In Divers Tones | Page 5

whispers stole?Into my brain, and there effaced?All human memories from my soul,--?An atom in a shifting waste.
Weird fingers, groping, strove to raise?Some numbing horror from my mind;?And ever, as it met my gaze,?The sharp truth struck me blind.
The keen edged breath of the salt sea?Stung, but a faint, swift, sulphurous smell?Blew past, and I reeled dizzily?As from the blink of hell,
One moment; then the swan-necked prow?Sustained me, and once more I scanned?The unfenced flood, against my brow?Arching my lifted hand.
O'er all the unstable vague expanse?I towered the lord supreme, and smiled;?And marked the hard, white sparkles glance,?The dark vault wide and wild.
Again that faint wind swept my face--?With hideous menace swept my eyes.?I cowered back in my straitened place?And groped with dim surmise,
Not knowing yet. Not knowing why,?I turned, as one asleep might turn,?And noted with half curious eye?The figure crouched astern.
On heaped-up leopard skins she crouched,?Asleep, and soft skins covered her,?And scarlet stuffs where she was couched,?Sodden with sea-water,
Burned lurid with black stains, and smote?My thought with waking pangs; I saw?The white arm drooping from the boat,?Round-moulded, pure from flaw;
The yellow sandals even-thonged;?The fair face, wan with haunting pain;--?Then sudden, crowding memories thronged?Like unpent sudden rain.
Clear-stamped, as by white lightning when?The swift flame rends the night, wide-eyed?I saw dim streets, and fleeing men,?And walls from side to side
Reeling, and great rocks fallen; a pall?Above us, an encumbering shroud?About our feet, and over all?The awful Form that bowed
Our hearts, the fiery scourge that smote?The city,--the red Mount. Clear, clear?I saw it,--and this lonely boat,?And us two drifting here!
With one sharp cry I sprang and hid?My face among the skins beside?Her feet, and held her safe, and chid?The tumult till it died.
And crouched thus at her rescued feet?Save her low breath, I heard alone?The sleepless ocean's ceaseless beat,?The surge's monotone.
TO FREDERICTON IN MAY-TIME.
This morning, full of breezes and perfume,?Brimful of promise of midsummer weather,?When bees and birds and I are glad together,?Breathes of the full-leaved season, when soft gloom?Chequers thy streets, and thy close elms assume?Round roof and spire the semblance of green billows;?Yet now thy glory is the yellow willows,?The yellow willows, full of bees and bloom.
Under their dusty blossoms blackbirds meet,?And robins pipe amid the cedars nigher.?Thro' the still elms I hear the ferry's beat.?The swallows chirp about the towering spire;?The whole air pulses with its weight of sweet,?Yet not quite satisfied is my desire!
IN SEPTEMBER.
This windy, bright September afternoon?My heart is wide awake, yet full of dreams.?The air, alive with hushed confusion, teems?With scent of grain-fields, and a mystic rune,?Foreboding of the fall of Summer soon,?Keeps swelling and subsiding, till there seems?O'er all the world of valleys, hills, and streams,?Only the wind's inexplicable tune.
My heart is full of dreams, yet wide awake.?I lie and watch the topmost tossing boughs?Of tall elms, pale against the vaulted blue;?But even now some yellowing branches shake,?Some hue of death the living green endows:--?If beauty flies, fain would I vanish too.
CONCERNING CUTHBERT THE MONK.
Cuthbert, open! Let me in!?Cease your praying for a minute!?Here the darkness seems to grin,?Holds a thousand horrors in it;?Down the stony corridor?Footsteps pace the stony floor.
Here they foot it, pacing slow,?Monk-like, one behind another!--?Don't you hear me? Don't you know?I'm a little nervous, Brother??Won't you speak? Then, by your leave,?Here's a guest for Christmas Eve!
Shrive me, but I got a fright!?Monks of centuries ago?Wander back to see to-night?How the old place looks.--Hello!?This the kind of watch you keep!?Come to pray--and go to sleep!
Ah, this mortal flesh is weak!?Who is saintly there's no saying.?Here are tears upon his cheek,?And he sleeps that should be praying;--?Sleeps, and dreams, and murmurs. Nay,?I'll not wake you.--Sleep away!
Holy saints, the night is keen!?How the nipping wind does drive?Through yon tree-tops, bare and lean,?Till their shadow seems alive,--?Patters through the bars, and falls,?Shivering, on the floor and walls!
How yon patch of freezing sky?Echoes back their bell-ringings!?Down in the gray city, nigh?Severn, every steeple swings.?All the busy streets are bright.?Many folk are out to-night.
--What's that, Brother? Did you speak?--?Christ save them that talk in sleep!?Smile they howsoever meek,?Somewhat in their hearts they keep.?We, good souls, what shifts we make?To keep talking whilst awake!
Christ be praised, that fetched me in?Early, yet a youngling, while?All unlearned in life and sin,?Love and travail, grief and guile!?For your world of two-score years,?Cuthbert, all you have is tears.
Dreaming, still he hears the bells?As he heard them years ago,?Ere he sought our quiet cells?Iron-mouthed and wrenched with woe,?Out of what dread storms who knows--?Faithfulest of friends and foes!
Faithful was he, aye, I ween,?Pitiful, and kind, and wise;?But in mindful moods I've seen?Flame enough in those sunk eyes!?Praised be Christ, whose timely Hand?Plucked from out the fire this brand!
Now in dreams he's many miles?Hence, he's back in Ireland.?Ah, how tenderly he smiles,?Stretching a caressing hand!?Backward now his memory glides?To old happy Christmas-tides.
Now once