 | The Solitary, and other poems |  |
Kirke's song is ended; at its end
The fumes from his weak brain descend.
Gramercy! should the lay offend!
He opes his fearful eyes, and sees
Jasper, and all his functions freeze.
A face so hideous, so streak'd o'er
With a black choler, ne'er before
Gloom'd wrath, ere it began to pour.
And still so touch'd—or, yet more nigh
The truth—tortur'd with agony,
That even Kirke is mov'd, and falls
Down on his knees with a sharp yell,
Grasping the figure that appals,
And gazing on that aspect fell.
“Oh! do not kill me!”—
The fumes from his weak brain descend.
Gramercy! should the lay offend!
He opes his fearful eyes, and sees
Jasper, and all his functions freeze.
A face so hideous, so streak'd o'er
With a black choler, ne'er before
Gloom'd wrath, ere it began to pour.
And still so touch'd—or, yet more nigh
The truth—tortur'd with agony,
128
Down on his knees with a sharp yell,
Grasping the figure that appals,
And gazing on that aspect fell.
“Oh! do not kill me!”—
“Fool! rise up!
Thou hast been hovering o'er the cup,
And hast fallen in: thou winter fly!
What! take thine old blind buzz awry!
No, by my love for thee, not I.
Yet, Kirke—sly jester, skill'd to fleer,
And pass the inferential jeer,
What if, while kneeling at my foot,
I wrung thy weasand? I could do't;
Or tore thy heart out by the root?
But I'll not do such things; I jest:
Thou, my old chirping, mocking guest!
Arise, my boy, and go thy ways”—
Thou hast been hovering o'er the cup,
And hast fallen in: thou winter fly!
What! take thine old blind buzz awry!
No, by my love for thee, not I.
Yet, Kirke—sly jester, skill'd to fleer,
And pass the inferential jeer,
What if, while kneeling at my foot,
I wrung thy weasand? I could do't;
Or tore thy heart out by the root?
But I'll not do such things; I jest:
Thou, my old chirping, mocking guest!
Arise, my boy, and go thy ways”—
How easily doth Jasper raise
The mute old trembler from the floor,
And fling him headlong to the door;
Then following, whispers in his ear,
“Go to thy bed; but why thy fear?
Once, I had slain thee for this flout,
But now thou'rt safe:”—he thrusts him out.
129
And fling him headlong to the door;
Then following, whispers in his ear,
“Go to thy bed; but why thy fear?
Once, I had slain thee for this flout,
But now thou'rt safe:”—he thrusts him out.
And now, with what heart-sinking doubt,
Doth Kirke lie on his truckle-bed,
To which by instinct he had fled—
And listen! Jasper, far below,
He hears, quick-striding to and fro;
And then loud words; then doors that close
Like thunder, soon as open'd; then
Sounds fainter, like subsiding woes;
Then silence 'twixt the two old men,
And a dark space between; and yet
Kirke, taught by terror, will not let
His eyelids drop; in drear affright
Shaking—wide-staring all the night.
Doth Kirke lie on his truckle-bed,
To which by instinct he had fled—
And listen! Jasper, far below,
He hears, quick-striding to and fro;
And then loud words; then doors that close
Like thunder, soon as open'd; then
Sounds fainter, like subsiding woes;
Then silence 'twixt the two old men,
And a dark space between; and yet
Kirke, taught by terror, will not let
His eyelids drop; in drear affright
Shaking—wide-staring all the night.
| The Solitary, and other poems | |