University of Virginia Library

THE STRATEGY OF DEATH.

HOW THREE REVELLERS WENT TO FIND DEATH, AND HOW THEY FOUND HIM.

Who tells old tales, and with the purple wine
Warms his hoar forehead, calling out, Divine
Beautiful Bacchus, and God Mercury,
And Venus, daughter of the choral sea,
That 'gainst the land deep melodies doth make
In the pale moonshine when the forests shake,
Bowed by the north wind toward the leaping waves?
Who calls great poets from their haunted graves,
Around the living still the spells to throw
That in their hearts men treasured long ago?
'Tis thou, old Winter. Come—thou comest soon
With wizard mantle, for thy crescent moon
Shines like a flame behind the chesnut bare,
Whose black boughs shiver in the whistling air.
To Mary mother beauty's songs may rise,
And charm the angry spirit of the skies,
That o'er the seas the shipman safe may sail,
O'er all those liquid accents should prevail.
But I will tell a wild and tragic story
Again, with which the father and the glory
Of Albion's verse his famous pilgrimage
To Canterbury sped, where many an age
Down to the dust of that Archbishop bent
High mind, and lowly, with the same consent,
The Pardoner told it, onward as they went.
Oft by the door where sleep had never been
Danced a lone girl, and twirled her tambourine,
And shook pale roses from her scattered hair
Like hopes forgot, and none replaced them there.
Oft stood the gipsy 'neath the morning star
And looked like priestess of pale Lucifer.
But happier maidens with averted eye
Sped the rude haunt of losel lingerers by,
On where the Dome its bird-loved steeple rears,
And cleaves the air as glory cleaves the years,
With hurrying steps they passed, and joyed to gain
The open space that guards the holy fane,
And scent its lime trees in the wandering wind,
And leave the noisy narrow street behind.
Oh pure as light their orisons arose
That breathes at dawning on the earth's repose,
When flowers awake, and birds are singing shrill
At airy distance, o'er the highest hill.
But far from these, by gilded palisade
Fenced from the aisle, one day a grave was made,
For one was coming, whom his florins' grace
Had gained within a knightly resting-place,
And honour, neath oblivion's nodding plume;
There's many a changeling memory on a tomb.
And when with long procession and with dole,
And priests with burly gait, that for the soul
Of their beloved brother lustily
Sang hymns, the pomp those wassailers came by,
And through the hostel rang the tinkling bell:
“Go forth Sir Tun, and look thou answer well,”
Thus cried they, “whom they carry in the street.”
Quoth the tall host, and looked down on his feet,
And up at the black rafters, as he drew
A troubled sigh, “Too well, alas! ye knew
His name and him, a comrade old and true.
But when lean dogs were howling yesternight,
And doors were barred, and stars were shining bright,
And played the moonlight, like a spirit lone
Down the long street, and all its crowds were gone,
There came a felon dark that haunts these ways
And in this country all the people slays,
And none can see him with his biting spear,
But still they shout, and shudder, Death is here!—
And there is nothing—save a cold pale form—
And wailing women and the funeral worm;
And so he smote yon gallant, as he sat
Full feasted, with a feather in his hat.
There was an end of drinking song I trow,
And the grey monks may bear his body now;
And hark, the Miserere low they sing.
But yesterday he revelled as a king,
Lo now he goeth like a Lazarus ,
With bell before him to his narrow house—
Alas! my masters, ye may rail and jeer,
When conscience wakes, 'tis evil reckoning here.
Aye, and 'twere better 'gainst this pestilence
Our peace to patch, for not an hour hence,
God wot, he dwelleth like the Gadarene
In a waste place, that hath a village been;
A Charnel now.”—But up with one accord
These madmen sprung, and stamped upon the board:
“What, dost thou tell us of a murdering thief,
And think to shield him with a priest's belief,
And bid us from his coming shrink and fly!
Stand back,” they shouted. “Varlet—we defy
Him whom thou palterest of—this traitor, Death!
And we will seek him over holt and heath,
And in his ribs our thirsty daggers sheath;
And of his black blood thou shalt see the stain
On their sharp points, when here we drink again!”
Pale grew the host, and followed to the door;
Men thought that he was cheated of his score,
And wondered why with shaded eyes he stood,
And watched their flight in visionary mood.
Scarce dies the echo of their mad career,
Yet ring their wild words in his startled ear;—
But they are gone! Why stand like Terminus
With a blank visage, Vintner, gazing thus?
Without the town, beside a grassy mead,
Where willows shade the cattle as they feed,
And creeps the crouching fowler on his knees
Through scented clover round the fallen trees,
And, all unconscious of his treachery,
The partridge cowers, as carts go creaking by,
There sat an old man, looking at the smoke
From a grey tower in lazy wreaths that broke.
Idly he seemed to look; but in his mind
Were pilgrim thoughts, that many a shrine could find
E'en in that simple scene;—the village road,
The cheerful green leaves, and the stork's abode
High on the roof, such roof as Rubens drew,
Or Teniers shadowed with aërial hue,
And girt with feathery trees, that light falls through
On coigne and turret, of Time's stealthy foot
Long worn, but thither like a funeral mute
He comes, with nodding panoply arrayed,
And bears the shield aloft, and warrior blade,
And hangs it up on some high monument.
There sat the old man, on his dreams intent;
And forward on his staff to meet the sunshine leant.
But when this brotherhood, like a band of thieves
That lurk by Moësel, with its rocks and leaves,
And oft the quiet scattered hamlets scare,
Came by the place, and saw him sitting there,
“Ha! what art thou?” with sudden start they cried;
“Stand up, and tell us what dost here abide
With that foul visage, like a corbel head
Fixed in a church, that seems to watch the dead,—
Why livest on, all stony thus and cold?”
Full in their faces look'd the beadsman old,
Full in their faces, on a winter night,
As a keen planet, with its steady light,
Far Saturn, that on shrews doth sorrow cast,
Looked the old man, and thus he spoke at last—
“What if I said, because, although I went,
Staff-borne and slow, to Ardennes or to Ghent,
By fair or forest none would change with me
His youth, and age my portion yet must be,
And lonely now along the world to roam,
And muse what Death may be when he shall come,
And call me whither wander or repose
Kin, children, friends, and all that memory knows:—
What if I said, my hovel dark and small
Beats back my heart's blood with its chilly wall,
And fain I'd see the sun; but fainer far
Rest 'neath the turf where yonder lilies are.
Ill suits such counsel with the Gascon grape,
And wit that sits in mocking mouths agape;
Speed ye, fair sirs.” “And thinkest thus to fly,
Thou false old villain with a goblin eye!
Watchest for Death? Aye, thou art his espy.
There moves no life-blood in thy felon face,
That scowls like Judas at our kindly race;
Long are thine arms, and devilish they seem,
I saw thee yester-even in a dream.
But now thy guile shall have a fitting end,
And his own slave betray thy master fiend.
He sits in ambush with his venomed bow,
But thou the spot, old double traitor, show;
For we revenge our brothers he hath slain.”
“Nay, sirs,” the old man calm replied again,
“If Death ye seek, dwells he not every where,
As present and as common as the air?
But who from his all compassing abode
Would call him, as the lightning from the cloud,
And with him in his shadow battle wage?
Marry the world grows valiant in its age!
The Egyptian sorcerers than this did less,
And Endor's king-subduing prophetess,
They called the dead, that came not at their call,
Save the dread shape that froze the veins of Saul,
Ye Death himself, the victor over all.
Know ye whence comes and whither goes the wind
In the black forest howling deep behind,
Say can ye see it, when the crashing trees
Fall down, and scatter from their combs the bees,
And on it goes, at evening hovering round,
Old towers and gates, with lamentable sound?
They say that ghosts walk then, sad multitude!
And he compels them where they laughed and wooed,
And built, but viewless doth he hurry past,
And frights the living with the moaning blast.
Yet seek, he shall appear. In yonder grove,
Who dare the challenge there may find his glove.
God speed the right! Messires, fare as ye may,
I go in peace, self-bidden ye to fray.”
Calm as a shadow on his lonely path
He went; but they, as who a devil hath,
Shouted and leapt; and ever as they ran,
Fenced at the thin air, that with gentle fan
Curled the long rye-grass on the banks, and made
A soft low murmur in each dusky glade,
And mingled with the booming of the sea,
That on the grey Dunes dark and heavily
Came rolling, and the solitary sands,
Where watching for a sail the pilot stands.
The place behold! it was a thorny wood,
Close by a moor, where sullen waters stood:
There lurked the boar unheeded through the year,
Nor dwelling rose nor church-bell sounded near,
Nor woodman wandered in the paths, nor piled
His charcoal hearths, long blackening in the wild;
Grim looked the shatter'd trees with damp defiled.
E'en as that king, condemn'd seven years to crawl
And gaze with beasts at Babel's lofty wall,
Who scorned the world might fitly there converse
With baser things, pride's everlasting curse;
And with dark shadows all encompass'd sit,
And feed with dreams his melancholy wit,
Still rooted like a mandrake in the place,
Till witches might believe him of the race
Of Hecate, watching with malignant mien
Her favourite bounds, and, save by them, unseen.
But there was nothing then save trees and fern,
And wavering shades that restless beasts discern,
And start and tremble, and towards the plain
Scour with swift feet, and stand and gaze again,
As if their blood, long since at altars shed,
Still feared by kind some spirit of the dead,
And shrunk before the thirsty Manes dread.
Hard was his look, and sad and saturnine,
As if beyond his power he would divine,
And pushed insatiate his searching art
Through nature's mazes with an iron heart.
Of crystal made, a visor oft he wore,
When he upon his crucibles would pore,
So quick the fumes flew off of poisonous evil,
And rose invisibly, as doth the devil,
Smooth and impenetrable as that he was,
But ready still with all who came to glose.
He could predict, they said, and fortunes tell,
But they knew best who tried it if 'twere well.
Yet sold he wine that gladdens every heart,
And drops balsamic for the dagger's smart,
And juice of herbs medicinally good,
And leaves distilled, the simples of the wood;
And rats he could for friends' and neighbours' bane,
He said not how, they never came again.
Strife waged he none, and with the notary
Kept league, that still 'twixt learned men should be.
But these between, while sped the cunning speech,
That told how red the wine should be and rich,
And coldly smiled that serviceable man
As down the flask the precious liquor ran,
There was another plot within the wood—
Invisible was Death, but near he stood;
And he smiled too, it went so lovingly,
As the red sunset glinted through the tree,
There lay the heap, with shadow overspread,
There sat its keepers, each with bending head,
And with a smooth assent heard what the other said.
But time tries concord, as in winter weather
Jar the crack'd bells, and chime no more together:
Wrath looks the burgomaster at the clock,
And thinks his worship it doth basely mock,
But still with harsh and hollow clang it calls,
And crones bode evil to the echoing walls.
'Twas evil then, for back the poisoner came,
And they to meet him as in friendly game
Sprung up: “Than never better late,” they cried,
And with it dealt the stroke, and straight he died.
Right out his soul that stunning fiery blow
Sent forth to realms obscure, where spirits go.
And they the bottles caught and wasted not,
A blood-red stain their wicker case had got,
And then all reckless to their revel past;
Deeply they drank and many a main they cast:
Of their last day the minutes fleeted fast.
Drear through the shades the cold brook bubbled on,
The wind swept hoarsely o'er the darkened lawn,
They strove to rise, but all their power was gone.
Rise up! thy mistress doth expect thee now,
Bear off the gold; why linger 'neath the bough?
Dull falls the rain;—is this a gallant's trim?
With mouth distorted, leaden eyes and grim;
Ye sought for Death,—what! have ye met with him?
What! did he rise before your troubled sight,
Like vengeful ghost that cometh in the night,
Or Ghoul, that murder scents afar, and stands
By fresh-made hillocks in Arabian lands?
They knew not; pain and fear, that sudden sprung
Like the cold wind, and parched each shivering tongue,
And, every thought with visions dread confused,
Slow dragged their souls away, and limbs unloosed.
Pale with their heads to earth, as if to shun
Some phantom shape they lay, and all was done.
And they who came the rusty daggers found
And aconite fresh springing on the ground,
And left them there to mingle with the clay,
Death long had gone from them some other way.