The Cup of Comus: Fact and Fancy. Cawein Madison Julius

slowly closed her book,

      And waited for his kiss; could scarcely brook

      The weary time he took.

      There was no one remembered her – no one!

      But him, beneath the sun, —

      Who then had entered? entered but to shun

      Her whose long work was done.

      She raised her eyes, and – no one! – Yet she felt

      A presence near, that smelt

      Like faded roses; and that seemed to melt

      Into her soul that knelt.

      She could not see, but knew that he was there,

      Smoothing her hands and hair;

      Filling with scents of roses all the air,

      Standing beside her chair.

* * * *

      And so they found her, sitting quietly,

      Her book upon her knee,

      Staring before her, as if she could see —

      What was it – Death? or he?

      A GHOST OF YESTERDAY

      There is a house beside a way,

      Where dwells a ghost of Yesterday:

      The old face of a beauty, faded,

      Looks from its garden: and the shaded

      Long walks of locust-trees, that seem

      Forevermore to sigh and dream,

      Keep whispering low a word that's true,

      Of shapes that haunt its avenue,

      Clad as in days of belle and beau,

      Who come and go

      Around its ancient portico.

      At first, in stock and beaver-hat,

      With flitting of the moth and bat,

      An old man, leaning on a cane,

      Comes slowly down the locust lane;

      Looks at the house; then, groping, goes

      Into the garden where the rose

      Still keeps sweet tryst with moth and moon;

      And, humming to himself a tune,

      – "Lorena" or "Ben Bolt" we'll say, —

      Waits, bent and gray,

      For some fair ghost of Yesterday.

      The Yesterday that holds his all —

      More real to him than is the wall

      Of mossy stone near which he stands,

      Still reaching out for her his hands —

      For her, the girl, who waits him there,

      A lace-gowned phantom, dark of hair,

      Whose loveliness still keeps those walks,

      And with whose Memory he talks;

      Upon his heart her happy head, —

      So it is said, —

      The girl, now half a century dead.

      LORDS OF THE VISIONARY EYE

      I came upon a pool that shone,

      Clear, emerald-like, among the hills,

      That seemed old wizards round a stone

      Of magic that a vision thrills.

      And as I leaned and looked, it seemed

      Vague shadows gathered there and here —

      A dream, perhaps the water dreamed

      Of some wild past, some long-dead year…

      A temple of a race unblessed

      Rose huge within a hollow land,

      Where, on an altar, bare of breast,

      One lay, a man, bound foot and hand.

      A priest, who served some hideous god,

      Stood near him on the altar stair,

      Clothed on with gold; and at his nod

      A multitude seemed gathered there.

      I saw a sword descend; and then

      The priest before the altar turned;

      He was not formed like mortal man,

      But like a beast whose eyeballs burned.

      Amorphous, strangely old, he glared

      Above the victim he had slain,

      Who lay with bleeding bosom bared,

      From which dripped slow a crimson rain.

      Then turned to me a face of stone

      And mocked above the murdered dead,

      That fixed its cold eyes on his own

      And cursed him with a look of dread.

      And then, it seemed, I knew the place,

      And how this sacrifice befell:

      I knew the god, the priest's wild face,

      I knew the dead man – knew him well.

      And as I stooped again to look,

      I heard the dark hills sigh and laugh,

      And in the pool the water shook

      As if one stirred it with a staff.

      And all was still again and clear:

      The pool lay crystal as before,

      Temple and priest were gone; the mere

      Had closed again its magic door.

      A face was there; it seemed to shine

      As round it died the sunset's flame —

      The victim's face? – or was it mine? —

      They were to me the very same.

      And yet, and yet – could this thing be? —

      And in my soul I seemed to know,

      At once, this was a memory

      Of some past life, lived long ago.

      Recorded by some secret sense,

      In forms that we as dreams retain;

      Some moment, as experience,

      Projects in pictures on the brain.

      THE CREAKING DOOR

      Come in, old Ghost of all that used to be! —

      You find me old,

      And love grown cold,

      And fortune fled to younger company:

      Departed, as the glory of the day,

      With friends! – And you, it seems, have come to stay. —

      'T is time to pray.

      Come; sit with me, here at Life's creaking door,

      All comfortless. —

      Think, nay! then, guess,

      What was the one thing, eh? that made me poor? —

      The love of beauty, that I could not bind?

      My dream of truth? or faith in humankind? —

      But, never mind!

      All are departed now, with love and youth,

      Whose