 | The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien |  |
32
AMAZON.
I burn to tell my love; to call her mine;
To pour upon her heart the fiery tide
That fills my own; to open my soul's shrine
And show her her own image deified!
To pour upon her heart the fiery tide
That fills my own; to open my soul's shrine
And show her her own image deified!
But vain the web my brain untiring weaves;
For hours I school in vain my spellbound tongue.
My passion hangs, unuttered, on the eaves
Of my soul's portal. Of a love unsung
I am the minstrel, for I sing alone.
My own heart is my hermitage, and there
I chant impassioned hymns, and weep, and groan,
And to love's phantom dedicate my prayer.
When on a lonely couch my head I lay,
What mystic eloquence comes to me unsought!
In fervent litanies to her I pray,
And tell my love in rosaries of thought.
A bold and reckless suitor in the night,—
A weak and silent coward in the day;
When all is dark I long to greet the light,
But dazzled when light comes, I turn away!
For hours I school in vain my spellbound tongue.
My passion hangs, unuttered, on the eaves
Of my soul's portal. Of a love unsung
I am the minstrel, for I sing alone.
My own heart is my hermitage, and there
I chant impassioned hymns, and weep, and groan,
And to love's phantom dedicate my prayer.
When on a lonely couch my head I lay,
What mystic eloquence comes to me unsought!
In fervent litanies to her I pray,
And tell my love in rosaries of thought.
A bold and reckless suitor in the night,—
A weak and silent coward in the day;
When all is dark I long to greet the light,
But dazzled when light comes, I turn away!
O, you should see her! She is, of all queens
That drive their chariots over bleeding hearts,
The loveliest one! Not by her sex's means
She won her throne. She has no need of arts.
Born to enslave, she conquers with a glance;
All blandishments and subtile wiles disdains;
A heretic to the antique romance,
To know she is, is knowing that she reigns.
That drive their chariots over bleeding hearts,
The loveliest one! Not by her sex's means
She won her throne. She has no need of arts.
Born to enslave, she conquers with a glance;
All blandishments and subtile wiles disdains;
A heretic to the antique romance,
To know she is, is knowing that she reigns.
33
Like the phosphoric trees in forests dark
She lights all hearts, and yet herself is cold;
And woe to him who, dazzled by the spark,
Hopes for a heat her heart can never hold!
She lights all hearts, and yet herself is cold;
And woe to him who, dazzled by the spark,
Hopes for a heat her heart can never hold!
But she is beautiful! No vocal dream
Warbled in slumber by the nightingale,
Can match her voice's music. Sculptors seem,
When most inspired, to copy her—and fail!
To gaze on her is song unto the sight;
A harmony of vision, heaven-sent,
Where all the tones of human charms unite,
And are in one majestic woman blent!
Warbled in slumber by the nightingale,
Can match her voice's music. Sculptors seem,
When most inspired, to copy her—and fail!
To gaze on her is song unto the sight;
A harmony of vision, heaven-sent,
Where all the tones of human charms unite,
And are in one majestic woman blent!
But once I thought she loved me. Bitter hour,
Whose mingled joy and torment haunt me still!
Her eyes look out from every starry flower;
I hear her mocking laugh in every rill.
Yet on this grief I love to muse alone—
It is a key that hath my nature tuned;
Upon my riven heart I gaze as one
Grows to companionship with even his wound.
Whose mingled joy and torment haunt me still!
Her eyes look out from every starry flower;
I hear her mocking laugh in every rill.
Yet on this grief I love to muse alone—
It is a key that hath my nature tuned;
Upon my riven heart I gaze as one
Grows to companionship with even his wound.
'T was in the autumn woods we rode one morn
To hunt the deer, with wild and willing steeds.
The young wind gayly blew his mellow horn,
And beat the tangled coverts of the reeds.
The golden elms tossed high their lucent leaves,
While on their giant boles, so rough in form,
The rugged bark stood out in corded sheaves,
Like muscles swoln in wrestling with the storm!
To hunt the deer, with wild and willing steeds.
The young wind gayly blew his mellow horn,
And beat the tangled coverts of the reeds.
The golden elms tossed high their lucent leaves,
While on their giant boles, so rough in form,
The rugged bark stood out in corded sheaves,
Like muscles swoln in wrestling with the storm!
A sudden, wayward fancy seized us here
To pause and act a leafy masquerade.
No idle tongues nor curious eyes were near,
And silent splendor filled the sunlit glade.
So, gathering armfuls of the autumn vines,
I wove their red ropes round the passive girl,
Looping the tendrils of the blushing vines
Round arms, and head, and each escaping curl.
Then through her horse's mane that blackly shone,
I plaited mosses long and leaden-hued,
Until she seemed like some young Amazon
Chained by the mighty monach of the wood.
To pause and act a leafy masquerade.
34
And silent splendor filled the sunlit glade.
So, gathering armfuls of the autumn vines,
I wove their red ropes round the passive girl,
Looping the tendrils of the blushing vines
Round arms, and head, and each escaping curl.
Then through her horse's mane that blackly shone,
I plaited mosses long and leaden-hued,
Until she seemed like some young Amazon
Chained by the mighty monach of the wood.
O mockery of conquest! Hidden sting!
O triumph treacherous as the sleeping seas!
She played the captive,—I, the victor-king,
Threading triumphal arches through the trees!
O triumph treacherous as the sleeping seas!
She played the captive,—I, the victor-king,
Threading triumphal arches through the trees!
Sudden, with one wild burst of regal might
She flung her fluttering fetters to the wind;
She and her steed with bound of fierce delight
Dashed through the crashing boughs that closed behind.—
And so she vanished. From the distance dim
Her scornful laughter floated to my ear;
A jest for her,—for me a funeral hymn,
Sung o'er a love that froze upon its bier!
She flung her fluttering fetters to the wind;
She and her steed with bound of fierce delight
Dashed through the crashing boughs that closed behind.—
And so she vanished. From the distance dim
Her scornful laughter floated to my ear;
A jest for her,—for me a funeral hymn,
Sung o'er a love that froze upon its bier!
How shall I conquer her? Since that cursed day
Her image stands between me and the world!
Around my cup of life where flowers should lay,
Forbidding me, a poisoned snake is curled.
As heron chased by hawk I soar through space,
The fatal shafts of her disdain to shun,
And seek the clouds; but vain the dizzy race,—
I find her still between me and the sun!
Her image stands between me and the world!
Around my cup of life where flowers should lay,
Forbidding me, a poisoned snake is curled.
As heron chased by hawk I soar through space,
The fatal shafts of her disdain to shun,
And seek the clouds; but vain the dizzy race,—
I find her still between me and the sun!
35
O queen, enthroned upon an icy height,
What holocaust does thy proud heart desire?
When will it flame like beacon through the night
With fiery answer to another's fire?
Ah! why so cold—so ever cold to me?
I chafe—I chafe all day from dawn to dark,
As chafes the wave of Adria's glowing sea
Against the pulseless marble of Saint Mark!
What holocaust does thy proud heart desire?
When will it flame like beacon through the night
With fiery answer to another's fire?
Ah! why so cold—so ever cold to me?
I chafe—I chafe all day from dawn to dark,
As chafes the wave of Adria's glowing sea
Against the pulseless marble of Saint Mark!
| The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien | |