Love
Letters
of a
Violinist

ERIC MACKAY

Love Letters

LOVE LETTERS OF A
VIOLINIST AND OTHER
POEMS. BY ERIC MACKAY

With Illustrations

BY

JAMES FAGAN

New York:

BRENTANO'S

Chicago Washington Paris

Copyright, 1894, by

BRENTANO'S

THE CAXTON PRESS

NEW YORK

TO MARIE

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE

At the commencement of the year 1885, a captivating little volume of poems was mysteriously issued from the "Leadenhalle Presse" of Messrs. Field and Tuer—a quaint, vellum-bound, antique-looking book, tied up on all sides with strings of golden silk ribbon, and illustrated throughout with fanciful wood-cuts. It was entitled "Love Letters by a Violinist," and those who were at first attracted by its title and suggestive outward appearance, untied the ribbons with a certain amount of curiosity. Love-letters were surely of a private, almost sacred character. What "Violinist" thus ventured to publish his heart-records openly? and were they worth reading? were the questions asked by the public, and last, not least, came the natural inquiry, "Who was the 'Violinist'?" To this no satisfactory answer could be obtained, for nobody knew. But it was directly proved on perusal of the book that he was a poet, not a mere writer of verse. Speculations arose as to his identity, and Joseph Ellis, the poet, reviewed the work as follows:—

"Behold a mystery—who shall uncase it? A small quarto, anonymous. The publisher professes entire ignorance of its origin. Wild guesses spring from the mask of a 'Violinist'—who can he be? Unde derivatur? A Tyro? The work is too skilful for such, though even a Byron. Young? Not old. Tennyson? No—he hath not the grace of style, at least for these verses. Browning? No—he could not unbend so far. Edwin Arnold might, possibly, have been equal to it, witness, inter alia, 'Violetta'; but he is unlikely. Lytton Bulwer, a voice from the tomb? No. His son, Owen Meredith? A random supposition, yet possible. Rossetti—again a voice from the tomb? No—he wanted the strength of wing. James Thomson, the younger, could have done it, but he was too stern. Then, our detective ingenuity proving incompetent, who? We seek the Delphic fane—the oracle replies Swinburne. Let us bow to the oracular voice, for in Swinburne we find all requisites for the work—fertility of thought, grace of language, ingenuity, skill in the ars poetica, wealth of words, sensuous nature, classic resources. * * * The writer of the 'Love-Letters' is manifestly imbued with the tone and tune of Italian poetry, and has the merit of proving the English tongue capable of rivalling the Italian 'Canzoni d'Amore.' * * * * He is a master of versification, so is Swinburne—he is praiseworthy for freshness of thought, novelty, and aptness in imagery, so is Swinburne. He is remarkable for sustained energy, so is Swinburne; and thus it may safely be said that, if not the writer of the 'Love-Letters,' he deserves to be accredited with that mysterious production, until the authorship is avowed. * * * * Unto Britannia, as erst to Italia, has been granted a a Petrarch."

Meanwhile other leading voices in the Press joined the swelling chorus of praise. The Morning Post took up the theme, and, after vainly endeavouring to clear up the mystery of the authorship, went on to say: "The appearance of this book must be regarded as a literary phenomenon. We find ourselves lifted at once by the author's genius out of the work-a-day world of the England of to-day, and transported into an atmosphere as rare and ethereal as that in which the poet of Vaucluse lived and moved and had his being. * * * * In nearly every stanza there are unerring indications of a mind and heart steeped in that subtlest of all forms of beauty, the mythology of old Greece. The reader perceives at once that he has to do with a scholar and man of culture, as well as with an inspired singer, whose muse need not feel abashed in the presence of the highest poets of our own day."

Such expressions as, "A new star of brilliant magnitude has risen above the literary horizon in the anonymous author of the exquisite book of 'Love-Letters,'" and "These poems are among the most graceful and beautiful productions of modern times," became frequent in the best literary journals, and private opinion concerning the book began to make its influence felt. The brilliant writer and astute critic, George Meredith, wrote to a friend on the subject as follows:—

"The lines and metre of the poems are easy and interthreading and perfectly melodious. It is an astonishing production—the work of a true musician in our tongue."

The Times' special correspondent, Antonio Gallenga, expressed himself at some length on the merits of the "Violinist," and spoke of him "as one who could conjure up a host of noble thoughts and bright fancies, who rejoices in a great command of language, with a flow of verse and a wealth of rhymes. It is impossible to hear his confessions, to follow him in his aspirations, to hear the tale of his visions, his trances, his dreams, without catching his enthusiasm and bestowing on him our sympathy. Each 'Love-Letter' is in twenty stanzas—each stanza in six lines. The poem is regular and symmetrical as Dante's 'Comedy,' with as stately and solemn, aye, and as arduous a measure." While the world of art and letters thus discussed the volume, reading it meanwhile with such eagerness that the whole edition was soon entirely exhausted, a particularly brilliant and well-written critique of it appeared in the New York Independent—a very prominent American journal, destined afterwards to declare the author's identity, and to be the first to do so. In the columns of this paper had been frequently seen some peculiarly graceful and impassioned poems, signed by one Eric Mackay—notable among these being a lyric entitled "The Waking of the Lark" (included in our present volume), which, to quote the expression of a distinguished New York critic, "sent a thrill through the heart of America." There are no skylarks in the New World, but there is a deep tenderness felt by all Americans for the little

"Priest in grey apparel

Who doth prepare to sing in air his sinless summer carol,"

and Eric Mackay's exquisite outburst of tender enthusiasm for the English bird of the morning evoked from all parts of the States a chorus of critical delight and approbation. The Rev. T. T. Munger, of Massachusetts, wrote concerning it:—

"This strikes me as the best poem I have seen for a long time. As I read it stanza after stanza, with not an imperfect verse, not a commonplace, but with a sustained increase of pure sentiment and glowing fancy, I was inclined to place it beside Shelley's. It is not so intellectual as Shelley's, but I am not sure that it is not truer. Mackay's is the lark itself, Shelley's is himself listening to the lark. Besides Shelley makes the lark sing at evening—as I believe it does—but surely 'it to the morning doth belong,' and Shakespeare is truer in putting it at 'Heaven's gate.' It is a great refreshment to us tired workers in the prose of life to come across such a poem as this, and seldom enough it happens nowadays. Tell Mr. Eric Mackay to sing us another song."

Paul Hamilton Hayne, an American poet, praised it in an American paper; and the cultured Maurice Thompson writes:—"This lark-song touches the best mark of simplicity, sweetness, and naturalness in its modelling."

This admired lyric was copied from the Independent into many other journals, together with several other poems by the same hand, such as "A Vision of Beethoven," the beautiful verses addressed to the Spanish violinist, Pablo de Sarasate, and a spirited reply to Algernon Charles Swinburne, reproaching him for the attack which the author of "Tristram of Lyonesse" had made on England's name and fame. One day a simple statement appeared in the Independent respecting the much discussed "Love-Letters by a Violinist," that the author was simply a gentleman of good position, the descendant of a distinguished and very ancient family, Eric Mackay, known among his personal friends and intimates as a man of brilliant and extensive learning, whose frequent and long residences abroad have made him somewhat of a foreigner, though by birth an Englishman. A fine linguist, a deep thinker, a profound student of the classics, Mr. Mackay may be ranked among the most cultured and accomplished men of his day, and still young as he is, will undoubtedly be numbered with the choice few whose names are destined to live by the side of poets such as Keats, whom, as far as careful work, delicate feeling, and fiery tenderness go, Eric Mackay may be said to resemble, though there is a greater robustness and force in his muse, indicative of a strong mind in an equally strong and healthy body, which latter advantage the divine Keats had not, unfortunately for himself and the world. The innate, hardly restrained vigour of Mr. Mackay's nature shows itself in such passages as occur in the sonnets, "Remorse," "A Thunderstorm at Night;" also in the wild and terribly suggestive "Zulalie," while something of hot wrath and scorn leap out in such lines as those included in his ode to Swinburne, whom he addresses:—

"O thou five foot five

Of flesh and blood and sinew and the rest."

"Thou art a bee, a bright, a golden thing

With too much honey, and the taste thereof

Is sometimes rough, and something of a sting

Dwells in the music that we hear thee sing."

and

"Take back thy taunt, I say; and with the same

Accept our pardon; or if this offend,

Why, then, no pardon, e'en in England's name.

We have our country still, and thou thy fame!"

At the same time no one in all England does more justice and honor to Swinburne's genius than Eric Mackay.

His own strength as a poet suggests to the reader the idea of a spirited horse reined in tightly and persistently,—a horse which prances wildly at times and frets and foams at the bit, and might, on the least provocation, run wild in a furious and headlong career, sweeping all conventionalities out of its road by a sheer, straight-ahead gallop. Mr. Mackay is, however, a careful, even precise rider, and he keeps a firm hand on his restless Pegasus—so firm that, as his taste always leads him to depict the most fanciful and fine emotions, his steady resoluteness of restraint commands not only our admiration but our respect. While passionate to an extreme in the "Love-Letters," he is never indelicate; the coarse, almost brutal, allusions made by some writers to certain phases of so-called love, which are best left unsuggested, never defile the pen of our present author, who may almost be called fastidious in such matters. How beautiful and all-sufficing to the mind is the line expressing the utter satisfaction of a victorious lover:—

"Crowned with a kiss and sceptred with a joy!"

No details are needed here—all is said. The "Violinist," though by turns regretful, sorrowful, and despairing, is supreme throughout. He speaks of the "lady of his song" as

"The lady for whose sake I shall be strong,

But never weak or diffident again."

The supremacy of manhood is insisted on always; and the lover, though he entreats, implores, wonders and raves as all lovers do, never forgets his own dignity. He will take no second-best affection on his lady's part—this he plainly states in verse 19 of Letter V. Again, in the last letter of all, he asserts his mastery—and this is as it should be; absolute authority, as he knows, is the way to win and to keep a woman's affections. Such lovely fancies as

"Phœbus loosens all his golden hair

Right down the sky—and daisies turn and stare

At things we see not with our human wit,"

and

"A tuneful noise

Broke from the copse where late a breeze was slain,

And nightingales in ecstacy of pain

Did break their hearts with singing the old joys,"

abound all through the book. And here it is as well to mark the decision of our poet, even in trifles. The breeze he speaks of is not hushed, or still—none of the usual epithets are applied to it—it is "slain," as utterly and as pitifully as though it were a murdered child. This originality of conception is remarkable, and comes out in such lines as

"I will unpack my mind of all its fears"—

where the word "unpack" is singularly appropriate, and again—

"O sweet To-morrow! Youngest of the sons

Of old King Time, to whom Creation runs

As men to God."

"Where a daisy grows,

There grows a joy!"

and beautiful and dainty to a high degree is the quaint "Retrospect," where the lover enthusiastically draws the sun and moon into his ecstasies, and makes them seem to partake in his admiration of his lady's loveliness.

A graver and more philosophic turn of mind will be found in "A Song of Servitude," and "A Rhapsody of Death;" but, judged from a critical standpoint, Eric Mackay is a purely passionate poet, straying amongst the most voluptuous imaginings, and sometimes seeming to despise the joys of Heaven itself for the sake of love. Thus he lays himself open to an accusation of blasphemy from ultra-religious persons, yet it must be remembered that in this respect he in no way exceeds the emotions of Romeo, and Juliet, Paolo and Francesca da Rimini, or any of those lovers whose passion has earned for their names an undying celebrity.

In closing the present notice we can but express a hope that this volume of Eric Mackay's poems may meet with the welcome it deserves from true lovers of Art; for Art includes Poetry; and Poetry, as properly defined is one of its grandest and most enduring forms.

G. D.

⁂ Some of the miscellaneous poems in this collection (including "Beethoven at the Piano") were published by the author a few years ago, under a pseudonym, now discarded.

LETTER I.
PRELUDE.

I.

Teach me to love thee as a man, in prayer,

May love the picture of a sainted nun,

And I will woo thee, when the day is done,

With tears and vows, and fealty past compare,

And seek the sunlight in thy golden hair,

And kiss thy hand to claim thy benison.

II.

I shall not need to gaze upon the skies,

Or mark the message of the morning breeze,

Or heed the notes of birds among the trees,

If, taught by thee to yearn for Paradise,

I may confront thee with adoring eyes

And do thee homage on my bended knees.

III.

For I would be thy pilgrim; I would bow

Low as the grave, and, lingering in the same,

Live like a spectre; or be burnt in flame

To do thee good. A kingdom for a vow

I'd freely give to be elected now

The chief of all the servants of thy fame.

IV.

Yea, like a Roman of the days of old,

I would, for thee, construct a votive shrine,

And fan the fire, and consecrate the wine;

And have a statue there, of purest gold,

And bow thereto, unlov'd and unconsoled,

But proud withal to know the statue thine.

V.

For it were sacrilege to stand erect,

And face to face, within thy chamber lone,

To urge again my right to what hath flown:

A bygone trust, a passion coldly check'd!

Were I a king of men, or laurel-deck'd,

I were not fit to claim thee as mine own.

VI.

What am I then? The sexton of a joy,

So lately slain,—so lately on its bier

Laid out in state,—I dare not, for the fear

Of this dead thing, regard it as a toy.

It was a splendid Hope without alloy,

And now, behold! I greet it with a tear.

VII.

It is my pastime, and my penance, too,

My pride, my comfort, and my discontent,

To count my sorrows ere the day is spent,

And dream, at night, of love within the blue

Of thy sweet eyes, and tremble through and through,

And keep my house, as one that doth lament.

VIII.

Have I not sinn'd? I have; and I am curst,

And Misery makes the moments, as they fly,

Harder than stone, and sorrier than a sigh.

Oh, I did wrong thee when I met thee first,

And in my soul a fantasy was nurs'd

That seem'd an outcome of the upper sky.

IX.

I thought a poor musician might aspire;

I thought he might obtain from thee a look,

As Dian's self will smile upon a brook,

And make it glad, though deaf to its desire,

And tinge its ripples with a tender fire,

And make it thankful in its lonely nook.

X.

I thought to win thee ere the waning days

Had caught the snow, ere yet a word of mine

Had pall'd upon thee in the summer shine;

And I was fain to meet thee in the ways

Of wild romance, and cling to thee, and gaze,

Between two kisses, on thy face divine.

XI.

Aye! on thy face, and on the rippling hair

That makes a mantle round thee in the night,

A royal robe, a network of the light,

Which fairies brought for thee, to keep thee fair,

And hide the glories of a beauty rare

As those of sylphs, whereof the poets write.

XII.

I thought, by token of thy matchless form,

To curb thy will, and make thee mine indeed,

From head to foot. There is no other creed

For men and maids, in safety or in storm,

Than this of love. Repentance may be warm,

But love is best, though broken like a reed.

XIII.

"She shall be mine till death!" I wildly said,

"Mine, and mine only." And I vow'd, apace,

That I would have thee in my dwelling-place;

Yea, like a despot, I would see thee led

Straight to the altar, with a tear unshed,

A wordless woe imprinted on thy face.

XIV.

I wanted thee. I yearned for thee afar.

"She shall be mine," I cried, "and mine alone.

A Gorgon grief may change me into stone

If I be baulk'd." I hankered for a star,

And soar'd, in thought, to where the angels are,

To snatch my prize beyond the torrid zone.

XV.

I heeded not the teaching of the past.

I heeded not the wisdom of the years.

"She shall be mine," I urged, "till death appears.

For death, I know, will conquer me at last."

And then I found the sky was overcast;

And then I felt the bitterness of tears.

XVI.

"Behold!" I thought, "Behold, how fair to see

Is this white wonder!" And I wish'd thee well

But, like a demon out of darkest hell,

I marr'd thy peace, and claim'd thee on the plea

Of pride and passion; and there came to me

The far-off warning of a wedding-bell.

XVII.

A friend of thine was walking to her doom,

A wife-elect, who, ere the summer sun

Had plied its course, would weep for what was don,—

A friend of thine and mine, who, in the gloom

Of her own soul, had built herself a tomb,

To tremble there, when tears had ceas'd to run.

XVIII.

On this I brooded; but ah! not for this

Did I abandon what I sought the while:

The dear damnation of thy tender smile,

And all the tortures that were like a bliss,

And all the raptures of a holier kiss

Than fair Miranda's on the magic isle.

XIX.

I urged my suit. "My bond!" I did exclaim,

"My pink and white, the hand I love to press,

The golden hair that crowns her loveliness;

And all the beauties which I cannot name;

All, all are mine, and I will have the same,

Though she should hate me for my love's excess."

XX.

I knew myself. I knew the withering fate

That would consume me, if, amid my trust,

I sued for Hope as beggars for a crust.

"O God!" I cried, entranced though desolate,

"Hallow my love, or turn it into hate."

And then I bow'd, in anguish, to the dust.

LETTER II.
SORROW.

I.

Yes, I was mad. I know it. I was mad.

For there is madness in the looks of love;

And he who frights a tender, brooding dove

Is not more base than I, and not so sad;

For I had kill'd the hope that made me glad,

And curs'd, in thought, the sunlight from above.

II.

He was a fool, indeed, who lately tried

To touch the moon, far-shining in the trees,

He clomb the branches with his hands and knees.

And craned his neck to kiss what he espied.

But down he fell, unseemly in his pride,

And told his follies to the fitful breeze.

III.

I was convicted of as strange a thing,

And wild as strange; for, in a hope forlorn,

I fought with Fate. But now the flag is torn

Which like a herald in the days of spring

I held aloft. The birds have ceased to sing

The dear old songs they sang from morn to morn.

IV.

All holy things avoid me. Breezes pass

And will not fan my cheek, as once they did.

The gloaming hies away like one forbid;

And day returns, and shadows on the grass

Fall from the trees; and night and morn amass

No joys for me this side the coffin-lid.

V.

Absolve me, Sweet! Absolve me, or I die;

And give me pardon, if no other boon.

Aye, give me pardon, and the sun and moon,

And all the stars that wander through the sky

Will be thy sponsors, and the gladden'd cry

Of one poor heart will thank thee for it soon.

VI.

And mine Amati—my belovèd one—

The tender sprite who soothes, as best he may,

My fever'd pulse, and makes a roundelay

Of all my fears—e'en he, when all is done,

Will be thy friend, and yield his place to none

To wish thee well, and greet thee day by day.

VII.

For he is human, though, to look at him,

To see his shape, to hear,—as from the throat

Of some bright angel,—his ecstatic note,

A sinful soul might dream of cherubim.

Aye! and he watches when my senses swim,

And I can trace the thoughts that o'er him float.

VIII.

Often, indeed, I tell him more than man

E'er tells to woman in the honied hours

Of tranced night, in cities or in bowers;

And more, perchance, than lovers in the span

Of absent letters may, with scheming, plan

For life's surrender in the fairy towers.

IX.

And he consoles me. There is none I find,

None in the world, so venturesome and wild,

And yet withal, so tender, true, and mild,

As he can be. And those who think him blind

Are much to blame. His ways are ever kind;

And he can plead as softly as a child.

X.

And when he talks to me I feel the touch

Of some sweet hope, a feeling of content

Almost akin to what by joy is meant.

And then I brood on this; for Love is such,

It makes us weep to want it overmuch,

If wayward Fate withhold his full consent.

XI.

Oh, come to me, thou friend of my desire,

My lov'd Amati! At a word of thine

I can be brave, and dash away the brine

From off my cheek, and neutralise the fire

That makes me mad, and use thee as a lyre

To curb the anguish of this soul of mine.

XII.

Wood as thou art, my treasure, with the strings

Fair on thy form, as fits thy parentage,

I cannot deem that in a gilded cage

Thy spirit lives. The bird that in thee sings

Is not a mortal. No! Enthralment flings

Its charms about thee like a poet's rage.

XIII.

Thou hast no sex; but, in an elfish way,

Thou dost entwine in one, as in a troth,

The gleesome thoughts of man and maiden both.

Thy voice is fullest at the flush of day,

But after midnight there is much to say

In weird remembrance of an April oath.

XIV.

And when the moon is seated on the throne

Of some white cloud, with her attendants near—

The wondering stars that hold her name in fear—

Oh! then I know that mine Amati's tone

Is all for me, and that he stands alone,

First of his tribe, belov'd without a peer.

XV.

Yea, this is so, my Lady! A fair form

Made of the garner'd relics of a tree,

In which of old a dryad of the lea

Did live and die. He flourish'd in a storm,

And learnt to warble when the days were warm

And learnt at night the secrets of the sea.

XVI.

And now he is all mine, for my caress

And my strong bow,—an Ariel, as it seems,—

A something sweeter than the sweetest dreams;

A prison'd wizard that has come to bless

And will not curse, though tortured, more or less,

By some remembrance that athwart him streams.

XVII.

It is the thought of April. 'Tis the tie

That made us one; for then the earth was fair

With all things on't, and summer in the air

Tingled for thee and me. A soft reply

Came to thy lips, and I was like to die

To hear thee make such coy confessions there.

XVIII.

It was the dawn of love (or so I thought)

The tender cooing of thy bosom-bird—

The beating heart that flutter'd at a word,

And seem'd for me alone to be so fraught

With wants unutter'd! All my being caught

Glamor thereat, as at a boon conferr'd.

XIX.

And I was lifted, in a minute's space,

As nigh to Heaven as Heaven is nigh to thee,

And in thy wistful glances I could see

Something that seem'd a joy, and in thy face

A splendour fit for angels in the place

Where God has named them all in their degree.

XX.

Ah, none so blest as I, and none so proud,

In that wild moment when a thrill was sent

Right through my soul, as if from thee it went

As flame from fire! But this was disallow'd;

And I shall sooner wear a winter shroud

Than thou revoke my doom of banishment.

LETTER III.
REGRETS.

I.

When I did wake, to-day, a bird of Heaven,

A wanton, woeless thing, a wandering sprite,

Did seem to sing a song for my delight;

And, far away, did make its holy steven

Sweeter to hear than lute-strings that are seven;

And I did weep thereat in my despite.

II.

O glorious sun! I thought, O gracious king,

Of all this splendour that we call the earth!

For thee the lark distils his morning mirth,

But who will hear the matins that I sing?

Who will be glad to greet me in the spring,

Or heed the voice of one so little worth?

III.

Who will accept the thanks I would entone

For having met thee? and for having seen

Thy face an instant in the bower serene

Of perfect faith? The splendour was thine own,

The rapture mine; and Doubt was overthrown,

And Grief forgot the keynote of its threne.

IV.

I rose in haste. I seiz'd, as in a trance,

My violin, the friend I love the best

(After thyself, sweet soul!) and wildly press'd,

And firmly drew it, with a master's glance,

Straight to my heart! The sunbeams seem'd to dance

Athwart the strings, to rob me of my rest.

V.

For then a living thing it did appear,

And every chord had sympathies for me;

And something like a lover's lowly plea

Did shake its frame, and something like a tear

Fell on my cheek, to mind me of the year

When first we met, we two, beside the sea.

VI.

I stood erect, I proudly lifted up

The Sword of Song, the bow that trembled now,

As if for joy, my grief to disallow.—

Are there not some who, in the choicest cup,

Imbibe despair, and famish as they sup,

Sear'd by a solace that was like a vow?

VII.

Are there not some who weep, and cannot tell

Why it is thus? And others who repeat

Stories of ice, to cool them in the heat?

And some who quake for doubts they cannot quell,

And yet are brave? And some who smile in Hell

For thinking of the sin that was so sweet?

VIII.

I have been one who, in the glow of youth,

Have liv'd in books, and realised a bliss

Unfelt by misers, when they count and kiss

Their minted joys; and I have known, in sooth,

The taste of water from the well of Truth,

And found it good. But time has alter'd this.

IX.

I have been hated, scorn'd, and thrust away,

By one who is the Regent of the flowers,

By one who, in the magic of her powers,

Changes the day to night, the night to day,

And makes a potion of the solar ray

Which drugs my heart, and deadens it for hours.

X.

I have been taught that Happiness is coy,

And will not come to all who bend the knee;

That Faith is like the foam upon the sea,

And Pride a snare, and Pomp a foolish toy,

And Hope a moth whose wings we may destroy;

And she I love has taught these things to me.

XI.

Yes, thou, my Lady! Thou hast made me feel

The pangs of that Prometheus who was chain'd

And would not bow, but evermore maintain'd

A fierce revolt. Have I refused to kneel?

I do it gladly. But to mine appeal

No answer comes, and none will be ordain'd.

XII.

Why, then, this rancour? Why so cold a thing

As thy displeasure, O thou dearest One?

I meant no wrong. I stole not from the sun

The fire of Heaven; but I did seek to bring

Glory from thee to me; and in the Spring

I pray'd the prayer that left me thus undone.

XIII.

I pray'd my prayer. I wove into my song

Fervour, and joy, and mystery, and the bleak,

The wan despair that words can never speak.

I pray'd as if my spirit did belong

To some old master, who was wise and strong

Because he lov'd, and suffer'd, and was weak.

XIV.

I curb'd the notes, convulsive, to a sigh,

And, when they falter'd most, I made them leap

Fierce from my bow, as from a summer sleep

A young she-devil. I was fired thereby

To bolder efforts, and a muffled cry

Came from the strings, as if a saint did weep.

XV.

I changed the theme. I dallied with the bow

Just time enough to fit it to a mesh

Of merry notes, and drew it back afresh

To talk of truth and constancy and woe,

And life, and love, and madness, and the glow

Of mine own soul which burns into my flesh.

XVI.

It was the Lord of music, it was he

Who seiz'd my hand. He forc'd me, as I play'd,

To think of that ill-fated fairy-glade

Where once we stroll'd at night; and wild and free

My notes did ring; and quickly unto me

There came the joy that maketh us afraid.

XVII.

Oh! I shall die of tasting in my dreams

Poison of love and ecstasy of pain;

For I shall never kneel to thee again,

Or sit in bowers, or wander by the streams

Of golden vales, or of the morning beams

Construct a wreath to crown thee on the plain!

XVIII.

Yet it were easy, too, to compass this,

So thou wert kind; and easy to my soul

Were harder things if I could reach the goal

Of all I crave, and consummate a bliss

In mine own fashion, and compel a kiss

More fraught with honour than a king's control.

XIX.

It is not much to say that I would die,—

It is not much to say that I would dare

Torture, and doom, and death, could I but share

One kiss with thee. For then, without a sigh,

I'd teach thee pity, and be graced thereby,

Wet with thy tears, and shrouded by thy hair.

XX.

It is not much to say that this is so;

Yet I would sell my substance and my breath,

And all the joy that comes from Nazareth,

And all the peace that all the angels know,

To lie with thee, one minute, in the snow

Of thy white bosom, ere I sank in death!

LETTER IV.
YEARNINGS.

I.

The earth is glad, I know, when night is spent,

For then she wakes the birdlings in the bowers;

And, one by one, the rosy-footed hours

Start for the race; and from his crimson tent

The soldier-sun looks o'er the firmament;

And all his path is strewn with festal flowers.

II.

But what his mission? What the happy quest

Of all this toil? He journeys on his way

As Cæsar did, unbiass'd by the sway

Of maid or man. His goal is in the west.

Will he unbuckle there, and, in his rest,

Dream of the gods who died in Nero's day?

III.

Will he arraign the traitor in his camp?

The Winter Comet who, with streaming hair,

Attack'd the sweetest of the Pleiads fair

And ravish'd her, and left her in the damp

Of dull decay, nor re-illumined the lamp

That show'd the place she occupied in air.

IV.

No; 'tis not so! He seeks his lady-moon,

The gentle orb for whom Endymion sigh'd,

And trusts to find her by the ocean tide,

Or near a forest in the coming June;

For he has lov'd her since she late did swoon

In that eclipse of which she nearly died.

V.

He knew her then; he knew her in the glow

Of all her charms. He knew that she was chaste,

And that she wore a girdle at her waist

Whiter than pearl. And when he eyed her so

He knew that in the final overthrow

He should prevail, and she should be embraced.

VI.

But were I minded thus, were I the sun,

And thou the moon, I would not bide so long

To hear the marvels of thy wedding-song;

For I would have the planets, every one,

Conduct thee home, before the day was done,

And call thee queen, and crown thee in the throng.

VII.

And, like Apollo, I would flash on thee,

And rend thy veil, and call thee by the name

That Daphne lov'd, the loadstar of his fame;

And make myself for thee as white to see

As whitest marble, and as wildly free

As Leda's lover with his look of flame.

VIII.

And there should then be fêtes that should not cease

Till I had kiss'd thee, lov'd one! in a trance

Lasting a life-time, through a life's romance;

And every star should have a mate apiece,

And I would teach them how, in ancient Greece,

The gods were masters of the maidens' dance.

IX.

I should be bold to act; and thou should'st feel

Terror and joy combined, in all the span

Of thy sweet body, ere my fingers ran

From curl to curl, to prompt thee how to kneel;

And then, soul-stricken by thy mute appeal,

I should be quick to answer like a man.

X.

What! have I sinn'd, dear Lady, have I sinn'd

To talk so wildly? Have I sinn'd in this?

An angel's mouth was surely meant to kiss!

Or have I dreamt of courtship out in Inde

In some wild wood? My soul is fever-thinn'd,

And fierce and faint, and frauded of its bliss.

XI.

I will not weep. I will not in the night

Weep or lament, or, bending on my knees,

Appeal for pity! In the clustered trees

The wind is boasting of its one delight;

And I will boast of mine, in thy despite,

And say I love thee more than all of these.

XII.

The rose in bloom, the linnet as it sings,

The fox, the fawn, the cygnet on the mere,

The dragon-fly that glitters like a spear,—

All these, and more, all these ecstatic things,

Possess their mates; and some arrive on wings,

And some on webs, to make their meanings clear.

XIII.

Yea, all these things, and more than I can tell,

More than the most we know of, one and all,

Do talk of Love. There is no other call

From wind to wave, from rose to asphodel,

Than Love's alone—the thing we cannot quell,

Do what we will, from font to funeral.

XIV.

What have I done, I only on the earth,

That I should wait a century for a word?

A hundred years, I know, have been deferr'd

Since last we met, and then it was in dearth

Of gladsome peace; for, in a moment's girth,

My shuddering soul was wounded like a bird.

XV.

I knew thy voice. I knew the veering sound

Of that sweet oracle which once did tend

To treat me grandly, as we treat a friend;

And I would know't if darkly underground

I lay as dead, or, down among the drown'd,

I blindly stared, unvalued to the end.

XVI.

There! take again the kiss I took from thee

Last night in sleep. I met thee in a dream

And drew thee closer than a monk may deem

Good for the soul. I know not how it be,

But this I know: if God be good to me

I shall be raised again to thine esteem.

XVII.

I touched thy neck. I kiss'd it. I was bold.

And bold am I, to-day, to call to mind

How, in the night, a murmur not unkind

Broke on mine ear; a something new and old

Quick in thy breath, as when a tale is told

Of some great hope with madness intertwined.

XVIII.

And round my lips, in joy and yet in fear,

There seemed to dart the stings of kisses warm.

These were my honey-bees, and soon would swarm

To choose their queen. But ere they did appear,

I heard again that murmur in mine ear

Which seem'd to speak of calm before a storm.

XIX.

"What is it, love?" I whispered in my sleep,

And turned to thee, as April unto May.

"Art mine in truth, mine own, by night and day,

Now and for ever?" And I heard thee weep,

And then persuade; and then my soul did leap

Swiftly to thine, in love's ecstatic sway.

XX.

I fondled thee! I drew thee to my heart,

Well knowing in the dark that joy is dumb.

And then a cry, a sigh, a sob, did come

Forth from thy lips.... I waken'd, with a start,

To find thee gone. The day had taken part

Against the total of my blisses' sum.

LETTER V.
CONFESSIONS.

I.

O Lady mine! O Lady of my Life!

Mine and not mine, a being of the sky

Turn'd into Woman, and I know not why—

Is't well, bethink thee, to maintain a strife

With thy poor servant? War unto the knife,

Because I greet thee with a lover's eye?

II.

Is't well to visit me with thy disdain,

And rack my soul, because, for love of thee,

I was too prone to sink upon my knee,

And too intent to make my meaning plain,

And too resolved to make my loss a gain

To do thee good, by Love's immortal plea?

III.

O friend! forgive me for my dream of bliss.

Forgive: forget; be just! Wilt not forgive?

Not though my tears should fall, as through a sieve

The salt sea-sand? What joy hast thou in this:

To be a maid, and marvel at a kiss?

Say! Must I die, to prove that I can live?

IV.

Shall this be so? E'en this? And all my love

Wreck'd in an instant? No, a gentle heart

Beats in thy bosom; and the shades depart

From all fair gardens, and from skies above,

When thou art near. For thou art like a dove,

And dainty thoughts are with thee where thou art.

V.

Oh! it is like the death of dearest kin,

To wake and find the fancies of the brain

Sear'd and confused. We languish in the strain

Of some lost music, and we find within,

Deep in the heart, the record of a sin,

The thrill thereof, and all the blissful pain.

VI.

For it is deadly sin to love too well,

And unappeased, unhonour'd, unbesought,

To feed on dreams; and yet 'tis aptly thought

That all must love. E'en those who most rebel

In Eros' camp have known his master-spell;

And more shall learn than Eros yet has taught.

VII.

But I am mad to love. I am not wise.

I am the worst of men to love the best

Of all sweet women! An untimely jest,

A thing made up of rhapsodies and sighs,

And unordained on earth, and in the skies,

And undesired in tumult and in rest.

VIII.

All this is true. I know it. I am he.

I am that man. I am the hated friend

Who once received a smile, and sought to mend

His soul with hope. O tyrant! by the plea

Of all thy grace, do thou accept from me

At least the notes that know not to offend.

IX.

See! I will strike again the major chord

Of that great song, which, in his early days,

Beethoven wrote; and thine shall be the praise,

And thine the frenzy like a soldier's sword

Flashing therein; and thine, O thou adored

And bright true Lady! all the poet's lays.

X.

To thee, to thee, the songs of all my joy,

To thee the songs that wildly seem to bless,

And those that mind thee of a past caress.

Lo! with a whisper to the Wingèd Boy

Who rules my fate, I will my strength employ

To make a matin-song of my distress.

XI.

But playing thus, and toying with the notes,

I half forget the cause I have to weep;

And, like a reaper in the realms of sleep,

I hear the bird of morning where he floats

High in the welkin, and in fairy boats

I see the minstrels sail upon the deep.

XII.

In mid-suspension of my leaping bow

I almost hear the silence of the night;

And, in my soul, I know the stars are bright

Because they love, and that they nightly glow

To make it clear that there is nought below,

And nought above, so fair as Love's delight.

XIII.

But shall I touch thy heart by speech alone,

Without Amati? Shall I prove, by words,

That hope is meant for men as well as birds;

That I would take a scorpion, or a stone,

In lieu of gold, and sacrifice a throne

To be the keeper of thy flocks and herds?

XIV.

Ah no, my Lady! though I sang to thee

With fuller voice than sings the nightingale—

Fuller and softer in the moonlight pale

Than lays of Keats, or Shelley, or the free

And fire-lipp'd Byron—there would come to me

No word of thine to thank me for the tale.

XV.

Thou would'st not heed. Thou would'st not any-when,

In bower or grove—or in the holy nook

Which shields thy bed—thou would'st not care to look

For thoughts of mine, though faithful in their ken

As are the minds of England's fighting men

When they inscribe their names in Honour's book.

XVI.

Thou would'st not care to scan my face, and through

This face of mine, the soul, for scraps of thought.

Yet 'tis a face that somewhere has been taught

To smile in tears. Mine eyes are somewhat blue

And quick to flash (if what I hear be true)

And dark, at times, as velvet newly wrought.

XVII.

But wilt thou own it? Wilt thou in the scroll

Of my sad life, perceive, as in a hive,

A thousand happy fancies that contrive

To seek thee out? Thy bosom is the goal

Of all my thoughts, and quick to thy control

They wend their way, elate to be alive.

XVIII.

But there is something I could never bring

My soul to compass. No! could I compel

Thy plighted troth, I would not have thee tell

A lie to God. I'll have no wedding-ring

With loveless hands around my neck to cling;

For this were worse than all the fires of hell.

XIX.

I would not take thee from a lover's lips,

Or from the rostrum of a roaring crowd,

Or from the memory of a husband's shroud,

Or from the goblet where a Cæsar sips.

I would not touch thee with my finger tips,

But I would die to serve thee,—and be proud.

XX.

And could I enter Heaven, and find therein,

In all the wide dominions of the air,

No trace of thee among the natives there,

I would not bide with them—No! not to win

A seraph's lyre—but I would sin a sin,

And free my soul, and seek thee otherwhere!

LETTER VI.
DESPAIR.

I.

I am undone. My hopes have beggar'd me,

For I have lov'd where loving was denied.

To-day is dark, and Yesterday has died,

And when To-morrow comes, erect and free,

Like some great king, whose tyrant will he be,

And whose defender in the days of pride?

II.

I am not cold, and yet November bands

Compress my heart. I know the month is May,

And that the sun will warm me if I stay.

But who is this? Oh, who is this that stands

Straight in my path, and with his bony hands

Appeals to me to turn some other way?

III.

It is the phantom of my murder'd joy,

Which once again has come to persecute,

And tell me tales which late I did refute.

But lo! I now must heed them, as a boy

Takes up, in tears, the remnants of a toy,

Or bard forlorn the fragments of a lute.

IV.

It is the ghost that, day by day, did come

To tempt my spirit to the mountain-peak;

It is the thing that wept, and would not speak,

And, with a sign, to show that it was dumb,

Did seem to hint at Death that was the sum

Of all we know, and all we strive to seek.

V.

And now it comes again, and with its eye

Bloodshot and blear, though pallid in its face,

Doth point, exacting, to the very place

Where I do keep, that no one may descry,

A lady's glove, a ribbon, and a dry,

A perjur'd rose, which oft I did embrace.

VI.

It means, perchance, that I must make an end

Of all these things, and burn them as a fee

To my Despair, when down upon my knee.

O piteous thing! have pity; be my friend;

Or say, at least, that blessings will descend

On her I love, on her if not on me!

VII.

The Shape did smile; and, wildly, with a start,

Did shrivel up, as when a fire is spent,

Whereof the smoke obscured the firmament.

And then I knew it had but tried my heart,

To teach me how to play a manly part,

And strengthen me in all my good intent.

VIII.

And here I stand alone, e'en like a leaf

In sudden frost, as quiet as the wing

Of wounded bird, which knows it cannot sing.

A child may moan, but not a mountain chief.

If we be sad, if we possess a grief,

The grief should be the slave, and not the king.

IX.

Yes, I will pause, and pluck from out the Past

The full discernment of my sorry cheer,

And why the sunlight seems no longer clear,

And why, in spite of anguish, and the vast,

The sickly blank that o'er my life is cast,

I cannot kneel to-day, or shed a tear.

X.

It was thy friendship. It was this I had,

This and no more. I was a fool to doubt,

I was a fool to strive to put to rout

My many foes:—thy musings tender-glad,

Which all had said:—"Avoid him! he is mad—

Mad with his love, and Love's erratic shout."

XI.

I should have known,—I should have guess'd in time,—

That, like a soft mirage at twilight hour,

My dream would melt, and rob me of its dower.

I should have guess'd that all the heights sublime,

Which look'd like spires and cities built in rhyme,

Would droop and die, like petals from a flower.

XII.

I should have known, indeed, that to the brave

All things are servants. But my lost Delight

Was like the ship that founders in a night,

And leaves no mark. How then? Is Passion's grave

All that is left beside the sobbing wave?

The foam thereof, the saltness, and the blight?

XIII.

I had a fleet of ships, and where are they?

Where are they all? and where the merchandise

I treasured once—an empire's golden prize,

The empire of a soul, which, in a day,

Lost all its wealth? I was deceiv'd, I say,

For I had reckon'd on propitious skies.

XIV.

I look'd afar, and saw no sign of wrack.

I look'd anear, and felt the summer breeze

Warm on my cheek; and forth upon the seas

I sent my ships; and would not have them back,

Though some averr'd a storm was on the track

Of all I lov'd, and all I own'd of these.

XV.

One ship was "Joy," the second "Truth," the third

"Love in a Dream," and, last not least of all,

"Hope," and "Content," and "Pride that hath a Fall."

And they were goodly vessels, by my word,

With sails as strong as pinions of a bird,

And crew that answer'd well to Duty's call.

XVI.

In one of these—in "Hope"—where I did fly

A lofty banner,—in that ship I found

Doom's-day at last, and all my crew were drown'd.

Yes, I was wreck'd in this, and here I lie,

Here on the beach, forlorn and like to die,

With none to pray for me on holy ground.

XVII.

O sweet my Lady! If thou pass this way,

And thou behold me where I lie beset

By wind and wave, and powerless to forget,

Wilt not approach me thoughtfully and say:—

"This man was true. He lov'd me night and day

And though I spurn'd at him, he loves me yet."

XVIII.

Wilt not withhold thy blame, at least to-night,

And shed for me a tear, as one may grieve

For people known in books, for men who weave

Ropes out of sand, to lead them to the light?

Oh! treat me thus, and, by thy hand so white,

I will forego the dreams to which I cleave.

XIX.

Be just to me, and say, when all is o'er,

When some such book is calmly laid aside:

"The shadow-men have liv'd and lov'd and died;

The shadow-women will be vexed no more.

But there is One for whom my heart is sore,

Because he took a shadow for his guide."

XX.

Say only this; but pray for me withal,

And let a pitying thought possess thee then,

Whether at home, at sea, or in a glen

In some wild nook. It were a joy to fall

Dead at thy feet, as at a trumpet's call,

For I should then be peerless among men!

LETTER VII.
HOPE.

I.

O tears of mine! Ye start I know not why,

Unless, indeed, to prove that I am glad,

Albeit fast wedded to a thought so sad

I scarce can deem that my despair will die,

Or that the sun, careering up the sky,

Will warm again a world that seem'd so mad.

II.

And yet, who knows? The world is, to the mind,

Much as we make it; and the things we tend

Wear, for the nonce, the liveries that we lend.

And some such things are fair, though ill-defined,