Gunga Din in Hell.
“An’ I’ll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!”
_Kipling._
Green crawling slime, that bubbles clotted blood;
White wraiths of fetid steam that rise and curl,
And blood-red mist, convolving in a swirl
Of lurid heat, o’er that putrescent flood;
And under all, a seething, rotting mud--
Torn souls that once were men--flayed, bleeding souls,
Souls drenched with gore from gangrenous bullet-holes,
Green, sightless eyes--and blood, and blood, and blood!
Lo! Gunga Din! He cometh smeared with gore
That dribbles from cleft forehead to the skin
Of putrid drink, one black foot on Hell’s shore,
One in the slime. A flayed hand toward him grasps,
And one blind, shattered head that bleeds for sin
Bloats forth its purple tongue in strangling gasps.
Cui Bono?
Nay, vex me not with dead theologies,
With creeds outworn and vain polemic strife;
To solve the riddles of some future life
Why chill my soul with stark philosophies?
What then to me is Aristoteles,
Plato, or he who had the shrewish wife
(Small blame to her!), or Pyrrho’s doubtings, rife
With contradiction’s maziest subtleties?
Only one thing is sure--they all are dead;
Sere theologians, wranglers of the schools,
Philosophers and creedsmen have surcease
From war, their dust no better than the fools’
Wherewith ’tis mingled undistinguishèd.
So, vex me not, but go your ways in peace...
The Bride-Bed.
She died and by her bed I sat all night.
I had no tears; it was o’er soon to weep
In those first hours; my heart was cleft too deep
For pain to harbor there. A waning light
From the old moon englorified her bright
And unadornèd hair, a heavy braid
Across her breast. I watched her, unafraid
To warm that leaden hand so waxen-white.
This was her Bride-bed--Death her lover was
As she had promised I sometime should be.
She lay entwinèd in his arms, and I
Kept watch, and a great cold came over us...
At last the untroubled stars that gazed on me
Waxed pale and faded in the morning sky.
Dead Loves.
Long summer nights with moon that yearneth down
On endless passion, through uncounted years,
On flames of love more hot than all those tears
Of ardent pain it worketh aye can drown;
Long summer nights in vast Assyria’s town,
At white-walled Athens, in imperial Rome,
Or midst dim Northern forests, by the foam
Of seas unsailed ere Arthur won renown.
Moonlight and leafshade--nights full sweet and long:
“O Love, my love, how white thy breast! Thy kiss
Upon my mouth, how mad!”--“And thou, how strong
Thine arms! I fear thy passion!”--“Tell me, must
Not Time and Death bow down to love like this?...”
Now, even their graves are crumbled into dust.
Death, the Friend.
Full long these dreary weeks of dule I spend
On this my narrow bed of bitter pain.
Alike to me are sunshine, cloud or rain,
The day’s beginning or its sombre end;
Even sleep itself doth little comfort lend,
For in vast dreams the torment comes again
Vague and distorted by my feverish brain
Until I wake and long for Death the Friend.
Death! I do fear that empty, breathless Night
Thou bringest, not the sweat and agony,
The struggling breath, the terror or the sight
Of Earth and all my being leaving me;
For couldst thou promise an awakening--
Then, Death, enfold me with thy shadowy wing!...
La Jeune Fille.
“Elle était bien belle, le matin, sans atours!”
How fair, at dawn, how simply did she go,
Watching her new-born garden flowrets thrive,
Spying her bees in their ambrosial hive,
Ling’ring beside each hedge and hawthorn row!
How fair at eventide lead on the maze
Of the mad dance, whilst in her massy hair
Sapphires and roses woven crowned more fair
That face illumined by the torches’ blaze!
How fair was she beneath her pure soft veil,
Outfloating wide upon the listening night;
Silent we stood and far, to watch that sight,
Happy to glimpse her in the starlight pale.
How fair was she! Each day some sweetness gave,
Some vague dear hope, pure thoughts and free from care.
Love, love was all she lacked, to grow more fair.
Peace!... Through the fields they bear her to the grave!...
Lucie.
Mes chers amis, quand je mourrai,
Plantez un saule au cimetière.
J’aime son feuillage éploré,
La pâleur m’en est douce et chère,
Et son ombre sera légère
A la terre où je dormirai.
_Alfred de Musset._
Dear friends belovèd, when I die,
Plant near my grave a willow-tree.
I love its pale, down-drooping leaves,
Its grace is sweet and dear to me,
And light its tender shade will be
Upon the green earth where I lie...
One night we were alone and by her side
I sat, she drooped her head and as a-dream
Over the spinet let her fair hand glide.
So soft the murmur was it scarce could seem
More than a zephyr whispering in the reeds,
Soft moving lest the birds, warm-nested there
Should hear and wake. The soft, voluptuous air
Of that sweet summer night breathed forth to us
From flowery chalices beside the glimmering stream.
Far in the silent grove the chestnut-trees
And ancient oaks swayed their sad branches slow;
We sat and, listening to the amorous breeze,
Through the half-opened casement let the low
Sweet breath of Spring float in. The winds were still,
The plain deserted. All alone we were
And very young... Lucie was blonde and pale
And pensive. As I musing gazed on her
No sweeter eyes than hers e’er pierced the deep
Of purest heaven, or mirrored back its blue.
I with her beauty drunken was; in all
The world I loved but her, and yet so true
So pure she was I loved her as one loves
A sister, in all innocence. We two
Sat silent and alone; my hand touched hers,
I watched the dreams upon her face and knew
In my own soul how strong to heal distress
Are those twin signs of peace and happiness,
Youth in the heart, youth mirrored on the brow.
The moon, uprising in the cloudless skies,
With silver fret-work flooded her, and now
Her smile became an angel’s smile; she sang,
Seeing her image shining in mine eyes.
* * * * *
Daughter of sorrow, Harmony! Harmony!
Sweet speech for love by Nature set apart!
To us thou camest from Italy--to her
From Heaven. Sweet language of the heart,
In thee alone that maiden, Thought, afraid
And hurt by even a passing cloud, may speak,
Yet keep her modest veil, and sheltered be.
Who knows the mysteries that a child may hear
And utter in thy sighs divine, like thee
Born of the air he breathes, sweet as his voice,
And sad as his sad heart? A glance, a tear
Is seen, yet all the rest is mystery
Unknown to the careless world, like that of waves,
Of night, or of the unfathomed wilderness...
We were alone and sad; I looked on her.
The dying echo of her song seemed still
To vibrate in our souls. All passionless
Drooping upon my heart, she leaned her head.
The cry of Desdemona didst thou hear
In thee, dear girl? I know not--only this,
That thou didst weep, and on thine all-adored
Sweet mouth in sadness let me press mine own;
Thy sorrow was it that received my kiss...
So kissed I thee, all cold and colourless;
So, two short months being sped, wert thou
Laid in the grave; so didst thou fade in death
Oh my chaste flower! And thy dying was
A smile as sweet as thy fair life had been.
God took thee pure as when He gave thee breath.
* * * * *
Sweet mystery of the home of innocence,
Songs, dreams of love, laughter and childish words,
And thou, all-conquering charm, unknown and mild,
Yet strong to make even Faustus pause before
The sill of Marguerite at thy command,
Where are you all? Peace to thy soul, oh child!
Profoundest peace be to thy memories!
Farewell! On summer nights thy fair white hand
Will rest no more upon the ivory keys...
* * * * *
Dear friends belovèd, when I die,
Plant near my grave a willow-tree.
I love its pale, down-drooping leaves
Its grace is sweet and dear to me,
And light its tender shade will be.
Upon the green earth where I lie....
Luctus in Morte Passeris.
“Lugete, O Veneres Cupidenesque, et quantum est hominum venustiorum.”
_C. Valerius Catullus._
I bid you all, ye Loves and Cupids, mourn,
With what of pitying kindness men may know.
The sparrow of my little maid forlorn
Ay, even my sweetheart’s sparrow, cherished so,
(Loved like her very eyes, ah heavy woe!)
Is dead. Full sweet was he, and knew her well
As she her mother knew, nor long would stray
From her fair breast, save here to hop, or there;
His pretty pipings were for her alway.
Yet now he wings the shadowy gloom of Hell,
Whence none return to breathe Earth’s pleasant air.
But curses on thee, dark and evil shade
So to engulf all things that lovely be!
Thou’st robbed her sparrow from my little maid;
(Alas the crime, the sparrow stark and dead!)
And now with swollen eyes, because of thee
She weeps, alack, nor will be comforted.
Death in December.