Classic Poem

Even in her passion's lofty tide,
When nothing seemed too hard to dare,
When earth's most lowly lot, her pride
With Anselm had been proud to share,
A shadow started at her side,
A ghostly whisper clove the air,

Down fluttered dead her high-flown dream.
When Anselm hoarsely pled: " Be mine! "
" No, no! " she answered. " Though I seem
To have no thought that is not thine,
I dare not wed. I sadly deem
Marriage for us is death's dark shrine. "

And looking like the 'twilight skies,
That now unbosom, now conceal
Their meaning stars in rhythmic sighs,
She made his anguished being feel
Love's keenest pain, saying, with closed eyes:
" Beseech me not; my senses reel. "

A time there came when Anselm ceased,
Save by his looks that helpless pled,
To urge her. Then her love increased
As pity deepened; nameless dread
Had prisoned love; but love, released,
Grew free and fearless as the dead.

" Make me your bride, and if, " she said,
" Our wedding day be Doomsday, then
We'll end time now. " So they were wed,
Even as she wished, that day. And when
Homeward Anselm Bianca led,
Trees seemed to her as walking men:

Her bridal vision far outran
The swiftest sight of mighty seers:
She failed to note time's dainty span,
But saw the day beyond the years,
And highest God, the shadow of man,
And man, the image of his fears.

And like a little child she thought.
" If all the world had only dared
To seize the pleasure that it sought,
Earth had been heaven. " And Anselm shared
Her mystic mood: their souls had caught,
As souls that have in hell despaired,

Or souls that have in heaven hoped,
Catch ever that green ray revealed
Only to who have soared or groped.
The wedding-bells panted and pealed
Like happy hearts; and evening coped
A monumental day love built.

Night's monogram, the twilight star,
In silver wrought upon the hem
Of pallid gold that flickered far —
The border of the sky — for them
Throbbed like two passionate flowers that are
Lit in one bloom on one fair stem.

Their hearts the only music made,
Until their golden ringing felt
The dulcet, lowly serenade
That lowly friendship sweetly dealt
For gentle dealing. " Love, " she said,
" Speak, or my happy eyes will melt!

" Say if you like the music, sir. "
She blushed like one that is too bold.
" Yes, very well, " he answered her.
" My love, " she said, " I have been told
Music is like Arabian myrrh,
That yields what scent the senses hold. "

" Or like a diamond, " Anselm mused.
" From rippling notes a desperate mind
Draws sweeter sadness; mirth is fused
To liquid smiles; and lovers find
Their ladies' words; the latch is loosed
Of heaven's gate, and saints made blind.

" The tune breaks forth in showers of light,
But one beam strikes each listener's sense.
Oh, sweetheart, could we hear aright
The deep tone, shy as Proteus, whence
Melodious sound takes birth, more bright,
More vital than this hour intense,

" Our future would appear. " " And we
How much the wiser? Ah! I fear
To see the future, love, would be
Only a vision of our bier. "
She said this quaintly. Archly, he:
" What is your meaning? Let me hear. "

" I mean were we our last hour told,
Though day to day, like rhyme to rhyme,
Re-echoed joy — an age of gold —
Death, like a hideous gifted mime,
Would haunt us, dumb with meaning, bold,
Careless as one who knows his time.

" So not to know is better, dear,
That knowledge that we must disown.
Let us not talk of death. What? Here!
My love! " But on the instant blown,
A strident note crashed through the clear
And tinkling music, like a stone

Breaking the murmur of a stream,
And after came the trumpeter,
A herald, with plume of foaming cream,
And stood before them. " Noble sir,
Prince Florio sends me, and my theme
Is recompense. Deliver her,

" Your bride, to him. " " A monstrous jest! "
" An old jest, sir, from death's jest-book.
Your father, Anselm, was the best
Who ever played it, when he took
Prince Florio's mother, and the rest
From lord to knave, drowned in the brook,

" That hissed with blazing beams, and frothed
About the burning tower. " " He seized
His own true wife, to him betrothed,
But rapt away. " " My lord was pleased
To bid me hold no words. " " This loathed,
Unfellowed insult! What! Appeased

" By just my bride! You — hellish one! —
Tell him — unworthy to be man —
Your lord, I'll strip him in the sun,
And whip him dead. " " My master's plan
To do as by his sire was done
Is well " — — " Away! " The herald ran.

Bianca sobbed: " Where shall we fly? "
" Nowhither, love; we'll fight. Be still,
Be patient, pray. " Her fearful eye
Clung to him piteously, till
She stood alone; then sigh on sigh
Like incense rose; and on the sill

Of life her soul beheld the soul
Of destiny. " Then this it was, "
She thought, " that did our talk control
Deathward. When most without a cause
They seem, our thoughts leap at the goal.
Merciful God, bid horror pause! "

Anselm returned, white as the dead.
" Take all your jewels. Bravely, dear!
Our festal friends, our men — all fled!
The tower's besieged; but do not fear
The stair within the wall will stead.
Be quick! I'll help you, love. " " Hush! hear!

" They beat the gate! " " One afternoon —
Listen — (I travelled years ago
In Italy) — I heard a tune,
And thought to see a boy; but, lo!
Rounding a knoll, I lighted soon
Upon an ancient, lying low

" Beneath a wild vine, clustered ripe.
I laughed to scorn the pastoral.
He nodded, fingering his pipe;
Then said: " There is no life at all
But love: so after many a stripe
Deserved and undeserved, I call

" " With music back my love, my youth.
My spring, my summer burnt to ash —
Which is the sifted soul of truth —
I sit without the din and crash
Of drudging life; and memory's tooth
Bites golden apples." This was trash.

" But now the old man's steady gaze
Across the blue lake, bossed with isles,
The green and golden slopes, the haze
That veiled with purple serried files
Of snow-capped mountains, and the ways
That crawled through flowers, and leapt the stiles,

" Are balm to me. That lake's our bourne.
Come, love, sweet love. " He spoke no more;
For having touched the spring to turn
The quaintly graven, secret door,
Hidden behind a curtained urn
That came from Tuscany, a roar.

Of fierce, exulting voices burst,
With iron tread and armour's clang,
Out of the opened wall. And first
He kissed her; then his bright sword rang
Scabbardless, and he stood. None durst
Approach his guard until he sprang.

Upon them. Two foes fell; then, he.
He staggered to his feet, and bled,
Leaning against the wall. But she,
Haled from before her unpressed bed
At which she knelt, strained to be free,
And " Save me, save me! " hoarsely said.

Back surged his life; that breath of woe
Summoned it back. He made one stride,
Shook free his eyes, and saw his foe
With sword advanced before his bride.
He rushed upon the steel — even so!
And plunged his own deep in her side.