Part 1

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THE POEMS OF [Illustration] MADISON CAWEIN

VOLUME IV

POEMS OF MYSTERY AND OF MYTH AND ROMANCE

THE POEMS OF MADISON CAWEIN

_Volume IV_

POEMS OF MYSTERY AND OF MYTH AND ROMANCE

_Illustrated_ WITH PHOTOGRAVURES AFTER PAINTINGS BY ERIC PAPE

INDIANAPOLIS THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT 1887, 1888, 1890, 1891, 1892, 1893, 1894, 1896, 1898, 1899, 1901, 1902, 1905 AND 1907, BY MADISON CAWEIN

COPYRIGHT 1896, BY COPELAND AND DAY; 1898, BY R. H. RUSSELL

PRESS OF BRAUNWORTH & CO. BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS BROOKLYN, N. Y.

TO MY MOTHER

CONTENTS

POEMS OF MYSTERY PAGE

ASHLY MERE 92

AT DAWN 84

AT MIDNIGHT 118

BEFORE THE TOMB 40

CHANGELING, THE 140

CHILDREN O' THE MOON 177

CITY OF DARKNESS, THE 110

DANCE OF THE FAIRIES, THE 136

ELF-QUEEN, THE 142

ELF SWASHBUCKLER, AN 147

ELIXIR OF LOVE, THE 9

EPILOGUE 218

FAERY MORRIS 163

FLAMENCINE 42

FOREST OF DREAMS, THE 108

GHOSTS 116

GLADIOLES, THE 158

GLAMOUR 161

GLORAMONE 14

GRAMARYE 122

HALL OF DARKNESS, THE 209

HAUNTED 1

HAUNTED ROOM, THE 202

HEADLESS HORSEMAN, THE 94

HILDEGARD 44

IMAGE IN THE GLASS, THE 22

IN AN OLD GARDEN 200

IN SHADOW 87

IN THE OWL-LIGHT 89

INTIMATIONS 187

KU KLUX 82

LEGEND OF THE STONE, THE 25

LITTLE PEOPLE, THE 165

MERMAID, THE 173

MIRROR, THE 206

MORNING-GLORIES, THE 156

MOTIVE IN GOLD AND GRAY, A 180

NEREID, THE 171

NIXIES, THE 152

OLD HOUSE, THE 106

OLD HOUSE BY THE MERE, THE 197

ON FLOYD'S FORK 33

ON MIDSUMMER NIGHT 132

ON THE EVE OF ST. JOHN 149

PRÆTERITA 85

REED SHAKEN WITH THE WIND, A 52

REMBRANDTS 114

REVISITED 104

ROMAUNT OF THE OAK 47

RUINED MILL, THE 29

SEA-KING, THE 168

SEA SPIRIT, THE 98

SELF AND SOUL 194

SONG OF THE ELF 145

STREET OF GHOSTS, A 37

THAT HOUR 216

THAT NIGHT 119

THE MOTH, THE ROSE, AND THE PINK 160

THERE ARE FAIRIES 129

TIGER-LILY, THE 159

UNDER DARK SKIES 112

VAMPIRE, THE 100

WATER-FAIRY, THE 154

WEREWOLF, THE 96

WHAT DREAMS MAY COME 214

WILL-O'-THE-WISP 102

WOMAN BY THE WATER, THE 35

WOMAN'S PORTION 78

WORLD OF FAERY, THE 125

POEMS OF MYTH AND ROMANCE

APHRODITE 248

APOLLO 269

ARTEMIS 244

BEFORE THE TEMPLE 240

BEAUTY AND ART 313

DEMETER 253

DIONYSIA 278

DIONYSOS 256

DITHYRAMBICS 289

DOLCE FAR NIENTE 334

DREAM OF RODERICK, THE 350

FAUN, THE 267

FIELD AND FOREST CALL 328

FOREST IDYLL, A 364

GARGAPHIE 264

GENIUS LOCI 286

GLOW-WORM, THE 360

HARVEST MOON, THE 326

HYMN TO DESIRE 295

JOTUNHEIM 273

LAND OF ILLUSION, THE 340

LAST SONG, THE 347

LETHE 233

LIMNAD, THE 237

MEMORY, A 332

MYTH AND ROMANCE 227

NAIAD, THE 235

NYMPH AND FAUN 299

OLD HOMES 33

OLD WATER-MILL, THE 315

PAGAN 311

PAPHIAN VENUS, THE 260

PARTING OF LEANDER AND HERO 301

PERSEPHONE 250

PROCESSIONAL 372

PROEM 225

PURPLE VALLEYS, THE 338

RAIN-CROW, THE 323

REVERIE 230

RUE-ANEMONE, THE 242

SPIRIT OF DREAMS 370

SPIRIT OF THE FOREST SPRING, THE 305

TO A PANSY-VIOLET 307

UNDER THE ROSE 367

VINE AND SYCAMORE 283

ZYPS OF ZIRL 355

SONG AND STORY

AT THE SIGN OF THE SKULL 416

AT VESPERS 438

CUP OF JOY, THE 423

DUM VIVIMUS 418

END OF ALL, THE 429

END OF THE CENTURY, THE 405

FAILURE 420

HIEROGLYPHS 391

INDIAN LEGEND, AN 383

ISLE OF VOICES, THE 410

JOHN DAVIS, BOUCANIER 385

LA JEUNESSE ET LA MORT 426

LEGEND OF A LILY, A 401

LOVE AND LOSS 428

ROSE O' THE HILLS, A 431

SONG AND STORY 379

STUDY IN GRAY, A 435

TO HARRISON S. MORRIS 377

VOYAGERS 389

WATCHER, THE 415

WHITE VIGIL, THE 433

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

AROUND HIM MERMAIDS SING FOAM-CLAD (See page 168) _Frontispiece_

PAGE

STARED AND WHISPERED AND SMILED AND WEPT (See page 49) 124

THAT REED-SLENDER GIRL WHOM PAN PURSUED 242

PROEM

_Not while I live may I forget That garden which my spirit trod! Where dreams were flowers, wild and wet, And beautiful as God._

_Not while I breathe, awake, adream, Shall live again for me those hours, When, in its mystery and gleam, I met her 'mid the flowers._

_Eyes, talismanic heliotrope, Beneath mesmeric lashes, where The sorceries of love and hope Had made a shining lair._

_And daydawn brows, whereover hung The twilight of dark locks; wild birds, Her lips, that spoke the rose's tongue In fragrance-voweled words._

_I will not speak of cheeks and chin, That held me as sweet language holds; Nor of the eloquence within Her breasts' twin-moonéd molds._

_Nor of her body's languorous Wind-grace, that glanced like starlight through Her clinging robe's diaphanous Web of the mist and dew._

_There is no star so pure and high As was her look; no fragrance such As her soft presence; and no sigh Of music like her touch._

_Not while I live may I forget That garden of dim dreams, where I And Song within the spirit met, Sweet Song, who passed me by._

POEMS OF MYSTERY

HAUNTED

I

Without a moon when night comes on There is a sighing in its trees As of sad lips that no one sees; And the far-dwindling forest, large Beyond fenced fields, seems shadowy drawn Into its shadows. Faint and wan, By the wistariaed portico Stealing, I go Through gardens where the weeds are rank: Where, here and there, in clump and bank, Spiræas rise, whose dotted blooms Seem clustered starlight; and the four Syringas sweet heap, powdered o'er, Thin flower-beakers of perfumes; And the dead flowering-almond tree, That once was pink as her young cheek, Now withered leans within the glooms.-- Why must I walk here? seek and seek Her, long since gone?--Still bower on bower The roses climb in blushing flower.-- Ah, 'mid the roses could I see Her eyes, her sad eyes, shine like flowers, Or like the dew that lies for hours Within their hearts, then it might be I might find comfort here, although Wistful, as if reproaching me, Her sad eyes look, saying what none may know.

II

When midnight comes it brings a moon: A scent is strewn Of honey and wild-thorns broadcast Beneath the stars. When I have passed Under dark cedars, solemn pines, Through dodder-drowned petunias, Corn-flower and the columbine, To where azaleas, choked with grass, And peonies, like great wisps, shine, I reach banked honeysuckle vines, Piled deep and trammeled with the gourd And morning-glory--one wild hoard Of rich aroma--where the seat, The rustic bench, where oft we sat,-- Now warped and old with rain and heat,-- Still stands upon its mossy mat: And here I rest; and then--a word I seem to hear; A soft word whispered in my ear; Her voice it seems; no thing is near; I look around:--I have but heard The plaintive note of some lost bird Trickle through night,--awakened where, 'Neath its thick lair of twisted twigs, The jarring and incessant grigs Hum:--dream-drugged so, the haunted air Makes all my soul as heavy as Dew-poppied grass.

III

Once when the moon rose, fair and full,-- Like some sea-seen Hesperian pool, A splash of gold through tangling trees,-- Or like the Island beautiful Of Avalon in haunted seas,-- There came a sighing in the trees As of sad lips; there was no breeze, And yet sad sighings shook the trees. And when, all in a mystic space, Her orb swam, amiable white, Right in that shattered casement, by The broken porch the creepers lace, Born of a moonbeam and a sigh, I saw _her_ face, Pale through a mist of tears; so slight, So immaterial, ah me! In pensiveness, and vanished grace, 'Twas like an olden melody.

IV

I know long-angled on its floors, Where windows face the anxious east, The moonshine pours White squares of glitter and, at least, Gives glimmer to its whispering halls: Its corridors, Sleep-tapestried, are guled with bars Of moonlight: by its wasted walls Crouch shadows: and,--where streaked dusts lay Their undisturbed, deep gray Upon its stairs,--dim, vision-footed, glide Faint gossamer gleams, like visible sighs, As to and fro, athwart the skies,-- Wind-swung against the moon outside,-- The twisted branches sway Of one great tree; I stand below, And listen now, Hearing a murmur come and go Through its gnarled boughs; remembering how Shady this chestnut made her room, And sweet, in June, with plumes of bloom; And how the broad and gusty flues Of the old house sang when the rain let loose Its winds, and each flue seemed a hoarse, Sonorous throat, filled with the storm's wild boom, And growled carousal; goblin tunes The hylas pipe to rainy moons Of March; or, in the afternoons Of summer, singing in their course,-- Where blossoms drip,--all wet of back,-- The crickets drone in avenues Of locusts leading to the gate. And in the dark here where I wait Meseems I hear the silence creep And crepitate From hall to hall; as one in sleep I hear, yet hear not; feel that there Her soul walks, waking on each stair Strange echoes; and the stealthy crack Of old and warping floors: I seem To follow her; and in a dream To see, yet see not; in the black That drapes each room, my mind informs With shapes, that hide behind each door And fling from closets phantom arms.

V

I see her face, as once before, Bewildered with its terror, pressed To the dark, polished floor; distressed, Clasped in her blind and covering hands; So desolate with anguish, wrenched With wild remorse, no man could see, Could see and turn away like me, No man that sees and understands Love and its mortal agony. Again, like some automaton, Part of that ghostly tragedy, Myself I see, the fool who fled, Who sneered and fled. And then again Came stealing back. Again, with blenched And bending face I stand, and clenched And icy hands, and staring eyes, Looking upon her face, as wan As water; eyes all wide with pain; Cramped to dilation, packed with loss: Again I seem to lean across The years, and hear my heart's deep groan Above the young gold of her head, Above that huddled heap alone,-- Her, white and dead.

VI

Yes, there is moan Of lamentation and hushed screams In all its crannies; and sad shades Haunt all its rooms, the moonlight braids, With melancholy. Slow have flown The weary years: and I have known An anguish and remorse far worse Than usual life's; and live, it seems, Because to live is but a curse....

VII

There she lies buried; there! that ground Gated with rusty iron, where She and her stanch forefathers sleep; So old, the turf scarce shows a mound; So gray, you scarce distinguish there A headstone where the ivies creep And myrtles bloom. A wall of stone Squares it around; a place for dreams; A mossy spot of sorrow;--lone, Nay, lonelier, wilder now it seems, Though just the same: its roses waste Their petals there as oft of yore; Their placid petals, as before; Pale, pensive petals: yonder some Lie faint as puffs of foam Within the moonlight, dimly traced Beneath the boughs; some few are strown On the usurping weeds, great grown Around her tomb, on which two dead leaves lie.... Here let my sick heart break and die Amid their wiltings, on her grave, Here in her dim, old burying-ground The druid cedars guard around And roses and wild thorns. Alone She shall not lie! Ah, let me moan My life out here where rose-leaves fall, And rest by her who was my all!

THE ELIXIR OF LOVE

He held it possible that he Who idolizes one that's dead, With that strange liquid instantly Might raise them, living red: And so he thought, "'Tis mine at last To live and love the love that's past; The joy without the grief and pain. The dead shall live and love again."

For he had loved one till for him Her face had grown his spirit-part: Though dead, she seemed to him less dim Than men in street and mart. He labored on; for, truth to say, In toil alone his pleasure lay, His art, through which, sometime, he thought, Back to his arms she would be brought.

He kept such trysts as phantoms keep, Pale distances about his soul; And moved like one who walks asleep, Attaining no sure goal: Yet blither than a younger heart At crucible and glass retort He labored; for his love was prism To irisate toil's egoism.

He drained wan draughts from out a cup, A globe of vague and flaming gold, Held from the darkness, brimming up, By something white and cold, That wreathed faint fingers round its brim, Slim flakes of foam; and, soft and dim, Stooped out of fiery-bound abysses To print his brow with icy kisses.

At last within his trembling hand An ancient flask burnt, starry rose; A liquid flame of ruby fanned, Heart-like, with crimson throes: And in the liquid, like a flower, A starlike face bloomed for an hour, Then slowly faded to a skull With eyes that mocked the beautiful.

'Though all his life had been so strange, Yet stranger now it seemed to be;-- What was it led him forth to range 'Mid graves and mystery? What led him to that one dim tomb, Where he could read within the gloom The name of one who lay within With all of silence, naught of sin?

Untainted, so it seemed, and made By death's cold kisses still more fair, He found her; raised her; softly laid Her raven depths of hair Upon his shoulder: and the pearls, Around her neck and in her curls, Less pale were than the kingly calm Upon his face that showed no qualm.

And through the night, beneath the moon, Across the windy hill, the gloom Of forests where the leaves lay strewn, He brought her to his room: And in the awfulness of death, That filled her wide eyes with its breath, He set her in a carven chair Where the still moon could kiss her hair.

One moment then he paused to think: Then to her lips, all drawn and dead, His strange elixir pressed and--"Drink! Drink life and love!" he said. And it--it drank; the dead drank slow: And in its eyes there came a glow: Yet still as stone its body sate, With eyes of hell and lips of hate.

Still as fall-frozen ice its face, And thin its voice as drizzled rain, When in its rotting silk and lace It rose and lived again: Its bosom moved not while it spake; Nor moved its lips; and half awake Its eyes seemed with enchanted sleep A century long in night's old keep.

And, stooping o'er, it whispered low-- A sound like a vibrating wire, Or like the hiss of falling snow In flutterings faint of fire:-- "In me, behold, you see your toil! In me your love! A thing to coil Around your life thus!--Make entire!-- The demon of your dead desire!"

And where, before, was quietness, Was violence of hate and evil-- Yet all its form seemed passionless, A corpse that held a devil!... But who shall say the hands were its That made within his throat these pits?-- They found him dead; and by him, one Who clasped him close, a skeleton.

GLORAMONE

The moonbeams on the hollies glow Pale where she left me; and the snow Lies bleak in moonshine on the graves, Ribbed with each gust that shakes and waves Ancestral cedars by her tomb....

She lay so beautiful in death, My Gloramone,--whose loveliness Death had not dimmed with all its doom,-- That, urged by my divine distress, I sought her sepulchre: the gloom, The iciness that takes the breath, The sense of fear, were not too strong To keep me from beholding long.

I stole into its sorrow; burst, With what I know was hand accursed, Its seal, the gated silence of Her old armorial tomb: but love Had sighed sweet romance to my heart; And here, I thought, another part Our souls would play. I did not start When indistinctness of pale lips Breathed on my hair; faint finger-tips Fluttered their starlight on my brow; When on my eyes, I knew not whence, Vague kisses fell: then, like a vow, Within my heart, an aching sense Of vampire winning. And I heard Her name slow-syllabled--a word Of haunting harmony--and then Low-whispered, "Thou! at last, 'tis thou!" And sighs of shadowy lips again.

How madly strange that this should be! For, had she loved me here on Earth, It had not then been marvelous That she should now remember me, Returning love for love, though worth Less, yes, far less to both of us. And so I wondered, listening there: How was it that her soul was brought So near to mine now, whom in life She hated so? And everywhere About my life I thought and thought And found no reason why her love Should now be mine. We were at strife Forever here; her hatred drove Me to despair: I cast my glove Into the frowning face of fate, And lost her. Yea, it was her hate That made her Appolonio's wife. Her hate! her lovely hate!--for of Her naught I found unlovely;--and I felt she did not understand My passion, and 'twere well to wait.