Part 2

The flower of this lover’s heart is one nurtured by the sunlight of the world’s opinion. It is not sheltered in the quiet nook of pastoral inexperience with the ways of the urban world. Morally unspotted, it is ethically tainted with all the sophistication of its environment. As in Sonnet XIV, she is seen

“through the maze Of lights and worldly episodes of man,”

it is inevitable that her lover should cry,--

“Shouldst thou, perchance, peruse these simple lines, I wonder even if thy heart would be Touched by the pathos of my love, and see In them the attitude that love defines, Unfettered by the selfish light that shines Through many a worldly eye.”

And in Sonnet XXIX, where he says she is “sweeter than are the flowers of spring,” that “give a delicate perfume unto the airs,” he acknowledges those charms which

... “surprise My soul with smiles that banish every gloom,”

yet regretting that one so bountifully gifted with physical charms, and possessing all the polite accomplishments of culture, should be under those influences that are, like a canker, eating the loveliness of soul from her young life.

“I would that I ... Might pluck thee from thy temporary bed Of earthly pleasure, and possess the flower Of thy young life, to keep it worthily Within the garden of my heart.”

Before it is too late he would pluck her from her “temporary bed of earthly pleasure”--she whom Love stands ready to transform into the glory of her sex. The world, he tells her, is a bad school, with all its deceits, rivalries, and petty selfishness, and he who sees her comeliness would protect it from ruin in the “garden of his heart.” With all his care and solicitude, with his admirable and untiring sacrifice, she remains unresponsive to the full hope in his soul. There are the “blessed hours” she brings him, but conferring them only to make him sadder for the brief joy. For, “dying all too soon,” they leave him in

“pain For many a day and weary week betimes.”

Because she constantly rejects the pressure of his suit, “Refusing strangely love’s perpetual flowers,” which she will not accept, his whole love seems vain,--

“Save for th’ alleviation of my rhymes.”

The solace he takes in rhyme is like an open sluice for the pent-up emotions which he has not been allowed to pour directly into the harbor of her affections. But time goes on and finds her, he declares, “false in thy profession of love’s leaven,” and ever escaping from the persistent assaults of a determined but irreproachable wooing. “Yet ne’er lose hope, my heart,” he says:--

“Thou shalt succeed, So thou persist in thy true quest, until All barriers opposing thee do fall.”

And what barriers they were, obstructing the realization of this hope! Inconstant as the sea, with an almost diabolical power to delude and deceive, she seems to take infinite delight in raising the most sanguine expectations only to dash the joy in shattered fragments upon the ground of despair. Take Sonnet LXXI:--

“Thou camest unto me last eventide, When the dull pain of absence had well-nigh Made life for me one long-continued sigh--

* * * * *

Oh! rapture to my soul, more sweet to me Than glories to the conqueror of a nation! Behold my dry heart, moistened at the sound Of thy dear voice--none dearer could there be-- And my sad soul, once more within love’s station, As thy fair form doth twine my heart around!”

Here at last seems the surrender. Now that her “fair form doth twine” around his heart, the very suddenness of victory inspires even in its joy a dubious misgiving; so hard won has it been, that all the past anxiety and pain robs it of half the exquisite realization the event should bring. Whether it is this, indeed, or a spirit of chastisement that the following Sonnet evokes, one does not dare positively to say:--

“Yet now I cannot with impunity Receive the gilded pleasure of thy love. God knoweth with what zeal for it I strove. But when I feel love’s sweet community, It bringeth to me the lost unity-- The loneliness.”

Despite the momentary doubt, however, the next six sonnets are rhapsodic in celebration of the perfect union of feeling that binds the two hearts. “For love at last walks hand in hand with me,” he sings. And there seems to lurk in all their association the atmosphere of a conviction that happiness is finally to crown their lives. But the charm is snapped. The woman has not yet “drunk the cup of worldly pleasure dry.” Betraying his trust again, she proves the fickle baseness of her nature. The wound she inflicts promises to be deep and lasting. The bitter cry in Sonnet LXXXVII, with its splendid opening line, pierces the heart with sympathy for this unhappy man:--

“God, through his offspring Nature, gave me love, Though man in opposition saith me nay, And taketh from my heart its life to-day, As through the valley of the world I rove, Still unaccompanied.”

From here on to the last Sonnet, the final stage of an unhappy experience is told in many keys of emotion. Somewhat detached, in his resignation to the inevitable, the man now turns upon his beloved a scrutiny of recollection which analyzes her physical and mental lineaments, and weighs each motive actuating her singular conduct. Fair in his judgments of her virtues, there is no hesitancy on his part to censure with rigor her distasteful faults. The good and the bad are so interwoven in her nature as not to be superficially discerned.

She was a creature in whose nature contrary rarities were combined, to exercise upon man powers to excite the highest joy and the deepest despair. She was, as Sonnet CVIII draws her, like “Satan in angelic vestment drest.” A maiden with wonderful physical charms,--fair of complexion, from whose blue eyes shone the light of infantile innocence,--snaring the hearts of men to torture them with cold and cruel wantonness. Living for herself, and in herself, she took for granted the homage of the world. Pleasure that came to her through other people’s suffering she accepted as the price due one to whom pleasure was ordained at birth. She never cared to consider life seriously; existence was measured by her capacity for sensation. One wonders how far in this she is a type of the modern woman; or is she merely an exception in the portrayal here? But sad it is that, beneath their frivolous exteriors, such women carry tragedy in their lives as a gift to men.

“Yet love, though long unkind, hath taught me this, That I may find expression on its page; Though not the record of its perfect bliss, Yet, something of its value to mine age, Mixed with poison from the fatal kiss That love still bringeth in its equipage.”

The martyrdom has been suffered, and here is the record! It is hoped that something of its value--the lesson of its confession--may become a contribution to the age. Every deep human experience is significant of a moral. How it may affect the conduct of those who come to recognize in it an intimate and personal admonition or justification, depends on how deeply one’s sympathy touches the subject in hand.

The world of action is merely the concrete presentation of the illimitable cosmos of ideas; passion and pain, joy and sorrow,--the emotions dramatized into comic or tragic speech,--are the symbols of the phenomena of instinct, somewhere actively concealed in the vague origins of the human family. Afloat on the swirling current of existence, man’s soul is tossed and buffeted by the contrary influences of a rebellious primality. Its forces in the development and growth of civilization are recorded by history, demonstrated by science, and analyzed by philosophy. But art alone expresses and interprets it. Art alone contains that contagious spirit which underlies truth and beauty. It accomplishes this by an essential sincerity in the artist; and find what fault one will with the manner and method in the composition which pretends to the function of æsthetic presentation of life, this sincerity redeems the work.

Little has been said here concerning the manner in which this poem is constructed. The interest of the substance was too inviting for one to be lured into dissecting its form. Artificial as the sonnet-form is, with all its limitations, we have Wordsworth’s authority for its many possibilities. There is never any question of the merits or demerits of a poet’s sonnets. If he bends them to the purpose in hand, he achieves his intention, and in this respect the sonnets of the “Wounded Eros” are no exception.

W. S. B.

SONNETS

_Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing._ SHAKESPEARE, Sonnet LXXXVII.

_A wingèd God, all-powerful to-day,_ _As in the ages past, hath brought my heart_ _At once the joy of Heaven, yet, with black art,_ _The curse of Hell; combinèd in this lay._ _Therewith I must content me on my way,_ _As love its fate doth to the world impart._ _And thou, who mayst from busy thought depart,_ _To read what I in falt’ring verse shall say:_ _If thou be young, let Cupid crown thy brow_ _With myrtle green, like love’s perpetual wreath;_ _That thou but little of his wrath may know._ _Or, if the years shall bind thee in their sheath,_ _And with old age thy locks do hoary grow,_ _In Heaven, thou shalt find what was lost beneath._

I

When in the realm of rich resplendent thought, The glories of love’s paradise appear, How soon do smiles dispel the midnight fear, And bring possession of the prize long sought? Unto the banquet of the heart are brought Fresh delicacies that to all are dear. At such a feast, O lover, dry thy tear, And think no more on battles that are fought. Let all thy powers celebrate in song This victory thou hast won from solitude. Think not of sorrow’s pall, nor fate’s past wrong That once delayed thy soul’s beatitude. At Hymen’s court shalt thou reside for long, Since thou art of love’s crownèd multitude.

II

I dare not tell thee half the love I bear, Stored in this amorous bosom, oh, my heart, Lest thou believe me mad, and we should part; As with the one, whose love I first did share. Stirred in hot haste my heaven to declare, I wooed too warmly, while young Cupid’s dart, Plunged ’neath my breast, saw happiness depart, Just as I hoped Love’s magic crown to wear. Long have I mourned; yet now that thou art found, My folly would repeat its youthful test; Yea, with a thousand follies, at the sound Of love, once more begotten in my breast. Still hold me, Sorrow! Wisdom would resound Within my soul, and whisper what is best!

III

How shall I woo thee, then, thou fairest maid That e’er did stir a lover true to love? Fluttering its wings upon the air, a dove Descends, the emblem of what God hath said Was peace and love to every man that’s made, To seek on earth some emblem from above; To strive once more for that for which he strove, And see the truth of life before him laid. Thus wouldst thou lead me to some higher way Than man doth seek, to satisfy desire, Fanned by the glories of this corporal form, Made manifest by something that doth say: “Now let these senses thine own soul inspire, And brave the turmoil of thy passions’ storm.”

IV

With kisses would I woo thee first and say, “Come to my garden, thou fair violet flower.” Sweet is th’ intoxication of thy power That bringeth some new fragrance every day: Nor these embraces would I gladly stay, At my first thought and knowledge of the shower Of the living evidences that empower The loving to assume the lover’s way. But, lest thine own too maidenly reserve Shall not requite the gladness of my soul, Blind to all else but that which may preserve The extasy of love’s attainèd goal, I must needs pause, alas! once more, and serve Minerva’s colder law and pay its toll.

V

How shall I ever thank thee for the boon, Thou wingèd child, that lifted thus my soul, And quenched the thirst for love, that many a bowl Of golden wine had failed, alas! too soon, To satisfy, from eventide to noon? For I, who lingered near some mossy knoll, Received thy love-tipped arrow at its goal; And bare the wound, rejoicing with a tune. Then bind, fair one, with love thy wounded swain. Give him thine eyes, but breathe thy soul as well Into his welcome heart, that beats with pain, Lest it should have an hapless tale to tell. Ah! Spare me that, my love, and in thy train Shall Heaven be wherever thou mayst dwell!

VI

Is it, in truth, a gift from Heaven’s hand That brings thee hither, loved one, to prepare My heart once more, for something that shall share The worship which thy being would command? Behold me, Venus! Measured in the band Of votaries, at the shrine and in the air Of myrtle boughs and honey-scented hair, That make of Love a pleasing fairy-land! Take me, mine own! But art thou yet mine own, Though on this couch that holds thee I recline, To melt in sadness at thy very frown, And laugh if I but knew that thou wert mine? Then temperance in thy love! My heart, refrain! Let wisdom rule if victory should remain!

VII

What wingèd boy hath caught again my heart, To hold it now in beauty’s fair embrace, Who, with enticing attitude, the place Of love once more hath wounded with his dart? Half fearing first, I begged him to depart; Yet now, enslaved in love’s half-hidden maze, How can I, loving thee, my voice upraise, And leave behind the vision that thou art? Come, then, sweetheart, and meet my own caresses; Come, though I pay love’s price in future pain. Greet me at eve with those delicious kisses, That bear the realms of Heaven in their train. Tell me of odors sweeter than thy blisses: Then, only then, from love would I refrain!

VIII

Something did tell my soul, though not thy troth, That I might find in love life’s pleasant morning, Like lovely maid, some flowery grove adorning, Just as in verse imagination doth. The thought I treasured in me, nothing loth, Yet never dreamed that I should find Love scorning That which I gave; to spurn it without warning, And crush the flower as lightly as a moth. May I not yet with gratitude this pen Now dedicate to love, thus born again, Out of thy breast, and seemingly to stay? Thou fair divinity, adored of men, To death I must consign my banished pain, And find in thee the fulness of to-day!

IX

In what uncertain guise doth passion strive To work in men the mischief of their being; Even as Satan doth pursue them, fleeing In fear from their own shadows, while alive. Yet, from the realm of passion we derive Something that with true love is well agreeing; That he who once hath seen is alway seeing, Tragic, yet like a flower that doth revive. And thou, my own, whose love doth quicken life To fragrant sweetness hitherto unknown, Take me, but half unworthy as I come, And rule my dear heart’s dwelling as my wife. By deeds the spirit of true love is shown, Though passion still doth find its earthly home.

X

With how distressed a sentiment my heart Doth think of thee, my heart alone can tell, Nor easily interpret thoughts that dwell Within this sorrowing spirit, lest we part, To meet not as we have, with love’s sweet art Designing pictures in some flowery dell That held those garlands which from lovers fell; For every time I think of thee I start. ’Tis long since thou didst come, to make my life A heaven of fleeting rapture in my breast, Bright as the silvery star, that shines above The firmament of man’s uncertain strife. Thou tookest from me all that I possest; Then give me, give me in return thy love!

XI

Now, should I chance to meet thee passing by, That holy fear would overcome my soul, Which poets speak of, as th’ attainèd goal Of love’s ideal doth seem to greet the eye. Still, would we ask our own desire why We find love’s bark oft wrecked upon the shoal, That lies beneath the quivering waves, that roll In cold deception of the lovers’ tie. The old familiar wound comes back to me, My loved one; the neglect (though thou shouldst think It scarce neglect) stings nightly my poor heart. Each day is lost that brings no sight of thee. Must I then once again this goblet drink, Of love’s sweet poison, as we drift apart?

XII

It is a strange and wondrous thing that brings Love unrequited to the human heart. To me it comes; from thee it would depart. And all the while a stirring song it sings, Bearing an undescribed refrain that clings, In unremitting strength, like that sweet dart Whose love-tipped messenger of life thou art. It bears to me a memory that stings. Must I then languish in remembrance of Those treasured moments of unearthly joy, That bore me to the realm of magic halls, Where are reflected images of love? I trow, thou hast no heart to thus destroy My own heart’s happiness that from thee falls!

XIII

I know not how to cast aside the power That holds thy presence ever in my thought. By night or day, thy coming once hath brought Incessant longing for thee every hour. Why can I not, in truth, then, overpower This sense of something that is vainly sought, And still content me with a friendship caught From the occasional perfume of a flower? Oh, lover! ask that question of thyself, And answer it, in face of nature’s calling: If in all reason thou couldst satisfy Such craving in thy soul. For I myself Hold difficult the effort of forestalling That which I most reluctantly defy.

XIV

I saw thee yester-even, through the maze Of lights and worldly episodes of man, Filling the room with brilliancy, that can So well adorn thy loveliness, and daze My wondering eyes, each time I mutely gaze On thee from far, while all thy treasures fan This fever of my soul. Oh, cast this ban Of fear from off myself and hear my praise! Yet, when at last we met, how cruelly The fascination of thy careless speech Pierced my poor heart, held in love’s fell disease, While I, o’erwhelmed by force of loving thee, Unable wisdom toward myself to teach, Did tremble in thy presence, ill at ease.

XV

Dost have no heart, sweet one, to visibly Perceive the romance of my life’s desire, To formally within thy breast inspire That reverence for love, which is to me The holiest element ’twixt those who see The spiritual, earthly things attire? Thus, in my longing soul, I would aspire To capture thy fair being finally. Ah! may that day be mine, before life’s morning Ends, all too soon, the power to attain By physical endearment thy sweet soul: Thy heart my own, and mine thy life adorning With all the gifts of love, that appertain To the ideal of love’s own sacred goal!

XVI

Dost cherish something in thy heart for me, Loved one? Then give it, lest the time should pass, And we lose something we should have. Alas, How often is this futile aim to be Destroyed by that still dangerous enemy Of love’s best happiness: the fatal glass Through which the hours fall? Ah, let it pass Not thus that Nature meant that we should be! If, in thy character no longing comes, For interchange of confidence or love, How can love live, unnourished by the draught Of that which forms the happiness of homes? If in thy spirit thou couldst but approve, Then take this cup that willingly I quaffed!

XVII

How delicate a passion in the heart Is this, conceived beneath the roughest form! Yet, while the sentiment of love is warm, We feel the force of sorrow, should we part. Thus would it seem to me, whene’er thou art Occasionally ruffled by the storm Of my desire, swiftly to inform Thy spirit of the love which I impart. Turn not thy head, fair one, away from me; Nor at my words condemn the soul’s desire, That drives from man all thought of other things. Torn by my passion, I would willingly Cast all earth’s treasures to th’ eternal fire, If I might once fly heavenward on thy wings!

XVIII

To me thou art an angel, borne to earth By some fair chance that fans the summer wind. Thus would thy magic power upon me bind The tendrils of my heart about thy birth. There is, indeed, in thy fair soul no dearth Of the divine incentive to be kind, I veritably do believe, but find Unutterable sorrow in thy worth. An angel I have told thee that thou wert; Yet thou denied the truth of my true saying, That thou possessed the beauty of the gods. Was it more true--ah, how my heart is hurt, To half believe that thou, like Satan playing, Couldst set at naught love’s holiest periods!

XIX

Is it then given to some, life’s happiest hours To blissfully enjoy, in love’s delight? Behold, ye gods! I look upon the sight! I swoon and die, to feel that nature’s flowers Do, in my own experience, their powers Of giving fragrance lose within the night. Yet would my heart reveal the lover’s plight, And seek, in thy pursuit, celestial bowers. Oh, tell me that thou art not cold and dumb To my entreaties for one little part Of what thou holdest in impiety! Here at thy feet, I beg but for a crumb Of love’s own comfort, for this aching heart, That doth deserve its full satiety.

XX

Have I not loved thee truthfully enough, Sweetheart? How canst thou willingly deny That through love’s intercourse I did comply With every whim of thine? Couldst thou rebuff The tenderness of love with paltry stuff That men do flatter with, and thus defy Far holier elements of life? Ah, why Dost thou prefer a hand still stained and rough? Is it not that, surrounding thee, are many Who think less deeply than my heart would go, To find a kindred being in the air Of sacred treasures, that but few, if any, Seek in this life (and thus their folly show), While we might still love’s habitation share?

XXI

Shouldst thou, perchance, peruse these simple lines, I wonder even if thy heart would be Touched by the pathos of my love, and see In them the attitude that love defines, Unfettered by the selfish light that shines Through many a worldly eye. Perchance if she, To whom my love is given, comes to me In after years, while still my heart repines: Ah then, how can I tell what memories May not have saddened all that makes life cheery? How can I know, it will not be too late, And that, by then, these loving reveries Disperse with time, when I am old and weary Of my stern race with life and sterner fate?

XXII