The Progress of Passion for His Lady

Once more from the dark ivies my proud harp!I wish the sharpness of my ills to beShown in thy sounds, as they have been shown sharpIn their effects; I must bewail to theeThe occasions of my grief, the world shall knowWherefore I perish, I at least will dieConfessed, not without shrift:For by the tresses I am dragged alongBy an antagonist so wild and strong,That o'er sharp rocks and brambles, staining soThe pathway with my blood, it rushes by,Than the swift-footed winds themselves more swift;And to torment me for a longer space,It sometimes paces gently over flowers,Sweet as the morning, where I lose all traceOf former pain, and rest luxurious hours;But brief the respite! in this blissful caseSoon as it sees me, with collected powers,With a new wildness, with a fury new,It turns its rugged road to repursue.

Not by my own neglect into such harmFell I at first, 'twas destiny that bore,And gave me up to the tormenting charm,For both my reason and my judgment sworeTo guard me as in bygone years they wellHad guarded me in seasons of alarm;But when past perils they compared with thoseThey saw advancing, neither could they tellOr what to make of such unusual foes,How to engage with them, or how repel;But stared to see the force with which they came,Till, spurred on by pure shame,With a slow pace and with a timid eye,At length my Reason issued on the way,And more and more as the fleet foe drew nigh,The more did aggravating doubt displayMy life in peril; dreading lest the dieOf that day's battle should be lost, dismayMade the hot blood boll in my veins, until,Reclaimed, it sank into as cold a chill.

I stood spectator of their chivalry;Fighting in my defence, my Reason tiredAnd faint from thousand wounds became, and I,Unconscious what the insidious thought inspired,Was wishing my mailed Advocate to quitThe hopeless quarrel,--never in my lifeWas what I wished fulfilled with so much ease,For, kneeling down, at once she closed the strife,And to the Lady did her sword submit,Consenting she should have me for her slave,As Victory urged, to slaughter or to save,Whichever most might please.Then, then indeed I felt my spirit rise,That such unreasonable conditions e'erHad been agreed to; anger, shame, surprise,At once possessed me, fruitless as they were;Then followed grief to know the treaty done,And see my kingdom in the hands of oneWho gives me life and death each day, and thisIs the most moderate of her tyrannies.

Her eyes, whose lustre could irradiate wellThe raven night, and dim the mid-day sun,Changed me at once by some emphatic spellFrom what I was--I gazed, and it was done.Too finished fascination! glassed in mine,The glory of her eyeballs did imprintSo bright a fire, that from its heat malignMy sickening soul acquired another tint.The showers of tears I shed assisted moreThis transformation; broken up, I found,Was my past peace and freedom, in the coreOf my fond heart, an all-luxuriant ground,The plant whereof I perish struck its rootDeep as its head extended high, and denseAs were its melancholy boughs; the fruitWhich it has been my wont to gather thence,Sour is a thousand times for one time sweet,But ever poisonous to the lips that eat.

Now, flying from myself as from a curse,In search of her who shuns me as a foe,I speed, which to one error adds a worse;And in the midst of toil, fatigue, and woe,Whilst the forged irons on my bound limbs ring,Find myself singing as of old, but ohHow soon are checked the causeless songs I sing,If in myself I lock my thoughts! for thereI view a field where nought but brambles spring,And the black nightshade, garlanding despair.Hope in the distance shows me, as she flies,Her fluttering garments and light step, but ne'erHer angel face,--tears rush into my eyesAt the delusion, nor can I forbearTo call her false as the mirage that killsThe thirsty pilgrim of the sandy waste,When he beholds far-off, 'twixt seeming hills,The stream he dies to taste;With eager eye he marks its lucid face,And listens, fancying that he heard it roar,But when arrived in torment at the place,Weeps to perceive it distant as before.

Of golden locks was the rich tissue woveFramed by my sympathy, wherein with shameMy struggling Reason was entrapped like LoveIn the strong arms of Appetite, the fameWhereof drew all Olympus to regardThe Fire-God's capture; but 'twere out of placeFor me this capture to go gaze, debarredOf that whereby to contemplate the case.So circumstanced I find myself! the fieldOf tournament is cleared, the foe descried,Alarmed I stand, without or spear or shield,Closed are the barriers, and escape denied.Who at my story is not terrified!Who could believe that I am fallen so low,That to the grief I hurry from, my prideIs oft-times found so little of a foe,That at the moment when I might regainA life of freedom, I caress my chain,And curse the hours and moments lately lentTo freer thoughts, as mournfully mis-spent.

This fancy is not always paramount,For of a brain so wild the phantasiesSleep not a moment; Grief at times will mountThe throne of Slavery, and her sceptre seize,So that my fancy shrinks as from its place,To shun the torture of its frightful face.There is no part in me but frenzied is,And wailed by me in turn; on my wild track,Afresh protesting at the blind abyss,I turn affrighted back.Not urged by reason, not by judgment, thisDiscretion of the mind is wholly lost;All is become a barrenness or blot,But this one grief, and ev'n the rising ghostOf dead joy, gliding by, is heeded not;I keep no chronicle of by-gone bliss,But feel alone, within my heart and brain,The fury and the force of present pain.

In midst of all this agony and woeA shade of good descends my wounds to heal;Surely, I fancy, my beloved foeMust feel some little part of what I feel.So insupportable a toil weighs downMy weary soul, that did I not createSome strong deceit, of power to ease the weight,I must at once die--die without my crownOf martyrdom, a registered renown,Untalked of by the world, unheard, unviewed!And thus from my most miserable estateI draw a gleam of good.But soon my fate this train of things reverses,For if I ever from the storm find peace,Peace nurtures fear, and fear my peace disperses,Swift as a rainbow arched o'er raging seas;Thus from the flowers which for a space console,Springs up the serpent that devours my soul.

Ode! if men, seeing thee, be seized with frightAt the caprice, inconstancy, and shockOf these conflicting fancies of my brain,Say that the cause thereof--tormenting pain,Is stable, fixt, and changeless as a rock.Say thou, that its fierce mightSo storms my heart that it must yield, ere long,Ev'n to a foe more terrible and strong;To him, from whom all cross themselves--to save;The Power whose home is in the lonely grave!