That mail'd knees bend beneath a lighted eye?

That trickling tears are deadlier than swords?

That with our full-mooned beauty we can slave Spirits that walk time, like the travelling sun, With sunset glories girt around his loins?

That love can thrive upon such dainty food As sweet words, showering from a rosy lip, As sighs, and smiles, and tears, and kisses warm?"

The dark Page lifted up his Indian eyes To that bright face, and saw it all a-smile; And then half grave, half jestingly, he said,-- "The devil fisheth best for souls of men When his hook is baited with a lovely limb; Love lights upon the heart, and straight we feel More worlds of wealth gleam in an upturned eye, Than in the rich heart of the miser sea.

Beauty hath made our greatest manhoods weak.

There have been men who chafed, leapt on their times, And reined them in as gallants rein their steeds To curvetings, to show their sweep of limb; Yet love hath on their broad brows written 'fool.'

Sages, with pa.s.sions held in leash like hounds; Grave Doctors, tilting with a lance of light In lists of argument, have knelt and sighed Most plethoric sighs, and been but very men; Stern hearts, close barred against a wanton world, Have had their gates burst open by a kiss.

Why, there was one who might have topped all men, Who bartered joyously for a single smile This empired planet with its load of crowns, And thought himself enriched. If ye are fair, Mankind will crowd around you thick as when The full-faced moon sits silver on the sea, The eager waves lift up their gleaming heads, Each shouldering for her smile."

The lady dowered him with her richest look, Her arch head half aside, her liquid eyes, From 'neath their dim lids drooping slumberous, Stood full on his, and called the wild blood up All in a tumult to his sun-kissed cheek, As if it wished to see her beauty too-- Then asked in dulcet tones, "Dost think _me_ fair?"

"Oh, thou art fairer than an Indian morn, Seated in her sheen palace of the east.

Thy faintest smile out-prices the swelled wombs Of fleets, rich-glutted, toiling wearily To vomit all their wealth on English strands.

The whiteness of this hand should ne'er receive A poorer greeting than the kiss of kings; And on thy happy lips doth sit a joy, Fuller than any gathered by the G.o.ds, In all the rich range of their golden heaven."

"Now, by my mother's white enskied soul!"

The lady cried, 'twixt laugh and blush the while, "I'll swear thou'st been in love, my Indian sweet.

Thy spirit on another breaks in joy, Like the pleased sea on a white-breasted sh.o.r.e-- That blush tells tales. And now, I swear by all The well-washed jewels strewn on fathom-sands, That thou dost keep her looks, her words, her sighs, Her laughs, her tears, her angers, and her frowns, Balmed between memory's leaves; and ev'ry day Dost count them o'er and o'er in solitude, As pious monks count o'er their rosaries.

Now, tell me, did she give thee love for love?

Or didst thou make Midnight thy confidant, Telling her all about thy lady's eyes, How rich her cheek, how cold as death her scorn?

My l.u.s.trous Leopard, hast thou been in love?"

The Page's dark face flushed the hue of wine In crystal goblet stricken by the sun; His soul stood like a moon within his eyes, Suddenly orbed; his pa.s.sionate voice was shook By trembling into music.--"Thee I love."

"Thou!" and the Lady, with a cruel laugh, (Each silver throb went through him like a sword,) Flung herself back upon her fringed couch.

From which she rose upon him like a queen, She rose and stabbed him with her angry eyes.

"'Tis well my father did not hear thee, boy, Or else my pretty plaything of an hour Might have gone sleep to-night without his head, And I might waste rich tears upon his fate.

I would not have my sweetest plaything hurt.

Dost think to scorch me with those blazing eyes, My fierce and lightning-blooded cub o' the sun?

Thy blood is up in riot on thy brow, I' the face o' its monarch. Peace! By my grey sire, Now could I slay thee with one look of hate, One single look! My Hero! my Heart-G.o.d!

My dusk Hyperion, Bacchus of the Inds!

My Hercules, with chin as smooth as my own!

I am so sorry maid, I cannot wear This great and proffered jewel of thy love.

Thou art too bold, methinks! Didst never fear That on my poor deserts thy love would sit Like a great diamond on a threadbare robe?

I tremble for 't. I pr'ythee, come to-morrow And I will pasture you upon my lips Until thy beard be grown. Go now, sir, go."

As thence she waved him with arm-sweep superb, The light of scorn was cold within her eyes, And withered his bloom'd heart, which, like a rose, Had opened, timid, to the noon of love.

The lady sank again into her couch, Panting and flushed; slowly she paled with thought; When she looked up the sun had sunk an hour, And one round star shook in the orange west.

The lady sighed, "It was my father's blood That bore me, as a red and wrathful stream Bears a shed leaf. I would recall my words, And yet I would not.

Into what angry beauty rushed his face!

What lips! what splendid eyes! 'twas pitiful To see such splendours ebb in utter woe.

His eyes half-won me. Tush! I am a fool; The blood that purples in these azure veins, Rich'd with its long course through a hundred earls, Were fouled and mudded if I stooped to him.

My father loves him for his free wild wit; I for his beauty and sun-lighted eyes.

To bring him to my feet, to kiss my hand, Had I it in my gift, I'd give the world, Its panting fire-heart, diamonds, veins of gold; Its rich strands, oceans, belts of cedared hills, Whence summer smells are struck by all the winds.

But whether I might lance him through the brain With a proud look,--or whether sternly kill Him with a single deadly word of scorn,-- Or whether yield me up, And sink all tears and weakness in his arms, And strike him blind with a strong shock of joy-- Alas! I feel I could do each and all.

I will be kind when next he brings me flowers, Plucked from the shining forehead of the morn, Ere they have oped their rich cores to the bee.

His wild heart with a ringlet will I chain, And o'er him I will lean me like a heaven, And feed him with sweet looks and dew-soft words, And beauty that might make a monarch pale, And thrill him to the heart's core with a touch; Smile him to Paradise at close of eve, To hang upon my lips in silver dreams."

LADY.

What, art thou done already? Thy tale is like A day unsealed with sunset. What though dusk?

A dusky rod of iron hath power to draw The lightnings from their heaven to itself.

The richest wage you can pay love is--love.

WALTER.

Then close the tale thyself, I drop the mask; I am the sun-tanned Page; the Lady, thou!

I take thy hand, it trembles in my grasp; I look in thy face and see no frown in it.

O may my spirit on hope's ladder climb From hungry nothing up to star-packed s.p.a.ce, Thence strain on tip-toe to thy love beyond-- The only heaven I ask!

LADY.

My G.o.d! 'tis hard!

When I was all in leaf the frost winds came, And now, when o'er me runs the summer's breath, It waves but iron boughs.

WALTER.

What dost thou murmur?

Thy cheeks burn mad as mine. O untouched lips!

I see them as a glorious rebel sees A crown within his reach. I'll taste their bliss Although the price be death----

LADY (_springing up_).

Walter! beware!

These tell-tale heavens are list'ning earnestly.

O Sir! within a month my bridal bells Will make a village glad. The fainting Earth Is bleeding at her million golden veins, And by her blood I'm bought. The sun shall see A pale bride wedded to grey hair, and eyes Of cold and cruel blue; and in the spring A grave with daisies on it. [_A pause._ O my friend!

We twain have met like ships upon the sea, Who hold an hour's converse, so short, so sweet; One little hour! and then, away they speed On lonely paths, through mist, and cloud, and foam, To meet no more. We have been foolish, Walter!

I would to G.o.d that I had never known This secret of thy heart, or else had met thee Years before this. I bear a heavy doom.

If thy rich heart is like a palace shattered, Stand up amid the ruins of thy heart, And with a calm brow front the solemn stars.

[LADY _pauses;_ WALTER _remains silent._ 'Tis four o'clock already. She, the moon, Has climbed the blue steep of the eastern sky, And sits and tarries for the coming night.

So let thy soul be up and ready armed, In waiting till occasion comes like night; As night to moons to souls occasion comes.

I am thine elder, WALTER! in the heart, I read thy future like an open book: I see thou shalt have grief; I also see Thy grief's edge blunted on the iron world.

Be brave and strong through all thy wrestling years, A brave soul is a thing which all things serve; When the great Corsican from Elba came, The soldiers sent to take him, bound or dead, Were struck to statues by his kingly eyes: He spoke--they broke their ranks, they clasped his knees, With tears along a cheering road of triumph They bore him to a throne. Know when to die!

Perform thy work and straight return to G.o.d.

Oh! there are men who linger on the stage To gather crumbs and fragments of applause When they should sleep in earth--who, like the moon, Have brightened up some little night of time, And 'stead of setting when their light is worn, Still linger, like its blank and beamless...o...b.. When daylight fills the sky. But I must go.

Nay, nay, I go alone! Yet one word more,-- Strive for the Poet's crown, but ne'er forget How poor are fancy's blooms to thoughtful fruits; That gold and crimson mornings, though more bright Than soft blue days, are scarcely half their worth.

Walter, farewell! the world shall hear of thee.

[LADY _still lingers._ I have a strange sweet thought. I do believe I shall be dead in spring, and that the soul Which animates and doth inform these limbs Will pa.s.s into the daisies of my grave: If memory shall ever lead thee there, Through daisies I'll look up into thy face And feel a dim sweet joy; and if they move, As in a little wind, thou'lt know 't is I. [LADY _goes._

WALTER (_after a long interval, looking up_).

G.o.d! what a light has pa.s.sed away from earth Since my last look! How hideous this night!

How beautiful the yesterday that stood Over me like a rainbow! I am alone.

The past is past. I see the future stretch All dark and barren as a rainy sea.

SCENE V.

WALTER, _wandering down a rural lane. Evening of the same day as Scene IV._

WALTER.

Sunset is burning like the seal of G.o.d Upon the close of day.--This very hour Night mounts her chariot in the eastern glooms To chase the flying Sun, whose flight has left Footprints of glory in the clouded west: Swift is she haled by winged swimming steeds, Whose cloudy manes are wet with heavy dews, And dews are drizzling from her chariot wheels.