Chapter 5

Where was I last Friday night?-- Within the forest of dark dreams Following the blur of a goblin-light, That led me over ugly streams, Whereon the scum of the spawn was spread, And the blistered slime, in stagnant seams; Where the weed and the moss swam black and dead, Like a drowned girl's hair in the ropy ooze: And the jack-o'-lantern light that led, Flickered the fox-fire trees o'erhead, And the owl-like things at airy cruise.

II.

Where was I last Friday night?-- Within the forest of dark dreams Following a form of shadowy white With my own wild face it seems. Did a raven's wing just flap my hair? Or a web-winged bat brush by my face? Or the hand of--something I did not dare Look round to see in that obscene place? Where the boughs, with leaves a-devil's-dance, And the thorn-tree bush, where the wind made moan, Had more than a strange significance Of life and of evil not their own.

III.

Where was I last Friday night?-- Within the forest of dark dreams Seeing the mists rise left and right, Like the leathery fog that heaves and steams From the rolling horror of Hell's red streams. While the wind, that tossed in the tattered tree, And danced alone with the last mad leaf ... Or was it the wind?... kept whispering me-- "Now bury it here with its own black grief, And its eyes of fire you can not brave!"-- And in the darkness I seemed to see My own self digging my soul a grave.

LYNCHERS.

At the moon's down-going, let it be On the quarry bill with its one gnarled tree....

The red-rock road of the underbrush, Where the woman came through the summer hush.

The sumach high, and the elder thick, Where we found the stone and the ragged stick.

The trampled road of the thicket, full Of foot-prints down to the quarry pool.

The rocks that ooze with the hue of lead, Where we found her lying stark and dead.

The scraggy wood; the negro hut, With its doors and windows locked and shut.

A secret signal; a foot's rough tramp; A knock at the door; a lifted lamp.

An oath; a scuffle; a ring of masks; A voice that answers a voice that asks.

A group of shadows; the moon's red fleck; A running noose and a man's bared neck.

A word, a curse, and a shape that swings; The lonely night and a bat's black wings....

At the moon's down-going, let it be On the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree.

KU KLUX.

We have sent him seeds of the melon's core, And nailed a warning upon his door; By the Ku Klux laws we can do no more.

Down in the hollow, 'mid crib and stack, The roof of his low-porched house looms black; Not a line of light at the doorsill's crack.

Yet arm and mount! and mask and ride! The hounds can sense though the fox may hide! And for a word too much men oft have died.

The clouds blow heavy towards the moon. The edge of the storm will reach it soon. The killdee cries and the lonesome loon.

The clouds shall flush with a wilder glare Than the lightning makes with its angled flare, When the Ku Klux verdict is given there.

In the pause of the thunder rolling low, A rifle's answer--who shall know From the wind's fierce burl and the rain's blackblow?

Only the signature written grim At the end of the message brought to him-- A hempen rope and a twisted limb.

So arm and mount! and mask and ride! The hounds can sense though the fox may hide! And for a word too much men oft have died.

REMBRANDTS.

I.

I shall not soon forget her and her eyes, The haunts of hate, where suffering seemed to write Its own dark name, whose syllables are sighs, In strange and starless night.

I shall not soon forget her and her face, So quiet, yet uneasy as a dream, That stands on tip-toe in a haunted place And listens for a scream.

She made me feel as one, alone, may feel In some grand ghostly house of olden time, The presence of a treasure, walls conceal, The secret of a crime.

II.

With lambent faces, mimicking the moon, The water lilies lie; Dotting the darkness of the long lagoon Like some black sky.

A face, the whiteness of a water-flower, And pollen-golden hair, In shadow half, half in the moonbeams' glower, Lifts slowly there.

A young girl's face, death makes cold marble of, Turned to the moon and me, Sad with the pathos of unspeakable love, Floating to sea.

III.

One listening bent, in dread of something coming, He can not see nor balk-- A phantom footstep, in the ghostly gloaming, That haunts a terraced walk.

Long has he given his whole heart's hard endeavor Unto the work begun, Still hoping love would watch it grow and ever Turn kindly eyes thereon.

Now in his life he feels there nears an hour, Inevitable, alas! When in the darkness he shall cringe and cower, And see his dead self pass.

THE LADY OF THE HILLS.

Though red my blood hath left its trail For five far miles, I shall not fail, As God in Heaven wills!-- The way was long through that black land. With sword on hip and horn in hand, At last before thy walls I stand, O Lady of the Hills!

No seneschal shall put to scorn The summons of my bugle-horn! No man-at-arms shall stay!-- Yea! God hath helped my strength too far By bandit-caverned wood and scar To give it pause now, or to bar My all-avenging way.

This hope still gives my body strength-- To kiss her eyes and lips at length Where all her kin can see; Then 'mid her towers of crime and gloom, Sin-haunted like the Halls of Doom, To smite her dead in that wild room Red-lit with revelry.

Madly I rode; nor once did slack. Before my face the world rolled, black With nightmare wind and rain. Witch-lights mocked at me on the fen; And through the forest followed then Gaunt eyes of wolves; and ghosts of men Moaned by me on the plain.

Still on I rode. My way was clear From that wild time when, spear to spear, Deep in the wind-torn wood, I met him!... Dead he lies beneath Their trysting oak. I clenched my teeth And rode. My wound scarce let me breathe, That filled my eyes with blood.

And here I am. The blood may blind My eyesight now ... yet I shall find Her by some inner eye! For God--He hath this deed in care!-- Yea! I shall kiss again her hair, And tell her of her leman there, Then smite her dead--and die.

REVEALMENT.

At moonset when ghost speaks with ghost, And spirits meet where once they sinned, Between the bournes of found and lost, My soul met her soul on the wind, My late-lost Evalind.

I kissed her mouth. Her face was wild. Two burning shadows were her eyes, Wherefrom the maiden love, that smiled A heartbreak smile of severed ties, Gazed with a wan surprise.

Then suddenly I seemed to see No more her shape where beauty bloomed ... My own sad self gazed up at me-- My sorrow, that had so assumed The form of her entombed.

HEART'S ENCOURAGEMENT.

Nor time nor all his minions Of sorrow or of pain, Shall dash with vulture pinions The cup she fills again Within the dream-dominions Of life where she doth reign.

Clothed on with bright desire And hope that makes her strong, With limbs of frost and fire, She sits above all wrong, Her heart, a living lyre, Her love, its only song.

And in the waking pauses Of weariness and care, And when the dark hour draws his Black weapon of despair, Above effects and causes We hear its music there.

The longings life hath near it Of love we yearn to see; The dreams it doth inherit Of immortality; Are callings of her spirit To something yet to be.

NIGHTFALL.

O day, so sicklied o'er with night! O dreadful fruit of fallen dusk!-- A Circe orange, golden-bright, With horror 'neath its husk.

And I, who gave the promise heed That made life's tempting surface fair, Have I not eaten to the seed Its ashes of despair!

O silence of the drifted grass! And immemorial eloquence Of stars and winds and waves that pass! And God's indifference!

Leave me alone with sleep that knows Not any thing that life may keep-- Not e'en the pulse that comes and goes In germs that climb and creep.

Or if an aspiration pale Must quicken there--oh, let the spot Grow weeds! that dost may so prevail, Where spirit once could not!

PAUSE.

So sick of dreams! the dreams, that stain The aisle, along which life must pass, With hues of mystic colored glass, That fills the windows of the brain.

So sick of thoughts! the thoughts, that carve The house of days with arabesques And gargoyles, where the mind grotesques In masks of hope and faith who starve.

Here lay thy over weary head Upon my bosom! Do not weep!-- "He giveth His beloved sleep."-- Heart of my heart, be comforted.

ABOVE THE VALES.

We went by ways of bygone days, Up mountain heights of story, Where lost in vague, historic haze, Tradition, crowned with battle-bays, Sat 'mid her ruins hoary.

Where wing to wing the eagles cling And torrents have their sources, War rose with bugle voice to sing Of wild spear thrust, and broadsword swing, And rush of men and horses.

Then deep below, where orchards show A home here, here a steeple, We heard a simple shepherd go, Singing, beneath the afterglow, A love-song of the people.

As in the trees the song did cease, With matron eyes and holy Peace, from the cornlands of increase. And rose-beds of love's victories, Spake, smiling, of the lowly.

A SUNSET FANCY.

Wide in the west, a lake Of flame that seems to shake As if the Midgard snake Deep down did breathe: An isle of purple glow, Where rosy rivers flow Down peaks of cloudy snow With fire beneath.

And there the Tower-of-Night, With windows all a-light, Frowns on a burning height; Wherein she sleeps,-- Young through the years of doom,-- Veiled with her hair's gold gloom, The pale Valkyrie whom Enchantment keeps.

THE FEN-FIRE.

The misty rain makes dim my face, The night's black cloak is o'er me; I tread the dripping cypress-place, A flickering light before me.

Out of the death of leaves that rot And ooze and weedy water, My form was breathed to haunt this spot, Death's immaterial daughter.

The owl that whoops upon the yew, The snake that lairs within it, Have seen my wild face flashing blue For one fantastic minute.

But should you follow where my eyes Like some pale lamp decoy you, Beware! lest suddenly I rise With love that shall destroy you.

TO ONE READING THE MORTE D'ARTHURE.

O daughter of our Southern sun, Sweet sister of each flower, Dost dream in terraced Avalon A shadow-haunted hour? Or stand with Guinevere upon Some ivied Camelot tower?

Or in the wind dost breathe the musk That blows Tintagel's sea on? Or 'mid the lists by castled Usk Hear some wild tourney's pæon? Or 'neath the Merlin moons of dusk Dost muse in old Cærleon?

Or now of Launcelot, and then Of Arthur, 'mid the roses, Dost speak with wily Vivien? Or where the shade reposes, Dost walk with stately armored men In marble-fountained closes?

So speak the dreams within thy gaze. The dreams thy spirit cages, Would that Romance--which on thee lays The spell of bygone ages-- Held me! a memory of those days, A portion of its pages!

STROLLERS.

I.

We have no castles, We have no vassals, We have no riches, no gems and no gold; Nothing to ponder, Nothing to squander-- Let us go wander As minstrels of old.

II.

You with your lute, love, I with my flute, love, Let us make music by mountain and sea; You with your glances, I with my dances, Singing romances Of old chivalry.

III.

"Derry down derry! Good folk, be merry! Hither, and hearken where happiness is!-- Never go borrow Care of to-morrow, Never go sorrow While life hath a kiss."

IV.

Let the day gladden Or the night sadden, We will be merry in sunshine or snow; You with your rhyme, love, I with my chime, love, We will make time, love, Dance as we go.

V.

Nothing is ours, Only the flowers, Meadows, and stars, and the heavens above; Nothing to lie for, Nothing to sigh for, Nothing to die for While still we have love.

VI.

"Derry down derry! Good folk, be merry! Hither, and hearken a word that is sooth:-- Care ye not any, If ye have many Or not a penny, If still ye have youth!"

HAUNTED.

When grave the twilight settles o'er my roof, And from the haggard oaks unto my door The rain comes, wild as one who rides before His enemies that follow, hoof to hoof; And in each window's gusty curtain-woof The rain-wind sighs, like one who mutters o'er Some tale of love and crime; and, on the floor, The sunset spreads red stains as bloody proof; From hall to hall and stealthy stair to stair, Through all the house, a dread that drags me toward The ancient dusk of that avoided room, Wherein she sits with ghostly golden hair, And eyes that gaze beyond her soul's sad doom, Bending above an unreal harpsichord.

PRÆTERITA.

Low belts of rushes ragged with the blast; Lagoons of marish reddening with the west; And o'er the marsh the water-fowl's unrest While daylight dwindles and the dusk falls fast. Set in sad walls, all mossy with the past, An old stone gateway with a crumbling crest; A garden where death drowses manifest; And in gaunt yews the shadowy house at last. Here, like some unseen spirit, silence talks With echo and the wind in each gray room Where melancholy slumbers with the rain: Or, like some gentle ghost, the moonlight walks In the dim garden, which her smile makes bloom With all the old-time loveliness again.

THE SWASHBUCKLER.

Squat-nosed and broad, of big and pompous port; A tavern visage, apoplexy haunts, All pimple-puffed; the Falstaff-like resort Of fat debauchery, whose veined cheek flaunts A flabby purple: rusty-spurred he stands In rakehell boots and belt, and hanger that Claps when, with greasy gauntlets on his hands, He swaggers past in cloak and slouch-plumed hat. Aggression marches armies in his words; And in his oaths great deeds ride cap-a-pie; His looks, his gestures breathe the breath of swords; And in his carriage camp all wars to be: With him of battles there shall be no lack While buxom wenches are and stoops of sack.

THE WITCH.

She gropes and hobbies, where the dropsied rocks Are hairy with the lichens and the twist Of knotted wolf's-bane, mumbling in the mist, Hawk-nosed and wrinkle-eyed with scrawny locks. At her bent back the sick-faced moonlight mocks, Like some lewd evil whom the Fiend hath kissed; Thrice at her feet the slipping serpent hissed, And thrice the owl called to the forest fox.-- What sabboth brew dost now intend? What root Dost seek for, seal for what satanic spell Of incantations and demoniac fire? From thy rude hut, hill-huddled in the brier, What dark familiar points thy sure pursuit, With burning eyes, gaunt with the glow of Hell?

THE SOMNAMBULIST.

Oaks and a water. By the water--eyes, Ice-green and steadfast as cold stars; and hair Yellow as eyes deep in a she-wolf's lair; And limbs, like darkness that the lightning dyes. The humped oaks stand black under iron skies; The dry wind whirls the dead leaves everywhere; Wild on the water falls a vulture glare Of moon, and wild the circling raven flies. Again the power of this thing hath laid Illusion on him: and he seems to hear A sweet voice calling him beyond his gates To longed-for love; he comes; each forest glade Seems reaching out white arms to draw him near-- Nearer and nearer to the death that waits.

OPIUM.

_On reading De Quincey's "Confessions of an Opium Eater."_

I seemed to stand before a temple walled From shadows and night's unrealities; Filled with dark music of dead memories, And voices, lost in darkness, aye that called. I entered. And, beneath the dome's high-halled Immensity, one forced me to my knees Before a blackness--throned 'mid semblances And spectres--crowned with flames of emerald. Then, lo! two shapes that thundered at mine ears The names of Horror and Oblivion, Priests of this god,--and bade me die and dream. Then, in the heart of hell, a thousand years Meseemed I lay--dead; while the iron stream Of Time beat out the seconds, one by one.

MUSIC AND SLEEP.

These have a life that hath no part in death; These circumscribe the soul and make it strong; Between the breathing of a dream and song, Building a world of beauty in a breath. Unto the heart the voice of this one saith Ideals, its emotions live among; Unto the mind the other speaks a tongue Of visions, where the guess, we christen faith, May face the fact of immortality-- As may a rose its unembodied scent, Or star its own reflected radiance. We do not know these save unconsciously. To whose mysterious shadows God hath lent No certain shape, no certain countenance.

AMBITION.

Now to my lips lift then some opiate Of black forgetfulness! while in thy gaze Still lures the loveless beauty that betrays, And in thy mouth the music that is hate. No promise more hast thou to make me wait; No smile to cozen my sick heart with praise! Far, far behind thee stretch laborious days, And far before thee, labors soon and late. Thine is the fen-fire that we deem a star, Flying before us, ever fugitive, Thy mocking policy still holds afar: And thine the voice, to which our longings give Hope's siren face, that speaks us sweet and fair, Only to lead us captives to Despair.

DESPONDENCY.

Not all the bravery that day puts on Of gold and azure, ardent or austere, Shall ease my soul of sorrow; grown more dear Than all the joy that heavenly hope may don. Far up the skies the rumor of the dawn May run, and eve like some wild torch appear; These shall not change the darkness, gathered here, Of thought, that rusts like an old sword undrawn. Oh, for a place deep-sunken from the sun! A wildwood cave of primitive rocks and moss! Where Sleep and Silence--breast to married breast-- Lie with their child, night-eyed Oblivion; Where, freed from all the trouble of my cross, I might forget, I might forget, and rest!

DESPAIR.

Shut in with phantoms of life's hollow hopes, And shadows of old sins satiety slew, And the young ghosts of the dead dreams love knew, Out of the day into the night she gropes. Behind her, high the silvered summit slopes Of strength and faith, she will not turn to view; But towards the cave of weakness, harsh of hue, She goes, where all the dropsied horror ropes. There is a voice of waters in her ears, And on her brow a wind that never dies: One is the anguish of desired tears; One is the sorrow of unuttered sighs; And, burdened with the immemorial years, Downward she goes with never lifted eyes.

SIN.

There is a legend of an old Hartz tower That tells of one, a noble, who had sold His soul unto the Fiend; who grew not old On this condition: That the demon's power Cease every midnight for a single hour, And in that hour his body should be cold, His limbs grow shriveled, and his face, behold! Become a death's-head in the taper's glower.-- So unto Sin Life gives his best. Her arts Make all his outward seeming beautiful Before the world; but in his heart of hearts Abides an hour when her strength is null; When he shall feel the death through all his parts Strike, and his countenance become a skull.

INSOMNIA.

It seems that dawn will never climb The eastern hills; And, clad in mist and flame and rime, Make flashing highways of the rills.

The night is as an ancient way Through some dead land, Whereon the ghosts of Memory And Sorrow wander hand in hand.

By which man's works ignoble seem, Unbeautiful; And grandeur, but the ruined dream Of some proud queen, crowned with a skull.

A way past-peopled, dark and old, That stretches far-- Its only real thing, the cold Vague light of sleep's one fitful star.

ENCOURAGEMENT.

To help our tired hope to toil, Lo! have we not the council here Of trees, that to all hope appear As sermons of the soil?

To help our flagging faith to rise, Lo! have we not the high advice Of stars, that for all faith suffice As gospels of the skies?

Sustain us, Lord! and help us climb, With hope and faith made strong and great, The rock-rough pathway of our fate, The care-dark way of time!

QUATRAINS.

PENURY.

Above his misered embers, gnarled and gray, With toil-twitched limbs he bends; around his hut, Want, like a hobbling hag, goes night and day, Scolding at windows and at doors tight-shut.

STRATEGY.

Craft's silent sister and the daughter deep Of Contemplation, she, who spreads below A hostile tent soft comfort for her foe, With eyes of Jael watching till he sleep.

TEMPEST.

With helms of lightning, glittering in the skies, On steeds of thunder, cloudy form on form, Terrific beauty in their hair and eyes, Behold the wild Valkyries of the storm.

THE LOCUST BLOSSOM.

The spirit Spring, in rainy raiment, met The spirit Summer for a moonlit hour: Sweet from their greeting kisses, warm and wet, Earth shaped the fragrant purity of this flower.

MELANCHOLY.

With shadowy immortelles of memory About her brow, she sits with eyes that look Upon the stream of Lethe wearily, In hesitant hands Death's partly-opened book.

CONTENT.

Among the meadows of Life's sad unease-- In labor still renewing her soul's youth-- With trust, for patience, and with love, for peace, Singing she goes with the calm face of Ruth.

LIFE AND DEATH.

Of our own selves God makes a glass, wherein Two shadows image them as might a breath: And one is Life, whose other name is Sin; And one is Love, whose other name is Death.

SORROW.

Death takes her hand and leads her through the waste Of her own soul, wherein she hears the voice Of lost Love's tears, and, famishing, can but taste The dead-sea fruit of Life's remembered joys.

A LAST WORD.

Not for thyself, but for the sake of Song, Strive to succeed as others have, who gave Their lives unto her; shaping sure and strong Her lovely limbs that made them god and slave.

Not for thyself, but for the sake of Art, Strive to advance beyond the others' best; Winning a deeper secret from her heart To hang it moonlike 'mid the starry rest.

_For permission to reprint a number of the poems included in this volume, thanks are due to The Chap-Book, Cosmopolitan, Lippincott's, Century, New England, Atlantic, and Harper's._

End of Project Gutenberg's The Garden of Dreams, by Madison J. Cawein