Then,--if my heart's strength serve, And through all and each Of the veils I reach To her soul and never swerve, Knitting an iron nerve-- 50

XI

Command her soul to advance And inform the shape Which has made escape And before my countenance Answers me glance for glance--

XII

I, still with a gesture fit Of my hands that best Do my soul's behest, Pointing the power from it, While myself do steadfast sit-- 60

XIII

Steadfast and still the same On my object bent, While the hands give vent To my ardour and my aim And break into very flame--

XIV

Then I reach, I must believe, Not her soul in vain, For to me again It reaches, and past retrieve Is wound in the toils I weave; 70

XV

And must follow as I require, As befits a thrall, Bringing flesh and all, Essence and earth-attire To the source of the tractile fire:

XVI

Till the house called hers, not mine, With a growing weight Seems to suffocate If she break not its leaden line And escape from its close confine. 80

XVII

Out of doors into the night!

On to the maze Of the wild wood-ways, Not turning to left nor right From the pathway, blind with sight--

XVIII

Making thro' rain and wind O'er the broken shrubs, 'Twixt the stems and stubs, With a still, composed, strong mind, Nor a care for the world behind-- 90

XIX

Swifter and still more swift, As the crowding peace Doth to joy increase In the wide blind eyes uplift Thro' the darkness and the drift!

XX

While I--to the shape, I too Feel my soul dilate Nor a whit abate, And relax not a gesture due, As I see my belief come true. 100

XXI

For, there! have I drawn or no Life to that lip?

Do my fingers dip In a flame which again they throw On the cheek that breaks a-glow?

XXII

Ha! was the hair so first?

What, unfilleted, Made alive, and spread Through the void with a rich outburst, Chestnut gold-interspersed? 110

XXIII

Like the doors of a casket-shrine, See, on either side, Her two arms divide Till the heart betwixt makes sign, Take me, for I am thine!

XXIV

"Now--now"--the door is heard!

Hark, the stairs! and near-- Nearer--and here-- "Now!" and at call the third She enters without a word. 120

XXV

On doth she march and on To the fancied shape; It is, past escape, Herself, now: the dream is done And the shadow and she are one.

XXVI

First I will pray. Do Thou That ownest the soul, Yet wilt grant control To another, nor disallow For a time, restrain me now! 130

XXVII

I admonish me while I may, Not to squander guilt, Since require Thou wilt At my hand its price one day!

What the price is, who can say?

NOTES: "Mesmerism." With a continuous tension of will, whose unbroken concentration impregnates the very structure of the poem, a mesmerist describes the processes of the act by which he summons shape and soul of the woman he desires; and then reverent perception of the sacredness of the soul awes him from trespa.s.sing upon another's individuality.

THE GLOVE

(Peter Ronsard, loquitur)

"Heigho!" yawned one day King Francis, "Distance all value enhances.

When a man's busy, why, leisure Strikes him as wonderful pleasure: Faith, and at leisure once is he?

Straightway he wants to be busy.

Here we've got peace; and aghast I'm Caught thinking war the true pastime.

Is there a reason in metre?

Give us your speech, master Peter!" 10 I who, if mortal dare say so, Ne'er am at loss with my Naso "Sire," I replied, "joys prove cloudlets: "Men are the merest Ixions"-- Here the King whistled aloud, "Let's --Heigho--go look at our lions."

Such are the sorrowful chances If you talk fine to King Francis.

And so, to the courtyard proceeding, Our company, Francis was leading, 20 Increased by new followers tenfold Before he arrived at the penfold; Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen At sunset the western horizon.

And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost With the dame he professed to adore most.

Oh, what a face! One by fits eyed Her, and the horrible pitside; For the penfold surrounded a hollow Which led where the eye scarce dared follow 30 And shelved to the chamber secluded Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded.

The King hailed his keeper, an Arab As glossy and black as a scarab, And bade him make sport and at once stir Up and out of his den the old monster.

They opened a hole in the wire-work Across it, and dropped there a firework, And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled; A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, 40 The blackness and silence so utter, By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter; Then earth in a sudden contortion Gave out to our gaze her abortion.

Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot (Whose experience of nature's but narrow And whose faculties move in no small mist When he versifies David the Psalmist) I should study that brute to describe you Illum Juda Leonem de Tribu. 50 One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy To see the black mane, vast and heapy, The tail in the air stiff and straining The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning, As over the barrier which bounded His platform, and us who surrounded The barrier, they reached and they rested On s.p.a.ce that might stand him in best stead: For who knew, he thought, what the amazement, The eruption of clatter and blaze meant, 60 And if, in this minute of wonder, No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder, Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered, The lion at last was delivered?

Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead!