The Death-Wake, Or Lunacy - Chimera I

An anthem of a sister choristry!
And like a windward murmur of the sea,
O'er silver shells, so solemnly it falls!
A dying music shrouded in deep walls,
That bury its wild breathings! And the moon,
Of glow-worm hue, like virgin in sad swoon,
Lies coldly on the bosom of a cloud,
Until the elf-winds, that are wailing loud,
Do minister unto her sickly trance,
Fanning the life into her countenance;
And there are pale stars sparkling, far and few
In the deep chasms of everlasting blue,
Unmarshall'd and ungather'd, one and one,
Like outposts of the lunar garrison.

A train of holy fathers windeth by
The arches of an aged sanctuary,
With cowl, and scapular, and rosary
On to the sainted oriel, where stood,
By the rich altar, a fair sisterhood--
A weeping group of virgins! one or two
Bent forward to a bier, of solemn hue,
Whereon a bright and stately coffin lay,
With its black pall flung over:--Agathe
Was on the lid--a name. And who?--No more!
'Twas only Agathe.

'Tis o'er, 'tis o'er,--
Her burial! and, under the arcades,
Torch after torch into the moonlight fades;
And there is heard the music, a brief while,
Over the roofings of the imaged aisle,
From the deep organ panting out its last,
Like the slow dying of an autumn blast.

A lonely monk is loitering within
The dusky area, at the altar seen,
Like a pale spirit kneeling in the light
Of the cold moon, that looketh wan and white
Through the deviced oriel; and he lays
His hands upon his bosom, with a gaze
To the chill earth. He had the youthful look
Which heartfelt woe had wasted, and he shook
At every gust of the unholy breeze,
That enter'd through the time-worn crevices.

A score of summers only o'er his brow
Had pass'd--and it was summer, even now,
The one-and-twentieth--from a birth of tears,
Over a waste of melancholy years!
And _that_ brow was as wan as if it were
Of snowy marble, and the raven hair
That would have cluster'd over, was all shorn,
And his fine features stricken pale as morn.

He kiss'd a golden crucifix that hung
Around his neck, and in a transport flung
Himself upon the earth, and said, and said
Wild, raving words, about the blessed dead:
And then he rose, and in the moonshade stood,
Gazing upon its light in solitude;
And smote his brow, at some idea wild
That came across: then, weeping like a child,
He falter'd out the name of Agathe;
And look'd unto the heaven inquiringly,
And the pure stars.

"Oh shame! that ye are met,
To mock me, like old memories, that yet
Break in upon the golden dream I knew,
While she--_she_ lived: and I have said adieu
To that fair one, and to her sister Peace,
That lieth in her grave. When wilt thou cease
To feed upon my quiet!--thou Despair!
That art the mad usurper, and the heir,
Of this heart's heritage! Go, go--return,
And bring me back oblivion, and an urn!
And ye, pale stars, may look, and only find,
The wreck of a proud tree, that lets the wind
Count o'er its blighted boughs; for such was he
That loved, and loves, the silent Agathe!"
And he hath left the sanctuary, like one
That knew not his own purpose--The red sun
Rose early over incense of bright mist,
That girdled a pure sky of amethyst.
And who was he? A monk. And those who knew
Yclept him Julio; but they were few:
And others named him as a nameless one,--
A dark, sad-hearted being, who had none
But bitter feelings, and a cast of sadness,
That fed the wildest of all curses--madness!

But he was, what _none_ knew, of lordly line,
That fought in the far land of Palestine,
Where, under banners of the cross, they fell,
Smote by the armies of the infidel.
And Julio was the last; alone, alone!
A sad, unfriended orphan, that had gone
Into the world, to murmur and to die,
Like the cold breezes that are passing by!

And few they were that bade him to their board;
His fortunes now were over, and the sword
Of his proud ancestry dishonour'd--left
To moulder in its sheath--a hated gift!

Ay! it was so; and Julio had fain
Have been a warrior; but his very brain
Grew fever'd at the sickly thought of death,
And to be stricken with a want of breath!--
To be the food of worms--inanimate,
And cold as winter,--and as desolate!
And then to waste away, and be no more
Than the dark dust!--The thought was like a sore
That gather'd in his heart; and he would say,--
"A curse be on their laurels!" and decay
Came over them; the deeds that they had done
Had fallen with their fortunes; and anon
Was Julio forgotten, and his line--
No wonder for this frenzied tale of mine!

Oh! he was wearied of this passing scene!
But loved not death: his purpose was between
Life and the grave; and it would vibrate there,
Like a wild bird that floated far and fair
Betwixt the sun and sea!

He went, and came,
And thought, and slept, and still awoke the same,--
A strange, strange youth; and he would look all night
Upon the moon and stars, and count the flight
Of the sea waves, and let the evening wind
Play with his raven tresses, or would bind
Grottoes of birch, wherein to sit and sing:
And peasant girls would find him sauntering,
To gaze upon their features, as they met,
In laughter, under some green arboret.

At last, he became monk, and, on his knees,
Said holy prayers, and with wild penances
Made sad atonement; and the solemn whim,
That, like a shadow, loiter'd over him,
Wore off, even like a shadow. He was cursed
With none of the mad thoughts that were at first
The poison of his quiet; but he grew
To love the world and its wild laughter too,
As he had known before; and wish'd again
To join the very mirth he hated then!

He durst not break the vow--he durst not be
The one he would--and his heart's harmony
Became a tide of sorrow. Even so,
He felt hope die,--in madness and in woe!
But there came one--and a most lovely one
As ever to the warm light of the sun
Threw back her tresses,--a fair sister girl,
With a brow changing between snow and pearl,
And the blue eyes of sadness, fill'd with dew
Of tears,--like Heaven's own melancholy blue,--
So beautiful, so tender; and her form
Was graceful as a rainbow in a storm,
Scattering gladness on the face of sorrow--
Oh! I had fancied of the hues that borrow
Their brightness from the sun; but she was bright
In her own self,--a mystery of light!
With feelings tender as a star's own hue,
Pure as the morning star! as true, as true;
For it will glitter in each early sky,
And her first love be love that lasteth aye!

And this was Agathe, young Agathe,
A motherless, fair girl: and many a day
She wept for her lost parent. It was sad
To see her infant sorrow; how she bade
The flow of her wild spirits fall away
To grief, like bright clouds in a summer day
Melting into a shower: and it was sad
Almost to think she might again be glad,
Her beauty was so chaste, amid the fall
Of her bright tears. Yet, in her father's hall,
She had lived almost sorrowless her days:
But he felt no affection for the gaze
Of his fair girl; and when she fondly smiled,
He bade no father's welcome to the child,
But even told his wish, and will'd it done,
For her to be sad-hearted--and a nun!

And so it was. She took the dreary veil,
A hopeless girl! and the bright flush grew pale
Upon her cheek: she felt, as summer feels
The winds of autumn and the winter chills,
That darken his fair suns.--It was away,
Feeding on dreams, the heart of Agathe!

The vesper prayers were said, and the last hymn
Sung to the Holy Virgin. In the dim,
Gray aisle was heard a solitary tread,
As of one musing sadly on the dead--
'Twas Julio; it was his wont to be
Often alone within the sanctuary;
But now, not so--another: it was she!
Kneeling in all her beauty, like a saint
Before a crucifix; but sad and faint
The tone of her devotion, as the trill
Of a moss-burden'd, melancholy rill.

And Julio stood before her;--'twas as yet
The hour of the pale twilight--and they met
Each other's gaze, till either seem'd the hue
Of deepest crimson; but the ladye threw
Her veil above her features, and stole by
Like a bright cloud, with sadness and a sigh!

Yet Julio still stood gazing and alone,
A dreamer!--"Is the sister ladye gone?"
He started at the silence of the air
That slumber'd over him--she is not there.

And either slept not through the live-long night,
Or slept in fitful trances, with a bright,
Fair dream upon their eyelids: but they rose
In sorrow from the pallet of repose;
For the dark thought of their sad destiny
Came o'er them, like a chasm of the deep sea,
That was to rend their fortunes; and at eve
They met again, but, silent, took their leave,
As they did yesterday: another night,
And neither spake awhile--A pure delight
Had chasten'd love's first blushes: silently
Gazed Julio on the gentle Agathe--
At length, "Fair Nun!"--She started, and held fast
Her bright hand on her lip--"the past, the past,
And the pale future! There be some that lie
Under those marble urns--I know not why,
But I were better in that only calm,
Than be as I have been, perhaps, and am.
The past!--ay! it hath perish'd; never, never,
Would I recall it to be blest for ever:
The future it must come--I have a vow"--
And his cold hand rose trembling to his brow.
"True, true, I have a vow. Is not the moon
Abroad, fair Nun?"--"Indeed! so very soon?"
Said Agathe, and "I must then away."--
"Stay, love! 'tis early yet; stay, angel, stay!"
But she was gone:--yet they met many a time
In the lone chapel, after vesper chime--
They met in love and fear.

One weary day,
And Julio saw not his loved Agathe;
She was not in the choir of sisterhood
That sang the evening anthem, and he stood
Like one that listen'd breathlessly awhile;
But stranger voices chanted through the aisle.
She was not there; and, after all were gone,
He linger'd: the stars came--he linger'd on,
Like a dark fun'ral image on the tomb
Of a lost hope. He felt a world of gloom
Upon his heart--a solitude--a chill.
The pale morn rose, and still, he linger'd still.
And the next vesper toll'd; nor yet, nor yet--
"Can Agathe be faithless, and forget?"

It was the third sad eve, he heard it said,
"Poor Julio! thy Agathe is dead,"
And started. He had loiter'd in the train
That bore her to the grave: he saw her lain
In the cold earth, and heard a requiem
Sung over her--To him it was a dream!
A marble stone stood by the sepulchre;
He look'd, and saw, and started--she was there!
And Agathe had died; she that was bright--
She that was in her beauty! a cold blight
Fell over the young blossom of her brow.
And the life-blood grew chill--She is not, now.

She died, like zephyr falling amid flowers!
Like to a star within the twilight hours
Of morning--and she was not! Some have thought
The Lady Abbess gave her a mad draught,
That stole into her heart, and sadly rent
The fine chords of that holy instrument,
Until its music falter'd fast away,
And she--she died,--the lovely Agathe!

Again, and through the arras of the gloom
Are the pale breezes moaning: by her tomb
Bends Julio, like a phantom, and his eye
Is fallen, as the moon-borne tides, that lie
At ebb within the sea. Oh! he is wan,
As winter skies are wan, like ages gone,
And stars unseen for paleness; it is cast,
As foliage in the raving of the blast,
All his fair bloom of thoughts! Is the moon chill,
That in the dark clouds she is mantled still?
And over its proud arch hath Heaven flung
A scarf of darkness? Agathe was young!
And there should be the virgin silver there,
The snow-white fringes delicately fair!

He wields a heavy mattock in his hands,
And over him a lonely lanthorn stands
On a near niche, shedding a sickly fall
Of light upon a marble pedestal,
Whereon is chisel'd rudely, the essay
Of untaught tool, "Hic jacet Agathe!"
And Julio hath bent him down in speed,
Like one that doeth an unholy deed.

There is a flagstone lieth heavily
Over the ladye's grave; I wist of three
That bore it, of a blessed verity!
But he hath lifted it in his pure madness,
As it were lightsome as a summer gladness,
And from the carved niche hath ta'en the lamp,
And hung it by the marble flagstone damp.

And he is flinging the dark, chilly mould
Over the gorgeous pavement: 'tis a cold,
Sad grave, and there is many a relic there
Of chalky bones, which, in the wasting air,
Fell smouldering away; and he would dash
His mattock through them, with a cursed clash,
That made the lone aisle echo. But anon
He fell upon a skull,--a haggard one,
With its teeth set, and the great orbless eye
Revolving darkness, like eternity--
And in his hand he held it, till it grew
To have the fleshy features and the hue
Of life. He gazed, and gazed, and it became
Like to his Agathe--all, all the same!
He drew it nearer,--the cold, bony thing!--
To kiss the worm-wet lips. "Ay! let me cling--
Cling to thee now, for ever!" but a breath
Of rank corruption from its jaws of death
Went to his nostrils, and he madly laugh'd,
And dash'd it over on the altar shaft,
Which the new risen moon, in her gray light,
Had fondly flooded, beautifully bright!

Again he went
To his wild work, beside the monument.
"Ha! leave, thou moon! where thy footfall hath been
In sorrow amid heaven! there is sin
Under thy shadow, lying like a dew;
So come thou, from thy awful arch of blue,
Where thou art even as a silver throne
For some pale spectre-king; come thou alone,
Or bring a solitary orphan star
Under thy wings! afar, afar, afar,
To gaze upon this girl of radiancy,
In her deep slumbers--Wake thee, Agathe!"

And Julio hath stolen the dark chest
Where the fair nun lay coffin'd, in the rest
That wakes not up at morning: she is there,
An image of cold calm! One tress of hair
Lingereth lonely on her snowy brow;
But the bright eyes are closed in darkness now;
And their long lashes delicately rest
On the pale cheek, like sun-rays in the west,
That fall upon a colourless, sad cloud.
Humility lies rudely on the proud,
But she was never proud; and there she is,
A yet unwither'd flower the autumn breeze
Hath blown from its green stem! 'T is pale, 't is pale,
But still unfaded, like the twilight veil
That falleth after sunset; like a stream
That bears the burden of a silver gleam
Upon its waters; and is even so,--
Chill, melancholy, lustreless, and low!

Beauty in death! a tenderness upon
The rude and silent relics, where alone
Sat the destroyer! Beauty on the dead!
The look of being where the breath is fled!
The unwarming sun still joyous in its light!
A time--a time without a day or night!
Death cradled upon Beauty, like a bee
Upon a flower, that looketh lovingly!--
Like a wild serpent, coiling in its madness,
Under a wreath of blossom and of gladness!

And there she is; and Julio bends o'er
The sleeping girl,--a willow on the shore
Of a Dead Sea! that steepeth its far bough
Into the bitter waters,--even now
Taking a foretaste of the awful trance
That was to pass on his own countenance!

Yes! yes! and he is holding his pale lips
Over her brow; the shade of an eclipse
Is passing to his heart, and to his eye,
That is not tearful; but the light will die,
Leaving it like a moon within a mist,--
The vision of a spell-bound visionist!

He breathed a cold kiss on her ashy cheek,
That left no trace--no flush--no crimson streak,
But was as bloodless as a marble stone,
Susceptible of silent waste alone.
And on her brow a crucifix he laid--
A jewel'd crucifix, the virgin maid
Had given him before she died. The moon
Shed light upon her visage--clouded soon,
Then briefly breaking from its airy veil,
Like warrior lifting up his aventayle.

But Julio gazed on, and never lifted
Himself to see the broken clouds, that drifted
One after one, like infant elves at play
Amid the night-winds, in their lonely way--
Some whistling and some moaning, some asleep,
And dreaming dismal dreams, and sighing deep
Over their couches of green moss and flowers,
And solitary fern, and heather bowers.

The heavy bell toll'd two, and, as it toll'd,
Julio started, and the fresh-turn'd mould
He flung into the empty chasm with speed,
And o'er it dropt the flagstone. One could read
That Agathe lay there; but still the girl
Lay by him, like a precious and pale pearl,
That from the deep sea-waters had been rent--
Like a star fallen from the firmament!
He hides the grave-tools in an aged porch,
To westward of the solitary church;
And he hath clasp'd around the melting waist
The beautiful, dead girl: his cheek is press'd
To hers--Life warming the cold chill of Death!
And over his pale palsy breathing breath
His eye is sunk upon her--"Thou must leave
The worm to waste for love of thee, and grieve
Without thee, as I may not. Thou must go,
My sweet betrothed, with me--but not below,
Where there is darkness, dream, and solitude,
But where is light, and life, and one to brood
Above thee till thou wakest--Ha! I fear
Thou wilt not wake for ever, sleeping here,
Where there are none but winds to visit thee,
And convent fathers, and a choristry
Of sisters, saying, 'Hush!'--But I will sing
Rare songs to thy pure spirit, wandering
Down on the dews to hear me; I will tune
The instrument of the ethereal moon,
And all the choir of stars, to rise and fall
In harmony and beauty musical."

He is away--and still the sickly lamp
Is burning next the altar; there's a damp,
Thin mould upon the pavement; and, at morn,
The monks do cross them in their blessed scorn
And mutter deep anathemas, because
Of the unholy sacrilege, that was
Within the sainted chapel,--for they guess'd,
By many a vestige sad, how the dark rest
Of Agathe was broken,--and anon
They sought for Julio. The summer sun
Arose and and set, with his imperial disc
Toward the ocean-waters, heaving brisk
Before the winds,--but Julio came never:
He that was frantic as a foaming river--
Mad as the fall of leaves upon the tide
Of a great tempest, that have fought and died
Along the forest ramparts, and doth still
In its death-struggle desperately reel
Round with the fallen foliage--he was gone,
And none knew whither. Still were chanted on
Sad masses, by pale sisters, many a day,
And holy requiems sung for Agathe!