The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

See! what a treasure rare
I hold with fingers aglow!
—'Tis full of the bright
Subdued sunlight
Which shone in the scented hair
Of a maiden I once held fair;
And I puzzle my brains to know
If the heart of the beautiful girl
Hath kept the light of the Long Ago,
As long as the yellow curl?

What matter? Why, little or none!
She is nought to me now, understand;
But I feel less sad
Than tearfully glad,
And a passionate thrill hath run
Through my veins, like a flash of the sun,—
That with so unheeding a hand
I can grasp a small part of the gold
Which dazzled my wits, when I planned and planned
For the love of that maiden, of old.

See! I crush it with finger and thumb,
Half in cruelty, half in jest.—
As she lies asleep,
Doth a shudder creep
Thro' her heart, and render it numb?
Doth a sorrowful whisper come

From afar, while her lord is at rest
By her side, and none else are by?
Doth she shiver away from her husband's breast,
And hide her face, and cry?

Is her heart quite withered and sere?
Are the pledges forgotten yet,
That, with blushing face,
In a secret place,
She breathed in my burning ear,
In the morning of the year,
When, after long parting, we met
By the Sea, on the shadowy lawn,
And spake till the sunset faded to jet,
And moon and stars made a dawn?

As she lies in her wifely place,
The wings of her white soul furled,
Does the cheek at rest
On her husband's breast
Grow scorch'd with the hot disgrace
Of the kisses I rain'd on her face,
When the mists of the night upcurled
From the ocean that night of June,
And make a glamour, wherein the world
Seemed close to the stars and moon?

By this ringlet of yellow hair,
Still full of the light forlorn
Of that parting spot!
Hath she quite forgot
The passionate love she bare,
And the hope she promised to share,
When the ringlet of gold was shorn,
And the flowers felt the sun on the soil,
And the firefly stars went out in the morn,
And I hurried back to my toil?

I could crush it under my heel!
Hath she forgotten the clear
Vision of fame
That died, when her shame
Made my wild brain totter and reel?
Hath she a heart to feel?—
False to her vows in a year!
False and hollow as Hell!
False to the voice that warned in her ear!
And false to her God as well!

This curl that she gave to me
Fell over her brow of snow,
So 'twas near the bright
Spiritual light
That burned in the brain—and see!
I am kissing it tenderly!
She is asking for mercy, I know;
So I kiss it again and again,
For I know some charm makes the wild kiss glow
Like fire thro' the woman's brain!

She cannot choose but atone!
By the brow where this curl once gleam'd!
She must in sin thought,
Against him who bought
The heart already mine own,
And left me weeping alone.
'Tis a charm, and my loss is redeemed!
And the sin 'gainst her lord will be—
To remember how close to the stars we seemed
That night in the mists by the Sea!

She will look on her husband's face,
She will kiss him on the cheek—
She will kiss, she will smile;
And all the while,
In thought no other may trace,
She'll be back in that perfumed place,
Hearing the words that I speak,
Vowing the vow I believe,
While the sunset dies with a purple streak,
'Neath the whitening star of eve.

And the voice of the waves will bar
All sweeter sounds from her ears,
She'll be under the moon
Of that night of June,
And the motion of moon and star
Will trouble her from afar;
And then, when the silver spheres
Fade fitfully out of the skies,
And the red dawn breaks, she will wake in tears,
And shrink from her husband's eyes!

And in time, when again and again
I have kissed the magical gold,
Those same gross eyes
Will be open and wise,
And his heart will be feverish pain,
And a doubt will arise in his brain;
And ere she is grown very old,
He will know she is frail as foam,—
He will see the light of that night in her cold
Face,—and my curse strikes home!

For perchance in her yearning she may
Be bewildered and brought to blame,
By a new delight
So like that night
With its mimical glamour of day,
That she cannot shake it away;
And following it once more,
She will take a path of shame,
While the man blushes red at his darken'd door
As the children utter her name.

See! my passionate lips are warm
On the curl, in a cruel bliss—
In day or mirk
The charm would work!—
While she dreams of that night till her form
Is caught in the eddies of storm!
There's a devil impels me to kiss,
And my blood boils to and fro;
She asks for mercy! shall mercy like this
Be given my darling? . . . No!

With the world, as it ebbs and flows,
My heart is in jarring tune;
Let the memory
Of her beauty be
Furled in a soft repose
Round my heart, like the leaves of a rose.
The faith, which has faded too soon,
I bury with this last cry;
For the curl, still bright with that night of June,
Lo! I tenderly put it by!

As these verses bear a certain superficial resemblance, in subject, to Mr. Tennyson's Poem, ‘A Ringlet,’ it may be as well to state that they appeared in print several years before the publication of ‘Enoch Arden, and other Poems.’