The Death-Wake | Page 4

his life was none the less happy and fortunate. Of the many brilliant
men whom he knew intimately--Wilson, Aytoun, Ferrier, Glassford
Bell, and others--perhaps none, not even Hogg, recognised the grace of
the Muse which (in my poor opinion) Mr. Stoddart possessed. His
character was not in the least degree soured by neglect or fretted by
banter. Not to over-estimate oneself is a virtue very rare among poets,
and certainly does not lead to public triumphs. Modesty is apt to
accompany the sense of humour which alleviates life, while it is an
almost insuperable bar to success.

Mr. Stoddart died on November 22nd, 1880. His last walk was to Kelso
Bridge "to look at the Tweed," which now murmurs by his grave the
self-same song that it sings beside Sir Walter's tomb in Dryburgh
Abbey. We leave his poem to the judgment of students of poetry, and
to him we say his own farewell--
Sorrow, sorrow speed away
To our angler's quiet mound,
With the
old pilgrim, twilight grey,
Enter thou the holy ground.
There he sleeps, whose heart was twined
With wild stream and
wandering burn,
Wooer of the western wind,
Watcher of the April
morn.
A.L.
THE DEATH-WAKE
OR LUNACY
Sonnet to the Author
_O wormy Thomas Stoddart who inheritest
Rich thoughts and
loathsome, nauseous words, & rare!
Tell me, my friend, why is it that
thou ferretest
And gropest in each death-corrupted lair?
Seek'st thou
for maggots, such as have affinity
With those in thine own brain? or
dost thou think
That all is sweet which hath a horrid stink?
Why
dost thou make Hautgout thy sole divinity?
Here is enough of genius
to convert
Vile dung to precious diamonds, and to spare,
Then why
transform the diamond into dirt,
And change thy mind w^h. sh^d. be
rich & fair
Into a medley of creations foul,
As if a Seraph would
become a Goul?_
W.E.A.
1834
CHIMERA I

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

With cowl, and scapular, and rosary
On to the sainted oriel, where
stood,
By the rich altar, a fair sisterhood--
A weeping group of
virgins! one or two
Bent forward to a bier, of solemn hue,
Whereon
a bright and stately coffin lay,
With its black pall flung over:--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