# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Madman's Love

The Madman's Love.
Ho! Flesh and Blood! sweet Flesh and Blood As ever strode on earth! Welcome to Water and to Wood— To all a Madman's mirth. This tree is mine, this leafless tree That's writhen o'er the linn; The stream is mine that fitfully Pours forth its sullen din. Their lord am I; and still my dream Is of this Tree—is of that Stream.
The Tree, the Stream—a deadly Twain! They will not live apart; The one rolls thundering through my brain, The other smites my heart: Ay, this same leafless fire-scathed tree, That groweth by the rock,
Shakes its old sapless arms at me, And would my madness mock! The slaves are saucy—well they know Good service did they long ago.
I've lived two lives: The first is past Some hundred years or more; But still the present is o'ercast With visionings of yore. This tree, this rock that's cushioned sweet With tufts of savoury thyme, That unseen river which doth greet Our ears with its rude rhyme, Were then as now—they form the chain That links the present with past pain.
Sweet Flesh and Blood! how deadly chill These milk-white fingers be! The feathery ribs of ice-bound rill Seem not so cold to me;— But press them on this burning brow Which glows like molten brass, 'Twill thaw them soon; then thou shalt know How ancient visions pass
Before mine eyes, like shapes of life, Kindling old loves and deadly strife.
Drink to me first!—nay do not scorn These sparkling dews of night; I pledge thee in the silver horn Of yonder moonlet bright: 'Tis stinted measure now, but soon Thy cup shall overflow; It half was spilled two hours agone, That little flowers might grow, And weave for me fine robes of silk; For which good deeds, stars drop them milk.
Nay, take the horn into thy hand, The goodly silver horn, And quaff it off. At my command Each flower-cup, ere the mom, Shall brimful be of glittering dews, And then we'll have large store Of heaven's own vintage ripe for use, To pledge our healths thrice o'er; So skink the can as maiden free, Then troll the merry bowl to me!
Hush—drink no more! for now the trees, In yonder grand old wood, Burst forth in sinless melodies To cheer my solitude; Trees sing thus every night to me, So mournfully and slow— They think, dear hearts, 'twere well for me, Could large tears once forth flow From this hard frozen eye of mine, As freely as they stream from thine.
Ay, ay, they sing right passing well, And pleasantly in tune, To midnight winds a canticle That floats up to the moon; And she goes wandering near and far Through yonder vaulted skies, No nook whereof but hath a star Shed for me from her eyes;— She knows I cannot weep, but she Weeps worlds of light for love of me!
Yes, in her bower of clouds she weeps Night after night for me—
The lonely man that sadly keeps Watch by the blasted tree. She spreads o'er these lean ribs her beams, To scare the cutting cold; She lends me light to read my dreams, And rightly to unfold The mysteries that make men mad, Or wise, or wild, or good, or bad.
So lovingly she shines through me, Without me and within, That even thou, methinks, might'st see, Beneath this flesh so thin, A heart that like a ball of fire Is ever blazing there, Yet dieth not; for still the lyre Of heaven soothes its despair— The lyre that sounds so sadly sweet, When winds and woods and waters meet.
Hush! hush! so sang yon ghastly wood, So moaned the sullen stream One night, as two on this rock stood Beneath this same moonbeam:—
Nay, start not!—one was Flesh and Blood, A dainty straight-limbed dame, That clung to me and sobbed—O God! Struggling with maiden shame, She faltered forth her love, and swore— "On land or sea, thine evermore!"
By Wood, by Water, and by Wind, Yea, by the blessed light Of the brave moon, that maiden kind Eternal faith did plight; Yea, by the rock on which we stood— This altar-stone of yore— That loved one said, "On land or flood, Thine, thine for evermore!" The earth reeled round, I gasped for breath, I loved, and was beloved till death!
I felt upon my brow a kiss, Upon my cheek a tear; I felt that now life's sum of bliss Was more than heart could bear.
Life's sum of bliss? say rather pain. For heart to find its mate, To love, and be beloved again, Even when the hand of Fate Motions farewell!—and one must be A wanderer on the faithless sea.
Ay, Land or Sea! for, mark me now, Next morrow o'er the foam, Sword girt to side, and helm on brow, I left a sorrowing home; Yet still I lived as very part Even of this sainted rock, Where first that loved one's tristful heart Its secret treasure broke In my love-thirsting ear alone, Here, here, on this huge altar-stone.
Hear'st thou the busy sounds that come From yonder glittering shore: The madness of the doubling drum, The naker's sullen roar—
The wild and shrilly strains that swell From each bright brassy horn— The fluttering of each penoncel By knightly lance upborne— The clear ring of each tempered shield, And proud steeds neighing far afield?
Sweet Flesh and Blood! my tale's not told, 'Tis scantly well begun:— Our vows were passed, in heaven enrolled, And then next morrow's sun Saw banners waving in the wind, And tall barks on the sea: Glory before, and Love behind, Marshalled proud chivalrie, As every valour-freighted ship Its gilt prow in the wave did dip.
And then passed o'er a merry time— A roystering gamesome life, Till cheeks were tanned with many a clime, Brows scarred in many a strife.
But what of that? Year after year, In every battle's shock, Or 'mid the storms of ocean drear, Aly heart clung to this rock; Was with its very being blent, Sucking from it brave nourishment.
All life, all feeling, every thought Was centred in this spot; The Unforgetting being wrought Upon the Un forgot. Time fleeted on; but time ne'er dimmed The picturings of the heart— Freshly as when they first were limned, Truth's fadeless tints would start; Yes! Avheresoe'er Life's bark might steer, This changeless heart was anchored here.
Ha! laugh, sweet Flesh and Blood, outright, Nor smother honest glee, Your time is now; but ere this night Hath travelled over me,
My time shall come; and then, ay, then The wanton stars shall reel Like drunkards all, when we madmen Upraise our laughter-peal. I see the cause: the Twain—the One— The Shape that gibbered in the sun!
You pinch my wrist, you press my knee, With fingers long and small; Light fetters these—not so on me Did heathen shackles fall, When I was captived in the fight On Candy's fatal shore; And paynims won a battered knight, A living well of gore How the knaves smote me to the ground, And hewed me like a tree all round!
They hammered irons on my hand, And irons on my knee; They bound me fast with many a band, To pillar and to tree; They flung me in a loathsome pit, Where loathly things were rife—
Where newte, and toad, and rat would sit, Debating for my life, On my breast-bone; while one and all Hissed, fought, and voided on their thrall.
Yet lived I on, and madman-like, With unchanged heart I lay; No venom to its core could strike, For it was far away:— 'Twas even here beside this Tree, Its Trysting-place of yore, Where that fond maiden swore to me, "Thine, thine, for evermore." Faith in her vow made that pit seem The palace of Arabian dream.
And so was passed a weary time, How long I cannot tell, 'Twas years ere in that sunny clime A sunbeam on me fell. But from that tomb I rushed in tears, The fetters fell from me, They rusted through with damp and years, And rotted was the tree,
When the Undying crawled from night— From loathsomeness, into God's light.
O Lord! there was a flood of sound Came rushing through my ears, When I arose from underground, A wild thing shedding tears:— The voices of glad birds and brooks, And eke of greenwood tree, With all the long-remembered looks Of earth, and sky, and sea, Danced madly through my 'wildered brain, And shook me like a wind-swung chain.
Men marvelled at the ghastly form That sat before the sun— That laughed to scorn the pelting storm, Nor would the thunders shun; The bearded Shape that gibbered sounds Of uncouth lore and lands, Struck awe into these Heathen hounds, Who, lifting up their hands,
Blessed the wild prophet, and then brought Raiment and food unthanked, unsought.
I have a dreaming of the sea— A dreaming of the land— A dreaming that again to me Belonged a good knight's brand— A dreaming that this brow was pressed With plumed helm once more, That linked mail reclad this breast When I retrod the shore, The blessed shores of my father-land, And knelt in prayer upon its strand.
"Years furrow brows and channel cheeks, But should not chase old loves away; The language which true heart first speaks, That language must it hold for aye." This poesie a war-worn man Did mutter to himself one night, As upwards to this cliff he ran, That shone in the moonlight; And by the moonlight curiously, He scanned the bark of this old tree.
"No change is here, all things remain As they were years ago; With selfsame voice the old woods playne, When shrilly winds do blow— Still murmuring to itself, the stream Rolls o'er its rocky bed— Still smiling in its quiet dream, The small flower nods its head; And I stand here," the War-worn said, "Like Nature's heart, unaltered."
Now, Flesh and Blood, that sits by me On this bare ledge of stone, So sat that Childe of chivalrie, One summer eve alone. I saw him, and methought he seemed Like to the Bearded Form That sat before the sun, and gleamed Defiance to the storm; I saw him in his war-weed sit, And other Two before him flit.
Yes, in the shadow of that tree, And motionless as stone,
Sat the War-worn, while mirthfully The other Two passed on;— By heaven! one was a comely bride, Her face gleamed in the moon, As richly as in full-fleshed pride, Bright roses burst in June; Methought she was the maiden mild, That whilome loved the wandering Childe!
But it was not her former love That wandered with her there— Oh, no! long absence well may move A maiden to despair; Old loves we cast unto the winds, Old vows into the sea, 'Tis lightsome for all gentle minds To be as fancy free. So the Vow-pledged One loved another, And wantoned with a younger brother.
I heard a dull, hoarse, chuckle sound, Beside that trysting-tree;
I saw uprising from the ground, A ghastly shape like me. But no!—it was the War-worn wight, That pale as whited wall, Strode forth into the moonshine bright, And let such hoarse sounds fall. A voice uprushing from the tomb Than his, were less fulfilled with doom.
"Judgment ne'er sleeps!" the War-worn said, As striding into light, He stood before that shuddering maid, Between her and that knight. Judgment ne'er sleeps! 'tis wondrous odd, One gurgle, one long sigh, Ended it all. Upon this sod Lay one with unclosed eye, And then the boiling linn that night, Flung on its banks a lady bright.
She tripped towards me as you have tripped, Pale maiden! and as cold; She sipped with me as you have sipped, Night dews, and then I told
To her as you my weary tale Of double life and pain; And thawed her fingers chill and pale Upon my burning brain;— That daintiest piece of Flesh on earth, I welcomed her to all my mirth.
And then I pressed her icy hand Within my burning palm, And told her tales of that far land, Of sunshine, flowers, and balm; I told her of the damp, dark hole, The fetters and the tree, And of the slimy things that stole O'er shuddering flesh so free: Yea, of the Bearded Ghastliness, That sat in the sun's loveliness.
I welcomed her, I welcome thee, To sit upon this stone, And meditate all night with me, On ages that are gone: To dream again each marvellous dream, Of passion and of truth,
And re-construct each shattered beam That glorified glad youth. These were the days!—hearts then could feel, Eyes weep, and slumbers o'er them steal.
But not so now. The second life That wearied hearts must live, Is woven with that thread of strife— Forget not, nor Forgive! Fires, scorching fires run through our veins, Our corded sinews crack, And molten lead boils in our brains, For marrow to the back. Ha! ha! What's life? Think of the joke, The fiercest fire still ends in smoke.
Fill up the cup! fill up the can! Drink, drink, sweet Flesh and Blood, The health of the grim-bearded man That haunteth solitude;— The wood pours forth its melodies, And stars whirl fast around;
Yon moon-ship scuds before the breeze— Hark, how sky-billows sound! Drink, Flesh and Blood! then trip with me, One measure round the Madman's Tree!
* ↑ A dainty well-limbed dame.—MS. copy.
* ↑ Its treasured secret broke.—MS. copy.
* ↑ Saw pennons waving in the wind.—MS. copy.
* ↑ And great ships on the sea.—MS. copy.
* ↑ The picturings of this heart.—MS. copy.
* ↑ And all the long-remembered looks.—MS. copy.
* ↑ Methought she seemed the maiden mild.—MS. copy.