SONNETS

BY THE

NAWAB NIZAMAT JUNG BAHADUR

"_Love is not discoverable by the eye, but only by the soul. Itselements are indeed innate in our mortal constitution, and wegive it the names of Joy and Aphrodite; but in its highest nature nomortal hath fully comprehended it_. "

EMPEDOCLES. 

"_Every one choose the object of his affections according to hischaracter. . . . The Divine is beauty, wisdom, goodness, and by these thewings of the soul are nourished_. "

PLATO. 

1917

CONTENTS

 FOREWORD, BY R. C. FRASER NOTE ON THE HISTORY OF THE SONNET IN ENGLISH LITERATURE PROLOGUE I. REBIRTH II. THE CROWN OF LIFE III. BEFORE THE THRONE IV. WORSHIP V. UNITY VI. LOVE'S SILENCE VII. THE SUBLIME HOPE VIII. THE HEART OF LOVE IX. "'TWIXT STAR AND STAR" X. THE HIGHER KNIGHTHOOD XI. IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM XII. ETERNAL JOY XIII. CONSTANCY XIV. CALM AFTER STORM XV. THE STAR OF LOVE XVI. IMPRISONED MUSIC XVII. LOVE'S MESSAGE XVIII. ECSTASY XIX. THE DREAM XX. ETHEREAL BEAUTY XXI. A CROWN OF THORNS XXII. TWO HEARTS IN ONE XXIII. YEARNING XXIV. LOVE'S GIFT EPILOGUE

FOREWORD

BY RICHARD CHARLES FRASER

The following Sonnet Sequence, --written during rare intervals of leisurein a busy and strenuous life, --was privately printed in Madras early in1914, without any intention of publication on the part of the author. Hehas, however, now consented to allow it to be given to a wider audience;and we anticipate in many directions a welcome for this small butsignificant volume by the writer of _India to England_, one of the mostpopular and often-quoted lyrics evoked by the Great War. 

The Nawab Nizamat Jung Bahadur, was born in the State of Hyderabad, buteducated in England; and there are some--at Cambridge and elsewhere--whowill remember his keenly discriminating interest in British history andliterature, and the comprehensive way he, in a few words, would indicatehis impressions of poets and heroes, long dead, but to him ever-living. 

His appreciation was both ardent and just; he could swiftly recognisethe nobler elements in characters which at first glance might seemstartlingly dissimilar; and he could pass without apparent effort fromstudy of the lives of men of action to the inward contemplations ofabstruse philosophers. 

To those who have not met him, it may appear paradoxical to say that histastes were at the same moment acutely fastidious and widelysympathetic; but anyone who has talked with him will recall the blend ofhigh impersonal ideas with a remarkable personality which seldom failedto stimulate other minds--even if those others shared few if any of hisintellectual tastes. 

A famous British General (still living) was once asked, "What is themost essential quality for a great leader of men?" And he replied in oneword "SYMPATHY. " The General was speaking of leadership in relation towarfare; and by "Sympathy" he meant swift insight into the minds ofothers; and, with this insight, the power to arouse and fan into a flamethe spark of chivalry and true nobility in each. The career of the NawabNizamat Jung has not been set in the world of action, --he is at presenta Judge of the High Court in Hyderabad, --but nevertheless thisdefinition of sympathy is not irrelevant, for the Nawab's personalinfluence has been more subtle and far-reaching than he himself is yetaware. His love of poetry and history, if on the one hand it hasintensified his realisation of the sorrows and tragedies of earthlylife, on the other hand has equipped him with a power to awake in othersa vivid consciousness of the moral value of literature, --through which(for the mere asking) we any of us can find our way into a kingdom ofgreat ideas. This kingdom is also the kingdom of eternal realities--orso at least it should be; and those who in the early nineties in Englandtalked with Nizamoudhin (as he then was) could scarcely fail to noticethat he valued the genius of an author, or the exploits of a characterin history, chiefly in proportion to the permanent and vital nature ofthe truths this character had laboured to express--whether in words oraction. 

But Truth, has many faces; and scarcely any poet (except perhapsShakespeare) has come within measurable distance of expressing everyaspect of the human character. The Nawab could take pleasure in readingpoets as temperamentally dissimilar as Shelley and Scott, Spenser andByron, --to name only a few. Shelley, who was a spirit utterly unable tounderstand this world or ordinary homespun human nature; and Scott, whonot only comprehended both without an effort, but who combined thepractical and the romantic elements successfully in his own life, Adevotion to Spenser, "the poet's poet, " the poet of a dreamy yet veryreal and living chivalry, --Spenser who used to forget himself in hiscreations, --did not prevent the Nawab from understanding Byron, whonever could forget himself at all; and who, with all his vivid impulsesof generous sympathy for the oppressed, is nevertheless generallyclassed to-day as a colossal egoist. (Unjustly so, for no mere egoistwould have toiled as he toiled for Greek emancipation, in thenerve-racking campaign which cost him his life. )

In _India to England_--most characteristic of the war poems of NizamatJung--we see traces of the influence of more than one of the Englishpoets he has read so lovingly. But the poem is none the less poignantlypersonal. The same may be said of the Sonnets here prefaced; foralthough they are related to the sonnets of earlier poets whose workmust be familiar to the writer, yet they are in no sense imitations, norare they echoes. 

"_Poetry is the natural language of strong emotion_, " the Nawab said manyyears ago;--and if it may be asked why, holding this view, he has chosensuch an elaborate (and, some people might add, artificial) form as theSonnet, we can only answer that when an emotion or conviction isdeep-seated and permanent, it becomes clarified, concentrated, andintensified under the stern discipline of compression within thearbitrary yet expressive limitations of a sonnet. [A]

One of the main reasons why the Nawab's friends have urged thepublication of his Sonnets, is that despite occasional imperfections (ofwhich he himself is conscious), they form a consistent whole, and intheir spirit and sentiment they are akin to some of the most nobleutterances of the great minds and hearts whose words have been liketorches to show what heights a strong aspiring soul can climb. 

"_The Will is the master. Imagination the tool, and the body the plasticmaterial_, " said a famous physician, who was also a practical man of theworld;--and the poet who identifies his will and imagination with theeternal truths, who looks up to the stars instead of down into the mud, may always, even in his weariest hours, cheer himself by mentalcompanionship with the other resolute souls whose pens have been used asswords in the service of Divine Beauty. 

Of all the most famous writers of Sonnets, it is Michelangelo whosewords come back most vividly to memory as we read the Nawab'sexpressions of faith. 

 "_Love wakes the soul and gives it wings to fly_. "

 "_All beauty that to human sight is given Is but the shadow, if we rightly see, Of Him from Whom man's spirit issueth_. "

 "_As heat from fire, my love from the ideal Is parted never_. "

 "_Oh noble spirit, noble semblance taking, We mirrored in Thy mortal beauty see What Heaven and earth achieve in harmony_. "

Thus wrote Michelangelo of Vittoria Colonna (Marchioness of Pescara), "being enamoured of her divine spirit";[B] and though in the Sonnets ofthe Nawab, who uses what is for him a foreign tongue, the ideal issometimes greater than the expression of it, yet the spirit shines outwith a light which none can mistake. And whether the average man acceptsor rejects the standards therein embodied, lovers of poetry willrecognise that the Nawab, in his championship of a high and noble ideal, fights in the same army as Dante and Michelangelo, --neither of themcloistered dreamers, neither of them arm-chair theorists, but men wholived and loved and suffered amidst the turmoil of a world they viewedwith wide-open eyes and unflinching minds. 

The chivalrous ideal of an exalted and inspiring love can be rejected ifwe please;--but let none claim to be manly because this ideal seems tooethereal. For it is by the most vigorous, most strenuous, and mostcommanding souls and minds that this faith in the Eternal Beauty hasbeen cherished and upheld most ardently and resolutely. 

_September 29, 1917_. 

FOOTNOTES:

[A] See "Note on the History of the Sonnet in English Literature, " below. 

[B] Ascanio Condivi's "Life of Michelangelo Buonarroti. "

NOTE ON THE HISTORY OF THE SONNET IN ENGLISH LITERATURE

Now that Italy holds such a brilliant place among our Allies during thisthe greatest war in the world's history--the war of chivalry (which isto say moral and spiritual right) against the arrogant might of thePrussian Octopus, --it is well to remember that it was from Italy theSonnet first came into England. The word _sonnet_ in fact, is from theItalian _sonetto_ (literally "a little sound"), and the _sonetto_ wasoriginally a short poem recited or sung to the accompaniment of music, probably the lute or mandolin. 

Whether its birth should be attributed to Italy or Sicily, --or toProvence, the cradle of troubadour poetry, --is a subject on which thelearned may still indulge in pleasant controversies. But in Italy, towards the end of the thirteenth century, it had already become afavourite mode of expression; and some forty years later, in amanuscript treatise on the _Poetica Volgare_ (written in 1332 by a Judgein Padua), sixteen different forms of sonnet were enumerated as then incurrent use. 

But despite the continued vogue of the Sonnet, and its association withthe names of such masters as Dante, Petrarch, Tasso and Michelangelo inItaly; Ronsard in France; Camoens in Portugal; Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth and Rossetti in England--to say nothing of a host of minorpoets, who, though one star differeth from another in glory, yetconstitute a brilliant galaxy--it is remarkable that even now theaverage non-literary reader when asked "What is a Sonnet?" seldom givesany more explicit reply than to say it is "a short poem limited tofourteen lines. "

The rules for the structure of those fourteen lines, and the labour andpatience entailed in producing a poem under these limitations, are notalways realised even by those who enjoy the results of the poet'sconcentrated efforts. The more successful a sonnet, the more the readeris apt to accept its beauty as if it had grown by a natural process likea flower. This, perhaps, is the best compliment we could pay the poet;but if the poet is one who boldly essays a most difficult and complexform, in a language which for him is foreign, then we should pause amoment to consider what it is that he has set out to accomplish. 

Taking the structure first (though for the poet the spirit and impetusof the central idea must of course come first)--a sonnet on the Italian(Petrarchan) model must consist of fourteen lines of ten syllables each, and must be composed of a major and minor system, i. E. An octave and asestet. 

In the octave (the first eight lines) the first, fourth, fifth andeighth lines must rhyme on the same sound, and the second, third, sixthand seventh, must rhyme on another sound. 

In the sestet (the last six lines) more liberty of rhyme and arrangementis permitted, but a rhymed couplet at the end is not usual except whenthe sonnet departs from the Italian model and is on the English or, aswe say, "Shakespearian" pattern. 

Each sonnet must be complete; and, even if one of a sequence, it shouldcontain within itself everything necessary to the understanding of it. It must be the expression of _one_ emotion, _one_ fact, _one_ idea, and"the continuity of the thought, idea, or emotion must be unbrokenthroughout. " "Dignity and repose, " "expression ample yet reticent, " arequalities which one of our ablest modern critics emphasises asessential, and the end must always be more impressive than thebeginning, --the reader must be carried onwards and upwards, and leftwith a definite feeling that in what has been said there is neithersuperfluity nor omission, but rather a completeness which precludes allwish or need for a longer poem. 

How difficult this is for the poet can only be realised by trying toachieve it. 

The earliest writers of English sonnets were two very romantic andgallant men of action, Sir Thomas Wyatt, and Henry Howard, Earl ofSurrey, --both destined to brief brilliant lives and tragic deaths. Theywere followed by Spenser, Sir Philip Sidney and a host of Elizabethanpoets, courtly and otherwise. But it is Shakespeare whose Sonnets(though not conforming to the Petrarchan model) show the most force andfire of any in our language until those of Milton. 

To analyse the variations of the Shakesperian, Spenserian and Miltonianforms is, however, unnecessary to our present purpose, as the SonnetSequence we are now prefacing is based on the Petrarchan model. Strictlyspeaking, the Petrarchan sestet (the last six lines) should have threeseparate rhymed sounds; the first and fourth lines, the second andfifth, and the third and sixth should form the three rhymes. But thisrule is by no means invariably followed; even Wordsworth and Rossettioften rhymed the first with the third, and the second with the fourthlines; and sometimes used only two sounds, --the first, third, and fifthlines making one rhyme and the second, fourth, and sixth the other. 

As already said, these liberties are permitted, for the sestet is notunder such arbitrary regulations as the octave. 

There are writers who keep all the rules, and yet leave their readerscold; and others who are technically less correct, but in whom thevigour and intensity of emotion is swiftly felt and silences adversecriticism. The ideal is to combine deep and exalted feeling with perfectexpression, and produce a whole which goes to the heart like a beautifulpiece of music, and satisfies the mind--like one of those ancient Greekgems which, in a small space, presents engraved images symbolic ofsublime ideas vast as the universe. 

The Nawab Nizamat Jung has written in English several sonnets which weshould admire even if English were his native language. But if any of uswould like to form some estimate of the difficulties he has surmounted, let us sit down and try to express in a sonnet in _any_ foreign languageour own thoughts and beliefs. We shall then the better appreciate whathe has achieved. 

As, however, while the Great War lasts, few of us have leisure forliterary experiments, it will perhaps be best to read these Sonnetsprimarily for their soul and spirit. In melody and expression they areof varying degrees of merit and completeness, but in the inspiring idealthey consistently embody they rise to heights which have been scaledonly by the noblest. In tone and temper--as already said--they are akinto the Sonnets to Vittoria Colonna by Michelangelo, --of whom it waswritten by one who knew him well, "_Though I have held such longintercourse with him I have never heard from his mouth a word, that wasnot most honourable. . . . In him there are no base thoughts. . . . He lovesnot only human beauty, but everything that is beautiful and exquisite inits own kind, --marvelling at it with a wonderful admiration_. "

Here we see defined the temperament of the heroic poet, that innernobility and exaltation without which mere technical skill can availlittle in moving and holding the hearts of men. 

This note on the structure of the Sonnet would fail in its purpose if itdistracted the reader from the spirit behind the form;--for the spiritis the life, --and few who read these Sonnets will deny that the spiritof Nizamat Jung is that of the true poet, ever striving to look beyondephemeral sorrows up to the Eternal Beauty--now hidden behind a veil, but some day to be revealed in all its splendour and completeness. 

R. C. F. 

_October 6, 1917_. 

SONNETS

PROLOGUE

 As one who wanders lone and wearily Through desert tracts of Silence and of Night, Pining for Lovers keen utterance and for light, And chasing shadowy forms that mock and flee, My soul was wandering through Eternity, Seeking, within the depth and on the height Of Being, one with whom it might unite In life and love and immortality;

 When lo! she stood before me, whom I'd sought, With dying hope, through life's decaying years-- A form, a spirit, human yet divine. Love gave her eyes the light of heav'n, and taught Her lips the mystic music of the spheres. Our beings met, --I felt her soul in mine;

I

REBIRTH

 To me no mortal but a spirit blest, A Light-girt messenger of Love art thou-- The radiant star of Hope upon thy brow. The thrice-pure fire of Love within thy breast! Thou comest to me as a heavenly guest, As God's fulfilment of the purest vow Love's heart e'er made--thou com'st to show e'en _now_ The Infinite, th' Eternal and the Best!

 I clasp thy feet, --O fold me in thy wings, And place thy pure white hands upon my head, And breathe, O breathe, thy love-breath o'er mine eyes Till, like the flame that from dark ashes springs, My chastened spirit, from a self that's dead, Upon the wings of Love shall heav'nward rise. 

II

THE CROWN OF LIFE

 I know not what Love is, --a memory Of Heav'n once known, --a yearning for some goal That shines afar, --a dream that doth control The spirit, shadowing forth what is to be. But this I know, my heart hath found in thee The crown of life, the glory of the soul, The healing of all strife, the making whole Of my imperfect being, --yea, of me!

 For to mine eyes thine eyes, through Love, reveal The smile of God; to me God's healing breath Comes through thy hallowed lips whose pray'r is Love. Thy touch gives life! And oh, let me but feel Thy hovering hand my closing eyes above, -- Then, then, my soul will triumph over Death. 

III

BEFORE THE THRONE

 When on thy brow I gaze and in thine eyes-- Eyes heavy-laden with the soul's desire, Not passion-lit, but lit with Heav'n's own fire-- I have a vision of Love's Paradise. Gazing, my trancèd spirit straightway flies Beyond the zone to which the stars aspire; I hear the blent notes of the white-wing'd quire Around Immortal Love triumphant rise. 

 And there I kneel before th' eternal throne Of Love, whose light conceals him, --there I see, Veiled in his sacred light, a face well known To me on earth, now, yearning, bend o'er me. Heaven's mystic veil, inwove of light and tone, Conceals thee not, Belovèd, --I know thee!

IV

WORSHIP

 How poor is all my love, how great thy claim! How weak the breath, the voice which would reveal All that thy soul hath taught my soul to feel-- Longings profound, --deep thoughts without a name. If God's self might be worshipped, without blame, In His best works, then would I silent kneel Watching thine eyes, --until my soul should steal Back, unperceived, to regions whence it came!

 If my whole life were but one thought of thee, That thought the purest worship of my heart And my soul's yearning blent; if at thy feet I offered such a life, there still would be Something to wish for, --something to complete The measure of my love and thy desert. 

V

UNITY

 When I approach thee, Love, I lay aside All that is mortal in me; with a heart Absolved and pure, and cleansed in every part Of every thought that I might wish to hide From God, I come, --fit spirit to abide With such a soaring spirit as thou art, Whose eye transfixes with a fiery dart Presumptuous passion and ignoble pride. 

 Yea, thus I come to thee, and thus I dare To gaze into thine eyes; I take thy hand, And its soft touch upon my lips and eyes Thrills thy pure being, while it lingers there, Into my heart and soul;--and then we stand Like the first two that loved in Paradise!

VI

LOVE'S SILENCE

 When through thine eyes the light of Heav'n doth shine Upon my being, and thy whisper brings, As the soft rustling of an angel's wings, Joy to my soul and peace and grace divine; When thus thy body and thy soul combine To weave the mystic web thy beauty flings Around my heart, whose thrilling silence rings With Hope's unuttered songs that make thee mine, --

 Ah, then, O Love! what need of words have we, Who speak in feeling to each other's heart? Words are too weak Love's message to impart, Too frail to live through Love's eternity. Silence, the voice of God, alone must be Love's voice for thee, beloved as them art. 

VII

THE SUBLIME HOPE

 What need to tell thee o'er and o'er again What eyes to eyes have spoken silently And heart to heart hath uttered? Love must be For us a hushed delight, a voiceless pain Serenely borne! Our lips must ne'er profane Our inmost feelings, --lest the sanctity Of Love be lessened in our hearts and we Nought higher than the common path attain!

 The common path were death to us, whose love, O'erruled by Fate, from earthly hopes debarred, Must look to Heav'n for sublimer joys Than those which earth can give, which earth destroys. Our path is steep, but there is light above, And Faith can make the roughest way less hard. 

VIII

THE HEART OF LOVE

 Look in mine eyes, Belovèd, --for my tongue Must never utter what my heart doth claim, -- And read Love there, for Love's forbidden name Dies on my trembling lips unvoiced, unsung. Nor sighs, nor tears--the bitter tribute wrung From hearts of woe--must e'er that love proclaim For which the world's unpitying heart would blame Thy pity--though from purest fountains sprung. 

 Fate and the world, they bid wide oceans roll Between our yearning hearts and their desire; Yea, lips they silence, but can ne'er control The heart of Love, nor quench its sacred fire. I must not speak; O look into my soul-- There read the message which thou dost require!

IX

"TWIXT STAR AND STAR"

 Not here, --not here, where weak conventions mar Life's hopes and joys, Love's beauty, truth and grace, Must I come near thee, greet thee face to face, Pour in thine ear the songs and sighs that are My heart's best offerings. But in regions far, Where Love's ethereal pinions may embrace Beauty divine--in the clear interspace Of twilight silence betwixt star and star, And in the smiles of cloudless skies serene, In Dawn's first blush and Sunset's lingering glow, And in the glamour of the Moon's chaste beams-- My soul meets thine, and there thine image seen, More real than life, doth to my lone heart show Such charms as live in Memory's haunting dreams!

X

THE HIGHER KNIGHTHOOD

 A time there was, when for thy beauty's prize-- Hadst thou but deemed my love that prize deserved-- What hope, what faith my daring heart had nerved For proud achievement and for high emprize! No Knight, that owned the spell of Beauty's eyes And wore her sleeve upon his helm, had served His vows with faith like mine; I ne'er had swerved One jot from mine for all beneath the skies. 

 That time is dead, alas! and yet this heart Is thine, still thine, with Love's high chivalry And Faith that cannot die; but now its part Must be a higher knighthood, --patiently To brook life's ills, and, pierced with many a dart, By sacrifice of self to merit thee. 

XI

IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM

 As when the Moon, emerging from a cloud, Sheds on the dreary earth her gracious light, A smile comes o'er the frowning brow of Night, Who hastens to withdraw her sable shroud; And then the lurking shadows' dark-robed crowd, Pursued with glitt'ring shafts, is put to flight; And, robed in silv'ry raiment, soft and bright The humblest flower as a Queen seems proud;

 So when thou com'st to me in Beauty's bloom, And on thy face soft Pity's graces shine, Thou can'st dispel the heavy shades of gloom From my sad heart, which ceases then to pine; And Hope and Joy their quenched beams relume And gild the universe with light divine. 

XII

ETERNAL JOY

 Truth is but as the eye of God doth see; And Love is truth, and Love hath made thee mine. What though on earth our lives may not combine, Love makes us one for all Eternity! God gives us to each other, bids us be Each other's soul's fulfilment, makes Love shine Upon our souls as His own light divine. An effluence of His own deity. 

 Why ask for more? Our union is above All earthly unions, ours those heights serene Where Love alone is Heav'n and Heav'n is Love-- Where never comes the world's harsh breath between Hope's fruits and flow'rs. Ah, why then earthward move, Where pure and perfect bliss hath never been?

XIII

CONSTANCY

 Ah, Love, I know that to my love thou art, And must be, in this life, a dream, --a name! But be it joy or grief, or praise or blame, I give thee all the worship of my heart. 'Tis not for Love to bid life's cares depart; Love wings the soul for Heaven whence it came. Such love from Petrarch's soul did Laura claim, And Beatrice to Dante did impart. 

 To thee I turn, --be thou or near or far, And whether on my love thou frown or smile, -- As, in mid-ocean, to some fairy isle Palm-crowned; as, in the heav'ns, to eve's bright star Whose pure white fire allures the vision, while Myriads of paler lights unnoticed are!

XIV

CALM AFTER STORM

 Thou hast but seen what but mine eyes have shown-- Mine eyes that gazing on thee picture Heaven; Thou hast but heard what but my voice hath given-- My voice that takes from thine a calmer tone. Ah! couldst thou know all that my heart hath known, While with Despair's dark phantoms it hath striven-- From faith to doubt, from joy to sorrow driven, Till rescued and redeemed by Love alone, --

 Thou wouldst not marvel were my cloudless brow O'er-clouded, were my aspect less serene! Love smiles on Death, unveils his mystery Of joy and grief, and Love bids me avow This truth, with chastened heart and tranquil mien, -- 'Less pure Love's bliss if less Love's agony. '

XV

THE STAR OF LOVE

 Time's cycle rolls--once more I hail the day On which propitious Heaven sent to Earth, Disguised in thy fair form, in mortal birth, The Star of Love, whose pure celestial ray Glides through the spirit's gloom and lights the way To bliss! I hail thy coming 'midst the dearth Of the soul's aspirations, when the worth Of hearts like thine had ceased men's hearts to sway. 

 I greet thee, Love, and with thee scale the height, That cloudless height where winged spirits rest: Where the deep yearnings of the mortal breast, From mortal bin set free, reveal to sight That living Presence, that Eternal Light In which enwrapt the eager soul is blest. 

XVI

IMPRISONED MUSIC

 Oh, had I but the poet's voice to sing, Then would the music prisoned in my heart (Panting in vain its message to impart) Hover around thee, Love, on trembling wing, To tell thee of the soft-eyed hopes that cling To Love's white feet, the doubts and fears that start And pierce his bosom with a poisoned dart, -- The smiles that soothe, the cold hard looks that sting!

 But 'tis not mine, the soaring joy of Song: I strive to voice my soul, but strive in vain. Though passion thrills, and eager fancies throng, Deckt in the varying hues of joy and pain, Yet the weak voice--as weak as Love is strong-- Dies murm'ring on Love's throbbing heart again. 

XVII

LOVE'S MESSAGE

 We will not take Love's name; that little word, By lips too oft profaned, we will not use. From Nature's best and loveliest we will choose Fit symbols for Love's message; like a bird, -- Whose warbled love-notes by its mate are heard In greenwood glade, --shalt thou in strains profuse The prisoned music of thy heart unloose, While my heart's love is by sweet flow'rs averred. 

 Then take, O take these fresh-awakened flowers, The symbols of my love, and keep them near, Where they may feel thy breath and touch thy hand; Then sing thy songs to me, --in silver showers Pour forth, thine eager soul, and I shall hear; Ah, thus will Love Love's message Understand!

XVIII

ECSTASY

 The Nightingale upon the Rose's breast Warbling her tale of life-long sorrow lies, Till in love's trancèd ecstasy her eyes Close and her throbbing heart is set at rest; For, to the yielding flow'r her bosom prest, Death steals upon her in the sweet disguise Of crownèd love and brings what life denies, -- mingling of the souls, --Love's eager quest!

 Thus let my heart against thy heart repose, Sigh forth its life in one delicious sigh, Then drink new life from out thy balmy breath; Thus in love's languor let our eyelids close, And let our blended souls enchanted lie, And dream of joy beyond the gates of death. 

XIX

THE DREAM

 Was it a dream, when, through the spirit's gloom, I saw the yearning face of Beauty shine-- Soft in its human aspect, though divine, Pleading for human love, though armed with doom? And was it but a dream, that faint perfume, Blent of loose tress and soft lips joined to mine, Those fair white arms that did my neck entwine, That neck's sweet warmth, that smooth cheek's floral bloom?

 Ah! was it true, or was it but a dream Of bliss that scarce to mortal hearts is given? Ah! was it thou, Belovèd, or some bright Phantom of thee that made thy presence seem, Rich with the warmth of Life, the light of Heaven, To hover o'er the realms where both unite?

XX

ETHEREAL BEAUTY

 Nay, it was thou, when the fair Evening Star Leaned on the purple bosom of the West; 'Twas thou, when o'er the far hills' frowning crest Fell the soft beams of Cynthia's silv'ry car: Thyself--than stars and moonbeams fairer far-- A vision in ethereal beauty drest! But, when thy head drooped flow'r-like on my breast, Then did no word our souls' communion mar:

 Love spake to love without a sign or glance, And heart to heart its inmost depth revealed In the deep thrilling silence of that trance, Till earth, and earthly being ceased to be, And our blent souls at that high altar kneeled Whence Love doth gaze upon Eternity!

XXI

A CROWN OF THORNS

 There was a crown of thorns upon the head Of Love, when he across my threshold came. I knew the sign and did not ask his name, But took him to my heart, although he said, 'The soul's dumb agonies, the tears unshed That sear the heart, th' injustice and the blame Of the harsh world, --God wills that I should claim Through these immortal Life when Hope is dead. '

 I took him to my heart and clasped him close. E'en though his thorns did make my bosom bleed. Then from the very core of pain arose A joy that seemed to be the utmost need Of my worn soul! Love whispered, '_This_ the meed Of hearts that keep their faith amidst Love's woes. '

XXII

TWO HEARTS IN ONE

 Two hearts made one by Love that cannot die Whatever life may bring, shall never part; In life they're one, and e'en in death one heart! Are we not such, Belovèd, thou and I? Ah, then, why mourn that 'neath another sky, Far from these longing arms and eyes thou art? I clasp thee still, and lo! thy lips impart New life to me as in the days gone by. 

 I feel thy heart in mine, --our hopes and fears, Like music's wedded notes, together flow; Our sighs the same, the same our smiles and tears, -- The selfsame bliss is ours, the selfsame woe. For Love no weary leagues, no ling'ring years-- Two hearts in one nor time nor distance know. 

XXIII

YEARNING

 The night is sweet: thy breath is in the air, I feel it on my face; thy tender eyes Look love upon me from yon starry skies! They bring to me, those glancing moonbeams fair, The shine and ripple of thy silken hair. And in the silent whispers and the sighs That from the throbbing heart of Nature rise, I hear thee, feel thee, --own thy presence there. 

 Ah, fond deceit!--too soon the heart, unblest, Unsated, turns from these illusive charms Back to the haunting dream of heav'n once known: It pines for those soft eyes, that throbbing breast, Those sweet life-giving lips, those circling arms-- The breath, the touch, the warmth of Beauty flown. 

XXIV

LOVE'S GIFT

 I'm far from thee, yet oft our spirits meet: We share the longings of each other's breast, And all our joys and sorrows are confest As though our lips did love's fond tale repeat. Ah! then thine eyes send forth, mine eyes to greet, Glances in which thy whole soul is exprest, Then, like some song-bird flutt'ring in its nest, I hear thy heart in pulsing cadence beat. 

 I know its music and I know its thought; My heart to it th' unuttered words supplies; I listen to the thrilling melody Until my soul its subtle tone hath caught. And then I take it as Love's gift, --it lies Imprisoned in my own weak poesy!

EPILOGUE

 From out the golden dawn of vanished years She glides into my dreams, a form divine Of light and love, to soothe the thoughts that pine For what has been, to stem the tide of tears That inward flows upon the heart and sears Its inmost core. Her countenance benign, Where Love and Pity's chastened graces shine, Reflects the hallowed light of other spheres. 

 Then to my anguished soul, with care outworn, Comes, like a strain on aerial wings upborne, This message from her soul:--'_Bid sorrow cease; Love dies not;--'tis th' immortal life above. And chastened souls, that win eternal peace Through earthly suff'ring, know that Heaven is Love_!'