Classic Poem

Once, — though a lethargy oppressed my brain, —
Lying and brooding, eyelids both ajar,
I saw a pale and quivering flame of light
Flare on its torch, burn slowly down again,
Flicker and fail. And then I saw a star
That glimmered softly from the depths of night.
The moon shone in, but with so chill a beam
Methought 'twas like St. Elmo's fire in bloom
Upon some mast o'er darkened waves below,
Like phosphor-wood too or the moss-fed gleam
Of Will-o'-the-Wisp, or when above a tomb
On St. John's Eve we see a fitful glow.

The air was like to earth which, thinning, tends
To rise and float as vapor; it was dim
And thick and full of shadowy spectral things.
'Twas as when light with darkness meets and blends, —
A druid sheen, unnatural and grim,
Such as an ancient tale of witchcraft brings.

Dark forms I saw in that strange atmosphere,
Dead races of mankind that seemed to bide
With trustful expectation, rows on rows,
Until the light of morning should appear;
Silently there they slumbered side by side,
Layer by layer in their dream-repose.

Dimply as ocean-surges half-suppressed
I heard the hum of myriad voices rise,
Muffled as tones from muted harp-string sped;
I heard a murmur wash from east to west,
Ascending, falling, — questions and replies —
Which rolled like swelling billows to my bed.

II

Through the sounds I heard there
Ran a rhythmic sway,
But in every word there
Hidden meanings lay;
Every mystic token,
Every searching tone
In the least word spoken,
With a sigh was gone.

What my cold and clever
Mind would turn to thought,
Foiled my best endeavor,
All was harsh and naught.
Grief would seize impulsive
On that dream of death,
And a throe convulsive
Rack and stop its breath.
Thus the only trophy
Hades left with me
Was a crabbed strophe
Limping wearily.

III

Clamor of Albion's harp-strings,
Murmurs of song from the Northland,
Beowulf's story or Fingal's
Heard I or saw or perceived there
Glimmer and echo through Hades,
Dim and yet wondrously lovely.

Fables of Anglian monarchs,
Legends of witches from Denmark,
Sad-hearted Gaelic traditions,
Lays of the Grail and of Merlin
Filled mine ears full with the strains of
Heathenish bards from aforetime.

Half-Christian gnostic magicians,
Wise men who dwelt in the Eastland,
Seers with druidical knowledge
Such as men seek in the hidden
Depths of philosophers' stones, —
These filled with visions my chamber.

IV

I saw a sleeper's
Chin uplifted
From which a black beard
O'er silent mail
Flowed soft and graceful,
Above the collar
Arose a visage
Proud and pale.

I saw a singer's
Mournful forehead,
Dark hair encircling
The features all,
And vision-haunted
Were lips that erstwhile
Had sung perchance in
King Arthur's hall.

I saw his death-dim
Eyes unclosing
To seek for some one
He found not there;
Once more they shut then,
And in that moment
The apparition
Dissolved in air.

But for long after
I heard soft accents
Telling melodious
The old sad tale,
A half-forgotten
Minstrel saga
From some far Irish
Or English dale.

Did I not love a maiden
Was kind and fair to see?
Did I not sleep, and, dreaming, lay
My head upon her knee,
While the red sun behind the oaks
Was sinking mistily?

And had I not a bridal night
Graced by the stars' pale sheen,
While o'er us leafy branches waved
Their canopy of green,
And soft winds blew and wavelets beat
The reeds and rocks between?

She gave me her husband's royal
Gold chain, — my heart knows how
She fitted it about my head
And wound it o'er my brow;
Her soul she gave, and for my sake
She broke her holy vow.

Long, long our eyes were forced to drink
Of bitter tears their fill,
What time with melancholy smile
We loved through good and ill,
We loved in sin and happiness,
In shame and joy loved still.

At length I heard a monkish voice
Proclaim with accents dread:
" Fair is this life to look upon,
The cheeks of love are red;
But now thy loved one's hue is pale,
Osviva now is dead.

" Osviva now shall slumber
Full long in cold repose,
For slumber, dreams, and death at last, —
All these she freely chose,
And unrepentant, never
To heaven her spirit goes. "

Monk, 'tis but tales and legends,
By fools alone 'tis said
That, till the latest autumn
Its latest leaf has shed,
The Great Deliverer visits not
The city of the dead.

Have ages sighed above my soul
Since I was dead and gone?
I feel the day within me,
I know it soon will dawn,
And The Delivering Spirit
Will free us every one!

Like seas in motion
When the winds drive them,
Like a wave speeding,
The whisper went,
To tell of dawn in
The night of Hades,
A mystic message
Of wonderment.

Soon sank the murmur
Deep in the darkness,
Where on dream-pinions
My spirit soared,
Then the strange phantom
Rose again toward me, —
I saw the vision,
I caught the word.

Over the features
Fell for a moment
A gleam of brighter
Light than before,
But it was soft as
A ray of moonlight
Falling from Life's night
Through Hades' door.