Poems (Blagden)/A love poem

by Isa Blagden

A LOVE POEM.

ROSAMOND.

I.

Oh what a golden swarm of dreams
 Came to my couch last night,
And hovered o'er me with their gleams
 Of soft and mystic light,
And sucked the sweetness of my sleep
 Through long and quick'ning hours!
Then left me dewless, rifled, spent,
 As satiate bees leave flowers.

II.

O pillow! to thy spell when I
 Had yielded up my soul,
On magic wings o'er earth and sky
 I flew where yonder roll
The waters of that fatal sea,
 Whose surges heave beside,
And lave with ceaseless, wailing tears,
 The tomb where sleeps my bride.

III.

O couch! whereon I sought my rest,
 Grief-bowed and passion-worn,
Soon as my limbs thy folds had pressed,
 In spirit was I borne
At once, from that dark grave, to heaven!
 Then pardoned, free I trod,
And knelt amid the ransomed ones
 With her I loved, to God!

IV.

It was so sweet that, even in dreams,
 I knew the dream was vain.
Too soon, I said, the morning beams
 Will bring back grief again.
(For dreams are gems which only shine,
 Illusive, on Night's brow;—
O'er Day's pure forehead, clear and bright,
 Such jewels may not glow.)

V.

And then this wearied, baffled life,
 With struggle rent and torn,
Must needs resume its toil and strife
 With the bereaving morn.
And beckoning palms, and argent wings,
 And bowers of asphodel,
Will change to sands and dreary wastes,
 And welcomes, to farewells.

VI.

Yet still I slept; and then, as stars
 That faintly, one by one,
Expectant, hushed, look through cloud-bars
 At the departing sun;—
Or roses flushed with crimson bloom,
 Mature, perfumed, complete,
Drop in their places garland-wise
 Around a trellised seat;

VII.

Incarnate in fair shapes of light,
 The hopes of my glad prime
Appeared, as seraph faces bright,
 Circling an arch sublime.
A godlike mystery arose
 Within my 'wildered brain,
Still deepening, as a ringer's chime
 Vibrates and peals again.

VIII.

And there, upheld, made manifest,
 In all that pomp of light—
Wert thou, my loved, my lost, my best,
 In angel vesture white;
Like a Madonna cherub-bound,
 My rose! I saw thee stand,
The halo on thy virgin brow,
 The lily in thy hand.

IX.

O my beloved! was this a sign,
 A symbol that in thee
My life should merge, and, blent with thine,
 Thy love its guerdon be?
That all the longing infinite,
 The future, present, past,
Should tend through every stage of life
 To thee, its first, its last?

X.

Since that primeval moment, when
 From discord God's own breath
Evoked one concord, perfect then
 Of Love, and Life, and Death,
Till now, I know I found thee not
 In my long drought of heart;
And, found too late, our lives but met
 To sever and to part.

XI.

But yet was I made man for this,
 For this that Cross was mine.
The mortal failed to reach his bliss,
 Not so shall the Divine!
And yet—and yet—my human love
 Still vainly, fondly sighs;
I pine to touch thy hand, thy cheek,
 To kiss thy lips, thine eyes.

XII.

To clasp thee closer, close to press
 The glory of thy hair,
To watch thy blushing loveliness
 When I proclaim thee fair. . . .
Alas! how vain to long, to yearn!
 How impotent, Desire!
An angel waves. a sword which girds
 My Paradise with fire!

XIII.

And—Death the angel, Life the sword—
 Thy Death, my Life, must be
Both vanquished, ere I claim, Adored!
 My Eden lost, in thee!