 | The Knight and The Enchantress |  |
106
ON MEMORY.
Memory! oh Memory! thou most sovereign power,
Racking the soul with many a sleepless hour—
Bringing ten thousand visions to the brain,
That once could cheat, that come to charm again!
Once! the old Once, of other, lovelier years—
Though dimly seen by eyes that gaze through tears,
How deeply felt by stricken hearts of love,
That must remember, and that can not rove!
Once! oh! the leaden bolts—the venomed darts,
That vain Remembrance hurls at those fond hearts,
Those burning hearts, whose feelings lie suppressed,
And make a sealed volcano of the breast!
Alas! who hath not felt, who doth not know,
Insidious Memory's sweetly-bitter woe?
(While most, o'er the most true and tender heart,
Doth she her deep and magic power exert);
When once we've loved in our confiding youth—
And loved with tenderness—and loved with truth—
The doom is written, and the seal is set;
How can the heart learn coldly to forget?
And if condemned some cherished hopes to lose—
Too oft—too oft capriciously we choose
To hoard the thorny stalk whose rose hath dropped,—
And spurn the stem whose flowers are all uncropped;
We link our souls to those dear treasures reft,
Nor cling the closer to the blessings left;
We turn from all Earth proffers, to pursue
All that we found most faithless and untrue;
And though much counsel, comfort, aid we need,
Would turn away though seraph-tongues should plead;
And though with torturing thirst we fiercely burn,
Would yet from the most dazzling fountains turn
With disrespect of cold distrust—with grief
That scorns all solace—shrinks from all relief,
Still ever thirsting, thirsting for the streams,
Which fed the Eden of our earliest dreams;
And broke in beauty round us, when young life,
With every promise of delight, seemed rife—
Which glassed the heavens, yet bore on their pure tide
All the Earth's enchantments gloriously beside—
Ay! glassed the heavens and earth—their pomps and powers—
The immortal stars, and the evanescent flowers;
'T is for their sake that while we onwards stray,
We oft from fairest currents turn away;
Ay! from the most outshining fountains turn
With luxury of fond anguish, still to yearn
For the lost freshness of that spring's cool wave,
'T is worse than vain to covet and to crave!
Or if we drink—to our distempered taste
Brackish they seem, as well-springs in the waste.
We languish more for those that we have lost—
And when we worst despair—desire them most!
We cast our longing, languid looks behind,
And thirst for streams we never more shall find;
As antique legends touchingly have told,
The daughters of the Ptolemies of old
When by some proud alliance far removed
From that dear land they so supremely loved,
Thirsted unto the death for one deep draught
Of their Choaspes' stream—(whereof they quaffed
In childhood's thrice-blessed time, ere care or woe
Had robbed their cheeks of youth's delightful glow)
Their own adored Choaspes!—which poured down
But for the wearers of the Imperial Crown—
For thronēd kings—and chiefs of far renown,
The sceptred lords of Egypt's sovereign line—
Its starry nectar, and its crystal wine;
So pearly pure those precious waters were,
Had sumptuous Cleopatra melted there
A pyramid of pearls, they had not shone more fair!
Such living fragrance from their freshness stole,
Each drop was an elixir to the soul;
Yes! yes! we pine, as Egypt's queenly daughters
Pined for their parted father-land's sweet waters—
With agonizing yearnings vain and wild,
For those lost fountains, fresh and undefiled;
No other streams shall so well minister
Unto the soul's thirst 'midst the toil, the stir,
And all the tribulation and the strife,
The excitement and distraction of this life;
Thus still we pine, as Egypt's royal Brides
Pined by their thronēd Consorts' kingly sides—
Pined 'midst all luxury could to grandeur grant,
With one unsoothed distress, and helpless want;
In vain obsequiously the kneeling slave,
The golden jewel-studded goblet gave—
In vain that goblet foamed with rarest wines,
Or waters, clear as gems of the Orient's mines;
Nectar, the drink of gods, had been in vain
To allay their fever, or to assuage their pain—
Or quench that thirst, by which they thus were doomed
To be tormented, mastered, and consumed;
While all this world of splendid could bestow—
Of pleasant could concede, was theirs below—
All, all its treasures and its joys their own;
All, all its stores and gifts before them thrown,
Save that poor comfort which they craved alone!
Oh! for one draught of their Choaspes' wave,
To soothe, to cheer, to gladden, and to save!
Or for one drop, to cool the expiring breath—
To mitigate the anguish of that death!
If death alone must aid, and all beside,
By fate's remorseless rigours be denied.
Pale grew their cheeks, by alien breezes fanned,
And fast those queenly flowers of Egypt's land,
Transplanted, drooped and withered on the stem;
What was the empire and the pomp to them?
Gladly would they have thrown their robes of pride,
And all the insignia of their state aside;
Gladly have left the palace and the throne,
Once more to call Choaspes' stream their own;
Once more the blessed melody to hear
Of those lost fountains, beautiful and clear;
Once more their fevered brows and lips to lave
In the soft, balmy coolness of that wave;
But this might not be—and their sole relief,
Was in the indulgence of their treasured grief;
And as they might not by thy flowery brink,
Choaspes, stray, nor of thy pure waves drink,
—That gleam like molten silver in their bed—
They made a heavy feast of tears instead;
(As though such precious drops could sole supply
The loss of those sweet springs no longer nigh,
For which they could with joy have laid them down to die;
And yet thy waves kept their melodious flow,
And heaven's reflections on their face did show,
And bore the morning's beauty on their breast,
And evening's weight of quiet and of rest;
But not for them who maddened for them so,
Who pined for them—and spurned all else below:
Oh! Memory! thus in wild and feverish dreams,
By thee inspired, we pine for long-lost streams,
And turn with fond caprice of vain distress
To all we miss—from all that we possess;
And still, while hopes, and loves, and joys depart,
While in this world, fate smites—death hurls his dart,—
All have some deep Choaspes of the heart;
Some loved lost spring whose touch should heal all care,
Some bright Choaspes of their fond despair!
Some hallowed stream whose waves far-severed roll,
Some dear Choaspes of the yearning soul!
Racking the soul with many a sleepless hour—
Bringing ten thousand visions to the brain,
That once could cheat, that come to charm again!
Once! the old Once, of other, lovelier years—
Though dimly seen by eyes that gaze through tears,
How deeply felt by stricken hearts of love,
That must remember, and that can not rove!
Once! oh! the leaden bolts—the venomed darts,
That vain Remembrance hurls at those fond hearts,
Those burning hearts, whose feelings lie suppressed,
And make a sealed volcano of the breast!
Alas! who hath not felt, who doth not know,
Insidious Memory's sweetly-bitter woe?
107
Doth she her deep and magic power exert);
When once we've loved in our confiding youth—
And loved with tenderness—and loved with truth—
The doom is written, and the seal is set;
How can the heart learn coldly to forget?
And if condemned some cherished hopes to lose—
Too oft—too oft capriciously we choose
To hoard the thorny stalk whose rose hath dropped,—
And spurn the stem whose flowers are all uncropped;
We link our souls to those dear treasures reft,
Nor cling the closer to the blessings left;
We turn from all Earth proffers, to pursue
All that we found most faithless and untrue;
And though much counsel, comfort, aid we need,
Would turn away though seraph-tongues should plead;
And though with torturing thirst we fiercely burn,
Would yet from the most dazzling fountains turn
With disrespect of cold distrust—with grief
That scorns all solace—shrinks from all relief,
108
Which fed the Eden of our earliest dreams;
And broke in beauty round us, when young life,
With every promise of delight, seemed rife—
Which glassed the heavens, yet bore on their pure tide
All the Earth's enchantments gloriously beside—
Ay! glassed the heavens and earth—their pomps and powers—
The immortal stars, and the evanescent flowers;
'T is for their sake that while we onwards stray,
We oft from fairest currents turn away;
Ay! from the most outshining fountains turn
With luxury of fond anguish, still to yearn
For the lost freshness of that spring's cool wave,
'T is worse than vain to covet and to crave!
Or if we drink—to our distempered taste
Brackish they seem, as well-springs in the waste.
We languish more for those that we have lost—
And when we worst despair—desire them most!
109
And thirst for streams we never more shall find;
As antique legends touchingly have told,
The daughters of the Ptolemies of old
When by some proud alliance far removed
From that dear land they so supremely loved,
Thirsted unto the death for one deep draught
Of their Choaspes' stream—(whereof they quaffed
In childhood's thrice-blessed time, ere care or woe
Had robbed their cheeks of youth's delightful glow)
Their own adored Choaspes!—which poured down
But for the wearers of the Imperial Crown—
For thronēd kings—and chiefs of far renown,
The sceptred lords of Egypt's sovereign line—
Its starry nectar, and its crystal wine;
So pearly pure those precious waters were,
Had sumptuous Cleopatra melted there
A pyramid of pearls, they had not shone more fair!
Such living fragrance from their freshness stole,
Each drop was an elixir to the soul;
110
Pined for their parted father-land's sweet waters—
With agonizing yearnings vain and wild,
For those lost fountains, fresh and undefiled;
No other streams shall so well minister
Unto the soul's thirst 'midst the toil, the stir,
And all the tribulation and the strife,
The excitement and distraction of this life;
Thus still we pine, as Egypt's royal Brides
Pined by their thronēd Consorts' kingly sides—
Pined 'midst all luxury could to grandeur grant,
With one unsoothed distress, and helpless want;
In vain obsequiously the kneeling slave,
The golden jewel-studded goblet gave—
In vain that goblet foamed with rarest wines,
Or waters, clear as gems of the Orient's mines;
Nectar, the drink of gods, had been in vain
To allay their fever, or to assuage their pain—
Or quench that thirst, by which they thus were doomed
To be tormented, mastered, and consumed;
111
Of pleasant could concede, was theirs below—
All, all its treasures and its joys their own;
All, all its stores and gifts before them thrown,
Save that poor comfort which they craved alone!
Oh! for one draught of their Choaspes' wave,
To soothe, to cheer, to gladden, and to save!
Or for one drop, to cool the expiring breath—
To mitigate the anguish of that death!
If death alone must aid, and all beside,
By fate's remorseless rigours be denied.
Pale grew their cheeks, by alien breezes fanned,
And fast those queenly flowers of Egypt's land,
Transplanted, drooped and withered on the stem;
What was the empire and the pomp to them?
Gladly would they have thrown their robes of pride,
And all the insignia of their state aside;
Gladly have left the palace and the throne,
Once more to call Choaspes' stream their own;
112
Of those lost fountains, beautiful and clear;
Once more their fevered brows and lips to lave
In the soft, balmy coolness of that wave;
But this might not be—and their sole relief,
Was in the indulgence of their treasured grief;
And as they might not by thy flowery brink,
Choaspes, stray, nor of thy pure waves drink,
—That gleam like molten silver in their bed—
They made a heavy feast of tears instead;
(As though such precious drops could sole supply
The loss of those sweet springs no longer nigh,
For which they could with joy have laid them down to die;
And yet thy waves kept their melodious flow,
And heaven's reflections on their face did show,
And bore the morning's beauty on their breast,
And evening's weight of quiet and of rest;
But not for them who maddened for them so,
Who pined for them—and spurned all else below:
113
By thee inspired, we pine for long-lost streams,
And turn with fond caprice of vain distress
To all we miss—from all that we possess;
And still, while hopes, and loves, and joys depart,
While in this world, fate smites—death hurls his dart,—
All have some deep Choaspes of the heart;
Some loved lost spring whose touch should heal all care,
Some bright Choaspes of their fond despair!
Some hallowed stream whose waves far-severed roll,
Some dear Choaspes of the yearning soul!
Oh, Memory! Memory! since the unhappy pair
From Paradise expelled, first learned to bear
Thy heavy yoke, and drain thy deadly wine,
How many a heart hath bled before thy shrine!
Not that thy dreamy rule—thy twilight reign
Is all of grief, of vanity, and pain;
No! thou hast solaced with an angel's tongue,
Ofttimes the souls ingratitude hath wrung—
When treachery hath aggrieved, and scorn reviled,
And thou alone consolingly hast smiled;
And thou hast soothed in sharp bereavement's hour,
With solemnizing, harmonizing power,
Hearts that had found this disenchanted Earth,
Without thy aid too dreary in its dearth;
Words of affection, silenced when most sweet,
Thy echo-tongue is skilful to repeat;
Loved lineaments, dear aspects, to restore,
Skilful thy shadowy hand is—from thy store,
What treasures they collect, who hoped for such no more!
But there are thousand thousands that would fain
Yield all thy pleasures to escape thy pain!
For what is like thy tyranny below,
When we would court Hope's renovating glow?
Thou bind'st us to our perished joy, or woe—
Like those whose hideous cruelty, 't was said,
Together chained the living and the dead!
Can any exorcism from Self release,
Bid haunting consciousness depart or cease?
Could we but be—to escape from doom and thee—
Blest into stone, like the olden Niobe!
Oh! misery! when with tortures too refined,
The heart's poor bankrupts—the exiles of the mind—
Midst all life's vanities and troubles move,
Martyrs to thee, and constancy and love!
Too spectre-like 'mongst things substantial, real—
Too mortal, too material, midst the ideal;
Sometimes indeed, thou spread'st a royal feast
Before thy votaries when they court thee least—
Thou seizest sweetly on their Being's whole;
The Past comes rushing o'er their passive soul!
And all that lent enchantment to that past—
All that the hues of glory o'er it cast;
But can such transports stay, such visions last?
Ah, no! too soon they pass—to leave the mind
Doubly dejected, desolate, and blind!
Thy gold too finely beaten falls to dust,
Those aëry forms thou'rt skilful to adjust—
Like forced exotics soon grow dim and pale,
And all thine o'erblown bubbles burst and fail!
Thy troubled fountains darkly overboil,
Thy thoughts lie strangled in their own sweet coil,
Thy rainbow-coloured dreams themselves despoil.
The golden cord thou wind'st about the heart—
Too much outstretched doth jarringly dispart;
To leave a death-like silence of the soul,
A gloom that palpably doth round us roll—
A sense of deep and heavy solitude,
A blank, a stagnant, and a frozen mood;
While in a point existence lies compressed—
Straightened and prisoned in the close-locked breast!
Till that wild calenture of heart returns,
And once again the brain and bosom burns;
That calenture of feeling—full, profound—
That brings a moment's Paradise around,
A dreamy Paradise—where we respire
A passionate air—whose every breath is fire;
Where the ground, hollowed to sweet echo-cells—
Gives many a murmur where the footstep dwells.
Delirious—rapturous—visionary—strange
That fever-mood is,—and too drear the change,
When cold reality once more resumes
Her sway, and rush back to their opening tombs,
Fancy's too brilliant phantoms, pure and fair—
And leave the wretch to darkness and despair!
Oh! there are in this life some fearful hours—
When sorrow startles while it overpowers;
When the heart shrinks back like a sensitive plant,
From the harsh contact of those things that want
The charm of old familiar usage, blessed,
And sweet, and sacred, to the conscious breast;
That tender charm, whose power all hearts confess—
Which more than magic virtue doth possess.
No! 't is not from their contact—'t is from thee,
And from thy touch, insidious Memory,
That thus the heart draws back—with pain and grief,
Trembling and shrinking like a sensitive leaf—
'T is from thy wildering maddening breath it shrinks;
'T is from the tightening of thy galling links;
'T is from the deepening of thy venomed sting;
'T is from thy touch, too chill and withering—
That touch which blights Hope's bud—checks Joy's sweet spring—
Yea! 't is from thee, that with convulsive start,
Recoils so oft the lacerated heart;
That touch goes thrilling to its inmost core,
Worst pang of all who bear, or ever bore;
Memory! thou torturest with that thrilling touch—
Oh! Memory, Memory! thou'rt a life too much;
Ay! thou'rt a life too much, confessed indeed,
When the forsaken bosom—doomed to bleed,
The past and all its blessedness recalls,
Till many a tear of sick dejection falls;
And all the was contrasted with the is—
Smites the lorn heart for ever lost to bliss;
A life too much, that fever-life of dreams;
That life of shadows crossed by meteor beams,
That life of fetters—and of burdens sore,
That crush the soul, and wound the heart's sick core.
Yet Memory! oft in homage to thy shrine,
All hope, peace, joy, and comfort we resign;
Resign all willingly—nay, gladly too,
False to ourselves—to thee, to thee—too true;
Poisons we make our food; our health, disease;
Our riches, poverty—constraint, our ease—
Our loss, our sole possession! and our bane
Our one dear blessing! whilst the pain—the pain
Of death, without the promise of its peace,
Without its soothing prospects of release,
Is our life's life—for so we love our woe,
It seems worth every happiness below.
From Paradise expelled, first learned to bear
Thy heavy yoke, and drain thy deadly wine,
How many a heart hath bled before thy shrine!
Not that thy dreamy rule—thy twilight reign
Is all of grief, of vanity, and pain;
No! thou hast solaced with an angel's tongue,
Ofttimes the souls ingratitude hath wrung—
114
And thou alone consolingly hast smiled;
And thou hast soothed in sharp bereavement's hour,
With solemnizing, harmonizing power,
Hearts that had found this disenchanted Earth,
Without thy aid too dreary in its dearth;
Words of affection, silenced when most sweet,
Thy echo-tongue is skilful to repeat;
Loved lineaments, dear aspects, to restore,
Skilful thy shadowy hand is—from thy store,
What treasures they collect, who hoped for such no more!
But there are thousand thousands that would fain
Yield all thy pleasures to escape thy pain!
For what is like thy tyranny below,
When we would court Hope's renovating glow?
Thou bind'st us to our perished joy, or woe—
Like those whose hideous cruelty, 't was said,
Together chained the living and the dead!
Can any exorcism from Self release,
Bid haunting consciousness depart or cease?
115
Blest into stone, like the olden Niobe!
Oh! misery! when with tortures too refined,
The heart's poor bankrupts—the exiles of the mind—
Midst all life's vanities and troubles move,
Martyrs to thee, and constancy and love!
Too spectre-like 'mongst things substantial, real—
Too mortal, too material, midst the ideal;
Sometimes indeed, thou spread'st a royal feast
Before thy votaries when they court thee least—
Thou seizest sweetly on their Being's whole;
The Past comes rushing o'er their passive soul!
And all that lent enchantment to that past—
All that the hues of glory o'er it cast;
But can such transports stay, such visions last?
Ah, no! too soon they pass—to leave the mind
Doubly dejected, desolate, and blind!
Thy gold too finely beaten falls to dust,
Those aëry forms thou'rt skilful to adjust—
Like forced exotics soon grow dim and pale,
And all thine o'erblown bubbles burst and fail!
116
Thy thoughts lie strangled in their own sweet coil,
Thy rainbow-coloured dreams themselves despoil.
The golden cord thou wind'st about the heart—
Too much outstretched doth jarringly dispart;
To leave a death-like silence of the soul,
A gloom that palpably doth round us roll—
A sense of deep and heavy solitude,
A blank, a stagnant, and a frozen mood;
While in a point existence lies compressed—
Straightened and prisoned in the close-locked breast!
Till that wild calenture of heart returns,
And once again the brain and bosom burns;
That calenture of feeling—full, profound—
That brings a moment's Paradise around,
A dreamy Paradise—where we respire
A passionate air—whose every breath is fire;
Where the ground, hollowed to sweet echo-cells—
Gives many a murmur where the footstep dwells.
Delirious—rapturous—visionary—strange
That fever-mood is,—and too drear the change,
117
Her sway, and rush back to their opening tombs,
Fancy's too brilliant phantoms, pure and fair—
And leave the wretch to darkness and despair!
Oh! there are in this life some fearful hours—
When sorrow startles while it overpowers;
When the heart shrinks back like a sensitive plant,
From the harsh contact of those things that want
The charm of old familiar usage, blessed,
And sweet, and sacred, to the conscious breast;
That tender charm, whose power all hearts confess—
Which more than magic virtue doth possess.
No! 't is not from their contact—'t is from thee,
And from thy touch, insidious Memory,
That thus the heart draws back—with pain and grief,
Trembling and shrinking like a sensitive leaf—
'T is from thy wildering maddening breath it shrinks;
'T is from the tightening of thy galling links;
'T is from the deepening of thy venomed sting;
'T is from thy touch, too chill and withering—
118
Yea! 't is from thee, that with convulsive start,
Recoils so oft the lacerated heart;
That touch goes thrilling to its inmost core,
Worst pang of all who bear, or ever bore;
Memory! thou torturest with that thrilling touch—
Oh! Memory, Memory! thou'rt a life too much;
Ay! thou'rt a life too much, confessed indeed,
When the forsaken bosom—doomed to bleed,
The past and all its blessedness recalls,
Till many a tear of sick dejection falls;
And all the was contrasted with the is—
Smites the lorn heart for ever lost to bliss;
A life too much, that fever-life of dreams;
That life of shadows crossed by meteor beams,
That life of fetters—and of burdens sore,
That crush the soul, and wound the heart's sick core.
Yet Memory! oft in homage to thy shrine,
All hope, peace, joy, and comfort we resign;
119
False to ourselves—to thee, to thee—too true;
Poisons we make our food; our health, disease;
Our riches, poverty—constraint, our ease—
Our loss, our sole possession! and our bane
Our one dear blessing! whilst the pain—the pain
Of death, without the promise of its peace,
Without its soothing prospects of release,
Is our life's life—for so we love our woe,
It seems worth every happiness below.
Wildered, infatuated, we make our life
At once a blank, a sufferance, and a strife;
We die into the Past with rapturous pain,
To die back to the Present's dearth again;
And shall I thus a willing martyr fall,
And unresisting bear thy bitter thrall?
No! let me learn a wiser, better part,
And pluck forth from the wound the festering dart—
Nor hold it with convulsive clutch of woe,
Till part and portion of myself it grow—
Let me expel thy dreams—thy forms efface,
Nor banish them alone, but more, replace!
And woo new hopes to fill each vacant space;
For thy dull garlands—hueless, scentless, dead—
Twining the wreaths of love and joy instead.
Memory! a life too much on earth thou'rt given,
But an eternity—the more may'st prove in heaven!
At once a blank, a sufferance, and a strife;
We die into the Past with rapturous pain,
To die back to the Present's dearth again;
And shall I thus a willing martyr fall,
And unresisting bear thy bitter thrall?
No! let me learn a wiser, better part,
And pluck forth from the wound the festering dart—
120
Till part and portion of myself it grow—
Let me expel thy dreams—thy forms efface,
Nor banish them alone, but more, replace!
And woo new hopes to fill each vacant space;
For thy dull garlands—hueless, scentless, dead—
Twining the wreaths of love and joy instead.
Memory! a life too much on earth thou'rt given,
But an eternity—the more may'st prove in heaven!
| The Knight and The Enchantress | |