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Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter VII. Hope.

by Eric Mackay

Letter VII. Hope.

O tears of mine! Ye start I know not why,

Unless, indeed, to prove that I am glad,

Albeit fast wedded to a thought so sad

I scarce can deem that my despair will die,

Or that the sun, careering up the sky,

Will warm again a world that seem'd so mad.

II.

And yet, who knows? The world is, to the mind,

Much as we make it; and the things we tend

Wear, for the nonce, the liveries that we lend.

And some such things are fair, though ill-defined,

And some are scathing, like the wintry wind;

And some begin, and some will never end.

III.

How can I think, ye tears! that I have been

The thing I was - so doubting, so unfit,

And so unblest, with brows for ever knit,

And hair unkempt, and face becoming lean

And cold and pale, as if I late had seen

Medusa's head, and all the scowls of it?

IV.

Oh, why is this? Oh, why have I so long

Brooded on grief, and made myself a bane

To golden fields and all the happy plain

Where once I met the Lady of my Song,

The lady for whose sake I shall be strong,

But never weak or diffident again?

I was too shorn of hope. I did employ

Words like a mourner; and to Her I bow'd,

As one might kneel to Glory in its shroud.

But I am crown'd to-day, and not so coy -

Crown'd with a kiss, and sceptred with a joy;

And all the world shall see that I am proud.

VI.

I shall be sated now. I shall receive

More than the guerdon of my wildest thought,

More than the most that ecstasy has taught

To saints in Heaven; and more than poets weave

In madcap verse, to warn us, or deceive;

And more than Adam knew ere Eve was brought.

VII.

I know the meaning now of all the signs,

And all the joys I dreamt of in my dreams.

I realise the comfort of the streams

When they reflect the shadows of the pines.

I know that there is hope for celandines,

And that a tree is merrier than it seems.

VIII.

I know the mighty hills have much to tell;

And that they quake, at times, in undertone,

And talk to stars, because so much alone

And so unlov'd. I know that, in the dell,

Flowers are betroth'd, and that a wedding-bell

Rings in the breeze on which a moth has flown.

IX.

I know such things, because to loving hearts

Nature is keen, and pleasures, long delay'd,

Quicken the pulse, and turn a truant shade

Into a sprite, equipp'd with all the darts

That once were Cupid's; and the day departs,

And sun and moon conjoin, as man with maid.

The lover knows how grand a thing is love,

How grand, how sweet a thing, and how divine

More than the pouring out of choicest wine;

More than the whiteness of the whitest dove;

More than the glittering of the stars above;

And such a love, O Love! is thine and mine.

XI.

To me the world, to-day, has grown so fair

I dare not trust myself to think of it.

Visions of light around me seem to flit,

And Phoebus loosens all his golden hair

Right down the sky; and daisies turn and stare

At things we see not with our human wit.

XII.

And here, beside me, there are mosses green

In shelter'd nooks, and gnats in bright array,

And lordly beetles out for holiday;

And spiders small that work in silver sheen

To make a kirtle for the Fairy Queen,

That she may don it on the First of May.

XIII.

I hear, in thought, I hear the very words

That Arethusa, turn'd into a brook,

Spoke to Diana, when her leave she took

Of all she lov'd - low-weeping as the birds

Shrill'd out of tune, and all the frighten'd herds

Scamper'd to death, in spite of pipe and crook.

XIV.

I know, to-day, why winds were made to sigh

And why they hide themselves, and why they gloat

In some old ruin! Mote confers with mote,

And shell with shell; and corals live and die,

And die and live, below the deep. And why?

To make a necklace for my lady's throat.

XV.

And yet the world, in all its varied girth,

Lacks what we look for. There is something base

In mere existence - something in the face

Of men and women which accepts the earth,

And all its havings, as its right of birth,

But not its quittance, not its resting-place.

XVI.

There have been moments, at the set of sun,

When I have long'd for wings upon the wind,

That I might seek a planet to my mind,

More full-develop'd than this present one;

With more of scope, when all is said and done,

To satisfy the wants of human kind.

XVII.

A world with thee, a home in some remote

And unknown region, which no sage's ken

Has compass'd yet; of which no human pen

Has traced the limits; where no terrors float

In wind or wave, and where the soul may note

A thousand raptures unreveal'd to men.

XVIII.

To be transported in a magic car,

On some transcendent night in early June,

Beyond the horn'd projections of the moon;

To have our being in a bridal star,

In lands of light, where only angels are,

Athwart the spaces where the comets swoon.

XIX.

To be all this: to have in our estate

Worlds without stint, and quit them for the clay

Of some new planet where a summer's day

Lasts fifty years; and there to celebrate

Our Golden Wedding, by the will of Fate -

This were a subject for a seraph's lay.

XX.

This were a life to live, - a life indeed, -

A thing to die for; if, in truth, we die

When we but put our mortal vestments by.

This were a climax for a lover's need

Sweeter than songs, and holier than the creed

Of half the zealots who have sought the sky.