The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

‘The Priest spake well:
The Cross is everywhere, and read aright
Is Nature's riddle; well, I read it thus—
Silent progressions to new powers of pain
Through cruel æons of blood-sacrifice.
For life is based upon the law of death,
And death is surely evil; wherefore, then,
All life seems evil. To each thing that lives
Is given, without a choice, this destiny—
To be a slayer or a sufferer,
A tyrant or a martyr; to be weak
Or cruel; to range Nature like a hawk,
Or fall in cruel talons like a dove;
And of these twain, where both are evil things,
That Cross decrees that martyrdom is best.
What then? Shall I praise God for martyrdom?
Nay!—I can drink the poison cup and die,
But bitter is the blessing I would call
On Him who mix'd it with His fatal Hand.’

The path I follow'd now was dark as death,
And overhead the ever-gathering clouds
Were charged with rain; the piteous stars were gone,
Blown out like tapers in a mighty wind
That wheel'd in maddening circles round the moon;
And deeper into the dark vaporous void
The moon did burn her way till she was hid
And nothing but the cloudy night remain'd.
Then the great wind descended, and, it seem'd,
In answer to it every wayside Christ
Stretch'd arms and shriek'd. Suddenly, with a groan,
The vials of the storm were open'd!

Then
The rain fell, and the waters of the rain
Stream'd like a torrent; and across the shafts
Sheet-lightning glimmer'd ghastly, while afar
The storm-vex'd breakers of Eternity
Thunder'd.

In that great darkness of the storm
Wildly I fled, and, lo! my pilgrim's robes,
Drench'd with the raindrops, like damp cerements clung
Around my weary limbs; and whither I went
I knew not, but as one within a maze
Drave hither and thither, with my lifted arms
Shielding my face against the stinging lash
Of rains and winds. Methought my hour was come,
For oft upon the soaking earth I fell,
Moaning aloud; yet ever again I rose
And struggled on; even so amid a sea
Of dark and dreadful waters strikes and strives
Some swimmer, half unconscious that he swims,
Yet with the dim brute habit of the sense
Fighting for life he knows not why or how
Nor whither on the mighty billows' breast
His form is roll'd!

But ever and anon
When, like a lanthorn dim and rain-beaten
That flasheth sometimes to a feeble flame,
My dark mind into memory was illumed,
I thought, ‘Despair! I cannot last the night!
Ah, would that I had stay'd with that pale Priest,
Seeking for comfort where he findeth it.
Yea, better his half-hearted company
Than to be drifting in the tempest here,
Alone, despairing, haunted, woe-begone.
He cannot hear me. Shall I call on Christ,
His Master?—Christ! Adonai!—He is dumb,
Dumb in His silent sculptured agony—
Dead! dead!’

I would have fallen with a shriek,
But suddenly across my aching eyes
There shot a bloodshot light as of some fire
Amid the waste. I stood, and strain'd my gaze
Into the darkness. Steady as a star
The glimmer grew, shining from far away

With slant moist beams on the black walls of rain.

Lured by the lonely ray I struggled on,
Faint, stumbling, soaking, panting, overpower'd,
But brighter as I went the glimmer grew,
And soon I saw it from the casement came
Of a dark dwelling on the weary waste.
Forlorn the dwelling stood, and on its roof
The rain smote with a cheerless leaden sound,
And in the front of it, on creaking chains,
There swung a sign. Then did my beart upleap,
Rejoicing once again in hope to feel
The touch of human hands, to hear the sound
Of human voices; and I cried aloud,
‘Thank God at least for this lone hostelry,
But for its friendly help I should have died.’

So saying, I knock'd, and as I knock'd I heard,
Faint, far within, a sound of revelry
From distant rooms; but still the cruel rain
Smote on me, and above my head the sign
Moan'd like a corse in chains. I knock'd again
More clamorously, striking with my staff—
And soon I heard the shuffling of slow feet
Approaching. Hearing this, I knock'd the more,
And then, with creak and groan of locks and keys,
The door swung open, and before mine eyes
Loom'd a great lobby in the midst of which
A marble-featured serving-maiden stood,
Sleepy, half yawning, holding in her hand
A dismal light. Bloodless her cheeks and cold,
Her hair a golden white, her eyes dead blue,
Her stature tall, and thin her shrunken limbs
And chilly hands. ‘Welcome!’ she murmur'd low,
Not marking me she welcomed but with eyes
All vacant staring out into the night.
‘Who keeps this house?’ I question'd, rushing in,
And as she closed and lock'd the oaken door
The maiden answer'd with a far-off look,
Like one that speaks with ghosts, ‘My master, sir,
Host Moth; and we are full of company
This night, and all the seasons of the year.’

Even then, along the lobby shuffling came
The lean and faded keeper of the inn,
A wight not old, but rheumatic and lame,
With wrinkled parchment skin, and jetblack eyes
Full of shrewd greed and knowledge of the world;
And in a voice of harsh and sombre cheer
He croak'd ‘Despair, show in the gentleman—
Methinks another Pilgrim from the City?
Thy servant, sir! Alack, how wet thou art!—
No night for man or beast to be abroad.
Ho there! more faggots in the supperroom,
The gentleman is cold; but charily, wench,
No waste, no waste, for firewood groweth dear,
And these be pinching times.’

So saying, he rubb'd
His feeble hands together, chuckling low
A sordid welcome, while a shudder ran,
Half pain, half pity, through my chilly veins,
To see the lean old body clad in rags—
A dreary host, methought; and as I thought,
I glanced around me on the great dark walls
All hung with worm-eat tapestry that stirr'd
In the chill airs that crept about the house;
For through great crannies in the old inn's walls
Came wind and wet, and oftentimes the place
Shook with the blast.

‘How callest thou thine inn?’
I ask'd, still shaking off the clammy rain
And stamping on the chilly paven floor—
‘Methinks 'tis very ancient?’

‘Yea, indeed,’
Answer'd that lean and grim anatomy;
‘None older in the land—an ancient house,
Good sir, from immemorial time an inn.
Thou sawest the sign—a skull enwrought with roses,

And wrought into a wine-cup ruby rimm'd?
My father's father's father set it there.’

THE PILGRIM.
Thou seemest full of guests. Thine inn must thrive.

HOST.
Thrive? yea, with thrift! We lie too far away,
Too lone i' the waste, for many travellers;
And they who come, good lack, are mostly poor,
Penniless men with burthens on their backs
And little in their pouches, save us all!
Once on a time, in my good grandsire's day,
The house throve well, and at that very door
King Cruel and full many a mighty man
Lighted, a-hunting here upon the waste.
But now the house decays. Alack, alack!
Sometimes methinks 'twill fall about mine ears.
What then? I have no kin to leave it to,
And if it lasts my little lapse of time
Why, I shall be content!

Thus murmur'd he,
Ushering into a mighty bed-chamber
His shivering guest; and on the hearth thereof
The marble maid strew'd firewood down and sought
To light a fire, but all the wood was wet,
And with her cold thin lips she blew the flame
To make it glow, while mine host chatter'd on.

‘This, master, is the only empty room—
Kept mostly for great guests, but since the house
Is full, 'tis thine. Upon that very bed
King Cruel himself hath slept, and good Priest Guile
Before they made him Pope. I'll leave thee, sir.
When thou art ready thou shalt sup below
In pleasant company.’

Then methought within
That antique room I stood alone and dried
My raiment at the faint and flickering fire;
And in the chill blue candlelight the room
Loom'd with vast shadows of the lonely bed,
The heavy hangings, and dim tapestries;
And there were painted pictures on the walls,
Old portraits, faint and scarce distinguishable
With very age—of monarchs in their crowns,
Imperial victors filleted with bay,
And pallid queens. ‘A melancholy place,’
I murmur'd; ‘yet 'tis better than the storm
That wails without!’

Down through that house forlorn
I wended, till I reach'd a festal room,
Oak-panel'd, lighted with a pleasant fire,
And therewithin a supper-table spread
With bakemeats cold, chill cates, and weak wan wines.
There, waited on by that pale handmaiden,
I supp'd amid a silent company
Of travellers, for no man spake a word.
But when the board was clear'd and drinks were served,
Around the faggot fire all drew their seats;
And stealing in, a tankard in his hand,
The host made one, and fondled his thin knees.
And now I had leisure calmly to survey
My still companions looming like to ghosts
In the red firelight of the lonely inn.

They seem'd of every clime beneath the sun,
And clad in every garb, but all, it seem'd,
Were melancholy men, and some in sooth
Were less than shadows, houseless and forlorn;
And in the eyes of most was dim desire
And dumb despair; and upon one another
They scarcely gazed, but in the dreary fire
Look'd seeking faces. For a time their hearts,
In the dim silence of that dreary room,
Tick'd audibly, like a company of clocks,
But soon the host upspake, and sought to spread
A feeble cheer.

‘Come, gentlemen, be merry
More faggots—strew them on the hearth, Despair!
All here are friends and Pilgrims; let's be merry!’
And turning round to one who by his dress

And grizzled beard did seem a travelling Jew,
He added, ‘Master Isaac, thou art dull!
What cheer i' the town to-day? How thriveth trade?’

‘Ill, master,’ answer'd, with his heavy eyes
Still on the fire, the Jew itinerant:
‘The accursed of Canaan in the temples reign,
And he who by the God of Judah swears
Hath little thrift. I saw a merry sight:
Another Pilgrim stoned for following
The dream their Master, the dead Nazarene,
Preach'd for a sign. Could he not hold his peace,
And smile, as I do, spitting o'er my head
In secret, for a curse upon the place?’

Even as he spake I started, listening,
As if I heard the sound of mine own name,
But ere my lips could speak, another voice
Came from the circle, shrill and petulant:

‘I saw the sight, and laugh'd with aching sides.
They would have let an atheist pass in peace,
But him they stoned. Poor fool! he went in rags,
Seeking the moonshine City those same priests
Preach, laughing in their sleeves.’

A dreary laugh
Ran through the circle as he spoke, but none
Lifted his vacant vision from the fire.
Then I, now glancing at the speaker's face,
Cold, calm, and bitter, lighted with a sneer,
Answer'd—

‘I am that man of whom you speak—
What moves thy mirth?’

‘Thy folly,’ grimly said
The other; and the circle laugh'd again.
But with a cunning and insidious smile
The Jew cried, interposing, ‘Softly, friends!
Be civil to the gentleman, who is
A rebel like yourselves, hating as much
Those cruel scarecrows of authority.’
Then, turning with a crafty look to me,
He added quietly—‘Thy pardon, sir!
A Pilgrim unto Dreamland, I perceive?’
Whereat I answer'd, frowning sullenly—
‘Nay, to the tomb! And as I live, meseems,
In this lone hostel's black sarcophagus,
I reach my journey's end, and stand amid
My fellow corpses!’

As I spake the word,
There started up out of that company
A youth with wild large eyes and hair like straw,
Lean as some creature from the sepulchre,
The firelight flashing on his hueless cheeks,
Waving his arms above his head, and crying,

‘A tomb! it is a tomb, and we the dust
Cast down within it—dead! for on our orbs
Falleth no sunlight and no gentle dew,
Nor any baptism shed by Christ or God,
The Phantoms that we follow'd once in quest!
To-day is as to-morrow, and we reck
No touch of Time, but moulder, coffin'd close,
Far from the wholesome stars!’—and as the maid
Pass'd coldly, on her ghastly face he fix'd
His wild, lack-lustre eye: ‘Fill, fill, sweet wench;
Let the ghosts sit upon their graves and drink;
And come thou close and sit upon my knee,
That I may kiss thy clammy lips and smooth
Thy chilly golden hair!’

He sank again,
Fixing his eyes anew upon the fire,
Whilst the Jew whisper'd softly in mine ears:
‘'Tis Master Deadheart, the mad poet, sir;
Heed not his raving! Once upon a time
He was a Pilgrim like thyself, but now
He dwelleth in the middle of the waste,
Within a dismal castle, ivy-hung
And haunted by the owls.’

But I replied,
‘There's method in his madness. Unto him
God is not, therefore he is surely dead,
And as he saith, a corpse, for God is Life.’

Then spake again he who had laugh'd before

At my dark plight, between his firm-set teeth
Hissing the words and smiling:

‘Who is this
That prates of God? Another Phantom-hunter!
Another Pilgrim after the All Good,
Who sees not all is evil, even the goad
Of selfish hope that pricks him feebly on?’

The tone was gentler than the words, and spake
Pity supreme and sorrow infinite,
Wherefore not angrily did I reply:
‘I love to know their names with whom I speak,
First tell me thine, and I may answer thee?’

‘Why not!’ replied the other quietly;
‘Our host doth know my name as that of one
That plainly saith his say and pays his score.
My name is Wormwood, and hard by this place
I keep a school for Pilgrims not too old
To learn of me!’

THE PILGRIM.
Come, school me if thou wilt!
Thou sayest that all is evil—prove thy saying.

WORMWOOD.
Why should I prove what thine own simple heart
Is chiming? Prove the sound of funeral bells,
The trump of wars, the moans of martyrdom!
Man, like the beast, is evil utterly,
And man is highest of all things that be.

THE PILGRIM.
Man highest? Aye, of creatures, if thou wilt,
And I will grant he hath an evil heart;
But higher far than Man is very God.

WORMWOOD.
How? Is the Phantom greater than the Fact?
The Shadow than the Substance casting it?

THE PILGRIM.
Not so; and therefore God is more than Man.

WORMWOOD.
Wrong at the catch—for Man is more than God;
For out of Man, the creature of Man's heart,
Colossal image of Man's entity,
Comes God; and therefore, friend, thou followest
Thine own dark shadow which thou deem'st divine,
And since Man's heart is evil (as indeed
Thou hast admitted now in fair round speech),
Evil is God whom thou imaginest!

The speaker laugh'd, and of that company
Many laugh'd too, and I was answering him,
When suddenly a hollow voice exclaim'd,
‘A song! a song!’ and rising from his seat
With flashing eyes the maniac Poet sang:

I have sought Thee, and not found Thee,
I have woo'd Thee, and not won Thee—
Wrap Thy gloomy veil around Thee,
Keep Thy starry mantle on Thee—
I am chamber'd far below Thee,
And I seek no more to know Thee.

Of my lips are made red blossoms;
Of my hair long grass is woven;
From the soft soil of my bosoms
Springeth myrrh; my heart is cloven,
And enrooted there, close clinging,
Is a blood-red poppy springing.

There is nothing of me wasted,
Of my blood sweet dews are fashion'd,
All is mixed and manifested
In a mystery unimpassion'd.
I am lost and faded wholly,
Save these eyes, that now close slowly.

And these eyes, though darkly glazing,
With the spirit that looks through them,
Both before and after gazing
While the misty rains bedew them,
From the sod still yearn full faintly
For Thy shining soft and saintly.

They are closing, they are shading,
With the seeing they inherit—
But Thou fadest with their fading,
Thou art changing, mighty Spirit—
And the end of their soft passion
Is Thine own annihilation!

All join'd the wild refrain, till with the sound
The old inn shook. ‘Well sung!’ exclaim'd mine host,
And stirr'd the feeble embers of the fire;
And in the calm that follow'd, turning to me,
The Jew smiled quietly and spake again:—

‘Good friend, since life is short, and man's heart evil,
And death so near at every path we tread,
Is it not best to clutch the goods we have,
To trade, to barter, and to keep with thrift,
Than to go wandering into mystic lands
Seeking the City that can ne'er be seen?
Put out of sight that bleeding Nazarene
Whose shadow haunts our highways every-where,
And, faith, the land we dwell in is a land
Gracious and green and pleasant to the eye.
Jew am I, but apostate from the God
Who thunder'd upon Sinai, and indeed
I love no form of thunder, but affect
Calm dealings and smooth greetings with the world.
For this is sure—that we are evil all,
Earth-tainted, man and woman, beast and bird,
We prey on one another, high and low;
And if we cheat ourselves with phantasies,
We miss the little thrift of time we have
And perish ere our prime.’

‘Most excellent,’
Cried Wormwood; ‘carpe diem—eat and live—
To-morrow thou shalt die;’ and suddenly
He rose and sang a would-be merry tune:

Pour, Proserpine, thy purple wine
Into this crystal cup,
And wreathe my head with poppies red,
While thus I drink it up.
Then, marble bride, sit by my side,
With large eyes fixed in sorrow,
To-night we'll feast, and on thy breast
I'll place my head to-morrow.

Pale Proserpine, short space is mine
To taste the happy hours,
For thou hast spread my quiet bed,
And strewn it deep in flowers.
O grant me grace a little space,
And shroud that face of sorrow,
Till dawn of day I will be gay,
For I'll be thine to-morrow.

Am I not thine, pale Proserpine,
My bride with hair of jet?
Our bridal night is taking flight,
But we'll not slumber yet;
Pour on, pour deep! before I sleep
One hour of mirth I'll borrow—
Upon thy breast, in haggard rest,
I'll place my head to-morrow.

He ceased, and stillness on the circle came,
Like silence after thunder, and again
All gazed with dreary eyeballs on the fire.
But now the chill and rainy dawn crept in
And lighted all those faces with its beam.
‘To bed!’ cried one, and shivering I arose,
And through great lobbies colder than the tomb,
And up great carven stairs with curtains hung,
I follow'd that pale handmaiden, who bare
A chilly wind-blown lamp, until again
I stood within the antique bedchamber,
And setting down the light the maiden fix'd
Her stony eyes on mine and said ‘Good-night;’
Then with no sound of footsteps flitted off,
And left me all alone.

Long time I paced
The dreary chamber, haunted by the sound
Of mine own footfalls, then I laid me down,
Not praying unto God as theretofore,
In the great bed, and by my bedside set
The rushlight burning low; and all around
The pallid pictures on the mouldering walls
Look'd at me silcntly and seem'd to smile,
While quietly the great bed's canopy
Outstretch'd in rustling folds above my head.
But as my senses faded one by one
I seem'd to see those pallid Kings and Queens
Descend and flit across the oaken floor
With marble faces and blue rayless eyes;
And that dark canopy above became
A Christ upon His Cross, outstretching arms
And bending down to look into my face
With eyes of dumb, dead, infinite despair.