TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE EMPRESS ELISABETH OF AUSTRIA.

TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE EMPRESS ELISABETH OF AUSTRIA.

 

'O stoss' ins Herz mir deinen Speer,

Lös' mich aus einer Welt,

Die ohne dich so öd, so leer,

Umsonst mich ferner hält.' THE EMPRESS ELISABETH.

 

I have read thy poems, regal beauty,

   A century hence in a desolate age

And dearly loved thy present majesty

   So far to distraction, to bliss, to rage;

And why? In all the annals of delight

   Is there a parallel I could conjure

That so like a varied prism of light

   Soaks my imagining mind with wonder?

 

What beauty! — Of expression as feature,

   In those lightly weary and lilting eyes,

Why slums were heavens made by a creature

   Whose presence so royal should patronise

The lowest man to the height of a king,

   The poorest maid to the richest of queens,

And imbue with her honour everything,

   As sunlight reflectively conjures sheens.

 

And yet Titania what troubles stirred

   Around thy too gentle person! What hail

Of unrelenting adversity heard

   Across the world and through ages, a tale

Of beauty, of manners, and learning, twined,

   Like thy raven and onyx plaits, in one

Woman and Poet and Empress combined,

   To sorrows condemned, by evils outrun.

 

But mistress of language, empress of arts,

   Of royalty the brightest ornament,

Thy sensitive person formed of its parts,

   Proudly unique, while custom's exponent,

In a time of anarchy's second birth,

   When such as thy odious step-mother

Too poorly embodied monarchy's worth,

   And repelled thee away to another.

 

Another that loved thee for loveliness,

   For pensive brows and patient lips compressed,

For thy person's evident sprightliness,

   Thy womanly body gorgeously dressed,

And all thy solemnly humorous smiles,

   And all thy obvious empathy's deeds,

Which matched with a charm decoupled of wiles

   Must glorify earth with dignity's seeds.

 

Shy to a virtue and not to a fault,

   Proof to all scandalous gossip could cast,

Thy unsullied heart was a ruby vault,

   Of faithful but sad recollections past;

And too well I know, my witching empress,

   The sickness of mind thy temperament caused,

Too well I feel thy headaches and faintness

   When stood by a stair in agony paused.

  

A son and an heir to suicide lost,

   A husband and king to dullness a prey,

A love predestined, a tender soul tossed,

   To unwelcome people, unhappy fay!

Then fly to Achilles! Fly to the sea,

   That crystal mirror thou lovest so well,

And far from the courts of mere doing, be

   That whichsoever thou longest for belle.

 

On foaming chargers of water be borne,

   Now to thy Hellas, now to dear Britain,

Where into sight she appeared like a fawn,

   Covered in snow, with eyes like a kitten,

As rang the clangourous bells with a zest;

   Such as our island always delighted

To show to venerable monarchs, the best

   Breeding and manners ever had plighted.

 

With many a joyous and saddened sound,

   I fancy I hear thy voice in the boat

Which carried its precious cargo around

   A troubled Europe, as troubled afloat,

Its representative sovereign straining

   To sight the bluffs of Liguria's shore,

At night when the pleasing rain was raining

   With ardour on the many coats she wore.

 

But havoc lies hiding in wait for years

   To seize on a moment's open weakness,

When horrible anarchy's head uprears

   To strike at her loveliness and meekness,

And drive Luigi Lucheni, the wretch,

   That vile and depraved rodent of history,

To find her and now his arm to outstretch,

   Then thrust a blade in the heart of Sisi.

 

And now the world in a moment is stilled

   With its beautiful monarch to silence;

The cowardly anarchist's task fulfilled

   From his doctrine of envious licence.

He flees, but nothing shall ever efface

   The shame of his villainous name and deed

Which leaving a darkened spot on her lace

   Condemns her slowly but fully to bleed.

 

'What has happened?' Nothing sweet lady, rest.

   Though the skies themselves are welling with grief

That aught should ever have entered thy breast  

   But friendship and love, but comfort's relief.

O pale! no love, this world will be darkened

   Almost to blindness without thy presence.

If ever the voice of prayer were hearkened

   Preserve her O God, her self, her essence!

 

She walks in silent amazement, throbbing

   Gently by minute the last of her blood,

And surely her heart itself were sobbing

   To try but to fail to stifle the flood.

Yet God Himself will not let her suffer

   An ounce of pain, nor a pang of anguish,

The earth itself that holds her must love her

   And see her beautifully rest and languish;

 

And close both her eyes — forever! Alas!

   That beauty and virtue should each eclipse

As one, as one silver spirit should pass

   From out of those delicate fading lips!

Sleep angel, as long as it pleases thee,

   Posterity's lot is theirs now to grieve,

From all thy burdens, our darling, be free

   Depart with this last gentle breath: and breathe.

 

The world will ring with the torturous news,

   And wonder what dismal portents are these

Closing the century with uprising crews

   Of anarchists, socialists; thought disease,

Which reckons its books in murders and war,

   Renders a man a donkey of labour

Which holds a beautiful woman a whore,

   And our Sisi, a thing for a sabre.