Selected Poems

THE EMPIRE CITY

HUGE steel-ribbed monsters rise into the air
Her Babylonian towers, while on high
Like gilt-scaled serpents glide the swift trains by,
Or, underfoot, creep to their secret lair.
A thousand lights are jewels in her hair,
The sea her girdle, and her crown the sky,
Her life-blood throbs, the fevered pulses fly,
Immense, defiant, breathless she stands there
And ever listens in the ceaseless din,
Waiting for him, her lover who shall come,
Whose singing lips shall boldly claim their own
And render sonant what in her was dumb:
The splendour and the madness and the sin,
Her dreams in iron and her thoughts of stone.

NINEVEH

I

O NINEVEH, thy realm is set
Upon a base of rock and steel
From where the under-rivers fret
High up to where the planets reel.
Clad in a blazing coat of mail,
Above the gables of the town
Huge dragons with a monstrous trail
Have pillared pathways up and down.
And in the bowels of the deep
Where no man sees the gladdening sun,
All night without the balm of sleep
The human tide rolls on and on.
The Hudson's mighty waters lave
In stern caress thy granite shore,
And to thy port the salt sea wave
Brings oil and wine and precious ore.
Yet if the ocean in its might
Should rise confounding stream and bay,
The stain of one delirious night
Not all the tides can wash away.
Thick pours the smoke of thousand fires,
Life throbs and beats relentlessly —
But lo, above the stately spires
Two lemans: Death and Leprosy.
What fruit shall spring from such embrace?
Ah, even thou wouldst quake to hear!
He bends to kiss her loathsome face,
She laughs — and whispers in his ear.
Sit not too proudly on thy throne,
Think on thy sisters, them that fell;
Not all the hosts of Babylon
Could save her from the jaws of hell.

II

Through the long alleys of the park
On noiseless wheels and delicate springs,
Glide painted women fair and dark,
Bedecked with silks and jewelled things.
In peacock splendour goes the rout
With shrill, loud laughter of the mad —
Red lips to suck thy life-blood out,
And eyes too weary to be sad!
Their feet go down to shameful death,
They flaunt the livery of their wrong,
Their beauty is of Ashtoreth,
Her strength it is that makes them strong.
Behold thy virgin daughters, how
They know the smile a wanton wears;
And oh! on many a boyish brow
The blood-red brand of murder flares.
See, through the crowded streets they fly,
Like doves before the gathering storm.
They cannot rest, for ceaselessly
In every heart there dwells a worm.
They sing in mimic joy, and crown
Their temples to the flutes of sin;
But no sweet noise shall ever drown
The whisper of the worm within.
They revel in the gilded line
Of lamplit halls to charm the night,
But think you that the crimson wine
Can veil the horror from their sight?
Ah, no — their staring eyes are led
To where it lurks with hideous leer:
Therefore the women flush so red,
And all the men are white with fear.
As in a mansion vowed to lust,
Where wantons with their guests make free,
'Tis thus thou humblest in the dust
Thy queenly body, Nineveh!
Thy course is downward; 'tis the road
To sins that even where disgrace
And shameful pleasure walk abroad
Dare not unmask their shrouded face!
Surely at last shall come the day
When these that dance so merrily
Shall watch with terrible faces gray
Thy doom draw near, O Nineveh!

III

I, too, the fatal harvest gained
Of them that sow with seed of fire
In passion's garden — I have drained
The goblet of thy sick desire.
I from thy love had bitter bliss,
And ever in my memory stir
The after-savours of thy kiss —
The taste of aloes and of myrrh.
And yet I love thee, love unblessed
The poison of thy wanton's art;
Though thou be sister to the Pest
In thy great hands I lay my heart!
And when thy body Titan-strong
Writhes on its giant couch of sin,
Yea, though upon the trembling throng
The very vault of Heaven fall in;
And though the palace of thy feasts
Sink crumbling in a fiery sea —
l, like, the last of Baal's priests,
Will share thy doom, O Nineveh.

THE BOOK OF IDOLS

THE flowers I plucked, with youthful freedom straying
Through fields with dreamy poppies sown,
I bring, a priest sad scornful homage paying
Before an idol-throne!
If careless you should please to turn the pages
In which my soul its growth can trace,
'Twill bring, the memory of those early stages,
A smile across your face.
And if some day the shadows come to linger,
And care press down your diadem,
Bethink you sometimes of the boyish singer
That kissed your mantle's hem.
You took my all when youth was free for roving,
Youth that so short a space endures:
Then take these gifts of hating and of loving,
These songs — for they are yours!

THE DUMB IDOL

". . . . Upon a golden throne sate a gleaming idol. And it had a soul . . . But those who came thither knew it not. And they were not to know it. For it was the awful punishment of this dumb idol that it had a soul and might not reveal it, if it would not suffer the torments of the lost. Then both Heaven and Hell lamented its immeasurable sorrow which neither could assuage, because it was too deep for the light and too deep for the darkness."

OLD LEGEND

FAR, far away, within a lonely vale
There stands a temple old — so old and gray,
Unwarmed by rays of sunshine; only pale
Cold moonbeams o'er it play.
Yet nearer draw and see what crimson flood
Of light streams through the windows: never rose
Could flush so deep a red, but that high Blood
For sin that ever flows.
Around the altar, deep in silent prayer,
The faithful kneel beside the ivory shrine
That still enfolds, with all the ancient care,
An image once divine.
A king draws near in purple robes of state,
Bearing the sceptre of his sovereignty;
A bishop comes, and all around him wait
His priests full reverently.
So as the years go by, they come to plead
Before the altar, happier to return,
But for the poor dumb idol 'tis decreed
No light of hope shall burn.
It looks not down upon the kneeling throng;
But from its staring stony eyes there go
Great waves of torturing anguish, not less strong
For being silent woe.
Ah, deeper woe than ever man has known,
Ah, ceaseless longing that no sacrifice
Ever assuages — there above the throne
Poor pleading, helpless eyes!
At times it seems the features cold and set
Some gentler thought of passing hope would tell;
And one could fancy that a tear made wet
The cheeks immovable.
Yet, clasped like some strange book of sorcery,
Those lips can never speak. The curse must come
That sterner godheads have pronounced on thee,
Sad idol pale and dumb!
Full many a Christ has trod the long steep way
Unto all souls God's mercy to impart;
Surely the sad-eyed Nazarene shall lay
His hand upon thy heart?
His grace is shed abroad from rise of sun
Unto the furthest islands of the west:
Shalt thou, when all the healing work is done.
Thou only, not be blest?
Slow cycles roll against time's timeless reef,
(The eyes of Mary shine with mercy mild!)
But still the idol stands in silent grief,
Helpless, unreconciled.
Thus shall it wait, speechless for evermore,
Until at last the fateful trumpet call,
And all the lands and all the oceans o'er,
The Dusk of Idols fall!

KAKODAIMON

THE mockery of thy lips adored,
Thy lovely languid head
Enwreathed with poppies red
Is my loadstone:
Because thou art cruel, therefore be my Lord,
Kakodaimon!
Thy glorious body, unto me made known,
Is like a stately fane of alabaster
Where in procession, to thy praise alone,
'Mid torches' glimmer and organ's pealing tone,
Pass scarlet Sin, and Shame, and black Disaster,
Kakodaimon!
Then blaze the windows bright
With weird unearthly light;
The outer throng fall prostrate at the sight,
But guess not whence it is,
Nor hear the scornful hiss
Of thy contempt upon their offerings blown,
Kakodaimon!
Ah, but I know, and yet I have not gone —
Stand boldly fronting this my destiny,
That my reward must my damnation be,
To wait in silence for the dread decree
And find no mercy at Jehovah's throne,
Kakodaimon!
Thine is the blame if o'er my head shall roll
His thunderous wrath: yet if one spake "Disown
Thy love, or bid farewell to Mary's Son!"
I should not grasp the priest's absolving stole,
But, choosing, at thy worshipped feet lie prone,
O splendid evil genius of my soul.
Kakodaimon!

PRINCE CARNIVAL

JINGLING bells and cracking whip,
Laughter and jest on every lip! —
Thou drew'st thy gorgeous mantle tight —
But lo! I marked and knew at sight.
In all this dazzling mirth the best,
A golden star upon thy breast,
The kingly sceptre in thy hand,
Thou gazest on thy fairyland.
Yet as thou tak'st the golden wine,
A glory round thy head will shine;
Then all will know along the hall
That it is thou — Prince Carnival!
A shout goes up from row to row,
The viols scrape and trumpets blow.
The quick hand swings the whip with art —
Thy laughter masters every heart.
But as into thine eyes I peep,
There looks on me a woe so deep —
Unutterable and hidden all,
Unhappy Prince of Carnival,
'Tis but a mask, this jesting part!
Mankind's eternal pain thou art!
Once in the year, like storm long pent,
Forth bursts thy heart-sick merriment.
An inward fire feverishly
Tortures and goads the blood in thee,
That on the moment thou dost forget
How poor, how sick thy heart is yet.
Therefore my heart it burns for thee,
Thou beautiful prince of faery,
And oh, my love, my Prince, is great —
As boundless as impassionate.
It is the deepest of all things
How man unto his sorrow clings —
His breast's own pain, supreme through all;
So I love thee, Prince Carnival.

THE SMILE OF THE SPHINX

AND one day of late a dream oppressed me . . .
And in dreams through the long streets I wandered.
(Through the streets with many footsteps throbbing! )
And a burden lay upon my heart,
And my weary eyelids sadly quivered,
And a sob rose choking in my throat,
And the shadow of some rare disaster
Weighed upon the houses of the town,
And encircled by the sombre shadows,
Sombre men with tortured faces walked
( Pallid men with weary tortured faces! )
Through the streets unending to and fro.
Midnight sounded solemn from the tower,
And the stillness trembled as it smote . . .
Further went I on the wonted pathway
Further . . . further . . through the darkling night.
Dark foreboding seized upon my heartstrings . . .
Yet no swifter would I tread the path,
The appalling, vaguely-boded tidings
Later, somewhat later, to discover.
Nightly pilgrims of the monster-city
Stared behind me dimly wondering.
And a woman, dark of hair and feature,
With the gleaming of rapacious teeth,
And her scarlet feather ever nodding,
Seemed to smile . . .
Yet I went still onward, undeterred,
Ever onward, ever, ever onward,
Onward, onward through the darkling town.
And at last I came where stands thy dwelling;
Ever slower grew my lagging footsteps,
Ever slower . . .
Then my eyes beheld the sombre hangings;
They beheld the heavy mourning symbol
That men hang upon their dreary doorways
When a dead man slumbers in the house . . .
Slowly I ascended the steep stairway,
Pressed upon the bell with trembling fingers,
And the heart rose leaden in my throat.
Footsteps . . .
And a woman with sad tear-stained eyes
(Pallid woman with sad tear-stained eyes!)
Set thy door wide open at my summons.
Neither spoke a word: I knew already
What for me within the house was waiting.
But she beckoned and I followed her.
Slow and silent then the stairs we mounted,
Till I stood before thy chamber door,
Where a breath of incense and of roses
Sweetly, sadly floated out to meet me,
And an icy shudder filled my veins . . .
On the bed half hid by fragrant blossoms,
As in prayer thine hands so gently folded,
Thou wast sleeping. Softly I came nearer
One last kiss upon thy mouth to press.
But upon thy pallid, silent features
Was a smile . . . a weird and ghostly smile,
Was a pallid, a mysterious smile,
Past explaining, strange as thou wert strange.
And it seemed as though thou wouldst have spoken,
Given the hidden meaning of the riddle
That the riddle of thine own existence,
That the riddle of all riddles is —
When too soon the icy hand of Death
Came and sealed for evermore thy lips.
And the hour-hand of the quaint old timepiece
That had vexed me with its solemn ticking
When of old within the room I tarried
Stood at twelve . . . I shuddered . . . and I knew.
But the pallid woman now was speaking
(Ah, so pale, and eyes with grief so heavy!)
Seeing how I stood in helpless sorrow:
"Yes, at twelve it was . . . when failed the light,
And throughout the house a tremour passed,
And a dark and sorrow-bringing angel
Stirred the heavy air with noiseless pinions,
And I heard a long, despairing struggle,
Then a fall (ah, dull and heavy fall!) . . .
Then a cry (ah, such a cry!) . . . And then
Death, a shadow, brooded on the bed."
And again I looked upon thy face,
And again I saw the same mysterious
Pallid smile upon thy quiet features,
And remembered how one night of June
I had seen it . . . flickering . . . on thy lips.
And anew I went into the night
From the house bedraped with signs of mourning,
And the woman with the weary voice
(Pallid woman with wan tearful eyelids!)
And the clock, its hands at twelve arrested,
And the bed where Death kept solemn vigil,
And the couch upon which one lay dead
Who was dear upon this earth to me.
Ah, but still forever I am seeking
For the answer to the darksome riddle,
That Death's hand with icy touch has closed,
And that now eternity keeps locked.
And wherever my sad footsteps wander,
Evermore I see that pallid smile,
See upon thy lips the hopeless riddle
Past explaining, strange as thou wert strange,
That the riddle of all riddles is!

WHEN IDOLS FALL

FOUL night-birds brood in fearsome throng
About the path that I must tread:
Thou art not what I thought thee long,
And oh, I would that I were dead!
Less bitter was the gall they ran
To offer Christ upon the tree,
Or the salt tears He shed for man,
Deserted in Gethsemane.
For thou wast all the god I had
While months on months were born and died,
Thy lips' sweet fragrance made me glad
As holy bells at eventide.
Aye, for thy sake, my god on earth,
I joyed to suffer all I could,
And counted as of lesser worth
The chalice of the Saviour's blood!
Entranced I knelt before thy shrine
And filled love's chalice, I thy priest;
With flowers as crimson as the wine
I decked our altar for the feast.
I gave thee more than love may give,
First-fruits of song, truth, honour — all!
Too much I loved thee: I must live
To see God's awful justice fall.
I bleed beneath a wound the years
That heal all sorrow shall not heal;
O barren waste, O fruitless tears!
I gave thee mine eternal weal.
My idol crumbled in the dust
(Ah, that I lived that day to see!)
There came a sudden piercing thrust,
And all my life was dead in me!
Thou spak'st a single hideous word,
And that one word became the knoll
Of all that made life dear, and blurred
The lines of good within my soul.
Better the plague-spots ringed me round,
The hangman gave the fatal sign,
Than that such monstrous word should sound
From lips that once I held divine!
A veil of darkness hid the sun,
Night fell, and stars from heaven were hurled,
For when this fearful thing was done,
It spelt the ruin of a world.
The string whose music won my bays
Snapped with a blinding thrill of pain;
Through all the everlasting days
I shall not hear its note again.
Amidst the gloom I grope for song;
The fires die out that passion fed:
Thou art not what I thought thee long,
And oh! I would that I were dead!
Yet worse than all the pain of loss,
The smile that seals a traitor's will,
Is this: that knowing gold for dross,
I cannot choose but love thee still!

THE SPHINX

I

WITHIN a sultry desert land,
Where neither flowers nor shadows are,
Hid to the breast in shifting sand
There stands an image secular.
Where Pharaoh's sceptre gave the laws,
The thing that held me captive rests,
Strange compound of a panther's claws
And of a woman's rounded breasts.
Thus stood she when the princess found
The infant in his secret bed;
Thus, when the young Bithynian wound
The death-wreath for his golden head.
And monarchs came with her to dwell
On whom mad dreams had laid their ban,
From whose imperial shoulders fell
The purple cloak of Hadrian.

II

O strange beyond the strangest fears
And hopes and ancient questionings,
That I who am so young in years
Have loved the oldest of all things!

III

Ah, fount of pleasure salt with tears,
Storehouse of cunning, well of guile!
Love of my boyhood's troubled years,
Gray silent Sphinx beside the Nile!
No hoard of silver I possessed,
No purple brought from Tyrian mart,
So, as love's guerdon, from my breast
With fevered hand I tore the heart.
Thy granite flanks upon the gift
Closed with a mighty fluttering,
Then first within thee rose the swift
Pulsation of a living thing.
And I forgot beneath thy spell
Mine was the life within thee grown,
And mine the heart that leapt and fell
Illusory in thy breast of stone.
Mine was the folly, mine the tears
That wept the ending of my dream,
Love of my boyhood's troubled years,
Gray silent Sphinx beside the stream!

IV

O wanderer, stay where life is sweet,
And jubilant earth is glad of May,
Disturb not with incautious feet
The mystery of an elder day.
When we have sighed to fold our hands
And join the Pharaohs in the tomb,
She still shall stare across the sands
And hearken for the crack of doom!

The works above were from United Staes poet George Syvlesters Viereck's Nineveh and Other Poems printed in 1907.