Read Ebook: Idyllic Monologues: Old and New World Verses by Cawein Madison Julius

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The Water Witch

See! the milk-white doe is wounded. He will follow as it bounds Through the woods. His horn has sounded. Echoing, for his men and hounds. But no answering bugle blew. He has lost his retinue For the shapely deer that bounded Past him when his bow he drew.

Not one hound or huntsman follows. Through the underbrush and moss Goes the slot; and in the hollows Of the hills, that he must cross, He has lost it. He must fare Over rocks where she-wolves lair; Wood-pools where the wild-boar wallows; So he leaves his good steed there.

Through his mind then flashed an olden Legend told him by the monks:-- Of a girl, whose hair is golden, Haunting fountains and the trunks Of the woodland; who, they say, Is a white doe all the day; But when woods are night-enfolden Turns into an evil fay.

Then the story oft his teacher Told him; of a mountain lake Demons dwell in; vague of feature, Human-like, but each a snake, She is queen of.--Did he hear Laughter at his startled ear? Or a bird? And now, what creature Is it, or the wind, stirs near?

Fever of the hunt. This water, Murmuring here, will cool his head. Through the forest, fierce as slaughter, Slants the sunset; ruby red Are the drops that slip between His cupped hands, while on the green,-- Like the couch of some wild daughter Of the forest,--he doth lean.

But the runnel, bubbling, dripping, Seems to bid him to be gone; As with crystal words, and tripping Steps of sparkle luring on. Now a spirit in the rocks Calls him; now a face that mocks, From behind some bowlder slipping, Laughs at him with lilied locks.

So he follows through the flowers, Blue and gold, that blossom there; Thridding twilight-haunted bowers Where each ripple seems the bare Beauty of white limbs that gleam Rosy through the running stream; Or bright-shaken hair, that showers Starlight in the sunset's beam.

Till, far in the forest, sleeping Like a luminous darkness, lay A deep water, wherein, leaping, Fell the Fountain of the Fay, With a singing, sighing sound, As of spirit things around, Musically laughing, weeping In the air and underground.

Not a ripple o'er it merried: Like the round moon 'neath a cloud, In its rocks the lake lay buried: And strange creatures seemed to crowd Its dark depths; vague limbs and eyes To the surface seemed to rise Spawn-like and, as formless, ferried Through the water, shadow-wise.

Foliage things with human faces, Demon-dreadful, pale and wild As the forms the lightning traces On the clouds the storm has piled, Seeming now to draw to land, Now away--Then up the strand Comes a woman; and she places On his arm a spray-white hand.

Ah! an untold world of sorrow Were her eyes; her hair, a place Whence the moon its gold might borrow; And a dream of ice her face: 'Round her hair and throat in rims Pearls of foam hung; and through whims Of her robe, as breaks the morrow, Shone the rose-light of her limbs.

Who could help but look with gladness On such beauty? though within, Deep within the beryl sadness Of those eyes, the serpent sin Coil?--When she hath placed her cheek Chilly upon his, and weak, With love longing and its madness, Is his will grown, then she'll speak:

"Dost thou love me?"--"If surrender Is to love thee, then I love."-- "Hast no fear then?"--"In the splendor Of thy gaze who knows thereof? Yet I fear--I fear to lose Thee, thy love!"--"And thou dost choose Aye to be my heart's defender?"-- "Take me. I am thine to use."

"Follow then. Ah, love, no lowly Home I give thee."--With fixed eyes, To the water's edge she slowly Drew him.... And he did surmise 'Twas her lips on his, until O'er his face the foam closed chill, Whisp'ring, and the lake unholy Rippled, rippled and was still.

At Nineveh

Written for my friend Walter S. Mathews.

How They Brought Aid to Bryan's Station

During the siege of Bryan's Station, Kentucky, August 16, 1782, Nicholas Tomlinson and Thomas Bell, two inhabitants of the Fort, undertook to ride through the besieging Indian and Tory lines to Lexington, Ky., for aid. It happened also during this siege that the pioneer women of the Fort, when the water supply was exhausted, heroically carried water from a spring, at a considerable distance outside the palisades of the Station, to its inmates, under the very guns of the enemy.

The trace, the buffaloes had worn, Stretched broad before us; and the corn And cane through which it wended, We knew for acres from the gate Hid Indian guile and Tory hate. We rode with hearts that seemed to wait For instant death; and on our fate The Station's fate depended.

No rifle cracked. No creature stirred, As on towards Lexington we spurred Unflinchingly together. We reached the woods: no savage shout Of all the wild Wyandotte rout And Shawanese had yet rung out: But now and then an Indian scout Showed here a face and feather.

We rode expecting death each stride From thicket depth or tree-trunk side, Where some red foe might huddle-- For well we knew that renegade, The blood-stained Girty, had not stayed His fiends from us, who rode for aid,-- The dastard he who had betrayed The pioneers of Ruddle.

And when an arrow grazed my hair I did not turn, I did not spare To spur as men spur warward: A war-whoop rang this side a rock: Then painted faces swarmed, to block Our way, with brandished tomahawk And rifle: then a shout, a shock-- And we again rode forward.

They followed; but 'twas no great while Before from them by some long mile Of forest we were sundered. We galloped on. I'd lost my gun; And Bell, whose girth had come undone, Rode saddleless. The summer sun Was up when into Lexington Side unto side we thundered.

Too late. For Todd had left that day With many men. Decoyed away To Hoy's by some false story. And we must after. Bryan's needs Said, "On!" although our gallant steeds Were blown--Enough! we must do deeds! Must follow where our duty leads, Be it to death or glory.

The hot stockade. No water left. The fierce attack. All hope bereft The powder-grimed defender. The war-cry and the groan of pain. All day the slanting arrow-rain Of fire from the corn and cane. The stern defence, but all in vain. And then at last--surrender.

But not for Bryan's!--no! too well Must they remember what befell At Ruddle's and take warning. So thought we as, all dust and sweat, We rode with faces forward set, And came to Station Boone while yet An hour from noon ... We had not let Our horses rest since morning.

Here Ellis met us with his men. They did not stop nor tarry then. That little band of lions; But setting out at once with aid, Right well you know how unafraid They charged the Indian ambuscade, And through a storm of bullets made Their entrance into Bryan's.

And that is all I have to tell. No more the Huron's hideous yell Sounds to assault and slaughter.-- Perhaps to us some praise is due; But we are men, accustomed to Such dangers, which we often woo. Much more is due our women who Brought to the Station--water.

On the Jellico Spur of the Cumberlands

TO J. FOX, JR.

A Confession

These are the facts:--I was to blame: I brought her here and wrought her shame: She came with me all trustingly. Lovely and innocent her face: And in her perfect form, the grace Of purity and modesty.

I think I loved her then: 'would dote On her ambrosial breast and throat, Young as a blossom's tenderness: Her eyes, that were both glad and sad: Her cheeks and chin, that dimples had: Her mouth, red-ripe to kiss and kiss.

Three months passed by; three moons of fire; When in me sickened all desire: And in its place a devil,--who Filled all my soul with deep disgust, And on the victim of my lust Turned eyes of loathing,--swiftly grew.

One night, when by my side she slept, I rose: and leaning, while I kept The dagger hid, I kissed her hair And throat: and, when she smiled asleep, Into her heart I drove it deep: And left her dead, still smiling there.

Lilith

Yea, there are some who always seek The love that lasts an hour; And some who in love's language speak, Yet never know his power.

Of such was I, who knew not what Sweet mysteries may rise Within the heart when 't is its lot To love and realize.

Of such was I, ah me! till, lo, Your face on mine did gleam, And changed that world, I used to know, Into an evil dream.

That world wherein, on hill and plain, Great blood-red poppies bloomed, Their hot hearts thirsty for the rain, And sleepily perfumed.

Above, below, on every part A crimson shadow lay, As if the red sun streamed athwart And sunset was alway.

I know not how, I know not when, I only know that there She met me in the haunted glen, A poppy in her hair.

Her face seemed fair as Mary's is, That knows no sin or wrong; Her presence filled the silences As music fills a song.

And she was clad like the Mother of God, As 't were for Christ's sweet sake, But when she moved and where she trod A hiss went of a snake.

Though seeming sinless, till I die I shall not know for sure Why to my soul she seemed a lie And otherwise than pure.

Nor why I kissed her soon and late And for her felt desire, While loathing of her passion ate Into my soul like fire.

Was it because my soul could tell That, like the poppy-flower, She had no soul? a thing of Hell, That o'er it had no power.

Or was it that your love at last My soul so long had craved, From the sweet sin that held me fast At that last moment saved?

Content

When I behold how some pursue Fame, that is care's embodiment, Or fortune, whose false face looks true,-- A humble home with sweet content Is all I ask for me and you.

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