 | Shifting Scenes and Other Poems |  |
18
THE HUGUENOT'S DOOM.
The Pastor's house lies in the evening calm;
The cattle are all housed; the labourer's hoe
Rests by his pickaxe; and no sign of woe
Is on the heavens, or on the earth;
For, just as at his birth,
Man sleeps 'mid bloom and balm.
The miller to his 'prentice calls no more;
The child has left his top and marbles on the floor;
The clock is safely ticking on the stair;
And many a pilgrim prayer
Hath knocked, this summer night, at heaven's pearly door.
The cattle are all housed; the labourer's hoe
Rests by his pickaxe; and no sign of woe
Is on the heavens, or on the earth;
For, just as at his birth,
Man sleeps 'mid bloom and balm.
The miller to his 'prentice calls no more;
The child has left his top and marbles on the floor;
The clock is safely ticking on the stair;
And many a pilgrim prayer
Hath knocked, this summer night, at heaven's pearly door.
But lo! adown the slumberous hill,
A form is rushing with dishevelled hair,
With straining eyes
That vainly seek the pitiless skies,
Filled with all human ill,
And heavy with despair.
Knocks wildly at the Pastor Fido's door;
And they, within, cry “Go thy way,
Our task has ended with the day;
We do not seek for more!”
To whom the stranger cried, with brain distraught,
“Oh! are ye men, and have ye hearts of steel,
That for no human woe can feel,
To whom love's agony is nought?
I tell you I'm the youngest son of five;
And three lie in their gore
Down by the great hall-door,
And Fred and I are all that are alive.
I tell you all the clouds are black with thunder,
And deeds are done to-day, that none may name,
Have wrenched the jaws of heaven asunder,
And filled them full of flame.
I am the youngest son of five, I say,
And I have seen those sights, and heard those sounds to-day!”
“We wot not what thou speakest of,” cries one;
“Our task was ended with the setting sun.”
A form is rushing with dishevelled hair,
With straining eyes
That vainly seek the pitiless skies,
Filled with all human ill,
And heavy with despair.
Knocks wildly at the Pastor Fido's door;
And they, within, cry “Go thy way,
Our task has ended with the day;
We do not seek for more!”
To whom the stranger cried, with brain distraught,
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That for no human woe can feel,
To whom love's agony is nought?
I tell you I'm the youngest son of five;
And three lie in their gore
Down by the great hall-door,
And Fred and I are all that are alive.
I tell you all the clouds are black with thunder,
And deeds are done to-day, that none may name,
Have wrenched the jaws of heaven asunder,
And filled them full of flame.
I am the youngest son of five, I say,
And I have seen those sights, and heard those sounds to-day!”
“We wot not what thou speakest of,” cries one;
“Our task was ended with the setting sun.”
Thereat, the stranger gave a cry.
“Open the door,” he said;
“And let me see the old man's saintly head,
And warn him, ere I die!”
“Open the door,” he said;
“And let me see the old man's saintly head,
And warn him, ere I die!”
They drew the bolt; they brought him through the gloom
Into the darkness of an inner room,
Where, in his cleric vestments clad,
The old man looked upon the lad.
Into the darkness of an inner room,
Where, in his cleric vestments clad,
The old man looked upon the lad.
“O Father!—Pastor Fido!—Holy man,—
O man of saintly eld!”—the youth began,
And choked in tears. “O Father! I have seen
Death-struggles all this day,—
Broad stains of blood along the common way,—
The blood of kindred on the village green;
And sounds of men in agony and pain
Are ringing wildly now within my maddened brain!—
Men!—my own brothers! Murdered in their youth,
And in the flower, and prime, and strength, and truth,
And beauty, of that youth:
They showered their blood like rain
Upon my pathway, as I fled—
The fires of hell all gathering in my head.
Hush! Place thy hand upon my burning brow,
And I will tell thee what has happ'd, and how.”
O man of saintly eld!”—the youth began,
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Death-struggles all this day,—
Broad stains of blood along the common way,—
The blood of kindred on the village green;
And sounds of men in agony and pain
Are ringing wildly now within my maddened brain!—
Men!—my own brothers! Murdered in their youth,
And in the flower, and prime, and strength, and truth,
And beauty, of that youth:
They showered their blood like rain
Upon my pathway, as I fled—
The fires of hell all gathering in my head.
Hush! Place thy hand upon my burning brow,
And I will tell thee what has happ'd, and how.”
“Calm thee, my son!” the old man said;—
“The sun's hot, crimson stain
Is hardly quenched yet in the distant main,—
Something hath touched thy head.”
“The sun's hot, crimson stain
Is hardly quenched yet in the distant main,—
Something hath touched thy head.”
“Is it the sun? Oh! Old man, is it well
To scoff, and mock me thus? What have I done
That thou should'st gibe and jeer me with the sun?
Hush thee! And I will tell.
Thou talkest of the sun. 'Tis well of thee!
This morn, only this very morn,
I saw him walk upon the ripples of the sea,
And shake his gold out on the growing corn;
I saw him shine upon my father's hall,
Ripening the pears upon the garden wall;
I saw him in my sisters' hair,
And on my father's brow, as the old man bent in prayer.
Only this morn, a happy family
Gathered together round that old man's knee,—
My brothers four and I, and my fair sisters three.
And now—to-night—old man!—To-night
The rising moon will show another sight,
Will shine on what the ruthless fires have left—
On desecrated rooms,
On horrible smoking glooms,
On flame-black walls with many a ruin-cleft—
And worse! O God! To-night, the moon will shine
Into my father's cold, dead eyes,—
And into yours, that matched the skies,
Ye three dead brothers mine!”
To scoff, and mock me thus? What have I done
That thou should'st gibe and jeer me with the sun?
Hush thee! And I will tell.
Thou talkest of the sun. 'Tis well of thee!
This morn, only this very morn,
I saw him walk upon the ripples of the sea,
And shake his gold out on the growing corn;
I saw him shine upon my father's hall,
Ripening the pears upon the garden wall;
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And on my father's brow, as the old man bent in prayer.
Only this morn, a happy family
Gathered together round that old man's knee,—
My brothers four and I, and my fair sisters three.
And now—to-night—old man!—To-night
The rising moon will show another sight,
Will shine on what the ruthless fires have left—
On desecrated rooms,
On horrible smoking glooms,
On flame-black walls with many a ruin-cleft—
And worse! O God! To-night, the moon will shine
Into my father's cold, dead eyes,—
And into yours, that matched the skies,
Ye three dead brothers mine!”
“Ah! This is sad.” “Nay, old man! do not speak.
My tale is short to tell.
These ears have heard a sister's shriek,
And the whoop of fiends of hell.
They came upon us unaware;
We were still upon our knees
When a clatter of hoofs came on the breeze,
And then a hundred feet clomb up the oaken stair.
Lend me thy hand, old man! My senses reel;
Where was I? Ah! the clang of steel,
A hundred troopers in the breakfast-room,
Stabs, groans, cries, curses, then a gloom,
Where grisly shadows swam about
As in some cavern; then a shout
Of horrible triumph pierced my brain,
Mingled with feebler cries of pain.
Old man! Did'st ever hear the like?
Did'st ever hear thy foeman strike
Full on thy brothers' breast, and know
That death was following every blow,
That thou wert helpless, and it must be so?
Hast ever striven, with uplifted hands,
To ward the lightnings from thy native lands?
Hast gathered up thy soul in maniac act
To lift the thundering wall of some great cataract?
Hast heard thy sisters' wail of woe
Clutched by the throat thyself, struggling in vain to go?
My tale is short to tell.
These ears have heard a sister's shriek,
And the whoop of fiends of hell.
They came upon us unaware;
We were still upon our knees
When a clatter of hoofs came on the breeze,
And then a hundred feet clomb up the oaken stair.
Lend me thy hand, old man! My senses reel;
Where was I? Ah! the clang of steel,
A hundred troopers in the breakfast-room,
Stabs, groans, cries, curses, then a gloom,
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As in some cavern; then a shout
Of horrible triumph pierced my brain,
Mingled with feebler cries of pain.
Old man! Did'st ever hear the like?
Did'st ever hear thy foeman strike
Full on thy brothers' breast, and know
That death was following every blow,
That thou wert helpless, and it must be so?
Hast ever striven, with uplifted hands,
To ward the lightnings from thy native lands?
Hast gathered up thy soul in maniac act
To lift the thundering wall of some great cataract?
Hast heard thy sisters' wail of woe
Clutched by the throat thyself, struggling in vain to go?
I saw it all! I heard the hellish din.
I saw the strong oppress the weak—
The weak—my nearest kin!
I saw the deed of blood begin,
I heard its history in my sisters' shriek;
I saw them dropping one by one,
Brother and brother, father and son,
I felt the old man's hair cool on my burning cheek,
As, with a long, low cry,
He fell down stricken by my side;
A keen blade glittered in mine eye,
And then a darkness fell, woful, and deep, and wide.
I saw the strong oppress the weak—
The weak—my nearest kin!
I saw the deed of blood begin,
I heard its history in my sisters' shriek;
I saw them dropping one by one,
Brother and brother, father and son,
I felt the old man's hair cool on my burning cheek,
As, with a long, low cry,
He fell down stricken by my side;
A keen blade glittered in mine eye,
And then a darkness fell, woful, and deep, and wide.
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I cannot tell how long I lay,
I cannot say the sights I saw,
I cannot say the sounds I heard,—
Who can put heart's-blood in a word—
The dearest blood that ever stirred
A brother's bosom? Well-a-day!
I hardly know, now, what I say.”
I cannot say the sights I saw,
I cannot say the sounds I heard,—
Who can put heart's-blood in a word—
The dearest blood that ever stirred
A brother's bosom? Well-a-day!
I hardly know, now, what I say.”
“And so thy father, the old man, is dead,
And all thy brethren, too, are slain?”
And all thy brethren, too, are slain?”
“All? Said I all? Nay, all save me and Fred,
And he is coming here amain.”
“And wherefore?” “Nay, I hardly know!
Something about a ship, he said;
And bade me tell this tale of woe,
And save the grey hairs of thy head.”
“What of the ship, and what of him?”
“It's riding safely in the bay;—
My mind is weak, my memory dim,
I hardly know what I should say;
But, ere another sun shall shine,
Both he and I, and thou and thine,
Must be at least ten leagues away.”
And he is coming here amain.”
“And wherefore?” “Nay, I hardly know!
Something about a ship, he said;
And bade me tell this tale of woe,
And save the grey hairs of thy head.”
“What of the ship, and what of him?”
“It's riding safely in the bay;—
My mind is weak, my memory dim,
I hardly know what I should say;
But, ere another sun shall shine,
Both he and I, and thou and thine,
Must be at least ten leagues away.”
“Ha! ha! my lad, thou speakest well;
A ship is riding sure enough!”—
The laugh was cruel—the voice was rough—
The speaker flung aside disguise—
But worse than laugh, or voice, the eyes
Looked up, two ruddy pits of hell!
And the youth saw, in wan despair,
It was a trooper fierce and fell—
A face and form he knew too well—
That sat in the Pastor's oaken chair!
A ship is riding sure enough!”—
The laugh was cruel—the voice was rough—
The speaker flung aside disguise—
But worse than laugh, or voice, the eyes
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And the youth saw, in wan despair,
It was a trooper fierce and fell—
A face and form he knew too well—
That sat in the Pastor's oaken chair!
“Old Pastor Fido sails to-night
In the galley-slave ship in the bay;
And thou shalt join him ere the light
Dawns on another day!”
In the galley-slave ship in the bay;
And thou shalt join him ere the light
Dawns on another day!”
| Shifting Scenes and Other Poems | |