Young Adventure Part 7

Before his foe Sir Henry stood.

"The hemp is grown, and my word made good!"

And the cutla.s.s clanged with a hissing whir On the las.h.i.+ng blade of the rapier.

Hawk roared and charged like a maddened buck.

As the cobra strikes, Sir Henry struck,

Pouring his life in a single thrust, And the cutla.s.s s.h.i.+vered to sparks and dust.

Sir Henry stood on the blood-stained deck, And set his foot on his foe's neck.

Then from the hatch, where the rent decks slope, Where the dead roll and the wounded grope, He dragged the serpent of the rope.

The sky was blue, and the sea was still, The waves lapped softly, hill on hill, And between one wave and another wave The doomed man's cries were little and shrill.

The sea was blue, and the sky was calm; The air dripped with a golden balm.

Like a wind-blown fruit between sea and sun, A black thing writhed at a yard-arm.

Slowly then, and awesomely, The s.h.i.+p sank, and the gallows-tree, And there was nought between sea and sun -- Nought but the sun and the sky and the sea.

But down by the marsh where the fever breeds, Only the water chuckles and pleads; For the hemp clings fast to a dead man's throat, And blind Fate gathers back her seeds.

Poor Devil!

Well, I was tired of life; the silly folk, The tiresome noises, all the common things I loved once, crushed me with an iron yoke.

I longed for the cool quiet and the dark, Under the common sod where louts and kings Lie down, serene, unheeding, careless, stark, Never to rise or move or feel again, Filled with the ecstasy of being dead....

I put the s.h.i.+ning pistol to my head And pulled the trigger hard -- I felt no pain, No pain at all; the pistol had missed fire I thought; then, looking at the floor, I saw My huddled body lying there -- and awe Swept over me. I trembled -- and looked up.

About me was -- not that, my heart's desire, That small and dark abode of death and peace -- But all from which I sought a vain release!

The sky, the people and the staring sun Glared at me as before. I was undone.

My last state ten times worse than was my first.

Helpless I stood, befooled, betrayed, accursed, Fettered to Life forever, horribly; Caught in the meshes of Eternity, No further doors to break or bars to burst!

Ghosts of a Lunatic Asylum

Here, where men's eyes were empty and as bright As the blank windows set in glaring brick, When the wind strengthens from the sea -- and night Drops like a fog and makes the breath come thick;

By the deserted paths, the vacant halls, One may see figures, twisted shades and lean, Like the mad shapes that crawl an Indian screen, Or paunchy smears you find on prison walls.

Turn the k.n.o.b gently! There's the Thumbless Man, Still weaving gla.s.s and silk into a dream, Although the wall shows through him -- and the Khan Journeys Cathay beside a paper stream.

A Rabbit Woman chitters by the door -- -- Chilly the grave-smell comes from the turned sod -- Come -- lift the curtain -- and be cold before The silence of the eight men who were G.o.d!

The White Peac.o.c.k

(France -- Ancient Regime.)

I.

Go away!

Go away; I will not confess to you!

His black biretta clings like a hangman's cap; under his twitching fingers the beads s.h.i.+ver and click, As he mumbles in his corner, the shadow deepens upon him; I will not confess!...

Is he there or is it intenser shadow?

Dark huddled coilings from the obscene depths, Black, formless shadow, Shadow.

Doors creak; from secret parts of the chateau come the scuffle and worry of rats.

Orange light drips from the guttering candles, Eddying over the vast embroideries of the bed Stirring the monstrous tapestries, Retreating before the sable impending gloom of the canopy With a swift thrust and sparkle of gold, Lipping my hands, Then Rippling back abashed before the ominous silences Like the swift turns and starts of an overpowered fencer Who sees before him Horror Behind him darkness, Shadow.

The clock jars and strikes, a thin, sudden note like the sob of a child.

Clock, buhl clock that ticked out the tortuous hours of my birth, Clock, evil, wizened dwarf of a clock, how many years of agony have you relentlessly measured, Yardstick of my stifling shroud?

I am Aumaury de Montreuil; once quick, soon to be eaten of worms.

You hear, Father? Hsh, he is asleep in the night's cloak.

Over me too steals sleep.

Sleep like a white mist on the rotting paintings of cupids and G.o.ds on the ceiling; Sleep on the carven s.h.i.+elds and knots at the foot of the bed, Oozing, blurring outlines, obliterating colors, Death.

Father, Father, I must not sleep!

It does not hear -- that shadow crouched in the corner...

Is it a shadow?

One might think so indeed, save for the calm face, yellow as wax, that lifts like the face of a drowned man from the choking darkness.

II.

Out of the drowsy fog my body creeps back to me.

It is the white time before dawn.

Moonlight, watery, pellucid, lifeless, ripples over the world.

The gra.s.s beneath it is gray; the stars pale in the sky.

The night dew has fallen; An infinity of little drops, crystals from which all light has been taken, Glint on the sighing branches.