The Monk (Archibald Lampman Poems)
IIn Nino's chamber not a sound intrudesUpon the midnight's tingling silentness,Where Nino sits before his book and broods,Thin and brow-burdened ...
IIn Nino's chamber not a sound intrudesUpon the midnight's tingling silentness,Where Nino sits before his book and broods,Thin and brow-burdened ...
Out of the gray northwest, where many a day gone by Ye tugged and howled in your tempestuous grot, And evermore the huge frost giants lie, Your wizard guards in vigilance unforgot, Out of the gray northwest, for now the bonds are riven, On wide white wings your thongless flight is driven, That lulls but resteth not. And all the gray day long, and all the dense wild night, Ye wheel and hurry with the sheeted snow, By cedared waste and many a pine-dark height, Across white rivers frozen fast below; Over the lonely forests, where the flowers yet sleeping Turn in their narrow beds with dreams of weeping In some remembered woe; Across the unfenced wide marsh levels, where the dry Brown ferns sigh out, and last year's sedges scold In some drear language, rustling haggardly Their thin dead leaves and dusky hoods of gold; Across gray beechwoods where the pallid leaves unfalling In the blind gusts like homeless ghosts are calling With voices cracked and old; Across the solitary clearings, where the low Fierce gusts howl through the blinded woods, and round The buried shanties all day long the snow Sifts and piles up in many a spectral mound; Across lone villages in eerie wildernesses Whose hidden life no living shape confesses Nor any human sound; Across the serried masses of dim cities, blown Full of the snow that ever shifts and swells, While far above them all their towers of stone Stand and beat back your fierce and tyrannous spells, And hour by hour send out, like voices torn and broken Of battling giants that have grandly spoken, The veering sound of bells; So day and night, O Wind, with hiss and moan you fleet, Where once long gone on many a green-leafed day Your gentler brethren wandered with light feet And sang, with voices soft and sweet as they, The same blind thought that you with wilder might are speaking, Seeking the same strange thing that you are seeking In this your stormier way. O Wind, wild-voicèd brother, in your northern cave, My spirit also being so beset With pride and pain, I heard you beat and rave, Grinding your chains with furious howl and fret, Knowing full well that all earth's moving things inherit The same chained might and madness of the spirit, That none may quite forget. You in your cave of snows, we in our narrow girth Of need and sense, for ever chafe and pine; Only in moods of some demonic birth Our souls take fire, our flashing wings untwine; Even like you, mad Wind, above our broken prison, With streaming hair and maddened eyes uprisen, We dream ourselves divine; Mad moods that come and go in some mysterious way, That flash and fall, none knoweth how or why, O Wind, our brother, they are yours today, The stormy joy, the sweeping mastery; Deep in our narrow cells, we hear you, we awaken, With hands afret and bosoms strangely shaken, We answer to your cry. I most that love you, Wind, when you are fierce and free, In these dull fetters cannot long remain; Lo, I will rise and break my thongs and flee Forth to your drift and beating, till my brain Even for an hour grow wild in your divine embraces, And then creep back into mine earthly traces, And bind me with my chain. Nay, Wind, I hear you, desperate brother, in your might Whistle and howl; I shall not tarry long, And though the day be blind and fierce, the night Be dense and wild, I still am glad and strong To meet you face to face; through all your gust and drifting With brow held high, my joyous hands uplifting, I cry you song for song.(Archibald Lampman)
Subtly conscious, all awake,Let us clear our eyes, and breakThrough the cloudy chrysalis,See the wonder as it is.Down a narrow ...
Under the day-long sun there is life and mirth In the working earth, And the wonderful moon shines bright Through the soft spring night, The innocent flowers in the limitless woods are springing Far and away With the sound and the perfume of May, And ever up from the south the happy birds are winging, The waters glitter and leap and play While the grey hawk soars. But far in an open glade of the forest set Where the rapid plunges and roars, Is a ruined fort with a name that men forget,— A shelterless pen With its broken palisade, Behind it, musket in hand, Beyond message or aid In this savage heart of the wild, Mere youngsters, grown in a moment to men, Grim and alert and arrayed, The comrades of Daulac stand. Ever before them, night and day, The rush and skulk and cry Of foes, not men but devils, panting for prey; Behind them the sleepless dream Of the little frail-walled town, far away by the plunging stream, Of maiden and matron and child, With ruin and murder impending, and none but they To beat back the gathering horror Deal death while they may, And then die. Day and night they have watched while the little plain Grew dark with the rush of the foe, but their host Broke ever and melted away, with no boast But to number their slain; And now as the days renew Hunger and thirst and care Were they never so stout, so true, Press at their hearts; but none Falters or shrinks or utters a coward word, Though each setting sun Brings from the pitiless wild new hands to the Iroquois horde, And only to them despair. Silent, white-faced, again and again Charged and hemmed round by furious hands, Each for a moment faces them all and stands In his little desperate ring; like a tired bull moose Whom scores of sleepless wolves, a ravening pack, Have chased all night, all day Through the snow-laden woods, like famine let loose; And he turns at last in his track Against a wall of rock and stands at bay; Round him with terrible sinews and teeth of steel They charge and recharge; but with many a furious plunge and wheel, Hither and thither over the trampled snow, He tosses them bleeding and torn; Till, driven, and ever to and fro Harried, wounded, and weary grown, His mighty strength gives way And all together they fasten upon him and drag him down. So Daulac turned him anew With a ringing cry to his men In the little raging forest glen, And his terrible sword in the twilight whistled and slew. And all his comrades stood With their backs to the pales, and fought Till their strength was done; The thews that were only mortal flagged and broke Each struck his last wild stroke, And they fell one by one, And the world that had seemed so good Passed like a dream and was naught. And then the great night came With the triumph-songs of the foe and the flame Of the camp-fires. Out of the dark the soft wind woke, The song of the rapid rose alway And came to the spot where the comrades lay, Beyond help or care, With none but the red men round them To gnash their teeth and stare. All night by the foot of the mountain The little town lieth at rest, The sentries are peacefully pacing; And neither from East nor from West Is there rumour of death or of danger; None dreameth tonight in his bed That ruin was near and the heroes That met it and stemmed it are dead. But afar in the ring of the forest, Where the air is so tender with May And the waters are wild in the moonlight, They lie in their silence of clay. The numberless stars out of heaven Look down with a pitiful glance; And the lilies asleep in the forest Are closed like the lilies of France.(Archibald Lampman)
Beside the pounding cataracts Of midnight streams unknown to us 'Tis builded in the leafless tracts And valleys huge of Tartarus. Lurid and lofty and vast it seems; It hath no rounded name that rings, But I have heard it called in dreams The City of the End of Things. Its roofs and iron towers have grown None knoweth how high within the night, But in its murky streets far down A flaming terrible and bright Shakes all the stalking shadows there, Across the walls, across the floors, And shifts upon the upper air From out a thousand furnace doors; And all the while an awful sound Keeps roaring on continually, And crashes in the ceaseless round Of a gigantic harmony. Through its grim depths re-echoing And all its weary height of walls, With measured roar and iron ring, The inhuman music lifts and falls. Where no thing rests and no man is, And only fire and night hold sway; The beat, the thunder and the hiss Cease not, and change not, night nor day. And moving at unheard commands, The abysses and vast fires between, Flit figures that with clanking hands Obey a hideous routine; They are not flesh, they are not bone, They see not with the human eye, And from their iron lips is blown A dreadful and monotonous cry; And whoso of our mortal race Should find that city unaware, Lean Death would smite him face to face, And blanch him with its venomed air: Or caught by the terrific spell, Each thread of memory snapt and cut, His soul would shrivel and its shell Go rattling like an empty nut. It was not always so, but once, In days that no man thinks upon, Fair voices echoed from its stones, The light above it leaped and shone: Once there were multitudes of men, That built that city in their pride, Until its might was made, and then They withered age by age and died. But now of that prodigious race, Three only in an iron tower, Set like carved idols face to face, Remain the masters of its power; And at the city gate a fourth, Gigantic and with dreadful eyes, Sits looking toward the lightless north, Beyond the reach of memories; Fast rooted to the lurid floor, A bulk that never moves a jot, In his pale body dwells no more, Or mind or soul,-an idiot! But sometime in the end those three Shall perish and their hands be still, And with the master's touch shall flee Their incommunicable skill. A stillness absolute as death Along the slacking wheels shall lie, And, flagging at a single breath, The fires shall moulder out and die. The roar shall vanish at its height, And over that tremendous town The silence of eternal night Shall gather close and settle down. All its grim grandeur, tower and hall, Shall be abandoned utterly, And into rust and dust shall fall From century to century; Nor ever living thing shall grow, Nor trunk of tree, nor blade of grass; No drop shall fall, no wind shall blow, Nor sound of any foot shall pass: Alone of its accursèd state, One thing the hand of Time shall spare, For the grim Idiot at the gate Is deathless and eternal there.(Archibald Lampman)
Hear me, Brother, gently met;Just a little, turn, not yet,Thou shalt laugh, and soon forget:Now the midnight draweth near.I have ...
In days, when the fruit of men's labour was sparing,And hearts were weary and nigh to break,A sweet grave man ...
In his dim chapel day by dayThe organist was wont to play,And please himself with fluted reveries;And all the spirit's ...
The point is turned; the twilight shadow fillsThe wheeling stream, the soft receding shore,And on our ears from deep among ...
Out of the heart of the city begottenOf the labour of men and their manifold hands,Whose souls, that were sprung ...
Why weep ye in your innocent toil at all?Sweet little hands, why halt and tremble so?Full many a wrong note ...
Now the creeping nets of sleepStretch about and gather nigh,And the midnight dim and deepLike a spirit passes by,Trailing from ...
Sweet summer is gone; they have laid her away—The last sad hours that were touched with her grace—In the hush ...
When saw I yesterday walking apartIn a leafy place where the cattle wait?Something to keep for a charm in my ...
The darkness brings no quiet here, the light No waking: ever on my blinded brain The flare ...
There is singing of birds in the deep wet woods,In the heart of the listening solitudes,Pewees, and thrushes, and sparrows, ...
Oh deep-eyed brothers was there ever here,Or is there now, or shall there sometime beHarbour or any rest for such ...
Why do ye call the poet lonely,Because he dreams in lonely places?He is not desolate, but onlySees, where ye cannot, ...
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