Poems Lyrical and Dramatic By Evelyn Douglas [i.e. J. E. Barlas] |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
| I. |
| II. | II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | Poems Lyrical and Dramatic |  |
II.
A year had passed, and one dark moonless hour
Heloïse had left her home.
Heloïse had left her home.
94
“Ah! gentlest flower,
Share thou with me my life, my hope, my fame.
The priest's consent shall wipe from thee this shame
And from thy babe. This will I bear for thee—
To sanction once the world's cold blasphemy.
Nay, we shall kneel before the altar, thou
And I, to take on us the foolish vow,
Feel in our ears the mutterings of the mass,
And in our nostrils, when the white priests pass,
The fumes of swaying censers, in our eyes
The colours of the blazing tapestries
And all the broideries on the gaudy stoles:
And vile ascetics shall unite our souls,
Puffing their sallow cheeks with windy pride,
Fancied fruition of a strength denied
To all for whom such ordinance was framed,
(Thou knowest the foul words making love ashamed)
And”—
Share thou with me my life, my hope, my fame.
The priest's consent shall wipe from thee this shame
And from thy babe. This will I bear for thee—
To sanction once the world's cold blasphemy.
Nay, we shall kneel before the altar, thou
And I, to take on us the foolish vow,
Feel in our ears the mutterings of the mass,
And in our nostrils, when the white priests pass,
The fumes of swaying censers, in our eyes
The colours of the blazing tapestries
And all the broideries on the gaudy stoles:
And vile ascetics shall unite our souls,
Puffing their sallow cheeks with windy pride,
Fancied fruition of a strength denied
To all for whom such ordinance was framed,
(Thou knowest the foul words making love ashamed)
And”—
“Never, never shall that hour be born!
What care have we for the weak fool's weak scorn?
Is't not enough, my Abelard, for me
In sight of those divinest eyes to be,
To drink thy wisdom and to hear thy voice,
And in the triumph of thy fame rejoice?
What care have I for the poor name of wife,
Who share the inner secret of thy life?
Are all wives, then, so favoured and so pure
That I would change with them my name obscure,
Mistress of Abelard and of his fate?
Name me the queen that owns a name so great!
Nay, better for thee, far from paltry cares
And all the crown of thorns a father wears,
To dwell apart with studious hours serene,
And of the rest bid Heloïse reign the queen,
Spare hours and profitless, when brain and breast
Once in the turning moon crave love and rest.
Not thine to list to children's peevish cries,
Waste precious days in social vanities,
And sink into that slave of lust and sloth,
The father of a family: I am loth
To be thy wife, for wives I see but few
Who win the high love I have won from you.
Chaste, virtuous, cold, they give and take enough,
Much faithful duty and a little love;—
But we, we have learned other things than these,
Our love is of the soul, free, high, at ease,
And like the lark, that owns no vassalage,
Would pine and perish prisoned in a cage.”
What care have we for the weak fool's weak scorn?
Is't not enough, my Abelard, for me
In sight of those divinest eyes to be,
To drink thy wisdom and to hear thy voice,
And in the triumph of thy fame rejoice?
95
Who share the inner secret of thy life?
Are all wives, then, so favoured and so pure
That I would change with them my name obscure,
Mistress of Abelard and of his fate?
Name me the queen that owns a name so great!
Nay, better for thee, far from paltry cares
And all the crown of thorns a father wears,
To dwell apart with studious hours serene,
And of the rest bid Heloïse reign the queen,
Spare hours and profitless, when brain and breast
Once in the turning moon crave love and rest.
Not thine to list to children's peevish cries,
Waste precious days in social vanities,
And sink into that slave of lust and sloth,
The father of a family: I am loth
To be thy wife, for wives I see but few
Who win the high love I have won from you.
Chaste, virtuous, cold, they give and take enough,
Much faithful duty and a little love;—
But we, we have learned other things than these,
Our love is of the soul, free, high, at ease,
And like the lark, that owns no vassalage,
Would pine and perish prisoned in a cage.”
| Poems Lyrical and Dramatic | |