Poems of Passion Part 6

A WALTZ-QUADRILLE.

The band was playing a waltz-quadrille, I felt as light as a wind-blown feather, As we floated away, at the caller's will, Through the intricate, mazy dance together.

Like mimic armies our lines were meeting, Slowly advancing, and then retreating, All decked in their bright array; And back and forth to the music's rhyme We moved together, and all the time I knew you were going away.

The fold of your strong arm sent a thrill From heart to brain as we gently glided Like leaves on the wave of that waltz-quadrille; Parted, met, and again divided-- You drifting one way, and I another, Then suddenly turning and facing each other, Then off in the blithe cha.s.se, Then airily back to our places swaying, While every beat of the music seemed saying That you were going away.

I said to my heart, "Let us take our fill Of mirth and music and love and laughter; For it all must end with this waltz-quadrille, And life will be never the same life after.

Oh, that the caller might go on calling, Oh, that the music might go on falling Like a shower of silver spray, While we whirled on to the vast Forever, Where no hearts break, and no ties sever, And no one goes away."

A clamor, a crash, and the band was still; 'Twas the end of the dream, and the end of the measure: The last low notes of that waltz-quadrille Seemed like a dirge o'er the death of Pleasure.

You said good-night, and the spell was over-- Too warm for a friend, and too cold for a lover-- There was nothing else to say; But the lights looked dim, and the dancers weary, And the music was sad, and the hall was dreary, After you went away.

BEPPO.

Why art thou sad, my Beppo? But last eve, Here at my feet, thy dear head on my breast, I heard thee say thy heart would no more grieve Or feel the olden ennui and unrest.

What troubles thee? Am I not all thine own?-- I, so long sought, so sighed for and so dear?

And do I not live but for thee alone?

"_Thou hast seen Lippo, whom I loved last year_!"

Well, what of that? Last year is naught to me-- 'Tis swallowed in the ocean of the past.

Art thou not glad 'twas Lippo, and not thee, Whose brief bright day in that great gulf was cast.

_Thy_ day is all before thee. Let no cloud, Here in the very morn of our delight, Drift up from distant foreign skies, to shroud Our sun of love whose radiance is so bright.

"Thou art not first?" Nay, and he who would be Defeats his own heart's dearest purpose then.

No truer truth was ever told to thee-- Who has loved most, he best can love again.

If Lippo (and not he alone) has taught The arts that please thee, wherefore art thou sad?

Since all my vast love-lore to thee is brought, Look up and smile, my Beppo, and be glad.

TIRED.

I am tired to-night, and something, The wind maybe, or the rain, Or the cry of a bird in the copse outside, Has brought back the past and its pain.

And I feel, as I sit here thinking, That the hand of a dead old June Has reached out hold of my heart's loose strings, And is drawing them up in tune.

I am tired to-night, and I miss you, And long for you, love, through tears; And it seems but to-day that I saw you go-- You, who have been gone for years.

And I seem to be newly lonely-- I, who am so much alone; And the strings of my heart are well in tune, But they have not the same old tone.

I am tired; and that old sorrow Sweeps down the bed of my soul, As a turbulent river might sudden'y break way from a dam's control.

It beareth a wreck on its bosom, A wreck with a snow-white sail; And the hand on my heart strings thrums away, But they only respond with a wail.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE BURDEN OF DEAR HUMAN TIES"]

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THE SPEECH OF SILENCE.

The solemn Sea of Silence lies between us; I know thou livest, and them lovest me, And yet I wish some white s.h.i.+p would come sailing Across the ocean, beating word from thee.

The dead calm awes me with its awful stillness.

No anxious doubts or fears disturb my breast; I only ask some little wave of language, To stir this vast infinitude of rest.

I am oppressed with this great sense of loving; So much I give, so much receive from thee; Like subtle incense, rising from a censer, So floats the fragrance of thy love round me.

All speech is poor, and written words unmeaning; Yet such I ask, blown hither by some wind, To give relief to this too perfect knowledge, The Silence so impresses on my mind.

How poor the love that needeth word or message, To banish doubt or nourish tenderness!

I ask them but to temper love's convictions The Silence all too fully doth express.

Too deep the language which the spirit utters; Too vast the knowledge which my soul hath stirred.

Send some white s.h.i.+p across the Sea of Silence, And interrupt its utterance with a word.

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CONVERSION.

I have lived this life as the skeptic lives it; I have said the sweetness was less than the gall; Praising, nor cursing, the Hand that gives it, I have drifted aimlessly through it all.

I have scoffed at the tale of a so-called heaven; I have laughed at the thought of a Supreme Friend; I have said that it only to man was given To live, to endure; and to die was the end.

But I know that a good G.o.d reigneth, Generous-hearted and kind and true; Since unto a worm like me he deigneth To send so royal a gift as you.

Bright as a star you gleam on my bosom, Sweet as a rose that the wild bee sips; And I know, my own, my beautiful blossom, That none but a G.o.d could mould such lips.

And I believe, in the fullest measure That ever a strong man's heart could hold, In all the tales of heavenly pleasure By poets sung or by prophets told; For in the joy of your shy, sweet kisses, Your pulsing touch and your languid sigh I am filled and thrilled with better blisses Than ever were claimed for souls on high.

And now I have faith in all the stories Told of the beauties of unseen lands; Of royal splendors and marvellous glories Of the golden city not made with hands For the silken beauty of falling tresses, Of lips all dewy and cheeks aglow, With--what the mind in a half trance guesses Of the twin perfection of drifts of snow;

Of limbs like marble, of thigh and shoulder Carved like a statue in high relief-- These, as the eyes and the thoughts grow bolder, Leave no room for an unbelief.

So my lady, my queen most royal, My skepticism has pa.s.sed away; If you are true to me, true and loyal, I will believe till the Judgment-day.

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