 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
SERAPHINA SNOWE.
I. Her Portrait.
The medium, Seraphina Snowe,
Hath come to town with her Spirit-show:
A lady whom many a humbug think,
Raised in the land of the bobolink;
Has bothered philosophers many a day
In the land of notions over the way;
And over to England cometh she,
Blown like a feather across the sea.
Hath come to town with her Spirit-show:
A lady whom many a humbug think,
Raised in the land of the bobolink;
Has bothered philosophers many a day
In the land of notions over the way;
And over to England cometh she,
Blown like a feather across the sea.
A little lady with very white teeth,
White high forehead, and underneath
Eyes of strange forget-me-not blue
Washed more pale by a dreamy dew;
Lips rose-red and ever apart,
Full of the pants of a passionate heart;
Yellow and silken is her hair,
With a gleam of blood-red here and there;
As light, as bright, as a gleaming dove,
Is the little lady the Spirits love!
Hold her hand up to the light!
How transparent, how waxen white,
Save where the pink blood glimmers through!
Observe the slight little body, too!
A mingling, all tinted well,
Of ‘Ariel’ and ‘Little Nell,’
With a spice of ‘Puck!’
White high forehead, and underneath
Eyes of strange forget-me-not blue
Washed more pale by a dreamy dew;
Lips rose-red and ever apart,
Full of the pants of a passionate heart;
Yellow and silken is her hair,
With a gleam of blood-red here and there;
As light, as bright, as a gleaming dove,
Is the little lady the Spirits love!
Hold her hand up to the light!
How transparent, how waxen white,
Save where the pink blood glimmers through!
Observe the slight little body, too!
A mingling, all tinted well,
Of ‘Ariel’ and ‘Little Nell,’
With a spice of ‘Puck!’
With the wise men round her
And the savants dying to confound her,
She seems like some bright beautiful bird
Singing to snakes—who think song absurd:
Or a wave that breaks and sparkles and dances,
While the dark rocks scowl, until each rock glances
With the dew it scatters; or best, some hold,
One of those spiders whose threads of gold
Cross the woodland pathway, and (though so thin)
The light and the dew and the glory win,—
While close at hand with watchful wits,
The lithe and luminous lady sits,
Her body all beauty, her home all gay,
And her two eyes waiting for common prey!
And the savants dying to confound her,
She seems like some bright beautiful bird
Singing to snakes—who think song absurd:
Or a wave that breaks and sparkles and dances,
While the dark rocks scowl, until each rock glances
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One of those spiders whose threads of gold
Cross the woodland pathway, and (though so thin)
The light and the dew and the glory win,—
While close at hand with watchful wits,
The lithe and luminous lady sits,
Her body all beauty, her home all gay,
And her two eyes waiting for common prey!
II. Séance.
Poor little spider, so soft, so white!
What! doth she think in a web so slight
To catch enormous insects like these,
Or the critical wasps, or the busy bees? . . .
Buzz! . . . in the silent séance you mark
The wise blue-bottles hovering dark:
Doctor That and Professor This,
Each one finding the thing amiss,
Seeking to learn the trick of the show.
Poor little Seraphina Snowe!
What! doth she think in a web so slight
To catch enormous insects like these,
Or the critical wasps, or the busy bees? . . .
Buzz! . . . in the silent séance you mark
The wise blue-bottles hovering dark:
Doctor That and Professor This,
Each one finding the thing amiss,
Seeking to learn the trick of the show.
Poor little Seraphina Snowe!
Hush! . . . How brightly she doth brood
In the midst of us all, with the gentle blood
All flown to her heart, and her face all hoar.
Darken the room a little more!
Is that the wind on the pane or the rain! . . .
Something is stirring in my brain. . . .
What is that? . . .
In the midst of us all, with the gentle blood
All flown to her heart, and her face all hoar.
Darken the room a little more!
Is that the wind on the pane or the rain! . . .
Something is stirring in my brain. . . .
What is that? . . .
. . . In the darkness of the room
Her face grows up and fills the gloom
Like a Lily of light. I feel her eyes,
Tho' I cannot see them. My spirits rise
And shiver—my heart ticks like a clock.
O hush! O hush! was that a knock?
Half a tap and half a creak,
Partly bubble and partly squeak,—
One,—two,—three!
The room seems rising,—and still I see
The gleam of the face. Strange raptures rain
Thro' my blood, and my bones, and my bursting brain!
She draws me nearer to her place,
I seem to be coming face to face;
She drinks my life,—her soft lips shoot
Warmth to my spirit's uttermost root,
Her glittering soul is in mine,—and hark!
The sounds continue in the dark,—
One,—two,—three!
Her face grows up and fills the gloom
Like a Lily of light. I feel her eyes,
Tho' I cannot see them. My spirits rise
And shiver—my heart ticks like a clock.
O hush! O hush! was that a knock?
Half a tap and half a creak,
Partly bubble and partly squeak,—
One,—two,—three!
The room seems rising,—and still I see
The gleam of the face. Strange raptures rain
Thro' my blood, and my bones, and my bursting brain!
She draws me nearer to her place,
I seem to be coming face to face;
She drinks my life,—her soft lips shoot
Warmth to my spirit's uttermost root,
Her glittering soul is in mine,—and hark!
The sounds continue in the dark,—
One,—two,—three!
Break the charm! On the company
Comes a scream like a spirit's in pain!—
Something sweet dies out of my brain;
And as lights are brought, great, yellow, and bright,
There the medium sits so white
Staring round with bewildered looks;
And beneath her croucheth Doctor Snooks
With a grin on his lanthorn jaws;—for he
Has gript her delicate lissome knee,
And holds the muscles as in a vice;
And ‘Lo!’ he crieth, ‘in a trice
I have stopped the raps; 'tis a muscular trick,
And nothing more.’ Then, rising quick,
He addeth, seizing his hat, ‘Good day!
Madam, I wish you a wiser way
Of gulling the public!’ Out they go,
Reproachful, melancholy, slow;
But still like a bird at bay sits she,
Half in a swoon,—so silently
Watching them all as they flit by
With her pallid spectral eyes!
Comes a scream like a spirit's in pain!—
Something sweet dies out of my brain;
And as lights are brought, great, yellow, and bright,
There the medium sits so white
Staring round with bewildered looks;
And beneath her croucheth Doctor Snooks
With a grin on his lanthorn jaws;—for he
Has gript her delicate lissome knee,
And holds the muscles as in a vice;
And ‘Lo!’ he crieth, ‘in a trice
I have stopped the raps; 'tis a muscular trick,
And nothing more.’ Then, rising quick,
He addeth, seizing his hat, ‘Good day!
Madam, I wish you a wiser way
Of gulling the public!’ Out they go,
Reproachful, melancholy, slow;
But still like a bird at bay sits she,
Half in a swoon,—so silently
Watching them all as they flit by
With her pallid spectral eyes!
. . . And I
With eyes that burn and heart astir,
Would linger behind and speak to her;
But she waves me hence with a little scream,
And out I follow in a dream,
A haunted man; and when I meet
The chuckling Doctor in the street,
I pass him by with a bitter frown,
And my hot fist burns to knock him down!
With eyes that burn and heart astir,
Would linger behind and speak to her;
But she waves me hence with a little scream,
And out I follow in a dream,
A haunted man; and when I meet
The chuckling Doctor in the street,
I pass him by with a bitter frown,
And my hot fist burns to knock him down!
III. The Gospel According to Philosophy.
O eyes of pale forget-me-not blue,
Wash'd more pale by a dreamy dew,
O red red lips, O dainty tresses,
O breast the breath of the world distresses!
O little lady, do they divine
That they hath fathom'd thee and thine?
Fools! Let them fathom fire,—and beat
Light in a mortar; ay, and heat
Soul in a crucible! Let them try
To conquer the Light, and the Wind, and the Sky!
Darkly the secret forces lurk,
We know them least where most they work,
And here they meet and mix in thee,
For a strange and mystic entity,
Making of thy pale soul in sooth
A life half trickery and half truth.
Wash'd more pale by a dreamy dew,
O red red lips, O dainty tresses,
O breast the breath of the world distresses!
O little lady, do they divine
That they hath fathom'd thee and thine?
Fools! Let them fathom fire,—and beat
Light in a mortar; ay, and heat
Soul in a crucible! Let them try
To conquer the Light, and the Wind, and the Sky!
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We know them least where most they work,
And here they meet and mix in thee,
For a strange and mystic entity,
Making of thy pale soul in sooth
A life half trickery and half truth.
Well? . . . O my philosophic friend,
Does Nature herself ne'er condescend
To cheats and shams, and freaks and tricks,
Or doth she rather affect to mix
Reason with revel? Are you certain
That all is honest behind the curtain
Of lovely things you rejoice to meet?
Doth the Earth never sham, the Sky never cheat?
And do we question and rebel
If the cheat is pleasant and plausible?
Do we growl at the Rainbow in the air,
Or frown at the Mirage here and there?
Nay, we take these things as they come, my friend,
And let them into our being blend!
Passive we yield to the Sun and the Light,
To the scent of the flowers, to the sense and the sight,
Taking all changes with souls serene . . .
And so I take poor Seraphine!
Beautiful mingling, tinted well,
Of ‘Ariel’ and ‘Little Nell,’
With a spice of ‘Puck!’
Does Nature herself ne'er condescend
To cheats and shams, and freaks and tricks,
Or doth she rather affect to mix
Reason with revel? Are you certain
That all is honest behind the curtain
Of lovely things you rejoice to meet?
Doth the Earth never sham, the Sky never cheat?
And do we question and rebel
If the cheat is pleasant and plausible?
Do we growl at the Rainbow in the air,
Or frown at the Mirage here and there?
Nay, we take these things as they come, my friend,
And let them into our being blend!
Passive we yield to the Sun and the Light,
To the scent of the flowers, to the sense and the sight,
Taking all changes with souls serene . . .
And so I take poor Seraphine!
Beautiful mingling, tinted well,
Of ‘Ariel’ and ‘Little Nell,’
With a spice of ‘Puck!’
True, as you aver,
I never was a philosopher!
But I do not envy Doctor Snooks
His scientific tools and books,
And I cheerfully let the grim old boy
Dissect the humbug that I enjoy.
I never was a philosopher!
But I do not envy Doctor Snooks
His scientific tools and books,
And I cheerfully let the grim old boy
Dissect the humbug that I enjoy.
Names,—more names? Let the lady be,—
Fie upon your philosophy!
And so the tricksy little bird
Is a ‘grass widow’ (is that the word?)
Or cast-off mistress, left to shame
By a New York rowdy of evil fame.
He thrash'd her did he? Go on. What more?
Finish your story, and o'er and o'er,
Proving things beyond human guess,
Blacken the little adventuress.
Now you have done, and I have heard,
Patiently, every cruel word,
Listen to me,—or rather, no!
Why should I argue with you so,
O wise Philosophy? Frown and go!
. . . I turn to Seraphina Snowe!
Fie upon your philosophy!
And so the tricksy little bird
Is a ‘grass widow’ (is that the word?)
Or cast-off mistress, left to shame
By a New York rowdy of evil fame.
He thrash'd her did he? Go on. What more?
Finish your story, and o'er and o'er,
Proving things beyond human guess,
Blacken the little adventuress.
Now you have done, and I have heard,
Patiently, every cruel word,
Listen to me,—or rather, no!
Why should I argue with you so,
O wise Philosophy? Frown and go!
. . . I turn to Seraphina Snowe!
IV. Mesmeric Flashes.
O eyes of pale forget-me-not blue,
Wash'd more pale with a dreamy dew,
What faces wicked, what haunts unclean,
Have ye not in your wanderings seen!
Poor little lady, so frail and wan,
Bruised in the brutal embrace of Man!
Thin white hands where the blood doth run
Like the light in a shell held up to the sun,
How often have ye lifted been
To ward away from hands obscene
Not a wicked touch but a ruffian blow!
God help thee, Seraphina Snowe!
Found out, exposed, the jest of the day,
With thy spectral eyes on the world, at bay!
While the sense of the Sun and the Wind and the Light
Surge thro' thee, and leave thee more wild and white,
And a mystic touch is in thy hair,
And a whisper of awe is everywhere,
And thou almost fearest in thy sin
The spirits thou half believest in!
Wash'd more pale with a dreamy dew,
What faces wicked, what haunts unclean,
Have ye not in your wanderings seen!
Poor little lady, so frail and wan,
Bruised in the brutal embrace of Man!
Thin white hands where the blood doth run
Like the light in a shell held up to the sun,
How often have ye lifted been
To ward away from hands obscene
Not a wicked touch but a ruffian blow!
God help thee, Seraphina Snowe!
Found out, exposed, the jest of the day,
With thy spectral eyes on the world, at bay!
While the sense of the Sun and the Wind and the Light
Surge thro' thee, and leave thee more wild and white,
And a mystic touch is in thy hair,
And a whisper of awe is everywhere,
And thou almost fearest in thy sin
The spirits thou half believest in!
Always imposing, little Elf,
And most on thy delicate silken self!
Making the raps with thy cunning knee,
Smiling to hear them secretly,—
And all the while thy pulses beat,
Thou tremblest at thine own deceit,
Listening, yielding, till there comes
Out of thy veins, and out at thy thumbs,
A wave of emotion, a swift flame
Blanching thy spiritual frame
To more ivory whiteness, a wild dew
Washing the spectral eyes more blue—
The secret Soul with its blinding light
Confirming thee in thy lie's despite!
And most on thy delicate silken self!
Making the raps with thy cunning knee,
Smiling to hear them secretly,—
And all the while thy pulses beat,
Thou tremblest at thine own deceit,
Listening, yielding, till there comes
Out of thy veins, and out at thy thumbs,
A wave of emotion, a swift flame
Blanching thy spiritual frame
To more ivory whiteness, a wild dew
Washing the spectral eyes more blue—
The secret Soul with its blinding light
Confirming thee in thy lie's despite!
Would to God that thou and I
Might put our hands together and fly
To some far island lone and new
Where the sun is golden, the sea dark blue,
Where the scented palm and the coca-tree
Should make a bower for thee and me,
And all should be wild and bright and keen,
The flowers all colour, the leaves all sheen,
The air and the warm earth all aglow
With the life, the fever, the ebb and flow,
With the spirit-waves that, flowing free,
Foam up to a crest in Elves like thee!
Might put our hands together and fly
To some far island lone and new
Where the sun is golden, the sea dark blue,
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Should make a bower for thee and me,
And all should be wild and bright and keen,
The flowers all colour, the leaves all sheen,
The air and the warm earth all aglow
With the life, the fever, the ebb and flow,
With the spirit-waves that, flowing free,
Foam up to a crest in Elves like thee!
There, like the spider silvern and soft
Spinning lits thread of gold aloft,
Thou shouldst sit among the leaves and look
Out at me from a golden nook;
And draw me nearer with those dim eyes,
And kindle thyself to pants and sighs,
And I would crouch and gaze at thee
Through life that would seem Eternity:
While a wondrous spiritual light
Flash'd through and through me so wild and bright,
Till I faded away beneath thy hand,
Through thy Soul, to the Spirit Land!
Spinning lits thread of gold aloft,
Thou shouldst sit among the leaves and look
Out at me from a golden nook;
And draw me nearer with those dim eyes,
And kindle thyself to pants and sighs,
And I would crouch and gaze at thee
Through life that would seem Eternity:
While a wondrous spiritual light
Flash'd through and through me so wild and bright,
Till I faded away beneath thy hand,
Through thy Soul, to the Spirit Land!
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |