Classic Poem

Like the cry of Despair, where the war-weapons rattle,
Or the moan of a god in some mythical battle,
Rung out o'er the senses of pain and of swouning
Above the death woe of immortal discrowning,
There came yesternight in the midst of my dreaming
A wail, waking visions of terrible seeming.

The fires of the sunset had burnt from the shadows
Their leashes, and slipt, they ran over the meadows,
Deepening up from the dulness and grayness of ashes,
To the hue of that deep wave the night-time that washes,
Where sorrow's black tresses are gathered up never,
But sweep o'er the red pillows ever and ever.

Thus startled from slumber, I fearfully listened:
The frost had been busy, and phantom-shapes glistened
Along the cold pane where the dead bough was creaking,
When, close in my chamber, I heard a low speaking;
And I said, " Wherefore comest thou, mystical spirit?
Have I evil or good at thy hands to inherit? "

Like a rose-vine entwining some ruinous column,
The sweet and the lovely were over the solemn,
As fell through the silence this cadence, replying:
" Watch with me, oh mortal, watch with me, I'm dying! "
And I answered, " I will, by the blessed evangel! "
Unknowing my guest, whether demon or angel.

It seemed, as I sat with the sad darkness holding
Communion, I almost could hear the shroud folding
About the still bosom and smoothly wound tresses
That love might imprison no more with caresses —
The half-smothered sobs, and the orphan-like calling,
With passionate kisses the dust over falling.

" Art thou dead? " I said, " thus doth my watch have its ending?
And needest thou not any more my befriending? "
" Nay, not dead, but fallen, and mortally wounded, "
The death-subdued accent along the dark sounded —
" Claimest thou of me largess? " " Yes, " said I, " thy story,
So number me swiftly the days of thy glory. "

Along the wild moorland the wind whistled dreary,
And low as a death-watch my heart beat, a-weary,
As like one beside the hushed portal of Aiden,
Awaiting the accent to soothe or to sadden,
I sat in expectancy, charmed and holy,
Till thus spake the spirit, serenely and slowly:

" On a bed of dead leaves and a snow-pillow lying,
The winds stooping round him, and, sorrowful, crying,
His beard full of ice, his hands folded from reaping,
My sire, when I woke into life, lay a-sleeping,
And so of my brief reign was given the warning,
Ere yet I beheld the sweet eyes of the morning.

" Blow winds of the wilderness," cried, I, " and cover
With dim dust the pallid corpse under and over,
For through the bright gates of the orient, sweeping,
The heralds of day come — I would not be weeping;
And putting away from my lip sorrow's chalice,
I left him beside the blue wall of my palace.

So, a twelvemonth agone, with my young wing expanded,
On the shores of my kingdom, a monarch I landed;
Star-lamps were aglow in the cloudy-lined arches,
As I sent the first embassy hours on their marches;
And day, softly wrapt in a fleece that was golden,
Came up when my council with light first was holden.

The silvery rings of two moons had their filling,
When the north drew his breath in, so bitterly chilling,
And clad in a robe of red hunter-like splendor,
On a hollow reed piping a madrigal tender,
Through meadow and orchard, came March, his loud laughter,
Half drowned, in the whine of the winds, crouching after.

Next came from the south land, one, fair as a maiden,
Her lap with fresh buds and green sprouting leaves laden;
Her slight dewy fingers with daffodils crowded,
Her lip ever smiling, her brow ever clouded;
But the birds on her flowery wake that came flying,
Beside a thick blossoming hedge, found her dying.

Blown, like a silvery cloud o'er the edges
Of morning, the elder-blooms swayed in the hedges,
The quail whistled out in the stubble, and over
The meadow the bee went in search of the clover;
When came, with a train of delights for her warders,
The dewy-eyed May, up the green river borders.

Bright ridges of bees round the full hive were humming,
Away in the thick woods the partridge was drumming;
The rush of the sickle, the scythe-stroke serener,
Were pleasantly mixed with the song of the gleaner,
When under the shadows of full-blowing roses
The days of the virginal June had their closes.

When oxen unyoked laid their foreheads together,
And berries were ripe for the school-boys to gather;
When sultry heats over the hill-tops were winking,
And down in the hollows the streamlets were shrinking;
When birds hushed their musical glee to a twitter,
Came July, with a mist of gold over her litter.

Like the slim crescent moon through an amber-cloud shining
Above the brown woods when the day is declining,
Among the ripe wheat-shocks the sickle was glowing,
And over the summer dark shadows went blowing,
When, crowned with the oat-flowers, heavy and yellow,
Came August, her cheek with the summer's sun sallow.

About the next comer deep calmness was lying,
And yet from her presence the wild birds went flying,
As out of the orchards and grape-woven bowers,
She gathered the fruit with no sigh for the flowers,
And shook down the nuts on the withering mosses,
Unmindful of all the bright summer-time losses.

When harvesters home from the cornfield were bringing
The baskets of ripe ears, with laughter and singing,
What time his past labor the husbandman blesses
In cups of sweet cider, just oozed from the presses,
Beneath the broad forest boughs, saddened in seeming,
And hooded with red leaves, October sat dreaming.

Winds for the dead flowers mournfully searching,
Tall phantoms that out of the darkness came marching,
Clouds, full of blackness and storms, fleetly flying,
Or on the bleak edges of winter-time lying,
Quenching with chilly rain Autumn's last splendor —
These were the handmaids that came with November.

Making the gentle kine, sorrowful lowing,
Turn from the tempest so bitterly blowing —
Now lying on slopes, to the southern light slanted,
Now filling the woods with hymns mournfully chanted,
I saw — my steps weakly beginning to falter —
The last Season lay his white gift on the altar.

Then I knew by the chill through my bosom slow stealing,
And the pang at my heart, that my dark doom was sealing,
And seeing before me the ever-hushed portal,
I sought to reveal to some pitying mortal,
The while from my vision the life-light was waning,
The gladness and grief of my bright and brief reigning.

Ah, many a poet I had whose sweet idyls
Made vocal the chambers of births and of bridals,
And many a priest, too, both shaved and unshaven,
To hide in the meal of the world the Word's leaven;
But still at the church and the merry mirth-making,
With the good and the gay there were hearts that were breaking.

Deeds darker than night and words sharper than daggers
Have peopled my wilderness places with Hagars,
The wayfaring man has been often benighted,
Where never a taper for guidance was lighted,
But over the desolate cloud and the scorning
Has risen the gladness that comes with the morning.

On the white cheek of beauty the blushes have trembled,
Betraying the heart that would else have dissembled,
When the eloquent whisper of young Love was spoken;
But oh, when the burial sod has been broken
For dear ones, with hands folded close for the sleeping,
The nights have been dismal with comfortless weeping.

Thus, mortal, I give to your keeping this story
Of transient dominion — its sadness and glory,
And while my last accents are mournfully spoken,
The sceptre I swayed, in my weak hand is broken,
And darkness unending my gray hair is hooding,
And over, and round me, the midnight is brooding. "

The silence fell heavy: my watching was over,
The old year was dead, and though many a lover
He had in his lifetime, not one would there tarry
To mourn at his death-bed — for all must make merry
About the young monarch, some grace to be winning,
With welcome or gift, while his reign was beginning.