“The Ring And The Book.”

THE RING.----TO GEORGE ELIOT.

As she, thy Dorothea, loved of thee, Refused to wear in careless ornament The amethysts and emeralds that lent Their charm to other women;--even as she, Turning one day by chance the golden key Of their close casket, started as they sent Swift, glowing rays to greet her, and then bent To lift them in her white hands lovingly;--

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O great of heart, so calmly dost thou stand In the proud splendor of thy fame, and bring Thy glorious gifts to all the listening land,-- Thou canst not greatly care what I may sing! Yet since I hold to thee my amethyst ring, Take it one little moment in thy hand!

THE BOOK.----To D. M. R.

Dear, if this little book of thine and mine Could bring me fame as glorious and rare As that whose splendid laurels shine so fair For Dorothea,----it were less divine A gift than this most priceless love of thine. Since, then, that came to me, why now despair Of laurel? though I may not hope to wear Laurel or myrtle as the precious sign Of any proud desert. Yet if I might Not find that love could keep its holy tryst With fame, how quickly would I yield the bright New dream, to keep my ring of amethyst: The memory of that day when love first kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write!

Ἀμέθυστος

TO THE CRITIC.

I know full well I cannot pour for you The nectar of the gods;--no epic wine Is this I bring, to tempt you with its fine Poetic flavor, as of grapes that grew In the young vineyards when the world was new, And only poets wrote;--a slender vine You scarce will care for, bore these grapes of mine, From which frail hands have crushed the purple dew. Yet if from what I bring you, there is missed The lyric loveliness of some who write, The passionate fervor and the keen delight Of eloquent fire in some to whom you list,-- Think it may be, not that the gift is slight, But that my cup is rimmed with amethyst!

NARCISSUS.

TO THE READER.

If haply in these pages you should read Aught that seems true to human nature, true To heavenly instincts;--if they speak to you Of love, of sorrow, faith without a creed, Of doubt, of hope, of longing,--or indeed Of any pain or joy the poet knew A heart could feel,--think not to find a clue To his own heart--its gladness or its need. From a deep spring with tangled weeds o’ergrown The poet parts the leaves; if they who pass, Bending to look down through the tall wild grass, By winds of heaven faintly overblown, Should start to see there, dimly in a glass, Some face,----’tis not the poet’s, but their own!

PROEM.

I wonder, little book, if after all I greatly care whether with praise or blame Men turn your leaves. Once, the fair hope of fame Had made me wonder what fate should befall My first faint singing; now I cannot call The singing mine; I gave it him who came To place my joy where no harsh touch can maim Its safe, secure, bright beauty. Like a wall Of strong defence to me this blessedness: That of his love I am so proudly sure, Though the whole world should bend to my success, I think he could not love me any more! And though the whole world say my book is poor, I know he will not love me any less!

JOY.

My heart was like a flower once, That from its jewel-tinted cup The generous fragrance of its joy To all the world sent floating up. But now ’tis like a humming-bird, That in the cup his bright wing dips, And with most dainty selfishness Himself the choicest honey sips, With eager, thirsty, longing lips!

And once my heart was like a gem, Set in a fair betrothal ring; Content to light the happy darks That shield love’s shy self-wondering. But now I think my heart is like The lady fair who wears the ring; Pressed closely to her lips at night With love’s mysterious wondering That hers should be the precious thing!

And once my heart was like a nest, Where singing-birds have made their home; Set where the apple-boughs in bloom Fleck the blue air with flower-foam. But now it is itself a bird; And if it does not always sing, The Heavenly Father knows what thoughts,-- Too strangely sweet for uttering,-- Stir faintly underneath its wing!

PAIN.

My heart was once a folded flower, Within whose jewel-tinted cup,-- Still hidden even from itself,-- A wealth of joy is treasured up. But now my heart is like a flower From which a dainty humming-bird Has rifled all the choicest sweets, And left without one last fond word The flower-soul so deeply stirred.

And once my heart was like a gem, Set in a rich betrothal ring; Unconscious in its darkened case How fair it lies there glittering. But now I think my heart is like The lady who has worn the ring, And draws it from her finger slight With love’s bewildered wondering That love should be a poor bruised thing.

And once my heart was like a nest, High in the apple branches hung; Where in the early April dew No happy birds have ever sung. Now ’tis itself a wounded bird; And though sometimes you hear it sing, The Heavenly Father knows what pain It tries to hide by uttering The same sweet notes it used to sing.

A STUDY.

I think, indeed, ’twas only this that made Her seem peculiar: namely, she had no Peculiarity. The world to-day Is disappointed if we are not odd, And hold decided views on some one point, Or else unsettled views on all. But she Was living simply what she wished to live: A lovely life of rounded womanhood; With no sharp, salient points for eye or ear To seize and pass quick judgment on. Not quite Content was she to let the golden days Slip from her fingers like the well-worn beads Of some long rosary, told o’er and o’er Each night with dull, mechanical routine; But yet she had no central purpose; no Absorbing aim to which all else must yield; And so the very sweetness of her life, Its exquisite simplicity and calm, Musical in its silence, smote the ear More sharply than the discords of the rest. So do we grow accustomed far at sea To jar and clang of harsh machinery, And sleep profoundly in our narrow berths Amid the turmoil; but if suddenly The noisy whirr is silent, and the deep Low murmur of the moonlit sea is all That stirs the air, we waken with a start, And ask in terror what has happened! Then Sink back again upon the pillows; strange, That silence should have wakened us! Alas! The world has grown so feverishly hot With restless aims and poor ambitious dreams, That lives which have the cool and temperate flow Of healthful purpose in their veins, will seem Peculiar!