Volume II Part 92 (2/2)

And then, Then I saw something more--Queen Mary's vault, And--it was open!...

Then, I heard a voice, A strange deep broken voice, whispering love In soft French words, that clasped and clung like hands; And then--two shadows pa.s.sed against the West, Two blurs of black against that crimson stain, Slowly, O very slowly, with bowed heads, Leaning together, and vanished into the dark Beyond the Catafalque.

Then--I heard him pray,-- And knew him for the man that prayed to me,-- Pray as a man prays for his love's last breath!

And then, O sirs, it caught me by the throat, And I, too, dropped upon my knees and prayed; For, as in answer to his prayer, there came A moan of music, a mighty shuddering sound From the great organ, a sound that rose and fell Like seas in anger, very far away; And then a peal of thunder, and then it seemed, As if the graves were giving up their dead, A great cowled host of shadows rose and sang;--

_Dies irae, dies illa Solvet saeclum in favilla, Teste David c.u.m Sibylla._

I heard her sad, sad, little, broken voice, Out in the darkness. 'Ay, and David, too, His blood is on the floors of Holyrood, To speak for me.' Then that great ocean-sound Swelled to a thunder again, and heaven and earth Shrivelled away; and in that huge slow hymn Chariots were driven forth in flaming rows, And terrible trumpets blown from deep to deep.

And then, ah then, the heart of heaven was hushed, And--in the hush--it seemed an angel wept, Another Mary wept, and gathering up All our poor wounded, weary, way-worn world, Even as a Mother gathers up her babe, Soothed it against her breast, and rained her tears On the pierced feet of G.o.d, and melted Him To pity, and over His feet poured her deep hair.

The music died away. The shadows knelt.

And then--I heard a rustling nigh the tomb, And heard--and heard--or dreamed I heard--farewells, Farewells for everlasting, deep farewells, Bitter as blood, darker than any death.

And, at the last, as in a kiss, one breath, One agony of sweetness, like a sword For sharpness, drawn along a soft white throat; And, for its terrible sweetness, like a sigh Across great waters, very far away,-- _Sweetheart!_

And then, like doors, like world-without-end doors That shut for Everlasting, came a clang, And ringing, echoing, through the echo of it, One terrible cry that plucked my heart-strings out, _Mary!_ And on the closed and silent tomb, Where there were two, one shuddering shadow lay, And then--I, too,--reeled, swooned and knew no more.

Sirs, when I woke, there was a broad bright shaft Of moonlight, slanting through an Eastern pane Full on her tomb and that black Catafalque.

And on the tomb there lay--my bunch of keys!

I struggled to my feet, Ashamed of my wild fancies, like a man Awakening from a drunken dream. And yet, When I picked up the keys, although that storm Of terror had all blown by and left me calm, I lifted up mine eyes to see the scroll Round the rich crest of that dark canopy, IN MY DEFENCE, G.o.d ME DEFEND. The moon Struck full upon it; and, as I turned and went, G.o.d help me, sirs, though I were loyal enough To good Queen Bess, I could not help but say, _Amen!_ And yet, methought it was not I that spake, But some deep soul that used me for a mask, A soul that rose up in this hollow sh.e.l.l Like dark sea-tides flooding an empty cave.

I could not help but say with my poor lips, _Amen! Amen!_ Sirs, 'tis a terrible thing To move in great events. Since that strange night I have not been as other men. The tides Would rise in this dark cave”--he tapped his skull-- ”Deep tides, I know not whence; and when they rose My friends looked strangely upon me and stood aloof.

And once, my uncle said to me--indeed, It troubled me strangely,--'Timothy,' he said, 'Thou art translated! I could well believe Thou art two men, whereof the one's a fool, The other a prophet. Or else, beneath thy skin There lurks a changeling! What hath come to thee?'

And then, sirs, then--well I remember it!

'Twas on a summer eve, and we walked home Between high ghostly hedges white with may-- And uncle Robin, in his holy-day suit Of Reading Tawny, felt his old heart swell With pride in his great memories. He began Chanting the pedlar's tune, keeping the time Thus, jingle, jingle, slowly, with his keys:--

I

Douglas, in the moonless night --_m.u.f.fled oars on blue Loch Leven!_-- Took her hand, a flake of white --_Beauty slides the bolts of heaven._-- Little white hand, like a flake of snow, When they saw it, his Highland crew Swung together and murmured low, ”Douglas, wilt _thou_ die then, too?”

And the pine trees whispered, weeping, ”_Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!_ Little white hand like a tender moonbeam, soon shall you set the broadswords leaping, It is the Queen, the Queen!” they whispered, watching her soar to the saddle anew.

”There will be trumpets blown in the mountains, a mist of blood on the heather, and weeping, Weeping, weeping, and _thou_, too, dead for her, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.”

II

Carry the queenly la.s.s along!

--_Cold she lies, cold and dead,_-- She whose laughter was a song, --_Lapped around with sheets of lead!_-- She whose blood was wine of the South, --_Light her down to a couch of clay!_-- And a royal rose her mouth, And her body made of may!

--Lift your torches, weeping, weeping, Light her down to a couch of clay.

They should have left her in her vineyards, left her heart to her land's own keeping, Left her white breast room to breathe, and left her light foot free to dance!

Hus.h.!.+ Between the solemn pinewoods, carry the lovely lady sleeping, Out of the cold grey Northern mists, with banner and scutcheon, plume, and lance, Carry her southward, palled in purple, weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping,-- _O, ma patrie, La plus cherie, Adieu, plaisant pays de France!_

Well, sirs, that dark tide rose within my brain!

I s.n.a.t.c.hed his keys and flung them over the hedge, Then flung myself down on a bank of ferns And wept and wept and wept.

It puzzled him.

Perchance he feared my mind was going and yet, O, sirs, if you consider it rightly now, With all those ages knocking at his doors, With all that custom clamouring for his care, Is it so strange a grave-digger should weep?

Well--he was kind enough and heaped my plate That night at supper.

But I could never dig my graves at ease In Peterborough Churchyard. So I came To London--to St. Mary Magdalen's.

And thus, I chanced to drink my ale one night Here in the Mermaid Inn. 'Twas All Souls' Eve, And, on that bench, where master Ford now sits Was master Shakespeare-- Well, the lights burned low, And just like master Ford to-night he leaned Suddenly forward. 'Timothy,' he said, 'That's a most marvellous ruby!'

My blood froze!

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