A Lover's Litanies - Fourth Litany. Gratia Plena.

i.     Oh, smile on me, thou syren of my soul!         That I may curb my thoughts to some control     And not offend thee, as in truth I do,     Morning, and noon and night, when I pursue     My vagrant fancies, unallow'd of thee,     But fraught with such consolement unto me         As may be felt in homeward-sailing ships     When wind and wave contend upon the sea.     ii.     Dower me with patience and imbue me still         With some reminder, when the night is chill,     Of thy dear presence, as, in winter-time,     The maiden moon, that tenderly doth climb     The lofty heavens, hath yet a beam to spare     For doleful wretches in their dungeon-lair;         E'en thus endow me in my chamber dim     With some reminder of thy face so fair!     iii.     Quit thou thy body while thou sleepest well         And visit mine at midnight, by the spell     That knows not shame. For in the House of Sleep     All things are pure; and in the silence deep     I'll wait for thee, and thou, contrition-wise,     Wilt seek my couch and this that on it lies,         This frame of mine that lives for thee alone     As palmers live for peace that never dies.     iv.     It were a goodly thing to spare a foe         And kill his hate. And I would e'en do so!     For I would kill the coyness of thy face.     I would enfold thee in my spurn'd embrace     And kiss the kiss that gladdens as with wine.     Yea, I would wrestle with those arms of thine,         And, like a victor, I would vanquish thee,     And, tyrant-like, I'd teach thee to be mine.     v.     For, what is peace that we should cling thereto         If war be wisest? If the death we woo     Be fraught with fervor there's delight in death!     There is persuasion in the tempest's breath     Not known in calm; and raptures round us flow     When, like an arrow through the bended bow         Of two fond lips, the quivering dart of love     Brings down the kiss which saints shall not bestow.     vi.     The soldier dies for country and for kin;         He dies for fame that is so sweet to win;     And, part for duty, part for battle-doom,     He wends his way to where the myrtles bloom;     He gains a grave, perchance a recompense     Beyond his seeking, and a restful sense         Of soul-completion, far from any strife,     And far from memory of his land's defence.     vii.     Be this my meed,--to die for love of thee,         As when the sun goes down upon the sea     And finds no mate in all the realms of earth.     I, too, have look'd on Nature in its worth     And found no resting-place in all the spheres,     And no relief beyond my sonnet-tears,--         The soul-fed shudderings of my lonely harp     That knows the gamut now of all my fears.     viii.     I wear thy colours till the day I die:         A glove, a ribbon, and a rose thereby,     All join'd in one. I revel in these things;     For, once an angel, unarray'd in wings,     Came to my side, and beam'd on me, and said:     "I love thee, friend!" and then, with lifted head,         Gave me a rose on which the dew had fallen;     And, like the flower, she blush'd a virgin-red.     ix.     I found the glove down yonder in the dale.         I knew 'twas thine; its color, creamy-pale,     Fill'd me with joy. "A prize!" I cried aloud,     And snatch'd it up, as zealous then, and proud,     As one who wins a knighthood in his youth;     And I was moved thereat, in very sooth,         And kiss'd it oft, and call'd on kindly Heaven     To be the sponsor of mine amorous truth.     x.     I Earn'd the ribbon as we earn a smile         For service done. I help'd thee at the stile;     And so 'twas mine, my trophy, as of right.     Oh, never yet was ribbon half so bright!     It seem'd of sky-descent,--a strip of morn     Thrown on the sod,--a something summer-worn         To be my guerdon; and, enriched therewith,     I follow'd thee, thy suitor, through the corn.     xi.     I trod on air. I seem'd to hear the sound         Of fifes and trumpets and the quick rebound     Of bells unseen,--the storming of a tower     By imps audacious, and the sovereign power     Of some arch-fairy, thine acquaintance sure     In days gone by; for, all the land was pure,         As if new-blest,--the land and all the sea     And all the welkin where the stars endure.     xii.     We journey'd on through fields that were a-glow         With cowslip buds and daisies white as snow;     And, hand in hand, we stood beside a shrine     At which a bard whom lovers deem divine,     Laid down his life; and, as we gazed at this,     There seem'd to issue from the wood's abyss         A sound of trills, as if, in its wild way,     A nightingale were pondering on a kiss.     xiii.     A lane was reached that led I know not where,         Unless to Heaven,--for Heaven was surely there     And thou so near it! And within a nook     A-down whose covertness a noisy brook     Did talk of peace, I learnt of thee my fate;     The word of pity that was kin to hate,--         The voice of reason that was reason's foe     Because it spurn'd the love that was so great!     xiv.     But I must pause. I must, from day to day,         Keep back my tears, and seek a surer way     Than Memory's track. I must, with lifted eyes,     Re-shape my life, and heed the battle-cries     Of prompt ambition, and be braced at call     To do such deeds as haply may befall,         If, freed of thee, and charter'd to myself,     I may undo the bonds that now enthrall.     xv.     Shall I do this? I shall; and thou shalt see         Signs of rebellion. I will turn to thee     And claim obedience. I will make it plain     How many a link may go to form a chain,     And each a circlet, each a ring to wear.     I will extract the sting from my despair         And toy therewith, as with a charmd snake,     That, Lamia-like, uprears itself in air.     xvi.     Or is my boast a vain, an empty one,         And shall I rue it ere the day is done?     Will hope revive betimes? Or must I stand     For evermore outside the fairyland     Of thy good will? Alas! my place is here,     To muse and moan and sigh and shed my tear,         My paltry tear for one who loves me not,     And would not mourn for me on my death-bier.     xvii.     Oh, get thee hence, thou harbinger of light!         That, like a dream, dost come to me at night     To haunt my sleep, and rob me of content,     So true-untrue, so deaf to my lament,     I must forego the pride I felt therein.     Aye, get thee hence! And I will crush the sin,         If sin it be, that prompts me, night and day,     To seek in thee the bliss I cannot win.     xviii.     Or, if thou needs must haunt me after dark,         Come when I wake. The oriole and the lark     Are friends of thine; and oft, I know, the thrush     Has trill'd of thee at morn and even-blush.     And flowers have made confessions unto me     At which I marvel; for they rail at thee         And call thee heartless in thy seemlihood,     Though queen-elect of all the flowers that be.     xix.     Nay, heed me not! I rave; I am possess'd         By utmost longing. I am sore oppress'd     By thoughts of woe; and in my heart I feel     A something keener than the touch of steel,     As if, to-day, a danger unforeseen     Had track'd thy path,--as if my prayers had been         Misjudged in Heaven, or drown'd in demon-shouts     Beyond the boundaries of the coasts terrene.     xx.     But this is clear; this much at least is true:         I am thine own! I doat upon the blue     Of thy kind eyes, well knowing that in these     Are proofs of God; and down upon my knees     I fall subservient, as a man in shame     May own a fault; albeit, as with a flame,         I burn all day, abash'd and unforgiven,     And all unfit to touch the hand I claim!