Nirvana Days Part 8

(_By Sir Giles, whom the Witch of Urm leads to Judas Iscariot_)

Against a castle moated gloomily by a bitter drain of blood, From whose fetid wave contumely Of all truth was reeking fumily And infectiously, I stood; Waiting for her sign-- A shriek repeated nine.

I shrank at every aspish quivering fear set crawling in my breast.

But betimes I felt a s.h.i.+vering Shriek cut ear and brain with slivering Stings of terror, sin, unrest-- Christ! it raised the dead Out of the moat's black bed.

Nine times--and then across the thickening reek a rusty draw was dropped; Thro portcullis sped a quickening Shadow past to where with sickening Feet, befixed by awe I stopped-- There she laughed a laugh No devil's soul could quaff.

I swear its clamor tore the stuttering leaves from shrub and shrunken tree; Swear no limbo e'er heard muttering Like that sp.a.w.n of echoes sputtering Midnight with their drunken glee-- Yet, ere half were done, I could not hear a one.

She put her finger burning eerily to my lips--I heard them lock.

Led me then a marsh-way, cheerily-- Tho the quick ooze spurted drearily Thro root-rotten curd and rock.

Things like water-ghouls Slid slimily in pools.

She stepped just once upon a hideous burrow, dank and haired with gra.s.s; Fixed upon me eyes perfidious As a fiend's are, yet insidious-- Questioned if I dared to pa.s.s.

"I will search all h.e.l.l To find him," from me fell.

And so was drawn thro dark cadaverous with the sound of gabbling dead.

Where we heard them hoot palaverous Drivel learned beneath unsavorous Moulds, and saw a glutton's head Grin to a hissing bat, That sc.r.a.ped him as he spat.

Witch she was, I knew, turned shepherdess to a soul blind as a sheep's.

But I dogged her on o'er jeopardous Steeps down which she sped with leopardess Limbs into miasmic deeps.

"Swim," she gasped behind-- Then like a she-wolf whined.

It almost seemed to me as deadening as the sluice of dreary Styx.

Fire and foulness mixed with leadening Slush I drank; but swam the reddening Stuff a league with weary licks.

Up a sulphurous bank We climbed, and there I sank.

Again she laughed that laugh--a shrivelling, ghastly, gaunt, uncanny spate.

Up I sprang and cursed my snivelling Soul for weariness--for drivelling, And for so forgetting Hate.

"You will find him there"

She pointed--thro her hair.

I write these words from h.e.l.l where bloodily locked with him in fight I woke.

Where we fall down caverns ruddily Spilt with glazing gore and muddily Dashed with stagnant night and smoke.

Yet I do not care, For he groans by me--there.

AT THE HELM

(_Nova Scotian_)

Fog, and a wind that blows the sea Blindly into my eyes.

And I know not if my soul shall be When the day dies.

But if it be not and I lose All that men live to gain-- I who have little known but hues Of wind and rain--

Still I shall envy no man's lot, For I have held this great, Never in whines to have forgot That Fate is Fate.

DEAD LOVE

If this should never end-- This wandering in oblivious mood Along a rutless road that leads From wood to deeper wood-- This crunching with unheedful foot Acorns, I think, and withered leaves ...

Perhaps a rotten root--

If this should never end-- This seeing with insentient eyes Something that seems like earth, and, too, Like overbending skies; This feeling, well--that time is s.p.a.ce, s.p.a.ce, time; and each a pallid gla.s.s In which Life sees her face--

If it should never end-- The road, the wandering and the feel Of dead infinities that seem O'er our dead sense to steal, And like seas cease above-- Would it much matter, love?

MORTAL SIN

(_Song for a drama_)

Much the wind Knows of my heart, Though he whispers in my ear That he has seen me burn and start When I dream of your breast, my dear.

Much the wind Knows of my soul!

For no soul has he to lose On a mistress who can dole Kisses that drug as poison-dews.

SEA-MAD

(_A Breton Maid_)

Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me!

One said: "Away! he is dead!

Upon my foam I have flung his head!

Go back to your cote, you shall never wed!-- (Nor he!)"

Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me.

Two brake.

The third with a quake Cried loud, "O maid, I'll find for thy sake His dead lost body: prepare his wake!"

(And back it plunged to the sea!)

Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me.

One bore-- And swept on the sh.o.r.e-- His pale, pale face I shall kiss no more!