Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter V. Confessions.
By Eric Mackay
Letter V. Confessions.
I.
O Lady mine! O Lady of my Life!
Mine and not mine, a being of the sky
Turn'd into Woman, and I know not why -
Is't well, bethink thee, to maintain a strife
With thy poor servant? War unto the knife,
Because I greet thee with a lover's eye?
II.
Is't well to visit me with thy disdain,
And rack my soul, because, for love of thee,
I was too prone to sink upon my knee,
And too intent to make my meaning plain,
And too resolved to make my loss a gain
To do thee good, by Love's immortal plea?
III.
O friend! forgive me for my dream of bliss.
Forgive: forget; be just! Wilt not forgive?
Not though my tears should fall, as through a sieve
The salt sea-sand? What joy hast thou in this:
To be a maid, and marvel at a kiss?
Say! Must I die, to prove that I can live?
IV.
Shall this be so? E'en this? And all my love
Wreck'd in an instant? No, a gentle heart
Beats in thy bosom; and the shades depart
From all fair gardens, and from skies above,
When thou art near. For thou art like a dove,
And dainty thoughts are with thee where thou art.
V.
Oh! it is like the death of dearest kin,
To wake and find the fancies of the brain
Sear'd and confused. We languish in the strain
Of some lost music, and we find within,
Deep in the heart, the record of a sin,
The thrill thereof, and all the blissful pain.
VI.
For it is deadly sin to love too well,
And unappeased, unhonour'd, unbesought,
To feed on dreams; and yet 'tis aptly thought
That all must love. E'en those who most rebel
In Eros' camp have known his master-spell;
And more shall learn than Eros yet has taught.
VII.
But I am mad to love. I am not wise.
I am the worst of men to love the best
Of all sweet women! An untimely jest,
A thing made up of rhapsodies and sighs,
And unordained on earth, and in the skies,
And undesired in tumult and in rest.
VIII.
All this is true. I know it. I am he.
I am that man. I am the hated friend
Who once received a smile, and sought to mend
His soul with hope. O tyrant! by the plea
Of all thy grace, do thou accept from me
At least the notes that know not to offend.
IX.
See! I will strike again the major chord
Of that great song, which, in his early days,
Beethoven wrote; and thine shall be the praise,
And thine the frenzy like a soldier's sword
Flashing therein; and thine, O thou adored
And bright true Lady! all the poet's lays.
X.
To thee, to thee, the songs of all my joy,
To thee the songs that wildly seem to bless,
And those that mind thee of a past caress.
Lo! with a whisper to the Wingd Boy
Who rules my fate, I will my strength employ
To make a matin-song of my distress.
XI.
But playing thus, and toying with the notes,
I half forget the cause I have to weep;
And, like a reaper in the realms of sleep,
I hear the bird of morning where he floats
High in the welkin, and in fairy boats
I see the minstrels sail upon the deep.
XII.
In mid-suspension of my leaping bow
I almost hear the silence of the night;
And, in my soul, I know the stars are bright
Because they love, and that they nightly glow
To make it clear that there is nought below,
And nought above, so fair as Love's delight.
XIII.
But shall I touch thy heart by speech alone,
Without Amati? Shall I prove, by words,
That hope is meant for men as well as birds;
That I would take a scorpion, or a stone,
In lieu of gold, and sacrifice a throne
To be the keeper of thy flocks and herds?
XIV.
Ah no, my Lady! though I sang to thee
With fuller voice than sings the nightingale -
Fuller and softer in the moonlight pale
Than lays of Keats, or Shelley, or the free
And fire-lipp'd Byron - there would come to me
No word of thine to thank me for the tale.
XV.
Thou would'st not heed. Thou would'st not any-when,
In bower or grove - or in the holy nook
Which shields thy bed - thou would'st not care to look
For thoughts of mine, though faithful in their ken
As are the minds of England's fighting men
When they inscribe their names in Honour's book.
XVI.
Thou would'st not care to scan my face, and through
This face of mine, the soul, for scraps of thought.
Yet 'tis a face that somewhere has been taught
To smile in tears. Mine eyes are somewhat blue
And quick to flash (if what I hear be true)
And dark, at times, as velvet newly wrought.
XVII.
But wilt thou own it? Wilt thou in the scroll
Of my sad life, perceive, as in a hive,
A thousand happy fancies that contrive
To seek thee out? Thy bosom is the goal
Of all my thoughts, and quick to thy control
They wend their way, elate to be alive.
XVIII.
But there is something I could never bring
My soul to compass. No! could I compel
Thy plighted troth, I would not have thee tell
A lie to God. I'll have no wedding-ring
With loveless hands around my neck to cling;
For this were worse than all the fires of hell.
XIX.
I would not take thee from a lover's lips,
Or from the rostrum of a roaring crowd,
Or from the memory of a husband's shroud,
Or from the goblet where a Csar sips.
I would not touch thee with my finger tips,
But I would die to serve thee, - and be proud.
XX.
And could I enter Heaven, and find therein,
In all the wide dominions of the air,
No trace of thee among the natives there,
I would not bide with them - No! not to win
A seraph's lyre - but I would sin a sin,
And free my soul, and seek thee otherwhere!