Betrayal

Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend
The Soul's eternal interests to promote:
Death, darkness, danger, are our natural lot;
And evil Spirits 'may' our walk attend
For aught the wisest know or comprehend;
Then be 'good' Spirits free to breathe a note
Of elevation; let their odours float
Around these Converts; and their glories blend,
The midnight stars outshining, or the blaze
Of the noon-day. Nor doubt that golden cords
Of good works, mingling with the visions, raise
The Soul to purer worlds: and 'who' the line
Shall draw, the limits of the power define,
That even imperfect faith to man affords?

When darkness long has veil’d my mind,
And smiling day once more appears;
Then, my Redeemer, then I find
The folly of my doubts and fears.


Straight I upbraid my wandering heart,
And blush that I should ever be
Thus prone to act so base a part,
Or harbour one hard thought of thee!


Oh! let me then at length be taught
What I am still so slow to learn;
That God is love, and changes not,
Nor knows the shadow of a turn.


Sweet truth, and easy to repeat!
But, when my faith is sharply tried,
I find myself a learner yet,
Unskilful, weak, and apt to slide.


But, O my Lord, one look from thee
Subdues the disobedient will;
Drives doubt and discontent away,
And thy rebellious worm is still.


Thou ...

Faster, faster,
O Circe, Goddess,
Let the wild, thronging train
The bright procession
Of eddying forms,
Sweep through my soul!
Thou standest, smiling
Down on me! thy right arm,
Lean'd up against the column there,
Props thy soft cheek;
Thy left holds, hanging loosely,
The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,
I held but now.
Is it, then, evening
So soon? I see, the night-dews,
Cluster'd in thick beads, dim
The agate brooch-stones
On thy white shoulder;
The cool night-wind, too,
Blows through the portico,
Stirs thy hair, Goddess,
Waves thy white robe!

Circe.
Whence art thou, sleeper?

The Youth.
When the white dawn first
Through the rough fir-planks
Of my hut, by the chestnuts,
Up at the valley-head,

One silent night of late,
When every creature rested,
Came one unto my gate,
And knocking, me molested.

Who's that, said I, beats there,
And troubles thus the sleepy?
Cast off; said he, all fear,
And let not locks thus keep ye.

For I a boy am, who
By moonless nights have swerved;
And all with showers wet through,
And e'en with cold half starved.

I pitiful arose,
And soon a taper lighted;
And did myself disclose
Unto the lad benighted.

I saw he had a bow,
And wings too, which did shiver;
And looking down below,
I spied he had a quiver.

I to my chimney's shine
Brought him, as Love professes,
And chafed his hands with mine,
And dried his dropping tresses.

But when he felt him warm'd,

Clear eyes do dim at last,
And cheeks outlive their rose.
Time, heedless of the past,
No loving-kindness knows;
Chill unto mortal lip
Still Lethe flows.

Griefs, too, but brief while stay,
And sorrow, being o'er,
Its salt tears shed away,
Woundeth the heart no more.
Stealthily lave those waters
That solemn shore.

Ah, then, sweet face burn on,
While yet quick memory lives!
And Sorrow, ere thou art gone,
Know that my heart forgives -
Ere yet, grown cold in peace,
It loves not, nor grieves.

    In Lola Schaefer's studio in the Tower,
    Tea being served to painters, poets, singers,
    Herr Ludwig Haibt, a none too welcome guest,
    Of vital body, brisk, too loud of voice,
    And Lilli Alm crossed swords.

    It came about
    When Ludwig Haibt said: "Have you read the papers
    About this Elenor Murray?" And then said:
    "I tried to train her voice - she was a failure."
    And Lilli Alm who taught the art of song
    Looked at him half contemptuous and said:
    "Why did she fail?" To which Herr Ludwig answered
    "She tried too hard. She made her throat too tense,
    And made its muscles stiff by too much thought,
    Anxiety for song, the vocal triumph."

    "O, yes, I understand," said Lilli Aim.
    Then stabbing him she...

    In my childhood, "Verdun," meant madness.
    Bars on the windows, cages around the intellect.
    Time was a poor keeper of souls, it seems, wore out all but
    a fragment of my memories. Musical, poetic. The sounds of clay china
    being dropped on the floor. Fierce Celts with a gift for the muse in
    keeping with their love of lyricism and war.

    Driving by 999 Queen in Toronto accompanies a lot of the above.
    A cuckoo bin by any calculation and a reference not meant to be
    pejorative. A subject so clothed in solemnity only irreverent
    "kidding," can hope to disarm its grasp. Still, the truth must be told.
    In university, no one shrinked from whispering the ultimate fate -
    a stint in Sydenham or a trip down the road to Cedar Springs.
    Delight...

If hap it must, that I must see thee lie
Absyrtus-like, all torn confusedly:
With solemn tears, and with much grief of heart,
I'll recollect thee, weeping, part by part;
And having wash'd thee, close thee in a chest
With spice; that done, I'll leave thee to thy rest.

Days undefiled by luxury or sloth,
Firm self-denial, manners grave and staid,
Rights equal, laws with cheerfulness obeyed,
Words that require no sanction from an oath,
And simple honesty a common growth,
This high repute, with bounteous Nature's aid,
Won confidence, now ruthlessly betrayed
At will, your power the measure of your troth!
All who revere the memory of Penn
Grieve for the land on whose wild woods his name
Was fondly grafted with a virtuous aim,
Renounced, abandoned by degenerate Men
For state-dishonour black as ever came
To upper air from Mammon's loathsome den.

WRITTEN IN COVE CHURCH-YARD; AND OCCASIONED BY OBSERVING MY OWN SHADOW THROWN ACROSS A GRAVE.


    "Tell me, thou grassy mound,
        What dost thou cover?
    In thy folds hast thou bound
        Soldier or lover?
Time o'er the turf no memorial is keeping
Who in this lone grave forgotten is sleeping?"--

    "The sun's westward ray
        A dark shadow has thrown
    On this dwelling of clay,
        And the shade is thine own!
From dust and oblivion this stern lesson borrow--
Thou art living to-day and forgotten to-morrow!"

Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast,
Which marks with wither'd sweets its fearful way,
I grieve to see thee on the low earth cast,
While beauty's trembling tints fade fast away.
But who is she, that from the mountain's head
Comes gaily on, cheering the child of earth?
The walks of woe bloom bright beneath her tread,
And Nature smiles with renovated mirth?
'Tis Health! She comes: and, hark! the vallies ring,
And, hark! the echoing hills repeat the sound:
She sheds the new-blown blossoms of the spring,
And all their fragrance floats her footsteps round.
And, hark! she whispers in the zephyr's voice,
Lift up thy head, fair floweret, and rejoice!

Why do eyes that were tender,
    Averted, turn away?
Why has our dear love's splendour
    All faded into gray?
Why is it that lips glow not
    That late were all aglow?
I know not, dear, I know not,
    I only know 'tis so.

Why do you no more tremble
    Now when I kiss your cheek?
Why do we both dissemble
    The thoughts we used to speak?
Why is it that words flow not
    That used to fondly flow?
I know not, dear, I know not,
    I only know 'tis so.

Have we outlived the passion
    That late lit earth and sky?
And is this but the fashion
    A fond love takes to die?
Is it, that we shall know not
    Again love's rapture glow?
I trust not, sweet, I trust not -
    And yet it may be so.

Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,
Love is a sword that cuts its sheath,
And thro' the clefts, itself has made,
We spy the flashes of the Blade!

But thro' the clefts, itself has made,
We likewise see Love's flashing blade,
By rust consumed or snapt in twain:
And only Hilt and Stump remain.

Rose-colour
Rose Pink am I, the colour gleams and glows
    In many a flower; her lips, those tender doors
By which, in time of love, love's essence flows
    From him to her, are dyed in delicate Rose.
Mine is the earliest Ruby light that pours
    Out of the East, when day's white gates unclose.

On downy peach, and maiden's downier cheek
    I, in a flush of radiant bloom, alight,
Clinging, at sunset, to the shimmering peak
    I veil its snow in floods of Roseate light.

Azure
Mine is the heavenly hue of Azure skies,
    Where the white clouds lie soft as seraphs' wings,
Mine the sweet, shadowed light in innocent eyes,
    Whose lovely looks light only on lovely things.

Mine the Blue Distance, delicate and clear,
    Mine...

'Love is all
Unsatisfied
That cannot take the whole
Body and soul';
And that is what Jane said.

'Take the sour
If you take me
I can scoff and lour
And scold for an hour.'
"That's certainly the case,' said he.

'Naked I lay,
The grass my bed;
Naked and hidden away,
That black day';
And that is what Jane said.

'What can be shown?
What true love be?
All could be known or shown
If Time were but gone.'
'That's certainly the case,' said he.

Miss Danae, when Fair and Young
(As Horace has divinely sung)
Could not be kept from Jove's Embrace
By Doors of Steel, and Walls of Brass.
The Reason of the Thing is clear;
Would Jove the naked Truth aver:
Cupid was with Him of the Party;
And show'd himself sincere and hearty:
For, give That Whipster but his Errand;
He takes my Lord Chief Justice' Warrant:
Dauntless as Death away He walks;
Breaks the Doors open; snaps the Locks;
Searches the Parlour, Chamber, Study;
Nor stops, 'till He has Culprit's Body.

Since This has been Authentick Truth,
By Age deliver'd down to Youth;
Tell us, mistaken Husband, tell us,
Why so Mysterious, why so Jealous?
Does the Restraint, the Bolt, the Bar
Make Us less Curious, Her less Fair?

The Spy, wh...

In the waste hour
Between to-day and yesterday
We watched, while on my arm -
Living flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone -
Dabbled in sweat the sacred head
Lay uncomplaining, still, contemptuous, strange:
Till the dear face turned dead,
And to a sound of lamentation
The good, heroic soul with all its wealth -
Its sixty years of love and sacrifice,
Suffering and passionate faith - was reabsorbed
In the inexorable Peace,
And life was changed to us for evermore.

Was nothing left of her but tears
Like blood-drops from the heart?
Nought save remorse
For duty unfulfilled, justice undone,
And charity ignored?    Nothing but love,
Forgiveness, reconcilement, where in truth,
But for this passing
Into the unimaginable abyss
These things ha...

Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.
Then, if for my love, thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest;
But yet be blam’d, if thou thy self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty:
And yet, love knows it is a greater grief
To bear greater wrong, than hate’s known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.