The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems By George Barlow |
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| THE WRESTLE FOR A SOUL. |
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 | The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems |  |
178
THE WRESTLE FOR A SOUL.
- Bianca: A coquettish girl.
- Enrico: A poet.
- Ursula: Enrico's friend.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Scene 1.—Morning.
Enrico and Ursula conversing.Enrico.—
Bid me not stir—I have this woman's soul
To struggle for, and win perchance, ere night.
Ursula.—
She is a selfish woman—not worth much.
I hate all such, not having strength to love.
Enr.—
Not having strength? A powerless phrase to use!
Must weakness then develop into hate?
Ursula.—
Not so, for God has strength to bring such back,
And fold them safe within His loving arms.
Enr.—
What! God has strength, and woman is too weak!
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Thus slandered—by a sister-woman too!
Ursula.—
God has the strength: but woman is not God,
Nor yet a goddess—though the poets talk
Of goddesshood in many a sounding phrase.
Enr.—
And as for you, your part it is to make
What poets say, true to the living fact.
If woman will not follow, who can lead?
Ursula.—
Woman will follow: but Bianca—she
Is sinful—shallow—selfish—commonplace;
A vicious, loveless woman of the world.
Enr.—
Oh, that is all a woman sees in this
Frail, sad, mad woman—vicious, selfish, bad—
Past hope, and irredeemable, no doubt.
Ursula.—
Yes, irredeemable by power of man.
I hate such—and I leave them unto God.
Not without hope, I leave them unto Him.
Enr.—
It grieves me, lady, thus to hear you talk—
I thought your wings were whiter, and your hands
Whiter—and all your heart a lordlier thing.
Ursula.—
And, perhaps, Bianca's hands and wings are white,
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Larger than mine—more equal with your own.
Enr.—
Nay, white it is not; white it shall be soon,
For I, by power of love will make it white.
A woman cannot reach her! I will try.
Ursula.—
May God forbid that you should ever sell
Your birthright for this mess of porridge—when
You talk so, those who love you can't but grieve.
Enr.—
That I am sorry for: but yet I feel
The great sweet fire upon me, that shall reach
Bianca even, and shall burn her pure.
Ursula.—
You are too proud, you ought to leave to God
His crown of terrible atoning fire.
It will destroy you, if you snatch it down.
Enr.—
Let it destroy me! It is better thus
To perish, burnt in pieces by pure love,
Than slow to tread the placid earthly ways.
Ursula.—
But yet the quiet earthly ways are sweet;
Be gentle, patient, humble: and believe
That God will bring all gracious things to pass.
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You cannot understand: why I have moved
In one great yearning dream through every spot
Where fair Bianca's piteous sins were done.
Yea, seen her with her lover, heard them kiss;
I know the whole of it; I know her heart.
Ursula.—
Mere male mad folly—mere subjective dreams.
That woman is too strong for you, I say—
Too wickedly perverse at any rate.
I understand a woman: you do not.
But pray go on: of course I do not care.
Enr.—
I never thought you did care: don't protest.
Ursula.—
There are who care. I am not one of those.
Enr.—
I know it; wait, however, give me time.
A little time I ask for—but one night.
At present leave me, and to-morrow go
And see Bianca—there may be a change.
Ursula.—
Good-bye.
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Scene 2.—At Night.
—Enrico alone in his chamber. A lamp burning dimly. A volume of poems open on the table, and a large red rose in a jar near it.[Enrico]
He speaks.
I have not reached her yet—the task is harder,
Her lover false has more force to retard her
Sweet trembling lingering growth, than I had thought.
[He pauses between the stanzas, and wrestles
inwardly in spirit.
Her lover false has more force to retard her
Sweet trembling lingering growth, than I had thought.
But I shall reach her: though the end be other
Than that of earthly triumph; if I smother
My very life, the battle shall be fought.
Than that of earthly triumph; if I smother
My very life, the battle shall be fought.
Yea—I will keep my promise made this morning,
Though truth there may be in my fair friend's warning,
A deep truth in the prophecy she brought.
The fire of God upon me burns me throughly,
And, as it burns, Bianca's soul leaps newly
Into glad life, in flaming network caught.
Though truth there may be in my fair friend's warning,
A deep truth in the prophecy she brought.
The fire of God upon me burns me throughly,
And, as it burns, Bianca's soul leaps newly
Into glad life, in flaming network caught.
I feel the force go out from me, and reach her:
Wind round her form, fast-trembling, and beseech her:
I feel that some new marvel now is wrought.
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I feel that some new marvel now is wrought.
I feel the fiery spirit of God that trembles
Along my soul—Bianca's soul dissembles
No more before it; she can cover nought.
Along my soul—Bianca's soul dissembles
No more before it; she can cover nought.
Yet as the strength is on me, I grow weaker:
And she—she grows more tender fast and meeker,
As if by some true lover's heart besought.
And she—she grows more tender fast and meeker,
As if by some true lover's heart besought.
I see her spirit—I see its former sorrow—
Yet as a girl laughs, she shall laugh to-morrow;
Of black years she shall not remember aught.
Yet as a girl laughs, she shall laugh to-morrow;
Of black years she shall not remember aught.
Oh, sacred spirit of woman—this I give thee—
I win thy soul—if I may not outlive thee—
I bring thee silver streams for desert drought.
I win thy soul—if I may not outlive thee—
I bring thee silver streams for desert drought.
Ha! the rose does it wither,
The rose I brought hither
This morning?
Are its petals now paler,
And drooping, and frailer,
For a warning?
The red rose is mine,
And my spirit I twine
In its leaves—
Its swift loss of bloom
Means that somewhere in gloom,
Death weaves
A dark shroud for my tomb.
[He pauses for a time, and appears to enter into a
sort of trance state. While he is in this condition
the colour rapidly and perceptibly ebbs from
The petals of the red rose on the table. It grows
paler and paler. A sweet strain of music,
played not far off, enters the room. This
appears to wake him.
The rose I brought hither
This morning?
Are its petals now paler,
And drooping, and frailer,
For a warning?
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And my spirit I twine
In its leaves—
Its swift loss of bloom
Means that somewhere in gloom,
Death weaves
A dark shroud for my tomb.
Ah! now I can speak; she is won:
The fierce hot battle is done.
She is crowned with the light of the sun
On her brows: her life is begun.
The fierce hot battle is done.
She is crowned with the light of the sun
On her brows: her life is begun.
Bianca now she is not
But Flora—a flower without spot.
A blossom superb and clean—
Tender in maidenly sheen.
But Flora—a flower without spot.
A blossom superb and clean—
Tender in maidenly sheen.
A spirit superb and pure—
Whose love and life shall endure.
A sweet soul, spotless and fair,
Garbed in a maidenhood rare.
Whose love and life shall endure.
A sweet soul, spotless and fair,
Garbed in a maidenhood rare.
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This I have won by my fight
With the spirits of sorrow and night—
To be followed, ever hereafter,
By a girl's glad sinless laughter.
With the spirits of sorrow and night—
To be followed, ever hereafter,
By a girl's glad sinless laughter.
Through my dream I heard
Her maidenly new-born word—
Her virginal fresh-wrought speech.
It had power my heart to reach.
Her maidenly new-born word—
Her virginal fresh-wrought speech.
It had power my heart to reach.
And I shall never forget
That her eyes were tender and wet
When she woke this morning—though
The reason she may not know.
That her eyes were tender and wet
When she woke this morning—though
The reason she may not know.
And now I am well content
That the veil of life be rent.
For though I pass to the grave
This wonderful soul I save.
That the veil of life be rent.
For though I pass to the grave
This wonderful soul I save.
Though I, dead, pass to the night,
This blossom henceforth is white.
Though I am forgotten, I give
To her leave to laugh and to live.
[The rose now perfectly white, shakes, and falls
from the jar to the ground.
This blossom henceforth is white.
Though I am forgotten, I give
To her leave to laugh and to live.
Now the eternal music poureth through me,
Its great ecstatic yearning fills my brain—
It streameth round me like some wondrous rain.
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Yesterday? was I “proud,” “defiant,” “wrong?”
In one thing thou wast right—I was not strong
To bear that terrible fire of God for long—
It crowned me and saved Bianca—then it slew me.
Scene 3.—Early Morning.
—Bianca singing as she dresses.
I had a dream last night,
And all my heart is light,
Glad, as this dawn is bright.
And all my heart is light,
Glad, as this dawn is bright.
I dreamed that round me strong
Arms passed—and I could not wrestle
To pull and smite them away.
Mad years of sorrow and wrong
Fled, and I tried to nestle
In the arms, and laughed as I lay.
Arms passed—and I could not wrestle
To pull and smite them away.
Mad years of sorrow and wrong
Fled, and I tried to nestle
In the arms, and laughed as I lay.
I laughed as I lay, soft-smiling
To think I was found at last—
Conquered, and soothed, and at peace;
Freed from spirits defiling;
Let loose from the sins that are passed,
And granted a sweet release.
To think I was found at last—
Conquered, and soothed, and at peace;
Freed from spirits defiling;
Let loose from the sins that are passed,
And granted a sweet release.
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So the strong arms wound right round me,
And I could not struggle or stir,
They were far too strong to evade.
In blossomy bands they bound me,
And I felt that to me they were
Like a soothing shield and a shade.
And I could not struggle or stir,
They were far too strong to evade.
In blossomy bands they bound me,
And I felt that to me they were
Like a soothing shield and a shade.
I felt the old fierce power
Of the former passions die
And vanish adown the wind:
I was glad as a glad glad flower,
And very content to lie
With those arms about me twined.
Of the former passions die
And vanish adown the wind:
I was glad as a glad glad flower,
And very content to lie
With those arms about me twined.
And now to-day I am changed,
Though I hardly know the reason—
Hardly can tell at all:
Fresh hopes round me are ranged,
And a fresh more summer-like season
Seems to be within call.
Though I hardly know the reason—
Hardly can tell at all:
Fresh hopes round me are ranged,
And a fresh more summer-like season
Seems to be within call.
I feel like a girl—my pillow
Is damp with a rain of tears;
(I had not cried for so long!)
Spent is the stormy billow
Of suffering: happier years
Smile round me, a rose-crowned throng.
Is damp with a rain of tears;
(I had not cried for so long!)
Spent is the stormy billow
Of suffering: happier years
Smile round me, a rose-crowned throng.
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Why, my eyes were blue—
They are changed—changed—changed to grey,
To a greyer tinge than before.
And a look of one I knew
Is in them—Enrico whose lay
Of love once lisped at my door.
They are changed—changed—changed to grey,
To a greyer tinge than before.
And a look of one I knew
Is in them—Enrico whose lay
Of love once lisped at my door.
Softer I feel to the singer—
I know not—softer I feel:
More tender and grave than of old. [She hears passers-by speaking below the window. They say—
Enrico is dead—his finger
O'er the harp no more will steal:
The poet is crowned and is cold.
I know not—softer I feel:
More tender and grave than of old. [She hears passers-by speaking below the window. They say—
Enrico is dead—his finger
O'er the harp no more will steal:
The poet is crowned and is cold.
| The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems | |