Classic Poem

Know ye the fall is nigh
Of the dreadful Tree Al-Accoub?
He had thrust his top so high,
The Upas-breath floated by
Those who, in God's sweet sky,
Sit with Isa and Yacoub.

Tree in whose ghastly shadow
Never a green thing grew,
Never a bright bud blew!
It hangs o'er a mighty meadow,
Whose dreary Vast never knew
One tear of heaven's sweet dew,

The blear and the blasted meadow —
But dripping of venom-dew,
Manzaneel's blister-dew.
Ha! how the Horror stands
Clutching, with monstrous hands,
Hold on earth and on hell!
With the snaky shroud and stay
Of polypus-rigged Jaguey,
(Throats that flatten and swell!)
Massy buttress and knee
Shore up the terrible Tree,
Spur, and elbow, and crook,
In savage rugae and whelks,
(Like horns of the giant elks,) —
Its roots lay hold on hell —
They burrow, and gnarl, and hook
At the wormiest heart of hell.

(Thus, in a strange, weird land —
A far-off Isle of the South,
Deep in the Gulfy Wave —
There's a ledge by a jagged mouth,
The upper jaw of a cave;
On the very brink of it
A mighty Ceiba doth stand,
Spreading him broad and brave;
Huge, and writhing, and knit,
His roots show horribly grand —
Coil and cable and strand
Stretching down to the Pit.)

Round him doth climb and fold
Full many a villainous thing.
Freckled, and scaled, and rolled
In grisly spiral and ring,
They wind like boas, or cling
With cruel centipede-hold;
'Mid the Inner-Dark, untold,
Ghastlier forms lie screened
Of Hates, and Terrors, and Pangs,
(Anguish never was weened!)
Ah, the thorns are claws and fangs,
Every fruit thereon that hangs,
The ashen mask of a fiend!

Vast is the Shadow across,
Rarely the gaze may win,
(Save when the swamp-winds toss
The black witch-mantle of moss,)
A glimpse of the gloom within —
Of the infinite Swarm of Shapes —
Myriads of wretched Shapes,
That ever thereunder flit,
Wraiths of Evil and Dread —
(Souls worn back to the ape's —
Suicides — Ghouls that sit,
All agrime, at their dead!)

Ever therefrom doth flow
The scent and the sound of woe,
Out of its shroud of old
Steaming sullen and slow —
Blight of fungus and mould,
Taint of blood and of ordure —
Sobs that strangle and strive,
Groan as of gag and gyve,
Hum of a maddened Hive
Swarming for sting and torture —
The whole foul Mass is alive
With twining horror and torture!

Ha, how they coil and clasp!
They plicate, constrict, and gasp,
In plexure horribly writhen!
Knotting closer and madder —
Every bough is a python,
Every twig is an adder,
Every spray is an asp!

Ah, the puff and dilation!
The hiss, and the forked vibration
Darting fiercer and further!
The bloody cockatrice-wattle,
The horny pods that rattle —
Horrid crotalus-rattle!
Shrilling venom and murther.

Hollow its heart of old,
Yet grimly it keeps its hold —
So stark it stands and so bold,
Devil-dom deems 'tis sound —
Swears by it still, — though now
And then some rottener bough
Comes with a crash to ground.

For to-day 'tis stormy weather —
Night and tempest together
Swooping from East and North —
Thunder by sea and land!
The great Line-Gales are at hand —
What may the morn bring forth?

Steady it comes and strong.
How, as the bulk is stirred,
The creak and the clang are heard
Of bat and of unclean bird,
That lodged in its limbs so long —
Screech, and flutter, and wail!
How, as the black winds rouse
The wrath of its savage boughs,
It rocks and roars in the gale!

Vast and angry commotion!
Lift and thunder of ocean,
Forest riving and roar —
Trouble in earth and sky,
Wreck by mountain and shore —
Terror and doom! — is it Thee ,
Thou black and blasphemous Tree!
The Vengeance shall yet pass by?

Help for it! Drivel-dom saith —
(Puffing of impious breath,
Piping of idiot-breath,) —
Hark to the stormy answer!
The Cyclone's terrible breath
Booming judgment and death —
Do ye know it now? — 'tis the Sansar,
Dark, icy Wind of Death!

Aid or grace for it? — nay!
(Hear the wild wings in the van —
Azrael swoops yon way,
Bearing the Infinite Ban!)
The boughs, how they groan and sway,
The leaves, how they strip and fray!
Hideous to God and man,
Know, its doom is to-day —
Shore it up, if ye can!
Stand from it, while ye may!

Prop and guy? — craze and folly!
Allah, All-Tender, launches
Levin, volley on volley,
Full on the cursed branches —
Blighting the wretched fruit,
Blasting the seed forever —
Earth, with axe and with lever,
Storms in siege at the root.

Grand and terrible clamor!
Clang of helve and of hammer!
Ah, the thunder of sledges,
The groaning of winches,
Cracking of wedges!
It totters, the Wicked Tree,
Like some tall pirate at sea
Foundering by inches, —
(Gone rail and rudder!)
Ha! dost thou shudder
In thine arcanum?
Tremble, Jehanum!

Was't all a dream of the Past,
Diluvium's Tidal Wave
Lifting dreadful and vast?
Gomorrah's sulphury shroud?
Egypt's billowy grave?
Doom of Korah and Dathan?
Sire of Treason misproud!
What, once more, at the last,
All amort and aghast?
Have at thee, Sathan!

'Tis but a cycle whirled,
Since, out of the Under-World,
Swarmed the fiend-whispers, boasting,
Go to, while yon is standing,
Still shall we snuff our branding,
Our flaying, and our roasting!
(So crooned the Infernal Seven);
And he waxed so haught and high,
The wretched were fain to cry,
With Spartacus, left to die,
There is not a God in the heaven!
(Thus, too, still mooted the Seven,
Ever they hug that blunder) —
Lo! the glare of the Levin!
Hark to the roll of the Thunder!

A groan from the depths! — ('tis Tophet's —
The Jezebel-Fury Faints!)
Ah, thou that stonest the prophets,
And drinkest the blood of saints!
To-night art thou sore afraid
For thine earth-grown Eidolon? — (Lo,
How the Winds of Judgment blow!)
Aye, the mass begins to go,
At the very scar the blade
Of the stern old Woodman made,
Scant a score of moons ago.

Roar wilder, blast!
Blows, thunder fast!
Each cruel fibre relaxes —
The cable roots crack,
The Trunk's huge wrack
Rings to a million axes.

Measure your strokes right well —
(Warely, 'tis nigh in sunder!)
A single blow shall tell —
He topples! — aye, stand from under!
Crashing, thunder on thunder,
The Hulk goes down to its hell!
Ah, the horror and wonder,
The sickness at heart of hell!

But over its sunken ashes,
In opal and emerald flashes,
(Babes of death and of dust,)
Amaranth, Immortelle,
Lift their sweet lids in trust,
Smile to the Infinite Trust —
Moly and Asphodel
Bloom o'er the buried hell,
And joy the Arisen Just.