The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell Part 9

XVII

Fair as an angel, who yet inly wore A wrinkled heart foreboding his near fall; 130 Who saw him alway wished to know him more, As if he were some fate's defiant thrall And nursed a dreaded secret at his core; Little he loved, but power the most of all, And that he seemed to scorn, as one who knew By what foul paths men choose to crawl thereto.

XVIII

He had been n.o.ble, but some great deceit Had turned his better instinct to a vice: He strove to think the world was all a cheat, That power and fame were cheap at any price, 140 That the sure way of being shortly great Was even to play life's game with loaded dice, Since he had tried the honest play and found That vice and virtue differed but in sound.

XIX

Yet Margaret's sight redeemed him for a s.p.a.ce From his own thraldom; man could never be A hypocrite when first such maiden grace Smiled in upon his heart; the agony Of wearing all day long a lying face Fell lightly from him, and, a moment free, 150 Erect with wakened faith his spirit stood And scorned the weakness of his demon-mood.

XX

Like a sweet wind-harp to him was her thought, Which would not let the common air come near, Till from its dim enchantment it had caught A musical tenderness that brimmed his ear With sweetness more ethereal than aught Save silver-dropping s.n.a.t.c.hes that whilere Rained down from some sad angel's faithful harp To cool her fallen lover's anguish sharp. 160

XXI

Deep in the forest was a little dell High overarched with the leafy sweep Of a broad oak, through whose gnarled roots there fell A slender rill that sung itself to sleep, Where its continuous toil had scooped a well To please the fairy folk; breathlessly deep The stillness was, save when the dreaming brook From its small urn a drizzly murmur shook.

XXII

The wooded hills sloped upward all around With gradual rise, and made an even rim, 170 So that it seemed a mighty casque unbound From some huge t.i.tan's brow to lighten him, Ages ago, and left upon the ground.

Where the slow soil had mossed it to the brim, Till after countless centuries it grew Into this dell, the haunt of noontide dew.

XXIII

Dim vistas, sprinkled o'er with sun-flecked green, Wound through the thickset trunks on every side, And, toward the west, in fancy might be seen A Gothic window in its blazing pride, 180 When the low sun, two arching elms between, Lit up the leaves beyond, which, autumn-dyed With lavish hues, would into splendor start, Shaming the labored panes of richest art.

XXIV

Here, leaning once against the old oak's trunk, Mordred, for such was the young Templar's name, Saw Margaret come; unseen, the falcon shrunk From the meek dove; sharp thrills of tingling flame Made him forget that he was vowed a monk, And all the outworks of his pride o'ercame: 190 Flooded he seemed with bright delicious pain, As if a star had burst within his brain.

XXV

Such power hath beauty and frank innocence: A flower bloomed forth, that suns.h.i.+ne glad to bless, Even from his love's long leafless stem; the sense Of exile from Hope's happy realm grew less, And thoughts of childish peace, he knew not whence, Thronged round his heart with many an old caress, Melting the frost there into pearly dew That mirrored back his nature's morning-blue. 200

XXVI

She turned and saw him, but she felt no dread, Her purity, like adamantine mail.

Did so encircle her; and yet her head She drooped, and made her golden hair her veil, Through which a glow of rosiest l.u.s.tre spread, Then faded, and anon she stood all pale, As snow o'er which a blush of northern light Suddenly reddens, and as soon grows white.

XXVII

She thought of Tristrem and of Lancilot, Of all her dreams, and of kind fairies' might, 210 And how that dell was deemed a haunted spot, Until there grew a mist before her sight.

And where the present was she half forgot, Borne backward through the realms of old delight,-- Then, starting up awake, she would have gone, Yet almost wished it might not be alone.

XXVIII

How they went home together through the wood, And how all life seemed focussed into one Thought-dazzling spot that set ablaze the blood, What need to tell? Fit language there is none 220 For the heart's deepest things. Who ever wooed As in his boyish hope he would have done?

For, when the soul is fullest, the hushed tongue Voicelessly trembles like a lute unstrung.

XXIX

But all things carry the heart's messages And know it not, nor doth the heart well know, But Nature hath her will; even as the bees, Blithe go-betweens, fly singing to and fro With the fruit-quickening pollen;--hard if these Found not some all unthought-of way to show 230 Their secret each to each; and so they did, And one heart's flower-dust into the other slid.

x.x.x

Young hearts are free; the selfish world it is That turns them miserly and cold as stone, And makes them clutch their fingers on the bliss Which but in giving truly is their own;-- She had no dreams of barter, asked not his, But gave hers freely as she would have thrown A rose to him, or as that rose gives forth Its generous fragrance, thoughtless of its worth. 240

x.x.xI

Her summer nature felt a need to bless, And a like longing to be blest again; So, from her sky-like spirit, gentleness Dropt ever like a sunlit fall of rain, And his beneath drank in the bright caress As thirstily as would a parched plain, That long hath watched the showers of sloping gray For ever, ever, falling far away.

x.x.xII

How should she dream of ill? the heart filled quite With suns.h.i.+ne, like the shepherd's-clock at noon, 250 Closes its leaves around its warm delight; Whate'er in life is harsh or out of tune Is all shut out, no boding shade of blight Can pierce the opiate ether of its swoon: Love is but blind as thoughtful justice is, But naught can be so wanton-blind as bliss.

x.x.xIII

All beauty and all life he was to her; She questioned not his love, she only knew That she loved him, and not a pulse could stir In her whole frame but quivered through and through 260 With this glad thought, and was a minister To do him fealty and service true, Like golden ripples hasting to the land To wreck their freight of suns.h.i.+ne on the strand.

x.x.xIV

O dewy dawn of love! that are Hung high, like the cliff-swallow's perilous nest, Most like to fall when fullest, and that jar With every heavier billow! O unrest Than balmiest deeps of quiet sweeter far!

How did ye triumph now in Margaret's breast, 270 Making it readier to shrink and start Than quivering gold of the pond-lily's heart!

x.x.xV

Here let us pause: oh, would the soul might ever Achieve its immortality in youth, When nothing yet hath damped its high endeavor After the starry energy of truth!