Poems by William Wetmore Story

In the dead silence, loud the clock
Remorseless ticked each second's flight—
Heart-beats of time, with quiet shock
Driving Life on to Death and Night.

Well! let Life go!—my weary heart
Is sick of things that only seem;
Love is a sham, and so is Art,
And Faith the ghost of Hope's vain dream.

A curse is on this world of ours,
Where Faith, Love, Art, are all a lie;
Beneath the curse the spirit cowers,
And their best gifts the Gods deny.

299

As thus I mused in desperate mood,
I raised my eyes, and faintly seen
In the dim light a figure stood,
With prayerful face and vesture mean.

Her eyes were shy with half-alarm;
Wan were her cheeks, and pale her hue;
And o'er her breast her white bared arm
With modest grace her drapery drew.

“Who art thou? and what dost thou here?
Speak! Can I help thee?” Then, “Alas!”
She said, “how own the name I bear—
So fallen, so changed from what I was.

“Once in the far and golden time,
When Freedom wore its fairest hues,
When glorious Greece was in its prime,
They called me by the name of Muse.

“My feet from worldly soil were free;
The Furies lent to me their rods.
My praise was Immortality;
My home—the temple of the Gods.

“All for my favors sought. To none
I gave them but the true and tried,—
Heroic, godlike men alone,
Whose life by Faith was purified.

300

“Now in the public mart my strings
For very want I fain must strum,
And hide beneath a shawl my wings,
And sing, when I were better dumb,

“Must smile to hide my heart's despair,
Must starve, or cringe to greed and lust;
Of all who hear—ah! how rare
The few whom I can love and trust.

“The many mock my decent dress;
Their thoughts are low, their works are base;
They shock me with their vile caress,
Until, ashamed, I hide my face.

“Fallen so low, I stretch to thee
My hands, and cry, Oh! is there none
To lift me, save me, honor me,
As once in Greece in ages gone?

“No one, of all this venial throng
That take my name upon their lips,
To shield me from the shame and wrong
That shadow me in such eclipse?

“No one above this sordid mart,
With godlike spirit shrined in man,
Who with pure soul will worship Art,
Not woo her like a courtesan—

301

“Not pandering to the world's low taste,
With skill to tempt and to degrade—
Not like a broker, greed-debased,
Who makes of Art a vulgar trade?”

“Yes—one at least, though weak and poor,”
I cried. “I pledge this heart of mine,
Content to labor, wait, endure,
To win at last one smile of thine.”

What sudden change! an aureole globed
That radiant face—a Grecian dress,
With pale and perfect draperies, robed
Her pure and stately loveliness.

Serene she smiled, and at her feet
Prostrate I fell, and bowed my head;
And silence came as calm and sweet
As silence to the peaceful dead.

Then, suddenly, a laugh pierced through
My ears—I raised my eyes—the Muse
Had vanished; in her stead a new
Strange figure stood, in high-heeled shoes.

A creature like a Biscuit rare,
Painted and dyed, hair, eyes and face—
Tight-laced—her back and bosom bare—
All chiffons, jewels, silk, and lace.

302

With head thrown back and glance askant,
She laughed and leered and beckoned me;
“Great God!” I cried, “what dost thou want?
And who art thou?—and where is she?”

“She? Who? My queer old sister? Oh!
Dear solemn prude, pray who can tell?
Gone back to Greece, I hope. You know
That here she 's quite impossible.

“Poor thing, I pity her; but then
She 's such a prig—so tiresome, too,
And dresses so—and bores the men
About the Beautiful and True—

“Such silly rubbish—every word
Emphatic with a capital,
That really it is quite absurd;
We had to cut her, one and all.

“She had a grand career awhile
In Athens once, when she was young;
But here, we 've changed in taste and style,—
And she 's old, nervous, and unstrung.

“And now that we have shut her out,
Dressed in that old disgraceful shawl,
She wanders begging all about
And preaching—which won't do at all.

303

“And so take care—you 're young, mon cher,
And just beginning in your art;
Don't be imposed upon by her,
But trust me if you want a start.

“I'm all the mode—her sails are furled.
Come down to me and have a chat;
I'll introduce you to the world,
And put you up to this and that.

“I 've lots of things to show you, too,
Not Greek—that wretched classic Greek—
But Biscuit, Sèvres, Ormolu,
And bric-à-brac, and statues chic.

“We 're all so free—no prudish gène.
Such fun, you know; and there you'll meet
Dukes, Bankers, Princes—all the men
And all the demi-monde élite—

“All purchasers. Such singing too—
Thérèse's style. Do all you can,
Broad as her songs are, they 're so true
You have to laugh—behind your fan.

“And then my pictures—all so bright
With brilliant colors; some so small
You need a lens to help your sight,
And wonder how they 're done at all.

304

“Such costumes gay—such fights and feuds—
Such vases, silks, stuffs, furniture—
Such harems, baths, boudoirs—such nudes,
Smiling at you with such allure!

“You 're poor! I know you can't be flush:
Don't be so shy—oh, don't say ‘No!’
Pray take it—won't you? Pooh!—don't blush:
Ah, well!—at first you all say so!”

With that she finger-tipped a kiss,
Laughed, pirouetted on her toe,
Kicked out her train, and, with a hiss
Of rustling silks, turned round to go.

“Now don't forget—don't be a fool;
I count upon you! Well,—bye bye!
Sundays, you know—cards, dancing, pool,
And everything that 's chic and sly!

“Stop! here 's my card—I 'd quite forgot!”
With that she vanished; and I read
“Madame La Muse—née La Cocotte,
Rue de Parnasse”—and went to bed!

University of Virginia Library

THE TWO MUSES.