Ionica Part 8

Perfection tires; the new in old, The mended wrecks that need her skill, Amuse her. If the truth be told, She loves the triumph of her will.

With this, she dares herself persuade, She'll be for many a month content, Quite sure no d.u.c.h.ess ever played Upon a sweeter instrument.

And thus in sooth she can beguile Girlhood's romantic hours: but soon She yields to taste and mode and style, A siren of the gay saloon;

And wonders how she once could like Those drooping wires, those failing notes, And leaves her toy for bats to strike Amongst the cobwebs and the motes.

But enter in, thou freezing wind, And snap the harp-strings one by one; It was a maiden blithe and kind: They felt her touch; their task is done.

AMAVI

Ask, mournful Muse, by one alone inspired: What change? am I less fond, or thou less fair?

Or is it, that thy mounting soul is tired Of duteous homage and religious care?

So many court thee that my reverent gaze Vexes that wilful and capricious eye; Such fine rare flatteries flow to thee, that praise, From one whose thoughts thou know'st, seems poor and dry.

So must it be. Thus monarchs blandly greet Strange heralds offering tribute, and forget The va.s.sals ranked behind the golden seat, Whose annual gift is counted as a debt.

Since sure of me thy liegeman once in thrall Thou need'st not waste on me those gracious looks.

Stirred by the newborn wish to conquer all, Leave thy first subject to his rhymes and books.

Ah! those impetuous claims that drew me forth From my cold shadows to thy dazzling day, Those spells that lured me to the stately North, Those pleas against my scruples, where are they?

Oh, glorious bondage in a dreamful bower!

Oh, freedom thrice abhorred, unblest release!

Why, why hath cruel circ.u.mstance the power To make such wors.h.i.+p, such obedience cease?

Surely I served thee, as the wrinkled elm Yieldeth his nature to the jocund vine, Strength unto beauty: may the flood o'erwhelm Root, trunk, and branch, if they have not been thine.

If thine no more, if lightly left behind, To guard the dancing cl.u.s.ters thought unmeet, It is because with gilded trellis twined Thy liberal growth demands untempered heat.

Yet, while they spread more freely to the sun, Those tendrils; while they wanton in the breeze Gathering all heaven's bounties, henceforth one Abides more honoured than the neighbouring trees.

Ah dear, there's something left of that great gift; And humbly marvelling at thy former choice A head once crowned with love I dare uplift, And, for that once I pleased thee, still rejoice.

NOTES OF AN INTERVIEW

It is but little that remaineth Of the kindness that you gave me, And that little precious remnant you withhold.

Go free; I know that time constraineth, Wilful blindness could not save me: Yet you say I caused the change that I foretold.

At every sweet unasked relenting, Though you'd tried me with caprice, Did my welcome, did my gladness ever fail?

To-day not loud is my lamenting: Do not chide me; it shall cease: Could I think of vanished love without a wail?

Elsewhere, you lightly say, are blooming All the graces I desire: Thus you goad me to the treason of content: If ever, when your brow is glooming, Softer faces I admire, Then your lightnings make me tremble and repent.

Grant this: whatever else beguileth Restless dreaming, drowsy toil, As a plaything, as a windfall, let me hail it.

Believe: the brightest one that smileth To your beaming is a foil, To the splendour breaking from you, though you veil it.

PREPARATION

Too weak am I to pray, as some have prayed, That love might hurry straightway out of mind, And leave an ever-vacant waste behind.

I thank thee rather, that through every grade Of less and less affection we decline, As month by month thy strong importunate fate Thrusts back my claims, and draws thee toward the great, And shares amongst a hundred what was mine.

Proud heroes ask to perish in high noon: I'd have refractions of the fallen day, And heavings when the gale hath flown away, And this slow disenchantment: since too soon, Too surely, comes the death of my poor heart, Be it inured to pain, in mercy, ere we part.

DETERIORA

One year I lived in high romance, A soul enn.o.bled by the grace Of one whose very frowns enhance The regal l.u.s.tre of the face, And in the magic of a smile I dwelt as in Calypso's isle.

One year, a narrow line of blue, With clouds both ways awhile held back: And dull the vault that line goes through, And frequent now the crossing rack; And who shall pierce the upper sky, And count the spheres? Not I, not I!

Sweet year, it was not hope you brought, Nor after toil and storm repose, But a fresh growth of tender thought, And all of love my spirit knows.

You let my lifetime pause, and bade The noontide dial cast no shade.

If fate and nature screen from me The sovran front I bowed before, And set the glorious creature free, Whom I would clasp, detain, adore; If I forego that strange delight, Must all be lost? Not quite, not quite.

Die, little Love, without complaint, Whom Honour standeth by to shrive: a.s.soiled from all selfish taint, Die, Love, whom Friends.h.i.+p will survive.

Nor heat nor folly gave thee birth; And briefness does but raise thy worth.

Let the grey hermit Friends.h.i.+p h.o.a.rd Whatever sainted Love bequeathed, And in some hidden scroll record The vows in pious moments breathed.

Vex not the lost with idle suit, Oh lonely heart, be mute, be mute.

PARTING

As when a traveller, forced to journey back, Takes coin by coin, and gravely counts them o'er, Grudging each payment, fearing lest he lack, Before he can regain the friendly sh.o.r.e; So reckoned I your sojourn, day by day, So grudged I every week that dropt away.

And as a prisoner, doomed and bound, upstarts From shattered dreams of wedlock and repose, At sudden rumblings of the market-carts, Which bring to town the strawberry and the rose, And wakes to meet sure death; so shuddered I, To hear you meditate your gay Good-bye.

But why not gay? For, if there's aught you lose, It is but drawing off a wrinkled glove To turn the keys of treasuries, free to choose Throughout the hundred-chambered house of love, This pathos draws from you, though true and kind, Only bland pity for the left-behind.

We part; you comfort one bereaved, unmanned; You calmly chide the silence and the grief; You touch me once with light and courteous hand, And with a sense of something like relief You turn away from what may seem to be Too hard a trial of your charity.