Platonic Love

I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
That barren tender of a poet's debt;
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself being extant well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb,
For I impair not beauty, being mute,
When others would give life and bring a tomb.


There lives more life in one of your fair eyes,
Than both your poets can in praise devise.

Love seeketh not Itself to please.
Nor for itself hath any care;
But for another gives its ease.
And builds a Heaven in Hells despair.
So sung a little Clod of Clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet;
But a Pebble of the brook.
Warbled out these metres meet.
Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight;
Joys in anothers loss of ease.
And builds a Hell in Heavens despite.

O'RE the smooth enameld green
Where no print of step hath been,
Follow me as I sing,
And touch the warbled string.

Under the shady roof

Of branching Elm Star-proof,
Follow me,

I will bring you where she sits

Clad in splendor as befits
Her deity.

Such a rural Queen

All Arcadia hath not seen.

313. From 'Comus'
i
THE Star that bids the Shepherd fold,
Now the top of Heav'n doth hold,
And the gilded Car of Day,
His glowing Axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantick stream,
And the slope Sun his upward beam
Shoots against the dusky Pole,
Pacing toward the other gole
Of his Chamber in the East.
Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast,
Midnight shout, and revelry,
Tipsie dance, and Jollity.
Braid your Locks with rosie Twine
Dropping odours, dropping Wine.
Rigor now is gon to bed,
And Advice with scrupulous head,
Strict Age, and sowre Severity,
With their grave Saws in slumber ly.
We that are of purer fire
Imitate the Starry Quire,
Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears,
Lead in swift round the Months and Years.
The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove
Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move,
And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves,
Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves;
By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim,
The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim,
Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:
What hath night to do with sleep?
Night hath better sweets to prove,
Venus now wakes, and wak'ns Love....
Com, knit hands, and beat the ground,
In a light fantastick round.


John Milton. 1608-1674



314. From' Comus'
ii. Echo
SWEET Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell
By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet imbroider'd vale
Where the love-lorn Nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad Song mourneth well.
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle Pair
That likest thy Narcissus are?
O if thou have
Hid them in som flowry Cave,
Tell me but where
Sweet Queen of Parly, Daughter of the Sphear!
So maist thou be translated to the skies,

And give resounding grace to all Heav'ns Harmonies!

John Milton. 1608-1674

315. From' Comus'
iii. Sabrina
The Spirit sings: SABRINA fair
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of Lillies knitting

The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,
Listen for dear honour's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save!

Listen and appear to us,
In name of great Oceanus,
By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace,
And Tethys grave majestick pace,
By hoary Nereus wrincled look,
And the Carpathian wisards hook,
By scaly Tritons winding shell,
And old sooth-saying Glaucus spell,
By Leucothea's lovely hands,
And her son that rules the strands,
By Thetis tinsel-slipper'd feet,
And the Songs of Sirens sweet,
By dead Parthenope's dear tomb,
And fair Ligea's golden comb,
Wherwith she sits on diamond rocks
Sleeking her soft alluring locks,
By all the Nymphs that nightly dance
Upon thy streams with wily glance,
Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie head



From thy coral-pav'n bed,

And bridle in thy headlong wave,

Till thou our summons answered have.
Listen and save!

Sabrina replies: By the rushy-fringed bank,

Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank,
My sliding Chariot stayes,

Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheen

Of Turkis blew, and Emrauld green
That in the channell strayes,

Whilst from off the waters fleet

Thus I set my printless feet

O're the Cowslips Velvet head,
That bends not as I tread,

Gentle swain at thy request
I am here.

John Milton. 1608-1674

316. From 'Comus'
iv
The Spirit epiloguizes: TO the Ocean now I fly,
And those happy climes that ly
Where day never shuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the sky:
There I suck the liquid ayr
All amidst the Gardens fair
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three
That sing about the golden tree:
Along the crisped shades and bowres
Revels the spruce and jocond Spring,
The Graces, and the rosie-boosom'd Howres,
Thither all their bounties bring,
That there eternal Summer dwels,
And West winds, with musky wing
About the cedar'n alleys fling
Nard, and Cassia's balmy smels.
Iris there with humid bow,
Waters the odorous banks that blow
Flowers of more mingled hew
Than her purfl'd scarf can shew,
And drenches with Elysian dew
(List mortals, if your ears be true)
Beds of Hyacinth, and roses
Where young Adonis oft reposes,
Waxing well of his deep wound
In slumber soft, and on the ground
Sadly sits th' Assyrian Queen;
But far above in spangled sheen
Celestial Cupid her fam'd son advanc't,



Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc't
After her wandring labours long,
Till free consent the gods among
Make her his eternal Bride,
And from her fair unspotted side
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.


But now my task is smoothly don,
I can fly, or I can run
Quickly to the green earths end,
Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend,
And from thence can soar as soon
To the corners of the Moon.

Mortals that would follow me,
Love vertue, she alone is free.
She can teach ye how to clime
Higher then the Spheary chime;
Or if Vertue feeble were,
Heav'n it self would stoop to her.

YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear,
I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not flote upon his watry bear
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of som melodious tear.


Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
So may som gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn,
And as he passes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd.
For we were nurst upon the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.

Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a field, and both together heard
What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright
Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel.
Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,


Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute;
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel,
From the glad sound would not be absent long,
And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our song.


But O the heavy change, now thou art gon,
Now thou art gon, and never must return!
Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves,
With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown,
And all their echoes mourn.
The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green,
Shall now no more be seen,
Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes.
As killing as the Canker to the Rose,
Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,
Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,
When first the White thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.

Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep
Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream:
Ay me, I fondly dream!
Had ye bin there--for what could that have don?
What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore,
The Muse her self, for her inchanting son
Whom Universal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore.

Alas! what boots it with uncessant care
To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade,
And strictly meditate the thankles Muse,
Were it not better don as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of Noble mind)
To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes;
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears,
And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise,
Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfet witnes of all judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.


O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud,
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my Oate proceeds,
And listens to the Herald of the Sea
That came in Neptune's plea,
He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon winds,
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?
And question'd every gust of rugged wings
That blows from off each beaked Promontory,
They knew not of his story,
And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd,
The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine,
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.
It was that fatall and perfidious Bark
Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow,
His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe.
Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?
Last came, and last did go,
The Pilot of the Galilean lake,
Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain,
(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain)
He shook his Miter'd locks, and stern bespake,
How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,
Anow of such as for their bellies sake,
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reck'ning make,
Then how to scramble at the shearers feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest.
Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least
That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw,
The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,
But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing sed,
But that two-handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.

Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse,
And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast
Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use,


Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,
That on the green terf suck the honied showres,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.
Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies.
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine,
The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat,
The glowing Violet.
The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine.
With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies.
For so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas
Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth.
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth.


Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,
So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore,
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves
Where other groves, and other streams along,
With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song,
In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet Societies
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more;
Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th'Okes and rills,
While the still morn went out with Sandals gray,
He touch'd the tender stops of various Quills,


With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay:
And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the Western bay;
At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew:
To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.

How can my muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O! give thy self the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thy self dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

MY good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel,
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel:
They reel, they roll in clanging lists,
And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend
On whom their favours fall !
For them I battle till the end,
To save from shame and thrall:
But all my heart is drawn above,
My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine:
I never felt the kiss of love,
Nor maiden's hand in mine.
More bounteous aspects on me beam,
Me mightier transports move and thrill;
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer
A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,
Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns:
Then by some secret shrine I ride;
I hear a voice but none are there;
The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
The tapers burning fair.
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,
The silver vessels sparkle clean,
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
And solemn chaunts resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark;
I leap on board: no helmsman steers:
I float till all is dark.
A gentle sound, an awful light !
Three arngels bear the holy Grail:
With folded feet, in stoles of white,
On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
My spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory slides,
And star-like mingles with the stars.


When on my goodly charger borne
Thro' dreaming towns I go,
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
The streets are dumb with snow.
The tempest crackles on the leads,
And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;
But o'er the dark a glory spreads,
And gilds the driving hail.
I leave the plain, I climb the height;
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling storms
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight--to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear;
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
That often meet me here.
I muse on joy that will not cease,
Pure spaces clothed in living beams,
Pure lilies of eternal peace,
Whose odours haunt my dreams;
And, stricken by an angel's hand,
This mortal armour that I wear,
This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky,
And thro' the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony
Swells up, and shakes and falls.
Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
'O just and faithful knight of God!
Ride on ! the prize is near.'
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;
By bridge and ford, by park and pale,
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,
Until I find the holy Grail.

I

Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past they
speak
Like sibyls of the future; they have power The
tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not what
they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanished shadows Are
they so?
Is not the past all shadow? What
are they?
Creations of the mind? The
mind can make
Substances, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recall a vision which I dreamed
Perchance in sleep for
in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.


II


I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of mild declivity, the last
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and cornfields,
and the abodes of men
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs: the hill
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man:
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing the
one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself but
the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful:
And both were young yet
not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye



There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had looked
Upon it till it could not pass away;
He had no breath, no being, but in hers:
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight,
For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,
Which coloured all his objects; he
had ceased
To live within himself: she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all; upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously his
heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share:
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother but
no more; 'twas much,
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him;
Herself the solitary scion left
Of a timehonoured
race. It
was a name
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not and
why?
Time taught him a deep answer when
she loved
Another; even now she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.


III


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
There was an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned:
Within an antique Oratory stood
The Boy of whom I spake; he
was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned
His bowed head on his hands and shook, as 'twere
With a convulsion then
rose again,
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears.
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet: as he paused,
The Lady of his love reentered
there;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved; she knew For
quickly comes such knowledge that
his heart
Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face



A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;
He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed
From out the massy gate of that old Hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way;
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.


IV


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his Soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer;
There was a mass of many images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all; and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noontide sultriness,
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruined walls that had survived the names
Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fastened near a fountain; and a man,
Glad in a flowing garb, did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumbered around:
And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in heaven.


V


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love was wed with One
Who did not love her better: in her home,
A thousand leagues from his, her
native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy,
Daughters and sons of Beauty, but
behold!
Upon her face there was a tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
What could her grief be? she
had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or illrepressed
affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be? she
had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which preyed



Upon her mind a
spectre of the past.

VI

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was returned. I
saw him stand
Before an altar with
a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which made
The Starlight of his Boyhood; as
he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The selfsame aspect and the quivering shock
That in the antique Oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then As
in that hour a
moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced and
then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reeled around him; he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been But
the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,
And the remembered chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, came back
And thrust themselves between him and the light;
What business had they there at such a time?


VII


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love; Oh!
she was changed,
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its fantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!


VIII


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was alone as heretofore,



The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compassed round
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mixed
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains; with the stars
And the quick Spirit of the Universe
He held his dialogues: and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret. Be
it so.


IX


My dream is past; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality the
one
To end in madness both
in misery.

Some say thronging cavalry, some say foot soldiers,
others call a fleet the most beautiful of
sights the dark earth offers, but I say it's whatever
you love best.
And it's easy to make this understood by
everyone, for she who surpassed all human
kind in beauty, Helen, abandoning her
husband--that best of
men--went sailing off to the shores of Troy and
never spent a thought on her child or loving
parents: when the goddess seduced her wits and
left her to wander,
she forgot them all, she could not remember
anything but longing, and lightly straying
aside, lost her way. But that reminds me
now: Anactória,
she's not here, and I'd rather see her lovely
step, her sparkling glance and her face than gaze on
all the troops in Lydia in their chariots and
glittering armor.

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy;
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert:


Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,

For they in thee a thousand errors note;

But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,

Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.

Nor are mine cars with thy tongue's tune delighted,

Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,

Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited

To any sensual feast with thee alone;

But my five wits, nor my five senses can

Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,

Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,

Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be.
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since everyone hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new.
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year;
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear,
And you in every blessèd shape we know.


In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

After all, at this late hour,
Beloved!

Like a whirlwind blind with dust
Day and Night
When I

Dance about in a blood-red Death-game
At long last, at this eleventh hour
It is revealed to me that! know thee through

all Eternity.
Worshipper!

Thy voice, thy tune shaming the dove,
Thy eye, thy face,
Thy eye-brow, forehead, cheek,

Thy beauty that knows no equal,

Thy wanton ear-ring swinging to and fro
in dance surpassing a swan
I know, I know all!
Hence, after all, I

Standing on the one, weary, hopeless

and dreary beach of life
From the depths of my fainting heart
Cry for thee and thee alone,

Beloved!

Calling by the sweetest name which is constantly
on my lips as a sacred name on the rosary.
I weep with it -

In my broken voice do I cry, I know thee,
I do, do, do know,
Thou art not one with laurels of victory - nor
art thou a beggar-maid,
Thou art virgin nymph, daughter of an

eremite, thou art my eternal worshipper!
Through ages, thou hast loved this hard-hearted one,
Burning thy own self, thou hast kindled light

in my breast,
Many a time thou hast made me a debtor
to thy worship.
I know thee, Beloved, I do, do, do know through
Eternity.

I oft recognize thee in the sun-set
of life, at the hour of death,
Then after recognition

Thou dost go elsewhere.
Leaving me on the lone, deserted

Farewell-raft.
Sitting at the end of the day, bathed in tears,
I recall her far-off, distant memory
I remember the sad, silent welcome night

of mine that came at the close of spring
When my eyes feasted upon thine and were blessed,

Till then a simple, happy boy - my


youth did not put forth blossoms,
Like approaching, aching, eager Dawn
Half-asleep, half-awake was my boyhood,
My rosy nights went blooming

Free of all barriers, ,
Like a whirlwind spontaneously moving
Or the speed of fiery lyrics, or

laughter that knows no end

A wandering traveller from far afar,
I took thee
And along with thee

Came tearful eyes and pangs of homeless forlorn

heart-
Thou didst come at night, at peep of Dawn,
I sang 'Awake, Beloved, Awake! '
Thou didst rise from sleep, thou didst come to me,
And looking at my face didst smile a

melancholy smile -
At thy smile I wept - whose tame bird distressed
art thou, now deprived of thy forest
home?

O the message of thine eyes! methought
That voice, that tune of mine
Laden with sadness of separation,
And reverberating in the forest,
Which invites the south wind, causes

the flower to blossom and charms the wild doe,
Thou hast known all of myself since the dawn of
creation!

Then, that midnight I did sing
plaintive notes choked with tears of that
unhonoured send-off and wounded feelings.

I did not know whom by the incantation of a song
I wanted then to imprison in my
ever-desolate forlorn heart
Only this I do know that the shade of
thy love-enkindled eyes untimely roused from sleep

Fell upon my eyes.
I saw, too, in the expression of those eyes,
A flood of light mixed with surprise and delight,
A flow of fascination born of profound pain,
With silent sympathy was trembling the love-lorn heart

In the likeness of the dark night
To my thirsty eyes was expectantly welcome,
Worshipper! that sweet, tender light

kindled in the lamp of thy eyes!
Then, at the close of singing .
With a smile I think I called thee near, by the

name
Suddenly didst thon storm with a pent up
feeling of self-respect offended
(Who knoweth why) .


Like a canoe trembled thy serene eyes
Secured with eye brows,
The swelling water through the mouth


of the fount of agony
Fell in torrents!


Such flood of tears gushing out of thy
depths on a little caress
Where didst thou get, O Neglected!
my wandering Beloved?
Tell me, O tell!
On this broken bosom,

Pillow thy bright face bathed in tears
With a thrill of bashful joy
And tell me, a tell!

Why seeing me art thou overwhelmed with
an undefined feeling?
Why at my call such abundance of tears

overflows thy eyes?
An unknown vagrant wayfarer am I,
Seeing me why tears start to thy

virgin eyes serene?
Others laugh at me;
A happy, secure nest is burnt at .
the very touch of my accursed hot breath,
Taking it to be a jewel some people
wear it as a garland,
But when it turns to be a venomous serpent

And bites them in the breast,
Forthwith they trample it under foot!
With one who is disliked, hated and

disregarded by the world,
Forlorn Beloved! Why dost thou
play this sad game
For one why this secret sensibility?

On what right
The mere calling by name doth cause pain to thee?
Art thou loved by nobody? Art thou

tenderly taken by nobody? Art thou
tenderly taken by none?
From birth art thou neglected as

a Beggar maid? And for that
Such abundant flow of tears and
Such offended spirit exciting compassion?

No, not even that
In a forlorn voice while resting on the breast
Who doth in forlorn sensitiveness Say

'No, not even that'!
I saw hundreds come to this house,
Many of their own accord take thee on their breast,
Still yet in thy eyes and face is writ

large a deep discontent and a profound


Pining for love!
Why at my sight doth so much nectar

of love overflow thy breast?
O Mystry! My Queen!
Nobody doth know
Thou knowest not
Nor do I know.


Love alone knoweth, heart alone doth feel
From whence cometh such poignancy of
Spontaneous attraction of heart to heart.
Even without understanding it, I understood
That day, O unknown! that thou

art eternally know to me, thou my

neglected Sita in every successive birth!
Thou hermit's daughter deserting thy forest home,
Eternal virginity; thy tray of offerings to Gods
I broke in every age, thy garland I tore
In mere sport; ever-silent, ever languishing

under a curse, O heavenly damsel!
In silence didst thou suffer
O thou Simple! Simply hast thou
Known thou art my-Queen of

Victory, myself thy Poet.
Then, towards the end of night

Sitting by thy side
I heard thy melodious song,
Half-interrupted by bashfulness,

tremblingly pathetic
Oft the voice reminded me
Of some dim, half-remembered,

half-forgotten, long-lost thing,
Singing in choked voice 'O thou'!
When krishna went to Mathura and forgot

his beloved Radhika,
Methink, she wept out her forlorn

heart singing such sweetest saddest song.
With a breast afflicted by neglect,
it was much like Lalita's lamentation

in secret hour!
Perhaps in lonely forest, alone, wandering,
Damayanti sang in such tired voice
Calling her husband woo was left behind!
Perhaps sad sakuntala remembering her husband
Wept with the forest creepers singing

in such tune, in secret leafy nook!
Perhaps on the peak of the Hem-giri mountain
The long-lost Sati in the person of Uma
Addressed Bholanath in such ever known voice!
Wept she, ever-faithful, beloved of her

husband, to get again her eternal lover!
I see and understand everything,
My youth did not awake, so thy fair face


made no deep impress on my inward eye;
Yet in thy familiar voice my own
I left and went afar in some unremembered

moment along a nameless village path
Scarcely a day or two passed when

on the bank of the same holy Gomati
My heart ached for the first time and a
Strange, fragrant pain I felt in

the lotus of my navel region.
I wandered to-and fro in search of
the source of this pain-laden smell of wine
At the mere touch of my hot, heavy

sighs, trembled the sky, air and earth,
Bewailed leaves and creepers,
Flowers and birds and rivers,.
Bewailed clouds and winds and all,
And bewailed in the breast in fierce

pleasure the insatiate divinity awakened

by youth's tyranny: .
Wretched as I was, I knew not whom I wanted,
So I cried hoarse, 'Where should .

I go, where may I find my Beloved? '
My heart feels a burning passion,
my mind runs riot,
Methink, it is the sad lamentation
of a lover under the load of eternal youth!
Visions float in quick success on

before the eyes of many a color,
red, blue, pink
From whose breast

To my heart of hearts
Doth come and why this painful ecstasy
redolent of musk?

My mind like the musk deer runs a-field.
the air trembles with fear engendered by
my frantic wailings! .
Like the musk of deer

My mind blind with scent roams in
Search of the odour of my own navel!
Mine own love

By drinking itself wants to appease
its own thirst!

My youth under an eternal thirst for
the whole world of love
After emptying an ocean like a drop

longs for another!
Good Heaven! What thirst eternal,

illimitable is this!
Where is contentment? O where?
Where is the Eternal Ocean of Love that

can appease my thirst?
More self-willed, tyrannical, and irresistible than I


Where might I find her
In absence of whom I know no peace
in this wide world!
Thinking like this I go abroad, I only

walk my way,
And meet many a girl on the path,
After them, alas! runs with blind impetuosity
My mind hungering for Love,
If one of them looks back, my
offended sentiment brings a flood

of tears to my eyes!
They laugh at my predicament, .
Some one ignores me, some one

approaches with an offer of favour!
It doth aggravate my grief,
With the deep naked agony of a wretched one,
Like the loud roar of the ocean of

universal cataclysm
Under pain and wounded self-respect
. doth swell in fierce volume
The flame of my heart agitated with distress!
A street girl doth offer favour!
Under my foot I smash her vanity .

with her presumptuous offer!
In tears she goes back, afraid of coming near;
Like Anath Pindada, disciple of Buddha,
My mendicant heart
Hegs from door to door no common alms
For my love-Buddha,
Give me alms, O citizens!
I beg for Buddha, see my master

goes back hungry from the door!
Many came, many went away, .
Some in fright, some in surprise,
Some with a broken heart,
Some bathed in tears
Thus many a nymph came and went,
I beseech complete surrender,
But it is not understood by the happy damsels

of the city
They carne with a smile,
Then at the end of the smile

In tears they go back

To the shady nook of their living home
They say, 'O way-farer! Tell us, O tell
What Treasure doth thy heart hanker after? .
Why is this pathos in thy voice, for whom

is there so much hunger in 'thy breast? '
No body understands what I want
Some 'rings mind and heart, some brings

Youth and wealth,
While a third offers beauty and body.


A proud princess maddened by her riches

Wants to imprison me in the trap of her
beauty and youth...
All in vain! Loaded with despondency ,
my heart goes abroad


As a vagrant warbler
Singing 'where is my love-loran Beloved
my worshipper, Oh, where? '

She who will say, 'I have turned
an anchorite for the sake of love,
O thou my Lord! '

Forlorn am I and not

thy pride and glory
In vain I roam in the wilderness
My thirst rages fiercely
In such moments my thirst-stricken heart
Loses itself for a moment
At a distant, unknown beckoning with the hand
As if she were weeping aloud-,
Saying 'My Love, I am thy heart's wandering maid,

I know thee
Thou, too, knowest me!
I knew not, it was a she-devil,
It was but an illusion,
No water, but a snare, it was a
deceptive image of a lake in the desert! '
'I am at thy mercy', so saying I

called at her door,
Alas, where was she? Verily it was a witch
Alluring me to my doom!
It was a cruel Fowler's net,
It was a device to win the grace

. of a Beggar's bowel,
No, the trap did defeat itself, .
Entangled in her own snare was

finished the witch
To thy door came I with my heart
bleeding from thorns,
Knew not, even then, thou didst feel

a keen sympathy for my afflictions.
Yet from time to time it struck me
that thy sweet, balmy touch could efface

All my bums and pangs,
That to my heart spoke thy heart ever in tears

O way-farer! Give me those thorns;
Where do they prick thee,
Tell mc, pray!

Thou art a silent eremite, keeping in

thy lone privacy,
Hence thy speechless message
I seldom minded, and little understood


that and thy little reserved bosom
There was so much room for love and hope.
Meanwhile I knew not from where

came my mother floating as it were
like a free stream,
In that stormy night.


She took me in her lap, printed a

thousand kisses on my eyes bathed in tears.
The thoroughfare vanished
The chariot disappeared
Drowned was all sorrow and pain,


A mother's love illumined my dilapidate
temple like the festival of Dewali!
My past history like the previous birth
I seemed to forget on getting back

my lost Mother!
A homeless one was restored to his

home, in tranquil happiness and felicity.
After many an age as it were, I slept a
deep sleep pillowed on my Mother's breast.
There was an end of vagrant minstrelsy,
Disappeared in a piteous
lone my companion the tempestuous wind.

0 0 0

Again, again was I benighted
Perhaps at the door of some all-conquering

nymph, Arjun's chariot came to a stand-still.
I forgot the object of my peregrination,
I forgot. my heart had been eternally wandering
and longing for my Beloved, Beloved and Beloved

alone.
I forgot every bit of pain and grief,
The flood of new felicity melted my heart,
And over-flowed my tearless eyes.
It seemed as it were in some lotus of

beauty were imprisoned my eyes,
Its fragrance enraptured my bosom,
And a thrill danced through
some sweetest, saddest sensation.
Life regained and forfeited again
The greedy bird pierced by an arrow
Besmeared with blood the altar of my temple
It could not wake up the stone-image,
Being thus disgraced, I leapt up like a

forest conflagration.
My poignant, blood-red griefs raised their heads,
With a thundering voice I rushed forth

on the blood-horse of Rebellion,
Against the Original Cause of my
Sorrow the Creator - across the clouds of the sky


Holding aloft the meteor flag of Destruction,
Kindling the sacrificial fire of animosity

and creating terror in a barren dreary desert!
What illusion is this! At intervals
Methought I heard a distant melody

of thy flute singing my name, Dear!
Peering into that far-off privacy
My eyes red with enmity became
Softened with tears of silent Sympathy.
Remembering that melody, remembering that call

discarded all my grief
I threw my grief into oblivion,
I do realize, thou art real-thou dost exist,
Neglected by me, thou dost still desire me,

heart and soul,
Alone, wood-nymph,
Thou art wreathing a garland for me

All by thyself,
In bashful privacy.
Thou art my wandering maid, my Queen,
Whom I wood in all my previous births!
The ocean of fire in me becomes a flower

in bloom and says with a smile
'I know, I know'.
Let life return to my dead soul.
From a-far am I summoned by her,
Without whom I know no peace and joy
in the wide world.

But hearken!
Who wails and laments like that?
Some body must have cried from behind
'Friend, thou art behind time' Poor fellow,

it is too late!
I didn't listen, I didn't mind obstruction,
To me alone came floating as it were
across the barriers of the previous
Birth the sad wailings of a forsaken Lalita.
I came running to thee

Breathlessly,
Martyrdom, the chariot of fire, all went
a-begging, the blood-red flag cried'

in the wilderness,
I indulged in a world of luxury and felicity
in secretly worshipping thee in my bosom.
To narrate the sequel I lack language today,
Today I have no heart, no tears, no strength,

no hope.
What I say today is no song, it is but
a blood-red message of a bleeding
heart embalmed in tears.

Yet keep this little bit in mind, Dear,


that from door to door
Baffled I returned
And came to thee for thyself as the Summumbonum.
of my life,
In return for the whole world of my hope and
love and affection.
I worshipped thee, O my unkind Beloved.
thou worshipper!
Methought thou wouldst smilingly take

charge of one who was too wild for the world.
Thou wouldst tame the rebel of the universe
Quite easily by dint of love alone.
Methought for the glory of conquering the
unruly and unconquerable
the heart would be illumined with an

uncommon lustre, and then one day
Thou wouldst infuse celestial fire

into my arms
And become the embodied victory of this Rebel.
I harboured a hope, I had power, too,

to tear asunder the universe
And place the same under thy rosy feet
as a culled red lotus for an offering
But alas! Where art that 'thou'? Where
is that heart?
Where's that inalienable bond of attachment

between two hearts?
This 'thou' of today art not that 'thou' to be sure;
Today I find thou too art deceitful,
Thou too clammiest to be victorious by

means of falsehood!
Thou dost want to give me something,

retaining the remainder for another,
Unfortunate woman! I laugh out my soul!
Whom dost thou want to deceive?
In my bosom is ever awake the true Divinity,
His eyes are penetrating, they can see

into the heart of things,
And most minutely search its inmost recesses.
Infidelity fouls thy offering today, Dear,
Today thou dost try to deceive him
Whom one day didst thou give all thy heart and soul.
Thus I ponder, whose fault it was
That in thy spotless heart
Was kindled this death-provoking light
Yet I wonder is it true?

Thou too, a deceiving self?
If it were so, then O witch!
Let it be true, O wicked one!
Let full light show thy false world in bold relief.
Myself, thyself, the sun, moon, stars,

Let all be false,


Then, then, O alluring Phantom,
Give to thy contrived world a false gleam
As I look at thy face today,
Shame strikes me like a thunderbolt
As I remember how didst thou disregard

and neglect me, I do remember my shameless ness, too
Today I die before my death,
I feel, I must cry aloud, 'Open thy womb, Mother

Earth!

And take into darkness thy neglected.
and dust-covered son from the light
of the day that throws his shame into

prominence
Yet many a time I came with hope
But alas! whenever I look at that face
Ah me! where's that worshipping damsel,

Where's that forlorn anchorite?

The same accustomed disregard I see,
And the same face devoid of expression.
There's no love lost, but a game

. to ride rough-shod over a heart
My bosom bursts under the load of disgrace!
Alas! What cruel game is this, between hearts!
These girls tread a bleeding rosy breast
Under their feet which seem dyed with lace.
They claim to be goddesses, they are greedy

and want to usurp the worship of all!
For them is not the single-minded devotion
of a lover, nor the complete surrender
of a worshipper
Hence, in the name of true devotion,
their timid heart is so awfully frightened,
Frailty, thy name is Woman! She does
Not like to nestle round one bosom.
She is a goddess, she is greedy, the
more she is worshipped, the more she
wants worshippers.
Her voracious mind

Is not gratified with one, one is
not sufficient for her,
She seeks many

My creator-Lord received from me not such
worship as was offered to her, yet she
deceived me!
I do realize, in the end, that there comes
encircling darkness as deep as death
as my companion,
So my forlorn heart out of the agony
of bitter pleasure thunders out:
Why then, O my mind, for whom shouldst
thou go lamenting abroad?


Blaze forth now, burning like the
terrible eyes of the god of Destruction,

Clap thy hands striking terror! Fan
the bloody flames of the eternal fire
of thy Rebellion!

Let the fiery Chariot beat thy
all-destroying trumpet!
Hurl thy battle-axe and trident!
Storm this citadel of Falsehood!
Bring poison made of blood and .
nectar, seize death by the throat!
Let this false world under thy accursed
heavy agonizing wheel be crushed to powder.

In my throat there's today so much venom;
so much wrath
Yet, Nymph!
At intervals I recall

I did not love thee
Till I saw thy light red with passion
and embosomed in thy breast,
Thou hadst all the time
Sought my love and played the
Begga-maid at my door,

Till then a small neglect resulting in thy
outraged feelings of rebellion would
have caused a flood of tears to
arise in thine eyes, and agonized

thy soft and sweet heart.
For a small bit of affection, for a tiny caress
Thou didst many a night and many

a day keep by my side on sleepless pillow
I did not vouchsafe to look at thee.
Is this, then, by way of revenge? .
After conquering me by means of falsehood.
Thou hast heaped disgrace and deceit

upon my head and stopped my breath.
Today I wail from the lap of death
O Heartless! What false cruel game

is this with regard to a heart?
After a world of love, how canst
thou hurl so much disregard,

O women?
Such a blow is man's job,
I knew, we, men, alone could inflict such injuries
Methought, the gift of a spotless fair Nymph
Finds itself in a single delicious
Moment irrevocably in the bosom of her lover,
And thus she loses her separate entity.

for all Eternity,

It is a vain belief!
Zephyr only makes the flower blossom,
The honey-making bee comes and deflowers it


The former is a type of chivalry;
Love and not the body of the beloved
. is all-in-all to him!

The latter goes by Aromatic and knows
how to ravish the blooming tender
heart of the flower

Myself, the sound Wind a traveler
the end of at spring I depart
For that deathless undiscovered country'
.. of Eternal Night!
On this even of departure my eyes are

filled with tears of joy.
As I feel how happy am I today.
Thou hadst loved me before I loved thee
The soft crimson light of thy maiden heart
From kissed my breast and Jace.
From recollections today of that ardent

happiness a deluge of sensations sweet
inundates the broken heart of this hungry one!
Remembering that love and felicity of

those golden days
I feel my life is full - I sink in the

grave contented and blessed
Unsolicited, thou alone didst love me.
In happy remembrance of that piece of joy,
I with my death-black lips

print now a thousand full kisses upon thy
dear name!

Remembering me,
If one night, Dear,
While in sleep pillowed upon one's breast
Thou dost feel a pain in thy bosom without cause,
Take it that dear and gone the impediment!
None else shall come back
In wild ecstasy to kiss thy lotus-feet
Dead is he- the self-willed, discontented


ever-selfish, greedy
But he is immortal - thy love hath

bestowed immortality upon the poet
Who like the deathless Nilkantha hath
Swallowed the ocean of pain.

[Translation: Abdul Hakim] .

He it is, the innermost one,
who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches.


He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes
and joyfully plays on the chords of my heart
in varied cadence of pleasure and pain.


He it is who weaves the web of this maya
in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue and green,
and lets peep out through the folds his feet,
at whose touch I forget myself.


Days come and ages pass,
and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a name,
in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow.

In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns;
What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love!--From Abelard it came,
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.


Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd.
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies:
O write it not, my hand--the name appears
Already written--wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.


Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmov'd, and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain.


Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.
I tremble too, where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,
Led through a sad variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame,
There died the best of passions, love and fame.


Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away;
And is my Abelard less kind than they?
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,
Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r;
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.



Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief.
Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid;
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires,
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.


Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame,
When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name;
My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry day,
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.
Guiltless I gaz'd; heav'n listen'd while you sung;
And truths divine came mended from that tongue.
From lips like those what precept fail'd to move?
Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love.
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,
Nor wish'd an Angel whom I lov'd a Man.
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;
Nor envy them, that heav'n I lose for thee.


How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said,
Curse on all laws but those which love has made!
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies,
Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,
August her deed, and sacred be her fame;
Before true passion all those views remove,
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
The jealous God, when we profane his fires,
Those restless passions in revenge inspires;
And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,
Who seek in love for aught but love alone.
Should at my feet the world's great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all:
Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove;
No, make me mistress to the man I love;
If there be yet another name more free,
More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
Oh happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature, law:
All then is full, possessing, and possess'd,
No craving void left aching in the breast:
Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.
This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be)



And once the lot of Abelard and me.


Alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise!
A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!
Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,
Her poniard, had oppos'd the dire command.
Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;
The crime was common, common be the pain.
I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd,
Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest.


Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,
When victims at yon altar's foot we lay?
Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,
When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?
As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,
The shrines all trembl'd, and the lamps grew pale:
Heav'n scarce believ'd the conquest it survey'd,
And saints with wonder heard the vows I made.
Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,
Not on the Cross my eyes were fix'd, but you:
Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;
Those still at least are left thee to bestow.
Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie,
Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd;
Give all thou canst--and let me dream the rest.
Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize,
With other beauties charm my partial eyes,
Full in my view set all the bright abode,
And make my soul quit Abelard for God.


Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r.
From the false world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desert smil'd,
And Paradise was open'd in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father's stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n,
Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n:
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
In these lone walls (their days eternal bound)
These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noonday night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light;
Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,
And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.



But now no face divine contentment wears,
'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others' pray'rs I try,
(O pious fraud of am'rous charity!)
But why should I on others' pray'rs depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move,
And all those tender names in one, thy love!
The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,
The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills,
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to rest the visionary maid.
But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws
A death-like silence, and a dread repose:
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.


Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
Sad proof how well a lover can obey!
Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;
And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain,
Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,
And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine.


Ah wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain,
Confess'd within the slave of love and man.
Assist me, Heav'n! but whence arose that pray'r?
Sprung it from piety, or from despair?
Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence,
Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis sure the hardest science to forget!
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,
And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how distinguish penitence from love?
Unequal task! a passion to resign,
For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine.



Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain--do all things but forget.
But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd;
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself--and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.


How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.


Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Daemons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake--no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I say;
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!
Alas, no more--methinks we wand'ring go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,
Where round some mould'ring tower pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.



I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.


For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain
A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain;
Thy life a long, dead calm of fix'd repose;
No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.
Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,
Or moving spirit bade the waters flow;
Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n,
And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n.


Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread?
The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.
Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves;
Ev'n thou art cold--yet Eloisa loves.
Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn
To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.


What scenes appear where'er I turn my view?
The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue,
Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.
I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,
Thy image steals between my God and me,
Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear,
With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear.
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,
And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.


While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye,
While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul:
Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart;
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes
Blot out each bright idea of the skies;
Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;
Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs;
Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;
Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!


No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;



Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!)
Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu!
Oh Grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair!
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!
Fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky!
And faith, our early immortality!
Enter, each mild, each amicable guest;
Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!


See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,
Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.
In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,
From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound.
"Come, sister, come!" (it said, or seem'd to say)
"Thy place is here, sad sister, come away!
Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,
Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid:
But all is calm in this eternal sleep;
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep,
Ev'n superstition loses ev'ry fear:
For God, not man, absolves our frailties here."


I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs,
Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs.
Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,
Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow:
Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay,
And smooth my passage to the realms of day;
See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll,
Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!
Ah no--in sacred vestments may'st thou stand,
The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,
Present the cross before my lifted eye,
Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.
Ah then, thy once-lov'd Eloisa see!
It will be then no crime to gaze on me.
See from my cheek the transient roses fly!
See the last sparkle languish in my eye!
Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er;
And ev'n my Abelard be lov'd no more.
O Death all-eloquent! you only prove
What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.


Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy,
(That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy)
In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd,
Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round,
From op'ning skies may streaming glories shine,
And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.



May one kind grave unite each hapless name,
And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,
When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;
If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings
To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs,
O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds;
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,
"Oh may we never love as these have lov'd!"


From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise,
And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
Amid that scene if some relenting eye
Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
Devotion's self shall steal a thought from Heav'n,
One human tear shall drop and be forgiv'n.
And sure, if fate some future bard shall join
In sad similitude of griefs to mine,
Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves so long, so well;
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;
He best can paint 'em, who shall feel 'em most.

River, that rollest by the ancient walls,
Where dwells the Lady of my love, when she
Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls
A faint and fleeting memory of me:

What if thy deep and ample stream should be
A mirror of my heart, where she may read
The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee,
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed!

What do I saya
mirror of my heart?
Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong?
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;
And such as thou art were my passions long.

Time may have somewhat tamed them,not
for ever
Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!
Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away:

But left long wrecks behind, and now again,
Borne in our old unchanged career, we move:
Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main,
And Ito
loving one I should not love.

The current I behold will sweep beneath
Her native walls, and murmur at her feet;
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe
The twilight air, unharmed by summer's heat.

She will look on thee,
I
have looked on thee,
Full of that thought: and, from that moment, ne'er
Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see,
Without the inseparable sigh for her!

Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream,
Yes!
they will meet the wave I gaze on now:
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,
That happy wave repass me in its flow!

The wave that bears my tears returns no more:
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?
Both
tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore,
I by thy source, she by the darkblue
deep.

But that which keepeth us apart is not
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,
But the distraction of a various lot,
As various as the climates of our birth.

A stranger loves the Lady of the land;
Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood


Is all meridian, as if never fanned
By the black wind that chills the polar flood.

My blood is all meridian; were it not
I had not left my clime, nor should I be,
In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot
A slave again of love,at
least of thee.

'Tis vain to strugglelet
me perish young
Live
as I lived, and love as I have loved;
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,
And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved.

I am as lovely as a dream in stone;
My breast on which each finds his death in turn
Inspires the poet with a love as lone
As everlasting clay, and as taciturn.
Swan-white of heart, as sphinx no mortal knows,
My throne is in the heaven's azure deep;
I hate all movement that disturbs my pose;
I smile not ever, neither do I weep.
Before my monumental attitudes,
Taken from the proudest plastic arts,
My poets pray in austere studious moods,
For I, to fold enchantment round their hearts,
Have pools of light where beauty flames and dies,
The placid mirrors of my luminous eyes.

I boasted among men that I had known you.
They see your pictures in all works of mine.
They come and ask me, `Who is he?'
I know not how to answer them. I say, `Indeed, I cannot tell.'
They blame me and they go away in scorn.
And you sit there smiling.


I put my tales of you into lasting songs.
The secret gushes out from my heart.
They come and ask me, `Tell me all your meanings.'
I know not how to answer them.
I say, `Ah, who knows what they mean!'
They smile and go away in utter scorn.
And you sit there smiling.

Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,—no,
Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair
Than small white single poppies,—I can bear

Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though

From left to right, not knowing where to go,
I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there
Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear

So has it been with mist,—with moonlight so.

Like him who day by day unto his draught

Of delicate poison adds him one drop more
Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,
Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed

Each hour more deeply than the hour before,
I drink—and live—what has destroyed some men.

In noon-tide hours, O Love, secure and strong,
I need thee not; mad dreams are mine to bind
The world to my desire, and hold the wind
A voiceless captive to my conquering song.
I need thee not, I am content with these:
Keep silence in thy soul, beyond the seas!


But in the desolate hour of midnight, when
An ectasy of starry silence sleeps
And my soul hungers for thy voice, O then,
Love, like the magic of wild melodies,
Let thy soul answer mine across the seas.

Those lit eyes go before me, in full view,
(Some cunning angel magnetised their light) -
Heavenly twins, yet my own brothers too,
Shaking their diamond blaze into my sight.
My steps from every trap or sin to save,
In the strait road of Beauty they conduct me,
They are my servants, and I am their slave,
Obedient in whatever they instruct me.
Delightful eyes, you burn with mystic rays
Like candles in broad day; red suns may blaze,
But cannot quench their still, fantastic light.
Those candles burn for death, but you for waking :
You sing the dawn that in my soul is breaking,
Stars which no sun could ever put to flight!

Weeping,
I go down the street
Grotesque, without solution
With the sadness of Cyrano
And Quixote.

Redeeming
Infinite impossiblities
With the rhythm of the clock.

Yes, Atthis, you may be sure
Even in Sardis
Anactoria will think often of us
of the life we shared here, when you seemed
the Goddess incarnate
to her and your singing pleased her best
Now among Lydian women she in her
turn stands first as the redfingered
moon rising at sunset takes
precedence over stars around her;
her light spreads equally
on the salt sea and fields thick with bloom
Delicious dew pours down to freshen
roses, delicate thyme
and blossoming sweet clover; she wanders
aimlessly, thinking of gentle
Atthis, her heart hanging
heavy with longing in her little breast
She shouts aloud, Come! we know it;
thousand-eared night repeats that cry
across the sea shining between us
Sappho
tr. Barnard

Though thou well dost wish me ill
Audiart, Audiart,
Where thy bodice laces start
As ivy fingers clutching through
Its crevices,
Audiart, Audiart,
Stately, tall and lovely tender
Who shall render
Audiart, Audiart,
Praises meet unto thy fashion?
Here a word kiss !
Pass I on
Unto Lady ‘Miels-de-Ben’,
Having praised thy girdle's scope
How the stays ply back from it;
I breath no hope
That thou shouldst . . .
Nay no whit
Bespeak thyself for anything.
Just a word in thy praise, girl,
Just for the swirl
Thy satins make upon the stair,
'Cause never a flaw was there
Where thy torse and limbs are met
Though thou hate me, read it set
In rose and gold.
Or when the minstrel, tale half told,
Shall burst to lilting at the praise
'Audiart, Audiart' . .
Bertrans, master of his lays,
Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise
Sets forth, and though thou hate me well,
Yea though thou wish me ill,
Audiart, Audiart.
Thy loveliness is here writ till,
Audiart,
Oh, till thou come again.
And being bent and wrinkled, in a form
That hath no perfect limning, when the warm
Youth dew is cold
Upon thy hands, and thy old soul
Scorning a new, wry'd casement,
Churlish at seemed misplacement,
Finds the earth as bitter
As now seems it sweet,
Being so young and fair
As then only in dreams,
Being then young and wry'd,
Broken of ancient pride,
Thou shalt then soften,
Knowing, I know not how,
Thou wert once she



Audiart, Audiart
For whose fairness one forgave
Audiart,
Audiart
Que be-m vols mal.

I have made You the polar star of my
existence; never again can I lose my way in the
voyage of life.

Wherever I go, You are always there to
shower your benefience all around me. Your face
is ever present before my mind's eyes.

If I lose sight of You even for a moment, I
almost lose my mind.

Whenever my heart is about to go astray, just
a glance of You makes it feel ashamed of itself.

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
All pray in their distress,
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.
For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
Is God our Father dear;
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
Is man, his child and care.
For Mercy has a human heart
Pity, a human face;
And Love, the human form divine;
And Peace, the human dress.
Then every man, of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine:
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.
And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew.
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell,
There God is dwelling too.