The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems By George Barlow |
 |
 |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
MAN'S DEVOTION
AND
WOMAN'S POTION:
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems |  |
163
MAN'S DEVOTION AND WOMAN'S POTION:
A STUDY OF PASSION.
- Giuseppa.
- Giacomo, her Lover.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Giacomo.—
Is this the end of all—the end of love?
The end of rose-tined moments—honied hours
In which the glad heart hardly knew itself,
So swiftly sped its pulses on their way?
Is this the end of all? Ah, love, Giuseppa,
What part hast thou in any future world?
Can those white shoulders gather golden wings?
Can those white breasts—the fairest breasts in Italy—
Bear the close pressure of angelic mail—
Breasts fit alone for scented garb of flowers?
Can that strange fickle rosebud of a mouth—
Sweeter, to-day, to me than heretofore—
Can that be changed into some lily pale,
Meet for the sanctifying kiss of God?
And can thy voice, that rings upon my ear
With such a silver cadence that at farthest
Ends of the earth I could not but respond,
Can this be trained and trammelled for the lutes
Of innocent high choruses in heaven?
Nay, surely thou art mine for ever now—
Mine, my Giuseppa, by thine own mad deed,
Which, having put thee beyond pale of mercy—
Beyond the utmost pardon of pure heaven—
Makes me thy master and eternal lord.
I have conquered thee at last, oh strong Giuseppa!—
Most white Giuseppa!—tender, soft Giuseppa!—
Playful Giuseppa!—innocent Giuseppa!—
Mere kitten-like, immaculate Giuseppa!—
Rose-crowned, rose-flushed, and lily-sweet Giuseppa!—
Pure, girl-like, flower-like, virginal Giuseppa!—
Thee I have conquered utterly at last!
Thou art in chains to me, oh, pale Giuseppa!—
Nay, look not o'er thy shoulder, fierce and strangely—
Thou art in chains to me, and not to him
Who met thee in the gondola last night—
In bonds to me, I say, and not to him!
The end of rose-tined moments—honied hours
In which the glad heart hardly knew itself,
So swiftly sped its pulses on their way?
Is this the end of all? Ah, love, Giuseppa,
What part hast thou in any future world?
Can those white shoulders gather golden wings?
Can those white breasts—the fairest breasts in Italy—
169
Breasts fit alone for scented garb of flowers?
Can that strange fickle rosebud of a mouth—
Sweeter, to-day, to me than heretofore—
Can that be changed into some lily pale,
Meet for the sanctifying kiss of God?
And can thy voice, that rings upon my ear
With such a silver cadence that at farthest
Ends of the earth I could not but respond,
Can this be trained and trammelled for the lutes
Of innocent high choruses in heaven?
Nay, surely thou art mine for ever now—
Mine, my Giuseppa, by thine own mad deed,
Which, having put thee beyond pale of mercy—
Beyond the utmost pardon of pure heaven—
Makes me thy master and eternal lord.
I have conquered thee at last, oh strong Giuseppa!—
Most white Giuseppa!—tender, soft Giuseppa!—
Playful Giuseppa!—innocent Giuseppa!—
Mere kitten-like, immaculate Giuseppa!—
Rose-crowned, rose-flushed, and lily-sweet Giuseppa!—
Pure, girl-like, flower-like, virginal Giuseppa!—
170
Thou art in chains to me, oh, pale Giuseppa!—
Nay, look not o'er thy shoulder, fierce and strangely—
Thou art in chains to me, and not to him
Who met thee in the gondola last night—
In bonds to me, I say, and not to him!
Now you are flushed—have I been over cruel?
Nay, sweet, I saw you both; I was the rose
You took from out your bosom sweet and gave him—
Yea, I was in the rose; I watched you glide
Under the moonlight past San Marco's steps,
And, in the rose still, I beheld you kiss him!
Nay, sweet, I saw you both; I was the rose
You took from out your bosom sweet and gave him—
Yea, I was in the rose; I watched you glide
Under the moonlight past San Marco's steps,
And, in the rose still, I beheld you kiss him!
What! he was your own husband, do you say?
Ah, true, true, true—you have been doubly false—
First to your husband, then your lover-husband!
How many, many times have you protested,
With those red lips of yours set fast on mine,
You loved me—loved me truly, loved me only!
And now, fair woman-like, you do not find
Your lover's love variety enough—
You must return a little to your husband,
Make assignations where they are not needed,
Impart romance to the prosaic story
Of common wedded love by pranks suspicious.
I see!—you tired of me, and so you turned
Me to the husband, and your actual husband
Into the image of a prowling lover.
It was well done, my lady—cleverly!
The one thing that a woman cannot brook,
The only thing, is any lack of passion;
And to form passion there must be romance,
Fair freshness, strangeness—call it what you will—
The something subtle, flower-like, that provides
A force to bar and mar satiety.
A woman must have passion's roses fresh—
Yea, just new gathered, with the sweet bright dew
Of earliest morn upon the tender leaves;
And so, e'en here in Italy, where a lover
Can safeliest rest upon a woman's oath
'Tis thought, a woman amorous for adventure,
Forsakes her lover, and, for fresh delight,
Laughing, commits adultery with her husband!
I see—see, see it all! Ah, Giuseppa!
One small thing you forgot—one tiny thing:
To leave your lover living when you spurned him.
Then, then you might have easily forgotten;
But now, since you have mixed that poisoned phial—
Nay, start not, lady; oh! I would not harm you;
I would not harm those tender hands of yours,
And that white, tender, perfect neck, for kingdoms!
I know—I love you all the better for it!
I saw you when you—stealthy and divine,
E'en then, in your most wicked marvellous beauty—
Crept to the room where I was lying sick
And slowly poured the shining reddish drops—
Seven was it? Ah, how tenderly you counted!—
Into the glass by my bedside, believing
That I was well asleep; I saw your eyes
Flash when the last drop slowly tinkled down,
And then I knew your heart was eased and glad.
I see you now—the long neck slightly strained,
The body forward bowed to reach the table;
The glance quick, ready, eager, apprehensive,
The hands not trembling—every nerve obedient—
One white rose struggling (where the dress, displaced
By stretching forward, showed a flower-soft bosom)
To slip beneath your bodice-work the while.
Ah, true, true, true—you have been doubly false—
First to your husband, then your lover-husband!
How many, many times have you protested,
With those red lips of yours set fast on mine,
You loved me—loved me truly, loved me only!
And now, fair woman-like, you do not find
171
You must return a little to your husband,
Make assignations where they are not needed,
Impart romance to the prosaic story
Of common wedded love by pranks suspicious.
I see!—you tired of me, and so you turned
Me to the husband, and your actual husband
Into the image of a prowling lover.
It was well done, my lady—cleverly!
The one thing that a woman cannot brook,
The only thing, is any lack of passion;
And to form passion there must be romance,
Fair freshness, strangeness—call it what you will—
The something subtle, flower-like, that provides
A force to bar and mar satiety.
A woman must have passion's roses fresh—
Yea, just new gathered, with the sweet bright dew
Of earliest morn upon the tender leaves;
And so, e'en here in Italy, where a lover
Can safeliest rest upon a woman's oath
'Tis thought, a woman amorous for adventure,
Forsakes her lover, and, for fresh delight,
Laughing, commits adultery with her husband!
172
One small thing you forgot—one tiny thing:
To leave your lover living when you spurned him.
Then, then you might have easily forgotten;
But now, since you have mixed that poisoned phial—
Nay, start not, lady; oh! I would not harm you;
I would not harm those tender hands of yours,
And that white, tender, perfect neck, for kingdoms!
I know—I love you all the better for it!
I saw you when you—stealthy and divine,
E'en then, in your most wicked marvellous beauty—
Crept to the room where I was lying sick
And slowly poured the shining reddish drops—
Seven was it? Ah, how tenderly you counted!—
Into the glass by my bedside, believing
That I was well asleep; I saw your eyes
Flash when the last drop slowly tinkled down,
And then I knew your heart was eased and glad.
I see you now—the long neck slightly strained,
The body forward bowed to reach the table;
173
The hands not trembling—every nerve obedient—
One white rose struggling (where the dress, displaced
By stretching forward, showed a flower-soft bosom)
To slip beneath your bodice-work the while.
Ah, sweet, you see I know the whole! I saw you!
Why did I not cry out or speak? Why should I?
What am I that you should not have your way
And do your will, as ever you have done
Since the first childish days when, glad together,
We played in Venice here—yea, sometimes played
At rendering old fierce histories into fact,
Old tales of Doges poisoned, or of lovers
Stabbed suddenly i' the midst of burning kisses.
We played at these things—mere past fairy tales;
But now we play at truth. You poison me,
And, on my word, it seems to me quite natural.
Do it again. Come, put that tall glass nearer;
Now take the medicine—let us make believe.
Fling out that orange-lily; pour the water
Into the medicine; we will fancy it
Is the same water that you used last night.
Now give it me to drink. You are afraid?
You fear the water? did not fear the poison?
Ah, women do brave things, but they are cowards,
Cowards at heart, the bravest and the fairest.
This is the play, the other was rehearsal.
But you—you did it much the best last night:
You killed your lover then—now you restore him.
Oh! bad, bad, bad! You'll never make an actress.
Why did I not cry out or speak? Why should I?
What am I that you should not have your way
And do your will, as ever you have done
Since the first childish days when, glad together,
We played in Venice here—yea, sometimes played
At rendering old fierce histories into fact,
Old tales of Doges poisoned, or of lovers
Stabbed suddenly i' the midst of burning kisses.
We played at these things—mere past fairy tales;
But now we play at truth. You poison me,
And, on my word, it seems to me quite natural.
Do it again. Come, put that tall glass nearer;
174
Fling out that orange-lily; pour the water
Into the medicine; we will fancy it
Is the same water that you used last night.
Now give it me to drink. You are afraid?
You fear the water? did not fear the poison?
Ah, women do brave things, but they are cowards,
Cowards at heart, the bravest and the fairest.
This is the play, the other was rehearsal.
But you—you did it much the best last night:
You killed your lover then—now you restore him.
Oh! bad, bad, bad! You'll never make an actress.
What! you can cry! Oh, mere pale, feeble murderess!
Attempt a murder, and then weep about it!
But I am sorry—I would make you weep,
And yet I would not, lest I spoil your beauty,
For when I'm dead, oh sweet, fair queen of Venice,
I want you to be queen of Venice still,
And queen of your own husband; you, remember,
Are doomed to his embraces now, poor child!
You've broken all your lover-shield to pieces.
But oh, those tears! I, dying here, Giuseppa,
Declare with solemn and unshaken speech
That they are sweet to me—so utter sweet—
So beyond every earthly figure sweet;
That I, for this one pleasure at your hands,
Would gladly perish through eternity.
Yea, now I feel the hand of death more near,
I grow more earnest. You shall listen to me.
I say that now I see those tender tears
In your great yearning eyes, and now I know
By the sure intuition of the dying,
And by the sense of love that pierces through
All veils and all deceptions at the last,
That you love me—me best—and not another,
I would not for ten thousand years upon
The golden floors of God's most gracious heaven
Have missed that draught of poison, which to me
Is as the red delicious wine of love.
Take, darling, darling—now my speech grows harder—
Take, darling, when you die, when you would meet me,
Just such another cunning, hidden phial,
And bring it with you; I would have you hurt me,
Still, still, yea never cease to wound and hurt me,
For still, the more you wound the more I love you.
Attempt a murder, and then weep about it!
But I am sorry—I would make you weep,
And yet I would not, lest I spoil your beauty,
For when I'm dead, oh sweet, fair queen of Venice,
I want you to be queen of Venice still,
And queen of your own husband; you, remember,
175
You've broken all your lover-shield to pieces.
But oh, those tears! I, dying here, Giuseppa,
Declare with solemn and unshaken speech
That they are sweet to me—so utter sweet—
So beyond every earthly figure sweet;
That I, for this one pleasure at your hands,
Would gladly perish through eternity.
Yea, now I feel the hand of death more near,
I grow more earnest. You shall listen to me.
I say that now I see those tender tears
In your great yearning eyes, and now I know
By the sure intuition of the dying,
And by the sense of love that pierces through
All veils and all deceptions at the last,
That you love me—me best—and not another,
I would not for ten thousand years upon
The golden floors of God's most gracious heaven
Have missed that draught of poison, which to me
Is as the red delicious wine of love.
Take, darling, darling—now my speech grows harder—
Take, darling, when you die, when you would meet me,
176
And bring it with you; I would have you hurt me,
Still, still, yea never cease to wound and hurt me,
For still, the more you wound the more I love you.
I am content; I envy not your husband.
You have not killed him; that superb, sweet honour
Has been reserved for me, the humble lover.
You never cared enough for him to kill him?
Just so; a woman must feel passion when
She takes such splendid trouble with a man,
And puts her soul in peril for his sake.
As for your soul, I'll get the penance ended
Before you start for heaven; you shall be clear
Of punishment, and ready to enjoy—
I bear the pain; and, when we get to heaven,
You shall kill me again if so it please you,
With better, more malignant heavenly poison.
Oh! I am glad!—I cannot say how glad—
For now I've won you—won you past denial;
Your husband now has not a single claim.
By this swift poison coursing through my veins
I swear I win you; you are mine for ever—
Mine are your lips, your cheeks, your whole sweet body,
Sweeter than roses, which a man may die
Because of, and thrice softly laugh to know it.
You have not killed him; that superb, sweet honour
Has been reserved for me, the humble lover.
You never cared enough for him to kill him?
Just so; a woman must feel passion when
She takes such splendid trouble with a man,
And puts her soul in peril for his sake.
As for your soul, I'll get the penance ended
Before you start for heaven; you shall be clear
Of punishment, and ready to enjoy—
I bear the pain; and, when we get to heaven,
You shall kill me again if so it please you,
With better, more malignant heavenly poison.
Oh! I am glad!—I cannot say how glad—
For now I've won you—won you past denial;
Your husband now has not a single claim.
By this swift poison coursing through my veins
177
Mine are your lips, your cheeks, your whole sweet body,
Sweeter than roses, which a man may die
Because of, and thrice softly laugh to know it.
And as for you, you need not fear; here is
My dying deposition, signed, complete,
Stating that I, in weariness of life,
Took poison—I the doer, I the culprit.
And so I am—why should I give you trouble;
I would have taken poison had I known
You wished it—saved you trouble, saved you danger.
You should have told me; it was needless trouble
To mix the potion with your own white hands,
And with your own white hands to place it here.
I ask your pardon that you had to do it.
My dying deposition, signed, complete,
Stating that I, in weariness of life,
Took poison—I the doer, I the culprit.
And so I am—why should I give you trouble;
I would have taken poison had I known
You wished it—saved you trouble, saved you danger.
You should have told me; it was needless trouble
To mix the potion with your own white hands,
And with your own white hands to place it here.
I ask your pardon that you had to do it.
And now I feel the sword of death within me—
Come close—come close—come closer, oh Giuseppa.
And—ah, I did not ask you so to kiss me,
And so to wet my face and eyes and hair
With tears. Ah, this is joy!
Giuseppa.—I loved you always.
Come close—come close—come closer, oh Giuseppa.
And—ah, I did not ask you so to kiss me,
And so to wet my face and eyes and hair
With tears. Ah, this is joy!
Giuseppa.—I loved you always.
| The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems | |