 | The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems |  |
Scene 2.—In the forest.
Robert Campbell and Tua-Tua resting upon a bank overhung with flowers, in sight of the ocean.Robert.—
My dark-skinned beauty of the tropic wood
My “Tua-Tua,” “Rose-Rose,” flower of flowers,
Come nearer; lean a little closer—so.
Kiss me, sweetheart; nay, shrink not so away,
The seal of love in England is a kiss,
And all about my country you were once
Eager—on fire with eagerness—to learn.
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Has claimed you for a sweet voluptuous prey;
Your soft limbs, gathered on the altar dark,
In the grim austere valley of the god
Will shortly bleed beneath the bitter knife,
And all the priests who perpetrate the foul,
The foul, accursed superstitious rite,
Will laugh, and praise their high gods for the deed.
That black and grass-grown valley will be fair
With your warm, bounding, joyous, girlish blood;
And I—I shall return—or not return!
Pass home to England sadder, but more wise,
Having learned how superstition lingers yet
In these fair islands: how a priestly knife
At the instigation of a cowardly heart—
(For he is a coward; I must call him that!
Your lover, Tua-Tua, is a coward.
Coward he is, although his lifted hand
Smote the foul superstitious life away
From his own body, out of love for you—
What he calls love—in order to procure
The grievous Fetish vengeance; that, being dead,
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The Fetish curse upon your darling head,
He might, a spirit of spirits among the rocks,
A weird grey spirit among the weird dark rocks,
See all your red dear blood-drops trickling down,
Vowed for a pleasant offering to the god.
That was his vengeance! yea, that was his love!
His evil, dark-skinned love; the best that he,
Your lover and your servitor, could do!
Now what is English love; the fairer love,
Born under skies of which we used to talk,
And which I promised you should one day see?
Is it that piteous, self-seeking thing,
Which revels in the ruin of the soul
And body of the loved one, if her heart
Be given elsewhere—as your heart was given
Not to the pale self-murderer, but to me.
A man has died that you, my sweet, might die.
A man has died to kill. Can no one die
To bless and to deliver and to save?
White skin for dark—white heart for whiter heart,
Red blood for red blood—strength for supple power,
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Lily for Rose; Lily you used to call me—
Do you remember? In that all my face
Was fresh with English breezes, clear and fair!)
What was I saying about my home just now,
Before your cruel lover crossed my mind?
Oh! that your death being over I might pass
Home to my country sadder yet more wise,
Having learned how superstition lingers still
In many an island of this wondrous land,
This Bornese Archipelago—how God,
In cleansing sundry corners of the earth,
By His own thunderstroke, from time to time,
Left this still evil, merciless, impure.
This I should learn, I say, and carry home,
A lesson burnt upon my brain and heart.
But, sweet, I will not leave you; Tua-Tua,
Rose-Rose—there must be some far fitter way,
Some hope, some swift avoidance, some escape.
Oh, for a British vessel, for stout hands,
Brave hearts of England, if but four or five,
To bear the painter and his lady-love—
His dark-skinned, perfect-bosomed lady-love—
Out to the breezes of the briny sea!
Oh, dark-blue ocean, rolling sultry waves
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Oh, heaving, purple, pitiless broad sea,
Unintermittent with thy monstrous waves,
That climb for ever on this snowy shore,
Swelling in awful squadrons without wind—
Take thou my cry to England. Oh, calm sea—
Take thou her cry to England—take our cry—
Let England's daughters, fair and white and sweet,
Hear this their sister, fair and dark and sweet,
(And me their brother, English-born and strong)
As on this island in the strange far sea
We face the imminent approach of death!
A death most horrid—fork-tongued, devilish.
Yea, as we wait—for who am I, to leave
My gentle, sweet love-lady to herself?
I will not leave her. Oh, my English land,
Oh, white far cliffs of England—oh, high shores,
Sweet grass and clover scenting English fields,
And all pure thoughts and converse of the free;
Oh, women of England, who shall hear our tale,
For nothing now is hidden in the end,
And men of England who shall hear it too
And feel your brave hands tingle for a sword—
Judge me, if this be not my path of right.
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To some all-righteous and auspicious end,
But, if it be not blessed to worldly joy,
It shall be blessed to spirit-ecstasy.
For we shall die together, she and I,
Lips cling to lips upon the funeral pyre,
Breast cleave to breast beneath the heavy knife,
Spirit embracing spirit, seek the stars!
Oh, dear, far cliffs of England, fare ye well.
And welcome all ye valleys of fierce heat,
Ye tangled forests, strange and terrible,
Horrid with swamps, or grand with awful flowers,
Sweet as the centre of my Blossom's lips—
Welcome ye regions fathomless, wherein
My true love like some perfect butterfly
Gleamed first, a radiant shape, across my path;
Sweeter ye are to me because of her,
Fairer ye are to me because of her,
Than all the wind-swept, unscorched English glades.
Yea, Tua-Tua kiss me—art not thou
My sweet sea-breeze of England—my divine
Savour of clover, and the happy cliffs?
More art thou unto me than all these things;
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Thou hast; the blossoms of this gorgeous land
Are all made doubly fragrant in thine hair.
Something thou hast within thy wondrous eyes
Of those clear wondrous heavens that arch the sea;
And all thy voice is silver as the choirs
Who crowd at early morn thine echoing woods.
See—kissing this red blossom thou hast twined
Within thine unsurpassable loose hair,
I swear I will not leave thee, though I die.
Tua-Tua.—
My love, my true brave-hearted English lover,
It is no use, unless indeed—but nay!
It is no use. What can my sweetheart do
Against a whole fierce tribe of armed men?
For all our tribe, from immemorial time,
Has given support and honour to the priests.
My lover died—he killed himself, and, dying,
Invoked upon me the last curse of heaven,
Devoting me to the Fetish; so I die.
Ne'er yet has one soul so devoted fled
The wrath of priests and gods; it would be impious!
True, thou hast told me of a softer creed,
Of Christ (is that the name?) with tender eyes,
And tender ministry of upraised hands,
Blessing, not slaying—saving, not destroying—
But He is far away; His face is fair,
I know it is, like thy face: it is clear,
And strong, and calm, and kingly; yea, His eyes
Have surely the sweet colour of thine own;
Blue, like the blue sea—and His hair is soft,
And gold, and long and wavy—like thine own.
Perhaps thou art Christ! thou art the Christ, to me,
To Rose-Rose—Tua-Tua; thou art her Christ,
Her king, her lord, her saviour—yet, my sweet,
King, love, and lord, and saviour—me, thy poor
And humble dark-skinned love, thou canst not save!
To-day we are free; no single soul to-day
Will interrupt; it is the custom here,
Like all such customs, faithfully observed,
That the last day before a woman falls
Stricken on the blood-stained altar to the gods,
She is given perfect freedom—and 'tis thought
That whoso spies commits an impious act.
She comes and goes as her own heart ordains.
Therefore to-day is ours: to-morrow theirs.
Kiss me, oh, English lover—kiss me hard,
Yea, so—and so—now kiss me yet again.
See how I take the blossoms from my hair,
All loose, and pouring downward to my feet,
My black wild hair, that you, my lover, love—
See how I take the blossoms one by one,
And twine them in the bright gold of thine own.
There, they look better now; the black hair spoilt them!
They needed thy bright locks and thy bright eyes
To show them. Ah! you are so beautiful!
And there are girls in England, are there not?
One day—not long to wait, for I shall die
To-morrow, and a ship will shortly sail—
One day they'll see you, call you beautiful,
Caress you, kiss you. Will they kiss like this?
And they are white and fair, with golden hair
And sea-blue eyes, like yours; you will forget
Your dark-skinned maiden in their tender arms.
Oh, England! country of my true heart's love,
Dearly I love thee, love thee for his sake;
Yet never shall I see thy green, cool shore,
But here amid the burning island rocks
Must perish, perish, perish—and alone!
Ah, Christ!—ah, gods of my own tribe and race!
Help me—oh! help me—patiently to bear.
Now listen lover: nothing can avert
The vengeance of the Fetish; but to-day
Is ours, and love's, and life's; hear thou this song—
I made it for thee—if my English falters,
Laugh not but only smile—my dying gift.
But rest thy gold head first upon my bosom;
See, I uncover it alone for thee.
I take away, I daughter of a king,
The ancient Dyak monarch of this wild—
I tear away the brazen close cuirass
And press thee—thus—to the naked, heaving breast
No eye of living man till now has seen—
Only the maidens, the attendant girls,
Bathing me daily in the crystal stream
That flows beside the palace; in the pool
Guarded, and fenced, and watched. But now press close,
Oh sweet, oh king of men, oh Englishman!
Take all I have to give thee for thine own.
Press close and listen:—
It is no use, unless indeed—but nay!
It is no use. What can my sweetheart do
Against a whole fierce tribe of armed men?
For all our tribe, from immemorial time,
Has given support and honour to the priests.
My lover died—he killed himself, and, dying,
Invoked upon me the last curse of heaven,
Devoting me to the Fetish; so I die.
Ne'er yet has one soul so devoted fled
The wrath of priests and gods; it would be impious!
True, thou hast told me of a softer creed,
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And tender ministry of upraised hands,
Blessing, not slaying—saving, not destroying—
But He is far away; His face is fair,
I know it is, like thy face: it is clear,
And strong, and calm, and kingly; yea, His eyes
Have surely the sweet colour of thine own;
Blue, like the blue sea—and His hair is soft,
And gold, and long and wavy—like thine own.
Perhaps thou art Christ! thou art the Christ, to me,
To Rose-Rose—Tua-Tua; thou art her Christ,
Her king, her lord, her saviour—yet, my sweet,
King, love, and lord, and saviour—me, thy poor
And humble dark-skinned love, thou canst not save!
To-day we are free; no single soul to-day
Will interrupt; it is the custom here,
Like all such customs, faithfully observed,
That the last day before a woman falls
Stricken on the blood-stained altar to the gods,
She is given perfect freedom—and 'tis thought
That whoso spies commits an impious act.
She comes and goes as her own heart ordains.
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Kiss me, oh, English lover—kiss me hard,
Yea, so—and so—now kiss me yet again.
See how I take the blossoms from my hair,
All loose, and pouring downward to my feet,
My black wild hair, that you, my lover, love—
See how I take the blossoms one by one,
And twine them in the bright gold of thine own.
There, they look better now; the black hair spoilt them!
They needed thy bright locks and thy bright eyes
To show them. Ah! you are so beautiful!
And there are girls in England, are there not?
One day—not long to wait, for I shall die
To-morrow, and a ship will shortly sail—
One day they'll see you, call you beautiful,
Caress you, kiss you. Will they kiss like this?
And they are white and fair, with golden hair
And sea-blue eyes, like yours; you will forget
Your dark-skinned maiden in their tender arms.
Oh, England! country of my true heart's love,
Dearly I love thee, love thee for his sake;
Yet never shall I see thy green, cool shore,
But here amid the burning island rocks
Must perish, perish, perish—and alone!
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Help me—oh! help me—patiently to bear.
Now listen lover: nothing can avert
The vengeance of the Fetish; but to-day
Is ours, and love's, and life's; hear thou this song—
I made it for thee—if my English falters,
Laugh not but only smile—my dying gift.
But rest thy gold head first upon my bosom;
See, I uncover it alone for thee.
I take away, I daughter of a king,
The ancient Dyak monarch of this wild—
I tear away the brazen close cuirass
And press thee—thus—to the naked, heaving breast
No eye of living man till now has seen—
Only the maidens, the attendant girls,
Bathing me daily in the crystal stream
That flows beside the palace; in the pool
Guarded, and fenced, and watched. But now press close,
Oh sweet, oh king of men, oh Englishman!
Take all I have to give thee for thine own.
Press close and listen:—
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Leave, oh! leave me, lover dear,
Peril and swift death are here.
Kiss and leave me.
Blood-stained priests are on the track;
Swiftly fly and glance not back.
Heaven, receive me!
Peril and swift death are here.
Kiss and leave me.
Blood-stained priests are on the track;
Swiftly fly and glance not back.
Heaven, receive me!
How I love thee who can tell?
Other maids may kiss as well
In other lands;
But, oh! the beating, burning heart,
Thine in its inmost every part,
Who understands?
Other maids may kiss as well
In other lands;
But, oh! the beating, burning heart,
Thine in its inmost every part,
Who understands?
Ah, sweet, sweet! I give away
Thine eyes of blue to eyes of grey;
Thy golden hair
To golden locks or locks of brown;
The gift Christ gave I must put down—
It was too fair.
Thine eyes of blue to eyes of grey;
Thy golden hair
To golden locks or locks of brown;
The gift Christ gave I must put down—
It was too fair.
Too fair, too fair for dark-skinned maid,
And therefore up the black sad glade
I have to go.
Alone, alone, apart from thee—
A girl's blood for a penalty
Must flow.
And therefore up the black sad glade
I have to go.
Alone, alone, apart from thee—
A girl's blood for a penalty
Must flow.
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Farewell, farewell; but when you kiss
The next red mouth, remember this—
[Kisses him.
The next red mouth, remember this—
Remember me.
This lock of hair, this one red flower,
Give to thy maiden in that hour;
Give it with glee.
This lock of hair, this one red flower,
Give to thy maiden in that hour;
Give it with glee.
Robert.—
And I can sing. A painter though I am
By trade, I have the artist's general gift;
And I will turn it now to good account.
Listen, my Rose-Rose, how I answer thee.
He sings:—
By trade, I have the artist's general gift;
And I will turn it now to good account.
Listen, my Rose-Rose, how I answer thee.
Rose-Rose, fairest flower of mine!
In English meadows thou shalt shine—
Or I will die
With thee, with thee, sweet blossom, here,
And hold thee for that death more dear,
Hold thee more nigh.
In English meadows thou shalt shine—
Or I will die
With thee, with thee, sweet blossom, here,
And hold thee for that death more dear,
Hold thee more nigh.
The black death comes, the blue eyes shine—
They were not God's, they were not thine,
If they should swerve.
This bitter fate that tries us hard
The gates of love hath quite unbarred—
Made straight each curve.
They were not God's, they were not thine,
If they should swerve.
This bitter fate that tries us hard
The gates of love hath quite unbarred—
Made straight each curve.
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By God I swear, and by thine hair,
And by thy face so dark and fair,
And by thine eyes,
And by thy lips made mine for ever,
That death shall join, and shall not sever—
That death's mouth lies.
And by thy face so dark and fair,
And by thine eyes,
And by thy lips made mine for ever,
That death shall join, and shall not sever—
That death's mouth lies.
By Christ I swear, by His sun-bright hair,
And by the tides of English air
And English sea,
That I will hold thee to the last
As my own bride—thus—warm and fast;
Trust thou me.
And by the tides of English air
And English sea,
That I will hold thee to the last
As my own bride—thus—warm and fast;
Trust thou me.
By eyes of English women now
Fixed on my heart and on my brow,
Waiting to learn
What one lone Englishman can do
When love is strong and love is true,
I will not turn.
Fixed on my heart and on my brow,
Waiting to learn
What one lone Englishman can do
When love is strong and love is true,
I will not turn.
| The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems | |