Part 8 (2/2)

The feather would not flutter in her breath; And those who long had watched her slipped away, Too weary then to weep; They could do that next day-- They left her lonely on the bed, Under a long, glistening sheet, in feeble tallow-s.h.i.+ne, Rigid from m.u.f.fled feet to swathed head.

This in old days before the Turkish cure Had driven out the pox; Next morning, while slave carpenters Were hammering at the oblong box, The sun revived her and she breathed again, Like Lazarus, and in later years grew beautiful, And was the mother of strong men.

These things her father, master of an ancient place, Pondered, and read of men in antique times Who wakened in the charnel from a trance.

Often his eyes would rest on her askance, And fear grew on him, and strange dreams he had a-bed, Till waking and asleep he turned his head, Front-back, front-back, from side to side, Looking for Death. At last, one night He heard crisp footfalls in his room, And stared his soul out in the gloom, Peering until he died.

But when they broke the seals upon his will, They found each codicil and long bequest Was held in trust until The heirs should carry out his last request-- To burn his body (naming witnesses); And they, all eagerness to share, Prepared to carry out this strange behest.

A pile of lightwood on the river bank, Neighbors on horseback, and the slaves, With teeth as white as eyeb.a.l.l.s, rank on rank, Watched on the pyre the form wrapped in a shroud, Lonely among the lolling tongues of flames-- The smoke streamed, trailing in a saffron cloud, The greedy noise of fire grew loud, Then, ”whiff,” the shroud burned with a flare: The dead man's eyes looked down Like china moons upon the crowd.

They saw him slowly shake his head, The thing denied that it was dead, While from the blacks arose a babblement of prayer.

Surely the head must stop-- Not till the fire caved!

Then from the very top The loosened poll came with a leap, Bounding three times, it took the river-steep; Down, down the river bank--all they Ran after it like school boys for a ball.

G.o.d! How the thing could roll!

It seemed the devil kicked the leaping poll.

At last it stopped at bay, Staring across a tidal flat, Where spider lilies frightened day.

They buried it within a lonesome wood, With trembling hands, beneath a foreign stone.

But there were some who said It moved its lips; And when they went away, the earth stirred And they heard it moan.

Now it comes leaping down the tunnel roads Where the moss hangs like stalact.i.tes, Screaming out curses, snapping at the toads; Negroes who pa.s.s there on the moonless nights Behind them hear a sound that stops their breath.

The keen wind whistles through its teeth, And the white skull goes bounding by Looking for Death.

H.A.

THE BLOCKADE RUNNER

I

Three years!

Since I had seen the city, in the time We waited through the tenseness of the hours, While nerves were zither strings For fate to jar upon: All through that night we counted old St. Michael's chimes Now three o'clock-- The bells spoke as they had on marriage days, With high and silver-happy tongues Yet somehow they had gained an irony, For out across the quiet April bay Grim, new-built forts grinned at old Sumter Through the morning mist-- _One--two--three--four--_ And no sound yet! Then-- Thirty minutes like a life too long; A red flash dirked the night; I thought a voice cried, ”DOOM”; That was the gun that killed a million men.

G.o.d! How the city woke!

With what a rush of wonder in her streets, ”_Burr_” of strained voices, earthquakes of feet, Tramping to rolling drums, The crowd swept to the Battery.

Roofs were black with gazing folk in knots, Leveling their spygla.s.ses Like phalanx spears, From sea wall to the chimney tops.

Over the rippling harbor came The growling, bull-dog bark of culverins, Red rockets curved and plunged Across the dawn.

The world seemed drunk with confidence That day-- Some secret nervousness about the slaves; What they might think or say; But they did neither; The bugles shouted at the Citadel.

Hours were punctuated by glad bells, Soon to be hid away, And gales of laughter came from gardens, Where bright tear-dashed eyes must weep farewells The braver lips refused to falter-- Mouths then seemed only made to kiss For men in gray, Who left the ancient houses of proud names, Through magic gates upon that magic day When the lost cause was still-born in its hope.

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