_Colestin_. She has gone, and I, the shadow of a shadow, stay behind.

_The Men_ [_murmur among themselves_]. His is the blame! Tear him from off her body! [_They draw their swords to attack the_ King.]

_Hans Lorba.s.s_ [_blocking the way with drawn sword_]. Away there!

[_The Burial-wife mounting solemnly out of the open grave._]

_Burial-wife_. Children, cease your strife! Can you not see his spirit wanders far? He is wrapped about with the whisperings of eternity. The message of death is on the way, the stone of sacrifice doth reek for blood. Long has this man belonged to me; and now--[_she raises her arm and lets it fall_]--I come into my own. [_The_ King _breathes heavily, stirs, and dies._]

_Hans Lorba.s.s_ [_kneels down beside him with a cry_]. Master, master!

_Burial-wife_. Thus from l.u.s.t and guilt and sorrow have I cleansed his soul. To both of them it shall be as though they had not been. Wrap them about with linen, bear them to my dark abode; then go in silent thought from hence, for my work is done.

_Hans Lorba.s.s_ [_rises, in anguished bitterness_]. Mine must begin anew. How gladly have I ever braved fresh dangers as my darling's slave! That service, too, is past; but now his kingdom calls loudly on my sword for aid. [_Pointing seaward._] Northward there lies a land debauched, crying from out its shame for justice, for a righteous law, for vengeance, for salvation; for a master,--and that shall the man become!

_Translated by Helen Tracy Porter_.

MARAH OF SHADOWTOWN.

The days pa.s.s by in Shadowtown Wearily, wearily;-- And Bitter-Sweet Marah of Shadowtown Sighs drearily, drearily.

"Mother, tell him to come to me While my hair is gold and beautiful And my lips and eyes are young While the songs that are welling up in my heart May still be sung.

"The days go by so wearily Like crooked goblins, eerily, Like silly shadows, fast and still, Wind-driven and drearily.

"Like the gray clouds are my eyes gray, mother, Like them, heavy as things grown old Only the clouds' tears are but dream-tears-- Lifeless, cold.

"Last night I had the strangest dream,-- It seemed I stood on a barren hill Where the wings of the ragged clouds went by Hurrying and still.

"And all of a sudden the moon came out Making a pathway over the down,-- And turned my hair to a gold mist, mother, To light the way to Shadowtown.

"But when I did not see him coming, And because the clouds grew dark and gray I walked through the shadows down the hillside To help him better to find the way.

"And in some wise I came to a forest When all around was so strange and dim,-- That I thought, 'If I should be lost in the darkness, How could my hair be light for him?'

"But groping, I found I was on a pathway Where low soft branches swept my face,-- When suddenly, close beside, and before me I knew dim forms kept even pace.

"They were so cowering, shivering, white That I felt some ill thing came behind And I heard a moan on the wind go by 'Ah, but the end of the path to find!'

"Then I looked behind, and saw that near Like a wan marsh-fog, came a cloud Hurrying on,--and I knew it wrapped A dead love--as a shroud.

"And guiltily the figures went, Like coward things in a guilty race And not one dared to look behind For fear he knew that dead love's face.

"Then suddenly at my side I knew He I loved went;--but, for my hair, Shadowed and blown about my face, He knew me not beside him there.

"And he, too, cowered with shaking hands Over his eyes, for fear to meet Haunting and still, my pallid face In that strange mist of winding-sheet.

"So on the shadowy figures went Hurrying the loathed cloud before,-- Seeking an end of a fated path That went winding evermore.

"Oh, Mother, that path was hideous,-- Long and ill and hideous-- And the way was so near to Shadowtown,-- Fairer to Shadowtown-- But the gold of my hair shall not light the way For anyone else to Shadowtown."

Gray-eyed Marah of Shadowtown Turns away wearily, wearily Weaving her gold hair back and forth, Thus she sings, and drearily-- "Little Love, when you shall die, then so shall I, Ha, merrily!

"Then let them put us in some deep spot Where one the growing of trees' roots hears And you at my heart, all wet with tears, All wet with tears.

"Your wings are draggled and limp and wet,--Little Love,-- From what rainy land have you come, and far,-- Or who that has held you was crying so,-- Who, little Love--?

My eyes are heavy and wet with tears Whose eyes besides are heavy so--?

--Oh, little Love, how dumb you are!--

"Then, poor Love, that has lived in my heart Come, take my hand, we will go together, Hemlock boughs are full of sleep Out of the way of the weather.

"For a cavern of cold gray mist is my heart Will not the hemlock boughs be better Over our feet and under our heads Keeping us from the weather?"

Her gold hair duskily glints in her hands Marah of Shadowtown sings--"Together,-- You, little Love, and I, will go Into the Land of Pleasanter Weather."

_Anne Throop._

DIES IRAE.

Go fight your fight with Tagal and with Boer, Cheer in the l.u.s.t of strength and brutal pride; Beat down the lamb to fatten up the fox, Shout victory o'er the prostrate shape of truth.

Take cross and pike and gold and sophistry, To pray and prod and purchase, wheedle, wile; Stamp out the roses in a waste of weeds, Shout while the trembling voice of truth is hushed.

Shatter with iron heel the poet's dream, The prophet's protest, and the ages' hope, Of brotherhood and light and love on earth-- Of peace and plenty and a perfect race.

Tear down the fabric of ten thousand years, The world's best wisdom woven in its woe; Lift ruthless hands to rend the fairy fane That holds the heart hopes of humanity.

Let loose greed, envy, l.u.s.t, and avarice, The myriad throated dragon of desire; Let might rule, riot, batten on the meek, The tyranny of man o'er man seem right.

Forget the Lord Christ smiled, forgave, and died; Frowned down every appeal to brutish strength; Bade man put up the sword, lest by the sword He perish; prayed evil might be paid by good.

Forget he turned cheek to the coward blow, Cried "Pardon!" yes, seven and seventy times! "Judge not; Do not condemn; give coat as well as cloak; Resist not evil, wrong's not made right by wrong."

Forget each drop of blood burns in the race, Cries for atonement while the last man lives; That murder for the state is murder still, The gilded not less guilty though more great.

Forget, and flay and flame; in din grow deaf To piteous cries without, and voice within; Conquer, triumph, and when the world is won, Turn terroring towards the demon in your heart.

_William Mountain_.