CHIMERA III

Another moon! and over the blue night She bendeth, like a holy spirit bright, Through stars that veil them in their wings of gold; As on she floateth with her image cold Enamell'd on the deep. A sail of cloud Is to her left, majestically proud! Trailing its silver drapery away In thin and fairy webs, that are at play Like stormless waves upon a summer sea Dragging their length of waters lazily. Ay! to the rocks! and thou wilt see, I wist, A lonely one, that bendeth in the mist Of moonlight, with a wild and raven pall Flung round him. Is he mortal man at all? For, by the meagre fire-light that is under Those eyelids, and the vizor shade of wonder Falling upon his features, I would guess, Of one that wanders out of blessedness! Julio! raise thee!—By the holy mass! I wot not of the fearless one would pass Thy wizard shadow. Where the raven hair Was shorn before, in many a matted layer It lieth now; and on a rock beside The sea, like merman at the ebb of tide, Feasting his wondrous vision on Decay, So art thou gazing over Agathè! Ah me! but this is never the fair girl, With brow of light, as lovely as a pearl, That was as beautiful as is the form Of sea-bird at the breaking of a storm. The eye is open, with convulsive strain— A most unfleshly orb! the stars that wane Have nothing of its hue; for it is cast With sickly blood, and terribly aghast! And sunken in its socket, like the light Of a red taper in the lonely night! And there is not a braid of her bright hair But lieth floating in the moonlight air, Like the long moss, beside a silver spring, In elfin tresses, sadly murmuring. The worm hath 'gan to crawl upon her brow— The living worm! and with a ripple now, Like that upon the sea, are heard below, The slimy swarms all ravening as they go, Amid the stagnate vitals, with a rush; And one might hear them echoing the hush Of Julio, as he watches by the side Of the dead ladye, his betrothed bride! And, ever and anon, a yellow group Was creeping on her bosom, like a troop Of stars, far up amid the galaxy, Pale, pale, as snowy showers; and two or three Were mocking the cold finger, round and round, With likeness of a ring; and, as they wound About its bony girth, they had the hue Of pearly jewels glistering in dew. That deathly stare! it is an awful thing To gaze upon; and sickly thoughts will spring Before it to the heart: it telleth how There must be waste where there is beauty now. The chalk! the chalk! where was the virgin snow Of that once heaving bosom!—even so,— The cold pale dewy chalk, with yellow shade Amid the leprous hues; and o'er it played The straggling moonlight, and the merry breeze, Like two fair elves, that, by the murmuring seas, Woo'd smilingly together; but there fell No life-gleam on the brow, all terrible Becoming, through its beauty, like a cloud That waneth paler even than a shroud, All gorgeous and all glorious before; For waste, like to the wanton night, was o'er Her virgin features, stealing them away— Ah me! ah me! and this is Agathè? "Enough! enough! Oh God! but I have pray'd To thee, in early daylight and in shade, And the mad curse is on me still—and still! I cannot alter the Eternal will— But—but—I hate thee, Agathè! I hate What lunacy hath bade me consecrate: I am not mad!—not now!—I do not feel That slumberous and blessed opiate steal Up to my brain—Oh! that it only would, To people this eternal solitude With fancies, and fair dreams, and summer mirth, Which is not now—And yet, my mother earth, I would not love to lie above thee so, As Agathè lies there—oh! no! no! no! To have these clay-worms feast upon my heart! And all the light of being, to depart Into a dismal shadow! I could die As the red lightnings, quenching amid sky Their wild and wizard breath; I could away, Like a blue billow, bursting into spray; But, never—never have corruption here, To feed her worms, and let the sunlight jeer Above me so.—'Tis thou!—I owe thee, Moon, To-night's fair worship; so be lifting soon Thy veil of clouds, that I may kneel, as one That seeketh for thy virgin benison!" He gathers the cold limpets, as they creep On the grey rocks beside the lonely deep; And with a flint breaks through into the shell, And feeds him—by the mass! he feasteth well. And he hath lifted water in a clam, And tasted sweetly, from a stream that swam Down to the sea; and now is turn'd away, Again, again, to gaze on Agathè! There is a cave upon that isle—a cave Where dwelt a hermit man; the winter wave Roll'd to its entrance, casting a bright mound Of snowy shells and fairy pebbles round; And over were the solemn ridges strewn Of a dark rock, that, like the wizard throne Of some sea-monarch, stood, and from it hung Wild thorn and bramble, in confusion flung Amid the startling crevices—like sky, Through gloom of clouds, that sweep in thunder by. A cataract fell over, in a streak Of silver, playing many a wanton freak; Midway, and musical, with elfin glee It bounded in its beauty to the sea, Like dazzling angel vanishing away. In sooth, 'twas pleasant in the moonlight gray To see that fairy fountain leaping so, Like one that knew not wickedness nor woe! The hermit had his cross and rosary; I ween like other hermits, so was he; A holy man, and frugal, and at night He prayed, or slept, or, sometimes, by the light Of the fair moon, went wandering beside The lonely sea, to hear the silver tide Rolling in gleesome music to the shore: The more he heard, he loved to hear the more. And there he is, his hoary beard adrift To the night winds, that sportingly do lift Its snow-white tresses; and he leaneth on A rugged staff, all weakly and alone, A childless, friendless man! He is beside The ghastly Julio, and his ghastlier bride. 'Twas wondrous strange to gaze upon the two! And the old hermit felt a throbbing through His pulses:—"Holy virgin! save me, save!" He deem'd of spectre from the midnight wave, And cross'd him thrice, and pray'd, and pray'd again:— "Hence! hence!" and Julio started, as the strain Of exorcisms fell faintly on his ear:— "I knew thee, father, that thou beest here, To gaze upon this girl, as I have been. By yonder moon! it was a frantic sin To worship so an image of the clay; It was like beauty—but is now away— What lived upon her features, like the light On yonder cloud, all tender and all bright; But it is faded as the other must, And she that was all beauty, is all dust." "Father! thy hand upon this brow of mine, And tell me, is it cold?—But she will twine No wreath upon these temples,—never, never! For there she lieth, like a streamless river That stagnates in its bed. Feel, feel me, here, If I be madly throbbing in the fear For that cold slimy worm. Ay! look and see How dotingly it feeds, how pleasantly! And where it is, have been the living hues Of beauty, purer than the very dews. So, father! seest thou that yonder moon Will be on wane to-morrow, soon and soon? And I, that feel my being wear away, Shall droop beside to darkness; so, but say A prayer for the dead, when I am gone, And let the azure tide that floweth on Cover us lightly with its murmuring surf Like a green sward of melancholy turf. Thou mayest, if thou wilt, thou mayest rear A cenotaph on this lone island here, Of some rude mossy stone, below a tree, And carve an olden rhyme for her and me Upon its brow." He bends, and gazes yet Before his ghastly bride! the anchoret Sate by him, and hath press'd a cross of wood To his wan lips. "My son! look up and tell thy dismal tale. Thou seemest cold, and sorrowful, and pale. Alas! I fear but thou hast strangely been A child of curse, and misery, and sin. And this—is she thy sister?"—"Nay! my bride." "A nun! and thou:"—"True, true! but then she died, And was a virgin, and is virgin still, Chaste as the moon, that taketh her pure fill Of light from the great sun. But now, go by, And leave me to my madness, or to die! This heart, this brain are sore.—Come, come, and fold Me round, ye hydra billows! wrapt in gold, That are so writhing your eternal gyres Before the moon, which, with a myriad tiars Is crowning you, as ye do fall and kiss Her pearly feet, that glide in blessedness! Let me be torture-eaten, ere I die! Let me be mangled sore with agony! And be so cursed, so stricken by the spell Of my heart's frenzy, that a living hell Be burning there!—Back! back! if thou art mad— Methought thou wast, but thou art only sad. Is this thy child, old man? look, look, and see! In truth it is a piteous thing for thee To become childless—Well-a-well, go by! Is there no grave? The quiet sea is nigh, And I will bury her below the moon; It may be but a trance or midnight swoon, And she may wake. Wake, ladye! ha! methought It was like her—Like her! and is it not? My angel girl! my brain, my stricken brain!— I know thee now!—I know myself again." He flings him on the ladye, and anon, With loathly shudder, from that wither'd one Hath torn him back. "Oh me! no more—no more! Thou virgin mother! Is the dream not o'er, That I have dreamt, but I must dream again For moons together, till this weary brain Become distemper'd as the winter sea? Good father! give me blessing; let it be Upon me as the dew upon the moss. Oh me! but I have made the holy cross A curse, and not a blessing! let me kiss The sacred symbol; for, by this—by this! I sware, and sware again, as now I will— Thou Heaven! if there be bounty in thee still, If thou wilt hear, and minister, and bring The light of comfort on some angel wing To one that lieth lone, do—do it now; By all the stars that open on thy brow Like silver flowers! and by the herald moon That listeth to be forth at nightly noon, Jousting the clouds, I swear! and be it true, As I have perjured me, that I renew Allegiance to thy God, and bind me o'er To this same penance, I have done before! That night and day I watch, as I have been Long watching, o'er the partner of my sin! That I taste never the delight of food, But these wild shell-fish, that may make the mood Of madness stronger, till it grapple Death— Despair—Eternity!" He saith, he saith, And, on the jaundiced bosom of the corse, Lieth all frenzied; one would see Remorse, And hopeless Love, and Hatred, struggling there, And Lunacy, that lightens up Despair, And makes a gladness out of agony. Pale phantom! I would fear and worship thee, That hast the soul at will, and gives it play, Amid the wildest fancies far away; That thronest Reason, on some wizard throne Of fairy land, within the milky zone,— Some spectre star, that glittereth beyond The glorious galaxies of diamond. Beautiful Lunacy! that shapest flight For love to blessed bowers of delight, And buildest holy monarchies within The fancy, till the very heart is queen Of all her golden wishes. Lunacy! Thou empress of the passions! though they be A sister group of wild, unearthly forms, Like lightnings playing in their home of storms! I see thee, striking at the silver strings Of the pure heart, and holy music springs Before thy touch, in many a solemn strain, Like that of sea-waves rolling from the main! But say, is Melancholy by thy side, With tresses in a raven shower, that hide Her pale and weeping features? Is she never Flowing before thee, like a gloomy river, The sister of thyself? but cold and chill, And winter-born, and sorrowfully still, And not like thee, that art in merry mood, And frolicksome amid thy solitude! Fair Lunacy! I see thee, with a crown Of hawthorn and sweet daisies, bending down To mirror thy young image in a spring; And thou wilt kiss that shadow of a thing As soul-less as thyself. 'Tis tender, too, The smile that meeteth thine! the holy hue Of health! the pearly radiance of the brow! All, all as tender—beautiful as thou! And wilt thou say, my sister, there is none Will answer thee? Thou art—thou art alone, A pure, pure being! but the God on high Is with thee ever, as thou goest by. Thou poetess! that harpest to the moon, And, in soft concert to the silver tune Of waters, play'd on by the magic wind, As he comes streaming, with his hair untwined, Dost sing light strains of melody and mirth,— I hear thee, hymning on thy holy birth, How thou wert moulded of thy mother Love, That came, like seraph, from the stars above, And was so sadly wedded unto Sin, That thou wert born, and Sorrow was thy twin. Sorrow and mirthful Lunacy! that be Together link'd for time, I deem of ye That ye are worshipp'd as none others are,— One as a lonely shadow, one a star! Is Julio glad, that bendeth, even now, To his wild purpose, to his holy vow? He seeth only in his ladye-bride The image of the laughing girl, that died A moon before—The same, the very same— The Agathè that lisp'd her lover's name, To him and to her heart: that azure eye, That shone through sunny tresses, waving by; The brow, the cheek, that blush'd of fire and snow, Both blending into one ethereal glow; And that same breathing radiancy, that swam Around her, like a pure and blessed calm Around some halcyon bird. And, as he kiss'd Her wormy lips, he felt that he was blest! He felt her holy being stealing through His own, like fountains of the azure dew, That summer mingles with his golden light; And he would clasp her, till the weary night Was worn away. And morning rose in form Of heavy clouds, that knitted into storm The brow of Heaven, and through her lips the wind Came rolling westward, with a track behind Of gloomy billows, bursting on the sea, All rampant, like great lions terribly, And gnashing on each other: and anon, Julio heard them, rushing one by one, And laugh'd and turn'd.—The hermit was away, For he was old and weary, and he lay Within his cave, and thought it was a dream, A summer's dream? and so the quiet stream Of sleep came o'er his eyelids, and in truth He dreamt of that strange ladye, and the youth That held a death-wake on her wasting form; And so he slept and woke not, till the storm Was over. But they came,—the wind and sea, And rain and thunder, that in giant glee, Sang o'er the lightnings pale, as to and fro They writhed, like stricken angels!—White as snow Roll'd billow after billow, and the tide Came forward as an army deep and wide, To charge with all its waters. There was heard A murmur far and far, of those that stirr'd Within the great encampment of the sea, And dark they were, and lifted terribly Their water-spouts like banners. It was grand To see the black battalions, hand in hand Striding to conflict, and their helmets bent Below their foamy plumes magnificent! And Julio heard and laugh'd, "Shall I be king To your great hosts, that ye are murmuring For one to bear you to your holy war? There is no sun, or moon, or any star, To guide your iron footsteps as ye go; But I, your king, will marshal you to flow From shore to shore. Then bring my car of shell, That I may ride before you terrible; And bring my sceptre of the amber weed, And Agathè, my virgin bride, shall lead Your summer hosts, when these are ambling low, In azure and in ermine, to and fro." He said, and madly, with his wasted hand, Swept o'er the tuneless harp, and fast he spann'd The silver chords, until a rush of sound Came from them, solemn—terrible—profound; And then he dash'd the instrument away Into the waters, and the giant play Of billows threw it back unto the shore, A shiver'd, stringless frame—its day of music o'er! The tide, the rolling tide! the multitude Of the sea surges, terrible and rude, Tossing their chalky foam along the bed Of thundering pebbles, that are shoring dread, And fast retreating to the gloomy gorge Of waters, sounding like a Titan forge! It comes! it comes! the tide, the rolling tide! But Julio is bending to his bride, And making mirthful whispers to her ear. A cataract! a cataract is near, Of one stupendous billow, and it breaks Terribly furious, with a myriad flakes Of foam, that fly about the haggard twain; And Julio started, with a sudden pain, That shot into his heart; his reason flew Back to its throne; he rose, and wildly threw His matted tresses over on his brow. Another billow came, and even now Was dashing at his feet. There was no shade Of terror, as the serpent waters play'd Before him, but his eye was calm as death. Another, yet another! and the breath Of the weird wind was with it; like a rock Unriveted it fell—a shroud of smoke Pass'd over—there was heard, and died away, The voice of one, shrill shrieking, "Agathè!" The sea-bird sitteth lonely by the side Of the far waste of waters, flapping wide His wet and weary wings; but he is gone, The stricken Julio!—a wave-swept stone Stands there, on which he sat, and nakedly It rises looking to the lonely sea; But Julio is gone, and Agathè! The waters swept them madly to their core,— The dead and living with a frantic roar! And so he died, his bosom fondly set On her's; and round her clay-cold waist were met His bare and wither'd arms, and to her brow His lips were press'd. Both, both are perish'd now! He died upon her bosom in a swoon; And fancied of the pale and silver moon, That went before him in her hall of blue: He died like golden insect in the dew, Calm, calm, and pure; and not a chord was rung In his deep heart, but love. He perish'd young, But perish'd, wasted by some fatal flame That fed upon his vitals; and there came Lunacy sweeping lightly, like a stream, Along his brain—He perish'd in a dream! In sooth, I marvel not, If death be only a mysterious thought, That cometh on the heart, and turns the brow Brightless and chill, as Julio's is now; For only had the wasting struggle been Of one wild feeling, till it rose within Into the form of death, and nature felt The light of the immortal being melt Into its happier home, beyond the sea, And moon, and stars, into eternity! The sun broke through his dungeon long enthrall'd By dismal cloud, and on the emerald Of the great living sea was blazing down, To gift the lordly billows with a crown Of diamond and silver. From his cave The hermit came, and by the dying wave Lone wander'd, and he found upon the sand, Below a truss of sea-weed, with his hand Around the silent waist of Agathè, The corse of Julio! Pale, pale, it lay Beside the wasted girl. The fireless eye Was open, and a jewell'd rosary Hung round the neck; but it was gone,—the cross That Agathè had given. Amid the moss, The hermit scoop'd a solitary grave Below the pine-trees, and he sang a stave, Or two, or three, of some old requiem As in their narrow home he buried them. And many a day, before that blessed spot He sate, in lone and melancholy thought, Gazing upon the grave; and one had guess'd Of some dark secret shadowing his breast. And yet, to see him, with his silver hair Adrift and floating in the sea-borne air, And features chasten'd in the tears of woe, In sooth 'twas merely sad to see him so! A wreck of nature, floating far and fast, Upon the stream of Time—to sink at last! And he is wandering by the shore again, Hard leaning on his staff; the azure main Lies sleeping far before him, with his seas Fast folded in the bosom of the breeze, That like the angel Peace hath dropt his wings Around the warring waters. Sadly sings To his own heart that lonely hermit man, A tale of other days, when passion ran Along his pulses, like a troubled stream, And glory was a splendour, and a dream! He stoop'd to gather up a shining gem, That lay amid the shells, as bright as them,— It was a cross, the cross that Agathè Had given to her Julio: the play Of the fierce sunbeams fell upon its face, And on the glistering jewels—But the trace Of some old thought came burning to the brain Of the pale hermit, and he shrunk in pain Before the holy symbol. It was not Because of the eternal ransom wrought In ages far away, or he had bent In pure devotion sad and reverent; But now, he started, as he look'd upon That jewell'd thing, and wildly he is gone Back to the mossy grave, away, away:— "My child! my child! my own, own Agathè!" It is her father,—he,—an alter'd man! His quiet had been wounded, and the ban Of misery came over him, and froze The bright and holy tides, that fell and rose In joy amid his heart. To think of her, That he had injured so, and all so fair, So fond, so like the chosen of his youth,— It was a very dismal thought, in truth, That he had left her hopelessly, for aye, Within the cloister-wall to droop, and die! And so he could not bear to have it be; But sought for some lone island in the sea, Where he might dwell in doleful solitude, And do strange penance in his mirthless mood, For this same crime, unnaturally wild, That he had done unto his saintly child. And ever he did think, when he had laid These lovers in the grave, that, through the shade Of ghastly features melting to decay, He saw the image of his Agathè. And now the truth had flash'd into his brain: And he is fallen, with a shriek of pain, Upon the lap of pale and yellow moss; For long ago he gave that blessed cross To his fair girl, and knew the relic still, By many a thousand thoughts, that rose at will Before it, of the one that was not now, But, like a dream, had floated from the brow Of Time, that seeth many a lovely thing Fade by him, like a sea-wave murmuring. The heart is burst!—the heart that stood in steel To woman's earnest tears, and bade her feel The curse of virgin solitude,—a veil; And saw the gladsome features growing pale Unmoved: 'tis rent, like some eternal tower The sea hath shaken, and its stately power Lies lonely, fallen, scatter'd on the shore: 'Tis rent, like some great mountain, that, before The Deluge, stood in glory and in might, But now is lightning-riven, and the night Is clambering up its sides, and chasms lie strewn, Like coffins, here and there: 'tis rent! the throne Where passions, in their awful anarchy, Stood sceptred! There was heard an inward sigh, That took the being, on its troubled wings, Far to the land of dim imaginings! All three are dead; that desolate green isle Is only peopled by the passing smile Of sun and moon, that surely have a sense, They look so radiant with intelligence,— So like the soul's own element,—so fair! The features of a God lie veiled there! And mariners that have been toiling far Upon the deep, and lost the polar star, Have visited that island, and have seen That lover's grave: and many there have been That sat upon the gray and crumbling stone, And started, as they saw a skeleton Amid the long sad moss, that fondly grew Through the white wasted ribs; but never knew Of those who slept below, or of the tale Of that brain-stricken man, that felt the pale And wandering moonlight steal his soul away,— Poor Julio, and the ladye Agathè! We found them,—children of toil and tears, Their birth of beauty shaded; We left them in their early years Fallen and faded. We found them, flowers of summer hue: Their golden cups were lighted With sparkles of the pearly dew— We left them blighted! We found them,—like those fairy flowers; And the light of morn lay holy Over their sad and sainted bowers— We left them, lowly. We found them,—like twin stars, alone, In brightness and in feeling; We left them,—and the curse was on Their beauty stealing. They rest in quiet, where they are: Their lifetime is the story Of some fair flower—some silver star, Faded in glory!