The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Death-Wake

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Death-Wake

Author: Thomas Tod Stoddart

Commentator: Andrew Lang

Release date: August 27, 2005 [eBook #16601]

Most recently updated: December 12, 2020

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Sankar Viswanathan and the

Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEATH-WAKE ***

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

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

2

THE DEATH-WAKE

18

CHIMERA I

19

CHIMERA II

41

CHIMERA III

77

POEMS

105

THE IRIS

107

TO A SPIRIT

110

HER, A STATUE

113

TO A STORM-STAID BIRD

116

THE WOLF-DROVE

118

HYMN TO ORION

123

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 mediæval extravagance, to the dagger and the bowl, the cloak and sword, the mad monk and the were-wolf; the age of Pétrus 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 Agathé has hit on precisely the sort of fantasy which was about to inspire Théophile Gautier's Comédie 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 Théophile 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 Théophile 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 Æolian 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 wh. shd. 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:—Agathè

Was on the lid—a name. And who?—No more!

'Twas only Agathè.

'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 Agathè;

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 Agathè!"

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 Agathè, young Agathè,

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 Agathè!

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 Agathè—

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 Agathè, 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 Agathè;

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 Agathè be faithless, and forget?"

It was the third sad eve, he heard it said,

"Poor Julio! thy Agathè 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 Agathè 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 Agathè!

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? Agathè 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 Agathè!"

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 Agathè—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, Agathè!"

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 Agathè 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 Agathè 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 Agathè!

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 Agathè!

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, Agathè! 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 Agathè! 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 Agathè!

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 Agathè, 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:—Agathè!

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 Agathè!"

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 Agathè, 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, Agathè! 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, Agathè!—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 Agathè!

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 Agathè 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 Agathè!

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 Agathè!

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 Agathè—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 Agathè!

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 Agathè!

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 Agathè!

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 Agathè 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, Agathè! fair Agathè!—

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, Agathè!

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 Agathè!—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 Agathè!—

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 Agathè,

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 Agathè 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 Agathè!

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 Agathè?

"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, Agathè! 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 Agathè 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 Agathè!

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 Agathè 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 Agathè, 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, "Agathè!"

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 Agathè!

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 Agathè,

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 Agathè 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 Agathè

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 Agathè!"

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 Agathè.

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 Agathè!

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 aërial 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.

TO A SPIRIT

Spirit! in deathless halo zoned,

A chain of stars with wings of diamond,—

Is music blended into thee

With holy light and immortality?

For, as thy shape of glory swept

Through seas of darkness, magic breathings fell

Around it, like the notes that slept

In the wild caverns of a silver shell.

Thou camest, as a lightning spring

Through chasms of horrid cloud, on scathless wing;

Old Chaos round him, like a tiar,

Swathed the long rush of immaterial fire;

As thou, descending from afar,

Wast canopied with living arch of light,

Pale pillars of immortal star,

Burst through the curtains of the moonless night.

Phantom of wonder! over thee,

Trembles the shadow of the Deity;

For face to face, on lifted throne,

Thou gazest to the glory-shrouded One,

Where highest in the azure height

Of universe, eternally he turns

Myriads of worlds; with blaze of light

Filling the hollow of their golden urns.

Why comest thou, with feelings bound

On thy birth-shore, the long unenter'd ground?

To visit where thy being first,

Through the pale shell of embryo nothing, burst?

Or, on celestial errand bent,

To win to faith a sin enraptured son,

And point the angel lineament

Of mercy on a cross,—the Bleeding One?

Spirit! I breathe no sad adieu:

The altars where thou bendest never knew

Sigh, tear, or sorrow, and the night

No chariot drives behind the wheel of light;

Where every seraph is a sun,

And every soul an everlasting star.—

Go to thy home, thou peerless one!

Where glory and the Great Immortal are!

HER, A STATUE

Her life is in the marble! yet a fall

Of sleep lies on the heart's fair arsenal,

Like new shower'd snow. You hear no whisper through

Those love-divided lips; no pearly dew

Trembles on her pale orbs, that seem to be

Bent on a dream of immortality!

She sleeps: her life is sleep,—a holy rest!

Like that of wing-borne cloud, that, in the west

Laves his aërial image, till afar

The sunlight leaves him, melting into star.

Did Phidias from her brow the veil remove,

Uncurtaining the peerless queen of love?

The fluent stone in marble waves recoil'd,

Touch'd by his hand, and left the wondrous child,

A Venus of the foam! How softly fair

The dove-like passion on the sacred air

Floats round her, nesting in her wreathed hair,

That tells, though shadeless, of its auburn hue,

Bathed in a hoar of diamond-dropping dew!

How beautiful!—Was this not one of eld,

That Chaos on his boundless bosom held,

Till Earth came forward in a rush of storm,

Closing his ribs upon her wingless form?

How beautiful!—The very lips do speak

Of love, and bid us worship: the pale cheek

Seems blushing through the marble—through the snow!

And the undrap'ried bosom feels a flow

Of fever on its brightness; every vein

At the blue pulse swells softly, like a chain

Of gentle hills. I would not fling a wreath

Of jewels on that brow, to flash beneath

Those queenly tresses; for itself is more

Than sea-born pearl of some Elysian shore!

Such, with a heart like woman! I would cast

Life at her foot, and, as she glided past,

Would bid her trample on the slavish thing—

Tell her, I'd rather feel me withering

Under her step, than be unknown for aye:

And, when her pride had crush'd me, she might see

A love-wing'd spirit glide in glory by

Striking the tent of its mortality!

TO A STORM-STAID BIRD

Trembler! a month is past, and thou

Wert singing on the thorn,

And shaking dew-drops from the bough

In the golden haze of morn!

My heart was just as thou, as light—

As loving of the breeze,

That kiss'd thee in its elfin flight,

Through the green acacia trees.

And now the winter snow-flakes lie

All on thy widow'd wing;

Trembler! methinks I hear thee sigh

For the silver days of spring.

But shake thy plume—the world is free

Before thee—warbler, fly!

Blest by a sunbeam and by me,

Bird of my heart! good-bye!

THE WOLF-DROVE

No night-star in the welkin blue! no moonshade round the trees

That grew down to the sea-swept foot of the ancient Pyrenees!

The cold gray mantle of the mist, along the shoulders cast

Of those wild mountains, to and fro, hung waving in the blast.

A snow-crown rising on their brows, in royalty they stood,

As if they vice-reign'd on a throne of winter solitude;

Those hills that rose far upward, till in majesty they bent

Their world's great eye-orb on her own immortal lineament!

The howl, the long deep howl was heard, the rushing like a wave

Of the wolf train from their forest haunt, in some old mountain cave;

Like a sea-wave, when the wind is horsed behind its foamy crest,

And it lifts upon the shell-built shore, its azure-spotted breast.

They came with war-whoop, following each other, like a thread,

Through the long labyrinth of trees, in sunless archway spread;

Their gnarled trunks in shadowy lines rose dimly, few by few,

Mail'd in their mossy armouring,—a pathless avenue!

In sooth, there was a shepherd girl by her aged father's side;

He gazed upon her deep dark eyes, in glory and in pride;

The mother's soul was living there,—the image full and wild,

Of one he loved—of one no more, was beaming in her child.

And she was at her father's side, her raven tresses felt

Upon his care-worn cheek, as gay and joyfully she knelt,

Kissing the old man's tears away, by the embers burning faint,

While she sung the holy aves, and a vesper to her saint.

"Now bar the breezy lattice, love!—but hist! how fares the night?

Methought I heard the wolf abroad. Heaven help! I heard aright—

My mantle!—By the Mother Saint! our flock is in the fold?

How think you, love? wake up the hound, I ween the wolf is bold."

"Stay, stay; 'tis past!" "I hear it still; to rest, I pray, to rest."

"Nay, father! hold; thou must not go;" and silently she press'd

The old man's arm, and bade him stay, for love of Heaven and her:

His danger was too wild a thought, for so fond a girl to bear.

He kiss'd her, and they parted then; but, through the lattice low,

She gazed amid the vine-twigs pale, all cradled to and fro;

The holy whisper of the wind stole lightly by the eaves,—

A sad dirge, sighing to the fall of the winter-blighted leaves.

He comes not! 'Tis a dreadful thing to hear them as they rave,

The savage wolf-train howling, like the near burst of a wave.

She thought it was a father's cry she heard—a father's cry!

And she flung her from the cottage door, in startled agony.

Good Virgin save thee, gentle girl! they are no knightly train

That mark thee for their sinless prey—thou wilt not smile again;

The blood is streaming on thy cheek; the heart it ceases slow;

A father gazes on his child—God help a father's woe!

HYMN TO ORION

Orion! old Orion! who dost wait

Warder at heaven's star-studded gate,

On a throne where worlds might meet

At thy silver sandal'd feet,

All invisible to thee,

Gazing through immensity;

For thy crowned head is higher

Than the ramparts of earth-searching fire,

And the comet his blooded banner, there

Flings back upon the waveless air.

Old Orion! holy hands

Have knit thy everlasting bands,

Belted by the King of kings,

Under thy azure-sheathed wings,

With a zone of living light,

Such as bound the Apostate might,

When from highest tower of heaven,

His vaunting shape was wrathly driven

To its wane, woe-wall'd abode,

Rended from the eye of God!

Dost thou, in thy vigils, hail

Arcturus on his chariot pale,

Leading his sons—a fiery flight—

Over the hollow hill of night?

Or tellest of their watches long,

To the sleepless, nameless throng,

Shoaling in a wond'rous gleam,

Like channel through the azure stream

Of life reflected, as it flows,

In one broad ocean of repose,

Gushing from thy lips, Orion!

To the holy walls of Zion?

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.

LONDON & EDINBURGH

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEATH-WAKE ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

THE DEATH-WAKE

OR LUNACY A NECROMAUNT

IN THREE CHIMERAS

LONDON: JOHN LANE CHICAGO: WAY & WILLIAMS 1895

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION TO THE DEATH-WAKE

Piscatori Piscator

INTRODUCTION

THE DEATH-WAKE

OR LUNACY

Sonnet to the Author

CHIMERA I

CHIMERA II

SONG

SONG

TO THE HARP

CHIMERA III

POEMS

THE IRIS

TO A SPIRIT

HER, A STATUE

TO A STORM-STAID BIRD

THE WOLF-DROVE

HYMN TO ORION

Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. London & Edinburgh

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE