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Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter III. Regrets.

by Eric Mackay

Letter III. Regrets.

When I did wake, to-day, a bird of Heaven,

A wanton, woeless thing, a wandering sprite,

Did seem to sing a song for my delight;

And, far away, did make its holy steven

Sweeter to hear than lute-strings that are seven;

And I did weep thereat in my despite.

II.

O glorious sun! I thought, O gracious king,

Of all this splendour that we call the earth!

For thee the lark distils his morning mirth,

But who will hear the matins that I sing?

Who will be glad to greet me in the spring,

Or heed the voice of one so little worth?

III.

Who will accept the thanks I would entone

For having met thee? and for having seen

Thy face an instant in the bower serene

Of perfect faith? The splendour was thine own,

The rapture mine; and Doubt was overthrown,

And Grief forgot the keynote of its threne.

IV.

I rose in haste. I seiz'd, as in a trance,

My violin, the friend I love the best

(After thyself, sweet soul!) and wildly press'd,

And firmly drew it, with a master's glance,

Straight to my heart! The sunbeams seem'd to dance

Athwart the strings, to rob me of my rest.

For then a living thing it did appear,

And every chord had sympathies for me;

And something like a lover's lowly plea

Did shake its frame, and something like a tear

Fell on my cheek, to mind me of the year

When first we met, we two, beside the sea.

VI.

I stood erect, I proudly lifted up

The Sword of Song, the bow that trembled now,

As if for joy, my grief to disallow. -

Are there not some who, in the choicest cup,

Imbibe despair, and famish as they sup,

Sear'd by a solace that was like a vow?

VII.

Are there not some who weep, and cannot tell

Why it is thus? And others who repeat

Stories of ice, to cool them in the heat?

And some who quake for doubts they cannot quell,

And yet are brave? And some who smile in Hell

For thinking of the sin that was so sweet?

VIII.

I have been one who, in the glow of youth,

Have liv'd in books, and realised a bliss

Unfelt by misers, when they count and kiss

Their minted joys; and I have known, in sooth,

The taste of water from the well of Truth,

And found it good. But time has alter'd this.

IX.

I have been hated, scorn'd, and thrust away,

By one who is the Regent of the flowers,

By one who, in the magic of her powers,

Changes the day to night, the night to day,

And makes a potion of the solar ray

Which drugs my heart, and deadens it for hours.

I have been taught that Happiness is coy,

And will not come to all who bend the knee;

That Faith is like the foam upon the sea,

And Pride a snare, and Pomp a foolish toy,

And Hope a moth whose wings we may destroy;

And she I love has taught these things to me.

XI.

Yes, thou, my Lady! Thou hast made me feel

The pangs of that Prometheus who was chain'd

And would not bow, but evermore maintain'd

A fierce revolt. Have I refused to kneel?

I do it gladly. But to mine appeal

No answer comes, and none will be ordain'd.

XII.

Why, then, this rancour? Why so cold a thing

As thy displeasure, O thou dearest One?

I meant no wrong. I stole not from the sun

The fire of Heaven; but I did seek to bring

Glory from thee to me; and in the Spring

I pray'd the prayer that left me thus undone.

XIII.

I pray'd my prayer. I wove into my song

Fervour, and joy, and mystery, and the bleak,

The wan despair that words can never speak.

I pray'd as if my spirit did belong

To some old master, who was wise and strong

Because he lov'd, and suffer'd, and was weak.

XIV.

I curb'd the notes, convulsive, to a sigh,

And, when they falter'd most, I made them leap

Fierce from my bow, as from a summer sleep

A young she-devil. I was fired thereby

To bolder efforts, and a muffled cry

Came from the strings, as if a saint did weep.

XV.

I changed the theme. I dallied with the bow

Just time enough to fit it to a mesh

Of merry notes, and drew it back afresh

To talk of truth and constancy and woe,

And life, and love, and madness, and the glow

Of mine own soul which burns into my flesh.

XVI.

It was the Lord of music, it was he

Who seiz'd my hand. He forc'd me, as I play'd,

To think of that ill-fated fairy-glade

Where once we stroll'd at night; and wild and free

My notes did ring; and quickly unto me

There came the joy that maketh us afraid.

XVII.

Oh! I shall die of tasting in my dreams

Poison of love and ecstasy of pain;

For I shall never kneel to thee again,

Or sit in bowers, or wander by the streams

Of golden vales, or of the morning beams

Construct a wreath to crown thee on the plain!

XVIII.

Yet it were easy, too, to compass this,

So thou wert kind; and easy to my soul

Were harder things if I could reach the goal

Of all I crave, and consummate a bliss

In mine own fashion, and compel a kiss

More fraught with honour than a king's control.

XIX.

It is not much to say that I would die, -

It is not much to say that I would dare

Torture, and doom, and death, could I but share

One kiss with thee. For then, without a sigh,

I'd teach thee pity, and be graced thereby,

Wet with thy tears, and shrouded by thy hair.

XX.

It is not much to say that this is so;

Yet I would sell my substance and my breath,

And all the joy that comes from Nazareth,

And all the peace that all the angels know,

To lie with thee, one minute, in the snow

Of thy white bosom, ere I sank in death!