Poems (Blagden)/Dialogue between two friends

by Isa Blagden

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.