The Haunted Hour: An Anthology
Chapter 7
When candle-flames burn blue, Between the night and morning, I know that it is you, My love, that was so true, And that I killed with scorning.
The watch-dogs howl and bay; I pale, and leave off smiling. Only the other day I held your heart in play Intent upon beguiling.
A little while ago I wrung your soul with sighing, Or brought a sudden glow Into your cheek by low Soft answers, in replying.
My life was all disguise, A mask of feints and fancies; I used to lift my eyes, And take you by surprise With smiles and upward glances.
And now, where'er I go, Your sad ghost follows after; And blue the flame burns low, And doors creak to and fro, And silent grows the laughter.
THE WHITE MOTH: SIR ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH
If a leaf rustled she would start: And yet she died, a year ago. How had so frail a thing the heart To journey where she trembled so? And do they turn and turn in fright, Those little feet, in so much night?
The light above the poet's head Streamed on the page and on the cloth, And twice and thrice there buffeted On the black pane a white-winged moth: 'Twas Annie's soul that beat outside, And, "Open, open, open!" cried.
"I could not find the way to God; There were too many flaming suns For signposts, and the fearful road Led over wastes where millions Of flaming comets hissed and burned-- I was bewildered and I turned.
"O, it was easy then! I knew Your window, and no star beside. Look up and take me back to you!" He rose and thrust the window wide. 'Twas but because his brain was hot With rhyming; for he saw her not.
But poets polishing a phrase Show anger over trivial things: And as she blundered in the blaze Towards him, on ecstatic wings, He raised a hand and smote her dead; Then wrote, "That I had died instead!"
THE GHOST: WALTER DE LA MARE
"Who knocks?" "I, who was beautiful, Beyond all dreams to restore, I, from the roots of the dark thorn am hither, And knock on the door."
"Who speaks?" "I,--once was my speech Sweet as the bird's on the air. When echo lurks by the waters to heed; 'Tis I speak thee fair."
"Dark is the hour!" "Aye, and cold." "Lone is my house." "Ah, but mine?" "Sight, touch, lips, eyes yearn in vain." "Long dead these to thine...."
Silence. Still faint on the porch Brake the flames of the stars. In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand Over keys, bolts and bars.
A face peered. All the grey night In chaos of vacancy shone; Nought but vast Sorrow was there-- The sweet cheat gone.
LUKE HAVERGAL: EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON
Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,-- There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,-- And in the twilight wait for what will come. The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some,-- Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall; But go, and if you trust her she will call. Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal-- Luke Havergal.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes; But there where western glooms are gathering, The dark will end the dark, if anything: God slays Himself with every leaf that flies, And hell is more than half of paradise. No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies-- In eastern skies.
Out of the grave I come to tell you this,-- Out of the grave I come to quench the kiss That flames upon your forehead with a glow That blinds you to the way that you must go. Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,-- Bitter, but one that faith can never miss. Out of the grave I come to tell you this, To tell you this.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, There are the crimson leaves upon the wall. Go,--for the winds are tearing them away,-- Nor think to riddle the dead words that they say, Nor any more to feel them as they fall; But go! and if you trust her she will call. There is the western gate, Luke Havergal-- Luke Havergal.
THE HIGHWAYMAN: ALFRED NOYES
1
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding-- Riding--riding-- The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
2
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
3
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
4
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim, the ostler, listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter; The landlord's red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say--
5
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
6
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight,) Then he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
PART TWO
1
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching-- Marching--marching-- King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
2
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And Hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that _he_ would ride.
3
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say-- _Look for me by moonlight;_ _Watch for me by moonlight;_ _I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!_
4
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
5
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.
6
_Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!_ Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear-- _Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot_ in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still!
7
_Tlot-tlot_, in the frosty silence! _Tlot-tlot_ in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.
8
He turned; he spurred him Westward; he did not know who stood Bowed with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, and slowly blanched to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
9
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden moon; wine-red was his velvet coat; When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
* * * * *
_And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,_ _When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,_ _When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,_ _A highwayman comes riding--_ _Riding--riding--_ _A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door._
10
_Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;_ _And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;_ _He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there_ _But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,_ _Bess, the landlord's daughter,_ _Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair._
THE BLUE CLOSET: WILLIAM MORRIS
THE DAMOZELS
Lady Alice, Lady Louise, Between the wash of the tumbling seas We are ready to sing, if so you please; So lay your long hands on the keys; Sing "_Laudate pueri._"
_And ever the great bell overhead_ _Boom'd in the wind a knell for the dead,_ _Though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead._
LADY LOUISE
Sister, let the measure swell Not too loud; for you sing not well If you drown the faint boom of the bell; He is weary, so am I.
_And ever the chevron overhead_ _Flapp'd on the banner of the dead;_ (_Was he asleep, or was he dead?_)
LADY ALICE
Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen, Two damozels wearing purple and green, Four lone ladies dwelling here From day to day and year to year; And there is none to let us go; To break the locks of the doors below, Or shovel away the heap'd-up snow; And when we die no man will know That we are dead; but they give us leave, Once every year on Christmas-eve, To sing in the Closet Blue one song: And we should be so long, so long, If we dared, in singing; for, dream on dream, They float on in a happy stream; They float from the gold strings, float, from the keys, Float from the open'd lips of Louise: But, alas! the sea-salt oozes through The chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue;
_And ever the great bell overhead_ _Booms in the wind a knell for the dead,_ _The wind plays on it a knell for the dead._
(THEY SING ALL TOGETHER)
How long ago was it, how long ago, He came to this tower with hands full of snow? "Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down," he said, And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head.
He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair, Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare.
"I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise, For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas;
"In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears, But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years;
"Yea, they grow gray with time, grow small and dry, I am so feeble now, would I might die."
_And in truth the great bell overhead_ _Left off pealing for the dead,_ _Perchance because the wind was--dead._
Will he come back again or is he dead? Or is he sleeping, my scarf round his head?
Or did they strangle him as he lay there, With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear?
Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here; Both his soul and his body to me are most dear.
Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receive Either body or spirit this wild Christmas-eve.
_Through the floor shot up a lily red,_ _With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,_ _For he was strong in the land of the dead._
What matter that his cheeks were pale, His kind kiss'd lips all gray? "O love Louise, have you waited long?" "O my Lord Arthur, yea."
What if his hair that brush'd her cheek Was stiff with frozen rime? His eyes were grown quite blue again. As in the happy time.
"O, love Louise, this is the key Of the happy golden land! O, sisters, cross the bridge with me, My eyes are full of sand, What matter that I cannot see, If ye take me by the hand?"
_And ever the great bell overhead,_ _And the tumbling sea mourned for the dead;_ _For their song ceased, and they were dead._
THE GHOST'S PETITION: CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI
"There's a footstep coming; look out and see."-- "The leaves are falling, the wind is calling; No one cometh across the lea."--
"There's a footstep coming; O sister, look."-- "The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes; No one cometh across the brook."--
"But he promised that he would come: To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow, He must keep his word, and must come home.
"For he promised that he would come; His word was given; from earth to heaven, He must keep his word, and must come home.
"Go to sleep, my sweet sister Jane; You can slumber, who need not number Hour after hour, in doubt and pain.
"I shall sit here awhile and watch; Listening, hoping for one hand groping, In deep shadow, to find the latch."
After the dark and before the light, One lay sleeping, and one sat weeping, Who had watched and wept the weary night.
After the night and before the day, One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping-- Watching, weeping for one away.
There came a footstep climbing the stair, Some one standing out on the landing Shook the door like a puff of air.--
Shook the door and in he passed. Did he enter? In the room center Stood her husband; the door shut fast.
"O Robin, but you are cold-- Chilled with the night-dew; so lily white you Look like a stray lamb from our fold.
"O Robin, but you are late: Come and sit near me--sit here and cheer me."-- (Blue the flame burnt in the grate.)
"Lay not down your head on my breast: I cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold you In the shelter that you love best.
"Feel not after my clasping hand: I am but a shadow, come from the meadow, Where many lie, but no tree can stand.
"We are trees that have shed their leaves: Our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there; Only I grieve for my wife who grieves.
"I could rest if you would not moan Hour after hour; I have no power To shut my ears as I lie alone.
"I could rest if you would not cry, But there's no sleeping while you sit weeping-- Watching, weeping so bitterly."--
"Woe's me! Woe's me! For this I have heard. Oh night of sorrow--oh, black to-morrow! Is it thus that you keep your word?
"Oh, you who used so to shelter me, Warm from the least wind--why, now the east wind Is warmer than you, whom I quake to see.
"Oh, my husband of flesh and blood, For whom my mother I left, and brother, And all I had, accounting it good,
"What do you do there, under the ground, In the dark hollow? I'm fain to follow. What do you do there? What have you found?"--
"What I do there I must not tell, But I have plenty--kind wife, content ye: It is well with us: it is well.
"Tender hand hath made our nest; Our fear is ended; our hope is blended With present pleasure, and we have rest."
"Oh, but Robin, I'm fain to come, If your present days are so pleasant, For my days are so wearisome.
"Yet I'll dry my tears for your sake: Why should I tease you, who cannot please you Any more with the pains I take?"
HE AND SHE: SIR EDWIN ARNOLD
"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away; Kiss her and leave her,--thy love is clay!"
They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair; On her forehead of stone they laid it fair.
Over her eyes that gazed too much They drew the lids with a gentle touch;
With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;
Above her brows and beautiful face They tied her veil and her marriage lace,
And drew on her white feet her white-silk shoes Which were the whitest no eye could choose,--
And over her bosom they crossed her hands. "Come away," they said, "God understands."
And there was silence, and nothing there But silence and scents of eglantere,
And jasmine, and roses and rosemary, And they said: "As a lady should lie, lies she."
And they held their breath till they left the room, With a shudder, a glance at its stillness and gloom.
But he who loved her too well to dread The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,
He lit his lamp, and he took the key And turned it--alone again, he and she.
He and she; but she would not speak, Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.
He and she; yet she would not smile, Though he called her the name she loved erewhile.
He and she; still she did not move To any passionate whisper of love.
Then he said, "Cold lips and breast without breath, Is there no voice or language of death,
"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and soul distinct, intense?
"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear: What is the secret of dying, dear?
"Was it the infinite wonder of all That you ever could let life's flower fall?
"Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?
"Was the miracle greater to find how deep Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?
"Did life roll back its record, dear, And show, as they say it does, past things clear?
"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss To find out so, what a wisdom love is?
"O perfect dead! O dead most dear! I hold the breath of my soul to hear.
"I listen as deep as to terrible hell, As high as to heaven, and you do not tell.
"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet, To make you so placid, from head to feet!
"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,--
"I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid,--
"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,
"The very strangest and suddenest thing Of all the surprises that dying must bring."
Ah, foolish world! O most kind dead! Though he told me, who will believe it was said?
Who will believe that he heard her say, With the old sweet voice, in the dear old way,
"The utmost wonder is this--I hear And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;
"And am your angel, who was your bride. And know, that though dead, I have never died."
SHAPES OF DOOM
THE DEAD COACH: KATHERINE TYNAN
At night when sick folk wakeful lie, I heard the dead coach passing by, Heard it passing wild and fleet, And knew my time had come not yet.
Click-clack, click-clack, the hoofs went past, Who takes the dead coach travels fast, On and away through the wild night, The dead must rest ere morning light.
If one might follow on its track, The coach and horses midnight black, Within should sit a shape of doom That beckons one and all to come.
God pity them to-night who wait To hear the dead coach at their gate, And him who hears, though sense be dim, The mournful dead coach stop for him.
He shall go down with a still face, And mount the steps and take his place, The door be shut, the order said, How fast the pace is with the dead!
Click-clack, click-clack, the hour is chill, The dead coach climbs the distant hill. Now, God, the Father of us all, Wipe Thou the widow's tears that fall!
DEID FOLK'S FERRY: ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON
'Tis They, of a veritie-- They are calling thin an' shrill; We maun rise an' put to sea, We maun gi'e the deid their will, We maun ferry them owre the faem, For they draw us as they list; We maun bear the deid folk hame Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.
"But how can I gang the nicht, When I'm new come hame frae sea? When my heart is sair for the sicht O' my lass that langs for me?" "O your lassie lies asleep, An' sae do your bairnes twa; The cliff-path's stey and steep, An' the deid folk cry an' ca'."
O sae hooly steppit we, For the nicht was mirk an' lown, Wi' never a sign to see, But the voices all aroun'. We laid to the saut sea-shore, An' the boat dipped low i' th' tide, As she micht hae dipped wi' a score, An' our ain three sel's beside.
O the boat she settled low, Till her gunwale kissed the faem, An' she didna loup nor row As she bare the deid folk hame; But she aye gaed swift an' licht, An' we naething saw nor wist, Wha sailed i' th' boat that nicht Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.
There was never a sign to see, But a misty shore an' low; Never a word spak' we, But the boat she lichtened slow, An' a cauld sigh stirred my hair, An' a cauld hand touched my wrist, An' my heart sank cauld and sair I' the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.
Then the wind raise up wi' a maen, ('Twas a waefu' wind, an' weet). Like a deid saul wud wi' pain, Like a bairnie wild wi' freit; But the boat rade swift an' licht, Sae we wan the land fu' sune, An' the shore showed wan an' white By a glint o' the waning mune.
We steppit oot owre the sand Where an unco' tide had been, An' Black Donald caught my hand An' coverit up his een: For there, in the wind an' weet, Or ever I saw nor wist, My Jean an' her weans lay cauld at my feet, In the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.
An' it's O for my bonny Jean! An' it's O for my bairnies twa, It's O an' O for the watchet een An' the steps that are gane awa'-- Awa' to the Silent Place, Or ever I saw nor wist, Though I wot we twa went face to face Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.
KEITH OF RAVELSTON: SYDNEY DOBELL
The murmur of the mourning ghost That keeps the shadowy kine, "Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!"
Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine, The song that sang she!
She sang her song, she kept her kine, She sat beneath the thorn When Andrew Keith of Ravelston Rode through the Monday morn;
His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine! Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!
Year after year, where Andrew came, Comes evening down the glade, And still there sits a moonshine ghost Where sat the sunshine maid.
Her misty hair is faint and fair, She keeps the shadowy kine; Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!
I lay my hands upon the stile, The stile is lone and cold. The burnie that goes babbling by Says naught that can be told.
Yet, stranger! here from year to year, She keeps her shadowy kine; Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!
Step out three steps where Andrew stood,-- Why blanch thy cheeks for fear? The ancient stile is not alone, 'Tis not the burn I hear!
She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine, Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!
THE FETCH: DORA SIGERSON SHORTER
"What makes you so late at the tryst, What caused you so long to be? I have waited a weary time For the hour you promised me."
"Oh, glad were I here by your side, Full many an hour ago, But for what there passed on the road All so mournfully and so slow."
"And what have you met on the road That kept you so long and so late?" "O full many an hour has gone Since I left my father's gate.