 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
FAILEAS MORE.
“A dark gigantic Shade is seen stalking across the loch in the evening, which
vanishes at a certain headland, and from that place the next morning, between daybreak
and sunrise, a whole troop of shadows arise and with Mac Torcil Dhu at
their head, walk in procession to the Standing Stones and hide themselves again in
their graves.”
Hogg's Basil Lee.
Shades of the Dead! what necromantic power
Breaks thus the silent slumbers of the tomb?
Dwells there mysterious magic in the hour
Of birth or death to summon from the gloom
Of man's last resting-place the parted soul?
Can earthly joy or sorrowing abide
Beneath the veil of death—or thought unroll
The record of past passion, love and pride?
Breaks thus the silent slumbers of the tomb?
Dwells there mysterious magic in the hour
Of birth or death to summon from the gloom
Of man's last resting-place the parted soul?
Can earthly joy or sorrowing abide
Beneath the veil of death—or thought unroll
The record of past passion, love and pride?
'T is vain to question—ye may not reply;
Death seals the lips of his dim shadowy forms—
Thought cannot pierce his awful mystery,
And the soul shrinks from converse with the worms;
Shrouded and coffined—buried in the dust—
Wrapt in undreaming sleep forever there—
'T is nothing to the penitent who trust
Their God—but where 's the spirit? Oh, that where!
Death seals the lips of his dim shadowy forms—
Thought cannot pierce his awful mystery,
And the soul shrinks from converse with the worms;
Shrouded and coffined—buried in the dust—
Wrapt in undreaming sleep forever there—
'T is nothing to the penitent who trust
Their God—but where 's the spirit? Oh, that where!
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Come ye, dread Shadows! to forewarn the advance
Of pestilence or famine, war and death?
Weak hearts catch terror from your amenance,
And fear hangs quivering on their stifled breath.
What mystic lore would ye to man impart?
What secrets to his doubting soul convey?
Life's vital flood is curdling round his heart—
Oh, quick reveal your message and away!
Of pestilence or famine, war and death?
Weak hearts catch terror from your amenance,
And fear hangs quivering on their stifled breath.
What mystic lore would ye to man impart?
What secrets to his doubting soul convey?
Life's vital flood is curdling round his heart—
Oh, quick reveal your message and away!
Why should the living seek to know what, known,
Would leave them nought of being save their breath?
How can the dead for past misdeeds atone
By fearful shadowings of approaching death?
Through life we hear the echo of that tread,
Each hour distincter growing, which at last,
We know not when, will crush and leave us dead,
And still sound onward like the sweeping blast.
Would leave them nought of being save their breath?
How can the dead for past misdeeds atone
By fearful shadowings of approaching death?
Through life we hear the echo of that tread,
Each hour distincter growing, which at last,
We know not when, will crush and leave us dead,
And still sound onward like the sweeping blast.
What are ye, Spectral Shades? the hue of guilt
No mortal eye on your wan brows may trace,
And yet, perchance, blood dyed your sabre's hilt,
Drained from the veins of some fraternal race;
Or persecution waited on your beck
To seethe the human heart in boiling gore;
To bow the martyr's and the patriot's neck,
And rend away what earth could not restore.
No mortal eye on your wan brows may trace,
And yet, perchance, blood dyed your sabre's hilt,
Drained from the veins of some fraternal race;
Or persecution waited on your beck
To seethe the human heart in boiling gore;
To bow the martyr's and the patriot's neck,
And rend away what earth could not restore.
The sepulchre is no abode of rest
For them who lave their souls in seas of blood,
Or stamp despair on virtue's virgin breast;
They roam forever by oblivion's flood
Living to agony, yet dead to hope,
And wander o'er the ruins they have made,
To wail where erst they shouted in their scope
Of power amid the mighty cavalcade.
For them who lave their souls in seas of blood,
Or stamp despair on virtue's virgin breast;
They roam forever by oblivion's flood
Living to agony, yet dead to hope,
And wander o'er the ruins they have made,
To wail where erst they shouted in their scope
Of power amid the mighty cavalcade.
And ye, perchance, are of the accursed crew,
Whom penitence, vouchsafed to all beside,
Can ne'er avail; affliction's healing dew,
Tears flowing from the wellspring of lost pride,
Will never on your withering hearts descend;
Enough of life to see and feel your death,
Mocking the agony that cannot end,
Is all that's left—pale forms without a breath.
Whom penitence, vouchsafed to all beside,
Can ne'er avail; affliction's healing dew,
Tears flowing from the wellspring of lost pride,
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Enough of life to see and feel your death,
Mocking the agony that cannot end,
Is all that's left—pale forms without a breath.
The scenes of your wild deeds and buried crimes
Alone are open to your shadowy tread;
Your course is bounded by forbidden times
To where the victims of your vengeance bled;
At the dim twilight hour of morn or eve
Alone can ye appear, and much the scene
Mysterious lends its aidance to deceive
The eye, that hangs upon your fearful mien.
Alone are open to your shadowy tread;
Your course is bounded by forbidden times
To where the victims of your vengeance bled;
At the dim twilight hour of morn or eve
Alone can ye appear, and much the scene
Mysterious lends its aidance to deceive
The eye, that hangs upon your fearful mien.
Not oft doth he, the great Omniscient give
Warning to mortals when their course shall cease;
Save on his doubts and fears man could not live,
Nor rest his sad and weary soul in peace;—
If mighty terror doth chain down weak minds
When the dead walk again the conscious earth,
Let all the omen be the fear that binds
The heart to heaven, and calls high virtue forth!
Warning to mortals when their course shall cease;
Save on his doubts and fears man could not live,
Nor rest his sad and weary soul in peace;—
If mighty terror doth chain down weak minds
When the dead walk again the conscious earth,
Let all the omen be the fear that binds
The heart to heaven, and calls high virtue forth!
The deep, the fervent longing of the mind—
The eternal aspiration of the soul
Seeks things unreal as the summer wind,
Which all can hear, but none on earth control;
Oft doth the vivid fancy paint the form
That glides around us with prophetic eye,
Whose awful voice is heard amid the storm
When spirits throng the chambers of the sky.
The eternal aspiration of the soul
Seeks things unreal as the summer wind,
Which all can hear, but none on earth control;
Oft doth the vivid fancy paint the form
That glides around us with prophetic eye,
Whose awful voice is heard amid the storm
When spirits throng the chambers of the sky.
Yet shapes appear and shadows float along
Which have no mortal moulding, hue or birth,
And wild romance and legendary song
Tell of dread spectres doomed to roam the earth,
Eternal heirs of uncommuning woe!
And well may man in such wild tales discern
How far extends the chain of guilt below!—
How long remorse within the heart doth burn!
Which have no mortal moulding, hue or birth,
And wild romance and legendary song
Tell of dread spectres doomed to roam the earth,
Eternal heirs of uncommuning woe!
And well may man in such wild tales discern
How far extends the chain of guilt below!—
How long remorse within the heart doth burn!
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |