Part 18 (1/2)

Squat-nosed and broad, of big and pompous port; A tavern visage, apoplexy haunts, All pimple-puffed; the Falstaff-like resort Of fat debauchery, whose veined cheek flaunts A flabby purple: rusty-spurred he stands In rakeh.e.l.l boots and belt, and hanger that Claps when, with greasy gauntlets on his hands, He swaggers past in cloak and slouch-plumed hat.

Aggression marches armies in his words; And in his oaths great deeds ride cap-a-pie; His looks, his gestures breathe the breath of swords; And in his carriage camp all wars to be: With him of battles there shall be no lack While buxom wenches are and stoops of sack.

THE WITCH.

She gropes and hobbies, where the dropsied rocks Are hairy with the lichens and the twist Of knotted wolf's-bane, mumbling in the mist, Hawk-nosed and wrinkle-eyed with scrawny locks.

At her bent back the sick-faced moonlight mocks, Like some lewd evil whom the Fiend hath kissed; Thrice at her feet the slipping serpent hissed, And thrice the owl called to the forest fox.-- What sabboth brew dost now intend? What root Dost seek for, seal for what satanic spell Of incantations and demoniac fire?

From thy rude hut, hill-huddled in the brier, What dark familiar points thy sure pursuit, With burning eyes, gaunt with the glow of h.e.l.l?

THE SOMNAMBULIST.

Oaks and a water. By the water--eyes, Ice-green and steadfast as cold stars; and hair Yellow as eyes deep in a she-wolf's lair; And limbs, like darkness that the lightning dyes.

The humped oaks stand black under iron skies; The dry wind whirls the dead leaves everywhere; Wild on the water falls a vulture glare Of moon, and wild the circling raven flies.

Again the power of this thing hath laid Illusion on him: and he seems to hear A sweet voice calling him beyond his gates To longed-for love; he comes; each forest glade Seems reaching out white arms to draw him near-- Nearer and nearer to the death that waits.

OPIUM.

_On reading De Quincey's ”Confessions of an Opium Eater.”_

I seemed to stand before a temple walled From shadows and night's unrealities; Filled with dark music of dead memories, And voices, lost in darkness, aye that called.

I entered. And, beneath the dome's high-halled Immensity, one forced me to my knees Before a blackness--throned 'mid semblances And spectres--crowned with flames of emerald.

Then, lo! two shapes that thundered at mine ears The names of Horror and Oblivion, Priests of this G.o.d,--and bade me die and dream.

Then, in the heart of h.e.l.l, a thousand years Meseemed I lay--dead; while the iron stream Of Time beat out the seconds, one by one.

MUSIC AND SLEEP.

These have a life that hath no part in death; These circ.u.mscribe the soul and make it strong; Between the breathing of a dream and song, Building a world of beauty in a breath.

Unto the heart the voice of this one saith Ideals, its emotions live among; Unto the mind the other speaks a tongue Of visions, where the guess, we christen faith, May face the fact of immortality-- As may a rose its unembodied scent, Or star its own reflected radiance.

We do not know these save unconsciously.

To whose mysterious shadows G.o.d hath lent No certain shape, no certain countenance.

AMBITION.