 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
135
MARCUS ANTONIUS.
DEDICATED TO L. C.
'T is vain, Fonteus!—As the half-tamed steed,
Scenting the desert, lashes madly out,
And strains and storms and struggles to be freed,
Shaking his rattling harness all about—
So, fiercer for restraint, here in my breast
Hot passion rages, firing every thought;
For what is honour, prudence, interest,
To the wild strength of love? Oh best of life,
My joy, hope, triumph, glory, my soul's wife,
My Cleopatra! I desire thee so
That all restraint to the wild winds I throw.
Come what come will, come life, come death, to me,
'T is equal, if again I look on thee.
Away, Fonteus! tell her that I rage
With madness for her. Nothing can assuage
The strong desire, the torment, the fierce stress
That whirls my thoughts round, and inflames my brain,
But her great ardent eyes—dark eyes, that draw
My being to them with a subtle law
And an almost divine imperiousness.
Tell her I do not live until I feel
The thrill of her wild touch, that through each vein
Electric shoots its lightning; and again
Hear those low tones of hers, although they steal
As by some serpent-charm my will away,
And wreck my manhood.
Scenting the desert, lashes madly out,
And strains and storms and struggles to be freed,
Shaking his rattling harness all about—
So, fiercer for restraint, here in my breast
Hot passion rages, firing every thought;
For what is honour, prudence, interest,
To the wild strength of love? Oh best of life,
My joy, hope, triumph, glory, my soul's wife,
My Cleopatra! I desire thee so
That all restraint to the wild winds I throw.
Come what come will, come life, come death, to me,
'T is equal, if again I look on thee.
Away, Fonteus! tell her that I rage
With madness for her. Nothing can assuage
The strong desire, the torment, the fierce stress
That whirls my thoughts round, and inflames my brain,
But her great ardent eyes—dark eyes, that draw
My being to them with a subtle law
And an almost divine imperiousness.
136
The thrill of her wild touch, that through each vein
Electric shoots its lightning; and again
Hear those low tones of hers, although they steal
As by some serpent-charm my will away,
And wreck my manhood.
Ah! Octavia,
This lying galls me—this poor mean pretense
Of love—this putting every word to school—
When all at best is blank indifference.
Even hate for you is only cold and dull—
I hate you that I cannot hate you more,
Were you but savage, wicked to the core,
Less pious, prudish, prudent, made to rule,
I might have loved or hated more; but now
Nothing on earth seems half so deadly chill
As your insipid smile and placid brow,
Your glacial goodness and proprieties.
This lying galls me—this poor mean pretense
Of love—this putting every word to school—
When all at best is blank indifference.
Even hate for you is only cold and dull—
I hate you that I cannot hate you more,
Were you but savage, wicked to the core,
Less pious, prudish, prudent, made to rule,
I might have loved or hated more; but now
Nothing on earth seems half so deadly chill
As your insipid smile and placid brow,
Your glacial goodness and proprieties.
Tell my dear serpent I must see her—fill
My eyes with the glad light of her great eyes,
Though death, dishonour, anything you will,
Stand in the way! Ay, by my soul! disgrace
Is better in the sun of Egypt's face
Than pomp or power in this detested place.
Oh for the wine my queen alone can pour
From her rich nature! Let me starve no more
On this weak tepid drink that never warms
My life-blood: but away with shams and forms!
Away with Rome! One hour in Egypt's eyes
Is worth a score of Roman centuries.
Away, Fonteus! Tell her, till I see
Those eyes I do not live—that Rome to me
Is hateful,—tell her—oh! I know not what—
That every thought and feeling, space and spot,
Is like an ugly dream, where she is not;
All persons plagues; all living wearisome;
All talking empty; all these feasts and friends—
These slaves and courtiers, princes, palaces—
This Cæsar, with his selfish aims and ends,
His oily ways and sleek hypocrisies—
This Lepidus; all this dull Roman brood,
And worst of all Octavia, the cold prude,
With her meek manners and her voice subdued—
Are bonds and fetters, tedious as disease,
Not worth the parings of her finger-nails.
My eyes with the glad light of her great eyes,
Though death, dishonour, anything you will,
Stand in the way! Ay, by my soul! disgrace
Is better in the sun of Egypt's face
Than pomp or power in this detested place.
Oh for the wine my queen alone can pour
From her rich nature! Let me starve no more
On this weak tepid drink that never warms
137
Away with Rome! One hour in Egypt's eyes
Is worth a score of Roman centuries.
Away, Fonteus! Tell her, till I see
Those eyes I do not live—that Rome to me
Is hateful,—tell her—oh! I know not what—
That every thought and feeling, space and spot,
Is like an ugly dream, where she is not;
All persons plagues; all living wearisome;
All talking empty; all these feasts and friends—
These slaves and courtiers, princes, palaces—
This Cæsar, with his selfish aims and ends,
His oily ways and sleek hypocrisies—
This Lepidus; all this dull Roman brood,
And worst of all Octavia, the cold prude,
With her meek manners and her voice subdued—
Are bonds and fetters, tedious as disease,
Not worth the parings of her finger-nails.
Oh for the breath of Egypt!—the soft nights
Of the voluptuous East—the dear delights
We tasted there—the lotus-perfumed gales
That dream along the low shores of the Nile,
And softly flutter in the languid sails!
Oh for the queen of all!—for the rich smile
That glows like autumn over her dark face—
For her large nature—her enchanting grace—
Her arms, that are away so many a mile!
Away, Fonteus!—lose no hour—make sail—
Weigh anchor on the instant—woo a gale
To blow you to her. Tell her I shall be
Close on your very heels across the sea,
Praying that Neptune send me storms as strong
As Passion is, to sweep me swift along,
Till the white spray sing whistling round my prow,
And the waves gurgle 'neath the keel's sharp plough.
Fly, fly, Fonteus! When I think of her
My soul within my body is astir!
My wild blood pulses, and my hot cheeks glow!
Love with its madness overwhelms me so
That I—oh! go, I say! Fonteus, go!
Of the voluptuous East—the dear delights
We tasted there—the lotus-perfumed gales
That dream along the low shores of the Nile,
And softly flutter in the languid sails!
Oh for the queen of all!—for the rich smile
That glows like autumn over her dark face—
For her large nature—her enchanting grace—
Her arms, that are away so many a mile!
Away, Fonteus!—lose no hour—make sail—
Weigh anchor on the instant—woo a gale
138
Close on your very heels across the sea,
Praying that Neptune send me storms as strong
As Passion is, to sweep me swift along,
Till the white spray sing whistling round my prow,
And the waves gurgle 'neath the keel's sharp plough.
Fly, fly, Fonteus! When I think of her
My soul within my body is astir!
My wild blood pulses, and my hot cheeks glow!
Love with its madness overwhelms me so
That I—oh! go, I say! Fonteus, go!
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |