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Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter V. Confessions.

by Eric Mackay

Letter V. Confessions.

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.

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.

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 Wing'd 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 C'sar 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!