No More Learning

VI

It wears me out to think of it,
To think of it;
I cannot bear my fate as writ,
I'd have my life unbe;
Would turn my memory to a blot,
Make every relic of me rot,
My doings be as they were not,
And what they've brought to me!



THE SUPPLANTER
A TALE


I

HE bends his travel-tarnished feet
To where she wastes in clay:
From day-dawn until eve he fares
Along the wintry way;
From day-dawn until eve repairs
Unto her mound to pray.

II

"Are these the gravestone shapes that meet
My forward-straining view?
Or forms that cross a window-blind
In circle, knot, and queue:
Gay forms, that cross and whirl and wind
To music throbbing through? "--

III

"The Keeper of the Field of Tombs
Dwells by its gateway-pier;
He celebrates with feast and dance
His daughter's twentieth year:
He celebrates with wine of France
The birthday of his dear. "--

IV

"The gates are shut when evening glooms:
Lay down your wreath, sad wight;
To-morrow is a time more fit
For placing flowers aright:
The morning is the time for it;
Come, wake with us to-night! "--

V

He grounds his wreath, and enters in,
And sits, and shares their cheer. --
"I fain would foot with you, young man,
Before all others here;
I fain would foot it for a span
With such a cavalier! "

VI

She coaxes, clasps, nor fails to win
His first-unwilling hand:
The merry music strikes its staves,
The dancers quickly band;
And with the damsel of the graves
He duly takes his stand.

VII

"You dance divinely, stranger swain,
Such grace I've never known.
O longer stay! Breathe not adieu
And leave me here alone!
O longer stay: to her be true
Whose heart is all your own! "--

VIII

"I mark a phantom through the pane,
That beckons in despair,
Its mouth all drawn with heavy moan--
Her to whom once I sware! "--
"Nay; 'tis the lately carven stone
Of some strange girl laid there!
"--

IX

"I see white flowers upon the floor
Betrodden to a clot;
My wreath were they? "--"Nay; love me much,
Swear you'll forget me not!
'Twas but a wreath! Full many such
Are brought here and forgot. "

* * * * * * *

X

The watches of the night grow hoar,
He rises ere the sun;
"Now could I kill thee here! " he says,
"For winning me from one
Who ever in her living days
Was pure as cloistered nun! "

XI

She cowers, and he takes his track
Afar for many a mile,
For evermore to be apart
From her who could beguile
His senses by her burning heart,
And win his love awhile.

XII

A year: and he is travelling back
To her who wastes in clay;
From day-dawn until eve he fares
Along the wintry way,
From day-dawn until eve repairs
Unto her mound to pray.

XIII

And there he sets him to fulfil
His frustrate first intent:
And lay upon her bed, at last,
The offering earlier meant:
When, on his stooping figure, ghast
And haggard eyes are bent.

XIV

"O surely for a little while
You can be kind to me!
For do you love her, do you hate,
She knows not--cares not she:
Only the living feel the weight
Of loveless misery!

XV

"I own my sin; I've paid its cost,
Being outcast, shamed, and bare:
I give you daily my whole heart,
Your babe my tender care,
I pour you prayers; and aye to part
Is more than I can bear! "

XVI

He turns--unpitying, passion-tossed;
"I know you not! " he cries,
"Nor know your child. I knew this maid,
But she's in Paradise! "
And swiftly in the winter shade
He breaks from her and flies.