Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter V. Confessions.

Letter V. Confessions.


I.

    O Lady mine! O Lady of my Life!
    Mine and not mine, a being of the sky
    Turn'd into Woman, and I know not why -
    Is't well, bethink thee, to maintain a strife
    With thy poor servant? War unto the knife,
    Because I greet thee with a lover's eye?


II.

    Is't well to visit me with thy disdain,
    And rack my soul, because, for love of thee,
    I was too prone to sink upon my knee,
    And too intent to make my meaning plain,
    And too resolved to make my loss a gain
    To do thee good, by Love's immortal plea?


III.

    O friend! forgive me for my dream of bliss.
    Forgive: forget; be just! Wilt not forgive?
    Not though my tears should fall, as through a sieve
    The salt sea-sand? What joy hast thou in this:
    To be a maid, and marvel at a kiss?
    Say! Must I die, to prove that I can live?


IV.

    Shall this be so? E'en this? And all my love
    Wreck'd in an instant? No, a gentle heart
    Beats in thy bosom; and the shades depart
    From all fair gardens, and from skies above,
    When thou art near. For thou art like a dove,
    And dainty thoughts are with thee where thou art.


V.

    Oh! it is like the death of dearest kin,
    To wake and find the fancies of the brain
    Sear'd and confused. We languish in the strain
    Of some lost music, and we find within,
    Deep in the heart, the record of a sin,
    The thrill thereof, and all the blissful pain.




VI.

    For it is deadly sin to love too well,
    And unappeased, unhonour'd, unbesought,
    To feed on dreams; and yet 'tis aptly thought
    That all must love. E'en those who most rebel
    In Eros' camp have known his master-spell;
    And more shall learn than Eros yet has taught.


VII.

    But I am mad to love. I am not wise.
    I am the worst of men to love the best
    Of all sweet women! An untimely jest,
    A thing made up of rhapsodies and sighs,
    And unordained on earth, and in the skies,
    And undesired in tumult and in rest.


VIII.

    All this is true. I know it. I am he.
    I am that man. I am the hated friend
    Who once received a smile, and sought to mend
    His soul with hope. O tyrant! by the plea
    Of all thy grace, do thou accept from me
    At least the notes that know not to offend.


IX.

    See! I will strike again the major chord
    Of that great song, which, in his early days,
    Beethoven wrote; and thine shall be the praise,
    And thine the frenzy like a soldier's sword
    Flashing therein; and thine, O thou adored
    And bright true Lady! all the poet's lays.


X.

    To thee, to thee, the songs of all my joy,
    To thee the songs that wildly seem to bless,
    And those that mind thee of a past caress.
    Lo! with a whisper to the Wingèd Boy
    Who rules my fate, I will my strength employ
    To make a matin-song of my distress.


XI.

    But playing thus, and toying with the notes,
    I half forget the cause I have to weep;
    And, like a reaper in the realms of sleep,
    I hear the bird of morning where he floats
    High in the welkin, and in fairy boats
    I see the minstrels sail upon the deep.


XII.

    In mid-suspension of my leaping bow
    I almost hear the silence of the night;
    And, in my soul, I know the stars are bright
    Because they love, and that they nightly glow
    To make it clear that there is nought below,
    And nought above, so fair as Love's delight.


XIII.

    But shall I touch thy heart by speech alone,
    Without Amati? Shall I prove, by words,
    That hope is meant for men as well as birds;
    That I would take a scorpion, or a stone,
    In lieu of gold, and sacrifice a throne
    To be the keeper of thy flocks and herds?


XIV.

    Ah no, my Lady! though I sang to thee
    With fuller voice than sings the nightingale -
    Fuller and softer in the moonlight pale
    Than lays of Keats, or Shelley, or the free
    And fire-lipp'd Byron - there would come to me
    No word of thine to thank me for the tale.


XV.

    Thou would'st not heed. Thou would'st not any-when,
    In bower or grove - or in the holy nook
    Which shields thy bed - thou would'st not care to look
    For thoughts of mine, though faithful in their ken
    As are the minds of England's fighting men
    When they inscribe their names in Honour's book.


XVI.

    Thou would'st not care to scan my face, and through
    This face of mine, the soul, for scraps of thought.
    Yet 'tis a face that somewhere has been taught
    To smile in tears. Mine eyes are somewhat blue
    And quick to flash (if what I hear be true)
    And dark, at times, as velvet newly wrought.


XVII.

    But wilt thou own it? Wilt thou in the scroll
    Of my sad life, perceive, as in a hive,
    A thousand happy fancies that contrive
    To seek thee out? Thy bosom is the goal
    Of all my thoughts, and quick to thy control
    They wend their way, elate to be alive.


XVIII.

    But there is something I could never bring
    My soul to compass. No! could I compel
    Thy plighted troth, I would not have thee tell
    A lie to God. I'll have no wedding-ring
    With loveless hands around my neck to cling;
    For this were worse than all the fires of hell.


XIX.

    I would not take thee from a lover's lips,
    Or from the rostrum of a roaring crowd,
    Or from the memory of a husband's shroud,
    Or from the goblet where a Cæsar sips.
    I would not touch thee with my finger tips,
    But I would die to serve thee, - and be proud.


XX.

    And could I enter Heaven, and find therein,
    In all the wide dominions of the air,
    No trace of thee among the natives there,
    I would not bide with them - No! not to win
    A seraph's lyre - but I would sin a sin,
    And free my soul, and seek thee otherwhere!