Poems By William Bell Scott. Ballads, Studies from Nature, Sonnets, etc. Illustrated by Seventeen Etchings by the Author and L. Alma Tadema |
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THE DANCE OF DEATH.
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 | Poems |  |
253
THE DANCE OF DEATH.
Clerk Hubert lay asleep:
Not in deep sleep, but in the feverish sense
Midway between
The active living daylight and the world
Of dusk-eyed dreamland, when the memory
Goes dancing with the fancy light of heel,
Singing the while a fitful chant, of things
That may have happened and been long forgot,
Or those whose interest is of yesterday,
With other things that we
Mortals can never see.
Not in deep sleep, but in the feverish sense
Midway between
The active living daylight and the world
Of dusk-eyed dreamland, when the memory
Goes dancing with the fancy light of heel,
Singing the while a fitful chant, of things
That may have happened and been long forgot,
Or those whose interest is of yesterday,
With other things that we
Mortals can never see.
Clerk Hubert lay asleep:
Not in deep sleep, but in the uncouth life
Wherein whate'er,
Waking, we have dwelt most upon, comes back
In a new garb and startles us awake,
Or keeps us bound upon the night-mare's back
Until its tale is told and all its train
Of maskers have performed their antic feats.
Presto! they change; behold
The maskers turned to gold.
Not in deep sleep, but in the uncouth life
Wherein whate'er,
Waking, we have dwelt most upon, comes back
In a new garb and startles us awake,
Or keeps us bound upon the night-mare's back
Until its tale is told and all its train
Of maskers have performed their antic feats.
Presto! they change; behold
The maskers turned to gold.
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Gold, gold, the much desired,—
And then, God wot, if any one did mark
The sleeper's face,
They would descry a broad smile flickering there;
For truly pleased, yea, blessed he is to gain
What he had sought so long; he calls his bonds
All in, but when he seeks the heaps to pay,
The gnomes have buried them! Those sinewy gnomes,
Beardless and yellow, and his usurers,
Threadbare and lank and grim,
Treble and bass, strike up their hymn.
And then, God wot, if any one did mark
The sleeper's face,
They would descry a broad smile flickering there;
For truly pleased, yea, blessed he is to gain
What he had sought so long; he calls his bonds
All in, but when he seeks the heaps to pay,
The gnomes have buried them! Those sinewy gnomes,
Beardless and yellow, and his usurers,
Threadbare and lank and grim,
Treble and bass, strike up their hymn.
At other times right sad
And full of lamentations are these dreams:
When the lone heart
Is mourner, and before we rest ourselves
As cold night comes, we cast the black weeds off,
And they whose brow was veiled, who have gone hence,
Hold us in talk amidst the loneliness
And darkness: lighting up our lives again
With some familiar action, as of old.
And the tear doth dry
In the slumberer's eye.
And full of lamentations are these dreams:
When the lone heart
Is mourner, and before we rest ourselves
As cold night comes, we cast the black weeds off,
And they whose brow was veiled, who have gone hence,
Hold us in talk amidst the loneliness
And darkness: lighting up our lives again
With some familiar action, as of old.
And the tear doth dry
In the slumberer's eye.
By other beds, moth winged
And very gentle, are those sylphs that flit
'Tween night and morn;
A subtle love-drink do they bring with them;
And the deluded sleeper throws his arms
Into the vacant air and turns again,
Dreaming a hundred love joys in one dream.
'Tis said these baseless fancies can assume
The forms of all things but the sun and moon,
And stars that give us light
From other spheres more bright.
And very gentle, are those sylphs that flit
'Tween night and morn;
A subtle love-drink do they bring with them;
255
Into the vacant air and turns again,
Dreaming a hundred love joys in one dream.
'Tis said these baseless fancies can assume
The forms of all things but the sun and moon,
And stars that give us light
From other spheres more bright.
Clerk Hubert lay quite still;
And I would now relate the dream he had,
If dream it was.
A set of Emblems old he had that day
Been conning, and Hans Holbein's Dance of Death;
And as the eyelid closed upon the sense,
These pictures came again, waxed into life,
And fleetly through the windings of his brain
The morthead apparition junketted,
And now and then he showed
His scythe so long and broad,
And I would now relate the dream he had,
If dream it was.
A set of Emblems old he had that day
Been conning, and Hans Holbein's Dance of Death;
And as the eyelid closed upon the sense,
These pictures came again, waxed into life,
And fleetly through the windings of his brain
The morthead apparition junketted,
And now and then he showed
His scythe so long and broad,
And made a staff of it
For leaping to and fro; then would he stop
A-listening like;
When, if he heard the sound of winsome mirth,
Or children's untired laugh at evensong
Or age's groan,—which mattered not,—he sprang
Alert, and silenced it for ever. Swart
And ugly and albeit wise seemed he,
He neither gibber'd nor did make a moan,
No sound at all he made whate'er he did,
Hither and there,
And everywhere.
For leaping to and fro; then would he stop
A-listening like;
When, if he heard the sound of winsome mirth,
Or children's untired laugh at evensong
Or age's groan,—which mattered not,—he sprang
Alert, and silenced it for ever. Swart
And ugly and albeit wise seemed he,
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No sound at all he made whate'er he did,
Hither and there,
And everywhere.
And now in the dark night
The minster bell began to jowl eleven,—
The Christian bell,
With its deep sound o'er slumbering roofs; then up
Death mounted, in the mid-air o'er the spire
The new day was just kissing with the old.
But scarcely had the clock told half its tale,
In at the carven window of the spire
He went, where was the bellman pulling stout,
By the rope that twisted
The bell as he listed.
The minster bell began to jowl eleven,—
The Christian bell,
With its deep sound o'er slumbering roofs; then up
Death mounted, in the mid-air o'er the spire
The new day was just kissing with the old.
But scarcely had the clock told half its tale,
In at the carven window of the spire
He went, where was the bellman pulling stout,
By the rope that twisted
The bell as he listed.
Then Death put forth his hand,
And at the same time that the man did pull
He smote the bell,
That split like earthen cup from rim to ring;—
A labourer heard it as he counting lay,
And counting only six, he thought 'twas morn,
And groped about to find the tinder-flint.
Another heard it, a young student, still
Sitting as he had sat since yesterday,
Scanning and poring,
Scribing and scoring.
And at the same time that the man did pull
He smote the bell,
That split like earthen cup from rim to ring;—
A labourer heard it as he counting lay,
And counting only six, he thought 'twas morn,
And groped about to find the tinder-flint.
Another heard it, a young student, still
Sitting as he had sat since yesterday,
Scanning and poring,
Scribing and scoring.
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So with a wearied sigh
He laid his cheek upon his hand a while,
Some strength to gain,
To recommence his task and finish it;
But Death sucked up the oil that stored his lamp,
And, with a moment's dance, the barbèd flame
Went up, and he was in the dark. Away
Sped Death above the city in a swirl
Of wind, and every chimney rocked, and some
Fell down and battered
The street, ruin-scattered.
He laid his cheek upon his hand a while,
Some strength to gain,
To recommence his task and finish it;
But Death sucked up the oil that stored his lamp,
And, with a moment's dance, the barbèd flame
Went up, and he was in the dark. Away
Sped Death above the city in a swirl
Of wind, and every chimney rocked, and some
Fell down and battered
The street, ruin-scattered.
Out of sight speeds he on high,
And the clouds burst open, the rain comes down
As the winds arise
Rattling the hinges of windows and doors;
He is here, is there, is everywhere:
And as he passes the frog turns up
Its white belly, and the strong-limbed trees
Bend to the shivering earth, and pour
Their yellowing leaves like the dust of years,
And the wavering bat
On the earth falls flat.
And the clouds burst open, the rain comes down
As the winds arise
Rattling the hinges of windows and doors;
He is here, is there, is everywhere:
And as he passes the frog turns up
Its white belly, and the strong-limbed trees
Bend to the shivering earth, and pour
Their yellowing leaves like the dust of years,
And the wavering bat
On the earth falls flat.
The everlasting hills
Throw down their rocks at his approach;
The eagle old
Soars till the lightning sears her wing,
And falls where the blind bat fell before;
He touches the bridge as he onward speeds,
The keystone drops and the great arch falls,
Damming the black triumphant stream,
As the foam boils up
Like a poison cup.
Throw down their rocks at his approach;
The eagle old
Soars till the lightning sears her wing,
258
He touches the bridge as he onward speeds,
The keystone drops and the great arch falls,
Damming the black triumphant stream,
As the foam boils up
Like a poison cup.
In the cottager's thatch
He boreth a hole for the wolfish wind
To enter by.
From her storm-strewn nest the small bird flies,
The cottager doth the same, you'll hear
His cry, and you'll hear the thunder growl,
And the rush of the stream, and the forest's roar,
The wheezing catarrh from the chimney-nook
Of the palsy-shaken, and childhood's whine,—
And each one's breath
Is sucked by Death.
He boreth a hole for the wolfish wind
To enter by.
From her storm-strewn nest the small bird flies,
The cottager doth the same, you'll hear
His cry, and you'll hear the thunder growl,
And the rush of the stream, and the forest's roar,
The wheezing catarrh from the chimney-nook
Of the palsy-shaken, and childhood's whine,—
And each one's breath
Is sucked by Death.
Clerk Hubert sweated cold,
As the tempest still more revelled and shook
His casement loose;
And now it seemed it was the ending hour
Of the old year, and that men kept awake,—
He heard their songs at intervals he thought,—
Waiting upon the bell to toll the twelve,
That they might with their hot drink wish good luck
Of the New Year, as is the custom old;
Again his casement shook, it shattered, and
Death stretched in
His hand and his chin.
As the tempest still more revelled and shook
His casement loose;
And now it seemed it was the ending hour
Of the old year, and that men kept awake,—
He heard their songs at intervals he thought,—
Waiting upon the bell to toll the twelve,
That they might with their hot drink wish good luck
Of the New Year, as is the custom old;
259
Death stretched in
His hand and his chin.
Clerk Hubert started up,—
Opening his eyes in wonder he beheld
The Ancient One.
Men see in sleep,—but whether he still slept,
Or whether 'twas a trance, a charm, that wrought
At that strange instant of eternal time,
When earth and sun combine to start afresh,
And we must add a cypher to our date—
The blood and brain this epoch shares perchance—
Or whether 'twas a restlessness of heart,
I know not, but he started and stood up;
For who can answer ‘Nay,’
When Death sayeth ‘Yea.’
Opening his eyes in wonder he beheld
The Ancient One.
Men see in sleep,—but whether he still slept,
Or whether 'twas a trance, a charm, that wrought
At that strange instant of eternal time,
When earth and sun combine to start afresh,
And we must add a cypher to our date—
The blood and brain this epoch shares perchance—
Or whether 'twas a restlessness of heart,
I know not, but he started and stood up;
For who can answer ‘Nay,’
When Death sayeth ‘Yea.’
‘Come out, come out with me,
And I will show thee one night's government
Of my vast realm:
Sceptre and sword and throne I have none, these
I give unto my helpmates: but come thou,
And heaven and hell will be revealed to thee
And all the opening pageants of the grave.
Come thou with me;
I touch thine eyes, they see.
And I will show thee one night's government
Of my vast realm:
Sceptre and sword and throne I have none, these
I give unto my helpmates: but come thou,
And heaven and hell will be revealed to thee
And all the opening pageants of the grave.
Come thou with me;
I touch thine eyes, they see.
260
‘I am the one whose thought
Is as the deed; no power before me went,
And none shall come
Behind me; I am strengthened with the years:
A nether Omega am I: a chain
I bound round all things lasts for evermore:
Under my touch, Man vanishes as doth
The worm he germinates, the moth that comes
From the maggot, the invisible living thing
That stirs upon the moth,—I am inborn
With all lives, and
With all lives I expand.
Is as the deed; no power before me went,
And none shall come
Behind me; I am strengthened with the years:
A nether Omega am I: a chain
I bound round all things lasts for evermore:
Under my touch, Man vanishes as doth
The worm he germinates, the moth that comes
From the maggot, the invisible living thing
That stirs upon the moth,—I am inborn
With all lives, and
With all lives I expand.
‘But fear me not, I am
The hoary dust, the shut ear, the profound,
The heart at rest,
The tongueless negative of nature's lies,—
Fear me not, for I am the blood that flows
Within thee; I am change; it is even I
Creates a joy and triumph when thou feel'st
New powers within thee; I alone can make
The old give place
To thy onward race.
The hoary dust, the shut ear, the profound,
The heart at rest,
The tongueless negative of nature's lies,—
Fear me not, for I am the blood that flows
Within thee; I am change; it is even I
Creates a joy and triumph when thou feel'st
New powers within thee; I alone can make
The old give place
To thy onward race.
‘All men are born to me;
I am the father, mother,—yet ye hate
Me foolishly:
An easy spirit and a free lives on,
But he who fears the ice doth stumble; walk
Peacefully, confidently; I'm thy friend,
To walk with thee in peace: but grudge and weep
And carp, I'll be a cold chain round thy neck
Into the grave, each day a link drawn in,
Until thy face shall be upon the turf,
And the hair from thy crown
Be blown like thistle-down.’
I am the father, mother,—yet ye hate
Me foolishly:
An easy spirit and a free lives on,
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Peacefully, confidently; I'm thy friend,
To walk with thee in peace: but grudge and weep
And carp, I'll be a cold chain round thy neck
Into the grave, each day a link drawn in,
Until thy face shall be upon the turf,
And the hair from thy crown
Be blown like thistle-down.’
The speaker without breath
Here ceasèd, and Clerk Hubert winced and groaned,
Withouten power
To speak the horrors that within him stirred,—
A desperate case was his indeed, till Death
Grew tired of waiting, and took hold of him,
Or nearly did—in vain again he tried
To shout, now mouth to mouth with that dread lord,
Who stood by the bed,
Close to his head.
Here ceasèd, and Clerk Hubert winced and groaned,
Withouten power
To speak the horrors that within him stirred,—
A desperate case was his indeed, till Death
Grew tired of waiting, and took hold of him,
Or nearly did—in vain again he tried
To shout, now mouth to mouth with that dread lord,
Who stood by the bed,
Close to his head.
Such trembling seized his limbs
As shook the stented couch; whereat the dame
Who by him lay,
The wedded mistress of this learnèd Clerk,
Woke up in gentle fear for her good lord,
And roused him up and made him tell his dream,
Signing the cross on her brow and his own,
For he averr'd Death next would come to her,
And that her life
Would end the strife.
As shook the stented couch; whereat the dame
Who by him lay,
The wedded mistress of this learnèd Clerk,
Woke up in gentle fear for her good lord,
And roused him up and made him tell his dream,
Signing the cross on her brow and his own,
262
And that her life
Would end the strife.
But this she would not hear,
But rather deemed his love alone had brought
The phantom there.
He answered, ‘Nay, that Death was by them still,
And that her passing-bell was in his ear,
Nor would a few months pass till every man
Would hear it.’ Then she soothed him with sweet words,
Again in a short while
Once more sleep held them in its coil.
But rather deemed his love alone had brought
The phantom there.
He answered, ‘Nay, that Death was by them still,
And that her passing-bell was in his ear,
Nor would a few months pass till every man
Would hear it.’ Then she soothed him with sweet words,
Again in a short while
Once more sleep held them in its coil.
But the morning arose
On a long sheeted corse,
And the stable-boy combing
A coal-black horse:
The corse was Clerk Hubert's;
The black horse ere long
Drew the bier to the church-vault
With prayer and song.
On a long sheeted corse,
And the stable-boy combing
A coal-black horse:
The corse was Clerk Hubert's;
The black horse ere long
Drew the bier to the church-vault
With prayer and song.
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