The Poetical Works of George Barlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thirteen long years have passed away
Since through those autumn woods we went:
It was a bright September day,
And I was full of sweet content;
So happy by her side to be—
In heaven, if she but looked at me.

The leaves were turning golden-red;
The swift stream splashed along the dale;
In the far distance, blue, outspread,
Boundless, with here and there a sail,
The sunlit sea gleamed, saying, “To-night
Reseek my green cliff's moonlit height.”

We were so happy, she and I!
There was no place for black despair
In all the world! clear was the sky,
The autumn flowers were sweet, the air
Was crisp and pure. In that green wood
It seemed to me God must be good.

I know she loved me then. Her eyes
Sought mine so constantly,—yet fell,
As if with maidenly surprise,
As if afraid their tale to tell,
When mine searched in their depths to see
If yet she was in love with me.

Ah! thirteen years. To-day in town
My head reels with the strangest sense
That that, my first love's long-lost crown,
May yet by God's omnipotence
Be quite restored, returned to me,
In all its pristine purity.

I am in love. I feel it now:
I feel the sweet sense through each vein.

I am in love: I know not how;
And yet I am in love again.
I am in love. Yes, ten times more
Even than I ever loved before.

I loved—those thirteen years ago—
With tenderest love. My love was slain.
I married, and I seemed to know
Some slight sweet respite from my pain.
I was beloved with passion wild,
And I,—I loved the gold-haired child.

But still through all my married life
The old fierce former dream prevailed,
And, though I loved my loving wife,
My heart was ceaselessly assailed
By memories strong. I loved; and yet
I could not stifle mad regret.

The old hands drew me, and the eyes
Still drew me,—and I seemed to see
Ever the pale-blue Northern skies
And heard the wild wind's revelry
Along the Northern shores, and dreamed
That as of old the white moon gleamed.

But now to-day I am in love,
In love again,—and now I know
(For this new fact has served to prove
Beyond dispute that this is so)
That never, since those early hours,
Has my heart loved with all its powers.

Strong manhood adds a newer force
To love to-day. I love at last
Once more with passion; gain of course
An added strength from all my past.
Past loves, like rivers, with their might
Swell the sea-passion of last night.

It seemed so strange—the girlish trust
Of her who met me, quite alone.
The wild Strand, thronged with painted lust,
Seemed heavenlike when I heard her tone.
She met me, trusted me. Quite pure
She was. Her first look made me sure.

And then I loved her. That, you see,
Was just God's mystery—very sweet.
Her simple girlish purity
Brought the worn poet to her feet.

In a wild world of wrath and crime
She seemed half sweet, and half sublime.

Then, at the play, I watched her face:
It seemed so strange—there, quite alone
With this girl full of girlish grace
And tenderest beauty, flower half-blown.
Alone,—no friend or guardian near;
And yet she seemed to have no fear.

I think that changed me. That drew out
Life's poison from my veins in part.
She was a pure girl, not a doubt,
With loving eyes and loving heart,
And yet she sat there by the side
Of one in whom all faith had died.

She sat there, knowing nought of me,
Yet trusting.—Then my whole heart grew
Softer: I loved her purity;
I felt it thrill me through and through.
I left her at her mother's door;
In love with her, for evermore.

The days are passing swiftly on;
Some happiness returns to me:
I feel as if some light had shone
From out the deep obscurity.
It may be God has watched my pain,
And will restore my love again.

How if God has led up to this?
If from the first he thus designed,
And robbed me of my first love's kiss
To pay me back in higher kind?
I love this girl; and can it be
That God may let her love—even me?

Even me—sad, care-worn, ill at ease,
At war with self, the world, and him;
Harassed by wild perplexities;
Weary with strife and suffering grim;
Can she—this young bright girl—be brought
To give my love one passing thought?

I am so old and weary. She
Is young, fatigueless. Death, it seems,

Were far more fitting bride for me
Than this young girl, whose dark glance dreams
Sweet dreams of spring, and spring's flowers fair,
While I dream only of despair.

Yet if it could be so? my prayer
Would then be answered, and I might
(I think I never saw such hair—
Coal-black: and then the brown eyes' light!)
—I might, perhaps, again believe
In God. The sun might shine at eve.

I think God lets me love her too.
Perhaps God brought me to her side
With a distinct great work to do,
A true man's work, before I died.
It may be so. She's on the stage,
So round her all the man-wolves rage.

Curse them! I know them. Just because
She's unprotected, poor and weak,
They'll glance around, and leer, and pause,
And think their game is safe, and seek
With one accord to steal this pearl.
They'll do their best to ruin the girl.

My dark-eyed darling! no, please God,
They shall not ruin you. I say “No.”
Your feet across my path have trod,
And you have made my tired heart glow:
Would any injure you, of these?
Across my body, if you please!

I stand, and God stands, in the way.
All London seems against you—yes?
They say you shall sink. But I say
That you shall not sink: nothing less.
I'll fight for you for endless time,
And make the battle-field sublime.

All London on one side, and this
The low and bad side? let it be.
Men proffering diamonds for your kiss?
Well, let them proffer. Trust in me.
Bribed managers may swear to wrong:
I'll save you,—and crown you with my song.

These men are devils. Day by day
They struggle to seduce anew
Poor foolish girls, their easy prey.

They make, themselves a hellish crew,
The stage a hell. They can't afford
To scorn the offer of a lord.

He wants a chorus-girl? My lord
May pick and choose. The manager
(Tipped by the youngling) will accord
His lordship leave without demur
To pass behind the scenes, and try
Girl-fishing with the golden fly.

Money's the question, that is all.
Just money—money. Can he pay?
He can? How soon the girl will fall!
How Satan hates enforced delay!
A bouquet—bracelet—supper—kiss—
And Miss S. is no longer “Miss.”

She has learned the secret; still a child,
It may be; ignorant indeed:
Yet ruined, lost, betrayed, beguiled,
And just to gratify the greed
Of managers, and lust of men
Who ornament the “Upper Ten.”

100

Not so in your case. I will step
Between you and the men who rove
Destroying. You a demirep?
You sell your beauty, and your love?
Never! I swear your soul shall be
Pure to the very end, and free.

At last I see a poet's work
Before me, worthy of the man,
And, please God, I will never shirk
The task, but carry out God's plan.
Some hound would fain destroy? Not he!
Unless his sword slips first through me.

Her beauty brings my youth again.
A girl's pure freshness can create
Spring's gladness in the heart and brain
And smooth the forehead grooved with Fate.
The young sweet brilliance of her eyes
Has changed life's sunset to sunrise.

Her magnetism is so good,
So pure, so sinless. When she came,

101

Up to my very waist I stood
Plunged in hell's waters, hot as flame:
But now I think that there may be
Perhaps a God,—yes, even for me.

I dare not dream it. Yet I hope;
I struggle with the old despair;
Drowning, I cling to this frail rope;
I worship her dark eyes and hair.
I long to die for her. I long
To make her deathless in my song.

II. TWILIGHT.

How strong my passionate love has grown!
How strange and sad and hard to-day
What once seemed easy seems! My own
She is, and yet I may grow grey
And she may never quite be mine:
Can such a method be divine?

Old doubt returns. Can God do this?
Fill all my heart with love of thee;

102

Put thy mouth to my own to kiss,
And let me feel its purity;
Make me each day discern thee fair,
And worship more thine eyes and hair;

Can he do this—did he inspire
When thou wast (as thou art not now)
In danger, my protective fire
Of passion—listen to my vow
That, come what would, thou shouldst be safe,
However heart and flesh might chafe;

O sweetheart, did God do this thing,
Send me to save thee—and can he,
The just great God, the mighty King,
Now ravish all thy soul from me?
Will some new hand approach, and reap
The corn I sowed in agony deep?

Aye, wilt thou marry? Shall I stand
And see the glory fade away
From this our own enchanted land?
Will darkness be too strong for day?
Is this what God demands at last?
More pain—I thought the worst was past.

103

Must I, who by those Northern streams
Saw autumn shed upon the air
Red leaves, and change the flowers of dreams
To flowerless wastes of real despair—
Must I, who saw my youth's sun set,
In manhood meet a worse thing yet?

And then she loves me. Yes, I know:
For, when I kiss her darling head,
It rises, ever so gently—so—
And meets my lips. No word is said,
And yet by that one simple sign
I know the girl's pure heart is mine.

Perhaps...and have I not the right?
What man has better right than I?
I've guarded her by day and night,
Been sunlight in her midday sky,
Starlight and moonlight through her sleep;
I sowed the corn. May I not reap?

I think I could reap, if I chose;
For I have made her life so fair:

104

Her every happiness she owes
To me,—each breath of summer air
That she respires, pure, sinless, free,
She owes, and knows she owes, to me.

Shall I not take her? Shall I stand
Doubting, reluctant? Though I'm bound
And wedded, would a God command
That I should never quite be crowned
By perfect love? This virgin's mine!
I feel it: and the gift's divine.

I've won her—surely? What can man
Do more than I have done indeed?
She needed succour. Lo! I ran
To succour,—saved her at her need.
Andromeda was rightly wed
To Perseus, when her foe lay dead.

I who the many-headed foe
Of London selfishness have slain,
Shall I in turn not surely know
Reward for all my love and pain?
Andromeda shall I not take,
And on her lips my long thirst slake?

105

A single monster Perseus slew:
But I have toiled from day to day,
Have fought beneath bright skies of blue,
Have battled through the fog-wreaths grey,
Have won for her wild countless fights
And overthrown a thousand knights.

Is she not mine beyond dispute?
Mine: and my dear one knows it too.
I kissed her fiercely; she was mute.
So little now remains to do—
To press my victory to the end,
Become a lover, not a friend.

Not friend!...Ah, would it be to lose
The deep sweet friendship? Would it be
To stain her pure mind, and confuse
Her simple trusting thoughts of me?
I cannot marry her. Would less
Be wronging her beyond redress?

Have I fought through a thousand fights,
Unhorsed black-armoured foe on foe,

106

Yet is there out of all the knights
One knight still left me to lay low?
Does one still bar me from the goal?
The lower side of my own soul.

Is, after all, myself the worst
Of all my enemies?—Have I slain
Thousands, and left their bodies cursed
And sword-split helmets on the plain:
Have I, with heart ready to break,
Fought London for the woman's sake?

And must I, having saved her now,
And standing face to face alone
With her, take on me a harder vow?
Must love's fruits to the winds be thrown?
Must I now with a stronger knight
—Myself—wage this last deadliest fight?