II.
104 lines✦
ow long shall men deny the flowerBecause its roots are in the earth,And crave with tears from God the dowerThey have, and have despised as dearth,And scorn as low their human lot,With frantic pride, too blind to seeThat standing on the head makes notEither for ease or dignity!But fools shall feel like fools to find(Too late inform’d) that angels’ mirthIs one in cause, and mode, and kindWith that which they profaned on earth. ÆTNA AND THE MOON. 1 To soothe my heart I, feigning, seizedA pen, and, showering tears, declaredMy unfeign’d passion; sadly pleasedOnly to dream that so I dared.Thus was the fervid truth confess’d,But wild with paradox ran the plea.As wilfully in hope depress’d,Yet bold beyond hope’s warranty: 2 ‘O, more than dear, be more than just,And do not deafly shut the door!I claim no right to speak; I trustMercy, not right; yet who has more?For, if more love makes not more fit,Of claimants here none’s more nor less,Since your great worth does not permitDegrees in our unworthiness.Yet, if there’s aught that can be doneWith arduous labour of long years,By which you’ll say that you’ll be won,O tell me, and I’ll dry my tears.Ah, no; if loving cannot move,How foolishly must labour fail!The use of deeds is to show love;If signs suffice let these avail:Your name pronounced brings to my heartA feeling like the violet’s breath,Which does so much of heaven impartIt makes me amorous of death;The winds that in the garden tossThe Guelder-roses give me pain,Alarm me with the dread of loss,Exhaust me with the dream of gain;I’m troubled by the clouds that move;Tired by the breath which I respire;And ever, like a torch, my love,Thus agitated, flames the higher;All’s hard that has not you for goal;I scarce can move my hand to write,For love engages all my soul,And leaves the body void of might;The wings of will spread idly, as doThe bird’s that in a vacuum lies;My breast, asleep with dreams of you,Forgets to breathe, and bursts in sighs;I see no rest this side the grave,No rest nor hope, from you apart;Your life is in the rose you gave,Its perfume suffocates my heart;There’s no refreshment in the breeze;The heaven o’erwhelms me with its blue;I faint beside the dancing seas;Winds, skies, and waves are only you;The thought or act which not intendsYou service seems a sin and shame;In that one only object endsConscience, religion, honour, fame.Ah, could I put off love! Could weNever have met! What calm, what ease!Nay, but, alas, this remedyWere ten times worse than the disease!For when, indifferent, I pursueThe world’s best pleasures for relief,My heart, still sickening back to you,Finds none like memory of its grief;And, though ’twere very hell to hearYou felt such misery as I,All good, save you, were far less dear!Than is that ill with which I dieWhere’er I go, wandering forlorn,You are the world’s love, life, and glee:Oh, wretchedness not to be borneIf she that’s Love should not love me!’ 3 I could not write another word,Through pity for my own distress;And forth I went, untimely stirr’dTo make my misery more or less.I went, beneath the heated noon,To where, in her simplicity,She sate at work; and, as the MoonOn Ætna smiles, she smiled on me.But, now and then, in cheek and eyes,I saw, or fancied, such a glowAs when, in summer-evening skies,Some say, ‘It lightens,’ some say, ‘No.’‘Honoria,’ I began—No more.The Dean, by ill or happy hap,Came home; and Wolf burst in before,And put his nose upon her lap.
✦