House by the sea : a poem / Thomas Buchanan Read [electronic text]

I.

WANDERING over the summer plain,Like one gone, for love, insane,And gathering through field and lane, Those wild blooms whose breath is bane, Passed Agatha, her golden hair More golden in the noonday air, Fluttering free from the wonted braid Which her hand no longer made; But twined with such wild vines and weeds As the rank marsh and woodland breeds: And like pale Autumn, when she grieves, Her brow was bound with crimson leaves

Plucked from the woodbine, and her breast In a scarf of withered vines was drest; Her cheeks were white, her eyes were bright, And full of supernatural light.

Oh, Heaven! it is a sight to make The heart of the stoutest stoic ache, To see a maid so young and fair Decked in the garments of despair! Like a statued sorrow, overrun With garlands yellowing in the sun.

And thus as she gathered the leaves and flowers, Fit only to deck the forbidden bowers Wherein some pale enchantress fiend In noxious odours is veiled and screened, She murmured her fancies as they came Out of her brain like wings of flame:—

"They are gone, all the blooms by the wild April strown In the pathway of May; For the passionate breath of the Summer has blown Their leaves to decay.

"And the flowers of childhood must wither and fall,And pine unto death, When the summer of passion breathes over them all Its feverish breath.

"Where the violets out from the green hedges stole,Unnoticed to shine, The poppy is waving its fiery bowl, A bowl of red wine.

"These goblets of crimson, these beakers of sleep, Each a chalice of flame,I will pluck for my lady, her soul they shall steepIn desires without name.

"And the berries that burn on the poisonous vine, Like embers blown red, I will gather and string, and gayly entwine Round her beautiful head.

"From this wild ivy-climber, that strangles the tree And robs it of green, I will weave for my lady a garland, and she Shall be crowned like a queen.

"Once I knew where to find the most beautiful blooms When the year was at noon, Those delicate spirits called out of their tombs By the trumpet of June:—

"Now the daisies and buttercups fade at my touch— And even the sweet-brier, That wild parent of roses my heart loved so much,

Now wilts in my hand as if held in the clutch Of fingers of fire.

"Oh, this beautiful ring! and this gem in its headSo scarlet and bright! I feel a soft warmth through my quick pulses shed With a sense of delight! Like a spark caught from Mars, as lovely and red It burns in the night!

"Since I knew the fair donor, a wonderful changeHas mantled the earth; The summer goes by, and no longer I range Through its bowers of mirth.

"The birds have grown hateful that sing in the light; No longer I hark To any save those which talk madness all night To the fiery-eyed dark!

"Thou gem, let me press thee again and again With a passionate kiss! Oh! a pleasure inflames me that almost is pain, The pain of pure bliss!"