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Title: Mirage
Author: Eric Mackay [
More Titles by Mackay]
I.
'Tis a legend of a lover,
'Tis a ballad to be sung,
In the gloaming,--under cover,--
By a minstrel who is young;
By a singer who has passion, and who sways us with his tongue.
II.
I, who know it, think upon it,
Not unhappy, tho' in tears,
And I gather in a sonnet
All the glory of the years;
And I kiss and clasp a shadow when the substance disappears.
III.
Ah! I see her as she faced me,
In the sinless summer days,
When her little hands embraced me,
And I saddened at her gaze,
Thinking, Sweet One! will she love me when we walk in other ways?
IV.
Will she cling to me as kindly
When the childish faith is lost?
Will she pray for me as blindly,
Or but weigh the wish and cost,
Looking back on our lost Eden from the girlhood she has cross'd?
V.
Oh! I swear by all I honour,
By the graves that I endow,
By the grace I set upon her,
That I meant the early vow,--
Meant it much as men and women mean the same thing spoken now.
VI.
But her maiden troth is broken,
And her mind is ill at ease,
And she sends me back no token
From her home beyond the seas;
And I know, though nought is spoken, that she thanks me on her knees.
VII.
Yes, for pardon freely granted;
For she wrong'd me, understand.
And my life is disenchanted,
As I wander through the land
With the sorrows of dark morrows that await me in a band.
VIII.
Hers was sweetest of sweet faces,
Hers the tenderest eyes of all!
In her hair she had the traces
Of a heavenly coronal,
Bringing sunshine to sad places where the sunlight could not fall.
IX.
She was fairer than a vision;
Like a vision, too, has flown.
I who flushed at her decision,
Lo! I languish here alone;
And I tremble when I tell you that my anger was mine own.
X.
Not for her, sweet sainted creature!
Could I curse her to her face?
Could I look on form and feature,
And deny the inner grace?
Like a little wax Madonna she was holy in the place.
XI.
And I told her, in mad fashion,
That I loved her,--would incline
All my life to this one passion,
And would kneel as at a shrine;
And would love her late and early, and would teach her to be mine.
XII.
Now in dreams alone I meet her
With my lowly human praise;
She is sweeter and completer,
And she smiles on me always;
But I dare not rise and greet her as I did in early days.
[The end]
Eric Mackay's poem: Mirage
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