The Changeling

The light burns low; the clock ticks slow;
Spectral shadows come and go;
From the room without a murmur creeps
Of whispered words, and one that weeps.
O Moon! still Moon!
Sweet and white as a lily in June,
In the garden of heaven bend thy brows
And waft thy breathing into the house!
For the pallid creature of thy breath
The cottage window openeth,

And stealeth in. Like a moonray bright,
Holding her own babe in her hands,
And bending above that bed, snow white She stands!
Find a dead Mother, and on her bed
A new-born Babe that is also dead.
Blend thy Babe with the mortal clay
And the thing shall pass as thou hast prayed:
Thy child shall walk in the golden day,
Shall find a Soul, and shall cast a Shade.
O Moon! still Moon!

The wonderful spell is woven soon!
Breathe again on her hair and eyes,
As she creepeth out, and under the skies
Listens! O hark! from within is blown
A child's low murmur, an infant's moan!
Shadows darken across the pane,
For the peasants gather wondering-eyed —
The child of the shepherd lives again,
Smiling awake by the corpse's side.

III.

His MORTAL LIFE.
Weary to tell and weary to hear
Were the mortal life for many a year
Of that changeling child; but he grew on earth,
Knowing nought of his mystic birth,
And ever waxed more strong and fair,
With the glory of daylight on eyes and hair.

And the poor pale Mother Spirit smiled
From far away on her happy child,
Thinking, ' He thrives, and the golden hours
Fill his lap with their fruit and flowers,

And he feels the sun, and he drinks its light,
Growing on to a mortal's height.'
And ever nightly unseen she came
And kiss'd him asleep, to her heart's desire,
Though his breath met hers with the fever'd flame
Of a fatal fire.

She watched him still with a hunger keen,
Stronger than mortal mothers know;
She hover'd o'er him, unheard, unseen,
Wherever his feet might come and go,
In the sunless hours; and all the day
She marked his motion from far away,
And heard his voice, through the shine and the shower,
Like the voice of a bird!

But there came an hour
When the Shepherd who called him son lay dead,
And when he was buried the Changeling said —
'I wi 1 take my staff, and will leave this place,
And seek new fortunes — God give me grace
That I prosper well! ' And away he went,
Humming an old tune, well-content,
Hopeful and fearless, merry and gay,
Over the hills and far away;
And all alone!

IV.

His SORROW AND SIN.
Yet not alone,
For step by step, and stone by stone,
Where'er he rested — fleet as wind,
His Spirit Mother came behind;
Creeping to darkness all the day,
But ever in the cold moonray
Finding his footprints, kissing them,
And often where his raiment hem
Had brushed the warm dew from the grass,
Strewing pale flowers. Thus did she pass
Till brazen city gates by night
She saw him enter. Still and white,
She followed.

Weary to tell and hear
Were the Changeling's doings for many a year.

But the Spirit saw as the time fled on
That his cheek grew paler, his bright eye shone
Less happy and bright; for he dwelt, beh.ld!

Where men and women were heaping gold
And counting gems; and a yellow gleam
Shadowed the sight and darkened the dream
Of his gentle face; and by lamplight now
He read and pondered with pallid brow
O'er parchment scrolls, and tomes which told
Of mystic manners of finding gold.

Then, even then, across him came
So strange a change, so fierce a flame,
That he, forgetting fever-fraught
All things but that one thing he sought,
Was wrapt all round with light of dread!

And ever tossing on his bed
He named a woman's name, and cried
That God would bring her to his side,
His and none other's; and all day
He fevered in the hot sunray
Behind her footprints. Ne'ertheless
His thirst was turned to bitterness,
His love to pain; and soon by night
The Spirit saw him standing white,
Transfigured in a dumb despair,
And his wild shriek rose on the air,
While from a far off bridal room
Came wafted through the summer gloom
The sound of harps and lutes!

Then came
Long days and nights of sin and shame.
For in his agony the Man
Kept hideous orgies, and his wan
Wild features gleamed in ghastly mirth,
While naked women-snakes of earth
Twined round him fawning; and he drew
Dark curtains, shutting out the blue,
And the sweet sun; and all the nights,
In feverish flash of ghastly lights,
He slew pure sleep with sounds of sin.
Then the pale Mother peeping in
Beheld his mad distorted face,
And knew it not!
Time sped apace,
And lo! he changed, and forth again
He fared, amid a mighty train,
A Warrior now; and to the sound
Of martial strains his head swam round,

His heart kept time; while overhead
Strange suns of sorrow glimmered red.
. . . Weary to tell and weary to hear
The Changeling's doings for many a year!
Weary to tell how the Spirit dim
Moaning in misery followed him,
For whene'er she gazed on his features now,
On the bearded chin and the branded brow,
She shuddered, and often, when she crept
Into the tent where the warrior slept,
She saw on his hand a blood-red stain.

And she kissed the stain again and again
With her cold pure lips,— but it would nut go!

V.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.
One night she walked with a foot of snow
Thro' a battle-field; and the Moon on high
Swam thro' the film of a starry sky,
And the breath of the Moon, like hoar-frost shed,
Gleamed on the dreadful drifts of dead.
Then she saw him standing amid it all
Living and bloody, ghastly and tall,
With a hand on his moaning horse's mane!
And his face was awful with hate and pain,
And his eyes were mad— for beneath him lay,

Quivering there in the pale moonray,
A wounded foe — while with red right hand
He held in the air a bloody brand
To cleave him down!
Before his look
One moment the Spirit Mother shook;
He could not hear her, he could not see,
But she shriek'd aloud in her agony!
He glared all round him like one in dread
Of a voice from heaven or a ghost from the dead,
And he sheathed his sword with a shudder soon,

Alone in the light of the lonely Moon . . .
O Moon! immortal Moon!

VI.

THE ABBOT PAUL.
Fourscore years have come and gone,
Since the Asrai Mother knelt down and prayed,

Since the boon was gained, and her little one
Found a soul and cast a shade;
And now by the side of the same still Mere,
A mighty Monastery stands,
And morn and even its bell rings clear,
Tinkling over the silver sands;
And the Asrai as they come and go
Hear the sounds in the waters below,
And ever to them the sweet sounds seem
Like distant music heard in a dream,
And they pause and smile, and they murmur ' Hark,'
With uplifted fingers!

Old, old, old,
With hoary hair and beard snow-white,
With vacant vision and senses cold,
Crawling out to feel the light —
Like a man of marble, gaunt and tall,
Heavy with years, is the Abbot Paul.
Fourscore years have slowly shed
Their snows on the mighty Abbot's head —
But not so white are his thoughts within,
That tell of a long dark life of sin.
Ever he totters and grows to the ground,
And ever by night he hears a sound
Of voices that whisper his name and weep;
And he starteth up in his nightly sleep
With a touch like a hand upon his hair,
And he looketh around in a sick despair,
But he see'th nought. And he prayeth low:
Pity me, God; and let me go
Out of the sunlight, — shaking away
This form fire-fashioned out of clay! '
And often his dark beads counteth he:
'Maria Madonna, come for me!
For I am sick of the sinful light. '
Now ever he readeth low each night
In a parchment scroll, with pictures quaint
Of many a shining-headed Saint
Smiling, each "mid his aureole,
O'er the dark characters of the scroll;
And ever when he totters abroad
He bears this parchment scroll of God
Against his heart; or in the sun
He spells its letters one by one
With dim dark eyes, as he creepeth slow.
. . 'Tis a summer even. The sun sinks low,
And the light of its solemn setting lies
Golden and crimson on the skies,

Purple over the brow of the hill.
And violet dim on the waters still
Of the glassy Mere. In the zenith blue,
Already, dim as drops of dew,
Twinkle the stars!

In his great arm-chair,
Carried out to the open air,
On the edge of a promontory sweet,
With the waters rippling at his feet,
Sits the Abbot Paul; and his fingers cold
Still grip that parchment holy and old.
Behind his chair there standeth grim
With cold black eyeball fix'd on him,
A serving-monk.

The air is chill.

The light is low, but he readeth still,
Mumbling the sacred words aloud;
And ever his weary neck is bowed
At the names of Mary and every Saint;
While ever fainter and more faint
His voice doth grow, as he murmureth:
'Holy of Holies, drink my breath!
For I am sick of the sinful light! '
. . . The sun hath sunken out of sight
In the cloudy west afar away —
Chilly it groweth, chilly and gray —
But who is this with steps so still
Coming yonder across the hill?
Over the peaks with a silvern tread
Flashing, then rising overhead
In the open heaven of a golden June?

O Moon! white Summer Moon!

Down the mountain and into the Mere
The pale ray falleth, so silvern clear,
And it creepeth silently over all,
Till it shineth full on the Abbot Paul,
Where he sits and prays. O see! O see!
Sadder, stiller, groweth he,
But his eyes still burn with a dying gleam;
While faint, far off, as in a dream,
He hears a murmur, he sees a light.

Silently, coldly, marble white,
Pale and pure as the moonray dim,
Smiling, outstretching her arms to him,
His Spirit Mother upriseth now!

A light not human is on his brow,
A light no human is in his eyes —
Fold by fold, like a dark disguise,

The mortal dress is dropping away;
Silently, slowly, sinks the clay;
His eyes see clear by some mystic spell,
And he knoweth the gentle presence well.

'O Mother! Mother! '
She answereth low:
'Come from the gleam of the golden glow,
From the wicked flush of the fever'd strife,
Back to the mystical moonlight life!
Thy heart is heavy, thy sense is drear,
Weary with wandering many a year —
Come from the sorrows of the Sun!
My own pale darling, my little one! '
O Mother! Mother! '
Her arms so dim
Are round his neck, and she kisseth him!
She smoothes his hair with a gentle hand,
And she sings a song of the moonlight land.
He listens and listens, but still in a dream
Looking afar off his dark eyes gleam,
Beyond her, through her, at some strange thing
There on the hilltops, beckoning! . . .

Dead in his chair lies the Abbot Paul,
But a Shape stands by him, stately and tall,
And another Shape upon her knee
Is looking up in her agony.

'O Mother! Mother! ' the tall Shape cries,
Gazing on her with gentle eyes —
'O Mother, Mother, I cannot stay —
A voice is summoning me away —
Up the shining track of the sun,
Past the sphere of the spectral moon,
Further, higher, my path must run —
I have found a Soul, and thou hast thy boon;
And the Soul is a scourge, and the scourge a fire,

And it shoots me onward to strive and soar,
For this is the end of thy heart's desire —
I rest not, stay not, for evermore.
O kiss me, Mother, before I go! '
They kiss each other, those shapes of snow,
They cling in the moonlight, they kiss each other—
'Child, my child!' and 'Mother! Mother!'

Silently, swiftly, through the air
Riseth one like a meteor fair,
Riseth one with a last wild cry,
While the other sinks in a silent swoon,
And whiter, brighter, over the sky,
Burneth the light of that night of June!
O Moon I sad Summer Moon!