 | Benoni |  |
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THE DANCERS.
Beneath a serried firmament of light
And floods of ceaseless music, they swept on
In luxury of wreathed motions, free
And most bewitching to the sense of those
Who weave them; and the while they moved, a glaze
Of stedfast smiles was on their faces, born
Of complaisance, or shallow if sincere:
And their skill'd lips did not refrain to speak
Of tender things, and make unblushingly
Bold dalliance with the sacred name of Love,
And swing upon her golden gates, and peer
Thro' the bright portal of her mysteries,—
Nor mean to enter in.
And floods of ceaseless music, they swept on
In luxury of wreathed motions, free
And most bewitching to the sense of those
Who weave them; and the while they moved, a glaze
Of stedfast smiles was on their faces, born
Of complaisance, or shallow if sincere:
And their skill'd lips did not refrain to speak
Of tender things, and make unblushingly
Bold dalliance with the sacred name of Love,
And swing upon her golden gates, and peer
Thro' the bright portal of her mysteries,—
Nor mean to enter in.
I too with girls
Of that fair throng did mate me and strike out
In wild erratic orbits like the rest;
And all my brain was full of fiery sounds
And inspiration of the thickening rout
Wherein I circled, breeding staunch resolve
To do and dare among the best—to be
The gayest bubble on the waves of mirth,
The blithest mask in all her carnival;
Yet in some secret calmness did my soul
Unruffled muse, and even in the mid-heat
And core o' the whirlwind, gather'd leave to think
On all she felt and saw, and sorrowing ask—
E'en of the fulness of her own delight—
If this were joy, or aught akin to Heaven?
Of that fair throng did mate me and strike out
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And all my brain was full of fiery sounds
And inspiration of the thickening rout
Wherein I circled, breeding staunch resolve
To do and dare among the best—to be
The gayest bubble on the waves of mirth,
The blithest mask in all her carnival;
Yet in some secret calmness did my soul
Unruffled muse, and even in the mid-heat
And core o' the whirlwind, gather'd leave to think
On all she felt and saw, and sorrowing ask—
E'en of the fulness of her own delight—
If this were joy, or aught akin to Heaven?
Thou too, she said, who cleavest unto me
So close that all thy bosom's pantings feel
For nearness like my own,—on whose white brow
And fragrant tresses doth my hot breath rove
And wander freely down to mix with thine,—
Thou who dost yield thy being to my grasp,
And shape thine every motion unto mine,
And let me steer and whirl thee as I list
Among the seething crowd,—Are these things fraught
With joy for thee—such joy as woman's heart
May feel still mounting upward till it brim
Her total Being, and take rank with those
Great calm delights of senses or of soul
That make a spirit's bliss?—Ah, some still voice
From thy own woods and lawns, and from the blue
And quiet water, and that old grey church,
And all home-sweets, shall sadly whisper No!
So close that all thy bosom's pantings feel
For nearness like my own,—on whose white brow
And fragrant tresses doth my hot breath rove
And wander freely down to mix with thine,—
Thou who dost yield thy being to my grasp,
And shape thine every motion unto mine,
And let me steer and whirl thee as I list
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With joy for thee—such joy as woman's heart
May feel still mounting upward till it brim
Her total Being, and take rank with those
Great calm delights of senses or of soul
That make a spirit's bliss?—Ah, some still voice
From thy own woods and lawns, and from the blue
And quiet water, and that old grey church,
And all home-sweets, shall sadly whisper No!
Thou hast no portion in my heart, and I
Have less in thine: then wherefore do I fold
My stranger-arms about thee,—wherefore feel
This thrilling touch so close? For why should I
Drink the full fragrance of thy loveliness,
Be nestled at its very heart, and shrined
Hard by the sacred presence of thy charms?
Why ope thy lavish treasures thus so wide
To all, and keep so few peculiar gems
Within thy casket for the grasp of Love?
Where is the cavern'd well-spring at thy soul's
Most central depths, whereto none else but one
Should wind his way by lonesome alleys sweet,
And there abide, and drink his fill for aye?
Ah, it is choked—else thou hadst spared to make
These happy guerdons of a life of love
The playthings of an hour.
Have less in thine: then wherefore do I fold
My stranger-arms about thee,—wherefore feel
This thrilling touch so close? For why should I
Drink the full fragrance of thy loveliness,
Be nestled at its very heart, and shrined
Hard by the sacred presence of thy charms?
Why ope thy lavish treasures thus so wide
To all, and keep so few peculiar gems
Within thy casket for the grasp of Love?
Where is the cavern'd well-spring at thy soul's
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Should wind his way by lonesome alleys sweet,
And there abide, and drink his fill for aye?
Ah, it is choked—else thou hadst spared to make
These happy guerdons of a life of love
The playthings of an hour.
Howbeit, 'tis well:
Ye mean it not; and also unto me
These martial bursts that launch your wizard feet
Upon the dance, and float them there at will,
Do oft strike inward to the heart, and find
Some echo there that tells them it is home.
For I should scorn to hold (as most unmatch'd
With the pure catholic spirit, that expands
In broadest love intelligent, yet keeps
Unsoil'd the holy blazon on its breast)
That these things fit not with the child of God—
That it is meet i' the bubbling heart of youth
To shut these tiny valves, and seal it down
To mawkish dulness and the stiff constraint
Of soulless tasks, breeding disgust which thence
Indignant swelling, bursts in stormy sin.
Who knows not, 'tis the inner spirit, the quick
Conceiving impulse, and the prime intent,
That lifts to right, or forces down to wrong,
These level deeds,—that fills these faint cartoons
With sunniest lights, or shadows of the grave?
Ye mean it not; and also unto me
These martial bursts that launch your wizard feet
Upon the dance, and float them there at will,
Do oft strike inward to the heart, and find
Some echo there that tells them it is home.
For I should scorn to hold (as most unmatch'd
With the pure catholic spirit, that expands
In broadest love intelligent, yet keeps
Unsoil'd the holy blazon on its breast)
That these things fit not with the child of God—
That it is meet i' the bubbling heart of youth
To shut these tiny valves, and seal it down
To mawkish dulness and the stiff constraint
Of soulless tasks, breeding disgust which thence
Indignant swelling, bursts in stormy sin.
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Conceiving impulse, and the prime intent,
That lifts to right, or forces down to wrong,
These level deeds,—that fills these faint cartoons
With sunniest lights, or shadows of the grave?
Yea, and 'tis well that we should rise at times
From the dark crypts of what we are, and thus
Live on the surface of ourselves awhile,
Forgetting all beneath. Ah chiefly blest,
Who dwell for ever there, or lightly rise
Unclogg'd by tangling weeds below, and swim
Their buoyant souls aloft most gallantly,
Nor have forgotten how they may forget.
From the dark crypts of what we are, and thus
Live on the surface of ourselves awhile,
Forgetting all beneath. Ah chiefly blest,
Who dwell for ever there, or lightly rise
Unclogg'd by tangling weeds below, and swim
Their buoyant souls aloft most gallantly,
Nor have forgotten how they may forget.
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