II.

Triumphant Darkness stretched his blackened height

Along the ground of heaven; all bleeding lay

Grim Night upon the heaving breast of Day,

Exulting with a demon’s own delight.

Reviving Sun again, with heaven-born might,

Upflung his hands, far up the eastern gray,

From the shining quiver of Divinity

Drew forth his shafts, white-hot with God’s own light,

And pierced the mail of Night, blood-rusting red,

With countless dazzling fire-tipped darts of gold.

Down into the Lethal power of Chaos dread

Sank vanquished Night with all the damned dead!

And ever over Darkness, ages old,

Triumphant ruleth Light,—the great Godhead!

SYMBOLS IN SONNETS OF LIFE.

On submitting this poem to critics, I find that various ideas are gleaned. Some take it as a literal description of night and day, or light and darkness! Others think that it celebrates the victory of truth over error, right over wrong, virtue over vice, or possibly the triumph of learning over ignorance, or civilization over barbarism. This is not so surprising; for I confess it does, indeed, admit various interpretations. Some say that in its obscurity, though in nothing else, it somewhat resembles the work of some great poet. The only consolation that I can squeeze out of all these various opinions is that obscurity and occultness synchronously attend upon and are concomitant with both iconographic delineations and symbolical phraseology. ’Tis said ’tis so,—and so ’tis sad!

“Sing a song o’ six-pence, pocket full of rye, four and twenty black-birds baked in a pie,” etc., is comparatively meaningless, tho’ pleasing, unless we know what is symbolized. The “pie” is the day, the “four and twenty black-birds” are the twenty-four hours of the day, etc., etc. The symbols thus completed give a new beauty to that old jingle. In fact, it was that identical jingle with its symbols that suggested Sonnets of Life.

As the title and staring Carlylean capitals throughout suggest, I intended this poem to be a sort of Analogue of Life. In consequence of all the foregoing, and for the delectation of those who care to read the piece a second time, I have subjoined these

Symbols and Notes.

I.

II.

This may aid somewhat. Too close an interpretation cannot be permitted in any poem: ’twould make some of the most exquisite poetic thought of literature ridiculous and nonsensical. The true poetic nature never needs more in the interpretation of any poem than the title and the naked poem itself to suggest thoughts and images infinitely more beautiful than explanation can possibly make them.

A MODERN TRAGEDY AVERTED.
He (in despondency).

Heartless! heartless! Oh,

I know!

Tho’ your heart forget me

And my own be turned to stone;

Tho’ no day may let me

Claim my loved one as my own,

Still my heart is true

To you,

Still is true,

Still is true!

She (faithfully).

Heartless?—heartless!—So?

Ah no!

Tho’ long years divide us

With the burdened stream of care;

Tho’ the waves deride us

With a still unanswered prayer,

Still my heart is true

To you,

Still is true,

Still is true.

He (joyously).

Then not heartless?! No!

No, no!

If I’ve wronged you, Dearest,

’Tis because I’m mad for love;

’Tis that you are nearest

When my thoughts in madness move.

Still my heart is true

To you,

Still is true,

Still is true.

She (flippantly).

Then not heartless? No!

Not so!

Tho’ you gave the treasure

Of your very life to me,

I thus at my pleasure

Give it back to you, you see!—

Still my heart is true

To you,

Still is true,

Still is true.

He (bitterly and sadly).

Heartless! heartless! Oh

’Tis so!

All the world is dreary:

Stars and love have ceased to shine;

Oh the weary, weary

Night that endlessly is mine!—

Still my heart is true

To you,

Still is true,

Still is true.

She (tauntingly).

Ha! I’m heartless, tho’?

No, no!

I was only funning

And I didn’t mean it once;—

Never thought of running

Into love, you great big dunce.—

’Course, my heart is true

To you,

Still is true,

Still is true!

He (in despair).

Heartless! heartless! Flow,

My woe!

Oh this life is bitter!—

Poison, river, rope, or gun—

Any death is fitter

Than two hearts thus dead in one.—

Still my heart is true

To you,

Still is true,

Still is true.

She (in fear, imploringly).

No! not heartless! No!

No, no!

I am true as ever;—

Oh don’t take your precious life

And I’ll be forever

Your own darling little wife.—

Still my heart is true

To you,

Still is true,

Still is true.

THE HUMAN HEART.
Birth.

Laughter is music and music is kin to laughter:

The heart has forgotten its tears;

For life is but death, and Death is the Life hereafter—

God is revolving the years.

Joy on Account of Birth.

With a rose-bud goblet the Morning stands glowing and burning,

Sipping the heart’s night dew;

Through dream-laded lashes the flashes of joy are returning—

God is letting them through.

Sorrow on Account of Death.

With a Spade all golden the Night of Sorrow is digging

Deep in the heart’s confines:

A Dream drifts out with a sable shroud and rigging—

God is working the mines!

Soul Passes Beyond.

In the hands of the angels the cymballine stars are clinking

A wealth of music untold:

For the Rising of Life, as the sun, must follow its sinking—

God has coined His gold!

L’Envoy.

Oh, laughter is music, and both are akin to sorrow,—

The heart holds the songs of the spheres;

For life is but death, and Death is the Life to-morrow—

God is speeding the years.