The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

‘O let him smile as Mortals may,
And be like Mortals fair,
And let him tread the wondrous way
Of golden earth and air;
And let the sun's celestial ray
Shine on his sense from day to day,
Far from these waters wan,
Strew flowers and fruits upon his way,
And make him blest,—like Man!’

Who prays? Who cries? Who is kneeling by night
Down in the Mere in the pale moonlight,
Where pensive Spirits come and go
In gleaming raiments as white as snow,
Walking with silent and solemn tread
That darkling bottom of silvern sands?
Like an azure heaven, far overhead,
The surface smooth of the Mere expands,
Strewn thick with glimmers of starry dew
Reflected down from the ether blue
Those Spirits behold not.

Strangely fair,
With flashing fingers and flowing hair,
Her face upturned in the rippling rays,
Down in the Mere the Spirit prays;
And on her bosom there waking lies
Her Asrai babe with glittering eyes,—
Silent, as white as a marble stone,
It lies, but utters a feeble moan.

For ere of the earth, and the air, and the dew,
And the fire, that fuseth all these to one,
Bright Man was fashion'd, and lived and grew,
And walked erect in the shining sun,
When the sun itself was eyeless and dark,
And the earth was wrapped in a starry night,
And the only lights that the eyes might mark
Were the cold still spheres of a moon snow-white;
Ev'n then, of the dew and the crystal air,
And the moonray mild, were the Asrai made;
And they walked and mused in the midnight air,
But they had no souls and they cast no shade.
They knew no hunger and mad desire,
No bitter passion of mortal birth,
For they were not fashion'd, like Man, from fire,
They were not leavened, like Man, with earth—
Cold they were as the pale moonbeam,
Cold and pure as a vestal's dream.
Serene they dwelt in a silvern world,
Where throbbing waters stole dusky-white,
Washing the feet of dark capes star-pearl'd,
And arch'd by rainbows of rippling light.

And when to the pæan of living things,
To the cry of the new-born worlds around,
Out rolled the Sun, like a shape with wings,
Mighty with odour, and flame, and sound;
As the dim dew shaken from Earth's dark hair,
While she woke and gladdened supremely fair,

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In the glorious gleam of the natal ray,
The pallid Asrai faded away!
And when with the sunlight's fiery breath
Bright Man was moulded, and stood supreme,
Royal, the monarch of life and death,
Shadow'd with slumber and dower'd with dream,
Their trace was lost; on the human shore
Those sad pale Spirits were seen no more!

. . . Yet far away in the darkened places,
Deep in the mountains and under the meres,
A few fair Spirits with sunless faces
Lingered on with the rolling years,
And listened, listened, luminous-eyed,
While the generations arose and died,
And watch'd, watch'd, with sad surprise,
The gleaming glory of earth and skies,
Beyond their darkness. But ever, by night,
When the moon arose with her gentle light,
The Asrai, hidden from human seeing,
Drank the moonlight that was their being,—
Stirring about with a stealthy tread
On the mountain side, on the water's bed,
Or singing low and clasping hands,
Shadowless moving on shining sands.

But Earth with the snows of time was gray,
When one of this race so meek and mild,
An Asrai mother, knelt down to pray,
To heaven uplifting her little child;
For the Asrai with passionless chilly kiss
Still mingled darkly as mortals do,
And on their bosoms bare babes like this,
With hair soft golden and eyes of blue,
Like the eyes of stars!

And she cried that night—
‘Blessed indeed is the beauteous light,
And blessed are those sun-phantoms fair,
For the light turns golden on their hair,
And their faces are flowers and their breath is a fire,
And they move about with a sweet desire
In the amber day; and each night they lie
Quietly smiling beneath the sky,
Till the rubies of morning again are shaken
Upon their eyelids, and they awaken!’
And she prayed moreover—‘Could this thing be!
Could the child I nurse upon my knee,
My own pale little one, blend with clay,
And grow a thing of divinest day,
Like those fair mortals!’

Then out of the air
There came in answer unto her prayer
A gentle voice; and it whispered, ‘Rise!
Steal from the water, and under the skies
Find a dead Mother, and on her bed
A new-born Babe that is also dead;
Blend thy Babe with the mortal clay,
And the thing shall be as thou hast prayed—
Thy Child shall walk in the golden day,
Shall find a Soul, and cast a Shade!’

II. The Changeling's Birth.

She rises up from the depths of the Mere
And floats away on the surface clear,
Like a swan she sails to the shadowy sands,
And soon on the moonlit earth she stands.
Moonbeam-like in the moonbeams bright,
A space she lingers upon the shore,
Then steals along through the dusky light
Up the hill and across the moor.
She sees a light that flashes afar
Through the dark like a crimson star,
Now it glimmers, and now is gone,
For shadows come and go thereon.
It comes from the shepherd's dwelling lone,
Rudely fashioned of turf and stone;
And the sheep dog barks, and the sheep o' the fold
Huddle together in wintry cold;
But within the hut the light burns low,
And mortals whispering come and go;
For there on the wretched truckle bed
The wife of the shepherd lieth dead,
And her babe new born by her side doth lie
Closing its eyes with a last faint cry.

. . . The Spirit trembles, as on her hair
Flasheth the firelight's crimson glare;
Trembles and fades; but she draweth near,
Eager to see, eager to hear.
Close to the window-pane she flees,
And looketh in!

In the room she sees,
None stir: 'tis empty; but on the bed
The child and mother are lying dead.

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The light burns low; the clock ticks slow;
Spectral shadows come and go;
From the room without a murmur creeps
Of whispered words, and one that weeps.

O Moon! still Moon!
Sweet and white as a lily in June,
In the garden of heaven bend thy brows
And waft thy breathing into the house!
For the pallid creature of thy breath
The cottage window openeth,
And stealeth in. Like a moonray bright,
Holding her own babe in her hands,
And bending above that bed, snow white
She stands!

Find a dead Mother, and on her bed
A new-born Babe that is also dead.
Blend thy Babe with the mortal clay
And the thing shall pass as thou hast prayed:
Thy child shall walk in the golden day,
Shall find a Soul, and shall cast a Shade.

O Moon! still Moon!
The wonderful spell is woven soon!
Breathe again on her hair and eyes,
As she creepeth out, and under the skies
Listens! O hark! from within is blown
A child's low murmur, an infant's moan!
Shadows darken across the pane,
For the peasants gather wondering-eyed—
The child of the shepherd lives again,
Smiling awake by the corpse's side.

III. His Mortal Life.

Weary to tell and weary to hear
Were the mortal life for many a year
Of that changeling child; but he grew on earth,
Knowing nought of his mystic birth,
And ever waxed more strong and fair,
With the glory of daylight on eyes and hair.

And the poor pale Mother Spirit smiled
From far away on her happy child,
Thinking, ‘He thrives, and the golden hours
Fill his lap with their fruit and flowers,
And he feels the sun, and he drinks its light,
Growing on to a mortal's height.’
And ever nightly unseen she came
And kiss'd him asleep, to her heart's desire,
Though his breath met hers with the fever'd flame
Of a fatal fire.

She watched him still with a hunger keen,
Stronger than mortal mothers know;
She hover'd o'er him, unheard, unseen,
Wherever his feet might come and go,
In the sunless hours; and all the day
She marked his motion from far away,
And heard his voice, through the shine and the shower,
Like the voice of a bird!

But there came an hour
When the Shepherd who called him son lay dead,
And when he was buried the Changeling said—
‘I will take my staff, and will leave this place,
And seek new fortunes—God give me grace
That I prosper well!’ And away he went,
Humming an old tune, well-content,
Hopeful and fearless, merry and gay,
Over the hills and far away;
And all alone!

IV. His Sorrow and Sin.

Yet not alone,
For step by step, and stone by stone,
Where'er he rested—fleet as wind,
His Spirit Mother came behind;
Creeping to darkness all the day,
But ever in the cold moonray
Finding his footprints, kissing them,
And often where his raiment hem
Had brushed the warm dew from the grass,
Strewing pale flowers. Thus did she pass
Till brazen city gates by night
She saw him enter. Still and white,
She followed.

Weary to tell and hear
Were the Changeling's doings for many a year.

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But the Spirit saw as the time fled on
That his cheek grew paler, his bright eye shone
Less happy and bright; for he dwelt, behold!
Where men and women were heaping gold
And counting gems; and a yellow gleam
Shadowed the sight and darkened the dream
Of his gentle face; and by lamplight now
He read and pondered with pallid brow
O'er parchment scrolls, and tomes which told
Of mystic manners of finding gold.

Then, even then, across him came
So strange a change, so fierce a flame,
That he, forgetting fever-fraught
All things but that one thing he sought,
Was wrapt all round with light of dread!
And ever tossing on his bed
He named a woman's name, and cried
That God would bring her to his side,
His and none other's; and all day
He fevered in the hot sunray
Behind her footprints. Ne'ertheless
His thirst was turned to bitterness,
His love to pain; and soon by night
The Spirit saw him standing white,
Transfigured in a dumb despair,
And his wild shriek rose on the air,
While from a far off bridal room
Came wafted through the summer gloom
The sound of harps and lutes!

Then came
Long days and nights of sin and shame.
For in his agony the Man
Kept hideous orgies, and his wan
Wild features gleamed in ghastly mirth,
While naked women-snakes of earth
Twined round him fawning; and he drew
Dark curtains, shutting out the blue,
And the sweet sun; and all the nights,
In feverish flash of ghastly lights,
He slew pure sleep with sounds of sin.
Then the pale Mother peeping in
Beheld his mad distorted face,
And knew it not!

Time sped apace,
And lo! he changed, and forth again
He fared, amid a mighty train,
A Warrior now; and to the sound
Of martial strains his head swam round,
His heart kept time; while overhead
Strange suns of sorrow glimmered red.

. . . Weary to tell and weary to hear
The Changeling's doings for many a year!
Weary to tell how the Spirit dim
Moaning in misery followed him,
For whene'er she gazed on his features now,
On the bearded chin and the branded brow,
She shuddered, and often, when she crept
Into the tent where the warrior slept,
She saw on his hand a blood-red stain.

And she kissed the stain again and again
With her cold pure lips,—but it would not go!

V. The Battle-Field.

One night she walked with a foot of snow
Thro' a battle-field; and the Moon on high
Swam thro' the film of a starry sky,
And the breath of the Moon, like hoar-frost shed,
Gleamed on the dreadful drifts of dead.
Then she saw him standing amid it all
Living and bloody, ghastly and tall,
With a hand on his moaning horse's mane!
And his face was awful with hate and pain,
And his eyes were mad—for beneath him lay,
Quivering there in the pale moonray,
A wounded foe—while with red right hand
He held in the air a bloody brand
To cleave him down!

Before his look
One moment the Spirit Mother shook;
He could not hear her, he could not see,
But she shriek'd aloud in her agony!
He glared all round him like one in dread
Of a voice from heaven or a ghost from the dead,
And he sheathed his sword with a shudder soon,
Alone in the light of the lonely Moon . . .
O Moon! immortal Moon!

VI. The Abbot Paul.

Fourscore years have come and gone,
Since the Asrai Mother knelt down and prayed,

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Since the boon was gained, and her little one
Found a soul and cast a shade;
And now by the side of the same still Mere,
A mighty Monastery stands,
And morn and even its bell rings clear,
Tinkling over the silver sands;
And the Asrai as they come and go
Hear the sounds in the waters below,
And ever to them the sweet sounds seem
Like distant music heard in a dream,
And they pause and smile, and they murmur ‘Hark,’
With uplifted fingers!

Old, old, old,
With hoary hair and beard snow-white,
With vacant vision and senses cold,
Crawling out to feel the light—
Like a man of marble, gaunt and tall,
Heavy with years, is the Abbot Paul.
Fourscore years have slowly shed
Their snows on the mighty Abbot's head—
But not so white are his thoughts within,
That tell of a long dark life of sin.
Ever he totters and grows to the ground,
And ever by night he hears a sound
Of voices that whisper his name and weep;
And he starteth up in his nightly sleep
With a touch like a hand upon his hair,
And he looketh around in a sick despair,
But he seëth nought. And he prayeth low:
.Pity me, God; and let me go
Out of the sunlight,—shaking away
This form fire-fashioned out of clay!’
And often his dark beads counteth he:
‘Maria Madonna, come for me!
For I am sick of the sinful light.’

Now ever he readeth low each night
In a parchment scroll, with pictures quaint
Of many a shining-headed Saint
Smiling, each 'mid his aureole,
O'er the dark characters of the scroll;
And ever when he totters abroad
He bears this parchment scroll of God
Against his heart; or in the sun
He spells its letters one by one
With dim dark eyes, as he creepeth slow.

. . 'Tis a summer even. The sun sinks low,
And the light of its solemn setting lies
Golden and crimson on the skies,
Purple over the brow of the hill,
And violet dim on the waters still
Of the glassy Mere. In the zenith blue,
Already, dim as drops of dew,
Twinkle the stars!

In his great arm-chair,
Carried out to the open air,
On the edge of a promontory sweet,
With the waters rippling at his feet,
Sits the Abbot Paul; and his fingers cold
Still grip that parchment holy and old.
Behind his chair there standeth grim
With cold black eyeball fix'd on him,
A serving-monk.

The air is chill,
The light is low, but he readeth still,
Mumbling the sacred words aloud;
And ever his weary neck is bowed
At the names of Mary and every Saint;
While ever fainter and more faint
His voice doth grow, as he murmureth:
‘Holy of Holies, drink my breath!
For I am sick of the sinful light!’

. . . The sun hath sunken out of sight
In the cloudy west afar away—
Chilly it groweth, chilly and gray—
But who is this with steps so still
Coming yonder across the hill?
Over the peaks with a silvern tread
Flashing, then rising overhead
In the open heaven of a golden June?

O Moon! white Summer Moon!

Down the mountain and into the Mere
The pale ray falleth, so silvern clear,
And it creepeth silently over all,
Till it shineth full on the Abbot Paul,
Where he sits and prays. O see! O see!
Sadder, stiller, groweth he,
But his eyes still burn with a dying gleam;
While faint, far off, as in a dream,
He hears a murmur, he sees a light.

Silently, coldly, marble white,
Pale and pure as the moonray dim,
Smiling, outstretching her arms to him,
His Spirit Mother upriseth now!

A light not human is on his brow,
A light no human is in his eyes—
Fold by fold, like a dark disguise,

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The mortal dress is dropping away;
Silently, slowly, sinks the clay;
His eyes see clear by some mystic spell,
And he knoweth the gentle presence well.

‘O Mother! Mother!’

She answereth low:
‘Come from the gleam of the golden glow,
From the wicked flush of the fever'd strife,
Back to the mystical moonlight life!
Thy heart is heavy, thy sense is drear,
Weary with wandering many a year—
Come from the sorrows of the Sun!
My own pale darling, my little one!’

‘O Mother! Mother!’

Her arms so dim
Are round his neck, and she kisseth him!
She smoothes his hair with a gentle hand,
And she sings a song of the moonlight land.
He listens and listens, but still in a dream
Looking afar off his dark eyes gleam,
Beyond her, through her, at some strange thing
There on the hilltops, beckoning!. . .

Dead in his chair lies the Abbot Paul,
But a Shape stands by him, stately and tall,
And another Shape upon her knee
Is looking up in her agony.

‘O Mother! Mother!’ the tall Shape cries,
Gazing on her with gentle eyes—
‘O Mother, Mother, I cannot stay—
A voice is summoning me away—
Up the shining track of the sun,
Past the sphere of the spectral moon,
Further, higher, my path must run—
I have found a Soul, and thou hast thy boon;
And the Soul is a scourge, and the scourge a fire,
And it shoots me onward to strive and soar,
For this is the end of thy heart's desire—
I rest not, stay not, for evermore.
O kiss me, Mother, before I go!’

They kiss each other, those shapes of snow,
They cling in the moonlight, they kiss each other—
‘Child, my child!’ and ‘Mother! Mother!’

Silently, swiftly, through the air
Riseth one like a meteor fair,
Riseth one with a last wild cry,
While the other sinks in a silent swoon,
And whiter, brighter, over the sky,
Burneth the light of that night of June!

O Moon! sad Summer Moon!