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diff --git a/31896.txt b/31896.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1886b7b --- /dev/null +++ b/31896.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: 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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