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THE POEMS OF [Illustration]
MADISON CAWEIN
VOLUME IV
POEMS OF MYSTERY AND OF
MYTH AND ROMANCE
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
Around him mermaids sing, foam-clad Page 168
_The Sea King_
]
THE POEMS OF
MADISON CAWEIN
_Volume IV_
POEMS OF MYSTERY
AND OF MYTH AND
ROMANCE
_Illustrated_
WITH PHOTOGRAVURES AFTER PAINTINGS
BY ERIC PAPE
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1887, 1888, 1890, 1891, 1892, 1893, 1894, 1896,
1898, 1899, 1901, 1902, 1905 AND 1907, BY
MADISON CAWEIN
COPYRIGHT 1896, BY COPELAND AND DAY; 1898, BY
R. H. RUSSELL
PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN, N. Y.
TO MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
POEMS OF MYSTERY PAGE
ASHLY MERE 92
AT DAWN 84
AT MIDNIGHT 118
BEFORE THE TOMB 40
CHANGELING, THE 140
CHILDREN O' THE MOON 177
CITY OF DARKNESS, THE 110
DANCE OF THE FAIRIES, THE 136
ELF-QUEEN, THE 142
ELF SWASHBUCKLER, AN 147
ELIXIR OF LOVE, THE 9
EPILOGUE 218
FAERY MORRIS 163
FLAMENCINE 42
FOREST OF DREAMS, THE 108
GHOSTS 116
GLADIOLES, THE 158
GLAMOUR 161
GLORAMONE 14
GRAMARYE 122
HALL OF DARKNESS, THE 209
HAUNTED 1
HAUNTED ROOM, THE 202
HEADLESS HORSEMAN, THE 94
HILDEGARD 44
IMAGE IN THE GLASS, THE 22
IN AN OLD GARDEN 200
IN SHADOW 87
IN THE OWL-LIGHT 89
INTIMATIONS 187
KU KLUX 82
LEGEND OF THE STONE, THE 25
LITTLE PEOPLE, THE 165
MERMAID, THE 173
MIRROR, THE 206
MORNING-GLORIES, THE 156
MOTIVE IN GOLD AND GRAY, A 180
NEREID, THE 171
NIXIES, THE 152
OLD HOUSE, THE 106
OLD HOUSE BY THE MERE, THE 197
ON FLOYD'S FORK 33
ON MIDSUMMER NIGHT 132
ON THE EVE OF ST. JOHN 149
PRÆTERITA 85
REED SHAKEN WITH THE WIND, A 52
REMBRANDTS 114
REVISITED 104
ROMAUNT OF THE OAK 47
RUINED MILL, THE 29
SEA-KING, THE 168
SEA SPIRIT, THE 98
SELF AND SOUL 194
SONG OF THE ELF 145
STREET OF GHOSTS, A 37
THAT HOUR 216
THAT NIGHT 119
THE MOTH, THE ROSE, AND THE PINK 160
THERE ARE FAIRIES 129
TIGER-LILY, THE 159
UNDER DARK SKIES 112
VAMPIRE, THE 100
WATER-FAIRY, THE 154
WEREWOLF, THE 96
WHAT DREAMS MAY COME 214
WILL-O'-THE-WISP 102
WOMAN BY THE WATER, THE 35
WOMAN'S PORTION 78
WORLD OF FAERY, THE 125
POEMS OF MYTH AND ROMANCE
APHRODITE 248
APOLLO 269
ARTEMIS 244
BEFORE THE TEMPLE 240
BEAUTY AND ART 313
DEMETER 253
DIONYSIA 278
DIONYSOS 256
DITHYRAMBICS 289
DOLCE FAR NIENTE 334
DREAM OF RODERICK, THE 350
FAUN, THE 267
FIELD AND FOREST CALL 328
FOREST IDYLL, A 364
GARGAPHIE 264
GENIUS LOCI 286
GLOW-WORM, THE 360
HARVEST MOON, THE 326
HYMN TO DESIRE 295
JOTUNHEIM 273
LAND OF ILLUSION, THE 340
LAST SONG, THE 347
LETHE 233
LIMNAD, THE 237
MEMORY, A 332
MYTH AND ROMANCE 227
NAIAD, THE 235
NYMPH AND FAUN 299
OLD HOMES 33
OLD WATER-MILL, THE 315
PAGAN 311
PAPHIAN VENUS, THE 260
PARTING OF LEANDER AND HERO 301
PERSEPHONE 250
PROCESSIONAL 372
PROEM 225
PURPLE VALLEYS, THE 338
RAIN-CROW, THE 323
REVERIE 230
RUE-ANEMONE, THE 242
SPIRIT OF DREAMS 370
SPIRIT OF THE FOREST SPRING, THE 305
TO A PANSY-VIOLET 307
UNDER THE ROSE 367
VINE AND SYCAMORE 283
ZYPS OF ZIRL 355
SONG AND STORY
AT THE SIGN OF THE SKULL 416
AT VESPERS 438
CUP OF JOY, THE 423
DUM VIVIMUS 418
END OF ALL, THE 429
END OF THE CENTURY, THE 405
FAILURE 420
HIEROGLYPHS 391
INDIAN LEGEND, AN 383
ISLE OF VOICES, THE 410
JOHN DAVIS, BOUCANIER 385
LA JEUNESSE ET LA MORT 426
LEGEND OF A LILY, A 401
LOVE AND LOSS 428
ROSE O' THE HILLS, A 431
SONG AND STORY 379
STUDY IN GRAY, A 435
TO HARRISON S. MORRIS 377
VOYAGERS 389
WATCHER, THE 415
WHITE VIGIL, THE 433
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
AROUND HIM MERMAIDS SING
FOAM-CLAD (See page 168) _Frontispiece_
PAGE
STARED AND WHISPERED AND SMILED AND WEPT
(See page 49) 124
THAT REED-SLENDER GIRL WHOM PAN PURSUED 242
PROEM
_Not while I live may I forget
That garden which my spirit trod!
Where dreams were flowers, wild and wet,
And beautiful as God._
_Not while I breathe, awake, adream,
Shall live again for me those hours,
When, in its mystery and gleam,
I met her 'mid the flowers._
_Eyes, talismanic heliotrope,
Beneath mesmeric lashes, where
The sorceries of love and hope
Had made a shining lair._
_And daydawn brows, whereover hung
The twilight of dark locks; wild birds,
Her lips, that spoke the rose's tongue
In fragrance-voweled words._
_I will not speak of cheeks and chin,
That held me as sweet language holds;
Nor of the eloquence within
Her breasts' twin-moonéd molds._
_Nor of her body's languorous
Wind-grace, that glanced like starlight through
Her clinging robe's diaphanous
Web of the mist and dew._
_There is no star so pure and high
As was her look; no fragrance such
As her soft presence; and no sigh
Of music like her touch._
_Not while I live may I forget
That garden of dim dreams, where I
And Song within the spirit met,
Sweet Song, who passed me by._
POEMS OF MYSTERY
HAUNTED
I
Without a moon when night comes on
There is a sighing in its trees
As of sad lips that no one sees;
And the far-dwindling forest, large
Beyond fenced fields, seems shadowy drawn
Into its shadows. Faint and wan,
By the wistariaed portico
Stealing, I go
Through gardens where the weeds are rank:
Where, here and there, in clump and bank,
Spiræas rise, whose dotted blooms
Seem clustered starlight; and the four
Syringas sweet heap, powdered o'er,
Thin flower-beakers of perfumes;
And the dead flowering-almond tree,
That once was pink as her young cheek,
Now withered leans within the glooms.--
Why must I walk here? seek and seek
Her, long since gone?--Still bower on bower
The roses climb in blushing flower.--
Ah, 'mid the roses could I see
Her eyes, her sad eyes, shine like flowers,
Or like the dew that lies for hours
Within their hearts, then it might be
I might find comfort here, although
Wistful, as if reproaching me,
Her sad eyes look, saying what none may know.
II
When midnight comes it brings a moon:
A scent is strewn
Of honey and wild-thorns broadcast
Beneath the stars. When I have passed
Under dark cedars, solemn pines,
Through dodder-drowned petunias,
Corn-flower and the columbine,
To where azaleas, choked with grass,
And peonies, like great wisps, shine,
I reach banked honeysuckle vines,
Piled deep and trammeled with the gourd
And morning-glory--one wild hoard
Of rich aroma--where the seat,
The rustic bench, where oft we sat,--
Now warped and old with rain and heat,--
Still stands upon its mossy mat:
And here I rest; and then--a word
I seem to hear;
A soft word whispered in my ear;
Her voice it seems; no thing is near;
I look around:--I have but heard
The plaintive note of some lost bird
Trickle through night,--awakened where,
'Neath its thick lair of twisted twigs,
The jarring and incessant grigs
Hum:--dream-drugged so, the haunted air
Makes all my soul as heavy as
Dew-poppied grass.
III
Once when the moon rose, fair and full,--
Like some sea-seen Hesperian pool,
A splash of gold through tangling trees,--
Or like the Island beautiful
Of Avalon in haunted seas,--
There came a sighing in the trees
As of sad lips; there was no breeze,
And yet sad sighings shook the trees.
And when, all in a mystic space,
Her orb swam, amiable white,
Right in that shattered casement, by
The broken porch the creepers lace,
Born of a moonbeam and a sigh,
I saw _her_ face,
Pale through a mist of tears; so slight,
So immaterial, ah me!
In pensiveness, and vanished grace,
'Twas like an olden melody.
IV
I know long-angled on its floors,
Where windows face the anxious east,
The moonshine pours
White squares of glitter and, at least,
Gives glimmer to its whispering halls:
Its corridors,
Sleep-tapestried, are guled with bars
Of moonlight: by its wasted walls
Crouch shadows: and,--where streaked dusts lay
Their undisturbed, deep gray
Upon its stairs,--dim, vision-footed, glide
Faint gossamer gleams, like visible sighs,
As to and fro, athwart the skies,--
Wind-swung against the moon outside,--
The twisted branches sway
Of one great tree; I stand below,
And listen now,
Hearing a murmur come and go
Through its gnarled boughs; remembering how
Shady this chestnut made her room,
And sweet, in June, with plumes of bloom;
And how the broad and gusty flues
Of the old house sang when the rain let loose
Its winds, and each flue seemed a hoarse,
Sonorous throat, filled with the storm's wild boom,
And growled carousal; goblin tunes
The hylas pipe to rainy moons
Of March; or, in the afternoons
Of summer, singing in their course,--
Where blossoms drip,--all wet of back,--
The crickets drone in avenues
Of locusts leading to the gate.
And in the dark here where I wait
Meseems I hear the silence creep
And crepitate
From hall to hall; as one in sleep
I hear, yet hear not; feel that there
Her soul walks, waking on each stair
Strange echoes; and the stealthy crack
Of old and warping floors: I seem
To follow her; and in a dream
To see, yet see not; in the black
That drapes each room, my mind informs
With shapes, that hide behind each door
And fling from closets phantom arms.
V
I see her face, as once before,
Bewildered with its terror, pressed
To the dark, polished floor; distressed,
Clasped in her blind and covering hands;
So desolate with anguish, wrenched
With wild remorse, no man could see,
Could see and turn away like me,
No man that sees and understands
Love and its mortal agony.
Again, like some automaton,
Part of that ghostly tragedy,
Myself I see, the fool who fled,
Who sneered and fled. And then again
Came stealing back. Again, with blenched
And bending face I stand, and clenched
And icy hands, and staring eyes,
Looking upon her face, as wan
As water; eyes all wide with pain;
Cramped to dilation, packed with loss:
Again I seem to lean across
The years, and hear my heart's deep groan
Above the young gold of her head,
Above that huddled heap alone,--
Her, white and dead.
VI
Yes, there is moan
Of lamentation and hushed screams
In all its crannies; and sad shades
Haunt all its rooms, the moonlight braids,
With melancholy. Slow have flown
The weary years: and I have known
An anguish and remorse far worse
Than usual life's; and live, it seems,
Because to live is but a curse....
VII
There she lies buried; there! that ground
Gated with rusty iron, where
She and her stanch forefathers sleep;
So old, the turf scarce shows a mound;
So gray, you scarce distinguish there
A headstone where the ivies creep
And myrtles bloom. A wall of stone
Squares it around; a place for dreams;
A mossy spot of sorrow;--lone,
Nay, lonelier, wilder now it seems,
Though just the same: its roses waste
Their petals there as oft of yore;
Their placid petals, as before;
Pale, pensive petals: yonder some
Lie faint as puffs of foam
Within the moonlight, dimly traced
Beneath the boughs; some few are strown
On the usurping weeds, great grown
Around her tomb, on which two dead leaves lie....
Here let my sick heart break and die
Amid their wiltings, on her grave,
Here in her dim, old burying-ground
The druid cedars guard around
And roses and wild thorns. Alone
She shall not lie! Ah, let me moan
My life out here where rose-leaves fall,
And rest by her who was my all!
THE ELIXIR OF LOVE
He held it possible that he
Who idolizes one that's dead,
With that strange liquid instantly
Might raise them, living red:
And so he thought, "'Tis mine at last
To live and love the love that's past;
The joy without the grief and pain.
The dead shall live and love again."
For he had loved one till for him
Her face had grown his spirit-part:
Though dead, she seemed to him less dim
Than men in street and mart.
He labored on; for, truth to say,
In toil alone his pleasure lay,
His art, through which, sometime, he thought,
Back to his arms she would be brought.
He kept such trysts as phantoms keep,
Pale distances about his soul;
And moved like one who walks asleep,
Attaining no sure goal:
Yet blither than a younger heart
At crucible and glass retort
He labored; for his love was prism
To irisate toil's egoism.
He drained wan draughts from out a cup,
A globe of vague and flaming gold,
Held from the darkness, brimming up,
By something white and cold,
That wreathed faint fingers round its brim,
Slim flakes of foam; and, soft and dim,
Stooped out of fiery-bound abysses
To print his brow with icy kisses.
At last within his trembling hand
An ancient flask burnt, starry rose;
A liquid flame of ruby fanned,
Heart-like, with crimson throes:
And in the liquid, like a flower,
A starlike face bloomed for an hour,
Then slowly faded to a skull
With eyes that mocked the beautiful.
'Though all his life had been so strange,
Yet stranger now it seemed to be;--
What was it led him forth to range
'Mid graves and mystery?
What led him to that one dim tomb,
Where he could read within the gloom
The name of one who lay within
With all of silence, naught of sin?
Untainted, so it seemed, and made
By death's cold kisses still more fair,
He found her; raised her; softly laid
Her raven depths of hair
Upon his shoulder: and the pearls,
Around her neck and in her curls,
Less pale were than the kingly calm
Upon his face that showed no qualm.
And through the night, beneath the moon,
Across the windy hill, the gloom
Of forests where the leaves lay strewn,
He brought her to his room:
And in the awfulness of death,
That filled her wide eyes with its breath,
He set her in a carven chair
Where the still moon could kiss her hair.
One moment then he paused to think:
Then to her lips, all drawn and dead,
His strange elixir pressed and--"Drink!
Drink life and love!" he said.
And it--it drank; the dead drank slow:
And in its eyes there came a glow:
Yet still as stone its body sate,
With eyes of hell and lips of hate.
Still as fall-frozen ice its face,
And thin its voice as drizzled rain,
When in its rotting silk and lace
It rose and lived again:
Its bosom moved not while it spake;
Nor moved its lips; and half awake
Its eyes seemed with enchanted sleep
A century long in night's old keep.
And, stooping o'er, it whispered low--
A sound like a vibrating wire,
Or like the hiss of falling snow
In flutterings faint of fire:--
"In me, behold, you see your toil!
In me your love! A thing to coil
Around your life thus!--Make entire!--
The demon of your dead desire!"
And where, before, was quietness,
Was violence of hate and evil--
Yet all its form seemed passionless,
A corpse that held a devil!...
But who shall say the hands were its
That made within his throat these pits?--
They found him dead; and by him, one
Who clasped him close, a skeleton.
GLORAMONE
The moonbeams on the hollies glow
Pale where she left me; and the snow
Lies bleak in moonshine on the graves,
Ribbed with each gust that shakes and waves
Ancestral cedars by her tomb....
She lay so beautiful in death,
My Gloramone,--whose loveliness
Death had not dimmed with all its doom,--
That, urged by my divine distress,
I sought her sepulchre: the gloom,
The iciness that takes the breath,
The sense of fear, were not too strong
To keep me from beholding long.
I stole into its sorrow; burst,
With what I know was hand accursed,
Its seal, the gated silence of
Her old armorial tomb: but love
Had sighed sweet romance to my heart;
And here, I thought, another part
Our souls would play. I did not start
When indistinctness of pale lips
Breathed on my hair; faint finger-tips
Fluttered their starlight on my brow;
When on my eyes, I knew not whence,
Vague kisses fell: then, like a vow,
Within my heart, an aching sense
Of vampire winning. And I heard
Her name slow-syllabled--a word
Of haunting harmony--and then
Low-whispered, "Thou! at last, 'tis thou!"
And sighs of shadowy lips again.
How madly strange that this should be!
For, had she loved me here on Earth,
It had not then been marvelous
That she should now remember me,
Returning love for love, though worth
Less, yes, far less to both of us.
And so I wondered, listening there:
How was it that her soul was brought
So near to mine now, whom in life
She hated so? And everywhere
About my life I thought and thought
And found no reason why her love
Should now be mine. We were at strife
Forever here; her hatred drove
Me to despair: I cast my glove
Into the frowning face of fate,
And lost her. Yea, it was her hate
That made her Appolonio's wife.
Her hate! her lovely hate!--for of
Her naught I found unlovely;--and
I felt she did not understand
My passion, and 'twere well to wait.
And now I felt her presence near,
I, full of life; yet knew no fear
There in the sombre silence, mark.
And it was dark, yes, deadly dark:
But when I slowly drew away
The pall, death modeled with her face,--
From her fair form it fell and lay
Rich in the dust,--the shrouded place
Was glittering daggered by the spark
Of one wild ruby at her throat,
Red-arrowed as a star with throbs
Of pulsing flame. And note on note
The night seemed filled with tenuous sobs
Of fire that flickered from that stone,
That, lustrous, lay against her throat,
Large as her eyes, and shadowy.
And standing by the dead alone
I marveled not that this should be.
The essence of an hundred stars,
Of fretful crimson, through and through
Its bezels beat, when, bending down
My hot lips pressed her mouth. And scars,
Aurora-scarlet, veiny blue,
Flame-hearted, blurred the midnight; and
The vault rang; and I felt a hand
Like fire in mine. And, lo, a frown
Broke up her face as gently as
The surface of a fountain's glass
A zephyr moves, that jolts the grass
Spilling its rain-drops. When this passed,
Through song-soft slumber, binding fast,
Slow smiles dreamed outward beautiful;
And with each smile I heard the dull
Deep music of her heart, and saw,
As by some necromantic law,
Faint tremblings of a lubric light
Flush her white temples and her throat:
And each long pulse was as a note,
That, gathering, like a strong surprise
With all of happiness, made sweet
With dim carnation in wild wise
The arch of her pale lips, and beat
Like moonlight from her head to feet.
I bent and kissed her once again:
And with that kiss it seemed that pain,
Which long had ached beneath her smile
And eyelids, vanished. In a while
I saw she breathed. Then, wondrous white,
Fair as she was before she died,
She rose upon the bier; a sight
To marvel at, whose truth belied
All fiction. Yet I saw her eyes
Grow wide unto my kiss,--like skies
Of starless dawn.--And all the fire
Of that dark ruby at her throat
Around her presence seemed to float,
A mist of rose, wherein like light
She moved, or music exquisite.
What followed then I scarcely know:
All I remember is, I caught
Her hand; and from the tomb I brought
Her beautiful: and o'er the snow,
Where moonbeams on the hollies glow,
I led her. But her feet no print
Left of their nakedness, no dint,
No faintest trace in frost. I thought,
"The moonlight fills them with its glow,
So soft they fall; or 'tis the snow
Covers them o'er!--the tomb was black,
And--this strong light blinds!"--Turning back
My eyes met hers; and as I turned,
Flashing centupled facets, burned
That ruby at her throat; and I
Studied its beauty for a while:
How came it there, and when, and why?
Who set it at her throat? Again,
Was it a ruby?--Pondering,
I stood and gazed. A far, strange smile
Filled all her face, and as with pain
I seemed to hear her speak, or sing,
These words, that meant not anything,
Yet more than any words may mean:
"Thy blood it is," she said; then sighed:
"See where thy heart's blood beateth! here
Thy heart's blood, that my lips did drain
In life; I live by still, unseen,
Long as thy passion shall remain.--
Canst thou behold and have no fear?--
Yea, if I am not dead, 'tis thou!--
Look how thy heart's blood flashes now!--
Blood of my life and soul, beat on!
Beat on! and fill my veins with dawn;
And heat the heart of me, his bride!"
And then she leaned against me, eyed
Like some white serpent, strangely still,
That binds one with its glittering stare,
That at wild stars hath gazed until
Its eyes have learned their golden glare.
And then I took her by the wrists
And drew her to me. Faintly felt
The shadow of her hair, whose mists
Were twilight-deep and dimly smelt
Of shroud and sepulchre. And she
Smiled on me with such sorcery
As well might win a soul from God
To Hell and torments. And I trod
On white enchantments and was long
A song and harp-string to a song,
Love's battle in my blood. And there,
Kissing her mouth, all unaware
The ruby loosened at her throat,
And, ere I wist, hung o'er my hand,
And on the brink I seemed to stand
Of something that cried out, "Admire
The beauty of this gem of fire,
Its witchcraft and its workmanship."
Then from her throat it seemed to slip,
And, in the hollow of my hand,
A rosy spasm, a bubble-boat
Of living flame, it seemed to float;
A fretful fire; a heart, fierce fanned
Of red convulsions. Like a brand,
A blaze, it touched me; seemed to run
Like fever through my pulses, swift,
Of torrid poison. One by one,
Now burning ice, now freezing sun,
I felt my veins swell. Then I felt
My palm brim up and overflow
With blood that, beads of oozing glow,
Dripped, drop by drop, upon the snow,
Like holly-berries on the snow.
Then something darkly seemed to melt
Within me, and I heard a sigh
So like a moan, 'twas as if years
Of anguish bore it; and the sky
Swam near me as when seen through tears--
And she was gone.... In ghostly gloom
Of dark, scarred pines a crumbling tomb
Loomed like a mist. Carved in its stone,
Above the grated portal deep,
Glimmered this legend:--
"Let her sleep,
Crowned with dim death, our lovely one,
Known here on Earth as Gloramone.
Our hearts bow down by her and weep,
And one sits weeping all alone."
THE IMAGE IN THE GLASS
I
The slow reflection of a woman's face
Grew, as by witchcraft, in the oval space
Of that strange glass on which the moon looked in:--
As cruel as death beneath the auburn hair
The dark eyes burned; and, o'er the faultless chin,--
Evil as night, yet as the daybreak fair,--
Rose-red and sensual smiled the mouth of sin.
II
The glorious throat and shoulders and, twin crests
Of snow, the splendid beauty of the breasts,
Filled soul and body with the old desire.--
Daughter of darkness! how could this thing be?
You, whom I loathed! for whom my heart's fierce fire
Had burnt to ashes of satiety!
You, who had sunk my soul in crime's red mire!
III
How came your image there? and in that room!
Where she, the all-adored, my life's sweet bloom,
Died poisoned! She, my scarcely one week's bride--
Yes, poisoned by a gift you sent to her,
Thinking her death would win me to your side.
It won me; yes! but.... Well, it made some stir--
By your own hand, I think, they said you died.
IV
Time passed. And then--was it the curse of crime,
That night of nights, which forced my feet to climb
To that locked bridal-room?--'Twas midnight when
A longing, like to madness, mastered me,
Compelled me to that chamber, which for ten
Long years was sealed: a dark necessity
To gaze upon--I knew not what again.
V
Love's ghost, perhaps. Or, in the curvature
Of that orbed mirror, something that might cure
The ache in me--some message, said perchance
Of her dead loveliness,--which once it glassed,--
That might repeat again my lost romance
In momentary pictures of the past,
While in its depths her image swam in trance.
VI
I did not dream to see the soulless eyes
Of _you_ I hated; nor the lips where lies
And kisses curled: _your_ features,--that were tuned
To all demonic,--smiling up as might
Some deep damnation! while ... my God! I swooned!...
Oozed slowly out, between the breasts' dead white,
The ghastly red of that wide dagger-wound.
THE LEGEND OF THE STONE
The year was dying, and the day
Was almost dead;
The west, beneath a sombre gray,
Was sombre red:
The gravestones in the ghostly light,
That glimmered there,
Seemed phantoms, wandering wan and white,
'Mid trees half bare.
I stood beside the grave of one
Who, here in life,
Was false to me; who had undone
My child and wife:
I stood beside his grave until
The moon came up--
It seemed the dark, unhallowed hill
Lifted a cup.
No stone was there to mark his grave,
No flower to grace--
'Twas meet that weeds alone should wave
In such a place:
I stood beside his grave until
The stars swam high,
And all the night was iron-still
From sky to sky.
What cared I though strange eyes glowed bright
Within the gloom!
Though, evil blue, a witch's-light
Burnt by each tomb!
Or that each crooked thorn-tree seemed
A hag, black-cloaked!
Or that the owl above me screamed,
The raven croaked!
I cursed him: cursed him when the day
Burnt sullen red;
Had cursed him when the west was gray,
And day was dead:
And now when night made dark the pole,
Both soon and late
I cursed his body, yea, and soul,
With th' hate of hate.
Once at my side I seemed to hear
A low voice say,--
"'Twere better to forgive,--and fear
Thy God,--and pray."
I laughed; and from pale lips of stone
On sculptured tombs
Wild laughter leapt, and then a moan
Swept through the glooms.
And then I felt a change--a force,
That seemed to seize
My body, like some fearful curse,
And, fastening, freeze
It downward, deeper than the knees,
Into the earth--
While still among the twisted trees
Rang mocking mirth.
And then I felt such fear, despair,
As lost ones feel,
When, knotted in their pitch-stiff hair,
They feel the steel
Of devils' forks lift up, through sleet
Of Hell's slant fire,
Then plunge,--as white from head to feet
I grew entire.
A voice without me, yet within,
As still as frost,
Intoned: "Thy sin is more than sin,
O damned and lost!
Behold, how God would punish thee
For this thy crime--
Thy crime of hate and blasphemy--
Through endless time!
"O'er him, whom thou wouldst not forgive,
Record what good
He did on Earth! and let him live
Loved, understood!
Be memory thine of all the worst
He did thine own!"...
There at the head of him I cursed
I stood--a stone.
THE RUINED MILL
On the wild South Fork of Harrod's Creek,
O'ergrown with creepers, if you should seek,
You will find an ancient water-mill
Of stone below a wooded hill.
Its weedy wheel is not less still
Than its image that sleeps in the grassy pool
Where the moccasin swims; and, slimly cool
Like streaks of light through blurs of sun,
The silver minnows and crawfish run.
So lone the place, in its sycamore
The blue crane builds; and from the shore
The shitepoke wanders about its door.
The burdock sprawls on its sill of pine;
And, in its pathway, eglantine
And blackberry tangle and intertwine;
Ox-daisies checker with pearl and gold
The bushy banks of its mill-race old;
The owl in its loft as safely lairs
As the fox in its cellar, that whelps and cares
Naught for the hunters who gallop by
With their baying hounds; the martins fly
Around its chimney and build therein;
And wasp and hornet, with murmurous din,
Plaster their nests, that none disturb,
On window-lintel and hopper-curb.
Once I stood in this old, stone mill,
Once as the day died over the hill,
And night came on; and stark and still
I met with phantoms upon its stairs;
Shadows, that took me unawares,
Eyed with fire and cowled with gloom--
Twilight phantoms, that crowded, dark,
Its dim interior, each eye a spark
Of sunset, creviced, within the room--
While a moist, chill, moldering, dead perfume
Of crumbling timbers and rotting grain,
On floors all warped with the sun and rain,
Made of the stagnant air a cell,
Round the cobwebbed rafters hung like a spell;
Making my mind, despite me, run
On thoughts of a hidden skeleton,
There in the walls; or, dripping dank,
Under the floor, 'neath a certain plank;
Glowering, grim in the mossy wet,
In its hollow eyes a dark regret.
I had entered when the evening-star
In the saffron heaven was sparkling afar,
In all its glory of light divine,
Like a diamond drowned in kingly wine;
And I stayed till the heavens hung low and gray,
And the clouds of the storm drove down and away,
Like the tattered leaves of an Autumn day;
And the wild rain beat on the rotting roof
The goblin dance of the Fiend's own hoof,
Till the spider dropped from its dusty woof;
And the thunder throbbed like a mighty heart;
And the wild wind filled each crannied part
Of the mill with moanings, that seemed to be
The voice of an ancient agony--
Till the beetle shrunk in its board of pine;--
While the lightning lit with its instant shine
The tossing terror of tree and vine ...
Then, all on a sudden, the storm was still--
And I saw _her_ there, near the shattered sill,
At the window, gazing from the mill
Into the darkness under the storm;
Around her flickering hair and form
Unearthly glimmer. She seemed to lean
To the rushing waters that roared unseen:
A moment only she seemed to sway
Before me there in the lightning gray,
Then vanished utterly away:
Like a blown-out light....
And was it she,
The miller's daughter who died, they say,
Who flung herself on the mill's great wheel,
Long years ago, in her heart's despair?--
Or was it a dream, a fantasy,
That the place and the moment made me feel,
And imagination imaged there?
ON FLOYD'S FORK
When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill,
At twelve o'clock when the night is still,
And pale on the pool where the creek-frogs croon,
Glimmering gray is the light o' the moon;
And under the willows, where shadows lie,
The torch of the firefly wanders by;--
They say that the miller walks here, walks here,
All covered with chaff, with his crooked staff,
And his horrible hobble and hideous laugh;
The old, lame miller hung many a year:
When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill,
He walks in the night by Harrod's mill.
When the bark of the fox sounds lone on the hill,
At twelve o'clock when the night is chill
With the autumn wind, and the waters creep
Where the starlight fails and the shadows sleep;
And under the willows, that toss and moan,
The glow-worm kindles its lanthorn lone;--
They say that a woman floats dead, floats dead,
In a weedy space that the lilies lace,
A curse in her eyes and a smile on her face;
The miller's young wife with a gash in her head:
When the bark of the fox sounds lone on the hill,
She floats in the night by Harrod's mill.
When the howl of the hound comes over the hill,
At twelve o'clock when the night is ill,
And the thunder mutters and rain-winds sob,
And the foxfire glows like the lamp of a Lob;
And under the willows, that gloom and glance,
The will-o'-the-wisps hold a devil's-dance;--
They say that that crime is reacted again.
And each cranny and chink of the mill doth wink
With the light o' hell, or the lightning's blink,
And a woman's shrieks are heard through the rain:
When the howl of the hound comes over the hill,
No man will walk by Harrod's mill.
THE WOMAN BY THE WATER
She stands within the stormy glow
Of sunset, with a face of snow,
The white embodiment of woe,
As night comes on:
She stands within the sombre glare
Of dusk, with dark neglected hair,
An apparition of despair,
When day is gone.
The haggard house within the vale
Looks spectral as a ragged sail
The Dutchman hoists against the gale
On haunted seas:
And in the garden,--one vast brake
Of dock and thistle,--snail and snake
Crawl; and the death-watch taps, awake
In rotting trees.
The stagnant stream along the night
Creeps, like a nightmare, where each white
Lily is an uneasy light,
A wisp up-tossed:
And through the cypress-trees and vines
The gray fox skulks and laps and whines;
The owl hoots; and the foxfire shines
In darkness lost.
She stands beside the stagnant stream;
Her garments drip at every seam;
She looks a shadow in a dream
Of dread and woe:
No star stares half so steadily
At earth as at the water she;
And what she sees there--it may be
The owlets know.
A STREET OF GHOSTS
The drowsy day, with half-closed eyes,
Dreams in this quaint forgotten street,
That, like some old-world wreckage lies,--
Left by the sea's receding beat,--
Far from the city's restless feet.
Abandoned pavements, that the trees'
Huge roots have wrecked; whose flagstones feel
No more the sweep of draperies;
And sunken curbs, whereon no wheel
Grinds, and no gallant's spur-bound heel.
Old houses, walled with rotting brick,
Thick-creepered, dormered, weather-vaned,--
Like withered faces, sad and sick,--
Stare from each side, all broken paned,
With battered doors the rain has stained.
And though the day be white with heat,
Their ancient yards are dim and cold;
Where now the toad makes its retreat,
'Mid flower-pots green-caked with mold,
And naught but noisome weeds unfold.
The slow gray slug and snail have trailed
Their slimy silver up and down
The beds where once the moss-rose veiled
Rich beauty; and the mushroom brown
Swells where the lily tossed its crown.
The shadowy scents, that oft are wont
To flit among the walks and boughs,
Seem ghosts of sweethearts here who haunt
And wander round each empty house,
Wrapped in the fragrance of dead vows.
And, haply, when the evening droops
Her amber eyelids in the west,
Here you may hear the swish of hoops,
Or catch the glint of hat and vest,
As two dim lovers past you pressed.
And, instant as some star's slant flame,
That scores the swarthy cheek of night,
Perhaps behold Colonial dame
And gentleman in stately white
Go glimmering down the pale moonlight.
In powder, patch, and furbelow,
Cocked hat and sword; and every one,--
Tory and Whig of long-ago,--
As real as in the days long done,
The courtly days of Washington.
BEFORE THE TOMB
The way led under cedared gloom
Where, o'er the entrance of her tomb,
The moon hung, like a cactus bloom.
I had an hour of night and thin
Sad starlight; and I set my chin
Against the grating and looked in.
A gleam, like moonlight, through a square
Of opening--I knew not where--
Shone on her coffin resting there.
And on its oval silver-plate
I read her name and age and date,
And smiled, soft-thinking on my hate.
There was no insect sound to chirr;
No wind to make a little stir:
I stood and looked and thought on her.
The gleam stole downward from her head,
Till at her feet it rested, red
On Gothic gold, whose letters said:--
"God to her love lent a weak reed
Of strength: and gave no light to lead:
Pray for her soul: for it hath need."
There was no night-bird's twitter near;
No low, vague water I might hear
To make a small sound in the ear.
The gleam, that made a burning mark
Of each dim word, died to a spark;
Then left the tomb and coffin dark.
I had a little while to wait;
And prayed with hands against the grate,
And heart that yearned and knew too late.
There was no light below, above,
To point my soul the way thereof,--
The way of hate that led to love.
FLAMENCINE
I
It was a gipsy maiden
Within the forest green;
It was a gipsy maiden
Who shook a tambourine:
The star of eve had not the face,
The cascade's foam had not the grace
Of Flamencine.
II
Her bodice was of purple,
Her shoes of satin sheen;
Her bodice was of purple
With scarlet laid between:
The wind of eve was in the tread,
The black of night was on the head
Of Flamencine.
III
Among the dreaming vistas,
The darkling dells between,
Among the dreaming vistas
I heard her tambourine:
And far within the ghostly glade
The moonbeams and the shadows played
Round Flamencine.
IV
Among the beechen shadows
When fireflies are seen,
Among the beechen shadows
When glow-worms glimmer green,
Then down the darkness, like a light,
She dances; and the eyes are bright
Of Flamencine.
V
There lies a gipsy maiden
Within the forest green;
There lies a gipsy maiden
Beside her tambourine:
These many years I am her slave--
The violets grow upon the grave
Of Flamencine.
HILDEGARD
I
Hildegard the dæmons name
Her, who meets me on the mountain:
Her, whose hair is like the flame
Of a sunset-fevered fountain:
I can tell her by her eyes,
Dreadful eyes of bitter beryl,
Where the anguish never dies,
And the suffering soul sits sterile
In such light as ever lies
On the unsailed seas of peril.
II
How we met I never knew.
Once I turned--and there she trembled
Near me, glimmering like the dew
In the sessions of assembled
Flowers.--Hers some influence
Of soft, serpent magnetism,
Vanquishing my every sense
With essential mesmerism;
Holding me beneath the lens
Of her will's compelling prism.
III
I can not escape. She treads
Noiseless as the forest flowers
Walked on by the wind; their heads
Pavements for the mottled hours:
She is whiter than the trees
When their blossoms are unsheathing;
She is lissome as the ease
Of the lilied water wreathing;
She is subtle as the breeze
Through the summer foliage breathing.
IV
When she speaks, within my ears,
Like wild music heard in fever
Is her voice; and it appears
That my soul can never leave her:
Babylonian necromance,
Oldest witcheries,--that harrow
Yet compel,--are hers; her glance
Holds me; and my very marrow
Feels it; and I stand a-trance,
While her pupils slowly narrow.
V
Thus she binds me with her gaze,
While her white hands weigh my shoulders;
And my weak will swings and sways
To her gaze that burns and smolders.
So she draws me far away,
Under boughs where summer dallies:
Over peaks of purple day:
Far away through Eden alleys:
All the way is one long May
Till we come to her dark valleys.
VI
There black tempest treads the peaks;
Iron skies are gulfed asunder,
Whence the lightning's lava leaks,
Vomiting the hosts of thunder.
Here she kisses me till red
With my heart's blood are her kisses;
Then my soul is seized with dread,
For it knows no woman this is:
Yea, behold! it sees instead
But a milk-white snake that hisses.
ROMAUNT OF THE OAK
"I rode to death, for I fought for shame--
The Lady Maurine of noble name,
"The fair and faithless!--Though life be long
Is love the wiser?--Love made song
"Of all my life; and the soul that crept
Before, arose like a star and leapt:
"Still leaps with the love that it found untrue,
That it found unworthy.--Now run me through!
"Yea, run me through! for meet and well,
And a jest for laughter of fiends in Hell,
"It is that I, who have done no wrong,
Should die by the hand of Hugh the Strong,
"Of Hugh her leman!--What else could be
When the devil was judge 'twixt thee and me?
"He splintered my lance, and my blade he broke--
Now finish me, thou, 'neath the trysting oak!"
The shield of his foeman--a heart of white
In a bath of fire--shone in the night:
The plume of his foeman, as midnight black,
Blew, as he leapt on his horse's back:
Leapt and laughed as his sword he swung,
Then galloped away with a laugh on his tongue....
Who is she in the gray, wet dawn,
'Mid the forest shades like a shadow wan?
Who kneels, one hand on her straining breast,
One hand on the dead man's bosom pressed?
Her face is dim as the dead's; and cold
As his tarnished harness of steel and gold.
O Lady Maurine! O Lady Maurine!
What boots it now that regret is keen?
That his hair you smooth? that you kiss his brow,
What boots it now? what boots it now?--
She has haled him under the trysting oak,
The huge old oak that the creepers cloak.
She has stood him, gaunt in his battered arms,
In its haunted hollow.--"Be safe from storms,"
She laughed as his cloven casque she placed
On his brow, and his riven shield she braced.
Then sat and talked to the forest flowers
Through the lonely term of the day's pale hours.
And stared and whispered and smiled and wept,
As nearer and nearer the evening crept.
And lo, when the moon, like a great gold bloom
Above the sorrowful trees did loom,
She rose up sobbing, "O moon, come see
My bridegroom here in the old oak-tree!
"I have talked to the flowers all day, all day,
For never a word had he to say.
"He would not listen, he would not hear,
Though I wailed my longing into his ear.
"O moon, steal in where he stands so grim,
And tell him I love him and plead with him.
"Soften his face, that is cold and stern,
And brighten his eyes and make them burn,
"O moon, white moon, so my soul can see,
Can say that they glow with love for me!"--
When the moon had set, and the woods were dark,
The wild deer came, and stood as stark
As phantoms with eyes of flame; or fled
Like a ghostly herd of the hunted dead.
And the strix-owl called; and the werewolf snarled;
And a voice, in the boughs of the oak-tree gnarled,--
Like the whining voice of the hags that ride
To the witches' Sabboth,--crooned and cried.
[Illustration:
Stared and whispered and smiled and wept Page 49
_Romaunt of the Oak_
]
And wrapped in his mantle of wind and cloud,
The storm-fiend stalked through the forest loud.
When she heard the dead man rattle and groan
As the oak was bent and its leaves were blown,
And the lightning flickered his shimmering mail,--
Through the swirl and sweep of the rain and hail,
She seemed to hear him, who seemed to call,--
"Come hither, Maurine! the wild leaves fall!
"The wild leaves rustle, the wild leaves flee--
Come hither, Maurine, to the hollow tree!
"To the trysting tree, to the tree once green,
Come hither, Maurine! come hither, Maurine!"...
They found her closed in his armored arms--
Had he claimed his bride on that night of storms?
A REED SHAKEN WITH THE WIND
I
Not for you and me the path
Winding through the shadowless
Fields of morning's dewiness!
Where the brook that hurries hath
Laughter lighter than a boy's;
Where recurrent odors poise,
Romp-like, with irreverent tresses,
In the sun; and leaves and boughs
Build a music-haunted house
For the winds to hang their dresses,
Whisper-silken, rustling in.
Ours a path that led unto
Twilight regions gray with dew;
Where moon-vapors gathered thin
Over acres sisterless
Of all healthy beauty; where
Fungus growths made sad the air
As a phantom-felt caress:
Under darkness and strange stars,
To the sorrow-silenced bars
Of a dubious forestland,
Where the wood-scents seemed to stand,
And the sounds on either hand,
Clad like Sleep's own servitors
In the shadowy livery
Of the ancient House of Dreams,
Which before us,--fitfully,
With white intermittent gleams
Of its pale-lamped windows,--shone,
Echoing with the dim unknown.
II
To say to Hope,--Take all from me,
And grant me naught:
Take rose, and song, and melody,
And word and thought:
Then all my life make me her slave,--
Is all I crave.
To say to Time,--Be true to me,
Nor grant me less
Of loss, of grief, of memory,
Of heart's distress:
Then for her love set me a task,
Is all I ask.
III
I came to you when eve was young:
And, where the park rolled downward to
The river, and among the dew,
One vesper moment, lit and sung
A bird, your eyes said something true,
Said something to my eyes, more dear
Than song the bird poured, silver-clear.
How sweet it was to be with you!
How, with our souls, we seemed to hear
The night approaching with its stars!
How calm the moon sloped up her sphere
Of fire-filled pearl through passive bars
Of clouds that berged the tender east!
While all the dark inanimate
Of Nature woke; initiate
With th' moon's arrival, something ceased
In Nature's soul: she stood again
Another self, that seemed t' have been
Dormant, suppressed and so unseen
All day: a life, unknown and strange
And dream-suggestive, that had lain,--
Masked on with light,--within the range
Of thought, but unrevealed till now.
It was the hour of love. And you,
With downward eyes and pensive brow,
Among the moonlight and the dew,--
Although no word of love was spoken,--
Heard the sweet night's confession broken
Of something here more sweet in me:
A love, depth made inaudible,
Save to your soul, that answered well,
With eyes replying silently.
IV
Fair you are as a rose is fair,
There where the shadows dew it;
And the deeps of your brown, brown hair,
Soft as the cloud that lingers there
With the sunset's auburn through it.
Eyes of azure and throat of snow,
Tell me what my heart would know!
Every dream I dream of you
Has a love-thought in it,
And a hope, a kiss or two,
Something dear and something true,
Telling me each minute,
With three words it whispers clear
What my heart from you would hear.
V
Junetime came: the days grew kind
With increasing beauty: deep
Were the nights with rest and sleep:
Fair, with poppies intertwined
On their blond locks, went the Hours,
Sunny-hearted as the rose,
Through the buds and banded flowers,
Teaching them, how no one knows,
Freshness, color, and perfume.--
In the window of your room
Bloomed a late azalea. Pink
As an egret's rosy plumes
Shone its tender-tufted blooms.
From your care and love, I think,
Love's rose-color it did drink,
Growing rosier day by day
Through your 'tending hand's caress:
And your own dear naturalness
Had imbued it in some way.
Once you gave a blossom of it,
Smiling, to me when I left:
Need I tell you how I love it
Faded though it is now!--'Reft
Of its fragrance and its color,
Yet 'tis dearer now than then,--As
past happiness is when
Life regrets.--And dimmer, duller
Though its beauty be, when I
Look upon it, I recall
Every part of that old wall;
And the dingy window high,
Where you sat and read; and all
The fond love that made your face
A soft sunbeam in that place:
And the plant that grew this bloom
Withered here, itself long dead,
Makes a halo overhead
There again--and through my room,
Like faint whispers of perfume,
Steal the words of love then said.
VI
All of my love I send to you,
I send to you,
On thoughts, like moths, that wend to you
Out of my heart's glad garden,
O'er which, its lovely warden,
Your face, a lily seeming,
Is dreaming.
All of my life I bring to you,
I bring to you,
In deeds, like birds, that wing to you
Out of my soul's deep valley,
O'er which, most musically,
Your love, a fountain, glistens,
And listens.
My love, my life, how blessed in you!
How blessed in you!
Whose thoughts, whose deeds find rest in you
Here on my life's dark ocean,
O'er which, in heavenly motion,
Your soul, a star, abideth,
And guideth.
VII
Where the old Kentucky wound
Through the land,--its stream between
Hills of primitive forest green,--
Like a goodly belt around
Giant breasts of grandeur; with
Many an unknown Indian myth,
On the boat we steamed. The land
Like an hospitable hand
Welcomed us. Alone we sat
On the under-deck, and saw
Farm-house and plantation draw
Near and vanish. 'Neath your hat
Your young eyes laughed; and your hair,
Blown about them by the air
Of our passage, clung and curled.
Music, and the summer moon;
And the hills' great shadows hewn
Out of silence; and the tune
Of the whistle, when we whirled
Round a moonlit bend in sight of
Some lone landing heaped with hay
Or tobacco; where the light of
One dim, solitary lamp
Signaled through the evening's damp:
Then a bell; and, dusky gray,
Shuffling figures on the shore
With the cable; rugged forms
On the gang-plank; backs and arms
With their cargo bending o'er;
And the burly mate before.
Then an iron bell, and puff
Of escaping steam; and out
Where the stream is wheel-whipped rough;
Music, and a parting shout
From the shore; the pilot's bell
Beating on the deck below;
Then the steady, quivering, slow,
Smooth advance again. Until
Twinkling lights beyond us tell
Of a lock or little town
Clasped between a hill and hill,
Where the bluegrass fields slope down.--
So we went. That summer-time
Lingers with me like a rhyme
Learned for dreamy beauty of
Its old-fashioned faith and love,
In some musing moment; sith
Heart-associated with
Joy that moments quiet bore,
And forgotten nevermore.
VIII
Three sweet things love lives upon:
Music, at whose fountain's brink
Low he stoops his face to drink;
Seeing, as the wave is drawn,
His near image rise and sink.
Three sweet things love lives upon.
Three sweet things love lives upon:
Odor, whose red roses wreathe
His bright brow that shines beneath;
Hearing, as each bloom is blown,
His soul's essence breathe and breathe.
Three sweet things love lives upon.
Three sweet things love lives upon:
Color, to whose rainbow he
Lifts his dark eyes burningly;
Feeling, as the wild hues dawn,
His high immortality.
Three sweet things love lives upon.
IX
Memories of other days,--
Sad with whilom happiness,--
Rise before my musing gaze
In the twilight.... And your dress
Seems beside me, like a haze
Shimmering white; as when we went
'Neath the star-strewn firmament,
Love-led, with impatient feet
Down the night that, summer-sweet,
Sparkled o'er the lamp-lit street.
Every look you gave me then
Comes before my eyes again,
Making music for my heart
On that path where once for us
Roses, red and amorous,
Grew, the roses red of love:
Roses, that are dead enough
On that path now! whence oft start
Out of recollected places,
With remembered forms and faces,
Dreams of love, like figures, woven
In my life's dark tapestry,
Beckoning, ever shadowy,
To my soul still.--O'er the cloven
Gulf of time I seem to hear
Words once whispered in my ear,
Calling--as might friends long dead,
With familiar voices deep,
Call to one who lies asleep,
Comforting.--So was I led
Backward to forgotten things,
Contiguities that spread
Sudden, unremembered wings:
And across my mind's still blue,
From the nest they fledged in, flew
Dazzling shapes that passion knew.
X
Ah! over full my heart is
Of sadness and of pain:
As a rose-flower in the garden
The dull dusk fills with rain;
As a blown red rose that shivers
And bows to the wind and rain.