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Read Ebook: The Curse of Kehama Volume 2 (of 2) by Southey Robert
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Ebook has 177 lines and 16927 words, and 4 pages
PAGE
The Brothers 1
Geraldine 15
The Moated Manse 20
The Forester 35
My Lady of Verne 48
An Old Tale Re-told 55
The Water Witch 65
At Nineveh 70
How They Brought Aid to Bryan's Station 72
On the Jellico Spur of the Cumberlands 77
A Confession 83
Lilith 84
Content 86
Berrying 88
To a Pansy-Violet 90
Heart of my Heart 93
Witnesses 94
Wherefore 95
Pagan 96
"The Fathers of our Fathers" 97
"Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin" 99
Her Vivien Eyes 101
There was a Rose 102
The Artist 103
Poetry and Philosophy 103
"Quo Vadis" 104
To a Critic 105
FOREWORD.
Only One Hundred and Fifty Copies Printed for Private Distribution. A Few Copies For Sale.
IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES
The Brothers
Not far from here, it lies beyond That low-hilled belt of woods. We'll take This unused lane where brambles make A wall of twilight, and the blond Brier-roses pelt the path and flake The margin waters of a pond.
This is its fence--or that which was Its fence once--now, rock rolled from rock, One tangle of the vine and dock, Where bloom the wild petunias; And this its gate, the iron-weeds block, Hot with the insects' dusty buzz.
Two wooden posts, wherefrom has peeled The weather-crumbled paint, still rise; Gaunt things--that groan when someone tries The gate whose hinges, rust-congealed, Snarl open:--on each post still lies Its carven lion with a shield.
We enter; and between great rows Of locusts winds a grass-grown road; And at its glimmering end,--o'erflowed With quiet light,--the white front shows Of an old mansion, grand and broad, With grave Colonial porticoes.
Grown thick around it, dark and deep, The locust trees make one vast hush; Their brawny branches crowd and crush Its very casements, and o'ersweep Its rotting roofs; their tranquil rush Haunts all its spacious rooms with sleep.
Still is it called The Locusts; though None lives here now. A tale's to tell Of some dark thing that here befell; A crime that happened years ago, When by its walls, with shot and shell, The war swept on and left it so.
For one black night, within it, shame Made revel, while, all here about, With prayer or curse or battle-shout, Men died and homesteads leapt in flame: Then passed the conquering Northern rout, And left it silent and the same.
Why should I speak of what has been? Or what dark part I played in all? Why ruin sits in porch and hall Where pride and gladness once were seen; And why beneath this lichened wall The grave of Margaret is green.
Heart-broken Margaret! whose fate Was sadder yet than his who won Her hand--my brother Hamilton-- Or mine, who learned to know too late; Who learned to know, when all was done, And nothing could exonerate.
To expiate is still my lot,-- And, like the Ancient Mariner, To show to others how things are And what I am, still helps me blot A little from that crime's red scar, That on my soul is branded hot.
He was my only brother. She A sister of my brother's friend. They met, and married in the end. And I remember well when he Brought her rejoicing home, the trend Of war moved towards us sullenly.
And scarce a year of wedlock when Its red arms took him from his bride. With lips by hers thrice sanctified He left to ride with Morgan's men. And I--I never could decide-- Remained at home. It happened then.
For days went by. And, oft delayed, A letter came of loving word Scrawled by some camp-fire, sabre-stirred, Or by a pine-knot's fitful aid, When in the saddle, armed and spurred And booted for some hurried raid.
Then weeks went by. I do not know How long it was before there came, Blown from the North, the clarion fame Of Morgan, who, with blow on blow, Had drawn a line of blood and flame From Tennessee to Ohio.
Then letters ceased; and days went on. No word from him. The war rolled back, And in its turgid crimson track A rumor grew, like some wild dawn, All ominous and red and black, With news of our lost Hamilton,
Believed them. Grief was ours too: But mine was more for her than him; Grief, that her eyes with tears were dim; Grief, that became the avenue For love, who crowned the sombre brim Of death's dark cup with rose-red hue.
In sympathy,--unconsciously Though it be given--I hold, doth dwell The germ of love that time shall swell To blossom. Sooner then in me-- When close relations so befell-- That love should spring from sympathy.
Our similar tastes and mutual bents Combined to make us intimates From our first meeting. Different states Of interest then our temperaments Begot. Then friendship, that abates No love, whose self it represents.
These led to talks and dreams: how oft We sat at some wide window while The sun sank o'er the hills' far file, Serene; and of the cloud aloft Made one vast rose; and mile on mile Of firmament grew sad and soft.
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