PART III.

[*]THE LATHE OF MORPHEUS.

Hid in a tenebrose valley veiled by the mushroom pine, Aloof in the lathe of Morpheus—I know a sombre tomb Engraved on its brazen portal is enchiseled this mystic sign: “Behold thou vagrant pilgrim, dark Morphia’s Hetacomb.”

Seizing the knocker in my outstretched hand I crashed the head athwart the leaden sign; An answering echo wandered o’er the Land Breaking in thunderous knocks, a pale reflex of mine. Slowly before my wondering eyes the door Broke in a thousand fragments to the floor; Disclosing a gaping orifice with rusty mildewed rim The entrance to a stairway, torturous, long and grim, Whose polished steps trailed from the sight to denser gloom within. Then passing ’twixt two monoliths engraved one “Death,” one “Sin.” I heard in the chasm below me the Marid’s enchanted hymn, And I felt the chill of their icy breath, As they dully intoned that Song of Death:— “Black and green; with sober sheen; They wander to and fro. But none of mortal birth may glean The rhythm; or why ’tis so.” Aghast by these secret words of power, From my forehead dripped an acrid shower Of clotted sweat, and my trembling knees Quaked together, like nude limbs of trees Bark and knock on a wintry night, For the pith of my soul was bathed in fright. So catching my breath for a mighty shout, I felt my life with my breath go out. Yet only a whisper hissed forth from my lips, Breaking between my chattering teeth in strangled shivering lisps As I wailed to the dimness within; “O! ye who haunt these fœtid bowers, cold Winter has gone and Spring Hath come with her flowers.” But all that I heard in answer, up the ebon polished stair Was the Deathless chant of the Marids; the Jinn with the shimmering hair; That woeful hymn of the Marids—that canticle of despair.

“Scarlet and blue in radiant hue They wander through Space and Time. But none of mortal birth, save Thou May know the rhythm or rhyme. Great is Suleyman Daood’s son! Great is Allah! the Only One! When Life is lost, then Death is won. But by virtue of the sacred fire Here be the few who may ne’er expire.” ...

Faint and weary with soul oppressed, I was fearful to list for the fateful rest Of the Song of Death—the dirge they sang— That ne’er had been learned by mortal man.

So grasping the banister lest I fell, Madly I shouted: “Hail, Jans of Hell! Servants of Iblees! Peace where ye dwell! Ye chanters of songs that none may tell, Ye who shun the light of God’s good day, Answer me! set me on my way Down these labyrinth corridors of this Tomb of fire; Built by Magins round smoking Pyre Where Vathek offered through lust of Power All the youth of his City, Without sorrow or pity, To the gluted ghool who on evil hour Came to his Palace with Satan’s dower.” And still no answer—but louder grew That fearful hymn that no mortal knew. And through the transcendent stillness of the air I saw their beryl eyes and gleaming hair; Each holding aloft one leprous quivering hand The other chained o’er the heart by a molten burning band.

And up from the darkness, deep down beneath, There came the murmur of voices and the moving of teeth. Then as if at a sign, or previously bidden, The two pillars close and the entrance is hidden, And from corner to corner the vaulting is riven.

The banisters vanish to float thinly away, The black sheeny steps coil, totter and sway, All is Darkness around, above and below, And blood-chilling fingers brush my forehead, like snow; A hurricane rose, and a wild whistling wind Swept up from beneath, and in it entwined Were the shadowy Marids with luminous eyes, And a stench like to woodlands where the undergrowth dies Assailed the dank ether; whilst thousands of flies, The minions of Iblees sped whirling around; And flesh semi-fermented smoked on the ground. Then in the midst of this utter distress I breathed forth the NAME of my azure Princess.

...

To me awaking from this evil dream, Rose tinted morn appeared in fulgent light, While great Apollo with his spears did seem To be dispelling all the hosts of night, Proud Helios in chariot thwart the sky, Coursing through fleecy clouds kept on his way, And in the dimmer distance, I descry —Where Night her maukish raiment casts away— A crowd of fleeing objects, gleaming hair Flying behind them in the morning air. But brimming joys my sorrowing senses greet, For ’midst the blossoms, sun-kissed at my feet, There where the leaping springs the thirsty banks caress Appeared the vision of my pale Princess.

[*] Lathe (lath)—Anglo-Saxon laeth: a division of a county. Here the Division belonging to Morpheus in the County of Sleep, itself a division of the Realm of Unconsciousness.