Poems by William Wetmore Story

Why didst thou lift the veil, beloved one,
Divine Apollo, from these human eyes?
The phantom forms that from the Future rise
Appall me; all in vain I seek to shun
This fatal knowledge; horror-struck to see
The shadowy shapes of coming destiny
Steal forth unsummoned fierce with death and hate,
But powerless to avert the doom of Fate.
Ah! better blindness, better night, dark night!
Better dead loss of that supreme delight,
Thy love! better the worst that Time conceals
Than all the coming horrors it reveals.
Shroud me again in darkness—close the door
Of the dread Future—torture me no more
With these foul shapes of visionary crime—
These murders that stare through the veil of time,—
These horrors—drive these fearful sights away,

140

Or give me power the coming crime to stay.
Only in ignorance is joy; to rest
In blind fond trust upon the Present's breast.
'T is worse than death, far worse, to see, to know;
Take back the gift! We creatures here below
Need all our blindness, need the mortal veil
Which shuts the Future out, obscures the sense,
And hides us from our Fate. Not too much light
May man endure. Pure Truth is too intense,
It blinds us. Perfect Love at its full height
Kills with excess of rapture. We are made
With human senses, and we all need here
Illusions, veils, a tempering atmosphere,
And ignorance to shield us with its shade.
The Gods in heaven may see and know, nor fear
The face of Fate, serene, beyond all care;
But when to us poor mortals they appear,
Around your glory they a veil must wear,
Or who could look and live? And so to me
Divinest of the Gods you came; too bright
For all your mortal veil, suffused with light,
Radiant with splendours of divinity.

Ah! what a price for Love I paid! No more,
Since that dread gift, the peace, the tranquil bliss
That once in my unburdened heart I bore!
No more the careless thoughtless happiness,
The maiden hope, the unreasoning faith, the scent
Of vague sweet feelings making redolent

141

The inmost chambers of my life; 't is o'er—
Fled—vanished. The soft veil is rent away.
Where'er I set my feet on the green grass
'T is stained with blood. The glory of the day
Is darkened with foul crimes. The shapes that pass
Before my scared and visionary eyes
No more are gentle dreams, but ghosts that rise
And mock and threaten from the unopened tomb
Of the black Future, and with voice of doom,
Faint, dim, but horrible, dismay my soul.

Hark! as I speak—those voices—that fierce jar—
That murmurous tumult hurrying from afar—
What means it? Close my eyes, my ears control!
They come, still nearer, up the sounding stair.
What horror now is brooding o'er this place?
What dreadful crime? What does Medea there
In that dim chamber? See on her dark face
And serpent brow, rage, fury, love, despair!
What seeks she? There her children are at play
Laughing and talking. Not so fierce, I say,
You scare them with that passionate embrace!
Hark to those footsteps in the hall—the loud
Clear voice of Jason heard above the crowd.
Why does she push them now so stern away
And listening glance around,—then fixed and mute,

142

Her brow shut down, her mouth irresolute,
Her thin hands twitching at her robes the while,
As with some fearful purpose does she stand?
Why that triumphant glance—that hideous smile—
That poniard hidden in her mantle there,
That through the dropping folds now darts its gleam?
O Gods! O, all ye Gods! hold back her hand.
Spare them! oh spare them! O, Medea, spare!
You will not, dare not! ah, that sharp shrill scream!
Ah!—the red blood—'t is trickling down the floor!
Help! help! oh, hide me! Let me see no more!

A chronological license has been taken in this poem, which it is hoped will be pardoned in view of the mythical character of the period.

University of Virginia Library

CASSANDRA.