Collected Works (Vol. III)

THE STAR AND THE GARTER That is a hound’s life too. For me, The suicide stands grand and free Beside these others. Was it fear Drove him to stand upon the bank? The Paris lights shone far and drear ; The mist was down ; the night was dank ; The Seine ran easily underneath ; The air was chill: he knew the Seine By pain would put an end to pain, And jumped,—and struggled against death, I doubt not. Ye courageous men That scorn to flee the world, ye slaves Of commerce, ye that ply the pen, That dig, and fill, and loathe your graves ! Ye counter-jumpers, clergy, Jews, All Paris, smug and good, that use To point the index scorn, deride The courage of that suicide— I ask you not to quit us quite, But—will you take a bath to-night? Money might make you. Well: but he, What was his wage, what was his fee? Fear fiercer than a mortal fear. Be silent, cowards, leave him here Dead in the Morgue, so waxen pale ! He failed: shall ye not also fail? Ah! love! the strings are little ; The cords are over strong ; The chain of life ts brittle ; And keen the sword of song. Will you not seize in one firm grip Now, as I hold you, lip to lip, The serpent of Event, hold hard Its slipping coils, its writhe retard, And snap its spine? Delicate hands You have: the work is difficult ; Effort that holds and understands May do it: shall our foes exult, The daughters of Philistia laugh, The girls of Askalon rejoice, Writing for us this epitaph: ‘They chose, and were not worth the choice ” ? You are so pure: I am a man. I will assume the courage tried Of yonder luckless suicide, And you—awaken, if you can, The courage of the courtezan ! X, To sea! Tosea! The ship is trim; The breezes bend the sails. They chant the necromantic hymn, Arouse Arabian tales. To sea! Before us leap the waves ; The wild white combers follow. Invoke, ye melancholy slaves, The morning of Apollo! There’s phosphorescence in the wake, And starlight o’er the prow. One comet, like an angry snake, Lifts up its hooded brow. The black grows grey toward the East: A hint of silver glows. Gods gather to the mystic feast On interlunar snows. The moon is up full-orbed: she glides Striking a snaky ray Across the black resounding tides, The sepulchre of day. The moon is up: upon the prow We stand and watch the moon. A star is lustred on your brow ; Your lips begin a tune, A long, low tune of love that swells Little by little, and lights The overarching miracles Of love’s desire, and Night’s. It swells, it rolls to triumph-song Through luminous black skies ; Thrills into silence sharp and strong, Assumes its peace, and dies. There is the night: it covers close The lilies folded fair Of all your beauty, and the rose Half hidden in your hair.