Light and beauty from thine eyes,
But as I cast the yellow corn
Through thy gold ring, each one dies.
Slowly creaked the mill, then faster
Whirled the giant arms on high;
Shuddering, hears the trembling maiden
Crushing bones, and infant's cry.
Now there is a deathlike silence,
Thekla hears her heart alone--
Again the weird one flings the corn,
Again that plaintive infant's moan.
Two--three--four--the mill goes faster,
Whirling, crushing.--Ah! those cries!
"Bride, thou'lt never be a mother;
Thy beauty's saved--the seventh dies!"
Seven turns the mill hath taken,
Seven moans hath Thekla heard;
Then all is still. The moon from Heaven
Shines down calm upon the sward.
"Now take back thy ring in safety;
Mother's joy or mother's woe,
Wasting pain or fading beauty,
Maiden, thou shalt never know!
"Home, before the morning hour!"
Home in terror Thekla flies,
Shuddering, she hears behind her
Laugh of scorn, infants' cries.
THE BRIDAL
The guests have met in the castle hall.
Who rides through the castle gate,
With banner and plume? The young bridegroom
And a hundred knights in state.
The guests have met in procession fair,
Around the bride they stand;
The myrtle wreath on her golden hair,
The bride ring on her hand.
So bright her beauty she dazed men's eyes,
Like the blinding, glorious sun.
"Never knight," they murmured, "gained such prize
Since ever the world begun."
Seven maidens held up her train of white,
Inwrought with the precious gold,
And over it flowed in a stream of light
Her long, bright hair unrolled.
Seven pages, each with a lighted torch,
Precede her as she moves
With the long array to the ancient church
Within the beechen groves.
The priest stood mute with the holy book,
And scarce could utter a prayer,
As that lovely vision of light and youth
Knelt down before him there.
She vows the vows. Erick bends to place
The gold ring on her hand,
Prouder then, as he gazed on her face,
Than if King of the Swedish land.
The lights were bright in the hall that night,
But brighter Thekla's glance,
As in wedded pride, by Erick's side,
She led the bridal dance.
"Drink! and wave high the flaming pines;
God bless the bride so fair!
May a goodly race, like clustering vines,
Twine round the wedded pair!"
The "vivas" rung for the noble race,
Till they stirred the banners of gold,
And the bridegroom bow'd with a stately grace;
But the bride sat mute and cold--
For the air seemed heavy as that of graves,
And the lights burned lurid and chill;
And she hears the dash of the far-off waves,
And the creak of the mighty mill.
The "vivas" sound like an infant's wail,
Or a demon's laugh of scorn.
"Oh! would to God," she murmured, all pale,
"That I had never been born!"
THE PUNISHMENT.
Full seven years have passed and flown--
But years o'er Thekla lightly pass,
As rose leaves, falling one by one,
From roses on the summer grass.
"It is our bridal day," she said;
"We're bidden to a christ'ning feast
I'll wear the robe I had when wed,
The robe I love of all the best.
"I'll wear my crown of jewels rare:
On brow and bosom let them shine;
Yet diamonds in my golden hair
Were dull beside these eyes of mine!"
She laughed aloud before the glass.
"Some women's hair would turn to grey
With cares, ere half the years did pass
I've numbered since my wedding day.
"But they were mothers--fools, I trow.
Life's current all too quickly runs;
I would not give my beauty now
For all their goodly race of sons."
She sprang upon her palfrey white,
While Erick held the broidered rein,
And showered down her veil of light
Upon the flowing, silky mane.
The guests rose up in wonderment--
Such beauty never had been seen--
And bowed before her as she went,
As if she were a crownéd queen.
The knights pressed round with words of praise,
And murmured homage in her ear,
And swore to serve her all their days,
E'en die for her--would she but hear.
But vainly, all in vain they sought
One answering smile of love to win.
Upon her soul there lieth nought
Save that one only, deadly sin.
"I pray you now I fain would have
So fair an angel hold my child,"
The mother said; and smiling, gave
To Thekla's arms her infant mild.
Advancing slow, with stately air,
Beside the font she took her place,
The infant, like a rosebud fair,
Nestling amid her bosom's lace.
She lays it on the bishop's arm,
The while he makes the blessed sign,
And sains it safe from ghostly harm
By Father, Spirit, Son Divine.
Then reaches out her hands again
To take it--but with moaning sound,
Like one distraught with sudden pain,
Falls pale and fainting to the ground.
"She has no children," Erick said,
As pleading for the strange mischance;
"This only grief since we were wed
Has saddened sore her life, perchance."
"She has no children!" murmured low
The happy mothers, gathered near;
"No child to love her--bitter woe;
No child to kiss her on her bier!"
But graver matrons shook the head:
"That witchlike beauty bodes no good;
Witch hands can never hold, 'tis said,
A child just blessed by holy rood."
They raised her up; she spake no word,
But slowly drooped her tearful eyes;
The rushing wave was all she heard,
The whirling wheels, the infants' cries.
And Erick said, with bitter smile:
"You play the mother all too ill;
Madonnas do not suit your style."
Her thoughts were by the lonely mill.
They set her on her palfrey white;
She heeds not all their taunting sneers,
But showers down her veil of light,
To hide the conscious, guilty tears.
They rode through all his vast estate
But rode in silence--he behind,
Sore pondering on his childless fate,
With ruffled brow and moody mind.
They rode through shadowy forest glades,
By meadows filled with lowing kine,
By streams that ran like silver threads
Down from the dark-fringed hills of pine.
"Alas!" he thought, "no child of mine
When I am dead shall take my place;
Must all the wealth of all my line
Pass to a hated kinsman's race?"
"Now, by my sword, I'd give up all,
Wealth, fame, and glory, all I've won,
So that within my father's hall
Beside me stood a noble son!"
He saw her white veil floating back
Along the twilight gray and still,
Like ghostly shadows on her track--
Her thoughts were by the lonely mill.
And now they neared the ancient church,
The ancient church where they were wed!
The moonlight full upon the porch
Shone bright, and Erick raised his head.
O Heaven! There upon the lawn
The palfrey's shadow stands out clear,
But Thekla's shadow--it is gone!
Nor form nor floating veil is there.
He spurred his steed with bitter cry:
"Could she have fallen in deathly swoon?"
But no, there, slowly riding by,
He sees her by the bright full moon.
With gesture fierce he seized her rein:
Woman or fiend! Look, if you dare,
The palfrey casts a shadow plain,
But yours--O horror!--is not there!"
She gathered close her silken veil,
And wrung her hands, and prayed for grace,
While down from Heaven the calm moon pale
Looked like God's own accusing face.
He flung aside the broidered rein:
"O woe the day that we were wed!
A witch bride to my arms I've ta'en,
Branded by God's own finger dread."
She followed, weeping, step by step,
Led by the unseen hand of Fate,
Still keeping in the shadows deep,
Until they reached the castle gate.
He strode across the corridor,
And rolling back upon its ring
The curtian of her chamber door,
He motioned her to enter in.
She laid aside her silken veil,
The golden circlet from her head,
And waited, motionless and pale,
Like one uprisen from the dead.
Could she deny, e'en if she would?
The moonlight wrapped her like a sheet.
And in the accusing light she stood,
As if before God's judgment-seat.
Brief were his questions, stern his wrath;
A doom seemed laid on her to tell,
How, with the ring of plighted troth,
Her hand had wrought the murd'rous spell.
How she had marred his ancient line,
And broke the life-chord that should bless,
And sent the seven fair souls to pine
Back to the shades of nothingness--
That so her beauty might not wane,
Her glorious beauty--fatal good;
Yet one she would not lose to gain
The rights of sacred motherhood.
And still she told the tale as cold--
The witch-fire burning in her eyes--
As if it were some legend old,
Drawn from a poet's memories.
He cursed her in his bitter wrath,
He cursed her by her children dead,
He cursed the ring of plighted troth,
He cursed the day when they were wed.
Fierce and more fierce his accents rose:
"Away!" he cried, "false hag of sin:
I see through all this painted gloze
The black and hideous soul within.
"Oh! false and foul, thou art to me
A devil--not a woman fair!
Like coiling snakes I seem to see
Each twisted tress of golden hair.
"I hate thee, as I hate God's foe.
Forth from my castle halls this night:
I could not breathe the air, if so
Thy poison breath were here to blight."
She cowered, shivered, spake no word,
But fell before him at his feet,
As if an angel of the Lord
Had smote her at the judgment-seat.
And on her heart there came at last
The dread, deep consciousness of sin,
That ghastly spectre which had cast
Upon her life this suffering.
And from her hand the gold ring fell--
Her wedding ring--and broke in twain;
The fatal ring that wrought the spell,
The accursed ring of love and pain.
The spell seemed broken then: the word
Came, softly breath'd: "Oh, pardon! grace!"
And pleadingly to her dread lord
She lifted up her angel face--
With golden tresses all unbound,
Still lovely through her shame and loss,
Around his feet her arms she wound,
As sinner might around the cross.
He dashed her twining hands aside,
He spurned her from him as she knelt.
"O hateful beauty!" Erick cried,
"The source of all thy hellish guilt.
"Pray for a cloud that can eclipse
That long, white streak of moonlight pale.
No word of grace from mortal lips
Can bring a ruined soul from Hell.
"Away! I would not pardon, not
(I swear it by the holy rood)
Unless upon that hated spot
An angel with a lily stood!"
She shuddered in the moonlight pale,
That doomed and banned her from his sight
Then rose up with a bitter wail,
And fled away into the night!
THE EXPIATION.
Full seven times the summer sun
Had waked the dreaming summer flowers,
And seven times they slept again
Beneath the winter snow and showers;
And still, through summer's parching heat,
Through winter's storm, and rain, and snow,
Had Thekla dragged her weary feet
In one long pilgrimage of woe.
The beasts fled back at her approach,
The sunshine ceased to flicker round,
The flowers withered at her touch,
And fell like corpses to the ground.
Where'er she passed there lay a gloom,
The young birds shivered in the nest,
All nature echoed back her doom,
And spurned the sinner from her breast.
She flung her sighs out to the wind:
The peasants heard that mournful wail,
And, crouching down by winter fires,
Said: "'Tis the witch-fiend in the vale."
They laid down food beneath the trees,
And waited, trembling, till she came,
Then fled away, for none would speak
To one so bann'd by sin and shame.
She gathered autumn leaves and moss
Within a cavern lone and deep,
And there she crept each night to rest,
To rest, but never more to sleep.
No human voice came near to soothe,
Her anguish dimm'd no human eye,
The bond of sisterhood was rent
Between her and Humanity.
But ever when the moon was full,
All in the moonlight weird and still
Came evermore upon her ear
The moanings by the lonely mill;
And seven dread shadows entered in
And gathered round her lowly bed,
The ghastly witnesses of sin,
A silent freezing sight of dread.
All night they stayed, those phantoms pale,
Those formless phantoms dim and drear,
And looked at her with fixed cold eyes,
That chilled her very blood with fear.
In vain she tried to hide her face;
She felt their presence still around,
And well she knew no pitying grace
From these dread beings could be found.
She could not weep, she dare not pray,
But lay like one in coffined clay,
Till those weird phantoms, one by one,
Melted away in the morning sun,
Which fell like the light of the judgement-day,
When the doom of the Lord is done.
Oft wandering round the ancient church,
The ruined church where they were wed,
She vainly tried to cross the porch,
And lay therein her weary head;
And her weary load of shame and sin
Upon the altar steps within.
But never, since the fatal night
She fled away from Erick's sight,
Curs'd with his ban of deepest hate,
Had human hand unbarred the gate;
Nor priest nor chorister was there,
Nor sacred rite nor holy prayer:
Foredoom'd and desolate it stood
All in the lonely beechen wood.
God's curse it is a bitter thing
To fall on a human soul,
Alone with its awful suffering,
With its deadly sin and dole;
'Mid the ghastly wrecks of a human life,
And memories of shame,
When thoughts of a past that would not sleep,
Like barbèd arrows came.
GOD'S JUSTICE.
And Erick roamed in distant lands,
But cannot fly his weary fate;
Before him in the lonely night,
Before him in the noonday bright,
His guilty wife for ever stands,
A thing of loathing and of hate.
Alone, as under blight and ban,
He roams, a saddened, weary man.
Yet yearnings came to him at last,
And, drawn as by a spirit hand,
He homeward turned, his wanderings past,
To his own distant Swedish land;
And rose up with a spirit grace,
As pleading to him for her life,
Before him, with her angel face,
His beautiful, his sinning wife.
The ship sailed fast through storm and wrack,
The ship sailed slow the Isles between,
And Erick, watching on the deck,
Saw rise before him, low and green,
The Swedish shores in level lines,
The fringed shores of lordly pines:
A spirit's touch, a spirit's power,
Seemed on him at that magic hour.
* * * * *
He stood within his castle halls,
The grass grew rank around the gate,
The weeds hung from the mouldering walls,
And all around was desolate.
The bridal room was closed from sight,
For none had dared to enter in,
Since by God's awful, searching light
The sinner had confessed her sin.
Her golden ring of hellish ban
Still lay upon the marble floor,
Her broken ring--the fatal sign
Of love that could return no more.
And nought the purple curtains stirred
Save the drear night-wind's mournful gust,
And golden crown and silken veil
Lay mouldering in the silent dust.
A bitter cry, a mournful cry,
Was wrung by grief from Erick's breast.
She sinned, he said, but suffered, too,
Could penitence the sin undo,
Her sinning soul had rest.
If God can pity, why should I
Relentless doom a soul to die
Unpardoned, and unblest?
Christ did not scorn the sinner's touch:
Shall man avenge sin overmuch,
And crush the heart-woe riven?
Fain would I say one word of grace
Ere yet I meet her face to face,
Before the throne in Heaven.
Then led as by a spirit's might,
He wandered forth into the night,
And rested not till he stood
By the lone Chapel in the wood.
And she that night in bitter woe,
Low kneeling by the closèd gate,
Poured out the grief those only know
By God and man left desolate.
Nought but the scared owl heard her moan
Of inarticulate agony,
As down upon the threshold stone
She sank, and prayed that she might die.
O piteous sound of vain despair,
That mournful wailing by the gate;
That wailing of a ruined soul,
Downfallen from its high estate!
She wrung her wasted hands the while,
And pressed her forehead to the bar,
As if within that holy aisle
God's pardon yet might come to her.
The cruel moon lit up the sward,
And pierced the guilty soul within,
That blighted form, all seared and marred
With deadly consciousness of sin;
The form that threw no shadow more
Besides God's holy temple door;
And the awful moon, sharp, cold, and clear,
Struck through her like the Avenger's spear.
O saddest sight beneath its light,
That humbled, suffering creature!
For all too heavy lay the doom
Upon her human nature
The curse of sin that none forego,
The agony, the pain, the strife,
The sullied soul, the wasted life
Sin's endless heritage of woe.
She prayed as only those can pray
Who pray to be forgiven;
She wept as only those can weep
Who fear to forfeit Heaven.
With outstretched hands and streaming eyes
She pleads to Heaven, imploring,
As if her cries could pierce the skies,
Where angels stand adoring.
O writhing hands! O wasted hands!
Flung out with frenzied gesture,
As if they fain would touch the hem
Of Christ's fair flowing vesture.
Bitter the dole of that sinning soul,
Outcast of Earth and Heaven;
And her cry went up like a wail from Hell,
Across the night-wind driven.
GOD'S MERCY.
A form stood by her in the night,
A human presence near her
Spoke one low word of pitying grace,
A name once uttered face to face,
When none was ever dearer--
Like oil upon the raging flame
That burned within her heart, it came,
That word of soft approving;
The first soft word that struck her ears,
Through all the long and dreary years,
Of human or of loving.
At once the barred gate opens wide,
They pass within it, side by side--
The human hand still leading;
Up through the ruined aisle they go,
When from the altar, still and slow,
Like angels onward treading,
Came seven fair spirits robed in white,
Each holding high a torch, whose light
Lit all the dark with splendour;
And the heavy air around was stirred,
As if from an Æolian chord,
With music low and tender.
"We come from God," they murmur low,
"Thy unborn children, seven,
To break the bonds of thy bitter woe
And lead thee back to Heaven.
Thy tears have washed away thy crime,
Thou hast repented while 'tis time.
The sinner is forgiven!
"The bond is loosed, the doom is done,
We come to thee, thou sinning one,
With words of peace and pardon;
And as a sign of mercy lay
Upon thee on thy dying day
A lily as God's guerdon."
She sank before them on the ground,
With folded palms and hair unbound,
And eyes upraised to Heaven.
Her pale lips moved as if to pray,
But one low murmured word they say--
"Forgiven! oh, forgiven!"
And lo! while yet the shadows speak,
A dove with lily in its beak,
A snow-white dove, came floating in,
Along the silver line of light,
And laid upon that breast of sin
A spotless lily, pure and white.
Then bending low at Erick's feet,
As if before the Mercy-seat,
"Pardon!" she said, "by God's own sign,
I claim from thee that word divine
Before the Judgment-day;
Bend lower down, and yet more low,
That I may feel thy soft tears flow
To wash my sin away."
He took her hand as an angel might,
A dying soul to save,
And his tears fell fast as a holy chrism,
Anointing her for the grave--
He kissed her brow to still her fears,
Ere yet her eyes grew dim:
The curse is broken, she but hears
His pardon--sees but him.
The damp of death is on her brow,
The last death-strain is over now,
The suffering soul hath fled.
The solemn shadows slowly wane,
And nought within the church remain
Save Erick and the dead.
* * * * *
They laid her 'neath the altar stair--
Thus Erick gave command--
Wrapped in her shroud of golden hair,
The lily in her hand.
And standing in the Holy place,
With solemn voice he said:
I do recall the bitter curse
I poured upon her head.
Let the dead bells toll for the sinning soul,
Repentant, saved, forgiven;
By the dread remorse of that pallid corpse,
We feel that her sin is shriven.
She stands before the Mercy-seat,
If human prayers can waft her,
And by that angel sign 'tis meet
We trust in God's Hereafter.
Moral.
God give us grace, each in his place,
To keep from sin and sinning:
Our souls we sell for gifts from Hell,
That are not worth the winning.
False smiles that lure but to betray,
False gold some demon flashes,
False hopes that lead from Heaven astray,
False fruit that turns to ashes.
WHY WEEPEST THOU?
Why weepest thou?
A few more hours dreary,
And thy spirit, the world weary
Beneath the icy hand of death must bow;
But the fetters then will fall,
And the soul redeemed from thrall,
Will upwards mount in joy, tho' chainéd now--
Why weepest thou?
The great Eternal One,
Round whom the planets roll,
Beholds each suffering soul
Prostrate in mortal grief before His Throne;
He numbers every tear,
He stills the throb of fear,
He guides us to our heavenly native zone--
The great Eternal One.
Then still thy fears!
Behold thy glorious home,
Yon star-roofed azure dome--
How infinite thy Father's house appears!
There, ah! there we'll rest,
Poor weak ones, on His breast;
Then, mourner, let thy frail heart break in tears,
But still thy fears!
SULEIMA TO HER LOVER.
FROM THE TURKISH.
Thou reck'nest seven Heavens; I but one:
And thou art it, Beloved! Voice and hand,
And eye and mouth, are but the angel band
Who minister around that highest throne--
Thy godlike heart. And there I reign supreme,
And choose, at will, the angel who I deem
Will sing the sweetest, words I love to hear--
That short, sweet song, whose echo clear
Will last throughout eternity:
"I love thee!
How I love thee!"
A LA SOMBRA DE MIS CABELLOS.
FROM THE SPANISH.--SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
My love lay there,
In the shadow of my hair,
As my glossy raven tresses downward flow;
And dark as midnight's cloud,
They fell o'er him like a shroud:
Ah! does he now remember it or no?
With a comb of gold each night
I combed my tresses bright;
But the sportive zephyr tossed them to and fro;
So I pressed them in a heap,
For my love whereon to sleep:
Ah! does he now remember it or no?
He said he loved to gaze
On my tresses' flowing maze,
And the midnight of my dark Moorish eyes;
And he vowed 'twould give him pain
Should his love be all in vain;
So he won me with his praises and his sighs.
Then I flung my raven hair
As a mantle o'er him there,
Encirling him within its mazy flow;
And pillowed on my breast,
He lay in sweet unrest:
Ah! does he now remember it or no?
CONSTANCY.
FROM THE RUSSIAN.
I.
A raven on a branch is sitting;
By him comes another flitting--
Brother, where so quickly flying?
Hast thou scented dead or dying?
II.
Food and plenty sent to cheer us,
Croaks the other, we have near us.
Yonder there, amid the gorse,
Lies the murdered Baron's corse.
III.
Who slew him? Wherefore? Woe the day!
Did the Baron's falcon say?
Or the Baron's steed so wild--
Or the Baron's wife so mild?
IV.
Her flight far off the falcon's winging:
On the steed a slave is springing;
And she?--by the pale moonlight hath fled
With the living from the dead.
THE FATE OF THE LYRIST.
The soul is ever clinging unto form;
Action, not abstract thought, alone can warm
The great heart of humanity--in life's fierce storm
Pass they the Lyrist by.
The Dramatist may wear triumphant bays;
And see the wondering people's tranc'd amaze,
The while unrolls great Homer to their gaze,
His gorgeous, many-coloured tapestry.
But lofty Pindar's heaven-directed flight,
Petrarca's song, mystic and sad as night,
Fall dull upon the common ear--their might
Is to the world a mystery.
Such spirits dwell but with the spiritual--
Their godlike souls disdaining to enthrall;
Within the limits of the actual,
Men pass, unheeding the divinity.
Their name, indeed, is echoed by the crowd;
But from amidst the masses earthward bowed,
Few lift the head, with kindred soul endowed,
To list their Orphic melody.
THE POET'S DESTINY.
The Priest of Beauty, the Anointed One,
Through the wide world passes the Poet on.
All that is noble by his word is crown'd,
But on his brow th' Acanthus wreath is bound.
Eternal temples rise beneath his hand,
While his own griefs are written in the sand;
He plants the blooming gardens, trails the vine--
But others wear the flowers, drink the wine;
He plunges in the depths of life to seek
Rich joys for other hearts--his own may break.
Like the poor diver beneath Indian skies,
He flings the pearl upon the shore--and dies.
DÉSILLUSION.
Too soon, alas! too soon I plunged into the world with tone and clang,
And they scarcely comprehended what the Poet wildly sang.
Not the spirit-glance deep gazing into nature's inmost soul,
Not the mystic aspirations that the Poet's words unroll.
Cold and spiritless and silent--yea, with scorn received they me,
Whilst on meaner brows around me wreath'd the laurel crown I see.
And I, who in my bosom felt the godlike nature glow,
I wore the mask of folly while I sang of deepest woe.
But, courage! years may pass--this mortal frame be laid in earth,
But my spirit reign triumphant in the country of my birth!
THE PRISONERS.
CHRISTMAS, 1869.
I.