Mother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbersBreathed on the eyelids of love by music that slumbers,Secretly, sweetly, O presence of fire and snow,Thou comest mysterious,In beauty imperious,Clad on with dreams and the light of no world that we know.Deep to my innermost soul am I shaken,Helplessly shaken and tossed,And of thy tyrannous yearnings so utterly taken,My lips, unsatisfied, thirst;Mine eyes are accurstWith longings for visions that far in the night are forsaken;And mine ears, in listening lost,Yearn, yearn for the note of a chord that will never awaken.
Mother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbersBreathed on the eyelids of love by music that slumbers,Secretly, sweetly, O presence of fire and snow,Thou comest mysterious,In beauty imperious,Clad on with dreams and the light of no world that we know.Deep to my innermost soul am I shaken,Helplessly shaken and tossed,And of thy tyrannous yearnings so utterly taken,My lips, unsatisfied, thirst;Mine eyes are accurstWith longings for visions that far in the night are forsaken;And mine ears, in listening lost,Yearn, yearn for the note of a chord that will never awaken.
Like palpable music thou comest, like moonlight; and far,—Resonant bar upon bar,—The vibrating lyreOf the spirit responds with melodious fire,As thy fluttering fingers now grasp it and ardently shake,With flame and with flake,The chords of existence, the instrument star-sprung.Whose frame is of clay, so wonderfully molded from mire.
Like palpable music thou comest, like moonlight; and far,—Resonant bar upon bar,—The vibrating lyreOf the spirit responds with melodious fire,As thy fluttering fingers now grasp it and ardently shake,With flame and with flake,The chords of existence, the instrument star-sprung.Whose frame is of clay, so wonderfully molded from mire.
Vested with vanquishment, come, O Desire, Desire!Breathe in this harp of my soul the audible angel of love!Make of my heart an Israfel burning above,A lute for the music of God, that lips, which are mortal, but stammer!Smite every rapturous wireWith golden delirium, rebellion and silvery clamor,Crying—"Awake! awake!Too long hast thou slumbered! too far from the regions of glamour,With its mountains of magic, its fountains of Faëry, the spar-sprung,Hast thou wandered away, O Heart!Come, oh, come and partakeOf necromance banquets of beauty; and slakeThy thirst in the waters of art,That are drawn from the streamsOf love and of dreams.
Vested with vanquishment, come, O Desire, Desire!Breathe in this harp of my soul the audible angel of love!Make of my heart an Israfel burning above,A lute for the music of God, that lips, which are mortal, but stammer!Smite every rapturous wireWith golden delirium, rebellion and silvery clamor,Crying—"Awake! awake!Too long hast thou slumbered! too far from the regions of glamour,With its mountains of magic, its fountains of Faëry, the spar-sprung,Hast thou wandered away, O Heart!Come, oh, come and partakeOf necromance banquets of beauty; and slakeThy thirst in the waters of art,That are drawn from the streamsOf love and of dreams.
"Come, oh, come!No longer shall language be dumb!Thy vision shall grasp—As one doth the glittering haspOf a dagger made splendid with gems and with gold—The wonder and richness of life, not anguish and hate of it merely.And out of the starkEternity, awful and dark,Immensity silent and cold,—Universe-shaking as trumpets, or thunderous metalsThat cymbal; yet pensive and pearlyAnd soft as the rosy unfolding of petals,Or crumbling aroma of blossoms that wither too early,—The majestic music of Death, where he playsOn the organ of eons and days."
"Come, oh, come!No longer shall language be dumb!Thy vision shall grasp—As one doth the glittering haspOf a dagger made splendid with gems and with gold—The wonder and richness of life, not anguish and hate of it merely.And out of the starkEternity, awful and dark,Immensity silent and cold,—Universe-shaking as trumpets, or thunderous metalsThat cymbal; yet pensive and pearlyAnd soft as the rosy unfolding of petals,Or crumbling aroma of blossoms that wither too early,—The majestic music of Death, where he playsOn the organ of eons and days."
Thou, oh, thou!Thou of the chorded shell and golden plectrum! thouOf the dark eyes and pale pacific brow!Music, who by the plangent waves,Or in the echoing night of labyrinthine caves,Or on God's mountains, lonely as the stars,Touchest reverberant barsOf immemorial sorrow and amaze;—Keeping regret and memory awake,And all the immortal acheOf love that leans upon the past's sweet daysIn retrospection!—now, oh, now,Interpreter and heart-physician, thou,Who gazest on the heaven and the hellOf life, and singest each as well,Touch with thy all-mellifluous finger-tips,Or thy melodious lips,This sickness named my soul,Making it whole,As is an echo of a chord,Or some symphonic word,Or sweet vibrating sigh,That deep, resurgent still doth rise and dieOn thy voluminous roll;Part of the beauty and the mysteryThat axles Earth with song; and as a slave,Swings it around and 'round on each sonorous pole,'Mid spheric harmony,And choral majesty,And diapasoning of wind and wave;And speeds it on its far elliptic way'Mid vasty anthemings of night and day.—O cosmic cryOf two eternities, wherein we seeThe phantasms, Death and Life,At endless strifeAbove the silence of a monster grave.
Thou, oh, thou!Thou of the chorded shell and golden plectrum! thouOf the dark eyes and pale pacific brow!Music, who by the plangent waves,Or in the echoing night of labyrinthine caves,Or on God's mountains, lonely as the stars,Touchest reverberant barsOf immemorial sorrow and amaze;—Keeping regret and memory awake,And all the immortal acheOf love that leans upon the past's sweet daysIn retrospection!—now, oh, now,Interpreter and heart-physician, thou,Who gazest on the heaven and the hellOf life, and singest each as well,Touch with thy all-mellifluous finger-tips,Or thy melodious lips,This sickness named my soul,Making it whole,As is an echo of a chord,Or some symphonic word,Or sweet vibrating sigh,That deep, resurgent still doth rise and dieOn thy voluminous roll;Part of the beauty and the mysteryThat axles Earth with song; and as a slave,Swings it around and 'round on each sonorous pole,'Mid spheric harmony,And choral majesty,And diapasoning of wind and wave;And speeds it on its far elliptic way'Mid vasty anthemings of night and day.—O cosmic cryOf two eternities, wherein we seeThe phantasms, Death and Life,At endless strifeAbove the silence of a monster grave.
Beyond the Northern Lights, in regions hauntedOf twilight, where the world is glacier planted,And pale as Loki in his cavern whenThe serpent's slaver burns him to the bones,I saw the phantasms of gigantic men,The prototypes of vastness, quarrying stones;Great blocks of winter, glittering with the morn'sAnd evening's colors,—wild prismatic tonesOf boreal beauty.—Like the three gray Norns,Silence and solitude and terror loomedAround them where they labored. Walls arose,Vast as the Andes when creation boomedInsurgent fire; and through the rushing snowsEnormous battlements of tremendous ice,Bastioned and turreted, I saw arise.
Beyond the Northern Lights, in regions hauntedOf twilight, where the world is glacier planted,And pale as Loki in his cavern whenThe serpent's slaver burns him to the bones,I saw the phantasms of gigantic men,The prototypes of vastness, quarrying stones;Great blocks of winter, glittering with the morn'sAnd evening's colors,—wild prismatic tonesOf boreal beauty.—Like the three gray Norns,Silence and solitude and terror loomedAround them where they labored. Walls arose,Vast as the Andes when creation boomedInsurgent fire; and through the rushing snowsEnormous battlements of tremendous ice,Bastioned and turreted, I saw arise.
But who can sing the workmanship giganticThat reared within its coruscating domeThe roaring fountain, hurling an AtlanticOf streaming ice that flashed with flame and foam?An opal spirit, various and many formed,—In whose clear heart reverberant fire stormed,—Seemed its inhabitant; and through pale halls,And deep diaphanous walls,And corridors of whiteness.Auroral colors swarmed,As rosy-flickering stains,Or lambent green, or gold, or crimson, warmedThe pulsing crystal of the spirit's veinsWith ever-changing brightness.And through the Arctic night there went a voice,As if the ancient Earth cried out, "Rejoice!My heart is full of lightness!"
But who can sing the workmanship giganticThat reared within its coruscating domeThe roaring fountain, hurling an AtlanticOf streaming ice that flashed with flame and foam?An opal spirit, various and many formed,—In whose clear heart reverberant fire stormed,—Seemed its inhabitant; and through pale halls,And deep diaphanous walls,And corridors of whiteness.Auroral colors swarmed,As rosy-flickering stains,Or lambent green, or gold, or crimson, warmedThe pulsing crystal of the spirit's veinsWith ever-changing brightness.And through the Arctic night there went a voice,As if the ancient Earth cried out, "Rejoice!My heart is full of lightness!"
Here well might Thor, the god of war,Harness the whirlwinds to his car,While, mailed in storm, his iron armHeaves high his hammer's lava-form,And red and black his beard streams back,Like some fierce torrent scoriac,Whose earthquake light glares through the nightAround some dark volcanic height;And through the skies Valkyrian criesTrumpet, as battleward he flies,Death in his hair and havoc in his eyes.
Here well might Thor, the god of war,Harness the whirlwinds to his car,While, mailed in storm, his iron armHeaves high his hammer's lava-form,And red and black his beard streams back,Like some fierce torrent scoriac,Whose earthquake light glares through the nightAround some dark volcanic height;And through the skies Valkyrian criesTrumpet, as battleward he flies,Death in his hair and havoc in his eyes.
Still in my dreams I hear that fountain flowing;Beyond all seeing and beyond all knowing;Still in my dreams I see those wild walls glowingWith hues, Aurora-kissed;And through huge halls fantastic phantoms going.Vast shapes of snow and mist,—Sonorous clarions of the tempest blowing,—That trail dark banners by,Cloudlike, underneath the skyOf the caverned dome on high,Carbuncle and amethyst.—Still I hear the ululationOf their stormy exultation,Multitudinous, and blendingIn hoarse echoes, far, unending;And, through halls of fog and frost,Howling back, like madness lostIn the moonless mansion ofIts own demon-haunted love.
Still in my dreams I hear that fountain flowing;Beyond all seeing and beyond all knowing;Still in my dreams I see those wild walls glowingWith hues, Aurora-kissed;And through huge halls fantastic phantoms going.Vast shapes of snow and mist,—Sonorous clarions of the tempest blowing,—That trail dark banners by,Cloudlike, underneath the skyOf the caverned dome on high,Carbuncle and amethyst.—Still I hear the ululationOf their stormy exultation,Multitudinous, and blendingIn hoarse echoes, far, unending;And, through halls of fog and frost,Howling back, like madness lostIn the moonless mansion ofIts own demon-haunted love.
Still in my dreams I hear the mermaid singing;The mermaid music at its portal ringing;The mermaid song, that hinged with gold its door,And, whispering evermore,Hushed the ponderous hurl and roarAnd vast æolian thunderOf the chained tempests underThe frozen cataracts that were its floor.—And, blinding beautiful, I still beholdThe mermaid there, combing her locks of gold,While, at her feet, green as the Northern Seas,Gambol her flocks of seals and walruses;While, like a drift, her dog—a Polar bear—Lies by her, glowering through his shaggy hair.
Still in my dreams I hear the mermaid singing;The mermaid music at its portal ringing;The mermaid song, that hinged with gold its door,And, whispering evermore,Hushed the ponderous hurl and roarAnd vast æolian thunderOf the chained tempests underThe frozen cataracts that were its floor.—And, blinding beautiful, I still beholdThe mermaid there, combing her locks of gold,While, at her feet, green as the Northern Seas,Gambol her flocks of seals and walruses;While, like a drift, her dog—a Polar bear—Lies by her, glowering through his shaggy hair.
O wondrous house, built by supernal handsIn vague and ultimate lands!Thy architects were behemoth wind and cloud,That, laboring loud,Mountained thy world foundations and upliftedThy skyey bastions driftedOf piled eternities of ice and snow;Where storms, like ploughmen, go,Ploughing the deeps with awful hurricane;Where, spouting icy rain,The huge whale wallows; and through furious hailTh' explorer's tattered sailDrives like the wing of some terrific bird,Where wreck and famine herd.—Home of the red Auroras and the gods!He who profanes thy perilous threshold,—whereThe ancient centuries lair,And, glacier-throned, thy monarch, Winter, nods,—Let him beware!Lest, coming on that hoary presence there,Whose pitiless hand,Above that hungry land,An iceberg wields as sceptre, and whose crownThe North Star is, set in a band of frost,He, too, shall feel the bitterness of that frown,And, turned to stone, forevermore be lost.
O wondrous house, built by supernal handsIn vague and ultimate lands!Thy architects were behemoth wind and cloud,That, laboring loud,Mountained thy world foundations and upliftedThy skyey bastions driftedOf piled eternities of ice and snow;Where storms, like ploughmen, go,Ploughing the deeps with awful hurricane;Where, spouting icy rain,The huge whale wallows; and through furious hailTh' explorer's tattered sailDrives like the wing of some terrific bird,Where wreck and famine herd.—Home of the red Auroras and the gods!He who profanes thy perilous threshold,—whereThe ancient centuries lair,And, glacier-throned, thy monarch, Winter, nods,—Let him beware!Lest, coming on that hoary presence there,Whose pitiless hand,Above that hungry land,An iceberg wields as sceptre, and whose crownThe North Star is, set in a band of frost,He, too, shall feel the bitterness of that frown,And, turned to stone, forevermore be lost.
The day is dead; and in the westThe slender crescent of the moon—Diana's crystal-kindled crest—Sinks hillward in a silvery swoon.What is the murmur in the dell?The stealthy whisper and the drip?—A Dryad with her leaf-light trip?Or Naiad o'er her fountain well?—Who, with white fingers for her comb,Sleeks her blue hair, and from its curlsShowers slim minnows and pale pearls,And hollow music of the foam.What is it in the vistaed waysThat leans and springs, and stoops and sways?—The naked limbs of one who flees?An Oread who hesitatesBefore the Satyr form that waits,Crouching to leap, that there she sees?Or under boughs, reclining cool,A Hamadryad, like a poolOf moonlight, palely beautiful?Or Limnad, with her lilied face,More lovely than the misty laceThat haunts a star and gives it grace?Or is it some Leimoniad,In wildwood flowers dimly clad?Oblong blossoms white as froth;Or mottled like the tiger-moth;Or brindled as the brows of death;Wild of hue and wild of breath.Here ethereal flame and milkBlent with velvet and with silk;Here an iridescent glowMixed with satin and with snow:Pansy, poppy and the paleSerpolet and galingale;Mandrake and anemone,Honey-reservoirs o' the bee;Cistus and the cyclamen,—Cheeked like blushing Hebe this,And the other white as isBubbled milk of Venus whenCupid's baby mouth is pressed,Rosy, to her rosy breast.And, besides, all flowers that mateWith aroma, and in hueStars and rainbows duplicateHere on earth for me and you.Yea! at last mine eyes can see!'Tis no shadow of the treeSwaying softly there, but she!—Mænad, Bassarid, Bacchant,What you will, who doth enchantNight with sensuous nudity.Lo! again I hear her pantBreasting through the dewy glooms—Through the glow-worm gleams and glowersOf the starlight;—wood-perfumesSwoon around her and frail showersOf the leaflet-tilted rain.Lo, like love, she comes again,Through the pale, voluptuous dusk,Sweet of limb with breasts of musk.With her lips, like blossoms, breathingHoneyed pungence of her kiss,And her auburn tresses wreathingLike umbrageous helichrys,There she stands, like fire and snow,In the moon's ambrosial glow,Both her shapely loins low-loopedWith the balmy blossoms, drooped,Of the deep amaracus.Spiritual yet sensual,Lo, she ever greets me thusIn my vision; white and tall,Her delicious body there,—Raimented with amorous air,—To my mind expresses allThe allurements of the world.And once more I seem to feelOn my soul, like frenzy, hurledAll the passionate past.—I reel,Greek again in ancient Greece,In the Pyrrhic revelries;In the mad and Mænad danceOnward dragged with violence;Pan and old Silenus andFaunus and a Bacchant bandRound me. Wild my wine-stained handO'er tumultuous hair is lifted;While the flushed and Phallic orgiesWhirl around me; and the margesOf the wood are torn and riftedWith lascivious laugh and shout.And barbarian there again,—Shameless with the shameless rout,Bacchus lusting in each vein,—With her pagan lips on mine,Like a god made drunk with wine,On I reel; and, in the revels,Her loose hair, the dance dishevels,Blows, and 'thwart my vision swimsAll the splendor of her limbs....So it seems. Yet woods are lonely.And when I again awake,I shall find their faces onlyMoonbeams in the boughs that shake;And their revels, but the rushOf night-winds through bough and brush.Yet my dreaming—is it moreThan mere dreaming? Is some doorOpened in my soul? a curtainRaised? to let me see for certainI have lived that life before?
The day is dead; and in the westThe slender crescent of the moon—Diana's crystal-kindled crest—Sinks hillward in a silvery swoon.What is the murmur in the dell?The stealthy whisper and the drip?—A Dryad with her leaf-light trip?Or Naiad o'er her fountain well?—Who, with white fingers for her comb,Sleeks her blue hair, and from its curlsShowers slim minnows and pale pearls,And hollow music of the foam.What is it in the vistaed waysThat leans and springs, and stoops and sways?—The naked limbs of one who flees?An Oread who hesitatesBefore the Satyr form that waits,Crouching to leap, that there she sees?Or under boughs, reclining cool,A Hamadryad, like a poolOf moonlight, palely beautiful?Or Limnad, with her lilied face,More lovely than the misty laceThat haunts a star and gives it grace?Or is it some Leimoniad,In wildwood flowers dimly clad?Oblong blossoms white as froth;Or mottled like the tiger-moth;Or brindled as the brows of death;Wild of hue and wild of breath.Here ethereal flame and milkBlent with velvet and with silk;Here an iridescent glowMixed with satin and with snow:Pansy, poppy and the paleSerpolet and galingale;Mandrake and anemone,Honey-reservoirs o' the bee;Cistus and the cyclamen,—Cheeked like blushing Hebe this,And the other white as isBubbled milk of Venus whenCupid's baby mouth is pressed,Rosy, to her rosy breast.And, besides, all flowers that mateWith aroma, and in hueStars and rainbows duplicateHere on earth for me and you.
Yea! at last mine eyes can see!'Tis no shadow of the treeSwaying softly there, but she!—Mænad, Bassarid, Bacchant,What you will, who doth enchantNight with sensuous nudity.Lo! again I hear her pantBreasting through the dewy glooms—Through the glow-worm gleams and glowersOf the starlight;—wood-perfumesSwoon around her and frail showersOf the leaflet-tilted rain.Lo, like love, she comes again,Through the pale, voluptuous dusk,Sweet of limb with breasts of musk.With her lips, like blossoms, breathingHoneyed pungence of her kiss,And her auburn tresses wreathingLike umbrageous helichrys,There she stands, like fire and snow,In the moon's ambrosial glow,Both her shapely loins low-loopedWith the balmy blossoms, drooped,Of the deep amaracus.Spiritual yet sensual,Lo, she ever greets me thusIn my vision; white and tall,Her delicious body there,—Raimented with amorous air,—To my mind expresses allThe allurements of the world.And once more I seem to feelOn my soul, like frenzy, hurledAll the passionate past.—I reel,Greek again in ancient Greece,In the Pyrrhic revelries;In the mad and Mænad danceOnward dragged with violence;Pan and old Silenus andFaunus and a Bacchant bandRound me. Wild my wine-stained handO'er tumultuous hair is lifted;While the flushed and Phallic orgiesWhirl around me; and the margesOf the wood are torn and riftedWith lascivious laugh and shout.And barbarian there again,—Shameless with the shameless rout,Bacchus lusting in each vein,—With her pagan lips on mine,Like a god made drunk with wine,On I reel; and, in the revels,Her loose hair, the dance dishevels,Blows, and 'thwart my vision swimsAll the splendor of her limbs....
So it seems. Yet woods are lonely.And when I again awake,I shall find their faces onlyMoonbeams in the boughs that shake;And their revels, but the rushOf night-winds through bough and brush.Yet my dreaming—is it moreThan mere dreaming? Is some doorOpened in my soul? a curtainRaised? to let me see for certainI have lived that life before?
She sleeps; he sings to her. The day was long,And, tired out with too much happiness,She fain would have him sing of old Provence;Quaint songs, that spoke of love in such soft tones,Her restless soul was straight besieged of dreams,And her wild heart beleagured of deep peace,And heart and soul surrendered unto sleep.—Like perfect sculpture in the moon she lies,Its pallor on her through heraldic panesOf one tall casement's gulèd quarterings.—Beside her couch, an antique table, weighedWith gold and crystal; here, a carven chair,Whereon her raiment,—that suggests sweet curvesOf shapely beauty,—bearing her limbs' impress,Is richly laid: and, near the chair, a glass,An oval mirror framed in ebony:And, dim and deep,—investing all the roomWith ghostly life of woven women and men,And strange fantastic gloom, where shadows live,—Dark tapestry,—which in the gusts—that twingeA grotesque cresset's slender star of light—Seems moved of cautious hands, assassin-like,That wait the hour.She alone, deep-hairedAs rosy dawn, and whiter than a rose,Divinely breasted as the Queen of Love,Lies robeless in the glimmer of the moon,Like Danaë within the golden shower.Seated beside her aromatic rest,In rapture musing on her loveliness,Her knight and troubadour. A lute, aslopeThe curious baldric of his tunic, glintsWith pearl-reflections of the moon, that seemThe silent ghosts of long-dead melodies.In purple and sable, slashed with solemn gold,Like stately twilight o'er the snow-heaped hills,He bends above her.—Have his hands forgotTheir craft, that they pause, idle on the strings?His lips, their art, that they cease, speechless there?—His eyes are set.... What is it stills to stoneHis hands, his lips? and mails him, head and heel,In terrible marble, motionless and cold?—Behind the arras, can it be he feels,Black-browed and grim, with eyes of sombre fire,Death towers above him with uplifted sword?
She sleeps; he sings to her. The day was long,And, tired out with too much happiness,She fain would have him sing of old Provence;Quaint songs, that spoke of love in such soft tones,Her restless soul was straight besieged of dreams,And her wild heart beleagured of deep peace,And heart and soul surrendered unto sleep.—Like perfect sculpture in the moon she lies,Its pallor on her through heraldic panesOf one tall casement's gulèd quarterings.—Beside her couch, an antique table, weighedWith gold and crystal; here, a carven chair,Whereon her raiment,—that suggests sweet curvesOf shapely beauty,—bearing her limbs' impress,Is richly laid: and, near the chair, a glass,An oval mirror framed in ebony:And, dim and deep,—investing all the roomWith ghostly life of woven women and men,And strange fantastic gloom, where shadows live,—Dark tapestry,—which in the gusts—that twingeA grotesque cresset's slender star of light—Seems moved of cautious hands, assassin-like,That wait the hour.She alone, deep-hairedAs rosy dawn, and whiter than a rose,Divinely breasted as the Queen of Love,Lies robeless in the glimmer of the moon,Like Danaë within the golden shower.Seated beside her aromatic rest,In rapture musing on her loveliness,Her knight and troubadour. A lute, aslopeThe curious baldric of his tunic, glintsWith pearl-reflections of the moon, that seemThe silent ghosts of long-dead melodies.In purple and sable, slashed with solemn gold,Like stately twilight o'er the snow-heaped hills,He bends above her.—Have his hands forgotTheir craft, that they pause, idle on the strings?His lips, their art, that they cease, speechless there?—His eyes are set.... What is it stills to stoneHis hands, his lips? and mails him, head and heel,In terrible marble, motionless and cold?—Behind the arras, can it be he feels,Black-browed and grim, with eyes of sombre fire,Death towers above him with uplifted sword?
"I rode to death, for I fought for shame—The Lady Maurine of noble name,"The fair and faithless!—Though life be longIs love the wiser?—Love made song"Of all my life; and the soul that creptBefore, 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 beWhen 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 crest of his foeman,—a heart of whiteIn a bath of fire,—stooped i' the night;Stooped and laughed as his sword he swung,Then galloped away with a laugh on his tongue....But who is she in the gray, wet dawn,'Mid the autumn 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; as coldAs 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 browWhat 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 placedOn his brow, and his riven shield she braced.Then sat and talked to the forest flowersThrough the lonely term of the day's pale hours.And stared and whispered and smiled and wept,While nearer and nearer the evening crept.And, lo, when the moon, like a great gold bloomAbove the sorrowful trees did loom,She rose up sobbing, "O moon, come seeMy 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 sternAnd brighten his eyes and make them burn,"O moon, O moon, so my soul can seeThat his heart still glows with love for me!" ...When the moon was set, and the woods were dark,The wild deer came and stood as stark,As phantoms with eyes of fire; or fledLike a ghostly hunt of the herded dead.And the hoot-owl called; and the were-wolf snarled;And a voice, in the boughs of the oak-tree gnarled,—Like the whining rush of the hags that rideTo the witches' sabboth,—crooned and cried.And wrapped in his mantle of wind and cloudThe storm-fiend stalked through the forest loud.When she heard the dead man rattle and groanAs the oak was bent and its leaves were blown,And the lightning vanished and shimmered his mail,Through the swirling 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?
"I rode to death, for I fought for shame—The Lady Maurine of noble name,
"The fair and faithless!—Though life be longIs love the wiser?—Love made song
"Of all my life; and the soul that creptBefore, 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 beWhen 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 crest of his foeman,—a heart of whiteIn a bath of fire,—stooped i' the night;
Stooped and laughed as his sword he swung,Then galloped away with a laugh on his tongue....
But who is she in the gray, wet dawn,'Mid the autumn 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; as coldAs 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 browWhat 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 placedOn his brow, and his riven shield she braced.
Then sat and talked to the forest flowersThrough the lonely term of the day's pale hours.
And stared and whispered and smiled and wept,While nearer and nearer the evening crept.
And, lo, when the moon, like a great gold bloomAbove the sorrowful trees did loom,
She rose up sobbing, "O moon, come seeMy 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 sternAnd brighten his eyes and make them burn,
"O moon, O moon, so my soul can seeThat his heart still glows with love for me!" ...
When the moon was set, and the woods were dark,The wild deer came and stood as stark,
As phantoms with eyes of fire; or fledLike a ghostly hunt of the herded dead.
And the hoot-owl called; and the were-wolf snarled;And a voice, in the boughs of the oak-tree gnarled,—
Like the whining rush of the hags that rideTo the witches' sabboth,—crooned and cried.
And wrapped in his mantle of wind and cloudThe storm-fiend stalked through the forest loud.
When she heard the dead man rattle and groanAs the oak was bent and its leaves were blown,
And the lightning vanished and shimmered his mail,Through the swirling 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?
In dim samite was she bedight,And on her hair a hoop of gold,Like fox-fire in the tawn moonlight,Was glimmering cold.With soft gray eyes she gloomed and glowered;With soft red lips she sang a song:What knight might gaze upon her face,Nor fare along?For all her looks were full of spells,And all her words of sorcery;And in some way they seemed to say"Oh, come with me!"Oh, come with me! oh, come with me!Oh, come with me, my love, Sir Kay!"—How should he know the witch, I trow,Morgan le Fay?How should he know the wily witch,With sweet white face and raven hair?Who by her art bewitched his heartAnd held him there.For soul and sense had waxed amortTo wold and weald, to slade and stream;And all he heard was her soft wordAs one adream.And all he saw was her bright eyes,And her fair face that held him still;And wild and wan she led him onO'er vale and hill.Until at last a castle layBeneath the moon, among the trees;Its Gothic towers old and grayWith mysteries.Tall in its hall an hundred knightsIn armor stood with glaive in hand;The following of some great King,Lord of that land.Sir Bors, Sir Balin, and Gawain,All Arthur's knights, and many mo;But these in battle had been slainLong years ago.But when Morgan with lifted handMoved down the hall, they louted low;For she was Queen of Shadowland,That woman of snow.Then from Sir Kay she drew away,And mocking at him by her side,—"Behold, Sir Knights, the knave who slewYour King," she cried.Then like one man those shadows raisedTheir swords, whereon the moon glanced gray;And clashing all strode from the wallAgainst Sir Kay.And on his body, bent and bowed,The hundred blades like one blade fell;While over all rang long and loudThe mirth of Hell.
In dim samite was she bedight,And on her hair a hoop of gold,Like fox-fire in the tawn moonlight,Was glimmering cold.
With soft gray eyes she gloomed and glowered;With soft red lips she sang a song:What knight might gaze upon her face,Nor fare along?
For all her looks were full of spells,And all her words of sorcery;And in some way they seemed to say"Oh, come with me!
"Oh, come with me! oh, come with me!Oh, come with me, my love, Sir Kay!"—How should he know the witch, I trow,Morgan le Fay?
How should he know the wily witch,With sweet white face and raven hair?Who by her art bewitched his heartAnd held him there.
For soul and sense had waxed amortTo wold and weald, to slade and stream;And all he heard was her soft wordAs one adream.
And all he saw was her bright eyes,And her fair face that held him still;And wild and wan she led him onO'er vale and hill.
Until at last a castle layBeneath the moon, among the trees;Its Gothic towers old and grayWith mysteries.
Tall in its hall an hundred knightsIn armor stood with glaive in hand;The following of some great King,Lord of that land.
Sir Bors, Sir Balin, and Gawain,All Arthur's knights, and many mo;But these in battle had been slainLong years ago.
But when Morgan with lifted handMoved down the hall, they louted low;For she was Queen of Shadowland,That woman of snow.
Then from Sir Kay she drew away,And mocking at him by her side,—"Behold, Sir Knights, the knave who slewYour King," she cried.
Then like one man those shadows raisedTheir swords, whereon the moon glanced gray;And clashing all strode from the wallAgainst Sir Kay.
And on his body, bent and bowed,The hundred blades like one blade fell;While over all rang long and loudThe mirth of Hell.
Below, the tawny Tagus sweptPast royal gardens, breathing balm;Upon his couch the monarch slept;The world was still; the night was calm.Gray, Gothic-gated, in the rayOf moonrise, tower-and castle-crowned,The city of Toledo layBeneath the terraced palace-ground.Again, he dreamed, in kingly sportHe sought the tree-sequestered path,And watched the ladies of his CourtWithin the marble-basined bath.Its porphyry stairs and fountained baseShone, houried with voluptuous forms,Where Andalusia vied in graceWith old Castile, in female charms.And laughter, song, and water-splashRang round the place, with stone arcaded,As here a breast or limb would flashWhere beauty swam or beauty waded.And then, like Venus, from the waveA maiden came, and stood below;And by her side a woman slaveBent down to dry her limbs of snow.Then on the tesselated bank,Robed on with fragrance and with fire,—Like some exotic flower—she sank,The type of all divine desire.Then her dark curls, that sparkled wet,She parted from her perfect brows,And, lo, her eyes, like lamps of jetWithin an alabaster house.And in his sleep the monarch sighed,"Florinda!"—Dreaming still he moaned,"Ah, would that I had died, had died!I have atoned! I have atoned!" ...And then the vision changed: O'erheadTempest and darkness were unrolled,Full of wild voices of the dead,And lamentations manifold.And wandering shapes of gaunt despairSwept by, with faces pale as pain,Whose eyes wept blood and seemed to glareFierce curses on him through the rain.And then, it seemed, 'gainst blazing skiesA necromantic tower sate,Crag-like on crags, of giant size;Of adamant its walls and gate.And from the storm a hand of mightRed-rolled in thunder, reached amongThe gate's huge bolts—that burst; and nightClanged ruin as its hinges swung.Then far away a murmur trailed,—As of sad seas on cavern'd shores,—That grew into a voice that wailed,"They come! they come! the Moors! the Moors!"And with deep boom of atabalsAnd crash of cymbals and wild pealOf battle-bugles, from its wallsAn army rushed in glimmering steel.And where it trod he saw the torchOf conflagration stalk the skies,And in the vanward of its marchThe monster form of Havoc rise.And Paynim war-cries rent the storm,Athwart whose firmament of flame,Destruction reared an earthquake formOn wreck and death without a name ...And then again the vision changed:Where flows the Guadalete, see,The warriors of the Cross are rangedAgainst the Crescent's chivalry.With roar of trumpets and of drumsThey meet; and in the battle's vanHe fights; and, towering towards him, comesFlorinda's father, Julian;And one-eyed Taric, great in war:And where these couch their burning spears,The Christian phalanx, near and far,Goes down like corn before the shears.The Moslem wins: the Christian flies:"Allah il Allah," hill and plainReverberate: the rocking skies,"Allah il Allah," shout again.And then he dreamed the swing of swordsAnd hurl of arrows were no more;But, louder than the howling hordes,Strange silence fell on field and shore.And through the night, it seemed, he fled,Upon a white steed like a star,Across a field of endless dead,Beneath a blood-red scimitar.Of sunset: And he heard a moan,Beneath, around, on every hand—"Accurséd! Yea, what hast thou doneTo bring this curse upon thy land?"And then an awful sense of wings:And, lo! the answer—"'Twas his lustThat was his crime. Behold! E'en kingsMust reckon with Me. All are dust."
Below, the tawny Tagus sweptPast royal gardens, breathing balm;Upon his couch the monarch slept;The world was still; the night was calm.
Gray, Gothic-gated, in the rayOf moonrise, tower-and castle-crowned,The city of Toledo layBeneath the terraced palace-ground.
Again, he dreamed, in kingly sportHe sought the tree-sequestered path,And watched the ladies of his CourtWithin the marble-basined bath.
Its porphyry stairs and fountained baseShone, houried with voluptuous forms,Where Andalusia vied in graceWith old Castile, in female charms.
And laughter, song, and water-splashRang round the place, with stone arcaded,As here a breast or limb would flashWhere beauty swam or beauty waded.
And then, like Venus, from the waveA maiden came, and stood below;And by her side a woman slaveBent down to dry her limbs of snow.
Then on the tesselated bank,Robed on with fragrance and with fire,—Like some exotic flower—she sank,The type of all divine desire.
Then her dark curls, that sparkled wet,She parted from her perfect brows,And, lo, her eyes, like lamps of jetWithin an alabaster house.
And in his sleep the monarch sighed,"Florinda!"—Dreaming still he moaned,"Ah, would that I had died, had died!I have atoned! I have atoned!" ...
And then the vision changed: O'erheadTempest and darkness were unrolled,Full of wild voices of the dead,And lamentations manifold.
And wandering shapes of gaunt despairSwept by, with faces pale as pain,Whose eyes wept blood and seemed to glareFierce curses on him through the rain.
And then, it seemed, 'gainst blazing skiesA necromantic tower sate,Crag-like on crags, of giant size;Of adamant its walls and gate.
And from the storm a hand of mightRed-rolled in thunder, reached amongThe gate's huge bolts—that burst; and nightClanged ruin as its hinges swung.
Then far away a murmur trailed,—As of sad seas on cavern'd shores,—That grew into a voice that wailed,"They come! they come! the Moors! the Moors!"
And with deep boom of atabalsAnd crash of cymbals and wild pealOf battle-bugles, from its wallsAn army rushed in glimmering steel.
And where it trod he saw the torchOf conflagration stalk the skies,And in the vanward of its marchThe monster form of Havoc rise.
And Paynim war-cries rent the storm,Athwart whose firmament of flame,Destruction reared an earthquake formOn wreck and death without a name ...
And then again the vision changed:Where flows the Guadalete, see,The warriors of the Cross are rangedAgainst the Crescent's chivalry.
With roar of trumpets and of drumsThey meet; and in the battle's vanHe fights; and, towering towards him, comesFlorinda's father, Julian;
And one-eyed Taric, great in war:And where these couch their burning spears,The Christian phalanx, near and far,Goes down like corn before the shears.
The Moslem wins: the Christian flies:"Allah il Allah," hill and plainReverberate: the rocking skies,"Allah il Allah," shout again.
And then he dreamed the swing of swordsAnd hurl of arrows were no more;But, louder than the howling hordes,Strange silence fell on field and shore.
And through the night, it seemed, he fled,Upon a white steed like a star,Across a field of endless dead,Beneath a blood-red scimitar.
Of sunset: And he heard a moan,Beneath, around, on every hand—"Accurséd! Yea, what hast thou doneTo bring this curse upon thy land?"
And then an awful sense of wings:And, lo! the answer—"'Twas his lustThat was his crime. Behold! E'en kingsMust reckon with Me. All are dust."
The Alps of the Tyrol are dark with pines,Where, foaming under the mountain spines,The Inn's long water sounds and shines.Beyond, are peaks where the morning weavesAn icy rose; and the evening leavesThe glittering gold of a thousand sheaves.Deep vines and torrents and glimmering haze,And sheep-bells tinkling on mountain ways,And fluting shepherds make sweet the days.The rolling mist, like a wandering fleece,The great round moon in a mountain crease,And a song of love make the nights all peace.Beneath the blue Tyrolean skiesOn the banks of the Inn, that foams and flies,The storied city of Innsbruck lies.With its mediæval streets, that crook,And its gabled houses, it has the lookOf a belfried town in a fairy-book.So wild the Tyrol that oft, 'tis said,When the storm is out and the town in bed,The howling of wolves sweeps overhead.And oft the burgher, sitting hereIn his walled rose-garden, hears the clearShrill scream of the eagle circling near.And this is the tale that the burghers tell:—The Abbot of Wiltau stood at his cellWhere the Solstein lifts its pinnacle.A mighty summit of bluffs and cragsThat frowns on the Inn; where the forest stagsHave worn a path to the water-flags.The Abbot of Wiltau stood below;And he was aware of a plume and bowOn the precipice there in the morning's glow.A chamois, he saw, from span to spanHad leapt; and after it leapt a man;And he knew 't was the Kaiser Maxmilian.But, see! though rash as the chamois he,His foot less sure. And verilyIf the King should miss ... "Jesu, Marie!"The King hath missed!"—And, look, he falls!Rolls headlong out to the headlong walls.What saint shall save him on whom he calls?What saint shall save him, who struggles thereOn the narrow ledge by the eagle's lair,With hooked hands clinging 'twixt earth and air?The Abbot, he crosses himself in dread—"Let prayers go up for the nearly dead,And the passing-bell be tolled," he said."For the House of Hapsburg totters; see,How raveled the thread of its destiny,Sheer hung between cloud and rock!" quoth he.But hark! where the steeps of the peak reply,Is it an eagle's echoing cry?And the flitting shadow, its plumes on high?No voice of the eagle is that which rings!And the shadow, a wiry man who swingsDown, down where the desperate Kaiser clings.Thecramponsbound to his feet, he leapsLike a chamois now; and again he creepsOr twists, like a snake, o'er the fearful deeps."By his cross-bow, baldrick, and cap's black curl,"Quoth the Abbot below, "I know the churl!'T is the hunted outlaw Zyps of Zirl."Upon whose head, or dead or alive,The Kaiser hath posted a price.—Saints shriveThe King!" quoth Wiltau. "Who may contrive"To save him now that his foe is there?"—But, listen! again through the breathless airWhat words are those that the echoes bear?"Courage, my King!—To the rescue, ho!"The wild voice rings like a twanging bow,And the staring Abbot stands mute below.And, lo! the hand of the outlaw graspsThe arm of the King—and death unclaspsIts fleshless fingers from him who gasps.And how he guides! where the clean cliffs wedgeThem flat to their faces; by chasm and ledgeHe helps the King from the merciless edge.Then up and up, past bluffs that shunThe rashest chamois; where eagles sunFierce wings and brood; where the mists are spun.And safe at last stand Kaiser and churlOn the mountain path where the mosses curl—And this the revenge of Zyps of Zirl.
The Alps of the Tyrol are dark with pines,Where, foaming under the mountain spines,The Inn's long water sounds and shines.
Beyond, are peaks where the morning weavesAn icy rose; and the evening leavesThe glittering gold of a thousand sheaves.
Deep vines and torrents and glimmering haze,And sheep-bells tinkling on mountain ways,And fluting shepherds make sweet the days.
The rolling mist, like a wandering fleece,The great round moon in a mountain crease,And a song of love make the nights all peace.
Beneath the blue Tyrolean skiesOn the banks of the Inn, that foams and flies,The storied city of Innsbruck lies.
With its mediæval streets, that crook,And its gabled houses, it has the lookOf a belfried town in a fairy-book.
So wild the Tyrol that oft, 'tis said,When the storm is out and the town in bed,The howling of wolves sweeps overhead.
And oft the burgher, sitting hereIn his walled rose-garden, hears the clearShrill scream of the eagle circling near.
And this is the tale that the burghers tell:—The Abbot of Wiltau stood at his cellWhere the Solstein lifts its pinnacle.
A mighty summit of bluffs and cragsThat frowns on the Inn; where the forest stagsHave worn a path to the water-flags.
The Abbot of Wiltau stood below;And he was aware of a plume and bowOn the precipice there in the morning's glow.
A chamois, he saw, from span to spanHad leapt; and after it leapt a man;And he knew 't was the Kaiser Maxmilian.
But, see! though rash as the chamois he,His foot less sure. And verilyIf the King should miss ... "Jesu, Marie!
"The King hath missed!"—And, look, he falls!Rolls headlong out to the headlong walls.What saint shall save him on whom he calls?
What saint shall save him, who struggles thereOn the narrow ledge by the eagle's lair,With hooked hands clinging 'twixt earth and air?
The Abbot, he crosses himself in dread—"Let prayers go up for the nearly dead,And the passing-bell be tolled," he said.
"For the House of Hapsburg totters; see,How raveled the thread of its destiny,Sheer hung between cloud and rock!" quoth he.
But hark! where the steeps of the peak reply,Is it an eagle's echoing cry?And the flitting shadow, its plumes on high?
No voice of the eagle is that which rings!And the shadow, a wiry man who swingsDown, down where the desperate Kaiser clings.
Thecramponsbound to his feet, he leapsLike a chamois now; and again he creepsOr twists, like a snake, o'er the fearful deeps.
"By his cross-bow, baldrick, and cap's black curl,"Quoth the Abbot below, "I know the churl!'T is the hunted outlaw Zyps of Zirl.
"Upon whose head, or dead or alive,The Kaiser hath posted a price.—Saints shriveThe King!" quoth Wiltau. "Who may contrive
"To save him now that his foe is there?"—But, listen! again through the breathless airWhat words are those that the echoes bear?
"Courage, my King!—To the rescue, ho!"The wild voice rings like a twanging bow,And the staring Abbot stands mute below.
And, lo! the hand of the outlaw graspsThe arm of the King—and death unclaspsIts fleshless fingers from him who gasps.
And how he guides! where the clean cliffs wedgeThem flat to their faces; by chasm and ledgeHe helps the King from the merciless edge.
Then up and up, past bluffs that shunThe rashest chamois; where eagles sunFierce wings and brood; where the mists are spun.
And safe at last stand Kaiser and churlOn the mountain path where the mosses curl—And this the revenge of Zyps of Zirl.