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The Death-Wake - or Lunacy; a Necromaunt in Three Chimeras
by Thomas T Stoddart
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THE DEATH-WAKE OR LUNACY

A NECROMAUNT IN THREE CHIMERAS

BY THOMAS T. STODDART

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY ANDREW LANG



Is't like that lead contains her?... It were too gross To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave.

SHAKESPEARE



LONDON: JOHN LANE CHICAGO: WAY & WILLIAMS 1895



INTRODUCTION TO THE DEATH-WAKE



Piscatori Piscator



_An angler to an angler here, To one who longed not for the bays, I bring a little gift and dear, A line of love, a word of praise, A common memory of the ways, By Elibank and Yair that lead; Of all the burns, from all the braes, That yield their tribute to the Tweed.

His boyhood found the waters clean, His age deplored them, foul with dye; But purple hills, and copses green, And these old towers he wandered by, Still to the simple strains reply Of his pure unrepining reed, Who lies where he was fain to lie, Like Scott, within the sound of Tweed._

A.L.



INTRODUCTION

The extreme rarity of The Death-Wake is a reason for its republication, which may or may not be approved of by collectors. Of the original edition the Author says that more than seventy copies were sold in the first week of publication, but thereafter the publisher failed in business. Mr. Stoddart recovered the sheets of his poem, and his cook gradually, and perhaps not injudiciously, expended them for domestic purposes.

Apart from its rarity, The Death-Wake has an interest of its own for curious amateurs of poetry. The year of its composition (1830) was the great year of Romanticisme in France, the year of Hernani, and of Gautier's gilet rouge. In France it was a literary age given to mediaeval extravagance, to the dagger and the bowl, the cloak and sword, the mad monk and the were-wolf; the age of Petrus Borel and MacKeat, as well as of Dumas and Hugo. Now the official poetry of our country was untouched by and ignorant of the virtues and excesses of 1830. Wordsworth's bolt was practically shot; Sir Walter was ending his glorious career; Shelley and Byron and Keats were dead, and the annus mirabilis of Coleridge was long gone by. Three young poets of the English-speaking race were producing their volumes, destined at first to temporary neglect. The year 1830 was the year of Mr. Tennyson's Poems, chiefly Lyrical, his first book, not counting Poems by Two Brothers. It was also the year of Mr. Browning's Pauline (rarer even than The Death-Wake); and it was the year which followed the second, and perhaps the most characteristic, poetical venture of Edgar Allan Poe. In Mr. Tennyson's early lyrics, and in Mr. Poe's, any capable judge must have recognised new notes of romance. Their accents are fresh and strange, their imaginations dwell in untrodden regions. Untouched by the French romantic poets, they yet unconsciously reply to their notes, as if some influence in the mental air were at work on both sides of the Channel, on both sides of the Atlantic. Now, in my opinion, this indefinite influence was also making itself felt, faintly and dimly, in Scotland. The Death-Wake is the work of a lad who certainly had read Keats, Coleridge and Shelley, but who is no imitator of these great poets. He has, in a few passages, and at his best, an accent original, distinct, strangely musical, and really replete with promise. He has a fresh unborrowed melody and mastery of words, the first indispensable sign of a true poet. His rhymed heroic verse is no more the rhymed heroic verse of Endymion, than it is that of Mr. Pope, or of Mr. William Morris. He is a new master of the old instrument.

His mood is that of Scott when Scott was young, and was so anxious to possess a death's head and cross-bones. The malady is "most incident" to youth, but Mr. Stoddart wears his rue with a difference. The mad monkish lover of the dead nun Agathe has hit on precisely the sort of fantasy which was about to inspire Theophile Gautier's Comedie de la Mort, or the later author of Gaspard de la Nuit, or Edgar Poe. There is here no "criticism of life;" it is a criticism of strange death; and, so far, may recall Beddoes's Death's Jest-Book, unpublished, of course, in 1830. Naturally this kind of poetry is "useless," as Mr. Ruskin says about Coleridge, but, in its bizarre way, it may be beautiful.

The author, by a curious analogy with Theophile Gautier, was, in these days, a humourist as well as a poet. In the midst of his mad fancies and rare melodies he is laughing at himself, as Theophile mocked at Les Jeunes France. The psychological position is, therefore, one of the rarest. Mr. Stoddart was, first of all and before all, a hardy and enthusiastic angler. Between 1830 and 1840 he wrote a few beautiful angling songs, and then all the poetry of his character merged itself in an ardent love of Nature: of hill, loch and stream—above all, of Tweed, the fairest of waters, which he lived to see a sink of pollution. After 1831 we have no more romanticism from Mr. Stoddart. The wind, blowing where it listeth, struck on him as on an AEolian harp, and "an uncertain warbling made," in the true Romantic manner. He did write a piece with the alluring name of Ajalon of the Winds, but not one line of it survives. The rest is not silence, indeed, for, in addition to his lays of trout and salmon, of Tweed and Teviot, Mr. Stoddart wrote a good deal of prose, and a good deal of perfectly common and uninspired verse. The Muse, which was undeniably with him for an hour, abandoned him, or he deserted her, being content to whip the waters of Tweed, and Meggat, and Yarrow. Perhaps unfavourable and unappreciative criticism, acting on a healthy and contented nature, drove him back into the common paths of men. Whatever the cause, the Death-Wake alone (save for a few angling songs) remains to give assurance of a poet "who died young." It is needless to rewrite the biography, excellently done, in Angling Songs, by Miss Stoddart, the poet's daughter (Blackwoods, Edinburgh, 1889). Mr. Stoddart was born on St. Valentine's Day 1810, in Argyll Square, Edinburgh, nearly on the site of the Kirk of Field, where Darnley was murdered. He came of an old Border family. Miss Stoddart tells a painful tale of an aged Miss Helen who burned family papers because she thought she was bewitched by the seals and decorated initials. Similar follies are reported of a living old lady, on whose hearth, after a night of destruction, was once found the impression of a seal of Mary of Modena. I could give only too good a guess at the provenance of those papers, but nobody can interfere. Beyond 1500 the family memories rely on tradition. The ancestors owned lands in the Forest of Ettrick, and Williamhope, on the Tweed hard by Ashestiel. On the Glenkinnon burn, celebrated by Scott, they hid the prophets of the Covenant "by fifties in a cave." One Williamhope is said to have been out at Drumclog, or, perhaps, Bothwell Brig. This laird, of enormous strength, was called the Beetle of Yarrow, and was a friend of Murray of Philiphaugh. His son, in the Fifteen, was out on the Hanoverian side, which was not in favour with the author of The Death-Wake. He married a daughter of Veitch of The Glen, now the property of Sir Charles Tennant. In the next generation but one, the Stoddarts sold their lands and took to commerce, while the poet's father won great distinction in the Navy. The great-great-grandfather of the poet married a Miss Muir of Anniston, the family called cousins (on which side of the blanket I know not) with Robert II. of Scotland, and, by another line, were as near as in the sixth degree of James III.

As a schoolboy, Mr. Stoddart was always rhyming of goblin, ghost, fairy, and all Sir Walter's themes. At Edinburgh University he was a pupil of Christopher North (John Wilson), who pooh-poohed The Death-Wake in Blackwood. He also knew Aytoun, Professor Ferrier, De Quincey, Hartley Coleridge, and Hogg, and was one of the first guests of Tibbie Sheils, on the spit of land between St. Mary's and the Loch of the Lowes. In verses of this period (1827) Miss Stoddart detects traces of Keats and Byron, but the lines quoted are much better in technique than Byron usually wrote.

The summer of 1830 Mr. Stoddart passed in Hogg's company on Yarrow, and early in 1831 he published The Death-Wake. There is no trace of James Hogg in the poem, which, to my mind, is perfectly original. Wilson places it "between the weakest of Shelley and the strongest of Barry Cornwall." It is really nothing but a breath of the spirit of romance, touching an instrument not wholly out of tune, but never to be touched again.

It is unnecessary to follow Mr. Stoddart through a long and happy life of angling and of literary leisure. He only blossomed once. His poem was plagiarised and inserted in Graham's Magazine, by a person named Louis Fitzgerald Tasistro (vol. xx.). Mr. Ingram, the biographer of Edgar Poe, observes that Poe praised the piece while he was exposing Tasistro's "barefaced robbery."

The copy of The Death-Wake from which this edition is printed was once the property of Mr. Aytoun, author of Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers, and, I presume, of Ta Phairshon. Mr. Aytoun has written a prefatory sonnet which will be found in its proper place, a set of rhymes on the flyleaf at the end, and various cheerful but unfeeling notes. After some hesitation I do not print these frivolities.

The copy was most generously presented to me by Professor Knight of St. Andrews, and I have only seen one other example, which I in turn contributed to fill the vacant place in the shelves of Mr. Knight. His example, however, is far the more curious of the twain, by virtue of Aytoun's annotations.

I had been wanting to see The Death-Wake ever since, as a boy, I read the unkind review of it in an ancient volume of Blackwood's Magazine. In its "pure purple mantle" of glazed cloth, with paper label, it is an unaffectedly neat and well-printed little volume.

It would be unbecoming and impertinent to point out to any one who has an ear for verse, the charm of such lines as—

"A murmur far and far, of those that stirred Within the great encampment of the sea."

Or—

"A love-winged seraph glides in glory by, Striking the tent of its mortality."

(An idea anticipated by the as yet unknown Omar Khayyam).

Or—

"Dost thou, in thy vigil, hail Arcturus in his chariot pale, Leading him with a fiery flight Over the hollow hill of night?"

These are wonderful verses for a lad of twenty-one, living among anglers, undergraduates, and, if with some society of the lettered, apparently with none which could appreciate or applaud him.

For the matter of the poem, the wild voyage of the mad monkish lover with the dead Bride of Heaven, it strikes, of course, on the common reef of the Romantic—the ridiculous. But the recurring contrasts of a pure, clear peace in sea and sky, are of rare and atoning beauty. Such a passage is—

"And the great ocean, like a holy hall, Where slept a seraph host maritimal, Was gorgeous with wings of diamond."

Once more, when the mad monk tells the sea-waves

"That ye have power and passion, and a sound As of the flying of an angel round, The mighty world, that ye are one with Time,"

we recognise genuine imagination.

A sympathetic reader of The Death-Wake would perhaps have expected the leprosies and lunacies to drop off, and the genius, purged of its accidents, to move into a pure transparency. The abnormal, the monstrous, the boyish elements should have been burned away in the fire of the genius of poetry. But the Muses did not so will it, and the mystic wind of the spirit of song became of less moment to Mr. Stoddart than the breeze on the loch that stirs the trout to feed. Perhaps his life was none the less happy and fortunate. Of the many brilliant men whom he knew intimately—Wilson, Aytoun, Ferrier, Glassford Bell, and others—perhaps none, not even Hogg, recognised the grace of the Muse which (in my poor opinion) Mr. Stoddart possessed. His character was not in the least degree soured by neglect or fretted by banter. Not to over-estimate oneself is a virtue very rare among poets, and certainly does not lead to public triumphs. Modesty is apt to accompany the sense of humour which alleviates life, while it is an almost insuperable bar to success.

Mr. Stoddart died on November 22nd, 1880. His last walk was to Kelso Bridge "to look at the Tweed," which now murmurs by his grave the self-same song that it sings beside Sir Walter's tomb in Dryburgh Abbey. We leave his poem to the judgment of students of poetry, and to him we say his own farewell—

Sorrow, sorrow speed away To our angler's quiet mound, With the old pilgrim, twilight grey, Enter thou the holy ground.

There he sleeps, whose heart was twined With wild stream and wandering burn, Wooer of the western wind, Watcher of the April morn.

A.L.



THE DEATH-WAKE

OR LUNACY



Sonnet to the Author

O wormy Thomas Stoddart who inheritest Rich thoughts and loathsome, nauseous words, & rare! Tell me, my friend, why is it that thou ferretest And gropest in each death-corrupted lair? Seek'st thou for maggots, such as have affinity With those in thine own brain? or dost thou think That all is sweet which hath a horrid stink? Why dost thou make Hautgout thy sole divinity? Here is enough of genius to convert Vile dung to precious diamonds, and to spare, Then why transform the diamond into dirt, And change thy mind w^h. sh^d. be rich & fair Into a medley of creations foul, As if a Seraph would become a Goul?

W.E.A.

1834



CHIMERA I

An anthem of a sister choristry! And like a windward murmur of the sea, O'er silver shells, so solemnly it falls! A dying music shrouded in deep walls, That bury its wild breathings! And the moon, Of glow-worm hue, like virgin in sad swoon, Lies coldly on the bosom of a cloud, Until the elf-winds, that are wailing loud, Do minister unto her sickly trance, Fanning the life into her countenance; And there are pale stars sparkling, far and few In the deep chasms of everlasting blue, Unmarshall'd and ungather'd, one and one, Like outposts of the lunar garrison.

A train of holy fathers windeth by The arches of an aged sanctuary, With cowl, and scapular, and rosary On to the sainted oriel, where stood, By the rich altar, a fair sisterhood— A weeping group of virgins! one or two Bent forward to a bier, of solemn hue, Whereon a bright and stately coffin lay, With its black pall flung over:—Agathe Was on the lid—a name. And who?—No more! 'Twas only Agathe.

'Tis o'er, 'tis o'er,— Her burial! and, under the arcades, Torch after torch into the moonlight fades; And there is heard the music, a brief while, Over the roofings of the imaged aisle, From the deep organ panting out its last, Like the slow dying of an autumn blast.

A lonely monk is loitering within The dusky area, at the altar seen, Like a pale spirit kneeling in the light Of the cold moon, that looketh wan and white Through the deviced oriel; and he lays His hands upon his bosom, with a gaze To the chill earth. He had the youthful look Which heartfelt woe had wasted, and he shook At every gust of the unholy breeze, That enter'd through the time-worn crevices.

A score of summers only o'er his brow Had pass'd—and it was summer, even now, The one-and-twentieth—from a birth of tears, Over a waste of melancholy years! And that brow was as wan as if it were Of snowy marble, and the raven hair That would have cluster'd over, was all shorn, And his fine features stricken pale as morn.

He kiss'd a golden crucifix that hung Around his neck, and in a transport flung Himself upon the earth, and said, and said Wild, raving words, about the blessed dead: And then he rose, and in the moonshade stood, Gazing upon its light in solitude; And smote his brow, at some idea wild That came across: then, weeping like a child, He falter'd out the name of Agathe; And look'd unto the heaven inquiringly, And the pure stars.

"Oh shame! that ye are met, To mock me, like old memories, that yet Break in upon the golden dream I knew, While she—she lived: and I have said adieu To that fair one, and to her sister Peace, That lieth in her grave. When wilt thou cease To feed upon my quiet!—thou Despair! That art the mad usurper, and the heir, Of this heart's heritage! Go, go—return, And bring me back oblivion, and an urn! And ye, pale stars, may look, and only find, The wreck of a proud tree, that lets the wind Count o'er its blighted boughs; for such was he That loved, and loves, the silent Agathe!" And he hath left the sanctuary, like one That knew not his own purpose—The red sun Rose early over incense of bright mist, That girdled a pure sky of amethyst. And who was he? A monk. And those who knew Yclept him Julio; but they were few: And others named him as a nameless one,— A dark, sad-hearted being, who had none But bitter feelings, and a cast of sadness, That fed the wildest of all curses—madness!

But he was, what none knew, of lordly line, That fought in the far land of Palestine, Where, under banners of the cross, they fell, Smote by the armies of the infidel. And Julio was the last; alone, alone! A sad, unfriended orphan, that had gone Into the world, to murmur and to die, Like the cold breezes that are passing by!

And few they were that bade him to their board; His fortunes now were over, and the sword Of his proud ancestry dishonour'd—left To moulder in its sheath—a hated gift!

Ay! it was so; and Julio had fain Have been a warrior; but his very brain Grew fever'd at the sickly thought of death, And to be stricken with a want of breath!— To be the food of worms—inanimate, And cold as winter,—and as desolate! And then to waste away, and be no more Than the dark dust!—The thought was like a sore That gather'd in his heart; and he would say,— "A curse be on their laurels!" and decay Came over them; the deeds that they had done Had fallen with their fortunes; and anon Was Julio forgotten, and his line— No wonder for this frenzied tale of mine!

Oh! he was wearied of this passing scene! But loved not death: his purpose was between Life and the grave; and it would vibrate there, Like a wild bird that floated far and fair Betwixt the sun and sea!

He went, and came, And thought, and slept, and still awoke the same,— A strange, strange youth; and he would look all night Upon the moon and stars, and count the flight Of the sea waves, and let the evening wind Play with his raven tresses, or would bind Grottoes of birch, wherein to sit and sing: And peasant girls would find him sauntering, To gaze upon their features, as they met, In laughter, under some green arboret.

At last, he became monk, and, on his knees, Said holy prayers, and with wild penances Made sad atonement; and the solemn whim, That, like a shadow, loiter'd over him, Wore off, even like a shadow. He was cursed With none of the mad thoughts that were at first The poison of his quiet; but he grew To love the world and its wild laughter too, As he had known before; and wish'd again To join the very mirth he hated then!

He durst not break the vow—he durst not be The one he would—and his heart's harmony Became a tide of sorrow. Even so, He felt hope die,—in madness and in woe! But there came one—and a most lovely one As ever to the warm light of the sun Threw back her tresses,—a fair sister girl, With a brow changing between snow and pearl, And the blue eyes of sadness, fill'd with dew Of tears,—like Heaven's own melancholy blue,— So beautiful, so tender; and her form Was graceful as a rainbow in a storm, Scattering gladness on the face of sorrow— Oh! I had fancied of the hues that borrow Their brightness from the sun; but she was bright In her own self,—a mystery of light! With feelings tender as a star's own hue, Pure as the morning star! as true, as true; For it will glitter in each early sky, And her first love be love that lasteth aye!

And this was Agathe, young Agathe, A motherless, fair girl: and many a day She wept for her lost parent. It was sad To see her infant sorrow; how she bade The flow of her wild spirits fall away To grief, like bright clouds in a summer day Melting into a shower: and it was sad Almost to think she might again be glad, Her beauty was so chaste, amid the fall Of her bright tears. Yet, in her father's hall, She had lived almost sorrowless her days: But he felt no affection for the gaze Of his fair girl; and when she fondly smiled, He bade no father's welcome to the child, But even told his wish, and will'd it done, For her to be sad-hearted—and a nun!

And so it was. She took the dreary veil, A hopeless girl! and the bright flush grew pale Upon her cheek: she felt, as summer feels The winds of autumn and the winter chills, That darken his fair suns.—It was away, Feeding on dreams, the heart of Agathe!

The vesper prayers were said, and the last hymn Sung to the Holy Virgin. In the dim, Gray aisle was heard a solitary tread, As of one musing sadly on the dead— 'Twas Julio; it was his wont to be Often alone within the sanctuary; But now, not so—another: it was she! Kneeling in all her beauty, like a saint Before a crucifix; but sad and faint The tone of her devotion, as the trill Of a moss-burden'd, melancholy rill.

And Julio stood before her;—'twas as yet The hour of the pale twilight—and they met Each other's gaze, till either seem'd the hue Of deepest crimson; but the ladye threw Her veil above her features, and stole by Like a bright cloud, with sadness and a sigh!

Yet Julio still stood gazing and alone, A dreamer!—"Is the sister ladye gone?" He started at the silence of the air That slumber'd over him—she is not there.

And either slept not through the live-long night, Or slept in fitful trances, with a bright, Fair dream upon their eyelids: but they rose In sorrow from the pallet of repose; For the dark thought of their sad destiny Came o'er them, like a chasm of the deep sea, That was to rend their fortunes; and at eve They met again, but, silent, took their leave, As they did yesterday: another night, And neither spake awhile—A pure delight Had chasten'd love's first blushes: silently Gazed Julio on the gentle Agathe— At length, "Fair Nun!"—She started, and held fast Her bright hand on her lip—"the past, the past, And the pale future! There be some that lie Under those marble urns—I know not why, But I were better in that only calm, Than be as I have been, perhaps, and am. The past!—ay! it hath perish'd; never, never, Would I recall it to be blest for ever: The future it must come—I have a vow"— And his cold hand rose trembling to his brow. "True, true, I have a vow. Is not the moon Abroad, fair Nun?"—"Indeed! so very soon?" Said Agathe, and "I must then away."— "Stay, love! 'tis early yet; stay, angel, stay!" But she was gone:—yet they met many a time In the lone chapel, after vesper chime— They met in love and fear.

One weary day, And Julio saw not his loved Agathe; She was not in the choir of sisterhood That sang the evening anthem, and he stood Like one that listen'd breathlessly awhile; But stranger voices chanted through the aisle. She was not there; and, after all were gone, He linger'd: the stars came—he linger'd on, Like a dark fun'ral image on the tomb Of a lost hope. He felt a world of gloom Upon his heart—a solitude—a chill. The pale morn rose, and still, he linger'd still. And the next vesper toll'd; nor yet, nor yet— "Can Agathe be faithless, and forget?"

It was the third sad eve, he heard it said, "Poor Julio! thy Agathe is dead," And started. He had loiter'd in the train That bore her to the grave: he saw her lain In the cold earth, and heard a requiem Sung over her—To him it was a dream! A marble stone stood by the sepulchre; He look'd, and saw, and started—she was there! And Agathe had died; she that was bright— She that was in her beauty! a cold blight Fell over the young blossom of her brow. And the life-blood grew chill—She is not, now.

She died, like zephyr falling amid flowers! Like to a star within the twilight hours Of morning—and she was not! Some have thought The Lady Abbess gave her a mad draught, That stole into her heart, and sadly rent The fine chords of that holy instrument, Until its music falter'd fast away, And she—she died,—the lovely Agathe!

Again, and through the arras of the gloom Are the pale breezes moaning: by her tomb Bends Julio, like a phantom, and his eye Is fallen, as the moon-borne tides, that lie At ebb within the sea. Oh! he is wan, As winter skies are wan, like ages gone, And stars unseen for paleness; it is cast, As foliage in the raving of the blast, All his fair bloom of thoughts! Is the moon chill, That in the dark clouds she is mantled still? And over its proud arch hath Heaven flung A scarf of darkness? Agathe was young! And there should be the virgin silver there, The snow-white fringes delicately fair!

He wields a heavy mattock in his hands, And over him a lonely lanthorn stands On a near niche, shedding a sickly fall Of light upon a marble pedestal, Whereon is chisel'd rudely, the essay Of untaught tool, "Hic jacet Agathe!" And Julio hath bent him down in speed, Like one that doeth an unholy deed.

There is a flagstone lieth heavily Over the ladye's grave; I wist of three That bore it, of a blessed verity! But he hath lifted it in his pure madness, As it were lightsome as a summer gladness, And from the carved niche hath ta'en the lamp, And hung it by the marble flagstone damp.

And he is flinging the dark, chilly mould Over the gorgeous pavement: 'tis a cold, Sad grave, and there is many a relic there Of chalky bones, which, in the wasting air, Fell smouldering away; and he would dash His mattock through them, with a cursed clash, That made the lone aisle echo. But anon He fell upon a skull,—a haggard one, With its teeth set, and the great orbless eye Revolving darkness, like eternity— And in his hand he held it, till it grew To have the fleshy features and the hue Of life. He gazed, and gazed, and it became Like to his Agathe—all, all the same! He drew it nearer,—the cold, bony thing!— To kiss the worm-wet lips. "Ay! let me cling— Cling to thee now, for ever!" but a breath Of rank corruption from its jaws of death Went to his nostrils, and he madly laugh'd, And dash'd it over on the altar shaft, Which the new risen moon, in her gray light, Had fondly flooded, beautifully bright!

Again he went To his wild work, beside the monument. "Ha! leave, thou moon! where thy footfall hath been In sorrow amid heaven! there is sin Under thy shadow, lying like a dew; So come thou, from thy awful arch of blue, Where thou art even as a silver throne For some pale spectre-king; come thou alone, Or bring a solitary orphan star Under thy wings! afar, afar, afar, To gaze upon this girl of radiancy, In her deep slumbers—Wake thee, Agathe!"

And Julio hath stolen the dark chest Where the fair nun lay coffin'd, in the rest That wakes not up at morning: she is there, An image of cold calm! One tress of hair Lingereth lonely on her snowy brow; But the bright eyes are closed in darkness now; And their long lashes delicately rest On the pale cheek, like sun-rays in the west, That fall upon a colourless, sad cloud. Humility lies rudely on the proud, But she was never proud; and there she is, A yet unwither'd flower the autumn breeze Hath blown from its green stem! 'T is pale, 't is pale, But still unfaded, like the twilight veil That falleth after sunset; like a stream That bears the burden of a silver gleam Upon its waters; and is even so,— Chill, melancholy, lustreless, and low!

Beauty in death! a tenderness upon The rude and silent relics, where alone Sat the destroyer! Beauty on the dead! The look of being where the breath is fled! The unwarming sun still joyous in its light! A time—a time without a day or night! Death cradled upon Beauty, like a bee Upon a flower, that looketh lovingly!— Like a wild serpent, coiling in its madness, Under a wreath of blossom and of gladness!

And there she is; and Julio bends o'er The sleeping girl,—a willow on the shore Of a Dead Sea! that steepeth its far bough Into the bitter waters,—even now Taking a foretaste of the awful trance That was to pass on his own countenance!

Yes! yes! and he is holding his pale lips Over her brow; the shade of an eclipse Is passing to his heart, and to his eye, That is not tearful; but the light will die, Leaving it like a moon within a mist,— The vision of a spell-bound visionist!

He breathed a cold kiss on her ashy cheek, That left no trace—no flush—no crimson streak, But was as bloodless as a marble stone, Susceptible of silent waste alone. And on her brow a crucifix he laid— A jewel'd crucifix, the virgin maid Had given him before she died. The moon Shed light upon her visage—clouded soon, Then briefly breaking from its airy veil, Like warrior lifting up his aventayle.

But Julio gazed on, and never lifted Himself to see the broken clouds, that drifted One after one, like infant elves at play Amid the night-winds, in their lonely way— Some whistling and some moaning, some asleep, And dreaming dismal dreams, and sighing deep Over their couches of green moss and flowers, And solitary fern, and heather bowers.

The heavy bell toll'd two, and, as it toll'd, Julio started, and the fresh-turn'd mould He flung into the empty chasm with speed, And o'er it dropt the flagstone. One could read That Agathe lay there; but still the girl Lay by him, like a precious and pale pearl, That from the deep sea-waters had been rent— Like a star fallen from the firmament! He hides the grave-tools in an aged porch, To westward of the solitary church; And he hath clasp'd around the melting waist The beautiful, dead girl: his cheek is press'd To hers—Life warming the cold chill of Death! And over his pale palsy breathing breath His eye is sunk upon her—"Thou must leave The worm to waste for love of thee, and grieve Without thee, as I may not. Thou must go, My sweet betrothed, with me—but not below, Where there is darkness, dream, and solitude, But where is light, and life, and one to brood Above thee till thou wakest—Ha! I fear Thou wilt not wake for ever, sleeping here, Where there are none but winds to visit thee, And convent fathers, and a choristry Of sisters, saying, 'Hush!'—But I will sing Rare songs to thy pure spirit, wandering Down on the dews to hear me; I will tune The instrument of the ethereal moon, And all the choir of stars, to rise and fall In harmony and beauty musical."

He is away—and still the sickly lamp Is burning next the altar; there's a damp, Thin mould upon the pavement; and, at morn, The monks do cross them in their blessed scorn And mutter deep anathemas, because Of the unholy sacrilege, that was Within the sainted chapel,—for they guess'd, By many a vestige sad, how the dark rest Of Agathe was broken,—and anon They sought for Julio. The summer sun Arose and and set, with his imperial disc Toward the ocean-waters, heaving brisk Before the winds,—but Julio came never: He that was frantic as a foaming river— Mad as the fall of leaves upon the tide Of a great tempest, that have fought and died Along the forest ramparts, and doth still In its death-struggle desperately reel Round with the fallen foliage—he was gone, And none knew whither. Still were chanted on Sad masses, by pale sisters, many a day, And holy requiems sung for Agathe!



CHIMERA II

A curse! a curse! the beautiful pale wing Of a sea-bird was worn with wandering, And, on a sunny rock beside the shore, It stood, the golden waters gazing o'er; And they were heaving a brown amber flow Of weeds, that glitter'd gloriously below.

It was the sunset, and the gorgeous hall Of heaven rose up on pillars magical Of living silver, shafting the fair sky Between dark time and great eternity. They rose upon their pedestal of sun, A line of snowy columns! and anon Were lost in the rich tracery of cloud That hung along, magnificently proud, Predicting the pure star-light, that beyond The east was armouring in diamond About the camp of twilight, and was soon To marshal under the fair champion moon, That call'd her chariot of unearthly mist, Toward her citadel of amethyst.

A curse! a curse! a lonely man is there By the deep waters, with a burden fair Clasp'd in his wearied arms—'Tis he; 'tis he The brain-struck Julio, and Agathe! His cowl is back—flung back upon the breeze, His lofty brow is haggard with disease, As if a wild libation had been pour'd Of lightning on those temples, and they shower'd A dismal perspiration, like a rain, Shook by the thunder and the hurricane!

He dropt upon a rock, and by him placed, Over a bed of sea-pinks growing waste, The silent ladye, and he mutter'd wild, Strange words, about a mother, and no child. "And I shall wed thee, Agathe! although Ours be no God-blest bridal—even so!" And from the sand he took a silver shell, That had been wasted by the fall and swell Of many a moon-borne tide into a ring— A rude, rude ring; it was a snow-white thing, Where a lone hermit limpet slept and died, In ages far away. "Thou art a bride, Sweet Agathe! Wake up; we must not linger." He press'd the ring upon her chilly finger, And to the sea-bird, on its sunny stone, Shouted, "Pale priest! thou liest all alone Upon thy ocean altar, rise away To our glad bridal!" and its wings of gray All lazily it spread, and hover'd by With a wild shriek—a melancholy cry! Then swooping slowly o'er the heaving breast Of the blue ocean, vanish'd in the west.

And Julio is chanting to his bride, A merry song of his wild heart, that died On the soft breeze through pinks beside the sea, All rustling in their beauty gladsomely.

SONG

A rosary of stars, love! we'll count them as we go Upon the laughing waters, that are wandering below, And we'll o'er the pearly moon-beam, as it lieth in the sea, In beauty and in glory, like a shadowing of thee!

A rosary of stars, love! a prayer as we glide, And a whisper in the wind, and a murmur on the tide! And we'll say a fair adieu to the flowers that are seen, With shells of silver sown in radiancy between.

A rosary of stars, love! the purest they shall be, Like spirits of pale pearls, in the bosom of the sea; Now help thee, virgin mother! with a blessing as we go, Upon the laughing waters, that are wandering below!

He lifted the dead girl, and is away To where a light boat, in its moorings lay, Like a sea-cradle, rocking to the hush Of the nurse waters. With a frantic rush O'er the wild field of tangles he hath sped, And through the shoaling waves that fell and fled Upon the furrow'd beach.

The snowy sail Is hoisted to the gladly gushing gale, That bosom'd its fair canvass with a breast Of silver, looking lovely to the west; And at the helm there sits the wither'd one, Gazing and gazing on the sister nun, With her fair tresses floating on his knee— The beautiful, death-stricken Agathe!

Fast, fast, and far away, the bark hath stood Out toward the great heaving solitude, That gurgled in its deeps, as if the breath Went through its lungs, of agony and death!

The sun is lost within the labyrinth Of clouds of purple and pale hyacinth, That are the frontlet of the sister Sky Kissing her brother Ocean; and they lie Bathing in blushes, till the rival queen Night, with her starry tiar, floateth in— A dark and dazzling beauty! that doth draw Over the light of love a shade of awe Most strange, that parts our wonder not the less Between her mystery and loveliness!

And she is there, that is a pyramid Whereon the stars, the statues of the dead, Are imaged over the eternal hall, A group of radiances majestical! And Julio looks up, and there they be, And Agathe, and all the waste of Sea, That slept in wizard slumber, with a shroud Of night flung o'er his bosom, throbbing proud Amid its azure pulses; and again He dropt his blighted eye-orbs, with a strain Of mirth upon the ladye:—Agathe! Sweet bride! be thou a queen, and I will lay A crown of sea-weed on thy royal brow; And I will twine these tresses, that are now Floating beside me, to a diadem; And the sea foam will sprinkle gem on gem, And so will the soft dews. Be thou the queen Of the unpeopled waters, sadly seen By star-light, till the yet unrisen moon Issue, unveiled, from her anderoon, To bathe in the sea fountains: let me say, "Hail—hail to thee! thrice hail, my Agathe!"

The warrior world was lifting to the bent Of his eternal brow magnificent, The fiery moon, that in her blazonry Shone eastward, like a shield. The throbbing sea Felt fever on his azure arteries, That shadow'd them with crimson, while the breeze Fell faster on the solitary sail. But the red moon grew loftier and pale, And the great ocean, like the holy hall, Where slept a seraph host maritimal, Was gorgeous, with wings of diamond Fann'd over it, and millions beyond Of tiny waves were playing to and fro, All musical, with an incessant flow Of cadences, innumerably heard Between the shrill notes of a hermit bird, That held a solemn paean to the moon.

A few devotional fair clouds were soon Breathed o'er the living countenance of Heaven, And under the great galaxies were driven Of stars that group'd together, and they went Like voyagers along the firmament, And grew to silver in the blessed light Of the moon alchymist. It was not night, Not the dark deathly shadow, that falls o'er The eye-lid like a curse, but far before In splendour, struggling through a fall of gloom, In many a myriad gushes, that do come Direct from the eternal stars beyond, Like holy fountains pouring diamond!

A sail! awake thee, Julio! a sail! And be not bending to thy trances pale. But he is gazing on the moonlit brow Of his dead Agathe, and fondly now, The light is silvering her bloodless face And the cold grave-clothes. There is loveliness As in a marble image, very bright! But stricken with a phantasy of light That is not given to the mortal hue, To life and breathing beauty: and she too Is more of the expressless lineament, Than of the golden thoughts that came and went Over her features like a living tide No while before.

A sail is on the wide And moving waters, and it draweth nigh Like a sea-cloud. The elfin billows fly Before it, in their armories enthrall'd Of radiant and moon-breasted emerald; And many is the mariner that sees The lone boat in the melancholy breeze, Waving her snowy canvass, and anon Their stately vessel with a gallant run Crowds by in all her glory; but the cheer Of men is pass'd into a sudden fear, And whisperings, and shakings of the head— The moon was streaming on a virgin dead, And Julio sat over her insane, Like a sea demon! O'er and o'er again, Each cross'd him, as the stately vessel stood Far out into the murmuring solitude!

But Julio saw not; he only heard A rushing, like the passing of a bird, And felt him heaving on the foam, that flew Along the startled billows; and he knew Of a strange sail, by broken oaths that fell Beside him, on the coming of the swell.

They knew thou wert a queen, my royal bride! And made obeisance at thy holy side. They saw thee, Agathe! and go to bring Fair worshippers, and many a poet-king, To utter music at thy pearly feet.— Now, wake thee! for the moonlight cometh sweet, To visit in thy temple of the sea; Thy sister moon is watching over thee! And she is spreading a fair mantle of Pure silver, in thy lonely palace, love!— Now, wake thee! for the sea-bird is aloof, In solitude, below the starry roof; And on its dewy plume there is a light Of palest splendour, o'er the blessed night. Thy spirit, Agathe!—and yet, thou art Beside me, and my solitary heart Is throbbing near to thee: I must not feel The sweet notes of thy holy music steal Into my feverous and burning brain,— So wake not! and I'll hush thee with a strain Of my wild fancy, till thou dream of me, And I be loved as I have loved thee:—

SONG

'Tis light to love thee living, girl, when hope is full and fair, In the springtide of thy beauty, when there is no sorrow there— No sorrow on thy brow, and no shadow on thy heart! When, like a floating sea-bird, bright and beautiful thou art!

'Tis light to love thee living, girl—to see thee ever so, With health, that, like a crimson flower, lies blushing in the snow; And thy tresses falling over, like the amber on the pearl— Oh! true it is a lightsome thing, to love thee living, girl!

But when the brow is blighted, like a star of morning tide, And faded is the crimson blush upon the cheek beside; It is to love, as seldom love, the brightest and the best, When our love lies like a dew upon the one that is at rest.

Because of hopes, that, fallen, are changing to despair, And the heart is always dreaming on the ruin that is there, Oh, true! 'tis weary, weary, to be gazing over thee, And the light of thy pure vision breaketh never upon me!

He lifts her in his arms, and o'er and o'er, Upon the brow of chilliness and hoar, Repeats a silent kiss;—along the side Of the lone bark, he leans that pallid bride, Until the waves do image her within Their bosom, like a spectre—'Tis a sin Too deadly to be shadow'd or forgiven, To do such mockery in the sight of Heaven! And bid her gaze into the startled sea, And say, "Thy image, from eternity, Hath come to meet thee, ladye!" and anon, He bade the cold corse kiss the shadowy one, That shook amid the waters, like the light Of borealis in a winter night!

And after, he did strain her sea-wet hair Between his chilly fingers, with a stare Of mystery, that marvell'd how that she Had drench'd it so amid the moonlit sea. The morning rose, with breast of living gold, Like eastern phoenix, and his plumage roll'd In clouds of molted brilliance, very bright! And on the waste of waters floated light.—

In truth, 'twas strange to see that merry bark Skimming the silver ocean, like a shark At play amid the beautiful sea-green, And all so sadly desolate within.

And hours flew after hours, a weary length, Until the sunlight, in meridian strength, Threw burning floods upon the wasted brow Of that sea-hermit mariner; and now He felt the fire-light feed upon his brain, And started with intensity of pain, And wash'd him in the sea; it only brought Wild reason, like a demon, and he thought Strange thoughts, like dreaming men—he thought how those Were round him he had seen, and many rose His heart had hated; every billow threw Features before him, and pale faces grew Out of the sea by myriads:—the self-same Was moulded from its image, and they came In groups together, and all said, like one, "Be cursed!" and vanish'd in the deep anon. Then thirst, intolerable as the breath Of Upas, fanning the wild wings of death, Crept up his very gorge,—like to a snake, That stifled him, and bade the pulses ache Through all the boiling current of his blood. It was a thirst, that let the fever flood Fall over him, and gave a ghastly hue To his cramp'd lips, until their breathing grew White as a mist, and short, and like a sigh, Heaved with a struggle, till it falter'd by.

And ever he did look upon the corse With idiot visage, like the hag Remorse That gloateth over on a nameless deed Of darkness and of dole unhistoried. And were there that might hear him, they would hear The murmur of a prayer in deep fear, Through unbarr'd lips, escaping by the half, And all but smother'd by a maniac laugh, That follow'd it, so sudden and so shrill, That swarms of sea-birds, wandering at will Upon the wave, rose startled, and away Went flocking, like a silver shower of spray! And aye he called for water, and the sea Mock'd him with his brine surges tauntingly, And lash'd them over on his fev'rous brow, Volleying roars of curses:—"Stay thee, now, Avenger! lest I die; for I am worn Fainter than star-light at the birth of morn; Stay thee, great angel! for I am not shriven, But frantic as thyself: Oh Heaven! Heaven! But thou hast made me brother of the sea, That I may tremble at his tyranny; Or am I slave? a very, very jest To the sarcastic waters? let me breast The base insulters, and defy them so, In this lone little skiff—I am your foe! Ye raving, lion-like, and ramping seas, That open up your nostrils to the breeze, And fain would swallow me! Do ye not fly, Pale, sick, and gurgling, as I pass you by?"

"Lift up! and let me see, that I may tell Ye can be mad, and strange, and terrible; That ye have power, and passion, and a sound As of the flying of an angel round The mighty world; that ye are one with time, And in the great primordium sublime Were nursed together, as an infant-twain,— A glory and a wonder! I would fain Hold truce, thou elder brother! for we are, In feature, as the sun is to a star, So are we like, and we are touch'd in tune With lunacy as music; and the moon, That setteth the tides sentinel before Thy camp of waters, on the pebbled shore, And measures their great footsteps to and fro, Hath lifted up into my brain the flow Of this mad tide of blood.—Ay! we are like In foam and frenzy; the same winds do strike, The same fierce sun-rays, from their battlement Of fire! so, when I perish impotent Before the night of death, they'll say of me, He died as mad and frantic, as the sea!"

A cloud stood for the east, a cloud like night, Like a huge vulture, and the blessed light Of the great sun grew shadow'd awfully: It seem'd to mount up from the mighty sea, Shaking the showers from its solemn wings, And grew, and grew, and many a myriad springs, Were on its bosom, teeming full of rain. There fell a terrible and wizard chain Of lightning, from its black and heated forge, And the dark waters took it to their gorge, And lifted up their shaggy flanks in wonder With rival chorus to the peal of thunder, That wheel'd in many a squadron terrible The stern black clouds, and as they rose and fell They oozed great showers; and Julio held up His wasted hands, in likeness of a cup, And drank the blessed waters, and they roll'd Upon his cheeks like tears, but sadly cold!— 'Twas very strange to look on Agathe! How the quick lightnings, in their elfin play, Stream'd pale upon her features, and they were Sickly, like tapers in a sepulchre!

The ship! that self same ship, that Julio knew Had pass'd him, with her panic-stricken crew, She gleams amid the storm, a shatter'd thing Of pride and lordly beauty: her fair wing Of sail is wounded—the proud pennon gone: Dark, dark she sweepeth like an eagle, on Through waters that are battling to and fro, And tossing their great giant shrouds of snow Over her deck. Ahead, and there is seen A black, strange line of breakers, down between The awful surges, lifting up their manes, Like great sea lions. Quick and high she strains Her foaming keel—that solitary ship! As if, in all her frenzy, she would leap The cursed barrier; forward, fast and fast— Back, back she reels; her timbers and her mast Split in a thousand shivers! A white spring Of the exulted sea rose bantering Over her ruin; and the mighty crew, That mann'd her decks, were seen, a straggling few, Far scatter'd on the surges. Julio felt The impulse of that hour, and low he knelt, Within his own light bark—a prayful man! And clasp'd his lifeless bride; and to her wan, Cold cheek did lay his melancholy brow.— "Save thou a mariner!" He starteth now To hear that dying cry; and there is one, All worn and wave-wet, by his bark anon, Clinging, in terror of the ireful sea, A fair hair'd mariner! But suddenly He saw the pale dead ladye, by a flame Of blue and livid lightning, and there came Over his features blindness, and the power Of his strong hands grew weak,—a giant shower Of foam rose up, and swept him far along; And Julio saw him buffeting the throng Of the great eddying waters, till they went Over him—a wind-shaken cerement!

Then terribly he laugh'd, and rose above His soul-less bride—the ladye of his love Lifting him up, in all his wizard glee; And he did wave, before the frantic sea, His wasted arm. "Adieu! adieu! adieu! Thou sawest how we were; thou sawest, too, Thou wert not so; for in the inmost shrine Of my deep heart are thoughts that are not thine. And thou art gone, fair mariner! in foam And music-murmurs, to thy blessed home— Adieu! adieu! Thou sawest how that she Sleeps in her holy beauty, tranquilly; And when the fair and floating vision breaks From her pure brow, and Agathe awakes— Till then, we meet not; so adieu, adieu!" Still on before the sullen tempest flew, Fast as a meteor star, the lonely bark: And Julio bent over to the dark, The solitary sea, for close beside Floated the stringed harp of one that died In that wild shipwreck, and he drew it home, With madness, to his bosom: the white foam Was o'er its strings; and on the streaming sail He wiped them, running, with his fingers pale, Along the tuneless notes, that only gave Seldom responses to his wandering stave!



TO THE HARP

I

Jewel! that lay before the heart Of some romantic boy, And startled music in her home, Of mystery and joy!

II

The image of his love was there; And, with her golden wings, She swept her tone of sorrow from Thy melancholy strings!

III

We drew thee, as an orphan one, From waters that had cast No music round thee, as they went In their pale beauty past.

IV

No music but the changeless sigh— That murmur of their own, That loves not blending in the thrill Of thine aerial tone.

V

The girl that slumbers at our side Will dream how they are bent, That love her even as they love Thy blessed instrument.

VI

And music, like a flood, will break Upon the fairy throne Of her pure heart, all glowing, like A morning star, alone!

VII

Alone, but for the song of him That waketh by her side, And strikes thy chords of silver to His fair and sea-borne bride.

VIII

Jewel! that hung before the heart Of some romantic boy; Like him, I sweep thee with a storm Of music and of joy!

And Julio placed the trembling harp before The ladye, till the minstrel winds came o'er Its moisten'd strings, and tuned them with a sigh. "I hear thee, how thy spirit goeth by, In music and in love. Oh Agathe! Thou sleepest long, long, long; and they will say That seek thee,—'She is dead—she is no more!' But thou art cold, and I will throw before Thy chilly brow the pale and snowy sheet." And he did lift it from her marble feet, The sea-wet shroud! and flung it silently Over her brow—the brow of Agathe!

But, as a passion from the mooded mind, The storm had died, and wearily the wind Fell fast asleep at evening, like one That hath been toiling in the fiery sun. And the white sail dropt downward, as the wing Of wounded sea-bird, feebly murmuring Unto the mast. It was a deathly calm, And holy stillness, like a shadow, swam All over the wide sea, and the boat stood. Like her of Sodom, in the solitude, A snowy pillar, looking on the waste. And there was nothing but the azure breast Of ocean and the sky—the sea and sky, And the lone bark; no clouds were floating by Where the sun set, but his great seraph light, Went down alone, in majesty and might; And the stars came again, a silver troop, Until, in shame, the coward shadows droop Before the radiance of these holy gems, That bear the images of diadems!

And Julio fancied of a form that rose Before him from the desolate repose Of the deep waters—a huge ghastly form, As of one lightning-stricken in a storm; And leprosy cadaverous was hung Before his brow, and awful terror flung Around him like a pall—a solemn shroud!— A drapery of darkness and of cloud! And agony was writhing on his lip, Heart-rooted, awful agony and deep, Of fevers, and of plagues, and burning blain, And ague, and the palsy of the brain— A wierd and yellow spectre! And his eyes Were orbless and unpupil'd, as the skies Without the sun, or moon, or any star: And he was like the wreck of what men are,— A wasted skeleton, that held the crest Of Time, and bore his motto on his breast!

There came a group before of maladies, And griefs, and Famine empty as a breeze,— A double monster, with a gloating leer Fix'd on his other half. They drew them near, One after one, led onward by Despair, That like the last of winter glimmer'd there,— A dismal prologue to his brother Death, Which was behind, and, with the horrid breath Of his wide baneful nostrils, plied them on. And often as they saw the skeleton Grisly beside them, the wild phantasies Grew mad and howl'd; the fever of disease Became wild frenzy—very terrible! And, for a hell of agony—a hell Of rage, was there, that fed on misty things, On dreams, ideas, and imaginings.

And some were raving on philosophy, And some on love, and some on jealousy, And some upon the moon; and these were they That were the wildest; and anon alway Julio knew them by a something dim About their wasted features like to him!

But Death was by, like shell of pyramid Among old obelisks, and his eyeless head Shook o'er the wiery ribs, where darkness lay The image of a heart—He is away! And Julio is watching, like Remorse, Over the pale and solitary corse!

Shower soft light, ye stars, that shake the dew From your eternal blossoms! and thou, too, Moon! minded of thy power, tide-bearing queen! That hast a slave and votary within The great rock-fetter'd deeps, and hearest cry To thee the hungry surges, rushing by Like a vast herd of wolves,—fall full and fair On Julio as he sleepeth, even there, Amid the suppliant bosom of the sea!— Sleep! dost thou come, and on thy blessed knee With hush and whisper lull the troubled brain Of this death-lover?—Still the eyes do strain Their orbs on Agathe—those raven eyes! All earnest on the ladye as she lies In her white shroud. They see not, though they are As if they saw; no splendour like a star Is under their dark lashes: they are full Of dream and slumber—melancholy, dull!

* * * * *

A wide, wide sea! and on its rear and van Amid the stars, the silent meteors ran All that still night, and Julio with a cry Woke up, and saw them flashing fiercely by.

* * * * *

Full three times three, its awful veil of night Hath Heaven hung before the blessed light; And a fair breeze falls o'er the sleeping sea, Where Julio is watching Agathe! By sun and darkness hath he bent him over— A mad, moon-stricken, melancholy lover!

And hardly hath he tasted, night or day, Of drink or food, because of Agathe! He sitteth in a dull and dreary mood, Like statue in a ruin'd solitude, Bearing the brent of sunlight and of shade Over the marble of some colonnade.

The ladye, she hath lost the pearly hue Upon her gorgeous brow, where tresses grew Luxuriantly as thoughts of tenderness, That once were floating in the pure recess Of her bright soul. These are not as they were, But are as weeds above a sepulchre, Wild waving in the breeze: her eyes are now Sunk deeply under the discolour'd brow, That is of sickly yellow, and pale blue, Unnaturally blending. The same hue Is on her cheek: it is the early breath Of cold Corruption, the ban dog of Death, Falling upon her features.—Let it be, And gaze awhile on Julio, as he Is gazing on the corse of Agathe!

In truth, he seemeth like no living one, But is the image of a skeleton: A fearful portrait from the artist tool Of Madness—terrible and wonderful!

There was no passion there—no feeling traced Under those eyelids, where had run to waste, All that was wild, or beautiful, or bright; A very cloud was cast upon their light, That gave to them the heavy hue of lead; And they were lorn, and lustreless, and dead! He sate like vulture from the mountains gray, Unsated, that had flown full many a day O'er distant land and sea, and was in pride Alighted by the lonely ladye's side.

He sate like winter o'er the wasted year— Like melancholy winter, drawing near To its own death.—"Oh me! the worm, at last, Will gorge upon me, and the autumn blast Howl by!—Where?—where?—there is no worm to creep Amid the waters of the lonely deep; But I will take me Agathe upon This sorrowful, sore bosom, and anon, Down, down, through azure silence, we shall go, Unepitaph'd, to cities far below; Where the sea triton, with his winding shell, Shall sound our blessed welcome. We shall dwell With many a mariner in his pearly home, In bowers of amber weed and silver foam, Amid the crimson corals; we shall be Together, Agathe! fair Agathe!— But thou art sickly, ladye—thou art sad; And I am weary, ladye—I am mad! They bring no food to feed us, and I feel A frost upon my vitals, very chill, Like winter breaking on the golden year Of life. This bark shall be our floating bier, And the dark waves our mourners; and the white, Pure swarm of sunny sea birds, basking bright On some far isle, shall sorrowfully pour Their wail of melancholy o'er and o'er, At evening, on the waters of the sea,— While, with its solemn burden, silently, Floats forward our lone bark.—Oh, Agathe! Methinks that I shall meet thee far away, Within the awful centre of the earth, Where, earliest, we had our holy birth— In some huge cavern, arching wide below, Upon whose airy pivot, years ago, The world went round: 'tis infinitely deep, But never dismal; for above it sleep, And under it, blue waters, hung aloof, And held below,—an amethystine roof, A sapphire pavement; and the golden sun, Afar, looks through alternately, like one That watches round some treasure: often, too, Through many a mile of ocean, sparkling through, Are seen the stars and moon, all gloriously, Bathing their angel brilliance in the sea!"

"And there are shafted pillars, that beyond, Are ranged before a rock of diamond, Awfully heaving its eternal heights, From base of silver strewn with chrysolites; And over it are chasms of glory seen, With crimson rubies clustering between, On sward of emerald, with leaves of pearl, And topazes hung brilliantly on beryl. So Agathe!—but thou art sickly sad, And tellest me, poor Julio is mad— Ay, mad!—was he not madder when he sware A vow to Heaven? was there no madness there, That he should do—for why?—a holy string Of penances? No penances will bring The stricken conscience to the blessed light Of peace,—Oh! I am lost, and there is night, Despair and darkness, darkness and despair, And want, that hunts me to the lion-lair Of wild perdition: and I hear them all— All cursing me! The very sun-rays fall In curses, and the shadow of the moon, And the pale star light, and the winds that tune Their voices to the music of the sea,— And thou,—yes, thou! my gentle Agathe!— All curse me!—Oh! that I were never, never!— Or but a breathless fancy, that was ever Adrift upon the wilderness of Time, That knew no impulse, but was left sublime To play at its own will!—that I were hush'd At night by silver cataracts, that gush'd Through flowers of fairy hue, and then to die Away, with all before me passing by, Like a fair vision I had lived to see, And died to see no more!—It cannot be! By this right hand! I feel it is not so, And by the beating of a heart below, That strangely feareth for eternity!"

He said, and gazing on the lonely sea, Far off he saw, like an ascending cloud, To westward, a bright island, lifted proud Amid the struggling waters, and the light Of the great sun was on its clifted height, Scattering golden shadow, like a mirror; But the gigantic billows sprung in terror Upon its rock-built and eternal shore, With silver foams that fell in fury o'er A thousand sunny breakers. Far above, There stood a wild and solitary grove Of aged pines, all leafless but their brows, Where a green group of tempest-stricken boughs Was waving now and then, and to and fro, And the pale moss was clustering below.

Then Julio saw, and bent his head away To the cold wasted corse of Agathe, And sigh'd; but ever he would turn again A gaze to that green island on the main.

The bark is drifting through the surf, beside Its rocks of gray upon the coming tide; And lightly is it stranded on the shore Of pure and silver shells, that lie before, Glittering in the glory of the sun; And Julio hath landed him, like one That aileth of some wild and weary pest; And Agathe is folded on his breast,— A faded flower! with all the vernal dews From its bright blossom shaken, and the hues Become as colourless as twilight air— I marvel much, that she was ever fair!



CHIMERA III

Another moon! and over the blue night She bendeth, like a holy spirit bright, Through stars that veil them in their wings of gold; As on she floateth with her image cold Enamell'd on the deep. A sail of cloud Is to her left, majestically proud! Trailing its silver drapery away In thin and fairy webs, that are at play Like stormless waves upon a summer sea Dragging their length of waters lazily.

Ay! to the rocks! and thou wilt see, I wist, A lonely one, that bendeth in the mist Of moonlight, with a wild and raven pall Flung round him. Is he mortal man at all? For, by the meagre fire-light that is under Those eyelids, and the vizor shade of wonder Falling upon his features, I would guess, Of one that wanders out of blessedness! Julio! raise thee!—By the holy mass! I wot not of the fearless one would pass Thy wizard shadow. Where the raven hair Was shorn before, in many a matted layer It lieth now; and on a rock beside The sea, like merman at the ebb of tide, Feasting his wondrous vision on Decay, So art thou gazing over Agathe!

Ah me! but this is never the fair girl, With brow of light, as lovely as a pearl, That was as beautiful as is the form Of sea-bird at the breaking of a storm. The eye is open, with convulsive strain— A most unfleshly orb! the stars that wane Have nothing of its hue; for it is cast With sickly blood, and terribly aghast! And sunken in its socket, like the light Of a red taper in the lonely night! And there is not a braid of her bright hair But lieth floating in the moonlight air, Like the long moss, beside a silver spring, In elfin tresses, sadly murmuring. The worm hath 'gan to crawl upon her brow— The living worm! and with a ripple now, Like that upon the sea, are heard below, The slimy swarms all ravening as they go, Amid the stagnate vitals, with a rush; And one might hear them echoing the hush Of Julio, as he watches by the side Of the dead ladye, his betrothed bride!

And, ever and anon, a yellow group Was creeping on her bosom, like a troop Of stars, far up amid the galaxy, Pale, pale, as snowy showers; and two or three Were mocking the cold finger, round and round, With likeness of a ring; and, as they wound About its bony girth, they had the hue Of pearly jewels glistering in dew. That deathly stare! it is an awful thing To gaze upon; and sickly thoughts will spring Before it to the heart: it telleth how There must be waste where there is beauty now. The chalk! the chalk! where was the virgin snow Of that once heaving bosom!—even so,— The cold pale dewy chalk, with yellow shade Amid the leprous hues; and o'er it played The straggling moonlight, and the merry breeze, Like two fair elves, that, by the murmuring seas, Woo'd smilingly together; but there fell No life-gleam on the brow, all terrible Becoming, through its beauty, like a cloud That waneth paler even than a shroud, All gorgeous and all glorious before; For waste, like to the wanton night, was o'er Her virgin features, stealing them away— Ah me! ah me! and this is Agathe?

"Enough! enough! Oh God! but I have pray'd To thee, in early daylight and in shade, And the mad curse is on me still—and still! I cannot alter the Eternal will— But—but—I hate thee, Agathe! I hate What lunacy hath bade me consecrate: I am not mad!—not now!—I do not feel That slumberous and blessed opiate steal Up to my brain—Oh! that it only would, To people this eternal solitude With fancies, and fair dreams, and summer mirth, Which is not now—And yet, my mother earth, I would not love to lie above thee so, As Agathe lies there—oh! no! no! no! To have these clay-worms feast upon my heart! And all the light of being, to depart Into a dismal shadow! I could die As the red lightnings, quenching amid sky Their wild and wizard breath; I could away, Like a blue billow, bursting into spray; But, never—never have corruption here, To feed her worms, and let the sunlight jeer Above me so.—'Tis thou!—I owe thee, Moon, To-night's fair worship; so be lifting soon Thy veil of clouds, that I may kneel, as one That seeketh for thy virgin benison!"

He gathers the cold limpets, as they creep On the grey rocks beside the lonely deep; And with a flint breaks through into the shell, And feeds him—by the mass! he feasteth well. And he hath lifted water in a clam, And tasted sweetly, from a stream that swam Down to the sea; and now is turn'd away, Again, again, to gaze on Agathe!

There is a cave upon that isle—a cave Where dwelt a hermit man; the winter wave Roll'd to its entrance, casting a bright mound Of snowy shells and fairy pebbles round; And over were the solemn ridges strewn Of a dark rock, that, like the wizard throne Of some sea-monarch, stood, and from it hung Wild thorn and bramble, in confusion flung Amid the startling crevices—like sky, Through gloom of clouds, that sweep in thunder by. A cataract fell over, in a streak Of silver, playing many a wanton freak; Midway, and musical, with elfin glee It bounded in its beauty to the sea, Like dazzling angel vanishing away. In sooth, 'twas pleasant in the moonlight gray To see that fairy fountain leaping so, Like one that knew not wickedness nor woe!

The hermit had his cross and rosary; I ween like other hermits, so was he; A holy man, and frugal, and at night He prayed, or slept, or, sometimes, by the light Of the fair moon, went wandering beside The lonely sea, to hear the silver tide Rolling in gleesome music to the shore: The more he heard, he loved to hear the more. And there he is, his hoary beard adrift To the night winds, that sportingly do lift Its snow-white tresses; and he leaneth on A rugged staff, all weakly and alone, A childless, friendless man!

He is beside The ghastly Julio, and his ghastlier bride. 'Twas wondrous strange to gaze upon the two! And the old hermit felt a throbbing through His pulses:—"Holy virgin! save me, save!" He deem'd of spectre from the midnight wave, And cross'd him thrice, and pray'd, and pray'd again:— "Hence! hence!" and Julio started, as the strain Of exorcisms fell faintly on his ear:— "I knew thee, father, that thou beest here, To gaze upon this girl, as I have been. By yonder moon! it was a frantic sin To worship so an image of the clay; It was like beauty—but is now away— What lived upon her features, like the light On yonder cloud, all tender and all bright; But it is faded as the other must, And she that was all beauty, is all dust."

"Father! thy hand upon this brow of mine, And tell me, is it cold?—But she will twine No wreath upon these temples,—never, never! For there she lieth, like a streamless river That stagnates in its bed. Feel, feel me, here, If I be madly throbbing in the fear For that cold slimy worm. Ay! look and see How dotingly it feeds, how pleasantly! And where it is, have been the living hues Of beauty, purer than the very dews. So, father! seest thou that yonder moon Will be on wane to-morrow, soon and soon? And I, that feel my being wear away, Shall droop beside to darkness; so, but say A prayer for the dead, when I am gone, And let the azure tide that floweth on Cover us lightly with its murmuring surf Like a green sward of melancholy turf. Thou mayest, if thou wilt, thou mayest rear A cenotaph on this lone island here, Of some rude mossy stone, below a tree, And carve an olden rhyme for her and me Upon its brow."

He bends, and gazes yet Before his ghastly bride! the anchoret Sate by him, and hath press'd a cross of wood To his wan lips.

* * * * *

"My son! look up and tell thy dismal tale. Thou seemest cold, and sorrowful, and pale. Alas! I fear but thou hast strangely been A child of curse, and misery, and sin. And this—is she thy sister?"—"Nay! my bride." "A nun! and thou:"—"True, true! but then she died, And was a virgin, and is virgin still, Chaste as the moon, that taketh her pure fill Of light from the great sun. But now, go by, And leave me to my madness, or to die! This heart, this brain are sore.—Come, come, and fold Me round, ye hydra billows! wrapt in gold, That are so writhing your eternal gyres Before the moon, which, with a myriad tiars Is crowning you, as ye do fall and kiss Her pearly feet, that glide in blessedness! Let me be torture-eaten, ere I die! Let me be mangled sore with agony! And be so cursed, so stricken by the spell Of my heart's frenzy, that a living hell Be burning there!—Back! back! if thou art mad— Methought thou wast, but thou art only sad. Is this thy child, old man? look, look, and see! In truth it is a piteous thing for thee To become childless—Well-a-well, go by! Is there no grave? The quiet sea is nigh, And I will bury her below the moon; It may be but a trance or midnight swoon, And she may wake. Wake, ladye! ha! methought It was like her—Like her! and is it not? My angel girl! my brain, my stricken brain!— I know thee now!—I know myself again."

He flings him on the ladye, and anon, With loathly shudder, from that wither'd one Hath torn him back. "Oh me! no more—no more! Thou virgin mother! Is the dream not o'er, That I have dreamt, but I must dream again For moons together, till this weary brain Become distemper'd as the winter sea? Good father! give me blessing; let it be Upon me as the dew upon the moss. Oh me! but I have made the holy cross A curse, and not a blessing! let me kiss The sacred symbol; for, by this—by this! I sware, and sware again, as now I will— Thou Heaven! if there be bounty in thee still, If thou wilt hear, and minister, and bring The light of comfort on some angel wing To one that lieth lone, do—do it now; By all the stars that open on thy brow Like silver flowers! and by the herald moon That listeth to be forth at nightly noon, Jousting the clouds, I swear! and be it true, As I have perjured me, that I renew Allegiance to thy God, and bind me o'er To this same penance, I have done before! That night and day I watch, as I have been Long watching, o'er the partner of my sin! That I taste never the delight of food, But these wild shell-fish, that may make the mood Of madness stronger, till it grapple Death— Despair—Eternity!"

He saith, he saith, And, on the jaundiced bosom of the corse, Lieth all frenzied; one would see Remorse, And hopeless Love, and Hatred, struggling there, And Lunacy, that lightens up Despair, And makes a gladness out of agony. Pale phantom! I would fear and worship thee, That hast the soul at will, and gives it play, Amid the wildest fancies far away; That thronest Reason, on some wizard throne Of fairy land, within the milky zone,— Some spectre star, that glittereth beyond The glorious galaxies of diamond.

Beautiful Lunacy! that shapest flight For love to blessed bowers of delight, And buildest holy monarchies within The fancy, till the very heart is queen Of all her golden wishes. Lunacy! Thou empress of the passions! though they be A sister group of wild, unearthly forms, Like lightnings playing in their home of storms! I see thee, striking at the silver strings Of the pure heart, and holy music springs Before thy touch, in many a solemn strain, Like that of sea-waves rolling from the main!

But say, is Melancholy by thy side, With tresses in a raven shower, that hide Her pale and weeping features? Is she never Flowing before thee, like a gloomy river, The sister of thyself? but cold and chill, And winter-born, and sorrowfully still, And not like thee, that art in merry mood, And frolicksome amid thy solitude!

Fair Lunacy! I see thee, with a crown Of hawthorn and sweet daisies, bending down To mirror thy young image in a spring; And thou wilt kiss that shadow of a thing As soul-less as thyself. 'Tis tender, too, The smile that meeteth thine! the holy hue Of health! the pearly radiance of the brow! All, all as tender—beautiful as thou!

And wilt thou say, my sister, there is none Will answer thee? Thou art—thou art alone, A pure, pure being! but the God on high Is with thee ever, as thou goest by.

Thou poetess! that harpest to the moon, And, in soft concert to the silver tune Of waters, play'd on by the magic wind, As he comes streaming, with his hair untwined, Dost sing light strains of melody and mirth,— I hear thee, hymning on thy holy birth, How thou wert moulded of thy mother Love, That came, like seraph, from the stars above, And was so sadly wedded unto Sin, That thou wert born, and Sorrow was thy twin. Sorrow and mirthful Lunacy! that be Together link'd for time, I deem of ye That ye are worshipp'd as none others are,— One as a lonely shadow, one a star!

Is Julio glad, that bendeth, even now, To his wild purpose, to his holy vow? He seeth only in his ladye-bride The image of the laughing girl, that died A moon before—The same, the very same— The Agathe that lisp'd her lover's name, To him and to her heart: that azure eye, That shone through sunny tresses, waving by; The brow, the cheek, that blush'd of fire and snow, Both blending into one ethereal glow; And that same breathing radiancy, that swam Around her, like a pure and blessed calm Around some halcyon bird. And, as he kiss'd Her wormy lips, he felt that he was blest! He felt her holy being stealing through His own, like fountains of the azure dew, That summer mingles with his golden light; And he would clasp her, till the weary night Was worn away.

* * * * *

And morning rose in form Of heavy clouds, that knitted into storm The brow of Heaven, and through her lips the wind Came rolling westward, with a track behind Of gloomy billows, bursting on the sea, All rampant, like great lions terribly, And gnashing on each other: and anon, Julio heard them, rushing one by one, And laugh'd and turn'd.—The hermit was away, For he was old and weary, and he lay Within his cave, and thought it was a dream, A summer's dream? and so the quiet stream Of sleep came o'er his eyelids, and in truth He dreamt of that strange ladye, and the youth That held a death-wake on her wasting form; And so he slept and woke not, till the storm Was over.

But they came,—the wind and sea, And rain and thunder, that in giant glee, Sang o'er the lightnings pale, as to and fro They writhed, like stricken angels!—White as snow Roll'd billow after billow, and the tide Came forward as an army deep and wide, To charge with all its waters. There was heard A murmur far and far, of those that stirr'd Within the great encampment of the sea, And dark they were, and lifted terribly Their water-spouts like banners. It was grand To see the black battalions, hand in hand Striding to conflict, and their helmets bent Below their foamy plumes magnificent!

And Julio heard and laugh'd, "Shall I be king To your great hosts, that ye are murmuring For one to bear you to your holy war? There is no sun, or moon, or any star, To guide your iron footsteps as ye go; But I, your king, will marshal you to flow From shore to shore. Then bring my car of shell, That I may ride before you terrible; And bring my sceptre of the amber weed, And Agathe, my virgin bride, shall lead Your summer hosts, when these are ambling low, In azure and in ermine, to and fro." He said, and madly, with his wasted hand, Swept o'er the tuneless harp, and fast he spann'd The silver chords, until a rush of sound Came from them, solemn—terrible—profound; And then he dash'd the instrument away Into the waters, and the giant play Of billows threw it back unto the shore, A shiver'd, stringless frame—its day of music o'er! The tide, the rolling tide! the multitude Of the sea surges, terrible and rude, Tossing their chalky foam along the bed Of thundering pebbles, that are shoring dread, And fast retreating to the gloomy gorge Of waters, sounding like a Titan forge!

It comes! it comes! the tide, the rolling tide! But Julio is bending to his bride, And making mirthful whispers to her ear. A cataract! a cataract is near, Of one stupendous billow, and it breaks Terribly furious, with a myriad flakes Of foam, that fly about the haggard twain; And Julio started, with a sudden pain, That shot into his heart; his reason flew Back to its throne; he rose, and wildly threw His matted tresses over on his brow. Another billow came, and even now Was dashing at his feet. There was no shade Of terror, as the serpent waters play'd Before him, but his eye was calm as death. Another, yet another! and the breath Of the weird wind was with it; like a rock Unriveted it fell—a shroud of smoke Pass'd over—there was heard, and died away, The voice of one, shrill shrieking, "Agathe!"

The sea-bird sitteth lonely by the side Of the far waste of waters, flapping wide His wet and weary wings; but he is gone, The stricken Julio!—a wave-swept stone Stands there, on which he sat, and nakedly It rises looking to the lonely sea; But Julio is gone, and Agathe! The waters swept them madly to their core,— The dead and living with a frantic roar! And so he died, his bosom fondly set On her's; and round her clay-cold waist were met His bare and wither'd arms, and to her brow His lips were press'd. Both, both are perish'd now!

He died upon her bosom in a swoon; And fancied of the pale and silver moon, That went before him in her hall of blue: He died like golden insect in the dew, Calm, calm, and pure; and not a chord was rung In his deep heart, but love. He perish'd young, But perish'd, wasted by some fatal flame That fed upon his vitals; and there came Lunacy sweeping lightly, like a stream, Along his brain—He perish'd in a dream!

In sooth, I marvel not, If death be only a mysterious thought, That cometh on the heart, and turns the brow Brightless and chill, as Julio's is now; For only had the wasting struggle been Of one wild feeling, till it rose within Into the form of death, and nature felt The light of the immortal being melt Into its happier home, beyond the sea, And moon, and stars, into eternity!

The sun broke through his dungeon long enthrall'd By dismal cloud, and on the emerald Of the great living sea was blazing down, To gift the lordly billows with a crown Of diamond and silver. From his cave The hermit came, and by the dying wave Lone wander'd, and he found upon the sand, Below a truss of sea-weed, with his hand Around the silent waist of Agathe, The corse of Julio! Pale, pale, it lay Beside the wasted girl. The fireless eye Was open, and a jewell'd rosary Hung round the neck; but it was gone,—the cross That Agathe had given.

Amid the moss, The hermit scoop'd a solitary grave Below the pine-trees, and he sang a stave, Or two, or three, of some old requiem As in their narrow home he buried them. And many a day, before that blessed spot He sate, in lone and melancholy thought, Gazing upon the grave; and one had guess'd Of some dark secret shadowing his breast. And yet, to see him, with his silver hair Adrift and floating in the sea-borne air, And features chasten'd in the tears of woe, In sooth 'twas merely sad to see him so! A wreck of nature, floating far and fast, Upon the stream of Time—to sink at last!

And he is wandering by the shore again, Hard leaning on his staff; the azure main Lies sleeping far before him, with his seas Fast folded in the bosom of the breeze, That like the angel Peace hath dropt his wings Around the warring waters. Sadly sings To his own heart that lonely hermit man, A tale of other days, when passion ran Along his pulses, like a troubled stream, And glory was a splendour, and a dream! He stoop'd to gather up a shining gem, That lay amid the shells, as bright as them,— It was a cross, the cross that Agathe Had given to her Julio: the play Of the fierce sunbeams fell upon its face, And on the glistering jewels—But the trace Of some old thought came burning to the brain Of the pale hermit, and he shrunk in pain Before the holy symbol. It was not Because of the eternal ransom wrought In ages far away, or he had bent In pure devotion sad and reverent; But now, he started, as he look'd upon That jewell'd thing, and wildly he is gone Back to the mossy grave, away, away:— "My child! my child! my own, own Agathe!"

It is her father,—he,—an alter'd man! His quiet had been wounded, and the ban Of misery came over him, and froze The bright and holy tides, that fell and rose In joy amid his heart. To think of her, That he had injured so, and all so fair, So fond, so like the chosen of his youth,— It was a very dismal thought, in truth, That he had left her hopelessly, for aye, Within the cloister-wall to droop, and die! And so he could not bear to have it be; But sought for some lone island in the sea, Where he might dwell in doleful solitude, And do strange penance in his mirthless mood, For this same crime, unnaturally wild, That he had done unto his saintly child. And ever he did think, when he had laid These lovers in the grave, that, through the shade Of ghastly features melting to decay, He saw the image of his Agathe.

And now the truth had flash'd into his brain: And he is fallen, with a shriek of pain, Upon the lap of pale and yellow moss; For long ago he gave that blessed cross To his fair girl, and knew the relic still, By many a thousand thoughts, that rose at will Before it, of the one that was not now, But, like a dream, had floated from the brow Of Time, that seeth many a lovely thing Fade by him, like a sea-wave murmuring.

The heart is burst!—the heart that stood in steel To woman's earnest tears, and bade her feel The curse of virgin solitude,—a veil; And saw the gladsome features growing pale Unmoved: 'tis rent, like some eternal tower The sea hath shaken, and its stately power Lies lonely, fallen, scatter'd on the shore: 'Tis rent, like some great mountain, that, before The Deluge, stood in glory and in might, But now is lightning-riven, and the night Is clambering up its sides, and chasms lie strewn, Like coffins, here and there: 'tis rent! the throne Where passions, in their awful anarchy, Stood sceptred! There was heard an inward sigh, That took the being, on its troubled wings, Far to the land of dim imaginings!

All three are dead; that desolate green isle Is only peopled by the passing smile Of sun and moon, that surely have a sense, They look so radiant with intelligence,— So like the soul's own element,—so fair! The features of a God lie veiled there!

And mariners that have been toiling far Upon the deep, and lost the polar star, Have visited that island, and have seen That lover's grave: and many there have been That sat upon the gray and crumbling stone, And started, as they saw a skeleton Amid the long sad moss, that fondly grew Through the white wasted ribs; but never knew Of those who slept below, or of the tale Of that brain-stricken man, that felt the pale And wandering moonlight steal his soul away,— Poor Julio, and the ladye Agathe!

* * * * *

We found them,—children of toil and tears, Their birth of beauty shaded; We left them in their early years Fallen and faded.

We found them, flowers of summer hue: Their golden cups were lighted With sparkles of the pearly dew— We left them blighted!

We found them,—like those fairy flowers; And the light of morn lay holy Over their sad and sainted bowers— We left them, lowly.

We found them,—like twin stars, alone, In brightness and in feeling; We left them,—and the curse was on Their beauty stealing.

They rest in quiet, where they are: Their lifetime is the story Of some fair flower—some silver star, Faded in glory!



POEMS



THE IRIS

A pale and broken Iris in the mirror Of a gray cloud,—as gray as death, Slow sailing in the breath Of thunder! Like a child, that lies in terror Through the dark night, an Iris fair Trembled midway in air. The blending of its elfin hues Was as the pure enamel on The early morning dews; And gloriously they shone, Waving everyone his wing, Like a young aerial thing! That Iris came Over the shells of gold, beside The blue and waveless tide; Its girdle, of resplendent flame, Met shore and sea, afar, Like angel that shall stand On flood and land, Crown'd with a meteor star.

The sea-bird, from her snowy stone, Beheld it floating on, Like a bride that bent her way To the altar, standing lone, In some cathedral gray. The melancholy wave Started at the cry she gave, Hailing the lovely child Of the immortal sun,— A tender and a tearful one, Bounding away, with footsteps wild!

Old Neptune on his silver bed The dazzling image threw; It laid like sunbeam on the dew, Its young tress-waving head. The god upon the shadow gazed, And silently upraised A gentle wave, that came and kiss'd Fair Iris in her holy rest. Her pearly brow grew pale: It felt the sinful fire, And from her queenly tiar She drew the veil. The sun-wing'd steeds her sacred car Wheel'd to her throne of star.

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