Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
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“THE SHADOW” (SHADRACH). |
 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
“THE SHADOW” (SHADRACH).
Like a mist on a meadow
Is old Shadrach the “Shadow,”
With his presence that darkens the street;
As he passes, the lamp
Takes the sinister stamp
Of the gloom of his funeral feet;
Never sunbeam will play
On his menacing way,
Never child knows the clasp of his hand;
For a horror umbrageous
That is cold and contagious
Scatters round him a blight on the land.
Is old Shadrach the “Shadow,”
With his presence that darkens the street;
As he passes, the lamp
Takes the sinister stamp
Of the gloom of his funeral feet;
Never sunbeam will play
On his menacing way,
Never child knows the clasp of his hand;
For a horror umbrageous
That is cold and contagious
Scatters round him a blight on the land.
His the blood of the gipsies,
And he carries eclipses
On his ravening path as he goes;
For the beautiful beam
And the happiest dream,
When he comes, turn to wanness and woes.
Not a sound do you hear,
Till as sudden as fear
He is felt but unseen at your side,
In his terrible dimness
And that ominous grimness,
Like a shark on a death-bearing tide.
And he carries eclipses
On his ravening path as he goes;
506
And the happiest dream,
When he comes, turn to wanness and woes.
Not a sound do you hear,
Till as sudden as fear
He is felt but unseen at your side,
In his terrible dimness
And that ominous grimness,
Like a shark on a death-bearing tide.
As a bloodhound will follow
Over hill, under hollow,
So he tracks you with pitiless pace,
By some instinct like scent
With unswerving intent,
Though you never may once see his face—
Like the ghost of a knave,
And as still as the grave;
Till, as time with your journey moves on,
You (who toil for his living),
With a sickly misgiving
Wake to find all your treasures are gone.
Over hill, under hollow,
So he tracks you with pitiless pace,
By some instinct like scent
With unswerving intent,
Though you never may once see his face—
Like the ghost of a knave,
And as still as the grave;
Till, as time with your journey moves on,
You (who toil for his living),
With a sickly misgiving
Wake to find all your treasures are gone.
He seems only the etching
Or outlines of a sketching
That might possibly grow to a man,
If the Maker filled in
What he chose to begin
And was not quite ashamed of his plan.
But the “Shadow” is not
Without one kindly spot,
And it's not all a bramble the stem;
For, if hardly he harrows
Men, he loves London sparrows,
And shares often his dinner with them.
Or outlines of a sketching
That might possibly grow to a man,
If the Maker filled in
What he chose to begin
And was not quite ashamed of his plan.
But the “Shadow” is not
Without one kindly spot,
And it's not all a bramble the stem;
For, if hardly he harrows
Men, he loves London sparrows,
And shares often his dinner with them.
| Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold | |