Stories in Verse Part 12

I see the parlor that my Grace adorns With flowers and with her presence, which is far Above the fragrant presence of all flowers.

Grace sits at her piano; on her lips A song of twilight and the evening star.

There as the shadows slowly gather round, Gianni comes, and stops a moody hour; She, ice to his approaches; he, despair; But ere he goes, he places in her hand A large ripe orange, fresh from Sicily, And begs her to accept it for his sake.

She bows him from the room, and puts the fruit Before her on her music, once again Dreaming of me, and singing some wild song Of Pan, who, by the river straying down, Cut reeds, and blew upon them with such power, He charmed the lilies and the dragon-flies.

Now while the song is swaying to its close, I seem to come myself into the room, And clasp true arms about my darling Grace; She lays Gianni's orange in my hand, And says that I must eat it; she would not Have taken it, but that she did not wish To cross him with refusal. So I say, "Surely this stranger has peculiar taste To bring an orange to you--only one.

Perhaps there is more in it than we know."

VII.

I seem to have this orange in my room, And in the light of morning turn it round.

I find no flaw in it on any side.

A goodly orange, ripe, with tender coat Of that deep reddish yellow, like fine gold.

Perhaps the tree had wrapped its roots about A chest of treasure, and had drawn the wealth Into its heart to spend it on its fruit.

But while I slowly turn the orange round, And look more closely, lo, the slightest cut!-- A deep incision made by some sharp steel.

I carefully cut the rind, and without once Breaking the fine apartments of the fruit, Or spilling thence a drop of golden juice, Find that one room through which the steel has pa.s.sed.

This I dissect, and, testing as I can, Fail to discover aught that's poisonous.

VIII.

I bring my microscope, and on a seed Clinging with abject fear, I see a Shape Whose wings are reeking with foul slime, whose eyes Glare with a demon l.u.s.tre born of Pain.

Its face has somewhat of the human shape, The under-jaw too large, and bearded long; The forehead full of putrefying sores.

Such front the Genius, Danhasch, may have worn.

It may be that the hideous face is like The idol Krishna's, from whose feasts depart, Smitten with cholera, the Hindoo devotees.

The body oozes with a loathsome dew.

Its head is red as if sucked full of blood; But all the rest, its hundred legs, and tail, The mailed back, and the wide-webbed p.r.i.c.kly wings, Are green, like those base eyes of jealousy Which hope to see a covert murder done.

I find the finest needle in the house, And press the point down on the slimy hide.

The blunt edge crushes, does not pierce the shape, And brings the straggle that I gloat to see.

The legs stretch out, and work to get away; A barbed tongue and twin fangs drool from the mouth.

The eyes protrude, and glare with deadly hate, Until they fix at last in stony calm.

I ponder long on what this shape can be.

There is no doubt Gianni placed it here; If so, where has he caught and caged a thing The naked eye has not the power to see?

Its uses must be deadly. In revenge, He hopes to take the life of her I love.

While poisons of another character Might be detected, this remains unknown.

The Thing I have discovered--this vile Shape, Must be an atom of some foul disease!

And now I have the secret. For some days Gianni waits upon a stricken man, Who dies, a victim of the cholera.

In some strange manner he has found this germ, And placed it in the orange, hoping thus To bring the dread disease to Grace Bernard.

IX.

I seem to be with him I hate, once more, And now accuse him of the fiendish deed That I through chance averted. Now I too Command him to return to his true wife, And no more cross my path; should he remain, He shall but wait to meet her, for my words Already have been sent that he is here.

X.

I know that I shall fall sick dangerously, And in some way by dark Gianni's hand.

I seem to lie asleep upon my bed, And Grace is near, and watching my calm face.

The village doctor makes his morning call, And takes my listless hand to feel the pulse.

There is no pulse! His hand goes to the heart.

My heart has ceased to beat, and all is still.

The hand the doctor held drops down like lead.

A looking-gla.s.s receives no fading mist, Laid on the icy and immovable lips.

My eyes are fixed; I glare upon them all.

Grace twines her widowed arms about my neck, Kissing my sallow cheeks, with hopeless tears, Calling my name, and begging me come back; So, thinking me dead, they close my staring eyes, And put the face-cloth over my white face, And go with silent tread about the room.

They do not know that I am in a trance.

I hear each whisper uttered, and the sighs That heave the desolate bosom of my Grace.

XI.

All is so dark since they have shut my eyes; I think it cruel in them to do that-- Shut out the light of day and every chance That I could ever have of seeing Grace.

I cannot move a muscle, and I try, And strive to part my lips to say some word; But all in vain; the mind has lost control Over the body's null machinery.

I wonder if they yet will bury me, Thinking me dead? To wake up in the grave, And hear a wagon rumbling overhead, Or a chance footstep pa.s.sing near the spot, And then cry out and never get reply; But hear the footstep vanish far away, And know the cold mould smothers up all cries, And is above, beneath, and round me, Is bitter thought. To lie back then and die, Suffocating slowly while I tear my hair, Makes me most wild to think of.

XII.

Hark! 'tis night.

The hour is borne distinctly by the wind.

My Grace sits near me; now comes to my side, And unto Him, whose ear is everywhere, She, kneeling down, puts up her hands, and prays.

"O Father of all mercies, still be merciful, And raise me from the gulf of this despair.

I cannot think nor feel my love is dead.

If he yet lives, and lingers in a trance, Give me some sign that I may know the truth."

I slowly raise my hand, and let it fall.

Grace springs up all delight, and draws the cloth, Kissing my lips, and begging me to wake.

I try, but fail to raise my hand again.

The trance still lasts. My eyes will not unclose; My lips refuse the functions of their place.

XIII.

On the next day will be the funeral; But Grace has this delayed for one week more; Yet all in vain, I neither wake nor move.

I hear the people coming in the house, And straight within my coffin long to rise.

I hear the pastor's prayer, and then his words, Simple and good, and full of tender praise.

They come at last to take a parting look, A file of faces that pa.s.s out the door.

I hear them quickly s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g down the lid; And now the bearers take me from the house, And push me, feet first, in the black plumed hea.r.s.e.

Gianni is a bearer of my pall, And Grace is choked with sobs, and follows on.

We reach the grave. They slowly lower me down.

Some gravel on the side is loose, and falls Battling upon the narrow coffin lid.

Horror on horror! Let me see no more!

AFTER BURIAL.

So stands the premonition; and to-day I look back on the words here written down, Comparing them with what has happened since, And find there is no flaw in any scene.

Always intending to tell Grace my fear That some day I might be entombed alive, I always failed, until it was too late.

But as the sod fell on the coffin-lid, My trance was broken, and I called and screamed, Until they drew me up from out the grave, And breaking in my prison, set me free.