SALVE REGINA.

Glory to thee, my Queen! whom far away

My thoughts aspire to,— as the birds of May

Aspire o’ mornings,— as in lonely nooks

The gurgling murmurs of neglected brooks

Aspire to moonlight,— aye! as earth aspires

When through the East, alert with wild desires,

The rapturous sun surveys the welkin's height,

And flecks the world with witcheries of his fires.

Oh, I should curb my grief. I should entone

No plaint to thee; no loss should I bemoan!

I should be patient, I, though full of care,

And not attempt, by bias of a prayer,

To sway thy spirit, or to urge anew

A claim contested. For my days are few;

My days, I think, are few upon the earth

Since I must shun the joys I would pursue.

I am not worthy of the Heaven I name

When I name thee; and yet to win the same

Is still my dream. I strive as best I can

To live uprightly on the vaunted plan

Of old-world sages. But I strive not well;

And thoughts conflicting which I cannot quell

Make me despondent; and I quake thereat,

As at the shuddering of a doomsday bell.

To die for thee were more than my desert;

To live for thee to keep thee out of hurt

And, like a slave, to wait upon thy will

Were more than fame. And lo! I nourish still

A sense of calm to feel that thou, at least,

Art sorrow-free and honor'd at the feast

Which Nature spreads for all contented minds;

And that for thee its splendours have increased.

I stand alone. I stand beneath the trees,

I guess their thoughts; I hear them to the breeze

Say tender nothings; and I dream the while

Of thy white arms, and thy remember'd smile,

When, in a spot like this, a year a-gone,

I saw thee stoop to pluck from off the lawn

A wounded bird that peer'd into thy face

As if it took thee for the nymph of dawn!

Oh, can it be, as friends of thine affirm

That thou'rt a fairy,— that, from term to term,

Month after month, belov'd of all good things,

Thou'rt seen in forests and in meadow rings

Girt for the dance? or like an Oread queen

Array'd for council? For the woods convene

Their dryad forces when the nights are clear,

And nymphs and fawns carouse upon the green.

The crescent moon, the Argosy of heaven,

Veers for the west across the Pleïads seven,

And, out beyond the ridge of Charles's Wain,

It seems to come to mooring on the main

Of that deep sky, as if awaiting there

An angel-guest with sunlight in her hair,

A seraph's cousin, or the foster-child

Of some centurion of the upper air.

Is it thy soul? Has Cynthia call'd for thee

In her white boat, to take thee o'er the sea

Where suns and stars and constellations bright

Are isles of glory,— where a seraph's right

Surpasses mine, and makes me seem indeed

A base intruder, with a coward's creed

And not an angel's, though a Christian born

And pledged alwàys to serve thee at thy need?

Thou'rt sleeping now; and in thy snowy rest,—

In that seclusion which is like a nest

For blameless human maids beheld of those

Who come from God,— thou hast in thy repose

No thought of me,— no thought of pairing-time.

For thou'rt the sworn opponent of the rhyme

That lovers make in kissing; and anon

My very love will vex thee like a crime.

But day and night, and winter-tide and spring,

Change at thy voice; and when I hear thee sing

I know‘ tis May; and when I see thy face

I know‘ tis Summer. Thou'rt the youngest Grace,

And all the Muses praise thee evermore.

And there are birds who name thee as they soar;

And some of these,— the best and brightest ones,—

Have guess'd the pangs that pierce me to the core.

Thou art the month of May with all its nights

And all its days transfigured in the lights

Of love-lit smiles and glances multiform;

And, like a lark that sings above a storm,

Thy voice o'er-rides the tumult of my mind.

Oh, give me back the peace I strove to find

In my last prayer, and I'll believe that Hope

Will dry anon the tears that make it blind.

There's none like thee, not one in all the world;

No face so fair, no smile so sweet-impearl'd,

And no such music on the hills and plains

As thy young voice whereof the thrill remains

For hours and hours,— belike to keep alive

The sense of beauty that the flowers may thrive.

Or is't thy wish that birds should fly to thee

Before the days of April's quest arrive?

Thou'rt noble-natured; and there's none to stand

So meek as thou, or with so dear a hand

To ward off wrong. For Psyche of the Greeks

Is dead and gone; and Eros with his freaks

Has bow'd to thee, and turn'd aside, for shame,

His useless shaft, not daring to proclaim

His amorous laws, and thou so maiden-coy

Beneath the halo of thy spotless name!

But dreams are idle, and I must forget

All that they tend to. I must cease to fret,

Moth as I am, for stars beyond the reach

Of mine up-soaring; and in milder speech

I must invoke thy blessing on the road

That lies before me,— far from thine abode,

And far from all persuasion that again

Thou wilt accept the terms of my love-code.

O Sweet! forgive me that from day to day

I dream such dreams, and teach me how to sway

My fluttering self, that, in forsaken hours,

I may be valiant, and eschew the powers

Of death and doubt! I need the certitude

Of thine esteem that I may check the feud

Of mine own thoughts that rend and anger me

Because denied the boon for which I sued.

Teach me to wait with patience for a word,

And be the sight of thee no more deferr'd

Than one up-rising of the vesper star

That waits on Dian when, supreme, afar,

She eyes the sunset. And of this be sure,

As I'm a man and thou a maid demure,

Thou shalt be ta'en aside and wonder'd at,

Before the gloaming leaves the land obscure.

Thou shalt be bow'd to as we bow to saints

In window'd shrines; and, far from all attaints

Of ribald passion, thou, as seemeth good,

Wilt smile serenely in thy virginhood.

Nor shall I know, of mine own poor accord,

Which thing in all the world is best to hoard,

Or which is worst of all the things that slay:

A woman's beauty or a soldier's sword.

I grieve in sleep. I pine away at night.

I wake, uncared for, in the morning light;

And, hour by hour, I marvel that for me

The wandering wind should make its minstrelsy

So sweet and calm. I marvel that the sun,

So round and red, with all his hair undone,

Should smile at me and yet begrudge me still

The sight of thee that art my worshipp'd one!

I count my moments as a cloister'd man

May count his beads; and through the weary span

Of each long day I peer into my heart

For hints of comfort; and I find, in part,

A self-committal, and a glimpse withal

Of some new menace in the rise and fall

Of days and nights that are the test of Time

Though Fate would make a mockery of them all.

There's a disaster worse than loss of gold,

Worse than remorse, and worse a thousand-fold,

Than pangs of hunger.‘ Tis the thirst of love,

The rage and rapture of the ravening dove

We name Desire. Ah, pardon! I offend;

My fervor blinds me to the withering end

Of all good council, and, accurst thereby,

I vaunt anew the faults I cannot mend.