 | Poems by a Painter |  |
118
“MY LADY.”
I
'Twas a stately English maiden,Proud of step and calm of mien,
With a red mouth like a rosebud,
And the bosom of a queen,
II
That far down the summer woodland,Culling flowers, had lost her way
When we met among the brackens
At the closing of the day.
III
Never lovelier vision wandered,In the young world's age of gold,
119
Or Hesperian gardens old.
IV
Ne'er to lonely knight of laterAges, bound on perilous quest
Through enchanted forest, sweeter
Witch or woman stood confest.
V
Ne'er through royal Shakespeare's pages,Or strong Chaucer's pulsing line,
Or pure Spenser's crystal stanzas,
Floated phantom so divine!
VI
But, diviner than all phantomsOf the teeming poet-brain;
Youth, like a sweet breeze, about her;
Life a-glow in every vein!—
120
VII
Life, that through her very garmentsSeemed to palpitate and burn,
Like a mystic flame that flushes
Through an alabaster urn:
VIII
Till the very dust she trode onWith her silent silken feet,
And the air her quickened breathing
Made so strangely, wildly sweet,
IX
Took a glory from her presence,As a wreath of vapour dun
Turns to amethyst and beryl
In the presence of the sun!
X
O! those dark locks, ever darkeningWith the darkening of the even!
121
As the stars grew bright in heaven!
XI
O! those whispers, like the night-wind—Through my brain they vibrate yet!
Syllables of magic import,
To the heart's deep music set!
XII
O! that purple July gloaming!O! that husht and shadowy nook,
Where, alone with that sweet sibyl,
First I conned love's mystic book!—
XIII
Where young passion's nectared vintageFirst allayed my soul's fierce drouth—
Crushed from out the ruby wine-press
Of that warm and loving mouth!
122
XIV
Lady, when the summer twilightSwoons to earth in violet gloom,
When the warm winds panting round thee
Wave their censers of perfume;
XV
When the blackbird in the beechesCalls his mate with doubling note,
And the young moon's shadow trembles
Where the water-lilies float;
XVI
When the far-off kine are lowing,And the village forge is mute,
And the long, dim valley echoes
To the lovelorn herdsman's flute;
XVII
When the milkmaid's laugh replieth,From the quiles of new-mown hay,
123
Umbrage darts a fierier ray;
XVIII
When the summer's dreamy languorCreeps through every nerve and vein,
Till its very sweetness thrills thee
With a sense of mortal pain;
XIX
As that haughty bosom, aching,Owns the witchery of the hour,
And thy heart throbs void and weary
In thy lone palatial bower,
XX
And the golden robe of honourSeems to swathe thee like a pall,
And like lead upon thy forehead
Weighs the golden coronal:
124
XXI
Then, will yearning memory conjureBack that night of joy and tears,
When we gathered love's wild roses
In the spring-time of our years?
| Poems by a Painter | |