Part 2
A witch dwelt high upon stern Endor's cliff. The place was dark: for night had drawn the veiling Between the mountain peaks that stand still, stiff, The frozen sentinels of Time; and sailing Aloft upon the evening air, the smoke Of hostile camp-fires blackened e'en the night. Here dwelt this hag to horrid witchcraft given, A withered, fangless thing whose mutterings spoke Of all the secrets of Hell's shadow-light. The wind was coldly wailing. Near her fire, She crouched. Behind her, through a passage riven By some swift thunderbolt of wrath divine, Appeared a man in closely wrapped attire. Like some lithe snake she turned and cringed In fear and yet in anger: "By what sign, And wherefore come you here?" her lips half snarled. The man unwrapped his mantle deeply fringed; He threw a purse before her. "For this cost, Let thine unseen familiar call from rest The one I name to thee"--She rose all gnarled; And thus she spake: "Seek not to hide thy mien; My spirit tells me that thou art--" Her lean Hand grasped the splintered rock--"Thou art the King! And whom wouldst thou, my Lord, seek in this fane Of Chaldee calculations, law and ring?" "Serve me but well to-night; and be thou wise-- Charm as I bid; and gratitude shall last All time from me to thee--fulfill this quest--" He paused his speech and glanced to either side-- "Summon me Samuel. Let his spirit rise Upon the night in wreathèd, hazy guise." The fire-embers faded red, and died; King Saul sat staring into sable space; The witch was mumbling by the fire-side Whence curled up wisps of smoke. His heart beat fast. Within the gray appeared a dim-lit face. In silent terror gazed the King. At last, Was audible a voice upon the wind: "What would'st thou, Saul? What would'st thou learn from me?" "Samuel, 'tis thou--" and then, as in a gust The storm sweeps down upon the plain, words burst In hot-lipped passion uncontrolled and fast-- "Aid me; O, aid me; for I yearn, I thirst To drink this David's blood. The frenzied lust Of unfulfilled ambition desert-dry Burns in my throat. Is my seed barren cast On earth? Am I condemned to plod, a beast For any burden? Spectre, tell me why Should I be King of men, and yet the least Who cannot even hold or give mine own?" "The princely David shalt thou never gain; Thou dream'st a dream, O King, it is in vain-- Once fixed, the star of forecast cannot wane-- The star of forecast cannot wane--wane--wane--" The spectre's voice swept on upon the wind; The spectre faded into argent gloom. Down shot a nacreous moonbeam dim-outlined. The King's eyes fell upon the armied plain. There rose a shout again, and yet again-- Below was movement, battling of armed men, And shrieking clash of arms. How fiercely shines That flaring light! His camp was sheathed in flame! In flame that wrote upon his soul the lines: "Once fixed the star of forecast cannot wane; Thine all has been in vain, in vain, in vain--"
_April and May, 1912._
THE PROPHECY OF SAINT MARK
A METRICAL SHORT-STORY
Pale night upon its swift, aërial loom Wove the soft, vaporous substance of the gloom. The story-sculptured Gothic porch lay dim And silent in drab haze with which the spring Covers its carpentry of summer bloom. A maiden stood within the porch's pale. "It is the night," she sighed, "Saint Marcus' night When ghosts of all foredoomed to sickness wing Into the church to pray; so runs the tale. Those who make no return shall feel the grim, Fell scythe of Death within the year. The light Must flicker up each face as past they sail. But Gascon, O my Gascon, shalt thou die? Year after year, I wait--Thy strong-wrought mail Surely is sword-proof--" And a hovering sigh Passed through her lips more still than silence, frail. The lowering mist grew darker. From the womb Of day, young night was born. The paling light Was flecked with haze-clouds flickering in the gloom; And to and fro in stately pageantry, Strange shadow-shapes like liquid-silver spume Charmed into lightness, formed an imagery Of things half-human. Still the maiden pale Waited and hung upon each shadowy trail Of lingering vapors fainting to and fro. They took the shape of flitting forms in mail Or monkish cowl. A Merlin-magic spell Seemed laid upon her. "And art _thou_ to go?" She whispered as some well-known face amid The rest swept by her through that portal fell. And some, not marked for Death, returned again; And some returned not. O'er the porch's rail, Leant her light body as she scanned each form, And tensely looked with terror anxious-eyed. Why does she shrink with all-consuming pain, And seek to gaze again? A blinding storm Of anguish breaks upon her. "O what doom Is this for thee and me? Why doest thou glide Into this silent, terror-freighted tomb?" Pale Gascon's figure fled along the tide-- Some forms not marked for Death returned again; But his returned not. Ever anguish-eyed, She paused and waited--waited in the gloom. At last the flying cloud flakes ceased to come; And stilly night arose. "My God, to whom May I turn now? My richest Self is rent!" Down from the carven doorway stumbling slow, The maiden passed, silent with languishment. Forth from the darkness stepped a man. All dumb, She gazed in careless stupor such as woe Stamps on the soul. "My Lady, may I dare--" He paused, and gazed, bowed sweepingly and low, Then spoke again. She stood there sad and fair, Quivering like a heat-cloud in the air. "Lady, a traveler asks the way to where He may find rest and lodgement." One brief while, She stayed herself in stupor; 'tis but meet, A soul come slowly from behind the veil. "Come--come," she said, upon her face a smile Of sorrow blent with some strange joyance pale. They passed along the quaintly cobbled street, And then turned through a lane where high up-reared, The gloomy oaks and hawthorne hedges greet The eye on either hand. A cottage stood With banks of sleepy flowers at its feet; And all around, the giant, hoary wood Frowned down its shadows on the garden's bloom, Frowned down, a fateful harbinger of gloom. Within the cottage, all was warmth and cheer. There stayed the mother waiting the return Of her sweet child. They entered. She did greet Both with an all-inclusive smile, and clear, Unchanging peace and kindliness that burn Before a pure soul's shrine. "Whom have we here, Marie?--Some houseless stranger gone astray?" He doffed his feathered cap and bowed full low. "After long twilight wanderings in despair Of any hermitage for night, not far From here, I prayed your daughter's guidance ere The dark should leave me but a chance faint star By which to fare." Beside the oaken board, They sat and ate the rustic dishes there, While young Sir Guy poured forth a glittering hoard Of warriored stories gathered far away: How one brave knight pierced twenty paynim through; And how another fled from the affray To be enslaved by Sarazain corsair. The maiden hungered for each word. How frail Be warriors' lives! Upon the thought, she knew A bitter memory of forecast's gloom. Oh, she must fly. Oh, something must avail To give her refuge from this festering sting. She tried to turn her mind from sorrow's trail, And gave her thoughts to the narrator's tale. Now he was speaking of a lord who strove To win his lady; but the Christian war Called him to battle for his Faith. He clove Damascus steel and clinking casques; but e'er He could return--Sir Guy then ceased; for here Arose a warning on the mother's brow. She wished no bitter recollections. Fear For Marie's plausance was her only care. Soon all the cottage slept 'mid the garden's bloom; And fatefully the forest frowned its gloom. The summer blossomed, faded, and then died; And still as if enchanted, stayed he there. They took long walks o'er lonely hill and dale, And went across the fields with flowers pied. At times their voices rang upon the air; But ever when they came upon that vale Where, in its flowery charm, the cottage stood, Their talk would fail within the vasty wood. Thus bathed their souls in summer's sultry tide Like flashing moths upon the wind that ride. And hectic autumn came and brought its charm Of leafy brilliance heralding its death. Beside the evening blaze, full many a tale He told of knights in chivalrous career; But never raised the fluttering alarm Of the maiden's mother by the faintest breath Of the warrior lord and his loved one dear. Then hoary, chilling winter shrouded pale, Came, and passed by: thus wandered on, the year. The spring was coldly wrapped in sullen haze; Even the mounting sun seemed scarce as warm As during winter. Slowly passed the days Until the Eve of blest Saint Marcus came. Among the misty-shadowed forest ways, Sir Guy did bring the maiden arm in arm. How oft the times that they had done the same-- "I've lived a life, careless and debonair, And know nor fettering bonds nor fear; Yet would I leave it all without a care--" She upward glanced and then glanced down as pale As any flowing haze-wreath in the gloom. "Oh, what is that?" she cried. The misty veil Parted and showed a glimpse of rock-built wall. "'Tis but the village kirk," he said. A pall Of haze enwrapped them like the Will of Doom. She stood and faced him, quivering as a sail That blows uncertain in a varying wind. "Marie, Marie," he faltered. Then a flare Of passion burnt his soul out in his eyes. Downward she glances seeming unaware; But in her heart beneath the outward guise, Warring emotions make her spirit quail. Gascon's loved image into vision flies; And yet her rising love, she cannot quell For brave Sir Guy; and then, as when the flail Lashes the chaff, dim mist before her flies Into the church in Gascon's image pale. The year is out. What then, should _he_ avail? "Marie--" Sir Guy is breathing on the air; She reads the rest within his flaming eyes. "Yes--yes," she murmurs. "O despair, despair! I have no hope; you fell into the snare!" His eyes dilated with mad light, he cries. "I, I am Gascon whose memory you dare To flout for any knight who stays a year Within your sight! I am undone. My doom Is set. These fateful forests be my bier! Your lover is a wreath of shadowy air-- Go, search him in the western tempest's lair! For me, I hasten from this mortal gloom, Sound mine own knell, and say mine own last doom!" She shrinks away, with inward tumult pale. His voice is still. She hears a something fall. With anguish in her eyes, she turns. There, all Stretched out upon the ground, he lies. A well Of ruby richness pulses with his frail, Departing breath. In Merlin-magic spell Of agony, she stares into the gloom. Pale figures, children of the mist-waves' womb In through the church's doorway seem to sail; Spectral, they vanish in their destined tomb. She moves; she starts; she cries, as one to whom Has come the horrid messenger of doom: "Is that _my_ figure floating in the gloom? Shall my life fail; is this its funeral knell?" Pale night upon his swift, aërial loom, Wove the soft, vaporous substance of her doom.
_September and October, 1912._
THE ÆOLIAN HARP
Into my wildly whispering heart, His song the warm sirocco sings, Whirring, whirring-- And all the artifice of mine art Comes on the wind by the wind to part, Part from my whirring strings--
Sometimes I sing a wild, weird tale That like a wandering phantom wings Whirring, whirring-- And sometimes only a lonely wail Wells as an echo all wildly frail, Frail as my whirring sings--
My notes are like the willow-wands That lightly wave before, behind.-- Whirring, whirring-- Each whispering harp-string ever responds, Slave of the breeze in his servile bonds, Slave of the whirring wind--
Soft the sirocco sighs his tune, And a waning, funeral chant it wings-- Whirring, whirring-- The song shall die as joys die--soon, Whelming its melody into a swoon, Swoon of the whirring strings--
_October 24 & 25, 1912._
THE MAID THAT I WOOED
AN ODE IN MINIATURE
I lie upon my couch by night, And dream, and dream-- Until the quavering shadow-light Her portraiture doth seem-- Until the breeze's moaning saith In limpid-lapping stream, The same denial she answereth.
I lie upon my couch by night, And yearn, and yearn-- Until the flickering breeze's flight Bring kisses that would burn-- Until my soul could moan with pain-- Oh, wherefore should she spurn My love again, and yet again?
I toss upon my couch by night; I yearn; I yearn-- Until I see the glimmering light Upon the east return-- Until with passion-pulsing breath, I pray my lady stern: "Oh, let me win thee, sweetest Death--"
_December 27, 1912._
IN A MINOR CHORD
AN ODE IN MINIATURE
I gave my soul to dreams sense-glorified; I bathed in bliss-exhaling balm. I sailed through boundless ether Tyrian-dyed, And breathed the luscious calm. Tense were my heart-strings tuned; And, madly quavering as I sighed, Their music sadly waxed and wailed--then swooned, And floated feebly down in ebbing tide.
I gave my soul to battle. I defied All the unlovable in life; I could have bartered Heavenly bliss and died Willingly in the strife! To elevate mankind, Mine inward power, I strove to guide; I harnessed the puissance of the mind, And toward that end all be magnified!
I gave my soul to dreams sense-glorified Till sated pleasure sank to pain. I gave my soul to battle. I defied The sordid; but in vain-- Still, still, my spirit wept; Its goal was hopeless, deified. Oh, would this saddened soul had ever slept Unborn; for slumber is a painless guide.
_December 3, 1912._
A GLASS OF ABSINTHE
AN ODE IN MINIATURE
It lay within a glass of green, A sinuous glass of subtle green. It sparkled with a slimy sheen. A languorous fascination gleamed With glint of lapis lazuli; And from its silken surface streamed The scent of musk from Araby. Ah--was that music only dreamed That tinct the drowsy scene? And was my fancy false, or seemed The glass to lure me with its limpid green?
My fingers fluttered to the stem, To kiss the fluted, serpent stem, As pious Persians kiss the hem, Enwove with many a wanton trick, Of Persia's deified Sofi. I could not see; the light seemed thick As perfume from the balsam-tree, Or incense in a basalic When sounds a requiem. I drank the draught; my sense was sick; My quivering fingers crushed the curling stem.
I dropped the cup of crystal-green; I scattered fragments emerald-green-- False emeralds with a glassy sheen. Upon the pavement, how they gleamed! I flung the bits of serpent-stem Upon the table beryl-seamed. I swept them with my garment's hem-- Some say I laughed--That night, I dreamed Of Araby--a scene Of sleepy charm whence fragrance streamed; And in mirage, the desert blossomed green.
_January 16, 1913._
THE PALACE OF PAIN
A CYCLE
I
A soul was once incarnate in a man; And this unseen, incarnate thing was mine; And, as my body grew, the soul began To sip more fondly of the scented wine And sugared blisses life can give at call. It languished amid luxuries divine Showering richly like the leaves that fall Upon the sensuous-silent autumn air. Pale, fleeting Pleasure took my thoughtless all; For love, unselfish, passion-fervid, rare, Vibrated through the discords of dull time, Blending them into harmony; for where Life jangled harsh, a mother's care would chime More blissful chords than can be told in rime.
II
The gentle harmonies of love declined, And swooned into a dull, funereal moan, And faintly floated onward with the wind. The symphony was gone; I stayed alone In all-enshrouding, opiate sadness bound. I did not scream; I did not weep nor groan. My soul was locked in stupor whence it found Only barred gates across dim vaults; and jangling, Discordant chaos stung me like a wound. I could not think; I could not hope; the wrangling Of jarring sounds oppressed me till my brain Was lost within a labyrinth, all-entangling-- But this I learned although my powers did wane; That Love through Death transmutes itself to pain.
III
I sank my soul upon a sea of dreams; I floated through aërial heights divine Where saffron clouds a-glint with amber beams Shimmering strangely, stretched in shining line. I winged my way to Heaven's very dome, And on Hell's portal read the horrid sign; I danced upon the wavelet's crested foam, And swept tempestuous on the stormy wind. On earth like some vague terror, did I roam While moaning misery pursued behind. Whene'er I sang, my song had one refrain With anxious care and artifice refined, Until my soul's accompaniment would wane And wax to one _motiv_: unending pain.
IV
I broke my dungeon-sepulchre of dreams; I climbed the winding stair to palace halls Where all the air was soothed by incense-streams; And every sight within those magic walls Was bright with radiant, opalescent sheen While lulling on the ear, light music falls Of such a melody as ne'er has been Unless by fays on fairy lyres played. There Pleasure gowned in iridescent green, Reclines upon her couch with gems inlaid, And gently beckons with a sinuous arm-- But all the sumptuous excesses fade; The walls seem dim; the music has no charm, For Pleasure's Palace is a place of harm.
V
I plunged through rooms of deepest Tyrian dye; I tore the veils from mysteries aside; But grinning pleasure ever met mine eye. In anguished ecstasy of bliss, I cried; And through the halls, I heard the echo wane Until the last, most distant answer sighed: "The spirit of the world is pain, pain, pain--" Then from the drowsy distance, there did well A voice as of a witch before her fane, Soft-muttering, some Heaven-blasting spell: "The world is all in vain, the merest tool Of accident, an anteroom to Hell, A counterfeit but fairly glinting pool-- Snatch all the joy thou canst, thou human fool!"
VI
And then I searched within myself to find The _how_ and _why_ of all I heard and saw. I found but silent Nothing. Wearied, blind, I strove to learn the omnipresent Law On whose foundation all these chambers lean. I found within the artifice no flaw; And not the slightest secret could I glean. I searched the winding, labyrinthine halls, And scanned colossal colonnades between Whose rows unending space is seen that palls The straining sight, yet thither lures the eye With fairy sheen. Through all the outer walls, No doorway pierced to water, earth or sky: Is there an answer to the _how_ and _why_?
VII
And yet I am condemned to live, to be. What horrid Fate decreed it? Life is blind, And cannot see the Truth. Oh, but for me To know, to solve this riddle of the mind! And yet no whisper through the age's gloom Has taught the latent answer that I pined; And finally in a sombre-tinted room, I sank in languor on the marble floor, And faintly wondered at my destined doom. Upon my weary spirit, came once more A faint remembrance of a former time, A faint remembrance, I had known before, That clung about me like an ancient rime: Death is to the soul but a change of clime.
VIII
Then from the body tear this soul away! Let me seek death; I'll force the hand of Fate! I will not suffer more. The game I play Is held against Creation, and the weight Of all the ages hangs with Fate. Serene, Stands Death in sable gossamer bedight, And with maternal arms would intervene, And seeks to press me silent to her breast. Quick, let me free my soul from pain! The scene Is fair--Oh, let this weariness be blest! But hold--I still may keep this bitter strain Of self-tormenting torment e'en in rest-- Death summons up the things of life again; And pain of life transmutes all death to pain.
IX
Oh, but to float away upon the night, To lose my soul upon her silent dark, To feel myself a Nothing, a frail, light, Aërial Emptiness, a fleeing spark Of sunshine seeking on the endless void, Some rest, some painless silence as its mark. Like an oblivion-destined asteroid, So would I that my soul should haste away From all the ordinary, earthly, cloyed, From all the tawdriness of living day; But still I know I cannot cease to be, Though I condemn my body back to clay-- O thrice accursèd immortality That dooms me life through all Eternity!
X
O maddening horror in a smiling guise! Alive or dead, I am a slave to life. The later torment with the former vies To wring my still-undying soul with strife. I have a debt; the creditor is Time: "My bond, my bond," he cries, and holds the knife To wound yet never kill. But what my crime? I fled those pleasure-haunted halls where vile, Sweet-scented blisses soothed to pain. A clime More active came within my ken. The dial Of hours hurried round. The rich, new wine Of busy life, I found. A steady file Swept past of mortal things with souls like mine-- Yet what the purpose of their streaming line?
XI
With nervous yearning, haste they on their way: A few direct and rule the work of all; But most are bringing mortar, stone and clay-- (And some there are that rise, and others fall; And they are seen no more--we know not why.) But all are working on the palace wall; And some invent designs to please the eye; And some would fain extend the rooms to win New-fashioned blisses. A soft-moaning cry Is vibrant in the air. High-pitched and thin, It quavers dimly, then descends again, And echoes aimless through the busy din: Mankind would add to pleasure, but in vain-- For Pleasure's Palace is a house of pain.
XII
They strive; they strive, heap luxury on bliss, And worship Pleasure as their goddess-queen. Ah, take who will the subtle harlot's kiss! Yes, seize thy moment's sweetness--then, I ween, A pageantry of pain, such throbbing throes As rive the soul, and cut the quick with keen, Imprisoned edges till the life-blood flows. Man little knows it; but two aims has he: By present anguish, store up future woes, By present anguish, pain posterity. The quest for pleasure is a quest in vain; Pleasure is Nothing in Eternity. Men rather act than think, for thought is pain, And action is the opiate of the brain.
XIII
Shall I play Roman, face and fight these ills, Pretend that I _can_ fight and still may win? A child his dozen mimic soldiers drills, And six with six, the battle they begin. Some victors, and some vanquished; some he slays-- But then the soldiers are mere toys of tin-- And carelessly upon the ground, he lays Vanquished and victors on one common plane; And takes some other toy and laughs and plays-- Yes, like that soldier, may I fight, and gain Great victories. Oh, I may stare my Fate Between the eyes, and drink whole draughts of pain; With Stoic-strength, may struggle, and may hate; But where's the payment that I vainly wait?
XIV