The Demon of Destiny :: :: University of Virginia Library

Meanwhile Salome sat thoughtful, and around
Glanc'd piercingly, as if he fearful felt
The sense of some recondite awe, like those
Who hear in Faith, but yet in Reason doubt.
And when at last the vet'ran had replied,
He ask'd with diffidence, like one afraid,—
“If man may not his conscious heart obey,
As it instructs him by desires and hopes,
How may he know his purpose in the world?”
“But,” said the vet'ran, while the seeming pastor
Rose, as if call'd away on rural cares
Remember'd suddenly, “what are his hopes,
Or his desires, if they incite to harm.”

Salome look'd bolder, and again inquir'd—
“But can a man, by ills and ails environ'd,
Owe dearer claims than to himself are due?
What is the world to him, or he to others,
That he should reckon of their weal or woe?”

The vet'ran smil'd, and searchingly replied:
“This wondrous world was made to know itself;
And he who would enjoy, at its expense,
Must pay the price that's set upon its pleasures.
All that maligns is in its essence ill,
But Genius is divine, and cannot be
Aught but expansive, pressing still to bless.
The sign, the proof of its celestial nature,
Is, that it ever ministers to make
This world a mint, where gold is coin'd for Heaven.”

Salome, anticipating the reply,
Said thèn, “what are the common of mankind,
Who never feel those gleams of inspiration,

That glint in Genius to the gifted mind,
The light which is Invention?” Sternly austere
The vet'ran ey'd him with a master's eye,
But softening to compassion, mildly answer'd:—
“Why, Sir, do leaves superfluous busk the bough?
Why die the young? why is the blossom blighted?
Why does disease strike into dust the strong?
Or aught is ey'd that seems to end untimely?
Man thinks the world, that Heaven's own eye illumes,
Was made for him; but may not the vile ens
Which prey on beggary, have as proud endowments?
Who may these problems solve, or tell to God
What Beauty is, or what Benevolence?”

Salome replied, as from a bold advantage,—
“Is man then irresponsible? for all
He can perform, the Heavens must first assent to.”

As if the shadow of menacing gloom
Darken'd the vet'ran, he more gravely said:
“Dread Heaven, by Nature's universal voice,
Hath long proclaim'd that all which harms is sin.
Enrich'd with Reason, to discern what moves
Or mars the gracious tendency of things,
And given a will that may restrain desire—
Can man with these be irresponsible?
The power to injury is forbidden fruit,—
And they who eat of it will surely die;
But for abstaining is there no reward?”

As day immers'd, the lowly pastor enter'd,
And unsuspicious of the Demon's tale,
Bade them remark how o'er the morning skies
A tempest's eagle-colour'd wing was spread,
Omening storm. It daunted them to stay.
For soon th' impassion'd turbulence came on,
As if some dreadful Ire approaching sent
The avalanches of its might before.
Anon, as if the ocean, measureless,
Could but be shown by parts, the waves on waves
Rose, rollingly, from all its wide immense,
While in the wrathful of the hurricane
Fond frantic mothers fled their domiciles,
And left their children shrieking to the blasts.
The sun, eclips'd, was as the blot of doom;
And darkness, as a mortcloth black as night,

Cover'd the Earth, as if it then lay dead,
Pall'd for the sepulchre, of old prepar'd
Deep in the crypt of everlasting chaos.

The hind sat mute, while shrill without was heard,
Sharp as a pang, and wild as agony,
The wailings of an aged mendicant,
Hurried and helpless, effort all in vain,
Along the vantage of the neighbouring height.
His hoary hair stream'd capless, and his rags
Flutter'd, unbelted, in the furious wind.

The gentle pastor, when he saw him driven,
Was mov'd to pity; for not only years
Weigh'd on his strength, but in his looks and mein
Seem'd the dim twilight of a better day.

With beck'ning hand the pastor bade him come
To share the relics of their morning meal;
Nor did the temper'd by the world's trials,
Nor the bland Fame-desiring youth, repress
Those kindly courtesies that Need requires
To lull ecoriated jealousy,
Which ever irks it in the lownest bow'r.
Nor unrepaid was long their charity;
For when his drenched wretchedness was dried,
He told the story of his overthrow.

“Alas! the homefed little know” he sigh'd,
“What pains the proud must in abasement suffer;
But, oh! the anguish that Deceit imparts,
Or conscious Craft that smiles like Innocence.
I was a youth, Affection oft foretold,
Was surely destin'd for renown or fortune:
Behold what I am now—a poor old man
Who may no longer wrestle with the blast,
Stinted to alms that can but life prolong,
To rue new sorrows with more helplessness.”

Salome survey'd him with a tearful eye;
But the calm vet'ran warily replied,
“Full oft the worshippers at Fortune's shrine
Desire too much, and deem that destiny
Starves their desires, when they themselves refuse
The lots in life that might with care be won.
Our passions are the ministers of Fate—
And men, by them, in worldly exhibition,
Are often blazon'd with renown and power,

While he that is with genius only blest
To mend the world, unhir'd by hope or fee,
Must toil neglected; yet, with that bright gift
A largess of ideal bliss is given.
Perhaps to you, for Fortune's empty coffer,
Some rich atonement is by nature made.”
And then he added, looking scrutiny,
“The man of honour fears the world's opinion;
The man of honesty reveres the law;
But he that is the conscientious man,
Observes the maxims he regards as God,
And leaves to Providence th' interpretation.”

The seeming beggar was the tempting fiend,
And artfully, with glozing speech, to charm
The kindling spirit of Salome, replied,—
“It is not, Sir, for mortals weak and frail
To deem as merit what high Heaven bestows
In grace, or excellence of mind or form;
But all of evil in the frame of things
Hath compensation,—for my sad estate
Must, doubtless, though conceal'd in mystery,
Be some equivalent for what I suffer.”

With sterner eye the vet'ran frown'd severe;
And from its jealous inquisition shrunk
The simulating beggar, well aware
He was but feigning craftily the part
Of one who had a blemish'd worldling been.
But rous'd Salome felt in his bosom glow
The gen'rous wish that prompts to virtuous deeds,
And soothing said, “all on the earth may prosper—
And ærid memories of wrongs but serve
To mar the sense of what is beautiful.”
“Yes, rather strive” the vet'ran interpos'd,
“To see but all around the good and fair,
And wrongs will lose their grim severity.
Men ne'er do ill without expecting good:
That Hope gives Guilt the glory of a grace,
Which may obtain from others meed or praise,—
Of this delusion ponder while ye rue.”
And then Salome, with wishes to retrieve,
Said, “Come it will, the era's fixed by Fate,
When pomp shall own the power of that elixir
Which changes Grief to Joy—celestial right!

Right felt by all, but yet by all withheld,
As if participation were to mulct.
Then Genius, bright in the empyrean zenith,
Will vindicate the glory of its beams.
The world shall soon be mov'd to think aright
Of what belong to those whom Heaven endows
As its blest agents to improve the world.”

The vet'ran, seriously severe, again
Look'd at Salome, as if he scann'd his heart,—
And cried, “It is not always meet in life
That men should have what sages deem their rights;
Unless their needs and wants, as advocates,
Make plain th' existence of the exigent.
To know the world, and not do as the world,
Is sometimes wisdom, and allied to virtue,—
But it is harlotry and stratagem
To practice that which custom only sanctions.
It may be fit, in some far future age,
That Heaven's selected should preside on earth;
But Wealth and Precedence and Luxury
Are now the guerdons of terrestrial hope,
And right, untimely sought, engenders wrong.”

Thus, with the pastor, shelter'd from the storm
That brush'd the herbage with the bush and bough,
They sat communing, till the amber'd west
Display'd the golden monarch of the day;
And Evening, pleas'd, on spangl'd nature threw
The soft assurance of a night serene.
Then they arose, and on towards his goal
The vet'ran posted, while Salome, sedate,
Sought with the mendicant the town again.

The mingling confluence of the human streams
Which thither flow'd, denser and denser grew;
And, by the demon's unblest plausibles,
Seem'd many there whom in his youth Salome
Had known, high honour'd as the heirs of Fame;
But old and outcast, in the world forlorn,
They totter'd helpless then towards the tomb.

At the sad sight his waken'd spirit yearn'd
To be reputed in hereafter epochs,
As the bright first who did the gifted aid.

With humble mein, the Demon at his side
Walk'd, as if mutely thanking him for alms—
And often whisper'd, as one seem'd to pass
With tarnish'd hopes, and faded habitudes,
How worth was shunn'd; but to improve mankind
Was the true road to Fame. For righteous Heaven
Regards the benefits achiev'd for Fame,
As deeds that bravos perpetrate for bribes,
And all effects as its own progeny:
Nought of the earth can e'er be meed to worth,
Whose qualities and essence are divine.

Onwards they journey'd. In the buzzing streets
Many beheld them pass, and turning, sigh'd,
To think Salome—he whom in youth they knew—
Was sunk into companionship with one
Whose scars were worse than patches of the poor;
For they had heard the maxim, and believ'd
That with the tainted but the fated's found.
And yet in this only the Demon work'd;
The infectious worldling that he feign'd to be,
Bespoke commiseration for Salome.

Onwards they winded to where palace towers,
With Babel arrogance, look'd, as from Heaven,
Down on the hives of the surrounding town;
And there, with hope rekindl'd, bold Salome
Before a stately sculptur'd portal stood,
Requesting entrance to the Lord within.

The bellied porter, busy in his bower,
Knew him, and open'd wide the sounding doors;
But from the threshold, with imperious voice,
Debarr'd the mendicant, who soon without
Mingled amidst the crowd, and disappear'd.
But, though unseen, he was not far away;
For ere Salome had scal'd the echoing stairs,
He, in the semblance of his former friend,
Receiv'd him joyously in trophied halls,
As if rememb'ring scenes of festal days.

Salome rejoic'd—and soon with zeal disclos'd
The boon he meditated—to rescue
The ever-suff'ring ministers of good,—

And spoke prophetical, as one inspir'd,
Of radiant halos, and of iris crowns,
That would be theirs who aided him to bliss.

The Demon heard him, as the crafty hear
From vaunting prodigals, of treasure hoards
Long interdicted, but at last possess'd,
And calmly said, “my aid not seek.”

Salome, exulting, thought the starry wreath
Of Immortality was then his own;
But, ere he could reply, viewless to him,
With haste, a messenger from Satan came
To cite the demon to his dread divan,
Held in that Latomey of Erebus,
From which, of yore, the formless mass was brought,
Of all that now in cycl'd nature shines.

Around, on thrones of crimson burning grim,
The demons sat, tier above tier, sublime,—
And in the centre, lowest of them all,
Satan glar'd ragingly—type of his state—
In Hell the highest, but the deepest damn'd;
Him winged rumours had dire tidings told,
That Genius, which, to baffle and subvert
His Legions, most abhorr'd, had come to earth,
Was to ascend into predominance,
And hurl to obloquy, despair, and scorn,
His privileg'd potentates and paladines.

Scowling, he purpl'd to the fiends around;
And, by the dark'ning, they at once discern'd
The cause and purport of his fervency.
Men of the earth must gravitating words
And pond'rous enginries of speech employ,
When they would manifest their cogitations;
But spirits, dark with thoughts, distance and time,
For them care not; and when they would persuade,
Determination is their eloquence.

The Demon show'd what he himself design'd,
While lurid prodigies, dismal and dire,
Loom'd through th' abyss wherein the synod sat.
The fiends with awe beheld them as they pass'd,
And started, as a pall envelop'd thing—
Borne in the rear of nameless effigies,—
Came following slow, unlike all of the Heavens,
Or on the earth, or in the depths of Hell,

Where darkness curtains from Imagination,
Horrors engender'd in the corpse of chaos—
Mother of Nature that in birth-throes died.
Then in the void a midnight star of sound
Rose—as shall rise when nature hears, arraign'd,
Her doom and close—all then her eyes of light:
It knell'd the coming of some mighty one.

That one was Death; and, by his entrance then,
Satan, with all his awe-struck blasphemers,
Knew that some epicycle was perform'd
Within the horizon that encircles Fate.
But who shall read the mystery aright?
Salome was dead—died in the self-same crisis
He found the aid he wish'd for his design;
But, thus it is, when hope's in the ascendant,
And all the aspects of the horoscope
Allure with promises of Fame and Fortune,
Something that's native in the field of life,
Untimely balks the reaping of the harvest.
What man himself does from himself is conduct;
But chances suffer'd without choice are Fate.

I confess myself one of those who think the town is the abode of better virtues than the country. Simpletons,—they may be Innocents —are of the latter; but, with all its faults, where is there such munificence and charity as in the town? Compare a subscription paper of the town, for any benevolent purpose, with the shaking-handed donations of the country gentry.