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A Lover's Litanies - Third Litany. Ad Te Clamavi.

by Eric Mackay

Again, O Love! again I make lament,

And, Arab-like, I pitch my summer-tent

Outside the gateways of the Lord of Song.

I weep and wait, contented all day long

To be the proud possessor of a grief.

It comforts me. It gives me more relief

Than pleasures give; and, spirit-like in air,

It re-invokes the peace that was so brief.

ii.

It speaks of thee. It keeps me from the lake

Which else might tempt me; and for thy sweet sake

I shun all evil. I am calmer now

Than when I wooed thee, calmer than the vow

Which made me thine, and yet so fond withal

I start and tremble at the wind's footfall.

Is it the wind? Or is it mine own past

Come back to life to lure me to its thrall?

iii.

I long to rise and seek thee where thou art

And draw thee amorous to my wakeful heart

That beats for thee alone, in vague unrest.

I long to front thee when thou'rt lily-dress'd

In white attire,--e'en like the flowers of old

That Jesus praised; and, though the thought be bold,

I'm fain to kiss thee, Sweetheart! through thy hair

And hide my face awhile in all that gold.

iv.

I will not say what more might then be done,

And how, by moonlight or beneath the sun,

We might be happy. In a reckless mood

I've talk'd of this; and dreams and many a brood

Of tongue-tied fancies have my soul beset.

I will not hint at fealty or the fret

Of lips untrue, or anger thee therein,

Or call to mind one word thou wouldst forget.

I should withhold my raptures were I wise,

I should not vex thee with my many sighs,

Or claim one tear from thee, though 'tis my due.

I should be silent. I should cease to sue!

Sorrow should teach me what I fail'd to learn

In days gone by; and cross'd at every turn

By some new doubt, new-born of my desires,

I should suppress the pangs with which I burn.

vi.

I am an outcast from the land of love

And thou the Queen thereof, as white as dove

New-sped from Heaven, and fine and fair to see

As coy Queen Mab when, out upon the lea,

She met her master and was lov'd of him.

Thou art allied to long-hair'd cherubim,

And I a something undesired of these,

With woesome lips and eyes for ever dim.

vii.

I was ordain'd thy minstrel, but alas!

I dare not greet thee when I see thee pass;

I scarce, indeed, may hope at any time,

To work my will, or triumph in a rhyme

To do thee honour; no, nor make amends

For unsought fervor, in the tangled ends

Of my despair. How sad, how dark to me

All things have grown since thou and I were friends!

viii.

It is the fault of thy despotic glance,

It is the memory of a day's romance

When, true to thee, though taunted for my truth,

I dared to solemnise the joys of youth

In one wild chant. It is thy fault, I say!

Thy piteous fault that, on the verge of May,

I lost the right to live, as heretofore,

Untouched by doubt from day to brightening day.

ix.

O Summer's Pride! I loved thee from the first,

And, like a martyr, I was blest and curst,

And saved and slain, and crown'd and made anew,

A grief-glad man, with yearnings not a few,

But no just hope to win so fair a troth.

I should have known how one may weep for both

When lovers part, poor souls! beneath the moon,

And how Remembrance may outlive an oath.

The nymphs, I think, were like thee in the glade

Of that Greek valley where the wine was made

For feasts of Bacchus; for I dream at night

Of those creations, kind and calm and bright;

And in my thought, unhallow'd though it be,

The sun-born Muses turn their gaze on me,

And seem to know me as a friend of theirs,

Though all unfit to serve them on my knee.

xi.

They lived and sang. They died as visions die,

Supreme, eternal, offshoots of the sky,

Made and re-made, undraped and draped afresh,

To glad the earth like phantoms made of flesh,

And yet as mistlike as delusions are!

They stood beside Achilles in his car;

They knew the gods and all their joysome deeds,

And all the chants that sprang from star to star.

xii.

The myths of Greece, the maidens of the grove,

The dear dead fancies of the days of Jove,

Why were they bann'd? Oh, why in Reason's name,

Were they abolished? They were good to claim,

And good to dream of, and to crown with bays,

Far-seen of men, far-shining in the haze

Of withering doubts. They were the world's elect,

As thou art mine, to bow to and to praise.

xiii.

Night after night I see thee, in my dreams,

As fair as Daphne, with the morning beams

Of thy bright locks about thee like a cloak,--

Fair as the young Aurora when she woke

At Ph'thon's call, athwart the mountain-heights.

I see thee radiant in the summer nights,

And, bosom-pack'd with frenzies unrepress'd,

I thrill to thee in Slumber's soft delights.

xiv.

I see thee pout. I see thee in disdain

Look out, reluctant, through the falling rain

Of thy long hair. I feel thee close at hand.

I note thy breathing as I loose the band

That binds thy waist, and then to waking life

I backward start! Despair is Sorrow's wife;

And I am Sorrow, and Despair's mine own,

To lure me on to madness or to strife.

xv.

My sex offends thee, or the thought of this;

For I did fright thee when I fleck'd a kiss

With too much heat. I should have bow'd to thee,

And left unsaid the word, deception-free,

Which, like a flash, illumed the love within,

My wilfulness was much to blame therein;

But thou wilt shrive me, Sweet! of mine offence

If passion-pangs be deem'd so dark a sin.

xvi.

Oh, give me back my soul that with the same

I may achieve a deed of poet-fame,

Or die belauded on the battle-field!

There's much to seek. My hand is strong to wield

Weapon or pen. If thou consent thereto

Deeds may be done. If not, thine eyes are blue

And Heaven is there,--a two-fold tender shrine

Whose wrath I fear, whose judgment still I rue!

xvii.

I am but half myself. The life in me

Is nigh crush'd out; and, though I seem to see

Glory, and grace, and joy, as in the past,

They are but shadows on the cozening blast,

And dreams of devils and distorted things,

And snakes coiled up that look like wedding rings,

And faded flowers that once were fit for wreaths

In bygone summers and in perish'd springs.

xviii.

There is a curse in every garden place,

And when, at night, the lily's holy face

Looks up to God, it seems to chide me there.

The very sun with all his golden hair

Is ill at ease, and birth and death of day

Bring no relief; and darkly on my way

My memory comes,--the ghost of my Delight,--

To fret and fume at woes it cannot slay.

xix.

Oh, bid me smile again, as in the time

When all the breezes seem'd to make a chime,

And all the birds on all the woodland slopes

Had trills for me, and seem'd to guess the hopes

That warm'd my heart. O thou whom I adore!

How proud were I,--though wounded bitter-sore

By shafts of doubt,--if, in default of love

I could but win thy friendship as of yore.

xx.

Then were I blest indeed, and crown'd of fate

As kings are crowned, as bards in their estate

Are rapture-fraught, re-risen above the dust.

Then were I torture-proof, and on the crust

Of one kind word, though as a pittance thrown,

I'd live for weeks! My tears I would disown

And pray, contented with my discontent,

As hermits pray when storms are overblown.