University of Virginia Library

“From the Pleasance, Poet mine,
Fetch me flowers!” the Lady said—
“Flowers whereon the moonbeams shine,
And the night's first dews are shed.”

Then the Poet, slowly, slowly
Through the Pleasance takes his way,
(In the dream that wraps him wholly,
Murmuring low some sylvan lay),
To the beds of bloom, that woo him
With their blended odours rare,—
Richest odours, wafted to him
On the calm night air.
And he saith—“O Rose, I claim thee
For a virgin flower more fair,—
For a bosom that shall shame thee
Into dying there.”
But from that pale Rose proceeding,
Silver-sweet was heard the pleading,
“Poet, spare, oh spare!

Spare me, earliest of my race,
I am queen of this still place,
And a star doth love me;—
Lift thy gaze from earth to sky,—
Poet, lo! unchangeably
It doth smile above me.
And if thou hadst passed this way,
Gentle face, by light of day,
Not a breath of perfumed air
Would have 'scaped from out me;—
Bloom and fragrance both I store
Till the weary day is o'er,
And the twilight, dusky-fair,
Drops her folds about me:
But when, one by one, the flowers
Sink to sleep around me;
And from out its azure bowers
You sweet light hath found me,
With glad heart I offer up,
All the incense in my cup,
And the winds together,
At my bidding, on their wings,
With Æolian whisperings
Waft it up the ether:
And be sure that loving smile
Groweth brighter yet the while.

“Poet, with that musing eye,
Look into this heart of mine;
Where the pearlëd dew-drops lie,
There the star-rays strike and shine;
Poet, they came down, came down,
Love-sent, from their native heaven—
Gifts are they for homage shown,
And for fragrance given;
And each ray that flasheth free
Tells a tale of joy for me.
Spare me, spare me, for the sake,
Poet, of thine own heart's pleasure,
And that love of thine shall take
Blessings with it beyond measure:
Spare me, spare me!”

And the Poet
Through the Pleasance takes his way—
With raised brow—the lips below it,
Shaped into a “Well-a-day!
Not one rose for thee!” Then smiling,
Saith he, with soft voice beguiling,
“Lily, lily, thou must bend thee
From thy stately height—
Thou must pity and befriend me
In my task to-night!”
A low murmur stirred the air,
But the cry was still—“Oh, spare!”

“Hearken, hearken!”—and the singing
Voice that from the lily wells,
Soundeth like the breezy ringing,
On a sabbath morn up-springing,
Of faint village bells;
Soundeth like the tones that waken
When the light winds sweep the sern
And the melodies are shaken
From the hare-bell's urn.
“Hearken,” saith she, “Poet, hearken,
Ere thou steal my joy away,
Ere my fair new life thou darken
With a swift decay.
Blessëd, blessëd is the glory
Of the golden-crownëd light,
But for me a sweeter story
Hath the dewy face of night;
For when all the pleasance lonely
Groweth, and beneath the trees
The white moonbeams, trooping only,
Work their silent fantasies,
Oft from out the greenwood shadow
Comes an elfin sprite to me,
Tripping gaily o'er the meadow,
Singing ever merrily;
With a tiny shout of greeting,
Low he sinks on bended knee,
Smiling still, and still repeating,
‘Lily, ope thine heart to me!’
Then with sudden gesture sprightly,
Close my slender stem is pressed,—
With a bound he leapeth lightly
To his place of rest:—
And all night, all night he singeth
Elfin songs that sweetest be,
Till the soft air round us ringeth
With his merry minstrelsy.
He doth sing of sunny places,
Far away,
Where a constant ealm embraces
Night and day.
Where the rivers as they wander,
Where the winds, young leaves that sunnder,
Where the very cataract's thunder
Tell of love alway.
And he saith the blossoms growing
There do neither faint nor fade,
Dowered with fragrance ever flowing,
Be it shine or shade;
And that spirits bright and fair
Hold it ever their best duty
Each young bud to cherish there,
And unfold its beauty.
Never cruel hand, I wis,
Dareth pluck or break them—
Angel touch, or angel kiss,—
Worse doth ne'er o'ertake them.
And that little fay hath vow'd
He will surely bear me
From this land of mist and cloud,
Ere the storm-blast tear me,
To that refuge far away,
That calm home of brightness—
There to live and bloom for aye,
In eternal whiteness.
Nay—this very night, it may be,
He will keep that vow—
Poet, by thine own sweet lady,
Hear and heed me now!
Heed me!”—Ah, she ceaseth pleading—
Down the alleys green,
Fast the Poet's form receding
Faint and dim is seen.—
“Neither Rose, alas! nor Lily,
For thy crown, my queen!”

But the Violet, close-hidden
'Midst its leaves he spies;
And quick stoopeth—unforbidden,
To possess his prize?
Nay, not so—sharp accents sudden
Of wild anguish rise;
And again he needs must tarry
By that flow'ret pale,
While the scented air doth carry
To his ear her tale.
Of the ruin and the sadness
That such doom would leave—
Of the glory and the gladness
That are his to give.

Woe is me! the tale is over,
But the moonlight doth discover
That no prize is won;
That our puzzled Poet-lover
Roameth flowerless on—
“No, not even a Violet, lady,
Well-a-day, not one!”

And each blossom that hath station,
In that Pleasance fair,
Still doth meet his invocation
With its separate prayer—
With sweet words of deprecation,
And that cry—“Oh, spare!”
So he wandereth, ever vainly—
Wandereth hour by hour,
Till Love's duty pointeth plainly
To his lady's bower.
And he entereth, somewhat weary,
Ay, and suppliantly,
With a murmured “Miserere!”
Breathed on bended knee—
“Miserere! O my lady,
Not one flower for thee!”

Then, encompassed by the glory
Of his art, with kindling air,
He doth weave each flower's sweet story
Into poems rare;
And the pure and calm cmotion
Of his strain commingleth so
With the moonlight and the motion
Of the sighing leaves below,
That you well might deem some spirit
From an elemental sphere,
That no earth-stain doth inherit,
Sang his deseant there.
With fond ear the lady listeneth—
With a face of rapt repose,
And her eye's deep azure glisteneth
When the lay doth close.
And she murmureth, “Poet mine,
From my pleasance thou hast brought
Blossoms of a hue divine,
With immortal fragrance fraught;
Blossoms dearer far to me
Than earth's brightest ones can be,
And a worthy crown—for thee!”