ERMENGARDE

[See larger version]

Queen of the Courts of Love, she sleeps; one armPillowing her raven hair, as Dawn might Night,Or Day kiss Dusk; or Darkness, starry warm,Be gathered of her sister, rosy Light.Pale from the purple of the damask clothOne hand hangs, as a lily-bloom might, loneAbove a bed of poppies; or a mothMight softly hover by a rose full-blown.Heraldic, rich, the costly coveringsSweep, fall'n in folds, pushed partly from her breast;As through storm-broken clouds the full moon springs,From these one orb of her pure bosom pressed.She sleeps: and where the moteless moonbeams sinkThrough blazoned panes—an immaterial snow—In wide, white jets, the lion-fur seems to drinkWith tawny jaws their wasted, winey glow.Light-lidded sleep and holy dreams are hers,Untouched of feverish sorrow or of care,Soft as the wind whose fragrant breathing stirsThe moonbeam-tangled tresses of her hair.

Queen of the Courts of Love, she sleeps; one armPillowing her raven hair, as Dawn might Night,Or Day kiss Dusk; or Darkness, starry warm,Be gathered of her sister, rosy Light.

Queen of the Courts of Love, she sleeps; one arm

Pillowing her raven hair, as Dawn might Night,

Or Day kiss Dusk; or Darkness, starry warm,

Be gathered of her sister, rosy Light.

Pale from the purple of the damask clothOne hand hangs, as a lily-bloom might, loneAbove a bed of poppies; or a mothMight softly hover by a rose full-blown.

Pale from the purple of the damask cloth

One hand hangs, as a lily-bloom might, lone

Above a bed of poppies; or a moth

Might softly hover by a rose full-blown.

Heraldic, rich, the costly coveringsSweep, fall'n in folds, pushed partly from her breast;As through storm-broken clouds the full moon springs,From these one orb of her pure bosom pressed.

Heraldic, rich, the costly coverings

Sweep, fall'n in folds, pushed partly from her breast;

As through storm-broken clouds the full moon springs,

From these one orb of her pure bosom pressed.

She sleeps: and where the moteless moonbeams sinkThrough blazoned panes—an immaterial snow—In wide, white jets, the lion-fur seems to drinkWith tawny jaws their wasted, winey glow.

She sleeps: and where the moteless moonbeams sink

Through blazoned panes—an immaterial snow—

In wide, white jets, the lion-fur seems to drink

With tawny jaws their wasted, winey glow.

Light-lidded sleep and holy dreams are hers,Untouched of feverish sorrow or of care,Soft as the wind whose fragrant breathing stirsThe moonbeam-tangled tresses of her hair.

Light-lidded sleep and holy dreams are hers,

Untouched of feverish sorrow or of care,

Soft as the wind whose fragrant breathing stirs

The moonbeam-tangled tresses of her hair.

IWhen down the Hartz the echoes swarm,He rides beneath the mountain stormWith mad "halloo!" and wild alarmOf hound and horn and thunder:With his hunter, black as night,Ban-dogs, eyed with lambent light;And a stag, a spectral white,Rushes on before, in flightGlimmering through the boughs and under.IILong-howling, crouched in bracken black,The werewolf shuns his ruinous track,On every side the forests crack,And mountain torrents tumble:And the spirits of the airWhistling whirl with scattered hair,Teeth that flash and eyes that glare,Round him as he gallops there,In the rain and tempest's rumble.IIIAbove the storm, the thunder's growl,The torrent's roar, the forest's howl,Is heard his hunting-horn—an owl,That hoots and sweeps before him:And beneath the blinding leven,On wild crags, the Castle rivenOf the Dumburg towers to heaven,Beckoning on the demon-driven,Beckoning on and looming o'er him.

When down the Hartz the echoes swarm,He rides beneath the mountain stormWith mad "halloo!" and wild alarmOf hound and horn and thunder:With his hunter, black as night,Ban-dogs, eyed with lambent light;And a stag, a spectral white,Rushes on before, in flightGlimmering through the boughs and under.

When down the Hartz the echoes swarm,

He rides beneath the mountain storm

With mad "halloo!" and wild alarm

Of hound and horn and thunder:

With his hunter, black as night,

Ban-dogs, eyed with lambent light;

And a stag, a spectral white,

Rushes on before, in flight

Glimmering through the boughs and under.

Long-howling, crouched in bracken black,The werewolf shuns his ruinous track,On every side the forests crack,And mountain torrents tumble:And the spirits of the airWhistling whirl with scattered hair,Teeth that flash and eyes that glare,Round him as he gallops there,In the rain and tempest's rumble.

Long-howling, crouched in bracken black,

The werewolf shuns his ruinous track,

On every side the forests crack,

And mountain torrents tumble:

And the spirits of the air

Whistling whirl with scattered hair,

Teeth that flash and eyes that glare,

Round him as he gallops there,

In the rain and tempest's rumble.

III

Above the storm, the thunder's growl,The torrent's roar, the forest's howl,Is heard his hunting-horn—an owl,That hoots and sweeps before him:And beneath the blinding leven,On wild crags, the Castle rivenOf the Dumburg towers to heaven,Beckoning on the demon-driven,Beckoning on and looming o'er him.

Above the storm, the thunder's growl,

The torrent's roar, the forest's howl,

Is heard his hunting-horn—an owl,

That hoots and sweeps before him:

And beneath the blinding leven,

On wild crags, the Castle riven

Of the Dumburg towers to heaven,

Beckoning on the demon-driven,

Beckoning on and looming o'er him.

Mildewed and gray a marble stairLeads to a balustrade of urns,Beyond which two stone satyrs glareFrom vines and close-clipped yews and ferns.A path, that winds and labyrinths,'Twixt parallels of verdant box,Around a lodge whose mossy plinthsAre based on emerald-colored rocks.A lodge, or ancient pleasure-house,Built in a grove beside a lake,Around whose edge the dun deer browse,And swans their snowy pastime take.And underneath and overhead,—The breathings of a water-nymphIt seems,—the violets' scent is shedMixed with the music of the lymph.And where,—upon its pedestal,—The old sun-dial marks the hours,Laburnum blossoms lightly fall,And duchess roses rain their flowers.The air is languid with perfume,As if dead beauties—who of oldIntrigued it here in patch and plume—Again the ancient terrace strolledWith gallants, on whose rapiers gemsOnce sneered in haughtiness of hues,While Touchstone wit and apothegmsLaughed down the long cool avenues:And there, where bowers of woodbine pave,All heavily with sultry musk,Two fountains of pellucid wave,In sunlight-tessellated dusk,I seem to see the fountains twainOf Hate and Love in Arden, where,In times of regal Charlemagne,Great Roland drank and Oliver.Where, wandered from Montalban's towers,The paladin, Rinaldo, slept,While, leaning o'er him through the flowers,Angelica above him wept.

Mildewed and gray a marble stairLeads to a balustrade of urns,Beyond which two stone satyrs glareFrom vines and close-clipped yews and ferns.

Mildewed and gray a marble stair

Leads to a balustrade of urns,

Beyond which two stone satyrs glare

From vines and close-clipped yews and ferns.

A path, that winds and labyrinths,'Twixt parallels of verdant box,Around a lodge whose mossy plinthsAre based on emerald-colored rocks.

A path, that winds and labyrinths,

'Twixt parallels of verdant box,

Around a lodge whose mossy plinths

Are based on emerald-colored rocks.

A lodge, or ancient pleasure-house,Built in a grove beside a lake,Around whose edge the dun deer browse,And swans their snowy pastime take.

A lodge, or ancient pleasure-house,

Built in a grove beside a lake,

Around whose edge the dun deer browse,

And swans their snowy pastime take.

And underneath and overhead,—The breathings of a water-nymphIt seems,—the violets' scent is shedMixed with the music of the lymph.

And underneath and overhead,—

The breathings of a water-nymph

It seems,—the violets' scent is shed

Mixed with the music of the lymph.

And where,—upon its pedestal,—The old sun-dial marks the hours,Laburnum blossoms lightly fall,And duchess roses rain their flowers.

And where,—upon its pedestal,—

The old sun-dial marks the hours,

Laburnum blossoms lightly fall,

And duchess roses rain their flowers.

The air is languid with perfume,As if dead beauties—who of oldIntrigued it here in patch and plume—Again the ancient terrace strolled

The air is languid with perfume,

As if dead beauties—who of old

Intrigued it here in patch and plume—

Again the ancient terrace strolled

With gallants, on whose rapiers gemsOnce sneered in haughtiness of hues,While Touchstone wit and apothegmsLaughed down the long cool avenues:

With gallants, on whose rapiers gems

Once sneered in haughtiness of hues,

While Touchstone wit and apothegms

Laughed down the long cool avenues:

And there, where bowers of woodbine pave,All heavily with sultry musk,Two fountains of pellucid wave,In sunlight-tessellated dusk,

And there, where bowers of woodbine pave,

All heavily with sultry musk,

Two fountains of pellucid wave,

In sunlight-tessellated dusk,

I seem to see the fountains twainOf Hate and Love in Arden, where,In times of regal Charlemagne,Great Roland drank and Oliver.

I seem to see the fountains twain

Of Hate and Love in Arden, where,

In times of regal Charlemagne,

Great Roland drank and Oliver.

Where, wandered from Montalban's towers,The paladin, Rinaldo, slept,While, leaning o'er him through the flowers,Angelica above him wept.

Where, wandered from Montalban's towers,

The paladin, Rinaldo, slept,

While, leaning o'er him through the flowers,

Angelica above him wept.

Scene, Baghdad: time of the Khalif Haroun er Reshid. Salih ben Tarif speaks.

With Imam Hassan I had reached the khanOutside of Ambar. Jaafer at the doorOf his pavilion watched a caravanInbound from Yemen.—Ah, the bales it boreOf richest stuffs and spices!—'Mid the routOf porters, camel-drivers, old and poor,A singer stood,—a blindman, singing outWith luted preludes. Imam Hassan then:"'Tis Zekkar; he, t' whom, with the blind aboutThe Mosque of Moons, I with our holy menScattered my silver at the hour of prayer,When hearts are open unto Allah's ken.—Danic or dirhem, though, were wasted there:Yea, by the Prophet! had one sown dinarsHehad not budged one finger or that stare.And so the beggars and the scavengersGot all."Then I: "The very same whom I—Guard at the Western Portal—'neath the starsSome midnights past heard singing. Dim the dryHot night; and Baghdad only knew of usUntil, gray shadows shuffling slowly by,Pilgrims for Mecca passed, all vaporousIn dust and darkness; them we challenged not.—Slaves, with the tribute of NicephorusThe Roman, from long shallops, as they shotAlong the moonlit Tigris far away,Timing their oars, raised languid chanting.—WhatThis blindman sang was sweeter than—let's say—The songs of Ibrahim, the dulcet fretsOf Zulzul's lute. I listened till the dayMade gold of all the city's minarets,And the muezzin summoned us to pray."Now while we gossiped, lounging slow alongThe packed bazaar, a fisher with his netsPassed, singing Abou Newas' newest song:A honey-merchant, then, his tinkling muleAll hanap-hung with sweetness: then a throngOf scholars and their Sheikh from mosque or school:A milk-white woman on a cream-white ass,Black slaves attending.... And—I am no fool!—I knew her of the Court, the noblest class,By her gem-bangled bracelets.... Let HarounOn the Euphrates with Zubeideh passA single day, at royal Rekkeh,—noonAnd night his harem here, so it is said,Is all intrigue.—Then drawling out his tune,"Ten thousand pieces to be paid, be paid,For Yehya's head, Er Reshid's late vizier,"A crier passed us. Then the market's shadeGlittered with weapons; and we seemed to hear,Sword of the Khalif, Mesrour, and commandsNaming the Khalif. One swart officerFlamed forth the Sultan's signet. And harsh handsWere laid on—whom?—I saw not! For my sightWas dazzled by the scimitars,—from bandsOf jeweled belts that burned,—and, keen and bright,Swift hedged us out. Then broad the red blood dyedThe ground around a body—and, hoar white,Was raised a severed head.—And, stupefied,Elbowing the rabble, "By my beard!" I cried,Marking the face, "Jaafer the Barmecide!"

With Imam Hassan I had reached the khan

Outside of Ambar. Jaafer at the door

Of his pavilion watched a caravan

Inbound from Yemen.—Ah, the bales it bore

Of richest stuffs and spices!—'Mid the rout

Of porters, camel-drivers, old and poor,

A singer stood,—a blindman, singing out

With luted preludes. Imam Hassan then:

"'Tis Zekkar; he, t' whom, with the blind about

The Mosque of Moons, I with our holy men

Scattered my silver at the hour of prayer,

When hearts are open unto Allah's ken.—

Danic or dirhem, though, were wasted there:

Yea, by the Prophet! had one sown dinars

Hehad not budged one finger or that stare.

And so the beggars and the scavengers

Got all."

Then I: "The very same whom I—

Guard at the Western Portal—'neath the stars

Some midnights past heard singing. Dim the dry

Hot night; and Baghdad only knew of us

Until, gray shadows shuffling slowly by,

Pilgrims for Mecca passed, all vaporous

In dust and darkness; them we challenged not.

—Slaves, with the tribute of Nicephorus

The Roman, from long shallops, as they shot

Along the moonlit Tigris far away,

Timing their oars, raised languid chanting.—

What

This blindman sang was sweeter than—let's say—

The songs of Ibrahim, the dulcet frets

Of Zulzul's lute. I listened till the day

Made gold of all the city's minarets,

And the muezzin summoned us to pray."

Now while we gossiped, lounging slow alongThe packed bazaar, a fisher with his netsPassed, singing Abou Newas' newest song:A honey-merchant, then, his tinkling muleAll hanap-hung with sweetness: then a throngOf scholars and their Sheikh from mosque or school:A milk-white woman on a cream-white ass,Black slaves attending.... And—I am no fool!—I knew her of the Court, the noblest class,By her gem-bangled bracelets.... Let HarounOn the Euphrates with Zubeideh passA single day, at royal Rekkeh,—noonAnd night his harem here, so it is said,Is all intrigue.—Then drawling out his tune,"Ten thousand pieces to be paid, be paid,For Yehya's head, Er Reshid's late vizier,"A crier passed us. Then the market's shadeGlittered with weapons; and we seemed to hear,Sword of the Khalif, Mesrour, and commandsNaming the Khalif. One swart officerFlamed forth the Sultan's signet. And harsh handsWere laid on—whom?—I saw not! For my sightWas dazzled by the scimitars,—from bandsOf jeweled belts that burned,—and, keen and bright,Swift hedged us out. Then broad the red blood dyedThe ground around a body—and, hoar white,Was raised a severed head.—And, stupefied,Elbowing the rabble, "By my beard!" I cried,Marking the face, "Jaafer the Barmecide!"

Now while we gossiped, lounging slow along

The packed bazaar, a fisher with his nets

Passed, singing Abou Newas' newest song:

A honey-merchant, then, his tinkling mule

All hanap-hung with sweetness: then a throng

Of scholars and their Sheikh from mosque or school:

A milk-white woman on a cream-white ass,

Black slaves attending.... And—I am no fool!—

I knew her of the Court, the noblest class,

By her gem-bangled bracelets.... Let Haroun

On the Euphrates with Zubeideh pass

A single day, at royal Rekkeh,—noon

And night his harem here, so it is said,

Is all intrigue.—Then drawling out his tune,

"Ten thousand pieces to be paid, be paid,

For Yehya's head, Er Reshid's late vizier,"

A crier passed us. Then the market's shade

Glittered with weapons; and we seemed to hear,

Sword of the Khalif, Mesrour, and commands

Naming the Khalif. One swart officer

Flamed forth the Sultan's signet. And harsh hands

Were laid on—whom?—I saw not! For my sight

Was dazzled by the scimitars,—from bands

Of jeweled belts that burned,—and, keen and bright,

Swift hedged us out. Then broad the red blood dyed

The ground around a body—and, hoar white,

Was raised a severed head.—And, stupefied,

Elbowing the rabble, "By my beard!" I cried,

Marking the face, "Jaafer the Barmecide!"

An intimation of some previous life?Or dark dream—by my waking soul divined—Of some uncertain sleep? in which the sinOf some past life, a life that some one lived—Not I, yet I,—long, long ago in Spain,I live again.... Wherein again I seeFrom heathen battles to Toledo's gates,—Damascened corselet broken, his camailAnd armet shattered,—deep within the eve'sAnger of brass, that burned around his helm,A hurrying flame,—a galloping glitter,—oneRide arrow-wounded. And the city catchWild tumult from his coming, wilder fear—A cry before him and a wail behind,Of walls beleaguered; ravin; conquered kings:Triumphant Taric; shackled Spain—revenge.And I, a Moslem slave, a miser Jew's,Housed near the Tagus—squalid and alone,Save for his slave,—a dog he beat and starved,—Leaner than my lank shadow when the moon,A battle beacon, westerns; all my bonesA visible hunger; famished with the fear,Soul-garb of slaves, I bore him—I, who heldHim, heart and soul, more hated than his God,Stood silent. Fools had laughed. I saw my way.War-times grow weapons, and the blade I foundWas hacked but pointed.—Well I knew his ways:The nightly nuptials of his jars of gemsAnd bags of doublas.—Well I knew his ways.No figure, woven in the hangings, whereHe hugged his riches in that secret room,Was half so still as I, who gauntly stoleBehind him, humped and stooping; and his heartClove to the center, stabbing from behind,Thrice thro' his tattered tunic, murrey-dyed.Forward he fell, his old face 'mid his gold,Grayer and thinner than the moon of morn,While slow the blood dripped, oozing through the cloth,Black, and thick-clotting round the oblong wounds.Great pearls of Oman, whiter than the moon;Rubies of Badakhshân, whose bezels weptSlim tears of poppy-purpled flame; and rich,Rose, ember-pregnant carbuncles, whereinFevered a captive crimson, blurred with lightThe table's raven cloth. Dim bugles wanOf cat-eyed hyacinths; moon-emeraldsWith starry greenness stabbed; in limpid stainsOf liquid lilac, Persian amethysts;Fire-opals, savage and mesmeric withVoluptuous flame, long, sweet and sensuous asDeep eyes of Orient women; sapphires beamedWith talismanic violet, from tombs,Deev-guarded, of primordial Solimans,Scattered the velvet: and like gledes amid,—Splintering the light from rainbow-arrowed orbs,—Length-agonized with fire, diamonds ofGolconda.... (One a dervish once had borneSeven days, beneath a red Arabian sun,Seven nights, beneath a round Arabian moon,Under his tongue; an Emeer's ransom, heldOf some wild tribe.—Bleached in the perishing waste,A Bedouin Arab found sand-strangled bones,A skeleton, vulture-torn, fierce in whose skullOne eyeball blazed—the diamond. At AleppoBartered ... a bauble for his desert love.)Jacinth and Indian pearl, gem heaped on gem,Flashed, rutilating in the taper's light,—Unearthly splinters of a rainbowed flame,—A blaze of irised fire; and his face,Long-haired, white-sunk among them. And I tookAll! yea! all! all!—jewel and gold and gem!—Although his curse burned in them! 'though, me-seemed,Each burning jewel glared a separate curse.Can dead men work us evil from the grave?Can crime infest us so that fear will slay?...Richer than all Castile and yet—not dareDrink but from cups of Roman murra,—sparBowl-sprayed with fibrile gold,—spar sensitiveTo poison! I, no fool! and yet—a foolTo fear a dead Jew's malice!... Yet, how else?Feasting within the music of my halls,While perfumed beauty danced in sinuous robes,Diaphanous, more tenuous than those famedOf loomed Amorgos or of silken Kos,Draining the unflawed murrhine, Xeres-brimmed,Had I reeled poisoned, dying wolf'sbane-slain!

An intimation of some previous life?

Or dark dream—by my waking soul divined—

Of some uncertain sleep? in which the sin

Of some past life, a life that some one lived—

Not I, yet I,—long, long ago in Spain,

I live again.... Wherein again I see

From heathen battles to Toledo's gates,—

Damascened corselet broken, his camail

And armet shattered,—deep within the eve's

Anger of brass, that burned around his helm,

A hurrying flame,—a galloping glitter,—one

Ride arrow-wounded. And the city catch

Wild tumult from his coming, wilder fear—

A cry before him and a wail behind,

Of walls beleaguered; ravin; conquered kings:

Triumphant Taric; shackled Spain—revenge.

And I, a Moslem slave, a miser Jew's,Housed near the Tagus—squalid and alone,Save for his slave,—a dog he beat and starved,—Leaner than my lank shadow when the moon,A battle beacon, westerns; all my bonesA visible hunger; famished with the fear,Soul-garb of slaves, I bore him—I, who heldHim, heart and soul, more hated than his God,Stood silent. Fools had laughed. I saw my way.

And I, a Moslem slave, a miser Jew's,

Housed near the Tagus—squalid and alone,

Save for his slave,—a dog he beat and starved,—

Leaner than my lank shadow when the moon,

A battle beacon, westerns; all my bones

A visible hunger; famished with the fear,

Soul-garb of slaves, I bore him—I, who held

Him, heart and soul, more hated than his God,

Stood silent. Fools had laughed. I saw my way.

War-times grow weapons, and the blade I foundWas hacked but pointed.—Well I knew his ways:The nightly nuptials of his jars of gemsAnd bags of doublas.—Well I knew his ways.No figure, woven in the hangings, whereHe hugged his riches in that secret room,Was half so still as I, who gauntly stoleBehind him, humped and stooping; and his heartClove to the center, stabbing from behind,Thrice thro' his tattered tunic, murrey-dyed.Forward he fell, his old face 'mid his gold,Grayer and thinner than the moon of morn,While slow the blood dripped, oozing through the cloth,Black, and thick-clotting round the oblong wounds.Great pearls of Oman, whiter than the moon;Rubies of Badakhshân, whose bezels weptSlim tears of poppy-purpled flame; and rich,Rose, ember-pregnant carbuncles, whereinFevered a captive crimson, blurred with lightThe table's raven cloth. Dim bugles wanOf cat-eyed hyacinths; moon-emeraldsWith starry greenness stabbed; in limpid stainsOf liquid lilac, Persian amethysts;Fire-opals, savage and mesmeric withVoluptuous flame, long, sweet and sensuous asDeep eyes of Orient women; sapphires beamedWith talismanic violet, from tombs,Deev-guarded, of primordial Solimans,Scattered the velvet: and like gledes amid,—Splintering the light from rainbow-arrowed orbs,—Length-agonized with fire, diamonds ofGolconda.... (One a dervish once had borneSeven days, beneath a red Arabian sun,Seven nights, beneath a round Arabian moon,Under his tongue; an Emeer's ransom, heldOf some wild tribe.—Bleached in the perishing waste,A Bedouin Arab found sand-strangled bones,A skeleton, vulture-torn, fierce in whose skullOne eyeball blazed—the diamond. At AleppoBartered ... a bauble for his desert love.)Jacinth and Indian pearl, gem heaped on gem,Flashed, rutilating in the taper's light,—Unearthly splinters of a rainbowed flame,—A blaze of irised fire; and his face,Long-haired, white-sunk among them. And I tookAll! yea! all! all!—jewel and gold and gem!—Although his curse burned in them! 'though, me-seemed,Each burning jewel glared a separate curse.Can dead men work us evil from the grave?Can crime infest us so that fear will slay?...Richer than all Castile and yet—not dareDrink but from cups of Roman murra,—sparBowl-sprayed with fibrile gold,—spar sensitiveTo poison! I, no fool! and yet—a foolTo fear a dead Jew's malice!... Yet, how else?Feasting within the music of my halls,While perfumed beauty danced in sinuous robes,Diaphanous, more tenuous than those famedOf loomed Amorgos or of silken Kos,Draining the unflawed murrhine, Xeres-brimmed,Had I reeled poisoned, dying wolf'sbane-slain!

War-times grow weapons, and the blade I found

Was hacked but pointed.—Well I knew his ways:

The nightly nuptials of his jars of gems

And bags of doublas.—Well I knew his ways.

No figure, woven in the hangings, where

He hugged his riches in that secret room,

Was half so still as I, who gauntly stole

Behind him, humped and stooping; and his heart

Clove to the center, stabbing from behind,

Thrice thro' his tattered tunic, murrey-dyed.

Forward he fell, his old face 'mid his gold,

Grayer and thinner than the moon of morn,

While slow the blood dripped, oozing through the cloth,

Black, and thick-clotting round the oblong wounds.

Great pearls of Oman, whiter than the moon;

Rubies of Badakhshân, whose bezels wept

Slim tears of poppy-purpled flame; and rich,

Rose, ember-pregnant carbuncles, wherein

Fevered a captive crimson, blurred with light

The table's raven cloth. Dim bugles wan

Of cat-eyed hyacinths; moon-emeralds

With starry greenness stabbed; in limpid stains

Of liquid lilac, Persian amethysts;

Fire-opals, savage and mesmeric with

Voluptuous flame, long, sweet and sensuous as

Deep eyes of Orient women; sapphires beamed

With talismanic violet, from tombs,

Deev-guarded, of primordial Solimans,

Scattered the velvet: and like gledes amid,—

Splintering the light from rainbow-arrowed orbs,—

Length-agonized with fire, diamonds of

Golconda.... (One a dervish once had borne

Seven days, beneath a red Arabian sun,

Seven nights, beneath a round Arabian moon,

Under his tongue; an Emeer's ransom, held

Of some wild tribe.—Bleached in the perishing waste,

A Bedouin Arab found sand-strangled bones,

A skeleton, vulture-torn, fierce in whose skull

One eyeball blazed—the diamond. At Aleppo

Bartered ... a bauble for his desert love.)

Jacinth and Indian pearl, gem heaped on gem,

Flashed, rutilating in the taper's light,—

Unearthly splinters of a rainbowed flame,—

A blaze of irised fire; and his face,

Long-haired, white-sunk among them. And I took

All! yea! all! all!—jewel and gold and gem!—

Although his curse burned in them! 'though, me-seemed,

Each burning jewel glared a separate curse.

Can dead men work us evil from the grave?

Can crime infest us so that fear will slay?...

Richer than all Castile and yet—not dare

Drink but from cups of Roman murra,—spar

Bowl-sprayed with fibrile gold,—spar sensitive

To poison! I, no fool! and yet—a fool

To fear a dead Jew's malice!... Yet, how else?

Feasting within the music of my halls,

While perfumed beauty danced in sinuous robes,

Diaphanous, more tenuous than those famed

Of loomed Amorgos or of silken Kos,

Draining the unflawed murrhine, Xeres-brimmed,

Had I reeled poisoned, dying wolf'sbane-slain!

Up from the glimmering east the full moon swung,A golden bubble buoyed zenithwardAbove black hills. The white-eyed stars, that thronged,—Hot with the drought,—the cloudless slopes of heaven,Winked thirstily; no wind aroused the leaves,That o'er the glaring road hung motionless,Withered and whitened of the weary dustFrom many hoofs of many a fellowshipOf knights who rode to'ards quest or tournament:Among them those who brought the King disguised,Whose mind was, "in the lists to joust and beAn equal 'mid unequals, man to man:"Who from the towers of Edric passed, whereinSome days he'd sojourned, waiting Launcelot:That morn it was; ... for, with the morn, a hornSang at dim portals, musical with dew,Wild echoes of wild woodlands and the hunt,Clear herald of the stanchest of his knights.And they, to the great tilt at Camelot,Rode armored off, a noise of steel and steeds.Thick in the stagnant moat the lilies lay,Pale 'mid their pads; above them, huge with chains,The drawbridge hung before the barbéd grate;And far above, along lone battlements,His armor moon-drenched, one lone sentinelClanked drowsily; and it was late in June.She, at her lattice, loosely night-robed, leaned,Thinking of one she loved: a pensive smileHaunting her face; a face as fair as night's,Night's when divinely beautiful with stars,Two stars, at least, that dreamed beneath her brows.Long, raven loops and coils of sensuous hairRolled turbulence round white-glimpsed neck and throat,That shamed the moonlight with a rival sheen.One stooped above her; and his nostrils breathedHeavy perfumes that blossomed in her hair;And round her waist hooped one strong arm and drewHer mightily to him, soft crushing,—coolWith yielding freshness of her form,—her gown;Then searched her eyes until his own seemed drunkAnd mad with passion: then one hungry kissBruised, hard as anger, on her breathless lips,Fiercer than fire. Leaning lower, thenA whispered, "Lov'st but one? and he?"—And then,She, with impatience, "Rough and rude thou art!Why crush me, thou great bear, with such a hug!Or kill me with such kisses!"—Then, as softAs some rich rose syllabling musk and dew,"And whom I love?—ah, Edric, need I say!"...Then he, fierce-smiling, swiftly, without word,His countenance harsh-writhen into hate'sGnarled hideousness, haled back her marvelous head,Back, back by all its braids of gathered hair,Till her full bosom's clamorous lovelinessStark on the moon burst bare. Low leaning then,With mocking laughter, "Yea, by God's own blood!The King, O thou adulteress!" and a bladeGlanced, thin as ice, plunged hard, hard in her heart.

Up from the glimmering east the full moon swung,

A golden bubble buoyed zenithward

Above black hills. The white-eyed stars, that thronged,—

Hot with the drought,—the cloudless slopes of heaven,

Winked thirstily; no wind aroused the leaves,

That o'er the glaring road hung motionless,

Withered and whitened of the weary dust

From many hoofs of many a fellowship

Of knights who rode to'ards quest or tournament:

Among them those who brought the King disguised,

Whose mind was, "in the lists to joust and be

An equal 'mid unequals, man to man:"

Who from the towers of Edric passed, wherein

Some days he'd sojourned, waiting Launcelot:

That morn it was; ... for, with the morn, a horn

Sang at dim portals, musical with dew,

Wild echoes of wild woodlands and the hunt,

Clear herald of the stanchest of his knights.

And they, to the great tilt at Camelot,

Rode armored off, a noise of steel and steeds.

Thick in the stagnant moat the lilies lay,Pale 'mid their pads; above them, huge with chains,The drawbridge hung before the barbéd grate;And far above, along lone battlements,His armor moon-drenched, one lone sentinelClanked drowsily; and it was late in June.

Thick in the stagnant moat the lilies lay,

Pale 'mid their pads; above them, huge with chains,

The drawbridge hung before the barbéd grate;

And far above, along lone battlements,

His armor moon-drenched, one lone sentinel

Clanked drowsily; and it was late in June.

She, at her lattice, loosely night-robed, leaned,Thinking of one she loved: a pensive smileHaunting her face; a face as fair as night's,Night's when divinely beautiful with stars,Two stars, at least, that dreamed beneath her brows.Long, raven loops and coils of sensuous hairRolled turbulence round white-glimpsed neck and throat,That shamed the moonlight with a rival sheen.

She, at her lattice, loosely night-robed, leaned,

Thinking of one she loved: a pensive smile

Haunting her face; a face as fair as night's,

Night's when divinely beautiful with stars,

Two stars, at least, that dreamed beneath her brows.

Long, raven loops and coils of sensuous hair

Rolled turbulence round white-glimpsed neck and throat,

That shamed the moonlight with a rival sheen.

One stooped above her; and his nostrils breathedHeavy perfumes that blossomed in her hair;And round her waist hooped one strong arm and drewHer mightily to him, soft crushing,—coolWith yielding freshness of her form,—her gown;Then searched her eyes until his own seemed drunkAnd mad with passion: then one hungry kissBruised, hard as anger, on her breathless lips,Fiercer than fire. Leaning lower, thenA whispered, "Lov'st but one? and he?"—And then,She, with impatience, "Rough and rude thou art!Why crush me, thou great bear, with such a hug!Or kill me with such kisses!"—Then, as softAs some rich rose syllabling musk and dew,"And whom I love?—ah, Edric, need I say!"...

One stooped above her; and his nostrils breathed

Heavy perfumes that blossomed in her hair;

And round her waist hooped one strong arm and drew

Her mightily to him, soft crushing,—cool

With yielding freshness of her form,—her gown;

Then searched her eyes until his own seemed drunk

And mad with passion: then one hungry kiss

Bruised, hard as anger, on her breathless lips,

Fiercer than fire. Leaning lower, then

A whispered, "Lov'st but one? and he?"—And then,

She, with impatience, "Rough and rude thou art!

Why crush me, thou great bear, with such a hug!

Or kill me with such kisses!"—Then, as soft

As some rich rose syllabling musk and dew,

"And whom I love?—ah, Edric, need I say!"...

Then he, fierce-smiling, swiftly, without word,His countenance harsh-writhen into hate'sGnarled hideousness, haled back her marvelous head,Back, back by all its braids of gathered hair,Till her full bosom's clamorous lovelinessStark on the moon burst bare. Low leaning then,With mocking laughter, "Yea, by God's own blood!The King, O thou adulteress!" and a bladeGlanced, thin as ice, plunged hard, hard in her heart.

Then he, fierce-smiling, swiftly, without word,

His countenance harsh-writhen into hate's

Gnarled hideousness, haled back her marvelous head,

Back, back by all its braids of gathered hair,

Till her full bosom's clamorous loveliness

Stark on the moon burst bare. Low leaning then,

With mocking laughter, "Yea, by God's own blood!

The King, O thou adulteress!" and a blade

Glanced, thin as ice, plunged hard, hard in her heart.

"Jamque vale Soli cum diceret Ambrociotes,In Stygios fertur desiluisse lacus,Morte nihil dignum passus: sed forte PlatonisDivini eximum de nece legit opus."—Callimachus.INow there was wind that night, wild wind, and rain;And frantic thorns, that huddled on the wold,Seemed withered witches met in storm againTo keep their Sabbath and to curse and scold,With gnarled, fantastic gestures, lame and old.Deep in a hollow, where some cabin lay,A lamplit window, like an eye of gold,Glared, winked and closed—or was't an Elfin ray,A jack-o'-lanthorn gleam, lost on a wild wood way?IIStill I held onward through the ugly night;Breast-deep in thistles, all their ghostly headsKinked close with wet; through the bedraggled plightOf brakes of bramble, tousled into shreds,And tangled wastes of briars—tumbling bedsFor winds to toss on.—Once, across a farm,Unsteadily, a lamp towards unseen sheds,—Like the blurred glow of some ungainly worm,—A watery wisp of light crawled trailing through the storm.IIIThen swallowing blackness of the night; and thinThe shrewd rain beat me and the rough limbs whippedOf dwarfed, uneasy beeches. There withinTheir savage circle battered tombstones tippedSquat lengths to weeds the fighting winds had rippedAnd chopped to tatters. And I heard before,Rounding a headland, where the gaunt trees dripped,—A shout borne deathward from night's ghastly shore,—Hoarse as a thousand throats the river's sullen roar.IVShuddering I stopped, for, with my feet so cakedWith clay, damp-dragging, safer were the graves,Crowding that vista of the wood,—which rakedMy face with burrs,—than, walking towards the waves,To feel earth slip away; the architravesOf darkness plunge me downward to some pitOf wallow and of water.—Madder knavesThan I have stood thus in a fever-fitOf heart and brain and shuddered from the brink of it.VWooingly silence whispered to me thereThrough boughs of dripping darkness sad with rain;Darkness, that met my eyeballs everywhere,Blind-packed and vacant as a madman's brain.And so I stood and heard the dead leaves drain,And through the leaves the haunted wind that hissed;Then suddenly—perhaps it was the strainSnapped in my temples—laughter seemed to twist,With evil, night's dead mouth that bent to mine and kissed.VIInsanity! two leaves that dabbled down,Touched me with drizzle; and that laugh—ah, well,No laugh! an owlet hooting at the frownNight's hag-face tortures while she works her spell.Yet I had sworn, before those kisses fellLike winter on me, black as broken jet,An occult blackness like the Prince of Hell,A woman's hand had brushed my face—and yet,A bat it might have been made mad with wind and wet.VIIAnd stark I stood among the sodden stones,Icy with fever, hearing in each galeStrange footsteps,—while within my soul were moansFor strength,—as powerless as I was pale.Then I remembered that within a taleOnce I had read—a chronicle of illsCowled monks had written—how one shall not failTo find, unsought, the Fiend, if so he wills,Cloak, cap, and cock's crook'd plume among the lonely hills.VIIIWasthathis laugh? andthathis vulture hand?—No! no! for in the legend it was said,"Though moonless midnight curse the barren landSathanas' shadow follows him as redAs Hell's red cauldron is."—My terror fled,Remembering this.—How sad a fool was ITo dream Hell's wickedness would bow his headBy mine, and parley with me, lie for lie,With cunning scrutiny of oblong eye by eye!IXThen, then I felt—herpresence! all awakeUnto her power that could lift or sink;And her straight eyes controlling, like an ache,My brain that had no mastery to think,Or to perform. And slowly, link on link,She bound me helpless, like an inquisitor,In vasty dungeons of the soul; no winkOf light was there, but darkness, bar on bar,Self-convoluted chaos strangling will's high star.X"I am the mother of uneaseful sleep,The child of night and sister of dim death;Who knoweth me, yea, he shall never weep,Yet bless and ban me in a single breath:Who knoweth me a coward is unneth:And saddest hearts have sought me over gladTo find gray comfort where the preacher saithThere is no comfort. Melancholy mad,Reach me thy hand and know me if thy heart be sad."XIThus did she speak. Her voice was like a flameOf burning blackness. Then I felt the throbOf her still hand in mine. And so I cameGladly unto her. Yea, I, too, would robTime of his triumphs.—Who would groan and sobBeneath his fardels, hearing sad men sighWhen here is cure?—for Life, that, like a lob,Rides us to death; for Love, a godless lie;And Toil and Hunger.—Yea, what fool would fear to die?XIIThen seemed I wrapped in rolling mists, and, oh,Her arm was round me and her kisses dearOn eyes and lips, and words that none may know—What words of promise said she in mine ear!Drunk with her beauty still I felt no fear,When, past the forest, like some bounding brute,I heard the river roaring. Drawing near,Again she whispered, and my soul grew muteBefore her voice that lulled like music of a lute:XIII"Within the webs of darkness and of dayThe spider Hours spin about thy world,Who now finds time to even laugh or pray,Cramped in a term of years that are uncurledLike coils of some huge monster, head uphurledTo fang when the last fold falls! Slope on slopeThe night environs thee with space, empearledWith hopeless stars by which men symbol Hope,Beneath whose light they breed and curse and pray and grope."XIVAnd so she brought me to the river's brinkTo plunge me downward. All the night was mine;And so, exulting, to Death's darker drinkI stooped and drank.—What better drink divine,O man, hast thou? what wiser way is thine?Who find'st me carrion on a hungry coast,Sand in mine eyeballs, in my hair the brine,And o'er my corpse with bitter lips dost boast—"Poor fool! poor ghost! Alas! poor, melancholy ghost!"

"Jamque vale Soli cum diceret Ambrociotes,In Stygios fertur desiluisse lacus,Morte nihil dignum passus: sed forte PlatonisDivini eximum de nece legit opus."—Callimachus.

"Jamque vale Soli cum diceret Ambrociotes,

In Stygios fertur desiluisse lacus,

Morte nihil dignum passus: sed forte Platonis

Divini eximum de nece legit opus."

—Callimachus.

Now there was wind that night, wild wind, and rain;And frantic thorns, that huddled on the wold,Seemed withered witches met in storm againTo keep their Sabbath and to curse and scold,With gnarled, fantastic gestures, lame and old.Deep in a hollow, where some cabin lay,A lamplit window, like an eye of gold,Glared, winked and closed—or was't an Elfin ray,A jack-o'-lanthorn gleam, lost on a wild wood way?

Now there was wind that night, wild wind, and rain;

And frantic thorns, that huddled on the wold,

Seemed withered witches met in storm again

To keep their Sabbath and to curse and scold,

With gnarled, fantastic gestures, lame and old.

Deep in a hollow, where some cabin lay,

A lamplit window, like an eye of gold,

Glared, winked and closed—or was't an Elfin ray,

A jack-o'-lanthorn gleam, lost on a wild wood way?

Still I held onward through the ugly night;Breast-deep in thistles, all their ghostly headsKinked close with wet; through the bedraggled plightOf brakes of bramble, tousled into shreds,And tangled wastes of briars—tumbling bedsFor winds to toss on.—Once, across a farm,Unsteadily, a lamp towards unseen sheds,—Like the blurred glow of some ungainly worm,—A watery wisp of light crawled trailing through the storm.

Still I held onward through the ugly night;

Breast-deep in thistles, all their ghostly heads

Kinked close with wet; through the bedraggled plight

Of brakes of bramble, tousled into shreds,

And tangled wastes of briars—tumbling beds

For winds to toss on.—Once, across a farm,

Unsteadily, a lamp towards unseen sheds,—

Like the blurred glow of some ungainly worm,—

A watery wisp of light crawled trailing through the storm.

III

Then swallowing blackness of the night; and thinThe shrewd rain beat me and the rough limbs whippedOf dwarfed, uneasy beeches. There withinTheir savage circle battered tombstones tippedSquat lengths to weeds the fighting winds had rippedAnd chopped to tatters. And I heard before,Rounding a headland, where the gaunt trees dripped,—A shout borne deathward from night's ghastly shore,—Hoarse as a thousand throats the river's sullen roar.

Then swallowing blackness of the night; and thin

The shrewd rain beat me and the rough limbs whipped

Of dwarfed, uneasy beeches. There within

Their savage circle battered tombstones tipped

Squat lengths to weeds the fighting winds had ripped

And chopped to tatters. And I heard before,

Rounding a headland, where the gaunt trees dripped,—

A shout borne deathward from night's ghastly shore,—

Hoarse as a thousand throats the river's sullen roar.

Shuddering I stopped, for, with my feet so cakedWith clay, damp-dragging, safer were the graves,Crowding that vista of the wood,—which rakedMy face with burrs,—than, walking towards the waves,To feel earth slip away; the architravesOf darkness plunge me downward to some pitOf wallow and of water.—Madder knavesThan I have stood thus in a fever-fitOf heart and brain and shuddered from the brink of it.

Shuddering I stopped, for, with my feet so caked

With clay, damp-dragging, safer were the graves,

Crowding that vista of the wood,—which raked

My face with burrs,—than, walking towards the waves,

To feel earth slip away; the architraves

Of darkness plunge me downward to some pit

Of wallow and of water.—Madder knaves

Than I have stood thus in a fever-fit

Of heart and brain and shuddered from the brink of it.

Wooingly silence whispered to me thereThrough boughs of dripping darkness sad with rain;Darkness, that met my eyeballs everywhere,Blind-packed and vacant as a madman's brain.And so I stood and heard the dead leaves drain,And through the leaves the haunted wind that hissed;Then suddenly—perhaps it was the strainSnapped in my temples—laughter seemed to twist,With evil, night's dead mouth that bent to mine and kissed.

Wooingly silence whispered to me there

Through boughs of dripping darkness sad with rain;

Darkness, that met my eyeballs everywhere,

Blind-packed and vacant as a madman's brain.

And so I stood and heard the dead leaves drain,

And through the leaves the haunted wind that hissed;

Then suddenly—perhaps it was the strain

Snapped in my temples—laughter seemed to twist,

With evil, night's dead mouth that bent to mine and kissed.

Insanity! two leaves that dabbled down,Touched me with drizzle; and that laugh—ah, well,No laugh! an owlet hooting at the frownNight's hag-face tortures while she works her spell.Yet I had sworn, before those kisses fellLike winter on me, black as broken jet,An occult blackness like the Prince of Hell,A woman's hand had brushed my face—and yet,A bat it might have been made mad with wind and wet.

Insanity! two leaves that dabbled down,

Touched me with drizzle; and that laugh—ah, well,

No laugh! an owlet hooting at the frown

Night's hag-face tortures while she works her spell.

Yet I had sworn, before those kisses fell

Like winter on me, black as broken jet,

An occult blackness like the Prince of Hell,

A woman's hand had brushed my face—and yet,

A bat it might have been made mad with wind and wet.

VII

And stark I stood among the sodden stones,Icy with fever, hearing in each galeStrange footsteps,—while within my soul were moansFor strength,—as powerless as I was pale.Then I remembered that within a taleOnce I had read—a chronicle of illsCowled monks had written—how one shall not failTo find, unsought, the Fiend, if so he wills,Cloak, cap, and cock's crook'd plume among the lonely hills.

And stark I stood among the sodden stones,

Icy with fever, hearing in each gale

Strange footsteps,—while within my soul were moans

For strength,—as powerless as I was pale.

Then I remembered that within a tale

Once I had read—a chronicle of ills

Cowled monks had written—how one shall not fail

To find, unsought, the Fiend, if so he wills,

Cloak, cap, and cock's crook'd plume among the lonely hills.

VIII

Wasthathis laugh? andthathis vulture hand?—No! no! for in the legend it was said,"Though moonless midnight curse the barren landSathanas' shadow follows him as redAs Hell's red cauldron is."—My terror fled,Remembering this.—How sad a fool was ITo dream Hell's wickedness would bow his headBy mine, and parley with me, lie for lie,With cunning scrutiny of oblong eye by eye!

Wasthathis laugh? andthathis vulture hand?—

No! no! for in the legend it was said,

"Though moonless midnight curse the barren land

Sathanas' shadow follows him as red

As Hell's red cauldron is."—My terror fled,

Remembering this.—How sad a fool was I

To dream Hell's wickedness would bow his head

By mine, and parley with me, lie for lie,

With cunning scrutiny of oblong eye by eye!

Then, then I felt—herpresence! all awakeUnto her power that could lift or sink;And her straight eyes controlling, like an ache,My brain that had no mastery to think,Or to perform. And slowly, link on link,She bound me helpless, like an inquisitor,In vasty dungeons of the soul; no winkOf light was there, but darkness, bar on bar,Self-convoluted chaos strangling will's high star.

Then, then I felt—herpresence! all awake

Unto her power that could lift or sink;

And her straight eyes controlling, like an ache,

My brain that had no mastery to think,

Or to perform. And slowly, link on link,

She bound me helpless, like an inquisitor,

In vasty dungeons of the soul; no wink

Of light was there, but darkness, bar on bar,

Self-convoluted chaos strangling will's high star.

"I am the mother of uneaseful sleep,The child of night and sister of dim death;Who knoweth me, yea, he shall never weep,Yet bless and ban me in a single breath:Who knoweth me a coward is unneth:And saddest hearts have sought me over gladTo find gray comfort where the preacher saithThere is no comfort. Melancholy mad,Reach me thy hand and know me if thy heart be sad."

"I am the mother of uneaseful sleep,

The child of night and sister of dim death;

Who knoweth me, yea, he shall never weep,

Yet bless and ban me in a single breath:

Who knoweth me a coward is unneth:

And saddest hearts have sought me over glad

To find gray comfort where the preacher saith

There is no comfort. Melancholy mad,

Reach me thy hand and know me if thy heart be sad."

Thus did she speak. Her voice was like a flameOf burning blackness. Then I felt the throbOf her still hand in mine. And so I cameGladly unto her. Yea, I, too, would robTime of his triumphs.—Who would groan and sobBeneath his fardels, hearing sad men sighWhen here is cure?—for Life, that, like a lob,Rides us to death; for Love, a godless lie;And Toil and Hunger.—Yea, what fool would fear to die?

Thus did she speak. Her voice was like a flame

Of burning blackness. Then I felt the throb

Of her still hand in mine. And so I came

Gladly unto her. Yea, I, too, would rob

Time of his triumphs.—Who would groan and sob

Beneath his fardels, hearing sad men sigh

When here is cure?—for Life, that, like a lob,

Rides us to death; for Love, a godless lie;

And Toil and Hunger.—Yea, what fool would fear to die?

XII

Then seemed I wrapped in rolling mists, and, oh,Her arm was round me and her kisses dearOn eyes and lips, and words that none may know—What words of promise said she in mine ear!Drunk with her beauty still I felt no fear,When, past the forest, like some bounding brute,I heard the river roaring. Drawing near,Again she whispered, and my soul grew muteBefore her voice that lulled like music of a lute:

Then seemed I wrapped in rolling mists, and, oh,

Her arm was round me and her kisses dear

On eyes and lips, and words that none may know—

What words of promise said she in mine ear!

Drunk with her beauty still I felt no fear,

When, past the forest, like some bounding brute,

I heard the river roaring. Drawing near,

Again she whispered, and my soul grew mute

Before her voice that lulled like music of a lute:

XIII

"Within the webs of darkness and of dayThe spider Hours spin about thy world,Who now finds time to even laugh or pray,Cramped in a term of years that are uncurledLike coils of some huge monster, head uphurledTo fang when the last fold falls! Slope on slopeThe night environs thee with space, empearledWith hopeless stars by which men symbol Hope,Beneath whose light they breed and curse and pray and grope."

"Within the webs of darkness and of day

The spider Hours spin about thy world,

Who now finds time to even laugh or pray,

Cramped in a term of years that are uncurled

Like coils of some huge monster, head uphurled

To fang when the last fold falls! Slope on slope

The night environs thee with space, empearled

With hopeless stars by which men symbol Hope,

Beneath whose light they breed and curse and pray and grope."

XIV

And so she brought me to the river's brinkTo plunge me downward. All the night was mine;And so, exulting, to Death's darker drinkI stooped and drank.—What better drink divine,O man, hast thou? what wiser way is thine?Who find'st me carrion on a hungry coast,Sand in mine eyeballs, in my hair the brine,And o'er my corpse with bitter lips dost boast—"Poor fool! poor ghost! Alas! poor, melancholy ghost!"

And so she brought me to the river's brink

To plunge me downward. All the night was mine;

And so, exulting, to Death's darker drink

I stooped and drank.—What better drink divine,

O man, hast thou? what wiser way is thine?

Who find'st me carrion on a hungry coast,

Sand in mine eyeballs, in my hair the brine,

And o'er my corpse with bitter lips dost boast—

"Poor fool! poor ghost! Alas! poor, melancholy ghost!"

IAs to my soul—'tis pathos and passion.As to my life—'t hath a flavor of sin.What would you have when such is the fashion,Was and will be of the world we are in?Yes, I have loved. And have you?—Have you reckonedThe cost of all love?—I can tell you: as muchAs a soul!—Is it worth it?—You'll know it that secondYou know that you love; and God pity all such!IIMy lover dissembled that ardor's pure beauty.I endured undeceived nor pretended; and gaveAll that his passion demanded—my duty,For I loved. And the world?—why, I was his slave!—Should it worry I pleased him?—Propriety sorrowed,Uprolling her eyes as occasion, and—well,That lie, overglossed with a modesty borrowed,Assisted my fall and the end was—I fell.IIIThrough love? No; the woman! that visible womanMen usually know.—None knows how we knowOf an innermore beauty! that part of the humanWe designate character.—Look at the bowOf the moon that is new; that bears in its crescentA world.—So the flesh gleams the slenderest lineOf soul; that is love; the unevanescent,Making the mortal immortal, divine.IVYes; I know what I am. Have outlasted my seasonOf pleasure and folly.—You think it is strangeThat I let you, say—love me? But why not?—my reasonRequires illusions. They give me that changeWhich quiets remembrance. You kiss me—I wonder.—When you say, "You are beautiful,"—well, am I gladIf I laugh?—You declaim on my form, "How no blunderOf nature discords,"—If I sigh, am I sad?VHow you stare at my eyes!—Well! my lips!—must they languishFor kisses to redden?—"My eyes are as brightAs the jewel I drown in my hair, with its anguishOf tortuous fire that quivers to-night"?Tears may be.—This showy?—That silly white flowerWere better?—For me its simplicity? no!—The gem I prefer to the lily.—The hourHas struck: I am ready: my fan: let us go.

As to my soul—'tis pathos and passion.As to my life—'t hath a flavor of sin.What would you have when such is the fashion,Was and will be of the world we are in?Yes, I have loved. And have you?—Have you reckonedThe cost of all love?—I can tell you: as muchAs a soul!—Is it worth it?—You'll know it that secondYou know that you love; and God pity all such!

As to my soul—'tis pathos and passion.

As to my life—'t hath a flavor of sin.

What would you have when such is the fashion,

Was and will be of the world we are in?

Yes, I have loved. And have you?—Have you reckoned

The cost of all love?—I can tell you: as much

As a soul!—Is it worth it?—You'll know it that second

You know that you love; and God pity all such!

My lover dissembled that ardor's pure beauty.I endured undeceived nor pretended; and gaveAll that his passion demanded—my duty,For I loved. And the world?—why, I was his slave!—Should it worry I pleased him?—Propriety sorrowed,Uprolling her eyes as occasion, and—well,That lie, overglossed with a modesty borrowed,Assisted my fall and the end was—I fell.

My lover dissembled that ardor's pure beauty.

I endured undeceived nor pretended; and gave

All that his passion demanded—my duty,

For I loved. And the world?—why, I was his slave!—

Should it worry I pleased him?—Propriety sorrowed,

Uprolling her eyes as occasion, and—well,

That lie, overglossed with a modesty borrowed,

Assisted my fall and the end was—I fell.

III

Through love? No; the woman! that visible womanMen usually know.—None knows how we knowOf an innermore beauty! that part of the humanWe designate character.—Look at the bowOf the moon that is new; that bears in its crescentA world.—So the flesh gleams the slenderest lineOf soul; that is love; the unevanescent,Making the mortal immortal, divine.

Through love? No; the woman! that visible woman

Men usually know.—None knows how we know

Of an innermore beauty! that part of the human

We designate character.—Look at the bow

Of the moon that is new; that bears in its crescent

A world.—So the flesh gleams the slenderest line

Of soul; that is love; the unevanescent,

Making the mortal immortal, divine.

Yes; I know what I am. Have outlasted my seasonOf pleasure and folly.—You think it is strangeThat I let you, say—love me? But why not?—my reasonRequires illusions. They give me that changeWhich quiets remembrance. You kiss me—I wonder.—When you say, "You are beautiful,"—well, am I gladIf I laugh?—You declaim on my form, "How no blunderOf nature discords,"—If I sigh, am I sad?

Yes; I know what I am. Have outlasted my season

Of pleasure and folly.—You think it is strange

That I let you, say—love me? But why not?—my reason

Requires illusions. They give me that change

Which quiets remembrance. You kiss me—I wonder.—

When you say, "You are beautiful,"—well, am I glad

If I laugh?—You declaim on my form, "How no blunder

Of nature discords,"—If I sigh, am I sad?

How you stare at my eyes!—Well! my lips!—must they languishFor kisses to redden?—"My eyes are as brightAs the jewel I drown in my hair, with its anguishOf tortuous fire that quivers to-night"?Tears may be.—This showy?—That silly white flowerWere better?—For me its simplicity? no!—The gem I prefer to the lily.—The hourHas struck: I am ready: my fan: let us go.

How you stare at my eyes!—Well! my lips!—must they languish

For kisses to redden?—"My eyes are as bright

As the jewel I drown in my hair, with its anguish

Of tortuous fire that quivers to-night"?

Tears may be.—This showy?—That silly white flower

Were better?—For me its simplicity? no!—

The gem I prefer to the lily.—The hour

Has struck: I am ready: my fan: let us go.

Sullen gold down all the sky;Roses and their sultry musk;Whippoorwills deep in the duskYonder sob and sigh.—You are here; and I could weep,Weep for joy and suffering...."Where is he"?—He'd have me sing—There he sits, asleep.Think not of him! he is deadFor the moment to us twain—Hold me in your arms again,Rest on mine your head."Am I happy?" ask the fireWhen it bursts its bounds and thrillsSome mad hours as it willsIf those hours tire.He had gold. As for the rest—Well you know howtheywere set,Saying that I must forgetAnd 'twas for the best.Iforget?—But let it go!—Kiss me as you used of old.There; your kisses are not cold!Can you love me so?Knowing what I am to him,To that gouty gray one there,On the wide verandah, whereFitful fireflies swim.Is it tears? or what? that wetsEyes and cheeks;—on brow and lipKisses! soft as bees that sipSweets from violets.See! the moon has risen; whiteAs this open lily here,Rocking on the dusky mere,Like a silent light.Let us walk... So soon to part!—All too soon! But he may miss.Give me but another kiss—It will heat my heartAnd the bitter winter there.—So; we part, my Launcelot,My true knight! and am I notYour true Guinevere?Oft they parted thus, they tell,In that mystical romance...Were they placed, think you, perchance,For such love, in Hell?No! it can not, can not be!Love is God, and God is love:And they live and love above,Guinevere and he.I must go now.—See! there fell,Molten into purple light,One wild star. Kiss me good night,And once more. Farewell.

Sullen gold down all the sky;Roses and their sultry musk;Whippoorwills deep in the duskYonder sob and sigh.—

Sullen gold down all the sky;

Roses and their sultry musk;

Whippoorwills deep in the dusk

Yonder sob and sigh.—

You are here; and I could weep,Weep for joy and suffering...."Where is he"?—He'd have me sing—There he sits, asleep.

You are here; and I could weep,

Weep for joy and suffering....

"Where is he"?—He'd have me sing—

There he sits, asleep.

Think not of him! he is deadFor the moment to us twain—Hold me in your arms again,Rest on mine your head.

Think not of him! he is dead

For the moment to us twain—

Hold me in your arms again,

Rest on mine your head.

"Am I happy?" ask the fireWhen it bursts its bounds and thrillsSome mad hours as it willsIf those hours tire.

"Am I happy?" ask the fire

When it bursts its bounds and thrills

Some mad hours as it wills

If those hours tire.

He had gold. As for the rest—Well you know howtheywere set,Saying that I must forgetAnd 'twas for the best.

He had gold. As for the rest—

Well you know howtheywere set,

Saying that I must forget

And 'twas for the best.

Iforget?—But let it go!—Kiss me as you used of old.There; your kisses are not cold!Can you love me so?

Iforget?—But let it go!—

Kiss me as you used of old.

There; your kisses are not cold!

Can you love me so?

Knowing what I am to him,To that gouty gray one there,On the wide verandah, whereFitful fireflies swim.

Knowing what I am to him,

To that gouty gray one there,

On the wide verandah, where

Fitful fireflies swim.

Is it tears? or what? that wetsEyes and cheeks;—on brow and lipKisses! soft as bees that sipSweets from violets.

Is it tears? or what? that wets

Eyes and cheeks;—on brow and lip

Kisses! soft as bees that sip

Sweets from violets.

See! the moon has risen; whiteAs this open lily here,Rocking on the dusky mere,Like a silent light.

See! the moon has risen; white

As this open lily here,

Rocking on the dusky mere,

Like a silent light.

Let us walk... So soon to part!—All too soon! But he may miss.Give me but another kiss—It will heat my heart

Let us walk... So soon to part!—

All too soon! But he may miss.

Give me but another kiss—

It will heat my heart

And the bitter winter there.—So; we part, my Launcelot,My true knight! and am I notYour true Guinevere?

And the bitter winter there.—

So; we part, my Launcelot,

My true knight! and am I not

Your true Guinevere?

Oft they parted thus, they tell,In that mystical romance...Were they placed, think you, perchance,For such love, in Hell?

Oft they parted thus, they tell,

In that mystical romance...

Were they placed, think you, perchance,

For such love, in Hell?

No! it can not, can not be!Love is God, and God is love:And they live and love above,Guinevere and he.

No! it can not, can not be!

Love is God, and God is love:

And they live and love above,

Guinevere and he.

I must go now.—See! there fell,Molten into purple light,One wild star. Kiss me good night,And once more. Farewell.

I must go now.—See! there fell,

Molten into purple light,

One wild star. Kiss me good night,

And once more. Farewell.

What am I, and what is he,Who can take and break a heart,As one might a rose, for sport,In its royalty?What am I that he has madeAll this love a bitter foamBlown about the wreck-filled gloamOf a soul betrayed?He who of my heart could makeHollow crystal, where his face,Like a passion, had its place,Holy, and then break!Shatter with neglect and sneers!—But these weary eyes are dry,Tearless clear; and if I dieThey shall know no tears.But my soul weeps. Let it weep!Let it weep, and let the painIn my heart and in my brainCry itself to sleep.—Ah! the afternoon is warm;And the fields are green and fair;Many happy creatures thereThrough the woodland swarm.All the summer land is still,And the woodland stream is darkWhere the lily rocks its barqueJust below the mill....If they found me icy there'Mid the lilies, and pale whorlsOf the cresses in my curls,Wet, of raven hair!—Poor Ophelia! are you such?Would you have him thus to knowThat you died of utter woeAnd despair o'ermuch?No!—such acts are obsolete:Other things we now must learn:—Though the broken heart will burn,Let it show no heat.So I'll write him as he wrote,Coldly, with no word of scorn—He shall never know a thornRankles here!... Now note:—"You'll forget," he says; "and IFeel 'tis better for us twain:It may give you some small pain,But, 'twill soon be by."You are dark and Maud is light.I am dark. And it is saidOpposites are better wed.—So I think I'm right.""You are dark and Maud is fair"!—I could laugh at his excuseIf the bitter, mad abuseWere not more than hair!But I'll write him, as if glad,Some few happy words—that mightTouch upon some past delightThat last year we had.Not one line of broken vows,Sighs or hurtful tears—unshed!Faithless hearts—far better dead!Nor a withered rose.But a rose! this rose to wear,—Perle des Jardins, all elateWith sweet life and delicate,—When he weds her there.So; 'tis finished. It is well—Go, thou rose. I have no tear,Word or kiss for thee to bear,And no woe to tell.Only be thus full of life,Cold and proud, dispassionate,Filled with neither love nor hate,When he calls her wife.

What am I, and what is he,Who can take and break a heart,As one might a rose, for sport,In its royalty?

What am I, and what is he,

Who can take and break a heart,

As one might a rose, for sport,

In its royalty?

What am I that he has madeAll this love a bitter foamBlown about the wreck-filled gloamOf a soul betrayed?

What am I that he has made

All this love a bitter foam

Blown about the wreck-filled gloam

Of a soul betrayed?

He who of my heart could makeHollow crystal, where his face,Like a passion, had its place,Holy, and then break!

He who of my heart could make

Hollow crystal, where his face,

Like a passion, had its place,

Holy, and then break!

Shatter with neglect and sneers!—But these weary eyes are dry,Tearless clear; and if I dieThey shall know no tears.

Shatter with neglect and sneers!—

But these weary eyes are dry,

Tearless clear; and if I die

They shall know no tears.

But my soul weeps. Let it weep!Let it weep, and let the painIn my heart and in my brainCry itself to sleep.—

But my soul weeps. Let it weep!

Let it weep, and let the pain

In my heart and in my brain

Cry itself to sleep.—

Ah! the afternoon is warm;And the fields are green and fair;Many happy creatures thereThrough the woodland swarm.

Ah! the afternoon is warm;

And the fields are green and fair;

Many happy creatures there

Through the woodland swarm.

All the summer land is still,And the woodland stream is darkWhere the lily rocks its barqueJust below the mill....

All the summer land is still,

And the woodland stream is dark

Where the lily rocks its barque

Just below the mill....

If they found me icy there'Mid the lilies, and pale whorlsOf the cresses in my curls,Wet, of raven hair!—

If they found me icy there

'Mid the lilies, and pale whorls

Of the cresses in my curls,

Wet, of raven hair!—

Poor Ophelia! are you such?Would you have him thus to knowThat you died of utter woeAnd despair o'ermuch?

Poor Ophelia! are you such?

Would you have him thus to know

That you died of utter woe

And despair o'ermuch?

No!—such acts are obsolete:Other things we now must learn:—Though the broken heart will burn,Let it show no heat.

No!—such acts are obsolete:

Other things we now must learn:—

Though the broken heart will burn,

Let it show no heat.

So I'll write him as he wrote,Coldly, with no word of scorn—He shall never know a thornRankles here!... Now note:—

So I'll write him as he wrote,

Coldly, with no word of scorn—

He shall never know a thorn

Rankles here!... Now note:—

"You'll forget," he says; "and IFeel 'tis better for us twain:It may give you some small pain,But, 'twill soon be by.

"You'll forget," he says; "and I

Feel 'tis better for us twain:

It may give you some small pain,

But, 'twill soon be by.

"You are dark and Maud is light.I am dark. And it is saidOpposites are better wed.—So I think I'm right."

"You are dark and Maud is light.

I am dark. And it is said

Opposites are better wed.—

So I think I'm right."

"You are dark and Maud is fair"!—I could laugh at his excuseIf the bitter, mad abuseWere not more than hair!

"You are dark and Maud is fair"!—

I could laugh at his excuse

If the bitter, mad abuse

Were not more than hair!

But I'll write him, as if glad,Some few happy words—that mightTouch upon some past delightThat last year we had.

But I'll write him, as if glad,

Some few happy words—that might

Touch upon some past delight

That last year we had.

Not one line of broken vows,Sighs or hurtful tears—unshed!Faithless hearts—far better dead!Nor a withered rose.

Not one line of broken vows,

Sighs or hurtful tears—unshed!

Faithless hearts—far better dead!

Nor a withered rose.

But a rose! this rose to wear,—Perle des Jardins, all elateWith sweet life and delicate,—When he weds her there.

But a rose! this rose to wear,—

Perle des Jardins, all elate

With sweet life and delicate,—

When he weds her there.

So; 'tis finished. It is well—Go, thou rose. I have no tear,Word or kiss for thee to bear,And no woe to tell.

So; 'tis finished. It is well—

Go, thou rose. I have no tear,

Word or kiss for thee to bear,

And no woe to tell.

Only be thus full of life,Cold and proud, dispassionate,Filled with neither love nor hate,When he calls her wife.

Only be thus full of life,

Cold and proud, dispassionate,

Filled with neither love nor hate,

When he calls her wife.

Dead! and all the haughty fateFair on throat and face of wax,Calm on hands, crossed still and lax,Cold, dispassionate.Dead! and no word whispered lowAt the dull ear now would wakeOne responsive chord or makeOne wan temple glow.Dead! and no hot tear would stirAught of woman, sweet and fair,Woman soul in feet and hair,Once that smiled in her.She is dead, oh God! and I—I must live! though life be butOne long, hard, monotonous rutFor me till I die.Creeds might help in such a case:But no sermon could have wroughtMore of faith than you have taughtWith your pale dead face.Now I see, oh, now I seeMy mistake!—so very small,Yet so great it bungled all,Allfor you and me.Oft I said, "I feel, I'm sureShe could never live that life!She is still my own true wife,She is good and pure!"You were pure and I bemoiled!That you loathed me, it was just;Weak of soul and left of lustVulgar, low, and soiled....Closed—the eyes once filled with dreams!Great, proud eyes!... I see them yet,Miniature nights of lucid jetFilled with starry gleams.Sealed—the lips; poor, faded lips!Once as red as life could make—Sweet wild roses, half awake,Dewy to their tips.Hair!—imperial still, and warmAs a Grace's; where one stone,Jeweled, lay ensnared and shoneLike a star in storm.Eyes!—at parting big with pain...God! I see them still! the tearIn them!—big as eyes of deerLed by lights and slain....Woman true, I falsely blamed;Whom I killed with scorn and pride;Woman pure, of whom I lied;With the nameless named:All you said, Sweet, has come true!—Ah! this life had woe enoughFor the little dole of loveGiv'n to me and you.Do you hear me? do you knowWhat I feel now? how it came?You, beyond me like a flame,You, before me like the snow....Dead! and all my heart's a cupHollowed for repentant tears,Bitter in the bitter years,Slowly brimming up.Peace! 'tis well! But might have beenBetter.—Yes, God's time makes right!—Better for me in His sightWith my soul washed clean.Do you hear me? do you knowHow my heart was all your own?How my life is left aloneNow with naught but woe?Peace! be still!—I kiss your hair.Sweet, good-by. Upon your breastLet this long white lily rest—God will find it there:There beyond the sad world andClouds and stars and silent skies,Where your eyes shall meet His eyes,And—He'll understand.

Dead! and all the haughty fateFair on throat and face of wax,Calm on hands, crossed still and lax,Cold, dispassionate.

Dead! and all the haughty fate

Fair on throat and face of wax,

Calm on hands, crossed still and lax,

Cold, dispassionate.

Dead! and no word whispered lowAt the dull ear now would wakeOne responsive chord or makeOne wan temple glow.

Dead! and no word whispered low

At the dull ear now would wake

One responsive chord or make

One wan temple glow.

Dead! and no hot tear would stirAught of woman, sweet and fair,Woman soul in feet and hair,Once that smiled in her.

Dead! and no hot tear would stir

Aught of woman, sweet and fair,

Woman soul in feet and hair,

Once that smiled in her.

She is dead, oh God! and I—I must live! though life be butOne long, hard, monotonous rutFor me till I die.

She is dead, oh God! and I—

I must live! though life be but

One long, hard, monotonous rut

For me till I die.

Creeds might help in such a case:But no sermon could have wroughtMore of faith than you have taughtWith your pale dead face.

Creeds might help in such a case:

But no sermon could have wrought

More of faith than you have taught

With your pale dead face.

Now I see, oh, now I seeMy mistake!—so very small,Yet so great it bungled all,Allfor you and me.

Now I see, oh, now I see

My mistake!—so very small,

Yet so great it bungled all,

Allfor you and me.

Oft I said, "I feel, I'm sureShe could never live that life!She is still my own true wife,She is good and pure!"

Oft I said, "I feel, I'm sure

She could never live that life!

She is still my own true wife,

She is good and pure!"

You were pure and I bemoiled!That you loathed me, it was just;Weak of soul and left of lustVulgar, low, and soiled....

You were pure and I bemoiled!

That you loathed me, it was just;

Weak of soul and left of lust

Vulgar, low, and soiled....

Closed—the eyes once filled with dreams!Great, proud eyes!... I see them yet,Miniature nights of lucid jetFilled with starry gleams.

Closed—the eyes once filled with dreams!

Great, proud eyes!... I see them yet,

Miniature nights of lucid jet

Filled with starry gleams.

Sealed—the lips; poor, faded lips!Once as red as life could make—Sweet wild roses, half awake,Dewy to their tips.

Sealed—the lips; poor, faded lips!

Once as red as life could make—

Sweet wild roses, half awake,

Dewy to their tips.

Hair!—imperial still, and warmAs a Grace's; where one stone,Jeweled, lay ensnared and shoneLike a star in storm.

Hair!—imperial still, and warm

As a Grace's; where one stone,

Jeweled, lay ensnared and shone

Like a star in storm.

Eyes!—at parting big with pain...God! I see them still! the tearIn them!—big as eyes of deerLed by lights and slain....

Eyes!—at parting big with pain...

God! I see them still! the tear

In them!—big as eyes of deer

Led by lights and slain....

Woman true, I falsely blamed;Whom I killed with scorn and pride;Woman pure, of whom I lied;With the nameless named:

Woman true, I falsely blamed;

Whom I killed with scorn and pride;

Woman pure, of whom I lied;

With the nameless named:

All you said, Sweet, has come true!—Ah! this life had woe enoughFor the little dole of loveGiv'n to me and you.

All you said, Sweet, has come true!—

Ah! this life had woe enough

For the little dole of love

Giv'n to me and you.

Do you hear me? do you knowWhat I feel now? how it came?You, beyond me like a flame,You, before me like the snow....

Do you hear me? do you know

What I feel now? how it came?

You, beyond me like a flame,

You, before me like the snow....

Dead! and all my heart's a cupHollowed for repentant tears,Bitter in the bitter years,Slowly brimming up.

Dead! and all my heart's a cup

Hollowed for repentant tears,

Bitter in the bitter years,

Slowly brimming up.

Peace! 'tis well! But might have beenBetter.—Yes, God's time makes right!—Better for me in His sightWith my soul washed clean.

Peace! 'tis well! But might have been

Better.—Yes, God's time makes right!—

Better for me in His sight

With my soul washed clean.

Do you hear me? do you knowHow my heart was all your own?How my life is left aloneNow with naught but woe?

Do you hear me? do you know

How my heart was all your own?

How my life is left alone

Now with naught but woe?

Peace! be still!—I kiss your hair.Sweet, good-by. Upon your breastLet this long white lily rest—God will find it there:

Peace! be still!—I kiss your hair.

Sweet, good-by. Upon your breast

Let this long white lily rest—

God will find it there:

There beyond the sad world andClouds and stars and silent skies,Where your eyes shall meet His eyes,And—He'll understand.

There beyond the sad world and

Clouds and stars and silent skies,

Where your eyes shall meet His eyes,

And—He'll understand.

Back to Index Next