 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
V.
Her bed of death? She is not dead!
Her breath is warm, her lips are red,
Her hands are fluttering, softly prest
Against the warmth of her bright breast;
One knee is raised, and from its white
The fleecy lawn falls soft and light;
And, turning her bright head, she sees
The pale Monk moaning on his knees!
Then, as a little maid may see,
When awakening very peacefully,
Some one she loveth waiting near,
And gaze upon him with no fear,—
She looks upon his wondering face,
Smiles gently for a moment's space,
Then reaches out her hand!
Her breath is warm, her lips are red,
Her hands are fluttering, softly prest
Against the warmth of her bright breast;
One knee is raised, and from its white
The fleecy lawn falls soft and light;
And, turning her bright head, she sees
The pale Monk moaning on his knees!
Then, as a little maid may see,
When awakening very peacefully,
Some one she loveth waiting near,
And gaze upon him with no fear,—
She looks upon his wondering face,
Smiles gently for a moment's space,
Then reaches out her hand!
‘Christ God!
Master and Maker, 'neath whose rod
This man hath bent so many years,
In famine, fever, torture, tears,—
Thou God by whom the gods of old
Are smitten low and coffin'd cold—
Strengthen Thy slave, if such he be,
Lest this thing slay him utterly!’
He takes her hand, he clasps it to him,
Rapture, like life-blood, kindles through him!
He kisseth it, he feels it warm,
He strains it to his famish'd form,
And crieth on—‘Awake! arise!
Love on thy lips, light in thine eyes—
Arise! the wide world waits to be
Thy servant and to worship thee!
Awake! and let the gods that were,
Who shaped thee thus divinely fair,
And kept thee by some chemic charm
Imperishably bright and warm,
Awaken too, and take the crown
Of Him whose red Cross struck thee down.
He died, and will not wake, but thou
Didst only rest and sleep till now!
And they who framed thee thus divine,
And seal'd thee in thy solemn shrine,
Perchance are only slumbering too!’
Master and Maker, 'neath whose rod
This man hath bent so many years,
In famine, fever, torture, tears,—
Thou God by whom the gods of old
Are smitten low and coffin'd cold—
Strengthen Thy slave, if such he be,
Lest this thing slay him utterly!’
He takes her hand, he clasps it to him,
Rapture, like life-blood, kindles through him!
He kisseth it, he feels it warm,
He strains it to his famish'd form,
And crieth on—‘Awake! arise!
Love on thy lips, light in thine eyes—
Arise! the wide world waits to be
Thy servant and to worship thee!
Awake! and let the gods that were,
Who shaped thee thus divinely fair,
15
Imperishably bright and warm,
Awaken too, and take the crown
Of Him whose red Cross struck thee down.
He died, and will not wake, but thou
Didst only rest and sleep till now!
And they who framed thee thus divine,
And seal'd thee in thy solemn shrine,
Perchance are only slumbering too!’
She stirs,—with brightening eyes of blue—
She rises from her pillow cold,
And rippleth down her locks of gold;
She shakes away the shroud of lawn
Around her soft sides lightly drawn;
She stretches out her arms snow-white,
She riseth up in the dim light,
She stands erect and smiling sweet,
With glistening limbs and rosy feet,
Upon the marble floor that gleams
Like water in the trembling beams!
Hast thou beheld in some green path
A nymph of stone, fresh from the bath,
One snowy foot within a pool
That spreads beneath her rippling cool,
The other softly raised, the while
She draweth on with sleepy smile
Her garment,—and in act to dress
Frozen to everlastingness,
Full of some maiden thought doth look
In silent vision on the brook,
While her dark shadow under her
Stirs softly, though she doth not stir?
Even so that sleeper, when she rose
From that divinely deep repose,
Paused wondering at herself, and felt
The light flow round her limbs, and melt
On the white moonlit floor whereon
She stood erect, as still as stone.
She rises from her pillow cold,
And rippleth down her locks of gold;
She shakes away the shroud of lawn
Around her soft sides lightly drawn;
She stretches out her arms snow-white,
She riseth up in the dim light,
She stands erect and smiling sweet,
With glistening limbs and rosy feet,
Upon the marble floor that gleams
Like water in the trembling beams!
Hast thou beheld in some green path
A nymph of stone, fresh from the bath,
One snowy foot within a pool
That spreads beneath her rippling cool,
The other softly raised, the while
She draweth on with sleepy smile
Her garment,—and in act to dress
Frozen to everlastingness,
Full of some maiden thought doth look
In silent vision on the brook,
While her dark shadow under her
Stirs softly, though she doth not stir?
Even so that sleeper, when she rose
From that divinely deep repose,
Paused wondering at herself, and felt
The light flow round her limbs, and melt
On the white moonlit floor whereon
She stood erect, as still as stone.
Then unto Marcus it did seem
That all things trembled into dream!
Clinging around that maiden frame
The moonlight kindled into flame,
And all the place grew burning gold
With beams more bright a thousandfold
Than beams of day; the coffin bright
Was heap'd with roses red and white,
And all the floor seem'd blossom-strewn
Crimson and white beneath the moon!
With heaving breasts and soft footfall,
Amid that glory mystical,
The Maiden moved, her eyes of fire
Answering his look of dumb desire,
Then lo! the very Capitol
Grew shrunken like a burning scroll,
And vanish'd:—the great City fled;—
The glory deepen'd overhead;—
Instead of stone beneath their feet
Were grass and blossoms scented sweet,
A blue sea wrinkling far away
Crept foam-fringed round a purple bay,
And through a green and flowery land,
Under the cloudless sapphire skies,
Those twain were walking hand in hand,
Looking into each other's eyes!
That all things trembled into dream!
Clinging around that maiden frame
The moonlight kindled into flame,
And all the place grew burning gold
With beams more bright a thousandfold
Than beams of day; the coffin bright
Was heap'd with roses red and white,
And all the floor seem'd blossom-strewn
Crimson and white beneath the moon!
With heaving breasts and soft footfall,
Amid that glory mystical,
The Maiden moved, her eyes of fire
Answering his look of dumb desire,
Then lo! the very Capitol
Grew shrunken like a burning scroll,
And vanish'd:—the great City fled;—
The glory deepen'd overhead;—
Instead of stone beneath their feet
Were grass and blossoms scented sweet,
A blue sea wrinkling far away
Crept foam-fringed round a purple bay,
And through a green and flowery land,
Under the cloudless sapphire skies,
Those twain were walking hand in hand,
Looking into each other's eyes!
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |