(_The Spirit of the Tale_)
To M.
For in the morning of our love, there came
The spirit singing such entrancing notes,
As sweeps the whole empyrian with a flame,
Wherein, a dream, pure lofty pleasure floats,
And love and beauty find their mellow throats,
In glorious fervor, drinking from the golden bowl,
The wine of joy that binds them soul to soul,
Thou art my muse and thine the phantasy
With spirit hand to guide unconsciously.
For all I bring thee, minion of thy beauty,
This little garland of a memory fruity--
A simple tale, as old as love is old,
Of virgin art within a golden mold,
Still burning, molten, shaping unto glory--
A matchless song and yet a simple story.
How mischief led a cold unwitting boy
Along new paths to taste a sudden joy;
How curious Love asport from flower to flower,
Hath found a sense too sweet to overpower,
And yet such magic sweet, that once is tasted,
A moment otherwheres were eons wasted;
How Cupid, wandering in a lovely valley
With arrowed bow, by many a maid must dally,
Till Psyche, like a prisms ingathered hues,
Into a sudden virgin light he woos.
Sweet Psyche princes in a golden land,
And Princess still from bounding strand to strand,
The fairest maid of any. Cupid heavenly born,
Fair son of Beauty's queen, whom to adorn.
Needs but to name, Great Venus Queen of Beauty--
Whom to adore was but a solemn duty.
This lad whom she hath dowered with all her charms,
A voice resistless and soft amorous arms,
And named him Love, now raptured, lies,
A simple lover in a woman's eyes.
A tale of heart and soul, and so of sorrow,
In afterwhiles when riches stoop to borrow--
A tale of being's subtlest jewelry
O'erlaying grief with golden filigree.
And I would soar on golden wings of song,
And in the souls empyrian float along,
From height to height of all the heart's dear chimes,
To bless thee for the love that thou hast brought,
With greater life. Let tender tinkling rhimes,
Like pure white doves, lead on the lovely thought.
I
Deep in a woody vale, where crystal streams
Run vaguely like the threads of vanished dreams;
Where fountains tinkle to the yellow sun
Sweet rainbow-tinted hopes, and lightly run,
In joyful race unto the distant ocean;
Where greeny swards are checked with light and shade,
To make a cool retreat for fine emotion;
And velvet lawns, than never weft was laid,
More intricate designed of pleasing hues,
So richly gem'd in Orient pearls of dews
Along quaint aisles in mosques of Samarkand,
To bear some solemn priest in deep devotion;
Where vague far vistas stretch on every hand.
To luring scenes; where happy shepherds amble,
With happy maids, as light as lambs agambol,
Or lie alone, with flocks abrowse by streams,
And rear quaint misty cities out of dreams,
Along far clouds of pearly shape and lining,
In crystal walls and domes of no defining,
And people them with shepherds, maids and gods
That live for love, until the shepherd nods,
And dreams of his own Phillis fairer far,--
Upon a hillock in a shady grove,
The heart of this fair scene, its central star,
And viewless as the stars of heaven are,
With too much light, stood once the house of love.
A mansion builded of the rarest stone,
Transparent, gem like, carved, and strangely wrought,
As some fine architecture in a dream is sought,
And gird with fancy's fairest flowers blown.
The house of love, and here of balmy days,
Its gentle spirits thrid in dreamy maze.
And here the days are always balmy, here
'Tis sweet to laugh, and sweet to drop a tear.
Its crystal halls in magic mirror walls,
Stand empty but for one, while myriad falls
Of lover's feet go tripping after her
Or him and wild faint odors sweetly stir
Through all the room from raptured lovers breathing,
While each a rosy crown for aye is wreathing.
This is the house of love, the golden key
Is faith, sweet faith in joy of living,
That doubts the mirror not, nor cares to see
What hidden scenes the glass is loth in giving.