Poems

HAVE YOU NOTHING TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?

("Si vous n'avez rien à me dire.")

{Bk. II. iv., May, 18 – .}

     Speak, if you love me, gentle maiden!       Or haunt no more my lone retreat.     If not for me thy heart be laden,       Why trouble mine with smiles so sweet?     Ah! tell me why so mute, fair maiden,       Whene'er as thus so oft we meet?     If not for me thy heart be, Aideen,       Why trouble mine with smiles so sweet?     Why, when my hand unconscious pressing,       Still keep untold the maiden dream?     In fancy thou art thus caressing       The while we wander by the stream.     If thou art pained when I am near thee,       Why in my path so often stray?     For in my heart I love yet fear thee,       And fain would fly, yet fondly stay.C.H. KENNY.

INSCRIPTION FOR A CRUCIFIX.{1}

("Vous qui pleurez, venez à ce Dieu.")

{Bk. III. iv., March, 1842.}

     Ye weepers, the Mourner o'er mourners behold!     Ye wounded, come hither – the Healer enfold!     Ye gloomy ones, brighten 'neath smiles quelling care —     Or pass – for this Comfort is found ev'rywhere.

{Footnote 1: Music by Gounod.}

DEATH, IN LIFE

("Ceux-ci partent.")

{Bk. III. v., February, 1843.}

         We pass – these sleep     Beneath the shade where deep-leaved boughs     Bend o'er the furrows the Great Reaper ploughs,     And gentle summer winds in many sweep         Whirl in eddying waves         The dead leaves o'er the graves.         And the living sigh:     Forgotten ones, so soon your memories die.     Ye never more may list the wild bird's song,     Or mingle in the crowded city-throng.         Ye must ever dwell in gloom,         'Mid the silence of the tomb.         And the dead reply:     God giveth us His life. Ye die,     Your barren lives are tilled with tears,     For glory, ye are clad with fears.         Oh, living ones! oh, earthly shades!         We live; your beauty clouds and fades.

THE DYING CHILD TO ITS MOTHER

("Oh! vous aurez trop dit.")

{Bk. III. xiv., April, 1843.}

     Ah, you said too often to your angel       There are other angels in the sky —     There, where nothing changes, nothing suffers,       Sweet it were to enter in on high.     To that dome on marvellous pilasters,       To that tent roofed o'er with colored bars,     That blue garden full of stars like lilies,       And of lilies beautiful as stars.     And you said it was a place most joyous,       All our poor imaginings above,     With the wingèd cherubim for playmates,       And the good God evermore to love.     Sweet it were to dwell there in all seasons,       Like a taper burning day and night,     Near to the child Jesus and the Virgin,       In that home so beautiful and bright.     But you should have told him, hapless mother,       Told your child so frail and gentle too,     That you were all his in life's beginning,       But that also he belonged to you.     For the mother watches o'er the infant,       He must rise up in her latter days,     She will need the man that was her baby       To stand by her when her strength decays.     Ah, you did not tell enough your darling       That God made us in this lower life,     Woman for the man, and man for woman,       In our pains, our pleasures and our strife.     So that one sad day, O loss, O sorrow!       The sweet creature left you all alone;     'Twas your own hand hung the cage door open,       Mother, and your pretty bird is flown.BP. ALEXANDER.

EPITAPH

("Il vivait, il jouait.")

{Bk. III. xv., May, 1843.}

     He lived and ever played, the tender smiling thing.     What need, O Earth, to have plucked this flower from blossoming?     Hadst thou not then the birds with rainbow-colors bright,       The stars and the great woods, the wan wave, the blue sky?       What need to have rapt this child from her thou hadst placed him by —     Beneath those other flowers to have hid this flower from sight?     Because of this one child thou hast no more of might,     O star-girt Earth, his death yields thee not higher delight!     But, ah! the mother's heart with woe for ever wild,       This heart whose sovran bliss brought forth so bitter birth —       This world as vast as thou, even thou, O sorrowless Earth,     Is desolate and void because of this one child!NELSON K. TYERMAN.

ST. JOHN

("Un jour, le morne esprit.")

{Bk. VI. vii., Jersey, September, 1855.}

     One day, the sombre soul, the Prophet most sublime         At Patmos who aye dreamed,     And tremblingly perused, without the vast of Time,         Words that with hell-fire gleamed,     Said to his eagle: "Bird, spread wings for loftiest flight —         Needs must I see His Face!"     The eagle soared. At length, far beyond day and night,         Lo! the all-sacred Place!     And John beheld the Way whereof no angel knows         The name, nor there hath trod;     And, lo! the Place fulfilled with shadow that aye glows         Because of very God.NELSON R. TYERMAN.

THE POET'S SIMPLE FAITH

     You say, "Where goest thou?" I cannot tell,     And still go on. If but the way be straight,     It cannot go amiss! before me lies     Dawn and the Day; the Night behind me; that     Suffices me; I break the bounds; I see,     And nothing more; believe, and nothing less.     My future is not one of my concerns.PROF. E. DOWDEN.I AM CONTENT.

("J'habite l'ombre.")

{1855.}

           True; I dwell lone,             Upon sea-beaten cape,           Mere raft of stone;             Whence all escape     Save one who shrinks not from the gloom,     And will not take the coward's leap i' the tomb.           My bedroom rocks             With breezes; quakes in storms,           When dangling locks             Of seaweed mock the forms     Of straggling clouds that trail o'erhead     Like tresses from disrupted coffin-lead.           Upon the sky             Crape palls are often nailed           With stars. Mine eye             Has scared the gull that sailed     To blacker depths with shrillest scream,     Still fainter, till like voices in a dream.           My days become             More plaintive, wan, and pale,           While o'er the foam             I see, borne by the gale,     Infinity! in kindness sent —     To find me ever saying: "I'm content!"

LA LÉGENDE DES SIÈCLES.

CAIN

("Lorsque avec ses enfants Cain se fût enfui.")

{Bk. II}

     Then, with his children, clothed in skins of brutes,     Dishevelled, livid, rushing through the storm,     Cain fled before Jehovah. As night fell     The dark man reached a mount in a great plain,     And his tired wife and his sons, out of breath,     Said: "Let us lie down on the earth and sleep."     Cain, sleeping not, dreamed at the mountain foot.     Raising his head, in that funereal heaven     He saw an eye, a great eye, in the night     Open, and staring at him in the gloom.     "I am too near," he said, and tremblingly woke up     His sleeping sons again, and his tired wife,     And fled through space and darkness. Thirty days     He went, and thirty nights, nor looked behind;     Pale, silent, watchful, shaking at each sound;     No rest, no sleep, till he attained the strand     Where the sea washes that which since was Asshur.     "Here pause," he said, "for this place is secure;     Here may we rest, for this is the world's end."     And he sat down; when, lo! in the sad sky,     The selfsame Eye on the horizon's verge,     And the wretch shook as in an ague fit.     "Hide me!" he cried; and all his watchful sons,     Their finger on their lip, stared at their sire.     Cain said to Jabal (father of them that dwell     In tents): "Spread here the curtain of thy tent,"     And they spread wide the floating canvas roof,     And made it fast and fixed it down with lead.     "You see naught now," said Zillah then, fair child     The daughter of his eldest, sweet as day.     But Cain replied, "That Eye – I see it still."     And Jubal cried (the father of all those     That handle harp and organ): "I will build     A sanctuary;" and he made a wall of bronze,     And set his sire behind it. But Cain moaned,     "That Eye is glaring at me ever." Henoch cried:     "Then must we make a circle vast of towers,     So terrible that nothing dare draw near;     Build we a city with a citadel;     Build we a city high and close it fast."     Then Tubal Cain (instructor of all them     That work in brass and iron) built a tower —     Enormous, superhuman. While he wrought,     His fiery brothers from the plain around     Hunted the sons of Enoch and of Seth;     They plucked the eyes out of whoever passed,     And hurled at even arrows to the stars.     They set strong granite for the canvas wall,     And every block was clamped with iron chains.     It seemed a city made for hell. Its towers,     With their huge masses made night in the land.     The walls were thick as mountains. On the door     They graved: "Let not God enter here." This done,     And having finished to cement and build     In a stone tower, they set him in the midst.     To him, still dark and haggard, "Oh, my sire,     Is the Eye gone?" quoth Zillah tremblingly.     But Cain replied: "Nay, it is even there."     Then added: "I will live beneath the earth,     As a lone man within his sepulchre.     I will see nothing; will be seen of none."     They digged a trench, and Cain said: "'Tis enow,"     As he went down alone into the vault;     But when he sat, so ghost-like, in his chair,     And they had closed the dungeon o'er his head,     The Eye was in the tomb and fixed on Cain.Dublin University Magazine

BOAZ ASLEEP

("Booz s'était couché.")

{Bk. II. vi.}

     At work within his barn since very early,       Fairly tired out with toiling all the day,       Upon the small bed where he always lay     Boaz was sleeping by his sacks of barley.     Barley and wheat-fields he possessed, and well,       Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood       That turned his mill-wheels was unstained with mud     And in his smithy blazed no fire of hell.     His beard was silver, as in April all       A stream may be; he did not grudge a stook.       When the poor gleaner passed, with kindly look,     Quoth he, "Of purpose let some handfuls fall."     He walked his way of life straight on and plain,       With justice clothed, like linen white and clean,       And ever rustling towards the poor, I ween,     Like public fountains ran his sacks of grain.     Good master, faithful friend, in his estate       Frugal yet generous, beyond the youth       He won regard of woman, for in sooth     The young man may be fair – the old man's great.     Life's primal source, unchangeable and bright,       The old man entereth, the day eterne;       And in the young man's eye a flame may burn,     But in the old man's eye one seeth light.     As Jacob slept, or Judith, so full deep       Slept Boaz 'neath the leaves. Now it betided,       Heaven's gate being partly open, that there glided     A fair dream forth, and hovered o'er his sleep.     And in his dream to heaven, the blue and broad,       Right from his loins an oak tree grew amain.       His race ran up it far, like a long chain;     Below it sung a king, above it died a God.     Whereupon Boaz murmured in his heart,       "The number of my years is past fourscore:       How may this be? I have not any more,     Or son, or wife; yea, she who had her part.     "In this my couch, O Lord! is now in Thine;       And she, half living, I half dead within,       Our beings still commingle and are twin,     It cannot be that I should found a line!     "Youth hath triumphal mornings; its days bound       From night, as from a victory. But such       A trembling as the birch-tree's to the touch     Of winter is an eld, and evening closes round.     "I bow myself to death, as lone to meet       The water bow their fronts athirst." He said.       The cedar feeleth not the rose's head,     Nor he the woman's presence at his feet!     For while he slept, the Moabitess Ruth       Lay at his feet, expectant of his waking.       He knowing not what sweet guile she was making;     She knowing not what God would have in sooth.     Asphodel scents did Gilgal's breezes bring —       Through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fast       The angels sped, for momently there passed     A something blue which seemed to be a wing.     Silent was all in Jezreel and Ur —       The stars were glittering in the heaven's dusk meadows.       Far west among those flowers of the shadows.     The thin clear crescent lustrous over her,     Made Ruth raise question, looking through the bars       Of heaven, with eyes half-oped, what God, what comer       Unto the harvest of the eternal summer,     Had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars.BP. ALEXANDER.

SONG OF THE GERMAN LANZKNECHT

("Sonnex, clarions!")

{Bk. VI. vii.}

     Flourish the trumpet! and rattle the drum!     The Reiters are mounted! the Reiters will come!     When our bullets cease singing     And long swords cease ringing         On backplates of fearsomest foes in full flight,     We'll dig up their dollars     To string for girls' collars —         They'll jingle around them before it is night!                 When flourish the trumpets, etc.     We're the Emperor's winners     Of right royal dinners,         Where cities are served up and flanked by estates,     While we wallow in claret,     Knowing not how to spare it,         Though beer is less likely to muddle our pates —               While flourish the trumpets, etc.     Gods of battle! red-handed!     Wise it was to have banded         Such arms as are these for embracing of gain!     Hearken to each war-vulture     Crying, "Down with all culture         Of land or religion!" Hoch! to our refrain               Of flourish the trumpets, etc.     Give us "bones of the devil"     To exchange in our revel         The ingot, the gem, and yellow doubloon;     Coronets are but playthings —     We reck not who say things         When the Reiters have ridden to death! none too soon! —     To flourish of trumpet and rattle of drum,     The Reiters will finish as firm as they come!H.L.W.

KING CANUTE

("Un jour, Kanut mourut.")

{Bk. X. i.}

     King Canute died.{1} Encoffined he was laid.     Of Aarhuus came the Bishop prayers to say,     And sang a hymn upon his tomb, and held     That Canute was a saint – Canute the Great,     That from his memory breathed celestial perfume,     And that they saw him, they the priests, in glory,     Seated at God's right hand, a prophet crowned.I                                   Evening came,     And hushed the organ in the holy place,     And the priests, issuing from the temple doors,     Left the dead king in peace. Then he arose,     Opened his gloomy eyes, and grasped his sword,     And went forth loftily. The massy walls     Yielded before the phantom, like a mist.     There is a sea where Aarhuus, Altona,     And Elsinore's vast domes and shadowy towers     Glass in deep waters. Over this he went     Dark, and still Darkness listened for his foot     Inaudible, itself being but a dream.     Straight to Mount Savo went he, gnawed by time,     And thus, "O mountain buffeted of storms,     Give me of thy huge mantle of deep snow     To frame a winding-sheet." The mountain knew him,     Nor dared refuse, and with his sword Canute     Cut from his flank white snow, enough to make     The garment he desired, and then he cried,     "Old mountain! death is dumb, but tell me thou     The way to God." More deep each dread ravine     And hideous hollow yawned, and sadly thus     Answered that hoar associate of the clouds:     "Spectre, I know not, I am always here."     Canute departed, and with head erect,     All white and ghastly in his robe of snow,     Went forth into great silence and great night     By Iceland and Norway. After him     Gloom swallowed up the universe. He stood     A sovran kingdomless, a lonely ghost     Confronted with Immensity. He saw     The awful Infinite, at whose portal pale     Lightning sinks dying; Darkness, skeleton     Whose joints are nights, and utter Formlessness     Moving confusedly in the horrible dark     Inscrutable and blind. No star was there,     Yet something like a haggard gleam; no sound     But the dull tide of Darkness, and her dumb     And fearful shudder. "'Tis the tomb," he said,     "God is beyond!" Three steps he took, then cried:     'Twas deathly as the grave, and not a voice     Responded, nor came any breath to sway     The snowy mantle, with unsullied white     Emboldening the spectral wanderer.     Sudden he marked how, like a gloomy star,     A spot grew broad upon his livid robe;     Slowly it widened, raying darkness forth;     And Canute proved it with his spectral hands     It was a drop of blood.R. GARNETT.II     But he saw nothing; space was black – no sound.     "Forward," said Canute, raising his proud head.     There fell a second stain beside the first,     Then it grew larger, and the Cimbrian chief     Stared at the thick vague darkness, and saw naught.     Still as a bloodhound follows on his track,     Sad he went on. 'There fell a third red stain     On the white winding-sheet. He had never fled;     Howbeit Canute forward went no more,     But turned on that side where the sword arm hangs.     A drop of blood, as if athwart a dream,     Fell on the shroud, and reddened his right hand.     Then, as in reading one turns back a page,     A second time he changed his course, and turned     To the dim left. There fell a drop of blood.     Canute drew back, trembling to be alone,     And wished he had not left his burial couch.     But, when a blood-drop fell again, he stopped,     Stooped his pale head, and tried to make a prayer.     Then fell a drop, and the prayer died away     In savage terror. Darkly he moved on,     A hideous spectre hesitating, white,     And ever as he went, a drop of blood     Implacably from the darkness broke away     And stained that awful whiteness. He beheld     Shaking, as doth a poplar in the wind,     Those stains grow darker and more numerous:     Another, and another, and another.     They seem to light up that funereal gloom,     And mingling in the folds of that white sheet,     Made it a cloud of blood. He went, and went,     And still from that unfathomable vault     The red blood dropped upon him drop by drop,     Always, for ever – without noise, as though     From the black feet of some night-gibbeted corpse.     Alas! Who wept those formidable tears?     The Infinite! – Toward Heaven, of the good     Attainable, through the wild sea of night,     That hath not ebb nor flow, Canute went on,     And ever walking, came to a closed door,     That from beneath showed a mysterious light.     Then he looked down upon his winding-sheet,     For that was the great place, the sacred place,     That was a portion of the light of God,     And from behind that door Hosannas rang.     The winding-sheet was red, and Canute stopped.     This is why Canute from the light of day     Draws ever back, and hath not dared appear     Before the Judge whose face is as the sun.     This is why still remaineth the dark king     Out in the night, and never having power     To bring his robe back to its first pure state,     But feeling at each step a blood-drop fall,     Wanders eternally 'neath the vast black heaven.Dublin University Magazine

{Footnote 1: King Canute slew his old father, Sweno, to obtain the crown.}

THE BOY-KING'S PRAYER

("Le cheval galopait toujours.")

{Bk. XV. ii. 10.}

     The good steed flew o'er river and o'er plain,     Till far away, – no need of spur or rein.     The child, half rapture, half solicitude,     Looks back anon, in fear to be pursued;     Shakes lest some raging brother of his sire     Leap from those rocks that o'er the path aspire.     On the rough granite bridge, at evening's fall,     The white horse paused by Compostella's wall,('Twas good St. James that reared those arches tall,)     Through the dim mist stood out each belfry dome,     And the boy hailed the paradise of home.     Close to the bridge, set on high stage, they meet     A Christ of stone, the Virgin at his feet.     A taper lighted that dear pardoning face,     More tender in the shade that wrapped the place,     And the child stayed his horse, and in the shine     Of the wax taper knelt down at the shrine.     "O, my good God! O, Mother Maiden sweet!"     He said, "I was the worm beneath men's feet;     My father's brethren held me in their thrall,     But Thou didst send the Paladin of Gaul,     O Lord! and show'dst what different spirits move     The good men and the evil; those who love     And those who love not. I had been as they,     But Thou, O God! hast saved both life and soul to-day.     I saw Thee in that noble knight; I saw     Pure light, true faith, and honor's sacred law,     My Father, – and I learnt that monarchs must     Compassionate the weak, and unto all be just.     O Lady Mother! O dear Jesus! thus     Bowed at the cross where Thou didst bleed for us,     I swear to hold the truth that now I learn,     Leal to the loyal, to the traitor stern,     And ever just and nobly mild to be,     Meet scholar of that Prince of Chivalry;     And here Thy shrine bear witness, Lord, for me."     The horse of Roland, hearing the boy tell     His vow, looked round and spoke: "O King, 'tis well!"     Then on the charger mounted the child-king,     And rode into the town, while all the bells 'gan ring.Dublin University Magazine

EVIRADNUS

THE KNIGHT ERRANT

("Qu'est-ce que Sigismond et Ladislas ont dit.")

{Bk. XV. iii. 1.}

ITHE ADVENTURER SETS OUT     What was it Sigismond and Ladisläus said?     I know not if the rock, or tree o'erhead,     Had heard their speech; – but when the two spoke low,     Among the trees, a shudder seemed to go     Through all their branches, just as if that way     A beast had passed to trouble and dismay.     More dark the shadow of the rock was seen,     And then a morsel of the shade, between     The sombre trees, took shape as it would seem     Like spectre walking in the sunset's gleam.     It is not monster rising from its lair,     Nor phantom of the foliage and the air,     It is not morsel of the granite's shade     That walks in deepest hollows of the glade.     'Tis not a vampire nor a spectre pale     But living man in rugged coat of mail.     It is Alsatia's noble Chevalier,     Eviradnus the brave, that now is here.     The men who spoke he recognized the while     He rested in the thicket; words of guile     Most horrible were theirs as they passed on,     And to the ears of Eviradnus one —     One word had come which roused him. Well he knew     The land which lately he had journeyed through.     He down the valley went into the inn     Where he had left his horse and page, Gasclin.     The horse had wanted drink, and lost a shoe;     And now, "Be quick!" he said, "with what you do,     For business calls me, I must not delay."     He strides the saddle and he rides away.IIEVIRADNUS     Eviradnus was growing old apace,     The weight of years had left its hoary trace,     But still of knights the most renowned was he,     Model of bravery and purity.     His blood he spared not; ready day or night     To punish crime, his dauntless sword shone bright     In his unblemished hand; holy and white     And loyal all his noble life had been,     A Christian Samson coming on the scene.     With fist alone the gate he battered down     Of Sickingen in flames, and saved the town.     'Twas he, indignant at the honor paid     To crime, who with his heel an onslaught made     Upon Duke Lupus' shameful monument,     Tore down, the statue he to fragments rent;     Then column of the Strasburg monster bore     To bridge of Wasselonne, and threw it o'er     Into the waters deep. The people round     Blazon the noble deeds that so abound     From Altorf unto Chaux-de-Fonds, and say,     When he rests musing in a dreamy way,     "Behold, 'tis Charlemagne!"  Tawny to see     And hairy, and seven feet high was he,     Like John of Bourbon. Roaming hill or wood     He looked a wolf was striving to do good.     Bound up in duty, he of naught complained,     The cry for help his aid at once obtained.     Only he mourned the baseness of mankind,     And – that the beds too short he still doth find.     When people suffer under cruel kings,     With pity moved, he to them succor brings.     'Twas he defended Alix from her foes     As sword of Urraca – he ever shows     His strength is for the feeble and oppressed;     Father of orphans he, and all distressed!     Kings of the Rhine in strongholds were by him     Boldly attacked, and tyrant barons grim.     He freed the towns – confronting in his lair     Hugo the Eagle; boldly did he dare     To break the collar of Saverne, the ring     Of Colmar, and the iron torture thing     Of Schlestadt, and the chain that Haguenau bore.     Such Eviradnus was a wrong before,     Good but most terrible.  In the dread scale     Which princes weighted with their horrid tale     Of craft and violence, and blood and ill,     And fire and shocking deeds, his sword was still     God's counterpoise displayed. Ever alert     More evil from the wretched to avert,     Those hapless ones who 'neath Heaven's vault at night     Raise suppliant hands. His lance loved not the plight     Of mouldering in the rack, of no avail,     His battle-axe slipped from supporting nail     Quite easily; 'twas ill for action base     To come so near that he the thing could trace.     The steel-clad champion death drops all around     As glaciers water. Hero ever found     Eviradnus is kinsman of the race     Of Amadys of Gaul, and knights of Thrace,     He smiles at age. For he who never asked     For quarter from mankind – shall he be tasked     To beg of Time for mercy? Rather he     Would girdle up his loins, like Baldwin be.     Aged he is, but of a lineage rare;     The least intrepid of the birds that dare     Is not the eagle barbed. What matters age,     The years but fire him with a holy rage.     Though late from Palestine, he is not spent, —     With age he wrestles, firm in his intent.     III.     IN THE FOREST.     If in the woodland traveller there had been     That eve, who lost himself, strange sight he'd seen.     Quite in the forest's heart a lighted space     Arose to view; in that deserted place     A lone, abandoned hall with light aglow     The long neglect of centuries did show.     The castle-towers of Corbus in decay     Were girt by weeds and growths that had their way.     Couch-grass and ivy, and wild eglantine     In subtle scaling warfare all combine.     Subject to such attacks three hundred years,     The donjon yields, and ruin now appears,     E'en as by leprosy the wild boars die,     In moat the crumbled battlements now lie;     Around the snake-like bramble twists its rings;     Freebooter sparrows come on daring wings     To perch upon the swivel-gun, nor heed     Its murmuring growl when pecking in their greed     The mulberries ripe. With insolence the thorn     Thrives on the desolation so forlorn.     But winter brings revenges; then the Keep     Wakes all vindictive from its seeming sleep,     Hurls down the heavy rain, night after night,     Thanking the season's all-resistless might;     And, when the gutters choke, its gargoyles four     From granite mouths in anger spit and pour     Upon the hated ivy hour by hour.     As to the sword rust is, so lichens are     To towering citadel with which they war.     Alas! for Corbus – dreary, desolate,     And yet its woes the winters mitigate.     It rears itself among convulsive throes     That shake its ruins when the tempest blows.     Winter, the savage warrior, pleases well,     With its storm clouds, the mighty citadel, —     Restoring it to life. The lightning flash     Strikes like a thief and flies; the winds that crash     Sound like a clarion, for the Tempest bluff     Is Battle's sister. And when wild and rough,     The north wind blows, the tower exultant cries     "Behold me!" When hail-hurling gales arise     Of blustering Equinox, to fan the strife,     It stands erect, with martial ardor rife,     A joyous soldier! When like yelping hound     Pursued by wolves, November comes to bound     In joy from rock to rock, like answering cheer     To howling January now so near —     "Come on!" the Donjon cries to blasts o'erhead —     It has seen Attila, and knows not dread.     Oh, dismal nights of contest in the rain     And mist, that furious would the battle gain,     'The tower braves all, though angry skies pour fast     The flowing torrents, river-like and vast.     From their eight pinnacles the gorgons bay,     And scattered monsters, in their stony way,     Are growling heard; the rampart lions gnaw     The misty air and slush with granite maw,     The sleet upon the griffins spits, and all     The Saurian monsters, answering to the squall,     Flap wings; while through the broken ceiling fall     Torrents of rain upon the forms beneath,     Dragons and snak'd Medusas gnashing teeth     In the dismantled rooms. Like armored knight     The granite Castle fights with all its might,     Resisting through the winter. All in vain,     The heaven's bluster, January's rain,     And those dread elemental powers we call     The Infinite – the whirlwinds that appall —     Thunder and waterspouts; and winds that shake     As 'twere a tree its ripened fruit to take.     The winds grow wearied, warring with the tower,     The noisy North is out of breath, nor power     Has any blast old Corbus to defeat,     It still has strength their onslaughts worst to meet.     Thus, spite of briers and thistles, the old tower     Remains triumphant through the darkest hour;     Superb as pontiff, in the forest shown,     Its rows of battlements make triple crown;     At eve, its silhouette is finely traced     Immense and black – showing the Keep is placed     On rocky throne, sublime and high; east, west,     And north and south, at corners four, there rest     Four mounts; Aptar, where flourishes the pine,     And Toxis, where the elms grow green and fine;     Crobius and Bleyda, giants in their might,     Against the stormy winds to stand and fight,     And these above its diadem uphold     Night's living canopy of clouds unrolled.     The herdsman fears, and thinks its shadow creeps     To follow him; and superstition keeps     Such hold that Corbus as a terror reigns;     Folks say the Fort a target still remains     For the Black Archer – and that it contains     The cave where the Great Sleeper still sleeps sound.     The country people all the castle round     Are frightened easily, for legends grow     And mix with phantoms of the mind; we know     The hearth is cradle of such fantasies,     And in the smoke the cotter sees arise     From low-thatched but he traces cause of dread.     Thus rendering thanks that he is lowly bred,     Because from such none look for valorous deeds.     The peasant flies the Tower, although it leads     A noble knight to seek adventure there,     And, from his point of honor, dangers dare.     Thus very rarely passer-by is seen;     But – it might be with twenty years between,     Or haply less – at unfixed interval     There would a semblance be of festival.     A Seneschal and usher would appear,     And troops of servants many baskets bear.     Then were, in mystery, preparations made,     And they departed – for till night none stayed.     But 'twixt the branches gazers could descry     The blackened hall lit up most brilliantly.     None dared approach – and this the reason why.IVTHE CUSTOM OF LUSACE     When died a noble Marquis of Lusace     'Twas custom for the heir who filled his place     Before assuming princely pomp and power     To sup one night in Corbus' olden tower.     From this weird meal he passed to the degree     Of Prince and Margrave; nor could ever he     Be thought brave knight, or she – if woman claim     The rank – be reckoned of unblemished fame     Till they had breathed the air of ages gone,     The funeral odors, in the nest alone     Of its dead masters. Ancient was the race;     To trace the upward stem of proud Lusace     Gives one a vertigo; descended they     From ancestor of Attila, men say;     Their race to him – through Pagans – they hark back;     Becoming Christians, race they thought to track     Through Lechus, Plato, Otho to combine     With Ursus, Stephen, in a lordly line.     Of all those masters of the country round     That were on Northern Europe's boundary found —     At first were waves and then the dykes were reared —     Corbus in double majesty appeared,     Castle on hill and town upon the plain;     And one who mounted on the tower could gain     A view beyond the pines and rocks, of spires     That pierce the shade the distant scene acquires;     A walled town is it, but 'tis not ally     Of the old citadel's proud majesty;     Unto itself belonging this remained.     Often a castle was thus self-sustained     And equalled towns; witness in Lombardy     Crama, and Plato too in Tuscany,     And in Apulia Barletta; – each one     Was powerful as a town, and dreaded none.     Corbus ranked thus; its precincts seemed to hold     The reflex of its mighty kings of old;     Their great events had witness in these walls,     Their marriages were here and funerals,     And mostly here it was that they were born;     And here crowned Barons ruled with pride and scorn;     Cradle of Scythian majesty this place.     Now each new master of this ancient race     A duty owed to ancestors which he     Was bound to carry on. The law's decree     It was that he should pass alone the night     Which made him king, as in their solemn sight.     Just at the forest's edge a clerk was met     With wine in sacred cup and purpose set,     A wine mysterious, which the heir must drink     To cause deep slumber till next day's soft brink.     Then to the castle tower he wends his way,     And finds a supper laid with rich display.     He sups and sleeps: then to his slumbering eyes     The shades of kings from Bela all arise.     None dare the tower to enter on this night,     But when the morning dawns, crowds are in sight     The dreamer to deliver, – whom half dazed,     And with the visions of the night amazed,     They to the old church take, where rests the dust     Of Borivorus; then the bishop must,     With fervent blessings on his eyes and mouth,     Put in his hands the stony hatchets both,     With which – even like death impartially —     Struck Attila, with one arm dexterously     The south, and with the other arm the north.     This day the town the threatening flag set forth     Of Marquis Swantibore, the monster he     Who in the wood tied up his wife, to be     Devoured by wolves, together with the bull     Of which with jealousy his heart was full.     Even when woman took the place of heir     The tower of Corbus claimed the supper there;     'Twas law – the woman trembled, but must dare.VTHE MARCHIONESS MAHAUD     Niece of the Marquis – John the Striker named —     Mahaud to-day the marquisate has claimed.     A noble dame – the crown is hers by right:     As woman she has graces that delight.     A queen devoid of beauty is not queen,     She needs the royalty of beauty's mien;     God in His harmony has equal ends     For cedar that resists, and reed that bends,     And good it is a woman sometimes rules,     Holds in her hand the power, and manners schools,     And laws and mind; – succeeding master proud,     With gentle voice and smile she leads the crowd,     The sombre human troop. But sweet Mahaud     On evil days had fallen; gentle, good,     Alas! she held the sceptre like a flower;     Timid yet gay, imprudent for the hour,     And careless too. With Europe all in throes,     Though twenty years she now already knows,     She has refused to marry, although oft     Entreated. It is time an arm less soft     Than hers – a manly arm – supported her;     Like to the rainbow she, one might aver,     Shining on high between the cloud and rain,     Or like the ewe that gambols on the plain     Between the bear and tiger; innocent,     She has two neighbors of most foul intent:     For foes the Beauty has, in life's pure spring,     The German Emp'ror and the Polish King.VITHE TWO NEIGHBORS     The difference this betwixt the evil pair,     Faithless to God – for laws without a care —     One was the claw, the other one the will     Controlling. Yet to mass they both went still,     And on the rosary told their beads each day.     But none the less the world believed that they     Unto the powers of hell their souls had sold.     Even in whispers men each other told     The details of the pact which they had signed     With that dark power, the foe of human kind;     In whispers, for the crowd had mortal dread     Of them so high, and woes that they had spread.     One might be vengeance and the other hate,     Yet lived they side by side, in powerful state     And close alliance. All the people near     From red horizon dwelt in abject fear,     Mastered by them; their figures darkly grand     Had ruddy reflex from the wasted land,     And fires, and towns they sacked. Besides the one,     Like David, poet was, the other shone     As fine musician – rumor spread their fame,     Declaring them divine, until each name     In Italy's fine sonnets met with praise.     The ancient hierarch in those old days     Had custom strange, a now forgotten thing,     It was a European plan that King     Of France was marquis, and th' imperial head     Of Germany was duke; there was no need     To class the other kings, but barons they,     Obedient vassals unto Rome, their stay.     The King of Poland was but simple knight,     Yet now, for once, had strange unwonted right,     And, as exception to the common state,     This one Sarmatian King was held as great     As German Emperor; and each knew how     His evil part to play, nor mercy show.     The German had one aim, it was to take     All land he could, and it his own to make.     The Pole already having Baltic shore,     Seized Celtic ports, still needing more and more.     On all the Northern Sea his crafts roused fear:     Iceland beheld his demon navy near.     Antwerp the German burnt; and Prussias twain     Bowed to the yoke. The Polish King was fain     To help the Russian Spotocus – his aid     Was like the help that in their common trade     A sturdy butcher gives a weaker one.     The King it is who seizes, and this done,     The Emp'ror pillages, usurping right     In war Teutonic, settled but by might.     The King in Jutland cynic footing gains,     The weak coerced, the while with cunning pains     The strong are duped. But 'tis a law they make     That their accord themselves should never break.     From Arctic seas to cities Transalpine,     Their hideous talons, curved for sure rapine,     Scrape o'er and o'er the mournful continent,     Their plans succeed, and each is well content.     Thus under Satan's all paternal care     They brothers are, this royal bandit pair.     Oh, noxious conquerors! with transient rule     Chimera heads – ambition can but fool.     Their misty minds but harbor rottenness     Loathsome and fetid, and all barrenness —     Their deeds to ashes turn, and, hydra-bred,     The mystic skeleton is theirs to dread.     The daring German and the cunning Pole     Noted to-day a woman had control     Of lands, and watched Mahaud like evil spies;     And from the Emp'ror's cruel mouth – with dyes     Of wrath empurpled – came these words of late:     "The empire wearies of the wallet weight     Hung at its back – this High and Low Lusace,     Whose hateful load grows heavier apace,     That now a woman holds its ruler's place."     Threatening, and blood suggesting, every word;     The watchful Pole was silent – but he heard.     Two monstrous dangers; but the heedless one     Babbles and smiles, and bids all care begone —     Likes lively speech – while all the poor she makes     To love her, and the taxes off she takes.     A life of dance and pleasure she has known —     A woman always; in her jewelled crown     It is the pearl she loves – not cutting gems,     For these can wound, and mark men's diadems.     She pays the hire of Homer's copyists,     And in the Courts of Love presiding, lists.     Quite recently unto her Court have come     Two men – unknown their names or native home,     Their rank or race; but one plays well the lute,     The other is a troubadour; both suit     The taste of Mahaud, when on summer eve,     'Neath opened windows, they obtain her leave     To sing upon the terrace, and relate     The charming tales that do with music mate.     In August the Moravians have their fête,     But it is radiant June in which Lusace     Must consecrate her noble Margrave race.     Thus in the weird and old ancestral tower     For Mahaud now has come the fateful hour,     The lonely supper which her state decrees.     What matters this to flowers, and birds, and trees,     And clouds and fountains? That the people may     Still bear their yoke – have kings to rule alway?     The water flows, the wind in passing by     In murmuring tones takes up the questioning cry.VIITHE BANQUET HALL     The old stupendous hall has but one door,     And in the dusk it seems that more and more     The walls recede in space unlimited.     At the far end there is a table spread     That in the dreary void with splendor shines;     For ceiling we behold but rafter lines.     The table is arranged for one sole guest,     A solitary chair doth near it rest,     Throne-like, 'neath canopy that droopeth down     From the black beams; upon the walls are shown     The painted histories of the olden might,     The King of the Wends Thassilo's stern fight     On land with Nimrod, and on ocean wide     With Neptune. Rivers too personified     Appear – the Rhine as by the Meuse betrayed,     And fading groups of Odin in the shade,     And the wolf Fenrir and the Asgard snake.     One might the place for dragons' stable take.     The only lights that in the shed appear     Spring from the table's giant chandelier     With seven iron branches – brought from hell     By Attila Archangel, people tell,     When he had conquered Mammon – and they say     That seven souls were the first flames that day.     This banquet hall looks an abyss outlined     With shadowy vagueness, though indeed we find     In the far depth upon the table spread     A sudden, strong, and glaring light is shed,     Striking upon the goldsmith's burnished works,     And on the pheasants killed by traitor hawks.     Loaded the table is with viands cold,     Ewers and flagons, all enough of old     To make a love feast. All the napery     Was Friesland's famous make; and fair to see     The dishes, silver-gilt and bordered round     With flowers; for fruit, here strawberries were found     And citrons, apples too, and nectarines.     The wooden bowls were carved in cunning lines     By peasants of the Murg, whose skilful hands     With patient toil reclaim the barren lands     And make their gardens flourish on a rock,     Or mountain where we see the hunters flock.     Gold fountain-cup, with handles Florentine,     Shows Acteons horned, though armed and booted fine,     Who fight with sword in hand against the hounds.     Roses and gladioles make up bright mounds     Of flowers, with juniper and aniseed;     While sage, all newly cut for this great need,     Covers the Persian carpet that is spread     Beneath the table, and so helps to shed     Around a perfume of the balmy spring.     Beyond is desolation withering.     One hears within the hollow dreary space     Across the grove, made fresh by summer's grace,     The wind that ever is with mystic might     A spirit ripple of the Infinite.     The glass restored to frames to creak is made     By blustering wind that comes from neighboring glade.     Strange in this dream-like place, so drear and lone,     The guest expected should be living one!     The seven lights from seven arms make glow     Almost with life the staring eyes that show     On the dim frescoes – and along the walls     Is here and there a stool, or the light falls     O'er some long chest, with likeness to a tomb.     Yet was displayed amid the mournful gloom     Some copper vessels, and some crockery ware.     The door – as if it must, yet scarcely dare —     Had opened widely to the night's fresh air.     No voice is heard, for man has fled the place;     But Terror crouches in the corners' space,     And waits the coming guest. This banquet hall     Of Titans is so high, that he who shall     With wandering eye look up from beam to beam     Of the confused wild roof will haply seem     To wonder that the stars he sees not there.     Giants the spiders are, that weave with care     Their hideous webs, which float the joists amid,     Joists whose dark ends in griffins' jaws are hid.     The light is lurid, and the air like death,     And dark and foul. Even Night holds its breath     Awhile. One might suppose the door had fear     To move its double leaves – their noise to hear.VIIIWHAT MORE WAS TO BE SEEN     But the great hall of generations dead     Has something more sepulchral and more dread     Than lurid glare from seven-branched chandelier     Or table lone with stately daïs near —     Two rows of arches o'er a colonnade     With knights on horseback all in mail arrayed,     Each one disposed with pillar at his back     And to another vis-à-vis. Nor lack     The fittings all complete; in each right hand     A lance is seen; the armored horses stand     With chamfrons laced, and harness buckled sure;     The cuissarts' studs are by their clamps secure;     The dirks stand out upon the saddle-bow;     Even unto the horses' feet do flow     Caparisons, – the leather all well clasped,     The gorget and the spurs with bronze tongues hasped,     The shining long sword from the saddle hung,     The battle-axe across the back was flung.     Under the arm a trusty dagger rests,     Each spiked knee-piece its murderous power attests.     Feet press the stirrups – hands on bridle shown     Proclaim all ready, with the visors down,     And yet they stir not, nor is audible     A sound to make the sight less terrible.     Each monstrous horse a frontal horn doth bear,     If e'er the Prince of Darkness herdsman were,     These cattle black were his by surest right,     Like things but seen in horrid dreams of night.     The steeds are swathed in trappings manifold,     The armed knights are grave, and stern, and cold,     Terrific too; the clench'd fists seem to hold     Some frightful missive, which the phantom hands     Would show, if opened out at hell's commands.     The dusk exaggerates their giant size,     The shade is awed – the pillars coldly rise.     Oh, Night! why are these awful warriors here?     Horses and horsemen that make gazers fear     Are only empty armor. But erect     And haughty mien they all affect     And threatening air – though shades of iron still.     Are they strange larvae – these their statues ill?     No. They are dreams of horror clothed in brass,     Which from profoundest depths of evil pass     With futile aim to dare the Infinite!     Souls tremble at the silent spectre sight,     As if in this mysterious cavalcade     They saw the weird and mystic halt was made     Of them who at the coming dawn of day     Would fade, and from their vision pass away.     A stranger looking in, these masks to see,     Might deem from Death some mandate there might be     At times to burst the tombs – the dead to wear     A human shape, and mustering ranks appear     Of phantoms, each confronting other shade.     Grave-clothes are not more grim and sombre made     Than are these helms; the deaf and sealed-up graves     Are not more icy than these arms; the staves     Of hideous biers have not their joints more strong     Than are the joinings of these legs; the long     Scaled gauntlet fingers look like worms that shine,     And battle robes to shroud-like folds incline.     The heads are skull-like, and the stony feet     Seem for the charnel house but only meet.     The pikes have death's-heads carved, and seem to be     Too heavy; but the shapes defiantly     Sit proudly in the saddle – and perforce     The rider looks united to the horse!     The network of their mail doth clearly cross.     The Marquis' mortar beams near Ducal wreath,     And on the helm and gleaming shield beneath     Alternate triple pearls with leaves displayed     Of parsley, and the royal robes are made     So large that with the knightly harness they     Seem to o'ermaster palfreys every way.     To Rome the oldest armor might be traced,     And men and horses' armor interlaced     Blent horribly; the man and steed we feel     Made but one hydra with its scales of steel.     Yet is there history here. Each coat of mail     Is representant of some stirring tale.     Each delta-shaped escutcheon shines to show     A vision of the chief by it we know.     Here are the blood-stained Dukes' and Marquis' line,     Barbaric lords, who amid war's rapine     Bore gilded saints upon their banners still     Painted on fishes' skin with cunning skill.     Here Geth, who to the Slaves cried "Onward go,"     And Mundiaque and Ottocar – Plato     And Ladisläus Kunne; and Welf who bore     These words upon his shield his foes before;     "Nothing there is I fear." Otho blear-eyed,     Zultan and Nazamustus, and beside     The later Spignus, e'en to Spartibor     Of triple vision, and yet more and more     As if a pause at every age were made,     And Antaeus' fearful dynasty portrayed.     What do they here so rigid and erect?     What wait they for – and what do they expect?     Blindness fills up the helm 'neath iron brows;     Like sapless tree no soul the hero knows.     Darkness is now where eyes with flame were fraught,     And thrice-bored visor serves for mask of naught.     Of empty void is spectral giant made,     And each of these all-powerful knights displayed     Is only rind of pride and murderous sin;     Themselves are held the icy grave within.     Rust eats the casques enamoured once so much     Of death and daring – which knew kiss-like touch     Of banner – mistress so august and dear —     But not an arm can stir its hinges here;     Behold how mute are they whose threats were heard     Like savage roar – whose gnashing teeth and word     Deadened the clarion's tones; the helmets dread     Have not a sound, and all the armor spread,     The hauberks, that strong breathing seemed to sway,     Are stranded now in helplessness alway     To see the shadows, still prolonged, that seem     To take at night the image of a dream.     These two great files reach from the door afar     To where the table and the daïs are,     Leaving between their fronts a narrow lane.     On the left side the Marquises maintain     Their place, but the right side the Dukes retain,     And till the roof, embattled by Spignus,     But worn by time that even that subdues,     Shall fall upon their heads, these forms will stand     The grades confronting – one on either hand.     While in advance beyond, with haughty head —     As if commander of this squadron dread —     All waiting signal of the Judgment Day,     In stone was seen in olden sculptors' way     Charlemagne the King, who on the earth had found     Only twelve knights to grace his Table Round.     The crests were an assembly of strange things,     Of horrors such as nightmare only brings.     Asps, and spread eagles without beak or feet,     Sirens and mermaids here and dragons meet,     And antlered stags and fabled unicorn,     And fearful things of monstrous fancy born.     Upon the rigid form of morion's sheen     Winged lions and the Cerberus are seen,     And serpents winged and finned; things made to fright     The timid foe, alone by sense of sight.     Some leaning forward and the others back,     They looked a growing forest that did lack     No form of terror; but these things of dread     That once on barons' helms the battle led     Beneath the giant banners, now are still,     As if they gaped and found the time but ill,     Wearied the ages passed so slowly by,     And that the gory dead no more did lie     Beneath their feet – pined for the battle-cry,     The trumpet's clash, the carnage and the strife,     Yawning to taste again their dreadful life.     Like tears upon the palfreys' muzzles were     The hard reflections of the metal there;     From out these spectres, ages past exhumed,     And as their shadows on the roof-beams loomed,     Cast by the trembling light, each figure wan     Seemed growing, and a monstrous shape to don,     So that the double range of horrors made     The darkened zenith clouds of blackest shade,     That shaped themselves to profiles terrible.     All motionless the coursers horrible,     That formed a legion lured by Death to war,     These men and horses masked, how dread they are!     Absorbed in shadows of the eternal shore,     Among the living all their tasks are o'er.     Silent, they seem all mystery to brave,     These sphinxes whom no beacon light can save     Upon the threshold of the gulf so near,     As if they faced the great enigma here;     Ready with hoofs, between the pillars blue     To strike out sparks, and combats to renew,     Choosing for battle-field the shades below,     Which they provoked by deeds we cannot know,     In that dark realm thought dares not to expound     False masks from heaven lowered to depths profound.IXA NOISE ON THE FLOOR     This is the scene on which now enters in     Eviradnus; and follows page Gasclin.     The outer walls were almost all decayed,     The door, for ancient Marquises once made —     Raised many steps above the courtyard near —     Commanded view of the horizon clear.     The forest looked a great gulf all around,     And on the rock of Corbus there were found     Secret and blood-stained precipices tall.     Duke Plato built the tower and banquet hall     Over great pits, – so was it Rumor said.     The flooring sounds 'neath Eviradnus' tread     Above abysses many.                          "Page," said he,     "Come here, your eyes than mine can better see,     For sight is woman-like and shuns the old;     Ah! he can see enough, when years are told,     Who backwards looks. But, boy, turn towards the glade     And tell me what you see."                                 The boy obeyed,     And leaned across the threshold, while the bright,     Full moon shed o'er the glade its white, pure light.     "I see a horse and woman on it now,"     Said Gasclin, "and companions also show."     "Who are they?" asked the seeker of sublime     Adventures. "Sir, I now can hear like chime     The sound of voices, and men's voices too,     Laughter and talk; two men there are in view,     Across the road the shadows clear I mark     Of horses three."                        "Enough. Now, Gasclin, hark!"     Exclaimed the knight, "you must at once return     By other path than that which you discern,     So that you be not seen. At break of day     Bring back our horses fresh, and every way     Caparisoned; now leave me, boy, I say."     The page looked at his master like a son,     And said, "Oh! if I might stay on,     For they are two."         "Go – I suffice alone!"XEVIRADNUS MOTIONLESS     And lone the hero is within the hall,     And nears the table where the glasses all     Show in profusion; all the vessels there,     Goblets and glasses gilt, or painted fair,     Are ranged for different wines with practised care.     He thirsts; the flagons tempt; but there must stay     One drop in emptied glass, and 'twould betray     The fact that some one living had been here.     Straight to the horses goes he, pauses near     That which is next the table shining bright,     Seizes the rider – plucks the phantom knight     To pieces – all in vain its panoply     And pallid shining to his practised eye;     Then he conveys the severed iron remains     To corner of the hall where darkness reigns;     Against the wall he lays the armor low     In dust and gloom like hero vanquished now —     But keeping pond'rous lance and shield so old,     Mounts to the empty saddle, and behold!     A statue Eviradnus has become,     Like to the others in their frigid home.     With visor down scarce breathing seemed maintained     Throughout the hall a death-like silence reigned.XIA LITTLE MUSIC     Listen! like hum froth unseen nests we hear     A mirthful buzz of voices coming near,     Of footsteps – laughter – from the trembling trees.     And now the thick-set forest all receives     A flood of moonlight – and there gently floats     The sound of a guitar of Inspruck; notes     Which blend with chimes – vibrating to the hand —     Of tiny bell – where sounds a grain of sand.     A man's voice mixes with the melody,     And vaguely melts to song in harmony.       "If you like we'll dream a dream.         Let us mount on palfreys two;       Birds are singing, – let it seem         You lure me – and I take you.       "Let us start – 'tis eve, you see,          I'm thy master and thy prey.       My bright steed shall pleasure be;         Yours, it shall be love, I say.       "Journeying leisurely we go,         We will make our steeds touch heads,       Kiss for fodder, – and we so         Satisfy our horses' needs.       "Come! the two delusive things         Stamp impatiently it seems,       Yours has heavenward soaring wings,         Mine is of the land of dreams.       "What's our baggage? only vows,         Happiness, and all our care,       And the flower that sweetly shows         Nestling lightly in your hair.       "Come, the oaks all dark appear,         Twilight now will soon depart,       Railing sparrows laugh to hear         Chains thou puttest round my heart.       "Not my fault 'twill surely be         If the hills should vocal prove,       And the trees when us they see,         All should murmur – let us love!       "Oh, be gentle! – I am dazed,        See the dew is on the grass,       Wakened butterflies amazed         Follow thee as on we pass.       "Envious night-birds open wide         Their round eyes to gaze awhile,       Nymphs that lean their urns beside         From their grottoes softly smile,       "And exclaim, by fancy stirred,         'Hero and Leander they;       We in listening for a word         Let our water fall away.'       "Let us journey Austrian way,         With the daybreak on our brow;       I be great, and you I say         Rich, because we love shall know.       "Let us over countries rove,         On our charming steeds content,       In the azure light of love,         And its sweet bewilderment.       "For the charges at our inn,         You with maiden smiles shall pay;       I the landlord's heart will win         In a scholar's pleasant way.       "You, great lady – and I, Count —        Come, my heart has opened quite,       We this tale will still recount,         To the stars that shine at night."     The melody went on some moments more     Among the trees the calm moon glistened o'er,     Then trembled and was hushed; the voice's thrill     Stopped like alighting birds, and all was still.XIIGREAT JOSS AND LITTLE ZENO     Quite suddenly there showed across the door,     Three heads which all a festive aspect wore.     Two men were there; and, dressed in cloth of gold,     A woman. Of the men one might have told     Some thirty years, the other younger seemed,     Was tall and fair, and from his shoulder gleamed     A gay guitar with ivy leaves enlaced.     The other man was dark, but pallid-faced     And small. At the first glance they seemed to be     But made of perfume and frivolity.     Handsome they were, but through their comely mien     A grinning demon might be clearly seen.     April has flowers where lurk the slugs between.     "Big Joss and little Zeno, pray come here;     Look now – how dreadful! can I help but fear!"     Madame Mahaud was speaker. Moonlight there     Caressingly enhanced her beauty rare,     Making it shine and tremble, as if she     So soft and gentle were of things that be     Of air created, and are brought and ta'en     By heavenly flashes. Now, she spoke again     "Certes, 'tis heavy purchase of a throne,     To pass the night here utterly alone.     Had you not slyly come to guard me now,     I should have died of fright outright I know."     The moonbeams through the open door did fall,     And shine upon the figure next the wall.     Said Zeno, "If I played the Marquis part,     I'd send this rubbish to the auction mart;     Out of the heap should come the finest wine,     Pleasure and gala-fêtes, were it all mine."     And then with scornful hand he touched the thing,     And made the metal like a soul's cry ring.     He laughed – the gauntlet trembled at his stroke.     "Let rest my ancestors" – 'twas Mahaud spoke;     Then murmuring added she, "For you are much     Too small their noble armor here to touch."     And Zeno paled, but Joss with laugh exclaimed,     "Why, all these good black men so grandly named     Are only nests for mice. By Jove, although     They lifelike look and terrible, we know     What is within; just listen, and you'll hear     The vermins' gnawing teeth, yet 'twould appear     These figures once were proudly named Otho,     And Ottocar, and Bela, and Plato.     Alas! the end's not pleasant – puts one out;     To have been kings and dukes – made mighty rout —     Colossal heroes filling tombs with slain,     And, Madame, this to only now remain;     A peaceful nibbling rat to calmly pierce     A prince's noble armor proud and fierce."     "Sing, if you will – but do not speak so loud;     Besides, such things as these," said fair Mahaud,     "In your condition are not understood."     "Well said," made answer Zeno, "'tis a place     Of wonders – I see serpents, and can trace     Vampires, and monsters swarming, that arise     In mist, through chinks, to meet the gazer's eyes."     Then Mahaud shuddered, and she said: "The wine     The Abbé made me drink as task of mine,     Will soon enwrap me in the soundest sleep —     Swear not to leave me – that you here will keep."     "I swear," cried Joss, and Zeno, "I also;     But now at once to supper let us go."XIIITHEY SUP     With laugh and song they to the table went.     Said Mahaud gayly: "It is my intent     To make Joss chamberlain. Zeno shall be     A constable supreme of high degree."     All three were joyous, and were fair to see.     Joss ate – and Zeno drank; on stools the pair,     With Mahaud musing in the regal chair.     The sound of separate leaf we do not note —     And so their babble seemed to idly float,     And leave no thought behind. Now and again     Joss his guitar made trill with plaintive strain     Or Tyrolean air; and lively tales they told     Mingled with mirth all free, and frank, and bold.     Said Mahaud: "Do you know how fortunate     You are?" "Yes, we are young at any rate —     Lovers half crazy – this is truth at least."     "And more, for you know Latin like a priest,     And Joss sings well."                          "Ah, yes, our master true,     Yields us these gifts beyond the measure due."     "Your master! – who is he?" Mahaud exclaimed.     "Satan, we say – but Sin you'd think him named,"     Said Zeno, veiling words in raillery.     "Do not laugh thus," she said with dignity;     "Peace, Zeno. Joss, you speak, my chamberlain."     "Madame, Viridis, Countess of Milan,     Was deemed superb; Diana on the mount     Dazzled the shepherd boy; ever we count     The Isabel of Saxony so fair,     And Cleopatra's beauty all so rare —     Aspasia's, too, that must with theirs compare —     That praise of them no fitting language hath.     Divine was Rhodope – and Venus' wrath     Was such at Erylesis' perfect throat,     She dragged her to the forge where Vulcan smote     Her beauty on his anvil. Well, as much     As star transcends a sequin, and just such     As temple is to rubbish-heap, I say,     You do eclipse their beauty every way.     Those airy sprites that from the azure smile,     Peris and elfs the while they men beguile,     Have brows less youthful pure than yours; besides     Dishevelled they whose shaded beauty hides     In clouds."                "Flatt'rer," said Mahaud, "you but sing     Too well."                Then Joss more homage sought to bring;     "If I were angel under heav'n," said he,     "Or girl or demon, I would seek to be     By you instructed in all art and grace,     And as in school but take a scholar's place.     Highness, you are a fairy bright, whose hand     For sceptre vile gave up your proper wand."     Fair Mahaud mused – then said, "Be silent now;     You seem to watch me; little 'tis I know,     Only that from Bohemia Joss doth come,     And that in Poland Zeno hath his home.     But you amuse me; I am rich, you poor —     What boon shall I confer and make secure?     What gift? ask of me, poets, what you will     And I will grant it – promise to fulfil."     "A kiss," said Joss.                         "A kiss!" and anger fraught     Amazed at minstrel having such a thought —     While flush of indignation warmed her cheek.     "You do forget to whom it is you speak,"     She cried.               "Had I not known your high degree,     Should I have asked this royal boon," said he,     "Obtained or given, a kiss must ever be.     No gift like king's – no kiss like that of queen!"     Queen! And on Mahaud's face a smile was seen.XIVAFTER SUPPER     But now the potion proved its subtle power,     And Mahaud's heavy eyelids 'gan to lower.     Zeno, with finger on his lip, looked on —     Her head next drooped, and consciousness was gone.     Smiling she slept, serene and very fair,     He took her hand, which fell all unaware.     "She sleeps," said Zeno, "now let chance or fate     Decide for us which has the marquisate,     And which the girl."                         Upon their faces now     A hungry tiger's look began to show.     "My brother, let us speak like men of sense,"     Said Joss; "while Mahaud dreams in innocence,     We grasp all here – and hold the foolish thing —     Our Friend below to us success will bring.     He keeps his word; 'tis thanks to him I say,     No awkward chance has marred our plans to-day.     All has succeeded – now no human power     Can take from us this woman and her dower.     Let us conclude. To wrangle and to fight     For just a yes or no, or to prove right     The Arian doctrines, all the time the Pope     Laughs in his sleeve at you – or with the hope     Some blue-eyed damsel with a tender skin     And milkwhite dainty hands by force to win —     This might be well in days when men bore loss     And fought for Latin or Byzantine Cross;     When Jack and Rudolf did like fools contend,     And for a simple wench their valor spend —     When Pepin held a synod at Leptine,     And times than now were much less wise and fine.     We do no longer heap up quarrels thus,     But better know how projects to discuss.     Have you the needful dice?"                                "Yes, here they wait     For us."             "Who wins shall have the Marquisate;     Loser, the girl."                      "Agreed."                               "A noise I hear?"     "Only the wind that sounds like some one near —     Are you afraid?" said Zeno.                                "Naught I fear     Save fasting – and that solid earth should gape.     Let's throw and fate decide – ere time escape."     Then rolled the dice.                          "'Tis four."                                      'Twas Joss to throw.     "Six! – and I neatly win, you see; and lo!     At bottom of this box I've found Lusace,     And henceforth my orchestra will have place;     To it they'll dance. Taxes I'll raise, and they     In dread of rope and forfeit well will pay;     Brass trumpet-calls shall be my flutes that lead,     Where gibbets rise the imposts grow and spread."     Said Zeno, "I've the girl and so is best,"     "She's beautiful," said Joss.                                  "Yes, 'tis confess'd."     "What shall you do with her?" asked Joss.                                              "I know.     Make her a corpse," said Zeno; "marked you how     The jade insulted me just now! Too small     She called me – such the words her lips let fall.     I say, that moment ere the dice I threw     Had yawning Hell cried out, 'My son, for you     The chance is open still: take in a heap     The fair Lusace's seven towns, and reap     The corn, and wine, and oil of counties ten,     With all their people diligent, and then     Bohemia with its silver mines, and now     The lofty land whence mighty rivers flow     And not a brook returns; add to these counts     The Tyrol with its lovely azure mounts     And France with her historic fleurs-de-lis;     Come now, decide, what 'tis your choice must be?'     I should have answered, 'Vengeance! give to me     Rather than France, Bohemia, or the fair     Blue Tyrol, I my choice, O Hell! declare     For government of darkness and of death,     Of grave and worms.' Brother, this woman hath     As marchioness with absurdity set forth     To rule o'er frontier bulwarks of the north.     In any case to us a danger she,     And having stupidly insulted me     'Tis needful that she die. To blurt all out —     I know that you desire her; without doubt     The flame that rages in my heart warms yours;     To carry out these subtle plans of ours,     We have become as gypsies near this doll,     You as her page – I dotard to control —     Pretended gallants changed to lovers now.     So, brother, this being fact for us to know     Sooner or later, 'gainst our best intent     About her we should quarrel. Evident     Is it our compact would be broken through.     There is one only thing for us to do,     And that is, kill her."                            "Logic very clear,"     Said musing Joss, "but what of blood shed here?"     Then Zeno stooped and lifted from the ground     An edge of carpet – groped until he found     A ring, which, pulled, an opening did disclose,     With deep abyss beneath; from it there rose     The odor rank of crime. Joss walked to see     While Zeno pointed to it silently.     But eyes met eyes, and Joss, well pleased, was fain     By nod of head to make approval plain.XVTHE OUBLIETTES     If sulphurous light had shone from this vile well     One might have said it was a mouth of hell,     So large the trap that by some sudden blow     A man might backward fall and sink below.     Who looked could see a harrow's threatening teeth,     But lost in night was everything beneath.     Partitions blood-stained have a reddened smear,     And Terror unrelieved is master here.     One feels the place has secret histories     Replete with dreadful murderous mysteries,     And that this sepulchre, forgot to-day,     Is home of trailing ghosts that grope their way     Along the walls where spectre reptiles crawl.     "Our fathers fashioned for us after all     Some useful things," said Joss; then Zeno spoke:     "I know what Corbus hides beneath its cloak,     I and the osprey know the castle old,     And what in bygone times the justice bold."     "And are you sure that Mahaud will not wake?"     "Her eyes are closed as now my fist I make;     She is in mystic and unearthly sleep;     The potion still its power o'er her must keep."     "But she will surely wake at break of day?"     "In darkness."                   "What will all the courtiers say     When in the place of her they find two men?"     "To them we will declare ourselves – and then     They at our feet will fall."                                 "Where leads this hole?"     "To where the crow makes feast and torrents roll     To desolation. Let us end it now."     These young and handsome men had seemed to grow     Deformed and hideous – so doth foul black heart     Disfigure man, till beauty all depart.     So to the hell within the human face     Transparent is. They nearer move apace;     And Mahaud soundly sleeps as in a bed.     "To work."               Joss seizes her and holds her head     Supporting her beneath her arms, in his;     And then he dared to plant a monstrous kiss     Upon her rosy lips, – while Zeno bent     Before the massive chair, and with intent     Her robe disordered as he raised her feet;     Her dainty ankles thus their gaze to meet.     And while the mystic sleep was all profound,     The pit gaped wide like grave in burial ground.XVIWHAT THEY ATTEMPT BECOMES DIFFICULT     Bearing the sleeping Mahaud they moved now     Silent and bent with heavy step and slow.     Zeno faced darkness – Joss turned towards the light —     So that the hall to Joss was quite in sight.     Sudden he stopped – and Zeno, "What now!" called,     But Joss replied not, though he seemed appalled,     And made a sign to Zeno, who with speed     Looked back. Then seemed they changed to stone indeed.     For both perceived that in the vaulted hall     One of the grand old knights ranged by the wall     Descended from his horse. Like phantom he     Moved with a horrible tranquillity.     Masked by his helm towards them he came; his tread     Made the floor tremble – and one might have said     A spirit of th' abyss was here; between     Them and the pit he came – a barrier seen;     Then said, with sword in hand and visor down,     In measured tones that had sepulchral grown     As tolling bell, "Stop, Sigismond, and you,     King Ladisläus;" at those words, though few,     They dropped the Marchioness, and in such a way     That at their feet like rigid corpse she lay.     The deep voice speaking from the visor's grate     Proceeded – while the two in abject state     Cowered low. Joss paled, by gloom and dread o'ercast,     And Zeno trembled like a yielding mast.     "You two who listen now must recollect     The compact all your fellow-men suspect.     'Tis this: 'I, Satan, god of darkened sphere,     The king of gloom and winds that bring things drear,     Alliance make with my two brothers dear,     The Emperor Sigismond and Polish King     Named Ladisläus. I to surely bring     Aid and protection to them both alway,     And never to absent myself or say     I'm weary. And yet more – I, being lord     Of sea and land, to Sigismond award     The earth; to Ladisläus all the sea.     With this condition that they yield to me     When I the forfeit claim – the King his head,     But shall the Emperor give his soul instead.'"     Said Joss, "Is't he? – Spectre with flashing eyes,     And art thou Satan come to us surprise?"     "Much less am I and yet much more.     Oh, kings of crimes and plots! your day is o'er,     But I your lives will only take to-day;     Beneath the talons black your souls let stay     To wrestle still."                        The pair looked stupefied     And crushed. Exchanging looks 'twas Zeno cried,     Speaking to Joss, "Now who – who can it be?"     Joss stammered, "Yes, no refuge can I see;     The doom is on us. But oh, spectre! say     Who are you?"                  "I'm the judge."                                  "Then mercy, pray."     The voice replied: "God guides His chosen hand     To be th' Avenger in your path to stand.     Your hour has sounded, nothing now indeed     Can change for you the destiny decreed,     Irrevocable quite. Yes, I looked on.     Ah! little did you think that any one     To this unwholesome gloom could knowledge bring     That Joss a kaiser was, and Zeno king.     You spoke just now – but why? – too late to plead.     The forfeit's due and hope should all be dead.     Incurables! For you I am the grave.     Oh, miserable men! that naught can save.     Yes, Sigismond a kaiser is, and you     A king, O Ladisläus! – it is true.     You thought of God but as a wheel to roll     Your chariot on; you who have king's control     O'er Poland and its many towns so strong.     You, Milan's Duke, to whom at once belong     The gold and iron crowns. You, Emperor made     By Rome, a son of Hercules 'tis said;     And you of Spartibor. And your two crowns     Are shining lights; and yet your shadow frowns     From every mountain land to trembling sea.     You are at giddy heights twin powers to be     A glory and a force for all that's great —     But 'neath the purple canopy of state,     Th' expanding and triumphant arch you prize,     'Neath royal power that sacred veils disguise,     Beneath your crowns of pearls and jewelled stars,     Beneath your exploits terrible and wars,     You, Sigismond, have but a monster been,     And, Ladisläus, you are scoundrel seen.     Oh, degradation of the sceptre's might     And swords – when Justice has a hand like night,     Foul and polluted; and before this thing,     This hydra, do the Temple's hinges swing —     The throne becomes the haunt of all things base     Oh, age of infamy and foul disgrace!     Oh, starry heavens looking on the shame,     No brow but reddens with resentful flame —     And yet the silent people do not stir!     Oh, million arms! what things do you deter —     Poor sheep, whom vermin-majesties devour,     Have you not nails with strong desiring power     To rend these royalties, that you so cower?     But two are taken, – such as will amaze     E'en hell itself, when it on them shall gaze.     Ah, Sigismond and Ladisläus, you     Were once triumphant, splendid to the view,     Stifling with your prosperity – but now     The hour of retribution lays you low.     Ah, do the vulture and the crocodile     Shed tears! At such a sight I fain must smile.     It seems to me 'tis very good sometimes     That princes, conquerors stained with bandits' crimes,     Sparkling with splendor, wearing crowns of gold,     Should know the deadly sweat endured of old,     That of Jehoshaphat; should sob and fear,     And after crime th' unclean be brought to bear.     'Tis well – God rules – and thus it is that I     These masters of the world can make to lie     In ashes at my feet. And this was he     Who reigned – and this a Caesar known to be!     In truth, my old heart aches with very shame     To see such cravens with such noble name.     But let us finish – what has just passed here     Demands thick shrouding, and the time is near.     Th' accursed dice that rolled at Calvary     You rolled a woman's murder to decree     It was a dark disastrous game to play;     But not for me a moral to essay.     This moment to the misty grave is due,     And far too vile and little human you     To see your evil ways. Your fingers lack     The human power your shocking deeds to track.     What use in darkness mirror to uphold?     What use your doings to be now retold?     Drink of the darkness – greedy of the ill     To which from habit you're attracted still,     Not recognizing in the draught you take     The stench that your atrocities must make.     I only tell you that this burdened age     Tires of your Highnesses, that soil its page,     And of your villanies – and this is why     You now must swell the stream that passes by     Of refuse filth. Oh, horrid scene to show     Of these young men and that young girl just now!     Oh! can you really be of human kind     Breathing pure air of heaven? Do we find     That you are men? Oh, no! for when you laid     Foul lips upon the mouth of sleeping maid,     You seemed but ghouls that had come furtively     From out the tombs; only a horrid lie     Your human shape; of some strange frightful beast     You have the soul. To darkness I at least     Remit you now. Oh, murderer Sigismond     And Ladisläus pirate, both beyond     Release – two demons that have broken ban!     Therefore 'tis time their empire over man     And converse with the living, should be o'er;     Tyrants, behold your tomb your eyes before;     Vampires and dogs, your sepulchre is here.     Enter."                 He pointed to the gulf so near.     All terrified upon their knees they fell.     "Oh! take us not in your dread realm to dwell,"     Said Sigismond. "But, phantom! do us tell     What thou wouldst have from us – we will obey.     Oh, mercy! – 'tis for mercy now we pray."     "Behold us at your feet, oh, spectre dread!"     And no old crone in feebler voice could plead     Than Ladisläus did.                          But not a word     Said now the figure motionless, with sword     In hand. This sovereign soul seemed to commune     With self beneath his metal sheath; yet soon     And suddenly, with tranquil voice said he,     "Princes, your craven spirit wearies me.     No phantom – only man am I. Arise!     I like not to be dreaded otherwise     Than with the fear to which I'm used; know me,     For it is Eviradnus that you see!"XVIITHE CLUB     As from the mist a noble pine we tell     Grown old upon the heights of Appenzel,     When morning freshness breathes round all the wood,     So Eviradnus now before them stood,     Opening his visor, which at once revealed     The snowy beard it had so well concealed.     Thin Sigismond was still as dog at gaze,     But Ladisläus leaped, and howl did raise,     And laughed and gnashed his teeth, till, like a cloud     That sudden bursts, his rage was all avowed.     "'Tis but an old man after all!" he cried.     Then the great knight, who looked at both, replied,     "Oh, kings! an old man of my time can cope     With two much younger ones of yours, I hope.     To mortal combat I defy you both     Singly; or, if you will, I'm nothing loth     With two together to contend; choose here     From out the heap what weapon shall appear     Most fit. As you no cuirass wear, I see,     I will take off my own, for all must be     In order perfect – e'en your punishment."     Then Eviradnus, true to his intent,     Stripped to his Utrecht jerkin; but the while     He calmly had disarmed – with dexterous guile     Had Ladisläus seized a knife that lay     Upon the damask cloth, and slipped away     His shoes; then barefoot, swiftly, silently     He crept behind the knight, with arm held high.     But Eviradnus was of all aware,     And turned upon the murderous weapon there,     And twisted it away; then in a trice     His strong colossal hand grasped like a vice     The neck of Ladisläus, who the blade     Now dropped; over his eyes a misty shade     Showed that the royal dwarf was near to death.     "Traitor!" said Eviradnus in his wrath,     "I rather should have hewn your limbs away,     And left you crawling on your stumps, I say, —     But now die fast."                        Ghastly, with starting eyes,     The King without a cry or struggle dies.     One dead – but lo! the other stands bold-faced,     Defiant; for the knight, when he unlaced     His cuirass, had his trusty sword laid down,     And Sigismond now grasps it as his own.     The monster-youth laughed at the silv'ry beard,     And, sword in hand, a murderer glad appeared.     Crossing his arms, he cried, "'Tis my turn now!"     And the black mounted knights in solemn row     Were judges of the strife. Before them lay     The sleeping Mahaud – and not far away     The fatal pit, near which the champion knight     With evil Emperor must contend for right,     Though weaponless he was. And yawned the pit     Expectant which should be engulfed in it.     "Now we shall see for whom this ready grave,"     Said Sigismond, "you dog, whom naught can save!"     Aware was Eviradnus that if he     Turned for a blade unto the armory,     He would be instant pierced – what can he do?     The moment is for him supreme. But, lo!     He glances now at Ladisläus dead,     And with a smile triumphant and yet dread,     And air of lion caged to whom is shown     Some loophole of escape, he bends him down.     "Ha! ha! no other club than this I need!"     He cried, as seizing in his hands with speed     The dead King's heels, the body lifted high,     Then to the frightened Emperor he came nigh,     And made him shake with horror and with fear,     The weapon all so ghastly did appear.     The head became the stone to this strange sling,     Of which the body was the potent string;     And while 'twas brandished in a deadly way,     The dislocated arms made monstrous play     With hideous gestures, as now upside down     The bludgeon corpse a giant force had grown.     "'Tis well!" said Eviradnus, and he cried,     "Arrange between yourselves, you two allied;     If hell-fire were extinguished, surely it     By such a contest might be all relit;     From kindling spark struck out from dead King's brow,     Batt'ring to death a living Emperor now."     And Sigismond, thus met and horrified,     Recoiled to near the unseen opening wide;     The human club was raised, and struck again * * *     And Eviradnus did alone remain     All empty-handed – but he heard the sound     Of spectres two falling to depths profound;     Then, stooping o'er the pit, he gazed below,     And, as half-dreaming now, he murmured low,     "Tiger and jackal meet their portion here,     'Tis well together they should disappear!"XVIIIDAYBREAK     Then lifts he Mahaud to the ducal chair,     And shuts the trap with noiseless, gentle care;     And puts in order everything around,     So that, on waking, naught should her astound.     "No drop of blood the thing has cost," mused he,     "And that is best indeed."                                 But suddenly     Some distant bells clang out. The mountains gray     Have scarlet tips, proclaiming dawning day;     The hamlets are astir, and crowds come out —     Bearing fresh branches of the broom – about     To seek their Lady, who herself awakes     Rosy as morn, just when the morning breaks;     Half-dreaming still, she ponders, can it be     Some mystic change has passed, for her to see     One old man in the place of two quite young!     Her wondering eyes search carefully and long.     It may be she regrets the change: meanwhile,     The valiant knight salutes her with a smile,     And then approaching her with friendly mien,     Says, "Madam, has your sleep all pleasant been?"MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND.