 | THE FEARFUL MEMORY. The book of my lady |  |
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THE FEARFUL MEMORY.
The idea of the following poem was suggested by the perusal
of a single and small paragraph, rendered from a German romancer
of repute. The object was to furnish a grouping of successive
and corresponding images and ideas, in themselves vague
and indistinct, which would nevertheless form, when taken together,
a perfect narrative, such as, in matters of jurisprudence,
may be considered the collected body of circumstantial evidence
necessary to the conviction of the criminal. How far I may have
been successful in carrying out my design, it is not with me to
determine.
It comes but as a dream, yet is no dream,
And my rack'd soul requires no sleeping hour
To shadow forth its presence. It is here:—
By daylight and in darkness still the same,
Keeping its watch above my desolate heart,
And, when it would escape to other thoughts,
Bringing it back, with stern unbendingness,
To its curst prison, and its scourge and rack!
Some years, and many thoughts we never lose,
Howe'er time changes. This is one of them!—
Seasons on seasons, since that hour is gone,
Have passed away, with many a circumstance,
To root the dreadful token from my soul;—
And yet its fearful memory, freshly still,
Stands by me, night and day;—and, with a voice,
Monotonous as the evening bird, sends forth
And my rack'd soul requires no sleeping hour
To shadow forth its presence. It is here:—
By daylight and in darkness still the same,
Keeping its watch above my desolate heart,
And, when it would escape to other thoughts,
Bringing it back, with stern unbendingness,
To its curst prison, and its scourge and rack!
Some years, and many thoughts we never lose,
Howe'er time changes. This is one of them!—
Seasons on seasons, since that hour is gone,
Have passed away, with many a circumstance,
To root the dreadful token from my soul;—
And yet its fearful memory, freshly still,
Stands by me, night and day;—and, with a voice,
Monotonous as the evening bird, sends forth
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One fearful adjuration—one deep tone
Of dread reproach, and omen, and dismay!
It is no flickering shadow on the wall,
That startles me at midnight, and expels,
The sweet sleep and fond quiet, all away—
Fills me with horrid thoughts, with many a dread,
And leaves me wan and spiritless at dawn.
No childish spectre, such as fancy paints,
Sudden, before the trembling criminal,
When the bell tolls at midnight, and the vaults
Of the old minster echo back the sound,
With replication wild—haunts me with scowl
Of horrible complexion—a vague spright,
Of chattering teeth, and wan and empty glance,
And stale, lack-lustre semblance!—Would it were—
I were not half the wretch that now I am!
Back to that fearful hour, I need not look,—
The past is ever present! There it stands—
The time, the scene, the dreadful circumstance,
Vividly in my soul, and fresh as when
Each fell particular of thought and deed,
Came to me, as a parcel of myself,
Destined thence, ever, to abide with me!
Let folly, all agape, at some dread mask,
Wonder, with shooting pulse and bristling hair,
At the poor trick of fancy, which invests
Each fleeting, flick'ring shadow on the wall
With spiritual semblance. Nought of this
Troubles my sense, and with unmeasured arm,
Shakes some unshapely terror! I see nought—
'Tis in my soul the fiend hath ta'en abode,
And yields not up his watch. There, all night long,
He tells the monotonous story of my crime;
Paints, in detail, each dread particular,
With horrible recital. On each part,
Of dread reproach, and omen, and dismay!
It is no flickering shadow on the wall,
That startles me at midnight, and expels,
The sweet sleep and fond quiet, all away—
Fills me with horrid thoughts, with many a dread,
And leaves me wan and spiritless at dawn.
No childish spectre, such as fancy paints,
Sudden, before the trembling criminal,
When the bell tolls at midnight, and the vaults
Of the old minster echo back the sound,
With replication wild—haunts me with scowl
Of horrible complexion—a vague spright,
Of chattering teeth, and wan and empty glance,
And stale, lack-lustre semblance!—Would it were—
I were not half the wretch that now I am!
Back to that fearful hour, I need not look,—
The past is ever present! There it stands—
The time, the scene, the dreadful circumstance,
Vividly in my soul, and fresh as when
Each fell particular of thought and deed,
Came to me, as a parcel of myself,
Destined thence, ever, to abide with me!
Let folly, all agape, at some dread mask,
Wonder, with shooting pulse and bristling hair,
At the poor trick of fancy, which invests
Each fleeting, flick'ring shadow on the wall
With spiritual semblance. Nought of this
Troubles my sense, and with unmeasured arm,
Shakes some unshapely terror! I see nought—
'Tis in my soul the fiend hath ta'en abode,
And yields not up his watch. There, all night long,
He tells the monotonous story of my crime;
Paints, in detail, each dread particular,
With horrible recital. On each part,
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Dwells with a deep minuteness, loud and long,—
Portrays my haggard fright to mine own eyes,
At mine own work of sorrow; and forbears,
Not even when day has come, and with it brought,
The busy mart, the crowded festival.
There, in the wildest hum, he seeks me out,
Becoming my sole partner. In my ear,
Some feature, even more dreadful than the rest,
With jeering tone and gibbering laugh of scorn,
He whispers—and the sound like rushing fire,
Or, subtlest poison, from the mountains won,
When spirits are abroad—through my chilled veins,
Without arrest, goes sure and fatally;—
And all grows dark around me—and I lose
The crowded presence, and the lights grow dim,
And I behold myself, again, as once—
In that old hall—the long-gone hours restored—
Darkness around me, save, at intervals,
When inauspicious lightnings broke the gloom,
And the foul bat from out his sooty wing,
Shot through the heavy air, a glimmering ray,
That deepen'd the accumulated gloom,
Of that deep gloom about me. Then, once more,
Appears that form of matchless excellence,
Creature of ravishing mould, and grace that came,
From Eden, ere 'twas blasted. Did I then,—
Cold, selfish, worthless,—as even then I was—
Destroy a flower so bless'd and beautiful?—
Bless'd in itself, and more than happy now,
Yet doubly bless'd with me its enemy.
She comes to me again—I see her now—
How glorious every glance—how smooth each limb,
In exquisite proportion, never match'd;
All rich but ruin'd, and the sightless gaze,
The sole perfection dimmed. Could I have seen,
That moment, what, a moment after, stood
Portrays my haggard fright to mine own eyes,
At mine own work of sorrow; and forbears,
Not even when day has come, and with it brought,
The busy mart, the crowded festival.
There, in the wildest hum, he seeks me out,
Becoming my sole partner. In my ear,
Some feature, even more dreadful than the rest,
With jeering tone and gibbering laugh of scorn,
He whispers—and the sound like rushing fire,
Or, subtlest poison, from the mountains won,
When spirits are abroad—through my chilled veins,
Without arrest, goes sure and fatally;—
And all grows dark around me—and I lose
The crowded presence, and the lights grow dim,
And I behold myself, again, as once—
In that old hall—the long-gone hours restored—
Darkness around me, save, at intervals,
When inauspicious lightnings broke the gloom,
And the foul bat from out his sooty wing,
Shot through the heavy air, a glimmering ray,
That deepen'd the accumulated gloom,
Of that deep gloom about me. Then, once more,
Appears that form of matchless excellence,
Creature of ravishing mould, and grace that came,
From Eden, ere 'twas blasted. Did I then,—
Cold, selfish, worthless,—as even then I was—
Destroy a flower so bless'd and beautiful?—
Bless'd in itself, and more than happy now,
Yet doubly bless'd with me its enemy.
She comes to me again—I see her now—
How glorious every glance—how smooth each limb,
In exquisite proportion, never match'd;
All rich but ruin'd, and the sightless gaze,
The sole perfection dimmed. Could I have seen,
That moment, what, a moment after, stood
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Before each sense of my spirit, she had been,
A living creature—I, a happy one!
And yet, I struck her not. The blow thatreft
Earth of so fair a creature—lopt away,
Suddenly from its stem, as recklessly,
The ploughshare smites the daisy—was not mine;—
That crime is spared my soul; and yet, the crime,
For which I suffer this pursuing fiend,
Was not less deadly, though less dark and dread.
Yet, in that Gothic hall, as then I stood,—
Scarce seeing—all unseen—save by the God,
Whose minister this demon has become—
Even now I stand, beholding all anew,
With freshest glance; and ever since that hour,
Which brought the doom on her, the curse on me,
The deadly circumstance, the fearful crowd,
Of images, all terrible and stern,
Is present to my soul. Before my eyes,
Limned in the outline, by a scanty gray,
Thrown in the latter aperture, from which,
The broken shutter, creaking sullenly, swings,—
I mark a prostrate form—a silent mass,
No feature marked—no colour, shape or face,
Tone or expression—nothing to the sight,
Worthy the sight's observance; yet to me,—
My soul aroused and with a spirit's gaze—
All's clear—all vivid, bright. Her eye no more,
Sends forth its fine expression—all is dim!—
The dark knife lies beside her—in her hands,
The fatal scrawl that drove her to despair,
Writ in my madness. I can see no more.
But madden as I move, for, at each step,
My feet do clammily adhere to the floor,
As if'twere clotted blood that bound them there,
Unwilling they should fly—unyielding still.
In vain would I retreat—for as I move,
A living creature—I, a happy one!
And yet, I struck her not. The blow thatreft
Earth of so fair a creature—lopt away,
Suddenly from its stem, as recklessly,
The ploughshare smites the daisy—was not mine;—
That crime is spared my soul; and yet, the crime,
For which I suffer this pursuing fiend,
Was not less deadly, though less dark and dread.
Yet, in that Gothic hall, as then I stood,—
Scarce seeing—all unseen—save by the God,
Whose minister this demon has become—
Even now I stand, beholding all anew,
With freshest glance; and ever since that hour,
Which brought the doom on her, the curse on me,
The deadly circumstance, the fearful crowd,
Of images, all terrible and stern,
Is present to my soul. Before my eyes,
Limned in the outline, by a scanty gray,
Thrown in the latter aperture, from which,
The broken shutter, creaking sullenly, swings,—
I mark a prostrate form—a silent mass,
No feature marked—no colour, shape or face,
Tone or expression—nothing to the sight,
Worthy the sight's observance; yet to me,—
My soul aroused and with a spirit's gaze—
All's clear—all vivid, bright. Her eye no more,
Sends forth its fine expression—all is dim!—
The dark knife lies beside her—in her hands,
The fatal scrawl that drove her to despair,
Writ in my madness. I can see no more.
But madden as I move, for, at each step,
My feet do clammily adhere to the floor,
As if'twere clotted blood that bound them there,
Unwilling they should fly—unyielding still.
In vain would I retreat—for as I move,
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Wildly, with face turned backward on the scene,
I fain would fly from, down the narrow stairs,
I hear the trickling drops, keeping full pace,
In concert with my feeble falt'ring steps.
Blood—blood!—pursuing wheresoe'er I fly,
And reeking to the heavens, and calling down
This vengeful memory, that, with demon spite,
Inhabits mine own soul, and makes me yield,
A prison of myself—of mine own heart,
A prison meet for mine own punishment.
What further of my story would you hear,—
What boots the name, the deed, the hour, the place,
And each foul feature of what men call crime;
Brief name, to mark a history so long,
So wild, so very fearful as is mine,—
Was hers—is memory's still. It were all vain;
Words are not things, and fail to paint our thoughts,
When they are dark and terrible as mine,
Else, should you hear it all, from lips that now,
Blanch with the recollection. But you see
Its truth in what you see. A little while,
The demon will give up its dread abode,
And still will be the tongue of memory—
Desolate soon must be its dwelling place,
And the torn spirit it has rack'd so long,
Freed from its presence and its bonds all broke,
Will seek—ah, will it find what still it seeks,
The form it crush'd—the spirit it deplores.
I fain would fly from, down the narrow stairs,
I hear the trickling drops, keeping full pace,
In concert with my feeble falt'ring steps.
Blood—blood!—pursuing wheresoe'er I fly,
And reeking to the heavens, and calling down
This vengeful memory, that, with demon spite,
Inhabits mine own soul, and makes me yield,
A prison of myself—of mine own heart,
A prison meet for mine own punishment.
What further of my story would you hear,—
What boots the name, the deed, the hour, the place,
And each foul feature of what men call crime;
Brief name, to mark a history so long,
So wild, so very fearful as is mine,—
Was hers—is memory's still. It were all vain;
Words are not things, and fail to paint our thoughts,
When they are dark and terrible as mine,
Else, should you hear it all, from lips that now,
Blanch with the recollection. But you see
Its truth in what you see. A little while,
The demon will give up its dread abode,
And still will be the tongue of memory—
Desolate soon must be its dwelling place,
And the torn spirit it has rack'd so long,
Freed from its presence and its bonds all broke,
Will seek—ah, will it find what still it seeks,
The form it crush'd—the spirit it deplores.
| THE FEARFUL MEMORY. The book of my lady | |