LILIUM INTER SPINAS.

Dearest and best of maidens, whom the Fates

Have dower'd with beauty, whom the glory-gates

Have shown so splendid in my waking sight,

Is't well, thou syren! thus to haunt the night

And grant no mercy, none from week to week

All through the year? Is't well my soul to seek

And shun my body? Is't throughout ordain'd

That thou shouldst spurn a love so tender-meek?

It is my joy to serve thee,‘ tis my pride

To own my follies, though anew denied

The chance of wisdom, and for this, who knows?

I shall be counted, ere the season's close,

A time-perverter. Yes! I shall be shamed,

And frown'd upon, and day by day proclaim'd

A foe to virtue, though, in seeking thee

I seek the goal that Virtue's self hath named.

O Lily mine! O Lily tipp'd with gold

And welkin-eyed for angels to behold

When down on earth! Is't well to stand apart

And gaze at me and gently break my heart

Without one word? Is't well to seem alwày

So grieved to see me, when, at fall of day,

Thou dost accept the reverence of mine eyes,

But not the homage that my lips would pay?

Oh, give me back again, at midnight hour,

As in the circuit of that starlit bower,

The right to talk with thee, and be thy friend,—

The right, in some wild way, to make an end

Of my submission, or to re-bestow

My troth on thee,— despite the overthrow

Of all my dreams, that were my constant care,

Though less to thee than flakes of alien snow.

I will unveil my meanings one by one,

And tell thee why the bird that loves the sun

Loves not the moon, though conscious of her fame.

For he's the soul of truth, in his acclaim,

And knows not treason! And of like intent

Are all my yearnings, too, when I lament.

And, though I say it, there's no troubadour

Has lov'd as I, since Cupid's bow was bent.

I have been wed in sleep, and thou hast been

Mine own true bride,— the swooning summer-queen

Of my heart-throbs. I have been wed in jest!

I have been taken wildly to thy breast,

And then repell'd, and made to feel the ire

Of eager eyes that have the strange desire

To rack my soul, a-tremble in the dark,

But not the will to aid me to aspire.

I should have died the instant that I heard

Thy whisper'd vow in slumber,— when a word

Made me thy master, for I did receive

Thy full surrender, and I'll not believe

That all was false; or that my dreaming-power

Was given for nought. The Future may devour

The facts of earth, but not its phantasies,

And not the dreams we dream from hour to hour.

Oh, thou'lt confess that love from man to maid

Is more than kingdoms,— more than light and shade

In sky-built gardens where the minstrels dwell,

And more than ransom from the bonds of Hell.

Thou wilt, I say, admit the truth of this,

And half relent that, shrinking from a kiss,

Thou didst consign me to mine own disdain,

Athwart the raptures of a vision'd bliss.

I'll seek no joy that is not link'd with thine,

No touch of hope, no taste of holy wine,

And, after death, no home in any star

That is not shared by thee, supreme, afar,

As here thou'rt first and foremost of all things!

Glory is thine and gladness and the wings

That wait on thought when, in thy spirit-sway,

Thou dost invest a realm unknown to kings.

I will accept of thee a poison-bowl

And drink the dregs thereof,— aye! to the soul,—

And sound thy praises with my latest breath!

I was a pilgrim bound for Nazareth,

But when I knew thee, when I touched thy hand,

I changed my purpose; and to-day I stand

Thine amorous vassal, though denounced afresh

And warn'd away, unkiss'd, from Edenland.

O flower unequall'd here from morn to morn,

Is't well, bethink thee, with a rose's thorn

To deck thyself, thou lily! and to seem

So irresponsive to my passion-dream?

Is't a caprice of thine to look so proud,

And so severe, athwart the shining cloud

Of thy long hair? And shall I never learn

How least to grieve thee when my vows are vow'd?

The full perfection of thy face is such

That, like a child's, it seems to know the touch

Of some glad hour that God has smiled upon.

There is a whiteness whiter than the swan,

A singing sweeter than the linnet's note.

But there is nothing whiter than thy throat,

And nothing sweeter than thy tender voice

When, love-attuned, it skyward seems to float.

Lily and rose in one! To find thy peer

Exceeds belief, all through the varying year,

For chance thereof, and hope thereof, is none.

There comes no rival to the rising sun,

And none to thee!— no rival to the moon

That sets in Venice on the far lagoon,

And none to thee, thou marvel of the months,

That art the cynosure of night and noon!

Yes, I will hope. I will not cease to turn

My thoughts to thee, and cry to thee, and yearn

As one in Hell may lift enamour'd eyes

To some sweet soul beyond the central skies

Whose face has slain him! For‘ tis true, I swear:

I have been murder'd by thy golden hair,

And by the brightness of those fringèd orbs

That are at once my joy and my despair.

Winter is wild; but spring will come again;

For there's compunction in the fever-pain

That earth endures when, clamorous down the steep,

The wind out-blows the curse it cannot keep.

And so, belike, thy scorn of me may change

To something fairer than the fated range

Of dole, and doubt, and pity, and reproof;

And then my sighs may cease to seem so strange.

For thou and I will meet and not be foes,

E'en as the rue may stand beside the rose

And not affront it,— as a lonely tree

May guard a shrine and not upon the lea

Be deem'd obtrusive,— as an errant knight

May serve the sovereign of his soul's delight

And not, thereby, be deem'd of less account

Than he who keeps her daily in his sight.

Reject me not that in the world of men,

Among the wielders of the sword and pen

I have, as‘ twere, detractors by the score,—

Reject me not for faults that I deplore

And fain would alter,— though, if I were wise,

I'd blunt the edge thereof in some disguise

Approved of thee! For I've a kind of hope

That we'll be friends again ere summer dies.

If this be true I'll greet thee with such fire

That thou wilt throb thereat, as throbs a lyre,

And give thine answer, too, without restraint,

And neither frown at me nor fear a taint

In my much zeal, that knows not any pause

But, night and day, is constant to the laws

Of its own making, and is fain to prove

How leagued it is throughout to Honor's cause.

I will conceal from thee no thought of mine.

All will be clear as signing of a sign

On marriage-scrips; and, though I tell thee so,

The seas and streams of earth shall cease to flow

Ere thou shalt find, in this world or the next,

A love so proud, a faith so firmly sex'd,

As this of mine. For thou'rt the polar star

To which I turn as minstrel to his text.

But woe's the hour! My heart is wounded sore,

And soon may cease to take, as heretofore,

Such keen delight in tears that comfort not,

But evermore do seem to leave a blot

On sorrow's teaching! Shall I muse thereon

One season more, till hope and faith be gone?

Or must I look for comfort up in Heaven

And then be slain by thee as night by dawn?