 | Marah |  |
100
HORACE AND LYDIA
HeYou ask me, “Do I love you?” Yes.
“What grace in you my worship wins?”
None. “Why, then, do I love you?” Guess!
Why does the sinner love his sins?
The drunkard his habitual dram?
The gambler counters, cards, and dice?
A slave to vicious wants I am,
And you are my inveterate vice.
She
Impertinent!
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For truth you call,
Truth, and truth only. My reply,
Tho' it offend you—
She
Not at all!
He
Was, every word of it—
She
A lie!
He
No!
She
Yes! For all of flaming fire
Your fancy is, your heart all ice.
102
Granted. That means that my desire
Is vicious; you, its object, vice.
She
No. It means only, thankless friend,
That your desire has flights insane,
And I, beyond whose reach they tend,
Know that the goal they seek is vain.
Your dupe I am not. You deceive
Yourself, it may be, but not me,
When you aver, perhaps believe,
You love me. Ah, but you would be
As little to my liking then
As all the others are, if you
(In nothing else like other men)
Did, or could, love me as they do!
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Love fancies. Each for each is full
Of riddles that remain half guess'd.
And doubt, at least, is never dull.
You ought to feel, could you but share
My wisdom, thankful I am not
The woman that you wish I were.
To take delight in such a lot
As your caprice for love provides,
A woman should be either blind
And a born innocent besides,
Or else of a perverted mind—
Like me! Who deign with cheerfulness
To be the subject, tho' I know
That of your singular caress
I never was the object. No!
There lives no woman you could love
Fairly, for love's sake: tho' from each
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Or fleets beyond, a woman's reach.
Ay, and a man's reach, too! For this
Ferocious idol, this Afar,
This phantom fetish, from a kiss
Could never yet create a star!
He
True. All its miracles require
The faith of two believers. One
Suffices not. And I aspire
In vain, for I aspire alone.
Our aims accord not. Mine, that was
High to uplift us both, has fail'd.
Yours was to drag me down. Alas,
And it is yours that has prevail'd!
105
To drag you down! You found me here
Where you were glad to find me, I
To welcome you. My natural sphere
I keep. Its hospitality
You sought, and all ungrudged 'twas given;
Nor did you spare the proffer'd feast.
If, just because earth is not Heaven,
I make the best of earth, at least
For the best gift earth has to give
Let us be thankful! Me you blame,
And you I tease; yet we contrive
To charm each other all the same.
Earth's child am I, for Heaven unfit.
But I deserve some earthly praise
For kindliness, good looks, and wit,
Altho' not wings I wear, but stays.
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For other women. Here on earth
You will not find my better. Foil'd
Beforehand, seek! I know my worth.
After me, nothing! Search all round,
What is there left to find?
He
What they,
The Poet and the Sage, have found:
The Abstract!
She
Has the Abstract, pray,
Lips, limbs, and life? You will but find
Another woman, and a worse,
With faults as little to your mind,
Tho' not the same as mine, of course.
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I came into your life too late,
And found you thus, completely made.
I needs must either love or hate
The thing you are without my aid.
And I would be a maker.
She
Friend,
Nature would be beforehand still
With all your work. Defeats attend
The usurpations of her will.
Perfection clothed in petticoats
Is youth's Chimaera. This sad truth
Your poets sing in mournful notes,
Your sages preach. The fault of youth
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And therefore miss the mark. Between
Life's two extremes, in me kind Fate
Accords you now the golden mean.
If one you found with warmer blood
Than mine is, she would be less fair.
Another's milk-white maidenhood
Would lack intelligence. Beware!
To us complacent circumstance
Is well disposed. Our fates are free.
And I would be your last romance,
As you are my first poem. See!
He
Ah, sceptic, cease! I can nor fight
Nor fly the field. Your lips and eyes
Disarm my reasonings. You are right,
And they are wrong. Be yours the prize
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Lay your hand on my heart once more!
What is it beats so wild within,
If love it be not?
She
Shut the door!
| Marah | |