The Unknown Eros Part 6

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 praeternuptial 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 G.o.d, Or mediate or direct, Nothing but G.o.d, 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, meting things low and high By self, that accidental quant.i.ty!

With this conceit, Philosophy stalks frail As peac.o.c.k staggering underneath his tail.

Who judge of Plays from their own penny gaff, At G.o.d'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 G.o.d, 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 h.e.l.l Than the most weary Soul in Purgatory On G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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 G.o.ds 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 pa.s.sionately 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 s.h.i.+ne 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 coc.o.o.n is with the b.u.t.terfly!

--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 h.e.l.l!'

''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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

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.