Poems (Sackville)/The Death of Beatrice
THE DEATH OF BEATRICE
Seeing that Death spares not the Spring, But even as of Autumn makesThereof continuous harvesting— How should he strike not for our sakesWho has no care for anything?
Yet no wise as an enemy Comes Death—but deeming that the soulIs held in shamed captivity Beneath the body's dark control—He being stronger sets it free.
And since the Lady Beatrice was Merely on earth a traveller—Weep not; she saw as through a glass The earth, but ever would conferWith angels that in God's sight pass.
Half consciously she moved within This world, not once her spirit grewClouded by any mist of sin— But all things that around her drewPart of her beauty seemed to win.
As though her spirit were a pool Of such great virtue, all were savedFrom some foul fever's loathed rule If they their sickly bodies lavedIn those deep waters hushed and cool.
No evil thing possessed her eyes But rose transformed; before her sightFear clad himself in Hope's disguise— Hate turned to love, darkness to light,And folly grew a thing most wise.
But who may know her dreams—too sweet Were they for any spoken word,Or any fancy incomplete Of ours—they seemed the soft winds stirredRound God's perpetual Mercy Seat.
Unfading harmonies and songs Such chords of lovely music wrought,Full of all sounds for which life longs; In all the pauses of her thoughtNo discord lived that mars or wrongs.
One who has seen a river flow Across some bare and songless waste,Reflecting not the dearth below But the fair sky, has surely gazedOn her and striven her soul to know.
One who has loved a prayer which kept His soul (the prayer scarce understood,Yet beautiful), when his strength slept In tortuous paths of wrong and good,Has felt how through men's souls she stept.
Love made her spirit like his own Moulded in all respects to himIn loveliness and round his throne Her thoughts, most mystical, most dim,Discoursed sweet songs like music blown
From holy heights, unguessed, untrod, Save by an angel when he baresHis rapture in a living flood Of such pure chords the music daresLive only in the sight of God.
Ah! Beatrice, what word have we Sufficient—vainly do we speak,And vainly sing—what song to thee Of all our songs abashed and weak,Shall wing towards Heaven worthily?
Alone our silence speaks—more strong, More passionate our silence seemsThan any chord of any song. Oh! Lady, take, oh! take our dreams,Moulding them even as we long
To magnify them—yet our praise How shall it touch thee? Who shall weaveFor thee around whose head the rays Of the sun's splendour burn and cleaveDiscordant crowns of earthly days?
One sings indeed, but his voice is The very voice of sorrow; allDeath's most beloved mysteries He takes and weaves a coronalTo crown the brows of Beatrice.
Slowly he comes now the pale shades Of evening grow distinct, whilst stillThe sun a flaming garland braids Round the calm forehead of the hill,And, full of sleep, the long day fades.
There runs no murmur through the street, No voice of mirth, no hushed replies;And no man's sorrow incomplete Breaks that grey woe that round him lies,Or strives to stay his quiet feet.
God surely made beyond desire, Even of an angel, his great soul,And filled it with eternal fire, And wrought for it an aureoleWith flames for ever leaping higher
To flush the ages with their light, Intense in power that should consumeMen's souls, and clear their darkened sight Which Time's own fingers should relume—His own breath blow the flame more bright.
He kneels beside our Lady's bier And we who gaze as though a spellHeld us, half deem the steps drew near Of very grief grown visible—Sorrow made manifest and clear.
Lowly he kneels, thus murmuring, 'Oh! face, beyond expression pure,Oh! marvellous face, what offering, What gift is mine? How shall endure,After the Spring, the songs of Spring!
'How pale art thou, who conquerest Death! Life sits beside thee winged and fair,Thy silence quivers with his breath, The wind is still and the quiet airFull, full of the great words he saith.
'Oh! Wonderful! not even Love May know thee, nay, not the white flameWherewith he writes all names above, Shall spell the letters of that nameThou—thou alone—art worthy of.
'Sleep on—I would not have thee wake, For mirrored in thy sleep I seeThy newer life, and the bonds break Which lie athwart the soul of me,And I even in thy bliss partake.
'Ah! sleep, and let thy slumber guard The courts and palaces of life,That nought may hinder nor retard My steps, nor paths unclean of strifeLure me and leave my spirit marred.
'Oh! silence mystical—oh! eyes Silent; oh! silent lips; oh! handsMost silent, hold me in such wise That I may find those holy landsShe treads—cool fields of Paradise.'
And now the evening wanes, and one Draws nigh, even as though he cameFrom out the portals of the sun, With wings that burn like a great flame,And feet which seem to spurn and shun
The earth; who bending over him That weeps, and her, in one the twainJoins with a thread wondrous and dim— Such as from out Love's crimson skeinUnravel still the Seraphim.