Classic Poem

Long and long ago,
On a night of fear,
When something went to and fro,
That I felt but could not hear,—
When the nursery fire had dwyned,
My old nurse whispered it
To her gossip the chimney wind;
“Of doubt I've no' a bit,—
('Tis the weird of Eilrey,—)
That he ha' surely heard,
The fearsome eldritch bird;
That he ha' heard the call
Of the Bird of Eilrey …
God save us all! God save us all!”

My father died that night,
But 'twas many a day,
And the garden brimming with light,
Ere I found the heart to say:
“Mother, what manner of thing
Is the bird they name our weird;—
That fares on ghostly wing:
Is it truly to be feared,—
The Bird of Eilrey?”
Not again until she dies,
Will she stare with such sad eyes:
“May you never hear it call,
Donald of Eilrey!
For it withers all! It withers all!”

“But tell me, mother dear,
If I hear it cry,
Will it mean that death is near,
Or only some witchery?”
Then she caught me to her heart,
And her gaze groped for my soul:
“If we should be apart
When you hear that thing of dole
Little son of Eilrey,
Pray as none ever prayed,
That you may be undismayed,
That you may not heed the call
Of the Bird of Eilrey.
For it poisons all! It poisons all!”

My mother went the way
My father had taken,
And I had no heart for play
In that lovely place and forsaken.
But after long years, to me
Came love with a cup of glass,
And his smile of ecstasy,
“Drink! And your sorrow will pass,
My Lord of Eilrey!”
I drained that cup to the lees:
Then! From the darkling trees
On a sudden I heard the call
Of the Bird of Eilrey:
“Ah! Is that all? … Is that all?”

A full life and a long,
I have lived since then,
And good I have wrought and wrong,
Like a hantle of other men;
And gotten me glory and gold
And a lusty son to come after,—
Yet ever as I did hold
The cup of sorrow or laughter
The Weird of Eilrey
Like a chill mist stealing near
Would quench me, and I would hear
The soft, derisive call
Of the Bird of Eilrey:
“Ah! … Is that all? Is that all?”

And now my day is run,
And at last I'll know,
Why men, like shades in the sun,
Creep warily to and fro.
Whence is this bird all golden
That perches near my head?
And this other of iron moulden
That stalks along my bed?
Is the Lord of Eilrey
To die all, all alone
While two weird fowl make moan?—”
—Tolls the long, dirling call
Of the Bird of Eilrey,
The golden Bird of Eilrey:
“Ah-h! Is this all? Is this all?”
And in a voice of fate,
Replies its iron mate:
“Aye! This is all! This is all!”