Читать книгу The Death-Wake - Stoddart Thomas Tod - Страница 3

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 wh. shd. be rich & fair

Into a medley of creations foul,

As if a Seraph would become a Goul?

1834

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 of amethyst.

And who was he? A monk. And those who knew

Yclept him Julio; but they were few:

And others named him as a nameless one, —

A dark, sad-hearted being, who had none

But bitter feelings, and a cast of sadness,

That fed the wildest of all curses – madness!

But he was, what none knew, of lordly line,

That fought in the far land of Palestine,

Where, under banners of the cross, they fell,

Smote by the armies of the infidel.

And Julio was the last; alone, alone!

A sad, unfriended orphan, that had gone

Into the world, to murmur and to die,

Like the cold breezes that are passing by!

And few they were that bade him to their board;

His fortunes now were over, and the sword

Of his proud ancestry dishonour'd – left

To moulder in its sheath – a hated gift!

Ay! it was so; and Julio had fain

Have been a warrior; but his very brain

Grew fever'd at the sickly thought of death,

And to be stricken with a want of breath! —

To be the food of worms – inanimate,

And cold as winter, – and as desolate!

And then to waste away, and be no more

Than the dark dust! – The thought was like a sore

That gather'd in his heart; and he would say, —

"A curse be on their laurels!" and decay

Came over them; the deeds that they had done

Had fallen with their fortunes; and anon

Was Julio forgotten, and his line —

No wonder for this frenzied tale of mine!

Oh! he was wearied of this passing scene!

But loved not death: his purpose was between

Life and the grave; and it would vibrate there,

Like a wild bird that floated far and fair

Betwixt the sun and sea!

He went, and came,

And thought, and slept, and still awoke the same, —

A strange, strange youth; and he would look all night

Upon the moon and stars, and count the flight

Of the sea waves, and let the evening wind

Play with his raven tresses, or would bind

Grottoes of birch, wherein to sit and sing:

And peasant girls would find him sauntering,

To gaze upon their features, as they met,

In laughter, under some green arboret.

At last, he became monk, and, on his knees,

Said holy prayers, and with wild penances

Made sad atonement; and the solemn whim,

That, like a shadow, loiter'd over him,

Wore off, even like a shadow. He was cursed

With none of the mad thoughts that were at first

The poison of his quiet; but he grew

To love the world and its wild laughter too,

As he had known before; and wish'd again

To join the very mirth he hated then!

He durst not break the vow – he durst not be

The one he would – and his heart's harmony

Became a tide of sorrow. Even so,

He felt hope die, – in madness and in woe!

But there came one – and a most lovely one

As ever to the warm light of the sun

Threw back her tresses, – a fair sister girl,

With a brow changing between snow and pearl,

And the blue eyes of sadness, fill'd with dew

Of tears, – like Heaven's own melancholy blue, —

So beautiful, so tender; and her form

Was graceful as a rainbow in a storm,

Scattering gladness on the face of sorrow —

Oh! I had fancied of the hues that borrow

Their brightness from the sun; but she was bright

In her own self, – a mystery of light!

With feelings tender as a star's own hue,

Pure as the morning star! as true, as true;

For it will glitter in each early sky,

And her first love be love that lasteth aye!

And this was Agathè, young Agathè,

A motherless, fair girl: and many a day

She wept for her lost parent. It was sad

To see her infant sorrow; how she bade

The flow of her wild spirits fall away

To grief, like bright clouds in a summer day

Melting into a shower: and it was sad

Almost to think she might again be glad,

Her beauty was so chaste, amid the fall

Of her bright tears. Yet, in her father's hall,

She had lived almost sorrowless her days:

But he felt no affection for the gaze

Of his fair girl; and when she fondly smiled,

He bade no father's welcome to the child,

But even told his wish, and will'd it done,

For her to be sad-hearted – and a nun!

And so it was. She took the dreary veil,

A hopeless girl! and the bright flush grew pale

Upon her cheek: she felt, as summer feels

The winds of autumn and the winter chills,

That darken his fair suns. – It was away,

Feeding on dreams, the heart of Agathè!

The vesper prayers were said, and the last hymn

Sung to the Holy Virgin. In the dim,

Gray aisle was heard a solitary tread,

As of one musing sadly on the dead —

'Twas Julio; it was his wont to be

Often alone within the sanctuary;

But now, not so – another: it was she!

Kneeling in all her beauty, like a saint

Before a crucifix; but sad and faint

The tone of her devotion, as the trill

Of a moss-burden'd, melancholy rill.

And Julio stood before her; – 'twas as yet

The hour of the pale twilight – and they met

Each other's gaze, till either seem'd the hue

Of deepest crimson; but the ladye threw

Her veil above her features, and stole by

Like a bright cloud, with sadness and a sigh!

Yet Julio still stood gazing and alone,

A dreamer! – "Is the sister ladye gone?"

He started at the silence of the air

That slumber'd over him – she is not there.

And either slept not through the live-long night,

Or slept in fitful trances, with a bright,

Fair dream upon their eyelids: but they rose

In sorrow from the pallet of repose;

For the dark thought of their sad destiny

Came o'er them, like a chasm of the deep sea,

That was to rend their fortunes; and at eve

They met again, but, silent, took their leave,

As they did yesterday: another night,

And neither spake awhile – A pure delight

Had chasten'd love's first blushes: silently

Gazed Julio on the gentle Agathè —

At length, "Fair Nun!" – She started, and held fast

Her bright hand on her lip – "the past, the past,

And the pale future! There be some that lie

Under those marble urns – I know not why,

But I were better in that only calm,

Than be as I have been, perhaps, and am.

The past! – ay! it hath perish'd; never, never,

Would I recall it to be blest for ever:

The future it must come – I have a vow" —

And his cold hand rose trembling to his brow.

"True, true, I have a vow. Is not the moon

Abroad, fair Nun?" – "Indeed! so very soon?"

Said Agathè, and "I must then away." —

"Stay, love! 'tis early yet; stay, angel, stay!"

But she was gone: – yet they met many a time

In the lone chapel, after vesper chime —

They met in love and fear.

One weary day,

And Julio saw not his loved Agathè;

She was not in the choir of sisterhood

That sang the evening anthem, and he stood

Like one that listen'd breathlessly awhile;

But stranger voices chanted through the aisle.

She was not there; and, after all were gone,

He linger'd: the stars came – he linger'd on,

Like a dark fun'ral image on the tomb

Of a lost hope. He felt a world of gloom

Upon his heart – a solitude – a chill.

The pale morn rose, and still, he linger'd still.

And the next vesper toll'd; nor yet, nor yet —