Volume I Part 26 (1/2)

She stops before the gla.s.s. What sight in view?

A face that seems the latest to reveal!

For she turns from it hastily, and tossed Irresolute steals shadow-like to where I stand; and wavering pale before me there, Her tears fall still as oak-leaves after frost.

She will not speak. I will not ask. We are League-sundered by the silent gulf between.

You burly lovers on the village green, Yours is a lower, and a happier star!

XXIII

'Tis Christmas weather, and a country house Receives us: rooms are full: we can but get An attic-crib. Such lovers will not fret At that, it is half-said. The great carouse Knocks hard upon the midnight's hollow door, But when I knock at hers, I see the pit.

Why did I come here in that dullard fit?

I enter, and lie couched upon the floor.

Pa.s.sing, I caught the coverlet's quick beat:- Come, Shame, burn to my soul! and Pride, and Pain - Foul demons that have tortured me, enchain!

Out in the freezing darkness the lambs bleat.

The small bird stiffens in the low starlight.

I know not how, but shuddering as I slept, I dreamed a banished angel to me crept: My feet were nourished on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s all night.

XXIV

The misery is greater, as I live!

To know her flesh so pure, so keen her sense, That she does penance now for no offence, Save against Love. The less can I forgive!

The less can I forgive, though I adore That cruel lovely pallor which surrounds Her footsteps; and the low vibrating sounds That come on me, as from a magic sh.o.r.e.

Low are they, but most subtle to find out The shrinking soul. Madam, 'tis understood When women play upon their womanhood, It means, a Season gone. And yet I doubt But I am duped. That nun-like look waylays My fancy. Oh! I do but wait a sign!

Pluck out the eyes of pride! thy mouth to mine!

Never! though I die thirsting. Go thy ways!

XXV

You like not that French novel? Tell me why.

You think it quite unnatural. Let us see.

The actors are, it seems, the usual three: Husband, and wife, and lover. She--but fie!

In England we'll not hear of it. Edmond, The lover, her devout chagrin doth share; Blanc-mange and absinthe are his penitent fare, Till his pale aspect makes her over-fond: So, to preclude fresh sin, he tries rosbif.

Meantime the husband is no more abused: Auguste forgives her ere the tear is used.

Then hangeth all on one tremendous IF:- IF she will choose between them. She does choose; And takes her husband, like a proper wife.

Unnatural? My dear, these things are life: And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse.

XXVI

Love ere he bleeds, an eagle in high skies, Has earth beneath his wings: from reddened eve He views the rosy dawn. In vain they weave The fatal web below while far he flies.

But when the arrow strikes him, there's a change.

He moves but in the track of his spent pain, Whose red drops are the links of a harsh chain, Binding him to the ground, with narrow range.

A subtle serpent then has Love become.

I had the eagle in my bosom erst: Henceforward with the serpent I am cursed.

I can interpret where the mouth is dumb.

Speak, and I see the side-lie of a truth.

Perchance my heart may pardon you this deed: But be no coward:- you that made Love bleed, You must bear all the venom of his tooth!

XXVII

Distraction is the panacea, Sir!

I hear my oracle of Medicine say.

Doctor! that same specific yesterday I tried, and the result will not deter A second trial. Is the devil's line Of golden hair, or raven black, composed?