Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] :: :: University of Virginia Library

“I was not born to crown of golden hair,
Or wealth of deeper brown with russet tips,
Nor was the fashion of my body fair,
Nor did the hue of roses rich and rare
Hang on my lips,—

“Which parted not upon an even row
Of orient pearls, with dimple at the side,
Seeming to say, ‘Come, kiss me!’ in the glow
Of conscious blush; nor was I arch'd of brow,
Or starry-eyed.

“I painted some who were as fair as this,
For God had given me the power to limn
Both men and women; neither did I miss
The grace of colder Nature—lights that kiss
The ocean's rim,

“Or deep black shadows under forest trees!
And I could gather wealth of flowers and fruit,

And lay them down on canvas at my ease,
And I had power to subjugate and seize
Both bird and brute.

“I read of women who were fair, and wept
To know the world so deafen'd to my song
Because of this rough lyre, wherefrom had leapt
A grateful music, could one hand have swept
The cords among!

“Or, sometimes sleeping, did I falsely seem
As fair as were the fairest; then indeed
I wept at waking, for athwart my dream
Had flash'd a fairy prince 'neath evening's beam,
On prancing steed.

“He was a prince so like that king of men
Who pass'd me on the road, and let me lie
At youth's lone midway milestone; it was then
I cursed these faulty lines of Nature's pen,
And pray'd to die.

“A little more of lavish light and shade,
A little less of that or more of this—
Here tints that glow, or there the hues that fade;
Such subtle nothings as these few had made
Me good to kiss!

“A careless slip by careless Nature made—
A faulty measurement, a loaded brush
Or empty palette; I, who make a trade
Of seeking out the haunts of light and shade
Would almost blush

“To paint so poor a face! Yet from within
(Unlike the faulty failures on these walls,
The rough first sketches I did but begin,
Then flung aside), above this mundane din,
A voice there calls,

“Which says to me, ‘Thou art not wholly base
Since thou canst work and suffer.’ Ah, my soul!
Thou hadst been fair hadst thou but been a face,
Since thou canst bear the burden of this race
Without a goal!

“Nature hath warn'd me that I may not share
The pastimes of a brighter heritage;
Peacocks and daws peck not the same parterre,
Nor sigh yon homely wives of Chanticleer
For gilded cage,

“Wherein may sing some captive, on whose breast
Lingers, in mockery, the sunset glow

Flash'd through the green savannahs of the west,
Whereof he sings in sadness. It were best
That each should know

“All may not match in plumage with the hues
Of tropic birds upon their varied wing;
Each hath her sep'rate mission and her use,
And those endow'd with song-notes cannot choose,
But pipe and sing.

“For me to weep: yet with how rich a dow'r
Of woman's highest gift, serene and pure
As is the folded chalice of a flower,
My soul had met his love! With wondrous power
Giv'n to endure.

“‘Endure!’ Too cruel word! too cruel fate!
Seal'd from the dear emotions of the blest;
A thing too meaningless—beneath the rate
Whereat we measure common love and hate,
And doom'd to rest

“(I, who had gloried in a treasure-trove!)
Nursing a barren mem'ry all my life,
Proving the love he did not e'en disprove.
Ah! will the lissom lady of his love,
His promised wife,

“Bring him the treasure of so good a thing? . . .
I know not; for bright insects oft deceive,
Flitting upon the zephyr, murmuring,
And seeming all so fair of form and wing
That none believe

“They bear a sting; and women who are fair
Are often counted false—so many seek
To win their favours—flatter'd ev'rywhere—
Till love and change seem in the very air
They breathe and speak.

“I hope for him, yet fear. . . . Oh! if a day
Should dawn when he may know this aching pain,
This thirsting after waters turn'd astray,
This longing for those blossoms blown away
To bloom again,

“Then may he think of one whom long ago
He pass'd in silence by!” . . . She turn'd aside,
And down her cheek in blighted sadness flow
The tears that none compassion; whilst her brow,
(Not “starry-eyed,”)

Seem'd clouded o'er with mists of sullen thought;
Then, turning to her work, she lightly drew

An armèd knight, his breast-plate all enwrought
With steel and gold; her cunning pencil caught
His eyes of blue

And backward-blowing plume. This picture lay
With many a change of posture and half-light,
About her chamber: she would e'en portray
The careless look with which he rode away
Out of her sight.

Thus ended her sad song; and all unmoved
The careless swallows twitter'd as she grieved:
The fairy prince was gone. It is unproved
If by the lissom lady that he loved
He was deceived;

Perchance, the course of true love runs not smooth—
And we are told such things have often been:
Yet this I somehow learnt—a bitter truth—
At that lone midway milestone of her youth
He had not seen

That hapless lady of the faulty face;
Nor, if his life had sorrows, did he deem
Those sorrows sprung of any want of grace
In her or him, in any earthly place
Or in a dream.

He rode away, nor look'd to left or right,
Nor guess'd his passing made the sole romance
Of that poor loveless life, nor knew the night
Ensuing on the evanescent light
Of his one glance!

Should he have linger'd, and with eagle eye
Discern'd the pearl hid in so rude a shell?
Alas! if woman's love were deep and high
And sweet as is the spice of Araby,
This had been well!

Or if it were a thing as passing rare
As is the mystic death-note of the swan,
Then women who are plain, or others fair,
Would seem but varied blossoms, sweet to wear
And gaze upon.

But woman's love is oft a lighter thing
Than is the gold dust on the butterfly,
Brush'd with too eager pressure from the wing,
And losing by too careful treasuring
Both light and dye.

And thus it is, maybe, that on Life's road
Men will not tarry to unearth the gem

Lurking behind the eyelids of the toad,
When such a heaven of starry lights have glow'd
And shone for them.

And so they seek the facile, and prefer
The fairest first, nor slack their bridle-rein—
As I, who heard this lonely murmurer,
Turn to some brighter theme, away from her
Whom God made plain.