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Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter I. Prelude.

by Eric Mackay

Letter I. Prelude.

Teach me to love thee as a man, in prayer,

May love the picture of a sainted nun,

And I will woo thee, when the day is done,

With tears and vows, and fealty past compare,

And seek the sunlight in thy golden hair,

And kiss thy hand to claim thy benison.

II.

I shall not need to gaze upon the skies,

Or mark the message of the morning breeze,

Or heed the notes of birds among the trees,

If, taught by thee to yearn for Paradise,

I may confront thee with adoring eyes

And do thee homage on my bended knees.

III.

For I would be thy pilgrim; I would bow

Low as the grave, and, lingering in the same,

Live like a spectre; or be burnt in flame

To do thee good. A kingdom for a vow

I'd freely give to be elected now

The chief of all the servants of thy fame.

IV.

Yea, like a Roman of the days of old,

I would, for thee, construct a votive shrine,

And fan the fire, and consecrate the wine;

And have a statue there, of purest gold,

And bow thereto, unlov'd and unconsoled,

But proud withal to know the statue thine.

For it were sacrilege to stand erect,

And face to face, within thy chamber lone,

To urge again my right to what hath flown:

A bygone trust, a passion coldly check'd!

Were I a king of men, or laurel-deck'd,

I were not fit to claim thee as mine own.

VI.

What am I then? The sexton of a joy,

So lately slain, - so lately on its bier

Laid out in state, - I dare not, for the fear

Of this dead thing, regard it as a toy.

It was a splendid Hope without alloy,

And now, behold! I greet it with a tear.

VII.

It is my pastime, and my penance, too,

My pride, my comfort, and my discontent,

To count my sorrows ere the day is spent,

And dream, at night, of love within the blue

Of thy sweet eyes, and tremble through and through,

And keep my house, as one that doth lament.

VIII.

Have I not sinn'd? I have; and I am curst,

And Misery makes the moments, as they fly,

Harder than stone, and sorrier than a sigh.

Oh, I did wrong thee when I met thee first,

And in my soul a fantasy was nurs'd

That seem'd an outcome of the upper sky.

IX.

I thought a poor musician might aspire;

I thought he might obtain from thee a look,

As Dian's self will smile upon a brook,

And make it glad, though deaf to its desire,

And tinge its ripples with a tender fire,

And make it thankful in its lonely nook.

I thought to win thee ere the waning days

Had caught the snow, ere yet a word of mine

Had pall'd upon thee in the summer shine;

And I was fain to meet thee in the ways

Of wild romance, and cling to thee, and gaze,

Between two kisses, on thy face divine.

XI.

Aye! on thy face, and on the rippling hair

That makes a mantle round thee in the night,

A royal robe, a network of the light,

Which fairies brought for thee, to keep thee fair,

And hide the glories of a beauty rare

As those of sylphs, whereof the poets write.

XII.

I thought, by token of thy matchless form,

To curb thy will, and make thee mine indeed,

From head to foot. There is no other creed

For men and maids, in safety or in storm,

Than this of love. Repentance may be warm,

But love is best, though broken like a reed.

XIII.

"She shall be mine till death!" I wildly said,

"Mine, and mine only." And I vow'd, apace,

That I would have thee in my dwelling-place;

Yea, like a despot, I would see thee led

Straight to the altar, with a tear unshed,

A wordless woe imprinted on thy face.

XIV.

I wanted thee. I yearned for thee afar.

"She shall be mine," I cried, "and mine alone.

A Gorgon grief may change me into stone

If I be baulk'd." I hankered for a star,

And soar'd, in thought, to where the angels are,

To snatch my prize beyond the torrid zone.

XV.

I heeded not the teaching of the past.

I heeded not the wisdom of the years.

"She shall be mine," I urged, "till death appears.

For death, I know, will conquer me at last."

And then I found the sky was overcast;

And then I felt the bitterness of tears.

XVI.

"Behold!" I thought, "Behold, how fair to see

Is this white wonder!" And I wish'd thee well

But, like a demon out of darkest hell,

I marr'd thy peace, and claim'd thee on the plea

Of pride and passion; and there came to me

The far-off warning of a wedding-bell.

XVII.

A friend of thine was walking to her doom,

A wife-elect, who, ere the summer sun

Had plied its course, would weep for what was don, -

A friend of thine and mine, who, in the gloom

Of her own soul, had built herself a tomb,

To tremble there, when tears had ceas'd to run.

XVIII.

On this I brooded; but ah! not for this

Did I abandon what I sought the while:

The dear damnation of thy tender smile,

And all the tortures that were like a bliss,

And all the raptures of a holier kiss

Than fair Miranda's on the magic isle.

XIX.

I urged my suit. "My bond!" I did exclaim,

"My pink and white, the hand I love to press,

The golden hair that crowns her loveliness;

And all the beauties which I cannot name;

All, all are mine, and I will have the same,

Though she should hate me for my love's excess."

XX.

I knew myself. I knew the withering fate

That would consume me, if, amid my trust,

I sued for Hope as beggars for a crust.

"O God!" I cried, entranced though desolate,

"Hallow my love, or turn it into hate."

And then I bow'd, in anguish, to the dust.