University of Virginia Library

A REPUBLICAN PRINCESS; OR, THE DEATH OF MESENTZOFF.

“Oh, am I not as white and soft and sweet
As any blood-royal princess of them all?
Yea, whiter, softer, sweeter!—in that I
Hold, fragrant now within my woman's flesh,
The flowers of all the years that are to be:
In that the fair Republic's future bliss
Shines now within me,—in that every rose,
Each lily, of the future, in my lips
Or on my hands is snow-white or is red;
This very measureless and soft desire
Wherewith I cleave to thee, O love, to-night
Is but the immeasurable and vital flame
That burns deep in the deep Republic's heart.
I am the white Republic: and I give
In woman's burning yielding snow-white flesh
The splendour of its future unto thee.
It is incarnate in my body and soul,
The body and fervent soul wherewith I clasp
Thy body and thy lustrous spirit to-night.
Oh kiss me the Republic: cling to me
The tender pure Republic lying here
Naked and limitless beneath thy gaze.
Because in me the agony and the tears
Of all who yet have suffered for the sake
Of Freedom and of Love are gathered up:
Because in my one spirit I can include
The sorrow of the past and every pang
Of patriot stricken upon the battle-field
Or patriot-woman stricken as deep at home,
God grants me as reward the power to give
To thee the sweet Republic's soul to-night.
O lover, take it,—take me: taking me,
Take the Republic warm within thy arms.
“Lo! there is yet a blood-spot on thine arm!
See now I kiss it; damp it is e'en now,
So hasty and so rapid was thy flight!
I tinge my lips with this the recreant blood
Of executed Mesentzoff, and then
I kiss the disc of crimson back to thee
My lover, so—and so; art thou content?
Art thou content that Freedom's spotless God,
Having rescued thee the executioner,
The carrier-out on traitor Mesentzoff
Of holy Freedom's passionate decree,—
Having delivered by his arm of might
Thy soul from the pursuers, now hath given
One woman's blossom of unmeasured praise
To thee the blood-stained doer of the deed?
Art thou content? Oh how I love thee, sweet,
Now that thou art not white but stained and red!
Yea, be thou red,—for ever red: and I
Will be thy whiteness, thine unstained pure flesh,
Thy spotless body, when before the throne
Of God we answer for to-day's high deed.
And Mesentzoff; where is his spirit now?
Dead with the dead souls; crowned amid the kings
Whose burning restless treacherous strange eyes
Are the eternal torches that illume
Their own eternal torments in the hell
Whereto betrayers of their country plunge
When at the dagger's mandate (as to-day
The sacred dagger spoke!) the wide earth gapes,
Laughing, to let them through; and down they speed
With groans of women tortured and of men
Downtrodden, for their clamorous charioteers.
“There's Mesentzoff!—and, sweetheart, where are we?
In imminent danger of our lives—but yet
In heaven: in the thick of Paradise,
Right in its very central sweetest bower:
Husband and wife beneath the smile of God.
That blood-spot is our ruby wedding-ring,
And the pursuers are the priests who clinch
The august and swift, impetuous ceremony.
A murderer they'll call thee; even now
I seem in thought (or is it in very deed?)
To hear their hoarse and sanguine-throated shouts:
Murderer, I kiss thee; kiss me, murderer,—
And mingle souls thus through the fierce close lips!
“Make much of me: the morning over-soon
Will come,—the grey and lurid morn of doom
Perhaps; Oh make the most of me to-night!
I give thee all I promised,—do I not?
Am I not true? Am I not faithful wife?
Am I not pure and faithful helpmate, dear,
Giving thee all the chaste fit fruit of love?
Oh I am but a woman after all,
And I would live,—yea I would live with thee
In some sweet island in the sunny West
Or in the sunnier East; I would not die.
I would bear children unto thee, my love,
Would know the rapture of a quiet home,
The tender pure divine domestic joys
That other women know, and then despise,
Heed not, contemn, think little of; oh ne'er
Before this, did I dream how sweet a thing
Might love in all its simple issues be!
Love I despised; or held it as a crown
That only in the life beyond the grave
Should be upon my patient forehead worn.
But now I love love: thou hast taught me this;
Love on for ever! let our joy prevail
Through sunrise and throughout another day
And night, and through the sweet eternity.
O love, man, hero,—would that in the world,
Yea, in the starry universe of God,
There were no other blossom than thy mouth,
And that for ever I might gather that,
And fill my soul for ever with the bloom
And passionate fragrance of that endless flower.
“Ah, I am tender with thee now, and with
Myself: I would not die, I would escape,
Fly with thee somewhere; be thy happy bride.
Can we not shun pursuit, and ere the morn
Be far upon some sweet untrodden way,
Some road to France or England, happier lands
Where Freedom needs not, as in this our home,
To sit with armèd hands and watchful head?
Yet—I would stay with thee for ever here,
Live here, die here; pass from our glory here
To Paradise; I know not what I wish,—
I only know that perfect love is sweet,
And that thou art my perfect flower of joy,
My king, my gold-haired lover,—my delight.
“Play with my hair: it is a girl's for thee,
Untouched, unhandled,—as my body was
For thee a maiden's two short hours ago;
Is now a woman's and a wife's indeed.
Cling close,—I'll be thy mother now, and hold
Thee the boy-murderer in my safe strong arms,
Empty too long of any gift to hold.
Hector-Andromache I'll be to thee!
Sweet mother, sister, father, all in one,
And wife as well,—and even more than wife;
I'll be to thee the sweet Republic-Bride,
The chainless advent of the kiss of God.
Ah! weary hath my life been; never yet
Have I beheld a flower of love to press
Close to my bosom thus; now thee I press
Close, close, and kiss thee with the fervour poured
Into my lips by lonely life-long pain.
Thou hast done thy deed; and I, I do my deed,
Fulfil my promise: virgin, holy, white,
I give myself, a flower of fire, to thee.
Our strong Republic's gathered ardour now
Burns through my veins: I am no more a girl,
Woman no more, a human being no more,
But one wild measureless surpassing flame,
A princess of the royal blood of God.
And as that princess I reward thee, sweet,
Falling from heaven like some superb white star
To crown thy crime, thy murder: thy divine
Dagger that smote the tyrant to the dust.
Bring near that dagger—we may need it yet—
Yes, place it underneath the pillow,—so,—
Nay, let me kiss it first: now place it there.
Who knows? we too may need it ere the morn!
Now turn so,—turn half-round; a mother must
Make her child comfortable in his sleep.
“Sleep shall we? or shall we watch out the night?
Or wilt thou sleep, and shall I, star-like, watch?
Or wilt thou be the star, with that gold hair,
And shall I be the night with deep black locks
Shrouding the star in soft sweet blackness poured
About it? or shall we like children sleep
One short glad sleep,—then face what fate may bring?
Ah! let us both sleep: let me, wife for once,
Sleep on God's earth one simple wedded sleep,
And in thine husbandly protecting arms
Forget e'en the Republic for awhile.
“How long have we slept? See the light begins
To glimmer at the dawning window-pane!
Now once again we are Republicans;
The crimson morning is our blood-red sash;
Love, let us twine the dawn across our breasts,
And fearless face the morrow: Oh, I am proud,
Proud, eager, dauntless, shameless, womanly,
More sweetly virginal than ever yet
In all my maiden-lifetime I have been.
Shall women cry ‘Shame on me’?—I will cry
‘Foul shame on them who in their ignorance
Have known not love or freedom’; yea, I'll face
The angels seeking flowers wherewith to adorn
God's heavenly dwelling-house, and I will fling
Towards them my ringless and unwedded hand,
Crying ‘Here is a lily,—take it: you
Will find no lily in the fields of God
Sweeter, no blossom purer: bear it up
And let God smiling wear it next his heart’.
“Now ere the dawn is on us kiss once more:
One last embrace,—oh am I not a queen,
The queen of Russia and the queen of heaven
And queen of the Republic—and of love?
Cannot a queen kiss? Are my lips not royal?
Oh fear me not, shrink not, but let me pass
Like some swift fire across thy lips and face,
Burning them into death, and into life
Beyond all death, and all that death can do.
Oh, but a few short wondrous hours ago
Thou wast in flight, pursued by vengeful men,
The natural avengers of thy deed,
Whom we can pity, whom we do not blame,—
They know not what they do,—but now thou art
Warm, safe, impalaced in a woman's arms.
Like all God's contrasts, sudden and divine
The breathless marvellous change is; swift as if
Upon some bitter bleak December day,
With white snow beating at the frozen roofs,
Sweet summer and the scent of roses came
In at the window suddenly,—and the sun
Flamed suddenly as in August,—and the sky
Gleamed suddenly as in June, one sheet of blue.
I am thy sun, thy summer, thy blue sky,
Thy fragrant tender rose: God gives in me
The first divine most excellent soft glimpse
Of heavenly summer, and of heavenly flowers.
Love, taste my lips,—is that a royal kiss,
And that, and that, and that; am I not sweet?
Am I not sweet for thee? pleasant to thee?
Am I not sweet to sight and touch and taste,
Soft to thine handling, tender to thy grasp,—
Am I not sweet all over—just one bed
Of summer-sown intoxicating flowers?
See how I humble and abase myself
Just out of very royal utter love,
Because thou art so noble, and a king,
A murderer and a republican,
Making myself a captive unto thee,
A slave, whom thou may'st do with as thou wilt,
Use as thou wilt,—and yet a royal queen,
Royal and republican, and all divine,
Free even in the midst of thine embrace.