AT last they met, once, twice, and many times,
Until she knew the secret of his being,
That essence which an ardent zeal sublimes
From the dull ashes; faith was slowly freeing
Her soul from fear; she felt as one who climbs
High peaks at midnight, knowing, but not seeing
The depths beneath him, while his lantern’s glow
Shines brilliantly before him on the snow.
What shall the sun reveal? A cloud-robed world,
A space of white about the traveller’s feet,
And all things else impenetrably furled
In vapours cold? Or will the mist retreat,
Unveiling valleys green, with lakes impearled,
And bounded by a curve of Alps, that greet
The dawn with rosy summits, towering high
Beneath the paling moon and faint blue sky?
But Alan–with heart pure and passionate
That ne’er of any woman’s love had dreamed,
To noble service ever consecrate–
Now joyed in broadening, brightening noon, that streamed
Above him and around, till Life and Fate
Were nought but one glad radiance, and Love seemed
The fruit of Truth’s white flower, grown sweet and ripe;
Nay, Truth herself was here, the perfect type
In a fair woman’s form; the one Ideal
Shining all glorious ‘mid the figures grey
Of Earth; how different from the hideous Real
He saw in court and alley day by day!
He was of those who going down to Sheol
Can find God there, yet none the less do pray
To see Him, not through veils of shame and vice,
But as man first beheld in Paradise.
Yet when the Truth is clad in beauteous flesh
That man may know it, human love will claim
Its rights; and daily deeper in the mesh
Sank Alan’s heart, and all his fine-strung frame
With passion throbbed. One August evening fresh
He walked in Ella’s garden, while the flame
Of sunset lit the trees with golden sheen,
Changing to chrysoprase their sombre green.
And she was at his side; he spoke to her
Eagerly, earnestly, and yet he said
No word whose mere significance could stir
The pulse; but every syllable, instead
Of telling its own tale, was messenger
Of Love; and answering came the fitful red
To Ella’s cheeks; though, as they slowly walked,
‘Twas but of Alan’s mission that they talked.
Until he said, close-bending, “When at first
I came, and saw the rows of faces blank,
The brutish and the ignorant, and worst
The self-complacent rich, my spirit sank
A moment; then a flood of sunshine burst
Upon me, for I saw your eyes that drank
The message, and returned it richly bright,
As this deep rose gives beauty to the light.
“And as the rose within her petals hides
The rays which they reflect not, yet receive,
Oh, tell me now that in your heart abides
Full confidence–nay, Ella, do not grieve,
Look up–assure me that one Vision guides
Your steps and mine–that you in truth believe;
I know it, yet forgive me if I seek
To hear it–Ella! speak to me–oh speak!”
She faltered “I believe” with head low-drooped,
And tearful eyes–new longings and alarms
Athwart her inward vision swiftly trooped;
As one whom unfamiliar music charms
Breathless and mute she stood; but Alan stooped
And kissed her lips, and clasped her in his arms,
Crying, “I love–I worship you! We share
One life–oh joy too great for man to bear!”
And she replied; such answers are not made
In speech articulate; no word she spoke
For Alan’s ears, but on his breast she laid
Her head, as though she sought at once to cloak
And to express her passion. They had stayed
Thus, for long hours, but that a loud sound broke
Upon their rapt communion, like the knell
Of that bright moment–’twas the evening bell
For prayer. They hurried in, nor watched the glow
Of sunset fading from the purple beech,
And, bidding fond good-night, she bade him go,
That she, with chosen words, might try to reach
Her parents’ hearts, before she slept. And so
The sacred love-tale was profaned by speech,
Till from the two she won a slow consent,
Mingled with scolding and with merriment.
The father, half in earnest, half to tease,
Exclaimed–“Just like Cadijah and Mahomet,
Or Beatrice and Dante– whom you please!
I wish you joy, my daughter, and your comet
Is brilliant.” The shrewd mother, ill at ease,
Said “No–your will-o’-the-wisp! What can come from it?
And what’s the use of all your Conic Sections
If like a fool you yield to your affections?”
But Ella gloried in the grudging “Yes;”
Love lent the charm?d days bright plumes to fly,
Woke her each morn, and filled her loneliness
With light, and sang at eve her lullaby:
Yet, as the spring-buds burst, her joy grew less–
No chill distrust of Alan’s constancy,
Nor any fear that time could e’er abate
His fervid love, made her disconsolate.
It was not this; but her deep-thinking brain
Learned slowly, mournfully, against her will,
How mystic faiths are woven from a vain
Tissue of dreams, which hold men captive still
In day-light; and she saw, with bitter pain,
That every thought, deed, passion, good or ill,
Might thus be sanctified, and at its need
Find refuge in some hospitable creed.
And when she conned the pages of his book,
And saw his cherished thoughts, all printed clear,
Robbed of that glow suffused of voice and look
Which made their mellow misty atmosphere,
She shivered, almost thinking she mistook
The words, that seemed so living to her ear,
So spectral to her eye–men praised the style,
Bold, fiery: mute she heard, with pallid smile.
Not that her love diminished–nay, it grew:
As oft from wild delirious words we know
The spirit’s beauty, so his nature true
Shone out more bright through the delusive show
Of gloaming fantasies; but well she knew
Her Reason tipped the dart, and strung the bow,
To slay his Passion: with a wife to dwell
Not wedded to his soul, for him were Hell.
Confute a theologian; with sharp word
He answers you, yet may forgive the thrust
If he be quite convinced that you have erred:
But tell Jehovah’s prophet that his trust
Is nought–he will not rage, but he will gird
His loins in silence, and will shake the dust
From off his feet, and go his lonely way,
Over dry desert sand, or fenlands grey.
She pined with strange distress–the woman’s heart
Throbbed, quivered, bled; while the logician’s mind
Worked on relentless, heeding not the smart,
Ne’er to be drugged, or deafened, or made blind;
Against herself her riven self took part,
The martyr and the torturer combined:
Stretched on the rack, bound with flesh-cutting rope,
What is the poor maimed anguished victim’s hope?
What is a woman’s hope when she is torn
By passion and by thought, and cannot cease
To think or love, nor teach herself to scorn
Her deepest life, nor ever win release
From the harsh yoke, too heavy to be borne,
Of iron principles that crush her peace:
Will not some opiate give her dreamful rest
Till she return to the Great Mother’s breast?
Nay! rather let her maim her shrinking soul–
That groping she may climb her lame way in
To Life–than down to Death, seeing and whole,
Spring, damned by the inexpiable sin
Of treachery; and in the longed-for goal
Find that fair-seeming Heaven which traitors win
Whose gate is bliss; whose midmost point, a germ
Of Hell, whence issues the undying worm.
‘Twas a May twilight–and the two once more
Paced round the walks where they were wont to spend
Sweet hours: but Ella spoke as ne’er before–
Calmly, as one who, dying, tells his friend,
His best-belov?d friend, that life is o’er,
That now is come the dead, blank, hopeless end;
Yet weeps not, neither moans, because his breath
Is well-nigh quenched by the chill winds of Death.
But Alan stayed her–“No, it cannot be!
This is some fevered nightmare dream!” he cried–
“Wake and believe, dear Ella! wake and see
How Earth and Heaven by God are glorified;
His presence shines in every flower and tree,
And in ourselves–and shall He be denied
By those who breathe His Spirit? Be not you
Like the blind throng, who know not what they do!
“Forgive me, Dearest; you are sad and pale;
I speak too harshly.” But she answered–” Nay,
Be not so gentle, lest your words avail
Too much–lest I be tempted to obey
Love, and not conscience: my resolve is frail,
Yet I will speak: oh turn your eyes away,
And do not touch my hand, the while I try
To tell my thought–until we say good-bye.
“You are as true as any seer of old,
Prophet, or martyr; you would sell your life
That Faith might rise up from her torpor cold,
And vanquish doubt, hypocrisy, and strife:
For this I loved you–yes, long ere you told
Your love–yet, Alan, if I were your wife
I should be but a mist, a leaden cloud,
Folding your spirit in its clinging shroud.
“For all my faith is gone, that seemed so sure
Even that God who every day is wroth
With sinners, gives a refuge more secure
For the sad heart; the banquet is of froth
Which you in mercy set before the poor,
Not knowing: Alan, Alan, that we both
Might strive to find, by patient thought and search,
Some firm foundation for a nobler Church!”
Her voice grew stronger, and more clear her glance,
As thus she pleaded, and to thoughts long pent
Within her breast, gave language; she perchance
Clung to some hope: but Alan, eloquent,
Broke forth with all the story of his trance,
And how he was inspired of God, and sent
To tend the flame Divine ‘mid vapours damp
And cold–the dim yet ever-burning lamp.
She listened–then she said, in tones that fell
Upon his soul and senses heavily–
“Long have I pondered o’er this vision-spell;
For me it holds no magic. You are free,
And we must part–kiss me and say Farewell.
Yet are you mine to all Eternity–
No other voice or look my heart can move,
I love you with irrevocable love.”
The pallid mournful face, the solemn tone,
Slew all his hope. He clasped her to his breast,
And kissed the passive lips, that chilled his own
Like icicles, and speechlessly expressed
Her anguish–till she cried, with sudden moan
Thrusting him from her– “Leave me–it is best–
I am too weak to bear it.” Forth he went
Alone, with quick blind steps, and head low-bent.
When some poor lonely pilgrim devotee
Who worships in the temple of a saint,
Coming one morning with his fervent plea
Finds the shrine empty–trembling then and faint
He leaves the stone, deep-printed by his knee,
And goes out homeless, with no wild complaint,
But stricken. Yet to feel what Alan felt
Is sharper pain–to see the spirit melt
And fade and vanish from some image fair
Of Truth, whose glory clothed it like the sun,
But now departs, leaving it cold and bare
And lifeless. One dark moment, only one
He doubted his Ideal; but his prayer
And answering Vision, came afresh, and spun
A web, that nought could break except the power
Of Life’s last sad illuminating hour.
And Ella? Almost stupefied with woe,
Of him were all her thoughts, as bowed, forlorn,
He left her, sorely wounded, as a foe
Can never wound. She scarce could stay to mourn
Her own maimed life, but, pacing to and fro,
Pictured his days of weary labour, shorn
Of joy; until the bitterness of loss
O’erwhelmed her, and she stooped to take her cross.
She set herself to suffer and endure
In silence. Life, though mutilated, marred,
Must yet be lived; there was not any cure,
Nor any further stab; the gate seemed barred
Alike to hope and fear, and she was pure
At least, of treason; yet the thought was hard
That this last act of loyalty could gain
Nought from her Love, save haply his disdain.
Heart-sore, all probing hints she sought to parry,
But when at length she spoke, her father said–
“My dear, a man of genius should not marry,
It should be penal for a seer to wed;
You know, Ezekiel’s wife must help to carry
His ‘burden.'” “Yes, and help to earn the bread,
And bake it,” said the mother–“glorious fate
No doubt–for ‘glorious’ means ‘unfortunate’!”
(Constance Naden)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Man Poems, God Poems, Life Poems, World Poems, Light Poems, Mind Poems, Sadness Poems, Time Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Soul PoemsBased on Keywords: erwhelmed, stupefied, penal, suffused, mutilated, probing, impearled, day-light, trooped, alan, mother-