A Legend of Old Persia and Other Poems Part 10

All night the moon peered wan and pale Thro' rifts in a scudding storm-rent veil O'er a moving mountainous waste.

All night did the climbers rear and roar And fall with a crash upon the sh.o.r.e, League on league of them coming in haste Till they broke and leapt no more, Leaping and shouting until they broke Upon the screaming sh.o.r.e.

And the simple hardy fisherfolk Kept watch and slept no more, As the wicked wind raved down the street With gouts of foam and slings of sleet And battered at every door.

All night the tiles like chips of straw Were borne, and the air was filled with the roar Of the monstrous symphony.

But its music lulled as the morning came And touched the East with a rosy flame, And whitened a hard clear sky, And the tide drew out far far to the sea Which shouted less tumultuously, Tho' its voices were heard for a sign, As it beat upon the barrier rocks With the baffled rage of the Equinox In a spouting misty line.

X

After a night so fierce and foul What wonder such a day?

The wind, which shrieked like a tortured soul Last night across the bay, Blew high and keen like a violin And dashed the blue with spray.

After a night so mad and wild An afternoon of blue, Of glinting, winking, glad blue waters And breakers only a few, Of light and azure undefiled With scarce a cloud in view.

And at the hour of evening prayer Came three who roamed the sh.o.r.e, The sea was older, colder, and greyer, And moved and murmured more.

Amid the waste of heaven and sea A body lay alone, Half in a pool and half on the knee Of an ancient mossy stone.

The sea had saved a poor little fool From life and all its harms, Her body lay in a lonely pool-- Not in a lover's arms.

And on her cheek the mask of peace And on her lips the smile Of those who mourn and find release, Who know, not love, the vile.

The Wraith.

A pale wraith stood in the dim grey dawn Beside his old love's bed Wavering like a film of lawn And wrang his hands and said, "Oh! I have come to make my prayer For I cannot take my rest When I think of the red crown I called your hair And the cold stone in your breast.

"Out of the eyeless hopeless dark The nights that are black and grey Never a moon or faint star-spark Or a lonely glimmer of day.

Oh! my love, I have come, love, From the ebony gates of death For the sake of the red crown I called your hair And the jasmine of your breath."

But his voice was lost like a mouse's scream In a lonely empty house, And the woman lay in a tender dream Of love and orchard boughs, Her cheeks were flushed and twice she sighed As she turned upon her bed And she had no thought for the thing that cried Or the utterance of the dead.

The Two Murderers.

"Yes, it was I that killed her I did it with this knife, Her that was more to me once....

Well, just the whole of my life.

Take me away and hide me, Or kill me afore I'm mad....

It's rummy to think of me hanging Who was such a quiet lad.

"I met her here on the tow-path, Same as I used in May, There wasn't no moon yet, only The scent of the new-mown hay, And I says--well--I thought for a moment The happy times was near, 'The light that shineth in darkness Is the light of your eyes, my dear.'

"Murder! a court full of lawyers....

And justice guaranteed....

And the judge will hang the prisoner 'For a cowardly cruel deed.'...

Murder!--excuse my laughing!...

It's a kind of catch in the breath....

'But there's words more harsh than a rope is And looks more bitter than death.'

"Murder! My Lud, if ever Their ledgers are balanced true Which of the pair?... Oh! I reckon That she killed something too.

... Is it the scent of a woman's hair Or the scent of new-mown hay?...

Don't stand there shaking and staring, For G.o.d's sake take me away."

REFLECTIONS.

The Wind and the Hills.

We will carry our ills To a height of the hills, Lying down, lying still In the lap of a hill.

The wind blowing keen Shall again make us clean, Both body and spirit; As it pa.s.ses we shall hear it.

The time is of thunder And fields new turned under, Of budding and waking; Of thorn-blossom flaking.

Of longing and questing; Of carol and nesting; Of white birds on the wing Over seas blue with spring.

But you read in the pages Of the books of the sages, And save that dark curtain They know nothing certain,

Except that dark portal Which waits all things mortal-- And conqueror or prophet Comprehend no more of it.

Yet the wind travels so That it surely must know; It has gone the world round Till it came to our ground.

And the hills, which stood fast Ere the first axe was cast And have seen so much history, May have fathomed the mystery.

But the hills on our borders Are silent old warders, And the winds which rejoice No articulate voice.

Oh! ye pure larger airs Ye will scatter our cares-- Mighty bastions of ours, Uplift that which cowers,

For behind your grave brows Are a thousand strong "Nows--"

And the wind has a "must"

In its rude healthy gust.

How it braces and rightens That wind to make t.i.tans!

Its strenuous wooing Says, "Up, lads, and doing."

So leaving the high down Like giants we stride down; While the valleys before us Resound to our chorus.