Shapes of Clay | Page 3

with light!
II.
I know not if it was a dream. I came Unto a land where something
seemed the same That I had known as 't were but yesterday, But what it
was I could not rightly name.
It was a strange and melancholy land. Silent and desolate. On either
hand Lay waters of a sea that seemed as dead, And dead above it
seemed the hills to stand,
Grayed all with age, those lonely hills--ah me, How worn and weary
they appeared to be! Between their feet long dusty fissures clove The
plain in aimless windings to the sea.
One hill there was which, parted from the rest, Stood where the eastern
water curved a-west. Silent and passionless it stood. I thought I saw a
scar upon its giant breast.
The sun with sullen and portentous gleam Hung like a menace on the
sea's extreme; Nor the dead waters, nor the far, bleak bars Of cloud
were conscious of his failing beam.

It was a dismal and a dreadful sight, That desert in its cold, uncanny
light; No soul but I alone to mark the fear And imminence of
everlasting night!
All presages and prophecies of doom Glimmered and babbled in the
ghastly gloom, And in the midst of that accursèd scene A wolf sat
howling on a broken tomb.

ELIXER VITAE.
Of life's elixir I had writ, when sleep (Pray Heaven it spared him who
the writing read!) Sealed upon my senses with so deep A stupefaction
that men thought me dead. The centuries stole by with noiseless tread,
Like spectres in the twilight of my dream; I saw mankind in dim
procession sweep Through life, oblivion at each extreme. Meanwhile
my beard, like Barbarossa's growing, Loaded my lap and o'er my knees
was flowing.
The generations came with dance and song, And each observed me
curiously there. Some asked: "Who was he?" Others in the throng
Replied: "A wicked monk who slept at prayer." Some said I was a saint,
and some a bear-- These all were women. So the young and gay,
Visibly wrinkling as they fared along, Doddered at last on failing limbs
away; Though some, their footing in my beard entangled, Fell into its
abysses and were strangled.
At last a generation came that walked More slowly forward to the
common tomb, Then altogether stopped. The women talked Excitedly;
the men, with eyes agloom Looked darkly on them with a look of doom;
And one cried out: "We are immortal now-- How need we these?" And
a dread figure stalked, Silent, with gleaming axe and shrouded brow,
And all men cried: "Decapitate the women, Or soon there'll be no room
to stand or swim in!"
So (in my dream) each lovely head was chopped From its fair shoulders,
and but men alone Were left in all the world. Birth being stopped,
Enough of room remained in every zone, And Peace ascended
Woman's vacant throne. Thus, life's elixir being found (the quacks
Their bread-and-butter in it gladly sopped) 'Twas made worth having
by the headsman's axe. Seeing which, I gave myself a hearty shaking,
And crumbled all to powder in the waking.

CONVALESCENT.
What! "Out of danger?" Can the slighted Dame Or canting Pharisee no
more defame? Will Treachery caress my hand no more, Nor Hatred He
alurk about my door?-- Ingratitude, with benefits dismissed, Not close
the loaded palm to make a fist? Will Envy henceforth not retaliate For
virtues it were vain to emulate? Will Ignorance my knowledge fail to
scout, Not understanding what 'tis all about, Yet feeling in its light so
mean and small That all his little soul is turned to gall?
What! "Out of danger?" Jealousy disarmed? Greed from exaction
magically charmed? Ambition stayed from trampling whom it meets,
Like horses fugitive in crowded streets? The Bigot, with his candle,
book and bell, Tongue-tied, unlunged and paralyzed as well? The Critic
righteously to justice haled, His own ear to the post securely nailed--
What most he dreads unable to inflict, And powerless to hawk the
faults he's picked? The liar choked upon his choicest lie, And impotent
alike to villify Or flatter for the gold of thrifty men Who hate his person
but employ his pen-- Who love and loathe, respectively, the dirt
Belonging to his character and shirt?
What! "Out of danger?"--Nature's minions all, Like hounds returning to
the huntsman's call, Obedient to the unwelcome note That stays them
from the quarry's bursting throat?-- Famine and Pestilence and
Earthquake dire, Torrent and Tempest, Lightning, Frost and Fire, The
soulless Tiger and the mindless Snake, The noxious Insect from the
stagnant lake (Automaton malevolences wrought Out of the substance
of Creative Thought)-- These from their immemorial prey restrained,
Their fury baffled and their power chained?
I'm safe? Is that