Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems Part 11

"O shall I slay him?--Satan, answer me-- "I cannot call on G.o.d for answer here.

"O Kate--!"

A voice from G.o.d came thro' the silent woods And answer'd him--for suddenly a wind Caught the great tree-tops, coned with high-pil'd snow, And smote them to and fro, while all the air Was sudden fill'd with busy drifts, and high White pillars whirl'd amid the naked trunks, And harsh, loud groans, and smiting, sapless boughs Made h.e.l.lish clamour in the quiet place.

With a shrill shriek of tearing fibres, rock'd The half-hewn tree above his fated head; And, tott'ring, asked the sudden blast, "Which way?"

And, answ'ring its windy arms, crash'd and broke Thro' other lacing boughs, with one loud roar Of woody thunder; all its pointed boughs Pierc'd the deep snow--its round and mighty corpse, Bark-flay'd and shudd'ring, quiver'd into death.

And Max--as some frail, wither'd reed, the sharp And piercing branches caught at him, As hands in a death-throe, and beat him to the earth-- And the dead tree upon its slayer lay.

"Yet hear we much of G.o.ds;--if such there be, "They play at games of chance with thunderbolts,"

Said Alfred, "else on me this doom had come.

"This seals my faith in deep and dark unfaith!

"Now Katie, are you mine, for Max is dead-- "Or will be soon, imprison'd by those boughs, "Wounded and torn, sooth'd by the deadly palms "Of the white, trait'rous frost; and buried then "Under the snows that fill those vast, grey clouds, "Low-sweeping on the fretted forest roof.

"And Katie shall believe you false--not dead; "False, false!--And I? O, she shall find me true-- "True as a fabl'd devil to the soul "He longs for with the heat of all h.e.l.l's fires.

"These myths serve well for simile, I see.

"And yet--Down, Pity! knock not at my breast, "Nor grope about for that dull stone my heart; "I'll stone thee with it, Pity! Get thee hence, "Pity, I'll strangle thee with naked hands; "For thou dost bear upon thy downy breast "Remorse, shap'd like a serpent, and her fangs "Might dart at me and pierce my marrow thro'.

"Hence, beggar, hence--and keep with fools, I say!

"He bleeds and groans! Well, Max, thy G.o.d or mine "Blind Chance, here play'd the butcher--'twas not I.

"Down, hands! ye shall not lift his fall'n head; "What cords tug at ye? What? Ye'd pluck him up "And staunch his wounds? There rises in my breast "A strange, strong giant, throwing wide his arms "And bursting all the granite of my heart!

"How like to quiv'ring flesh a stone may feel!

"Why, it has pangs! I'll none of them. I know "Life is too short for anguish and for hearts-- "So I wrestle with thee, giant! and my will "Turns the thumb, and thou shalt take the knife.

"Well done! I'll turn thee on the arena dust, "And look on thee--What? thou wert Pity's self, "Stol'n in my breast; and I have slaughter'd thee-- "But hist--where hast thou hidden thy fell snake, "Fire-fang'd Remorse? Not in my breast, I know, "For all again is chill and empty there, "And hard and cold--the granite knitted up.

"So lie there, Max--poor fond and simple Max, "'Tis well thou diest: earth's children should not call "Such as thee father--let them ever be "Father'd by rogues and villains, fit to cope "With the foul dragon Chance, and the black knaves "Who swarm'd in loathsome ma.s.ses in the dust.

"True Max, lie there, and slumber into death."

PART V.

Said the high hill, in the morning: "Look on me-- "Behold, sweet earth, sweet sister sky, behold "The red flames on my peaks, and how my pines "Are cressets of pure gold; my quarried scars "Of black crevase and shadow-fill'd canon, "Are trac'd in silver mist. How on my breast "Hang the soft purple fringes of the night; "Close to my shoulder droops the weary moon, "Dove-pale, into the crimson surf the sun "Drives up before his prow; and blackly stands "On my slim, loftiest peak, an eagle, with "His angry eyes set sunward, while his cry "Falls fiercely back from all my ruddy heights; "And his bald eaglets, in their bare, broad nest, "Shrill pipe their angry echoes: "'Sun, arise, "'And show me that pale dove, beside her nest, "'Which I shall strike with piercing beak and tear "'With iron talons for my hungry young.'"

And that mild dove, secure for yet a s.p.a.ce, Half waken'd, turns her ring'd and glossy neck To watch dawn's ruby pulsing on her breast, And see the first bright golden motes slip down The gnarl'd trunks about her leaf-deep nest, Nor sees nor fears the eagle on the peak.

"Aye, la.s.sie, sing--I'll smoke my pipe the while, "And let it be a simple, bonnie song, "Such as an old, plain man can gather in "His dulling ear, and feel it slipping thro'

"The cold, dark, stony places of his heart."

"Yes, sing, sweet Kate," said Alfred in her ear; "I often heard you singing in my dreams "When I was far away the winter past."

So Katie on the moonlit window lean'd, And in the airy silver of her voice Sang of the tender, blue "Forget-me-not."

Could every blossom find a voice, And sing a strain to me; I know where I would place my choice, Which my delight should be.

I would not choose the lily tall, The rose from musky grot; But I would still my minstrel call The blue "Forget-me-not!"

And I on mossy bank would lie Of brooklet, ripp'ling clear; And she of the sweet azure eye, Close at my list'ning ear, Should sing into my soul a strain Might never be forgot-- So rich with joy, so rich with pain The blue "Forget-me-not!"

Ah, ev'ry blossom hath a tale With silent grace to tell, From rose that reddens to the gale To modest heather bell; But O, the flow'r in ev'ry heart That finds a sacred spot To bloom, with azure leaves apart, Is the "Forget-me-not!"

Love plucks it from the mosses green When parting hours are nigh, And places it loves palms between, With many an ardent sigh; And bluely up from gra.s.sy graves In some lov'd churchyard spot, It glances tenderly and waves, The dear "Forget-me-not!"

And with the faint last cadence, stole a glance At Malcolm's soften'd face--a bird-soft touch Let flutter on the rugged silver snarls Of his thick locks, and laid her tender lips A second on the iron of his hand.

"And did you ever meet," he sudden ask'd, Of Alfred, sitting pallid in the shade, "Out by yon unco place, a lad,--a lad "Nam'd Maxwell Gordon; tall, and straight, and strong; "About my size, I take it, when a lad?"

And Katie at the sound of Max's name, First spoken for such s.p.a.ce by Malcolm's lips, Trembl'd and started, and let down her brow, Hiding its sudden rose on Malcolm's arm.

"Max Gordon? Yes. Was he a friend of yours?"

"No friend of mine, but of the la.s.sie's here-- "How comes he on? I wager he's a drone, "And never will put honey in the hive."

"No drone," said Alfred, laughing; "when I left "He and his axe were quarr'ling with the woods "And making forests reel--love steels a lover's arm."

O, blush that stole from Katie's swelling heart, And with its hot rose brought the happy dew Into her hidden eyes. "Aye, aye! is that the way?"

Said Malcolm smiling. "Who may be his love?"

"In that he is a somewhat simple soul, "Why, I suppose he loves--" he paused, and Kate Look'd up with two "forget-me-nots" for eyes, With eager jewels in their centres set Of happy, happy tears, and Alfred's heart Became a closer marble than before.

"--Why I suppose he loves--his lawful wife."

"His wife! his wife!" said Malcolm, in a maze, And laid his heavy hand on Katie's head; "Did you play me false, my little la.s.s?

"Speak and I'll pardon! Katie, la.s.sie, what?"

"He has a wife," said Alfred, "lithe and bronz'd, "An Indian woman, comelier than her kind; "And on her knee a child with yellow locks, "And lake-like eyes of mystic Indian brown.

"And so you knew him? He is doing well."

"False, false!" said Katie, lifting up her head.

"O, you know not the Max my father means!"

"He came from yonder farm-house on the slope."

"Some other Max--we speak not of the same."

"He has a red mark on his temple set."

"It matters not--'tis not the Max we know."

"He wears a turquoise ring slung round his neck."

"And many wear them--they are common stones."

"His mother's ring--her name was Helen Wynde."

"And there be many Helens who have sons."

"O Katie, credit me--it is the man."

"O not the man! Why, you have never told "Us of the true soul that the true Max has; "The Max we know has such a soul, I know."

"How know you that, my foolish little la.s.s?"

Said Malcolm, a storm of anger bound Within his heart, like Samson with green withs-- "Belike it is the false young cur we know!"

"No, no," said Katie, simply, and low-voic'd; "If he were traitor I must needs be false, "For long ago love melted our two hearts.

"And time has moulded those two hearts in one, "And he is true since I am faithful still."

She rose and parted, trembling as she went, Feeling the following steel of Alfred's eyes, And with the icy hand of scorn'd mistrust Searching about the pulses of her heart-- Feeling for Max's image in her breast.

"To-night she conquers Doubt; to-morrow's noon "His following soldiers sap the golden wall, "And I shall enter and possess the fort,"

Said Alfred, in his mind. "O Katie, child, "Wilt thou be Nemesis, with yellow hair, "To rend my breast? for I do feel a pulse "Stir when I look into thy pure-barb'd eyes-- "O, am I breeding that false thing, a heart?

"Making my breast all tender for the fangs "Of sharp Remorse to plunge their hot fire in.

"I am a certain dullard! Let me feel "But one faint goad, fine as a needle's point, "And it shall be the spur in my soul's side "To urge the madd'ning thing across the jags "And cliffs of life, into the soft embrace "Of that cold mistress, who is constant too, "And never flings her lovers from her arms-- "Not Death, for she is still a fruitful wife, "Her spouse the Dead, and their cold marriage yields "A million children, born of mould'ring flesh-- "So Death and Flesh live on--immortal they!

"I mean the blank-ey'd queen whose wa.s.sail bowl "Is brimm'd from Lethe, and whose porch is red "With poppies, as it waits the panting soul-- "She, she alone is great! No scepter'd slave "Bowing to blind creative giants, she; "No forces seize her in their strong, mad hands, "Nor say, "'Do this--be that!'" Were there a G.o.d, "His only mocker, she, great Nothingness!

"And to her, close of kin, yet lover too, "Flies this large nothing that we call the soul."

"Doth true Love lonely grow?

Ah, no! ah, no!

Ah, were it only so-- That it alone might show Its ruddy rose upon its sapful tree, Then, then in dewy morn, Joy might his brow adorn With Love's young rose as fair and glad as he."

But with Love's rose doth blow Ah, woe! ah, woe!

Truth with its leaves of snow, And Pain and Pity grow With Love's sweet roses on its sapful tree!

Love's rose buds not alone, But still, but still doth own A thousand blossoms cypress-hued to see!

PART VI.