Poems (Blagden)/Mesmerism

by Isa Blagden

MESMERISM.

A DEATH-BED CONFESSION.

I.

'Twas here we met that eve; the harvest moon
 Shone steadfast, large and bright.
Warm pulses stirred the air, as in mid-noon;
 A joy filled all the night.
But chill my heart with boding gloom
When we three met in this dark room.

II.

'T was here she sate; her long luxuriant hair
 A silver crescent bound,
(A crescent such as Roman women wear;)
 One soft thick curl unwound
Hung down her neck its loose bright fold;
Ah! dainty ivory and gold.

III.

How fair! her long, dark lashes drooping low
 Half veiled her downcast eyes;
But I could read upon her virgin brow
 A terror, a surprise,
As if she felt, poor, fragile flower,
The awful menace of that hour!

IV.

My flower! she ever seemed as one who bloomed
 For angels, not for earth.
Pathetic sweetness, as of one foredoomed,
 Hung round her, from her birth.
In that fair form there seemed a strife,
A struggle as 'twixt Death and Life.

V.

I hoped to conquer Death and thought at last
 Through strong magnetic aid
To wrestle with the languor which had cast
 O'er that sweet brow its shade;
To save that Life, I would have given
All peace on earth, all joy in heaven!

VI.

I sent for one, whose Art most strangely swayed
 Both mind and body's health,
And with a fevered hope I sought his aid,
 And offered untold wealth
If his magnetic power could save
My cherished blossom from the grave.

VII.

He came. Think you it was no pang to bring
 This serpent to my Eve?
Each day some sweet familiar joy took wing
 And yet I dared not grieve.
He said no influence must be
Between them—and I left them free.

VIII.

I yielded for a time; I saw she gained
 Something of tender bloom,
A deeper sweetness o'er her beauty reigned,
 A delicate perfume
Of graceful health; "One trial more,"
I sighed, "and then this task is o'er."

IX.

I must be brief!—'twas here we met, I said
 (Methinks I see them still),
For the last time. She sate with drooping head
 And he gazed on her; will
And power in that dark eye intense—
His heart all ice, his love all sense.

X.

I had borne much. This time, as 'twas the last,
 He seemed. resolved to strain,
Beyond all pangs through which I yet had passed,
 My jealous, maddened pain.
With a voluptuous sensuousness
His fingers lingered o'er each tress.

XI.

He touched her hand, he bent above her brow,
 Her neck, her limbs; the whole
Of that fair body 'neath his will did bow;
 He seemed to sway her soul.
No quivering lyre could yield as much
Obedience to its master's touch.

XII.

I watched him well. I saw as once he waved
 Above her head his hands,
That flames fell from them; once I madly braved
 His resolute commands,
And rushed towards her,—God! to see
Her turn to him—to him! from me.

XIII.

I strove to speak, my voice seemed weak and strange;
 Thick foam was on my lips—
"Pause, pause," I said; I saw her features change
 As when a black eclipse
Makes void the sky of the great Sun . . .
"'Tis o'er," he said, "my work is done."

XIV.

He touched her hand, "Do I now hold thee, sweet?
 Thou'rt mine by spirit might—
Then come with me." She rose upon her feet
 Out—out into the night.
I followed swift her gliding tread,
Poor angel! by a demon led.

XV.

As drowning men a lifetime's former sin,
 Without a break or flaw,
Recall at once, all bare and clear within,
 I felt, I heard, I saw,
But neither word nor sign allowed.
I followed, bound as in my shroud,

XVI.

Through my old hall; its banners stirred
 As moved by a strong wind,
Yet as we passed no sound, no step was heard;
 The burnished shields which lined
The walls were lit as with a flame,
And clashed together as we came!

XVII.

Through the arched porch its gloom a warning shed;
 But that pale form shone white
Before me, and those snowy robes outspread.
 I followed through the night.
My bloodhounds knew as well, yet why
Howled they so loud as we passed by?

XVIII.

Among her flowers,—they slept 'mid dew and balm,
 Nature's deep heart was still—
Our triple shadow blent with the soft calm
 An element of ill.
From some dim cloud, as we went past,
Large sudden drops were o'er them cast.

XIX.

Beside our lake, which 'neath its cedars slept
 (I tell thee 'twas no dream),
A lurid ripple o'er its surface crept,
 A wan phosphoric gleam,
And through the gleam an upturned face
Of mocking menace I could trace!

XX.

Through the oak wood its branches closed and spread
 Between us and the sky—
But on, still on, he never turned his head,
 Nor spoke, and she, led by
Blind instinct, her own footsteps laid
In every footprint his had made!

XXI.

Upwards we strained through the brief August night,
 Far, far we onward sped.
The round moon long had set, the morning's light
 Flamed o'er us wild and red—
Until on yon accursed hill
She, he, and I at length stood still.

XXII.

"I've done my work, and now I bid thee speak."
 Instant at his command,
With faint low gasp for words she seemed to seek.
 He fiercely raised his hand—
And then I saw the pale lips stirred,
But a faint murmur all I heard.

XXIII.

"Nay, strive not, swerve not, thou art mine, my sweet;
 Forget thy waking pride."
She fell before him, clasping low his feet
 And prostrate at his side;
Her long fair hair, all loose unwound,
Like angel's wings shone on the ground.

XXIV.

"Tell him thou lovest me." A wild, dumb strife,
 A deep emotion stole
O'er that wan face. "I've given your statue life,
 Your fair Undine a soul."
(Was that the wind's low piercing moan,
Or broke her heart in that faint groan?)

XXV.

He turned to me, "I tell thee, she is mine,
 We love, and we are young;
No other hand shall draw a song divine
 From the sweet lute I strung;
My creature! whom I snatched from death!
My Eve! born of my very breath!

XXVI.

"Canst thou not see I've drawn from thine her heart,
 Each pulse and each desire?
Her very life is of my life a part,
 Bound by a chord of fire;
Sprung from the joy of our embrace,
Earth yet shall see a nobler race!

XXVII.

"For aye divorced from thee. Speak not; one word
 Would wake her—and she dies.
One word from thee would pierce—a sword;
 Yet make the sacrifice
If thou wouldst win her!—Death will free,
And Death alone, her bond to me."

XXVIII.

"Awake!" My voice like the last trumpet pealed.
 She started wild, and dim,
She looked around, and all was then revealed.
 She turned from me to him.
All, all, in that one look she read.
One sob—Who said that she was dead?

XXIX.

Yes! dead. The ermine lives not when its robe
 Receives some soiling stain;
And poison breaks clear glass. I dare not probe
 The madness of that pain.
I raised her in my arms, I bore
Her home with frantic speed—no more!

XXX.

It was my work. He warned me, yet I spoke.
 Mine all the guilt, the pain.
I tell you 'twas my voice, my voice which broke
 Her sleep's magnetic chain.
It was thus planned by him to add
A pang—oh no, I am not mad!

XXXI.

In vain. I will not think of him. I bore
 Her home, my arms close round
That pallid form, while from her lips gushed o'er
 Her blood upon the ground.
He loved her—knew she was my bride;
Lost thus to him. Enough, she died!

XXXII.

That dull, dead sound—that broken heart that burst,
 O'ercharged as it had been
By that strange life—and he with skill accursed
 The end had all foreseen—
That plashing sound, I hear it yet,
Still with that stain my lips are wet!

XXXIII.

That dull, dead sound—those drops tracked all the path
 (I see it in the night).
I reached the porch, my hounds with fierce loud wrath
 Flew out; but as the light
Fell on my face, they crouched and whined,
And I fell speechless, senseless, blind.

XXXIV.

They bore us here. So tight was my death-clasp,
 They could not loose my hold
That day, that night. At length, freed from my grasp,
 They bore her stark and cold . . .
Sometimes it seems but yesterday—
Sometimes . . . . . I know not what I say.

xxxv.

No strength for grief? did I say that? am I
 The finite—infinite—
Not made for heaven nor hell? Yon starry sky
 Doth hold both day and night.
All depths of woe or bliss to scan,
God made in His own image man.

XXXVI.

Restored in heaven! an angel with her palm,
 But not my child—my bride.
Speak, man of God! can heaven this anguish calm,
 That on my heart, she died?
Alas! alas! the bliss foregone
Will pierce my heart before God's throne.

XXXVII.

Seraph! with thy serene immortal eyes!
 Not thee, not thee I seek.
I miss the little hand, the low replies,
 The golden hair, the cheek,
With its faint rose blush . . . yes, I rave
Of life, and yonder is her grave!

XXXVIII.

You tell me, Preacher, patience conquers grief.
 Am I not patient? see,
Am I not calm? when have I sought relief
 I bear my misery
Without a tear, with scarce a sigh,
My sole impatience—that I die

XXXIX.

How could I live? She's dead—and thus I know
 That all of life but breath
Has died with me. Is death escape? Oh no!
 As life is, so is death.
Here 'tis but sorrow—there 'tis hell.
I was foredoomed—I know it well—

XL.

Here and hereafter—still—yes, still to bear
 A grief undying—vast—
To love—to lose . . . The Future's dread despair
 Equals the anguished Past.
In that calm heaven by angels trod
I seek that form. Forgive, O God! . . . . .