Chapter V

But Psyche wanders, like a saddened rill,
Thrust from a jewelled grotto in the hill,
To perish in a lonely sandy waste,
And all forlorn, with steps that can not haste,
For such absorbing grief, she chides his heart
That was a glittering palace, now a part
Of ruined things. She writes within the sand
Some resolution high her grievous heart hath planned--
A sign to mark the spot, some time, some how,
A charm to lead her back again. And now
A little shrine within a lonely place,
Which flow'ry vines with subtle interlace,
Hath reared to Demeter, her wearied feet
Have found. And all her soul hath flown to meet
Her prayer's happiness. It is a bowl,
Of crystal dew, where nature paints her soul.
And Psyche now, a gentle worshipper,
Hath bent sad prayerful knees, and pearly ear,
Low for the golden oracle. Sad eyes,
In tangled braid of smiles and tears surprise
The crystal truth. Lo! she hath seen. And death
Seems struggling for her weary, panting breath!
What horrid charm of Circe's baneful art!
It is a serpent's head, green eyed and swart,
With lightning flashes of a forked tongue,
And glittering treachery on its forehead hung.
Oh! for a generous draft of that sweet moly,
To bring dear Psyche back as pure and holy,
As when a maiden in her jewel palace,
She kissed, for love, her nectar's brimming chalice,
That held serene a limned picture there,
Of wealth of beauty framed in golden hair.
But nature's shrine guides not the errant feet
Of little faith. And sudden prayers all unmeet
For crippled love. Ah! where the happy shrine
Of boundless heart, and still a tongue divine,
In lover's oracles? With holy words
Of sweet ablution when the night engirds
Each little tear? When never a smile but darkens
Its firefly gloom? When never an ear that hearkens.
But dulls a moan? And never a scene outspread
In mirror drops, but darts a serpent's head?
Such bitter moan she made, such bitter moan
No grieving Pan on bursting reeds alone,
In madness ever made to startled streams.
No nightingale her saddest tongueless dreams,
Hath sobbed to beauty on a hidden thorn,
To swoon in over-music at the morn.
But soul is exquisite, the flowers essence,
That through its bruises breathes quintessence.
And all the suffering of the dateless world,
Its rarest, gladdest petals hold enfurled.
This is the soul. Yet all its world a thought
Of smiling strands and sunlit oceans, fraught
With homing argosies. And waneless suns
Shine on its passing gonfalons.
What e'er the mask, its keener eyes see through it.
What e'er the ban its laughter will undo it.
What e'er the time, its fleeting thought will span it.
What e'er the deed its ancient hour began it.
And bruised, unfurl the leaf, the bruise is gone,
Yet heal the wound, the essence breathe right on.
This is the soul. But Psyche grieves an hour
Till every petal in the spirit's flower
Is bruised by so much time, and wand'ring far,
She yet hath wandered farther, like a star
Of aimless race, in melancholy deeps.
Her bittered feet have struggled on the steeps.
Her moaning soul hath crossed the stygian river.
And she hath read the runes of never, never,
In wailing spirits of the sunless moors,
And piteous quagmires seeking piteous shores.
And she, whose mirror was a drop of dew,
When golden fancy played upon her ear,
Now shrieks where horror strikes her spirit through,
Within the gloomy region of a tear.