Dramatic Scenes With Other Poems, Now First Printed. By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter]. Illustrated |
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EX FUMO. |
 | Dramatic Scenes |  |
305
EX FUMO.
I.
Far down in the depths of our city
There hideth a lane;
Dark, narrow; a twist like a syphon
Runs thro' it amain.
There hideth a lane;
Dark, narrow; a twist like a syphon
Runs thro' it amain.
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Each house (once a palace) is blackened
By tempest and time,
And the o'erhanging stories seem watching
For underground crime.
By tempest and time,
And the o'erhanging stories seem watching
For underground crime.
Here reigns the dark Spirit of Silence,
Thro' evenings and nights,
Save where, from yon attic, there peereth
The smallest of lights;
Thro' evenings and nights,
Save where, from yon attic, there peereth
The smallest of lights;
Where blooms, on yon parapet, something
Half flower, half weed,
But tended as gently as love tendeth
Love in its need,
Half flower, half weed,
But tended as gently as love tendeth
Love in its need,
As mother her child when it pineth:
There dwelleth—ah! one
Who worketh and singeth and worketh
Till down of the sun.
There dwelleth—ah! one
Who worketh and singeth and worketh
Till down of the sun.
Well,—there (where you see), I beheld her,
A summer ago,
From this garret here, quite on a level,
Where they crowd and they stow
A summer ago,
From this garret here, quite on a level,
Where they crowd and they stow
The old pictures, and tables, and ledgers;
I had sought thro' the house
For some proof 'gainst a rècusant debtor;
Had startled the mouse,
I had sought thro' the house
For some proof 'gainst a rècusant debtor;
Had startled the mouse,
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Had scared the blind bat from her slumbers,
The spider had slain,
When, lo! my glance shot thro' the window,
Where pattered the rain.
The spider had slain,
When, lo! my glance shot thro' the window,
Where pattered the rain.
I started:—'twas now my turn, see you,
To tremble and start;
One look, and the fiercest of arrows
Went right thro' my heart.
To tremble and start;
One look, and the fiercest of arrows
Went right thro' my heart.
But no figures!—they tarnish my story:
I loved her; I love,
As I worship the mother who bore me,
The heavens above!
I loved her; I love,
As I worship the mother who bore me,
The heavens above!
My God! will she ever not scorn me?—
To ask her for more
Is to ask the sweet light from a planet!
I can but adore!
To ask her for more
Is to ask the sweet light from a planet!
I can but adore!
Yet,—perhaps,—if I gave (and I'd give her)
My life in return,
She would not quite scorn,—and she seemeth
Too gentle to spurn.
My life in return,
She would not quite scorn,—and she seemeth
Too gentle to spurn.
308
II.
Fate has blessed me. Look! Would you believe
(I am such as you see,)
That fate should have granted the angel
That sits on my knee?
(I am such as you see,)
That fate should have granted the angel
That sits on my knee?
'Tis our child; yes, the child of the maiden
Who sewed as she sung;
My wife—my belovèd. She shut not
Her ear to my tongue;
Who sewed as she sung;
My wife—my belovèd. She shut not
Her ear to my tongue;
But gave up the wealth of her beauty,
The grace of her youth,
To my prayer—to the pain of my passion,
The strength of my truth.
The grace of her youth,
To my prayer—to the pain of my passion,
The strength of my truth.
In the front of the attic she dwelt in
Still blooms the poor flower;
And within it my fancy still blossometh
Hour by hour!
Still blooms the poor flower;
And within it my fancy still blossometh
Hour by hour!
Ay, often I swerve from the joys
Of my garden, with gleams
Of the sun, to go back to the blackened
Old houses;—and Dreams
Of my garden, with gleams
Of the sun, to go back to the blackened
Old houses;—and Dreams
Of the past, when my life was a struggle,
Fall thick on my brain,
But tempered, and turned to a pleasure
That springs from the pain.—
Fall thick on my brain,
But tempered, and turned to a pleasure
That springs from the pain.—
309
How strange, that the time-smitten City
Should harbour a place,
Where crazy old age is a beauty,
And labour a grace!
Should harbour a place,
Where crazy old age is a beauty,
And labour a grace!
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But it all must be right; and Love thrives
Most in sorrow, I'm told,
As the lily grows fairer and fresher
The blacker the mould.
Most in sorrow, I'm told,
As the lily grows fairer and fresher
The blacker the mould.
| Dramatic Scenes | |