Part 12

With tankards dry she chills her lip, With yellowing laces veils the head, And leaps in pride of ownership Upon the faded marriage bed.

A harp in some dark nook she sees, Long left a prey to heat and frost. She smites it: can such tinklings please? Is not all worth, all beauty, lost?

Ah! who'd have thought such sweetness clung To loose neglected strings like those? They answered to whate'er was sung, And sounded as the lady chose.

Her pitying finger hurried by Each vacant space, each slackened chord; Nor would her wayward zeal let die The music-spirit she restored.

The fashion quaint, the time-worn flaws, The narrow range, the doubtful tone, All was excused awhile, because It seemed a creature of her own.

Perfection tires; the new in old, The mended wrecks that need her skill, Amuse her. If the truth be told, She loves the triumph of her will.

With this, she dares herself persuade, She'll be for many a month content, Quite sure no duchess ever played Upon a sweeter instrument.

And thus in sooth she can beguile Girlhood's romantic hours: but soon She yields to taste and mode and style, A siren of the gay saloon;

And wonders how she once could like Those drooping wires, those failing notes, And leaves her toy for bats to strike Amongst the cobwebs and the motes.

But enter in, thou freezing wind, And snap the harp-strings one by one; It was a maiden blithe and kind: They felt her touch; their task is done.

AMAVI

Ask, mournful Muse, by one alone inspired: What change? am I less fond, or thou less fair? Or is it, that thy mounting soul is tired Of duteous homage and religious care?

So many court thee that my reverent gaze Vexes that wilful and capricious eye; Such fine rare flatteries flow to thee, that praise, From one whose thoughts thou know'st, seems poor and dry.

So must it be. Thus monarchs blandly greet Strange heralds offering tribute, and forget The vassals ranked behind the golden seat, Whose annual gift is counted as a debt.

Since sure of me thy liegeman once in thrall Thou need'st not waste on me those gracious looks. Stirred by the newborn wish to conquer all, Leave thy first subject to his rhymes and books.

Ah! those impetuous claims that drew me forth From my cold shadows to thy dazzling day, Those spells that lured me to the stately North, Those pleas against my scruples, where are they?

Oh, glorious bondage in a dreamful bower! Oh, freedom thrice abhorred, unblest release! Why, why hath cruel circumstance the power To make such worship, such obedience cease?

Surely I served thee, as the wrinkled elm Yieldeth his nature to the jocund vine, Strength unto beauty: may the flood o'erwhelm Root, trunk, and branch, if they have not been thine.

If thine no more, if lightly left behind, To guard the dancing clusters thought unmeet, It is because with gilded trellis twined Thy liberal growth demands untempered heat.

Yet, while they spread more freely to the sun, Those tendrils; while they wanton in the breeze Gathering all heaven's bounties, henceforth one Abides more honoured than the neighbouring trees.

Ah dear, there's something left of that great gift; And humbly marvelling at thy former choice A head once crowned with love I dare uplift, And, for that once I pleased thee, still rejoice.

NOTES OF AN INTERVIEW

It is but little that remaineth Of the kindness that you gave me, And that little precious remnant you withhold. Go free; I know that time constraineth, Wilful blindness could not save me: Yet you say I caused the change that I foretold.

At every sweet unasked relenting, Though you'd tried me with caprice, Did my welcome, did my gladness ever fail? To-day not loud is my lamenting: Do not chide me; it shall cease: Could I think of vanished love without a wail?

Elsewhere, you lightly say, are blooming All the graces I desire: Thus you goad me to the treason of content: If ever, when your brow is glooming, Softer faces I admire, Then your lightnings make me tremble and repent.

Grant this: whatever else beguileth Restless dreaming, drowsy toil, As a plaything, as a windfall, let me hail it. Believe: the brightest one that smileth To your beaming is a foil, To the splendour breaking from you, though you veil it.

PREPARATION

Too weak am I to pray, as some have prayed, That love might hurry straightway out of mind, And leave an ever-vacant waste behind.