Part 6 (1/2)

VI.

For it is deadly sin to love too well, And unappeased, unhonour'd, unbesought, To feed on dreams; and yet 'tis aptly thought That all must love. E'en those who most rebel In Eros' camp have known his master-spell; And more shall learn than Eros yet has taught.

VII.

But I am mad to love. I am not wise.

I am the worst of men to love the best Of all sweet women! An untimely jest, A thing made up of rhapsodies and sighs, And unordained on earth, and in the skies, And undesired in tumult and in rest.

VIII.

All this is true. I know it. I am he.

I am that man. I am the hated friend Who once received a smile, and sought to mend His soul with hope. O tyrant! by the plea Of all thy grace, do thou accept from me At least the notes that know not to offend.

IX.

See! I will strike again the major chord Of that great song, which, in his early days, Beethoven wrote; and thine shall be the praise, And thine the frenzy like a soldier's sword Flas.h.i.+ng therein; and thine, O thou adored And bright true Lady! all the poet's lays.

X.

To thee, to thee, the songs of all my joy, To thee the songs that wildly seem to bless, And those that mind thee of a past caress.

Lo! with a whisper to the Winged Boy Who rules my fate, I will my strength employ To make a matin-song of my distress.

XI.

But playing thus, and toying with the notes, I half forget the cause I have to weep; And, like a reaper in the realms of sleep, I hear the bird of morning where he floats High in the welkin, and in fairy boats I see the minstrels sail upon the deep.

XII.

In mid-suspension of my leaping bow I almost hear the silence of the night; And, in my soul, I know the stars are bright Because they love, and that they nightly glow To make it clear that there is nought below, And nought above, so fair as Love's delight.

XIII.

But shall I touch thy heart by speech alone, Without Amati? Shall I prove, by words, That hope is meant for men as well as birds; That I would take a scorpion, or a stone, In lieu of gold, and sacrifice a throne To be the keeper of thy flocks and herds?

XIV.

Ah no, my Lady! though I sang to thee With fuller voice than sings the nightingale-- Fuller and softer in the moonlight pale Than lays of Keats, or Sh.e.l.ley, or the free And fire-lipp'd Byron--there would come to me No word of thine to thank me for the tale.

XV.