The Cup of Comus Part 3

_A GHOST OF YESTERDAY_

There is a house beside a way, Where dwells a ghost of Yesterday: The old face of a beauty, faded, Looks from its garden: and the shaded Long walks of locust-trees, that seem Forevermore to sigh and dream, Keep whispering low a word that's true, Of shapes that haunt its avenue, Clad as in days of belle and beau, Who come and go Around its ancient portico.

At first, in stock and beaver-hat, With flitting of the moth and bat, An old man, leaning on a cane, Comes slowly down the locust lane; Looks at the house; then, groping, goes Into the garden where the rose Still keeps sweet tryst with moth and moon; And, humming to himself a tune, --"Lorena" or "Ben Bolt" we'll say,-- Waits, bent and gray, For some fair ghost of Yesterday.

The Yesterday that holds his all-- More real to him than is the wall Of mossy stone near which he stands, Still reaching out for her his hands-- For her, the girl, who waits him there, A lace-gowned phantom, dark of hair, Whose loveliness still keeps those walks, And with whose Memory he talks; Upon his heart her happy head,-- So it is said,-- The girl, now half a century dead.

_LORDS OF THE VISIONARY EYE_

I came upon a pool that shone, Clear, emerald-like, among the hills, That seemed old wizards round a stone Of magic that a vision thrills.

And as I leaned and looked, it seemed Vague shadows gathered there and here-- A dream, perhaps the water dreamed Of some wild past, some long-dead year....

A temple of a race unblessed Rose huge within a hollow land, Where, on an altar, bare of breast, One lay, a man, bound foot and hand.

A priest, who served some hideous G.o.d, Stood near him on the altar stair, Clothed on with gold; and at his nod A mult.i.tude seemed gathered there.

I saw a sword descend; and then The priest before the altar turned; He was not formed like mortal man, But like a beast whose eyeb.a.l.l.s burned.

Amorphous, strangely old, he glared Above the victim he had slain, Who lay with bleeding bosom bared, From which dripped slow a crimson rain.

Then turned to me a face of stone And mocked above the murdered dead, That fixed its cold eyes on his own And cursed him with a look of dread.

And then, it seemed, I knew the place, And how this sacrifice befell: I knew the G.o.d, the priest's wild face, I knew the dead man--knew him well.

And as I stooped again to look, I heard the dark hills sigh and laugh, And in the pool the water shook As if one stirred it with a staff.

And all was still again and clear: The pool lay crystal as before, Temple and priest were gone; the mere Had closed again its magic door.

A face was there; it seemed to shine As round it died the sunset's flame-- The victim's face?--or was it mine?-- They were to me the very same.

And yet, and yet--could this thing be?-- And in my soul I seemed to know, At once, this was a memory Of some past life, lived long ago.

Recorded by some secret sense, In forms that we as dreams retain; Some moment, as experience, Projects in pictures on the brain.

_THE CREAKING DOOR_

Come in, old Ghost of all that used to be!-- You find me old, And love grown cold, And fortune fled to younger company: Departed, as the glory of the day, With friends!--And you, it seems, have come to stay.-- 'T is time to pray.

Come; sit with me, here at Life's creaking door, All comfortless.-- Think, nay! then, guess, What was the one thing, eh? that made me poor?-- The love of beauty, that I could not bind?

My dream of truth? or faith in humankind?-- But, never mind!

All are departed now, with love and youth, Whose stay was brief; And left but grief And gray regret--two jades, who tell the truth;-- Whose children--memories of things to be, And things that failed,--within my heart, ah me!

Cry constantly.

None can turn time back, and no man delay Death when he knocks,-- What good are clocks, Or human hearts, to stay for us that day When at Life's creaking door we see his smile,-- Death's! at the door of this old House of Trial?-- Old Ghost, let's wait awhile.

_AT THE END OF THE ROAD_

This is the truth as I see it, my dear, Out in the wind and the rain: They who have nothing have little to fear,-- Nothing to lose or to gain.

Here by the road at the end o' the year, Let us sit down and drink o' our beer, Happy-Go-Lucky and her cavalier, Out in the wind and the rain.

Now we are old, oh isn't it fine Out in the wind and the rain?

Now we have nothing why snivel and whine?-- What would it bring us again?-- When I was young I took you like wine, Held you and kissed you and thought you divine-- Happy-Go-Lucky, the habit's still mine, Out in the wind and the rain.

Oh, my old Heart, what a life we have led, Out in the wind and the rain!

How we have drunken and how we have fed!

Nothing to lose or to gain!-- Cover the fire now; get we to bed.

Long was the journey and far has it led: Come, let us sleep, la.s.s, sleep like the dead, Out in the wind and the rain.

_THE TROUBADOUR OF TREBIZEND_

Night, they say, is no man's friend: And at night he met his end In the woods of Trebizend.

Hate crouched near him as he strode Through the blackness of the road, Where my Lord seemed some huge toad.

Eyes of murder glared and burned At each bend of road he turned, And where wild the torrent churned.

And with Death _we_ stood and stared From the bush as by he fared,-- But he never looked or cared.

He went singing; and a rose Lay upon his heart's repose-- With what thought of her--who knows?

He had done no other wrong Save to sing a simple song, "_I have loved you--loved you long_."

And my lady smiled and sighed; Gave a rose and looked moist eyed, And forgot she was a bride.

My sweet lady, Jehan de Grace, With the pale Madonna face, He had brought to his embrace.