Classic Poem

'Argantyr! awake—awake—
Hervor bids thy slumbers fly.
Magic chords around thee break;
Argantyr! reply—reply.'


In vain had they striven—those Beldames three—
With all their might of grammarye,
And many a mutter and many a hum,
To make the Dead Man from his tomb forth come.
For they had vowed by force of spell,
The reason why I dare not tell,
To drag him once more to light of day,
And bring him far and far away
From that his silent house of clay
Which, ere he came there, in grave-clothes dress'd,
He had sighed for, so oft, for his home of rest.

'Away, away, ye Mumblers three!
Away, quoth the Wizard, and leave him to me!
Ay, leave him to me, and I'll play him a stave,
That, I warrant, shall force him to stir in his grave,
And fumble from 'neath his coffin lid,
And, up, follow me wheresoever I bid.'
'But first, ye old Hags! go bring me my viol,
Which from Living—nor Dead—brooked never denial.
And my bow, which I strang, to suit such song,
Of a drowned witch's locks, both lank and long.
And deep howsoever his grave it may be,
Were it deep as a well, he shall list him to me.'
They have tottered them back and brought him the viol
Which from Living—nor Dead—brooked never denial;
And they cower them close to witness the trial;

Grinning and gibbering 'Now we shall see
If he, with his stave, doeth better than we.'
And that magical viol, oh! how was it made?
From a gibbeted skull which the winds had flayed
Of its dark flowing locks and each crinkle of skin,
Brown-shiny without, and hollow within.
With eye-holes for sound-holes; with neck-bone for neck;
While the strings to bridge up 'twas the nose gave its wreck.
For, somehow or other, nose, mouth, brow and chin,
Each ghost of a feature chimed wond'rously in,
To fashion the form of that strange violin;
Which, looking its player full up in the face,
Would mock him, erewhile, with a wickéd grimace,
As much as to hint 'Ere 'tis long—in my place.'

Yet the Wizard—he bated no jot of his pride;
But smiled him in triumph the head-stone beside.
For he felt 'neath his bow the throb of the stave
All eager to summon the Dead from his grave.
Then thus to his mocker, 'To-day I sway thee;
Come to-morrow what will—'tis small matter to me.'
And he bade forth the song. Nor sad—nor slow—
Like prophet's, who, constrained to show,
Reluctantly denounceth woe;
But brisk, as in merriment on it did go,
And we knew he was gibing the sleeper below.
And we saw, ere 'twas long, the round turf upride,
And split in the middle and fall on each side;

And lo! on his feet the Dead Man stood!
First—pausing awhile, as in puzzled mood,
Then—followed wherever the Wizard would.
While those Beldames three, in hideous glee,
Shouted and laughed the sight to see.