 | The New Medusa, and other poems |  |
INTRODUCTION.
There was a captive once at Fenestrèl,
To whom there came an unexpected love
In the dim light which reached his narrow cell
From high above.
To whom there came an unexpected love
In the dim light which reached his narrow cell
From high above.
No hinge had turned, no gaoler seen her pass;
But when once there, she undisturbed remained;
For who would grudge a harmless blade of grass
To one long chained?
But when once there, she undisturbed remained;
For who would grudge a harmless blade of grass
To one long chained?
Between the flagstones of his prison floor
He saw one day a pale green shoot peep out,
And with a rapture never felt before
He watched it sprout.
He saw one day a pale green shoot peep out,
And with a rapture never felt before
He watched it sprout.
8
The shoot became a flower: on its life
He fixed all hope, and ceased of self to think;
Striving to widen with his pointless knife
The cruel chink.
He fixed all hope, and ceased of self to think;
Striving to widen with his pointless knife
The cruel chink.
He bore great thirst when, parched, she drooped her head
In that close cell, to give her of his cup;
And when it froze, he stripped his wretched bed
To wrap her up.
In that close cell, to give her of his cup;
And when it froze, he stripped his wretched bed
To wrap her up.
Naming her Picciola; and week by week
Grew so enamoured as her leaves unfurled
That his fierce spirit almost ceased to seek
The outer world.
Grew so enamoured as her leaves unfurled
That his fierce spirit almost ceased to seek
The outer world.
Oh such another Picciola hast thou,
My prison-nurtured Poetry, long been;
Sprung up between the stones, I know not how,
From seed unseen!
My prison-nurtured Poetry, long been;
Sprung up between the stones, I know not how,
From seed unseen!
This book is all a plant of prison growth,
Watered with prison water, not sweet rain;
The writer's limbs and mind are laden both
By heavy chains.
Watered with prison water, not sweet rain;
The writer's limbs and mind are laden both
By heavy chains.
9
Not by steel shackles, riveted by men,
But by the clankless shackles of disease;
Which Death's own hand alone can sever, when
He so shall please.
But by the clankless shackles of disease;
Which Death's own hand alone can sever, when
He so shall please.
What work I do, I do with numbed, chained hand,
With scanty light, and seeing ill the whole,
And each small part, once traced, must changeless stand
Beyond control.
With scanty light, and seeing ill the whole,
And each small part, once traced, must changeless stand
Beyond control.
The thoughts come peeping, like the small black mice
Which in the dusk approach the prisoner's bed,
Until they even nibble at his slice
Of mouldy bread.
Which in the dusk approach the prisoner's bed,
Until they even nibble at his slice
Of mouldy bread.
The whole is prison work: the human shapes
Are such fantastic figures, one and all,
As with a rusty nail the captive scrapes
Upon his wall.
Are such fantastic figures, one and all,
As with a rusty nail the captive scrapes
Upon his wall.
But if some shape of horror makes you shrink,
It is perchance some outline he has got
From nightmare's magic lantern. Do you think
He knows it not?
It is perchance some outline he has got
From nightmare's magic lantern. Do you think
He knows it not?
10
Scratched on that prison stone-work you will find
Some things more bold than men are wont to read.
The sentenced captive does not hide his mind;
He has no need.
Some things more bold than men are wont to read.
The sentenced captive does not hide his mind;
He has no need.
Oh, would my prison were of solid stone
That knows no change, for habit might do much,
And men have grown to love their dungeons lone;
But 'tis not such.
That knows no change, for habit might do much,
And men have grown to love their dungeons lone;
But 'tis not such.
It is that iron room whose four walls crept
On silent screws, and came each night more near
By steady inches while the victim slept,
And had no fear.
On silent screws, and came each night more near
By steady inches while the victim slept,
And had no fear.
At dawn he wakes; there somehow seems a change;
The cell seems smaller; less apart the beams.
He sets it down to fancy; yet 'tis strange
How close it seems!
The cell seems smaller; less apart the beams.
He sets it down to fancy; yet 'tis strange
How close it seems!
The next day comes; his narrow strip of sky
Seems narrower still: all day his strained eyes sweep
Floor, walls, and roof. He's sure the roof's less high:
He dares not sleep.
Seems narrower still: all day his strained eyes sweep
Floor, walls, and roof. He's sure the roof's less high:
He dares not sleep.
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The third day breaks. He sees—he wildly calls
On God and man, who care not to attend;
He maims his hands against the conscious walls
That seek his end.
On God and man, who care not to attend;
He maims his hands against the conscious walls
That seek his end.
All day he fights, unarmed and all alone,
Against the closing walls, the shrinking floor,
Till Nature, ceasing to demand her own,
Rebels no more.
Against the closing walls, the shrinking floor,
Till Nature, ceasing to demand her own,
Rebels no more.
Then waits in silence, noting the degrees—
Perhaps with hair grown white from that dread doubt—
Till those inexorable walls shall squeeze
His strong soul out.
Perhaps with hair grown white from that dread doubt—
Till those inexorable walls shall squeeze
His strong soul out.
Siena, July, 1882.
| The New Medusa, and other poems | |