Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter II. Sorrow.
by Eric Mackay

Letter II. Sorrow.
I.
Yes, I was mad. I know it. I was mad.
For there is madness in the looks of love;
And he who frights a tender, brooding dove
Is not more base than I, and not so sad;
For I had kill'd the hope that made me glad,
And curs'd, in thought, the sunlight from above.
II.
He was a fool, indeed, who lately tried
To touch the moon, far-shining in the trees,
He clomb the branches with his hands and knees.
And craned his neck to kiss what he espied.
But down he fell, unseemly in his pride,
And told his follies to the fitful breeze.
III.
I was convicted of as strange a thing,
And wild as strange; for, in a hope forlorn,
I fought with Fate. But now the flag is torn
Which like a herald in the days of spring
I held aloft. The birds have ceased to sing
The dear old songs they sang from morn to morn.
IV.
All holy things avoid me. Breezes pass
And will not fan my cheek, as once they did.
The gloaming hies away like one forbid;
And day returns, and shadows on the grass
Fall from the trees; and night and morn amass
No joys for me this side the coffin-lid.
V.
Absolve me, Sweet! Absolve me, or I die;
And give me pardon, if no other boon.
Aye, give me pardon, and the sun and moon,
And all the stars that wander through the sky
Will be thy sponsors, and the gladden'd cry
Of one poor heart will thank thee for it soon.
VI.
And mine Amati - my belov'd one -
The tender sprite who soothes, as best he may,
My fever'd pulse, and makes a roundelay
Of all my fears - e'en he, when all is done,
Will be thy friend, and yield his place to none
To wish thee well, and greet thee day by day.
VII.
For he is human, though, to look at him,
To see his shape, to hear, - as from the throat
Of some bright angel, - his ecstatic note,
A sinful soul might dream of cherubim.
Aye! and he watches when my senses swim,
And I can trace the thoughts that o'er him float.
VIII.
Often, indeed, I tell him more than man
E'er tells to woman in the honied hours
Of tranced night, in cities or in bowers;
And more, perchance, than lovers in the span
Of absent letters may, with scheming, plan
For life's surrender in the fairy towers.
IX.
And he consoles me. There is none I find,
None in the world, so venturesome and wild,
And yet withal, so tender, true, and mild,
As he can be. And those who think him blind
Are much to blame. His ways are ever kind;
And he can plead as softly as a child.
X.
And when he talks to me I feel the touch
Of some sweet hope, a feeling of content
Almost akin to what by joy is meant.
And then I brood on this; for Love is such,
It makes us weep to want it overmuch,
If wayward Fate withhold his full consent.
XI.
Oh, come to me, thou friend of my desire,
My lov'd Amati! At a word of thine
I can be brave, and dash away the brine
From off my cheek, and neutralise the fire
That makes me mad, and use thee as a lyre
To curb the anguish of this soul of mine.
XII.
Wood as thou art, my treasure, with the strings
Fair on thy form, as fits thy parentage,
I cannot deem that in a gilded cage
Thy spirit lives. The bird that in thee sings
Is not a mortal. No! Enthralment flings
Its charms about thee like a poet's rage.
XIII.
Thou hast no sex; but, in an elfish way,
Thou dost entwine in one, as in a troth,
The gleesome thoughts of man and maiden both.
Thy voice is fullest at the flush of day,
But after midnight there is much to say
In weird remembrance of an April oath.
XIV.
And when the moon is seated on the throne
Of some white cloud, with her attendants near -
The wondering stars that hold her name in fear -
Oh! then I know that mine Amati's tone
Is all for me, and that he stands alone,
First of his tribe, belov'd without a peer.
XV.
Yea, this is so, my Lady! A fair form
Made of the garner'd relics of a tree,
In which of old a dryad of the lea
Did live and die. He flourish'd in a storm,
And learnt to warble when the days were warm
And learnt at night the secrets of the sea.
XVI.
And now he is all mine, for my caress
And my strong bow, - an Ariel, as it seems, -
A something sweeter than the sweetest dreams;
A prison'd wizard that has come to bless
And will not curse, though tortured, more or less,
By some remembrance that athwart him streams.
XVII.
It is the thought of April. 'Tis the tie
That made us one; for then the earth was fair
With all things on't, and summer in the air
Tingled for thee and me. A soft reply
Came to thy lips, and I was like to die
To hear thee make such coy confessions there.
XVIII.
It was the dawn of love (or so I thought)
The tender cooing of thy bosom-bird -
The beating heart that flutter'd at a word,
And seem'd for me alone to be so fraught
With wants unutter'd! All my being caught
Glamor thereat, as at a boon conferr'd.
XIX.
And I was lifted, in a minute's space,
As nigh to Heaven as Heaven is nigh to thee,
And in thy wistful glances I could see
Something that seem'd a joy, and in thy face
A splendour fit for angels in the place
Where God has named them all in their degree.
XX.
Ah, none so blest as I, and none so proud,
In that wild moment when a thrill was sent
Right through my soul, as if from thee it went
As flame from fire! But this was disallow'd;
And I shall sooner wear a winter shroud
Than thou revoke my doom of banishment.