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Title: Sylvia In The West
Author: Eric Mackay [
More Titles by Mackay]
I.
What shall be done? I cannot pray;
And none shall know the pangs I feel.
If prayers could alter night to day,--
Or black to white,--I might appeal;
I might attempt to sway thy heart,
And prove it mine, or claim a part.
II.
I might attempt to urge on thee
At least the chance of some redress:--
An hour's revoke,--a moment's plea,--
A smile to make my sorrows less.
I might indeed be taught in time
To blush for hope, as for a crime!
III.
But thou art stone, though soft and fleet,--
A statue, not a maiden, thou!
A man may hear thy bosom beat
When thou hast sworn some idle vow.
But not for love, no! not for this;
For thou wilt sell thy bridal kiss.
IV.
I mean, thy friends will sell thy love,
As loves are sold in England, here.
A man will buy my golden dove,--
I doubt he'll find his bargain dear!
He'll lose the wine; he'll buy the bowl,
The life, the limbs, but not the soul.
V.
So, take thy mate and all his wealth,
And all the joys that wait on fame.
Thou'lt weep,--poor martyr'd one!--by stealth,
And think of me, and shriek my name;
Yes, in his arms! And wake, too late,
To coax and kiss the man you hate.
VI.
By slow degrees, from year to year,
From week to week, from night to night,
He will be taught how dark and drear
Is barter'd love,--how sad to sight
A perjured face! He will be driven
To compass Hell,--and dream of Heaven.
VII.
But stand at God's high altar there,
With saints around thee tall and sweet,
I'll match thy pride with my despair,
And drag thee down from glory's seat.
Yea, thou shalt kneel! Thy head shall bow
As mine is bent in anguish now.
VIII.
What! for thy sake have I forsworn
My just ambition,--all my joy,
And all my hope from morn to morn,
That seem'd a prize without alloy?
Have I done this? I have; and see!
I weep wild tears for thine and thee.
IX.
But I can school my soul to strength,
And weep and wail as children do;
Be hard as stone, yet melt at length,
And curb my pride as thou can'st, too!
But I have faith, and thou hast none;
And I have joy, but thine is done.
X.
No marriage-bells? No songs, you say?
No flowers to grace our bridal morn?
No wine? No kiss? No wedding-day?
I care not! Oaths are all forsworn;
And, when I clasp'd thy hand so white,
I meant to curse thee, girl, to-night.
XI.
And so I shall,--Oh! doubt not that.
At stroke of twelve I'll curse thee twice.
When screams the owl, when swoops the bat,
When ghosts are out I'll curse thee thrice.
And thou shalt hear!--Aye, by my troth,
One song will suit the souls of both.
XII.
I curse thy face; I curse thy hair;
I curse thy lips that smile so well,
Thy life, thy love, and my despair,
My loveless couch, thy wedding-bell;
My soul and thine!--Ah, see! though black,
I take one half my curses back.
XIII.
For thou and I were form'd for hate,
For love, for scorn; no matter what.
I am thy Fere and thou my Fate,
And fire and flood shall harm us not.
Thou shalt be kill'd and hid from ken,
And fiends will sing thy requiem then.
XIV.
Yet think not Death will serve thy stead;
I'll find thy grave, though wall'd in stone.
I'll move thy mould to make my bed,
And lie with thee long hours alone:--
Long, lifeless hours! Ah God, how free,
How pale, how cold, thy lips will be!
XV.
But graves are cells of truth and love,
And men may talk no treason there.
A corpse will wear no wedding-glove,
A ghost will make no sign in air.
But ghosts can pray? Well, let them kneel;
They, too, must loathe the love they feel.
* * * * *
XVI.
Ah me! to sleep and yet to wake,
To live so long, and yet to die;
To sing sad songs for Sylvia's sake,
And yet no peace to gain thereby!
What have I done? What left unsaid?
Nay, I will count my tears instead.
XVII.
Here is a word of wild design.
Here is a threat; 'twas meant to warn.
Here is a fierce and freezing line,
As hot as hate, as cold as scorn.
Ah, friend! forgive; forbear my rhymes,
But pray for me, sweet soul! sometimes.
XVIII.
Had I a curse to spare to-day,
(Which I have not) I'd use it now.
I'd curse my hair to turn it gray,
I'd teach my back to bend and bow;
I'd make myself so old and thin
That I should seem too sad to sin.
XIX.
And then we'd meet, we two, at night;
And I should know what saints have known.
Thou would'st not tremble, dear, for fright,
Or shriek to meet me there alone.
I should not then be spurned for this,
Or want a smile, or need a kiss.
XX.
I should not then be fierce as fire,
Or mad as sin, or sharp as knife;
My heart would throb with no desire,
For care would cool the flush of life;
And I should love thee, spotless one,
As pilgrims love some holy nun.
XXI.
Ah, queen-like creature! smile on me;
Be kind, be good; I lov'd thee much.
I thank thee, see! on bended knee.
I seek salvation in thy touch.
And when I sleep I watch thee come,
And both are wild, and one is dumb.
XXII.
I draw thee, ghost-like, to my heart;
I kiss thy lips and call thee mine.
Of thy sweet soul I form a part,
And my poor soul is part of thine.
Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me, Thou!
But let me be thy servant now.
XXIII.
What! did I curse thy golden hair?
Well, then, the sun will set at noon;
The face that keeps the world so fair
Is thine, not his; he darkens soon.
Thy smile awakes the bird of dawn,
And day departs when thou art gone.
XXIV.
Oh! had I groves in some sweet star
That shines in Heaven the whole night through,--
A steed with wings,--a golden car,--
A something wild and strange and true:--
A fairy's wand,--an angel's crown,--
I'd merge them all in thy renown.
XXV.
I'd give thee queens to wait on thee,
And kings to kneel to thee in prayer,
And seraph-boys by land and sea
To do thy bidding,--earth and air
To pay thee homage,--all the flowers,--
And all the nymphs in all the bowers.
XXVI.
And this our love should last for aye,
And we should live these thousand years.
We'd meet in Mars on Christmas Day,
And make the tour of all the spheres.
We'd do strange things! Sweet stars would shine,
And Death would spare my love and thine.
XXVII.
But these are dreams; and dreams are vain;
Mine most of all,--so heed them not.
Brave thoughts will die, though men complain,
And mine was bold! 'Tis now forgot.
Well; let me bless thee, ere I sleep,
And give thee all my joys to keep.
XXVIII.
I bless the house where thou wast born,
I bless the hours of every night,
And every hour from flush of morn
Till death of day, for thy delight;
I bless the sunbeams as they shine,--
So like those golden locks of thine.
XXIX.
I bless thy lips, thy lustrous eyes,
Thy face, thy feet, thy forehead fair,
The light that shines in summer skies,--
In garden walks when thou art there,--
And all the grass beneath thy feet,
And all the songs thou singest, Sweet!
XXX.
But blessing thus,--ah, woe's the day!--
I know what tears I shall not shed,
What flowers will bloom, and, bright as they,
What bells will ring when I am dead.
Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me, Thou!
But let me be thy minstrel now.
[The end]
Eric Mackay's poem: Sylvia In The West
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