V.
At times thy glance appeareth to importune,
As though thou didst some secret longing prove.
Alas, too well I know it,—thy misfortune
A life frustrated, a frustrated love.
How sad thine eyes are! Yet have I no power
To give thee back thy youth with pleasure rife;
Incurably thy heart must ache each hour
For love frustrated and frustrated life.
THE VALE OF TEARS.
The night wind through the crannies pipes,
And in the garret lie
Two wretched creatures on the straw,
As gaunt as poverty.
And one poor creature speaks and says,
"Embrace me with thine arm,
And press thy mouth against my mouth,
Thy breath will keep me warm."
The other starveling speaks and says,
"When I look into thine eyes
Pain, cold and hunger disappear,
And all my miseries."
They kissed full oft, still more they wept,
Clasped hands, sighed deep and fast;
They often laughed, they even sang,
And both were still at last.
With morning came the coroner,
And brought a worthy leech,
On either corpse to certify
The cause of death of each.
The nipping weather, he affirmed,
Had finished the deceased.
Their empty stomachs also caused,
Or hastened death at last.
He added that when frost sets in
'Tis needful that the blood
Be warmed with flannels; one should have,
Moreover, wholesome food.
SOLOMON.
Dumb are the trumpets, cymbals, drums and shawms to-night,
The angel shapes engirdled with the sword,
About the royal tent keep watch and ward,
Six thousand to the left, six thousand to the right.
They guard the king from evil dreams, from death.
Behold! a frown across his brow they view.
Then all at once, like glimmering flames steel-blue,
Twelve thousand brandished swords leap from the sheath.
But back into their scabbards drop the swords
Of the angelic host; the midnight pain
Hath vanished, the king's brow is smooth again;
And hark! the royal sleeper's murmured words:
"O Shulamite, the lord of all these lands am I,
This empire is the heritage I bring,
For I am Judah's king and Israel's king;
But if thou love me not, I languish and I die."
MORPHINE.
Marked is the likeness 'twixt the beautiful
And youthful brothers, albeit one appear
Far paler than the other, more serene;
Yea, I might almost say, far comelier
Than his dear brother, who so lovingly
Embraced me in his arms. How tender, soft
Seemed then his smile, and how divine his glance!
No wonder that the wreath of poppy-flowers
About his head brought comfort to my brow,
And with its mystic fragrance soothed all pain
From out my soul. But such delicious balm
A little while could last. I can be cured
Completely only when that other youth,
The grave, pale brother, drops at last his torch.
Lo, sleep is good, better is death—in sooth
The best of all were never to be born.
SONG.
Oft in galleries of art
Thou hast seen a knight perchance,
Eager for the wars to start,
Well-equipped with shield and lance.
Him the frolic loves have found,
Robbed him of his sword and spear,
And with chains of flowers have bound
Their unwilling chevalier.
Held by such sweet hindrances,
Wreathed with bliss and pain, I stay,
While my comrades in the press
Wage the battle of the day.
SONG.
Night lay upon my eyelids,
About my lips earth clave;
With stony heart and forehead
I lay within my grave.
How long I cannot reckon,
I slept in that strait bed;
I woke and heard distinctly
A knocking overhead.
"Wilt thou not rise, my Henry?
The eternal dawn is here;
The dead have re-arisen,
Immortal bliss is near."
"I cannot rise, my darling,
I am blinded to the day.
Mine eyes with tears, thou knowest,
Have wept themselves away."
"Oh, I will kiss them, Henry,
Kiss from thine eyes the night.
Thou shalt behold the angels
And the celestial light."
"I cannot rise, my darling,
My blood is still outpoured
Where thou didst wound my heart once
With sharp and cruel word."
"I'll lay my hand, dear Henry,
Upon thy heart again.
Then shall it cease from bleeding.
And stilled shall be its pain."
"I cannot rise, my darling,
My head is bleeding—see!
I shot myself, thou knowest,
When thou wast reft from me."
"Oh, with my hair, dear Henry,
I'll staunch the cruel wound,
And press the blood-stream backward;
Thou shalt be whole and sound."
So kind, so sweet she wooed me,
I could not say her nay;
I tried to rise and follow,
And clasp my loving may.
Then all my wounds burst open,
From head and breast outbreak
The gushing blood in torrents—
And lo, I am awake!
SONG.
Death comes, and now must I make known
That which my pride eternally
Prayed to withhold; for thee, for thee,
My heart has throbbed for thee alone.
The coffin waits! within my grave
They drop me soon, where I shall rest.
But thou, Marie, shalt beat thy breast,
And think of me, and weep and rave.
And thou shalt wring thy hands, my friend.
Be comforted! it is our fate,
Our human fate, the good and great
And fair must have an evil end.