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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/31896-8.txt b/31896-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fea00ef --- /dev/null +++ b/31896-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3545 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Idyllic Monologues, by Madison J. Cawein + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Idyllic Monologues + Old and New World Verses + +Author: Madison J. Cawein + +Release Date: April 6, 2010 [EBook #31896] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES *** + + + + +Produced by David Garcia, Carla Foust and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) + + + + + +Transcriber's note + + +Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Printer +errors have been changed and are listed at the end. All other +inconsistencies are as in the original. + + + + IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES + + Poems by Madison Cawein + + + OLD AND NEW WORLD VERSES + + BY THE AUTHOR OF + + "Undertones" "Garden of Dreams" + + + JOHN P. MORTON AND COMPANY + + Publishers--Louisville, Kentucky + + + + + Copyrighted 1898 + + BY MADISON CAWEIN + + + + + TO + MY FRIEND: + + R. E. LEE GIBSON + + + + +This collection of poems is entirely new with the exception of three or +four which appeared in two earlier volumes, published some ten years +ago. The reprinted poems have been carefully re-written, and so changed +throughout as to hardly bear any resemblance, except that of subject, to +the original. + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + + The Brothers 1 + + Geraldine 15 + + The Moated Manse 20 + + The Forester 35 + + My Lady of Verne 48 + + An Old Tale Re-told 55 + + The Water Witch 65 + + At Nineveh 70 + + How They Brought Aid to Bryan's Station 72 + + On the Jellico Spur of the Cumberlands 77 + + A Confession 83 + + Lilith 84 + + Content 86 + + Berrying 88 + + To a Pansy-Violet 90 + + Heart of my Heart 93 + + Witnesses 94 + + Wherefore 95 + + Pagan 96 + + "The Fathers of our Fathers" 97 + + "Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin" 99 + + Her Vivien Eyes 101 + + There was a Rose 102 + + The Artist 103 + + Poetry and Philosophy 103 + + "Quo Vadis" 104 + + To a Critic 105 + + + + +FOREWORD. + + + _And one, perchance, will read and sigh: + "What aimless songs! Why will he sing + Of nature that drags out her woe + Through wind and rain, and sun, and snow, + From miserable spring to spring?" + Then put me by._ + + _And one, perhaps, will read and say: + "Why write of things across the sea; + Of men and women, far and near, + When we of things at home would hear-- + Well, who would call this poetry?" + Then toss away._ + + _A hopeless task have we, meseems, + At this late day; whom fate hath made + Sad, bankrupt heirs of song; who, filled + With kindred yearnings, try to build + A tower like theirs, that will not fade, + Out of our dreams._ + + + + + Only One Hundred and Fifty Copies Printed for Private Distribution. + A Few Copies For Sale. + + + + +IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES + + + + +The Brothers + + + Not far from here, it lies beyond + That low-hilled belt of woods. We'll take + This unused lane where brambles make + A wall of twilight, and the blond + Brier-roses pelt the path and flake + The margin waters of a pond. + + This is its fence--or that which was + Its fence once--now, rock rolled from rock, + One tangle of the vine and dock, + Where bloom the wild petunias; + And this its gate, the iron-weeds block, + Hot with the insects' dusty buzz. + + Two wooden posts, wherefrom has peeled + The weather-crumbled paint, still rise; + Gaunt things--that groan when someone tries + The gate whose hinges, rust-congealed, + Snarl open:--on each post still lies + Its carven lion with a shield. + + We enter; and between great rows + Of locusts winds a grass-grown road; + And at its glimmering end,--o'erflowed + With quiet light,--the white front shows + Of an old mansion, grand and broad, + With grave Colonial porticoes. + + Grown thick around it, dark and deep, + The locust trees make one vast hush; + Their brawny branches crowd and crush + Its very casements, and o'ersweep + Its rotting roofs; their tranquil rush + Haunts all its spacious rooms with sleep. + + Still is it called The Locusts; though + None lives here now. A tale's to tell + Of some dark thing that here befell; + A crime that happened years ago, + When by its walls, with shot and shell, + The war swept on and left it so. + + For one black night, within it, shame + Made revel, while, all here about, + With prayer or curse or battle-shout, + Men died and homesteads leapt in flame: + Then passed the conquering Northern rout, + And left it silent and the same. + + Why should I speak of what has been? + Or what dark part I played in all? + Why ruin sits in porch and hall + Where pride and gladness once were seen; + And why beneath this lichened wall + The grave of Margaret is green. + + Heart-broken Margaret! whose fate + Was sadder yet than his who won + Her hand--my brother Hamilton-- + Or mine, who learned to know too late; + Who learned to know, when all was done, + And nothing could exonerate. + + To expiate is still my lot,-- + And, like the Ancient Mariner, + To show to others how things are + And what I am, still helps me blot + A little from that crime's red scar, + That on my soul is branded hot. + + He was my only brother. She + A sister of my brother's friend. + They met, and married in the end. + And I remember well when he + Brought her rejoicing home, the trend + Of war moved towards us sullenly. + + And scarce a year of wedlock when + Its red arms took him from his bride. + With lips by hers thrice sanctified + He left to ride with Morgan's men. + And I--I never could decide-- + Remained at home. It happened then. + + For days went by. And, oft delayed, + A letter came of loving word + Scrawled by some camp-fire, sabre-stirred, + Or by a pine-knot's fitful aid, + When in the saddle, armed and spurred + And booted for some hurried raid. + + Then weeks went by. I do not know + How long it was before there came, + Blown from the North, the clarion fame + Of Morgan, who, with blow on blow, + Had drawn a line of blood and flame + From Tennessee to Ohio. + + Then letters ceased; and days went on. + No word from him. The war rolled back, + And in its turgid crimson track + A rumor grew, like some wild dawn, + All ominous and red and black, + With news of our lost Hamilton, + + That hinted death or capture. Yet + No thing was sure; till one day,--fed + By us,--some men rode up who said + They'd been with Morgan and had met + Disaster, and that he was dead, + My brother.--I and Margaret + + Believed them. Grief was ours too: + But mine was more for her than him; + Grief, that her eyes with tears were dim; + Grief, that became the avenue + For love, who crowned the sombre brim + Of death's dark cup with rose-red hue. + + In sympathy,--unconsciously + Though it be given--I hold, doth dwell + The germ of love that time shall swell + To blossom. Sooner then in me-- + When close relations so befell-- + That love should spring from sympathy. + + Our similar tastes and mutual bents + Combined to make us intimates + From our first meeting. Different states + Of interest then our temperaments + Begot. Then friendship, that abates + No love, whose self it represents. + + These led to talks and dreams: how oft + We sat at some wide window while + The sun sank o'er the hills' far file, + Serene; and of the cloud aloft + Made one vast rose; and mile on mile + Of firmament grew sad and soft. + + And all in harmony with these + Dim clemencies of dusk, afar + Our talks and dreams went; while the star + Of evening brightened o'er the trees: + We spoke of home; the end of war: + We dreamed of life and love and peace. + + How on our walks in listening lanes + Or confidences of the wood, + We paused to hear the dove that cooed; + Or gathered wild-flowers, taking pains + To find the fairest; or her hood + Filled with wild fruit that left deep stains. + + No echo of the drum or fife, + No hint of conflict entered in + Our thoughts then. Will you call it sin-- + Indifference to a nation's strife? + What side might lose, what side might win, + Both immaterial to our life. + + Into the past we did not look; + Beyond what was we did not dream; + While onward rushed the thunderous stream + Of war, that, in its torrent, took + One of our own. No crimson gleam + Of its wild course around us shook. + + At last we knew. And when we learned + How he had fallen, Margaret + Wept; and, albeit my eyes were wet, + Within my soul I half discerned + A joy that mingled with regret, + A grief that to relief was turned. + + As time went on and confidence + Drew us more strongly each to each, + Why did no intimation reach + Its warning hand into the dense + Soul-silence, and confuse the speech + Of love's unbroken eloquence! + + But, no! no hint to turn the poise, + Or check the impulse of our youth; + To chill it with the living truth + As with the awe of God's own voice; + No hint, to make our hope uncouth; + No word, to warn us from our choice. + + To me a wall seemed overthrown + That social law had raised between; + And o'er its ruin, broad and green + A path went, I possessed alone; + The sky above seemed all serene; + The land around seemed all my own. + + What shall I say of Margaret + To justify her part in this? + That her young heart was never his? + But had been mine since first we met? + So would you say!--Enough it is + That when he left she loved him yet. + + So passed the Spring, and Summer sped; + And early Autumn brought the day + When she her hand in mine should lay, + And I should take her hand and wed. + And still no hint that might gainsay, + No warning word of quick or dead. + + The day arrived; and, with it born, + A battle, sullying the East + With boom of cannon, that increased, + And throb of musket and of horn: + Until at last, towards dusk, it ceased; + And men with faces wild and worn, + + In fierce retreat swept past; now groups; + Now one by one; now sternly white, + Or blood-stained; now with looks whose fright + Said all was lost. Then sullen troops + That, beaten, still kept up the fight. + Then came the victors; shadowy loops + + Of men and horse, that left a crowd + Of officers in hall and porch.... + While through the land around the torch + Circled, and many a fiery cloud + Marked out the army's iron march + In furrows red, that pillage plowed, + + Here we were wedded.--Ask the years + How such could be, while over us + A sword of wrath swung ominous, + And on our cheeks its breath was fierce! + All I remember is--'twas thus, + And Margaret's eyes were wet with tears. + + No other cause my memory sees + Save this, _that night was set_; and when + I found my home filled with armed men + With whom were all my sympathies + Of Union--why postpone it then? + So argued conscience into peace. + + And then it was, when night had passed + There came to me an orderly + With word of a confederate spy + Late taken, who, with head downcast, + Had asked one favor, this: "That I + Would see him ere he breathed his last." + + I stand alone here. Heavily + My thoughts go back. Had I not gone, + The dead had still been dead!--for none + Had yet believed his story--he, + My dead-deemed brother, Hamilton, + Who in the spy confronted me. + + O you who never have been tried, + How can you judge me!--in my place + I saw him standing--who can trace + My heart thoughts then!--I turned aside, + A thing of some unnatural race, + And did not speak; and so he died. + + In hospital or prison, when + It was he lay; what had forbid + His home return so long: amid + What hardships he had suffered, then + I dared not ask; and when I did, + Long afterwards, inquire of men, + + No thing I learned. But this I feel-- + He who had so returned to life + Was not a spy. Through stress and strife,-- + This makes my conscience hard to heal!-- + He had escaped; he sought his wife; + He sought his home that should conceal. + + And Margaret! Oh, pity her! + A criminal I sought her side, + Still thinking love was justified + In all for her--whatever were + The price, a brother thrice denied, + Or thrice a brother's murderer. + + Since then long years have passed away. + And through those years, perhaps, you'll ask + How to the world I wore my mask + Of honesty?--I can but say + Beyond my powers it was a task; + Before my time it turned me gray. + + And when at last the ceaseless hiss + Of conscience drove, and I betrayed + All to her, she knelt down and prayed, + Then rose; and 'twixt us an abyss + Was opened; and she seemed to fade + Out of my life: I came to miss + + The sweet attentions of a bride: + For each appealing heart's caress + In me, her heart assumed a dress + Of dull indifference; till denied + To me was all responsiveness; + And then I knew her love had died. + + Ah, had she loaded me, perchance, + With wild reproach or even hate, + Such would have helped a hope to wait + Forgiveness and returned romance; + But 'twixt our souls, instead, a gate + She closed of silent tolerance. + + Yet, 't was for love of her I lent + My soul to crime ... I question me + Often, if less entirely + I'd loved her, then, in that event, + She had been justified to see + The deed alone stand prominent. + + The deed alone! But love records + In his own heart, I will aver, + No depth I did not feel for her + Beyond the plummet-reach of words: + And though there may be worthier, + No truer love this world affords + + Than mine was, though it could not rise + Above itself. And so 't was best, + Perhaps, that she saw manifest + Its crime, that I, as saw her eyes, + Might see; and so, in soul confessed, + Some life atonement might devise. + + Sadly my heart one comfort keeps, + That, towards the end, she took my hands + And said, as one who understands, + "Had I but seen! But love that weeps, + Sees only as its loss commands," + And sighed. Beneath this stone she sleeps. + + Yes; I have suffered for that sin; + Yet in no instance would I shun + What I should suffer. Many a one, + Who heard my tale, has tried to win + Me to believe that Hamilton + It was not; and, though proven kin, + + This had not saved him. Still the stain + Of the intention--had I erred + And 't was not he--had writ the word + Red on my soul that branded Cain; + For still my error had incurred + The fact of guilt that would remain. + + Ah, love at best is insecure, + And lives with doubt and vain regret; + And hope and faith, with faces set + Upon the past, are never sure; + And through their fever, grief, and fret + The heart may fail that should endure. + + For in ourselves, however blend + The passions that make heaven and hell, + Is evil not accountable + For most the good we comprehend? + And through these two, or ill, or well, + Man must evolve his spiritual end. + + It is with deeds that we must ask + Forgiveness; for upon this earth, + Life walks alone from very birth + With death, hope tells us is a mask + For life beyond of vaster worth, + Where sin no more sets love a task. + + + + +Geraldine + + + Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine, + That night of love, when first we met, + You have forgotten, Geraldine-- + I never dreamed you would forget. + + Ah, Geraldine, sweet Geraldine, + More lovely than that Asian queen, + Scheherazade, the beautiful, + Who in her orient palace cool + Of India, for a thousand nights + And one, beside her monarch lay, + Telling--while sandal-scented lights + And music stole the soul away-- + Love tales of old Arabia, + Full of enchantments and emprise-- + But no enchantments like your eyes. + + Ah, Geraldine, loved Geraldine, + More lovely than those maids, I ween, + Pampinea and Lauretta, who, + In gardens old of dusk and dew, + Sat with their lovers, maid and man, + In stately days Italian, + And in quaint stories, that we know + Through grace of good Boccaccio, + Told of fond loves, some false, some true,-- + But, Geraldine, none false as you. + + Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine, + That night of love, when first we met, + You have forgotten, Geraldine-- + I never dreamed you would forget. + + 'T was summer, and the moon swam high, + A great pale pearl within the sky: + And down that purple night of love + The stars, concurrent spark on spark, + Seemed fiery moths that swarmed above: + And through the roses, o'er the park, + Star-like the fire-flies filled the dark: + A mocking-bird in some deep tree, + Drowsy with dreams and melody, + Like a magnolia bud, that, dim, + Opens and pours its soul in musk, + Gave to the moonlight and the dusk + Its heart's pure song, its evening hymn. + Oh, night of love! when in the dance + Your heart thrilled rapture into mine, + As in a state of necromance + A mortal hears a voice divine. + Oh, night of love! when from your glance + I drank sweet death as men drink wine. + + You wearied of the waltz at last. + I led you out into the night. + Warm in my hand I held yours fast. + + Your face was flushed; your eyes were bright. + The moon hung like a shell of light + Above the lake, above the trees: + And borne to us with fragrances + Of roses that were ripe to fall, + The soul of music from the hall + Beat in the moonlight and the breeze, + As youth's wild heart grown weary of + Desire and its dream of love. + + I held your arm and, for awhile, + We walked along the balmy aisle + Of flowers that, like velvet, dips + Unto the lake which lilies tile + Like stars; and hyacinths, like strips + Of heaven: and beside a fall, + That, down a ferned and mossy wall, + Fell in the lake,--deep, woodbine-wound, + A latticed summer-house we found; + A green kiosk,--through which the sound + Of waters and of breezes swayed, + And honeysuckle bugles played + Soft serenades of perfume sweet,-- + Around which ran a rustic seat. + And seated in that haunted nook,-- + I know not how it was,--a word, + A touch, perhaps, a sigh, a look, + Was father to the kiss I took; + + Great things grow out of small I've heard. + And then it was I took between + My hands your face, loved Geraldine, + And gazed into your eyes, and told + The story ever new though old. + You did not look away, but met + My eyes with eyes whose lids were wet + With tears of truth; and you did lean + Your cheek to mine, sweet Geraldine,-- + I never dreamed you would forget. + + The night-wind and the water sighed: + And through the leaves, that stirred above, + The moonbeams swooned with music of + The dance--soft things in league with love: + I never dreamed that you had lied. + + How all comes back now, Geraldine! + The melody; the glimmering scene; + Your angel face; and ev'n, between + Your lawny breasts, the heart-shaped jewel,-- + To which your breath gave fluctuant fuel,-- + A rosy star of stormy fire; + The snowy drift of your attire, + Lace-deep and fragrant: and your hair, + Disordered in the dance, held back + By one gemmed pin,--a moonbeam there, + Half-drowned within its night-like black. + And I who sat beside you then, + Seemed blessed above all mortal men. + + I loved you for the way you sighed; + The way you said, "I love but you;" + The smile with which your lips replied; + Your lips, that from my bosom drew + The soul; your looks, like undenied + Caresses, that seemed naught but true: + I loved you for the violet scent + That clung about you as a flower; + Your moods, where shine and shadow blent, + An April-tide of sun and shower; + You were my creed, my testament, + Wherein I read of God's high power. + + Was it because the loving see + Only what they desire shall be + There in the well-belovéd's soul, + Affection and affinity, + That I beheld in you the whole + Of my love's image? and believed + You loved as I did? nor perceived + 'T was but a mask, a mockery! + + Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine, + That night of love, when first we met, + You have forgotten, Geraldine-- + I never dreamed you would forget. + + + + +The Moated Manse + + + I. + + And now once more we stood within the walls + Of her old manor near the riverside; + Dead leaves lay rotting in its empty halls, + And here and there the ivy could not hide + The year-old scars, made by the Royalists' balls, + Around the doorway, where so many died + In that last effort to defend the stair, + When Rupert, like a demon, entered there. + + + II. + + The basest Cavalier who yet wore spurs + Or drew a sword, I count him; with his grave + Eyes 'neath his plumed hat like a wolf's whom curs + Rouse, to their harm, within a forest cave; + And hair like harvest; and a voice like verse + For smoothness. Ay, a handsome man and brave!-- + Brave?--who would question it! although 't is true + He warred with one weak woman and her few. + + + III. + + Lady Isolda of the Moated Manse, + Whom here, that very noon, it happened me + To meet near her old home. A single glance + Told me 't was she. I marveled much to see + How lovely still she was! as fair, perchance, + As when Red Rupert thrust her brutally,-- + Her long hair loosened,--down the shattered stair, + And cast her, shrieking, 'mid his followers there. + + + IV. + + "She is for you! Take her! I promised it! + She is for you!"--he shouted, as he flung + Her in their midst. Then, on her poor hands (split, + And beaten by his dagger when she clung + Resisting him) and knees, she crept a bit + Nearer his feet and begged for death. No tongue + Can tell the way he turned from her and cursed, + Then bade his men draw lots for which were first. + + + V. + + I saw it all from that low parapet, + Where, bullet-wounded in the hip and head, + I lay face-upward in the whispering wet, + Exhausted 'mid the dead and left for dead. + We had held out two days without a let + Against these bandits. You could trace with red, + From room to room, how we resisted hard + Since the great door crashed in to their petard. + + + VI. + + The rain revived me, and I leaned with pain + And saw her lying there, all soiled and splashed + And miserable; on her cheek a stain, + A dull red bruise, made when his hand had dashed + Her down upon the stones; the wretched rain + Dripped from her dark hair; and her hands were gashed.-- + Oh, for a musket or a petronel + With which to send his devil's soul to hell! + + + VII. + + But helpless there I lay, no weapon near, + Only the useless sword I could not reach + His traitor's heart with, while I chafed to hear + The laugh, the insult and the villain speech + Of him to her. Oh, God! could I but clear + The height between and, hanging like a leech, + My fingers at his throat, there tear his base + Vile tongue out, yea, and lash it in his face! + + + VIII. + + But, badly wounded, what could I but weep + With rage and pity of my helplessness + And her misfortune! Could I only creep + A little nearer so that she might guess + I was not dead; that I my life would keep + But to avenge her!--Oh, the wild distress + Of that last moment when, half-dead, I saw + Them mount and bear her swooning through the shaw. + + + IX. + + Long time I lay unconscious. It befell + Some woodsmen found me, having heard the sound + Of fighting cease that, for two days, made dell + And dingle echo; ventured on the ground + For plunder; and it had not then gone well + With me, I fear, had not their leader found + That in some way I would repay his care; + So bore me to his hut and nursed me there. + + + X. + + How roughly kind he was. For weeks I hung + 'Twixt life and death; health, like a varying, sick, + And fluttering pendulum, now this way swung, + Now that, until at last its querulous tick + Beat out life's usual time, and slowly rung + The long loud hours that exclaimed, "Be quick!-- + Arise--Go forth!--Hear how her black wrongs call!-- + Make them the salve to cure thy wounds withal!" + + + XI. + + They were my balsam: for, ere autumn came, + Weak still, but over eager to be gone, + I took my leave of him. A little lame + From that hip-wound, and somewhat thin and wan, + I sought the village. Here I heard her name + And shame's made one. How Rupert passed one dawn, + And she among his troopers rode--astride + Like any man--pale-faced and feverish-eyed. + + XII. + + Which way these took they pointed, and I went + Like fire after. Oh, the thought was good + That they were on before! And much it meant + To know she lived still; she, whose image stood + Ever before me, making turbulent + Each heart-beat with her wrongs, that were fierce food + Unto my hate that, "Courage!" cried, "Rest not! + Think of her there, and let thy haste be hot!" + + XIII. + + But months passed by and still I had not found: + Yet here and there, as wearily I sought, + I caught some news: how he had held his ground + Against the Roundhead troops; or how he'd fought + Then fled, returned and conquered. Like a hound, + Questing a boar, I followed; but was brought + Never to see my quarry. Day by day + It seemed that Satan kept him from my way. + + + XIV. + + A woman rode beside him, so they said, + A fair-faced wanton, mounted like a man-- + Isolda!--my Isolda!--better dead, + Yea, dead and damned! than thus the courtesan, + Bold, unreluctant, of such men! A dread, + That such should be, unmanned me. Doubt began + To whisper at my heart.--But I was mad, + To insult her with such thoughts, whose love I had. + + + XV. + + At last one day I rested in a glade + Near that same woodland which I lay in when + Sore wounded; and, while sitting in the shade + Of an old beech--what! did I dream, or men + Like Rupert's own ride near me? and a maid-- + Isolda or her spirit!--Wildly then + I rose and, shouting, leapt upon my horse; + Unsheathed my sword and rode across their course. + + + XVI. + + Mainly I looked for Rupert, and by name + Challenged him forth:--"Dog! dost thou hide behind?-- + Insulter of women! Coward! save where shame + And rapine call thee! God at last is kind, + And my sword waits!"--Like an upbeating flame, + My voice rose to a windy shout; and blind + I seemed to sit, till, with an outstretched hand, + Isolda rode before me from that band. + + + XVII. + + "Gerald!" she cried; not as a heart surprised + With gladness that the loved, deemed dead, still lives; + But like the heart that long hath realized + Only misfortune and to fortune gives + No confidence, though it be recognized + As good. She spoke: "Lo, we are fugitives. + Rupert is slain. And I am going home." + Then like a child asked simply, "Wilt thou come?... + + + XVIII. + + "Oh, I have suffered, Gerald, oh, my God! + What shame, what vileness! Once my soul was clean-- + Stained and defiled behold it!--I have trod + Sad ways of hell and horror. I have seen + And lived all depths of lust. Yet, oh, my God! + Blameless I hold myself of what hath been, + Though through it all, yea, this thou too must know, + I loved him! my betrayer and thy foe!" + + + XIX. + + Sobbing she spoke as if but half awake, + Her eyes far-fixed beyond me, far beyond + All hope of mine.--So it was for his sake, + His love, that she had suffered!... blind and fond, + For what return!... And I to nurse a snake, + And never dream its nature would respond + With some such fang of venom! 'T was for this + That I had ventured all, to find her his! + + + XX. + + At first half-stunned I stood; then blood and brain, + Like two stern judges, who had slept, awoke, + Rose up and thundered, "Slay her!" Every vein + And nerve responded, "Slay her at a stroke!"-- + And I had done it, but my heart again, + Like a strong captain in a tumult, spoke, + And the fierce discord fell. And quietly + I sheathed my sword and said, "I'll go with thee." + + + XXI. + + But this was my reward for all I'd borne, + My loyalty and love! To see her eyes + Hollow from tears for him; her pale cheeks worn + With grief for him; to know them all for lies, + Her vows of faith to me; to come forlorn, + Where I had hoped to come on Paradise, + On Hell's black gulf; and, as if not enough, + Soiled as she was and outcast, still to love! + + + XXII. + + Then rode one ruffian from the rest, clay-flecked + From spur to plume with hurry; seized my rein, + And--"What art thou," demanded, "who hast checked + Our way, and challenged?"--Then, with some disdain, + Isolda, "Sir, my kinsman did expect + Your captain here. What honor may remain + To me I pledge for him. Hold off thy hands! + He but attends me to the Moated Manse." + + + XXIII. + + We rode in silence. And at twilight came + Into the Moated Manse.--Great clouds had grown + Up in the West, on which the sunset's flame + Lay like the hand of slaughter.--Very lone + Its rooms and halls: a splintered door that, lame, + Swung on one hinge; a cabinet o'erthrown; + Or arras torn; or blood-stain turning wan, + Showed us the way the battle once had gone. + + + XXIV. + + We reached the tower-chamber towards the West, + In which on that dark day she thought to hide + From Rupert when, at last, 't was manifest + We could not hold the Manse. There was no pride + In her deep eyes now; nor did scorn invest + Her with such dignity as once defied + Him bursting in to find her standing here + Prepared to die like some dog-hunted deer. + + + XXV. + + She took my hand, and, as if naught of love + Had ever been between us, said,--"All know + The madness of that day when with his glove + He struck then slew my brother, and brought woe + On all our house; and thou, incensed above + The rest, came here, and made my foe thy foe. + But he had left. 'T was then I promised thee + My hand, but, ah! my heart was gone from me. + + + XXVI. + + "Yea, he had won me, this same Rupert, when + He was our guest.--Thou know'st how gallantry + And beauty can make heroes of all men + To us weak women!--And so secretly + I vowed to be his wife. It happened then + My brother found him in some villainy; + The insult followed; he was killed ... and thou + Dost still remember how I made a vow. + + + XXVII. + + "But still this man pursued me, and I held + Firm to my vow, albeit I loved him still, + Unknown to all, with all the love unquelled + Of first impressions, and against my will. + At last despair of winning me compelled + Him to the oath he swore: He would not kill, + But take me living and would make my life + A living death. No man should make me wife. + + + XXVIII. + + The war, that now consumes us, did, indeed, + Give him occasion.--I had not been warned, + When down he came against me in the lead + Of his marauders. With thy help I scorned + His mad attacks two days. I would not plead + Nor parley with him, who came hoofed and horned, + Like Satan's self in soul, and, with his aid, + Took this strong house and kept the oath he made. + + + XXIX. + + "Months passed. Alas! it needs not here to tell + What often thou hast heard--Of how he led + His troopers here now there; nor what befell + Me of dishonor. Oft I wished me dead, + Loathing my life, than which the nether hell + Hath less of horror ... So we fought or fled + From place to place until a year had passed, + And Parliament forces hemmed us in at last. + + + XXX. + + "Yea, I had only lived for this--to right + With death my wrongs sometime. And love and hate + Contended in my bosom when, that night + Before the fight that should decide our fate, + I entered where he slept. There was no light + Save of the stars to see by. Long and late + I leaned above him there, yet could not kill-- + Hate raised the dagger but love held it still. + + + XXXI. + + "The woman in me conquered. What a slave + To our emotions are we! To relent + At this long-waited moment!--Wave on wave + Of pitying weakness swept me, and I bent + And kissed his face. Then prayed to God; and gave + My trust to God; and left to God th' event.-- + I never looked on Rupert's face again, + For in that morning's combat--he was slain. + + + XXXII. + + "Out of defeat escaped some scant three score + Of all his followers. And night and day + They fled; and while the Roundheads pressed them sore, + And in their road, good as a fortress, lay + The Moated Manse, where their three score or more + Might well hold out, I pointed them the way. + And they are come, amid its wrecks to end + The crime begun here.--Thou must go, my friend! + + + XXXIII. + + "Go quickly! For the time approaches when + Destruction must arrive.--Oh, well I know + All thou wouldst say to me.--What boots it then?-- + I tell thee thou must go, that thou must go!-- + Yea, dost thou think I'd have thee die 'mid men + Like these, for such an one as I!--No! no!-- + Thy life is clean. Thou shalt not cast away + Thy clean life for my soiled one. Go, I pray!" + + + XXXIV. + + She ceased. I spoke--I know not what it was. + Then took her hand and kissed it and so said-- + "Thou art my promised wife. Thou hast no cause + That is not mine. I love thee. We will wed. + I love thee. Come!"--A moment did she pause, + Then shook her head and sighed, "My heart is dead. + This can not be. Behold, that way is thine. + I will not let thee share this way that's mine." + + + XXXV. + + Then turning from me ere I could prevent + Passed like a shadow from the shadowy room, + Leaving my soul in shadow ... Naught was meant + By my sweet flower of love then! bloom by bloom + I'd watched it wither; then its fragrance went, + And naught was left now.--It was dark as doom, + And bells were tolling far off through the rain, + When from that house I turned my face again. + + + XXXVI. + + Then in the night a trumpet; and the dull + Close thud of horse and clash of Puritan arms; + And glimmering helms swept by me. Sorrowful + I stood and waited till upon the storm's + Black breast, the Manse, a burning carbuncle, + Blazed like a battle-beacon, and alarms + Of onslaught clanged around it; then, like one + Who bears with him God's curse, I galloped on. + + + + +The Forester + + + I met him here at Ammendorf one Spring. + It was the end of April and the Harz, + Veined to their ruin-crested summits, seemed + One pulse of tender green and delicate gold, + Beneath a heaven that was like the face + Of girlhood waking into motherhood. + Along the furrowed meadow, freshly ploughed, + The patient oxen, loamy to the knees, + Plodded or lowed or snuffed the fragrant soil; + And in each thorntree hedge the wild bird sang + A song to Spring, made of its own wild heart + And soul, that heard the dairy-maiden May's + Heart beating like a star at break of day, + As, kissing ripe the blossoms, she drew near, + Her mouth's sweet rose all dew-drops and perfume. + Here at this inn and underneath this tree + We took our wine, the morning prismed in its + Flame-angled gold.--A goodly vintage that! + Tang with the ripeness of full twenty years. + Rare! I remember!--wine that spurred the blood, + That brought the heart glad to the limbered lip, + And made the eyes unlatticed casements where + A man's true soul you could not help but see. + As royal a Rhenish, I will vouch to say, + As that, old legends tell, which Necromance + And Magic keep, gnome-guarded, in huge casks + Of antique make deep in the Kyffhäuser, + The Cellar of the Knights near Sittendorf.-- + So solaced of that wine we sat an hour. + He told me his intent in coming here. + His name was Rudolf; and his native home, + Franconia; but no word of parentage: + Only his mind to don the buff and green + And live a forester with us and be + Enfellowed in the Duke of Brunswick's train, + And for the Duke's estate even now was bound. + Tall was he for his age and strong and brown, + And lithe of limb; and with a face that seemed + Hope's counterpart--but with the eyes of doubt; + Deep restless disks, instinct with gleaming night, + That seemed to say, "We're sure of earth, at least + For some short space, my friend; but afterward-- + Nay! ransack not to-morrow till to-day, + Lest it engulf thy joy before it is!"-- + And when he spoke, the fire in his eyes + Worked stealthy as a hunted animal's; + Or like the Count von Hackelnburg's that turn, + Feeling the unseen presence of a fiend. + Then, as it chanced, old Kurt had come that morn + With some six of his jerkined foresters + From the Thuringian forest; wet with dew, + And fresh as morn with early travel; bound + For Brunswick, Dummburg and the Hakel passed. + Chief huntsman he then to our lord the Duke, + And father of the loveliest maiden here + In Ammendorf, the sunny Ilsabe: + Her mother dead, the gray-haired father prized + His daughter more than all that men hold dear; + His only happiness, who was beloved + Of all as Lora of Thuringia was, + For gentle ways that spoke a noble soul, + Winning all hearts to love her and to praise, + As might a great and beautiful thought that holds + Us by the simplest words.--Her eyes were blue + As the high influence of a summer day. + Her hair,--serene and braided over brows + White as a Harz dove's wing,--was auburn brown, + And deep as mists the sun has drenched with gold. + And her young presence--well, 't was like a song, + A far Tyrolean melody of love, + Heard on an Alpine path at close of day + When shepherds homeward lead their tinkling flocks. + And when she left, being with you awhile,-- + How shall I say it?--'t was as when one hath + Beheld an Undine by the moonlit Rhine, + Who, ere the mind adjusts a thought, is gone, + And in your soul you wonder if a dream. + Some thirty years ago it was;--and I, + Commissioner of the Duke--(no sinecure + I can assure you)--had scarce reached the age + Of thirty,--that we sat here at our wine; + And 't was through me that Rudolf,--whom at first, + From some rash words dropped then in argument, + The foresterhood was like to be denied,-- + Was then enfellowed. "Yes," said I, "he's young. + Kurt, he is young; but see, a wiry frame; + A chamois footing and a face for deeds; + An eye that likes me not; too quick to turn; + But that may be the restless soul within; + A soul perhaps with virtues that have been + Severely tried and could not stand the test; + These be thy care, Kurt; and if not too deep + In vices of the flesh, discover them, + As divers bring lost riches up from ooze. + Thou hast a daughter; let him be thy son." + A year thereafter was it that I heard + Of Rudolf's passion for Kurt's Ilsabe; + Then their betrothal. And it was from this,-- + Good Mother Mary! how she haunts me still! + Sweet Ilsabe! whose higher womanhood, + True as the touchstone which philosophers feign + Transmutes to gold base metals it may touch, + Had turned to good all evil in this man,-- + Surmised I of the excellency which + Refinement of her purer company, + And contact with her innocence, had resolved + His fiery nature to, conditioning slave. + And so I came from Brunswick--as, you know, + Is custom of the Duke or, by his seal + Commissioned proxy, his commissioner-- + To test the marksmanship of Rudolf, who + Succeeded Kurt with marriage of his child, + An heir of Kuno.--He?--Greatgrandfather + Of Kurt; and of this forestkeepership + The first possessor; thus established here-- + Or this the tale they tell on winter nights: + Kuno, once in the Knight of Wippach's train, + Rode on a grand hunt with the Duke, who came,-- + Grandfather of the father of our Duke,-- + With much magnificence of knights and squires, + Great velvet-vestured nobles, cloaked and plumed, + To hunt Thuringian deer. Then morn,--too quick + To bid good-morrow,--was too slow for these, + And on the wind-trod hills recumbent yawned + Disturbed an hour too soon; all sleepy-eyed, + Like some young milkmaid whom the cock hath roused, + Who sits and rubs stiff eyes that still will close. + Horns sang and deer-hounds tugged a whimpering leash, + Or, loosened, bounded through the baying glens: + And ere the mountain mists, compact of white, + Broke wild before the azure spears of day, + The far-off hunt, that woke the woods to life, + Seemed but the heart-beat of the ancient hills. + And then, near noon, within a forest brake, + The ban-dogs roused a red gigantic stag, + Lashed to whose back with gnarly-knotted cords, + And borne along like some pale parasite, + A man shrieked: tangle-bearded, and wild hair + A mane of forest-burs. The man himself, + Emaciated and half-naked from + The stag's mad flight through headlong rocks and trees, + One bleeding bruise, with eyes like holes of fire. + For such the law then: when the peasant chased + Or slew the dun deer of his tyrant lords, + If seized, as punishment the withes and spine + Of some strong stag, a gift to him of game, + Enough till death--death in the antlered herd, + Or slow starvation in the haggard hills. + Then was the great Duke glad, and forthwith cried + To all his hunting train a rich reward + For him who slew the stag and saved the man, + But death for him who slew both man and stag. + So plunged the hunt after the hurrying slot, + A shout and glimmer through the sounding woods,-- + Like some mad torrent that the hills have loosed + With death for goal.--'T was late; and none had risked + That shot as yet,--too desperate the risk + Beside the poor life and a little gold,-- + When this young Kuno, with fierce eyes, wherein + Hunt and impatience kindled reckless flame, + Cried, "Has the dew then made our powder wet? + Or have we left our marksmanship at home? + Here's for its heart! the Fiend direct my ball!"-- + And fired into a covert deeply packed, + An intertangled wall of matted night, + Wherein the eye might vainly strive and strive + To pierce one fathom, earn one foot beyond. + But, ha! the huge stag staggered from the brake + Hit full i' the heart. And that wan wretch, unbound, + Was ta'en and cared for. Then his grace, the Duke, + Charmed with the eagle aim, called Kuno up, + And there to him and his forever gave + The forestkeepership. + But envious tongues + Were soon at wag; and whispered went the tale + Of how the shot was free, and how the balls + Used by young Kuno were free bullets--which + To say is: Lead by magic moulded, in + The influence and directed, of the Fiend. + Of some effect these tales, and had some force + Even with the Duke, who lent an ear so far + As to ordain Kuno's descendants all + To proof of skill ere their succession to + The father's office. Kurt himself hath shot + The silver ring out o' the popinjay's beak-- + A good shot he, you see, who would succeed. + Of these enchanted bullets let me speak: + There may be such; our Earth has things as strange, + Perhaps, and stranger, that we doubt not of, + While we behold, not only 'neath the thatch + Of Ignorance's hovel, but within + The pictured halls of Wisdom's palaces, + How Superstition sits an honored guest. + A cross-way let it be among the hills; + A cross-way in a solitude of pines; + And on the lonely cross-way you must draw + A blood-red circle with a bloody sword; + And round the circle, runic characters, + Gaunt and satanic; here a skull, and there + A scythe and cross-bones, and an hour-glass here; + And in the centre, fed with coffin-wood, + Stol'n from the grave of one, a murderer, + A smouldering fire. Eleven of the clock + The first ball leaves the mold--the sullen lead + Mixed with three bullets that have hit their mark, + And blood, the wounded Sacramental Host + Stolen, and hence unhallowed, oozed, when shot + Fixed to a riven pine. Ere twelve o'clock + With never a word until that hour sound, + Must all the balls be cast; and these must be + In number three and sixty; three of which + The Fiend's dark agent, demon Sammael, + Claims for his master and stamps for his own + To hit aside their mark, askew for harm. + The other sixty shall not miss their mark. + No cry, no word, no whisper, even though + Vague, gesturing shapes, that loom like moonlit mists, + Their faces human but with animal forms, + Rise thick around and threaten to destroy. + No cry, no word, no whisper should there come, + Weeping, a wandering shadow like the girl + You love, or loved, now lost to you, her eyes + Hollow with tears; all palely beckoning + With beautiful arms, or censuring; her face + Sad with a desolate love; who, if you speak + Or waver from that circle--hideous change!-- + Shrinks to a wrinkled hag, whose harpy hands + Shall tear you limb from limb with horrible mirth. + Nor be deceived if some far midnight bell + Strike that anticipated hour; nor leave + By one short inch the circle, for, unseen + Though now they be, Hell's minions still are there, + Watching with flaming eyes to seize your soul. + But when the hour of midnight sounds, be sure + You have your bullets, neither more nor less; + For if through fear one more or less you have, + Your soul is forfeit to Hell's majesty.-- + Then while the hour of midnight strikes, will come + A noise of galloping hoofs and outriders, + Shouting; six midnight steeds,--their nostrils, pits + Of burning blood,--postilioned, roll a stage, + Black and with groaning wheels of spinning fire: + "Room there!--ho! ho!--who bars the mountain-way? + On over him!"--But fear not, nor fare forth; + 'T is but the last trick of your bounden slave. + And ere the red moon rushes through the clouds + And dives again, high the huge leaders leap, + Their fore-hoofs fire, and their eye-balls flame, + And, spun a spiral spark into the night, + Whistling the phantom flies and fades away. + Some say there comes no stage; that Hackelnburg, + Wild-huntsman of the Harz, comes dark as storm, + With rain and wind and demon dogs of Hell, + The terror of his hunting-horn, an owl, + And the dim deer he hunts, rush on before; + The forests crash, and whirlwinds are the leaves, + And all the skies a-thunder, as he hurls + Straight on the circle, horse and hounds and stag. + And at the last, plutonian-cloaked, there comes, + Upon a stallion gaunt and lurid black, + The minister of Satan, Sammael, + Who greets you, and informs you, and assures. + Enough! these wives'-tales told, to what I've seen: + To Ammendorf I came; and Rudolf here + With Kurt and his assembled men, I met. + The abundant year,--like some sweet wife,--a-smile + At her brown baby, Autumn, in her arms, + Stood 'mid the garnered harvests of her fields + Dreaming of days that pass like almoners + Scattering their alms in minted gold of flowers; + Of nights, that forest all the skies with stars, + Wherethrough the moon--bare-bosomed huntress--rides, + One cloud before her like a flying fawn. + Then I proposed the season's hunt; till eve + The test of Rudolf's skill postponed, at which + He seemed impatient. And 't was then I heard + How he an execrable marksman was; + And tales that told of near, incredible shots, + That missed their mark; or how his flint-lock oft + Flashed harmless powder, while the curious deer + Stood staring; as in pity of such aim + Bidding him try his marksmanship again. + Howbeit, he that day acquitted him + Of all this gossip; in that day's long hunt + Missing no shot, however rashly made + Or distant through the intercepting trees. + And the piled, various game brought down of all + Good marksmen of Kurt's train had not sufficed, + Doubled, nay, trebled, there to match his heap. + And marvelling the hunters saw, nor knew + How to excuse them. My indulgence giv'n, + Some told me that but yesterday old Kurt + Had made his daughter weep and Rudolf frown, + By vowing end to their betrothéd love, + Unless that love developed better aim + Against the morrow's test; his ancestors' + High fame should not be tarnished. So he railed; + And bowed his gray head and sat moodily; + But looking up, forgave all when he saw + Tears in his daughter's eyes and Rudolf gone + Out in the night black with approaching storm. + Before this inn, yonder and here, they stood, + The holiday village come to view the trial: + Fair maidens and their comely mothers with + Their sweethearts and their husbands. And I marked + Kurt and his daughter here; his florid face + All jubilant at Rudolf's great success; + Hers, radiant with happiness; for this + Her marriage eve--so had her father said-- + Should Rudolf come successful from the hunt. + So pleased was I with what I'd seen him do, + The trial of skill superfluous seemed, and so + Was on the bare brink of announcing, when + Out of the western heaven's deepening red,-- + Like a white message dropped by rosy lips,-- + A wild dove clove the luminous winds and there, + Upon that limb, a peaceful moment sat. + Then I, "Thy rifle, Rudolf! pierce its head!" + Cried pointing, "and chief-forester art thou!"-- + Why did he falter with a face as strange + As a dark omen? did his soul foresee + What was to be with tragic prescience?-- + What a bad dream it all seems now!--Again + I see him aim. Again I hear the cry, + "My dove! O Rudolf, do not kill my dove!" + And from the crowd, like some sweet dove herself, + A fluttering whiteness, came our Ilsabe-- + Too late! the rifle cracked ... The unhurt dove + Rose, beating frightened wings--but Ilsabe!... + The sight! the sight!... lay smitten; a red stain, + Sullying the pureness of her bridal bodice, + Showed where the ball had pierced her through the heart. + And Rudolf?--Ah, of him you still would know?-- + When he beheld this thing that he had done, + Why he went mad--I say--but others not. + An hour he raved of how her life had paid + For the unholy bullets he had used, + And how his soul was three times lost and damned. + I say that he went mad and fled forthwith + Into the haunted Harz.--Some say, to die + The prey of demons of the Dummburg ruin. + I, one of those less superstitious, say, + He in the Bodé--from that blackened rock,-- + Whereon were found his hunting-cap and gun,-- + The Devil's Dancing Place, did leap and die. + + + + +My Lady of Verne + + + It all comes back as the end draws near; + All comes back like a tale of old! + Shall I tell you all? Will you lend an ear? + You, with your face so stern and cold; + You, who have found me dying here ... + + Lady Leona's villa at Verne-- + You have walked its terraces, where the fount + And statue gleam and the fluted urn; + Its world-old elms, that are avenues gaunt + Of shadow and flame when the West is a-burn. + + 'T is a lonely region of tarns and trees, + And hollow hills that circle the West; + Haunted of rooks and the far-off sea's + Immemorial vague unrest; + A land of sorrowful memories. + + A gray sad land, where the wind has its will, + And the sun its way with the fruits and flowers; + Where ever the one all night is shrill, + And ever the other all day brings hours + Of glimmering silence that dead days fill. + + A gray sad land, where her girlhood grew + To womanhood proud, that the hill-winds seemed + To give their heart, like melody, to; + And the stars, their soul, like a dream undreamed-- + The only glad thing that the sad land knew. + + My Lady, you know, how nobly born! + Haughty of form, with a head that rose + Like a dream of empire; love and scorn + Made haunts of her eyes; and her lips were bows + Whence pride imperious flashed flower and thorn. + + And I--oh, I was nobody: one + Her worshiper only; who chose to be + Silent, seeing that love alone + Was his only badge of nobility, + Set in his heart's escutcheon. + + How long ago does the springtime look, + When we wandered away to the hills! the hills,-- + Like the land in the tale in the fairy-book,-- + Covered with gold of the daffodils, + And gemmed with the crocus by brae and brook! + + When I gathered a branch from a hawthorn tree, + For her hair or bosom, from boughs that hung + Odorous of heaven and purity; + And she thanked me smiling; then merrily sung, + Laughingly sung, while she looked at me:-- + + "There dwelt a princess over the sea-- + Right fair was she, right fair was she-- + Who loved a squire of low degree, + But married a king of Brittany-- + Ah, woe is me! + + "And it came to pass on the wedding-day-- + So people say, so people say-- + That they found her dead in her bridal array, + Dead, and her lover beside her lay-- + Ah, well-away! + + "A sour stave for your sweets," she said, + Pressing the blossoms against her lips: + Then petal by petal the branch she shred, + Snowing the blooms from her finger-tips, + Tossing them down for her feet to tread. + + What to her was the look I gave + Of love despised! though she seemed to start, + Seeing, and said, with a quick hand-wave, + "Why, one would think that _that_ was your heart," + While her face with a sudden thought grew grave. + + But I answered nothing. And so to her home + We came in the twilight; falling clear, + With a few first stars and a moon's curved foam, + Over the hush of meadow and mere, + Whence the boom of the bittern would often come. + + Would you think that she loved me?--Who can say?-- + What a riddle unread was she to me!-- + When I kissed her fingers and turned away + I wanted to speak, but--what cared she, + Though her eyes looked soft and she begged me stay! + + Though she lingered to watch me--that might be + A slim moon-beam or the evening haze,-- + But never my Lady's drapery + Or wistful face!--in the ivy maze.... + Leona of Verne--why, what cared she! + + So the days went by, and the Summer wore + Her hot heart out; and, a mighty slayer, + The Autumn harried the land and shore, + And the world was red with his wrecks; but grayer + That land with the ghosts of the nevermore. + + The sheaves of the Summer had long been bound; + The harvests of Autumn had long been past; + And the snows of the Winter lay deep around, + When the dark news came and I knew at last; + And the reigning woe of my heart was crowned. + + So I sought her here, the young Earl's bride; + In the ancient room at the oriel dreaming, + Pale as the blooms in her hair; and, wide, + Her robe's rich satin, flung stormily, gleaming, + Like shimmering silver, twilight-dyed. + + I marked as I stole to her side that tears + Were vaguely large in her beautiful eyes; + That the loops of pearls on her throat, and years + Old lace on her bosom were heaved with sighs; + So I spoke what I thought--"Then, it appears"-- + + And stopped with, it seemed, my soul in my gaze-- + "That you are not happy, Leona of Verne? + There is that at your heart which--well, betrays + These mocking mummeries.--Live and learn!-- + And this is the truth that the poet says:-- + + "'I went to my love and I told with my heart, + In words of the soul, that are silent in speech, + All of my passion, too sacred for art; + But she heard me not--for I could not reach + Her in that world of which she is part.'-- + + "That world, where I saw you as one afar + Sees palms and waters, and knows that sands, + Pitiless sands, before him are; + Yet follows ever with helpless hands + Till he sinks at last.--You were my star, + + "My hope, my heaven!--I loved you!... Life + Is less than nothing to me!"... She turned, + With a wild look, saying--"Now I am his wife + You come and tell me!--Indeed you are learn'd + In the language of hearts that's unheard!"... A Knife, + + As she ceased and leaned on a cabinet,-- + A curve of scintillant steel, keen, cold,-- + Fell icily clashing; some curio met + Among Asian antiques, bronze and gold, + Mystical, curiously graven and set. + + A Bactrian dagger, whose slightest prick + Through its ancient poison was death, I knew; + If true that she loved me--then!--And quick + To the unspoken thought she replied, "'T is true! + I have loved you long, and my soul was sick, + + "Sick for the love that has made me weak, + Weak to your will even now!"--And more + She said, in my arms, that I shall not speak-- + And the dagger there on the polished floor + Ever her eyes, while she spoke, would seek. + + "'And it came to pass on the wedding-day'"-- + Then my lips for a moment were crushed to hers-- + "'That they found her dead in her bridal array,'" + She sang; then said, "You finish the verse! + Finish the song, for you know the way." + + And I whispered "yes," for my mind had thought + Her own thought through--that life were a hell + To her as to me,--So the blade I caught + With a sudden hand; and she leaned, and--well, + What a little wound, and the blood it brought + + To crimson her bosom!--I set her there + In that carven chair; then turned the blade,-- + With its glittering haft one savage glare + Of gold and jewels, wildly inlaid,-- + To my breast, for the poisonous point rent bare. + + A stain of blood on her bosom, and one + Black red o'er my heart.--You see, 't is good + To die so for love!... Does the sinking sun, + Through the dull vast west burst banked with blood?-- + Or is it that life will at last have done?... + + So you are her husband? and--well, you see, + You see she is dead ... But your face, how white! + --Is it with hate or with misery?-- + What matters it now!--For, at last, the night + Falls and the silence covers me. + + + + +An Old Tale Re-told + + + From the terrace here, where the hills indent, + You can see the uttermost battlement + Of the castle there; the Cliffords' home; + Where the seasons go and the seasons come + And never a footstep else doth fall + Save the prowling fox's; the ancient hall + Echoes no voice save the owlet's call: + Its turret chambers are homes for the bat; + And its courts are tangled and wild to see; + And where in the cellar was once the rat, + The viper and toad move stealthily. + Long years have passed since the place was burned, + And he sailed to the wars in France and earned + The name that he bears of the bold and true + On his tomb. Long years, since my lord, Sir Hugh, + Lived; and I was his favorite page, + And the thing then happened; and he of an age + When a man will love and be loved again, + Or hie to the wars or a monastery, + Or toil till he conquer his heart's sore pain, + Or drink and forget it and finally bury. + + I was his page. And often we fared + Through the Clare demesnes, in autumn, hawking; + If the Baron had known, how they would have glared + 'Neath their bushy brows, those eyes of mocking!-- + That last of the Strongbows, Richard, I mean-- + And growling some six of his henchmen lean + To mount and after this Clifford and hang + With his crop-eared page to the nearest oak, + How he would have cursed us while he spoke! + For Clare and Clifford had ever a fang + In the other's side ... And I hear the clang + Of his rage in the hall when the hawker told-- + If he told!--how we met on the autumn wold + His daughter, sweet Clara of Clare, the day + Her hooded tiercel its brails did burst, + And trailing its jesses, came flying our way-- + An untrained haggard the falconer cursed + While he tried to secure:--as the eyas flew + Slant, low and heavily over us, Hugh,-- + Who saw it coming, and had just then cast + His peregrine hawk at a heron quarry,-- + In his saddle rising, so, as it passed, + By the jesses caught, and to her did carry, + Where she stood near the wood. Her face flushed rose + With the glad of the meeting. No two foes + Her eyes and my Lord's, I swear, who saw + 'Twas love from the start. And I heard him speak + Some words; then he knelt; and the sombre shaw, + With the rust of the autumn waste and bleak, + Grew spring with her smile, as the hawk she took + On her lily wrist, where it pruned and shook + Its ragged wings. Then I saw him seize + The hand, that she reached to him, long and white, + As she smilingly bade him rise from his knees-- + + When he kissed its fingers, her eyes grew bright. + But her cheeks grew pallid when, lashing through + The woodland there, with a face a-flare + With the sting of the wind, and his gipsy hair + Flying, the falconer came, and two + Or three of the people of Castle Clare. + And the leaves of the autumn made a frame + For the picture there in the morning's flame. + + What was said in that moment, I do not know, + That moment of meeting, between those lovers; + But whatever it was, 't was whispered low, + And soft as a leaf that swings and hovers, + A twinkling gold, when the leaves are yellow. + And her face with the joy was still aglow, + When down through the wood that burly fellow + Came with his frown, and made a pause + In the pulse of their words. My lord, Sir Hugh, + Stood with the soil on his knee. No cause + Had he, but his hanger he partly drew, + Then clapped it sharp in its sheath again, + And bowed to my Lady, and strode away; + And mounting his horse, with a swinging rein + Rode with a song in his heart all day. + + He loved and was loved, I knew; for, look! + All other sports for the chase he forsook. + And strange that he never went to hawk, + Or hunt, but Clara would meet him there + In the Strongbow forest! I know the rock, + With its fern-filled moss, by the bramble lair, + Were oft and again he met--by chance, + Shall I say?--the daughter of Clare; as fair + Of face as a queen in an old romance, + Who waits with her sweet face pale; her hair + Night-deep; and eyes dove-gray with dreams;-- + By the fountain-side where the statue gleams + And the moonbeam lolls in the lily white,-- + For the knightly lover who comes at night. + + Heigho! they ceased, those meetings; I wot, + Betrayed to the Baron by some of his crew + Of menials who followed and saw and knew. + For she loved too well to have once forgot + The time and the place of their trysting true. + "Why and when?" would ask Sir Hugh + In the labored letters he used to lock-- + The lovers' post--in a coigne of that rock. + She used to answer, but now did not. + But nearing Yule, love got them again + A twilight tryst--through frowardness sure!-- + They met. And that day was gray with rain, + Or snow: and the wind did ever endure + A long bleak moaning thorough the wood, + That chapped i' the cheek and smarted the blood; + And a brook in the forest went throb and throb, + And over it all was the wild-beast sob + Of the rushing boughs like a thing pursued. + And then it was that he learned how she, + (God's blood! how it makes my old limbs quiver + To think what a miserable tyrant he-- + The Baron Richard--aye and ever + To his daughter was!) forsooth! must wed + With an eastern earl, a Lovell: to whom + (Would God o' his mercy had struck him dead!) + Clara of Clare when only a child,-- + With a face like a flower, that blooms in the wild + Of the hills, and a soul like its soft perfume,-- + Was given; to seal, or strengthen, some ties + Of power and wealth--say bartered, then, + Like the merest chattel. With tearful eyes + And trembling lips she spoke; and when + Her lover, the Clifford, had learned and heard,-- + He'd have had her flee with him then, 'sdeath! + In spite of them all! Let her speak the word, + They would fly together; the Baron's men + Might follow, and if ... and he touched his sword, + It should answer! But she, while she seemed to stay, + With a hand on her bosom, her heart's quick breath, + Replied to his heat, "They would take and slay + Thee who art life of me!--No! not thus + Shall we fly! there's another way for us; + A way that is sure; an only way; + I have thought it out this many a day."-- + The words that she spoke, how well I remember! + As well as the mood o' that day of December, + That bullied and blustered and seemed in league, + Like a spiteful shrew, with the wind and snow, + To drown the words of their sweet intrigue, + With the boom of the boughs tossed to and fro. + Her last words these, "By curfew sure, + On Christmas eve, at the postern door." + + And we were there; with a led horse too; + Armed for a journey I hardly knew + Whither, but why, you well can guess. + For often he whispered a certain name, + The talisman of his happiness, + That warmed his blood like a yule-log's flame. + While we waited there, till its owner came, + We saw how the castle's baronial girth, + Like a giant's, loosed for reveling more, + Shone; and we heard the wassail and mirth + Where the mistletoe hung in the hearth's red roar, + And the holly brightened the weaponed wall + Of ancient oak in the banqueting hall. + And the spits, I trow, by the scullions turned + O'er the snoring logs, rich steamed and burned, + While the whole wild-boar and the deer were roasted, + And the half of an ox and the roe-buck haunches; + While tuns of ale, that the cellars boasted, + And casks of sack, were broached for paunches + Of vassals who reveled in stable and hall. + The song of the minstrel; the yeomen's quarrel + O'er the dice and the drink; and the huntsman's bawl + In the baying kennels, its hounds a-snarl + O'er the bones of the banquet; now loud, now low, + We could hear where we crouched in the drifting snow. + + Was she long? did she come?... By the postern we + Like shadows waited. My lord, Sir Hugh, + Spoke, pointing a tower, "That casement, see? + When a stealthy light in its slit burns blue + And signals thrice slowly, thus--'t is she." + And close to his breast his gaberdine drew, + For the wind it whipped and the snow beat through. + Did she come?--We had waited an hour or twain, + When the taper flashed in the central pane, + And flourished three times and vanished so. + And under the arch of the postern's portal, + Holding the horses, we stood in the snow, + Stiff with the cold. Ah, me! immortal + Minutes we waited, breath-bated, and listened + Shivering there in the hiss of the gale: + The parapets whistled, the angles glistened, + And the night around seemed one black wail + Of death, whose ominous presence over + The stormy battlements seemed to hover. + Said my lord, Sir Hugh,--to himself he spoke,-- + "She feels for the spring in the sliding panel + 'Neath the arras, hid in the carven oak. + It opens. The stair, like a well's dark channel, + Yawns; and the draught makes her taper slope. + Wrapped deep in her mantle she stoops, now puts + One foot on the stair; now a listening pause + As nearer and nearer the mad search draws + Of the thwarted castle. No smallest hope + That they find her now that the panel shuts!... + If the wind, that howls like a tortured thing, + Would throttle itself with itself, then I + Might hear how her hurrying footsteps ring + Down the hollow ... there! 't is her fingers try + The postern's bolts that the rust makes cling."-- + But ever some whim of the storm that shook + A clanging ring or a creaking hook + In buttress or wall. And we waited, numb + With the cold, till dawn--but she did not come. + + I must tell you why and have done: 'T is said, + On the brink of the marriage she fled the side + Of the guests and the bridegroom there; she fled + With a mischievous laugh,--"I'll hide! I'll hide! + Seek! and be sure that you find!"--so led + A long search after her; but defied + All search for--a score and ten long years.... + + Well, the laughter of Yule was turned to tears + For them and for us. We saw the glare + Of torches that hurried from chamber to stair; + And we heard the castle re-echo her name, + But neither to them nor to us she came. + And that was the last of Clara of Clare. + + That winter it was, a month thereafter, + That the home of the Cliffords, roof and rafter, + Burned.--I could swear 't was the Strongbow's doing, + Were I sure that he knew of the Clifford's wooing + His daughter; and so, by the Rood and Cross! + Had burned Hugh's home to avenge his loss.-- + So over the channel to France with his King, + The Black Prince, sailed to the wars--to deaden + The ache of the mystery--Hugh that spring, + And fell at Poitiers; for his loss made leaden + His heart; and his life was a weary sadness, + So he flung it away in a moment's madness. + And the Baron died. And the bridegroom?--well, + Unlucky was he in truth!--to tell + Of him there is nothing. The Baron died, + The last of the Strongbows he--gramercy! + And the Clare estate with its wealth and pride + Devolved to the Bloets, Walter and Percy. + + And years went by. And it happened that they + Ransacked the old castle; and so, one day, + In a lonesome tower uprummaged a chest, + From Flanders; of ebon, and wildly carved + All over with things: a sinister crest, + And evil faces, distorted and starved; + Fast-locked with a spring, which they forced and, lo! + When they opened it--Death, like a lady dressed, + Grinned up at their terror!--but no, not so! + A skeleton, jeweled and laced, and wreathed + With flowers of dust; and a miniver + Around it clasped, that the ruin sheathed + Of a once rich raiment of silk and fur. + + I'd have given my life to hear him tell, + The courtly Clifford, how this befell! + He'd have known how it was: For, you see, in groping + For the secret spring of that panel, hoping + And fearing as nearer and nearer drew + The search of retainers, why, out she blew + The tell-tale taper; and, seeing this chest, + Would hide her a minute in it, mayhap, + Till the hurry had passed; but the death-lock, pressed + By the lid's great weight, closed fast with a snap, + Ere her heart was aware of the fiendish trap. + + + + +The Water Witch + + + See! the milk-white doe is wounded. + He will follow as it bounds + Through the woods. His horn has sounded. + Echoing, for his men and hounds. + But no answering bugle blew. + He has lost his retinue + For the shapely deer that bounded + Past him when his bow he drew. + + Not one hound or huntsman follows. + Through the underbrush and moss + Goes the slot; and in the hollows + Of the hills, that he must cross, + He has lost it. He must fare + Over rocks where she-wolves lair; + Wood-pools where the wild-boar wallows; + So he leaves his good steed there. + + Through his mind then flashed an olden + Legend told him by the monks:-- + Of a girl, whose hair is golden, + Haunting fountains and the trunks + Of the woodland; who, they say, + Is a white doe all the day; + But when woods are night-enfolden + Turns into an evil fay. + + Then the story oft his teacher + Told him; of a mountain lake + Demons dwell in; vague of feature, + Human-like, but each a snake, + She is queen of.--Did he hear + Laughter at his startled ear? + Or a bird? And now, what creature + Is it, or the wind, stirs near? + + Fever of the hunt. This water, + Murmuring here, will cool his head. + Through the forest, fierce as slaughter, + Slants the sunset; ruby red + Are the drops that slip between + His cupped hands, while on the green,-- + Like the couch of some wild daughter + Of the forest,--he doth lean. + + But the runnel, bubbling, dripping, + Seems to bid him to be gone; + As with crystal words, and tripping + Steps of sparkle luring on. + Now a spirit in the rocks + Calls him; now a face that mocks, + From behind some bowlder slipping, + Laughs at him with lilied locks. + + So he follows through the flowers, + Blue and gold, that blossom there; + Thridding twilight-haunted bowers + Where each ripple seems the bare + Beauty of white limbs that gleam + Rosy through the running stream; + Or bright-shaken hair, that showers + Starlight in the sunset's beam. + + Till, far in the forest, sleeping + Like a luminous darkness, lay + A deep water, wherein, leaping, + Fell the Fountain of the Fay, + With a singing, sighing sound, + As of spirit things around, + Musically laughing, weeping + In the air and underground. + + Not a ripple o'er it merried: + Like the round moon 'neath a cloud, + In its rocks the lake lay buried: + And strange creatures seemed to crowd + Its dark depths; vague limbs and eyes + To the surface seemed to rise + Spawn-like and, as formless, ferried + Through the water, shadow-wise. + + Foliage things with human faces, + Demon-dreadful, pale and wild + As the forms the lightning traces + On the clouds the storm has piled, + Seeming now to draw to land, + Now away--Then up the strand + Comes a woman; and she places + On his arm a spray-white hand. + + Ah! an untold world of sorrow + Were her eyes; her hair, a place + Whence the moon its gold might borrow; + And a dream of ice her face: + 'Round her hair and throat in rims + Pearls of foam hung; and through whims + Of her robe, as breaks the morrow, + Shone the rose-light of her limbs. + + Who could help but look with gladness + On such beauty? though within, + Deep within the beryl sadness + Of those eyes, the serpent sin + Coil?--When she hath placed her cheek + Chilly upon his, and weak, + With love longing and its madness, + Is his will grown, then she'll speak: + + "Dost thou love me?"--"If surrender + Is to love thee, then I love."-- + "Hast no fear then?"--"In the splendor + Of thy gaze who knows thereof? + Yet I fear--I fear to lose + Thee, thy love!"--"And thou dost choose + Aye to be my heart's defender?"-- + "Take me. I am thine to use." + + "Follow then. Ah, love, no lowly + Home I give thee."--With fixed eyes, + To the water's edge she slowly + Drew him.... And he did surmise + 'Twas her lips on his, until + O'er his face the foam closed chill, + Whisp'ring, and the lake unholy + Rippled, rippled and was still. + + + + +At Nineveh + +Written for my friend Walter S. Mathews. + + + There was a princess once, who loved the slave + Of an Assyrian king, her father; known + At Nineveh as Hadria; o'er whose grave + The sands of centuries have long been blown; + Yet sooner shall the night forget its stars + Than love her story:--How, unto his throne, + One day she came, where, with his warriors, + The king sat in the hall of audience, + 'Mid pillared trophies of barbaric wars, + And, kneeling to him, asked, "O father, whence + Comes love and why?"--He, smiling on her, said,-- + "O Hadria, love is of the gods, and hence + Divine, is only soul-interpreted. + But why love is, ah, child, we do not know, + Unless 'tis love that gives us life when dead."-- + And then his daughter, with a face aglow + With all the love that clamored in her blood + Its sweet avowal, lifted arms of snow, + And, like Aurora's rose, before him stood, + Saying,--"Since love is of the powers above, + I love a slave, O Asshur! Let the good + The gods have giv'n be sanctioned. Speak not of + Dishonor and our line's ancestral dead! + They are imperial dust. I live and love."-- + Black as black storm then rose the king and said,-- + A lightning gesture at her standing there,-- + "Enough! ho, Rhana, strike me off her head!" + And at the mandate, with his limbs half bare + A slave strode forth. Majestic was his form + As some young god's. He, gathering up her hair, + Wound it three times around his sinewy arm. + Then drew his sword. It for one moment shone + A semicircling light, and, dripping warm, + Lifting the head he stood before the throne. + Then cried the despot, "By the horn of Bel! + This was no child of mine!"--Like chiselled stone + Still stood the slave, a son of Israel. + Then striding towards the monarch, in his eye + The wrath of heaven and the hate of hell, + Shrieked, "Lust! I loved her! look on us and die!" + Swifter than fire clove him to the brain. + Then kissed the dead fair face of her held high, + And crying, "Judge, O God, between us twain!" + A thousand daggers in his heart, fell slain. + + + + +How They Brought Aid to Bryan's Station + +During the siege of Bryan's Station, Kentucky, August 16, 1782, Nicholas +Tomlinson and Thomas Bell, two inhabitants of the Fort, undertook to +ride through the besieging Indian and Tory lines to Lexington, Ky., for +aid. It happened also during this siege that the pioneer women of the +Fort, when the water supply was exhausted, heroically carried water from +a spring, at a considerable distance outside the palisades of the +Station, to its inmates, under the very guns of the enemy. + + + With saddles girt and reins held fast, + Our rifles well in front, at last + Tom Bell and I were mounted. + The gate swung wide. We said, "Good-bye." + No time for talk had Bell and I. + One said, "God speed!" another, "Fly!" + Then out we galloped. Live or die, + We felt each moment counted. + + The trace, the buffaloes had worn, + Stretched broad before us; and the corn + And cane through which it wended, + We knew for acres from the gate + Hid Indian guile and Tory hate. + We rode with hearts that seemed to wait + For instant death; and on our fate + The Station's fate depended. + + No rifle cracked. No creature stirred, + As on towards Lexington we spurred + Unflinchingly together. + We reached the woods: no savage shout + Of all the wild Wyandotte rout + And Shawanese had yet rung out: + But now and then an Indian scout + Showed here a face and feather. + + We rode expecting death each stride + From thicket depth or tree-trunk side, + Where some red foe might huddle-- + For well we knew that renegade, + The blood-stained Girty, had not stayed + His fiends from us, who rode for aid,-- + The dastard he who had betrayed + The pioneers of Ruddle. + + And when an arrow grazed my hair + I did not turn, I did not spare + To spur as men spur warward: + A war-whoop rang this side a rock: + Then painted faces swarmed, to block + Our way, with brandished tomahawk + And rifle: then a shout, a shock-- + And we again rode forward. + + They followed; but 'twas no great while + Before from them by some long mile + Of forest we were sundered. + We galloped on. I'd lost my gun; + And Bell, whose girth had come undone, + Rode saddleless. The summer sun + Was up when into Lexington + Side unto side we thundered. + + Too late. For Todd had left that day + With many men. Decoyed away + To Hoy's by some false story. + And we must after. Bryan's needs + Said, "On!" although our gallant steeds + Were blown--Enough! we must do deeds! + Must follow where our duty leads, + Be it to death or glory. + + The way was wild and often barred + By trees and rocks; and it was hard + To keep our hearts from sinking; + But thoughts of those we'd left behind + Gave strength to muscle and to mind + To help us onward through the blind + Deep woods. And often we would find + Ourselves of loved ones thinking. + + The hot stockade. No water left. + The fierce attack. All hope bereft + The powder-grimed defender. + The war-cry and the groan of pain. + All day the slanting arrow-rain + Of fire from the corn and cane. + The stern defence, but all in vain. + And then at last--surrender. + + But not for Bryan's!--no! too well + Must they remember what befell + At Ruddle's and take warning. + So thought we as, all dust and sweat, + We rode with faces forward set, + And came to Station Boone while yet + An hour from noon ... We had not let + Our horses rest since morning. + + Here Ellis met us with his men. + They did not stop nor tarry then. + That little band of lions; + But setting out at once with aid, + Right well you know how unafraid + They charged the Indian ambuscade, + And through a storm of bullets made + Their entrance into Bryan's. + + And that is all I have to tell. + No more the Huron's hideous yell + Sounds to assault and slaughter.-- + Perhaps to us some praise is due; + But we are men, accustomed to + Such dangers, which we often woo. + Much more is due our women who + Brought to the Station--water. + + + + +On the Jellico Spur of the Cumberlands + +TO J. FOX, JR. + + + You remember how the mist, + When we climbed to Devil's Den, + Pearly in the mountain glen, + And above us, amethyst, + Throbbed or circled? then away, + Through the wildwoods opposite, + Torn and scattered, morning-lit, + Vanished into dewy gray?-- + Vague as in romance we saw, + From the fog, one riven trunk, + Talon-like with branches shrunk, + Thrust a monster dragon claw. + And we climbed for hours through + The dawn-dripping Jellicoes, + To a wooded rock that shows + Undulating leagues of blue + Summits; mountain-chains that lie + Dark with forests; bar on bar, + Ranging their irregular + Purple peaks beneath a sky + Soft as slumber. Range on range + Billow their enormous spines, + Where the rocks and priestly pines + Sit eternal, without change. + We were sons of Nature then: + She had taken us to her, + Signalized by brier and burr, + Something more to her than men: + Pupils of her lofty moods, + From her bloom-anointed looks, + Wisdom of no man-made books + Learned we in those solitudes: + How the seed supplied the flower; + How the sapling held the oak; + How within the vine awoke + The wild impulse still to tower; + How in fantasy or mirth, + Springing from her footsteps there, + Curious fungi everywhere + Bulged, exuded from the earth; + Coral vegetable things, + That the underworld exhaled, + Bulbous, crystal-ribbed and scaled, + Many colored and in rings, + Like the Indian-Pipe that grew + Pink and white in loamy cracks, + Flowers of a natural wax, + She had turned her fancy to.-- + On that laureled precipice, + Where the chestnuts dropped their burrs, + Sweet with balsam of the firs, + First we felt her mother kiss + Full of heaven and the wind; + While the forests, wood on wood, + Murmured like a multitude + Giving praise where none hath sinned.-- + Freedom met us there; we saw + Freedom giving audience; + In her face the eloquence, + Lightning-like, of love and law: + Round her, with majestic hips, + Lay the giant mountains; there + Near her, cataracts tossed their hair, + God and thunder on their lips.-- + Oft an eagle, or a hawk, + Or a scavenger, we knew + Winged through altitudes of blue, + By its shadow on the rock. + Or a cloud of templed white + Moved, a lazy berg of pearl, + Through the sky's pacific swirl, + Shot with cool cerulean light. + So we dreamed an hour upon + That warm rock the lichens mossed, + While around us foliage tossed + Coins, gold-minted of the sun: + Then arose; and a ravine, + Which a torrent once had worn, + Made our roadway to the corn, + In the valley, deep and green; + And the farm house with its bees, + Where old-fashioned flowers spun + Gay rag-carpets in the sun, + Hid among the apple trees. + Here we watched the twilight fall; + O'er Wolf-Mountain sunset made + A huge rhododendron rayed + Round the sun's cloud-centered ball. + Then through scents of herb and soil, + To the mining-camp we turned, + In the twinkling dusk discerned + With its white-washed homes of toil. + Ah, those nights!--We wandered forth + On some haunted mountain path, + When the moon was late, and rathe + The large stars, sowed south and north, + Splashed with gold the purple skies; + And the milky zodiac, + Rolled athwart the belted black, + Seemed a path to Paradise. + And we walked or lingered till, + In the valley-land beneath, + Like the vapor of a breath + Breathed in frost, arose the still + Architecture of the mist: + And the moon-dawn's necromance + Touched the mist and made it glance + Like a town of amethyst. + Then around us, sharp and brusque, + Night's shrill insects strident strung + Instruments that buzzed and sung + Pixy music of the dusk. + And we seemed to hear soft sighs, + And hushed steps of ghostly things, + Fluttered feet or rustled wings, + Moved before us. Fire-flies, + Gleaming in the tangled glade, + Seemed the eyes of warriors + Stealing under watching stars + To some midnight ambuscade; + To the Indian village there, + Wigwamed with the mist, that slept + By the woodland side, whence crept + Shadowy Shawnees of the air. + When the moon rose, like a cup + Lay the valley, brimmed with wine + Of mesmeric shade and shine, + To the moon's pale face held up. + As she rose from out the mines + Of the eastern darkness, night + Met her, clad in dewy light + 'Mid Pine Mountain's sachem pines. + As from clouds in pearly parts + Her serene circumference grew, + Home we turned. And all night through + Dreamed the dreams of happy hearts. + + + + +A Confession + + + These are the facts:--I was to blame: + I brought her here and wrought her shame: + She came with me all trustingly. + Lovely and innocent her face: + And in her perfect form, the grace + Of purity and modesty. + + I think I loved her then: 'would dote + On her ambrosial breast and throat, + Young as a blossom's tenderness: + Her eyes, that were both glad and sad: + Her cheeks and chin, that dimples had: + Her mouth, red-ripe to kiss and kiss. + + Three months passed by; three moons of fire; + When in me sickened all desire: + And in its place a devil,--who + Filled all my soul with deep disgust, + And on the victim of my lust + Turned eyes of loathing,--swiftly grew. + + One night, when by my side she slept, + I rose: and leaning, while I kept + The dagger hid, I kissed her hair + And throat: and, when she smiled asleep, + Into her heart I drove it deep: + And left her dead, still smiling there. + + + + +Lilith + + + Yea, there are some who always seek + The love that lasts an hour; + And some who in love's language speak, + Yet never know his power. + + Of such was I, who knew not what + Sweet mysteries may rise + Within the heart when 't is its lot + To love and realize. + + Of such was I, ah me! till, lo, + Your face on mine did gleam, + And changed that world, I used to know, + Into an evil dream. + + That world wherein, on hill and plain, + Great blood-red poppies bloomed, + Their hot hearts thirsty for the rain, + And sleepily perfumed. + + Above, below, on every part + A crimson shadow lay, + As if the red sun streamed athwart + And sunset was alway. + + I know not how, I know not when, + I only know that there + She met me in the haunted glen, + A poppy in her hair. + + Her face seemed fair as Mary's is, + That knows no sin or wrong; + Her presence filled the silences + As music fills a song. + + And she was clad like the Mother of God, + As 't were for Christ's sweet sake, + But when she moved and where she trod + A hiss went of a snake. + + Though seeming sinless, till I die + I shall not know for sure + Why to my soul she seemed a lie + And otherwise than pure. + + Nor why I kissed her soon and late + And for her felt desire, + While loathing of her passion ate + Into my soul like fire. + + Was it because my soul could tell + That, like the poppy-flower, + She had no soul? a thing of Hell, + That o'er it had no power. + + Or was it that your love at last + My soul so long had craved, + From the sweet sin that held me fast + At that last moment saved? + + + + +Content + + + When I behold how some pursue + Fame, that is care's embodiment, + Or fortune, whose false face looks true,-- + A humble home with sweet content + Is all I ask for me and you. + + A humble home, where pigeons coo, + Whose path leads under breezy lines + Of frosty-berried cedars to + A gate, one mass of trumpet-vines, + Is all I ask for me and you. + + A garden, which, all summer through, + The roses old make redolent, + And morning-glories, gay of hue, + And tansy, with its homely scent, + Is all I ask for me and you. + + An orchard, that the pippins strew, + From whose bruised gold the juices spring; + A vineyard, where the grapes hang blue, + Wine-big and ripe for vintaging, + Is all I ask for me and you. + + A lane, that leads to some far view + Of forest and of fallow-land, + Bloomed o'er with rose and meadow-rue, + Each with a bee in its hot hand, + Is all I ask for me and you. + + At morn, a pathway deep with dew, + And birds to vary time and tune; + At eve, a sunset avenue, + And whippoorwills that haunt the moon, + Is all I ask for me and you. + + Dear heart, with wants so small and few, + And faith, that's better far than gold, + A lowly friend, a child or two, + To care for us when we are old, + Is all I ask for me and you. + + + + +Berrying + + + I. + + My love went berrying + Where brooks were merrying + And wild wings ferrying + Heaven's amethyst; + The wildflowers blessed her, + My dearest Hester, + The winds caressed her, + The sunbeams kissed. + + + II. + + I followed, carrying + Her basket; varying + Fond hopes of marrying + With hopes denied; + Both late and early + She deemed me surly, + And bowed her curly + Fair head and sighed: + + + III. + + "The skies look lowery; + It will he showery; + No longer flowery + The way I find. + No use in going. + 'T will soon be snowing + If you keep growing + Much more unkind." + + + IV. + + Then looked up tearfully. + And I, all fearfully, + Replied, "My dear, fully + Will I explain: + I love you dearly, + But look not cheerly + Since all says clearly + I love in vain." + + + V. + + Then smiled she airily; + And answered merrily + With words that--verily + Made me decide: + And drawing tow'rd her, + I there implored her-- + I who adored her-- + To be my bride. + + + VI. + + O sweet simplicity + Of young rusticity, + Without duplicity, + Whom love made know, + That hearts in meter + Make earth completer; + And kisses, sweeter + Than--berries grow. + + + + +To a Pansy-Violet + +Found Solitary Among the Hills. + + + I. + + O pansy-violet, + With early April wet, + How frail and pure you look + Lost in this glow-worm nook + Of heaven-holding hills: + Down which the hurrying rills + Fling scrolls of melodies: + O'er which the birds and bees + Weave gossamers of song, + Invisible, but strong: + Sweet music webs they spin + To snare the spirit in. + + + II. + + O pansy-violet, + Unto your face I set + My lips, and--do you speak? + Or is it but some freak + Of fancy, love imparts + Through you unto the heart's + Desire? whispering low + A secret none may know, + But such as sit and dream + By forest-side and stream. + + + III. + + O pansy-violet, + O darling floweret, + Hued like the timid gem + That stars the diadem + Of Fay or Sylvan Sprite, + Who, in the woods, all night + Is busy with the blooms, + Young leaves and wild perfumes, + Through you I seem t' have seen + All that such dreams may mean. + + + IV. + + O pansy-violet, + Long, long ago we met-- + 'T was in a Fairy-tale: + Two children in a vale + Sat underneath glad stars, + Far from the world of wars; + Each loved the other well: + Her eyes were like the spell + Of dusk and dawning skies-- + The purple dark that dyes + The midnight: his were blue + As heaven the day shines through. + + + V. + + O pansy-violet, + What is this vague regret, + This yearning, so like tears, + That touches through the years + Long past, when Myth and Fable + In all strange things were able + To beautify the Earth, + Things of immortal worth?-- + This longing, that to me + Is like a memory + Lived long ago, of those + Fair children who, it knows, + Loved with no mortal love; + Whom smiling heaven above + Fostered, and when they died + Laid side by loving side. + + + VI. + + O pansy-violet, + I dream, remembering yet + A wood-god-guarded tomb, + Out of whose moss a bloom + Sprang, with three petals wan + As are the eyes of dawn; + And two as darkly deep + As are the eyes of sleep.-- + O flower,--that seems to hold + Some memory of old, + A hope, a happiness, + At which I can but guess,-- + You are a sign to me + Of immortality: + Through you my spirit sees + The deathless purposes + Of death, that still evolves + The beauty it resolves; + The change that aye fulfills + Life's meaning as God wills. + + + + +Heart of my Heart + + + Here where the season turns the land to gold, + Among the fields our feet have known of old,-- + When we were children who would laugh and run, + Glad little playmates of the wind and sun,-- + Before came toil and care and years went ill, + And one forgot and one remembered still, + Heart of my heart, among the old fields here, + Give me your hands and let me draw you near. + Heart of my heart. + + Stars are not truer than your soul is true-- + What need I more of heaven then than you? + Flowers are not sweeter than your face is sweet-- + What need I more to make my world complete? + O woman nature, love that still endures, + What strength hath ours that is not born of yours? + Heart of my heart, to you, whatever come, + To you the lead, whose love hath led me home. + Heart of my heart. + + + + +Witnesses + + + I. + + You say I do not love you!--Tell me why, + When I have gazed a little on your face, + And then gone forth into the world of men, + A beauty, neither of the Earth or Sky, + A glamour, that transforms each common place, + Attends my spirit then? + + + II. + + You say I do not love you!--Yet I know + When I have heard you speak and dwelt upon + Your words awhile, my heart has gone away + Filled with strange music, very soft and low, + A dim companion, touching with sweet tone + The discords of the day. + + + III. + + You say I do not love you!--Yet it seems, + When I have kissed your hand and said farewell, + A fragrance, sweeter than did flower yet bloom, + Accompanies my soul and fills, with dreams, + The sad and sordid streets, where people dwell, + Dreams of spring's wild perfume. + + + + +Wherefore + + + I would not see, yet must behold + The truth they preach in church and hall; + And question so,--Is death then all, + And life an idle tale that's told? + + The myriad wonders art hath wrought + I deemed eternal as God's love: + No more than shadows these shall prove, + And insubstantial as a thought. + + And love and labor, who have gone, + Hand in close hand, and civilized + The wilderness, these shall be prized + No more than if they had not done. + + Then wherefore strive? Why strain and bend + Beneath a burden so unjust? + Our works are builded out of dust, + And dust their universal end. + + + + +Pagan + + + The gods, who could loose and bind + In the long ago, + The gods, who were stern and kind + To men below, + Where shall we seek and find, + Or, finding, know? + + Where Greece, with king on king, + Dreamed in her halls; + Where Rome kneeled worshiping, + The owl now calls, + And whispering ivies cling + To mouldering walls. + + They have served, and have passed away + From the earth and sky, + And their Creed is a record gray, + Where the passer-by + Reads, "Live and be glad to-day, + For to-morrow ye die." + + And shall it be so, indeed, + When we are no more, + That nations to be shall read,-- + As we have before,-- + In the dust of a Christian Creed, + But pagan lore? + + + + +"The Fathers of our Fathers" + +Written February 24, 1898, on reading the latest news concerning the +battleship Maine, blown up in Havana harbor, February 15th. + + + I. + + The fathers of our fathers they were men!-- + What are we who now stand idle while we see our seamen slain? + Who behold our flag dishonored, and still pause! + Are we blind to her duplicity, the treachery of Spain? + To the rights, she scorns, of nations and their laws? + Let us rise, a mighty people, let us wipe away the stain! + Must we wait till she insult us for a cause?-- + The fathers of our fathers they were men! + + + II. + + The fathers of our fathers they were men!-- + Had they nursed delay as we do? had they sat thus deaf and dumb, + With these cowards compromising year by year? + Never hearing what they should hear, never saying what should come, + While the courteous mask of Spain still hid a sneer! + No! such news had roused their natures like a rolling battle-drum-- + God of earth! and God of heaven! do we fear?-- + The fathers of our fathers they were men! + + + III. + + The fathers of our fathers they were men!-- + What are we who are so cautious, never venturing too far! + Shall we, at the cost of honor, still keep peace? + While we see the thousands starving and the struggling Cuban star, + And the outraged form of Freedom on her knees! + Let our long, steel ocean-bloodhounds, adamantine dogs of war, + Sweep the yellow Spanish panther from the seas!-- + The fathers of our fathers they were men! + + + + +"Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin" + + + I. + + Behold! we have gathered together our battleships near and afar; + Their decks they are cleared for action, their guns they are shotted + for war: + From the East to the West there is hurry, in the North and the South + a peal + Of hammers in fort and shipyard, and the clamor and clang of steel; + And the roar and the rush of engines, and clanking of derrick and + crane-- + Thou art weighed in the Scales and found wanting, the balance of God, + O Spain! + + + II. + + Behold! I have stood on the mountains, and this was writ in the + sky:-- + "She is weighed in the Scales and found wanting, the balance God + holds on high!" + The balance He once weighed Babylon, the Mother of Harlots, in: + One scale holds thy pride and thy power and empire, begotten of sin; + Heavy with woe and torture, the crimes of a thousand years, + Mortared and welded together with fire and blood and tears; + In the other, for justice and mercy, a blade with never a stain, + Is laid the Sword of Liberty, and the balance dips, O Spain! + + + III. + + Summon thy vessels together! great is thy need for these!-- + Cristobal Colon, Vizcaya, Oquendo, and Maria Terese-- + Let them be strong and many, for a vision I had by night, + That the ancient wrongs thou hast done the world came howling to the + fight; + From the New-World shores they gathered, Inca and Aztec slain, + To the Cuban shot but yesterday, and our own dead seamen, Spain! + + + IV. + + Summon thy ships together, gather a mighty fleet! + For a strong young Nation is arming, that never hath known defeat. + Summon thy ships together, there on thy blood-stained sands! + For a shadowy army gathers with manacled feet and hands, + A shadowy host of sorrows and shames, too black to tell, + That reach, with their horrible wounds, for thee to drag thee down to + Hell; + A myriad phantoms and spectres, thou warrest against in vain-- + Thou art weighed in the Scales and found wanting, the balance of God, + O Spain! + + + + +Her Vivien Eyes + + + Her Vivien eyes,--beware! beware!-- + Though they be stars, a deadly snare + They set beneath her night of hair. + Regard them not! lest, drawing near-- + As sages once in old Chaldee-- + Thou shouldst become a worshiper, + And they thy evil destiny. + + Her Vivien eyes,--away! away!-- + Though they be springs, remorseless they + Gleam underneath her brow's bright day. + Turn, turn aside, whate'er the cost! + Lest in their deeps thou lures behold, + Through which thy captive soul were lost, + As was young Hylas once of old. + + Her Vivien eyes,--take heed! take heed!-- + Though they be bibles, none may read + Therein of God or Holy Creed. + Look, look away! lest thou be cursed,-- + As Merlin was, romances tell,-- + And in their sorcerous spells immersed, + Hoping for Heaven thou chance on Hell. + + + + +There Was a Rose + + + There was a rose in Eden once: it grows + On Earth now, sweeter for its rare perfume: + And Paradise is poorer by one bloom, + And Earth is richer. In this blossom glows + More loveliness than old seraglios + Or courts of kings did ever yet illume: + More purity, than ever yet had room + In soul of nun or saint.--O human rose,-- + Who art initial and sweet period of + My heart's divinest sentence, where I read + Love, first and last, and in the pauses love; + Who art the dear ideal of each deed + My life aspires by to some high goal,-- + Set in the haunted garden of my soul! + + + + +The Artist + + + In story books, when I was very young, + I knew you first, one of the Fairy Race; + And then it was your picture took its place, + Framed in with love's deep gold, and draped and hung + High in my heart's red room: no song was sung, + No tale of passion told, I did not grace + With your associated form and face, + And intimated charm of touch and tongue. + As years went on you grew to more and more, + Until each thing, symbolic to my heart + Of beauty,--such as honor, truth, and fame,-- + Within the studio of my soul's thought wore + Your lineaments, whom I, with all my art, + Strove to embody and to give a name. + + + + +Poetry and Philosophy + + + Out of the past the dim leaves spoke to me + The thoughts of Pindar with a voice so sweet + Hyblćan bees seemed swarming my retreat + Around the reedy well of Poesy. + I closed the book. Then, knee to neighbor knee, + Sat with the soul of Plato, to repeat + Doctrines, till mine seemed some Socratic seat + High on the summit of Philosophy. + Around the wave of one Religion taught + Her first rude children. From the stars that burned + Above the mountained other, Science learned + The first vague lessons of the work she wrought. + Daughters of God, in whom we still behold + The Age of Iron and the Age of Gold. + + + + +"Quo Vadis" + + + It is as if imperial trumpets broke + Again the silence on War's iron height; + And Cćsar's armored legions marched to fight, + While Rome, blood-red upon her mountain-yoke, + Blazed like an awful sunset. At a stroke, + Again I see the living torches light + The horrible revels, and the bloated, white, + Bayed brow of Nero smiling through the smoke: + And here and there a little band of slaves + Among dark ruins; and the form of Paul, + Bearded and gaunt, expounding still the Word: + And towards the North the tottering architraves + Of empire; and, wild-waving over all, + The flaming figure of a Gothic sword. + + + + +To a Critic + + + Song hath a catalogue of lovely things + Thy kind hath oft defiled,--whose spite misleads + The world too often!--where the poet reads, + As in a fable, of old envyings, + Crows, such as thou, which hush the bird that sings, + Or kill it with their cawings; thorns and weeds, + Such as thyself, 'midst which the wind sows seeds + Of flow'rs, these crush before one blossom swings. + But here and there the wisdom of a School + Unknown to these hath often written down + "Fame" in white ink the future hath turned brown; + When every beauty, heaped with ridicule, + In their ignoble prose, proved their renown, + Making each famous--as an ass or fool. + + + + +_AFTERWORD._ + + + _The old enthusiasms + Are dead, quite dead, in me; + Dead the aspiring spasms + Of art and poesy, + That opened magic chasms, + Once, of wild mystery, + In youth's rich Araby. + That opened magic chasms._ + + _The longing and the care + Are mine; and, helplessly, + The heartache and despair + For what can never be. + More than my mortal share + Of sad mortality, + It seems, God gives to me, + More than my mortal share._ + + _O world! O time! O fate! + Remorseless trinity! + Let not your wheel abate + Its iron rotary!-- + Turn round! nor make me wait, + Bound to it neck and knee, + Hope's final agony!-- + Turn round! nor make me wait._ + + * * * * * + + +Transcriber's note + + +The following changes have been made to the text: + +Page 25: "beach" changed to "beech". + +Page 46: "marrige" changed to "marriage". + +Page 53: "slighest" changed to "slightest". + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Idyllic Monologues, by Madison J. 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Cawein + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Idyllic Monologues + Old and New World Verses + +Author: Madison J. Cawein + +Release Date: April 6, 2010 [EBook #31896] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES *** + + + + +Produced by David Garcia, Carla Foust and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="transnote"> +<h3>Transcriber's note</h3> +<p>Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Printer +errors have been changed and are indicated with +a <a class="correction" title="like this" href="#tnotes">mouse-hover</a> +and listed at the +<a href="#tnotes">end of this book</a>. +</p> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h1>IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES</h1> + +<p class="fm2">Poems by Madison Cawein</p> + + +<p class="fm3">OLD AND NEW WORLD VERSES</p> + +<p class="fm4">BY THE AUTHOR OF</p> + +<p class="fm3">"Undertones" "Garden of Dreams"</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="fm3"><span class="smcap">John P. Morton and Company</span></p> + +<p class="fm3">Publishers—Louisville, Kentucky</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="fm4">Copyrighted 1898<br /> +BY MADISON CAWEIN</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="fm4">TO<br /> +MY FRIEND:<br /> +R. E. LEE GIBSON</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p>This collection of poems is entirely new with the exception of three or +four which appeared in two earlier volumes, published some ten years +ago. The reprinted poems have been carefully re-written, and so changed +throughout as to hardly bear any resemblance, except that of subject, to +the original.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table summary="CONTENTS"> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"> </td> +<td class="tdr">PAGE</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">The Brothers</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Geraldine</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">The Moated Manse</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">The Forester</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">My Lady of Verne</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_48">48</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">An Old Tale Re-told</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">The Water Witch</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">At Nineveh</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">How They Brought Aid to Bryan's Station</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_72">72</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">On the Jellico Spur of the Cumberlands</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_77">77</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">A Confession</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Lilith</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_84">84</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Content</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Berrying</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_88">88</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">To a Pansy-Violet</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_90">90</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Heart of my Heart</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Witnesses</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_94">94</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Wherefore</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Pagan</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">"The Fathers of our Fathers"</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_97">97</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">"Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin"</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_99">99</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Her Vivien Eyes</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">There was a Rose</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">The Artist</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Poetry and Philosophy</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">"Quo Vadis"</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_104">104</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">To a Critic</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_105">105</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="FOREWORD" id="FOREWORD"></a>FOREWORD.</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>And one, perchance, will read and sigh:</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>"What aimless songs! Why will he sing</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Of nature that drags out her woe</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Through wind and rain, and sun, and snow,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>From miserable spring to spring?"</i><br /></span> +<span class="i3"><i>Then put me by.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>And one, perhaps, will read and say:</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>"Why write of things across the sea;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Of men and women, far and near,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>When we of things at home would hear—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Well, who would call this poetry?"</i><br /></span> +<span class="i3"><i>Then toss away.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>A hopeless task have we, meseems,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>At this late day; whom fate hath made</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Sad, bankrupt heirs of song; who, filled</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>With kindred yearnings, try to build</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>A tower like theirs, that will not fade,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i3"><i>Out of our dreams.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="center">Only One Hundred and Fifty Copies Printed for Private Distribution.<br /> +A Few Copies For Sale.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="IDYLLIC_MONOLOGUES" id="IDYLLIC_MONOLOGUES"></a>IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="The_Brothers" id="The_Brothers"></a>The Brothers</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not far from here, it lies beyond<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That low-hilled belt of woods. We'll take<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This unused lane where brambles make<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A wall of twilight, and the blond<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brier-roses pelt the path and flake<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The margin waters of a pond.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This is its fence—or that which was<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its fence once—now, rock rolled from rock,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One tangle of the vine and dock,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where bloom the wild petunias;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And this its gate, the iron-weeds block,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hot with the insects' dusty buzz.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Two wooden posts, wherefrom has peeled<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The weather-crumbled paint, still rise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gaunt things—that groan when someone tries<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gate whose hinges, rust-congealed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Snarl open:—on each post still lies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its carven lion with a shield.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We enter; and between great rows<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of locusts winds a grass-grown road;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And at its glimmering end,—o'erflowed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With quiet light,—the white front shows<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of an old mansion, grand and broad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With grave Colonial porticoes.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Grown thick around it, dark and deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The locust trees make one vast hush;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their brawny branches crowd and crush<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its very casements, and o'ersweep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its rotting roofs; their tranquil rush<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Haunts all its spacious rooms with sleep.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Still is it called The Locusts; though<br /></span> +<span class="i0">None lives here now. A tale's to tell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of some dark thing that here befell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A crime that happened years ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When by its walls, with shot and shell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The war swept on and left it so.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For one black night, within it, shame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Made revel, while, all here about,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With prayer or curse or battle-shout,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Men died and homesteads leapt in flame:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then passed the conquering Northern rout,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And left it silent and the same.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why should I speak of what has been?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or what dark part I played in all?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why ruin sits in porch and hall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where pride and gladness once were seen;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And why beneath this lichened wall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The grave of Margaret is green.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Heart-broken Margaret! whose fate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was sadder yet than his who won<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her hand—my brother Hamilton—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or mine, who learned to know too late;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who learned to know, when all was done,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And nothing could exonerate.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To expiate is still my lot,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, like the Ancient Mariner,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To show to others how things are<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And what I am, still helps me blot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A little from that crime's red scar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That on my soul is branded hot.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He was my only brother. She<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A sister of my brother's friend.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They met, and married in the end.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I remember well when he<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brought her rejoicing home, the trend<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of war moved towards us sullenly.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And scarce a year of wedlock when<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its red arms took him from his bride.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With lips by hers thrice sanctified<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He left to ride with Morgan's men.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I—I never could decide—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Remained at home. It happened then.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For days went by. And, oft delayed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A letter came of loving word<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scrawled by some camp-fire, sabre-stirred,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or by a pine-knot's fitful aid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When in the saddle, armed and spurred<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And booted for some hurried raid.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then weeks went by. I do not know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How long it was before there came,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blown from the North, the clarion fame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Morgan, who, with blow on blow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had drawn a line of blood and flame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From Tennessee to Ohio.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then letters ceased; and days went on.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No word from him. The war rolled back,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in its turgid crimson track<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A rumor grew, like some wild dawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All ominous and red and black,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With news of our lost Hamilton,<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That hinted death or capture. Yet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No thing was sure; till one day,—fed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By us,—some men rode up who said<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They'd been with Morgan and had met<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Disaster, and that he was dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My brother.—I and Margaret<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Believed them. Grief was ours too:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But mine was more for her than him;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grief, that her eyes with tears were dim;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grief, that became the avenue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For love, who crowned the sombre brim<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of death's dark cup with rose-red hue.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In sympathy,—unconsciously<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though it be given—I hold, doth dwell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The germ of love that time shall swell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To blossom. Sooner then in me—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When close relations so befell—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That love should spring from sympathy.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Our similar tastes and mutual bents<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Combined to make us intimates<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From our first meeting. Different states<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of interest then our temperaments<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Begot. Then friendship, that abates<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No love, whose self it represents.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">These led to talks and dreams: how oft<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We sat at some wide window while<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sun sank o'er the hills' far file,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Serene; and of the cloud aloft<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Made one vast rose; and mile on mile<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of firmament grew sad and soft.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And all in harmony with these<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dim clemencies of dusk, afar<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our talks and dreams went; while the star<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of evening brightened o'er the trees:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We spoke of home; the end of war:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We dreamed of life and love and peace.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How on our walks in listening lanes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or confidences of the wood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We paused to hear the dove that cooed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or gathered wild-flowers, taking pains<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To find the fairest; or her hood<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Filled with wild fruit that left deep stains.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No echo of the drum or fife,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No hint of conflict entered in<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our thoughts then. Will you call it sin—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Indifference to a nation's strife?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What side might lose, what side might win,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Both immaterial to our life.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Into the past we did not look;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond what was we did not dream;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While onward rushed the thunderous stream<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of war, that, in its torrent, took<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One of our own. No crimson gleam<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of its wild course around us shook.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At last we knew. And when we learned<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How he had fallen, Margaret<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wept; and, albeit my eyes were wet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Within my soul I half discerned<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A joy that mingled with regret,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A grief that to relief was turned.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As time went on and confidence<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drew us more strongly each to each,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why did no intimation reach<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its warning hand into the dense<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soul-silence, and confuse the speech<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of love's unbroken eloquence!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But, no! no hint to turn the poise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or check the impulse of our youth;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To chill it with the living truth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As with the awe of God's own voice;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No hint, to make our hope uncouth;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No word, to warn us from our choice.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To me a wall seemed overthrown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That social law had raised between;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And o'er its ruin, broad and green<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A path went, I possessed alone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sky above seemed all serene;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The land around seemed all my own.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What shall I say of Margaret<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To justify her part in this?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That her young heart was never his?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But had been mine since first we met?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So would you say!—Enough it is<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That when he left she loved him yet.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So passed the Spring, and Summer sped;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And early Autumn brought the day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When she her hand in mine should lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I should take her hand and wed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And still no hint that might gainsay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No warning word of quick or dead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The day arrived; and, with it born,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A battle, sullying the East<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With boom of cannon, that increased,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And throb of musket and of horn:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until at last, towards dusk, it ceased;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And men with faces wild and worn,<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In fierce retreat swept past; now groups;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now one by one; now sternly white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or blood-stained; now with looks whose fright<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said all was lost. Then sullen troops<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That, beaten, still kept up the fight.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then came the victors; shadowy loops<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of men and horse, that left a crowd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of officers in hall and porch....<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While through the land around the torch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Circled, and many a fiery cloud<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Marked out the army's iron march<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In furrows red, that pillage plowed,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here we were wedded.—Ask the years<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How such could be, while over us<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A sword of wrath swung ominous,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And on our cheeks its breath was fierce!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All I remember is—'twas thus,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Margaret's eyes were wet with tears.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No other cause my memory sees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Save this, <i>that night was set</i>; and when<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I found my home filled with armed men<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With whom were all my sympathies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Union—why postpone it then?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So argued conscience into peace.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span></div></div> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And then it was, when night had passed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There came to me an orderly<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With word of a confederate spy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Late taken, who, with head downcast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had asked one favor, this: "That I<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would see him ere he breathed his last."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I stand alone here. Heavily<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My thoughts go back. Had I not gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dead had still been dead!—for none<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had yet believed his story—he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My dead-deemed brother, Hamilton,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who in the spy confronted me.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O you who never have been tried,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How can you judge me!—in my place<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I saw him standing—who can trace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My heart thoughts then!—I turned aside,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A thing of some unnatural race,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And did not speak; and so he died.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In hospital or prison, when<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was he lay; what had forbid<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His home return so long: amid<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What hardships he had suffered, then<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I dared not ask; and when I did,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Long afterwards, inquire of men,<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></div></div> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No thing I learned. But this I feel—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He who had so returned to life<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was not a spy. Through stress and strife,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This makes my conscience hard to heal!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He had escaped; he sought his wife;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He sought his home that should conceal.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And Margaret! Oh, pity her!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A criminal I sought her side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still thinking love was justified<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In all for her—whatever were<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The price, a brother thrice denied,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or thrice a brother's murderer.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Since then long years have passed away.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through those years, perhaps, you'll ask<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How to the world I wore my mask<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of honesty?—I can but say<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond my powers it was a task;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before my time it turned me gray.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And when at last the ceaseless hiss<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of conscience drove, and I betrayed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All to her, she knelt down and prayed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then rose; and 'twixt us an abyss<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was opened; and she seemed to fade<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of my life: I came to miss<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span></div></div> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The sweet attentions of a bride:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For each appealing heart's caress<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In me, her heart assumed a dress<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of dull indifference; till denied<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To me was all responsiveness;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then I knew her love had died.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah, had she loaded me, perchance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With wild reproach or even hate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such would have helped a hope to wait<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forgiveness and returned romance;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But 'twixt our souls, instead, a gate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She closed of silent tolerance.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet, 't was for love of her I lent<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My soul to crime ... I question me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Often, if less entirely<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'd loved her, then, in that event,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She had been justified to see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The deed alone stand prominent.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The deed alone! But love records<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In his own heart, I will aver,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No depth I did not feel for her<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond the plummet-reach of words:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And though there may be worthier,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No truer love this world affords<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span></div></div> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Than mine was, though it could not rise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Above itself. And so 't was best,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perhaps, that she saw manifest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its crime, that I, as saw her eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Might see; and so, in soul confessed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some life atonement might devise.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sadly my heart one comfort keeps,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That, towards the end, she took my hands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And said, as one who understands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Had I but seen! But love that weeps,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sees only as its loss commands,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sighed. Beneath this stone she sleeps.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yes; I have suffered for that sin;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet in no instance would I shun<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What I should suffer. Many a one,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who heard my tale, has tried to win<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Me to believe that Hamilton<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was not; and, though proven kin,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This had not saved him. Still the stain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the intention—had I erred<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And 't was not he—had writ the word<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Red on my soul that branded Cain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For still my error had incurred<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fact of guilt that would remain.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah, love at best is insecure,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lives with doubt and vain regret;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hope and faith, with faces set<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the past, are never sure;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through their fever, grief, and fret<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The heart may fail that should endure.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For in ourselves, however blend<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The passions that make heaven and hell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is evil not accountable<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For most the good we comprehend?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through these two, or ill, or well,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Man must evolve his spiritual end.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It is with deeds that we must ask<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forgiveness; for upon this earth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Life walks alone from very birth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With death, hope tells us is a mask<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For life beyond of vaster worth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where sin no more sets love a task.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Geraldine" id="Geraldine"></a>Geraldine</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That night of love, when first we met,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You have forgotten, Geraldine—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I never dreamed you would forget.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah, Geraldine, sweet Geraldine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More lovely than that Asian queen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scheherazade, the beautiful,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who in her orient palace cool<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of India, for a thousand nights<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And one, beside her monarch lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Telling—while sandal-scented lights<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And music stole the soul away—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Love tales of old Arabia,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full of enchantments and emprise—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But no enchantments like your eyes.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah, Geraldine, loved Geraldine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More lovely than those maids, I ween,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pampinea and Lauretta, who,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In gardens old of dusk and dew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sat with their lovers, maid and man,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In stately days Italian,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in quaint stories, that we know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through grace of good Boccaccio,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Told of fond loves, some false, some true,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, Geraldine, none false as you.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That night of love, when first we met,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You have forgotten, Geraldine—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I never dreamed you would forget.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'T was summer, and the moon swam high,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A great pale pearl within the sky:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And down that purple night of love<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stars, concurrent spark on spark,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seemed fiery moths that swarmed above:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through the roses, o'er the park,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Star-like the fire-flies filled the dark:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A mocking-bird in some deep tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drowsy with dreams and melody,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a magnolia bud, that, dim,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Opens and pours its soul in musk,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gave to the moonlight and the dusk<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its heart's pure song, its evening hymn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, night of love! when in the dance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your heart thrilled rapture into mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As in a state of necromance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A mortal hears a voice divine.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, night of love! when from your glance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I drank sweet death as men drink wine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You wearied of the waltz at last.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I led you out into the night.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Warm in my hand I held yours fast.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Your face was flushed; your eyes were bright.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The moon hung like a shell of light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Above the lake, above the trees:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And borne to us with fragrances<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of roses that were ripe to fall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The soul of music from the hall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beat in the moonlight and the breeze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As youth's wild heart grown weary of<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Desire and its dream of love.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I held your arm and, for awhile,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We walked along the balmy aisle<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of flowers that, like velvet, dips<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unto the lake which lilies tile<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like stars; and hyacinths, like strips<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of heaven: and beside a fall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That, down a ferned and mossy wall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fell in the lake,—deep, woodbine-wound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A latticed summer-house we found;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A green kiosk,—through which the sound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of waters and of breezes swayed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And honeysuckle bugles played<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soft serenades of perfume sweet,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Around which ran a rustic seat.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And seated in that haunted nook,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know not how it was,—a word,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A touch, perhaps, a sigh, a look,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was father to the kiss I took;<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Great things grow out of small I've heard.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then it was I took between<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My hands your face, loved Geraldine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And gazed into your eyes, and told<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The story ever new though old.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You did not look away, but met<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My eyes with eyes whose lids were wet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With tears of truth; and you did lean<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your cheek to mine, sweet Geraldine,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I never dreamed you would forget.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The night-wind and the water sighed:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through the leaves, that stirred above,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The moonbeams swooned with music of<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dance—soft things in league with love:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I never dreamed that you had lied.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How all comes back now, Geraldine!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The melody; the glimmering scene;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your angel face; and ev'n, between<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your lawny breasts, the heart-shaped jewel,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To which your breath gave fluctuant fuel,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A rosy star of stormy fire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The snowy drift of your attire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lace-deep and fragrant: and your hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Disordered in the dance, held back<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By one gemmed pin,—a moonbeam there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Half-drowned within its night-like black.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I who sat beside you then,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Seemed blessed above all mortal men.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I loved you for the way you sighed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The way you said, "I love but you;"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The smile with which your lips replied;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your lips, that from my bosom drew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The soul; your looks, like undenied<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Caresses, that seemed naught but true:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I loved you for the violet scent<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That clung about you as a flower;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your moods, where shine and shadow blent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An April-tide of sun and shower;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You were my creed, my testament,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wherein I read of God's high power.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Was it because the loving see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only what they desire shall be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There in the well-belovéd's soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Affection and affinity,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That I beheld in you the whole<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of my love's image? and believed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You loved as I did? nor perceived<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'T was but a mask, a mockery!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That night of love, when first we met,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You have forgotten, Geraldine—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I never dreamed you would forget.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="The_Moated_Manse" id="The_Moated_Manse"></a>The Moated Manse</h2> + +<h3>I.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And now once more we stood within the walls<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of her old manor near the riverside;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dead leaves lay rotting in its empty halls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And here and there the ivy could not hide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The year-old scars, made by the Royalists' balls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Around the doorway, where so many died<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In that last effort to defend the stair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Rupert, like a demon, entered there.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>II.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The basest Cavalier who yet wore spurs<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or drew a sword, I count him; with his grave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Eyes 'neath his plumed hat like a wolf's whom curs<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rouse, to their harm, within a forest cave;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hair like harvest; and a voice like verse<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For smoothness. Ay, a handsome man and brave!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brave?—who would question it! although 't is true<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He warred with one weak woman and her few.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>III.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lady Isolda of the Moated Manse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whom here, that very noon, it happened me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To meet near her old home. A single glance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Told me 't was she. I marveled much to see<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> +<span class="i0">How lovely still she was! as fair, perchance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As when Red Rupert thrust her brutally,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her long hair loosened,—down the shattered stair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And cast her, shrieking, 'mid his followers there.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>IV.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"She is for you! Take her! I promised it!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She is for you!"—he shouted, as he flung<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her in their midst. Then, on her poor hands (split,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And beaten by his dagger when she clung<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Resisting him) and knees, she crept a bit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nearer his feet and begged for death. No tongue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can tell the way he turned from her and cursed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then bade his men draw lots for which were first.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>V.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I saw it all from that low parapet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where, bullet-wounded in the hip and head,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I lay face-upward in the whispering wet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Exhausted 'mid the dead and left for dead.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We had held out two days without a let<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Against these bandits. You could trace with red,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From room to room, how we resisted hard<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since the great door crashed in to their petard.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>VI.</h3> +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The rain revived me, and I leaned with pain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And saw her lying there, all soiled and splashed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And miserable; on her cheek a stain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A dull red bruise, made when his hand had dashed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her down upon the stones; the wretched rain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dripped from her dark hair; and her hands were gashed.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, for a musket or a petronel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With which to send his devil's soul to hell!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>VII.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But helpless there I lay, no weapon near,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only the useless sword I could not reach<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His traitor's heart with, while I chafed to hear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The laugh, the insult and the villain speech<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of him to her. Oh, God! could I but clear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The height between and, hanging like a leech,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My fingers at his throat, there tear his base<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vile tongue out, yea, and lash it in his face!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>VIII.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But, badly wounded, what could I but weep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With rage and pity of my helplessness<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her misfortune! Could I only creep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A little nearer so that she might guess<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> +<span class="i0">I was not dead; that I my life would keep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But to avenge her!—Oh, the wild distress<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of that last moment when, half-dead, I saw<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Them mount and bear her swooning through the shaw.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>IX.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Long time I lay unconscious. It befell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some woodsmen found me, having heard the sound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of fighting cease that, for two days, made dell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And dingle echo; ventured on the ground<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For plunder; and it had not then gone well<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With me, I fear, had not their leader found<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That in some way I would repay his care;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So bore me to his hut and nursed me there.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>X.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How roughly kind he was. For weeks I hung<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twixt life and death; health, like a varying, sick,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fluttering pendulum, now this way swung,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now that, until at last its querulous tick<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beat out life's usual time, and slowly rung<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The long loud hours that exclaimed, "Be quick!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Arise—Go forth!—Hear how her black wrongs call!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Make them the salve to cure thy wounds withal!"<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></div></div> + + +<h3>XI.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They were my balsam: for, ere autumn came,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Weak still, but over eager to be gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I took my leave of him. A little lame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From that hip-wound, and somewhat thin and wan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I sought the village. Here I heard her name<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And shame's made one. How Rupert passed one dawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she among his troopers rode—astride<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like any man—pale-faced and feverish-eyed.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XII.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Which way these took they pointed, and I went<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like fire after. Oh, the thought was good<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That they were on before! And much it meant<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To know she lived still; she, whose image stood<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ever before me, making turbulent<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each heart-beat with her wrongs, that were fierce food<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unto my hate that, "Courage!" cried, "Rest not!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Think of her there, and let thy haste be hot!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XIII.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But months passed by and still I had not found:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet here and there, as wearily I sought,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I caught some news: how he had held his ground<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Against the Roundhead troops; or how he'd fought<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Then fled, returned and conquered. Like a hound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Questing a boar, I followed; but was brought<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never to see my quarry. Day by day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It seemed that Satan kept him from my way.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XIV.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A woman rode beside him, so they said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fair-faced wanton, mounted like a man—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Isolda!—my Isolda!—better dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yea, dead and damned! than thus the courtesan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bold, unreluctant, of such men! A dread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That such should be, unmanned me. Doubt began<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To whisper at my heart.—But I was mad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To insult her with such thoughts, whose love I had.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XV.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At last one day I rested in a glade<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Near that same woodland which I lay in when<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sore wounded; and, while sitting in the shade<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of an old <a name='TC_1'></a><ins title="Was 'beach'">beech</ins>—what! did I dream, or men<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like Rupert's own ride near me? and a maid—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Isolda or her spirit!—Wildly then<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I rose and, shouting, leapt upon my horse;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unsheathed my sword and rode across their course.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XVI.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mainly I looked for Rupert, and by name<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Challenged him forth:—"Dog! dost thou hide behind?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Insulter of women! Coward! save where shame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rapine call thee! God at last is kind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And my sword waits!"—Like an upbeating flame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My voice rose to a windy shout; and blind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I seemed to sit, till, with an outstretched hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Isolda rode before me from that band.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XVII.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Gerald!" she cried; not as a heart surprised<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With gladness that the loved, deemed dead, still lives;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But like the heart that long hath realized<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only misfortune and to fortune gives<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No confidence, though it be recognized<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As good. She spoke: "Lo, we are fugitives.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rupert is slain. And I am going home."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then like a child asked simply, "Wilt thou come?...<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XVIII.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, I have suffered, Gerald, oh, my God!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What shame, what vileness! Once my soul was clean—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stained and defiled behold it!—I have trod<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sad ways of hell and horror. I have seen<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And lived all depths of lust. Yet, oh, my God!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blameless I hold myself of what hath been,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though through it all, yea, this thou too must know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I loved him! my betrayer and thy foe!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XIX.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sobbing she spoke as if but half awake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her eyes far-fixed beyond me, far beyond<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All hope of mine.—So it was for his sake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His love, that she had suffered!... blind and fond,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For what return!... And I to nurse a snake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And never dream its nature would respond<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With some such fang of venom! 'T was for this<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That I had ventured all, to find her his!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XX.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At first half-stunned I stood; then blood and brain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like two stern judges, who had slept, awoke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rose up and thundered, "Slay her!" Every vein<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And nerve responded, "Slay her at a stroke!"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I had done it, but my heart again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a strong captain in a tumult, spoke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the fierce discord fell. And quietly<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I sheathed my sword and said, "I'll go with thee."<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXI.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But this was my reward for all I'd borne,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My loyalty and love! To see her eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hollow from tears for him; her pale cheeks worn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With grief for him; to know them all for lies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her vows of faith to me; to come forlorn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where I had hoped to come on Paradise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On Hell's black gulf; and, as if not enough,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soiled as she was and outcast, still to love!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXII.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then rode one ruffian from the rest, clay-flecked<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From spur to plume with hurry; seized my rein,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And—"What art thou," demanded, "who hast checked<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our way, and challenged?"—Then, with some disdain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Isolda, "Sir, my kinsman did expect<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your captain here. What honor may remain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To me I pledge for him. Hold off thy hands!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He but attends me to the Moated Manse."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXIII.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We rode in silence. And at twilight came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the Moated Manse.—Great clouds had grown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up in the West, on which the sunset's flame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lay like the hand of slaughter.—Very lone<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Its rooms and halls: a splintered door that, lame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swung on one hinge; a cabinet o'erthrown;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or arras torn; or blood-stain turning wan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Showed us the way the battle once had gone.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXIV.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We reached the tower-chamber towards the West,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In which on that dark day she thought to hide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From Rupert when, at last, 't was manifest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We could not hold the Manse. There was no pride<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In her deep eyes now; nor did scorn invest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her with such dignity as once defied<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Him bursting in to find her standing here<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prepared to die like some dog-hunted deer.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXV.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She took my hand, and, as if naught of love<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had ever been between us, said,—"All know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The madness of that day when with his glove<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He struck then slew my brother, and brought woe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On all our house; and thou, incensed above<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rest, came here, and made my foe thy foe.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But he had left. 'T was then I promised thee<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My hand, but, ah! my heart was gone from me.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXVI.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Yea, he had won me, this same Rupert, when<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He was our guest.—Thou know'st how gallantry<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And beauty can make heroes of all men<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To us weak women!—And so secretly<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I vowed to be his wife. It happened then<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My brother found him in some villainy;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The insult followed; he was killed ... and thou<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dost still remember how I made a vow.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXVII.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"But still this man pursued me, and I held<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Firm to my vow, albeit I loved him still,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unknown to all, with all the love unquelled<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of first impressions, and against my will.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At last despair of winning me compelled<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Him to the oath he swore: He would not kill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But take me living and would make my life<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A living death. No man should make me wife.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXVIII.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The war, that now consumes us, did, indeed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Give him occasion.—I had not been warned,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When down he came against me in the lead<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of his marauders. With thy help I scorned<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> +<span class="i0">His mad attacks two days. I would not plead<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor parley with him, who came hoofed and horned,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like Satan's self in soul, and, with his aid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Took this strong house and kept the oath he made.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXIX.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Months passed. Alas! it needs not here to tell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What often thou hast heard—Of how he led<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His troopers here now there; nor what befell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Me of dishonor. Oft I wished me dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Loathing my life, than which the nether hell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hath less of horror ... So we fought or fled<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From place to place until a year had passed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Parliament forces hemmed us in at last.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXX.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Yea, I had only lived for this—to right<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With death my wrongs sometime. And love and hate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Contended in my bosom when, that night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before the fight that should decide our fate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I entered where he slept. There was no light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Save of the stars to see by. Long and late<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I leaned above him there, yet could not kill—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hate raised the dagger but love held it still.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXXI.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The woman in me conquered. What a slave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To our emotions are we! To relent<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At this long-waited moment!—Wave on wave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of pitying weakness swept me, and I bent<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And kissed his face. Then prayed to God; and gave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My trust to God; and left to God th' event.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I never looked on Rupert's face again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For in that morning's combat—he was slain.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXXII.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Out of defeat escaped some scant three score<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of all his followers. And night and day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They fled; and while the Roundheads pressed them sore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in their road, good as a fortress, lay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Moated Manse, where their three score or more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Might well hold out, I pointed them the way.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they are come, amid its wrecks to end<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The crime begun here.—Thou must go, my friend!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXXIII.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Go quickly! For the time approaches when<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Destruction must arrive.—Oh, well I know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All thou wouldst say to me.—What boots it then?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I tell thee thou must go, that thou must go!—<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Yea, dost thou think I'd have thee die 'mid men<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like these, for such an one as I!—No! no!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy life is clean. Thou shalt not cast away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy clean life for my soiled one. Go, I pray!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXXIV.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She ceased. I spoke—I know not what it was.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then took her hand and kissed it and so said—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Thou art my promised wife. Thou hast no cause<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That is not mine. I love thee. We will wed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I love thee. Come!"—A moment did she pause,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then shook her head and sighed, "My heart is dead.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This can not be. Behold, that way is thine.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I will not let thee share this way that's mine."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXXV.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then turning from me ere I could prevent<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Passed like a shadow from the shadowy room,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaving my soul in shadow ... Naught was meant<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By my sweet flower of love then! bloom by bloom<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'd watched it wither; then its fragrance went,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And naught was left now.—It was dark as doom,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bells were tolling far off through the rain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When from that house I turned my face again.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>XXXVI.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then in the night a trumpet; and the dull<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Close thud of horse and clash of Puritan arms;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And glimmering helms swept by me. Sorrowful<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I stood and waited till upon the storm's<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Black breast, the Manse, a burning carbuncle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blazed like a battle-beacon, and alarms<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of onslaught clanged around it; then, like one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who bears with him God's curse, I galloped on.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="The_Forester" id="The_Forester"></a>The Forester</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I met him here at Ammendorf one Spring.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was the end of April and the Harz,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Veined to their ruin-crested summits, seemed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One pulse of tender green and delicate gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath a heaven that was like the face<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of girlhood waking into motherhood.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Along the furrowed meadow, freshly ploughed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The patient oxen, loamy to the knees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Plodded or lowed or snuffed the fragrant soil;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in each thorntree hedge the wild bird sang<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A song to Spring, made of its own wild heart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And soul, that heard the dairy-maiden May's<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heart beating like a star at break of day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As, kissing ripe the blossoms, she drew near,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her mouth's sweet rose all dew-drops and perfume.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here at this inn and underneath this tree<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We took our wine, the morning prismed in its<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flame-angled gold.—A goodly vintage that!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tang with the ripeness of full twenty years.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rare! I remember!—wine that spurred the blood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That brought the heart glad to the limbered lip,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And made the eyes unlatticed casements where<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A man's true soul you could not help but see.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As royal a Rhenish, I will vouch to say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As that, old legends tell, which Necromance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Magic keep, gnome-guarded, in huge casks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of antique make deep in the Kyffhäuser,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The Cellar of the Knights near Sittendorf.—<br /></span> +<span class="i3">So solaced of that wine we sat an hour.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He told me his intent in coming here.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His name was Rudolf; and his native home,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Franconia; but no word of parentage:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only his mind to don the buff and green<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And live a forester with us and be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Enfellowed in the Duke of Brunswick's train,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And for the Duke's estate even now was bound.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Tall was he for his age and strong and brown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lithe of limb; and with a face that seemed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hope's counterpart—but with the eyes of doubt;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deep restless disks, instinct with gleaming night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That seemed to say, "We're sure of earth, at least<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For some short space, my friend; but afterward—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nay! ransack not to-morrow till to-day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lest it engulf thy joy before it is!"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when he spoke, the fire in his eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Worked stealthy as a hunted animal's;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or like the Count von Hackelnburg's that turn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Feeling the unseen presence of a fiend.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Then, as it chanced, old Kurt had come that morn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With some six of his jerkined foresters<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the Thuringian forest; wet with dew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fresh as morn with early travel; bound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Brunswick, Dummburg and the Hakel passed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chief huntsman he then to our lord the Duke,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And father of the loveliest maiden here<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Ammendorf, the sunny Ilsabe:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her mother dead, the gray-haired father prized<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His daughter more than all that men hold dear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His only happiness, who was beloved<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of all as Lora of Thuringia was,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For gentle ways that spoke a noble soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Winning all hearts to love her and to praise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As might a great and beautiful thought that holds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Us by the simplest words.—Her eyes were blue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the high influence of a summer day.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her hair,—serene and braided over brows<br /></span> +<span class="i0">White as a Harz dove's wing,—was auburn brown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And deep as mists the sun has drenched with gold.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her young presence—well, 't was like a song,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A far Tyrolean melody of love,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heard on an Alpine path at close of day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When shepherds homeward lead their tinkling flocks.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when she left, being with you awhile,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How shall I say it?—'t was as when one hath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beheld an Undine by the moonlit Rhine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who, ere the mind adjusts a thought, is gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in your soul you wonder if a dream.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Some thirty years ago it was;—and I,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Commissioner of the Duke—(no sinecure<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I can assure you)—had scarce reached the age<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of thirty,—that we sat here at our wine;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And 't was through me that Rudolf,—whom at first,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From some rash words dropped then in argument,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The foresterhood was like to be denied,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was then enfellowed. "Yes," said I, "he's young.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Kurt, he is young; but see, a wiry frame;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A chamois footing and a face for deeds;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An eye that likes me not; too quick to turn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But that may be the restless soul within;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A soul perhaps with virtues that have been<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Severely tried and could not stand the test;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These be thy care, Kurt; and if not too deep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In vices of the flesh, discover them,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As divers bring lost riches up from ooze.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou hast a daughter; let him be thy son."<br /></span> +<span class="i3">A year thereafter was it that I heard<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Rudolf's passion for Kurt's Ilsabe;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then their betrothal. And it was from this,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Good Mother Mary! how she haunts me still!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet Ilsabe! whose higher womanhood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">True as the touchstone which philosophers feign<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Transmutes to gold base metals it may touch,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had turned to good all evil in this man,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Surmised I of the excellency which<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Refinement of her purer company,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And contact with her innocence, had resolved<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His fiery nature to, conditioning slave.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And so I came from Brunswick—as, you know,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Is custom of the Duke or, by his seal<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Commissioned proxy, his commissioner—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To test the marksmanship of Rudolf, who<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Succeeded Kurt with marriage of his child,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An heir of Kuno.—He?—Greatgrandfather<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Kurt; and of this forestkeepership<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The first possessor; thus established here—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or this the tale they tell on winter nights:<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Kuno, once in the Knight of Wippach's train,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rode on a grand hunt with the Duke, who came,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grandfather of the father of our Duke,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With much magnificence of knights and squires,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Great velvet-vestured nobles, cloaked and plumed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To hunt Thuringian deer. Then morn,—too quick<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To bid good-morrow,—was too slow for these,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And on the wind-trod hills recumbent yawned<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Disturbed an hour too soon; all sleepy-eyed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like some young milkmaid whom the cock hath roused,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who sits and rubs stiff eyes that still will close.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Horns sang and deer-hounds tugged a whimpering leash,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or, loosened, bounded through the baying glens:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ere the mountain mists, compact of white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Broke wild before the azure spears of day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The far-off hunt, that woke the woods to life,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seemed but the heart-beat of the ancient hills.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And then, near noon, within a forest brake,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The ban-dogs roused a red gigantic stag,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lashed to whose back with gnarly-knotted cords,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And borne along like some pale parasite,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A man shrieked: tangle-bearded, and wild hair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A mane of forest-burs. The man himself,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Emaciated and half-naked from<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stag's mad flight through headlong rocks and trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One bleeding bruise, with eyes like holes of fire.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For such the law then: when the peasant chased<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or slew the dun deer of his tyrant lords,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If seized, as punishment the withes and spine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of some strong stag, a gift to him of game,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Enough till death—death in the antlered herd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or slow starvation in the haggard hills.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then was the great Duke glad, and forthwith cried<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To all his hunting train a rich reward<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For him who slew the stag and saved the man,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But death for him who slew both man and stag.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So plunged the hunt after the hurrying slot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A shout and glimmer through the sounding woods,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like some mad torrent that the hills have loosed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With death for goal.—'T was late; and none had risked<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That shot as yet,—too desperate the risk<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beside the poor life and a little gold,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When this young Kuno, with fierce eyes, wherein<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hunt and impatience kindled reckless flame,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Cried, "Has the dew then made our powder wet?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or have we left our marksmanship at home?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here's for its heart! the Fiend direct my ball!"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fired into a covert deeply packed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An intertangled wall of matted night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wherein the eye might vainly strive and strive<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To pierce one fathom, earn one foot beyond.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, ha! the huge stag staggered from the brake<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hit full i' the heart. And that wan wretch, unbound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was ta'en and cared for. Then his grace, the Duke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Charmed with the eagle aim, called Kuno up,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there to him and his forever gave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The forestkeepership.<br /></span> +<span class="i9">But envious tongues<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were soon at wag; and whispered went the tale<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of how the shot was free, and how the balls<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Used by young Kuno were free bullets—which<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To say is: Lead by magic moulded, in<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The influence and directed, of the Fiend.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of some effect these tales, and had some force<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Even with the Duke, who lent an ear so far<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As to ordain Kuno's descendants all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To proof of skill ere their succession to<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The father's office. Kurt himself hath shot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The silver ring out o' the popinjay's beak—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A good shot he, you see, who would succeed.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Of these enchanted bullets let me speak:<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> +<span class="i0">There may be such; our Earth has things as strange,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perhaps, and stranger, that we doubt not of,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While we behold, not only 'neath the thatch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Ignorance's hovel, but within<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pictured halls of Wisdom's palaces,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How Superstition sits an honored guest.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">A cross-way let it be among the hills;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A cross-way in a solitude of pines;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And on the lonely cross-way you must draw<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A blood-red circle with a bloody sword;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And round the circle, runic characters,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gaunt and satanic; here a skull, and there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A scythe and cross-bones, and an hour-glass here;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in the centre, fed with coffin-wood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stol'n from the grave of one, a murderer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A smouldering fire. Eleven of the clock<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The first ball leaves the mold—the sullen lead<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mixed with three bullets that have hit their mark,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And blood, the wounded Sacramental Host<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stolen, and hence unhallowed, oozed, when shot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fixed to a riven pine. Ere twelve o'clock<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With never a word until that hour sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Must all the balls be cast; and these must be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In number three and sixty; three of which<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Fiend's dark agent, demon Sammael,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Claims for his master and stamps for his own<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To hit aside their mark, askew for harm.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The other sixty shall not miss their mark.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">No cry, no word, no whisper, even though<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vague, gesturing shapes, that loom like moonlit mists,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their faces human but with animal forms,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rise thick around and threaten to destroy.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No cry, no word, no whisper should there come,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Weeping, a wandering shadow like the girl<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You love, or loved, now lost to you, her eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hollow with tears; all palely beckoning<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With beautiful arms, or censuring; her face<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sad with a desolate love; who, if you speak<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or waver from that circle—hideous change!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shrinks to a wrinkled hag, whose harpy hands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall tear you limb from limb with horrible mirth.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor be deceived if some far midnight bell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Strike that anticipated hour; nor leave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By one short inch the circle, for, unseen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though now they be, Hell's minions still are there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Watching with flaming eyes to seize your soul.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But when the hour of midnight sounds, be sure<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You have your bullets, neither more nor less;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For if through fear one more or less you have,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your soul is forfeit to Hell's majesty.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then while the hour of midnight strikes, will come<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A noise of galloping hoofs and outriders,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shouting; six midnight steeds,—their nostrils, pits<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of burning blood,—postilioned, roll a stage,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Black and with groaning wheels of spinning fire:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Room there!—ho! ho!—who bars the mountain-way?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On over him!"—But fear not, nor fare forth;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'T is but the last trick of your bounden slave.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ere the red moon rushes through the clouds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And dives again, high the huge leaders leap,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their fore-hoofs fire, and their eye-balls flame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, spun a spiral spark into the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whistling the phantom flies and fades away.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some say there comes no stage; that Hackelnburg,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wild-huntsman of the Harz, comes dark as storm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With rain and wind and demon dogs of Hell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The terror of his hunting-horn, an owl,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the dim deer he hunts, rush on before;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The forests crash, and whirlwinds are the leaves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all the skies a-thunder, as he hurls<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Straight on the circle, horse and hounds and stag.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And at the last, plutonian-cloaked, there comes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon a stallion gaunt and lurid black,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The minister of Satan, Sammael,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who greets you, and informs you, and assures.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Enough! these wives'-tales told, to what I've seen:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Ammendorf I came; and Rudolf here<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With Kurt and his assembled men, I met.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The abundant year,—like some sweet wife,—a-smile<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At her brown baby, Autumn, in her arms,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Stood 'mid the garnered harvests of her fields<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dreaming of days that pass like almoners<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scattering their alms in minted gold of flowers;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of nights, that forest all the skies with stars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wherethrough the moon—bare-bosomed huntress—rides,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One cloud before her like a flying fawn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then I proposed the season's hunt; till eve<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The test of Rudolf's skill postponed, at which<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He seemed impatient. And 't was then I heard<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How he an execrable marksman was;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And tales that told of near, incredible shots,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That missed their mark; or how his flint-lock oft<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flashed harmless powder, while the curious deer<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stood staring; as in pity of such aim<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bidding him try his marksmanship again.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Howbeit, he that day acquitted him<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of all this gossip; in that day's long hunt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Missing no shot, however rashly made<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or distant through the intercepting trees.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the piled, various game brought down of all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Good marksmen of Kurt's train had not sufficed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Doubled, nay, trebled, there to match his heap.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And marvelling the hunters saw, nor knew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How to excuse them. My indulgence giv'n,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some told me that but yesterday old Kurt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had made his daughter weep and Rudolf frown,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> +<span class="i0">By vowing end to their betrothéd love,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unless that love developed better aim<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Against the morrow's test; his ancestors'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">High fame should not be tarnished. So he railed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bowed his gray head and sat moodily;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But looking up, forgave all when he saw<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tears in his daughter's eyes and Rudolf gone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out in the night black with approaching storm.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Before this inn, yonder and here, they stood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The holiday village come to view the trial:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fair maidens and their comely mothers with<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their sweethearts and their husbands. And I marked<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Kurt and his daughter here; his florid face<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All jubilant at Rudolf's great success;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hers, radiant with happiness; for this<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her <a name='TC_2'></a><ins title="Was 'marrige'">marriage</ins> eve—so had her father said—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Should Rudolf come successful from the hunt.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">So pleased was I with what I'd seen him do,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The trial of skill superfluous seemed, and so<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was on the bare brink of announcing, when<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of the western heaven's deepening red,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a white message dropped by rosy lips,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A wild dove clove the luminous winds and there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon that limb, a peaceful moment sat.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then I, "Thy rifle, Rudolf! pierce its head!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cried pointing, "and chief-forester art thou!"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why did he falter with a face as strange<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +<span class="i0">As a dark omen? did his soul foresee<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What was to be with tragic prescience?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What a bad dream it all seems now!—Again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I see him aim. Again I hear the cry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"My dove! O Rudolf, do not kill my dove!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And from the crowd, like some sweet dove herself,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fluttering whiteness, came our Ilsabe—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Too late! the rifle cracked ... The unhurt dove<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rose, beating frightened wings—but Ilsabe!...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sight! the sight!... lay smitten; a red stain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sullying the pureness of her bridal bodice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Showed where the ball had pierced her through the heart.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And Rudolf?—Ah, of him you still would know?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When he beheld this thing that he had done,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why he went mad—I say—but others not.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An hour he raved of how her life had paid<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the unholy bullets he had used,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And how his soul was three times lost and damned.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I say that he went mad and fled forthwith<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the haunted Harz.—Some say, to die<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The prey of demons of the Dummburg ruin.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I, one of those less superstitious, say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He in the Bodé—from that blackened rock,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whereon were found his hunting-cap and gun,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Devil's Dancing Place, did leap and die.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="My_Lady_of_Verne" id="My_Lady_of_Verne"></a>My Lady of Verne</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It all comes back as the end draws near;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All comes back like a tale of old!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall I tell you all? Will you lend an ear?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You, with your face so stern and cold;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You, who have found me dying here ...<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lady Leona's villa at Verne—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You have walked its terraces, where the fount<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And statue gleam and the fluted urn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its world-old elms, that are avenues gaunt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of shadow and flame when the West is a-burn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'T is a lonely region of tarns and trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hollow hills that circle the West;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Haunted of rooks and the far-off sea's<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Immemorial vague unrest;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A land of sorrowful memories.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A gray sad land, where the wind has its will,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the sun its way with the fruits and flowers;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where ever the one all night is shrill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ever the other all day brings hours<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of glimmering silence that dead days fill.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A gray sad land, where her girlhood grew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To womanhood proud, that the hill-winds seemed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To give their heart, like melody, to;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the stars, their soul, like a dream undreamed—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The only glad thing that the sad land knew.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> +<span class="i0">My Lady, you know, how nobly born!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Haughty of form, with a head that rose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a dream of empire; love and scorn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Made haunts of her eyes; and her lips were bows<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whence pride imperious flashed flower and thorn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And I—oh, I was nobody: one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her worshiper only; who chose to be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Silent, seeing that love alone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was his only badge of nobility,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Set in his heart's escutcheon.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How long ago does the springtime look,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When we wandered away to the hills! the hills,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the land in the tale in the fairy-book,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Covered with gold of the daffodils,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And gemmed with the crocus by brae and brook!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When I gathered a branch from a hawthorn tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For her hair or bosom, from boughs that hung<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Odorous of heaven and purity;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she thanked me smiling; then merrily sung,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Laughingly sung, while she looked at me:—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There dwelt a princess over the sea—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Right fair was she, right fair was she—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who loved a squire of low degree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But married a king of Brittany—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ah, woe is me!<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And it came to pass on the wedding-day—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So people say, so people say—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That they found her dead in her bridal array,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dead, and her lover beside her lay—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ah, well-away!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A sour stave for your sweets," she said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pressing the blossoms against her lips:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then petal by petal the branch she shred,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Snowing the blooms from her finger-tips,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tossing them down for her feet to tread.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What to her was the look I gave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of love despised! though she seemed to start,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seeing, and said, with a quick hand-wave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Why, one would think that <i>that</i> was your heart,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While her face with a sudden thought grew grave.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But I answered nothing. And so to her home<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We came in the twilight; falling clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a few first stars and a moon's curved foam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the hush of meadow and mere,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whence the boom of the bittern would often come.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Would you think that she loved me?—Who can say?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What a riddle unread was she to me!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When I kissed her fingers and turned away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I wanted to speak, but—what cared she,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though her eyes looked soft and she begged me stay!<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Though she lingered to watch me—that might be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A slim moon-beam or the evening haze,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But never my Lady's drapery<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or wistful face!—in the ivy maze....<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leona of Verne—why, what cared she!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So the days went by, and the Summer wore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her hot heart out; and, a mighty slayer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Autumn harried the land and shore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the world was red with his wrecks; but grayer<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That land with the ghosts of the nevermore.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The sheaves of the Summer had long been bound;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The harvests of Autumn had long been past;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the snows of the Winter lay deep around,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the dark news came and I knew at last;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the reigning woe of my heart was crowned.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So I sought her here, the young Earl's bride;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the ancient room at the oriel dreaming,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pale as the blooms in her hair; and, wide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her robe's rich satin, flung stormily, gleaming,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like shimmering silver, twilight-dyed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I marked as I stole to her side that tears<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were vaguely large in her beautiful eyes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the loops of pearls on her throat, and years<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Old lace on her bosom were heaved with sighs;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So I spoke what I thought—"Then, it appears"—<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And stopped with, it seemed, my soul in my gaze—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"That you are not happy, Leona of Verne?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is that at your heart which—well, betrays<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These mocking mummeries.—Live and learn!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And this is the truth that the poet says:—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'I went to my love and I told with my heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In words of the soul, that are silent in speech,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All of my passion, too sacred for art;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But she heard me not—for I could not reach<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her in that world of which she is part.'—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"That world, where I saw you as one afar<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sees palms and waters, and knows that sands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pitiless sands, before him are;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet follows ever with helpless hands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till he sinks at last.—You were my star,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"My hope, my heaven!—I loved you!... Life<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is less than nothing to me!"... She turned,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a wild look, saying—"Now I am his wife<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You come and tell me!—Indeed you are learn'd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the language of hearts that's unheard!"... A Knife,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As she ceased and leaned on a cabinet,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A curve of scintillant steel, keen, cold,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fell icily clashing; some curio met<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among Asian antiques, bronze and gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mystical, curiously graven and set.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A Bactrian dagger, whose <a name='TC_3'></a><ins title="Was 'slighest'">slightest</ins> prick<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through its ancient poison was death, I knew;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If true that she loved me—then!—And quick<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the unspoken thought she replied, "'T is true!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have loved you long, and my soul was sick,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Sick for the love that has made me weak,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Weak to your will even now!"—And more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She said, in my arms, that I shall not speak—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the dagger there on the polished floor<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ever her eyes, while she spoke, would seek.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'And it came to pass on the wedding-day'"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then my lips for a moment were crushed to hers—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"'That they found her dead in her bridal array,'"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She sang; then said, "You finish the verse!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Finish the song, for you know the way."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And I whispered "yes," for my mind had thought<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her own thought through—that life were a hell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To her as to me,—So the blade I caught<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a sudden hand; and she leaned, and—well,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What a little wound, and the blood it brought<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To crimson her bosom!—I set her there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In that carven chair; then turned the blade,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With its glittering haft one savage glare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of gold and jewels, wildly inlaid,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To my breast, for the poisonous point rent bare.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A stain of blood on her bosom, and one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Black red o'er my heart.—You see, 't is good<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To die so for love!... Does the sinking sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the dull vast west burst banked with blood?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or is it that life will at last have done?...<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So you are her husband? and—well, you see,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You see she is dead ... But your face, how white!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—Is it with hate or with misery?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What matters it now!—For, at last, the night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Falls and the silence covers me.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="An_Old_Tale_Re-told" id="An_Old_Tale_Re-told"></a>An Old Tale Re-told</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From the terrace here, where the hills indent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You can see the uttermost battlement<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the castle there; the Cliffords' home;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the seasons go and the seasons come<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And never a footstep else doth fall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Save the prowling fox's; the ancient hall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Echoes no voice save the owlet's call:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its turret chambers are homes for the bat;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And its courts are tangled and wild to see;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And where in the cellar was once the rat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The viper and toad move stealthily.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Long years have passed since the place was burned,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he sailed to the wars in France and earned<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The name that he bears of the bold and true<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On his tomb. Long years, since my lord, Sir Hugh,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lived; and I was his favorite page,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the thing then happened; and he of an age<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When a man will love and be loved again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or hie to the wars or a monastery,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or toil till he conquer his heart's sore pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or drink and forget it and finally bury.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I was his page. And often we fared<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the Clare demesnes, in autumn, hawking;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If the Baron had known, how they would have glared<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Neath their bushy brows, those eyes of mocking!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That last of the Strongbows, Richard, I mean—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And growling some six of his henchmen lean<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> +<span class="i0">To mount and after this Clifford and hang<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his crop-eared page to the nearest oak,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How he would have cursed us while he spoke!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Clare and Clifford had ever a fang<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the other's side ... And I hear the clang<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of his rage in the hall when the hawker told—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If he told!—how we met on the autumn wold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His daughter, sweet Clara of Clare, the day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her hooded tiercel its brails did burst,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And trailing its jesses, came flying our way—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An untrained haggard the falconer cursed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While he tried to secure:—as the eyas flew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slant, low and heavily over us, Hugh,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who saw it coming, and had just then cast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His peregrine hawk at a heron quarry,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In his saddle rising, so, as it passed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the jesses caught, and to her did carry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where she stood near the wood. Her face flushed rose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the glad of the meeting. No two foes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her eyes and my Lord's, I swear, who saw<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas love from the start. And I heard him speak<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some words; then he knelt; and the sombre shaw,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the rust of the autumn waste and bleak,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grew spring with her smile, as the hawk she took<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On her lily wrist, where it pruned and shook<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its ragged wings. Then I saw him seize<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hand, that she reached to him, long and white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As she smilingly bade him rise from his knees—<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When he kissed its fingers, her eyes grew bright.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But her cheeks grew pallid when, lashing through<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The woodland there, with a face a-flare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the sting of the wind, and his gipsy hair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flying, the falconer came, and two<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or three of the people of Castle Clare.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the leaves of the autumn made a frame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the picture there in the morning's flame.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What was said in that moment, I do not know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That moment of meeting, between those lovers;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But whatever it was, 't was whispered low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And soft as a leaf that swings and hovers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A twinkling gold, when the leaves are yellow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her face with the joy was still aglow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When down through the wood that burly fellow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Came with his frown, and made a pause<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the pulse of their words. My lord, Sir Hugh,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stood with the soil on his knee. No cause<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had he, but his hanger he partly drew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then clapped it sharp in its sheath again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bowed to my Lady, and strode away;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And mounting his horse, with a swinging rein<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rode with a song in his heart all day.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He loved and was loved, I knew; for, look!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All other sports for the chase he forsook.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And strange that he never went to hawk,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Or hunt, but Clara would meet him there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the Strongbow forest! I know the rock,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With its fern-filled moss, by the bramble lair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were oft and again he met—by chance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall I say?—the daughter of Clare; as fair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of face as a queen in an old romance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who waits with her sweet face pale; her hair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Night-deep; and eyes dove-gray with dreams;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the fountain-side where the statue gleams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the moonbeam lolls in the lily white,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the knightly lover who comes at night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Heigho! they ceased, those meetings; I wot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Betrayed to the Baron by some of his crew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of menials who followed and saw and knew.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For she loved too well to have once forgot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The time and the place of their trysting true.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Why and when?" would ask Sir Hugh<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the labored letters he used to lock—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lovers' post—in a coigne of that rock.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She used to answer, but now did not.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But nearing Yule, love got them again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A twilight tryst—through frowardness sure!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They met. And that day was gray with rain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or snow: and the wind did ever endure<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A long bleak moaning thorough the wood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That chapped i' the cheek and smarted the blood;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a brook in the forest went throb and throb,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And over it all was the wild-beast sob<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the rushing boughs like a thing pursued.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then it was that he learned how she,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(God's blood! how it makes my old limbs quiver<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To think what a miserable tyrant he—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Baron Richard—aye and ever<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To his daughter was!) forsooth! must wed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With an eastern earl, a Lovell: to whom<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Would God o' his mercy had struck him dead!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clara of Clare when only a child,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a face like a flower, that blooms in the wild<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the hills, and a soul like its soft perfume,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was given; to seal, or strengthen, some ties<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of power and wealth—say bartered, then,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the merest chattel. With tearful eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And trembling lips she spoke; and when<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her lover, the Clifford, had learned and heard,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He'd have had her flee with him then, 'sdeath!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In spite of them all! Let her speak the word,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They would fly together; the Baron's men<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Might follow, and if ... and he touched his sword,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It should answer! But she, while she seemed to stay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a hand on her bosom, her heart's quick breath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Replied to his heat, "They would take and slay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thee who art life of me!—No! not thus<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall we fly! there's another way for us;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A way that is sure; an only way;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> +<span class="i0">I have thought it out this many a day."—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The words that she spoke, how well I remember!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As well as the mood o' that day of December,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That bullied and blustered and seemed in league,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a spiteful shrew, with the wind and snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To drown the words of their sweet intrigue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the boom of the boughs tossed to and fro.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her last words these, "By curfew sure,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On Christmas eve, at the postern door."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And we were there; with a led horse too;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Armed for a journey I hardly knew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whither, but why, you well can guess.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For often he whispered a certain name,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The talisman of his happiness,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That warmed his blood like a yule-log's flame.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While we waited there, till its owner came,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We saw how the castle's baronial girth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a giant's, loosed for reveling more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shone; and we heard the wassail and mirth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the mistletoe hung in the hearth's red roar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the holly brightened the weaponed wall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of ancient oak in the banqueting hall.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the spits, I trow, by the scullions turned<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er the snoring logs, rich steamed and burned,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the whole wild-boar and the deer were roasted,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the half of an ox and the roe-buck haunches;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While tuns of ale, that the cellars boasted,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And casks of sack, were broached for paunches<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of vassals who reveled in stable and hall.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The song of the minstrel; the yeomen's quarrel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er the dice and the drink; and the huntsman's bawl<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the baying kennels, its hounds a-snarl<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er the bones of the banquet; now loud, now low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We could hear where we crouched in the drifting snow.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Was she long? did she come?... By the postern we<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like shadows waited. My lord, Sir Hugh,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spoke, pointing a tower, "That casement, see?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When a stealthy light in its slit burns blue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And signals thrice slowly, thus—'t is she."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And close to his breast his gaberdine drew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the wind it whipped and the snow beat through.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did she come?—We had waited an hour or twain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the taper flashed in the central pane,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And flourished three times and vanished so.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And under the arch of the postern's portal,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Holding the horses, we stood in the snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stiff with the cold. Ah, me! immortal<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Minutes we waited, breath-bated, and listened<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shivering there in the hiss of the gale:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The parapets whistled, the angles glistened,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the night around seemed one black wail<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of death, whose ominous presence over<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The stormy battlements seemed to hover.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said my lord, Sir Hugh,—to himself he spoke,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"She feels for the spring in the sliding panel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Neath the arras, hid in the carven oak.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It opens. The stair, like a well's dark channel,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yawns; and the draught makes her taper slope.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wrapped deep in her mantle she stoops, now puts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One foot on the stair; now a listening pause<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As nearer and nearer the mad search draws<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the thwarted castle. No smallest hope<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That they find her now that the panel shuts!...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If the wind, that howls like a tortured thing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would throttle itself with itself, then I<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Might hear how her hurrying footsteps ring<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down the hollow ... there! 't is her fingers try<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The postern's bolts that the rust makes cling."—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But ever some whim of the storm that shook<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A clanging ring or a creaking hook<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In buttress or wall. And we waited, numb<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the cold, till dawn—but she did not come.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I must tell you why and have done: 'T is said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the brink of the marriage she fled the side<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the guests and the bridegroom there; she fled<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a mischievous laugh,—"I'll hide! I'll hide!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seek! and be sure that you find!"—so led<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A long search after her; but defied<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All search for—a score and ten long years....<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Well, the laughter of Yule was turned to tears<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For them and for us. We saw the glare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of torches that hurried from chamber to stair;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we heard the castle re-echo her name,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But neither to them nor to us she came.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And that was the last of Clara of Clare.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That winter it was, a month thereafter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the home of the Cliffords, roof and rafter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Burned.—I could swear 't was the Strongbow's doing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were I sure that he knew of the Clifford's wooing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His daughter; and so, by the Rood and Cross!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had burned Hugh's home to avenge his loss.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So over the channel to France with his King,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Black Prince, sailed to the wars—to deaden<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The ache of the mystery—Hugh that spring,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fell at Poitiers; for his loss made leaden<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His heart; and his life was a weary sadness,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So he flung it away in a moment's madness.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the Baron died. And the bridegroom?—well,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unlucky was he in truth!—to tell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of him there is nothing. The Baron died,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The last of the Strongbows he—gramercy!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the Clare estate with its wealth and pride<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Devolved to the Bloets, Walter and Percy.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And years went by. And it happened that they<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ransacked the old castle; and so, one day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a lonesome tower uprummaged a chest,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> +<span class="i0">From Flanders; of ebon, and wildly carved<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All over with things: a sinister crest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And evil faces, distorted and starved;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fast-locked with a spring, which they forced and, lo!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When they opened it—Death, like a lady dressed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grinned up at their terror!—but no, not so!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A skeleton, jeweled and laced, and wreathed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With flowers of dust; and a miniver<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Around it clasped, that the ruin sheathed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a once rich raiment of silk and fur.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I'd have given my life to hear him tell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The courtly Clifford, how this befell!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He'd have known how it was: For, you see, in groping<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the secret spring of that panel, hoping<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fearing as nearer and nearer drew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The search of retainers, why, out she blew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The tell-tale taper; and, seeing this chest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would hide her a minute in it, mayhap,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the hurry had passed; but the death-lock, pressed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the lid's great weight, closed fast with a snap,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ere her heart was aware of the fiendish trap.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="The_Water_Witch" id="The_Water_Witch"></a>The Water Witch</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">See! the milk-white doe is wounded.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He will follow as it bounds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the woods. His horn has sounded.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Echoing, for his men and hounds.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But no answering bugle blew.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He has lost his retinue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the shapely deer that bounded<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Past him when his bow he drew.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not one hound or huntsman follows.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Through the underbrush and moss<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Goes the slot; and in the hollows<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of the hills, that he must cross,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He has lost it. He must fare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over rocks where she-wolves lair;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wood-pools where the wild-boar wallows;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So he leaves his good steed there.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Through his mind then flashed an olden<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Legend told him by the monks:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a girl, whose hair is golden,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Haunting fountains and the trunks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the woodland; who, they say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is a white doe all the day;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But when woods are night-enfolden<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turns into an evil fay.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then the story oft his teacher<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Told him; of a mountain lake<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Demons dwell in; vague of feature,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Human-like, but each a snake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She is queen of.—Did he hear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Laughter at his startled ear?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or a bird? And now, what creature<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is it, or the wind, stirs near?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fever of the hunt. This water,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Murmuring here, will cool his head.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the forest, fierce as slaughter,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Slants the sunset; ruby red<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are the drops that slip between<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His cupped hands, while on the green,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the couch of some wild daughter<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the forest,—he doth lean.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But the runnel, bubbling, dripping,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Seems to bid him to be gone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As with crystal words, and tripping<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Steps of sparkle luring on.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now a spirit in the rocks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Calls him; now a face that mocks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From behind some bowlder slipping,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Laughs at him with lilied locks.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So he follows through the flowers,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Blue and gold, that blossom there;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thridding twilight-haunted bowers<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Where each ripple seems the bare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beauty of white limbs that gleam<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rosy through the running stream;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or bright-shaken hair, that showers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Starlight in the sunset's beam.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till, far in the forest, sleeping<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Like a luminous darkness, lay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A deep water, wherein, leaping,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Fell the Fountain of the Fay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a singing, sighing sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As of spirit things around,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Musically laughing, weeping<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the air and underground.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not a ripple o'er it merried:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Like the round moon 'neath a cloud,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In its rocks the lake lay buried:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And strange creatures seemed to crowd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its dark depths; vague limbs and eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the surface seemed to rise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spawn-like and, as formless, ferried<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the water, shadow-wise.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Foliage things with human faces,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Demon-dreadful, pale and wild<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the forms the lightning traces<br /></span> +<span class="i1">On the clouds the storm has piled,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seeming now to draw to land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now away—Then up the strand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Comes a woman; and she places<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On his arm a spray-white hand.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah! an untold world of sorrow<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Were her eyes; her hair, a place<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whence the moon its gold might borrow;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And a dream of ice her face:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Round her hair and throat in rims<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pearls of foam hung; and through whims<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of her robe, as breaks the morrow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shone the rose-light of her limbs.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who could help but look with gladness<br /></span> +<span class="i1">On such beauty? though within,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deep within the beryl sadness<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of those eyes, the serpent sin<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Coil?—When she hath placed her cheek<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chilly upon his, and weak,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With love longing and its madness,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is his will grown, then she'll speak:<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Dost thou love me?"—"If surrender<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Is to love thee, then I love."—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Hast no fear then?"—"In the splendor<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of thy gaze who knows thereof?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet I fear—I fear to lose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thee, thy love!"—"And thou dost choose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Aye to be my heart's defender?"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Take me. I am thine to use."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Follow then. Ah, love, no lowly<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Home I give thee."—With fixed eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the water's edge she slowly<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Drew him.... And he did surmise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas her lips on his, until<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er his face the foam closed chill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whisp'ring, and the lake unholy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rippled, rippled and was still.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="At_Nineveh" id="At_Nineveh"></a>At Nineveh</h2> + +<h3>Written for my friend Walter S. Mathews.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There was a princess once, who loved the slave<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of an Assyrian king, her father; known<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At Nineveh as Hadria; o'er whose grave<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The sands of centuries have long been blown;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet sooner shall the night forget its stars<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Than love her story:—How, unto his throne,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One day she came, where, with his warriors,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The king sat in the hall of audience,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Mid pillared trophies of barbaric wars,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And, kneeling to him, asked, "O father, whence<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Comes love and why?"—He, smiling on her, said,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">"O Hadria, love is of the gods, and hence<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Divine, is only soul-interpreted.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But why love is, ah, child, we do not know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unless 'tis love that gives us life when dead."—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And then his daughter, with a face aglow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With all the love that clamored in her blood<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Its sweet avowal, lifted arms of snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, like Aurora's rose, before him stood,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Saying,—"Since love is of the powers above,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I love a slave, O Asshur! Let the good<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The gods have giv'n be sanctioned. Speak not of<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dishonor and our line's ancestral dead!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">They are imperial dust. I live and love."—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Black as black storm then rose the king and said,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A lightning gesture at her standing there,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Enough! ho, Rhana, strike me off her head!"<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And at the mandate, with his limbs half bare<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> +<span class="i0">A slave strode forth. Majestic was his form<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As some young god's. He, gathering up her hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wound it three times around his sinewy arm.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Then drew his sword. It for one moment shone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A semicircling light, and, dripping warm,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Lifting the head he stood before the throne.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then cried the despot, "By the horn of Bel!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">This was no child of mine!"—Like chiselled stone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still stood the slave, a son of Israel.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Then striding towards the monarch, in his eye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wrath of heaven and the hate of hell,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Shrieked, "Lust! I loved her! look on us and die!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swifter than fire clove him to the brain.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Then kissed the dead fair face of her held high,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And crying, "Judge, O God, between us twain!"<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A thousand daggers in his heart, fell slain.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="How_They_Brought_Aid_to_Bryans_Station" id="How_They_Brought_Aid_to_Bryans_Station"></a>How They Brought Aid to Bryan's Station</h2> + +<p>During the siege of Bryan's Station, Kentucky, August 16, 1782, Nicholas +Tomlinson and Thomas Bell, two inhabitants of the Fort, undertook to +ride through the besieging Indian and Tory lines to Lexington, Ky., for +aid. It happened also during this siege that the pioneer women of the +Fort, when the water supply was exhausted, heroically carried water from +a spring, at a considerable distance outside the palisades of the +Station, to its inmates, under the very guns of the enemy.</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With saddles girt and reins held fast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our rifles well in front, at last<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Tom Bell and I were mounted.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gate swung wide. We said, "Good-bye."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No time for talk had Bell and I.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One said, "God speed!" another, "Fly!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then out we galloped. Live or die,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">We felt each moment counted.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The trace, the buffaloes had worn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stretched broad before us; and the corn<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And cane through which it wended,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We knew for acres from the gate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hid Indian guile and Tory hate.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We rode with hearts that seemed to wait<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For instant death; and on our fate<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The Station's fate depended.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No rifle cracked. No creature stirred,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As on towards Lexington we spurred<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Unflinchingly together.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We reached the woods: no savage shout<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of all the wild Wyandotte rout<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Shawanese had yet rung out:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But now and then an Indian scout<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Showed here a face and feather.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We rode expecting death each stride<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From thicket depth or tree-trunk side,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Where some red foe might huddle—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For well we knew that renegade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The blood-stained Girty, had not stayed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His fiends from us, who rode for aid,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dastard he who had betrayed<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The pioneers of Ruddle.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And when an arrow grazed my hair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I did not turn, I did not spare<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To spur as men spur warward:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A war-whoop rang this side a rock:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then painted faces swarmed, to block<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our way, with brandished tomahawk<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rifle: then a shout, a shock—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And we again rode forward.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They followed; but 'twas no great while<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before from them by some long mile<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of forest we were sundered.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We galloped on. I'd lost my gun;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Bell, whose girth had come undone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rode saddleless. The summer sun<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was up when into Lexington<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Side unto side we thundered.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Too late. For Todd had left that day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With many men. Decoyed away<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To Hoy's by some false story.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we must after. Bryan's needs<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said, "On!" although our gallant steeds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were blown—Enough! we must do deeds!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Must follow where our duty leads,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Be it to death or glory.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The way was wild and often barred<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By trees and rocks; and it was hard<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To keep our hearts from sinking;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But thoughts of those we'd left behind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gave strength to muscle and to mind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To help us onward through the blind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deep woods. And often we would find<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Ourselves of loved ones thinking.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The hot stockade. No water left.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fierce attack. All hope bereft<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The powder-grimed defender.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The war-cry and the groan of pain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All day the slanting arrow-rain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of fire from the corn and cane.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stern defence, but all in vain.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And then at last—surrender.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But not for Bryan's!—no! too well<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Must they remember what befell<br /></span> +<span class="i1">At Ruddle's and take warning.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So thought we as, all dust and sweat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We rode with faces forward set,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And came to Station Boone while yet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An hour from noon ... We had not let<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Our horses rest since morning.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here Ellis met us with his men.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They did not stop nor tarry then.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That little band of lions;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But setting out at once with aid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Right well you know how unafraid<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They charged the Indian ambuscade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through a storm of bullets made<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Their entrance into Bryan's.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And that is all I have to tell.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No more the Huron's hideous yell<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sounds to assault and slaughter.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perhaps to us some praise is due;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But we are men, accustomed to<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such dangers, which we often woo.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Much more is due our women who<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Brought to the Station—water.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="On_the_Jellico_Spur_of_the_Cumberlands" id="On_the_Jellico_Spur_of_the_Cumberlands"></a>On the Jellico Spur of the Cumberlands</h2> + +<h3>TO J. FOX, JR.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You remember how the mist,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When we climbed to Devil's Den,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Pearly in the mountain glen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And above us, amethyst,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Throbbed or circled? then away,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Through the wildwoods opposite,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Torn and scattered, morning-lit,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vanished into dewy gray?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vague as in romance we saw,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">From the fog, one riven trunk,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Talon-like with branches shrunk,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thrust a monster dragon claw.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we climbed for hours through<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The dawn-dripping Jellicoes,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To a wooded rock that shows<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Undulating leagues of blue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Summits; mountain-chains that lie<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Dark with forests; bar on bar,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Ranging their irregular<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Purple peaks beneath a sky<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soft as slumber. Range on range<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Billow their enormous spines,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Where the rocks and priestly pines<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sit eternal, without change.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> +<span class="i0">We were sons of Nature then:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">She had taken us to her,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Signalized by brier and burr,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Something more to her than men:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pupils of her lofty moods,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">From her bloom-anointed looks,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Wisdom of no man-made books<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Learned we in those solitudes:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How the seed supplied the flower;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">How the sapling held the oak;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">How within the vine awoke<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wild impulse still to tower;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How in fantasy or mirth,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Springing from her footsteps there,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Curious fungi everywhere<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bulged, exuded from the earth;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Coral vegetable things,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That the underworld exhaled,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Bulbous, crystal-ribbed and scaled,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Many colored and in rings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the Indian-Pipe that grew<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Pink and white in loamy cracks,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Flowers of a natural wax,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She had turned her fancy to.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On that laureled precipice,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Where the chestnuts dropped their burrs,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sweet with balsam of the firs,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> +<span class="i0">First we felt her mother kiss<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full of heaven and the wind;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">While the forests, wood on wood,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Murmured like a multitude<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Giving praise where none hath sinned.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Freedom met us there; we saw<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Freedom giving audience;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In her face the eloquence,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lightning-like, of love and law:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Round her, with majestic hips,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Lay the giant mountains; there<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Near her, cataracts tossed their hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">God and thunder on their lips.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oft an eagle, or a hawk,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Or a scavenger, we knew<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Winged through altitudes of blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By its shadow on the rock.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or a cloud of templed white<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Moved, a lazy berg of pearl,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Through the sky's pacific swirl,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shot with cool cerulean light.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So we dreamed an hour upon<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That warm rock the lichens mossed,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">While around us foliage tossed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Coins, gold-minted of the sun:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then arose; and a ravine,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> +<span class="i1">Which a torrent once had worn,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Made our roadway to the corn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the valley, deep and green;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the farm house with its bees,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Where old-fashioned flowers spun<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Gay rag-carpets in the sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hid among the apple trees.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here we watched the twilight fall;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">O'er Wolf-Mountain sunset made<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A huge rhododendron rayed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Round the sun's cloud-centered ball.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then through scents of herb and soil,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To the mining-camp we turned,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In the twinkling dusk discerned<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With its white-washed homes of toil.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, those nights!—We wandered forth<br /></span> +<span class="i1">On some haunted mountain path,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When the moon was late, and rathe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The large stars, sowed south and north,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Splashed with gold the purple skies;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And the milky zodiac,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Rolled athwart the belted black,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seemed a path to Paradise.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we walked or lingered till,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In the valley-land beneath,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Like the vapor of a breath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Breathed in frost, arose the still<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Architecture of the mist:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And the moon-dawn's necromance<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Touched the mist and made it glance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a town of amethyst.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then around us, sharp and brusque,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Night's shrill insects strident strung<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Instruments that buzzed and sung<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pixy music of the dusk.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we seemed to hear soft sighs,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And hushed steps of ghostly things,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Fluttered feet or rustled wings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Moved before us. Fire-flies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gleaming in the tangled glade,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Seemed the eyes of warriors<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Stealing under watching stars<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To some midnight ambuscade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the Indian village there,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Wigwamed with the mist, that slept<br /></span> +<span class="i1">By the woodland side, whence crept<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shadowy Shawnees of the air.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the moon rose, like a cup<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Lay the valley, brimmed with wine<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of mesmeric shade and shine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the moon's pale face held up.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As she rose from out the mines<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of the eastern darkness, night<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Met her, clad in dewy light<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> +<span class="i0">'Mid Pine Mountain's sachem pines.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As from clouds in pearly parts<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Her serene circumference grew,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Home we turned. And all night through<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dreamed the dreams of happy hearts.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="A_Confession" id="A_Confession"></a>A Confession</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">These are the facts:—I was to blame:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I brought her here and wrought her shame:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She came with me all trustingly.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lovely and innocent her face:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in her perfect form, the grace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of purity and modesty.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I think I loved her then: 'would dote<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On her ambrosial breast and throat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Young as a blossom's tenderness:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her eyes, that were both glad and sad:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her cheeks and chin, that dimples had:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her mouth, red-ripe to kiss and kiss.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Three months passed by; three moons of fire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When in me sickened all desire:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in its place a devil,—who<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Filled all my soul with deep disgust,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And on the victim of my lust<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turned eyes of loathing,—swiftly grew.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">One night, when by my side she slept,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I rose: and leaning, while I kept<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dagger hid, I kissed her hair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And throat: and, when she smiled asleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into her heart I drove it deep:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And left her dead, still smiling there.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Lilith" id="Lilith"></a>Lilith</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yea, there are some who always seek<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The love that lasts an hour;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And some who in love's language speak,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet never know his power.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of such was I, who knew not what<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet mysteries may rise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Within the heart when 't is its lot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To love and realize.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of such was I, ah me! till, lo,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your face on mine did gleam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And changed that world, I used to know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into an evil dream.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That world wherein, on hill and plain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Great blood-red poppies bloomed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their hot hearts thirsty for the rain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sleepily perfumed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Above, below, on every part<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A crimson shadow lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if the red sun streamed athwart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sunset was alway.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I know not how, I know not when,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I only know that there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She met me in the haunted glen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A poppy in her hair.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her face seemed fair as Mary's is,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That knows no sin or wrong;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her presence filled the silences<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As music fills a song.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And she was clad like the Mother of God,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As 't were for Christ's sweet sake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But when she moved and where she trod<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A hiss went of a snake.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Though seeming sinless, till I die<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I shall not know for sure<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why to my soul she seemed a lie<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And otherwise than pure.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nor why I kissed her soon and late<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And for her felt desire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While loathing of her passion ate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into my soul like fire.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Was it because my soul could tell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That, like the poppy-flower,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She had no soul? a thing of Hell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That o'er it had no power.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or was it that your love at last<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My soul so long had craved,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the sweet sin that held me fast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At that last moment saved?<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Content" id="Content"></a>Content</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When I behold how some pursue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fame, that is care's embodiment,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or fortune, whose false face looks true,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A humble home with sweet content<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is all I ask for me and you.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A humble home, where pigeons coo,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose path leads under breezy lines<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of frosty-berried cedars to<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A gate, one mass of trumpet-vines,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is all I ask for me and you.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A garden, which, all summer through,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The roses old make redolent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And morning-glories, gay of hue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And tansy, with its homely scent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is all I ask for me and you.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">An orchard, that the pippins strew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From whose bruised gold the juices spring;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A vineyard, where the grapes hang blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wine-big and ripe for vintaging,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is all I ask for me and you.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A lane, that leads to some far view<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of forest and of fallow-land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bloomed o'er with rose and meadow-rue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each with a bee in its hot hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is all I ask for me and you.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At morn, a pathway deep with dew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And birds to vary time and tune;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At eve, a sunset avenue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And whippoorwills that haunt the moon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is all I ask for me and you.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dear heart, with wants so small and few,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And faith, that's better far than gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A lowly friend, a child or two,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To care for us when we are old,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is all I ask for me and you.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Berrying" id="Berrying"></a>Berrying</h2> + +<h3>I.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My love went berrying<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where brooks were merrying<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And wild wings ferrying<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Heaven's amethyst;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wildflowers blessed her,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My dearest Hester,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The winds caressed her,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The sunbeams kissed.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>II.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I followed, carrying<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her basket; varying<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fond hopes of marrying<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With hopes denied;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Both late and early<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She deemed me surly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bowed her curly<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fair head and sighed:<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>III.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The skies look lowery;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It will he showery;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No longer flowery<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The way I find.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No use in going.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'T will soon be snowing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If you keep growing<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Much more unkind."<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>IV.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then looked up tearfully.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I, all fearfully,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Replied, "My dear, fully<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Will I explain:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I love you dearly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But look not cheerly<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since all says clearly<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I love in vain."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>V.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then smiled she airily;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And answered merrily<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With words that—verily<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Made me decide:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And drawing tow'rd her,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I there implored her—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I who adored her—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To be my bride.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>VI.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O sweet simplicity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of young rusticity,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Without duplicity,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whom love made know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That hearts in meter<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Make earth completer;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And kisses, sweeter<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Than—berries grow.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="To_a_Pansy-Violet" id="To_a_Pansy-Violet"></a>To a Pansy-Violet</h2> + +<h3>Found Solitary Among the Hills.</h3> + + +<h3>I.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O pansy-violet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With early April wet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How frail and pure you look<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lost in this glow-worm nook<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of heaven-holding hills:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down which the hurrying rills<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fling scrolls of melodies:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er which the birds and bees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Weave gossamers of song,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Invisible, but strong:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet music webs they spin<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To snare the spirit in.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>II.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O pansy-violet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unto your face I set<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My lips, and—do you speak?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or is it but some freak<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of fancy, love imparts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through you unto the heart's<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Desire? whispering low<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A secret none may know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But such as sit and dream<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By forest-side and stream.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></div></div> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +</div></div> + +<h3>III.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O pansy-violet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O darling floweret,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hued like the timid gem<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That stars the diadem<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Fay or Sylvan Sprite,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who, in the woods, all night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is busy with the blooms,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Young leaves and wild perfumes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through you I seem t' have seen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All that such dreams may mean.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>IV.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O pansy-violet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Long, long ago we met—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'T was in a Fairy-tale:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Two children in a vale<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sat underneath glad stars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far from the world of wars;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each loved the other well:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her eyes were like the spell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of dusk and dawning skies—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The purple dark that dyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The midnight: his were blue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As heaven the day shines through.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></div></div> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +</div></div> + +<h3>V.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O pansy-violet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What is this vague regret,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This yearning, so like tears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That touches through the years<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Long past, when Myth and Fable<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In all strange things were able<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To beautify the Earth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Things of immortal worth?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This longing, that to me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is like a memory<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lived long ago, of those<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fair children who, it knows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Loved with no mortal love;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whom smiling heaven above<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fostered, and when they died<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Laid side by loving side.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>VI.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O pansy-violet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I dream, remembering yet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A wood-god-guarded tomb,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of whose moss a bloom<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sprang, with three petals wan<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As are the eyes of dawn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And two as darkly deep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As are the eyes of sleep.—<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> +<span class="i0">O flower,—that seems to hold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some memory of old,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A hope, a happiness,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At which I can but guess,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You are a sign to me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of immortality:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through you my spirit sees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The deathless purposes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of death, that still evolves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The beauty it resolves;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The change that aye fulfills<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Life's meaning as God wills.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="Heart_of_my_Heart" id="Heart_of_my_Heart"></a>Heart of my Heart</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here where the season turns the land to gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among the fields our feet have known of old,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When we were children who would laugh and run,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glad little playmates of the wind and sun,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before came toil and care and years went ill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And one forgot and one remembered still,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heart of my heart, among the old fields here,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Give me your hands and let me draw you near.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Heart of my heart.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span></div></div> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Stars are not truer than your soul is true—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What need I more of heaven then than you?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flowers are not sweeter than your face is sweet—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What need I more to make my world complete?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O woman nature, love that still endures,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What strength hath ours that is not born of yours?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heart of my heart, to you, whatever come,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To you the lead, whose love hath led me home.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Heart of my heart.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="Witnesses" id="Witnesses"></a>Witnesses</h2> + + +<h3>I.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You say I do not love you!—Tell me why,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When I have gazed a little on your face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then gone forth into the world of men,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A beauty, neither of the Earth or Sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A glamour, that transforms each common place,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Attends my spirit then?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>II.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You say I do not love you!—Yet I know<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When I have heard you speak and dwelt upon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your words awhile, my heart has gone away<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Filled with strange music, very soft and low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A dim companion, touching with sweet tone<br /></span> +<span class="i3">The discords of the day.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>III.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You say I do not love you!—Yet it seems,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When I have kissed your hand and said farewell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fragrance, sweeter than did flower yet bloom,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Accompanies my soul and fills, with dreams,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sad and sordid streets, where people dwell,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Dreams of spring's wild perfume.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="Wherefore" id="Wherefore"></a>Wherefore</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I would not see, yet must behold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The truth they preach in church and hall;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And question so,—Is death then all,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And life an idle tale that's told?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The myriad wonders art hath wrought<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I deemed eternal as God's love:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No more than shadows these shall prove,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And insubstantial as a thought.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And love and labor, who have gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hand in close hand, and civilized<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wilderness, these shall be prized<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No more than if they had not done.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then wherefore strive? Why strain and bend<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath a burden so unjust?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our works are builded out of dust,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And dust their universal end.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Pagan" id="Pagan"></a>Pagan</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The gods, who could loose and bind<br /></span> +<span class="i3">In the long ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gods, who were stern and kind<br /></span> +<span class="i3">To men below,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where shall we seek and find,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Or, finding, know?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where Greece, with king on king,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Dreamed in her halls;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Rome kneeled worshiping,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">The owl now calls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And whispering ivies cling<br /></span> +<span class="i3">To mouldering walls.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They have served, and have passed away<br /></span> +<span class="i3">From the earth and sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And their Creed is a record gray,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Where the passer-by<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reads, "Live and be glad to-day,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">For to-morrow ye die."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And shall it be so, indeed,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">When we are no more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That nations to be shall read,—<br /></span> +<span class="i3">As we have before,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the dust of a Christian Creed,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">But pagan lore?<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="The_Fathers_of_our_Fathers" id="The_Fathers_of_our_Fathers"></a>"The Fathers of our Fathers"</h2> + +<h3>Written February 24, 1898, on reading the latest news concerning<br /> +the battleship Maine, blown up in Havana harbor, February 15th.</h3> + + +<h3>I.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The fathers of our fathers they were men!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What are we who now stand idle while we see our seamen slain?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Who behold our flag dishonored, and still pause!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are we blind to her duplicity, the treachery of Spain?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To the rights, she scorns, of nations and their laws?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let us rise, a mighty people, let us wipe away the stain!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Must we wait till she insult us for a cause?—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The fathers of our fathers they were men!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>II.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The fathers of our fathers they were men!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had they nursed delay as we do? had they sat thus deaf and dumb,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With these cowards compromising year by year?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never hearing what they should hear, never saying what should come,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">While the courteous mask of Spain still hid a sneer!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No! such news had roused their natures like a rolling battle-drum—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">God of earth! and God of heaven! do we fear?—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The fathers of our fathers they were men!<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></div></div> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +</div></div> + +<h3>III.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The fathers of our fathers they were men!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What are we who are so cautious, never venturing too far!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Shall we, at the cost of honor, still keep peace?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While we see the thousands starving and the struggling Cuban star,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And the outraged form of Freedom on her knees!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let our long, steel ocean-bloodhounds, adamantine dogs of war,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sweep the yellow Spanish panther from the seas!—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The fathers of our fathers they were men!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Mene_Mene_Tekel_Upharsin" id="Mene_Mene_Tekel_Upharsin"></a>"Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin"</h2> + + +<h3>I.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Behold! we have gathered together our battleships near and afar;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their decks they are cleared for action, their guns they are shotted for war:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the East to the West there is hurry, in the North and the South a peal<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of hammers in fort and shipyard, and the clamor and clang of steel;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the roar and the rush of engines, and clanking of derrick and crane—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou art weighed in the Scales and found wanting, the balance of God, O Spain!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>II.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Behold! I have stood on the mountains, and this was writ in the sky:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"She is weighed in the Scales and found wanting, the balance God holds on high!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The balance He once weighed Babylon, the Mother of Harlots, in:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One scale holds thy pride and thy power and empire, begotten of sin;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heavy with woe and torture, the crimes of a thousand years,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mortared and welded together with fire and blood and tears;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> +<span class="i0">In the other, for justice and mercy, a blade with never a stain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is laid the Sword of Liberty, and the balance dips, O Spain!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>III.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Summon thy vessels together! great is thy need for these!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cristobal Colon, Vizcaya, Oquendo, and Maria Terese—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let them be strong and many, for a vision I had by night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the ancient wrongs thou hast done the world came howling to the fight;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the New-World shores they gathered, Inca and Aztec slain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the Cuban shot but yesterday, and our own dead seamen, Spain!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h3>IV.</h3> + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Summon thy ships together, gather a mighty fleet!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For a strong young Nation is arming, that never hath known defeat.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Summon thy ships together, there on thy blood-stained sands!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For a shadowy army gathers with manacled feet and hands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A shadowy host of sorrows and shames, too black to tell,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> +<span class="i0">That reach, with their horrible wounds, for thee to drag thee down to Hell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A myriad phantoms and spectres, thou warrest against in vain—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou art weighed in the Scales and found wanting, the balance of God, O Spain!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="Her_Vivien_Eyes" id="Her_Vivien_Eyes"></a>Her Vivien Eyes</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her Vivien eyes,—beware! beware!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though they be stars, a deadly snare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They set beneath her night of hair.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Regard them not! lest, drawing near—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As sages once in old Chaldee—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou shouldst become a worshiper,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they thy evil destiny.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her Vivien eyes,—away! away!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though they be springs, remorseless they<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gleam underneath her brow's bright day.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turn, turn aside, whate'er the cost!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lest in their deeps thou lures behold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through which thy captive soul were lost,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As was young Hylas once of old.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></div></div> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her Vivien eyes,—take heed! take heed!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though they be bibles, none may read<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Therein of God or Holy Creed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Look, look away! lest thou be cursed,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As Merlin was, romances tell,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in their sorcerous spells immersed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hoping for Heaven thou chance on Hell.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="There_Was_a_Rose" id="There_Was_a_Rose"></a>There Was a Rose</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There was a rose in Eden once: it grows<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On Earth now, sweeter for its rare perfume:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Paradise is poorer by one bloom,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Earth is richer. In this blossom glows<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More loveliness than old seraglios<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or courts of kings did ever yet illume:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More purity, than ever yet had room<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In soul of nun or saint.—O human rose,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who art initial and sweet period of<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My heart's divinest sentence, where I read<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Love, first and last, and in the pauses love;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who art the dear ideal of each deed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My life aspires by to some high goal,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Set in the haunted garden of my soul!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="The_Artist" id="The_Artist"></a>The Artist</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In story books, when I was very young,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I knew you first, one of the Fairy Race;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then it was your picture took its place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Framed in with love's deep gold, and draped and hung<br /></span> +<span class="i0">High in my heart's red room: no song was sung,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No tale of passion told, I did not grace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With your associated form and face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And intimated charm of touch and tongue.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As years went on you grew to more and more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until each thing, symbolic to my heart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of beauty,—such as honor, truth, and fame,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Within the studio of my soul's thought wore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your lineaments, whom I, with all my art,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Strove to embody and to give a name.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="Poetry_and_Philosophy" id="Poetry_and_Philosophy"></a>Poetry and Philosophy</h2> + + +<div class="poem2"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Out of the past the dim leaves spoke to me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The thoughts of Pindar with a voice so sweet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hyblćan bees seemed swarming my retreat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Around the reedy well of Poesy.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I closed the book. Then, knee to neighbor knee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sat with the soul of Plato, to repeat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Doctrines, till mine seemed some Socratic seat<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> +<span class="i0">High on the summit of Philosophy.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Around the wave of one Religion taught<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her first rude children. From the stars that burned<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Above the mountained other, Science learned<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The first vague lessons of the work she wrought.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Daughters of God, in whom we still behold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Age of Iron and the Age of Gold.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="Quo_Vadis" id="Quo_Vadis"></a>"Quo Vadis"</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It is as if imperial trumpets broke<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Again the silence on War's iron height;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Cćsar's armored legions marched to fight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While Rome, blood-red upon her mountain-yoke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blazed like an awful sunset. At a stroke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Again I see the living torches light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The horrible revels, and the bloated, white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bayed brow of Nero smiling through the smoke:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And here and there a little band of slaves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among dark ruins; and the form of Paul,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bearded and gaunt, expounding still the Word:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And towards the North the tottering architraves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of empire; and, wild-waving over all,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The flaming figure of a Gothic sword.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="To_a_Critic" id="To_a_Critic"></a>To a Critic</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Song hath a catalogue of lovely things<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy kind hath oft defiled,—whose spite misleads<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The world too often!—where the poet reads,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As in a fable, of old envyings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Crows, such as thou, which hush the bird that sings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or kill it with their cawings; thorns and weeds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such as thyself, 'midst which the wind sows seeds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of flow'rs, these crush before one blossom swings.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But here and there the wisdom of a School<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unknown to these hath often written down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Fame" in white ink the future hath turned brown;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When every beauty, heaped with ridicule,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In their ignoble prose, proved their renown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Making each famous—as an ass or fool.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="AFTERWORD" id="AFTERWORD"></a><i>AFTERWORD.</i></h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>The old enthusiasms</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Are dead, quite dead, in me;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Dead the aspiring spasms</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Of art and poesy,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>That opened magic chasms,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Once, of wild mystery,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>In youth's rich Araby.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>That opened magic chasms.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>The longing and the care</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Are mine; and, helplessly,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>The heartache and despair</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>For what can never be.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>More than my mortal share</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Of sad mortality,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>It seems, God gives to me,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>More than my mortal share.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>O world! O time! O fate!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Remorseless trinity!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Let not your wheel abate</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Its iron rotary!—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Turn round! nor make me wait,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Bound to it neck and knee,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Hope's final agony!—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Turn round! nor make me wait.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="transnote"> +<h3>Transcriber's note<a name="tnotes" id="tnotes"></a></h3> + +<p> +The following changes have been made to the text:</p> + +<p><a href='#TC_1'>Page 25</a>: Was 'beach' (Of an old <b>beech</b>)</p> +<p><a href='#TC_2'>Page 46</a>: Was 'marrige' (Her <b>marriage</b> eve)</p> +<p><a href='#TC_3'>Page 53</a>: Was 'slighest' (whose <b>slightest</b> prick)</p> + +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Idyllic Monologues, by Madison J. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Idyllic Monologues + Old and New World Verses + +Author: Madison J. Cawein + +Release Date: April 6, 2010 [EBook #31896] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES *** + + + + +Produced by David Garcia, Carla Foust and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) + + + + + +Transcriber's note + + +Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Printer +errors have been changed and are listed at the end. All other +inconsistencies are as in the original. + + + + IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES + + Poems by Madison Cawein + + + OLD AND NEW WORLD VERSES + + BY THE AUTHOR OF + + "Undertones" "Garden of Dreams" + + + JOHN P. MORTON AND COMPANY + + Publishers--Louisville, Kentucky + + + + + Copyrighted 1898 + + BY MADISON CAWEIN + + + + + TO + MY FRIEND: + + R. E. LEE GIBSON + + + + +This collection of poems is entirely new with the exception of three or +four which appeared in two earlier volumes, published some ten years +ago. The reprinted poems have been carefully re-written, and so changed +throughout as to hardly bear any resemblance, except that of subject, to +the original. + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + + The Brothers 1 + + Geraldine 15 + + The Moated Manse 20 + + The Forester 35 + + My Lady of Verne 48 + + An Old Tale Re-told 55 + + The Water Witch 65 + + At Nineveh 70 + + How They Brought Aid to Bryan's Station 72 + + On the Jellico Spur of the Cumberlands 77 + + A Confession 83 + + Lilith 84 + + Content 86 + + Berrying 88 + + To a Pansy-Violet 90 + + Heart of my Heart 93 + + Witnesses 94 + + Wherefore 95 + + Pagan 96 + + "The Fathers of our Fathers" 97 + + "Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin" 99 + + Her Vivien Eyes 101 + + There was a Rose 102 + + The Artist 103 + + Poetry and Philosophy 103 + + "Quo Vadis" 104 + + To a Critic 105 + + + + +FOREWORD. + + + _And one, perchance, will read and sigh: + "What aimless songs! Why will he sing + Of nature that drags out her woe + Through wind and rain, and sun, and snow, + From miserable spring to spring?" + Then put me by._ + + _And one, perhaps, will read and say: + "Why write of things across the sea; + Of men and women, far and near, + When we of things at home would hear-- + Well, who would call this poetry?" + Then toss away._ + + _A hopeless task have we, meseems, + At this late day; whom fate hath made + Sad, bankrupt heirs of song; who, filled + With kindred yearnings, try to build + A tower like theirs, that will not fade, + Out of our dreams._ + + + + + Only One Hundred and Fifty Copies Printed for Private Distribution. + A Few Copies For Sale. + + + + +IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES + + + + +The Brothers + + + Not far from here, it lies beyond + That low-hilled belt of woods. We'll take + This unused lane where brambles make + A wall of twilight, and the blond + Brier-roses pelt the path and flake + The margin waters of a pond. + + This is its fence--or that which was + Its fence once--now, rock rolled from rock, + One tangle of the vine and dock, + Where bloom the wild petunias; + And this its gate, the iron-weeds block, + Hot with the insects' dusty buzz. + + Two wooden posts, wherefrom has peeled + The weather-crumbled paint, still rise; + Gaunt things--that groan when someone tries + The gate whose hinges, rust-congealed, + Snarl open:--on each post still lies + Its carven lion with a shield. + + We enter; and between great rows + Of locusts winds a grass-grown road; + And at its glimmering end,--o'erflowed + With quiet light,--the white front shows + Of an old mansion, grand and broad, + With grave Colonial porticoes. + + Grown thick around it, dark and deep, + The locust trees make one vast hush; + Their brawny branches crowd and crush + Its very casements, and o'ersweep + Its rotting roofs; their tranquil rush + Haunts all its spacious rooms with sleep. + + Still is it called The Locusts; though + None lives here now. A tale's to tell + Of some dark thing that here befell; + A crime that happened years ago, + When by its walls, with shot and shell, + The war swept on and left it so. + + For one black night, within it, shame + Made revel, while, all here about, + With prayer or curse or battle-shout, + Men died and homesteads leapt in flame: + Then passed the conquering Northern rout, + And left it silent and the same. + + Why should I speak of what has been? + Or what dark part I played in all? + Why ruin sits in porch and hall + Where pride and gladness once were seen; + And why beneath this lichened wall + The grave of Margaret is green. + + Heart-broken Margaret! whose fate + Was sadder yet than his who won + Her hand--my brother Hamilton-- + Or mine, who learned to know too late; + Who learned to know, when all was done, + And nothing could exonerate. + + To expiate is still my lot,-- + And, like the Ancient Mariner, + To show to others how things are + And what I am, still helps me blot + A little from that crime's red scar, + That on my soul is branded hot. + + He was my only brother. She + A sister of my brother's friend. + They met, and married in the end. + And I remember well when he + Brought her rejoicing home, the trend + Of war moved towards us sullenly. + + And scarce a year of wedlock when + Its red arms took him from his bride. + With lips by hers thrice sanctified + He left to ride with Morgan's men. + And I--I never could decide-- + Remained at home. It happened then. + + For days went by. And, oft delayed, + A letter came of loving word + Scrawled by some camp-fire, sabre-stirred, + Or by a pine-knot's fitful aid, + When in the saddle, armed and spurred + And booted for some hurried raid. + + Then weeks went by. I do not know + How long it was before there came, + Blown from the North, the clarion fame + Of Morgan, who, with blow on blow, + Had drawn a line of blood and flame + From Tennessee to Ohio. + + Then letters ceased; and days went on. + No word from him. The war rolled back, + And in its turgid crimson track + A rumor grew, like some wild dawn, + All ominous and red and black, + With news of our lost Hamilton, + + That hinted death or capture. Yet + No thing was sure; till one day,--fed + By us,--some men rode up who said + They'd been with Morgan and had met + Disaster, and that he was dead, + My brother.--I and Margaret + + Believed them. Grief was ours too: + But mine was more for her than him; + Grief, that her eyes with tears were dim; + Grief, that became the avenue + For love, who crowned the sombre brim + Of death's dark cup with rose-red hue. + + In sympathy,--unconsciously + Though it be given--I hold, doth dwell + The germ of love that time shall swell + To blossom. Sooner then in me-- + When close relations so befell-- + That love should spring from sympathy. + + Our similar tastes and mutual bents + Combined to make us intimates + From our first meeting. Different states + Of interest then our temperaments + Begot. Then friendship, that abates + No love, whose self it represents. + + These led to talks and dreams: how oft + We sat at some wide window while + The sun sank o'er the hills' far file, + Serene; and of the cloud aloft + Made one vast rose; and mile on mile + Of firmament grew sad and soft. + + And all in harmony with these + Dim clemencies of dusk, afar + Our talks and dreams went; while the star + Of evening brightened o'er the trees: + We spoke of home; the end of war: + We dreamed of life and love and peace. + + How on our walks in listening lanes + Or confidences of the wood, + We paused to hear the dove that cooed; + Or gathered wild-flowers, taking pains + To find the fairest; or her hood + Filled with wild fruit that left deep stains. + + No echo of the drum or fife, + No hint of conflict entered in + Our thoughts then. Will you call it sin-- + Indifference to a nation's strife? + What side might lose, what side might win, + Both immaterial to our life. + + Into the past we did not look; + Beyond what was we did not dream; + While onward rushed the thunderous stream + Of war, that, in its torrent, took + One of our own. No crimson gleam + Of its wild course around us shook. + + At last we knew. And when we learned + How he had fallen, Margaret + Wept; and, albeit my eyes were wet, + Within my soul I half discerned + A joy that mingled with regret, + A grief that to relief was turned. + + As time went on and confidence + Drew us more strongly each to each, + Why did no intimation reach + Its warning hand into the dense + Soul-silence, and confuse the speech + Of love's unbroken eloquence! + + But, no! no hint to turn the poise, + Or check the impulse of our youth; + To chill it with the living truth + As with the awe of God's own voice; + No hint, to make our hope uncouth; + No word, to warn us from our choice. + + To me a wall seemed overthrown + That social law had raised between; + And o'er its ruin, broad and green + A path went, I possessed alone; + The sky above seemed all serene; + The land around seemed all my own. + + What shall I say of Margaret + To justify her part in this? + That her young heart was never his? + But had been mine since first we met? + So would you say!--Enough it is + That when he left she loved him yet. + + So passed the Spring, and Summer sped; + And early Autumn brought the day + When she her hand in mine should lay, + And I should take her hand and wed. + And still no hint that might gainsay, + No warning word of quick or dead. + + The day arrived; and, with it born, + A battle, sullying the East + With boom of cannon, that increased, + And throb of musket and of horn: + Until at last, towards dusk, it ceased; + And men with faces wild and worn, + + In fierce retreat swept past; now groups; + Now one by one; now sternly white, + Or blood-stained; now with looks whose fright + Said all was lost. Then sullen troops + That, beaten, still kept up the fight. + Then came the victors; shadowy loops + + Of men and horse, that left a crowd + Of officers in hall and porch.... + While through the land around the torch + Circled, and many a fiery cloud + Marked out the army's iron march + In furrows red, that pillage plowed, + + Here we were wedded.--Ask the years + How such could be, while over us + A sword of wrath swung ominous, + And on our cheeks its breath was fierce! + All I remember is--'twas thus, + And Margaret's eyes were wet with tears. + + No other cause my memory sees + Save this, _that night was set_; and when + I found my home filled with armed men + With whom were all my sympathies + Of Union--why postpone it then? + So argued conscience into peace. + + And then it was, when night had passed + There came to me an orderly + With word of a confederate spy + Late taken, who, with head downcast, + Had asked one favor, this: "That I + Would see him ere he breathed his last." + + I stand alone here. Heavily + My thoughts go back. Had I not gone, + The dead had still been dead!--for none + Had yet believed his story--he, + My dead-deemed brother, Hamilton, + Who in the spy confronted me. + + O you who never have been tried, + How can you judge me!--in my place + I saw him standing--who can trace + My heart thoughts then!--I turned aside, + A thing of some unnatural race, + And did not speak; and so he died. + + In hospital or prison, when + It was he lay; what had forbid + His home return so long: amid + What hardships he had suffered, then + I dared not ask; and when I did, + Long afterwards, inquire of men, + + No thing I learned. But this I feel-- + He who had so returned to life + Was not a spy. Through stress and strife,-- + This makes my conscience hard to heal!-- + He had escaped; he sought his wife; + He sought his home that should conceal. + + And Margaret! Oh, pity her! + A criminal I sought her side, + Still thinking love was justified + In all for her--whatever were + The price, a brother thrice denied, + Or thrice a brother's murderer. + + Since then long years have passed away. + And through those years, perhaps, you'll ask + How to the world I wore my mask + Of honesty?--I can but say + Beyond my powers it was a task; + Before my time it turned me gray. + + And when at last the ceaseless hiss + Of conscience drove, and I betrayed + All to her, she knelt down and prayed, + Then rose; and 'twixt us an abyss + Was opened; and she seemed to fade + Out of my life: I came to miss + + The sweet attentions of a bride: + For each appealing heart's caress + In me, her heart assumed a dress + Of dull indifference; till denied + To me was all responsiveness; + And then I knew her love had died. + + Ah, had she loaded me, perchance, + With wild reproach or even hate, + Such would have helped a hope to wait + Forgiveness and returned romance; + But 'twixt our souls, instead, a gate + She closed of silent tolerance. + + Yet, 't was for love of her I lent + My soul to crime ... I question me + Often, if less entirely + I'd loved her, then, in that event, + She had been justified to see + The deed alone stand prominent. + + The deed alone! But love records + In his own heart, I will aver, + No depth I did not feel for her + Beyond the plummet-reach of words: + And though there may be worthier, + No truer love this world affords + + Than mine was, though it could not rise + Above itself. And so 't was best, + Perhaps, that she saw manifest + Its crime, that I, as saw her eyes, + Might see; and so, in soul confessed, + Some life atonement might devise. + + Sadly my heart one comfort keeps, + That, towards the end, she took my hands + And said, as one who understands, + "Had I but seen! But love that weeps, + Sees only as its loss commands," + And sighed. Beneath this stone she sleeps. + + Yes; I have suffered for that sin; + Yet in no instance would I shun + What I should suffer. Many a one, + Who heard my tale, has tried to win + Me to believe that Hamilton + It was not; and, though proven kin, + + This had not saved him. Still the stain + Of the intention--had I erred + And 't was not he--had writ the word + Red on my soul that branded Cain; + For still my error had incurred + The fact of guilt that would remain. + + Ah, love at best is insecure, + And lives with doubt and vain regret; + And hope and faith, with faces set + Upon the past, are never sure; + And through their fever, grief, and fret + The heart may fail that should endure. + + For in ourselves, however blend + The passions that make heaven and hell, + Is evil not accountable + For most the good we comprehend? + And through these two, or ill, or well, + Man must evolve his spiritual end. + + It is with deeds that we must ask + Forgiveness; for upon this earth, + Life walks alone from very birth + With death, hope tells us is a mask + For life beyond of vaster worth, + Where sin no more sets love a task. + + + + +Geraldine + + + Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine, + That night of love, when first we met, + You have forgotten, Geraldine-- + I never dreamed you would forget. + + Ah, Geraldine, sweet Geraldine, + More lovely than that Asian queen, + Scheherazade, the beautiful, + Who in her orient palace cool + Of India, for a thousand nights + And one, beside her monarch lay, + Telling--while sandal-scented lights + And music stole the soul away-- + Love tales of old Arabia, + Full of enchantments and emprise-- + But no enchantments like your eyes. + + Ah, Geraldine, loved Geraldine, + More lovely than those maids, I ween, + Pampinea and Lauretta, who, + In gardens old of dusk and dew, + Sat with their lovers, maid and man, + In stately days Italian, + And in quaint stories, that we know + Through grace of good Boccaccio, + Told of fond loves, some false, some true,-- + But, Geraldine, none false as you. + + Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine, + That night of love, when first we met, + You have forgotten, Geraldine-- + I never dreamed you would forget. + + 'T was summer, and the moon swam high, + A great pale pearl within the sky: + And down that purple night of love + The stars, concurrent spark on spark, + Seemed fiery moths that swarmed above: + And through the roses, o'er the park, + Star-like the fire-flies filled the dark: + A mocking-bird in some deep tree, + Drowsy with dreams and melody, + Like a magnolia bud, that, dim, + Opens and pours its soul in musk, + Gave to the moonlight and the dusk + Its heart's pure song, its evening hymn. + Oh, night of love! when in the dance + Your heart thrilled rapture into mine, + As in a state of necromance + A mortal hears a voice divine. + Oh, night of love! when from your glance + I drank sweet death as men drink wine. + + You wearied of the waltz at last. + I led you out into the night. + Warm in my hand I held yours fast. + + Your face was flushed; your eyes were bright. + The moon hung like a shell of light + Above the lake, above the trees: + And borne to us with fragrances + Of roses that were ripe to fall, + The soul of music from the hall + Beat in the moonlight and the breeze, + As youth's wild heart grown weary of + Desire and its dream of love. + + I held your arm and, for awhile, + We walked along the balmy aisle + Of flowers that, like velvet, dips + Unto the lake which lilies tile + Like stars; and hyacinths, like strips + Of heaven: and beside a fall, + That, down a ferned and mossy wall, + Fell in the lake,--deep, woodbine-wound, + A latticed summer-house we found; + A green kiosk,--through which the sound + Of waters and of breezes swayed, + And honeysuckle bugles played + Soft serenades of perfume sweet,-- + Around which ran a rustic seat. + And seated in that haunted nook,-- + I know not how it was,--a word, + A touch, perhaps, a sigh, a look, + Was father to the kiss I took; + + Great things grow out of small I've heard. + And then it was I took between + My hands your face, loved Geraldine, + And gazed into your eyes, and told + The story ever new though old. + You did not look away, but met + My eyes with eyes whose lids were wet + With tears of truth; and you did lean + Your cheek to mine, sweet Geraldine,-- + I never dreamed you would forget. + + The night-wind and the water sighed: + And through the leaves, that stirred above, + The moonbeams swooned with music of + The dance--soft things in league with love: + I never dreamed that you had lied. + + How all comes back now, Geraldine! + The melody; the glimmering scene; + Your angel face; and ev'n, between + Your lawny breasts, the heart-shaped jewel,-- + To which your breath gave fluctuant fuel,-- + A rosy star of stormy fire; + The snowy drift of your attire, + Lace-deep and fragrant: and your hair, + Disordered in the dance, held back + By one gemmed pin,--a moonbeam there, + Half-drowned within its night-like black. + And I who sat beside you then, + Seemed blessed above all mortal men. + + I loved you for the way you sighed; + The way you said, "I love but you;" + The smile with which your lips replied; + Your lips, that from my bosom drew + The soul; your looks, like undenied + Caresses, that seemed naught but true: + I loved you for the violet scent + That clung about you as a flower; + Your moods, where shine and shadow blent, + An April-tide of sun and shower; + You were my creed, my testament, + Wherein I read of God's high power. + + Was it because the loving see + Only what they desire shall be + There in the well-beloved's soul, + Affection and affinity, + That I beheld in you the whole + Of my love's image? and believed + You loved as I did? nor perceived + 'T was but a mask, a mockery! + + Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine, + That night of love, when first we met, + You have forgotten, Geraldine-- + I never dreamed you would forget. + + + + +The Moated Manse + + + I. + + And now once more we stood within the walls + Of her old manor near the riverside; + Dead leaves lay rotting in its empty halls, + And here and there the ivy could not hide + The year-old scars, made by the Royalists' balls, + Around the doorway, where so many died + In that last effort to defend the stair, + When Rupert, like a demon, entered there. + + + II. + + The basest Cavalier who yet wore spurs + Or drew a sword, I count him; with his grave + Eyes 'neath his plumed hat like a wolf's whom curs + Rouse, to their harm, within a forest cave; + And hair like harvest; and a voice like verse + For smoothness. Ay, a handsome man and brave!-- + Brave?--who would question it! although 't is true + He warred with one weak woman and her few. + + + III. + + Lady Isolda of the Moated Manse, + Whom here, that very noon, it happened me + To meet near her old home. A single glance + Told me 't was she. I marveled much to see + How lovely still she was! as fair, perchance, + As when Red Rupert thrust her brutally,-- + Her long hair loosened,--down the shattered stair, + And cast her, shrieking, 'mid his followers there. + + + IV. + + "She is for you! Take her! I promised it! + She is for you!"--he shouted, as he flung + Her in their midst. Then, on her poor hands (split, + And beaten by his dagger when she clung + Resisting him) and knees, she crept a bit + Nearer his feet and begged for death. No tongue + Can tell the way he turned from her and cursed, + Then bade his men draw lots for which were first. + + + V. + + I saw it all from that low parapet, + Where, bullet-wounded in the hip and head, + I lay face-upward in the whispering wet, + Exhausted 'mid the dead and left for dead. + We had held out two days without a let + Against these bandits. You could trace with red, + From room to room, how we resisted hard + Since the great door crashed in to their petard. + + + VI. + + The rain revived me, and I leaned with pain + And saw her lying there, all soiled and splashed + And miserable; on her cheek a stain, + A dull red bruise, made when his hand had dashed + Her down upon the stones; the wretched rain + Dripped from her dark hair; and her hands were gashed.-- + Oh, for a musket or a petronel + With which to send his devil's soul to hell! + + + VII. + + But helpless there I lay, no weapon near, + Only the useless sword I could not reach + His traitor's heart with, while I chafed to hear + The laugh, the insult and the villain speech + Of him to her. Oh, God! could I but clear + The height between and, hanging like a leech, + My fingers at his throat, there tear his base + Vile tongue out, yea, and lash it in his face! + + + VIII. + + But, badly wounded, what could I but weep + With rage and pity of my helplessness + And her misfortune! Could I only creep + A little nearer so that she might guess + I was not dead; that I my life would keep + But to avenge her!--Oh, the wild distress + Of that last moment when, half-dead, I saw + Them mount and bear her swooning through the shaw. + + + IX. + + Long time I lay unconscious. It befell + Some woodsmen found me, having heard the sound + Of fighting cease that, for two days, made dell + And dingle echo; ventured on the ground + For plunder; and it had not then gone well + With me, I fear, had not their leader found + That in some way I would repay his care; + So bore me to his hut and nursed me there. + + + X. + + How roughly kind he was. For weeks I hung + 'Twixt life and death; health, like a varying, sick, + And fluttering pendulum, now this way swung, + Now that, until at last its querulous tick + Beat out life's usual time, and slowly rung + The long loud hours that exclaimed, "Be quick!-- + Arise--Go forth!--Hear how her black wrongs call!-- + Make them the salve to cure thy wounds withal!" + + + XI. + + They were my balsam: for, ere autumn came, + Weak still, but over eager to be gone, + I took my leave of him. A little lame + From that hip-wound, and somewhat thin and wan, + I sought the village. Here I heard her name + And shame's made one. How Rupert passed one dawn, + And she among his troopers rode--astride + Like any man--pale-faced and feverish-eyed. + + XII. + + Which way these took they pointed, and I went + Like fire after. Oh, the thought was good + That they were on before! And much it meant + To know she lived still; she, whose image stood + Ever before me, making turbulent + Each heart-beat with her wrongs, that were fierce food + Unto my hate that, "Courage!" cried, "Rest not! + Think of her there, and let thy haste be hot!" + + XIII. + + But months passed by and still I had not found: + Yet here and there, as wearily I sought, + I caught some news: how he had held his ground + Against the Roundhead troops; or how he'd fought + Then fled, returned and conquered. Like a hound, + Questing a boar, I followed; but was brought + Never to see my quarry. Day by day + It seemed that Satan kept him from my way. + + + XIV. + + A woman rode beside him, so they said, + A fair-faced wanton, mounted like a man-- + Isolda!--my Isolda!--better dead, + Yea, dead and damned! than thus the courtesan, + Bold, unreluctant, of such men! A dread, + That such should be, unmanned me. Doubt began + To whisper at my heart.--But I was mad, + To insult her with such thoughts, whose love I had. + + + XV. + + At last one day I rested in a glade + Near that same woodland which I lay in when + Sore wounded; and, while sitting in the shade + Of an old beech--what! did I dream, or men + Like Rupert's own ride near me? and a maid-- + Isolda or her spirit!--Wildly then + I rose and, shouting, leapt upon my horse; + Unsheathed my sword and rode across their course. + + + XVI. + + Mainly I looked for Rupert, and by name + Challenged him forth:--"Dog! dost thou hide behind?-- + Insulter of women! Coward! save where shame + And rapine call thee! God at last is kind, + And my sword waits!"--Like an upbeating flame, + My voice rose to a windy shout; and blind + I seemed to sit, till, with an outstretched hand, + Isolda rode before me from that band. + + + XVII. + + "Gerald!" she cried; not as a heart surprised + With gladness that the loved, deemed dead, still lives; + But like the heart that long hath realized + Only misfortune and to fortune gives + No confidence, though it be recognized + As good. She spoke: "Lo, we are fugitives. + Rupert is slain. And I am going home." + Then like a child asked simply, "Wilt thou come?... + + + XVIII. + + "Oh, I have suffered, Gerald, oh, my God! + What shame, what vileness! Once my soul was clean-- + Stained and defiled behold it!--I have trod + Sad ways of hell and horror. I have seen + And lived all depths of lust. Yet, oh, my God! + Blameless I hold myself of what hath been, + Though through it all, yea, this thou too must know, + I loved him! my betrayer and thy foe!" + + + XIX. + + Sobbing she spoke as if but half awake, + Her eyes far-fixed beyond me, far beyond + All hope of mine.--So it was for his sake, + His love, that she had suffered!... blind and fond, + For what return!... And I to nurse a snake, + And never dream its nature would respond + With some such fang of venom! 'T was for this + That I had ventured all, to find her his! + + + XX. + + At first half-stunned I stood; then blood and brain, + Like two stern judges, who had slept, awoke, + Rose up and thundered, "Slay her!" Every vein + And nerve responded, "Slay her at a stroke!"-- + And I had done it, but my heart again, + Like a strong captain in a tumult, spoke, + And the fierce discord fell. And quietly + I sheathed my sword and said, "I'll go with thee." + + + XXI. + + But this was my reward for all I'd borne, + My loyalty and love! To see her eyes + Hollow from tears for him; her pale cheeks worn + With grief for him; to know them all for lies, + Her vows of faith to me; to come forlorn, + Where I had hoped to come on Paradise, + On Hell's black gulf; and, as if not enough, + Soiled as she was and outcast, still to love! + + + XXII. + + Then rode one ruffian from the rest, clay-flecked + From spur to plume with hurry; seized my rein, + And--"What art thou," demanded, "who hast checked + Our way, and challenged?"--Then, with some disdain, + Isolda, "Sir, my kinsman did expect + Your captain here. What honor may remain + To me I pledge for him. Hold off thy hands! + He but attends me to the Moated Manse." + + + XXIII. + + We rode in silence. And at twilight came + Into the Moated Manse.--Great clouds had grown + Up in the West, on which the sunset's flame + Lay like the hand of slaughter.--Very lone + Its rooms and halls: a splintered door that, lame, + Swung on one hinge; a cabinet o'erthrown; + Or arras torn; or blood-stain turning wan, + Showed us the way the battle once had gone. + + + XXIV. + + We reached the tower-chamber towards the West, + In which on that dark day she thought to hide + From Rupert when, at last, 't was manifest + We could not hold the Manse. There was no pride + In her deep eyes now; nor did scorn invest + Her with such dignity as once defied + Him bursting in to find her standing here + Prepared to die like some dog-hunted deer. + + + XXV. + + She took my hand, and, as if naught of love + Had ever been between us, said,--"All know + The madness of that day when with his glove + He struck then slew my brother, and brought woe + On all our house; and thou, incensed above + The rest, came here, and made my foe thy foe. + But he had left. 'T was then I promised thee + My hand, but, ah! my heart was gone from me. + + + XXVI. + + "Yea, he had won me, this same Rupert, when + He was our guest.--Thou know'st how gallantry + And beauty can make heroes of all men + To us weak women!--And so secretly + I vowed to be his wife. It happened then + My brother found him in some villainy; + The insult followed; he was killed ... and thou + Dost still remember how I made a vow. + + + XXVII. + + "But still this man pursued me, and I held + Firm to my vow, albeit I loved him still, + Unknown to all, with all the love unquelled + Of first impressions, and against my will. + At last despair of winning me compelled + Him to the oath he swore: He would not kill, + But take me living and would make my life + A living death. No man should make me wife. + + + XXVIII. + + The war, that now consumes us, did, indeed, + Give him occasion.--I had not been warned, + When down he came against me in the lead + Of his marauders. With thy help I scorned + His mad attacks two days. I would not plead + Nor parley with him, who came hoofed and horned, + Like Satan's self in soul, and, with his aid, + Took this strong house and kept the oath he made. + + + XXIX. + + "Months passed. Alas! it needs not here to tell + What often thou hast heard--Of how he led + His troopers here now there; nor what befell + Me of dishonor. Oft I wished me dead, + Loathing my life, than which the nether hell + Hath less of horror ... So we fought or fled + From place to place until a year had passed, + And Parliament forces hemmed us in at last. + + + XXX. + + "Yea, I had only lived for this--to right + With death my wrongs sometime. And love and hate + Contended in my bosom when, that night + Before the fight that should decide our fate, + I entered where he slept. There was no light + Save of the stars to see by. Long and late + I leaned above him there, yet could not kill-- + Hate raised the dagger but love held it still. + + + XXXI. + + "The woman in me conquered. What a slave + To our emotions are we! To relent + At this long-waited moment!--Wave on wave + Of pitying weakness swept me, and I bent + And kissed his face. Then prayed to God; and gave + My trust to God; and left to God th' event.-- + I never looked on Rupert's face again, + For in that morning's combat--he was slain. + + + XXXII. + + "Out of defeat escaped some scant three score + Of all his followers. And night and day + They fled; and while the Roundheads pressed them sore, + And in their road, good as a fortress, lay + The Moated Manse, where their three score or more + Might well hold out, I pointed them the way. + And they are come, amid its wrecks to end + The crime begun here.--Thou must go, my friend! + + + XXXIII. + + "Go quickly! For the time approaches when + Destruction must arrive.--Oh, well I know + All thou wouldst say to me.--What boots it then?-- + I tell thee thou must go, that thou must go!-- + Yea, dost thou think I'd have thee die 'mid men + Like these, for such an one as I!--No! no!-- + Thy life is clean. Thou shalt not cast away + Thy clean life for my soiled one. Go, I pray!" + + + XXXIV. + + She ceased. I spoke--I know not what it was. + Then took her hand and kissed it and so said-- + "Thou art my promised wife. Thou hast no cause + That is not mine. I love thee. We will wed. + I love thee. Come!"--A moment did she pause, + Then shook her head and sighed, "My heart is dead. + This can not be. Behold, that way is thine. + I will not let thee share this way that's mine." + + + XXXV. + + Then turning from me ere I could prevent + Passed like a shadow from the shadowy room, + Leaving my soul in shadow ... Naught was meant + By my sweet flower of love then! bloom by bloom + I'd watched it wither; then its fragrance went, + And naught was left now.--It was dark as doom, + And bells were tolling far off through the rain, + When from that house I turned my face again. + + + XXXVI. + + Then in the night a trumpet; and the dull + Close thud of horse and clash of Puritan arms; + And glimmering helms swept by me. Sorrowful + I stood and waited till upon the storm's + Black breast, the Manse, a burning carbuncle, + Blazed like a battle-beacon, and alarms + Of onslaught clanged around it; then, like one + Who bears with him God's curse, I galloped on. + + + + +The Forester + + + I met him here at Ammendorf one Spring. + It was the end of April and the Harz, + Veined to their ruin-crested summits, seemed + One pulse of tender green and delicate gold, + Beneath a heaven that was like the face + Of girlhood waking into motherhood. + Along the furrowed meadow, freshly ploughed, + The patient oxen, loamy to the knees, + Plodded or lowed or snuffed the fragrant soil; + And in each thorntree hedge the wild bird sang + A song to Spring, made of its own wild heart + And soul, that heard the dairy-maiden May's + Heart beating like a star at break of day, + As, kissing ripe the blossoms, she drew near, + Her mouth's sweet rose all dew-drops and perfume. + Here at this inn and underneath this tree + We took our wine, the morning prismed in its + Flame-angled gold.--A goodly vintage that! + Tang with the ripeness of full twenty years. + Rare! I remember!--wine that spurred the blood, + That brought the heart glad to the limbered lip, + And made the eyes unlatticed casements where + A man's true soul you could not help but see. + As royal a Rhenish, I will vouch to say, + As that, old legends tell, which Necromance + And Magic keep, gnome-guarded, in huge casks + Of antique make deep in the Kyffhaeuser, + The Cellar of the Knights near Sittendorf.-- + So solaced of that wine we sat an hour. + He told me his intent in coming here. + His name was Rudolf; and his native home, + Franconia; but no word of parentage: + Only his mind to don the buff and green + And live a forester with us and be + Enfellowed in the Duke of Brunswick's train, + And for the Duke's estate even now was bound. + Tall was he for his age and strong and brown, + And lithe of limb; and with a face that seemed + Hope's counterpart--but with the eyes of doubt; + Deep restless disks, instinct with gleaming night, + That seemed to say, "We're sure of earth, at least + For some short space, my friend; but afterward-- + Nay! ransack not to-morrow till to-day, + Lest it engulf thy joy before it is!"-- + And when he spoke, the fire in his eyes + Worked stealthy as a hunted animal's; + Or like the Count von Hackelnburg's that turn, + Feeling the unseen presence of a fiend. + Then, as it chanced, old Kurt had come that morn + With some six of his jerkined foresters + From the Thuringian forest; wet with dew, + And fresh as morn with early travel; bound + For Brunswick, Dummburg and the Hakel passed. + Chief huntsman he then to our lord the Duke, + And father of the loveliest maiden here + In Ammendorf, the sunny Ilsabe: + Her mother dead, the gray-haired father prized + His daughter more than all that men hold dear; + His only happiness, who was beloved + Of all as Lora of Thuringia was, + For gentle ways that spoke a noble soul, + Winning all hearts to love her and to praise, + As might a great and beautiful thought that holds + Us by the simplest words.--Her eyes were blue + As the high influence of a summer day. + Her hair,--serene and braided over brows + White as a Harz dove's wing,--was auburn brown, + And deep as mists the sun has drenched with gold. + And her young presence--well, 't was like a song, + A far Tyrolean melody of love, + Heard on an Alpine path at close of day + When shepherds homeward lead their tinkling flocks. + And when she left, being with you awhile,-- + How shall I say it?--'t was as when one hath + Beheld an Undine by the moonlit Rhine, + Who, ere the mind adjusts a thought, is gone, + And in your soul you wonder if a dream. + Some thirty years ago it was;--and I, + Commissioner of the Duke--(no sinecure + I can assure you)--had scarce reached the age + Of thirty,--that we sat here at our wine; + And 't was through me that Rudolf,--whom at first, + From some rash words dropped then in argument, + The foresterhood was like to be denied,-- + Was then enfellowed. "Yes," said I, "he's young. + Kurt, he is young; but see, a wiry frame; + A chamois footing and a face for deeds; + An eye that likes me not; too quick to turn; + But that may be the restless soul within; + A soul perhaps with virtues that have been + Severely tried and could not stand the test; + These be thy care, Kurt; and if not too deep + In vices of the flesh, discover them, + As divers bring lost riches up from ooze. + Thou hast a daughter; let him be thy son." + A year thereafter was it that I heard + Of Rudolf's passion for Kurt's Ilsabe; + Then their betrothal. And it was from this,-- + Good Mother Mary! how she haunts me still! + Sweet Ilsabe! whose higher womanhood, + True as the touchstone which philosophers feign + Transmutes to gold base metals it may touch, + Had turned to good all evil in this man,-- + Surmised I of the excellency which + Refinement of her purer company, + And contact with her innocence, had resolved + His fiery nature to, conditioning slave. + And so I came from Brunswick--as, you know, + Is custom of the Duke or, by his seal + Commissioned proxy, his commissioner-- + To test the marksmanship of Rudolf, who + Succeeded Kurt with marriage of his child, + An heir of Kuno.--He?--Greatgrandfather + Of Kurt; and of this forestkeepership + The first possessor; thus established here-- + Or this the tale they tell on winter nights: + Kuno, once in the Knight of Wippach's train, + Rode on a grand hunt with the Duke, who came,-- + Grandfather of the father of our Duke,-- + With much magnificence of knights and squires, + Great velvet-vestured nobles, cloaked and plumed, + To hunt Thuringian deer. Then morn,--too quick + To bid good-morrow,--was too slow for these, + And on the wind-trod hills recumbent yawned + Disturbed an hour too soon; all sleepy-eyed, + Like some young milkmaid whom the cock hath roused, + Who sits and rubs stiff eyes that still will close. + Horns sang and deer-hounds tugged a whimpering leash, + Or, loosened, bounded through the baying glens: + And ere the mountain mists, compact of white, + Broke wild before the azure spears of day, + The far-off hunt, that woke the woods to life, + Seemed but the heart-beat of the ancient hills. + And then, near noon, within a forest brake, + The ban-dogs roused a red gigantic stag, + Lashed to whose back with gnarly-knotted cords, + And borne along like some pale parasite, + A man shrieked: tangle-bearded, and wild hair + A mane of forest-burs. The man himself, + Emaciated and half-naked from + The stag's mad flight through headlong rocks and trees, + One bleeding bruise, with eyes like holes of fire. + For such the law then: when the peasant chased + Or slew the dun deer of his tyrant lords, + If seized, as punishment the withes and spine + Of some strong stag, a gift to him of game, + Enough till death--death in the antlered herd, + Or slow starvation in the haggard hills. + Then was the great Duke glad, and forthwith cried + To all his hunting train a rich reward + For him who slew the stag and saved the man, + But death for him who slew both man and stag. + So plunged the hunt after the hurrying slot, + A shout and glimmer through the sounding woods,-- + Like some mad torrent that the hills have loosed + With death for goal.--'T was late; and none had risked + That shot as yet,--too desperate the risk + Beside the poor life and a little gold,-- + When this young Kuno, with fierce eyes, wherein + Hunt and impatience kindled reckless flame, + Cried, "Has the dew then made our powder wet? + Or have we left our marksmanship at home? + Here's for its heart! the Fiend direct my ball!"-- + And fired into a covert deeply packed, + An intertangled wall of matted night, + Wherein the eye might vainly strive and strive + To pierce one fathom, earn one foot beyond. + But, ha! the huge stag staggered from the brake + Hit full i' the heart. And that wan wretch, unbound, + Was ta'en and cared for. Then his grace, the Duke, + Charmed with the eagle aim, called Kuno up, + And there to him and his forever gave + The forestkeepership. + But envious tongues + Were soon at wag; and whispered went the tale + Of how the shot was free, and how the balls + Used by young Kuno were free bullets--which + To say is: Lead by magic moulded, in + The influence and directed, of the Fiend. + Of some effect these tales, and had some force + Even with the Duke, who lent an ear so far + As to ordain Kuno's descendants all + To proof of skill ere their succession to + The father's office. Kurt himself hath shot + The silver ring out o' the popinjay's beak-- + A good shot he, you see, who would succeed. + Of these enchanted bullets let me speak: + There may be such; our Earth has things as strange, + Perhaps, and stranger, that we doubt not of, + While we behold, not only 'neath the thatch + Of Ignorance's hovel, but within + The pictured halls of Wisdom's palaces, + How Superstition sits an honored guest. + A cross-way let it be among the hills; + A cross-way in a solitude of pines; + And on the lonely cross-way you must draw + A blood-red circle with a bloody sword; + And round the circle, runic characters, + Gaunt and satanic; here a skull, and there + A scythe and cross-bones, and an hour-glass here; + And in the centre, fed with coffin-wood, + Stol'n from the grave of one, a murderer, + A smouldering fire. Eleven of the clock + The first ball leaves the mold--the sullen lead + Mixed with three bullets that have hit their mark, + And blood, the wounded Sacramental Host + Stolen, and hence unhallowed, oozed, when shot + Fixed to a riven pine. Ere twelve o'clock + With never a word until that hour sound, + Must all the balls be cast; and these must be + In number three and sixty; three of which + The Fiend's dark agent, demon Sammael, + Claims for his master and stamps for his own + To hit aside their mark, askew for harm. + The other sixty shall not miss their mark. + No cry, no word, no whisper, even though + Vague, gesturing shapes, that loom like moonlit mists, + Their faces human but with animal forms, + Rise thick around and threaten to destroy. + No cry, no word, no whisper should there come, + Weeping, a wandering shadow like the girl + You love, or loved, now lost to you, her eyes + Hollow with tears; all palely beckoning + With beautiful arms, or censuring; her face + Sad with a desolate love; who, if you speak + Or waver from that circle--hideous change!-- + Shrinks to a wrinkled hag, whose harpy hands + Shall tear you limb from limb with horrible mirth. + Nor be deceived if some far midnight bell + Strike that anticipated hour; nor leave + By one short inch the circle, for, unseen + Though now they be, Hell's minions still are there, + Watching with flaming eyes to seize your soul. + But when the hour of midnight sounds, be sure + You have your bullets, neither more nor less; + For if through fear one more or less you have, + Your soul is forfeit to Hell's majesty.-- + Then while the hour of midnight strikes, will come + A noise of galloping hoofs and outriders, + Shouting; six midnight steeds,--their nostrils, pits + Of burning blood,--postilioned, roll a stage, + Black and with groaning wheels of spinning fire: + "Room there!--ho! ho!--who bars the mountain-way? + On over him!"--But fear not, nor fare forth; + 'T is but the last trick of your bounden slave. + And ere the red moon rushes through the clouds + And dives again, high the huge leaders leap, + Their fore-hoofs fire, and their eye-balls flame, + And, spun a spiral spark into the night, + Whistling the phantom flies and fades away. + Some say there comes no stage; that Hackelnburg, + Wild-huntsman of the Harz, comes dark as storm, + With rain and wind and demon dogs of Hell, + The terror of his hunting-horn, an owl, + And the dim deer he hunts, rush on before; + The forests crash, and whirlwinds are the leaves, + And all the skies a-thunder, as he hurls + Straight on the circle, horse and hounds and stag. + And at the last, plutonian-cloaked, there comes, + Upon a stallion gaunt and lurid black, + The minister of Satan, Sammael, + Who greets you, and informs you, and assures. + Enough! these wives'-tales told, to what I've seen: + To Ammendorf I came; and Rudolf here + With Kurt and his assembled men, I met. + The abundant year,--like some sweet wife,--a-smile + At her brown baby, Autumn, in her arms, + Stood 'mid the garnered harvests of her fields + Dreaming of days that pass like almoners + Scattering their alms in minted gold of flowers; + Of nights, that forest all the skies with stars, + Wherethrough the moon--bare-bosomed huntress--rides, + One cloud before her like a flying fawn. + Then I proposed the season's hunt; till eve + The test of Rudolf's skill postponed, at which + He seemed impatient. And 't was then I heard + How he an execrable marksman was; + And tales that told of near, incredible shots, + That missed their mark; or how his flint-lock oft + Flashed harmless powder, while the curious deer + Stood staring; as in pity of such aim + Bidding him try his marksmanship again. + Howbeit, he that day acquitted him + Of all this gossip; in that day's long hunt + Missing no shot, however rashly made + Or distant through the intercepting trees. + And the piled, various game brought down of all + Good marksmen of Kurt's train had not sufficed, + Doubled, nay, trebled, there to match his heap. + And marvelling the hunters saw, nor knew + How to excuse them. My indulgence giv'n, + Some told me that but yesterday old Kurt + Had made his daughter weep and Rudolf frown, + By vowing end to their betrothed love, + Unless that love developed better aim + Against the morrow's test; his ancestors' + High fame should not be tarnished. So he railed; + And bowed his gray head and sat moodily; + But looking up, forgave all when he saw + Tears in his daughter's eyes and Rudolf gone + Out in the night black with approaching storm. + Before this inn, yonder and here, they stood, + The holiday village come to view the trial: + Fair maidens and their comely mothers with + Their sweethearts and their husbands. And I marked + Kurt and his daughter here; his florid face + All jubilant at Rudolf's great success; + Hers, radiant with happiness; for this + Her marriage eve--so had her father said-- + Should Rudolf come successful from the hunt. + So pleased was I with what I'd seen him do, + The trial of skill superfluous seemed, and so + Was on the bare brink of announcing, when + Out of the western heaven's deepening red,-- + Like a white message dropped by rosy lips,-- + A wild dove clove the luminous winds and there, + Upon that limb, a peaceful moment sat. + Then I, "Thy rifle, Rudolf! pierce its head!" + Cried pointing, "and chief-forester art thou!"-- + Why did he falter with a face as strange + As a dark omen? did his soul foresee + What was to be with tragic prescience?-- + What a bad dream it all seems now!--Again + I see him aim. Again I hear the cry, + "My dove! O Rudolf, do not kill my dove!" + And from the crowd, like some sweet dove herself, + A fluttering whiteness, came our Ilsabe-- + Too late! the rifle cracked ... The unhurt dove + Rose, beating frightened wings--but Ilsabe!... + The sight! the sight!... lay smitten; a red stain, + Sullying the pureness of her bridal bodice, + Showed where the ball had pierced her through the heart. + And Rudolf?--Ah, of him you still would know?-- + When he beheld this thing that he had done, + Why he went mad--I say--but others not. + An hour he raved of how her life had paid + For the unholy bullets he had used, + And how his soul was three times lost and damned. + I say that he went mad and fled forthwith + Into the haunted Harz.--Some say, to die + The prey of demons of the Dummburg ruin. + I, one of those less superstitious, say, + He in the Bode--from that blackened rock,-- + Whereon were found his hunting-cap and gun,-- + The Devil's Dancing Place, did leap and die. + + + + +My Lady of Verne + + + It all comes back as the end draws near; + All comes back like a tale of old! + Shall I tell you all? Will you lend an ear? + You, with your face so stern and cold; + You, who have found me dying here ... + + Lady Leona's villa at Verne-- + You have walked its terraces, where the fount + And statue gleam and the fluted urn; + Its world-old elms, that are avenues gaunt + Of shadow and flame when the West is a-burn. + + 'T is a lonely region of tarns and trees, + And hollow hills that circle the West; + Haunted of rooks and the far-off sea's + Immemorial vague unrest; + A land of sorrowful memories. + + A gray sad land, where the wind has its will, + And the sun its way with the fruits and flowers; + Where ever the one all night is shrill, + And ever the other all day brings hours + Of glimmering silence that dead days fill. + + A gray sad land, where her girlhood grew + To womanhood proud, that the hill-winds seemed + To give their heart, like melody, to; + And the stars, their soul, like a dream undreamed-- + The only glad thing that the sad land knew. + + My Lady, you know, how nobly born! + Haughty of form, with a head that rose + Like a dream of empire; love and scorn + Made haunts of her eyes; and her lips were bows + Whence pride imperious flashed flower and thorn. + + And I--oh, I was nobody: one + Her worshiper only; who chose to be + Silent, seeing that love alone + Was his only badge of nobility, + Set in his heart's escutcheon. + + How long ago does the springtime look, + When we wandered away to the hills! the hills,-- + Like the land in the tale in the fairy-book,-- + Covered with gold of the daffodils, + And gemmed with the crocus by brae and brook! + + When I gathered a branch from a hawthorn tree, + For her hair or bosom, from boughs that hung + Odorous of heaven and purity; + And she thanked me smiling; then merrily sung, + Laughingly sung, while she looked at me:-- + + "There dwelt a princess over the sea-- + Right fair was she, right fair was she-- + Who loved a squire of low degree, + But married a king of Brittany-- + Ah, woe is me! + + "And it came to pass on the wedding-day-- + So people say, so people say-- + That they found her dead in her bridal array, + Dead, and her lover beside her lay-- + Ah, well-away! + + "A sour stave for your sweets," she said, + Pressing the blossoms against her lips: + Then petal by petal the branch she shred, + Snowing the blooms from her finger-tips, + Tossing them down for her feet to tread. + + What to her was the look I gave + Of love despised! though she seemed to start, + Seeing, and said, with a quick hand-wave, + "Why, one would think that _that_ was your heart," + While her face with a sudden thought grew grave. + + But I answered nothing. And so to her home + We came in the twilight; falling clear, + With a few first stars and a moon's curved foam, + Over the hush of meadow and mere, + Whence the boom of the bittern would often come. + + Would you think that she loved me?--Who can say?-- + What a riddle unread was she to me!-- + When I kissed her fingers and turned away + I wanted to speak, but--what cared she, + Though her eyes looked soft and she begged me stay! + + Though she lingered to watch me--that might be + A slim moon-beam or the evening haze,-- + But never my Lady's drapery + Or wistful face!--in the ivy maze.... + Leona of Verne--why, what cared she! + + So the days went by, and the Summer wore + Her hot heart out; and, a mighty slayer, + The Autumn harried the land and shore, + And the world was red with his wrecks; but grayer + That land with the ghosts of the nevermore. + + The sheaves of the Summer had long been bound; + The harvests of Autumn had long been past; + And the snows of the Winter lay deep around, + When the dark news came and I knew at last; + And the reigning woe of my heart was crowned. + + So I sought her here, the young Earl's bride; + In the ancient room at the oriel dreaming, + Pale as the blooms in her hair; and, wide, + Her robe's rich satin, flung stormily, gleaming, + Like shimmering silver, twilight-dyed. + + I marked as I stole to her side that tears + Were vaguely large in her beautiful eyes; + That the loops of pearls on her throat, and years + Old lace on her bosom were heaved with sighs; + So I spoke what I thought--"Then, it appears"-- + + And stopped with, it seemed, my soul in my gaze-- + "That you are not happy, Leona of Verne? + There is that at your heart which--well, betrays + These mocking mummeries.--Live and learn!-- + And this is the truth that the poet says:-- + + "'I went to my love and I told with my heart, + In words of the soul, that are silent in speech, + All of my passion, too sacred for art; + But she heard me not--for I could not reach + Her in that world of which she is part.'-- + + "That world, where I saw you as one afar + Sees palms and waters, and knows that sands, + Pitiless sands, before him are; + Yet follows ever with helpless hands + Till he sinks at last.--You were my star, + + "My hope, my heaven!--I loved you!... Life + Is less than nothing to me!"... She turned, + With a wild look, saying--"Now I am his wife + You come and tell me!--Indeed you are learn'd + In the language of hearts that's unheard!"... A Knife, + + As she ceased and leaned on a cabinet,-- + A curve of scintillant steel, keen, cold,-- + Fell icily clashing; some curio met + Among Asian antiques, bronze and gold, + Mystical, curiously graven and set. + + A Bactrian dagger, whose slightest prick + Through its ancient poison was death, I knew; + If true that she loved me--then!--And quick + To the unspoken thought she replied, "'T is true! + I have loved you long, and my soul was sick, + + "Sick for the love that has made me weak, + Weak to your will even now!"--And more + She said, in my arms, that I shall not speak-- + And the dagger there on the polished floor + Ever her eyes, while she spoke, would seek. + + "'And it came to pass on the wedding-day'"-- + Then my lips for a moment were crushed to hers-- + "'That they found her dead in her bridal array,'" + She sang; then said, "You finish the verse! + Finish the song, for you know the way." + + And I whispered "yes," for my mind had thought + Her own thought through--that life were a hell + To her as to me,--So the blade I caught + With a sudden hand; and she leaned, and--well, + What a little wound, and the blood it brought + + To crimson her bosom!--I set her there + In that carven chair; then turned the blade,-- + With its glittering haft one savage glare + Of gold and jewels, wildly inlaid,-- + To my breast, for the poisonous point rent bare. + + A stain of blood on her bosom, and one + Black red o'er my heart.--You see, 't is good + To die so for love!... Does the sinking sun, + Through the dull vast west burst banked with blood?-- + Or is it that life will at last have done?... + + So you are her husband? and--well, you see, + You see she is dead ... But your face, how white! + --Is it with hate or with misery?-- + What matters it now!--For, at last, the night + Falls and the silence covers me. + + + + +An Old Tale Re-told + + + From the terrace here, where the hills indent, + You can see the uttermost battlement + Of the castle there; the Cliffords' home; + Where the seasons go and the seasons come + And never a footstep else doth fall + Save the prowling fox's; the ancient hall + Echoes no voice save the owlet's call: + Its turret chambers are homes for the bat; + And its courts are tangled and wild to see; + And where in the cellar was once the rat, + The viper and toad move stealthily. + Long years have passed since the place was burned, + And he sailed to the wars in France and earned + The name that he bears of the bold and true + On his tomb. Long years, since my lord, Sir Hugh, + Lived; and I was his favorite page, + And the thing then happened; and he of an age + When a man will love and be loved again, + Or hie to the wars or a monastery, + Or toil till he conquer his heart's sore pain, + Or drink and forget it and finally bury. + + I was his page. And often we fared + Through the Clare demesnes, in autumn, hawking; + If the Baron had known, how they would have glared + 'Neath their bushy brows, those eyes of mocking!-- + That last of the Strongbows, Richard, I mean-- + And growling some six of his henchmen lean + To mount and after this Clifford and hang + With his crop-eared page to the nearest oak, + How he would have cursed us while he spoke! + For Clare and Clifford had ever a fang + In the other's side ... And I hear the clang + Of his rage in the hall when the hawker told-- + If he told!--how we met on the autumn wold + His daughter, sweet Clara of Clare, the day + Her hooded tiercel its brails did burst, + And trailing its jesses, came flying our way-- + An untrained haggard the falconer cursed + While he tried to secure:--as the eyas flew + Slant, low and heavily over us, Hugh,-- + Who saw it coming, and had just then cast + His peregrine hawk at a heron quarry,-- + In his saddle rising, so, as it passed, + By the jesses caught, and to her did carry, + Where she stood near the wood. Her face flushed rose + With the glad of the meeting. No two foes + Her eyes and my Lord's, I swear, who saw + 'Twas love from the start. And I heard him speak + Some words; then he knelt; and the sombre shaw, + With the rust of the autumn waste and bleak, + Grew spring with her smile, as the hawk she took + On her lily wrist, where it pruned and shook + Its ragged wings. Then I saw him seize + The hand, that she reached to him, long and white, + As she smilingly bade him rise from his knees-- + + When he kissed its fingers, her eyes grew bright. + But her cheeks grew pallid when, lashing through + The woodland there, with a face a-flare + With the sting of the wind, and his gipsy hair + Flying, the falconer came, and two + Or three of the people of Castle Clare. + And the leaves of the autumn made a frame + For the picture there in the morning's flame. + + What was said in that moment, I do not know, + That moment of meeting, between those lovers; + But whatever it was, 't was whispered low, + And soft as a leaf that swings and hovers, + A twinkling gold, when the leaves are yellow. + And her face with the joy was still aglow, + When down through the wood that burly fellow + Came with his frown, and made a pause + In the pulse of their words. My lord, Sir Hugh, + Stood with the soil on his knee. No cause + Had he, but his hanger he partly drew, + Then clapped it sharp in its sheath again, + And bowed to my Lady, and strode away; + And mounting his horse, with a swinging rein + Rode with a song in his heart all day. + + He loved and was loved, I knew; for, look! + All other sports for the chase he forsook. + And strange that he never went to hawk, + Or hunt, but Clara would meet him there + In the Strongbow forest! I know the rock, + With its fern-filled moss, by the bramble lair, + Were oft and again he met--by chance, + Shall I say?--the daughter of Clare; as fair + Of face as a queen in an old romance, + Who waits with her sweet face pale; her hair + Night-deep; and eyes dove-gray with dreams;-- + By the fountain-side where the statue gleams + And the moonbeam lolls in the lily white,-- + For the knightly lover who comes at night. + + Heigho! they ceased, those meetings; I wot, + Betrayed to the Baron by some of his crew + Of menials who followed and saw and knew. + For she loved too well to have once forgot + The time and the place of their trysting true. + "Why and when?" would ask Sir Hugh + In the labored letters he used to lock-- + The lovers' post--in a coigne of that rock. + She used to answer, but now did not. + But nearing Yule, love got them again + A twilight tryst--through frowardness sure!-- + They met. And that day was gray with rain, + Or snow: and the wind did ever endure + A long bleak moaning thorough the wood, + That chapped i' the cheek and smarted the blood; + And a brook in the forest went throb and throb, + And over it all was the wild-beast sob + Of the rushing boughs like a thing pursued. + And then it was that he learned how she, + (God's blood! how it makes my old limbs quiver + To think what a miserable tyrant he-- + The Baron Richard--aye and ever + To his daughter was!) forsooth! must wed + With an eastern earl, a Lovell: to whom + (Would God o' his mercy had struck him dead!) + Clara of Clare when only a child,-- + With a face like a flower, that blooms in the wild + Of the hills, and a soul like its soft perfume,-- + Was given; to seal, or strengthen, some ties + Of power and wealth--say bartered, then, + Like the merest chattel. With tearful eyes + And trembling lips she spoke; and when + Her lover, the Clifford, had learned and heard,-- + He'd have had her flee with him then, 'sdeath! + In spite of them all! Let her speak the word, + They would fly together; the Baron's men + Might follow, and if ... and he touched his sword, + It should answer! But she, while she seemed to stay, + With a hand on her bosom, her heart's quick breath, + Replied to his heat, "They would take and slay + Thee who art life of me!--No! not thus + Shall we fly! there's another way for us; + A way that is sure; an only way; + I have thought it out this many a day."-- + The words that she spoke, how well I remember! + As well as the mood o' that day of December, + That bullied and blustered and seemed in league, + Like a spiteful shrew, with the wind and snow, + To drown the words of their sweet intrigue, + With the boom of the boughs tossed to and fro. + Her last words these, "By curfew sure, + On Christmas eve, at the postern door." + + And we were there; with a led horse too; + Armed for a journey I hardly knew + Whither, but why, you well can guess. + For often he whispered a certain name, + The talisman of his happiness, + That warmed his blood like a yule-log's flame. + While we waited there, till its owner came, + We saw how the castle's baronial girth, + Like a giant's, loosed for reveling more, + Shone; and we heard the wassail and mirth + Where the mistletoe hung in the hearth's red roar, + And the holly brightened the weaponed wall + Of ancient oak in the banqueting hall. + And the spits, I trow, by the scullions turned + O'er the snoring logs, rich steamed and burned, + While the whole wild-boar and the deer were roasted, + And the half of an ox and the roe-buck haunches; + While tuns of ale, that the cellars boasted, + And casks of sack, were broached for paunches + Of vassals who reveled in stable and hall. + The song of the minstrel; the yeomen's quarrel + O'er the dice and the drink; and the huntsman's bawl + In the baying kennels, its hounds a-snarl + O'er the bones of the banquet; now loud, now low, + We could hear where we crouched in the drifting snow. + + Was she long? did she come?... By the postern we + Like shadows waited. My lord, Sir Hugh, + Spoke, pointing a tower, "That casement, see? + When a stealthy light in its slit burns blue + And signals thrice slowly, thus--'t is she." + And close to his breast his gaberdine drew, + For the wind it whipped and the snow beat through. + Did she come?--We had waited an hour or twain, + When the taper flashed in the central pane, + And flourished three times and vanished so. + And under the arch of the postern's portal, + Holding the horses, we stood in the snow, + Stiff with the cold. Ah, me! immortal + Minutes we waited, breath-bated, and listened + Shivering there in the hiss of the gale: + The parapets whistled, the angles glistened, + And the night around seemed one black wail + Of death, whose ominous presence over + The stormy battlements seemed to hover. + Said my lord, Sir Hugh,--to himself he spoke,-- + "She feels for the spring in the sliding panel + 'Neath the arras, hid in the carven oak. + It opens. The stair, like a well's dark channel, + Yawns; and the draught makes her taper slope. + Wrapped deep in her mantle she stoops, now puts + One foot on the stair; now a listening pause + As nearer and nearer the mad search draws + Of the thwarted castle. No smallest hope + That they find her now that the panel shuts!... + If the wind, that howls like a tortured thing, + Would throttle itself with itself, then I + Might hear how her hurrying footsteps ring + Down the hollow ... there! 't is her fingers try + The postern's bolts that the rust makes cling."-- + But ever some whim of the storm that shook + A clanging ring or a creaking hook + In buttress or wall. And we waited, numb + With the cold, till dawn--but she did not come. + + I must tell you why and have done: 'T is said, + On the brink of the marriage she fled the side + Of the guests and the bridegroom there; she fled + With a mischievous laugh,--"I'll hide! I'll hide! + Seek! and be sure that you find!"--so led + A long search after her; but defied + All search for--a score and ten long years.... + + Well, the laughter of Yule was turned to tears + For them and for us. We saw the glare + Of torches that hurried from chamber to stair; + And we heard the castle re-echo her name, + But neither to them nor to us she came. + And that was the last of Clara of Clare. + + That winter it was, a month thereafter, + That the home of the Cliffords, roof and rafter, + Burned.--I could swear 't was the Strongbow's doing, + Were I sure that he knew of the Clifford's wooing + His daughter; and so, by the Rood and Cross! + Had burned Hugh's home to avenge his loss.-- + So over the channel to France with his King, + The Black Prince, sailed to the wars--to deaden + The ache of the mystery--Hugh that spring, + And fell at Poitiers; for his loss made leaden + His heart; and his life was a weary sadness, + So he flung it away in a moment's madness. + And the Baron died. And the bridegroom?--well, + Unlucky was he in truth!--to tell + Of him there is nothing. The Baron died, + The last of the Strongbows he--gramercy! + And the Clare estate with its wealth and pride + Devolved to the Bloets, Walter and Percy. + + And years went by. And it happened that they + Ransacked the old castle; and so, one day, + In a lonesome tower uprummaged a chest, + From Flanders; of ebon, and wildly carved + All over with things: a sinister crest, + And evil faces, distorted and starved; + Fast-locked with a spring, which they forced and, lo! + When they opened it--Death, like a lady dressed, + Grinned up at their terror!--but no, not so! + A skeleton, jeweled and laced, and wreathed + With flowers of dust; and a miniver + Around it clasped, that the ruin sheathed + Of a once rich raiment of silk and fur. + + I'd have given my life to hear him tell, + The courtly Clifford, how this befell! + He'd have known how it was: For, you see, in groping + For the secret spring of that panel, hoping + And fearing as nearer and nearer drew + The search of retainers, why, out she blew + The tell-tale taper; and, seeing this chest, + Would hide her a minute in it, mayhap, + Till the hurry had passed; but the death-lock, pressed + By the lid's great weight, closed fast with a snap, + Ere her heart was aware of the fiendish trap. + + + + +The Water Witch + + + See! the milk-white doe is wounded. + He will follow as it bounds + Through the woods. His horn has sounded. + Echoing, for his men and hounds. + But no answering bugle blew. + He has lost his retinue + For the shapely deer that bounded + Past him when his bow he drew. + + Not one hound or huntsman follows. + Through the underbrush and moss + Goes the slot; and in the hollows + Of the hills, that he must cross, + He has lost it. He must fare + Over rocks where she-wolves lair; + Wood-pools where the wild-boar wallows; + So he leaves his good steed there. + + Through his mind then flashed an olden + Legend told him by the monks:-- + Of a girl, whose hair is golden, + Haunting fountains and the trunks + Of the woodland; who, they say, + Is a white doe all the day; + But when woods are night-enfolden + Turns into an evil fay. + + Then the story oft his teacher + Told him; of a mountain lake + Demons dwell in; vague of feature, + Human-like, but each a snake, + She is queen of.--Did he hear + Laughter at his startled ear? + Or a bird? And now, what creature + Is it, or the wind, stirs near? + + Fever of the hunt. This water, + Murmuring here, will cool his head. + Through the forest, fierce as slaughter, + Slants the sunset; ruby red + Are the drops that slip between + His cupped hands, while on the green,-- + Like the couch of some wild daughter + Of the forest,--he doth lean. + + But the runnel, bubbling, dripping, + Seems to bid him to be gone; + As with crystal words, and tripping + Steps of sparkle luring on. + Now a spirit in the rocks + Calls him; now a face that mocks, + From behind some bowlder slipping, + Laughs at him with lilied locks. + + So he follows through the flowers, + Blue and gold, that blossom there; + Thridding twilight-haunted bowers + Where each ripple seems the bare + Beauty of white limbs that gleam + Rosy through the running stream; + Or bright-shaken hair, that showers + Starlight in the sunset's beam. + + Till, far in the forest, sleeping + Like a luminous darkness, lay + A deep water, wherein, leaping, + Fell the Fountain of the Fay, + With a singing, sighing sound, + As of spirit things around, + Musically laughing, weeping + In the air and underground. + + Not a ripple o'er it merried: + Like the round moon 'neath a cloud, + In its rocks the lake lay buried: + And strange creatures seemed to crowd + Its dark depths; vague limbs and eyes + To the surface seemed to rise + Spawn-like and, as formless, ferried + Through the water, shadow-wise. + + Foliage things with human faces, + Demon-dreadful, pale and wild + As the forms the lightning traces + On the clouds the storm has piled, + Seeming now to draw to land, + Now away--Then up the strand + Comes a woman; and she places + On his arm a spray-white hand. + + Ah! an untold world of sorrow + Were her eyes; her hair, a place + Whence the moon its gold might borrow; + And a dream of ice her face: + 'Round her hair and throat in rims + Pearls of foam hung; and through whims + Of her robe, as breaks the morrow, + Shone the rose-light of her limbs. + + Who could help but look with gladness + On such beauty? though within, + Deep within the beryl sadness + Of those eyes, the serpent sin + Coil?--When she hath placed her cheek + Chilly upon his, and weak, + With love longing and its madness, + Is his will grown, then she'll speak: + + "Dost thou love me?"--"If surrender + Is to love thee, then I love."-- + "Hast no fear then?"--"In the splendor + Of thy gaze who knows thereof? + Yet I fear--I fear to lose + Thee, thy love!"--"And thou dost choose + Aye to be my heart's defender?"-- + "Take me. I am thine to use." + + "Follow then. Ah, love, no lowly + Home I give thee."--With fixed eyes, + To the water's edge she slowly + Drew him.... And he did surmise + 'Twas her lips on his, until + O'er his face the foam closed chill, + Whisp'ring, and the lake unholy + Rippled, rippled and was still. + + + + +At Nineveh + +Written for my friend Walter S. Mathews. + + + There was a princess once, who loved the slave + Of an Assyrian king, her father; known + At Nineveh as Hadria; o'er whose grave + The sands of centuries have long been blown; + Yet sooner shall the night forget its stars + Than love her story:--How, unto his throne, + One day she came, where, with his warriors, + The king sat in the hall of audience, + 'Mid pillared trophies of barbaric wars, + And, kneeling to him, asked, "O father, whence + Comes love and why?"--He, smiling on her, said,-- + "O Hadria, love is of the gods, and hence + Divine, is only soul-interpreted. + But why love is, ah, child, we do not know, + Unless 'tis love that gives us life when dead."-- + And then his daughter, with a face aglow + With all the love that clamored in her blood + Its sweet avowal, lifted arms of snow, + And, like Aurora's rose, before him stood, + Saying,--"Since love is of the powers above, + I love a slave, O Asshur! Let the good + The gods have giv'n be sanctioned. Speak not of + Dishonor and our line's ancestral dead! + They are imperial dust. I live and love."-- + Black as black storm then rose the king and said,-- + A lightning gesture at her standing there,-- + "Enough! ho, Rhana, strike me off her head!" + And at the mandate, with his limbs half bare + A slave strode forth. Majestic was his form + As some young god's. He, gathering up her hair, + Wound it three times around his sinewy arm. + Then drew his sword. It for one moment shone + A semicircling light, and, dripping warm, + Lifting the head he stood before the throne. + Then cried the despot, "By the horn of Bel! + This was no child of mine!"--Like chiselled stone + Still stood the slave, a son of Israel. + Then striding towards the monarch, in his eye + The wrath of heaven and the hate of hell, + Shrieked, "Lust! I loved her! look on us and die!" + Swifter than fire clove him to the brain. + Then kissed the dead fair face of her held high, + And crying, "Judge, O God, between us twain!" + A thousand daggers in his heart, fell slain. + + + + +How They Brought Aid to Bryan's Station + +During the siege of Bryan's Station, Kentucky, August 16, 1782, Nicholas +Tomlinson and Thomas Bell, two inhabitants of the Fort, undertook to +ride through the besieging Indian and Tory lines to Lexington, Ky., for +aid. It happened also during this siege that the pioneer women of the +Fort, when the water supply was exhausted, heroically carried water from +a spring, at a considerable distance outside the palisades of the +Station, to its inmates, under the very guns of the enemy. + + + With saddles girt and reins held fast, + Our rifles well in front, at last + Tom Bell and I were mounted. + The gate swung wide. We said, "Good-bye." + No time for talk had Bell and I. + One said, "God speed!" another, "Fly!" + Then out we galloped. Live or die, + We felt each moment counted. + + The trace, the buffaloes had worn, + Stretched broad before us; and the corn + And cane through which it wended, + We knew for acres from the gate + Hid Indian guile and Tory hate. + We rode with hearts that seemed to wait + For instant death; and on our fate + The Station's fate depended. + + No rifle cracked. No creature stirred, + As on towards Lexington we spurred + Unflinchingly together. + We reached the woods: no savage shout + Of all the wild Wyandotte rout + And Shawanese had yet rung out: + But now and then an Indian scout + Showed here a face and feather. + + We rode expecting death each stride + From thicket depth or tree-trunk side, + Where some red foe might huddle-- + For well we knew that renegade, + The blood-stained Girty, had not stayed + His fiends from us, who rode for aid,-- + The dastard he who had betrayed + The pioneers of Ruddle. + + And when an arrow grazed my hair + I did not turn, I did not spare + To spur as men spur warward: + A war-whoop rang this side a rock: + Then painted faces swarmed, to block + Our way, with brandished tomahawk + And rifle: then a shout, a shock-- + And we again rode forward. + + They followed; but 'twas no great while + Before from them by some long mile + Of forest we were sundered. + We galloped on. I'd lost my gun; + And Bell, whose girth had come undone, + Rode saddleless. The summer sun + Was up when into Lexington + Side unto side we thundered. + + Too late. For Todd had left that day + With many men. Decoyed away + To Hoy's by some false story. + And we must after. Bryan's needs + Said, "On!" although our gallant steeds + Were blown--Enough! we must do deeds! + Must follow where our duty leads, + Be it to death or glory. + + The way was wild and often barred + By trees and rocks; and it was hard + To keep our hearts from sinking; + But thoughts of those we'd left behind + Gave strength to muscle and to mind + To help us onward through the blind + Deep woods. And often we would find + Ourselves of loved ones thinking. + + The hot stockade. No water left. + The fierce attack. All hope bereft + The powder-grimed defender. + The war-cry and the groan of pain. + All day the slanting arrow-rain + Of fire from the corn and cane. + The stern defence, but all in vain. + And then at last--surrender. + + But not for Bryan's!--no! too well + Must they remember what befell + At Ruddle's and take warning. + So thought we as, all dust and sweat, + We rode with faces forward set, + And came to Station Boone while yet + An hour from noon ... We had not let + Our horses rest since morning. + + Here Ellis met us with his men. + They did not stop nor tarry then. + That little band of lions; + But setting out at once with aid, + Right well you know how unafraid + They charged the Indian ambuscade, + And through a storm of bullets made + Their entrance into Bryan's. + + And that is all I have to tell. + No more the Huron's hideous yell + Sounds to assault and slaughter.-- + Perhaps to us some praise is due; + But we are men, accustomed to + Such dangers, which we often woo. + Much more is due our women who + Brought to the Station--water. + + + + +On the Jellico Spur of the Cumberlands + +TO J. FOX, JR. + + + You remember how the mist, + When we climbed to Devil's Den, + Pearly in the mountain glen, + And above us, amethyst, + Throbbed or circled? then away, + Through the wildwoods opposite, + Torn and scattered, morning-lit, + Vanished into dewy gray?-- + Vague as in romance we saw, + From the fog, one riven trunk, + Talon-like with branches shrunk, + Thrust a monster dragon claw. + And we climbed for hours through + The dawn-dripping Jellicoes, + To a wooded rock that shows + Undulating leagues of blue + Summits; mountain-chains that lie + Dark with forests; bar on bar, + Ranging their irregular + Purple peaks beneath a sky + Soft as slumber. Range on range + Billow their enormous spines, + Where the rocks and priestly pines + Sit eternal, without change. + We were sons of Nature then: + She had taken us to her, + Signalized by brier and burr, + Something more to her than men: + Pupils of her lofty moods, + From her bloom-anointed looks, + Wisdom of no man-made books + Learned we in those solitudes: + How the seed supplied the flower; + How the sapling held the oak; + How within the vine awoke + The wild impulse still to tower; + How in fantasy or mirth, + Springing from her footsteps there, + Curious fungi everywhere + Bulged, exuded from the earth; + Coral vegetable things, + That the underworld exhaled, + Bulbous, crystal-ribbed and scaled, + Many colored and in rings, + Like the Indian-Pipe that grew + Pink and white in loamy cracks, + Flowers of a natural wax, + She had turned her fancy to.-- + On that laureled precipice, + Where the chestnuts dropped their burrs, + Sweet with balsam of the firs, + First we felt her mother kiss + Full of heaven and the wind; + While the forests, wood on wood, + Murmured like a multitude + Giving praise where none hath sinned.-- + Freedom met us there; we saw + Freedom giving audience; + In her face the eloquence, + Lightning-like, of love and law: + Round her, with majestic hips, + Lay the giant mountains; there + Near her, cataracts tossed their hair, + God and thunder on their lips.-- + Oft an eagle, or a hawk, + Or a scavenger, we knew + Winged through altitudes of blue, + By its shadow on the rock. + Or a cloud of templed white + Moved, a lazy berg of pearl, + Through the sky's pacific swirl, + Shot with cool cerulean light. + So we dreamed an hour upon + That warm rock the lichens mossed, + While around us foliage tossed + Coins, gold-minted of the sun: + Then arose; and a ravine, + Which a torrent once had worn, + Made our roadway to the corn, + In the valley, deep and green; + And the farm house with its bees, + Where old-fashioned flowers spun + Gay rag-carpets in the sun, + Hid among the apple trees. + Here we watched the twilight fall; + O'er Wolf-Mountain sunset made + A huge rhododendron rayed + Round the sun's cloud-centered ball. + Then through scents of herb and soil, + To the mining-camp we turned, + In the twinkling dusk discerned + With its white-washed homes of toil. + Ah, those nights!--We wandered forth + On some haunted mountain path, + When the moon was late, and rathe + The large stars, sowed south and north, + Splashed with gold the purple skies; + And the milky zodiac, + Rolled athwart the belted black, + Seemed a path to Paradise. + And we walked or lingered till, + In the valley-land beneath, + Like the vapor of a breath + Breathed in frost, arose the still + Architecture of the mist: + And the moon-dawn's necromance + Touched the mist and made it glance + Like a town of amethyst. + Then around us, sharp and brusque, + Night's shrill insects strident strung + Instruments that buzzed and sung + Pixy music of the dusk. + And we seemed to hear soft sighs, + And hushed steps of ghostly things, + Fluttered feet or rustled wings, + Moved before us. Fire-flies, + Gleaming in the tangled glade, + Seemed the eyes of warriors + Stealing under watching stars + To some midnight ambuscade; + To the Indian village there, + Wigwamed with the mist, that slept + By the woodland side, whence crept + Shadowy Shawnees of the air. + When the moon rose, like a cup + Lay the valley, brimmed with wine + Of mesmeric shade and shine, + To the moon's pale face held up. + As she rose from out the mines + Of the eastern darkness, night + Met her, clad in dewy light + 'Mid Pine Mountain's sachem pines. + As from clouds in pearly parts + Her serene circumference grew, + Home we turned. And all night through + Dreamed the dreams of happy hearts. + + + + +A Confession + + + These are the facts:--I was to blame: + I brought her here and wrought her shame: + She came with me all trustingly. + Lovely and innocent her face: + And in her perfect form, the grace + Of purity and modesty. + + I think I loved her then: 'would dote + On her ambrosial breast and throat, + Young as a blossom's tenderness: + Her eyes, that were both glad and sad: + Her cheeks and chin, that dimples had: + Her mouth, red-ripe to kiss and kiss. + + Three months passed by; three moons of fire; + When in me sickened all desire: + And in its place a devil,--who + Filled all my soul with deep disgust, + And on the victim of my lust + Turned eyes of loathing,--swiftly grew. + + One night, when by my side she slept, + I rose: and leaning, while I kept + The dagger hid, I kissed her hair + And throat: and, when she smiled asleep, + Into her heart I drove it deep: + And left her dead, still smiling there. + + + + +Lilith + + + Yea, there are some who always seek + The love that lasts an hour; + And some who in love's language speak, + Yet never know his power. + + Of such was I, who knew not what + Sweet mysteries may rise + Within the heart when 't is its lot + To love and realize. + + Of such was I, ah me! till, lo, + Your face on mine did gleam, + And changed that world, I used to know, + Into an evil dream. + + That world wherein, on hill and plain, + Great blood-red poppies bloomed, + Their hot hearts thirsty for the rain, + And sleepily perfumed. + + Above, below, on every part + A crimson shadow lay, + As if the red sun streamed athwart + And sunset was alway. + + I know not how, I know not when, + I only know that there + She met me in the haunted glen, + A poppy in her hair. + + Her face seemed fair as Mary's is, + That knows no sin or wrong; + Her presence filled the silences + As music fills a song. + + And she was clad like the Mother of God, + As 't were for Christ's sweet sake, + But when she moved and where she trod + A hiss went of a snake. + + Though seeming sinless, till I die + I shall not know for sure + Why to my soul she seemed a lie + And otherwise than pure. + + Nor why I kissed her soon and late + And for her felt desire, + While loathing of her passion ate + Into my soul like fire. + + Was it because my soul could tell + That, like the poppy-flower, + She had no soul? a thing of Hell, + That o'er it had no power. + + Or was it that your love at last + My soul so long had craved, + From the sweet sin that held me fast + At that last moment saved? + + + + +Content + + + When I behold how some pursue + Fame, that is care's embodiment, + Or fortune, whose false face looks true,-- + A humble home with sweet content + Is all I ask for me and you. + + A humble home, where pigeons coo, + Whose path leads under breezy lines + Of frosty-berried cedars to + A gate, one mass of trumpet-vines, + Is all I ask for me and you. + + A garden, which, all summer through, + The roses old make redolent, + And morning-glories, gay of hue, + And tansy, with its homely scent, + Is all I ask for me and you. + + An orchard, that the pippins strew, + From whose bruised gold the juices spring; + A vineyard, where the grapes hang blue, + Wine-big and ripe for vintaging, + Is all I ask for me and you. + + A lane, that leads to some far view + Of forest and of fallow-land, + Bloomed o'er with rose and meadow-rue, + Each with a bee in its hot hand, + Is all I ask for me and you. + + At morn, a pathway deep with dew, + And birds to vary time and tune; + At eve, a sunset avenue, + And whippoorwills that haunt the moon, + Is all I ask for me and you. + + Dear heart, with wants so small and few, + And faith, that's better far than gold, + A lowly friend, a child or two, + To care for us when we are old, + Is all I ask for me and you. + + + + +Berrying + + + I. + + My love went berrying + Where brooks were merrying + And wild wings ferrying + Heaven's amethyst; + The wildflowers blessed her, + My dearest Hester, + The winds caressed her, + The sunbeams kissed. + + + II. + + I followed, carrying + Her basket; varying + Fond hopes of marrying + With hopes denied; + Both late and early + She deemed me surly, + And bowed her curly + Fair head and sighed: + + + III. + + "The skies look lowery; + It will he showery; + No longer flowery + The way I find. + No use in going. + 'T will soon be snowing + If you keep growing + Much more unkind." + + + IV. + + Then looked up tearfully. + And I, all fearfully, + Replied, "My dear, fully + Will I explain: + I love you dearly, + But look not cheerly + Since all says clearly + I love in vain." + + + V. + + Then smiled she airily; + And answered merrily + With words that--verily + Made me decide: + And drawing tow'rd her, + I there implored her-- + I who adored her-- + To be my bride. + + + VI. + + O sweet simplicity + Of young rusticity, + Without duplicity, + Whom love made know, + That hearts in meter + Make earth completer; + And kisses, sweeter + Than--berries grow. + + + + +To a Pansy-Violet + +Found Solitary Among the Hills. + + + I. + + O pansy-violet, + With early April wet, + How frail and pure you look + Lost in this glow-worm nook + Of heaven-holding hills: + Down which the hurrying rills + Fling scrolls of melodies: + O'er which the birds and bees + Weave gossamers of song, + Invisible, but strong: + Sweet music webs they spin + To snare the spirit in. + + + II. + + O pansy-violet, + Unto your face I set + My lips, and--do you speak? + Or is it but some freak + Of fancy, love imparts + Through you unto the heart's + Desire? whispering low + A secret none may know, + But such as sit and dream + By forest-side and stream. + + + III. + + O pansy-violet, + O darling floweret, + Hued like the timid gem + That stars the diadem + Of Fay or Sylvan Sprite, + Who, in the woods, all night + Is busy with the blooms, + Young leaves and wild perfumes, + Through you I seem t' have seen + All that such dreams may mean. + + + IV. + + O pansy-violet, + Long, long ago we met-- + 'T was in a Fairy-tale: + Two children in a vale + Sat underneath glad stars, + Far from the world of wars; + Each loved the other well: + Her eyes were like the spell + Of dusk and dawning skies-- + The purple dark that dyes + The midnight: his were blue + As heaven the day shines through. + + + V. + + O pansy-violet, + What is this vague regret, + This yearning, so like tears, + That touches through the years + Long past, when Myth and Fable + In all strange things were able + To beautify the Earth, + Things of immortal worth?-- + This longing, that to me + Is like a memory + Lived long ago, of those + Fair children who, it knows, + Loved with no mortal love; + Whom smiling heaven above + Fostered, and when they died + Laid side by loving side. + + + VI. + + O pansy-violet, + I dream, remembering yet + A wood-god-guarded tomb, + Out of whose moss a bloom + Sprang, with three petals wan + As are the eyes of dawn; + And two as darkly deep + As are the eyes of sleep.-- + O flower,--that seems to hold + Some memory of old, + A hope, a happiness, + At which I can but guess,-- + You are a sign to me + Of immortality: + Through you my spirit sees + The deathless purposes + Of death, that still evolves + The beauty it resolves; + The change that aye fulfills + Life's meaning as God wills. + + + + +Heart of my Heart + + + Here where the season turns the land to gold, + Among the fields our feet have known of old,-- + When we were children who would laugh and run, + Glad little playmates of the wind and sun,-- + Before came toil and care and years went ill, + And one forgot and one remembered still, + Heart of my heart, among the old fields here, + Give me your hands and let me draw you near. + Heart of my heart. + + Stars are not truer than your soul is true-- + What need I more of heaven then than you? + Flowers are not sweeter than your face is sweet-- + What need I more to make my world complete? + O woman nature, love that still endures, + What strength hath ours that is not born of yours? + Heart of my heart, to you, whatever come, + To you the lead, whose love hath led me home. + Heart of my heart. + + + + +Witnesses + + + I. + + You say I do not love you!--Tell me why, + When I have gazed a little on your face, + And then gone forth into the world of men, + A beauty, neither of the Earth or Sky, + A glamour, that transforms each common place, + Attends my spirit then? + + + II. + + You say I do not love you!--Yet I know + When I have heard you speak and dwelt upon + Your words awhile, my heart has gone away + Filled with strange music, very soft and low, + A dim companion, touching with sweet tone + The discords of the day. + + + III. + + You say I do not love you!--Yet it seems, + When I have kissed your hand and said farewell, + A fragrance, sweeter than did flower yet bloom, + Accompanies my soul and fills, with dreams, + The sad and sordid streets, where people dwell, + Dreams of spring's wild perfume. + + + + +Wherefore + + + I would not see, yet must behold + The truth they preach in church and hall; + And question so,--Is death then all, + And life an idle tale that's told? + + The myriad wonders art hath wrought + I deemed eternal as God's love: + No more than shadows these shall prove, + And insubstantial as a thought. + + And love and labor, who have gone, + Hand in close hand, and civilized + The wilderness, these shall be prized + No more than if they had not done. + + Then wherefore strive? Why strain and bend + Beneath a burden so unjust? + Our works are builded out of dust, + And dust their universal end. + + + + +Pagan + + + The gods, who could loose and bind + In the long ago, + The gods, who were stern and kind + To men below, + Where shall we seek and find, + Or, finding, know? + + Where Greece, with king on king, + Dreamed in her halls; + Where Rome kneeled worshiping, + The owl now calls, + And whispering ivies cling + To mouldering walls. + + They have served, and have passed away + From the earth and sky, + And their Creed is a record gray, + Where the passer-by + Reads, "Live and be glad to-day, + For to-morrow ye die." + + And shall it be so, indeed, + When we are no more, + That nations to be shall read,-- + As we have before,-- + In the dust of a Christian Creed, + But pagan lore? + + + + +"The Fathers of our Fathers" + +Written February 24, 1898, on reading the latest news concerning the +battleship Maine, blown up in Havana harbor, February 15th. + + + I. + + The fathers of our fathers they were men!-- + What are we who now stand idle while we see our seamen slain? + Who behold our flag dishonored, and still pause! + Are we blind to her duplicity, the treachery of Spain? + To the rights, she scorns, of nations and their laws? + Let us rise, a mighty people, let us wipe away the stain! + Must we wait till she insult us for a cause?-- + The fathers of our fathers they were men! + + + II. + + The fathers of our fathers they were men!-- + Had they nursed delay as we do? had they sat thus deaf and dumb, + With these cowards compromising year by year? + Never hearing what they should hear, never saying what should come, + While the courteous mask of Spain still hid a sneer! + No! such news had roused their natures like a rolling battle-drum-- + God of earth! and God of heaven! do we fear?-- + The fathers of our fathers they were men! + + + III. + + The fathers of our fathers they were men!-- + What are we who are so cautious, never venturing too far! + Shall we, at the cost of honor, still keep peace? + While we see the thousands starving and the struggling Cuban star, + And the outraged form of Freedom on her knees! + Let our long, steel ocean-bloodhounds, adamantine dogs of war, + Sweep the yellow Spanish panther from the seas!-- + The fathers of our fathers they were men! + + + + +"Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin" + + + I. + + Behold! we have gathered together our battleships near and afar; + Their decks they are cleared for action, their guns they are shotted + for war: + From the East to the West there is hurry, in the North and the South + a peal + Of hammers in fort and shipyard, and the clamor and clang of steel; + And the roar and the rush of engines, and clanking of derrick and + crane-- + Thou art weighed in the Scales and found wanting, the balance of God, + O Spain! + + + II. + + Behold! I have stood on the mountains, and this was writ in the + sky:-- + "She is weighed in the Scales and found wanting, the balance God + holds on high!" + The balance He once weighed Babylon, the Mother of Harlots, in: + One scale holds thy pride and thy power and empire, begotten of sin; + Heavy with woe and torture, the crimes of a thousand years, + Mortared and welded together with fire and blood and tears; + In the other, for justice and mercy, a blade with never a stain, + Is laid the Sword of Liberty, and the balance dips, O Spain! + + + III. + + Summon thy vessels together! great is thy need for these!-- + Cristobal Colon, Vizcaya, Oquendo, and Maria Terese-- + Let them be strong and many, for a vision I had by night, + That the ancient wrongs thou hast done the world came howling to the + fight; + From the New-World shores they gathered, Inca and Aztec slain, + To the Cuban shot but yesterday, and our own dead seamen, Spain! + + + IV. + + Summon thy ships together, gather a mighty fleet! + For a strong young Nation is arming, that never hath known defeat. + Summon thy ships together, there on thy blood-stained sands! + For a shadowy army gathers with manacled feet and hands, + A shadowy host of sorrows and shames, too black to tell, + That reach, with their horrible wounds, for thee to drag thee down to + Hell; + A myriad phantoms and spectres, thou warrest against in vain-- + Thou art weighed in the Scales and found wanting, the balance of God, + O Spain! + + + + +Her Vivien Eyes + + + Her Vivien eyes,--beware! beware!-- + Though they be stars, a deadly snare + They set beneath her night of hair. + Regard them not! lest, drawing near-- + As sages once in old Chaldee-- + Thou shouldst become a worshiper, + And they thy evil destiny. + + Her Vivien eyes,--away! away!-- + Though they be springs, remorseless they + Gleam underneath her brow's bright day. + Turn, turn aside, whate'er the cost! + Lest in their deeps thou lures behold, + Through which thy captive soul were lost, + As was young Hylas once of old. + + Her Vivien eyes,--take heed! take heed!-- + Though they be bibles, none may read + Therein of God or Holy Creed. + Look, look away! lest thou be cursed,-- + As Merlin was, romances tell,-- + And in their sorcerous spells immersed, + Hoping for Heaven thou chance on Hell. + + + + +There Was a Rose + + + There was a rose in Eden once: it grows + On Earth now, sweeter for its rare perfume: + And Paradise is poorer by one bloom, + And Earth is richer. In this blossom glows + More loveliness than old seraglios + Or courts of kings did ever yet illume: + More purity, than ever yet had room + In soul of nun or saint.--O human rose,-- + Who art initial and sweet period of + My heart's divinest sentence, where I read + Love, first and last, and in the pauses love; + Who art the dear ideal of each deed + My life aspires by to some high goal,-- + Set in the haunted garden of my soul! + + + + +The Artist + + + In story books, when I was very young, + I knew you first, one of the Fairy Race; + And then it was your picture took its place, + Framed in with love's deep gold, and draped and hung + High in my heart's red room: no song was sung, + No tale of passion told, I did not grace + With your associated form and face, + And intimated charm of touch and tongue. + As years went on you grew to more and more, + Until each thing, symbolic to my heart + Of beauty,--such as honor, truth, and fame,-- + Within the studio of my soul's thought wore + Your lineaments, whom I, with all my art, + Strove to embody and to give a name. + + + + +Poetry and Philosophy + + + Out of the past the dim leaves spoke to me + The thoughts of Pindar with a voice so sweet + Hyblaean bees seemed swarming my retreat + Around the reedy well of Poesy. + I closed the book. Then, knee to neighbor knee, + Sat with the soul of Plato, to repeat + Doctrines, till mine seemed some Socratic seat + High on the summit of Philosophy. + Around the wave of one Religion taught + Her first rude children. From the stars that burned + Above the mountained other, Science learned + The first vague lessons of the work she wrought. + Daughters of God, in whom we still behold + The Age of Iron and the Age of Gold. + + + + +"Quo Vadis" + + + It is as if imperial trumpets broke + Again the silence on War's iron height; + And Caesar's armored legions marched to fight, + While Rome, blood-red upon her mountain-yoke, + Blazed like an awful sunset. At a stroke, + Again I see the living torches light + The horrible revels, and the bloated, white, + Bayed brow of Nero smiling through the smoke: + And here and there a little band of slaves + Among dark ruins; and the form of Paul, + Bearded and gaunt, expounding still the Word: + And towards the North the tottering architraves + Of empire; and, wild-waving over all, + The flaming figure of a Gothic sword. + + + + +To a Critic + + + Song hath a catalogue of lovely things + Thy kind hath oft defiled,--whose spite misleads + The world too often!--where the poet reads, + As in a fable, of old envyings, + Crows, such as thou, which hush the bird that sings, + Or kill it with their cawings; thorns and weeds, + Such as thyself, 'midst which the wind sows seeds + Of flow'rs, these crush before one blossom swings. + But here and there the wisdom of a School + Unknown to these hath often written down + "Fame" in white ink the future hath turned brown; + When every beauty, heaped with ridicule, + In their ignoble prose, proved their renown, + Making each famous--as an ass or fool. + + + + +_AFTERWORD._ + + + _The old enthusiasms + Are dead, quite dead, in me; + Dead the aspiring spasms + Of art and poesy, + That opened magic chasms, + Once, of wild mystery, + In youth's rich Araby. + That opened magic chasms._ + + _The longing and the care + Are mine; and, helplessly, + The heartache and despair + For what can never be. + More than my mortal share + Of sad mortality, + It seems, God gives to me, + More than my mortal share._ + + _O world! O time! O fate! + Remorseless trinity! + Let not your wheel abate + Its iron rotary!-- + Turn round! nor make me wait, + Bound to it neck and knee, + Hope's final agony!-- + Turn round! nor make me wait._ + + * * * * * + + +Transcriber's note + + +The following changes have been made to the text: + +Page 25: "beach" changed to "beech". + +Page 46: "marrige" changed to "marriage". + +Page 53: "slighest" changed to "slightest". + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Idyllic Monologues, by Madison J. 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