For so pure was my Laeta, they could only love!
When the warm breath of Auster play’d soft o’er the flow’rs,
And young Zephyrus rustled the gay scented bow’rs,
Ev’ry breeze seem’d to pause as it drew near the fair,
Too much aw’d at her sweetness to tumble her hair.
How fond were our dreams on the day when we stood
In the ivy-grown temple beside the dark wood;
When our pledges we seal’d at the sanctify’d shrine,
And I knew that my Laeta forever was mine!
How blissful our thoughts when the wild autumn came,
And the forests with scarlet and gold were aflame;
Yet how heavy my heart when I first felt the fear
That my starry-eyed Laeta would fade with the year!
The pastures were sere and the heavens were grey
When I laid my lov’d Laeta forever away,
And the river god pity’d, as weeping I pac’d
Mingling hot bitter tears with his cold frozen waste.
Now the flow’rs have return’d, but they bloom not so sweet
As in days when they blossom’d round Laeta’s dear feet;
And the willows complain to the answering hill,
And the thrushes that once were so happy are still.
The green meadows and groves in their loneliness pine,
Whilst the Dryads no more in their madrigals join,
The breeze once so joyous now murmurs and sighs,
And blows soft o’er the spot where my lov’d Laeta lies.
So pensive I roam o’er the desolate lawn
Where we wander’d and lov’d in the days that are gone,
And I yearn for the autumn, when Zulal’s blue tide
Shall sing low by my grave at the lov’d Laeta’s side.
Psychopompos: A Tale in Rhyme
I am He who howls in the night;
I am He who moans in the snow;
I am He who hath never seen light;
I am He who mounts from below.
My car is the car of Death;
My wings are the wings of dread;
My breath is the north wind’s breath;
My prey are the cold and the dead.
In old Auvergne, when schools were poor and few,
And peasants fancy’d what they scarcely knew,
When lords and gentry shunn’d their Monarch’s throne
For solitary castles of their own,
There dwelt a man of rank, whose fortress stood
In the hush’d twilight of a hoary wood.
De Blois his name; his lineage high and vast,
A proud memorial of an honour’d past;
But curious swains would whisper now and then
That Sieur De Blois was not as other men.
In person dark and lean, with glossy hair,
And gleaming teeth that he would often bare,
With piercing eye, and stealthy roving glance,
And tongue that clipt the soft, sweet speech of France;
The Sieur was little lov’d and seldom seen,
So close he kept within his own demesne.
The castle servants, few, discreet, and old,
Full many a tale of strangeness might have told;
But bow’d with years, they rarely left the door
Wherein their sires and grandsires serv’d before.
Thus gossip rose, as gossip rises best,
When mystery imparts a keener zest;
Seclusion oft the poison tongue attracts,
And scandal prospers on a dearth of facts.
’Twas said, the Sieur had more than once been spy’d
Alone at midnight by the river’s side,
With aspect so uncouth, and gaze so strange,
That rustics cross’d themselves to see the change;
Yet none, when press’d, could clearly say or know
Just what it was, or why they trembled so.
De Blois, as rumour whisper’d, fear’d to pray,
Nor us’d his chapel on the Sabbath day;
Howe’er this may have been, ’twas known at least
His household had no chaplain, monk, or priest.
But if the Master liv’d in dubious fame,
Twice fear’d and hated was his noble Dame;
As dark as he, in features wild and proud,
And with a weird supernal grace endow’d,
The haughty mistress scorn’d the rural train
Who sought to learn her source, but sought in vain.
Old women call’d her eyes too bright by half,
And nervous children shiver’d at her laugh;
Richard, the dwarf (whose word had little weight),
Vow’d she was like a serpent in her gait,
Whilst ancient Pierre (the aged often err)
Laid all her husband’s mystery to her.
Still more absurd were those odd mutter’d things
That calumny to curious list’ners brings;
Those subtle slanders, told with downcast face,
And muffled voice — those tales no man may trace;
Tales that the faith of old wives can command,
Tho’ always heard at sixth or seventh hand.
Thus village legend darkly would imply
That Dame De Blois possess’d an evil eye;
Or going further, furtively suggest
A lurking spark of sorcery in her breast;
Old Mère Allard (herself half witch) once said