Poems (Greenwell)/The Marriage of True Minds
THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS.[1]
"Endure and dare, true heart, through Patience joined With boldness come we at a Crown enriched With thousand blessings."—From the Spanish of Argensolas.
I.
AGNES AT HER WINDOW.
My window looks upon a dead blank wall, Yet flowers that grow beyond are kind, and send— As friend might soothingly to prisoned friend—Their kisses blown upon the wind, to call A summer round me in my cell, where all Breathes of the rose and jessamine that blend; And struggling o'er—yet more to make amend, A Vine hath run, and on my side let fall Some leaves and tendrils, chequering the dull stone With verdurous gloom; e'en like such gracious bough Hast thou, O Love! thy goodly branches thrown O'er our Life's drearness; grieved and hated Thou By this world's archers, yet Thou dost abide In strength, firm rooted on the other side!
II.
THE SERENADE.
Last night, as Thou thy wonted round didst make, Beloved watcher, sore I chid the wind, When citron scents were wooing it, to take Thy sweetness from me, leaving theirs behind! For ever, though my very soul did wake To catch that broken music, tenderness Was fain to fill its pauses with a guess!
And "Oh, my prisoned jewel"[2] (so I strove To bind these links, the breezes' envious dole In one), thou calledst me "thy star, thy dove, Thy rose, thy angel, treasure of thy soul!"These words came fitfully, the strain passed by; Then from these scattered fragments Love and I Sat down to frame one bright mosaic whole!
Thou callest me thy Rose! O that indeed I were A white rose—dewy fair. Or ruby-red—that glows On India's fervid air; For then would I enclose
My fragrance shut within thy heart, and dwell As lives the flower's quick spirit in the cell It floods with sweetness, sweetness never knowing Loss for the bounty of its overflowing!
Thou callest me thy Pearl! O that indeed I were A bright pearl gleaming fair, A white pearl in its quivering lustre, yet Faint-shining like a tear,—a tear that met With comfort ere it fell, and trembling hung Awhile, all round and glistening, where it sprung; Then would I fall and lie, Beloved, in thy cup dissolving slow At Life's great banquet, and thou shouldst not know What gave thy wine the tinge of ecstasy!
O that indeed I were A star, a jewel rare, A soft snow-plumaged dove. An Angel from above; Thou say est, "These are mine,"And hast but one poor heart; yet love, Love on, and all are thine!
III.
AGNES AMONG THE SISTERS.
I sit among the sisters—moments make Their way to hours, as slowly day by day Creeps lagging on, as if before them lay Some evil Thing they feared to overtake; Our fingers move together swift, but slow And few the words that fall, like drops that ooze From springs that in the desert long ago The drifting sands sucked in; full oft I choose To hearken if some echo subterrain Tells where life's hidden streams in darkness yet Flow on; but all is silent, and again I look and see each face before me set—A dial-plate with mosses long o'ergrown,And finger that still duly round the stone Moves on to point to nothing; then I thank My own, if it from theirs hath caught this blank Impenetrable aspect, and so lies A scroll outspread, yet locking from their eyes (Though writ within, without) the precious lore They would but shrink from; yet my heart runs o'er With pity and with love, for these were made For noble creatures, that within the shade Kept by man's fraud, and cheated of their right In the Great Father's heritage of light And warmth, have shrunk to mildewed forms like these; So will they die, methinks, and never know What life was made of, till they pass above To sun themselves for ever in the Love Whose blessed reflex they have missed below.
And in the stillness oft my fancies please To frame similitudes, as like a pall This silence wraps our spirits, one and all; Yet theirs, methinks, is Polar silence froze Unto the centre; snows piled up on snows 'Mid icy seas where glimmer to the moon Cold shapeless forms, and wrecks that to and fro Drift aimless on; but like a Torrid noon Is mine, begirt with stillness like to death,Where large-leaved flowers upon the burning air Hang motionless, and drink its fiery breath; And every beast lies couched within its lair, And bird with folded wing; yet listen! there A pulse beats audibly, a murmur rife Above, beneath, this sultry hush profound Is quickening on the sense, and at a sound Will flash and kindle, all instinct with Life!
IV.
And oft upon me is the fancy borne— (Wild wish whose wayward longing doth but prove How this poor heart with anxious throbbings worn Hath need of rest from all things, e'en from love!) To cross those icy barriers that wreathe Betwixt these sisters' souls and mine; to see How it fares with them on the heights, and breathe The cold, clear air of their serenity; For thought o'er-peoples all this life of mine, So would I leave it for one moment, free From hope, fear, rapture—yea, Beloved, from thee.One moment! could I thus indeed resign A fraction of my troubled wealth, my bliss So dearly won? I trow not! and in this I seem like some proud courtier bowed and bent With weight of honours, that beside his road Sees nested 'mid thick leaves some low abode; "There," sighs he, "there is peace and calm content,'" Yet would he deem its quiet—banishment!
- ↑ The annals of the heart are rich and various, extending over a wide region, yet it would be hard, among all its written or traditionary wealth, to find a sweeter true-love story than that contained in the lyrical autobiography of Vieira, the Lusitaniayi, the famous painter and faithful husband. This poem, which was given to the world at the age of eighty-one, three years before the author's death, is so remarkable in all respects, as to have been considered by Southey the best book Portugal has to boast of. It is full of extraordinary incident, and celebrates the passion which, beginning before either of the lovers was eight years old, forms, in its mutual strength and constancy, at once the marvel and the glory of the two lives it bound together.—See on this subject an article in Blackwood's Magazine for March 1851, "The Fine Arts in Portugal."
- ↑ Tesouro imprisonado