The Flood of Thessaly The Girl of Provence, and Other Poems. By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter] |
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| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. | VIII. |
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 | The Flood of Thessaly |  |
VIII.
Why did I lose thee?—Wherefore was I sent
(Gently, 'tis true) away to banishment,
With such a passion clinging to my soul?—
I cannot tell thee half its huge controul,
Its fiery folly,—its so proud despair,
Its scorn,—aye of itself; nay, scorn of thee!
Dost thou not marvel how such things should be?
They were; but I am well;—and yet not thine!
(Gently, 'tis true) away to banishment,
With such a passion clinging to my soul?—
I cannot tell thee half its huge controul,
Its fiery folly,—its so proud despair,
Its scorn,—aye of itself; nay, scorn of thee!
Dost thou not marvel how such things should be?
They were; but I am well;—and yet not thine!
. . . And thou hast passed from me!—Do I repine?—
I ask my heart in vain;—it answereth not.
My soul hath but one sight:—It looks alone
Into the future, and the past which shone
So bright is now (save some few dreams) forgot.
—A change now as I write is happening.
My mind doth re-assume its strength, and fling
Away Hate, Envy, Melancholy,—blind
Errors which hung like clouds upon my mind,
And now I stand strong and with new born power
Arrayed, fit champion for a darker hour;
My sight is piercing bright: my reason free,
Unfettered, even by love for thee:—
I ask my heart in vain;—it answereth not.
My soul hath but one sight:—It looks alone
Into the future, and the past which shone
So bright is now (save some few dreams) forgot.
—A change now as I write is happening.
My mind doth re-assume its strength, and fling
Away Hate, Envy, Melancholy,—blind
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And now I stand strong and with new born power
Arrayed, fit champion for a darker hour;
My sight is piercing bright: my reason free,
Unfettered, even by love for thee:—
Yet often, methinks, as I lie pondering
Under the evening boughs at sunset pale,
I hear thee,—like that strange voice wandering
Amongst the vernal thickets, ere winds bring
Perfume from roses or across the vale
Enchantments come from the lost nightingale,
Before the morn-fed lark her matin weaves,
Or the thrush whistles, or the stock-dove grieves,
I hear thee,—sweeter than all sounds that be;
I see thee, too, waving along:—I see
Thy black Italian glances, and they flash
Amorous delight upon me, till I dash
My burning forehead in the fringed stream,
And then I find thee (what thou art)—a dream!
This frets me, shakes me; but at last I rise
Emboldened by the pain, and through the skies
All starry tracking my sublunar way,
Utter,—as poets used when Pindus lay
Open to Heavenly ears, and verse was strong
With fate and peril,—some prophetic song.—
Under the evening boughs at sunset pale,
I hear thee,—like that strange voice wandering
Amongst the vernal thickets, ere winds bring
Perfume from roses or across the vale
Enchantments come from the lost nightingale,
Before the morn-fed lark her matin weaves,
Or the thrush whistles, or the stock-dove grieves,
I hear thee,—sweeter than all sounds that be;
I see thee, too, waving along:—I see
Thy black Italian glances, and they flash
Amorous delight upon me, till I dash
My burning forehead in the fringed stream,
And then I find thee (what thou art)—a dream!
This frets me, shakes me; but at last I rise
Emboldened by the pain, and through the skies
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Utter,—as poets used when Pindus lay
Open to Heavenly ears, and verse was strong
With fate and peril,—some prophetic song.—
| The Flood of Thessaly | |