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diff --git a/42034-0.txt b/42034-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..92f5a50 --- /dev/null +++ b/42034-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1513 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42034 *** + + POEMS + + JOHN W. DRAPER + + + THE POET LORE COMPANY + BOSTON + + + Copyright, 1913, by John W. Draper + + All Rights Reserved + + THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A. + + + + +PREFACE + + +Most of the poems collected in this volume have already seen the light +of print in the _Colonnade_, the monthly publication of the Andiron Club +of New York University. The effort of the author has not been to write +verses especially adapted to the taste of the modern public, but rather +to create "a thing of beauty" from the theme that filled his mind at the +time. Often he has been led into somewhat bold innovations such as the +invention of the miniature ode, and the associating of an idea with a +rime-_motiv_ in the metrical short-stories. While he hopes that the new +forms will justify themselves, he realizes that after all, the poems +must stand or fall in proportion to the amount of pure artistic beauty +contained within them. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + FROM A GRECIAN MYTH 9 + + "CARPE DIEM" 10 + + THE SONG OF LORENZO 12 + + THE SONG OF WO HOU 14 + + THE AURORA 15 + + THE WILL O' THE WISP 16 + + WHEN ON THE SHORE GRATES MY BARGE'S KEEL 18 + + TO SHELLEY 20 + + THOMAS DE QUINCEY 21 + + THE VISION OF DANTE 22 + + THE SPIRIT OF SCHOPENHAUER 24 + + ARTHUR TO GUENEVER 26 + + THE DEATH OF THOMAS CHATTERTON 27 + + A SPRING SONG 28 + + AFTER THE NEO-PLATONISTS 29 + + WHAT WOULDST THOU BE? 30 + + THE PROPHECY OF DAVID 31 + + THE PROPHECY OF SAINT MARK 39 + + THE ÆOLIAN HARP 47 + + THE MAID THAT I WOOED 48 + + IN A MINOR CHORD 49 + + A GLASS OF ABSINTHE 51 + + THE PALACE OF PAIN 53 + + + + +POEMS + + + + +FROM A GRECIAN MYTH + + + A palace he built him in the west, + A palace of vermeil fringed with gold; + And fain would he lie him down to rest + In the palace he built him in the west + Which every heavenly hue had dressed + With halcyon harmonies untold: + That palace, the sun built in the west, + A palace of vermeil fringed with gold. + +_January 3, 1911._ + + + + +"CARPE DIEM" + + + Wake, love; Aurora's breath has tinged the sky, + Mounting in faintly flushing shafts on high + To tell the world that Phoebus is at hand; + And all the hours in a glittering band + Cluster around in sweeping, circling flight + Like angels bathing in celestial light. + See, now with one great shaft of molten gold, + No longer vaporous haze around him rolled, + The King of Day mounts the ethereal height, + Scattering the last dim streamers of the night. + Bow down, ye Persians, on your altared hills; + Worship the Sun-god who gives life, and fills + Your horn with plenteous blessings from on high. + Wake! Wake! before the dawning sunbeams die! + Fling incense on your temple's dying flame; + Sing chants and chorals in his mighty name, + For as a weary traveler from afar, + Or as a sailor on the harbor bar + After long absence spies his native town, + So, with benignant brilliance smiles he down; + Or, like a good king ruling o'er his land, + He sprinkles blessings with a bounteous hand. + And thou, O my beloved, wake! arise! + Has not the sun illumined night's dull skies? + Come, Phoebus' breath has tinged the summer morn. + Come, see the light shafts waver 'mong the corn. + Come, see the early lily's opening bloom. + Come, see the wavering light expel the gloom + From yon dark vale still sunk in misty night. + Oh, watch the circling skylark's heavenward flight, + As, wrapped in hazy waves of shimmering light, + In one grand Jubilate to the sun, + He floods the sky with song of day begun. + But golden morn is never truly fair + Unless with day, thou com'st to weave my hair + With perfumed flowers gathered in the dell + Where sylphs sing sweetly 'bout the bubbling well. + Oh, fill my cup of pleasure with new wine + Which sparkles only where thy soft eyes shine! + O my beloved, haste thee to arise + Before the light has scorched the noonday skies! + The fleeting hours haste the falling sun; + And soon the hour-glass of life is run. + +_August 5 & 6, 1911._ + + + + +THE SONG OF LORENZO + + + Over thy balcony leaning, + Thy languorous glance floats below + Whence arise thousand odours a-streaming, + Thine incense, O goddess of woe! + + A star from the infinite whirling, + Taking flight through the dimness of night, + In an ark through the ether is curling; + And touches thy hair with its light. + + O lady of sadness and sorrow, + Mine anguish, my hope, my despair, + Will the bright-dawning day of to-morrow + Find thee still in that balcony there? + + Near thy casement, an ancient vine groweth, + A ladder that leads thee below; + Were it not for that vine, ah, who knoweth + Thou wert not an _angel_ of woe? + + Come down from thy cloud-bosomed chamber; + Not yet has the moon lit the sky; + On the vine-trellis, carefully, clamber-- + (Is it thou or the wind that doth sigh?) + + Among the copse hedges then darting + Like a ghost at the dawn of the day; + Then, far in the distance departing, + In triumph, I'll bear thee away. + +_October 7, 1911._ + + + + +THE SONG OF WO HOU + +_From the Second Act of Kwang Hsu_ + + + List, O list to the song I sing + To the varying note of the sighing breeze + Blowing in cool, refreshing waves + From the endless realm of the seven seas: + + Waste not life in pursuit of war, + Holding the nations for one short day, + For the death of the king destroys the realm + Which vanishes like the great Mongol's sway. + + Nor hoard up silver in thy vaults, + For the silver once spent, the pleasure is passed, + Or before it is spent, we will mourn thy death: + In the world, neither conquest nor silver last. + + Seek, O seek but an hour's joy; + Pleasure and love though they may not endure + Will soothe life's sorrow and bitterness-- + The present alone of all time is sure! + + Live in the circle of mine arms; + Live in the light of the love in mine eye; + Live in the music of my song; + And, as the music of my song--die! + +_October 22, 1911._ + + + + +THE AURORA + + + Night in purple fringed with the faintest crimson + Conquered the slowly paling glow of sunset; + Softly the western light expired; and yet + Came there no stars forth-- + + O'er the tow'ring cliffs and the vales and waters, + O'er the whisp'ring woodland of swaying hemlocks, + O'er the streamlets trickling down on the crag-rocks, + Came there no moon forth. + + Rose in distance, a dim and fearful spectre; + Rose, accompanied by the forest's singing, + An omen of evil, certainty bringing + Of the divine wroth-- + + Far from northern forests descends some army; + Far in the heavens, their fires are reflected; + Waver the lights in an archway collected, + Sign of divine wroth-- + + Shines the arch in a flick'ring wavy brilliance; + Lighting earth from its quivering span of silver; + Shines the Aurora soft o'er lake and river, + Shines from the far north. + +_December 8, 1911._ + + + + +THE WILL O' THE WISP + + + Over the moorland, over the moor, + Sibilant sounds the rain-storm's sneer, + Sneeringly sounds, yet with a lure + Like the lure of the mermaids of the mere, + Calling the fishermen into their snare-- + Through watery veils, my dim eyes peer, + Where can a light or a path be, where? + Lost on the moor, the moorland drear-- + Lost, and the storm-lion's out of his lair, + Raging rampant with mighty roar; + And the glistening lightning flashes its glare; + And the torrents descend with a wind-driven pour. + Only the lightning to show by its fire + The tears of Heaven flooding Earth's floor; + And, above the sound of the storm-lion's ire, + Shriek the rain-sheets over the tor, + Shriek in a quavering, tuneless choir. + What's that in the distance shining afar? + See it flickering higher and higher, + Light in a broadening, lengthening bar-- + Who is abroad at this lonely hour? + Or is it a cottage high on the scar? + Or does it shine in My Lady's tower + To guide her Lord from lands afar? + Nearer and nearer, I haste--Oh, for power + To reach that light--Oh, to be sure, + My Lady would welcome me in her bower-- + I fall; I sink; it was the marsh's lure-- + +_December 26, 1911._ + + + + +WHEN ON THE SHORE GRATES MY BARGE'S KEEL + + + Weariness, weariness, unending weariness, cease-- + Break thou the heart thou canst not heal! + Bitterness, bitterness, undying bitterness, peace-- + On shore bring to rest my barge's keel, + On that shadowy shore, we seek at life's release; + For thy soul, belovèd, bears Death's seal. + Restlessness, restlessness, wandering restlessness haunts me; + Lacking thy smile, all life's brooklets congeal + Into one image emotional, fearful which daunts me-- + Life's frozen image without an ideal. + Ceaselessly, ceaselessly, ceaselessly, mocking, life taunts me; + Gone all my former purpose and zeal. + Thou wert the pattern that ordered my hopes, my existence; + All that life meant to me, thou didst reveal-- + And now thou art gone, all my nature is lacking subsistence-- + Oh, let this soul from the body steal! + Then to the spectres, Plutonian, silent, ethereal, + Will my sad spirit for thine appeal, + Wandering onward, and onward through realms immaterial + Till at thy feet shall it joyously kneel-- + Then must my weariness, weariness, weariness, cease; + Mended the heart, life could not heal-- + Bitterness, bitterness, ended all bitterness, peace-- + When on the shore grates my barge's keel. + +_January 25, 1911._ + + + + +TO SHELLEY + + + Shelley, thy spirit is set among the stars; + Exalted from the earth, thy soul sprang high + From these drab pavements to the star-lit sky; + In one grand ecstasy, frail mortal bars + Gave 'way; thy soul purged pure of earthly scars-- + No more to languish here with lingering sigh-- + Rose from the foaming gulf where thou didst lie, + Rose from the ragged sail and splintered spars, + Rose to Elysium's fairest bowers serene; + There thine Ideal is ever at thy side; + And soft Apollo's hand doth strike the strings; + And Philomel, behind a bowery screen, + Pours forth Anacreon's blessings on thy bride + Who to thine ear unceasing rapture sings. + +_July 29, 1911._ + + + + +THOMAS DE QUINCEY + + + Through life he strove to reach his longed-for goal, + Living secluded in a forest dell; + It was his wish to learn himself so well + As to command the secrets of the soul; + He studied, wrote, and fashioned out life's scroll + Until the spirit's instincts could he spell; + And then at last diapason swell, + Burst forth his writings, 'round the world to roll! + As organ music sighs through cloistered aisle, + As mighty calms upon the waters steal, + As raging, shrieking tempest-blasts assail; + So doth his magic word our minds beguile + Until, swept onward by each peal on peal, + Our souls are lured beyond this mortal veil. + +_February 4, 1912._ + + + + +THE VISION OF DANTE + + + Upon my breast there weighed ten thousand waves + Of black, unthinkable despair; I floated + In atmosphere of leaden density, + In atmosphere that burned with heat, yet glowed not-- + Then scintillating stars with vivid flashes, + Like sparks from steel struck in a mine's thick blackness, + Tortured my eyes with dazzling glare; and then + Arose a rumbling as of crashing tombs + When the dead waken. Gone my will, my power. + I could nor feel, nor move, nor cry. Creation + Seemed rending downward through eternal space. + The thundering ceased, there shot a wail of pain, + A wail more anguished than arose from Troy + When Hector fell. Fainter, it grew, receding + Through the spheres. The meteors flashed no more. + I floated upward on invisible wings; + The distance purpled in the glow of dawn; + Funereal clouds melted to shimmering gray; + And far away the notes of music sounded, + Echoing onward to Infinity-- + Music celestial of that choir of Heaven + Which sings unendingly about His throne. + Distant, it floated, yet how pure, and clearer + Than clear, rebounding Alpine notes. A present + Foretaste of the sublime beatitudes; + And o'er my visual sky moved forms of beings, + Dark forms in solemn, slow-ascending flight + Toward that rich, purple glow. The vision changed: + So pure the light that darkness sealed my eyelids! + So grand the symphony, I could not hear! + The whole cathedral-vault of Heaven rang + In awful majesty of perfect tone; + And 'past my mortal vision, in endless tide, + Flowing, and flowing upward toward the Light, + Angels innumerable, many-hued, + Winged on, majestic, to the music's time, + Winged on and sang a ceaseless Hallelujah-- + +_February 16, 1912._ + + + + +THE SPIRIT OF SCHOPENHAUER + + + Rush on, rush on, humanity, and fill + Your hours with toil-wrought pain. Rush on, rush on + Upon your prizeless race. Where is your gain + In luxury, or seas of swimming gold, + Or starry ether chained to conquerdom? + You do but add new wheels, new chains to man's + Machine to govern man. You build a tower + More high than Babel's, hoping for earthly heaven + Upon this structure formed of luxuries, + And squander here stored-up celestial bliss + Which your poor Wills would mortgage before gained. + Your little lives were never made for racks + And fettered strainings of this new-wrought world + That quivers your nerves with life-intensity. + Death marks your race upon his hour-glass; + And Madness moves upon your city streets. + Your fevered minds reel downward to the gulf + Where knowledge fails, and luxuries lose charm, + Where passion flickers out, and haste seems slow. + Rush on, rush on, destruction marks your goal. + Rush on, rush on, till Death has breathless felled + The last of all your human progeny; + And leaves him lying there alone--alone, + Like him who first had shape of man--unburied, + Lost in a race with no competitor, + And nothing as the goal--unburied, staring + At the passing clouds, his only winding-sheet. + And then the Great Intelligence--if such + There be--will see his moment's pastime o'er, + And turn his arts to other constellations, + Until in rolling æons e'en his mind + May lose the memory of Man which _was_-- + Rush on, rush on, humanity, and fill + Your hours with toil-wrought pain, rush on, rush on! + Death is your hope, your pilot, and your goal, + And Nothingness your only consolation-- + +_April 26, 1911._ + + + + +ARTHUR TO GUENEVER + + + O Guenever, O Guenever once mine, + God may assoil thy failing, but can I + Whose quivering soul is blasted, and whose sky + Is tempest-rent in agony?--Ah, thine, + Thine might have been the fire that should refine + My table round to silver chastity, + Lofty ensample to mine Hall. Oh, why + Should thy soft light no longer purely shine + For my parched soul to bathe in? Guenever, + My Guenever, yet thou wert only mortal-- + So too am I; and shall thy every tear + Of anguish well, and I not mark? O hear, + And help me, God, to open wide the portal + Of pardon in my heart for Guenever-- + +_April 10, 1912._ + + + + +THE DEATH OF THOMAS CHATTERTON + + + A gutted wick, still flutteringly aflame + Upon a roughened bench--bare walls, bare floor, + And glimmering gray of sunrise--yes, and more-- + Ah, brother, for I call thee by that name-- + Mine eyes tear-blinded to thy figure came, + Thy figure fallen like a flower when hoar + Frosts blight. Thy soul wont like the lark to soar + The light-flushed dawn, now takes a loftier aim. + Thy funeral chant, the slow-entoning wind; + Thy churchèd tomb, the pillared vault of morn; + Thy requiem, the birds: Thus art thou dead, + Pale, spectred want, thy tribute from thy kind; + But God, himself, thy dirges shall adorn + With sighing psalms of every wind that's sped. + +_May 8, 1912._ + + + + +A SPRING SONG + + + The air is vibrant with a sensuous charm; + The grasses nod, and drowse beneath the sun; + Dim, swelling tones upon the breezes run. + In soft security from dread alarm, + The doves are cooing; and the wind with warm + Caress, bears the arbutus' missive, one + Love-wrought line of scented rapture, none + Subtler to woo the honey-hunting swarm. + Let me sigh out my soul in ecstasy, + And breathe forth all the fragrance of my being + Upon the slowly-stirring summer air; + Let me no longer merely scent, hear, see; + But _one_ with Nature, in that Law agreeing-- + That God-willed Law that tincts the Beauty there-- + +_May 18, 1912._ + + + + +AFTER THE NEO-PLATONISTS + + + Night wove her web across the sun that died + In crimson colors; velvet-falling gloom + Hung curtain-wise, and, like some rich perfume, + Formed the soft essence of each wind that sighed. + Out of my casement through the dark, I spied + The moon afloat in tide of golden spume + Like some fair flower opening into bloom; + The earth lay dim; the Heavens starry-eyed; + And breezes softer than a maiden's breath + Hushed all the air. O night, how sweet thy charm! + Yet not thy moon, nor stars, nor wind, each one + Of these shall pass when we are changed by death-- + But rather sleep, thou death-in-life, more warm + Yet not so sweet as sweet oblivion. + +_September 18, 1912._ + + + + +WHAT WOULDST THOU BE? + + + What wouldst thou be? A cloud upon the air + Of summer skies afloat in sunlit charm, + And drinking azure bliss, all free from care, + And nestling near the sun's breast rich and warm? + What wouldst thou be? A comet, trailing eyes + Of thousand terrors through the throbbing night, + And filling earth with fear and vague surprise + To gaze upon thy bright, liquescent light? + What wouldst thou be? A sullen, stalwart cliff + Immovable upon a grassy plain, + Kissed by no clouds, and cold, and stark, and stiff, + Unmelted by the gentle tears of rain? + I ask nor to be gay, nor great nor strong-- + Make me a thought incarnate in some song. + +_May 24, 1912._ + + + + +THE PROPHECY OF DAVID + +A METRICAL SHORT-STORY + + +I + + "The prophecy is overthrown at last! + Thy hopes, my fury-tempered steel shall blast. + Mine, mine, thou art; David, thou shalt not rule. + This curse upon my seed is overpassed; + And he who made it was some dream-crazed fool + Whose soul was such poor stuff as could not mast + Futurity's wide ocean. David shall be + All fetter-bound, my captive prisoned fast!" + Before his tent, King Saul in triumph strode; + About Prince David circled his array. + E'er the new sun had sipped the dew, would he + Close on the fugitive.--"Brain-crazing thirst + Of jealousy that drives me on my way + Of torment, drain this cup; and satiate be. + Thy hope, O line of David, fadeth fast + Like pallid starlight into morning cast." + Saul triumphed to the stars; he gasped for air + As one might gasp upon a mountain's height. + Revenge and hate swept storm-like through the lair + Where lurked his soul shrinking before the blast; + "Mine, mine, by high-enthroned Jehovah's might!" + The words upon his lips were hot and fast.-- + Thine, thine, thou say'st? Him shalt thou never gain! + Thou dream'st a dream, O King; it is in vain. + Once fixed, the star of forecast cannot wane. + Thine, thine, thou say'st? It is in vain, in vain.-- + Was it the echo tortured into shape + Of his own words? Still stood the King aghast. + Did all this prisoning world leave no escape + From evil prophecy to his sworn vow? + He clapped his hands. (How the two sounds contrast!) + A servant came who cringed before his brow. + "Whence came that sighing voice? Let no one go + About my tent." The man was silent. "Now, + My Lord?" he quavered. "All has been quite still." + Saul's forehead frowned: "Return to rest--Or no, + Order my men to muster; 'tis my will + To seize the enemy at once, before + The light of morn. Soon shall I hold my foe; + And when he's bolted safe by gates thick-brassed, + Then may my fury gorge its dread repast." + Again he smiled. Footsteps approached in sore, + Short-tempered strides as one who comes from far. + Still paused the servant for Saul's nod to go-- + And Saul was smiling to the moon's curved bar. + "My Lord, my Lord, these tidings brook no pause!" + As if unwillingly, the King turned slow. + "Philistines plunder thy rich-garnered grain, + And flood thy fencèd towns with waves of fire! + The land is overswept with bloody rain; + Thy towered throne is tottering to the mire!" + Saul's fingers clenched until the blood was near; + He turned away; the moon was hid from sight. + Only upon Prince David's men one gleam + Pierced through the gloomy, cypress-shaded night. + "Lost, lost--so near, and yet in vain, in vain--" + His enemy who should displace his son, + Would still live on while he must go and fight + To save the realm--save, for this hated one? + He spoke; his voice was tense: "Awake my men; + We must be marching far." A lightening beam + Of anguish flashed and re-flashed through his brain; + And back there floated in his oral ken: + "Once fixed, the star of forecast cannot wane; + Thine, thine, thou say'st? Him shalt thou never gain!" + + +II + + Encamped Philistines lay upon the plain + While Israel held the barren hillock's rise. + Like palm trees in the waste, their gay tents shone; + And many camp-fires vied with sunset skies, + Yet fewer on the hills than blazed below + Down in the darkening valley where had grown + As many flickering lights as flakes of snow + That fall on wintry Lebanus. + Alone + Before his tent, strode Saul; his head was bowed + As bows a palm tree to the tempest blast. + Was this deep thought? Or was the spirit cowed + By some high-topping terror? Then at last + Tensely he spoke as to the blackening cloud + That hung above the sunset: "I, so strong, + Yet cannot banish thee, ill-omened shroud, + That round my writhing soul wraps as a pall + Of mute foreboding?--He and Philistine join + In lowering hate against me on the plain-- + God, God, my soul has sought Thy soul; wherein + But Thine Omnipotence can triumph lie? + Yet Thou art wordless.--Shall the King still call + Unto the Silent?" + The clouds were scudding fast + As if breathed through the Heavens by God's sigh. + There turned his eyes; then o'er the valley cast. + "Yet will I win," he cried. "Fate cannot last. + The days are all at odds; the powers conspire + To crush my mortal Will. Oh, I will cast, + And trample dim foreboding in the mire! + Let Fate come on; I'll meet him half the way; + And win----" Ceased in the air his words. + Sudden, + The sky grew dark; a frail gust stirred the fire, + Filling the air with monotone of woe: + "Thou dream'st a dream; it is in vain, in vain; + Him never shalt thou gain----" The sound was flown. + With features fury-tortured, hands clenched fast, + Up leaped he, straining arms stretched forth. + "My foe + I'll rend, rend, rend; hear me ye breeze's blast! + My royal root shall bloom; and David--lost. + Jehovah's evil Providence, I'll cast + Into a sea embalmed in endless frost!" + + +III + + A witch dwelt high upon stern Endor's cliff. + The place was dark: for night had drawn the veiling + Between the mountain peaks that stand still, stiff, + The frozen sentinels of Time; and sailing + Aloft upon the evening air, the smoke + Of hostile camp-fires blackened e'en the night. + Here dwelt this hag to horrid witchcraft given, + A withered, fangless thing whose mutterings spoke + Of all the secrets of Hell's shadow-light. + The wind was coldly wailing. Near her fire, + She crouched. Behind her, through a passage riven + By some swift thunderbolt of wrath divine, + Appeared a man in closely wrapped attire. + Like some lithe snake she turned and cringed + In fear and yet in anger: "By what sign, + And wherefore come you here?" her lips half snarled. + The man unwrapped his mantle deeply fringed; + He threw a purse before her. "For this cost, + Let thine unseen familiar call from rest + The one I name to thee"--She rose all gnarled; + And thus she spake: "Seek not to hide thy mien; + My spirit tells me that thou art--" Her lean + Hand grasped the splintered rock--"Thou art the King! + And whom wouldst thou, my Lord, seek in this fane + Of Chaldee calculations, law and ring?" + "Serve me but well to-night; and be thou wise-- + Charm as I bid; and gratitude shall last + All time from me to thee--fulfill this quest--" + He paused his speech and glanced to either side-- + "Summon me Samuel. Let his spirit rise + Upon the night in wreathèd, hazy guise." + The fire-embers faded red, and died; + King Saul sat staring into sable space; + The witch was mumbling by the fire-side + Whence curled up wisps of smoke. His heart beat fast. + Within the gray appeared a dim-lit face. + In silent terror gazed the King. At last, + Was audible a voice upon the wind: + "What would'st thou, Saul? What would'st thou learn from me?" + "Samuel, 'tis thou--" and then, as in a gust + The storm sweeps down upon the plain, words burst + In hot-lipped passion uncontrolled and fast-- + "Aid me; O, aid me; for I yearn, I thirst + To drink this David's blood. The frenzied lust + Of unfulfilled ambition desert-dry + Burns in my throat. Is my seed barren cast + On earth? Am I condemned to plod, a beast + For any burden? Spectre, tell me why + Should I be King of men, and yet the least + Who cannot even hold or give mine own?" + "The princely David shalt thou never gain; + Thou dream'st a dream, O King, it is in vain-- + Once fixed, the star of forecast cannot wane-- + The star of forecast cannot wane--wane--wane--" + The spectre's voice swept on upon the wind; + The spectre faded into argent gloom. + Down shot a nacreous moonbeam dim-outlined. + The King's eyes fell upon the armied plain. + There rose a shout again, and yet again-- + Below was movement, battling of armed men, + And shrieking clash of arms. How fiercely shines + That flaring light! His camp was sheathed in flame! + In flame that wrote upon his soul the lines: + "Once fixed the star of forecast cannot wane; + Thine all has been in vain, in vain, in vain--" + +_April and May, 1912._ + + + + +THE PROPHECY OF SAINT MARK + +A METRICAL SHORT-STORY + + + Pale night upon its swift, aërial loom + Wove the soft, vaporous substance of the gloom. + The story-sculptured Gothic porch lay dim + And silent in drab haze with which the spring + Covers its carpentry of summer bloom. + A maiden stood within the porch's pale. + "It is the night," she sighed, "Saint Marcus' night + When ghosts of all foredoomed to sickness wing + Into the church to pray; so runs the tale. + Those who make no return shall feel the grim, + Fell scythe of Death within the year. The light + Must flicker up each face as past they sail. + But Gascon, O my Gascon, shalt thou die? + Year after year, I wait--Thy strong-wrought mail + Surely is sword-proof--" And a hovering sigh + Passed through her lips more still than silence, frail. + The lowering mist grew darker. From the womb + Of day, young night was born. The paling light + Was flecked with haze-clouds flickering in the gloom; + And to and fro in stately pageantry, + Strange shadow-shapes like liquid-silver spume + Charmed into lightness, formed an imagery + Of things half-human. + Still the maiden pale + Waited and hung upon each shadowy trail + Of lingering vapors fainting to and fro. + They took the shape of flitting forms in mail + Or monkish cowl. A Merlin-magic spell + Seemed laid upon her. "And art _thou_ to go?" + She whispered as some well-known face amid + The rest swept by her through that portal fell. + And some, not marked for Death, returned again; + And some returned not. O'er the porch's rail, + Leant her light body as she scanned each form, + And tensely looked with terror anxious-eyed. + Why does she shrink with all-consuming pain, + And seek to gaze again? A blinding storm + Of anguish breaks upon her. "O what doom + Is this for thee and me? Why doest thou glide + Into this silent, terror-freighted tomb?" + Pale Gascon's figure fled along the tide-- + Some forms not marked for Death returned again; + But his returned not. Ever anguish-eyed, + She paused and waited--waited in the gloom. + At last the flying cloud flakes ceased to come; + And stilly night arose. "My God, to whom + May I turn now? My richest Self is rent!" + Down from the carven doorway stumbling slow, + The maiden passed, silent with languishment. + Forth from the darkness stepped a man. All dumb, + She gazed in careless stupor such as woe + Stamps on the soul. + "My Lady, may I dare--" + He paused, and gazed, bowed sweepingly and low, + Then spoke again. She stood there sad and fair, + Quivering like a heat-cloud in the air. + "Lady, a traveler asks the way to where + He may find rest and lodgement." One brief while, + She stayed herself in stupor; 'tis but meet, + A soul come slowly from behind the veil. + "Come--come," she said, upon her face a smile + Of sorrow blent with some strange joyance pale. + They passed along the quaintly cobbled street, + And then turned through a lane where high up-reared, + The gloomy oaks and hawthorne hedges greet + The eye on either hand. A cottage stood + With banks of sleepy flowers at its feet; + And all around, the giant, hoary wood + Frowned down its shadows on the garden's bloom, + Frowned down, a fateful harbinger of gloom. + Within the cottage, all was warmth and cheer. + There stayed the mother waiting the return + Of her sweet child. They entered. She did greet + Both with an all-inclusive smile, and clear, + Unchanging peace and kindliness that burn + Before a pure soul's shrine. "Whom have we here, + Marie?--Some houseless stranger gone astray?" + He doffed his feathered cap and bowed full low. + "After long twilight wanderings in despair + Of any hermitage for night, not far + From here, I prayed your daughter's guidance ere + The dark should leave me but a chance faint star + By which to fare." + Beside the oaken board, + They sat and ate the rustic dishes there, + While young Sir Guy poured forth a glittering hoard + Of warriored stories gathered far away: + How one brave knight pierced twenty paynim through; + And how another fled from the affray + To be enslaved by Sarazain corsair. + The maiden hungered for each word. How frail + Be warriors' lives! Upon the thought, she knew + A bitter memory of forecast's gloom. + Oh, she must fly. Oh, something must avail + To give her refuge from this festering sting. + She tried to turn her mind from sorrow's trail, + And gave her thoughts to the narrator's tale. + Now he was speaking of a lord who strove + To win his lady; but the Christian war + Called him to battle for his Faith. He clove + Damascus steel and clinking casques; but e'er + He could return--Sir Guy then ceased; for here + Arose a warning on the mother's brow. + She wished no bitter recollections. Fear + For Marie's plausance was her only care. + Soon all the cottage slept 'mid the garden's bloom; + And fatefully the forest frowned its gloom. + The summer blossomed, faded, and then died; + And still as if enchanted, stayed he there. + They took long walks o'er lonely hill and dale, + And went across the fields with flowers pied. + At times their voices rang upon the air; + But ever when they came upon that vale + Where, in its flowery charm, the cottage stood, + Their talk would fail within the vasty wood. + Thus bathed their souls in summer's sultry tide + Like flashing moths upon the wind that ride. + And hectic autumn came and brought its charm + Of leafy brilliance heralding its death. + Beside the evening blaze, full many a tale + He told of knights in chivalrous career; + But never raised the fluttering alarm + Of the maiden's mother by the faintest breath + Of the warrior lord and his loved one dear. + Then hoary, chilling winter shrouded pale, + Came, and passed by: thus wandered on, the year. + The spring was coldly wrapped in sullen haze; + Even the mounting sun seemed scarce as warm + As during winter. Slowly passed the days + Until the Eve of blest Saint Marcus came. + Among the misty-shadowed forest ways, + Sir Guy did bring the maiden arm in arm. + How oft the times that they had done the same-- + "I've lived a life, careless and debonair, + And know nor fettering bonds nor fear; + Yet would I leave it all without a care--" + She upward glanced and then glanced down as pale + As any flowing haze-wreath in the gloom. + "Oh, what is that?" she cried. The misty veil + Parted and showed a glimpse of rock-built wall. + "'Tis but the village kirk," he said. A pall + Of haze enwrapped them like the Will of Doom. + She stood and faced him, quivering as a sail + That blows uncertain in a varying wind. + "Marie, Marie," he faltered. Then a flare + Of passion burnt his soul out in his eyes. + Downward she glances seeming unaware; + But in her heart beneath the outward guise, + Warring emotions make her spirit quail. + Gascon's loved image into vision flies; + And yet her rising love, she cannot quell + For brave Sir Guy; and then, as when the flail + Lashes the chaff, dim mist before her flies + Into the church in Gascon's image pale. + The year is out. What then, should _he_ avail? + "Marie--" Sir Guy is breathing on the air; + She reads the rest within his flaming eyes. + "Yes--yes," she murmurs. + "O despair, despair! + I have no hope; you fell into the snare!" + His eyes dilated with mad light, he cries. + "I, I am Gascon whose memory you dare + To flout for any knight who stays a year + Within your sight! I am undone. My doom + Is set. These fateful forests be my bier! + Your lover is a wreath of shadowy air-- + Go, search him in the western tempest's lair! + For me, I hasten from this mortal gloom, + Sound mine own knell, and say mine own last doom!" + She shrinks away, with inward tumult pale. + His voice is still. She hears a something fall. + With anguish in her eyes, she turns. There, all + Stretched out upon the ground, he lies. A well + Of ruby richness pulses with his frail, + Departing breath. In Merlin-magic spell + Of agony, she stares into the gloom. + Pale figures, children of the mist-waves' womb + In through the church's doorway seem to sail; + Spectral, they vanish in their destined tomb. + She moves; she starts; she cries, as one to whom + Has come the horrid messenger of doom: + "Is that _my_ figure floating in the gloom? + Shall my life fail; is this its funeral knell?" + Pale night upon his swift, aërial loom, + Wove the soft, vaporous substance of her doom. + +_September and October, 1912._ + + + + +THE ÆOLIAN HARP + + + Into my wildly whispering heart, + His song the warm sirocco sings, + Whirring, whirring-- + And all the artifice of mine art + Comes on the wind by the wind to part, + Part from my whirring strings-- + + Sometimes I sing a wild, weird tale + That like a wandering phantom wings + Whirring, whirring-- + And sometimes only a lonely wail + Wells as an echo all wildly frail, + Frail as my whirring sings-- + + My notes are like the willow-wands + That lightly wave before, behind.-- + Whirring, whirring-- + Each whispering harp-string ever responds, + Slave of the breeze in his servile bonds, + Slave of the whirring wind-- + + Soft the sirocco sighs his tune, + And a waning, funeral chant it wings-- + Whirring, whirring-- + The song shall die as joys die--soon, + Whelming its melody into a swoon, + Swoon of the whirring strings-- + +_October 24 & 25, 1912._ + + + + +THE MAID THAT I WOOED + +AN ODE IN MINIATURE + + + I lie upon my couch by night, + And dream, and dream-- + Until the quavering shadow-light + Her portraiture doth seem-- + Until the breeze's moaning saith + In limpid-lapping stream, + The same denial she answereth. + + I lie upon my couch by night, + And yearn, and yearn-- + Until the flickering breeze's flight + Bring kisses that would burn-- + Until my soul could moan with pain-- + Oh, wherefore should she spurn + My love again, and yet again? + + I toss upon my couch by night; + I yearn; I yearn-- + Until I see the glimmering light + Upon the east return-- + Until with passion-pulsing breath, + I pray my lady stern: + "Oh, let me win thee, sweetest Death--" + +_December 27, 1912._ + + + + +IN A MINOR CHORD + +AN ODE IN MINIATURE + + + I gave my soul to dreams sense-glorified; + I bathed in bliss-exhaling balm. + I sailed through boundless ether Tyrian-dyed, + And breathed the luscious calm. + Tense were my heart-strings tuned; + And, madly quavering as I sighed, + Their music sadly waxed and wailed--then swooned, + And floated feebly down in ebbing tide. + + I gave my soul to battle. I defied + All the unlovable in life; + I could have bartered Heavenly bliss and died + Willingly in the strife! + To elevate mankind, + Mine inward power, I strove to guide; + I harnessed the puissance of the mind, + And toward that end all be magnified! + + I gave my soul to dreams sense-glorified + Till sated pleasure sank to pain. + I gave my soul to battle. I defied + The sordid; but in vain-- + Still, still, my spirit wept; + Its goal was hopeless, deified. + Oh, would this saddened soul had ever slept + Unborn; for slumber is a painless guide. + +_December 3, 1912._ + + + + +A GLASS OF ABSINTHE + +AN ODE IN MINIATURE + + + It lay within a glass of green, + A sinuous glass of subtle green. + It sparkled with a slimy sheen. + A languorous fascination gleamed + With glint of lapis lazuli; + And from its silken surface streamed + The scent of musk from Araby. + Ah--was that music only dreamed + That tinct the drowsy scene? + And was my fancy false, or seemed + The glass to lure me with its limpid green? + + My fingers fluttered to the stem, + To kiss the fluted, serpent stem, + As pious Persians kiss the hem, + Enwove with many a wanton trick, + Of Persia's deified Sofi. + I could not see; the light seemed thick + As perfume from the balsam-tree, + Or incense in a basalic + When sounds a requiem. + I drank the draught; my sense was sick; + My quivering fingers crushed the curling stem. + + I dropped the cup of crystal-green; + I scattered fragments emerald-green-- + False emeralds with a glassy sheen. + Upon the pavement, how they gleamed! + I flung the bits of serpent-stem + Upon the table beryl-seamed. + I swept them with my garment's hem-- + Some say I laughed--That night, I dreamed + Of Araby--a scene + Of sleepy charm whence fragrance streamed; + And in mirage, the desert blossomed green. + +_January 16, 1913._ + + + + +THE PALACE OF PAIN + +A CYCLE + + +I + + A soul was once incarnate in a man; + And this unseen, incarnate thing was mine; + And, as my body grew, the soul began + To sip more fondly of the scented wine + And sugared blisses life can give at call. + It languished amid luxuries divine + Showering richly like the leaves that fall + Upon the sensuous-silent autumn air. + Pale, fleeting Pleasure took my thoughtless all; + For love, unselfish, passion-fervid, rare, + Vibrated through the discords of dull time, + Blending them into harmony; for where + Life jangled harsh, a mother's care would chime + More blissful chords than can be told in rime. + + +II + + The gentle harmonies of love declined, + And swooned into a dull, funereal moan, + And faintly floated onward with the wind. + The symphony was gone; I stayed alone + In all-enshrouding, opiate sadness bound. + I did not scream; I did not weep nor groan. + My soul was locked in stupor whence it found + Only barred gates across dim vaults; and jangling, + Discordant chaos stung me like a wound. + I could not think; I could not hope; the wrangling + Of jarring sounds oppressed me till my brain + Was lost within a labyrinth, all-entangling-- + But this I learned although my powers did wane; + That Love through Death transmutes itself to pain. + + +III + + I sank my soul upon a sea of dreams; + I floated through aërial heights divine + Where saffron clouds a-glint with amber beams + Shimmering strangely, stretched in shining line. + I winged my way to Heaven's very dome, + And on Hell's portal read the horrid sign; + I danced upon the wavelet's crested foam, + And swept tempestuous on the stormy wind. + On earth like some vague terror, did I roam + While moaning misery pursued behind. + Whene'er I sang, my song had one refrain + With anxious care and artifice refined, + Until my soul's accompaniment would wane + And wax to one _motiv_: unending pain. + + +IV + + I broke my dungeon-sepulchre of dreams; + I climbed the winding stair to palace halls + Where all the air was soothed by incense-streams; + And every sight within those magic walls + Was bright with radiant, opalescent sheen + While lulling on the ear, light music falls + Of such a melody as ne'er has been + Unless by fays on fairy lyres played. + There Pleasure gowned in iridescent green, + Reclines upon her couch with gems inlaid, + And gently beckons with a sinuous arm-- + But all the sumptuous excesses fade; + The walls seem dim; the music has no charm, + For Pleasure's Palace is a place of harm. + + +V + + I plunged through rooms of deepest Tyrian dye; + I tore the veils from mysteries aside; + But grinning pleasure ever met mine eye. + In anguished ecstasy of bliss, I cried; + And through the halls, I heard the echo wane + Until the last, most distant answer sighed: + "The spirit of the world is pain, pain, pain--" + Then from the drowsy distance, there did well + A voice as of a witch before her fane, + Soft-muttering, some Heaven-blasting spell: + "The world is all in vain, the merest tool + Of accident, an anteroom to Hell, + A counterfeit but fairly glinting pool-- + Snatch all the joy thou canst, thou human fool!" + + +VI + + And then I searched within myself to find + The _how_ and _why_ of all I heard and saw. + I found but silent Nothing. Wearied, blind, + I strove to learn the omnipresent Law + On whose foundation all these chambers lean. + I found within the artifice no flaw; + And not the slightest secret could I glean. + I searched the winding, labyrinthine halls, + And scanned colossal colonnades between + Whose rows unending space is seen that palls + The straining sight, yet thither lures the eye + With fairy sheen. Through all the outer walls, + No doorway pierced to water, earth or sky: + Is there an answer to the _how_ and _why_? + + +VII + + And yet I am condemned to live, to be. + What horrid Fate decreed it? Life is blind, + And cannot see the Truth. Oh, but for me + To know, to solve this riddle of the mind! + And yet no whisper through the age's gloom + Has taught the latent answer that I pined; + And finally in a sombre-tinted room, + I sank in languor on the marble floor, + And faintly wondered at my destined doom. + Upon my weary spirit, came once more + A faint remembrance of a former time, + A faint remembrance, I had known before, + That clung about me like an ancient rime: + Death is to the soul but a change of clime. + + +VIII + + Then from the body tear this soul away! + Let me seek death; I'll force the hand of Fate! + I will not suffer more. The game I play + Is held against Creation, and the weight + Of all the ages hangs with Fate. Serene, + Stands Death in sable gossamer bedight, + And with maternal arms would intervene, + And seeks to press me silent to her breast. + Quick, let me free my soul from pain! The scene + Is fair--Oh, let this weariness be blest! + But hold--I still may keep this bitter strain + Of self-tormenting torment e'en in rest-- + Death summons up the things of life again; + And pain of life transmutes all death to pain. + + +IX + + Oh, but to float away upon the night, + To lose my soul upon her silent dark, + To feel myself a Nothing, a frail, light, + Aërial Emptiness, a fleeing spark + Of sunshine seeking on the endless void, + Some rest, some painless silence as its mark. + Like an oblivion-destined asteroid, + So would I that my soul should haste away + From all the ordinary, earthly, cloyed, + From all the tawdriness of living day; + But still I know I cannot cease to be, + Though I condemn my body back to clay-- + O thrice accursèd immortality + That dooms me life through all Eternity! + + +X + + O maddening horror in a smiling guise! + Alive or dead, I am a slave to life. + The later torment with the former vies + To wring my still-undying soul with strife. + I have a debt; the creditor is Time: + "My bond, my bond," he cries, and holds the knife + To wound yet never kill. But what my crime? + I fled those pleasure-haunted halls where vile, + Sweet-scented blisses soothed to pain. A clime + More active came within my ken. The dial + Of hours hurried round. The rich, new wine + Of busy life, I found. A steady file + Swept past of mortal things with souls like mine-- + Yet what the purpose of their streaming line? + + +XI + + With nervous yearning, haste they on their way: + A few direct and rule the work of all; + But most are bringing mortar, stone and clay-- + (And some there are that rise, and others fall; + And they are seen no more--we know not why.) + But all are working on the palace wall; + And some invent designs to please the eye; + And some would fain extend the rooms to win + New-fashioned blisses. A soft-moaning cry + Is vibrant in the air. High-pitched and thin, + It quavers dimly, then descends again, + And echoes aimless through the busy din: + Mankind would add to pleasure, but in vain-- + For Pleasure's Palace is a house of pain. + + +XII + + They strive; they strive, heap luxury on bliss, + And worship Pleasure as their goddess-queen. + Ah, take who will the subtle harlot's kiss! + Yes, seize thy moment's sweetness--then, I ween, + A pageantry of pain, such throbbing throes + As rive the soul, and cut the quick with keen, + Imprisoned edges till the life-blood flows. + Man little knows it; but two aims has he: + By present anguish, store up future woes, + By present anguish, pain posterity. + The quest for pleasure is a quest in vain; + Pleasure is Nothing in Eternity. + Men rather act than think, for thought is pain, + And action is the opiate of the brain. + + +XIII + + Shall I play Roman, face and fight these ills, + Pretend that I _can_ fight and still may win? + A child his dozen mimic soldiers drills, + And six with six, the battle they begin. + Some victors, and some vanquished; some he slays-- + But then the soldiers are mere toys of tin-- + And carelessly upon the ground, he lays + Vanquished and victors on one common plane; + And takes some other toy and laughs and plays-- + Yes, like that soldier, may I fight, and gain + Great victories. Oh, I may stare my Fate + Between the eyes, and drink whole draughts of pain; + With Stoic-strength, may struggle, and may hate; + But where's the payment that I vainly wait? + + +XIV + + I dare not ponder on humanity; + Myself, I dare not ponder, nor my goal. + Oh, would that I were lost upon that sea + Into whose silence, Lethe's currents roll. + Upon its bosom, would that I pressed mine, + Then might some kindly power transform this soul + Into forgetfulness. Or would some wine + Were brewed with musk or attar of the rose + And colored with a tint incarnadine, + And so compounded that a dreamless doze + Would come from one red, richly-scented draught. + Or would that some unmoving glacier froze + My soul within its crystal mine.--No craft + Can save me from this cup of pain unquaffed. + + +XV + + Oh, every soul is only pain embalmed; + And every torment is but bliss's sting. + Humanity lies gasping and becalmed + Upon a torrid ocean; and no wing + Of albatross is seen--nor e'er was seen-- + Our worldly hope is dead--yet rules as king. + Dust, ashes, ashes, dust, upon these lean + All of the upward struggle of mankind; + And pain, unending pain, is all they glean. + Goddess of pain, O mistress of the mind, + Art thou the Soul of life? Or hast thou palmed + Thyself on men once happy? Have we pined + Forever? Can our spirits e'er be calmed; + Or _is_ the spirit only pain embalmed? + + +XVI + + But what of art? Can art no solace hold, + No soothing spikenard, soporose drug or wine + To woo the wounded soul? Must men grow old + In agony? Or has some thought divine + Slipped down upon us, cool, compassionate? + But what of art? Can art's frail power refine + Our souls into that Oversoul, and mate + The each with All in one, sublime design? + Art is the vision of that Truth innate + In man. A soul, prismatic, crystalline, + May show each glow of being with each strife + At once reflected and becalmed, and twine + Then into some new, inward world all rife + With spirit blisses of a spirit life. + + +XVII + + Eternal art can triumph over pain; + And once we breathe the lotus-fragrance deep, + The world may scream with iron tongue in vain, + For all the argosy is soothed to sleep. + The ships may rot forever on the sand; + And far off Greece may wait and faintly weep. + More rare than spice from silken Samarkand, + More sorrow-sweet than young Francesca's tears, + More fair than yearning night upon the strand, + And more majestic than Anchises' years: + Beauty's the image, not the thing. 'Tis shod + With rainbow lightnings of the hopes and fears, + And knows each step humanity may plod. + Art is the Beauty of the face of God. + + +XVIII + + But still I live within this place of pain; + And still I seek for an eternal aim, + For, after death, mere Beauty is in vain. + What is there deeper flowing from this same + Unceasing spring? Quick, let me tear the veil! + There sat a statue on an ebon frame-- + A statue in that house of pain. So pale + The brow and still the nostrils, Death it seemed; + But in the face, I read that holy tale + That lay on the Madonna's face where gleamed + The Heavenly light from the young Christ's aureole. + Through all the halls of pain, the brilliance beamed; + And every discord out of chaos stole + To swell the throbbing organ's thunderous roll. + + +XIX + + Faith is the master-spirit of the mind. + All else is vanity, the preacher saith; + And worldly knowledge painful is and blind. + Oh, be thyself, and trust thyself. The breath + Of God is breathed on thee. Believe, and will; + And all that thou wouldst have in life, in death, + Is thine. I heard a rustling like a rill + Upon its leafy bed--just such a sound + As tincts the shadow of a song with skill + More intricate than arabesques, and bound + With tender, faintly-flowing melodies-- + But whence the choir sang, I never found. + Mayhap at last, myself may learn the ties + Wherewith are bound those lingering harmonies. + + +XX + + And when the soul has torn the fleshly veil, + And moves majestic to that monotone, + When echo-like upon the air I sail + Whither the wingèd skylark, Faith, has flown, + And borne me fainting upward; then my soul + May seek the God of art which silent, lone, + Broods on a crystal-argent sea, the goal + Of all humanity. Incarnate pain + Is calmed to everlasting peace. There roll + No waves upon the sea. Charmed has it lain + Through incommensurate time; charmed will it lie + Through all eternity; and there again + Upon my soul in silence wrapped, shall sigh, + Most beautiful--a mother's lullaby. + +_December, 1912._ + +_January, 1913._ + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by John William Draper + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42034 *** |