The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley [i.e. J. B. L. Warren] |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
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THE END OF A DELUSION |
 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
THE END OF A DELUSION
Steep, steep in Lethe's stream
Thy brows, thou barren Dream,
Delusion cease!
The fibres of my heart
Ache, from thy poisoned dart
I claim release.
Thy brows, thou barren Dream,
Delusion cease!
The fibres of my heart
Ache, from thy poisoned dart
I claim release.
There is no sting so dire
As waking in the mire
Of passion past;
When dripping woods decay,
And branch-leaves drift away
In frozen blast;
As waking in the mire
Of passion past;
When dripping woods decay,
And branch-leaves drift away
In frozen blast;
When the crisp elmwood groans,
And the swift river moans,
Presaging doom.
And as the bough lies shed
In clay, our troth is dead
And laid in tomb.
And the swift river moans,
Presaging doom.
And as the bough lies shed
In clay, our troth is dead
And laid in tomb.
There is no grief so loud
As winding in her shroud
Love dead, once dear;
There is no mock of pain
So bitter as disdain,
Which shames its tear.
As winding in her shroud
Love dead, once dear;
There is no mock of pain
So bitter as disdain,
Which shames its tear.
In wasted glen and grove,
Wild creek and wintry cove
There blooms no rose;
And on the leafless bowers
Thorns are the only flowers
The season knows.
Wild creek and wintry cove
There blooms no rose;
And on the leafless bowers
Thorns are the only flowers
The season knows.
441
How came my hand to find
A bane so sweet, designed
To bring regret?
What deep delusion wove
The toils of tangled Love
With red thorn set?
A bane so sweet, designed
To bring regret?
What deep delusion wove
The toils of tangled Love
With red thorn set?
Deep in the raptured May
I wound my careless way
By garden grove;
There perfumed bowers disclose
The fresh and fragrant rose
Of heedless Love.
I wound my careless way
By garden grove;
There perfumed bowers disclose
The fresh and fragrant rose
Of heedless Love.
It seemed a wondrous thing,
This burnished bud of spring
So dainty fair;
The vermeil gloss of morn,
The breath of scented thorn
Suffused it there.
This burnished bud of spring
So dainty fair;
The vermeil gloss of morn,
The breath of scented thorn
Suffused it there.
To my supreme surprise,
It seemed a perfect prize,
And wholly mine:
I swept the chords of praise
In pæan of Love's ways
And flower divine.
It seemed a perfect prize,
And wholly mine:
I swept the chords of praise
In pæan of Love's ways
And flower divine.
I kissed its petal-cheek,
I fondled, vain and weak,
A month—a moon;
Yet o'er my halting lyre
Some note of false desire
Rang out of tune.
I fondled, vain and weak,
A month—a moon;
Yet o'er my halting lyre
Some note of false desire
Rang out of tune.
Beneath thy rose-leaf reign
The petals fell amain,
Until wind-torn,
The mirage, rolled away,
Disclosed thy feet were clay,
Thy lips foresworn.
The petals fell amain,
Until wind-torn,
The mirage, rolled away,
Disclosed thy feet were clay,
Thy lips foresworn.
442
The waking pang was strong:
The true-love of old song
Was never born:
But we are mocked with glows
And hints of Anterôs,
Like spurious morn.
The true-love of old song
Was never born:
But we are mocked with glows
And hints of Anterôs,
Like spurious morn.
O Lethe, balm of shame,
Wipe out this hateful flame,
This bane of breath,
Since for a pinch of dust
I gave my soul in trust
To Siren Death.
Wipe out this hateful flame,
This bane of breath,
Since for a pinch of dust
I gave my soul in trust
To Siren Death.
September 14th, 1895.
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |