Women must weep :: :: University of Virginia Library

I follow'd the flight of their radiant charms,
Through the sad and sultry air—
Through the sad and sultry air;
I had follow'd them on through a hundred harms,
And found them still more fair.

I follow'd the steps of the Bacchant band,
Through a maze with roses red,
With the dew on my face and head—
The dew flung back by the careless hand
Of the beautiful girls that fled—
Of the beautiful girls that fled;
And my heated lips were lightly fann'd,
By the breath of their tender tread.

The stars came out with a trembling gleam,
And a gentle wind awoke
In the shades of a cavern'd oak,
That started to life from its summer-dream,
That nodded its brows, and spoke—
That nodded its brows, and spoke
Of the passions drown'd in the passing stream,
And the hearts that loved and broke.

While afar the tempest raised its crest,
And a deepening darkness cast,
Like the curse of a sinful past;
And the mighty tree from its hoary rest
Gave its burden up at last—
Gave its burden up at last;
And the gusts on its groaning branches prest,
Till the breeze became a blast.

But little I reck'd of the ancient tale,
That the ancient babbler told;
For I saw the glance of gold,
The glittering hair that sought the gale,
From the women bright and bold—
From the women bright and bold;
Like a vessel, urged with many a sail,
On an ocean dim and old.

Drawn on by the dance of their glowing limbs,
And the pulse of their fiery feet—
By a vision wild and fleet,
Entranced by the eye that swoons and swims,
In the dew of a rapture sweet—
In the dew of a rapture sweet;
Bewitch'd by the cries of the Bacchic hymns,
That burst in a bliss complete.

And I heard the call of the plaintive dove
From the depths of the myrtle sheaves
And the clinging ivy leaves;
Yet I felt but the wave of a mighty love,
But the wave that throbs and heaves—
But the wave that throbs and heaves;
That drags the soul from its flight above,
And delights though it still deceives.

Is it well for a man to have loved an hour,
In the light of a woman's eye,
In the breath of her panting sigh?
To have lived for love, and lost its power,
And found it all a lie—
And found it all a lie?
Is it well to have won a deadly dower,
To sin and rejoice and die?

But still I pursued the dazzling dance
Of the girls that laugh'd and leapt,
That sang as they lightly stept,
With the beckoning hand and the backward glance,
Where the magic moonlight slept—
Where the magic moonlight slept;
I moved like a man in a glorious trance,
Through the dewy trees that wept.

But then they came to a temple vast,
Shut in by the shadows deep,
Where the planets glide and peep;
Up a hundred steps they swiftly past,

And ever with laugh and leap—
And ever with laugh and leap;
While I said to my soul, “We shall read at last
The secret the ages keep.”

The temple rose from its marble base,
As a wonder, white and tall,
Through its sombre cypress pall;
Inside lay a world of light and grace,
With revel and water's fall—
With revel and water's fall;
And there was joy in the solemn place,
But a fear crept over all.

And up the height of the hundred stairs
I fled like a guilty soul,
That has lost the last control;
And yet I mutter'd some hasty prayers,
As I heard the thunder roll—
As I heard the thunder roll;
And I drank the breath of the perfumed airs,
From the steaming urn and bowl.

But I stopp'd at the threshold yet awhile,
To assure my labouring will,
That my heart might feast its fill
On the floating locks and the flashing smile,
And the distant song birds' trill—
And the distant song birds' trill;
Till I long'd to spring to the wooing guile,
Though I stood at the threshold still.

And oh! the whirl of the maddening throng,
Of the winding hands and feet,
With their frolic bound and beat;
And the pause for the laughter low and long,
In the shade of a shy retreat—
In the shade of a shy retreat;
When the amorous blood was full and strong,
And the warm embraces sweet.

And then to recline on the starry thrones,
To sink, and sob, and rest
On a white and welcome breast;
While kisses mix'd with the gentle tones;
Were this not far the best—
Were this not far the best?
And not to faint on the rugged stones,
By the endless road opprest.

So I ponder'd still in my troubled heart,
As I gazed at the shining show
In its restless ebb and flow;
At the waving hands that join'd to part,
At the feet that came to go—
At the feet that came to go;
As the dancers wove their wondrous art,
And eddied to and fro.

And why should I pause on the threshold bound,
While love was fresh and free,
With faces fair to see;
While the fountains flow'd with a singing sound,
And a soft imperious plea—
And a soft imperious plea?
Should bliss by others be sought and found,
And never be known by me?

“Ah, come to our home,” said the pouting lips,
“Ah, come,” said the kindling eyes,
“From thy cold and cloudy skies;
Thou shalt twine thy brows with the rose's slips,
And repose where the lily lies—
And repose where the lily lies;
Thou shalt cool thy mouth with honey'd sips,
And ease thy breast with sighs.”

And I told my soul, “It is wise and well
To fly from the trail of tears,
To the mild and jocund spheres,
Where pleasures smile and the blossoms smell,

And sorrow never sears—
And sorrow never sears;
Where the shadows fall as the shadows fell,
Through the slow delicious years.”

Then I raised my foot with a firmer tread,
To cross the boundary line;
And a great resolve was mine,
To bury the past and the hateful dead
In the joy of songs and wine—
In the joy of songs and wine;
When unawares, ere my passion sped,
I breathed a prayer divine.

Yet I moved my face to the coaxing kiss
Of a woman passing fair;
When, behold, from her bosom's lair,
Slipt forth a snake with an angry hiss,
And coiled in her golden hair—
And coiled in her golden hair;
While I saw beneath me a dark abyss,
And the bones that whiten'd there.

And oh, the woe of the dreadful change,
That fell on those features bright,
Like the eclipse of a sudden night,
That darken'd along the temple's range,
And dimmed the jubilant sight—
And dimmed the jubilant sight;
That struck, with a horror stiff and strange,
Those forms of life and light.

For the women turn'd to threatening shapes,
The love to hollow lust,
To hate the looks of trust;
To ashes grey the purple grapes,
And the flowers to bitter dust—
And the flowers to bitter dust;
Yea, monstrous owls, and hideous apes,
Arose with moth and rust.

And across the threshold figures strode,
With swords of flaming fire,
And their feet besmirched with mire;
That stagger'd beneath the grievous load
Of an ever-growing ire—
Of an ever-growing ire;
That hugged, as they cursed, the piercing goad
Of a never-quenched desire.

And the clash of arms, and the cries of pain,
Rang over that awful room,
And were mock'd by the hidden tomb;
Till I fled through the thunder, night, and rain,
From the place of death and doom—
From the place of death and doom;
But I saw, as I turn'd, the tortured train,
In the mingled glare and gloom.