Lean fancy, groping for it, could not find
One likeness, laugh’d a little and found her two —
‘A warrior’s crest above the cloud of war’ —
‘A fiery phoenix rising from the smoke,
The pyre he burnt in.’—’Nay,’ she said, ‘the light
That glimmers on the marsh and on the grave.’
And spoke no more, but turn’d and pass’d away.
Miriam, I am not surely one of those
Caught by the flower that closes on the fly,
But after ten slow weeks her fix’d intent,
In aiming at an all but hopeless mark
To strike it, struck; I took, I left you there;
I came, I went, was happier day by day;
For Muriel nursed you with a mother’s care;
Till on that clear and heather-scented height
The rounder cheek had brighten’d into bloom.
She always came to meet me carrying you,
And all her talk was of the babe she loved;
So, following her old pastime of the brook,
She threw the fly for me; but oftener left
That angling to the mother. ‘Muriel’s health
Had weaken’d, nursing little Miriam. Strange!
She used to shun the wailing babe, and doats
On this of yours.’ But when the matron saw
That hinted love was only wasted bait,
Not risen to, she was bolder. ‘Ever since
You sent the fatal ring’ — I told her ‘sent
To Miriam,’ ‘Doubtless — ay, but ever since
In all the world my dear one sees but you —
In your sweet babe she finds but you — she makes
Her heart a mirror that reflects but you.’
And then the tear fell, the voice broke. Her heart!
I gazed into the mirror, as a man
Who sees his face in water, and a stone,
That glances from the bottom of the pool,
Strike upward thro’ the shadow; yet at last,
Gratitude — loneliness — desire to keep
So skilled a nurse about you always — nay!
Some half remorseful kind of pity too —
‘Well! well, you know I married Muriel Erne.
‘I take thee Muriel for my wedded wife’ —
I had forgotten it was your birthday, child —
When all at once with some electric thrill
A cold air pass’d between us, and the hands
Fell from each other, and were join’d again.
No second cloudless honeymoon was mine.
For by and by she sicken’d of the farce,
She dropt the gracious mask of mother-hood,
She came no more to meet me, carrying you,
Nor ever cared to set you on her knee,
Nor ever let you gambol in her sight,
Nor ever cheer’d you with a kindly smile,
Nor ever ceased to clamour for the ring;
Why had I sent the ring at first to her?
Why had I made her love me thro’ the ring,
And then had changed? so fickle are men — the best!
Not she — but now my love was hers again,
The ring by right, she said, was hers again.
At times too shrilling in her angrier moods,
‘That weak and watery nature love you? No!
“Io t’amo, Io t’amo”!’ flung herself
Against my heart, but often while her lips
Were warm upon my check, an icy breath,
As from the grating of a sepulchre,
Past over both. I told her of my vow,
No pliable idiot I to break my vow;
But still she made her outcry for the ring;
For one monotonous fancy madden’d her,
Till I myself was madden’d with her cry,
And even that ‘Io t’amo,’ those three sweet
Italian words, became a weariness.
My people too were scared with eerie sounds,
A footstep, a low throbbing in the walls,
A noise of falling weights that never fell,
Weird whispers, bells that rang without a hand,
Door-handles turn’d when none was at the door,
And bolted doors that open’d of themselves:
And one betwixt the dark and light had seen
Her, bending by the cradle of her babe.
Miriam. And I remember once that being waked
By noises in the house — and no one near —
I cried for nurse, and felt a gentle hand
Fall on my forehead, and a sudden face
Look’d in upon me like a gleam and pass’d,
And I was quieted, and slept again.
Or is it some half memory of a dream?
Father. Your fifth September birth day.
Miriam. And the face,
The hand, — my Mother.
Father. Miriam, on that day
Two lovers parted by no scurrilous tale —
Mere want of gold — and still for twenty years
Bound by the golden cord of their first love —
Had ask’d us to their marriage, and to share
Their marriage-banquet. Muriel, paler then
Than ever you were in your cradle, moan’d,
‘I am fitter for my bed, or for my grave,
I cannot go, go you.’ And then she rose,
She clung to me with such a hard embrace,
So lingeringly long, that half-amazed
I parted from her, and I went alone.
And when the bridegroom murmur’d, ‘With this ring,’
I felt for what I could not find, the key,
The guardian of her relics, of her ring.
I kept it as a sacred amulet
About me, — gone! and gone in that embrace!
Then, hurrying home, I found her not in house
Or garden — up the tower — an icy air
Fled by me. — There, the chest was open — all
The sacred relics tost about the floor —
Among them Muriel lying on her face —
I raised her, call’d her ‘Muriel. Muriel wake!’
The fatal ring lay near her; the glazed eye
Glared at me as in horror. Dead! I took
And chafed the freezing hand. A red mark ran
All round one finger pointed straight, the rest
Were crumpled inwards. Dead! — and maybe stung
With some remorse, had stolen, worn the ring —
Then torn it from her finger, or as if —
For never had I seen her show remorse —
As if —
Miriam. — those two Ghost lovers —
Father. Lovers yet —
Miriam. Yes, yes!
Father. — but dead so long, gone up so far,
That now their ever-rising life has dwarf’d
Or lost the moment of their past on earth,
As we forget our wail at being born.
As if —
Miriam. a dearer ghost had
Father. — wrench’d it away.
Miriam. Had floated in with sad reproachful eyes,
Till from her own hand she had torn the ring
In fright, and fallen dead. And I myself
Am half afraid to wear it.
Father. Well, no more!
No bridal music this! but fear not you!
You have the ring she guarded; that poor link
With earth is broken, and has left her free,
Except that, still drawn downward for an hour,
Her spirit hovering by the church, where she
Was married too, may linger, till she sees
Her maiden coming like a Queen, who leaves
Some colder province in the North to gain
Her capital city, where the loyal bells
Clash welcome — linger, till her own, the babe
/> She lean’d to from her Spiritual sphere,
Her lonely maiden-Princess, crown’d with flowers,
Has enter’d on the larger woman-world
Of wives and mothers.
But the bridal veil —
Your nurse is waiting. Kiss me child and go.
Forlorn
I.
‘HE is fled — I wish him dead —
He that wrought my ruin —
O the flattery and the craft
Which were my undoing . . .
In the night, in the night,
When the storms are blowing.
II.
Who was witness of the crime?
Who shall now reveal it?
He is fled, or he is dead,
Marriage will conceal it . . .
In the night, in the night,
While the gloom is growing.’
III.
Catherine, Catherine, in the night,
What is this you’re dreaming?
There is laughter down in Hell
At your simple scheming . . .
In the night, in the night,
When the ghosts are fleeting.
IV.
You to place a hand in his
Like an honest woman’s,
You that lie with wasted lungs
Waiting for your summons . . .
In the night, O the night!
O the deathwatch beating!
V.
There will come a witness soon
Hard to be confuted,
All the world will hear a voice
Scream you are polluted . . .
In the night! O the night,
When the owls are wailing!
VI.
Shame and marriage, Shame and marriage,
Fright and foul dissembling,
Bantering bridesman, reddening priest,
Tower and altar trembling . . .
In the night, O the night,
When the mind is failing!
VII.
Mother, dare you kill your child?
How your hand is shaking!
Daughter of the seed of Cain,
What is this you’re taking? . . .
In the night, O the night,
While the house is sleeping.
VIII.
Dreadful! has it come to this,
O unhappy creature?
You that would not tread on a worm
For your gentle nature . . .
In the night, O the night,
O the night of weeping!
IX.
Murder would not veil your sin,
Marriage will not hide it,
Earth and Hell will brand your name,
Wretch you must abide it . . .
In the night, O the night,
Long before the dawning.
X.
Up, get up, and tell him all,
Tell him you were lying!
Do not die with a lie in your mouth,
You that know you’re dying . . .
In the night, O the night,
While the grave is yawning.
XI.
No — you will not die before,
Tho’ you’ll ne’er be stronger;
You will live till that is born,
Then a little longer . . .
In the night, O the night,
While the Fiend is prowling.
XII.
Death and marriage, Death and marriage!
Funeral hearses rolling!
Black with bridal favours mixt!
Bridal bells with tolling! . . .
In the night, O the night,
When the wolves are howling.
XIII.
Up, get up, the time is short,
Tell him now or never!
Tell him all before you die,
Lest you die for ever . . .
In the night, O the night,
Where there’s no forgetting.
XIV.
Up she got, and wrote him all,
All her tale of sadness,
Blister’d every word with tears,
And eased her heart of madness . . .
In the night, and nigh the dawn,
And while the moon was setting.
Happy
The Leper’s Bride
I.
WHY wail you, pretty plover? and what is it that you fear?
Is he sick your mate like mine? have you lost him, is he fled?
And there — the heron rises from his watch beside the mere,
And flies above the leper’s hut, where lives the living-dead.
II.
Come back, nor let me know it! would he live and die alone?
And has he not forgiven me yet, his over-jealous bride,
Who am, and was, and will be his, his own and only own,
To share his living death with him, die with him side by side?
III.
Is that the leper’s hut on the solitary moor,
Where noble Ulric dwells forlorn, and wears the leper’s weed?
The door is open. He! is he standing at the door,
My soldier of the Cross? it is he and he indeed!
IV.
My roses — will he take them now — mine, his — from off the tree
We planted both together, happy in our marriage morn?
O God, I could blaspheme, for he fought Thy fight for Thee,
And Thou hast made him leper to compass him with scorn —
V.
Hast spared the flesh of thousands, the coward and the base,
And set a crueller mark than Cain’s on him, the good and brave!
He sees me, waves me from him. I will front him face to face.
You need not wave me from you. I would leap into your grave.
. . . . .
VI.
My warrior of the Holy Cross and of the conquering sword,
The roses that you cast aside — once more I bring you these.
No nearer? do you scorn me when you tell me, O my lord,
You would not mar the beauty of your bride with your disease.
VII.
You say your body is so foul — then here I stand apart,
Who yearn to lay my loving head upon your leprous breast.
The leper plague may scale my skin but never taint my heart;
Your body is not foul to me, and body is foul at best.
VIII.
I loved you first when young and fair, but now I love you most;
The fairest flesh at last is filth on which the worm will feast;
This poor rib-grated dungeon of the holy human ghost,
This house with all its hateful needs no cleaner than the beast,
IX.
This coarse diseaseful creature which in Eden was divine,
This Satan-haunted ruin, this little city of sewers,
This wall of solid flesh that comes between your soul and mine,
Will vanish and give place to the beauty that endures,
X.
The beauty that endures on the Spiritual height,
When we shall stand transfigured, like Christ on Hermon hill,
And moving each to music, soul in soul and light in light,
Shall flash thro’ one another in a moment as we will.
XI.
Foul! foul! the word was yours not mine, I worship that right hand
Which fell’d the foes before you as the woodman fells the wood,
And sway’d the sword that lighten’d back the sun of Holy land,
And clove the Moslem crescent moon, and changed it into blood.
XII.
And once I worshipt all too well this creature of decay,
For Age will chink the face, and Death will freeze the supplest limbs —
Yet you in your mid manhood — O the grief when yesterday
They bore the Cross before you to the chant of funeral hymns.
XIII.
‘L
ibera me, Domine!’ you sang the Psalm, and when
The Priest pronounced you dead, and flung the mould upon your feet,
A beauty came upon your face, not that of living men,
But seen upon the silent brow when life has ceased to beat.
XIV.
‘Libera nos, Domino’ — you knew not one was there
Who saw you kneel beside your bier, and weeping scarce could see;
May I come a little nearer, I that heard, and changed the prayer
And sang the married ‘nos’ for the solitary ‘me.’
XV.
My beauty marred by you? by you! so be it. All is well
If I lose it and myself in the higher beauty, yours.
My beauty lured that falcon from his eyry on the fell,
Who never caught one gleam of the beauty which endures —
XVI.
The Count who sought to snap the bond that link’d us life to life,
Who whisper’d me ‘your Ulric loves’ — a little nearer still —
He hiss’d, ‘Let us revenge ourselves, your Ulric woos my wife’ —
A lie by which he thought he could subdue me to his will.
XVII.
I knew that you were near me when I let him kiss my brow;
Did he touch me on the lips? I was jealous, anger’d, vain,
And I meant to make you jealous. Are you jealous of me now?
Your pardon, O my love, if I ever gave you pain.
XVIII.
You never once accused me, but I wept alone, and sigh’d
In the winter of the Present for the summer of the Past;
That icy winter silence — how it froze you from your bride,
Tho’ I made one barren effort to break it at the last.
XIX.
I brought you, you remember, these roses, when I knew
You were parting for the war, and you took them tho’ you frown’d;
You frown’d and yet you kiss’d them. All at once the trumpet blew,
And you spurr’d your fiery horse, and you hurl’d them to the ground.
XX.
You parted for the Holy War without a word to me,
And clear myself unask’d — not I. My nature was too proud.
And him I saw but once again, and far away was he,
When I was praying in a storm — the crash was long and loud —
XXI.
That God would ever slant His bolt from falling on your head —
Then I lifted up my eyes, he was coming down the fell —
I clapt my hands. The sudden fire from Heaven had dash’d him dead,
And sent him charr’d and blasted to the deathless fire of Hell.
XXII.
See, I sinn’d but for a moment. I repented and repent,
And trust myself forgiven by the God to whom I kneel.
A little nearer? Yes. I shall hardly be content
Till I be leper like yourself, my love, from head to heel.
XXIII.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series Page 127