In the Cave -

Where once the lynx and panther made his house,
Or the fat bear brought up his family,
Poor nurslings of the Wild, I find my place
Of shelter from the world, and man remote.
Nearly two decades of this mortal coil
Run off; my sands of life mostly run out;
And yet the everlasting voice I hear,
And never find the silence.
On these rocks,
Old as the pillars of the earth, I make
My couch, table, and seat; and the iron door
Grates on its hinges to my touch alone, —
Alone, alone, alone by night, by day.
No friendly voice e'er sweetness to my ear;
No friendly thought e'er warming to my heart;
Seared by misfortune, with its life-blood scant,
And soon to stop!
Alone! Yes. But I hear!
Was that a human step, or a dry leaf
Dropped from the oak-tree? And that echo soft, —
Was it the splinter of the waterfall
That down the glen flies from the moonlight's clutch?
This awful silence! And I ever hear
Sounds that surprise me, — born, I feel, of fear;
Sounds faint and far, that drench me with affright,
Here as I sit, and see the bloodstained scroll, —
Those letters that I plucked from out his breast,
As slowly from his heart the red drop oozed, —
Those, and her portrait, and his own!
Lisa!
I see her near me! 'T is her hand I touch!
Her soft brown hair, her gentle hazel eyes.
Cruel, say you, was something in her smile,
And sensual or vindictive? Oh! to me
The very sweetness of God's deepest love
Beamed from those faithful orbs; and when that mouth
Was pressed to mine I never felt its scorn.
Thus, thus to live, — should this, indeed, be life, —
Within this cavern which my hands have scooped
To the convenient largeness for my wants;
Hight enough, and so secured that none can come
Without I know them here. And this, my rifle,
Time once, that was a joy, — far off, indeed, —
But now one loathsome thing, since flowed his blood.
And yet to know that from this dungeon here
I still must roam the tall wood's broken gloom;
Far down the glen, where the sharp ripple glides
Of the cold stream, like arrows in its haste,
Curving and curving fast, — and kill the deer,
Most graceful of their kind. For I have vowed,
In this self-punishing, I will not steal my life;
And naught but these fair creatures make me live.
'T is late; the night draws on; no human love
To cheer me in my grief. Society!
Oh, well I do remember in those days
When I had Lisa, and I owned a home,
How dear the firelight blaze lit up the walls
Of our Kentucky house, — that ample hall,
There where our mother dwelt, and he, the judge,
My father, — all the children round, the dogs
Stretched out along the floor, and often heard
The flying hoof-beats of the full-blood steed;
Some social neighbor, on his round of calls,
Proud of his good gray mare; the kindly hopes,
The tidings from the town, the postman's shout;
And heard afar that soothing Sabbath bell,
Sweet in my childish heart! —
Hush! Was it a step?
Again? Something along the leaves; the night
Crawling in the cool air amid the oaks,
Or the soft panther's foot seeking the meat
That's hanging at the door. Again! the whisper!
Can it be? Who comes? 'Tis Gordon's form.
His hand across his heart, as on that day;
Slowly the red drop oozing from the spot.
See! and he shot as well as I; closer!
O God! why was it not his ball through mine,
Not mine in his? And Lisa at his side!
I often say it: Eliot, the blow was yours.
And now you live, frozen to the heart, for life,
Until on yonder heap of leaves you rest,
Mourned for by none unless some wandering wind.
Yes, 't is midnight; I feel it in my soul.
Yon star that strikes beyond the cavern's roof
Brings me that fated hour, the time to sleep.
I call it sleep, but all along my mind
Hovers the contribution of the day.
The curse of Cam weighs worlds upon my soul, —
Whoso sheds human blood, his own shall flow.
How often have I sought the fatal stroke;
How often bared my breast to the lightning's stab,
Or begged the wild man of the woods to dart
His arrow through me; and the venomous snake,
Whose measured warnings in the grass I hear,
As oft I thread the glade, his rattle shrill.
No, no; they harm me not, fated to live.
The sweetest draught that ever touched my lips
Will be the wine of death, a cordial draught.
Would but the sisters brew it speedily,
And let me drain that glass.
And yet I live!
As now, to meet this midnight hour and say, —
One more, one more, another sun must rise;
Another day, the same as all that go;
Tied to myself, and these dread, pitiless thoughts,
As when Prometheus lay and felt the eagle
Lapping his blood, chained on the Caucasus.
'T is silence sears my brain. No pleasant words:
No smile over her lips; no gentlest parting
When she ope'd the door, and lingered long,
Waiting to hear my latest foot-tread fall;
No glance upon her face, as oft she sat
Wondering at my strange fancies and strange acts.
I vainly stretch my hands. I meet the air
Empty and wan and cold and pitiless.
I ask for mercy! On the rocks I kneel,
Long ere this hour is passed, hoping for mercy:
That some voice will say, " Go forth, this penance o'er. "
Hoping, I say, Yes; but my hope's despair.
Decades have fled, and yet my prayers remain,
Like some dull, hollow sphere, untenanted.
When I was young, how oft I sang some catch,
Some merry song, when I was left alone,
Gay as the callow bird upon the bough;
My innocent heart responding to the joy
That broods o'er all things. Since that awful hour,
Doomed as the frozen stream, its ripples sunk
To icy stillness.
Hark! That foot again!
'T is Lisa's, at the door. I see her soft brown hair,
Lighter than faintest glass spun at the flame.
How waves it in the moonlight's deadly glow!
And oh! her gentle eyes, they melt the gloom;
And her kind voice, " Eliot! my love, I come.
I never loved but you, — no one as much.
But I was one not framed to love, save one.
Not of the class of women whose shrunk hearts
Feel but a single friend, and have no more
Than one emotion; and I thought that you
Should still be mine. Oh! Eliot, oh! my love,
Was jealousy more worth than all my love?
And those poor letters, bathed in his last blood,
A proof that I less loved you than of yore?
I know the date 's the same. I know I wrote
That day to you and him. But my true love,
Might you not spare his life? I hear the gun!
I see the fearful flash! the ringing shot
Is pressing through my heart! I cannot breathe!
I go with Gordon to that other land!
But I will come to you. I will not leave
You, dearest, in that lonely world; but come.

Sometimes, at hollow midnight, when your ear,
Attuned to finer silence, claims new sounds.
'Tis I; 't is Lisa! Eliot, do not fire! "
What did I hear?
Was it the oak-leaf falling in the frost?
Was it the torrent whispering down the glen?
Methought I heard a voice, like Lisa's voice.
There! There! My God! that sound again!
" Eliot, my love,
The nearest to my heart of those I love,
Would that this hand could take and lead you up
In this still land, beyond that temporal day.
I cannot, cannot; no, my child! No hour,
No moment can my loving heart come near
To stanch your wounds; nor this frail form
One touch of consolation to your days
Ever afford. Eliot, why was it I who died
When Gordon fell, doomed by the fatal hand?
Because I loved him thus, you fondly deemed,
Even as I loved yourself. Why look so faint
Across those bloodstained scrolls? My heart is yours, —
Here in the hollow grave, — all yours , the same. "
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.