Poems By William Bell Scott. Ballads, Studies from Nature, Sonnets, etc. Illustrated by Seventeen Etchings by the Author and L. Alma Tadema |
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| PARTED LOVE. |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
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 | Poems |  |
90
PARTED LOVE.
THE PAST.
Methinks I have passed through some dreadful door,
Shutting off summer and its sunniest glades
From a dank waste of marsh and ruinous shades:
And in that sunlit past, one day before
All other days is crimson to the core;
That day of days when hand in hand became
Encircling arms, and with an effluent flame
Of terrible surprise, we knew love's lore.
Shutting off summer and its sunniest glades
From a dank waste of marsh and ruinous shades:
And in that sunlit past, one day before
All other days is crimson to the core;
That day of days when hand in hand became
Encircling arms, and with an effluent flame
Of terrible surprise, we knew love's lore.
The rose-red ear that then my hand caressed,
Those smiles bewildered, that low voice so sweet,
The truant threads of silk about the brow
Dishevelled, when our burning lips were pressed
Together, and the temple-pulses beat!
All gone now—where am I, and where art thou?
Those smiles bewildered, that low voice so sweet,
The truant threads of silk about the brow
Dishevelled, when our burning lips were pressed
Together, and the temple-pulses beat!
All gone now—where am I, and where art thou?
91
THE PRESENT.
No cypress-wreath nor outward signs of grief;But I may cry unto the morn, and flee
After the god whose back is turned to me,
And touch his wings and plead for some relief;
Draw, it may be, a black shaft from his sheaf:—
For now I know his quiver harbours those
Death mixed with his, as the old fable shows,
When he slept heedless on the red rose leaf.
And I may open Memory's chamber-door
To grope my way around its noiseless floor,
Now that, alas! its windows give no light,
Nor gentle voice invites me any more;
For she is but a picture faintly bright
Hung dimly high against the walls of night.
92
MORNING.
Last night,—it must have been a ghost at best,—
I did believe the lost one's slumbering head
Filled the white hollows of the curtained bed,
And happily sank again to sound sweet rest,
As in times past with sleep my nightly guest,
A guest that left me only when the day
Showed me a fairer than Euphrosyne,—
Day that now shows me but the unfilled nest.
I did believe the lost one's slumbering head
Filled the white hollows of the curtained bed,
And happily sank again to sound sweet rest,
As in times past with sleep my nightly guest,
A guest that left me only when the day
Showed me a fairer than Euphrosyne,—
Day that now shows me but the unfilled nest.
O night! thou wert our mother at the first,
Thy silent chambers are our homes at last;
And even now thou art our bath of life.
Come back! the hot sun makes our lips athirst;
Come back! thy dreams may recreate the past;
Come back! and smooth again this heart's long strife.
Thy silent chambers are our homes at last;
And even now thou art our bath of life.
Come back! the hot sun makes our lips athirst;
Come back! thy dreams may recreate the past;
Come back! and smooth again this heart's long strife.
93
BY THE SEA-SIDE.
Rest here, my heart, nor let us further creep;
Rest for an hour, I shall again be strong,
And make for thee another little song:
Rest here, and look down on the tremulous deep
Where sea-weeds like dead mænad's long locks sweep
Over that dreadful floor of stagnant green,
Stewed with the bones of lovers that have been,
Nor even yet can scarce be said to sleep.
Rest for an hour, I shall again be strong,
And make for thee another little song:
Rest here, and look down on the tremulous deep
Where sea-weeds like dead mænad's long locks sweep
Over that dreadful floor of stagnant green,
Stewed with the bones of lovers that have been,
Nor even yet can scarce be said to sleep.
Beyond that sea, far o'er that wasteful sea,
The sunset she so oft hath seen with me
Flames up with all the arrogances of gold,
Scarlet and purple, while the west-wind falls
Upon us with its deadliest winter-cold;—
Shall we slide down? I think the dear one calls!
The sunset she so oft hath seen with me
Flames up with all the arrogances of gold,
Scarlet and purple, while the west-wind falls
Upon us with its deadliest winter-cold;—
Shall we slide down? I think the dear one calls!
94
EVENING.
As in a glass at evening, dusky-grey,
The faces of those passing through the room
Seem like ghost-transits thwart reflected gloom,
Thus, darling image! thou, so long away,
Visitest sometimes my darkening day:
Other friends come; the toy of life turns round,
The glittering beads change with their tinkling sound,
Whilst thou in endless youth sit'st silently.
The faces of those passing through the room
Seem like ghost-transits thwart reflected gloom,
Thus, darling image! thou, so long away,
Visitest sometimes my darkening day:
Other friends come; the toy of life turns round,
The glittering beads change with their tinkling sound,
Whilst thou in endless youth sit'st silently.
How vain to call time back, to think these arms
Again may touch, may shield, those shoulders soft
And solid, never more my eyes can see:
But yet, perchance—(speak low)—beyond all harms,
I may walk with thee in God's other croft,
When this world shall the darkling mirror be.
Again may touch, may shield, those shoulders soft
And solid, never more my eyes can see:
But yet, perchance—(speak low)—beyond all harms,
I may walk with thee in God's other croft,
When this world shall the darkling mirror be.
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