It must be hurled, dashed, trampled down.—I can’t.
Lady! how long am I to love thee thus?
Never did angel love its Heaven—nor God
Man, as I thee.
I feared how it would end.
Can nothing less than sinning sate the soul?
Can nothing but perdition serve to nest
Our hearts, after so sweet a flight of love?
The might and truth of hearts is never shown
But in loving those whom we ought not to love—
Or cannot have. The wrong, the suffering is
Its own reward.
Let me not wrong thee, Festus.
Let me not think I have thought too well of thee.
Be as thou wast. What will become of us?
Be mine! be me! be aught but so far from me!
Give me thyself! It is not enough for me,
That I have gazed and doted on thee till
Mine eye is dazzled and my brain is dizzied:
Thou must exhaust all senses; not enough
That in long dreams my soul hath spread itself
Like water over every living line
Of this sweet make, dreaming thou wast all lips;
Nor that it now sinks in the face of thee,
Like a sea-sunset, hot and tired with the long,
Long day of love;—it is not enough. I must
Have more—have all! For I have sworn to fill
Mine arms with bliss—thus—thus—thus!
Festus!
Entering.
Friend!
Did ye not know me? It was I who sang.
It was he!
Thou—
Hush! thou art not to utter what
I am. Bethink thee; it was our covenant.
I said that I would see thee once again.
Thou didst; and I must thank thee.
Hear me now!
Thou knowest well what once I was to thee:
One who for love of one I loved—for thee—
Would have done or borne the sins of all the world;
Who did thy bidding at thy lightest look;
And had it been to have snatched an angel’s crown
Off her bright brow as she sat singing, throned,
I would have cut these heartstrings that tie down,
And let my soul have sailed to Heaven, and done it—
Spite of the thunder and the sacrilege,
And laid it at thy feet. I loved thee, lady!
I am one whose love was greater than the world’s,
And might have vied with God’s; a boundless ring,
All pressing on one point—that point thy heart.
And now—but shall I call on my revenge?—
It is at hand in armies. Thou art a woman;
And that is saying the best and worst of thee.
I know that vengeance is the part of God:
And can make myself almighty for the moment.
For what? for nothing. Thou art utter nothing.
Thus it was always with me when with thee;
And I forget my purpose and lay wrongs,
In looking and in loving. But I hate thee.
To say that thou didst love me! Curse the air
That bore the sound to me! Forgive me, God!
If I blaspheme, it is not at Thee, but her.
I’d not believe, her were she saved in Heaven!
There is no blasphemy in love but doubt;
No sin, but to deceive.
Then is she sinless.
She loved thee first—then me. What wouldst thou more?
Thy heart’s embrace, though close, was snake-like cold;
And mine was warm, and what is more, was welcome.
Patience! I spake not, oared not, thought not, of thee.—
Now I forgive thy having loved another;
And I forgive—but never mind it now;
I have forgiven so much, there is nothing left
To make more words about; but, for the future,
I will as soon attempt to entice a star
To perch upon my finger; or the wind
To follow me like a dog, as think to keep
A woman’s heart again. Answer me not!
Let me say what I have to say and go.
Thou art all will and passion; that is thine
Excuse and condemnation.
While that will
Was love to thee, I saw no harm, nor thou.
And if my heart hath gained, it was not I
Who put it on—nor could help it going wrong.
Oh! I have heard, what rather than have heard,
I would have stopped mine ears with thunder: words,
That have gone singing through my soul, like arrows
Through the air.
I never will defend myself.
For I despise defence like accusation—
And now look down on them and thee together.
Now let us party, or I shall die of wrath.
Be my estrangement perfect as my love!
Part then!
Thank God it is for eternity!
I do. Away.
Festus! I wait for thee.
Come, thou art not the first deceived in love;
Yet love is not so much love as a dream,
Which hath, it seems, like guerdon with the thing—
The staring madness when we wake and find
That what we have loved, must love, is not that
We meant to love. Perhaps I profited
Too much by thy good lessons. Go! I follow.
Going.
Now therefore would I wager, and I might,
The great archangers trump to a dog-whistle,
That whatsoever happens, worse ensues.
Forgive me, love, for having brought this on thee.
The love which giveth all, forgiveth aught.
And thou art more to me than earth or Heaven.
They have but given life: thou gavest me love,
The lord of life—thou, my life! love, and lord!
Take me again! my kindest—dearest—best!
Him who hath gone I never loved like thee.
There was a desolation in his eye
I could not brook to look on; for it seemed
As though it ate the light out of mine own.
I think that thou dost love me.
And I think,
For perfect love there should be but one god—
One worshipper.
We know the gods of old
Worshipped each other—equal deities.
For the sweet poets surely spake the truth
About the gods; they dare not speak but truth.
Who but thyself would speak of poetry,
While thou art by? who art the very breathing
Beauty which bards may seek ideally.
And dost thou, then, believe the gods of old—
Those toys and playthings of an infant world?
If I do not believe, I do not scorn them.
Nay, I could mourn for them and pray for them.
I can scorn nothing which a nation’s heart
Hath held, for ages, holy: for the heart
Is alike holy in its strength and weakness:
It ought not to be jested with, nor scorned.
All things, to
