Poems (Blagden)/Dialogue between two friends
DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO FRIENDS.
First Friend.
I.
Tue sharp regret, the gnawing pain, The dumb and helpless sense of grief, The struggle which we feel is vain, The tears which never give relief Though still they flow;The restless longing and the fear, Desiring most what most we dread, The frenzied cries when none can hear, Wild tossings on a sleepless bed,— All these I know. But they are past; you see me stand Free from regret, from fear, surprise; My hand lies calmly in her hand, I falter not in my replies, And stern and cold My eyes meet hers. Their fatal blue Has no more power to search me through. That tale is told.
II.
I can withstand her smile. My heart, Which leapt if she but shone afar, Sees her without a thrill or start, Unmoved as frozen billows are, When calm they lie All stark and hushed beneath the moon, No longer swayed by her soft breath, Locked in a dark impassive swoon, The rolling tides are still as death. I hear her sigh, And no wild tumult of the soul Doth cast me prostrate at her feet; No spirit tempests o'er me roll, And no delirium, sad yet sweet, Now holds me fast. The joy, the passion, and the fever, Are dead for ever and for ever. The dream is past.
III.
I feel as feels a shipwrecked man Swimming the waves for life's dear sake. I yield up all; the ocean can Each joy, each costly treasure take, So life be won. I yield my Tyrian merchandise— Those argosies of hope which give Life to man's life, and I arise Naked, forlorn; but yet I live, And shall live on. You see, my friend, I have o'ercome. There is no weakness in this breast. Vainly you'd stir the void for some Old feeling which it once possessed. And yet—and yet—Must I not see her once again, If but to prove by cold disdain That I forget?
IV.
That I have read her through and through, Indifferent to those queenly charms; That I resist, and triumph too— Ah! but to hold her in these arms, And clasp her close; And by the strong magnetic force Of love, full-statured and complete, Draw her to me, as to its source, The sun, is drawn volcanic heat! To gaze on those Wild, mystic, and unfathomed eyes, The witchery of that changeful mouth, The blond hair falling angel-wise, The tender bloom, the glorious youth, As when, O God! I was the fond and foolish slave, Who perished by her cruel scorn, Whose heart found in her heart its grave, On whose crushed faith and love upborne She lightly trod To reach some other heart less sad, With more of sunshine, less of cloud. Some love, I know, and yet are glad; Some wear its purple, some its shroud: But I will prove, By all this bitter sense of wrong, By this deep hatred, fierce and strong . . . .
Second Friend.
That still you love.