Poems By the author of "The Patience of Hope" [i.e. Dora Greenwell] |
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| THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS.
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91
THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS.
“Endure and dare, true heart, through Patience joined
With boldness come we at a Crown enriched
With thousand blessings.”
—From the Spanish of Argensolas.
With boldness come we at a Crown enriched
With thousand blessings.”
—From the Spanish of Argensolas.
I. AGNES AT HER WINDOW.
My window looks upon a dead blank wall,Yet flowers that grow beyond are kind, and send—
As friend might soothingly to prisoned friend—
Their kisses blown upon the wind, to call
A summer round me in my cell, where all
Breathes of the rose and jessamine that blend;
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A Vine hath run, and on my side let fall
Some leaves and tendrils, chequering the dull stone
With verdurous gloom; e'en like such gracious bough
Hast thou, O Love! thy goodly branches thrown
O'er our Life's drearness; grieved and hated Thou
By this world's archers, yet Thou dost abide
In strength, firm rooted on the other side!
93
II. THE SERENADE.
Last night, as Thou thy wonted round didst make,
Beloved watcher, sore I chid the wind,
When citron scents were wooing it, to take
Thy sweetness from me, leaving theirs behind!
For ever, though my very soul did wake
To catch that broken music, tenderness
Was fain to fill its pauses with a guess!
Beloved watcher, sore I chid the wind,
When citron scents were wooing it, to take
Thy sweetness from me, leaving theirs behind!
For ever, though my very soul did wake
To catch that broken music, tenderness
Was fain to fill its pauses with a guess!
And “Oh, my prisoned jewel”
(so I strove
To bind these links, the breezes' envious dole
In one), thou calledst me “thy star, thy dove,
Thy rose, thy angel, treasure of thy soul!”
These words came fitfully, the strain passed by;
Then from these scattered fragments Love and I
Sat down to frame one bright mosaic whole!
To bind these links, the breezes' envious dole
In one), thou calledst me “thy star, thy dove,
Thy rose, thy angel, treasure of thy soul!”
These words came fitfully, the strain passed by;
Then from these scattered fragments Love and I
Sat down to frame one bright mosaic whole!
Thou callest me thy Rose!
O that indeed I were
A white rose—dewy fair,
Or ruby-red—that glows
On India's fervid air;
For then would I enclose
My fragrance shut within thy heart, and dwell
As lives the flower's quick spirit in the cell
It floods with sweetness, sweetness never knowing
Loss for the bounty of its overflowing!
O that indeed I were
A white rose—dewy fair,
Or ruby-red—that glows
On India's fervid air;
For then would I enclose
My fragrance shut within thy heart, and dwell
As lives the flower's quick spirit in the cell
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Loss for the bounty of its overflowing!
Thou callest me thy Pearl!
O that indeed I were
A bright pearl gleaming fair,
A white pearl in its quivering lustre, yet
Faint-shining like a tear,—a tear that met
With comfort ere it fell, and trembling hung
Awhile, all round and glistening, where it sprung;
Then would I fall and lie,
Beloved, in thy cup dissolving slow
At Life's great banquet, and thou shouldst not know
What gave thy wine the tinge of ecstasy!
O that indeed I were
A bright pearl gleaming fair,
A white pearl in its quivering lustre, yet
Faint-shining like a tear,—a tear that met
With comfort ere it fell, and trembling hung
Awhile, all round and glistening, where it sprung;
Then would I fall and lie,
Beloved, in thy cup dissolving slow
At Life's great banquet, and thou shouldst not know
What gave thy wine the tinge of ecstasy!
O that indeed I were
A star, a jewel rare,
A soft snow-plumaged dove,
An Angel from above;
Thou sayest, “These are mine,”
And hast but one poor heart; yet love,
Love on, and all are thine!
A star, a jewel rare,
A soft snow-plumaged dove,
An Angel from above;
Thou sayest, “These are mine,”
And hast but one poor heart; yet love,
Love on, and all are thine!
95
III. AGNES AMONG THE SISTERS.
I sit among the sisters—moments make
Their way to hours, as slowly day by day
Creeps lagging on, as if before them lay
Some evil Thing they feared to overtake;
Our fingers move together swift, but slow
And few the words that fall, like drops that ooze
From springs that in the desert long ago
The drifting sands sucked in; full oft I choose
To hearken if some echo subterrain
Tells where life's hidden streams in darkness yet
Flow on; but all is silent, and again
I look and see each face before me set—
A dial-plate with mosses long o'ergrown,
And finger that still duly round the stone
Moves on to point to nothing; then I thank
My own, if it from theirs hath caught this blank
Impenetrable aspect, and so lies
A scroll outspread, yet locking from their eyes
(Though writ within, without) the precious lore
They would but shrink from; yet my heart runs o'er
With pity and with love, for these were made
For noble creatures, that within the shade
Kept by man's fraud, and cheated of their right
In the Great Father's heritage of light
And warmth, have shrunk to mildewed forms like these;
So will they die, methinks, and never know
What life was made of, till they pass above
To sun themselves for ever in the Love
Whose blessed reflex they have missed below.
Their way to hours, as slowly day by day
Creeps lagging on, as if before them lay
Some evil Thing they feared to overtake;
Our fingers move together swift, but slow
And few the words that fall, like drops that ooze
From springs that in the desert long ago
The drifting sands sucked in; full oft I choose
To hearken if some echo subterrain
Tells where life's hidden streams in darkness yet
Flow on; but all is silent, and again
I look and see each face before me set—
A dial-plate with mosses long o'ergrown,
And finger that still duly round the stone
Moves on to point to nothing; then I thank
My own, if it from theirs hath caught this blank
Impenetrable aspect, and so lies
A scroll outspread, yet locking from their eyes
(Though writ within, without) the precious lore
They would but shrink from; yet my heart runs o'er
With pity and with love, for these were made
For noble creatures, that within the shade
Kept by man's fraud, and cheated of their right
In the Great Father's heritage of light
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So will they die, methinks, and never know
What life was made of, till they pass above
To sun themselves for ever in the Love
Whose blessed reflex they have missed below.
And in the stillness oft my fancies please
To frame similitudes, as like a pall
This silence wraps our spirits, one and all;
Yet theirs, methinks, is Polar silence froze
Unto the centre; snows piled up on snows
'Mid icy seas where glimmer to the moon
Cold shapeless forms, and wrecks that to and fro
Drift aimless on; but like a Torrid noon
Is mine, begirt with stillness like to death,
Where large-leaved flowers upon the burning air
Hang motionless, and drink its fiery breath;
And every beast lies couched within its lair,
And bird with folded wing; yet listen! there
A pulse beats audibly, a murmur rife
Above, beneath, this sultry hush profound
Is quickening on the sense, and at a sound
Will flash and kindle, all instinct with Life!
To frame similitudes, as like a pall
This silence wraps our spirits, one and all;
Yet theirs, methinks, is Polar silence froze
Unto the centre; snows piled up on snows
'Mid icy seas where glimmer to the moon
Cold shapeless forms, and wrecks that to and fro
Drift aimless on; but like a Torrid noon
Is mine, begirt with stillness like to death,
Where large-leaved flowers upon the burning air
Hang motionless, and drink its fiery breath;
And every beast lies couched within its lair,
And bird with folded wing; yet listen! there
A pulse beats audibly, a murmur rife
Above, beneath, this sultry hush profound
Is quickening on the sense, and at a sound
Will flash and kindle, all instinct with Life!
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IV. And oft upon me is the fancy borne
And oft upon me is the fancy borne—(Wild wish whose wayward longing doth but prove
How this poor heart with anxious throbbings worn
Hath need of rest from all things, e'en from love!)
To cross those icy barriers that wreathe
Betwixt these sisters' souls and mine; to see
How it fares with them on the heights, and breathe
The cold, clear air of their serenity;
For thought o'er-peoples all this life of mine,
So would I leave it for one moment, free
From hope, fear, rapture—yea, Beloved, from thee.
One moment! could I thus indeed resign
A fraction of my troubled wealth, my bliss
So dearly won? I trow not! and in this
I seem like some proud courtier bowed and bent
With weight of honours, that beside his road
Sees nested 'mid thick leaves some low abode;
“There,” sighs he, “there is peace and calm content,”
Yet would he deem its quiet—banishment!
The annals of the heart are rich and various, extending over a wide region, yet it would be hard, among all its written or traditionary wealth, to find a sweeter true-love story than that contained in the lyrical autobiography of Vieira, the Lusitanian, the famous painter and faithful husband. This poem, which was given to the world at the age of eighty-one, three years before the author's death, is so remarkable in all respects, as to have been considered by Southey the best book Portugal has to boast of. It is full of extraordinary incident, and celebrates the passion which, beginning before either of the lovers was eight years old, forms, in its mutual strength and constancy, at once the marvel and the glory of the two lives it bound together.— See on this subject an article in Blackwood's Magazine for March 1851, “The Fine Arts in Portugal.”
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