Michael Villiers, Idealist And Other Poems. By E. H. Hickey |
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AUTOGRAPHS
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 | Michael Villiers, Idealist |  |
97
AUTOGRAPHS
Proem
Margaret, the lady he cherished, our poet who sang
Goldenmouthed, so that we hearkened entranced to the sound;
Margaret, who saw him go hence, while with clash and with clang
Triumph rang high for the one we anointed and crowned;
Goldenmouthed, so that we hearkened entranced to the sound;
Margaret, who saw him go hence, while with clash and with clang
Triumph rang high for the one we anointed and crowned;
Margaret, his jewel of jewels, his lady and love,
She who was heart of his heart, who was soul of his soul;
She with the delicate hands and the eyes of a dove;
She whom the world should have guarded from trouble and dole;
She who was heart of his heart, who was soul of his soul;
She with the delicate hands and the eyes of a dove;
She whom the world should have guarded from trouble and dole;
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Reft of her love, and uncared for by kindred or friend,
Toiled twenty years ere the time of her rest might arrive;
Flinching not, steadily fought for her life to the end;
Strove through her weakness and pain as the resolute strive.
Toiled twenty years ere the time of her rest might arrive;
Flinching not, steadily fought for her life to the end;
Strove through her weakness and pain as the resolute strive.
Woman and lady, untrained for the strife, unprepared,
What could she do to keep body and spirit untwinned?
Brave was the woman, and fared as a coward had fared;
Good was the woman, and suffered as if she had sinned.
What could she do to keep body and spirit untwinned?
Brave was the woman, and fared as a coward had fared;
Good was the woman, and suffered as if she had sinned.
So after twenty years gone, she was left to the drear
Facing of famine and cold, meagre-limbed, white of face;
Under the Three Golden Balls all her poor little gear;—
Then, on a morning in winter, one came to the place;
Facing of famine and cold, meagre-limbed, white of face;
Under the Three Golden Balls all her poor little gear;—
Then, on a morning in winter, one came to the place;
Came to her mean little dwelling, and offered her gold,
Gold in abundance instead of her loveletters signed with his name;
Loveletters yellowed a little and twenty years old;
Autograph notes of a poet ensphered in his fame.
Gold in abundance instead of her loveletters signed with his name;
Loveletters yellowed a little and twenty years old;
Autograph notes of a poet ensphered in his fame.
99
One of the letters of Keats
to his lady had brought
Guineas, he told her, a score, yestermonth at a sale;
Nought to the sum he would give did she grant what he sought;
Would she give up her possession, so might he prevail.
Guineas, he told her, a score, yestermonth at a sale;
Nought to the sum he would give did she grant what he sought;
Would she give up her possession, so might he prevail.
Scarcely a word did she say, but he knew it was vain;
Past through the door as he came, and half murmured, ‘Forgive!’
Went from her presence with something that bordered on pain;
Thought of the woman, and said, ‘Will she die? can she live?’
Past through the door as he came, and half murmured, ‘Forgive!’
Went from her presence with something that bordered on pain;
Thought of the woman, and said, ‘Will she die? can she live?’
A face where there glowed such a soul as a dreamer may see
Fair in the land where shut eyelids are gates of desire,
Calm in its wrath, for the queen of her passion was she,
Haunted by day at his desk, and by night at his fire.
Fair in the land where shut eyelids are gates of desire,
Calm in its wrath, for the queen of her passion was she,
Haunted by day at his desk, and by night at his fire.
So when a se'nnight was over he could not refrain;
Went to the room that was fair from some radiancy shed
From a spirit close clasped to the bosom of love we call pain;—
Entered, and knelt on the floor by the side of the dead.
Went to the room that was fair from some radiancy shed
From a spirit close clasped to the bosom of love we call pain;—
Entered, and knelt on the floor by the side of the dead.
‘Among the autograph letters was a love=letter from Keats to Fanny Browne. . . . This was sold for 21l.’ Report of a sale in one of the literary papers, 1889.
100
Margaret
I
‘A loveletter, written by dead John Keats,
Was sold for twenty guineas, I have heard:
Ah, did the buyer gloat upon each word,
Pause lingeringly, as near a nest of sweets,
Aflame to catch the self-same rapturous beats
Of the dear heart of that brave singing-bird,
When, all his being breathed upon and stirred,
The very lady of his heart he greets?
Was sold for twenty guineas, I have heard:
Ah, did the buyer gloat upon each word,
Pause lingeringly, as near a nest of sweets,
Aflame to catch the self-same rapturous beats
Of the dear heart of that brave singing-bird,
When, all his being breathed upon and stirred,
The very lady of his heart he greets?
Or did he look upon it, all unthrilled
Save by the pleasure of possessing what
So very few could get, and he had got;
A thing of market-value if he willed,
Some profit on a future day to yield?
Oh, let him be; it matters not one jot.
Save by the pleasure of possessing what
So very few could get, and he had got;
A thing of market-value if he willed,
Some profit on a future day to yield?
Oh, let him be; it matters not one jot.
II
‘'Twas but a little week ago, one came,
Came praying me to sell letters of his!
I know not what I answered him, ywis;
I knew I would die first; and one wild flame,
Mine outraged womanhood leapt up to shame
The asker, and he left me; me who miss
Living a little longer. What is this?
I think that God will hold me not to blame.
Came praying me to sell letters of his!
I know not what I answered him, ywis;
I knew I would die first; and one wild flame,
101
The asker, and he left me; me who miss
Living a little longer. What is this?
I think that God will hold me not to blame.
I knew the end was drawing very nigh;—
By famine done to death at forty-five!
One would suppose I might have kept alive
In Kensington a little longer; why,
I think I am over young like this to die.
I strove good strife; but what avails to strive?
By famine done to death at forty-five!
One would suppose I might have kept alive
In Kensington a little longer; why,
I think I am over young like this to die.
I strove good strife; but what avails to strive?
III
‘Ay, one would think that, here in Kensington,
It had not been so hard to keep from death!
Plenty the people here of gentle breath,
And gentle heart, who, had they only known
His love, their idol's love, so lean had grown,
As one the Shade of shades o'ershadoweth,
Had come with all the care which comforteth,
And prayed her, made her, for his sake live on.
It had not been so hard to keep from death!
Plenty the people here of gentle breath,
And gentle heart, who, had they only known
His love, their idol's love, so lean had grown,
As one the Shade of shades o'ershadoweth,
Had come with all the care which comforteth,
And prayed her, made her, for his sake live on.
For he who loved me twenty years ago
Is dear to all to-day, and far and wide,
They tell of him who, crowned with glory, died
In youth which high maturity did know.
True songs of life from him did freely flow,
True English singer by the Thames's side.
Is dear to all to-day, and far and wide,
They tell of him who, crowned with glory, died
In youth which high maturity did know.
True songs of life from him did freely flow,
True English singer by the Thames's side.
102
IV
‘He was a man with men, yet was apart
Even from the very highest and the best;
Too great to care if greatest or if least
They hailed him; great in life, in thought, in art,
He took the critics' ear, the people's heart,
And bore himself even as the lowliest;
Wept at men's woe, and smiled at their gay jest,
And lived true life in closet and in mart.
Even from the very highest and the best;
Too great to care if greatest or if least
They hailed him; great in life, in thought, in art,
He took the critics' ear, the people's heart,
And bore himself even as the lowliest;
Wept at men's woe, and smiled at their gay jest,
And lived true life in closet and in mart.
His fount of song in clearest beauty sprang;
I was so near, my head received the boon,
And little drops of his Castalian tune
Upon the locks he loved awhile did hang;
And thus I sang of him, my love who sang
Sweetest of all the singers under moon.
I was so near, my head received the boon,
And little drops of his Castalian tune
Upon the locks he loved awhile did hang;
And thus I sang of him, my love who sang
Sweetest of all the singers under moon.
‘“How shall I keep this wondrous festival,
The pleasure of God, more dreadful than his ire?
Than the high stars my God hath set me higher;
Have mercy, Lord, my handgrasp is but small,
Yet he thou honourest lays within it all
His heart of wonder, and his soul of fire;
And, of all women, I am the desire
Of that white soul thou hast made so great and tall.
The pleasure of God, more dreadful than his ire?
Than the high stars my God hath set me higher;
Have mercy, Lord, my handgrasp is but small,
Yet he thou honourest lays within it all
His heart of wonder, and his soul of fire;
And, of all women, I am the desire
Of that white soul thou hast made so great and tall.
103
Yesterday I was like an ungrown soul
In a pale limbo set, being unbaptized;
Painless and joyless, lacking bliss and dole;
By some adult magnificence surprised,
Plunged in love's sea of fire, and in the whole
Love-mystery for aye imparadised.
In a pale limbo set, being unbaptized;
Painless and joyless, lacking bliss and dole;
By some adult magnificence surprised,
Plunged in love's sea of fire, and in the whole
Love-mystery for aye imparadised.
“I kiss you on the brow of noble thought;
I kiss you on the eyes which truly see;
I kiss you on the lips of melody,
With tender, clinging kisses rapture-fraught;
I kiss you on the heart whose beats have caught
All the world's joy and all its agony;
And, till God shut the gates of memory,
This hour is mine, this perfect hour love-wrought.
I kiss you on the eyes which truly see;
I kiss you on the lips of melody,
With tender, clinging kisses rapture-fraught;
I kiss you on the heart whose beats have caught
All the world's joy and all its agony;
And, till God shut the gates of memory,
This hour is mine, this perfect hour love-wrought.
Petrarca's Laura never thus did kiss
Her lover-poet; never so there fell
On Beatrice's mouth such dew from his
Who knew the heights of heaven, the depths of hell.
Far happier I than she and she in this,
Who keep a memory ineffable.
Her lover-poet; never so there fell
On Beatrice's mouth such dew from his
Who knew the heights of heaven, the depths of hell.
Far happier I than she and she in this,
Who keep a memory ineffable.
“O flower of flowers, whose petals warm and white
Enfold me, body and soul; O perfect star,
Absolute in the radiance nought can mar,
Nor pain nor time; O sun of quenchless light,
And heat and glory, looser of the flight
Of winged joys, and breaker of winter's bar;
O peace, deep set upon all strife and war;
O love, O liege, how can I hymn thee aright?
Enfold me, body and soul; O perfect star,
Absolute in the radiance nought can mar,
Nor pain nor time; O sun of quenchless light,
104
Of winged joys, and breaker of winter's bar;
O peace, deep set upon all strife and war;
O love, O liege, how can I hymn thee aright?
I love thee, as I lie upon thine heart,
And drink thy beauty in with ravished eyne;
I love thee, as I go from thee apart,
Thou near me still, in timeless joy divine;
I love thee, love thee, love thee, O love, who art
Soul of my soul, life of this life of mine.”
And drink thy beauty in with ravished eyne;
I love thee, as I go from thee apart,
Thou near me still, in timeless joy divine;
I love thee, love thee, love thee, O love, who art
Soul of my soul, life of this life of mine.”
V
‘O love, my love, how dared they think that I
Would sell your letters for the sake of bread?
Nay, my soul's king, mine own beloved dead!
Women have died for body's chastity;
Is it so much a stranger thing to die
For the soul's chastity? shall it be said
Souls have no right to save their cleanlihead,
Their sacredness, in face of earth and sky?
Would sell your letters for the sake of bread?
Nay, my soul's king, mine own beloved dead!
Women have died for body's chastity;
Is it so much a stranger thing to die
For the soul's chastity? shall it be said
Souls have no right to save their cleanlihead,
Their sacredness, in face of earth and sky?
I take you in my lean hand, little match;
I strike you, and anon your flame has leapt
On to his letters, my beloved's, kept
Not for the world; I feared they might not catch,
Your flamelet was so tiny; I have wept
My last; I sit dry-eyed and watch and watch.’
I strike you, and anon your flame has leapt
On to his letters, my beloved's, kept
105
Your flamelet was so tiny; I have wept
My last; I sit dry-eyed and watch and watch.’
The flame is out; small, thin, the ashes go,
Blown lightly by the wind along the floor;
The woman has laid her down; the strife is o'er,
She waits the victor's coming; does she know
How sweet to find the end of toil and woe,
How blessed not to struggle any more?
Oh, long, long day! six hours of twenty-four
To sleep, and all the rest to suffer so!
Blown lightly by the wind along the floor;
The woman has laid her down; the strife is o'er,
She waits the victor's coming; does she know
How sweet to find the end of toil and woe,
How blessed not to struggle any more?
Oh, long, long day! six hours of twenty-four
To sleep, and all the rest to suffer so!
Nay! for her soul to royal presence boweth,
Then lifts itself to mystic power and will:
Sweet dew has come to heal the fever-drouth;
One draws anear; there comes a rapturous thrill,
And the air quivers like a lover's mouth
To a lover's kiss. And all is very still.
Then lifts itself to mystic power and will:
Sweet dew has come to heal the fever-drouth;
One draws anear; there comes a rapturous thrill,
And the air quivers like a lover's mouth
To a lover's kiss. And all is very still.
| Michael Villiers, Idealist | |