Volume 8 — Mine Enemy.

If he could stand against me now, With other eyes and an alien brow; If I could break the spell that still My will entangles with his will; If he could laugh the while I weep; If I could wake, and he asleep; Could I uncoil the mystery Where he is I, and I am he: Then might I hide me from his face; Or strike him down within his place; And so, at last, my life be free From his tormenting company. But no; his blush my forehead burns, His the pallor my pale cheek turns, And when he sees the thing I do, 'Tis mine own eyes that he looks through. When I would hate this tiresome mate, He teaches me the way to hate; When from his presence I would flee, He, taunting, flies along with me. But best I like his baser slips, His angry eyes and impious lips; For then, half-wrenched away from me, Almost it seems he leaves me free. 'Tis then I raise aloft my cry: St. Michael, to the rescue fly! 'Tis then almost my foot is prest Upon the monster's struggling breast; 'Tis then I feel my shoulders glow With hints of wings they yet may know, And breathe as slaves pant, wild and sweet, Whose chains are falling to their feet! 'Tis then I nestle, safely bound By wings of angels circling round, And feel the drawing of the cord That holds my anchor in the Lord! And most I fear when cunningly He crouches, hidden from mine eye, And breathes into the pipes whose keys Hold all my spirit's melodies. When I his hiding would betray, He holds the lamp, and leads the way; When I would break his hardihood, He wields the lash that draws my blood. So deep his guile, I scarce can know From whose intent my actions grow; So brightly do his tear-drops shine, I oft mistake his grief for mine. When veiled emotions, swift and strong, Run all my trembling nerves along, If 'tis his sigh or mine whose swell Upheaves my breast, I cannot tell. When friendship frowns, I turn to see My foe's eyes beaming tenderly; When friendship harshly speaks, I hear His dulcet tones wooing mine ear. When God is slow to hear my cry, Behold th' insidious list'ner nigh! When thirst has parched my vitals up, His hand presents the sparkling cup. If I would reason with my foe, He lets the high-piled logic grow, And lowly bends, in humble guise, With silent mouth and drooping eyes. But as, o'erflowing with content, I view my stately monument, Nor guess the thoughts lie side to side In subtle, weak cement of pride, With sudden flash of mocking wit He plays about and shatters it, Or some volcanic underthrust Levels my structure with the dust. And straight, ere I can speak for pain, He builds my chang'd thoughts up again In airy stretches, bright or dim, With flower-woven cornice-rim; With domes that melt into the sky, Like piles of snowy cumuli; And pinnacles where fancy sees Stars cling and swim, like golden bees; With long-drawn wings whose cloudy tips The sunset kisses with red lips; And cloudy-curtained windows bright, Whence pours a flood of rosy light. And with it come bewildering tunes, Where heavenly airs bear hellish runes; And, calling sweet and calling clear, The voice that most I long to hear. But if, lured by this temple fair, Dazzled, I seek to enter there, It clings, and burns with lurid light, Like Glauce's bridal-garment white. Then since my foe so potent is, And I so weak, lest I be his, Some friend I need, stronger than he, To stand and keep my heart for me. And since, though driven forth with pain, Ever he stealeth back again, More need have I of heavenly light To make his lurking-places bright. And since I stand unarmed, indeed, Before his wrath, great is the need I should invoke, with prayerful word, Saint Michael of the fiery sword! That night and day I still should cling Beneath my hovering angel's wing; And ne'er let slip the golden cord That holds my anchor in the Lord!

Translated From The Revue Du Monde Catholique.