Classic Poem

How did it come to his mind? the fleshless and horrible dream—
Grewsome, cruel, and weird—making the murk more grim;
Standing stark-naked in bone, which the starlight sets all a-gleam—
Shooting his shot at the town, the little town silent and dim?

Said we not, each to the other, “Death is an Angel of Light!”
While our tears as they rolled gave the lie to our lips?
Here 's one paints us the thing awful, authentic, aright—
Tells the Truth straight out, from the skull to the spiked toe-tips!

So, if you opened this page an idle moment to soothe,
Madam! or Sir!—as may be—best close the volume for good;
Here 's no matter to flatter flesh and blood in their youth!
Here 's an Artist in earnest—Death's picture on worm-eaten wood!

But if you ask what he meant, yonder the Tuscan town lies
Under the curtains of midnight, spangled with planet and star,
All looking down so calm! so splendid! as if the eyes
Of numberless Angels were watching our one little world from afar.

And I hear on the rampart-stones the heel of the sentinel ring;
And I see him halt and count the chimes of the midnight bell,
And he listens towards us here;—“But 't is only the cicalas sing!”
And he shoulders his musket again, and passes the word, “All 's well!”

And away, within those walls, I know there is pleasure and pain;
(Ah me! the sorrows and joys wherewith one town may be fraught!)
There 's scented smoke from the censers, where the people pray in vain,
And a flare from the pharos-lantern to bring the feluccas to port.

And I seem to see in the gleam which hangs all over the town,
Cresset lights of a banquet, and merry torch-bearers who go—
Their jolly feet false with the wine—in laughter up and down,
With rose-crowns awry on their heads—and cornets that cheerily blow.

Ah, and I know that, beneath the beautiful roof of the night,
Bridal couches are spread, and lovers at last are one,
Who say, “If God would will that it never more should be light,
Then stay on the other side, and wait till we wish for thee, Sun!”

Laughter, and music, and banquets, and roses, and revelry,
And prayers in the churches to please the Keeper of heaven and hell,
And the ships with spices and bales ploughing bravely in from the sea,
And still that sentinel looks from the wall and cries, “All 's well!”

Doth he not see, close by, this spectre we see so plain,
Who blisters the growing grass with the bones of his clattering feet?
And makes the still air reek with the fester of live things slain,
And turns to corpse-light, on his skull, the starlight holy and sweet?

Cannot he hear the Voice—still—small—that comes with this thing?
Drives it, striding along; halts it, elbows and knees,
Says to the skeleton bowman, “Now fit thy shaft to the string,
Shoot me a shot at the town; for the hour is come to these!”

Cursed Bowman! who shoot'st with an arrow dipped in the pest!
Maker of all! Whose will is good, though Thou willest we die!
It is changed in that little town from joy at its gayest and best,
To cramps that curdle the blood, and tortures that glaze the eye.

The sentinel, careless of all, stalks quiet upon the wall;
But the pilot has yielded the helm of his vessel with a scream:
At the banquet the guests drop dead—the worshippers, priests, and all,
Fly! ere they chant “Amen;”—and that sweet bridal dream,

Which the lovers dreamed together—but half asleep—while their lips
Still kissed, for fear lest a minute from love's brief rapture be took—
Is ended in this, that one from the arms of the other slips,
And that other—chilled by the corpse—turns corpse herself, at a look.

Ah, Thou Lord, Thou God! Who sendest this pestilent wraith!
Giver of life, Who hast given the instinct to love to live,
Teach us another lesson—to render it back in faith,
When the messenger comes like this, with a ghastly message to give.

Ah, Thou Lord, Thou God! our hearts are the little town:
At the twanging of that black bow, ill fare they who there do dwell;
But help our souls to hear, through the darkness that settles down,
Thy sentinel on the wall, crying always to all, “All 's well!”