Poems

by Alexander Smith

Weary I of pride and jest,
In this rich heart I would rest,
Purple and love-linèd nest.

"My dazzling panther of the smoking hills,
When the hot sun hath touched their loads of dew,
What strange eyes had my cousin, who could thus
(For you must know I am the first o' the three
That pace the gardens of his memory)
Prefer before the daughter of great earls,
This giglot, shining in her golden hair,
Haunting him like a gleam or happy thought;
Or her, the last, up whose cheeks blushes went
As thick and frequent as the streamers pass
Up cold December nights. True, she might be
A dainty partner in the game of lips,
Sweet'ning the honeymoon; but what, alas!
When redhot youth cools down to iron man?
Could her white fingers close a helmet up,
And send her lord unkissed away to field,
Her heart striking with his arm in every blow?
Would joy rush through her spirit like a stream,
When to her lips he came with victory back:
Acclaims and blessings on his head like crowns,
His mouthèd wounds brave trumpets in his praise,
Drawing huge shoals of people, like the moon,
Whose beauty draws the solemn-noisèd seas?
Or would his bright and lovely sanguine-stains
Scare all the coward blood into her heart,
Leaving her cheeks as pale as lily leaves?
And at his great step would she quail and faint,
And pay his seeking arms with bloodless swoon?
My heart would leap to greet such coming lord,
Eager to meet him, tiptoe on my lips."

"This cousin loved the Lady Constance; did
The Lady Constance love her cousin, too?"

"Ay, as a cousin. He woo'd me, Leopard mine,
I speared him with a jest; for there are men
Whose sinews stiffen 'gainst a knitted brow,
Yet are unthreaded, loosened by a sneer,
And their resolve doth pass as doth a wave:
Of this sort was my cousin. I saw him once,
Adown a pleachèd alley, in the sun,
Two gorgeous peacocks pecking from his hand;
At sight of me he first turned red, then pale.
I laughed and said, 'I saw a misery perched
I' the melancholy corners of his mouth,
Like griffins on each side my father's gates.'
And, 'That by sighing he would win my heart,
Somewhere as soon as he could hug the earth,
And crack its golden ribs.' A week the boy
Dwelt in his sorrow, like a cataract
Unseen, yet sounding through its shrouding mists.
Strange likings, too, this cousin had of mine.
A frail cloud trailing o'er the midnight moon,
Was lovelier sight than wounded boar a-foam
Among the yelping dogs. He'd lie in fields,
And through his fingers watch the changing clouds,
Those playful fancies of the mighty sky,
With deeper interest than a lady's face.
He had no heart to grasp the fleeting hour,
Which, like a thief, steals by with silent foot,
In his closed hand the jewel of a life.
He scarce would match this throned and kingdom'd earth
Against a dew drop.

"Who'd leap into the chariot of my heart,
And seize the reins, and wind it to his will,
Must be of other stuff, my cub of Ind;
White honour shall be like a plaything to him,
Borne lightly, a pet falcon on his wrist;
One who can feel the very pulse o' the time,
Instant to act, to plunge into the strife,
And with a strong arm hold the rearing world.
In costly chambers hushed with carpets rich,
Swept by proud beauties in their whistling silks,
Mars' plait shall smooth to sweetness on his brow;
His mighty front whose steel flung back the sun,
When horsed for battle, shall bend above a hand
Laid like a lily in his tawny palm,
With such a grace as takes the gazer's eye.
His voice that shivered the mad trumpet's blare,—
A new-raised standard to the reeling field,—
Shall know to tremble at a lady's ear,
To charm her blood with the fine touch of praise,
And as she listens—steal away the heart.
If the good gods do grant me such a man,
More would I dote upon his trenchèd brows,
His coal-black hair, proud eyes, and scornful lips,
Than on a gallant, curled like Absalom,
Cheek'd like Apollo, with his luted voice.

"Canst tell me, Sir Dark-eyes,
Is 't true what these strange-thoughted poets say,
That hearts are tangled in a golden smile?
That brave cheeks pale before a queenly brow?
That mail'd knees bend beneath a lighted eye?
That trickling tears are deadlier than swords?
That with our full-mooned beauty we can slave
Spirits that walk time, like the travelling sun,
With sunset glories girt around his loins?
That love can thrive upon such dainty food
As sweet words, showering from a rosy lip,
As sighs, and smiles, and tears, and kisses warm?"
The dark Page lifted up his Indian eyes
To that bright face, and saw it all a-smile;
And then half grave, half jestingly, he said,—
"The devil fisheth best for souls of men
When his hook is baited with a lovely limb;
Love lights upon the heart, and straight we feel
More worlds of wealth gleam in an upturned eye,
Than in the rich heart of the miser sea.
Beauty hath made our greatest manhoods weak.
There have been men who chafed, leapt on their times,
And reined them in as gallants rein their steeds
To curvetings, to show their sweep of limb;
Yet love hath on their broad brows written 'fool.'
Sages, with passions held in leash like hounds;
Grave Doctors, tilting with a lance of light
In lists of argument, have knelt and sighed
Most plethoric sighs, and been but very men;
Stern hearts, close barred against a wanton world,
Have had their gates burst open by a kiss.
Why, there was one who might have topped all men,
Who bartered joyously for a single smile
This empired planet with its load of crowns,
And thought himself enriched. If ye are fair,
Mankind will crowd around you thick as when
The full-faced moon sits silver on the sea,
The eager waves lift up their gleaming heads,
Each shouldering for her smile."

The lady dowered him with her richest look,
Her arch head half aside, her liquid eyes,
From 'neath their dim lids drooping slumberous,
Stood full on his, and called the wild blood up
All in a tumult to his sun-kissed cheek,
As if it wished to see her beauty too—
Then asked in dulcet tones, "Dost think me fair?"
"Oh, thou art fairer than an Indian morn,
Seated in her sheen palace of the east.
Thy faintest smile out-prices the swelled wombs
Of fleets, rich-glutted, toiling wearily
To vomit all their wealth on English strands.
The whiteness of this hand should ne'er receive
A poorer greeting than the kiss of kings;
And on thy happy lips doth sit a joy,
Fuller than any gathered by the gods,
In all the rich range of their golden heaven."
"Now, by my mother's white enskied soul!"
The lady cried, 'twixt laugh and blush the while,
"I'll swear thou'st been in love, my Indian sweet.
Thy spirit on another breaks in joy,
Like the pleased sea on a white-breasted shore—
That blush tells tales. And now, I swear by all
The well-washed jewels strewn on fathom-sands,
That thou dost keep her looks, her words, her sighs,
Her laughs, her tears, her angers, and her frowns,
Balmed between memory's leaves; and ev'ry day
Dost count them o'er and o'er in solitude,
As pious monks count o'er their rosaries.
Now, tell me, did she give thee love for love?
Or didst thou make Midnight thy confidant,
Telling her all about thy lady's eyes,
How rich her cheek, how cold as death her scorn?
My lustrous Leopard, hast thou been in love?"
The Page's dark face flushed the hue of wine
In crystal goblet stricken by the sun;
His soul stood like a moon within his eyes,
Suddenly orbed; his passionate voice was shook
By trembling into music.—"Thee I love."
"Thou!" and the Lady, with a cruel laugh,
(Each silver throb went through him like a sword,)
Flung herself back upon her fringèd couch.
From which she rose upon him like a queen,
She rose and stabbed him with her angry eyes.
"'Tis well my father did not hear thee, boy,
Or else my pretty plaything of an hour
Might have gone sleep to-night without his head,
And I might waste rich tears upon his fate.
I would not have my sweetest plaything hurt.
Dost think to scorch me with those blazing eyes,
My fierce and lightning-blooded cub o' the sun?
Thy blood is up in riot on thy brow,
I' the face o' its monarch. Peace! By my grey sire,
Now could I slay thee with one look of hate,
One single look! My Hero! my Heart-god!
My dusk Hyperion, Bacchus of the Inds!
My Hercules, with chin as smooth as my own!
I am so sorry maid, I cannot wear
This great and proffered jewel of thy love.
Thou art too bold, methinks! Didst never fear
That on my poor deserts thy love would sit
Like a great diamond on a threadbare robe?
I tremble for 't. I pr'ythee, come to-morrow
And I will pasture you upon my lips
Until thy beard be grown. Go now, sir, go."
As thence she waved him with arm-sweep superb,
The light of scorn was cold within her eyes,
And withered his bloom'd heart, which, like a rose,
Had opened, timid, to the noon of love.

The lady sank again into her couch,
Panting and flushed; slowly she paled with thought;
When she looked up the sun had sunk an hour,
And one round star shook in the orange west.
The lady sighed, "It was my father's blood
That bore me, as a red and wrathful stream
Bears a shed leaf. I would recall my words,
And yet I would not.
Into what angry beauty rushed his face!
What lips! what splendid eyes! 'twas pitiful
To see such splendours ebb in utter woe.
His eyes half-won me. Tush! I am a fool;
The blood that purples in these azure veins,
Rich'd with its long course through a hundred earls,
Were fouled and mudded if I stooped to him.
My father loves him for his free wild wit;
I for his beauty and sun-lighted eyes.
To bring him to my feet, to kiss my hand,
Had I it in my gift, I'd give the world,
Its panting fire-heart, diamonds, veins of gold;
Its rich strands, oceans, belts of cedared hills,
Whence summer smells are struck by all the winds.
But whether I might lance him through the brain
With a proud look,—or whether sternly kill
Him with a single deadly word of scorn,—
Or whether yield me up,
And sink all tears and weakness in his arms,
And strike him blind with a strong shock of joy—
Alas! I feel I could do each and all.
I will be kind when next he brings me flowers,
Plucked from the shining forehead of the morn,
Ere they have oped their rich cores to the bee.
His wild heart with a ringlet will I chain,
And o'er him I will lean me like a heaven,
And feed him with sweet looks and dew-soft words,
And beauty that might make a monarch pale,
And thrill him to the heart's core with a touch;
Smile him to Paradise at close of eve,
To hang upon my lips in silver dreams."

LADY.

What, art thou done already? Thy tale is like
A day unsealed with sunset. What though dusk?
A dusky rod of iron hath power to draw
The lightnings from their heaven to itself.
The richest wage you can pay love is—love.