Silverpoints | Page 4

eyes
The last convulsion of the
lingering breath.
"Behold the man!" Robust and frail. Beneath
That
breast indeed might throb the Sacred Heart.
And from the lips, so
holily dispart,
The dying murmur breathes "Forgive! Forgive!"
O
wide-stretched arms! "I perish, let them live."
Under the torture of the
thorny crown,
The loving pallor of the brow looks down
On human
blindness, on the toiler's woes;
The while, to overturn Despair's
repose,
And urge to Hope and Love, as Faith demands,
Bleed, bleed
the feet, the broken side, the hands.
A poet, painter, Christian,--it was
a friend
Of mine--his attributes most fitly blend--
Who saw this
marvel, made an exquisite
Copy; and, knowing how I worshipped it,

Forgot it, in my room, by accident.
I write these verses in
acknowledgment.
LE CHEVALIER MALHEUR
Grim visor'd cavalier!
Rides silently MISCHANCE.
Stabbed is my dying heart
of his unpitying lance.
My poor hearts blood leaps forth,
a single crimson jet.
The hot sun licks it up
where petals pale are wet.
Deep shadow seals my sight,
one shriek my lips has fed.
With a wrung, sullen shudder
my poor heart is dead.
The cavalier dismounts;
and, kneeling on the ground,
His finger iron-mailed
he thrusts into the wound.
Suddenly, at the freezing touch,
the iron smart,
At once within me bursts

a new, a noble heart.
Suddenly, as the steel
into the wound is pressed,
A heart all beautiful
and young throbs in my breast.
Trembling, incredulous
I sat; but ill at ease,
As one who, in a holy trance,
strange visions sees.
While the good cavalier,
remounted on his horse,
Left me a parting nod
as he retook his course,
And shouted to me
(still I hear his cries):
"Once only can the miracle
avail.--Be wise!"
SPLEEN
The roses every one were red,
And all the ivy leaves were black.
Sweet, do not even stir your head,
Or all of my despairs come back.
The sky is too blue, too delicate:
Too soft the air, too green the sea.
I fear---how long had I to wait!--
That you will tear yourself from me.
The shining box-leaves weary me,
The varnished holly's glistening,
The stretch of infinite country;
So, saving you, does everything.
CLAIR DE LUNE
How like a well-kept garden is your soul,
With bergomask and
solemn minuet!
Playing upon the lute! The dancers seem
But sad,
beneath their strange habiliments.
While, in the minor key, their

songs extol
The victor Love, and life's sweet blandishments,
Their
looks belie the burden of their lays,
The songs that mingle with the
still moon-beams.
So strange, so beautiful, the pallid rays;
Making
the birds among the branches dream,
And sob with ecstasy the
slender jets,
The fountains tall that leap upon the lawns
Amid the garden gods, the
marble fauns.
MON DIEU M'A DIT: . . .
God has spoken: Love me,
son, thou must; Oh see
My broken side; my heart,
its rays refulgent shine;
My feet, insulted, stabbed,
that Mary bathes with brine
Of bitter tears my sad arms,
helpless, son, for thee;
With thy sins heavy; and my hands;
thou seest the rod;
Thou seest the nails, the sponge,
the gall; and all my pain
Must teach thee love, amidst a world
where flesh doth reign,
My flesh alone, my blood,
my voice, the voice of God,
Say, have I not loved thee,
loved thee to death,
O brother in my Father,
in the Spirit son?
Say, as the word is written,

is my work not done?
Thy deepest woe have I not sobbed
with struggling breath?
Has not thy sweat of anguished nights
from all my pores in pain
Of blood dripped, piteous friend,
who seekest me in vain?
GREEN
Leaves and branches, flowers and fruits are here;
And here my heart,
which throbs alone for thee.
Ah! do not wound my heart with those
two dear
White hands, but take the poor gift tenderly.
I come, all covered with the dews of night
The morning breeze has
pearled upon my face.
Let my fatigue, at thy feet, in thy sight,

Dream through the moments of its sweet solace.
With thy late kisses ringing, let my head
Roll in blest indolence on
thy young breast;
To lull the tempest thy caresses bred,
And soothe
my senses with a little rest.
FLEURS. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH
OF STEPHANE
MALLARMÉ
The tawny iris--oh! the slim-necked swan;
And, sign of exiled souls,
the bay divine;
Ruddy as seraph's heel its fleckless sheen,
Blushing
the brightness of a trampled dawn.
The hyacinth; the myrtle's sweet alarm;
Like to a woman's flesh, the
cruel rose,
Blossom'd Herodiade of the garden close,
Fed with
ferocious dew of blooddrops warm.
Thou mad'st the lilies' pallor, nigh to swoon.
Which, rolling billows
of deep sighs upon,
Through the blue incense of horizons wan,

Creeps dreamily towards the weeping moon.

Praise in the censers, praise upon the gong,
Madone! from the garden
of our woes:
On eves celestial throb the echo long!
Ecstatic visions!
radiance of haloes!
Mother creatrice! in thy strong, just womb,
Challices nodding the not
distant strife;
Great honey'd blossoms, a balsamic tomb
For weary
poets blanched with starless life.
CHARLEVILLE. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH
OF
ARTHUR RIMBAUD
TO FRANK HARRIS
The square, with gravel paths and shabby lawns.
Correct, the trees
and flowers repress their yawns.
The tradesman brings