Psyche, once so pale and meek?
  Thy body's sudden beauty my sight old
  Stings, like an agile bead of boiling gold,
  And all thy life looks troubled like a tree's
  Whose boughs wave many ways in one great breeze.’

  ‘O Pythoness, to strangest story hark:
  A dreadful God was with me in the dark—’

  ‘How many a Maid—
  Has never told me that! And thou'rt afraid—’

  ‘He'll come no more,
  Or come but twice,
  Or thrice,
  Or only thrice ten thousand times thrice o'er!’

  ‘For want of wishing thou mean'st not to miss.
  We know the Lover, Psyche, by the kiss!’

  ‘If speech of honey could impart the sweet,
  The world were all in tears and at his feet!
  But not to tell of that in tears come I, but this: 
  I'm foolish, weak, and small,
  And fear to fall.
  If long he stay away, O frightful dream, wise Mother,
  What keeps me but that I, gone crazy, kiss some other!’

  ‘The fault were his! But know,
  Sweet little Daughter sad,
  He did but feign to go;
  And never more
  Shall cross thy window-sill,
  Or pass beyond thy door,
  Save by thy will.
  He's present now in some dim place apart
  Of the ivory house wherewith thou mad'st him glad.
  Nay, this I whisper thee,
  Since none is near,
  Or, if one were, since only thou could'st hear,
  That happy thing which makes thee flush and start,
  Like infant lips in contact with thy heart,
  Is He!’

  ‘Yea, this I know, but never can believe!
  O, hateful light! when shall mine own eyes mark
  My beauty, which this victory did achieve?’
  ‘When thou, like Gods and owls, canst see by dark.’
  ‘In vain I cleanse me from all blurring error—’
  ‘'Tis the last rub that polishes the mirror.’
  ‘It takes fresh blurr each breath which I respire.’
  ‘Poor Child, don't cry so! Hold it to the fire.’
  ‘Ah, nought these dints can e'er do out again!’
  ‘Love is not love which does not sweeter live
  For having something dreadful to forgive.’

  ‘Sadness and change and pain
  Shall me for ever stain;
  For, though my blissful fate
  Be for a billion years,
  How shall I stop my tears
  That life was once so low and Love arrived so late!’ 

  ‘Sadness is beauty's savour, and pain is
  The exceedingly keen edge of bliss;
  Nor, without swift mutation, would the heav'ns be aught.’

  ‘How to behave with him I'd fain be taught.
  A maid, meseems, within a God's embrace,
  Should bear her like a Goddess, or, at least, a Grace.’

  ‘When Gods, to Man or Maid below,
  As men or birds appear,
  A kind 'tis of incognito,
  And that, not them, is what they choose we should revere.’

  ‘Advise me what oblation vast to bring,
  Some least part of my worship to confess!’

  ‘A woman is a little thing,
  And in things little lies her comeliness.’

  ‘Must he not soon with mortal tire to toy?’

  ‘The bashful meeting of strange Depth and Height
  Breeds the forever new-born babe, Delight;
  And, as thy God is more than mortal boy,
  So bashful more the meeting, and so more the joy.’

  ‘He loves me dearly, but he shakes a whip
  Of deathless scorpions at my slightest slip.
  Mother, last night he call'd me "Gipsy," so
  Roughly it smote me like a blow!
  Yet, oh,
  I love him, as none surely e'er could love
  Our People's pompous but good-natured Jove.
  He used to send me stately overture;
  But marriage-bonds, till now, I never could endure!’

  ‘How should great Jove himself do else than miss
  To win the woman he forgets to kiss;
  Or, won, to keep his favour in her eyes,
  If he's too soft or sleepy to chastise!
  By Eros, her twain claims are ne'er forgot;
  Her wedlock's marr'd when either's miss'd:
  Or when she's kiss'd, but beaten not, 
  Or duly beaten, but not kiss'd.
  Ah, Child, the sweet
  Content, when we're both kiss'd and beat!
  —But whence these wounds? What Demon thee enjoins
  To scourge thy shoulders white
  And tender loins!’

  ‘'Tis nothing, Mother. Happiness at play,
  And speech of tenderness no speech can say!’

  ‘How learn'd thou art!
  Twelve honeymoons profane had taught thy docile heart
  Less than thine Eros, in a summer night!’

  ‘Nay, do not jeer, but help my puzzled plight:
  Because he loves so marvellously me,
  And I with all he loves in love must be,
  How to except myself I do not see.
  Yea, now that other vanities are vain,
  I'm vain, since him it likes, of being withal
  Weak, foolish, small!’

  ‘How can a Maid forget her ornaments!
  The Powers, that hopeless doom the proud to die,
  Unask'd smile pardon upon vanity,
  Nay, praise it, when themselves are praised thereby.’

  ‘Ill-match'd I am for a God's blandishments!
  So great, so wise—’

  ‘Gods, in the abstract, are, no doubt, most wise;
  But, in the concrete, Girl, they're mysteries!
  He's not with thee,
  At all less wise nor more
  Than human Lover is with her he deigns to adore.
  He finds a fair capacity,
  And fills it with himself, and glad would die
  For that sole She.’

  ‘Know'st thou some potion me awake to keep,
  Lest, to the grief of that ne'er-slumbering Bliss,
  Disgraced I sleep,
  Wearied in soul by his bewildering kiss?’ 

  ‘The Immortals, Psyche, moulded men from sods
  That Maids from them might learn the ways of Gods.
  Think, would a wakeful Youth his hard fate weep,
  Lock'd to the tired breast of a Bride asleep?’

  ‘Ah, me, I do not dream,
  Yet all this does some heathen fable seem!’

  ‘O'ermuch thou mind'st the throne he leaves above!
  Between unequals sweet is equal love.’

  ‘Nay, Mother, in his breast, when darkness blinds,
  I cannot for my life but talk and laugh
  With the large impudence of little minds!’

  ‘Respectful to the Gods and meek,
  According to one's lights, I grant
  'Twere well to be;
  But, on my word,
  Child, any one, to hear you speak,
  Would take you for a Protestant,
  (Such fish I do foresee
  When the charm'd fume comes strong on me,)
  Or powder'd lackey, by some great man's board,
  A deal more solemn than his Lord!
  Know'st thou not, Girl, thine Eros loves to laugh?
  And shall a God do anything by half?
  He foreknew and predestinated all
  The Great must pay for kissing things so small,
  And ever loves his little Maid the more
  The more she makes him laugh.’

  ‘O, Mother, are you sure?’

  ‘Gaze steady where yon starless deep the gaze revolts,
  And say,
  Seest thou a Titan forging thunderbolts,
  Or three fair butterflies at lovesome play?
  And this I'll add, for succour of thy soul:
  Lines parallel meet sooner than some think;
  The least part oft is greater than the whole;
  And, when you're thirsty, that's the time to drink.’ 

  ‘Thy sacred words I ponder and revere,
  And thank thee heartily that some are clear.’

  ‘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 God, crav'st littleness and earth!
  Thou art immortal, thou canst ever toy,
  Nor savour less
  The sweets of thine eternal childishness,
  And hold thy godhead 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 God 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 coarse of customary life's
  Exceeding injucundity.
  Leave me awhile, that I may shew thee clear
  How Goddess-like thy love has lifted me;
  How, seeming lone upon the gaunt, lone shore,
  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 hell,
  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 Hell
  Can mock till which is which 'tis hard to tell.
  I love thee, God; yea, and 'twas such assault
  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 God, 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 sanctity
  And medicine of sin,
  Angel, whom even they that will pursue
  Pleasure with hell'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 assured 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 God's smile.
  Herein, O Pain, abides the praise
  For which my song I raise;
  But even the bastard 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
Prophet’s 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 hoarse 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 God'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 petition 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 God'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 God did not abhor,
  No more
  That 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 sex,
  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 God 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 God'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 God'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!

  Creature of God rather the sole than first;
  Knot of the cord
  Which binds together all and all unto their Lord;
  Suppliant Omnipotence; best to the worst;
  Our only Saviour from an abstract Christ 
  And Egypt's brick-kilns, where the lost crowd plods,
  Blaspheming its false Gods;
  Peace-beaming Star, by which shall come enticed,
  Though nought thereof as yet they weet,
  Unto thy Babe's small feet,
  The Mighty, wand'ring disemparadised,
  Like Lucifer, because to thee
  They will not bend the knee;
  Ora pro me!

  Desire of Him whom all things else desire!
  Bush aye with Him as He with thee on fire!
  Neither in His great Deed nor on His throne—
  O, folly of Love, the intense
  Last culmination of Intelligence,—
  Him seem'd it good that God should be alone!
  Basking in unborn laughter of thy lips,
  Ere the world was, with absolute delight
  His Infinite reposed in thy Finite;
  Well-match'd: He, universal being's Spring,
  And thou, in whom art gather'd up the ends of everything!
  Ora pro me!

  In season due, on His sweet-fearful bed,
  Rock'd by an earthquake, curtain'd with eclipse,
  Thou shar'd'st the rapture of the sharp spear's head,
  And thy bliss pale
  Wrought for our boon what Eve's did for our bale;
  Thereafter, holding a little thy soft breath,
  Thou underwent'st the ceremony of death;
  And, now, Queen-Wife,
  Sitt'st at the right hand of the Lord of Life,
  Who, of all bounty, craves for only fee
  The glory of hearing it besought with smiles by thee!
  Ora pro me!

  Mother, who lead'st me still by unknown ways,
  Giving the gifts I know not how to ask,
  Bless thou the work 
  Which, done, redeems my many wasted days,
  Makes white the murk,
  And crowns the few which thou wilt not dispraise,
  When clear my Songs of Lady's graces rang,
  And little guess'd I 'twas of thee I sang!

  Vainly, till now, my pray'rs would thee compel
  To fire my verse with thy shy fame, too long
  Shunning world-blazon of well-ponder'd song;
  But doubtful smiles, at last, 'mid thy denials lurk;
  From which I spell,
  ‘Humility and greatness grace the task
  Which he who does it deems impossible!’


XVIII
Dead Language

  ‘Thou dost not wisely, Bard.
  A double voice is Truth's, to use at will:
  One, with the abysmal scorn of good for ill,
  Smiting the brutish ear with doctrine hard,
  Wherein She strives to look as near a lie
  As can comport with her divinity;
  The other tender-soft as seem
  The embraces of a dead Love in a dream.
  These thoughts, which you have sung
  In the vernacular,
  Should be, as others of the Church's are,
  Decently cloak'd in the Imperial Tongue.
  Have you no fears
  Lest, as Lord Jesus bids your sort to dread,
  Yon acorn-munchers rend you limb from limb,
  You, with Heaven's liberty affronting theirs!’
  So spoke my monitor; but I to him,
  ‘Alas, and is not mine a language dead?’

© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore