Classic Poem

'Twas evening, and he mounted high
Up to the terrace that faced the sky.
The fisherman, in his boat below
Swinging to the billows' flow,
Beheld him like a guard of old
On a dusky tower — a shadow bold
Standing against the sundown gold.

There Roland watched the dome of day
In a conflagration fall away,
And saw the first white star that sped
To gaze at the sunset ere it fled.
Westward he saw the spires and domes
Overtopping the noisy homes
Of toil and trade, but all so far
He felt no tremor of the jar
That like a daily earthquake rolls
Through the world of dust-bound souls

Out of the east the moon arose
Red as Mont Blanc at morning glows;
Over the sea, like a ship on fire,
She sailed with her one star sailing by her.
Long, long he gazed, till he felt the might
And glory that pervade the night.

Awhile he looked upon the seas,
Then gazed to the shadowy orchard trees,
And saw the fisherman's quiet home
Sitting under the vernal dome
Of one great elm, where the fireflies played
With their feast of lanterns nightly made.

He saw the various shadows pass
Over the illumined glass, —
Saw tapers, moving to and fro,
From window to window come and go,
Like those lights which phantom hands
Wave at night o'er marshy lands, —
Saw the maid at her casement lean,
And her shade steal into the night serene.
" Thus from the casements of life, " he mused,
" Our shadows are outward cast, confused
Into a greater shade. What eye
Shall trace these phantoms where they fly?
None: — And it much behooves us all
That the lights from whence these shadows fall
Should be guarded well and trimmed with care,
That the flame shall neither sink nor flare,
Protected from the fitful gusts
Blown from the lips of Caliban lusts. "

Here and there a meteor fleet,
Struck from the invisible feet
Of Night's wild coursers, fierce and black,
Streamed over the star-paven track:
Or it may be this voiceless leven,
Launched from the unseen clouds of heaven,
Are bolts by spirit-tempests hurled
Into a purgatorial world
Or they may be in the fields of blue
Offsprings of nameless damps and dew, —
Celestial will-o'-wisps at play,
Leading benighted souls astray.

Midnight was near. With a look divine
He saw the maid at her chamber shrine.
Two little tapers with flaming wicks
Burned beside a crucifix.
And while she prayed, it seemed
Over her face a splendour beamed, —
A light of purity and grace
Shed from the suffering Saviour's face.

Her angel look was upward turned;
Her white breast heaved as if it yearned
To breathe her very soul away
In a prayer which words had failed to say.
Her upturned face — her fallen hair,
Her hands clasped on her bosom fair,
Her heaving breast but half concealed,
The fulness of her prayer revealed.

As the watcher gazed, he felt his brain
Branded with a forgotten pain;
And thoughts he had deemed frozen, dead,
Warmed snakelike, by his heart's flame fed,
Till thus the voice of a demon guest
With scornful laugh its joy expressed: —
" The hawk looks down on the ring-dove's nest;
He loves her meek voice and her smooth meek breast!
And the beautiful bird shall still be as meek
When her red heart quivers in the falcon's beak! "

" Horrible fiend! " he cried, in pain,
" Back to your baneful den again!
Oh, Death, stand by me in this hour,
And strike me ere the fiend have power!
Have I not, with a terrible oath,
On the breast of the dying sworn my troth?
Did I not swear when Death was at strife,
In the white dome of her bosom, with life, —
Though I had wronged her living trust, —
To be true, ay, as true as the tomb to her dust?
For this she forgave the great wrong I had wrought,
And mingled my name in her last sweet thought,
And promised that, in an hour of fear,
Her soul should be as a guardian near! "

As he spoke, the great tears swam over his gaze,
Till the white moon reeled in delirious haze,
And the stars were unsteady as gust-winnowed chaff —
Still his innermost soul heard the mad demon laugh.
" Look! look again! " Thus cried the fiend,
" One look before the vision is screened —
Oh, never was Parian so fair to the sight!
Oh, never such beauty pulsed love through the night! "

But still the pale man, like some martyr who dies,
Looked into the sky with fixed agonized eyes,
Sighing, " Ida! dear Ida! The hour of fear,
Like a tiger in wait for its prey, crouches here!
I see its red eyes and I feel its hot breath! —
Come forth, thou sweet friend, from the gateways of Death!
Press me close — side to side — soul to soul — mind to mind —
Or lead through that path thou too early didst find! "

As he spoke, soft lips, like sunshine warm,
Kissed from his brow the late alarm —
Pale delicate arms his neck caressed,
And the head of a spirit was laid on his breast!
The silken hair that fell unfurled
Still gleamed with the hue of another world:
So soft were her tresses, each breath of the gale
Caressed them in air like a gossamer veil;
And her garments still breathed of ethereal dew
In fields where no mortal has ever passed through.

Then the fiend exclaimed with louder jeers —
While the spirit pressed her hands to her ears,
And gazed with that imploring look
Which only a demon's eye could brook —
" This hour, thou wretched ghost! is thine —
But the next and the next shall all be mine!
The cup is brewing which he shall quaff,
While the angels shall weep and the fiends shall laugh!
Then thou shalt be scourged away with scorn
Into the outer dark forlorn,
And a mortal head usurp the breast
Which late thy phantom cheek has prest!
Blood warms to blood — dust cleaves to dust —
And in that hour depart thou must,
Thou dead leaf on a midnight gust! "

Then even as a pale dead leaf
Still clinging where its hour is brief,
The spirit-lady in her grief
Shuddered and sighed, as if even now
The wind was plucking her from the bough.

" O Roland! " she cried, " there's one hour of dread,
Blackening like that cloud o'erhead;
A bitter wind is rising fast,
Like this which brings the ocean blast! "
" It shall not be! " the bold man cried;
" No wind shall bear thee from my side!
Let us descend to the altar shrine,
And kneel before the cross divine.
'Tis an altar by repentance built,
In memory of my former guilt,
That a daily prayer might there be made,
To ransom thy departed shade. "

Then they descended. The east winds came,
Trampling the sea into phosphor flame,
Which filled the black arch of the night
With sheeted flashings of spectral light.
And every maniac ocean-gust
Scattered the feathery foam, like dust,
Into the air — again and again
Flinging on the window pane
White briny flakes, in rage and spite,
As if to drown the altar light.