The Poetical Works of George Barlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

Of old the river-banks were sweet.—
The waves played round my girlish feet,
As in the brook I gathered cress.
I stooped. Then, quicker than a thought,
The wicked ripples laughed and caught
The bright skirt of my Sunday dress.

Satan.

And who came through the wood that day,
With face so handsome, step so gay,
And eyes in which no evil seemed?
And who, found standing in the brook,
Blushed childlike at his laughing look
And then went home, and cried, and dreamed?

176

Woman.

It was a dream, and nothing more.—
I see him standing on the shore:
I see the blossoms by the stream:
I hear my mother ask me why
That night I seemed so strange and shy,
Pacing the house as in a dream.

Satan.

Was it a dream that followed—town;
Long rows of houses, smoky brown;
And then one night a dainty bed
In the grand house he took you to;
Wild kisses all the long night through,
Till morning flamed out rosy-red?

Woman.

A dream, a wicked sinful dream!
My mother's stern words ghostlike seem,
Which warned me when I fled away:
His kisses on my lips are ghosts:
Grey phantoms are that bed's tall posts,
And spectral is that dawn of day.

177

Satan.

And was the blue-eyed child a dream
Who, like a moment's sunny beam,
Flashed o'er your life one golden spark?
You loved the father in the child,
And half with fate were reconciled.
God stole your darling. All was dark!

Woman.

God took the baby. Better so.
He had his father's glance, I know.
I would not that my womb should bear
A child who, in the days to come,
Might lure the heedless to their doom
And goad some girl's heart to despair.

Satan.

Nay, had the child become a man
And ended what his sire began,
That would have been dramatic, great.
He might have seen some other girl
At play where the blue waters curl
Beside your mother's cottage gate!

178

Woman.

Thank God, he died! The poor thin child—
I loved it with a passion wild,
The only love-power left in me.
And yet I hardly cared to groan
When I was wholly left alone,
A wreck upon life's tossing sea.

Satan.

And yet he would have spared you gold,
Had you but written. But you sold
Your honour, sank so foully low.
What can a man of character
(The best-intentioned) do for her
Who fancies profligacy so?

Woman.

Love once and lose, then all is lost
For woman. Man can love a host
Of women, so he fancies—yes.
Our love is agony or bliss.
We give one man an angel's kiss:
We give the rest a fiend's caress.

179

Satan.

An over-subtle point to me
That seems, and quite a travesty
Of amorous joys and love-delight.
No: on the whole I hold with man
That every girl's the same who can
Be sweet companion for a night.

Woman.

A man can love a thousand girls.
Smooth black soft tresses, yellow curls,
Blue eyes, fierce dark eyes,—all are one.
Man finds a thousand faces fair;
Loves all the stars that fill the air.
Woman is faithful to the sun.

Satan.

Woman loves once, and that's the end!
Then, when her lover, or her “friend,”
Forsakes her, what is left to seek?
The river.—Which makes clear to me
The folly of her theory,
And proves her reasoning false and weak.

180

Woman.

The river? Yes. It flows along:
Not as of old with sweet soft song
Near Oxford, past my mother's door.
There is no may-bloom on its banks;
No tall green reeds in rustling ranks;
This moonlight gilds a flowerless shore.

Satan.

Plunge in, and get it over.—You
Keep dreaming of the old waves of blue
That once you watched with girlhood's eyes.
The moon that parts yon cloudy rack
Peers down from heaven on wavelets black
To-night. You are in town. Arise!

Woman.

My life is dark as is the stream.
It once was bright with flash and gleam
Of love's own sunlight, like the wave.
But now the stream and I are one:
We have bade farewell to the sun:
The moon shall light us to our grave.

181

Satan.

Man cares not. God? He does not care.
One moment's flash of golden hair
Upon the surface of the stream,
Then all is over. You make way
For a new suicide next day,
And pass from man's sight like a dream.

Woman.

I wonder, is the water cold?
Drowning is pleasant, I've been told.
The morning sun is far-off yet.
I wonder, is it hard to die?
Others have drowned—and so can I.
One plunge—and then I shall forget!

Satan.

Not one soul loves you. Quick, my girl!
How pleasantly the waters curl:
The moon is shining nicely, too.
My spirits are leading from the Strand
Another young girl by the hand:
Hurry—or she may jostle you!

182

Woman.

Just let me fold this poor old shawl
And lay it down behind the wall,
And hat and gloves and necktie. There...
The water looks so cool and deep—
If I can pluck up heart to leap,
There will be no more pain to bear!

Christ.

Pause: for thou art not quite alone.
Far-off in heaven I heard thee moan,
And through the starlit silent sky
I hastened, as of old, to save.
My love is stronger than the grave,
And mightier than man's enmity.