MABEL MAY.
1.
I was weary all thro' of the thousand and one
Wants, wishes, and wretchedest sorts of strife
Within, and without, which some call Life,
Mable May,
When I climb'd to the cloud on the mountain cone,
And lay on the bare black rock, alone,
In the watchful twilight vast and grey,
Mabel May;
And yearn'd for the yet unarisen light,
As a wretch yearns, sick of a woeful night;
—To plunge, in a passionate gush of sight,
And leap at one bound of a rapture bright,
Into the burning heart of the sun,
And be lost,—like a star, when the dark is done,
O'erwhelm'd in the fount of the full-pour'd day,
Mabel May!
2.
And lo you! all round me, all o'er me, he rose,
The august godlike Glory pure,
Which not even the eagle's eyes endure,
Mabel May:
He smote, like a trumpet, the slumbering snows
To a burning blush, from their pale repose
Wide awake; and ... How shall I say,
Mabel May?
My very heart ached with the interminate
Splendour for which it had lain in wait.
Was it joy, was it pain, was it love, was it hate,
That agony born of a bliss too great?
And I stagger'd blinded beneath the blows
Of the bare-orb'd Beauty, and sought for who knows
What phantom hand to lead me away,
Mabel May!
3
So it ever hath been, so it ever shall be,
Since man was made for the lot of man.
'Tis the curse of his course since his course began,
Mabel May.
Our soul to feel, and our sight to see,
Are afire and athirst. Then it comes: and we
Are made sport for the powers we brought into play,
Mabel May.
We desire: we are strong: we are proud of the pain:
Scale the summit: and, breathless, behold—but in vain—
What we cannot endure. We are lost by our gain,
And o'erwhelm'd by the triumph whereto we attain:
Enslaved by the force we ourselves have set free,
And unmade by the might that we make. Who is he
That stands fast, and looks full in the face of his day,
Mabel May?
4.
So I turn'd me anon by the downward track
To the valley beneath; never lifting again
My looks left dim by the dazzling pain,
Mabel May;
With above and behind me the mountain, black
And broad, still holding the sun at his back;
And dejectedly follow'd my darkling way,
Mabel May,
With no care now what the chance might be
Of the next thing I should be forced to see,
When the dance of the colours that, dazzling me
Danced on before, should disperse and flee,
And leave me asmart from the torturous hack
Of the Sun-god's triumphing knife, alack!
Like that poor Satyr, he stoop'd to flay,
Mabel May.
5.
But how did it happen? For suddenly there
The vale was wash'd with a warm sweet wave
Of luminous verdure balmy and suave,
Mabel May;
And a million mild wild odours were
Afloat in the fresh moist morning air;
And the birds broke out in a rapturous lay,
Mabel May;
While on each grass blade, in a silver bell,
The bright dew trembled before it fell
To the warbling pure, in the sweetbriar dell,
Of that delicate harper, Ariel;
And even the rock, no longer bare,
Was robed in a roseate mantle rare;
And the gaunt thorn-bushes were laughing gay,
Mabel May.
6.
Fools fly in the face of the bliss they believe
They were born for. If born for it, why not wait?
Can fate miss man, or man miss fate,
Mabel May?
No! we claim to acquire, unresign'd to receive,
What chance, not choice, can alone achieve:
And then, when we fail, as is fit, we say
(Mabel May)
‘Better check desire than clasp despair!’
But what, when we say it, if unaware
The burning Beauty we could not bear,
Taking pity on our pain'd pride, as 'twere,
Should pour itself over our path, and weave
Life's way with the light we have learn'd to leave,
Warming our souls with a reflex ray,
Mabel May?
7.
O'tis you are the cause of these thoughts, I try
To release in song, but shall never succeed;
They lie too deep in my soul, indeed,
Mabel May!
For in you is the light of my life; and I
And my life are yours, to be made thereby
Of what colour you will. You are my day,
Mabel May!
But that light of you in this life of mine
Were a depth of glory too divine
For my sense to bear, if it did not shine
Soften'd, reflected,—fused, in fine,
With the common things of life, that lie
In that light, transmuted to melody,
Odour, and colour, by its glad play,
Mabel May.
My wife, my life, my day, whose sway
Makes all things sweet with a sense of sun,
—Scent-breathing flowers, and birds' glad tone!
My one in all, and my all in one,
Now I hold you fast where my footsteps stray,
And find you most when you seem away,
Loving you more than my love can say,
Mabel May!
