 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE CURSE OF CADWALLADER
Cadwallader sat in his father's hall,
Erect on his father's throne;
And he heard the sound of the waterfall,
As it fell down its stairs of stone.
And he heard the sound of the singing birds,
As they sang in their blooming bowers;
And they spoke to him in wondrous words,
From the beauteous book of flowers.
Erect on his father's throne;
And he heard the sound of the waterfall,
As it fell down its stairs of stone.
And he heard the sound of the singing birds,
As they sang in their blooming bowers;
And they spoke to him in wondrous words,
From the beauteous book of flowers.
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Cadwallader knew all creatures' speech,
And they knew he loved them well;
For his power was mighty over each,
And they owned his magic spell,
But the voices which he heard that day,
Awoke feelings kin to fears;
For they told of the glories past away,
And the new degenerate years.
And they knew he loved them well;
For his power was mighty over each,
And they owned his magic spell,
But the voices which he heard that day,
Awoke feelings kin to fears;
For they told of the glories past away,
And the new degenerate years.
Cadwallader had the mystic lore,
Which the spirits ever binds;
And out of his awful treasure-store,
He could bend the proudest minds.
But there was a force he might not bend,
By his strongest wizard rhyme,
Which moved to its lofty measured end,
And that was the march of Time.
Which the spirits ever binds;
And out of his awful treasure-store,
He could bend the proudest minds.
But there was a force he might not bend,
By his strongest wizard rhyme,
Which moved to its lofty measured end,
And that was the march of Time.
Cadwallader mused on his father's fame,
Of the battles lost and won;
And there broke o'er his brow a flush of shame,
When he thought of his only son.
For he knew that upon the latest field,
In which his warriors fought,
He had left behind his father's shield—
There was madness in the thought.
Of the battles lost and won;
And there broke o'er his brow a flush of shame,
When he thought of his only son.
For he knew that upon the latest field,
In which his warriors fought,
He had left behind his father's shield—
There was madness in the thought.
Cadwallader called for his ancient bard,
Who had numbered a hundred years,
With a foot yet as active as the pard,
And an arm like iron spears.
While he bade him bring the harp he loved,
Ere he put his armour on,
As his hand and dagger lightly played,
In a solemn unison.
Who had numbered a hundred years,
With a foot yet as active as the pard,
And an arm like iron spears.
While he bade him bring the harp he loved,
Ere he put his armour on,
As his hand and dagger lightly played,
In a solemn unison.
Cadwallader said to the hoary sire,
“There hath grievous shame been wrought,
And it burns within my bones like fire,—
There is madness in the thought.
For mine only son hath craven been,
And a dastard action done;
So open the gates of the future scene,
And curse, and curse my son.”
“There hath grievous shame been wrought,
And it burns within my bones like fire,—
There is madness in the thought.
For mine only son hath craven been,
And a dastard action done;
So open the gates of the future scene,
And curse, and curse my son.”
Cadwallader spoke through his bearded lips,
And his face grew dark with scorn,
And his words they fell like iron whips,
On the son that he wished unborn:—
“O curse him in bed, and curse him at board,
In the storehouse and the field;
And curse the hand with the coward sword,
That hath lost his father's shield”
And his face grew dark with scorn,
And his words they fell like iron whips,
On the son that he wished unborn:—
“O curse him in bed, and curse him at board,
In the storehouse and the field;
And curse the hand with the coward sword,
That hath lost his father's shield”
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Cadwallader shook his conquering spear,
That made shadows long and dark;
While the ancient bard drew yet more near,
And his fingers felt the harp:—
“O curse him in all his going out,
And in all his coming in;
Let him shudder at the battle shout,
Let him strive but never win!”
That made shadows long and dark;
While the ancient bard drew yet more near,
And his fingers felt the harp:—
“O curse him in all his going out,
And in all his coming in;
Let him shudder at the battle shout,
Let him strive but never win!”
Cadwallader rose from his father's seat,
And he stept where his father stood,
And the stamping of his fiery feet,
Sent its echoes through field and wood:—
“O curse him in all his rising up,
And in all his lying down;
Put the poison in his festive cup,
And weave of thorns his crown!”
And he stept where his father stood,
And the stamping of his fiery feet,
Sent its echoes through field and wood:—
“O curse him in all his rising up,
And in all his lying down;
Put the poison in his festive cup,
And weave of thorns his crown!”
Cadwallader paused for breath, to hear
Just a note of the Master's art;
And his hand grew closer to the spear,
There was murder in his heart:—
“O curse the son who lay on my knee
Whom a royal breast has nursed;
For he dared without his shield to flee;
He is cursed and he shall be cursed.”
Just a note of the Master's art;
And his hand grew closer to the spear,
There was murder in his heart:—
“O curse the son who lay on my knee
Whom a royal breast has nursed;
For he dared without his shield to flee;
He is cursed and he shall be cursed.”
Cadwallader thought of the youthful face,
That was wont on him to shine,
That a mirror seemed of kingly grace,
In its every look and line;
And a blessing wrestled in his soul,
With the thoughts like daggers sharp;
While afar he heard the thunder roll,
And a wail broke from his harp.
That was wont on him to shine,
That a mirror seemed of kingly grace,
In its every look and line;
And a blessing wrestled in his soul,
With the thoughts like daggers sharp;
While afar he heard the thunder roll,
And a wail broke from his harp.
Cadwallader ceased, for he could not bear
The stress of that feeling strange;
And a rival passion arose, to tear
The heart that it might not change.
And a cloud came over the iron brow,
As he thought of his bridal bed;
And the memory of an early vow,
Brought a tear that abode unshed.
The stress of that feeling strange;
And a rival passion arose, to tear
The heart that it might not change.
And a cloud came over the iron brow,
As he thought of his bridal bed;
And the memory of an early vow,
Brought a tear that abode unshed.
Then the solemn harp of the hoary sire,
Awoke on that stormy stream;
Awoke from its sleep at the touch of fire,
Like a soul from a troubled dream.
And its utterance first was soft and slow,
Nor a sure expression found,
And it gave in murmurs sad and low,
An uncertain solemn sound.
Awoke on that stormy stream;
Awoke from its sleep at the touch of fire,
Like a soul from a troubled dream.
And its utterance first was soft and slow,
Nor a sure expression found,
And it gave in murmurs sad and low,
An uncertain solemn sound.
286
And it told in fitful stammering tones,
Cadwallader's glorious prime;
While the waterfall stepping down its stones,
Broke in with a mournful chime.
Yet the strain was weak and the meaning dark,
As if the old bard delayed,
Inspired by a far off voice to hark,
Which was first on his heart-strings played.
Cadwallader's glorious prime;
While the waterfall stepping down its stones,
Broke in with a mournful chime.
Yet the strain was weak and the meaning dark,
As if the old bard delayed,
Inspired by a far off voice to hark,
Which was first on his heart-strings played.
But then, as the tempest grew more high,
And called with a clearer strain,
The harp burst forth in a wailing cry.
With a flood of pent-up pain.
While the harper's fingers glanced like flame,
Up and down the stormy strings:
Like the lightning in its cloudy frame,
While the thunder's trumpet rings.
And called with a clearer strain,
The harp burst forth in a wailing cry.
With a flood of pent-up pain.
While the harper's fingers glanced like flame,
Up and down the stormy strings:
Like the lightning in its cloudy frame,
While the thunder's trumpet rings.
And at last it broke with a human voice,
That spoke from a funeral pall,
As a soul that has made its solemn choice,
And upon it staked its all.
But it left the present at one leap,
Wherein arméd foemen trod,
And embraced the future in its sweep,
Like a seer who talks with God.
That spoke from a funeral pall,
As a soul that has made its solemn choice,
And upon it staked its all.
But it left the present at one leap,
Wherein arméd foemen trod,
And embraced the future in its sweep,
Like a seer who talks with God.
And it said, but said with many a sob,
That the reign of war would cease,
That the breasts of men would only throb,
In the gentle strife of peace.
And it said, but said with many a sigh,
That the law of force was gone;
And the law of love, now drawing nigh,
Would lead generations on.
That the reign of war would cease,
That the breasts of men would only throb,
In the gentle strife of peace.
And it said, but said with many a sigh,
That the law of force was gone;
And the law of love, now drawing nigh,
Would lead generations on.
And the harpstrings sent a deadly thrill,
Through the bosom of the king;
For the player played against his will,
And he sang what he would not sing.
For he struggled with the cruel fate,
That had bound him in its stress;
And his spirit was full of bitter hate,
But his voice constrained to bless.
Through the bosom of the king;
For the player played against his will,
And he sang what he would not sing.
For he struggled with the cruel fate,
That had bound him in its stress;
And his spirit was full of bitter hate,
But his voice constrained to bless.
And the sweat-drops gathered on his brow,
As he told with livid looks,
How the sword would be fashioned for the plough,
And the spear for pruning-hooks.
And an earthquake shook his mighty frame,
Which eclipse had given its gloom,
As he prophesied perforce his shame,
Like a man who fights with doom.
As he told with livid looks,
How the sword would be fashioned for the plough,
And the spear for pruning-hooks.
And an earthquake shook his mighty frame,
Which eclipse had given its gloom,
As he prophesied perforce his shame,
Like a man who fights with doom.
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But withal the harper harped and strove,
Though he knew the battle lost;
For a stronger power the fingers drove,
Than his spirit torn and tost,
And a benediction from him fell,
In a broken angry flood,
As he spoke of the shepherd's pipe and bell,
That would fill the old fields of blood.
Though he knew the battle lost;
For a stronger power the fingers drove,
Than his spirit torn and tost,
And a benediction from him fell,
In a broken angry flood,
As he spoke of the shepherd's pipe and bell,
That would fill the old fields of blood.
And the white foam mantled on his lips,
As he saw in a vision far,
The trading tracks of the shining ships,
That displaced the keels of war.
While the people wrangled on the mart,
And contended but in word,
Who had once played well the soldier's part,
With the judgment of the sword.
As he saw in a vision far,
The trading tracks of the shining ships,
That displaced the keels of war.
While the people wrangled on the mart,
And contended but in word,
Who had once played well the soldier's part,
With the judgment of the sword.
And there, as the hoary sire sang on,
The death of the days of old,
The lightning around his forehead shone,
And the thunder wildly rolled.
And the monarch like an aspen shook,
While his hand forgot its clasp,
As he heard of the fate he could not brook,
And the spear dropped from his grasp.
The death of the days of old,
The lightning around his forehead shone,
And the thunder wildly rolled.
And the monarch like an aspen shook,
While his hand forgot its clasp,
As he heard of the fate he could not brook,
And the spear dropped from his grasp.
And behold! in an agony of wrath,
The bard crashed on the strings;
And they broke, as an eagle in its path,
When it falls with broken wings.
He had sung the dirge of his glorious land,
And its gallant deeds were o'er;
Till the solemn harp slipp'd from his hand,
And the harper harped no more.
The bard crashed on the strings;
And they broke, as an eagle in its path,
When it falls with broken wings.
He had sung the dirge of his glorious land,
And its gallant deeds were o'er;
Till the solemn harp slipp'd from his hand,
And the harper harped no more.
Cadwallader fell upon his face,
With a death note in his ear;
While his life seemed darkened with disgrace,
And the future big with fear.
And one who had braved a hundred fights,
Who was scarred with a hundred wounds,
Yet could not confront those peaceful sights,
Nor endure those peaceful sounds.
With a death note in his ear;
While his life seemed darkened with disgrace,
And the future big with fear.
And one who had braved a hundred fights,
Who was scarred with a hundred wounds,
Yet could not confront those peaceful sights,
Nor endure those peaceful sounds.
And the monarch lay just where he fell,
He loved but the warrior's art,
And the waterfall it sang his knell,
For the knife was at his heart.
And his spear that had carried woe and gloom
As he fell was snapt in twain;
But little he recked of his sceptre's doom,
For he never rose again.
He loved but the warrior's art,
And the waterfall it sang his knell,
For the knife was at his heart.
And his spear that had carried woe and gloom
As he fell was snapt in twain;
But little he recked of his sceptre's doom,
For he never rose again.
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Cadwallader's son reigned in his stead,
And the gentler years went on,
And they buried his weapons with the dead,
For the reign of war was gone.
And the arts of husbandry he wrought,
While the weary land had rest;
For he tilled the fields where his father fought,
And the people called him Blest.
And the gentler years went on,
And they buried his weapons with the dead,
For the reign of war was gone.
And the arts of husbandry he wrought,
While the weary land had rest;
For he tilled the fields where his father fought,
And the people called him Blest.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |