Part 16

Dear friend, I pray thee, if thou wouldst be proving Thy strong regard for me, Make me no vows. Lip-service is not loving; Let thy faith speak for thee.

Swear not to me that nothing can divide us— So little such oaths mean. But when distrust and envy creep beside us Let them not come between.

Say not to me the depths of thy devotion Are deeper than the sea; But watch, lest doubt or some unkind emotion Embitter them for me.

Vow not to love me ever and for ever, Words are such idle things; But when we differ in opinions, never Hurt me by little stings.

I’m sick of words: they are so lightly spoken, And spoken, are but air. I’d rather feel thy trust in me unbroken Than list thy words so fair.

If all the little proofs of trust are heeded, If thou art always kind, No sacrifice, no promise will be needed To satisfy my mind.

TWO SAT DOWN

Two sat down in the morning time, One to sing and one to spin. All men listened the song sublime— But no one listened the dull wheel’s din.

The singer sat in a pleasant nook, And sang of a life that was fair and sweet, While the spinner sat with a steadfast look, Busily plying her hands and feet.

The singer sang on with a rose in her hair, And all men listened her dulcet tone; And the spinner spun on with a dull despair Down in her heart as she sat alone.

But lo! on the morrow no one said Aught of the singer or what she sang. Men were saying: “Behold this thread,” And loud the praise of the spinner rang.

The world has forgotten the singer’s name— Her rose is faded, her songs are old; But far o’er the ocean the spinner’s fame Yet is blazoned in lines of gold.

BOUND AND FREE

Come to me, Love! Come on the wings of the wind! Fly as the ring-dove would fly to his mate! Leave all your cares and your sorrows behind! Leave all the fears of your future to Fate! Come! and our skies shall be glad with the gold That paled into gray when you parted from me. Come! but remember that, just as of old, You must be bound, Love, and I must be free.

Life has lost savour since you and I parted; I have been lonely, and you have been sad. Youth is too brief to be sorrowful-hearted— Come! and again let us laugh and be glad. Lips should not sigh that are fashioned to kiss— Breasts should not ache that joy’s secrets have found. Come! but remember, in spite of all this, I must be free, Love, while you must be bound.

You must be bound to be true while you live, And I keep my freedom for ever, as now. You must ask only for that which I give— Kisses and love-words, but never a vow. Come! I am lonely, and long for your smile, Bring back the lost lovely Summer to me! Come! but remember, remember the while, That you must be bound, Love, and I must be free.

AQUILEIA

“The ropes, the ropes! Apollo send us ropes,” Chrispinus cried, “or death attends our hopes.” Then panic reigned, and many a mournful sound Hurt the cleft air; for where could ropes be found?

Up rose a Roman mother; tall was she As her own son, a youth of noble height. A little child was clinging to her knee— She loosed his twining arms and put him down, And her dark eyes flashed with a sudden light.

How like a queen she stood! her royal crown, The rich dark masses of her splendid hair. Just flecked with spots of sunshine here and there, Twined round her brow; ’twas like a coronet, Where gems of gold lie bedded deep in jet.

She loosed the comb that held the shining strands, And threaded out the meshes with her hands. The purple mass fell to her garment’s hem. A queen new clothed without her diadem She stood before her subjects.

“Now,” she cried, “Give me thy sword, Julianus!” And her son Unsheathed the blade (that had not left his side Save when it sought a foeman’s blood to shed), Awed by her regal bearing, and obeyed.

With the white beauty of her firm fair hand She clasped the hilt; then severed, one by one, Her gold-flecked purple tresses. Strand on strand, Free e’en as foes had fallen by that blade, Robbed of its massive wealth of curl and coil, Yet like some antique model, rose her head In all its classic beauty.

“See!” she said, And pointed to the shining mound of hair; “Apollo makes swift answer to thy prayer, Chrispinus. Quick! now, soldiers, to thy toil!” Forth from a thousand throats what seemed one voice Rose shrilly, filling all the air with cheer. “Lo!” quoth the foe, “our enemies rejoice!” Well might the Thracian giant quake with fear! For while skilled hands caught up the gleaming threads And bound them into cords, a hundred heads Yielded their beauteous tresses to the sword, And cast them down to swell the precious hoard.

Nor was the noble sacrifice in vain Another day beheld the giant slain.

WISHES FOR A LITTLE GIRL

What would I ask the kindly fates to give To crown her life, if I could have my way? My strongest wishes would be negative, If they would but obey.

Give her not greatness. For great souls must stand Alone and lonely in this little world: Cleft rocks that show the great Creator’s hand, Thither by earthquakes hurled.