Tender and True

I. The Stroll

Do you remember the diadem
Of purple cliff where we stood together,
Beneath the canopied golden weather,
And saw the lanskip gleam like a gem?

Saw burnished river, meadow and vales,
The lustrous domes of emerald highland,
The topaz strand of the distant island,
The turquoise mere and the pearly sails?

The pageant flashed like a jeweled dream;
But your enchantment doubled the splendor;
You cast the glory, mighty and tender,
Of love on forest, meadow and stream.

Far into heaven I soared the while;
Frail as you se'emed, you had seraph pinions;
You bore me to fanes in starry dominions;
You made me god with merely your smile.

You made me god, comp.anioned with you —
Ashtar and Adon — sister and brother;
But not alike divine to each other;
I was the sham god; you were the true.

Do you remember — Alas, alas!
'Tis I, and I alone, who remember;
That hour, to you, is a.perished ember,
A withered nosegay, an emptied glass.

II. A Hope

A little hope!
It may not be true!
And the heavens above me seem to ope
Their curtains of blue;
And the angel ladders of sunlight slope,
For me to mount and pass through.
The tale that I heard
Was only the chirp of a random bird,
A babble some ancient grimalkin purred,
The repetition of nobody's word,
A note that hazard or fantasy blew,
That the freaky pigmies of elfland drew
From harebell trumpets jeweled with dew.
Why should I mope,
I who have dared with heroes to cope,
Who barely yesterday ceased to gird
My loins for battle with treason's crew?
Why should I throb and reel and shiver
Like a reed in the river,
Because an airy inanity stirred,
Because an arrow from falsehood's quiver
Out of vacancy whirred,
Into nothingness flew
And is spent forever?
Now peace has come,
The air with promise of love is laden;
I will turn my back on the silenced drum
And seek the rest of my childhood's home,
There to worship once more and sue
Before the face of the fairest girl
God ever wrought in coral and pearl,
Or marble of Aidenn.

III. The Wedding

I have fought and fallen. The strife was vain,
The maniac wrestle for unbelief —
Recoil of an idiot wild with pain —
A tortured idiot, mad for relief.
I have seen and believed. The tale stood well —
As strong as despair and sin and grief —
As true as — yes, that earth is a hell
Where only the damned and the devils dwell.

I lurked by the lattice and saw — not all —
But more and clearer than heart could bear.
A taunting splendor illumined the hall;
The music clamored with insolent blare.
I cowered and glared while the careless tread
Of passers jostled my dumb despair,
Not knowing they trampled a heart that bled,
Not knowing they stumbled against one dead.

The gibbering drunkard struck my cheek;
But what to me was a stranger's blow?
My friend had stabbed me; my soul was weak
And humble and unresenting with woe.
And she I worshipped had edged the blade,
And bidden me bare my breast. But no!
I cannot hate her; I was not made
To curse the altar where once I prayed.

They had craved my presence. A scented note
Arrived in bridal ribbons to plead —
Go! I would sooner have held my throat
To the cannibal's knife and bid him feed.
Go! I trampled the billet to earth
And swore to have done with the human breed —
To house myself by my blighted hearth
Till the burial mutes should bear me forth.

And yet I went — like a beggar crept
Through tainted alleys and reeled to the door;
Shaded my visage and wept — yes, wept!
To hear the viols their jubilee pour —
Quivered with rage when the rhythmic beat
Of dancers hollowly thrummed the floor,
And started away with tremulous feet
If a waltzer paused by the window seat.

At last I wandered, crouching and dumb,
Like a starving tiger, balked of his prey,
To my lonely dwelling, my childhood's home
(My cell henceforth to my dying day),
Divided from hers by a wooded dell,
And watched in frenzy her window ray
Until it vanished, and with it fell
The only glimmer that lighted my hell.

IV. The Grove

The wooded ravine fills with night
Between her roof and mine,
But through its boughs I mark the light
Of her chamber window shine,
A dazing glimmer, ruby bright,
That turns my brain like wine.

A little grove, a hundred trees:
I know each oak and fir.
I wander there to hear the glees
Of the birds who sing of her,
To kiss the passing of the breeze
Whose plumes her curtain stir.

A little grove, but cruel strong,
It rules us like to slaves;
Between our lives its shadows throng
With the sweep of ocean's waves;
The power that sunders right from wrong
Pervades the leafy naves.

No might but his could break the spell
Who lords the demon sky.
How often would I thank him well,
If the beast would steal anigh
And lead me through that barring dell —
To win her? — No, to die.

V. The Sleep

He had threaded the wood;
He had paused in its utmost verge,
The verge where her dwelling stood;
And there had laid him to brood
In tune to the night-wind's dirge,
To the wail of midnight's mournfulest mood.
And there he slept
When the morning threw
Its fragrant shadows athwart the dew
And dried the tears that the roses had wept.
The tender light of the infant morn,
The light of a day just born,
Awoke from its cradle and touched his brow:
A day that never knew him till now
Parted the branches and touched and kist
More gently than kisses the frosted flake,
As though it loved the moment it wist.
It touched, but might not awake;
Alas! nor evil nor good,
That slumber may shake.
He sleeps
In the midst of the mighty brood
Who inhabit the unknown caves
Beneath eternity's deeps,
Beneath the mere whose ripples are graves.
He knows the slumber that wakes not,
He has entered the rest that breaks not.
His eyes, while gazing upon her home,
Where footstep of his might never come,
Had drooped and closed forever.
They saw the Eden forbid to him;
They saw — and then their sight was dim.
The heavens darkened, earth fell dumb.
The clock that striketh, "Forever! Never!"
Rang out. He passed eternity's brim.
Gone was the thought of gladness departed,
Gone the sorrow that slew;
And there he lay, the brave loving-hearted,
Love's Douglas, tender and true.

VI. The Dead March

The hoarse drum groans, the shrill fife greets,
The dead-march wails from hearth to tomb,
The ranked feet tramp through black-hung streets,
The swart steeds drag the bier's slow gloom.

The men he led still march with him,
They keep the step and speak no word;
Their brows are knit, their eyes are dim,
Their thoughts are grave, their hearts are stirred.

They mind how oft in war's fierce blaze
He cheered them where a fiend might quail,
How red his cheek, how blithe his gaze —
That gaze now quenched, that cheek now pale.

With slow, set tread they pass her by.
She gives one glance and drops one tear.
They know he died, they ask not why;
They mark her not, though she is near.

They hold that death is lord of all,
They hold that no man owns his breath,
They hold that each must have his ball,
That life is war, and war is death.

They halt; they fire the last sad shot
With calm, stern eyes and sure, strong hands;
Then quickly, lightly leave the spot
To jubilant bars of brazen bands.