University of Virginia Library

“The wine is turn'd to water, and the mirth
To mockery; and the lights are dim, and sound
Of other voices after thine as harsh,
And tuneless, as the noise of beaten brass.
And ev'n the true voice of Philosophy,
While the heart trembles with the fiery touch
Of Beauty, as a lifeless echo sounds;
Cold Truth a shadow passing from a cloud
Betwixt us and the sun. So I too fled;
And, as I part to-morrow, perhaps for ever,
Poet to Poet cannot bid farewell,
Better than where the loving nightingale
Fills all the dark with music—hark! what notes—
Grand, inarticulate, universal tongue;
Strange utterance of the inexpressible.
Where mortal speech, all words indeed, save thine,
Sappho, thou soul of tenderness, thou soul,
Might fail, must fail; methinks, such sounds might serve
For wing'd ambassadors betwixt two hearts
That love each other, with their fiery tongues
Interpreting to each the blissful pains
The other feels, yet cannot sign so well.
Oh! who that heard thee scattering ev'n to-night
Out of that heart thy fancies swift and bright,
Words, that, like sparks from Life unquenchable,
Sank in mine ears; and were extinguished there,
Only because there follow'd other notes
Beautiful, and more beautiful, that made
The former dark, and cast them out of mind.
And then the great whole, as a host of stars
Well nigh invisible to the mind's eye
From manifold effulgence: who that heard
That mighty song could ever trust thy words,
That out of Memory only sprang the flame
Of inspiration; no, thou lovest, Sappho.”
She said, “I loved, Alcœus;” then I answer'd;
“Thou lovedst him, but now thou lovest not,
Well do I see; but, O dear Sappho, know,
That, if those notes shaped not thy living thoughts,
They imaged mine; and every burning word
Sprang from my heart;” she said—“Thou lovest then,
Alcæus?” “Take back thine own words,” I cried;
“Or give them to me, I will utter them;
And thou shalt answer;” but she only said—
“O then Alcæus knoweth not love at all.”
“Sappho I love,” I answer'd, “Sappho I love.”
“Then in that love,” she said, “like to a child,
That strives with tiny steps to run beside
The strong and rapid pace of full-grown men;
He strives in vain, poor child, and he must faint
And fall; while they who follow after him
Obey him out of tenderness. And thou,
Who lovest wine, and war, and power and glory,
And poesy, methinks, for glory's sake,
Hast small space left in thy o'erpeopled heart
For woman's love; a torch blown by all winds,
Thy spirit's wandering flame recoils upon thee,
Making thee fretful by inconstancy;
While true love, an unruffled altar fire,
Warms more and more all corners of the heart,
And lights that temple up from end to end:
Till all the fuel of humanity—
Not fancies only, not slight hopes and aims—
Are kindled into Poesy; into
Ambition. But that iron of the soul
Is molten like the metal in the forge,
And then, made malleable, is wrought into
Invulnerable armour, proof to all
The shocks of Time! such are my dreams of love;
Oh! he, who builds on love, may build a world!”
And then, half anger'd, I made answer thus:
“Well hast thou said, thou lovedst; for indeed
Thou lov'st no more; yes, thou hast spoken truth.
Thy heart is dead; or thou couldst never thus
Like skill'd anatomist, with sober eye,
Search all its fibres and fine network out,
And mark the channels, where the vital blood
Leap'd boiling, with a hard unfeeling eye:
But rather, like the beggar by the way,
Wouldst wait in humble patience, day by day,
The slenderest boon from the beloved hand,
And bless the giver, even though he scorn'd thee.
Thou wouldst not, like the critic's cold bright eye,
Minutely measure the exact proportions
Of a most perfect portrait; thou wouldst rather,
Like a barbarian, make a very God
Of the most thwart and rudest image of him.
Love is that childlike art, that clothes the Real
With the Ideal, its own simple self;
Not the poor poet's lifelong grand despair
For ever seeking that he cannot find.
Love, like the great Creator, clothes the Real,
Though but unseemly dust, with its own Life,
And sees that it is good; and he is blest:
No mortal Artist, who 'twixt that Creation
And his own handiwork, however fair,
Sees an immeasurable Infinite.
And yet I blame thee not; that sovran heart
Can never die that once hath loved as thine.
But when the inner central flame intense,
Kindled by thundergusts, is quench'd for ever,
The ashes glow, and cast around them life,
That warms the world; and other sparks arise
Of many loves, each potent unto good.
And every fiery pang that it hath felt
Turns to an arrow of song, that strikes the hearts
Of thousands, winning from them tender sighs
And painless tears, whereon the soul is fed
To blessed growths, and strengthens; and is won
From iron moods of evil.” “Hush!” she said;
“Better than all the colours of swift words,
To paint the life that inly dwells alone—
The inexpressible knowledge of the heart—
Are those wild notes above us: higher up
The sloping shadows yonder other notes
Make answer, softer, sweeter. Hark! above
The eager bird is showering wondrous tones;
That shoot and flash, like exultation now,
Now change to tremulous tenderness, and fall
Thro' quivering anguish to a long lament.
But not for long, oh! not for long he mourns.
Brief sadness, shadow of too much delight,
Low, passing sigh of summer winds at noon,
Dies in a breath; and, like the dissonance,
That drowns itself in the full harmony,
Makes the rebuoyant life more glorious
For no far memories, no wild apprehensions,
Nor fear of death, throw shadows of the past
Or future on the present perfect hour.
And its perfection—all in all to him—
Makes heaven of earth, and day of night—a night
Illumined by the flashes of his joy—
And every moment, in its depth and speed,
Like waters flowing rapidly beneath
The unfailing moonshine; every moment gone
Is follow'd by another, brighter still,
With blisses of the heart. He heeds not whence
They come, nor whither flee; for he is blest,
Rejoicing in the pulse of time that is.
Ah me! methinks 'twere better for the poet,
If like this voice of might so glad, so strong,
He could forget the future and the past;
And of the present make an endless triumph,
Singing of nature, singing of life—”

“But are there,”
I said, “no sweet reflexes from past hours;
No echoes of old tongues, no loving words
Of lost and loved, to shrine in sacred song?
No twilight, rich with colours? and no mist
From the oncoming years, which, tho' they turn
To tears, are hued afar off, like the hills
With gold and amethyst? no heights of sorrow,
To make the lovely present yet more lovely,
Like the flown tempest, frowning back upon
The plains rebathed with summer?”

But she answer'd—
“Alas! the fond illusions of the future
Are shadow'd by the sorrows of the past,
The unreal by the real; ah! that past
Hath made the present now so dark to me,
That would I were the little bird that sings,
Lightening the darkness with his song—we too
Can sing, Alcæus; but my songs are now
Lamps in a tomb, kindled by glorious thoughts;
But burning by a dead and silent heart.
Would I could have thy comment; dream for once
Thou art that bird; that from thy poet soul
Flows that rare song! come, tell me what it saith.”
“Tis strange,” I said, “the selfsame thought was mine.
Through all our wild discourse another voice
Seem'd, as an undercurrent to our speech,
To fill our pauses up; methought those birds
Became two lovers, and they communed thus—
And saith the lover dealing with his love—
‘The fear of losing that which I do prize
Beyond all gems and gold, thy love for me,
Makes me rein in the madness of my own.
Else would I play the tyrant in my love,
And fancy torments for thee, that should cloud
The laughing brow of the fair God Himself,
And make him, in despair and pity, break
His golden arrows, that such things should be;
And quench his torch in tears, and shake in anger
His curly locks, and rend his rosy plumes.
And when I had drunk up the lees of joy,
And made my spirit satiate with delight,
By feeding on thy lips the noonday long,
Listening thy tuneful tenderness, and searching
For truth the calm blue fountains of thine eyes;
Sometimes misjudging thy most pleasant speech
With mock suspicion and revenge, I'd wound
Thy tender conscience in its quickest part,
And lay those dear blue eyes in tears. Sometimes,
With sudden change from fondness to disdain,
Like wintry wind in summer, I would shake
Thy powerless goodness yielded up to me
In moments of affection; and behold,
As one who sees a plot of garden flowers
Torn by a thundergust, the desolation
Of thy young heart in ceaseless agony;
And with relentless coldness would hold off
The supplicating hand and pleading voice;
Tho' to the beatings of thy heart my own
Should answer all the while, three to thy one.
And to mine eyes the fountains of my tears
Should mount, like wells in earthquakes, that o'erflow
Their edges; till the greatness of the grief,
And sense of anguish wrought by cruel skill,
Should move my soul as much as thine. Ah! then
I would fly to thee, clasp thee to my heart,
And circle thy sweet neck with yearning arms;
Whisper thee consolations, such as love
Can only breathe; drink up thy tears, and lull
Thy tossing heart with mournful tenderness,
Born half of real despair; which I should feel,
Amid the lightnings of this perilous hour,
The offspring of my phrenzy; and my sorrow
Should fall upon thee like the dews of even
After a burning noon; and thy forgiveness
Smiling upon me, like the soften'd light
Of sunset; and the melancholy calm
Of our reunion, like the windless hours
Of starlight, when the stormy day is done!’”
I ended—and the sweet trio overhead,
Scared by my tongue,—which ever and anon
Rose rapturously, or overworn at length
By its own passion, sang no more; but then
That other song from far came clearer up
Swimming along the moonlight: And I said—
“Now hear the answer.”—“Spare thee,” she replied—
And laugh'd a sudden laugh, so strange and wild,
Alcæus thought that madness had seized on her—
“O wayward son of Caicus, how is this?
How doth this faithful picture of thy soul,
Drawn by thyself, match with thy former words,
That lofty, true, yet vain philosophy
Love lock'd in memory, ruling not thine heart,
But like rare gems too precious to be own'd,
Whose very value makes them valueless?
Now hear the answer,” she in turn exclaim'd,
“It is for me to show thee what it saith.
Come, I will voice the dim sweet melody
With fitter speech than ever man could shape;
Whose softest passion would disport it thus,
And wound while it is winning. O proud man;
Thou canst not slay weak love by craft or force.
The secret links that bind twin souls together
Are subtle as the light that yields and flies;
And yet will glitter on the sword that strikes it,
And fills again the void with angel speed.
Beaten behind the cloud of angry frowns
It lives and hopes; and will break madly through,
And make a contrast sweeter than full noon.
Tears cannot drown it, but returning days
Lift up its head, like the pale bells of spring,
That early come, and rarest breathe, and are
Remember'd latest; and sharp frosts of scorn
That shed its leaves, and sear the naked stem,
Barren as death, yet leave the roots unharm'd,
Which with the first warm glances of the year,
Bud as the vine, and once again will weep
Tears like the precious vintage, warm with life;
Tho' the drear interval be dead and cold.
And tell me, O proud man, what wins thee thus
Back to thy troth, and suns thy pride away.
Is it not Beauty? picture for the eye
To feast on, while the heart is far away?
A flower—no more—but when the flower is sere,
And all its rose-hues, like the blood of youth,
Are blench'd within it, and it yields no breath
For pleasure, like first girlhood's songful voice;
When the lithe form is curved, and the brow
Is smooth no more, and the first snowflakes fall
Amid the dark clouds of the flowing hair.
It is one thing to see the lovely face
Look up to thee a moment after tears;
Another to look on it after years.
Say, should the old Love, ev'n though unforgot,
Knock at thy gate, and say—‘Dear friend, I come;
But found the way so rough, I fear the hours
I counted on for travel have changed to years.
Or was it but a fancy?—for my heart
Calls back, as yesterday, the merry morn
When first we met—and now, I think, I dream'd,
For all my heart is happy, as of old,
At sight of thee! ah no! 'tis but a day.
Wouldst thou fold her to thine unshaken heart;
And, looking thro' the dim eyes, only see
The inextinguishable star within?
Wouldst thou not hold her from thee with thine arm;
And look, as on a picture marr'd by time,
Silently casting up the worth of that
Which once was priceless? turn it to the wall,
And let another picture take its place?
I see an old man leaning on a staff;
From a crazed bark he steps upon the shore;
He looks around him; and his eyes are dim
With wandering in waste lands, his raiment stain'd
With many shipwrecks; but his faithful heart
Forgets the days between, and only sees
The summer mountains, and the viny cot
Of one who once did love him; he is there—
For in the darkness he could search it out—
But lo! there is no cot, but a fair house
With many halls; he weeps and turns away.
But she hath seen him from the topmost tower;
She hath forgotten all the days between;
She hath run down and clasp'd him in her arms,
And she hath clothed him in fair cloth of gold,
And from her heart shed on him once again
The youth long fled; her love hath wrought a charm.
She looks not back into the Past, but on
Into the Everlasting; and she sees
The selfsame boy and girl, who went of old
Forth in the morn together, and then saw
No more each other till their end of days,
The selfsame boy and girl, but hand in hand,
Growing in youth for ever and in joy,
Climbing the mountain slopes to meet the Dawn!”