Part 3

Dead is the day, and through the list’ning leaves The wind-dirge sighs. Sad at my dim-lit pane I darkling sit to hear the pattering rain And pebbly drip that plashes from the eaves. Far in the misty fields loll sodden sheaves, Whilst every wheel-mark in the rutty lane Leads down its trickling rivulet to drain Marsh-meadows where the knotted willow grieves.

Gray afternoon to dusk hath given place, And dusk to silent darkness falls again. Listless, to see the sad earth veil her face, I watch the miry fields, the swollen rills, And, farther, through my glimmering windowpane, The rain-swept valley and the fading hills...

Autumn

NOVEMBER IN CAMBRIDGE.

Even in her mourning is the College fair, With burial robes of scarlet leaves and gold That flicker down in misty morning cold Or fall reluctant through gray evening air. The Gothic elms rise desolately bare; A clinging flame the twisted ivy crawls Its blood-red course athwart the time-worn walls And spreads its crimson arras everywhere.

High noon brings some wan ghost of summer, still; Fresh stand the rose-trees yet, the lawns show green With leaves inlaid, and still the pigeons fly Round sun-warm gables where they court and preen; But evenfall comes shuddering down, a-chill, And bare black branches fret the leaden sky.

Winter.

HAMPTON HOLIDAYS.

Last comes December with his ruffian wind Whirled from the maelstrom of the polar sea To sweep our mighty hill in mockery Of such enshrouding snows as would be kind And wrap their frozen mother. Stiffly lined Through thin and crackling ice the leaves lie stark As hoar Caina’s ice-locked souls, and dark In the dark air the branches toss and grind.

Then dawns another day when winds are still; From our frost-flashing village on the hill We greet the laggard sun, and far below All down the valley see the silver spread, Save where the dim fir-forest’s pungent bed Lies thatched by tufted pine-plumes bright with snow.

MORS OMNIUM VICTOR

Gunga Din in Hell.

“An’ I’ll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!”

_Kipling._

Green crawling slime, that bubbles clotted blood; White wraiths of fetid steam that rise and curl, And blood-red mist, convolving in a swirl Of lurid heat, o’er that putrescent flood; And under all, a seething, rotting mud-- Torn souls that once were men--flayed, bleeding souls, Souls drenched with gore from gangrenous bullet-holes, Green, sightless eyes--and blood, and blood, and blood!

Lo! Gunga Din! He cometh smeared with gore That dribbles from cleft forehead to the skin Of putrid drink, one black foot on Hell’s shore, One in the slime. A flayed hand toward him grasps, And one blind, shattered head that bleeds for sin Bloats forth its purple tongue in strangling gasps.

Cui Bono?

Nay, vex me not with dead theologies, With creeds outworn and vain polemic strife; To solve the riddles of some future life Why chill my soul with stark philosophies? What then to me is Aristoteles, Plato, or he who had the shrewish wife (Small blame to her!), or Pyrrho’s doubtings, rife With contradiction’s maziest subtleties?

Only one thing is sure--they all are dead; Sere theologians, wranglers of the schools, Philosophers and creedsmen have surcease From war, their dust no better than the fools’ Wherewith ’tis mingled undistinguishèd.

So, vex me not, but go your ways in peace...

The Bride-Bed.

She died and by her bed I sat all night. I had no tears; it was o’er soon to weep In those first hours; my heart was cleft too deep For pain to harbor there. A waning light From the old moon englorified her bright And unadornèd hair, a heavy braid Across her breast. I watched her, unafraid To warm that leaden hand so waxen-white.

This was her Bride-bed--Death her lover was As she had promised I sometime should be. She lay entwinèd in his arms, and I Kept watch, and a great cold came over us...

At last the untroubled stars that gazed on me Waxed pale and faded in the morning sky.

Dead Loves.

Long summer nights with moon that yearneth down On endless passion, through uncounted years, On flames of love more hot than all those tears Of ardent pain it worketh aye can drown; Long summer nights in vast Assyria’s town, At white-walled Athens, in imperial Rome, Or midst dim Northern forests, by the foam Of seas unsailed ere Arthur won renown.

Moonlight and leafshade--nights full sweet and long: “O Love, my love, how white thy breast! Thy kiss Upon my mouth, how mad!”--“And thou, how strong Thine arms! I fear thy passion!”--“Tell me, must Not Time and Death bow down to love like this?...”

Now, even their graves are crumbled into dust.

Death, the Friend.

Full long these dreary weeks of dule I spend On this my narrow bed of bitter pain. Alike to me are sunshine, cloud or rain, The day’s beginning or its sombre end; Even sleep itself doth little comfort lend, For in vast dreams the torment comes again Vague and distorted by my feverish brain Until I wake and long for Death the Friend.

Death! I do fear that empty, breathless Night Thou bringest, not the sweat and agony, The struggling breath, the terror or the sight Of Earth and all my being leaving me; For couldst thou promise an awakening-- Then, Death, enfold me with thy shadowy wing!...

La Jeune Fille.

“Elle était bien belle, le matin, sans atours!”

How fair, at dawn, how simply did she go, Watching her new-born garden flowrets thrive, Spying her bees in their ambrosial hive, Ling’ring beside each hedge and hawthorn row!

How fair at eventide lead on the maze Of the mad dance, whilst in her massy hair Sapphires and roses woven crowned more fair That face illumined by the torches’ blaze!

How fair was she beneath her pure soft veil, Outfloating wide upon the listening night; Silent we stood and far, to watch that sight, Happy to glimpse her in the starlight pale.

How fair was she! Each day some sweetness gave, Some vague dear hope, pure thoughts and free from care. Love, love was all she lacked, to grow more fair. Peace!... Through the fields they bear her to the grave!...

Lucie.

Mes chers amis, quand je mourrai, Plantez un saule au cimetière. J’aime son feuillage éploré, La pâleur m’en est douce et chère, Et son ombre sera légère A la terre où je dormirai. _Alfred de Musset._

Dear friends belovèd, when I die, Plant near my grave a willow-tree. I love its pale, down-drooping leaves, Its grace is sweet and dear to me, And light its tender shade will be Upon the green earth where I lie...

One night we were alone and by her side I sat, she drooped her head and as a-dream Over the spinet let her fair hand glide. So soft the murmur was it scarce could seem More than a zephyr whispering in the reeds, Soft moving lest the birds, warm-nested there Should hear and wake. The soft, voluptuous air Of that sweet summer night breathed forth to us From flowery chalices beside the glimmering stream. Far in the silent grove the chestnut-trees And ancient oaks swayed their sad branches slow; We sat and, listening to the amorous breeze, Through the half-opened casement let the low Sweet breath of Spring float in. The winds were still, The plain deserted. All alone we were And very young... Lucie was blonde and pale And pensive. As I musing gazed on her No sweeter eyes than hers e’er pierced the deep Of purest heaven, or mirrored back its blue. I with her beauty drunken was; in all The world I loved but her, and yet so true So pure she was I loved her as one loves A sister, in all innocence. We two Sat silent and alone; my hand touched hers, I watched the dreams upon her face and knew In my own soul how strong to heal distress Are those twin signs of peace and happiness, Youth in the heart, youth mirrored on the brow. The moon, uprising in the cloudless skies, With silver fret-work flooded her, and now Her smile became an angel’s smile; she sang, Seeing her image shining in mine eyes.

* * * * *

Daughter of sorrow, Harmony! Harmony! Sweet speech for love by Nature set apart! To us thou camest from Italy--to her From Heaven. Sweet language of the heart, In thee alone that maiden, Thought, afraid And hurt by even a passing cloud, may speak, Yet keep her modest veil, and sheltered be. Who knows the mysteries that a child may hear And utter in thy sighs divine, like thee Born of the air he breathes, sweet as his voice, And sad as his sad heart? A glance, a tear Is seen, yet all the rest is mystery Unknown to the careless world, like that of waves, Of night, or of the unfathomed wilderness... We were alone and sad; I looked on her. The dying echo of her song seemed still To vibrate in our souls. All passionless Drooping upon my heart, she leaned her head. The cry of Desdemona didst thou hear In thee, dear girl? I know not--only this, That thou didst weep, and on thine all-adored Sweet mouth in sadness let me press mine own; Thy sorrow was it that received my kiss... So kissed I thee, all cold and colourless; So, two short months being sped, wert thou Laid in the grave; so didst thou fade in death Oh my chaste flower! And thy dying was A smile as sweet as thy fair life had been. God took thee pure as when He gave thee breath.

* * * * *

Sweet mystery of the home of innocence, Songs, dreams of love, laughter and childish words, And thou, all-conquering charm, unknown and mild,

Yet strong to make even Faustus pause before The sill of Marguerite at thy command, Where are you all? Peace to thy soul, oh child! Profoundest peace be to thy memories! Farewell! On summer nights thy fair white hand Will rest no more upon the ivory keys...

* * * * *

Dear friends belovèd, when I die, Plant near my grave a willow-tree. I love its pale, down-drooping leaves Its grace is sweet and dear to me, And light its tender shade will be. Upon the green earth where I lie....

Luctus in Morte Passeris.

“Lugete, O Veneres Cupidenesque, et quantum est hominum venustiorum.”

_C. Valerius Catullus._

I bid you all, ye Loves and Cupids, mourn, With what of pitying kindness men may know.

The sparrow of my little maid forlorn Ay, even my sweetheart’s sparrow, cherished so, (Loved like her very eyes, ah heavy woe!) Is dead. Full sweet was he, and knew her well As she her mother knew, nor long would stray From her fair breast, save here to hop, or there; His pretty pipings were for her alway. Yet now he wings the shadowy gloom of Hell, Whence none return to breathe Earth’s pleasant air.

But curses on thee, dark and evil shade So to engulf all things that lovely be! Thou’st robbed her sparrow from my little maid; (Alas the crime, the sparrow stark and dead!) And now with swollen eyes, because of thee She weeps, alack, nor will be comforted.

Death in December.

I.

With roses will I strew our bed Where all thine own thou madest me; With rose-wreaths I entwine thy head So dear, so dead.

This is Love’s inmost place, where we Learned and with madness learned again And knew Love’s passionate agony That wasteth me.

Now is thy room and mine Death’s room, And this our bed (O burning kiss!) Is made Death’s icy bed. The tomb Shrouds it in gloom.

* * * * *

II.

The snow beats up about the pane Where once we watched the August night, And wild mad winds drive on amain Across the plain.

* * * * *

III.

Alone!... Alone? Beneath my heart Fainting I feel our new life beat, Where our lives, joined, though dead thou art, Share each a part.

On thy clear temples, bleeding-red The rose-wreaths twine, the flowers die. With roses do I deck our bed Where thou liest dead.

The Royal Council.

(To the Peruvian Mummies in the Peabody Museum at Cambridge.)

Bowed be three time-gnawed heads in thoughts profound On crackling breast, on fleshless hands, on knees, Sunk in the depths of endless reveries Whilst foolish sun and fretful earth spin round. By night they counsel, argue, plan, expound And hold high court as once by tropic seas; By day they rightly take their royal ease As fitteth those whom Death no more can hound.

Sage King, and ye two Councillors of State, We look on you with ignorant, living eyes. Ye fear no death who be already dead-- Time pricks you not, nor haste. Ye sit and wait, Each thoughtful, passionless and very wise, With shrivelled bones and parchment-covered head...

Carmen Mortis.

This is the Song of Death, This is the burial-note After the end of breath Gasped by corrupted throat; After the passing-breath Heard from the grave remote; This is the Song of Death, This is the burial-note...

O, sweet it is to be long since dead And buried in earth so cold; To feel on the roof of thy narrow bed The weight of the sodden mould, To lie in the dark of an endless night And the lees of an oozing slime-- I know these joys, for I have been dead And buried, a long, long time...

My lips they are drawn in a ghastly smile But through them there goes no breath; And my eyes they are dead and sunk in my head, Yet forever they stare, in death, For I look at the rotting burial-boards Close sagging above my head; Yea, I have been buried a long, long time, For I have been long since dead... My corpse is a-cold, for the chilling mould Is about me on every side. I lie like a stone, with my Terror, alone, For here in the grave I died... Yea, I screamed full loud in my ghastly shroud When I woke in the noisome gloom, And the sweat of my agony froze like ice As I fought with my fearful doom...

But now--I am dead, though my lips still laugh In the motionless black of night, Though my bleared eyes stare in the grave, for they see

Not even the glow-worm’s light; Yet still I can see that to buried be Is a sweet and a happy thing, For I sing my Song in the House of Death, And this is the Song I sing:

Welcome - slimy - worm - with - sightless - head - Blindly - burrowing - in - the - fearful - night - Happy - shouldst - thou - be - for - lack - of - sight - Since - thou - canst - not - see - that - I - am - dead - When - thou - comest - from - thy - secret - place - Eating - through - the - earth - with - silent - care - Boldly - come - I - bid - and - boldly - dare - Down - to - drop - upon - my - leaden - face - Drag - thy - sluggish - slime - across - my - eyes - They - will - never - close - to - touch - of - thine - Coil - within - these - hideous - lips - of - mine - Where - a - Maid - breathed - long - ago - her - sighs -

Welcome - slimy - worm - with - creeping - head - Meet - it - is - that - thou - my - friend - shouldst - be - Happy - art - thou - since - thou - canst - not - see - I - am - buried - deep - and - I - am - dead

Then these be the words of the Song of Death That I sing in my prison-cell. It charms the worms with the hooded heads, And the worms I love full well. It charms the worms, though my singing is But a mouthing, mumbling groan, For I have no breath in this House of Death And I mutter with lips alone...

So, my tale it is told of the dread and cold In the depths of this livid gloom; And I motionless lie, as I strive to die, As I rot in my narrow room, For I am not dead whilst my fearful head The foul, fat worms forsake; But, when that is gone, then my dream it is done, And I sleep at last, never to wake...

* * * * *

This is the Song of Death, This is the burial-note After the end of breath Gasped by corrupted throat; After the passing breath Heard from the grave remote; This is the burial-note, This is the Song of Death...

FOOTNOTES:

[A] From Gaëtan de Méaulne’s “Course des Grands Masqués.” Here reprinted by courtesy of the New York “Herald.” To this translation was awarded the Herald’s First Prize of 500 francs.

[B] This North Country ballad probably dates from about 1525. It was found in a fragmentary condition in a copy of the 1684 edition of Abraham Cowley’s Poetical Works, and is here for the first time completed and made public.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

End of Project Gutenberg's Underneath the Bough, by George Allan England