And if by fleshly love all Heaven's debarred, Its sinuous revolving spheres instarred, Then h.e.l.l were Heaven with love to those who knew Love which G.o.d's Heaven encouraged--love that drew Hips, head and hair in fiends' devouring claws Down, down its pit's hurled sucking, as down draws,-- Yet lip to narrow lip with whom we love,-- A whirlwind some weak, crippled, fallen dove.

"Then this lank Urience? He who is lord.-- Where is thy worry? for, hath he no sword?

No dangerous dagger I, hid softly here Sharp as an adder's fang? or for that ear No instant poison which insinuates, Tightens quick pulses, while one breathing waits, With ice and death? For often men who sleep On eider-down wake not, but closely keep Such secrets in their graves to rot and rot To dust and maggots;--of these--which his lot?"

Thus she conspired with her that rainy night Lone in her chamber; when no haggard, white, Wan, watery moon dreamed on the streaming pane, But on the leads beat an incessant rain, And sighed and moaned a weary wind along The turrets and torn poplars stirred to song.

So grew her face severe as skies that take Dark forces of full storm, sound-shod, that shake With murmurous feet black hills, and stab with fire A pine some moaning forest mourns as sire.

So touched her countenance that dark intent; And to still eyes stern thoughts a pa.s.sion sent, As midnight waters luminous gla.s.s deep Suggestive worlds of austere stars in sleep, Vague ghostly gray locked in their hollow gloom.

Then as if some vast wind had swept the room, Silent, intense, had raised her from her seat, Of dim, great arms had made her a retreat, Secret as love to move in, like some ghost, Noiseless as death and subtle as sharp frost, Poised like a light and borne as carefully, Trod she the gusty hall where shadowy The stirring hangings rolled a Pagan war.

And there the mail of Urience shone. A star, Glimmering above, a dying cresset dropped From the stone vault and flared. And here she stopped And took the sword bright, burnished by his page, And ruddy as a flame with restless rage.

Grasping this death unto the chamber where Slept innocent her spouse she moved--an air Twined in soft, glossy sendal; or a fit Of faery song a wicked charm in it, A spell that sings seductive on to death.

Then paused she at one chamber; for a breath Listened: and here her son Sir Ewain slept, He who of ravens a black army kept, In war than fiercest men more terrible, That tore forth eyes of kings who blinded fell.

Sure that he slept, to Urience stole and stood Dim by his couch. About her heart hot blood Caught strangling, then throbbed thudding fever up To her broad eyes, like wine whirled in a cup.

Then came rare Recollection, with a mouth Sweet as the honeyed sunbeams of the South Trickling thro' perplexed ripples of low leaves; To whose faint form a veil of starshine cleaves Intricate gauze from memoried eyes to feet;-- Feet sandaled with crushed, sifted snows and fleet To come and go and airy anxiously.

She, trembling to her, like a flower a bee Nests in and makes an audible mouth of musk Dripping a downy language in the dusk, Laid lips to ears and luted memories of Now hateful Urience:--Her maiden love, That willing went from Caerlleon to Gore One dazzling day of Autumn. How a boar, Wild as the wonder of the blazing wood, Raged at her from a cavernous solitude, Which, crimson-creepered, yawned the bristling curse Murderous upon her; how her steed waxed worse And, snorting terror, fled unmanageable, Pursued with fear, and flung her from the selle, Soft slipping on a bank of springy moss That couched her swooning. In an utter loss Of mind and limbs she only knew twas thus-- As one who pants beneath an incubus:-- The boar thrust toward her a tusked snout and fanged Of hideous bristles, and the whole wood clanged And buzzed and boomed a thousand sounds and lights Lawless about her brain, like leaves fierce nights Of hurricane harvest shouting: then she knew A fury thunder twixt it--and fleet flew Rich-rooted moss and sandy loam that held Dark-buried shadows of the wild, and swelled Continual echoes with the thud of strife, And breath of man and brute that warred for life; And all the air, made mad with foam and forms, Spun froth and wrestled twixt her hair and arms, While trampled caked the stricken leaves or shred Hummed whirling, and snapped brittle branches dead.

And when she rose and leaned her throbbing head, Which burst its uncoifed rays of raven hair Down swelling shoulders pure and faultless fair, On one milk, marvelous arm of fluid grace, Beheld the brute thing throttled and the face Of angry Urience over, browed like Might, One red, swoln arm, that pinned the hairy fright, Strong as a G.o.d's, iron at the gullet's brawn; Dug in his midriff, the close knees updrawn Wedged deep the glutton sides that quaked and strove A s.h.a.ggy bulk, whose sharp hoofs h.o.r.n.y drove.

Thus man and brute burned bent; when Urience slipped One arm, the horror's tearing tusks had ripped And ribboned redly, to the dagger's hilt, Which at his hip hung long a haft gold-gilt; Its rapid splinter drew; beamed twice and thrice High in the sun its ghastliness of ice Plunged--and the great boar, stretched in sullen death, Weakened thro' wild veins, groaned laborious breath.

And how he brought her water from a well That rustled freshness near them, as it fell From its full-mantled urn, in his deep casque, And prayed her quaff; then bathed her brow, a task That had accompaning tears of joy and vows Of love, sweet intercourse of eyes and brows, And many clinging kisses eloquent.

And how, when dressed his arm, behind him bent She clasped him on the same steed and they went On thro' the gold wood toward the golden West, Till on one low hill's forest-covered crest Up in the gold his castle's battlements pressed.

And then she felt she'd loved him till had come Fame of the love of Isoud, whom from home Brought knightly Tristram o'er the Irish foam, And Guenevere's for Launcelot of the Lake.

And then how pa.s.sion from these seemed to wake Longing for some great gallant who would slake-- And such found Accolon.

And then she thought How far she'd fallen and how darkly fraught With consequence was this. Then what distress Were hers and his--her lover's; and success How doubly difficult if Arthur slain, King Urience lived to a.s.sert his right to reign.

So paused she pondering on the blade; her lips Breathless and close as close cold finger tips Hugged the huge weapon's hilt. And so she sighed, "Nay! long, too long hast lived who shouldst have died Even in the womb abortive! who these years Hast leashed sweet life to care with stinging tears, A knot thus harshly severed!--As thou art Into the elements naked!"

O'er his heart The long sword hesitated, lean as crime, Descended redly once. And like a rhyme Of nice words fairly fitted forming on,-- A sudden ceasing and the harmony gone, So ran to death the life of Urience, A strong song incomplete of broken sense.

There glowered the crimeful Queen. The glistening sword Unfleshed, flung by her wronged and murdered lord; And the dark blood spread broader thro' the sheet To drip a horror at impa.s.sive feet And blur the polished oak. But lofty she Stood proud, relentless; in her ecstacy A lovely devil; a crowned l.u.s.t that cried On Accolon; that harlot which defied Heaven with a voice of pulses clamorous as Steep storm that down a cavernous mountain pa.s.s Blasphemes an hundred echoes; with like power The inner harlot called its paramour: Him whom King Arthur had commanded, when Borne from the lists, be granted her again As his blithe gift and welcome from that joust, For treacherous love and her adulterous l.u.s.t.

And while she stood revolving how her deed's Concealment were secured,--a grind of steeds, Arms, jingling stirrups, voices loud that cursed Fierce in the northern court. To her athirst For him her lover, war and power it spoke, Him victor and so King; and then awoke A yearning to behold, to quit the dead.

So a wild specter down wide stairs she fled, Burst on a glare of links and glittering mail, That shrunk her eyes and made her senses quail.

To her a bulk of iron, bearded fierce, Down from a steaming steed into her ears, "This from the King, a boon!" laughed harsh and hoa.r.s.e; Two henchmen beckoned, who pitched sheer with force, Loud clanging at her feet, hacked, hewn and red, Crusted with blood a knight in armor--dead; Even Accolon, tossed with the mocking scoff "This from the King!"--phantoms in fog rode off.

And what remains? From Camelot to Gore That right she weeping fled; then to the sh.o.r.e,-- As that romancer tells,--Avilion, Where she hath Majesty gold-crowned yet wan; In darkest cypress a frail pitious face Queenly and lovely; 'round sad eyes the trace Of immemorial tears as for some crime: They future fixed, expectant of the time When the forgiving Arthur cometh and Shall have to rule all that lost golden land That drifts vague amber in forgotten seas Of surgeless turquoise dim with mysteries.

And so was seen Morgana nevermore, Save once when from the Cornwall coast she bore The wounded Arthur from that last fought fight Of Camlan in a black barge into night.

But oft some see her with a palfried band Of serge-stoled maidens thro' the drowsy land Of Autumn glimmer; when are sharply strewn The red leaves, while broad in the east a moon Swings full of frost a l.u.s.trous globe of gleams, Faint on the mooning hills as shapes in dreams.

DER FREISCHUTZ.

_Es gibt im Menschenleben Augenblicke, Wo er dem Weltgeist naher ist als sonst._--SCHILLER.

He? why, a tall Franconian strong and young, Brown as a walnut the first frost hath hulled; A soul of full endeavor powerful Bound in lithe limbs, knit into grace and strength Of bronze-like muscles elegant, that poised A head like Hope's; and then the manly lines Of face developed by action and mobile To each suggestive impulse of the mind, Of smiles of buoyancy or scowls of gloom.-- And what deep eyes were his!--Aye; I can see Their wild and restless disks of luminous night Instinct with haughtiness that sneered at Fate, Glared cold conclusion to all circ.u.mstance, As with loud law, to his advantage swift: With scorn derisive that shot out a barb, Stabbed Superst.i.tion to its dagger hilt; That smiled a thrust-like smile which curled the lip, A vicious heresy with incredible lore, When G.o.d's or holy Mary's name came forth Exclaimed in reverence or astonishment; And then would say, "What is this G.o.d you mouth, Employ whose name to sanctify and d.a.m.n?-- A benedictive curse?--'T hath past my skill Of grave interpretation. And your faith-- Distinguishment unseen, design unlawed.

For earth, air, fire or water or keen cold, Hints no existence of such, worships not, Such as men's minds profess. Rather, meseems, Throned have they one such as their hopes have wrought In hope there may prove such an one in death For Paradise or punishment. I hold He juster were and would be kinglier kind In sovereign mercy and a prodigal-- Not to few favored heads who, crowned with state, Rule sceptered Infamies--of indulgence free To all that burn luxuriant incense on Shrines while they prayer him love's obedience.

Are all not children of the same weak mold?

Clay of His Adam-modeled clay made quick?

Endowed with the like hopes, loves, fears and hates, Our mother's weaknesses? And these, forsooth, These little crowns that lord it o'er His world, Tricked up with imitative majesty, G.o.d-countenanced arrogances, throned may still Cry, 'crawl and worship, for we are as G.o.ds Through G.o.d! great G.o.ds incarnate of his kind!'

--Omnipotent Wrong-representatives!

With might that blasts the world with wars and wrings Groans from pale Nations with h.e.l.l's tyranny.

So to my mind real monarch only he-- Your Satan cramped in h.e.l.l!--aye, by the fiend!

To pygmy Earth's frail tinsel majesties, That ape a G.o.d in a sonorous Heaven.

Grant me the Devil in all mercy then, For I will none of such! a fiend for friend While Earth is of the earth; and afterward-- Nay! ransack not To-morrow till To-day, If all that's joy engulf you when it is."

And laughed an oily laugh of easy jest To bow out G.o.d and hand the Devil in.-- I met him here at Ammendorf one Spring, Toward the close of April when the Harz, Veined to their ruin-crested summits, pulsed A fluid life of green and budded gold Beneath pure breathing skies of boundless blue: Where low-yoked oxen, yellow to the knees, Along the fluted meadow, freshly ploughed, Plodded and snuffed the fragrance of the soil, The free bird sang exultant in the sun.

Triumphant Spring with hinted hopes of May And jaunty June, her mouth a puckered rose.

Here at this very hostelery o' The Owl; Mine host there sleek served cannikins of wine Beneath that elm now touseled by that shrew, Lean Winter. Well!--a lordly vintage that!

With tang of fires which had sucked out their soul From feverish sun-vats, cooled it from the moon's; From wine-skin bellies of the bursting grape Trodden, in darkness of old cellars aged Even to the tingling smack of olden earth.

Rich! I remember!--wine that spurred the blood-- Thou hast none such, I swear, nor wilt again!-- That brought the heart loud to the generous mouth, And made the eyes unlatticed cas.e.m.e.nts whence The good man's soul laughed interested out.

Stoups of rare royal Rhenish, such they say As Necromance hides guarded in vast casks Of antique make far in the Kyffhauser, The Cellar of the Knights near Sittendorf.

So, mellowed by that wine to friendship frank, He spake me his intent in coming here; But not one word of what his parentage; But this his name was, Rudolf, and his home, Franconia; but nor why he left nor when: His mind to live a forester and be Enfellowed in the Duke of Brunswick's train Of buff and green; and so to his estate Even now was bound, a youth of twenty-three.

And when he ceased the fire in his eyes Worked restless as a troubled animal's, Which hate-enraged can burn a steady flame, Brute merciless. And thus I mused with me, When he had ceased to fulminate at state, "Another Count von Hackelnburg the fiend Hath tricked unto the chase!--for hounds from h.e.l.l?"

But answered nothing, save light words of cheer As best become fleet friends warm wine doth make.

Then as it chanced, old Kurt had come that morn With some six of his jerkined foresters From the Thuringian forest; damp with dew; Red-cheeked as morn with early travel; bound For Brunswick, Dummburg and the Hakel pa.s.sed.

Chief huntsman he then to the goodly Duke, And father of the sunniest maiden here In Ammendorf, the blameless Ilsabe; Who, motherless, the white-haired father prized A jewel priceless. As huge barons' ghosts Guard big, acc.u.mulated h.o.a.rds of wealth, Fast-sealed in caverned cellars, robber wells, Beneath the dungeoned Dummburg, so he watched Her, all his world in her who was his wealth.

A second Lora of Thuringia she.

Faultless for love, instilled all souls with love, Who, in the favor of her maiden smile, Felt friendship grow up like a golden thought; A life of love from words; and light that fell And wrought calm influence from her pure blue eyes.

Hair sedate and austerely dressed o'er brows White as a Harz dove's wing; hair with the hue Of twilight mists the sun hath soaked with gold.

A Tyrolean melody that brought Dim dreams of Alpine heights, of shepherds brown, Goat-skinned, with healthy cheeks and wrinkled lips That fill wild oaten pipes on wand'ring ways, Embowered deep, with mountain melodies,-- Simple with love and plaintive even to tears,-- Her presence, her sweet presence like a song.

And when she left, it was as when one hath Beheld a moonlit Undine, ere the mind Adjusts one thought, cleave thro' the gla.s.sy Rhine A glittering beauty wet, and gone again A flash--the soul drifts wondering on in dreams.

Some thirty years agone is that; and I, Commissioner of the Duke--no sinecure I can a.s.sure you--had scarce reached the age Of thirty (then some three years of that House).

Thro' me the bold Franconian, whom at first, By bitter principles and scorn of state-- Developed into argument thro' wine-- The foresthood like was to be denied, Was then enfellowed. "Yes," I said, "he's young; True, rashly young! yet, see: a wiry frame, A chamois' footing, and a face for right; An eye which likes me not, but quick with pride, And aimed at thought, a b.u.t.t it may not miss: A soul with virgin virtues which crude flesh Makes seem but vices, these but G.o.d may see-- Develop these. But, if there's aught of worth, Body or mind, in him, Kurt, thou wilt know, And to the surface wear, as divers win From hideous ooze and life rich jewels lost Of polished pureness, worthless left to night, Thou or thy daughter, and inspire for good."

A year thereafter was it that I heard Of Rudolf's pa.s.sion for Kurt's Ilsabe, Then their betrothal. And it was from this,-- For, ah, that Ilsabe! that Ilsabe!-- Good Mary Mother! how she haunts me yet!

She, that true touchstone which philosophers feign Contacts and golds all base; a woman who Could touch all evil into good in man.-- Surmised I of the excellency which Refinement of her gentle company, Warm presence of chaste beauty, had resolved His fiery nature to, conditioning slave.

And so I came from Brunswick--as you know-- Is custom of the Duke or, by his seal Commissioned proxy, his commissioner,-- To test the marksmanship of Rudolf who Succeeded Kurt with marriage of his child, An heir of Kuno.--He?--Great grandfather Of Kurt, and one this forestkeepership Was first possesor of; established thus-- Or such the tale they told me 'round the hearths.

Kuno, once in the Knight of Wippach's train, Rode on a grand hunt with the Duke, who came With vast magnificence of knights and hounds, And satin-tuniced n.o.bles curled and plumed To hunt Thuringian deer. Then Morn too slow On her blithe feet was; quick with laughing eyes To morrow mortal eyes and lazy limbs; Rather on tip-toed hills rec.u.mbent yawned, Aroused an hour too soon; ashamed, disrobed, Rubbed the stiff sleep from eyes that still would close, While brayed the hollow horns and bayed lean hounds, And cheered gallants until the dingles dinned, Where searched the climbing mists or, compact light, Fled breathless white, clung scared a moted gray, Low unsunned cloudlands of the castled hills.

And then near mid-noon from a swarthy brake The ban-dogs roused a red gigantic stag, Lashed to whose back with grinding knotted cords, Borne with whom like a nightmare's incubus, A man shrieked; burry-bearded and his hair Kinked with dry, tangled burrs, and he himself Emaciated and half naked. From The wear of wildest pa.s.sage thro' the wild, Rent red by briars, torn and bruised by rocks.

--For, such the law then, when the peasant chased Or slew the dun deer of his tyrant lords, As punishment the torturing withes and spine Of some big stag, a gift of game and wild Enough till death--death in the antlered herd Or crawling famine in bleak, haggard haunts.

Then was the dark Duke glad, and forthwith cried To all his dewy train a rich reward For him who slew the stag and saved the man, But death to him who slew the man and stag, The careless error of a loose attempt.

So crashed the hunt along wild, glimmering ways Thro' creepers and vast brush beneath gnarled trees, Up a scorched torrent's bed. Yet still refused Each that sure shot; the risk too desperate The poor life and the golden gift beside.

So this young Kuno with two eyes wherein Hunt with excitement kindled reckless fire Clamored, "And are ye cowards?--Good your grace, You shall not chafe!--The fiend direct my ball!"

And fired into a covert deeply packed, An intertangled wall of matted night, Wherein the eye might vainly strive and strive To pierce one foot or earn one point beyond.

But, ha! the huge stag staggered from the brake Heart-hit and perished. That wan wretch unhurt Soon bondless lay condoled. But the great Duke, Charmed with the eagle shot, admired the youth, There to him and his heirs forever gave The forest keepership.

But envious tongues Were soon at wag; and whispered went the tale Of how the shot was free, and that the b.a.l.l.s Used by young Kuno were free bullets, which Molded were cast in influence of the fiend By magic and directed by the fiend.

Of some effect these tales were and some force Had with the Duke, who lent an ear so far As to ordain Kuno's descendants all To proof of skill ere their succession to The father's office. Kurt himself hath shot The silver ring from out the popinjay's beak-- A good shot he, you see, who would succeed.

The Devil guards his mysteries close as G.o.d.

For who can say what elementaries Demoniac lurk in desolate dells and woods Shadowy? malicious va.s.sals of that power Who signs himself, thro' these, a slave to those, Those mortals who act open with his h.e.l.l, Those only who seek secretly and woo.

Of these free, fatal bullets let me speak: There may be such; our Earth hath things as strange; Then only in coa.r.s.e fancies may exist; For fancy is among our peasantry A limber juggler with the weird and dark; For Superst.i.tion hides not her grim face, A skeleton grin on leprous ghastliness, From Ignorance's mossy thatches low.

A cross-way, as I heard, among gaunt hills, A solitude convulsed of rocks and trees Blasted; and on the stony cross-road drawn A b.l.o.o.d.y circle with a b.l.o.o.d.y sword; Herein rude characters; a skull and thighs Fantastic fixed before a fitful fire Of spiteful coals. Eleven of the clock Cast, the first bullet leaves the mold,--the lead Mixed with three bullets that have hit their mark, Burnt blood,--the wounded Sacramental Host, Unswallowed and unhallowed, oozed when shot Fixed to a riven pine.--Ere twelve o'clock, When dwindling specters in their rotting shrouds Quit musty tombs to mumble hollow woes In Midnight's horrored ear, with never a cry, Word or weak whisper, till that hour sound, Must the free b.a.l.l.s be cast; and these shall be In number three and sixty; three of which Semial--he the Devil's minister-- Claims for his master and stamps as his own To hit awry their mark, askew for harm.

_Those other sixty shall not miss their mark._ No cry, no word, no whisper, tho' there gibe Most monstrous shapes that flicker in thick mist Lewd human countenances or leer out Swoln animal faces with fair forms of men, While wide-winged owls fan the drear, dying coals, That lick thin, slender tongues of purple fire From viperous red, and croaks the night-hawk near.

No cry, no word, no whisper should there come Weeping a wandering form with weary, white And pleading countenance of her you love, Faded with tears of waiting; beckoning With gray, large arms or censuring; her shame In dull and desolate eyes; who, if you speak Or stagger from that circle--hideous change!-- Shrinks, faced a hag of million wrinkles, which Ridge scaly sharpness of protruding bones, To rip you limb from limb with taloned claws.

Nor be deceived if some far midnight bell Boom that antic.i.p.ated hour, nor leave By one short inch the b.l.o.o.d.y orbit, for The minion varlets of h.e.l.l's majesty Expectant cirque its dim circ.u.mference.

But when the hour of midnight smites, be sure You have your bullets, neither more nor less; For, if thro' fear one more or less you have, Your soul is forfeit to those agencies, Right rathe who are to rend it from the flesh.

And while that hour of midnight sounds a din Of hurrying hoofs and shouting outriders-- Six snorting steeds postilioned roll a stage Black and with groaning wheels of spinning fire, "Room there!--ho! ho!--who bars the mountain-way!

On over him!"--but fear not nor fare forth,-- 'Tis but the last trick of your bounden slave: And ere the red moon strives from dingy clouds And dives again, high the huge leaders leap Iron fore-hoofs flashing and big eyes like gledes, And, spun a spiral spark into the night, Whistling the phantom flies and fades away.

Some say there comes no stage, but Hackelnburg, Wild Huntsman of the Harz, rides hoa.r.s.e in storm, Dashing the dead leaves with dark dogs of h.e.l.l Direful thro' whirling thickets, and his horn Croaks doleful as an owl's hoot while he hurls Straight 'neath rain-streaming skies of echoes, sheer Plunging the magic circle horse and hounds.

And then will come, plutonian clad and slim, Upon a stallion vast intensely black, Semial, Satan's lurid minister, To hail you and inform you and a.s.sure.-- Enough! these wives-tales heard to what I've seen; To Ammendorf I came; and Rudolf there With Kurt and all his picturesque foresters Met me. And then the rounding year was ripe; Throbbing the red heart of full Autumn: When Each morning gleams crisp frost on shriveled fields; Each noon sits veiled in mysteries of mist; Each night unrolls a miracle woof of stars, Where moon--bare-bosomed G.o.ddess of the hunt-- Wades calm, crushed clouds or treads the vaster blue.

Then I proposed the season's hunt; till eve The test of Rudolf's skill postponed, with which Annoyed he seemed. And so it was I heard How he an execrable marksman was, And whispered tales of near, incredible shots That wryed their mark, while in his flint-lock's pan Flashed often harmless powder, while wild game Stared fearless on him and indulgent stood, An open b.u.t.t to such wide marksmanship.

Howbeit, he that day acquitted him Of these maligners' cavils; in the hunt Missing no shot however rash he made Or distant thro' thick intercepting trees; And the piled, curious game brought down of all Good marksmen of that train had not sufficed, Doubled, nay, trebled, to have matched his heap.

And wonderstruck the _jagers_ saw, nor knew How to excuse them. My indulgence giv'n, Still swore that only yesterday old Kurt Had touched his daughter's tears and Rudolf's wrath By vowing end to their betrothed love, Unless that love developed better aim Against the morrow's test; his ancestor's High fame should not be damaged. So he stormed, But bowed his gray head and wept silently; Then looking up forgave when big he saw Tears in his daughter's eyes and Rudolf gone Forth in the night that wailed with coming storm.

Before this inn, The Owl, a.s.sembled came The nice-primped villagers to view the trial: Fair _frauleins_ and blonde, comely, healthy _fraus_; Stout burgers. And among them I did mark Kurt and his daughter. He, a florid face Of pride and joy for Rudolf's strange success; She, radiant and flounced in flowing garb Of bridal white deep-draped and crowned with flowers; For Kurt insisted this their marriage eve Should Rudolf come successful from the chase.