Part 7

The old enigmas of the deathless dawns, And riddles of the all immortal eves,-- That still o'er Delphic lawns Speak as the gods spoke through oracular leaves-- I read with new-born eyes, Remembering how, a slave, They buried me, a living sacrifice, Once in a dead king's grave.

Or, crowned with hyacinth and helichrys, How, towards the altar in the marble gloom,-- Hearing the magadis Dirge through the pale amaracine perfume,-- 'Mid chanting priests I trod, With never a sigh or pause, To give my life to pacify a god, And save my country's cause.

Again: Cyrenian roses on wild hair, And oil and purple smeared on breasts and cheeks, How, with mad torches there,-- Reddening the cedars of Cithæron's peaks,-- With gesture and fierce glance, Lascivious Mænad bands Once drew and slew me in the Pyrrhic dance With Bacchanalian hands.

III

The music now that lays Dim lips against my ears, Some far-off thing it says,-- Unto my soul,--of years Long passed into the haze Of tears.

Meseems before me are The dark eyes of a queen, A queen of Istakhar: I seem to see her lean More lovely than a star Of mien.

A slave, I stand before Her jeweled throne; I kneel, And, in a song, once more My love for her reveal; How once I did adore I feel.

Again her dark eyes gleam; Again her red lips smile; And in her face the beam Of love that knows no guile; And so she seems to dream A while.

Out of her deep hair then A rose she takes--and I Am made a god 'mid men! Her rose, that here did lie When I, in th' wild-beasts' den, Did die.

IV

Old paintings on its wainscots, And, in its oaken hall, Old arras; and the twilight Of sorrow over all.

Old grandeur on its stairways; And in its haunted rooms Old souvenirs of greatness, And ghosts of dead perfumes.

The winds are phantom voices Around its carven doors; The moonbeams, specter footsteps Upon its polished floors.

Old cedars build around it A solitude of sighs; And the old hours pass through it With immemorial eyes.

But more than this I know not; Nor where the house may be; Nor what its ancient secret And ancient grief to me.

It seems my soul remembers,-- Of which this house is part,-- Once, in a former lifetime, 'Twas here I broke my heart.

V

In eons of the senses, My spirit knew of yore, I found the Isle of Circe And felt her magic lore; And still the soul remembers What I was once before.

She gave me flowers to smell of That wizard branches bore, Of weird and wondrous beauty, Whose stems dripped human gore-- Their scent when I remember I know that world once more.

She gave me fruits to eat of That grew beside the shore, Of necromantic ripeness, With human flesh at core-- Their taste when I remember I know that life once more.

And then, behold! a serpent, That glides my face before, With eyes of tears and fire That glare me o'er and o'er-- I look into its eyeballs, And know myself once more.

VI

I have looked in the eyes of Poesy, And sat in Song's high place; And the beautiful Spirits of Music Have spoken me face to face; Yet here in my soul there is sorrow They never can name or trace.

I have walked with the glamour Gladness, And dreamed with the shadow Sleep; And the presences, Love and Knowledge, Have smiled in my heart's red keep; Yet here in my soul there is sorrow For the depth of their gaze too deep.

The love and the hope God grants me, The beauty that lures me on, And the dreams of folly and wisdom That thoughts of the spirit don, Are but masks of an ancient sorrow Of a life long dead and gone.

Was it sin? or a crime forgotten? Of a love that loved too well? That sat on a throne of fire A thousand years in Hell? That the soul with its nameless sorrow Remembers but can not tell?

SELF AND SOUL

It came to me in my sleep, And I rose in my sleep and went Out in the night to weep, Out where the trees were bent. With my soul, it seemed, I stood Alone in a wind-swept wood.

And my soul said, gazing at me, "I will show you another land Different from that you see," And took into hers my hand.-- We passed from the wood to a heath As starved as the ribs of Death.

There, every leaf and the grass Was a thorn or a thistle hoar, The rocks rose mass on mass, Black bones on an iron moor. And my soul said, looking at me, "The past of your life you see."

And a swineherd passed with his swine, Deformed, with the face of an owl; Two eyes of a wolfish shine Burned under his eyebrows foul. And my soul said, "This is the Lust, That soils my beauty with dust."

Then a goose-wife hobbled by, On a crutch, with the devil's geese, A-mumbling that God is a lie, And cursing the world without cease. And my soul said, "This is Unfaith Who maketh me that which she saith."

Then we came to a garden, close To a hollow of graves and tombs; A garden as red as a rose, Hung over of obscene glooms; The heart of each rose was a spark That smouldered or glared in the dark.

And I was aware of a girl With a wild-rose face, who came, With a mouth like a shell's split pearl, Rose-clad in a robe of flame; And she plucked the roses and gave, And I was her veriest slave.

She vanished. My lips would have kissed The flowers she gave me with sighs, But they writhed from my hands and hissed, In their hearts were a serpent's eyes. And my soul said, "Pleasure is she. The joys of the flesh you see."

Then I bowed with a heart too weary, That longed to rest, to sleep; And it seemed in the darkness dreary I heard my sad heart weep; And my soul to the silence say,-- "O God! for the break of day!"

THE OLD HOUSE BY THE MERE

Five rotting gables look upon A garden rank with flowers and weeds; Old iron gates on posts of stone, From which the grass-grown roadway leads. Five rotting gable-points appear Above bleak yews and cedars sad, Beneath which lies the sleepy mere In lazy lilies clad.

At morn the slender dragon-fly, A living ray of light, darts past; The burly bee comes charging by Winding a surly blast. At noon amid the fervid leaves The insects quarrel, harsh and hot; In bitter briers the spider weaves A web with silver shot.

At eve the hermit cricket rears A plaintive prayer, and creaks and creaks; The bat, like some wing'd elfin, veers Beneath the sunset's streaks. The caterpillar gnaws the leaf; The mottled toad croaks drowsily; And then the owl, like some dark grief, Cries in the old beech-tree.

At night the blistering dew comes down And lies as white as autumn frost Upon the green, upon the brown-- You'd think each bush a ghost. The crescent moon sheathes its white sword Within a cloud; and, gray with fear, One large blue star keeps stealthy guard Above the house and mere.

The livid lilies rotting lie On oozy beds of weltering leaves; The will-o'-wisps go flickering by,-- And then the water heaves, And, like some monstrous blossom there, A maiden's corpse with staring eyes, And naked breast and raven hair, Slow in the mere doth rise.

And when the clock of some far town Knells midnight, in that house of sins, In haunted chambers, up and down, The dance of death begins; And stiff, stiff silks sweep, rustling, And stately satins none may see; And then soft sounds of music ring In wildest melody.

And through the halls the demon dance Whirls onward; and dark corridors Resound with song and feet that glance Along the falling floors. Then suddenly, as if in fear, The music ends, the dance is done; And booming over house and mere A far-off clock strikes one.

IN AN OLD GARDEN

The autumn glory fades Upon the withered trees; And over all the dead leaves fall And whisper in the breeze.

The violets are dead, And dead the hollyhocks, That hang like rags by the wind-crushed flags And tiger-lily stocks.

The wild gourd clambers free Where the clematis was wont; Where nenuphars bloomed thick as stars Rank weeds fill up the fount.

Yet, as in dreams, I hear A tinkling mandolin In the dark-blue light of a fragrant night Float in and out and in.

Till the dewy vine, that climbs To a casement's lattice, sways; And behind the vine, like stars that shine, Two dark eyes gleam and gaze.

And now a perfume comes, A swift Favonian gust; And the shrivelled grass, where it doth pass, Bows worshiping to the dust.

I seem to see her drift From tree to moonlit tree, In her jewelled shawl divinely tall, A mist of drapery.

And one awaits her there By the broken Psyche old; And there they stand, pale hand in hand, Her thin wrists hooped with gold.

But a wind sweeps overhead, And the frosty leaves are strewn-- And nothing is there but a bough, blown bare, And the light of the ghostly moon.

THE HAUNTED ROOM

Its casements, diamond-disked with glass, Look down upon a terrace old, Where urns, unkempt with ragged grass, Foam o'er with hoary cold. The snow rounds out each stair of stone; The frozen fount is hooped with pearl; Down desolate walks, like phantoms blown, Thin, powdery snow-wreaths whirl.

And to each rose-tree's stem, that bends With silvery snow-combs, glued with frost, It seems each summer rosebud sends Its airy, scentless ghost. A stiff Elizabethan pile, With bleakness chattering in its panes, Where, rumbling down each chimney-file, The mad wind shakes his reins.

* * * * *

Lone in the northern angle, dim With immemorial dust, it lies; Where each gaunt casement's stony rim Stares eyelike at the skies. Drear in the old pile's oldest wing, Hung round with mouldering arras, where Tall, shadowy Tristrams fight and sing For shadowy Isolts fair.

Beside a crumbling cabinet A tarnished lute lies on the floor; A talon-footed chair is set, Grotesquely, near the door. A carven, testered bedstead stands With rusty silks draped all about; And, like a moon in murky lands, A mirror glimmers out.

Neglected, locked that chamber, where In dropping arras dimly clings The drowsy moth; and, frightened there, The lost wind sighs and sings Adown the roomy flue, and takes And swings the ghostly mirror till It seems some unseen hand that shakes Its frame then leaves it still.

A starving mouse forever gnaws Behind a panel; and the vines, That on the casement tap like claws, Lattice the floor with lines.-- I have been there when blades of light Stabbed each dull, stained, and dusty pane; Once I was there at dead of night-- I dream of it again....

She grew upon my vision as Heat grows that haunts the summer day; In taffetas, like glimmering glass, She stood there dim and gray. And will-o'-wisp-like jewels bound Faint points of light round neck and wrist; And round her slender waist was wound A zone of silver mist.

And icy as some winter land Her pale, still face; o'er which the night Hung of her raven hair; her hand Was beautiful and white. Before the mirror moaningly She wrung her hands and palely pressed Her brow.--And did I dream, or see, That blood was on her breast?

And then she vanished.--Like a breath, That o'er the limpid glass had passed, Her presence passed; and cold as death She left me and aghast. Yes, I've been there when spears of light Pierced thro' each stained and sunlit pane; Once I was there at dead of night-- I dream of it again.

THE MIRROR

An ancient mirror hangs Within an ancient Hall; In a lonely room where th' arrased gloom Scowls from the pictured wall.

A mystic mirror, framed In ebon, wildly carved, That seems to stare on the shadows there, Like something lean and starved.

A mirror, where one sees In the broad, good light of day, Like crimson torches, at the window arches, Red roses swing and sway.

And a part o' the garth is seen, With its quaint stone-dial plate, That, gray and old, green-stained with mold, Stands near the lioned gate.

These it reflects all day, And at night one star of blue, That the nightingale, where the rose is pale, Lifts its passionate love-song to.

The nightbird sings below; The stars hang bright above; And the roses soon in the sultry moon Shall palpitate with love.

The nightbird sobs below; The roses blow and bloom; Through mullioned panes the moonlight rains In the dim, unholy room.

Grim ancestors that stare,-- Stiff, starched and haughty,--down From the oaken wall of the noble hall, Put on a sterner frown.

The old, hoarse castle-clock Coughs midnight overhead-- And the rose is wan and the bird is gone When walk the shrouded dead.

Then from their frames, it seems, The portraits' shadows flit; By the mirror there they stand and stare And weep or sigh to it.

In rare rich ermine, earls And knights in gold and vair, With a rapiered throng of courtiers long Pass with a stately stare.

With jewels and perfumes, In powder, ruff, and lace, Tall ladies pass by the looking-glass Each sighing at her face.

What secret does it hide, This mirror, gaunt and tall, In this lonely room, where th' arrased gloom Scowls from the pictured wall?

THE HALL OF DARKNESS

Within her veins it beats And burns within her brain, As year by year more sad and sear Grow barren hill and plain.

Ah! over young is she Who bears within her breast More pain and woe than women know, And all of love's unrest.

Seven towers of shaggy rock Rise black to ragged skies, From out a fen where bones of men Stare with their empty eyes.

Eternal sunset pours, Around its warlock towers,-- From out its urn of beams that burn,-- Long fire-cloudy flowers.

On bat-like turrets high, And owlet battlements, Huge condors dream and vultures scream As at the battle's scents.

Within the banquet-hall, A bride, rich-robed and pale, She sits at board with men o' the sword Cased all in silver mail.

Their visors barred are drawn; Their hands are gauntletéd; And one, behold! in glittering gold Sits at the table's head.

Wild music echoes through The hollow-sounding air-- It seems, at least, a wedding feast With richness everywhere.

Wild music oozes from The ceiling, groined with white Pure pearl, and floors, like mythic shores, Of limpid chrysolite.

Silent they sit at feast, And she, whom he sits near,-- He in gold mail,--why is she pale, As one with grief and fear?

The heav'ns grow slaughter-red, Grow blood-red west and east; Seven casements high that frame the sky Flare on the blood-red feast.

Gaunt torches tall they seem, Red revel-torches seven;-- And then, behold! the hour is tolled; A great bell strikes eleven.

Silence.--The light, that makes Each plate a splash of fire,-- Gold-splintered,--dims; and softer swims The music of each lyre.

Grave Silence, like a king, At that strange feast has place; Grave Silence still as God's own will Within the deeps of space.

She leans to him in gold, And to him seems to say-- "The night grows late, my love! Why wait? Ah God! would it were day!

"Would it were day, ah God! How long is it till dawn?-- Why wear this mask?--Undo thy casque! The midnight hour comes on!"

Silent he sits, severe; Then one sonorous tower, Owl-swarmed, that looms in glaring glooms, Tolls slow the midnight hour.

Three strokes; the knights arise, The silence from them flung, Like waves that mock some hoarse sea-rock, Wild laughter moves each tongue.

Six strokes; and wailing out The music hoots away; The fiery glimmer of heaven grows dimmer, The red turns ghostly gray.

Nine strokes; and, dropping mold, The crumbling Hall is lead; The plate is rust; the feast is dust; The banqueters are dead.

Twelve strokes pound out and roll; The vast Hall heaves and waves With things that crawl from floor and wall-- Spawn of a thousand graves.

Then rattling in the night _His_ golden visor slips-- In rotting mail a death's-head pale Kisses her loathing lips.

Then over all a voice Crying above the strife-- "Death is the Groom: this Hall, the Tomb: The Bride, behold, is Life!"

WHAT DREAMS MAY COME

I have lain for an hour or twain Awake, and the tempest is beating On the roof and the sleet on the pane, And the winds are three enemies meeting; And I listen and hear it again, My name, in the silence, repeating.

Then dumbness of death; and, moon-gray, In the darkness a light like a bubble, From which, like a single white ray, Comes a woman in loveliness double; Her face is the breaking of day, Her eyes are the night and its trouble.

I move not; she lies with her lips At mine; and I feel she is drawing My life from my heart to their tips, My heart where the horror is gnawing; My life in a hundred slow sips, My soul with her gaze overawing.

She binds me with merciless eyes; She drinks of my blood; and I hear it Drain up with a shudder and rise To the lips, like a serpent's, that steer it; And she lies, and she laughs as she lies, Saying, "Lo! thy affinitized spirit."

I pray--and a gate, as of swords,-- 'Mid torments and tortures huge-grated, Clangs iron deep under; and words Are heard as of sins that awaited A fiend who lashed into their hordes, And a demon who lacerated.

I pray--and lie clammy and stark, As a something mounts higher and higher, Up, out of damnation and dark, With hobbling of hoofs that is dire; A devil, whose breath is a spark, Whose face is of filth and of fire.

"To thy body's corruption! thy grave! Thy hell! from which thou hast stolen!" He snarls; and the night, like a wave, Engulfs them with darkness wild swollen.-- Can it be that in sleep I'm a slave Of a thing neither flesh nor eidolon?

THAT HOUR

When she was dead, a voice--she knew not whose-- Said to her: "Soul that fell, To cheer thee there in Hell, Of all thy life's lost happiness now choose.

"Ask what thou wilt, thou, who hast walked 'mid flowers And songs the easy way Of pleasure day by day, Ask what thou wilt of all thy lived-out hours."

* * * * *

And then she thought: "Oh, shall it be when there, A blameless maiden, I, Dreaming, watched love draw nigh, And felt his kiss rose-sweet on mouth and hair?

"Or shall it be when, that white night, his fingers Smoothed from my brow the curls, And fell, like unstrung pearls, His words of passionate love whose memory lingers?

"Or shall it be when over earth and sea I heard the sweet unrest Within his ardent breast, His heart that beat alone for me, for me?

"Or shall it be when, in his belting arms, Soul gazed on kindred soul, And love had won the goal Of his desire, and his were all my charms?

"No! no! not these! that hour he left me lost! Stunned, fallen and despised Before the world he prized, When--God forgive me!--when I loved him most!"

EPILOGUE

Beyond the moon, within a land of mist, Lies the dim Garden of all Dead Desires, Walled round with morning's clouded amethyst, And haunted of the sunset's shadowy fires; There all lost things we loved hold ghostly tryst-- Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

Sad are the stars that day and night exist Above the Garden of all Dead Desires; And sad the roses that within it twist Deep bow'rs; and sad the wind that through it quires; But sadder far are they who there hold tryst-- Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

There, like a dove upon the twilight's wrist,-- Soft in the Garden of all Dead Desires,-- Sleep broods; and there, where never a serpent hissed, On the wan willows music hangs her lyres, Æolian dials by which phantoms tryst-- Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

There you shall hear low voices; kisses kissed, Faint in the Garden of all Dead Desires, By lips the anguish of vain song makes whist; And meet with shapes that art's despair attires; And gaze in eyes where all sweet sorrows tryst-- Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

Thither we go, dreamer and realist, Bound for the Garden of all Dead Desires, Where we shall find, perhaps, all Life hath missed, All Life hath longed for when the soul aspires; All Earth's elusive loveliness at tryst-- Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

POEMS OF MYTH AND ROMANCE

TO MY FRIEND WILLIAM WARWICK THUM

_PROEM_

_There is no rhyme that is half so sweet As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat; There is no metre that's half so fine As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine; And the loveliest lyric I ever heard Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird.-- If the wind and the brook and the bird would teach My heart their beautiful parts of speech, And the natural art that they say these with, My soul would sing of beauty and myth In a rhyme and a metre that none before Have sung in their love, or dreamed in their lore, And the world would be richer one poet the more._

MYTH AND ROMANCE

I

When I go forth to greet the glad-faced Spring, Just at the time of opening apple-buds, When brooks are laughing, winds are whispering, On babbling hillsides, or in warbling woods, There is an unseen presence that eludes:-- Perhaps a Dryad, in whose tresses cling The loamy odors of old solitudes, Who from her beechen doorway calls, and leads My soul to follow; now with dimpling words Of leaves; and now with syllables of birds; While here and there--is it her limbs that swing? Or restless sunlight on the moss and weeds?

II