Classic Poem

P AULINE , my heart's heart! come and lay
Wet cheek to glowing cheek, and say
Some kindly thing — the last you can!
To-morrow, so the sentence ran, —
Thursday at six! and now the ledge
Of this thick sill has lost the edge
Of the spent moon that made it bright,
Methinks that even now new light
Is kindling somewhere far behind
These ancient barriers grey and blind.

What? not a word?
Pauline, nay, if
We weltered in a lonely skiff
On tropic waters red and gold
With sunset-fire, and sharks, made bold,
Swam-round, wide gaping for their prey,
Should we have nothing then to say?
Might I not kiss you, dearest, lie
Beside you, cloak you tenderly,
Murmur out love, till on white wing
Gathered the sea-birds clamouring
Around two corpses?
Dreams like this,
Pauline, have made me ghastly bliss —
O so long! Well, I used to say,
What marvel? she is rich and gay,
The world goes grandly with her, all
Is gaudy and processional.
What serve I? O for half an hour
Beside her in a blazing tower!
A pestilence to wither both
Slowly, that I might mark the growth
Of Love in life's decay! to be
Alone with her in middle sea
In a subsiding boat! the stir
And reek of maddened massacre!
Pray heaven it take us in our youth!

Pauline, the dream is born a truth,
But for the bliss, alas! Look now,
Round you, and candidly avow,
Save for the breast you still avow,
What have you? Nothing! We are wrecked
On tiger-isles without a boat,
And glare and quarrel! Did we float
Wan corpses down the sullen Seine,
Methinks your icy hand would fain
Push mine away!
What, tears, Pauline?

O dearest, now I see you mean
To love me truly. In saloons
You passed me as the lonely moon's
Ascending light forsakes the star.
But the blest axe has cleft the bar,
Praise God! Our blood will, falling, soak
The self-same scaffold, rising smoke
To Heaven in union. Kiss me, dear;
O tell me you have yet a fear,
That I may soothe it! Shall I die
First, to instruct you? Let us try.
Suppose these chairs the plank, now lie
Down, and my burning lip shall be
The axe. Make ready! One — two — three —
Down comes it — in a kiss! Delight!
O clasp me! closer and more tight!
They will not part our clay? 'Tis mad
To think of it; but if I had
A brother hiding, doubtless I
Should yield his refuge up, to buy
The rapture of commingled dust.
Well, well, Pauline, we can but trust.
What on ourselves depends, we'll do.
They take us on by two and two
Up to the scaffold — grasp my hand,
As if it were a dagger, planned
For Marat's throat — let no one slip
Into our fiery fellowship —
Watch my head fall, spring rapidly,
And shower thy ruddy life on me!