  The Gallows is a composite something—a sort of trio-also—known to assume burdens, likewise, to-wit: the Beam, the Trap, and the Rope. I dozed—had dipped in gray of dreams— While at gate of mind no sentry sat, But such blithe watch and ward whereat The Fancy laughs, more tricksy sports her airy gleams— Had dipped—unrobed, immersed, for all she fought, In the bath, each leaden limb of weary Thought. Such truce!—while shoal of dreams slid restful by; When, hark! Came phantomed not upon the misty air, At hum and buzz, some quaint palavering there— Some spell—which, ere the tranced ear could sort and try, Took vision, too, put up, made free, Where Reverie’s haunts and workings be. The eeriest shapes—tho’ of yon fierce breed That cows sweet Song, harsh-tunes her chime, Thick-mists the heights she fain would climb, Yet, e’en so, their sad defence and privilege plead: Rude differences, of mark and poise, That, ’gainst all manners, prompt her voice: The weirdest set,—tho’ jovial, too, if looks describe, And hardy Mirth—yon gamy stuff that seeks no bush, Which Muse will start when, at a push, She sports the string of hoot and jibe; Tho’ God help! as many a licensed rascal knows, A proper chord, for all its ring of lashing prose. But who were they? By way of count, the eye Had made them three—some treble pink, or clover there— Tho’, sooth to say, I never saw the threefoil wear The weird wild grace they conjured by. But then, what can’t Illusion shadow forth, That shames the needle, souths the north? The First—in faith, all had a cunning trick Of linking arms, a hang-together sort of look, Which how to severalize and separate book Comes hard, save unto whom, among Life’s pick Of strange acquaintance, she makes free Shall have close dealings with these Corporate Three. This First—a lanky chap he was, of way-up size, Clean-timbered, straight as pine-grain flows, Or frank heart feels, yet now, for, certes, some heinous cause, His way was curt, his speech came grim—some hanged surmise His gaunt frame feels, which, as it shouldering brings To view his level top, spoke curious things While the Second, tho’ less staunch of thew, Say, to the others beam as boards of clap, Showed yet his ilk—a jaw alive as any trap; Tho’ one, who backed his sense with feeling, too; For the way he would warm up, take on, and lead, When as some new light broke, was sight indeed. And last, that sprawling Third—so meek, so mincing slim, You’ld never ha’ dreamt how’s his gag was bound, In the end, to clinch a subject, coil it round, As he let out that twisting trick of him; Which, till erring Man and Time debate no more, Shall still leave points for Master Rope to score. Well—here was Company, if all was square? A doubt stood out, heard Heart say, “Brother Brain, Good Sir, have you been chumming with the Wine again?” When, “No,” flung back the Head, “I wasn’t there This many a day; since when my kindling deities are But a cup of Oolong and a mild cigar.” Yet, drat the thing! ’Twould take no nay; The stuff came fierce. Some blaze seemed on, And, tho’ with no clear ground to go upon, I thought I said, “Let come what may, I’ll hear it out,” tho’ ’ts trick for strange now topped the score, For by Grab and Stab! they spoke of War. Yon feud that stains South Afric’s land, The foul use to which a giant’s sword Had long been put, ’gainst some young ward Of freedom’s there. How the gallant tho’ forlorn band, Compeers of Fame, made ring her page With wonder of the strife they singly wage. Nay, what took me most,—but then, What good to ponder how these Councillors three Came to speak so tactic-deep, so judgingly ’Bout how that bully’s brawl might not have been, Had they, on strength of prospect, in their wholesome way, From forth the tingling cheek of modern Day, With timely hand, rebuking, wiped this burning shame, Made knavery uncloak, ere treason flew Her couriers flaunting of their liveried True, And with craft of covert mired a goodly name; No good to ponder this, now the vile flood has broke, Yet fact, or no—it was the way these worthies spoke. And queer’st of all,—by some strange spell They becked me on, and, edging ’round, As in some magic circle held me bound, When, “now,” cried they, “it fits us tell, ’Less thou be one of those, too apt by far, Who, shuffling, try to shape their star, By tale, lined smug with pleasing sooth, And, like world-wise husbands, till and farm No lease that tinge with thought of harm— We doubt you sore—than sweat at back of rugged Truth; Who expound all fact by textman Strong, Glibbed ne’er so smooth with fine-spun Wrong.” “Yes, ’swounds! said they, it fits us tell,’— When, as with sense of proper cue, The Beam—the fellow of the sturdy thew— Spoke singly out: like tongue of rousing bell That on still deeps of vasty midnight falls, To doom of raging flood, or fire calls, Reverberate rang his ghostly strain: “Had I been there, on Afric’s shore, Where homes mid toil the hardy Boer; Or, there where erst was laid the train And cunning fuse, whose rowdy charge Set War’s deep-mouthed hounds at large— Been there—good now and well-a-day! Proud Cecil’s hunger for more Earth, To swell a tottering empire in the girth, No thought for ’ts feet, those props of clay, Should for its fill, or nearways bound, Have had a six foot some of Christian ground. Or, grant, this stories not, by far, Quite twists, the way his craving came; That a wider mark went roves with Fame: E’en so—the fatuous head he gave his star Balked still true rise, yon warier climb, Which must match foot with patient Time. But, take in both; let honor owe Some voice to each; yet some base touch no merit downs, Sinks born kings to range with clowns, Wreaked here its curse thro’ human law, And, deriving whence no issue sleep, Would have had yon stern verdict keep. Since, so had no lure that Mammon piles Blazed wide to men, “I know ye all; Lo, here my truck, lo, there your soul! And, what devil doubts, but damned files For lasting count, scores twice this creed: “Fair ends must bear what foul means breed. So had ne’er cried out ’gainst fearsome spilth No brave mens’ blood, no blasted home Made sick the times, sensed fierce the stars, past where they dome Shrilled wildly forth “this is the husbandry whose tilth, When gathered full its ghastly sheaf, Shall blight with shame each laureled leaf, “That England wears, where ranker grow,”— Well—this topped, I thought, all patient sense, And it seemed I said “Now pray you whence This dire bode? What glass be yours that it should show What veils all view,”—here, while my lip still quivering hung, Their wizard spell had tied my tongue; As from out my Dream there rose once more, This time that other’s grim, now boding voice I thought so sleek, yet full of poise, And, tho’ still you traced the snap it bore, ’T had now an eager, vast, nay, solemn sound, As if chiming with the sky-paths ’round. Withal, it was mine ancient friend’s, the Trap, As lo, he dire spoke, “and had I been there, Where southward down the Capelands bear, Had I not quenched with my good cap, O’er-topped his crest, that Milner man, Whose swell of head to the Imperial plan “Such havoc worked, that toiling Day Nor patient Night, tho’ joining chore, Retrieves the base that rose before; But as sad Fates their grim plots lay, Nor scorn no aid from scheming Breath, Shall, waning, sink t’ward leveling Death.” At this—as from its curb had once more broke The Will—my safer self—tho’ cowed and pent Within their witching grip, I roused and bent The tongue to hot retort, and spoke: “Who’re you, that spurs so fierce the instant Right, Who’ld wage conclusions with the patient Light? Then more calm—for within his look There sate a gleam, that still, clear gaze, By which dim Destiny all opposite weighs, Nay, her least owing brings to book— I faltered forth: “What? him they’ve frilled a lord? You’ld from your great good heart have spared a cord?” “Knit closer up this raveled night? Or bee’st thou then?”—Here fell again, past pen to tell, On tongue and will that gruesome spell, Tho’ heart and brain seemed steeped in light; As in voice, whose vast no star-deep girds, ’Rose grim, I thought, that eerie Thirds;’ Now halting, meek, no more. O, futile trope! To suit to trick of verbal range What boundless garbs past millioned change, Yet here, in humble guise of him, the Rope, Spoke valiant out, tho’ slept each sense-watch there, Unvoicing very thunder by compare: “And had I been where across the sea, Confederate, girt, with bulwark tides, Fair Albion, on proud leave, divides, With Ocean’s state, his empery; On his white bastion fearless stands, While lift with light the beaconed hands; But out of mark, unstatured, sinks, All tribute once, now scarce a heed, Some trick, at best, sad memories breed, When the large well, whence Honor drinks, He fierce pollutes, the loath cup drains, Inglorious pledged to siren gains; When the large glow, which constant shone, Now winnows Night no never more, Blasphemes its trust, the spacious charge it missioned bore, And all his anchored pride be overthrown, While up from heaving seas comes brooding cast, To moan of threnody, his vanished past. Ah! had I been there, ere hawks could trail, Could, hounding, snatch at brooding Peace; Ere her wild brother’s bugle shook the seas: Had I not ta’en a reef in Joseph’s sail— The Crest and Swell, which false at source, Pluck whelm and blast to path their course; Ere broke the storm, yon blood-red tide, Man’s will, ’gainst very Fate is bound To probe and check, but which he, callous, failed to sound: Had I not made his tacks go wide, Charmed lasting ’round with my good noose The brazen throat that poohed the truce, Yet from her deep lip that answereth not, Save where with pupil’s grace you tend her school, Sought shuffling plea, acclaimed for Rule, Yon vaunted policy, whose flattering rot Outwits itself, aborts all plan Thro’ fierce array of brawling man; Whose passing equity, the worldly Sure, Might never yet a neutral stand, did witness bear— Yon hosting skies no plainer there— Than that Nations’ lives may not endure, But shall buoy up dark things of Night, That, at issue, watch the orient Light; Be as brief posts twixt here and hence, Time, the user-of-them-for his haste, Their barred entail what feeds his waste, Slaves his command, confounds all whence; When Aggression evermore fierce yokeman go,— Cries ’s rage no halt,—with Nature’s grim and blood-red law. A-well,—so set, to some such words, So substanced to their dour pith, Tho’ the pen, at push for its wherewith, May, chance, interpreting the rousing chords, And, as becomes an instrument of Breath, Be scanting what their phrenzy saith,— Yet thus, from past all conscious source, Mark, manner, privilege of Thought, Trite limit of the time-bound brought, Rang his appeal, whose fierce discourse, Lest Truth, sore tossed, succumb despair, Exhort no more, inspiring tongued the womby air. Whereon, as if to merge each single act, Fuse straying motive, pledge them one, Have, whence ’mid blaze of myriad sun, The Theme enacts, or, where trite performs the meanest fact, Some prompting Light declare, “this scene spake true, Broad-based on Just to climax grew.” Nay, as to have once more this Sponsor say: “Tho’ wrath with ruth perplex my theme, And thro’ pall of cloud my pathways gleam, And truckling augurs bode them nay; Yet came ne’er so lost my omened sooth, But some light broke dim with warning truth.” Even so, as some such charge they bore, Now blent, as they were one, those Voices three: Their mingled strains, consonantly, Took jointly up this general score, Whose burden—scale and pace to utmost star— Did, rounding, swell their awful bar: “Had we had leave, as we have will, Laid on the rod, nor spared the hand, But that dim Fates did baffling stand, Called out: “Leave off, forbear, till we fulfill, While etern Purpose, evermore at large, Abeyant files your bitter charge!” “Might we have shook us in our strength, Hadn’t we laid low, by his ruffian heel, This ogred Wrong—his mealy trick his bloat appeal— Cramped hell to hold his felon’s length? Her warders been, saved England’s shame, Ere Execration he her other name? “Ere as fiends, below, join in the flout, Match their sad spirits, hopelessly compare Who takes the crown for vileness there, Hang shameful heads, as Infamy points out, This imp, cross of Greed and lewd Complot, His human sires monstrously begot, Whose unclean hand foul-featured Fame, Young, timid traits of Peace that grew, And as from some struggling dawn, glad-messaged, flew With this—that God to man, howso He came, Mote ne’er fulfill His sacred call, Ere wisdomed lift, while sink each thrall, That passioned slaves, lets taskman Time Exact to a jot what brags his lease, And Breath blind-pays for his appease:— Ere lift, willed forth this dauntless rhyme— “Spite bonds that cling, nor seem to bate, Some Free may war gainst him and Fate.” Wage hard from lips of thirsting Truth To dash this rank-envenomed Cup, Adulterous Policy holdeth up, Pledged cunning deep with serpent sooth— “That the lie which in the Weak be breach of trust, In the Strong, may hollow drape and play the Just.” Usurp and steal in that fair shape, For fellowship with him the roysterer, Sword, Shut out her cheer, the gentle Word, Profane her wreath, its laurel ape; Steel twice the heart, glass dark this law: “There be no Truth: one bitter blank the Heavens go. At this—much like some sudden storm, that for ’s ease, At his mad pleasure, whelmed the skies, Whose purpose carried, all his wild mood dies, His course accounted, and his wake the peace: So happy sank—fast curtained now, each ghost-film laid— From sight and sound, that threefold Shade. And thus my Dream, past link or bound Of yon close web which nets all Thought, To final plat its loomwork wrought; Its crowning braid—the instant tint, the fervent ground— What deep worked in some veiled hand, And bade both woof and pattern stand. And, safe-keep it so, thou justest God! Deny it not its lease of wear, Spite what coarse thread of Earth it bear, All warp that fames the needy sod! But, suffered, let its touch unfold Some seed of Truth’s anumb with cold. Th’ impeach, the taunt—account them not, But as they still prevail with tardy man, And, differing, derogate Thy vast of plan, Would bettering eke its bountied. What— All strange which holds, past Thought, that waits, The shrouded edicts of unmeasured Fates! Profess it Thine its core o’ grace— What strove to bare the covered fault, The tort, whose gross, to top assault, Would brazen mask its borrowed face, Derive intent, refer its course To Thine clear will and prompting source. At which thought, again, alas, will fall That bitter cry; at rude division pierce the ear, As Sight thickens, to eclipse of Fear, My ghostly Speakers cast their pall, Break bounds twixt this and some yet Hence, Perturb, once more, the sequences of Sense; While eerie lifts, at fresh loom there— When unnatural trespass stalks the mind, Invokes the equity it fails to find— Those juried Three; as the empaneled air Repeats, that wanton power hallows Wrong, Those aweful measures of the Gallows’ Song. |
|
