The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan In Two Volumes. With a Portrait |
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 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
VII.
What form is this in white arrayed
Far down the woodland colonnade,
Approaching slow with a black wand
Cross-shapen in her lily hand?
Is't Cytherea?—is it she
Who rules the green earth and the sea,
Who moves abroad with fearless tread
Her hand upon a lion's head,
Wherever men or beasts are wild,
And tames their hearts and makes them mild?
Far down the woodland colonnade,
Approaching slow with a black wand
Cross-shapen in her lily hand?
Is't Cytherea?—is it she
Who rules the green earth and the sea,
Who moves abroad with fearless tread
Her hand upon a lion's head,
Wherever men or beasts are wild,
And tames their hearts and makes them mild?
Slowly she comes,—a shape of grace,
Leading a lion,—and her face
Is white and cold and thin as death;
And as she cometh near her breath
Is very faint and feebly drawn,
And heavy on the shaven lawn
Her footstep falls, and in her eyes
Dwell deathly pain and sad surmise.
Why seem all things so sudden chill?
Why grows the light on wood and hill
Frosty and faint? Why shrinks the sun
So coldly as she cometh on?
Leading a lion,—and her face
Is white and cold and thin as death;
And as she cometh near her breath
Is very faint and feebly drawn,
And heavy on the shaven lawn
Her footstep falls, and in her eyes
Dwell deathly pain and sad surmise.
Why seem all things so sudden chill?
Why grows the light on wood and hill
Frosty and faint? Why shrinks the sun
So coldly as she cometh on?
‘Marcus!’—she cries,—and lo! he stands,
With pallid face and outstretch'd hands,
Gazing in awe—and from his lips
One wondering word in answer slips—
‘Madonna!’
With pallid face and outstretch'd hands,
Gazing in awe—and from his lips
One wondering word in answer slips—
‘Madonna!’
Yea, in sooth 'tis she,
Mother of Him who died on Tree,
The Virgin from whose milky breast
He drank who set the world at rest!
Ah me! how pallid and how thin,
With clammy grave-cloth 'neath her chin,
And dust upon her golden hair,
She stands and looks upon him there!
Shuddering he moans, with low bent brow,
‘Mother of God, what seekest thou?’
‘What dost thou here?’ the faint voice cries,
While underneath the darkening skies
All groweth dim. ‘Frail-hearted one,
Why hast thou ceased to serve my Son?
And who is this who now doth stand
Naked beside thee, with her hand
Thrust into thine, and hangs the head,
But shows her hot neck blushing red?
Let go her hand whoe'er she be—
And, for thy soul's sake, follow me!’
Mother of Him who died on Tree,
The Virgin from whose milky breast
He drank who set the world at rest!
Ah me! how pallid and how thin,
With clammy grave-cloth 'neath her chin,
And dust upon her golden hair,
She stands and looks upon him there!
Shuddering he moans, with low bent brow,
‘Mother of God, what seekest thou?’
‘What dost thou here?’ the faint voice cries,
While underneath the darkening skies
All groweth dim. ‘Frail-hearted one,
Why hast thou ceased to serve my Son?
And who is this who now doth stand
Naked beside thee, with her hand
Thrust into thine, and hangs the head,
But shows her hot neck blushing red?
Let go her hand whoe'er she be—
And, for thy soul's sake, follow me!’
But Marcus cried, ‘My Master lies,
Silent, with dust upon His eyes—
He sleeps and He will ne'er awake.
But lo! from cloud, from brook, from brake,
From every nook of earth and main,
The old gods gather once again.
Go back into thy grave once more—
Sleep with thy Son, thy reign is o'er—
Leave the green world to her and me,
Nor mar our loves' eternity!’
Silent, with dust upon His eyes—
He sleeps and He will ne'er awake.
But lo! from cloud, from brook, from brake,
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The old gods gather once again.
Go back into thy grave once more—
Sleep with thy Son, thy reign is o'er—
Leave the green world to her and me,
Nor mar our loves' eternity!’
Paler the weary Mother grew,
And with her sunken eyes of blue
Gazed piteously a little space
Into his passion-fever'd face—
Then pointing with thin hand, she cried
To that fair semblance at his side—
‘Follow me, thou! my grave is deep—
There by my pillow thou shalt sleep;
There shall we wait with darken'd eyes
In peace, until my Son shall rise!’
And with her sunken eyes of blue
Gazed piteously a little space
Into his passion-fever'd face—
Then pointing with thin hand, she cried
To that fair semblance at his side—
‘Follow me, thou! my grave is deep—
There by my pillow thou shalt sleep;
There shall we wait with darken'd eyes
In peace, until my Son shall rise!’
But Marcus clutch'd her with a cry,
And all things darken'd 'neath the sky,
And tall and terrible and white
The Virgin loom'd before his sight,
And with a finger cold as ice
Touch'd on the shining forehead thrice
That gentle vision; and behold!
She shiver'd as with deathly cold,
And lay a corpse of marble, prest
In madness to his burning breast.
And all things darken'd 'neath the sky,
And tall and terrible and white
The Virgin loom'd before his sight,
And with a finger cold as ice
Touch'd on the shining forehead thrice
That gentle vision; and behold!
She shiver'd as with deathly cold,
And lay a corpse of marble, prest
In madness to his burning breast.
Then Marcus wail'd, ‘Lost! lost!’ and lo!
The cruel heavens began to snow,
And all was dark, and a shrill gale
Of wintry wind began to wail;
But clasping her with piteous cries,
He kiss'd her on the mouth and eyes,
And kissing cried, ‘Awake! awake!’
Till his heart broke for sorrow's sake;
And heavy as a stone he fell.
The cruel heavens began to snow,
And all was dark, and a shrill gale
Of wintry wind began to wail;
But clasping her with piteous cries,
He kiss'd her on the mouth and eyes,
And kissing cried, ‘Awake! awake!’
Till his heart broke for sorrow's sake;
And heavy as a stone he fell.
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |