Volume II Part 85 (1/2)

The long thin flanks, the broad breast, and the grand Heroic shoulders! Look, what lost dreams lie Cold in the fingers of that delicate hand;

And, shut within those lyric lips, what cry Of unborn beauty, sunk in utter night, Lost worlds of song, sealed in an unknown sky,

Never to be brought forth, clothed on with light.

Was this, then, this the secret of his song?-- _Who ever loved that loved not at first?_

It was not Love, not Love, that wrought this wrong; And yet--what evil shadow of this dark town Could quench a soul so flame-like clean and strong,

Strike the young glory of his manhood down, Dead, like a dog, dead in a drunken brawl, Dead for a phial of paint, a taffeta gown?

What if his blood were hot? High over all He heard, as in his song the world still hears, Those angels on the burning heavenly wall

Who chant the thunder-music of the spheres.

Yet--through the glory of his own young dream Here did he meet that face, wet with strange tears,

Andromeda, with piteous face astream, Hailing him, Perseus. In her treacherous eyes As in dark pools the mirrored stars will gleam,

Here did he see his own eternal skies; And here--she laughed, nor found the dream amiss; But bade him pluck and eat--in Paradise.

Here did she hold him, broken up with bliss, Here, like a supple snake, around him coiled, Here did she pluck his heart out with a kiss,

Here were the wings clipped and the glory soiled, Here adders coupled in the pure white shrine, Here was the Wine spilt, and the Shew-bread spoiled.

Black was that feast, though he who poured the Wine Dreamed that he poured it in high sacrament.

Deep in her eyes he saw his own eyes s.h.i.+ne,

Beheld Love's G.o.d-head and was well content.

Subtly her hand struck the pure silver note, The throbbing chord of pa.s.sion that G.o.d meant

To swell the bliss of heaven. Round his young throat She wound her swarthy tresses; then, with eyes Half mad to see their power, half mad to gloat,

Half mad to batten on their own devilries, And mark what heaven-born splendours they could quell, She held him quivering in a mesh of lies,

And in soft broken speech began to tell-- There as, against her heart, throbbing he lay-- The truth that hurled his soul from heaven to h.e.l.l.

Quivering, she watched the subtle whip-lash flay The white flesh of the dreams of his pure youth; Then sucked the blood and left them cold as clay.

Luxuriously she lashed him with the truth.

Against his mouth her subtle mouth she set To show, as through a mask, O, without ruth,

As through a cold clay mask (brackish and wet With what strange tears!) it was not his, not his, The kiss that through his quivering lips she met.

Kissing him, ”_Thus_,” she whispered, ”_did he kiss.

Ah, is the sweetness like a sword, then, sweet?

Last night--ah, kiss again--aching with bliss,_

_Thus was I made his own, from head to feet._”

--A sudden agony thro' his body swept Tempestuously.--”_Our wedded pulses beat_

_Like this and this; and then, at dawn, he slept._”

She laughed, pouting her lips against his cheek To drink; and, as in answer, Marlowe wept.

As a dead man in dreams, he heard her speak.

Clasped in the bitter grave of that sweet clay, Wedded and one with it, he moaned. Too weak

Even to lift his head, sobbing, he lay, Then, slowly, as their breathings rose and fell, He felt the storm of pa.s.sion, far away,