The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan In Two Volumes. With a Portrait |
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 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
III. The Face and the Voice.
Nearer and nearer o'er the waste of white
It steals, and doth not fade:
A light, and in the glimmer of the light
A form that casts a shade.
It steals, and doth not fade:
A light, and in the glimmer of the light
A form that casts a shade.
Nearer and nearer, till Death's eyes behold
A semblance strange and gray,
A silent shape that stoopeth and doth hold
The lamp to light its way.
A semblance strange and gray,
A silent shape that stoopeth and doth hold
The lamp to light its way.
Bent is he as a weary snow-clad bough,
Gaunt as a leafless tree,
But glamour of moonlight lies upon his brow,
Most strange to see!
Gaunt as a leafless tree,
But glamour of moonlight lies upon his brow,
Most strange to see!
And in one hand a silvern lanthorn swings
Fill'd with a crimson light,
And round his frame wind-blown and shivering clings
A robe of starry white. . . .
Fill'd with a crimson light,
And round his frame wind-blown and shivering clings
A robe of starry white. . . .
O Death, pale Death,
Well may thy cold heart beat!
The form that comes hath piercëd hands, O Death,
And bloody piercëd feet.
Well may thy cold heart beat!
The form that comes hath piercëd hands, O Death,
And bloody piercëd feet.
Slowly he crawleth under the cold skies,
His limbs trail heavy as lead,
Pale fixëd blue his eyes are, like the eyes
Of one that sleeps stone-dead.
His limbs trail heavy as lead,
Pale fixëd blue his eyes are, like the eyes
Of one that sleeps stone-dead.
Ay me, for never thro' so wan a wold
Walk'd one so sadly fair—
The wild snows drift, the wind blows shrill and cold,
And those soft feet are bare. . . .
Walk'd one so sadly fair—
The wild snows drift, the wind blows shrill and cold,
And those soft feet are bare. . . .
O who is this that walketh the wintry night,
With naked hands and feet!
O who is this that beareth a blood-red light,
And weareth a winding-sheet!
With naked hands and feet!
O who is this that beareth a blood-red light,
And weareth a winding-sheet!
The night is still, no living thing makes moan;
Silent the cold skies loom;—
But hark! what voice is this, so faintly blown
Across the gloom?
Silent the cold skies loom;—
But hark! what voice is this, so faintly blown
Across the gloom?
475
‘Balder! Balder!’
Hush! that cry!
The form stands white i' the chilly night,
Holding its lamp on high.
Hush! that cry!
The form stands white i' the chilly night,
Holding its lamp on high.
‘Balder! Balder!
Where art thou?’
The snow smooths still with fingers chill
Dead Balder's brow.
Where art thou?’
The snow smooths still with fingers chill
Dead Balder's brow.
O gentle Death,
What voice is this that cries?
What sad shape stands with lifted hands
Alone under the skies?
What voice is this that cries?
What sad shape stands with lifted hands
Alone under the skies?
‘Balder! O Balder!
Answer me!’
He stands and softly sighs,
And vacant are his eyes
As if they cannot see!
Answer me!’
He stands and softly sighs,
And vacant are his eyes
As if they cannot see!
Yet in the weary gloom full faint they glow,
And fix themselves at last—
He sees dead Balder sleeping in the snow,
And thither he fleeteth fast!
And fix themselves at last—
He sees dead Balder sleeping in the snow,
And thither he fleeteth fast!
He comes now swifter than a bark
Which bitter tempests blow,—
Dreadful he flashes down the dark,
With black prints on the snow!
Which bitter tempests blow,—
Dreadful he flashes down the dark,
With black prints on the snow!
‘Wake, Balder! wake!’
His voice calls now—
The shrill cry circles like a snake
Round Balder's brow!
His voice calls now—
The shrill cry circles like a snake
Round Balder's brow!
Oh, who is this that walketh the wintry night
With naked hands and feet?
O who is this that beareth a blood-red light
And weareth a winding-sheet?
With naked hands and feet?
O who is this that beareth a blood-red light
And weareth a winding-sheet?
There is a gleam upon his brow and hair
Ev'n as of luminous hands,
Swiftly he comes to Balder's side, and there
He stands!
Ev'n as of luminous hands,
Swiftly he comes to Balder's side, and there
He stands!
And Death crawls moaning from his snowy seat
To grasp his raiment hem,
And toucheth with his mouth the piercëd feet,
Yea, softly kisseth them.
To grasp his raiment hem,
And toucheth with his mouth the piercëd feet,
Yea, softly kisseth them.
O Death! pale Death!
He gazeth down on thee—
His smile is like no smile of thing of breath,
Yet is it sweet to see.
He gazeth down on thee—
His smile is like no smile of thing of breath,
Yet is it sweet to see.
He lifts the lamp—and lo! its red rays glance
On Balder's sleeping eyes—
‘Balder! O Balder! from thy trance
Arise!’ . . . .
On Balder's sleeping eyes—
‘Balder! O Balder! from thy trance
Arise!’ . . . .
Strange flash'd the wondrous ray
Aslant the silent snows;
Death wail'd—and slowly, gaunt and gray,
Dead Balder rose!
Aslant the silent snows;
Death wail'd—and slowly, gaunt and gray,
Dead Balder rose!
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |