Demeter and other poems/The Ring
Dedicated to the Hon. J. Russell Lowell.
THE RING.
Miriam and her Father.
Miriam (singing).
Mellow moon of heaven, Bright in blue,Moon of married hearts, Hear me, you!
Twelve times in the year Bring me bliss,Globing Honey Moons Bright as this.
Moon, you fade at times From the night.Young again you grow Out of sight.
Silver crescent-curve, Coming soon,Globe again, and make Honey Moon.
Shall not my love last, Moon, with you,For ten thousand years Old and new?
Father.And who was he with such love-drunken eyesThey made a thousand honey moons of one?
Miriam.The prophet of his own, my Hubert—hisThe words, and mine the setting. 'Air and Words,'Said Hubert, when I sang the song, 'are brideAnd bridegroom.' Does it please you?
Father.Mainly, child,Because I hear your Mother's voice in yours.She———, why, you shiver tho' the wind is westWith all the warmth of summer.
Miriam.Well, I feltOn a sudden I know not what, a breath that pastWith all the cold of winter.
Father (muttering to himself).Even so.The Ghost in Man, the Ghost that once was Man,But cannot wholly free itself from Man,Are calling to each other thro' a dawnStranger than earth has ever seen; the veilIs rending, and the Voices of the dayAre heard across the Voices of the dark.No sudden heaven, nor sudden hell, for man,But thro' the Will of One who knows and rules—And utter knowledge is but utter love—Æonian Evolution, swift or slow, Thro' all the Spheres—an ever opening height,An ever lessening earth—and she perhaps,My Miriam, breaks her latest earthly linkWith me to-day.
Miriam.You speak so low, what is it?Your 'Miriam breaks'—is making a new linkBreaking an old one?
Father.No, for we, my child,Have been till now each other's all-in-all.
Miriam. And you the lifelong guardian of the child.
Father. I, and one other whom you have not known.
Miriam.And who? what other?
Father.Whither are you bound?For Naples which we only left in May?
Miriam. No! father, Spain, but Hubert brings me homeWith April and the swallow. Wish me joy!
Father. What need to wish when Hubert weds in youThe heart of Love, and you the soul of TruthIn Hubert?
Miriam. Tho' you used to call me onceThe lonely maiden-Princess of the wood, Who meant to sleep her hundred summers outBefore a kiss should wake her.
Father.Ay, but nowYour fairy Prince has found you, take this ring.
Miriam.'Io t'amo'—and these diamonds—beautiful!'From Walter,' and for me from you then?
Father.Well,One way for Miriam.
Miriam.Miriam am I not?
Father. This ring bequeath'd you by your mother, child,Was to be given you—such her dying wish—Given on the morning when you came of ageOr on the day you married. Both the daysNow close in one. The ring is doubly yours.Why do you look so gravely at the tower?
Miriam. I never saw it yet so all ablazeWith creepers crimsoning to the pinnacles,As if perpetual sunset linger'd there,And all ablaze too in the lake below!And how the birds that circle round the towerAre cheeping to each other of their flightTo summer lands!
Father. And that has made you grave?Fly—care not. Birds and brides must leave the nest.Child, I am happier in your happinessThan in mine own.
Miriam.It is not that!
Father.What else?
Miriam. That chamber in the tower.
Father.What chamber, child?Your nurse is here?
Miriam. My Mother's nurse and mine.She comes to dress me in my bridal veil.
Father. What did she say?
Miriam.She said, that you and IHad been abroad for my poor health so longShe fear'd I had forgotten her, and I ask'dAbout my Mother, and she said, 'Thy hairIs golden like thy Mother's, not so fine.'
Father. What then? what more?
Miriam.She said—perhaps indeedShe wander'd, having wander'd now so farBeyond the common date of death—that you,When I was smaller than the statuetteOf my dear Mother on your bracket here—You took me to that chamber in the tower,The topmost—a chest there, by which you knelt—And there were books and dresses—left to me,A ring too which you kiss'd, and I, she said,I babbled, Mother, Mother—as I usedTo prattle to her picture—stretcht'd my handsAs if I saw her; then a woman cameAnd caught me from my nurse. I hear her yet—A sound of anger like a distant storm.
Father. Garrulous old crone.
Miriam.Poor nurse!
Father.I bad her keep,Like a seal'd book, all mention of the ring,For I myself would tell you all to-day.
Miriam.'She too might speak to-day,' she mumbled. Still,I scarce have learnt the title of your book,But you will turn the pages.
Father.Ay, to-day!I brought you to that chamber on your third September birthday with your nurse, and feltAn icy breath play on me, while I stooptTo take and kiss the ring.
Miriam.This very ringIo t'amo?
Father.Yes, for some wild hope was mineThat, in the misery of my married life,Miriam your Mother might appear to me.She came to you, not me. The storm, you hearFar-off, is Muriel—your step-mother's voice.
Miriam. Vext, that you thought my Mother came to me?Or at my crying 'Mother?' or to find My Mother's diamonds hidden from her there,Like worldly beauties in the Cell, not shownTo dazzle all that see them?
Father.Wait a while.Your Mother and step-mother—Miriam ErneAnd Muriel Erne—the two were cousins—livedWith Muriel's mother on the down, that seesA thousand squares of corn and meadow, farAs the gray deep, a landscape which your eyesHave many a time ranged over when a babe.
Miriam. I climb'd the hill with Hubert yesterday,And from the thousand squares, one silent voiceCame on the wind, and seem'd to say 'Again.' We saw far off an old forsaken house,Then home, and past the ruin'd mill.
Father.And thereI found these cousins often by the brook,For Miriam sketch'd and Muriel threw the fly;The girls of equal age, but one was fair,And one was dark, and both were beautiful.No voice for either spoke within my heartThen, for the surface eye, that only doatsOn outward beauty, glancing from the oneTo the other, knew not that which pleased it most,The raven ringlet or the gold; but bothWere dowerless, and myself, I used to walkThis Terrace—morbid, melancholy; mineAnd yet not mine the hall, the farm, the field; For all that ample woodland whisper'd 'debt,'The brook that feeds this lakelet murmur'd 'debt,'And in yon arching avenue of old elms,Tho' mine, not mine, I heard the sober rookAnd carrion crow cry 'Mortgage.'
Miriam.Father's faultVisited on the children!
Father.Ay, but thenA kinsman, dying, summon'd me to Rome—He left me wealth—and while I journey'd hence,And saw the world fly by me like a dream,And while I communed with my truest self,I woke to all of truest in myself, Till, in the gleam of those mid-summer dawns,The form of Muriel faded, and the faceOf Miriam grew upon me, till I knew;And past and future mix'd in Heaven and madeThe rosy twilight of a perfect day.
Miriam. So glad? no tear for him, who left you wealth,Your kinsman?
Father.I had seen the man but once;He loved my name not me; and then I pass'dHome, and thro' Venice, where a jeweller,So far gone down, or so far up in life,That he was nearing his own hundred, soldThis ring to me, then laugh'd 'the ring is weird.' And weird and worn and wizard-like was he.'Why weird?' I ask'd him; and he said 'The soulsOf two repentant Lovers guard the ring;'Then with a ribald twinkle in his bleak eyes—'And if you give the ring to any maid,They still remember what it cost them here,And bind the maid to love you by the ring;And if the ring were stolen from the maid,The theft were death or madness to the thief,So sacred those Ghost Lovers hold the gift.'And then he told their legend:
'Long agoTwo lovers parted by a scurrilous taleHad quarrell'd, till the man repenting sentThis ring "Io t'amo" to his best beloved,And sent it on her birthday. She in wrath Return'd it on her birthday, and that dayHis death-day, when, half-frenzied by the ring,He wildly fought a rival suitor, himThe causer of that scandal, fought and fell;And she that came to part them all too late,And found a corpse and silence, drew the ringFrom his dead finger, wore it till her death,Shrined him within the temple of her heart,Made every moment of her after lifeA virgin victim to his memory,And dying rose, and rear'd her arms, and cried"I see him, Io t'amo, Io t'amo."'
Miriam. Legend or true? So tender should be true!Did he believe it? did you ask him?
Father.Ay!But that half skeleton, like a barren ghostFrom out the fleshless world of spirits, laugh'd:A hollow laughter!
Miriam.Vile, so near the ghostHimself, to laugh at love in death! But you?
Father. Well, as the bygone lover thro' this ringHad sent his cry for her forgiveness, IWould call thro' this 'Io t'amo' to the heartOf Miriam; then I bad the man engrave'From Walter' on the ring, and send it—wrotename, surname, all as clear as noon, but he—Some younger hand must have engraven the ring— His fingers were so stiffen'd by the frostOf seven and ninety winters, that he scrawl'dA 'Miriam' that might seem a 'Muriel';And Muriel claim'd and open'd what I meantFor Miriam, took the ring, and flaunted itBefore that other whom I loved and love.'A mountain stay'd me here, a minster there,A galleried palace, or a battlefield,Where stood the sheaf of Peace: but—coming home—And on your Mother's birthday—all but yours—A week betwixt—and when the tower as nowWas all ablaze with crimson to the roof,And all ablaze too plunging in the lakeHead-foremost—who were those that stood betweenThe tower and that rich phantom of the tower?Muriel and Miriam, each in white, and likeMay-blossoms in mid autumn—was it they? A light shot upward on them from the lake.What sparkled there? whose hand was that? they stoodSo close together. I am not keen of sight,But coming nearer—Muriel had the ring—'O Miriam! have you given your ring to her?O Miriam!' Miriam redden'd, Muriel clench'dThe hand that wore it, till I cried again:'O Miriam, if you love me take the ring!'She glanced at me, at Muriel, and was mute.'Nay, if you cannot love me, let it be.'Then—Muriel standing ever statue-like—She turn'd, and in her soft imperial wayAnd saying gently: 'Muriel, by your leave,'Unclosed the hand, and from it drew the ring,And gave it me, who pass'd it down her own,'Io t'amo, all is well then.' Muriel fled.
Miriam. Poor Muriel!
Father. Ay, poor Muriel when you hearWhat follows! Miriam loved me from the first,Not thro' the ring; but on her marriage mornThis birthday, death-day, and betrothal ring,Laid on her table overnight, was gone;And after hours of search and doubt and threats,And hubbub, Muriel enter'd with it, 'See!—Found in a chink of that old moulder'd floor!'My Miriam nodded with a pitying smile,As who should say 'that those who lose can find.' Then I and she were married for a year,One year without a storm, or even a cloud; And you my Miriam born within the year;And she my Miriam dead within the year. I sat beside her dying, and she gaspt:'The books, the miniature, the lace are hers,My ring too when she comes of age, or whenShe marries; you—you loved me, kept your word.You love me still "Io t'amo."—Muriel—no—She cannot love; she loves her own hard self,Her firm will, her fix'd purpose. Promise me,Miriam not Muriel—she shall have the ring.'And there the light of other life, which livesBeyond our burial and our buried eyes,Gleam'd for a moment in her own on earth.I swore the vow, then with my latest kissUpon them, closed her eyes, which would not close,But kept their watch upon the ring and you.Your birthday was her death-day.
Miriam.O poor Mother!And you, poor desolate Father, and poor me,The little senseless, worthless, wordless babe,Saved when your life was wreck'd!
Father.Desolate? yes!Desolate as that sailor, whom the stormHad parted from his comrade in the boat,And dash'd half dead on barren sands, was I.Nay, you were my one solace; only—youWere always ailing. Muriel's mother sent,And sure am I, by Muriel, one day cameAnd saw you, shook her head, and patted yours,And smiled, and making with a kindly pinchEach poor pale cheek a momentary rose— 'That should be fix'd,' she said; 'your pretty bud,So blighted here, would flower into full healthAmong our heath and bracken. Let her come!And we will feed her with our mountain air.And send her home to you rejoicing.' No—We could not part. And once, when you my girlRode on my shoulder home—the tiny fistHad graspt a daisy from your Mother's grave—By the lych-gate was Muriel. 'Ay,' she said,'Among the tombs in this damp vale of yours!You scorn my Mother's warning, but the childIs paler than before. We often walkIn open sun, and see beneath our feetThe mist of autumn gather from your lake,And shroud the tower; and once we only sawYour gilded vane, a light above the mist'—(Our old bright bird that still is veering there Above his four gold letters) 'and the light,'She said, 'was like that light'—and there she paused,And long; till I believing that the girl'sLean fancy, groping for it, could not findOne likeness, laugh'd a little and found her two—'A warrior's crest above the cloud of war'—'A fiery phœnix rising from the smoke,The pyre he burnt in.'—'Nay,' she said, 'the lightThat glimmers on the marsh and on the grave.'And spoke no more, but turn'd and pass'd away. Miriam, I am not surely one of thoseCaught by the flower that closes on the fly,But after ten slow weeks her fix'd intent,In aiming at an all but hopeless markTo strike it, struck; I took, I left you there;I came, I went, was happier day by day; For Muriel nursed you with a mother's care;Till on that clear and heather-scented heightThe rounder cheek had brighten'd into bloom.She always came to meet me carrying you,And all her talk was of the babe she loved;So, following her old pastime of the brook,She threw the fly for me; but oftener leftThat angling to the mother. 'Muriel's healthHad weaken'd, nursing little Miriam. Strange!She used to shun the wailing babe, and doatsOn this of yours.' But when the matron sawThat hinted love was only wasted bait,Not risen to, she was bolder. 'Ever sinceYou sent the fatal ring'—I told her 'sentTo Miriam,' 'Doubtless—ay, but ever sinceIn all the world my dear one sees but you—In your sweet babe she finds but you—she makes Her heart a mirror that reflects but you.'And then the tear fell, the voice broke. Her heart!I gazed into the mirror, as a manWho sees his face in water, and a stone,That glances from the bottom of the pool,Strike upward thro' the shadow; yet at last,Gratitude—loneliness—desire to keepSo skilled a nurse about you always—nay!Some half remorseful kind of pity too—Well! well, you know I married Muriel Erne. 'I take thee Muriel for my wedded wife'—I had forgotten it was your birthday, child—When all at once with some electric thrillA cold air pass'd between us, and the handsFell from each other, and were join'd again. No second cloudless honeymoon was mine. For by and by she sicken'd of the farce,She dropt the gracious mask of motherhood,She came no more to meet me, carrying you,Nor ever cared to set you on her knee,Nor ever let you gambol in her sight,Nor ever cheer'd you with a kindly smile,Nor ever ceased to clamour for the ring;Why had I sent the ring at first to her?Why had I made her love me thro' the ring,And then had changed? so fickle are men—the best!Not she—but now my love was hers again,The ring by right, she said, was hers again.At times too shrilling in her angrier moods,'That weak and watery nature love you? No!"Io t'amo, Io t'amo"!' flung herselfAgainst my heart, but often while her lips Were warm upon my check, an icy breath,As from the grating of a sepulchre,Past over both. I told her of my vow,No pliable idiot I to break my vow;But still she made her outcry for the ring;For one monotonous fancy madden'd her,Till I myself was madden'd with her cry,And even that 'Io t'amo,' those three sweetItalian words, became a weariness. My people too were scared with eerie sounds,A footstep, a low throbbing in the walls,A noise of falling weights that never fell,Weird whispers, bells that rang without a hand,Door-handles turn'd when none was at the door,And bolted doors that open'd of themselves:And one betwixt the dark and light had seenHer, bending by the cradle of her babe.
Miriam. And I remember once that being wakedBy noises in the house—and no one near—I cried for nurse, and felt a gentle handFall on my forehead, and a sudden faceLook'd in upon me like a gleam and pass'd,And I was quieted, and slept again.Or is it some half memory of a dream?
Father.Your fifth September birthday.
Miriam.And the face,The hand,—my Mother.
Father. Miriam, on that dayTwo lovers parted by no scurrilous tale—Mere want of gold—and still for twenty yearsBound by the golden cord of their first love—Had ask'd us to their marriage, and to shareTheir marriage-banquet. Muriel, paler thenThan ever you were in your cradle, moan'd,'I am fitter for my bed, or for my grave,I cannot go, go you.' And then she rose,She clung to me with such a hard embrace,So lingeringly long, that half-amazedI parted from her, and I went alone.And when the bridegroom murmur'd, 'With this ring,'I felt for what I could not find, the key,The guardian of her relics, of her ring. I kept it as a sacred amuletAbout me,—gone! and gone in that embrace!Then, hurrying home, I found her not in houseOr garden—up the tower—an icy airFled by me.—There, the chest was open—allThe sacred relics tost about the floor—Among them Muriel lying on her face—I raised her, call'd her 'Muriel. Muriel wake!'The fatal ring lay near her; the glazed eyeGlared at me as in horror. Dead! I tookAnd chafed the freezing hand. A red mark ranAll round one finger pointed straight, the restWere crumpled inwards. Dead!—and maybe stungWith some remorse, had stolen, worn the ring—Then torn it from her finger, or as if—For never had I seen her show remorse—As if—
Miriam.—those two Ghost lovers—
Father.Lovers yet—
Miriam. Yes, yes!
Father.—but dead so long, gone up so far,That now their ever-rising life has dwarf'dOr lost the moment of their past on earth,As we forget our wail at being born.As if—
Miriam.a dearer ghost had—
Father.—wrench'd it away.
Miriam. Had floated in with sad reproachful eyes,Till from her own hand she had torn the ringIn fright, and fallen dead. And I myselfAm half afraid to wear it.
Father.Well, no more!No bridal music this! but fear not you!You have the ring she guarded; that poor linkWith earth is broken, and has left her free,Except that, still drawn downward for an hour,Her spirit hovering by the church, where she Was married too, may linger, till she seesHer maiden coming like a Queen, who leavesSome colder province in the North to gainHer capital city, where the loyal bellsClash welcome—linger, till her own, the babeShe lean'd to from her Spiritual sphere,Her lonely maiden-Princess, crown'd with flowers,Has enter'd on the larger woman-worldOf wives and mothers.
But the bridal veil—Your nurse is waiting. Kiss me child and go.