Part 9

O Heaven! There upon the lawn The palfrey's shadow stands out clear, But Thekla's shadow--it is gone! Nor form nor floating veil is there.

He spurred his steed with bitter cry: "Could she have fallen in deathly swoon?" But no, there, slowly riding by, He sees her by the bright full moon.

With gesture fierce he seized her rein: Woman or fiend! Look, if you dare, The palfrey casts a shadow plain, But yours--O horror!--is not there!"

She gathered close her silken veil, And wrung her hands, and prayed for grace, While down from Heaven the calm moon pale Looked like God's own accusing face.

He flung aside the broidered rein: "O woe the day that we were wed! A witch bride to my arms I've ta'en, Branded by God's own finger dread."

She followed, weeping, step by step, Led by the unseen hand of Fate, Still keeping in the shadows deep, Until they reached the castle gate.

He strode across the corridor, And rolling back upon its ring The curtian of her chamber door, He motioned her to enter in.

She laid aside her silken veil, The golden circlet from her head, And waited, motionless and pale, Like one uprisen from the dead.

Could she deny, e'en if she would? The moonlight wrapped her like a sheet. And in the accusing light she stood, As if before God's judgment-seat.

Brief were his questions, stern his wrath; A doom seemed laid on her to tell, How, with the ring of plighted troth, Her hand had wrought the murd'rous spell.

How she had marred his ancient line, And broke the life-chord that should bless, And sent the seven fair souls to pine Back to the shades of nothingness--

That so her beauty might not wane, Her glorious beauty--fatal good; Yet one she would not lose to gain The rights of sacred motherhood.

And still she told the tale as cold-- The witch-fire burning in her eyes-- As if it were some legend old, Drawn from a poet's memories.

He cursed her in his bitter wrath, He cursed her by her children dead, He cursed the ring of plighted troth, He cursed the day when they were wed.

Fierce and more fierce his accents rose: "Away!" he cried, "false hag of sin: I see through all this painted gloze The black and hideous soul within.

"Oh! false and foul, thou art to me A devil--not a woman fair! Like coiling snakes I seem to see Each twisted tress of golden hair.

"I hate thee, as I hate God's foe. Forth from my castle halls this night: I could not breathe the air, if so Thy poison breath were here to blight."

She cowered, shivered, spake no word, But fell before him at his feet, As if an angel of the Lord Had smote her at the judgment-seat.

And on her heart there came at last The dread, deep consciousness of sin, That ghastly spectre which had cast Upon her life this suffering.

And from her hand the gold ring fell-- Her wedding ring--and broke in twain; The fatal ring that wrought the spell, The accursed ring of love and pain.

The spell seemed broken then: the word Came, softly breath'd: "Oh, pardon! grace!" And pleadingly to her dread lord She lifted up her angel face--

With golden tresses all unbound, Still lovely through her shame and loss, Around his feet her arms she wound, As sinner might around the cross.

He dashed her twining hands aside, He spurned her from him as she knelt. "O hateful beauty!" Erick cried, "The source of all thy hellish guilt.

"Pray for a cloud that can eclipse That long, white streak of moonlight pale. No word of grace from mortal lips Can bring a ruined soul from Hell.

"Away! I would not pardon, not (I swear it by the holy rood) Unless upon that hated spot An angel with a lily stood!"

She shuddered in the moonlight pale, That doomed and banned her from his sight Then rose up with a bitter wail, And fled away into the night!

THE EXPIATION.

Full seven times the summer sun Had waked the dreaming summer flowers, And seven times they slept again Beneath the winter snow and showers; And still, through summer's parching heat, Through winter's storm, and rain, and snow, Had Thekla dragged her weary feet In one long pilgrimage of woe.

The beasts fled back at her approach, The sunshine ceased to flicker round, The flowers withered at her touch, And fell like corpses to the ground. Where'er she passed there lay a gloom, The young birds shivered in the nest, All nature echoed back her doom, And spurned the sinner from her breast.

She flung her sighs out to the wind: The peasants heard that mournful wail, And, crouching down by winter fires, Said: "'Tis the witch-fiend in the vale." They laid down food beneath the trees, And waited, trembling, till she came, Then fled away, for none would speak To one so bann'd by sin and shame.

She gathered autumn leaves and moss Within a cavern lone and deep, And there she crept each night to rest, To rest, but never more to sleep. No human voice came near to soothe, Her anguish dimm'd no human eye, The bond of sisterhood was rent Between her and Humanity.

But ever when the moon was full, All in the moonlight weird and still Came evermore upon her ear The moanings by the lonely mill; And seven dread shadows entered in And gathered round her lowly bed, The ghastly witnesses of sin, A silent freezing sight of dread.

All night they stayed, those phantoms pale, Those formless phantoms dim and drear, And looked at her with fixed cold eyes, That chilled her very blood with fear. In vain she tried to hide her face; She felt their presence still around, And well she knew no pitying grace From these dread beings could be found.

She could not weep, she dare not pray, But lay like one in coffined clay, Till those weird phantoms, one by one, Melted away in the morning sun, Which fell like the light of the judgement-day, When the doom of the Lord is done.

Oft wandering round the ancient church, The ruined church where they were wed, She vainly tried to cross the porch, And lay therein her weary head; And her weary load of shame and sin Upon the altar steps within.

But never, since the fatal night She fled away from Erick's sight, Curs'd with his ban of deepest hate, Had human hand unbarred the gate; Nor priest nor chorister was there, Nor sacred rite nor holy prayer: Foredoom'd and desolate it stood All in the lonely beechen wood.

God's curse it is a bitter thing To fall on a human soul, Alone with its awful suffering, With its deadly sin and dole; 'Mid the ghastly wrecks of a human life, And memories of shame, When thoughts of a past that would not sleep, Like barbèd arrows came.

GOD'S JUSTICE.

And Erick roamed in distant lands, But cannot fly his weary fate; Before him in the lonely night, Before him in the noonday bright, His guilty wife for ever stands, A thing of loathing and of hate. Alone, as under blight and ban, He roams, a saddened, weary man.

Yet yearnings came to him at last, And, drawn as by a spirit hand, He homeward turned, his wanderings past, To his own distant Swedish land; And rose up with a spirit grace, As pleading to him for her life, Before him, with her angel face, His beautiful, his sinning wife.

The ship sailed fast through storm and wrack, The ship sailed slow the Isles between, And Erick, watching on the deck, Saw rise before him, low and green, The Swedish shores in level lines, The fringed shores of lordly pines: A spirit's touch, a spirit's power, Seemed on him at that magic hour.

* * * * *

He stood within his castle halls, The grass grew rank around the gate, The weeds hung from the mouldering walls, And all around was desolate. The bridal room was closed from sight, For none had dared to enter in, Since by God's awful, searching light The sinner had confessed her sin.

Her golden ring of hellish ban Still lay upon the marble floor, Her broken ring--the fatal sign Of love that could return no more. And nought the purple curtains stirred Save the drear night-wind's mournful gust, And golden crown and silken veil Lay mouldering in the silent dust.

A bitter cry, a mournful cry, Was wrung by grief from Erick's breast. She sinned, he said, but suffered, too, Could penitence the sin undo, Her sinning soul had rest. If God can pity, why should I Relentless doom a soul to die Unpardoned, and unblest?

Christ did not scorn the sinner's touch: Shall man avenge sin overmuch, And crush the heart-woe riven? Fain would I say one word of grace Ere yet I meet her face to face, Before the throne in Heaven.

Then led as by a spirit's might, He wandered forth into the night, And rested not till he stood By the lone Chapel in the wood.

And she that night in bitter woe, Low kneeling by the closèd gate, Poured out the grief those only know By God and man left desolate. Nought but the scared owl heard her moan Of inarticulate agony, As down upon the threshold stone She sank, and prayed that she might die.

O piteous sound of vain despair, That mournful wailing by the gate; That wailing of a ruined soul, Downfallen from its high estate! She wrung her wasted hands the while, And pressed her forehead to the bar, As if within that holy aisle God's pardon yet might come to her.

The cruel moon lit up the sward, And pierced the guilty soul within, That blighted form, all seared and marred With deadly consciousness of sin; The form that threw no shadow more Besides God's holy temple door; And the awful moon, sharp, cold, and clear, Struck through her like the Avenger's spear.

O saddest sight beneath its light, That humbled, suffering creature! For all too heavy lay the doom Upon her human nature The curse of sin that none forego, The agony, the pain, the strife, The sullied soul, the wasted life Sin's endless heritage of woe.

She prayed as only those can pray Who pray to be forgiven; She wept as only those can weep Who fear to forfeit Heaven. With outstretched hands and streaming eyes She pleads to Heaven, imploring, As if her cries could pierce the skies, Where angels stand adoring.

O writhing hands! O wasted hands! Flung out with frenzied gesture, As if they fain would touch the hem Of Christ's fair flowing vesture. Bitter the dole of that sinning soul, Outcast of Earth and Heaven; And her cry went up like a wail from Hell, Across the night-wind driven.

GOD'S MERCY.

A form stood by her in the night, A human presence near her Spoke one low word of pitying grace, A name once uttered face to face, When none was ever dearer-- Like oil upon the raging flame That burned within her heart, it came, That word of soft approving; The first soft word that struck her ears, Through all the long and dreary years, Of human or of loving.

At once the barred gate opens wide, They pass within it, side by side-- The human hand still leading; Up through the ruined aisle they go, When from the altar, still and slow, Like angels onward treading, Came seven fair spirits robed in white, Each holding high a torch, whose light Lit all the dark with splendour; And the heavy air around was stirred, As if from an Æolian chord, With music low and tender.

"We come from God," they murmur low, "Thy unborn children, seven, To break the bonds of thy bitter woe And lead thee back to Heaven. Thy tears have washed away thy crime, Thou hast repented while 'tis time. The sinner is forgiven!

"The bond is loosed, the doom is done, We come to thee, thou sinning one, With words of peace and pardon; And as a sign of mercy lay Upon thee on thy dying day A lily as God's guerdon."

She sank before them on the ground, With folded palms and hair unbound, And eyes upraised to Heaven. Her pale lips moved as if to pray, But one low murmured word they say-- "Forgiven! oh, forgiven!"

And lo! while yet the shadows speak, A dove with lily in its beak, A snow-white dove, came floating in, Along the silver line of light, And laid upon that breast of sin A spotless lily, pure and white.

Then bending low at Erick's feet, As if before the Mercy-seat, "Pardon!" she said, "by God's own sign, I claim from thee that word divine Before the Judgment-day; Bend lower down, and yet more low, That I may feel thy soft tears flow To wash my sin away."

He took her hand as an angel might, A dying soul to save, And his tears fell fast as a holy chrism, Anointing her for the grave-- He kissed her brow to still her fears, Ere yet her eyes grew dim: The curse is broken, she but hears His pardon--sees but him.

The damp of death is on her brow, The last death-strain is over now, The suffering soul hath fled. The solemn shadows slowly wane, And nought within the church remain Save Erick and the dead.

* * * * *

They laid her 'neath the altar stair-- Thus Erick gave command-- Wrapped in her shroud of golden hair, The lily in her hand. And standing in the Holy place, With solemn voice he said: I do recall the bitter curse I poured upon her head.

Let the dead bells toll for the sinning soul, Repentant, saved, forgiven; By the dread remorse of that pallid corpse, We feel that her sin is shriven.

She stands before the Mercy-seat, If human prayers can waft her, And by that angel sign 'tis meet We trust in God's Hereafter.

Moral.

God give us grace, each in his place, To keep from sin and sinning: Our souls we sell for gifts from Hell, That are not worth the winning. False smiles that lure but to betray, False gold some demon flashes, False hopes that lead from Heaven astray, False fruit that turns to ashes.

WHY WEEPEST THOU?

Why weepest thou? A few more hours dreary, And thy spirit, the world weary Beneath the icy hand of death must bow; But the fetters then will fall, And the soul redeemed from thrall, Will upwards mount in joy, tho' chainéd now-- Why weepest thou?

The great Eternal One, Round whom the planets roll, Beholds each suffering soul Prostrate in mortal grief before His Throne; He numbers every tear, He stills the throb of fear, He guides us to our heavenly native zone-- The great Eternal One.

Then still thy fears! Behold thy glorious home, Yon star-roofed azure dome-- How infinite thy Father's house appears! There, ah! there we'll rest, Poor weak ones, on His breast; Then, mourner, let thy frail heart break in tears, But still thy fears!

SULEIMA TO HER LOVER.

FROM THE TURKISH.

Thou reck'nest seven Heavens; I but one: And thou art it, Beloved! Voice and hand, And eye and mouth, are but the angel band Who minister around that highest throne-- Thy godlike heart. And there I reign supreme, And choose, at will, the angel who I deem Will sing the sweetest, words I love to hear-- That short, sweet song, whose echo clear Will last throughout eternity: "I love thee! How I love thee!"

A LA SOMBRA DE MIS CABELLOS.

FROM THE SPANISH.--SIXTEENTH CENTURY.

My love lay there, In the shadow of my hair, As my glossy raven tresses downward flow; And dark as midnight's cloud, They fell o'er him like a shroud: Ah! does he now remember it or no?

With a comb of gold each night I combed my tresses bright; But the sportive zephyr tossed them to and fro; So I pressed them in a heap, For my love whereon to sleep: Ah! does he now remember it or no?

He said he loved to gaze On my tresses' flowing maze, And the midnight of my dark Moorish eyes; And he vowed 'twould give him pain Should his love be all in vain; So he won me with his praises and his sighs.

Then I flung my raven hair As a mantle o'er him there, Encirling him within its mazy flow; And pillowed on my breast, He lay in sweet unrest: Ah! does he now remember it or no?

CONSTANCY.

FROM THE RUSSIAN.

I.

A raven on a branch is sitting; By him comes another flitting-- Brother, where so quickly flying? Hast thou scented dead or dying?

II.

Food and plenty sent to cheer us, Croaks the other, we have near us. Yonder there, amid the gorse, Lies the murdered Baron's corse.

III.

Who slew him? Wherefore? Woe the day! Did the Baron's falcon say? Or the Baron's steed so wild-- Or the Baron's wife so mild?

IV.

Her flight far off the falcon's winging: On the steed a slave is springing; And she?--by the pale moonlight hath fled With the living from the dead.

THE FATE OF THE LYRIST.

The soul is ever clinging unto form; Action, not abstract thought, alone can warm The great heart of humanity--in life's fierce storm Pass they the Lyrist by.

The Dramatist may wear triumphant bays; And see the wondering people's tranc'd amaze, The while unrolls great Homer to their gaze, His gorgeous, many-coloured tapestry.

But lofty Pindar's heaven-directed flight, Petrarca's song, mystic and sad as night, Fall dull upon the common ear--their might Is to the world a mystery.

Such spirits dwell but with the spiritual-- Their godlike souls disdaining to enthrall; Within the limits of the actual, Men pass, unheeding the divinity.

Their name, indeed, is echoed by the crowd; But from amidst the masses earthward bowed, Few lift the head, with kindred soul endowed, To list their Orphic melody.

THE POET'S DESTINY.

The Priest of Beauty, the Anointed One, Through the wide world passes the Poet on. All that is noble by his word is crown'd, But on his brow th' Acanthus wreath is bound. Eternal temples rise beneath his hand, While his own griefs are written in the sand; He plants the blooming gardens, trails the vine-- But others wear the flowers, drink the wine; He plunges in the depths of life to seek Rich joys for other hearts--his own may break. Like the poor diver beneath Indian skies, He flings the pearl upon the shore--and dies.

DÉSILLUSION.

Too soon, alas! too soon I plunged into the world with tone and clang, And they scarcely comprehended what the Poet wildly sang. Not the spirit-glance deep gazing into nature's inmost soul, Not the mystic aspirations that the Poet's words unroll. Cold and spiritless and silent--yea, with scorn received they me, Whilst on meaner brows around me wreath'd the laurel crown I see. And I, who in my bosom felt the godlike nature glow, I wore the mask of folly while I sang of deepest woe. But, courage! years may pass--this mortal frame be laid in earth, But my spirit reign triumphant in the country of my birth!

THE PRISONERS.

CHRISTMAS, 1869.

I.

Has not vengeance been sated at last? Will the holy and beautiful chimes Ring out the old wrongs of the past, Ring in the new glories and times? Will the eyes of the pale prisoners rest Once again on their loved mountain scenes, When the crimson of East or of West Falls o'er them as mantles on Queens? Will they muse once again by the sea, List the thunder of waves on the strand, As exultant, as fearless and free As the foam-flakes that dash on the land? Will they lift their wan faces to God In the radiant, bright, infinite air, Press their lips to the old native sod In a rapture of praise and of prayer?

II.

Ah, the years of their young lives pass over, Still wept out in dungeons alone, Where the lips of a wife, child, or mother Were never yet pressed to their own; Years of torture and sorrow and trials, In the gloom of the desolate cell, Where the wrath of the sevenfold vials Seem poured to turn Earth to a Hell; Where strong brains are seared into madness, And burning hearts frozen to stone, And despair surges over life's gladness, And young life goes out with a moan. Go, kneel as at graves, weeping woman-- When the last fatal sentence was said, All ties that are tender and human Were rent as from those that are dead.

III.

They were young then, in youth's glorious fashion With a pulse-throb of fire in each vein, And the glow and the splendours of passion Flashing up from the heart to the brain. Sharp as falchions their keen words reproving-- Great words moved by no coward breath-- And no crime on their souls save of loving Their Country with love strong as death. Oh, their hearts, how they leaped to the surface, As a sword from the scabbard unsheathed, Their pale faces stern with a purpose, Their brows with Fate's cypress enwreathed, Grave, earnest, the judgment unheeding, Or the wreck of their lives lying prone, From these doomed lips the strong spirits' pleading Soared up from man's bar to God's Throne.

IV.

"We but taught men," they said, "from the pages, Graven deep in our history and soil, From the Litanies poured through the ages Of sorrow, and torture, and toil; By the insults, the mockings, the scornings, The bondage on body and soul; By the ruin, the slaughters, the burnings, When death was the patriot's goal; By the falsehood enthroned in high places, By the feeble hearts cowering within, By the slave-brand read plain on their faces, Though the ermine might cover the sin. We were broken and sundered and shattered, Made thrall by the tyrant's strong arm, To the wild waves and fierce winds were scattered As dead leaves swept on by the storm. For each age gave a traitor or tyrant To build up the wrongs that we see, But each age, too, gives heroes aspirant Of the Fame or the death of the Free!"

V.

Oh, Chimes ringing out in our city, Oh, Angels that walk to and fro, Oh, Christ-words of pardon and pity, Can ye speak to those souls lying low In a sorrow no festal chime scatters, In a night where no Angel appears, The wasted limbs heavy with fetters, The weary heart heavy with tears; With the ghost of dead youth crushing on them, And the gloom of the years yet to be, With a blackness of darkness upon them As of night when it falls on the sea?

VI.

When the Christmas bells ring out at even The song of the Angels' bright spheres, Their sad eyes will strain up to Heaven, Their bread will be bitter with tears. Through our laughter will come that sad vision, Through the ivy-wreathed wine-cup's red glow, Through our wassail the wail from their prison, Lamentation and mourning and woe. With sorrow wrapped round like a garment, With ashes for joy as their crown, With bonds tight'ning close as a cerement They wait till God's morning comes down; Yet no echo from their lips will falter Of the solemn, sweet carol or song, But a cry, as of souls 'neath the Altar, "_How long! oh, our Lord God, how long?_"

THE DAWN.

What of the night, O Watcher on the Tower? Is the Day dawning through the golden bars? Comes it through the midnight, over clouds that lower, Trailing robes of crimson mid the fading stars?

"Through the rent clouds I see a splendour gleaming, Rolling down the darkness to the far Heaven's rim, While through the mist the glorious Dawn upstreaming Rises like the music of a grand choral hymn."

From the deep valleys where the whirlwind passes, Hear you the tramp of the coming hosts of men, Strong in their manhood, mighty in their masses, Swift as rushing torrents down a mountain glen?

"Far as eye can reach, where purple mists are lifted, Thousands upon thousands are gathering in might, Powerful as tempests when giant sails are rifted, Beautiful as ocean in the sun's silver light."

See you their Banner in the free air proudly Waving, as an oriflamme a king might bear, Has it no legend--dare we utter loudly All that a people may have written there?