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THE LATHE OF MORPHEUS

OR

THE DREAM SONG




                                   THE
                            LATHE OF MORPHEUS
                                   OR
                             THE DREAM SONG

                                A TRIBUTE
                                TO
                                   B. C.
                                FROM
                                   E. M.

                            PRIVATELY PRINTED
                                  1915

                              H. G. COMMIN,
                               BOOKSELLER,
                              BOURNEMOUTH.




CONTENTS


                                                        PAGE

    PART I   TO BRIDGET: THE INVOCATION         }          7
                                                }
    PART II  THE GARDEN OF SLEEP        }       }         10
                                        }       }
    PART III THE LATHE OF MORPHEUS      } THE   } THE     14
                                        } DREAM } SONG
    PART IV  THE VISION GLORIOUS        }       }         21
                                        }       }
    PART V   THE LEADEN TABLE           }       }         24
                                                }
    PART VI  TO BRIDGET: AN APOLOGIA            }         31

    TO BRIDGET: I   CARMEN TRISTIS              }         33
                                                }
                II  CARMEN LAETI                }         34
                                                }
                III SONNET TO A BOWL OF GOLD    }
                      AND SCARLET TULIPS        }         35




PART I.

TO BRIDGET.

THE INVOCATION.


  Though oft-times ill-sifting memory with deft digits thickly draws
  Ashen grey curtains thwart my vagrant brain;
  She ne’er from me can hide thy face and form,
  Nor cloaked Oblivion, from streams of Lethe borne.
  Ensnare in sable trammel, behind her basalt doors
  Thy eyes, thy lips, thy smile,—that ere again
  My gaping senses steep
  And lull to fragrant sleep.
            Fiercer in Morning Sun than in turgid hues of Night
            Calcined and adust, parching my thirsting sight
            Thy welcome form appears,
            Grief-giving while it cheers.
      Bridget! Unreal! Dead phantom of a form
      Yet living, breathing—sneering, wreathed in olive scorn
      Haunt not my seered soul pierced by thy secret sting;
      Death to a pulsing throb, Life to a pulseless thing!
  Now through the Gardens of Sleep, I see thy lovely mystic face
  Pale ’gainst the scandent tendrils and resin-bleeding cones
  Paler than ivory white, colder than bleachened bones,
  Pallid and alburnous, fired for a lingering space
  By eyes that never human in earthy regions saw.
  Let me yet behold thee, far fairer than ere of yore!
  For ’neath that polished painted mask of seeming deadened Love
  I know some poignant passion must course in sinuous stream
  Plashing with crystal foam in lustrous realms above,
  From a sea, where the gods’ romances are woven in wondrous dream.
  Bridget unmask! speak to me, awake, and radiant rise!
  Phœnix-inspired flying from former fires into cerulean skies!
  Though still wrapped in the scented cerements of the mummy I thought
    was you
  I would gaze on the risen Bridget, as a being both real and true;
  Nothing strange or new—just true.
  In the place of a ghost of a woman, whose self I never knew
  In the place of an empty phantom as cold as the summer dew.




PART II.

THE GARDEN OF SLEEP.


  Lo! there in the Garden I behold my princess
  Yea! there in the Garden of Sleep.
  There in the Garden I fain would caress
  My lovely princess
  In the Garden of Sleep.
  ’Neath the jasamine trees, and the lilac and rose
  There stands my princess—so close—yes so close.

  Alloyed with the lilies—the orange pink lilies—
  Among the roses and lilies
  Stands my azure princess
  Lo! there in the Garden of Sleep.
  Midst the trembling narcissus and cadmium dillies
  Midst the daf-o-down-dilies
  Glides my faëry princess
  In her gold-azure dress.

  Veridian the foliage packed heavy in creepers,
  Olive the pine tree with sap-oozing cones;
  Each rustling leaf bestirring the sleepers,
  The brown buzzing bees and the resonant drones.
  Dreaming with legs all bespattered with pollen;
  —The passionate kiss of a love giving flower—
  While velvety moths in flight silent and solemn,
  Creep dreamily forth from each scent-giving bower;
  And purple clematis with quivering tendrils
  Drink in the pure air, and sleep-whisp’ring wind
  Sad pale perfumed firs wave feathery branches
  In Columbine’s fingers gently clasped and entwined
  In Columbine’s pensile and pale greeny tendrils
  There in the Garden of Sleep.
  Where silver fountains leap
  Hid in a deep recess
  There roams my dear princess
  ’Neath the Castle of Dreams.
  Sunk there in a carpet of starwort and cress,
  Where myrtle and eglantines gracefully sway
  Anent the feet of my lovely princess
  Lies a large bronzen bowl where the dragonflies play
  In the sunbeams that blue amber lotus caress.
  Filled to the brim through a lazuli funnel,
  Fed from the meads by a soft lisping brook;
  Pours itself forth int’ a silvery runnel,
  Which laughing, flows on through that cool shaded nook,
  Cool as the shadows that lie in the dress
  Of my peerless princess;
  Blue and crystal the bronzen bowl, reflecting the vault above
  Sapphire and crystal the red bronze bowl, reflecting the face of my love
  Red and gold the glittering carp that sport in the waters below
  Ruby and gold the shimmering carp—the hues of a sunset glow.
  White, ivory-white, and golden green are the lights that fall from the
    lilies
  Golden-orange and orange-green, the shades of the daf-o-down-dilies.
  But far more fair in that fair recess
  Are the ivory hands of my pale princess
  —There in the Garden of Sleep—
  And her lustrous eyes of ebon black
  Curtained with lashes so silken and sleek,
  The poise of her head, the line of her back,
  Arched, as she culls the blood red rose
  What a wonderful, classical, graceful pose
  One tapering finger wantonly plays
  With a lambent jewel that gently sways
  O’er her breast.
  In that Garden of Rest,
  Where all that is purest, tenderest—best
  One with another loving contest
  For a smile or a kiss or a passing caress
  From my azure princess.




PART III.

[*]THE LATHE OF MORPHEUS.


  Hid in a tenebrose valley veiled by the mushroom pine,
  Aloof in the lathe of Morpheus—I know a sombre tomb
  Engraved on its brazen portal is enchiseled this mystic sign:
  “Behold thou vagrant pilgrim, dark Morphia’s Hetacomb.”

  Seizing the knocker in my outstretched hand
        I crashed the head athwart the leaden sign;
  An answering echo wandered o’er the Land
        Breaking in thunderous knocks, a pale reflex of mine.
        Slowly before my wondering eyes the door
        Broke in a thousand fragments to the floor;
        Disclosing a gaping orifice with rusty mildewed rim
        The entrance to a stairway, torturous, long and grim,
        Whose polished steps trailed from the sight to denser gloom within.
        Then passing ’twixt two monoliths engraved one “Death,” one “Sin.”
        I heard in the chasm below me the Marid’s enchanted hymn,
        And I felt the chill of their icy breath,
        As they dully intoned that Song of Death:—
        “Black and green; with sober sheen;
        They wander to and fro.
        But none of mortal birth may glean
        The rhythm; or why ’tis so.”
  Aghast by these secret words of power,
  From my forehead dripped an acrid shower
  Of clotted sweat, and my trembling knees
  Quaked together, like nude limbs of trees
  Bark and knock on a wintry night,
  For the pith of my soul was bathed in fright.
  So catching my breath for a mighty shout,
  I felt my life with my breath go out.
  Yet only a whisper hissed forth from my lips,
  Breaking between my chattering teeth in strangled shivering lisps
  As I wailed to the dimness within;
  “O! ye who haunt these fœtid bowers, cold Winter has gone and Spring
  Hath come with her flowers.”
  But all that I heard in answer, up the ebon polished stair
  Was the Deathless chant of the Marids; the Jinn with the shimmering hair;
  That woeful hymn of the Marids—that canticle of despair.

      “Scarlet and blue in radiant hue
      They wander through Space and Time.
      But none of mortal birth, save Thou
      May know the rhythm or rhyme.
      Great is Suleyman Daood’s son!
      Great is Allah! the Only One!
      When Life is lost, then Death is won.
      But by virtue of the sacred fire
      Here be the few who may ne’er expire.” ...

  Faint and weary with soul oppressed,
  I was fearful to list for the fateful rest
  Of the Song of Death—the dirge they sang—
  That ne’er had been learned by mortal man.

  So grasping the banister lest I fell,
  Madly I shouted: “Hail, Jans of Hell!
  Servants of Iblees! Peace where ye dwell!
  Ye chanters of songs that none may tell,
  Ye who shun the light of God’s good day,
  Answer me! set me on my way
  Down these labyrinth corridors of this Tomb of fire;
  Built by Magins round smoking Pyre
  Where Vathek offered through lust of Power
  All the youth of his City,
  Without sorrow or pity,
  To the gluted ghool who on evil hour
  Came to his Palace with Satan’s dower.”
  And still no answer—but louder grew
  That fearful hymn that no mortal knew.
  And through the transcendent stillness of the air
  I saw their beryl eyes and gleaming hair;
  Each holding aloft one leprous quivering hand
  The other chained o’er the heart by a molten burning band.

  And up from the darkness, deep down beneath,
  There came the murmur of voices and the moving of teeth.
  Then as if at a sign, or previously bidden,
  The two pillars close and the entrance is hidden,
  And from corner to corner the vaulting is riven.

  The banisters vanish to float thinly away,
  The black sheeny steps coil, totter and sway,
  All is Darkness around, above and below,
  And blood-chilling fingers brush my forehead, like snow;
  A hurricane rose, and a wild whistling wind
  Swept up from beneath, and in it entwined
  Were the shadowy Marids with luminous eyes,
  And a stench like to woodlands where the undergrowth dies
  Assailed the dank ether; whilst thousands of flies,
  The minions of Iblees sped whirling around;
  And flesh semi-fermented smoked on the ground.
  Then in the midst of this utter distress
  I breathed forth the NAME of my azure Princess.

  ...

  To me awaking from this evil dream,
  Rose tinted morn appeared in fulgent light,
  While great Apollo with his spears did seem
  To be dispelling all the hosts of night,
  Proud Helios in chariot thwart the sky,
  Coursing through fleecy clouds kept on his way,
  And in the dimmer distance, I descry
  —Where Night her maukish raiment casts away—
  A crowd of fleeing objects, gleaming hair
  Flying behind them in the morning air.
  But brimming joys my sorrowing senses greet,
  For ’midst the blossoms, sun-kissed at my feet,
  There where the leaping springs the thirsty banks caress
  Appeared the vision of my pale Princess.

[*] Lathe (lath)—Anglo-Saxon laeth: a division of a county. Here the
Division belonging to Morpheus in the County of Sleep, itself a division
of the Realm of Unconsciousness.




PART IV.

THE VISION GLORIOUS.


  When Luna o’er the vault would fain hold sway
  Striving the steeds of Phœbus to assay;
  And he, the drifting racks with gilded spear had riven;
  With ochreous steeds coursing the plain of Heaven,
  Bore high aloft his flambent crimson bowl
  Steering on ruddy Hesperus for goal.
  And far behind his chariot’s dust did leave
  That frail ætherial gleam—the Star of eve.
  I, wearied with the day’s fatiguing sorrow
  Called to proud Helios “Hasten thou the morrow”!
  Then clapped dim eyes upon the scene around
  The sullen austere hills, the humid misty ground
  Sad that the spectral lances of the moon
  Essayed the glowing firmament so soon.
  For when tired Earth the arms of Day is leaving
  For those of sterner Night, yet fondly cleaving
  Still to Sunshine’s fingers, rose tipped as they lie
  Aslant the woods, the valleys, ground and sky,
  The heart of man,—in that calm solitude—alone
  Sighs for his faded hopes now cold as stone
  Weeps for his sins, hoping yet to atone
  For actions past, unalterable—and done—
  Performed, accomplished, finished—everyone—
  Then inly prays with eager expectation
  To Holy patron Saint,—for his salvation—
  With some such thoughts as these, I sadly gazed
  Over the moonlit garden’s scented air
  And peering through the mist, I stood amazed,
  For—lo! my patron Saint was standing there.
  Gabled in raiment pale-azure as the sea
  Of Northern climes, thus she appeared to me;
  Azure and Silver, like to a frozen tear
  Shed into Ocean by some arctic Mear;
  Holy her features—haloed her raven hair,
  Black eyebrows curving over dreaming eyes
  She stood awhile in ecstacy, radiant, passing fair;
  No one more lovely being beyond our earthy skies
  Stirred by this hallowed mirage, my heart gave forth a cry,
  “Blessed St. Bridget save me! intercede for my soul on High.”
  Then came back a whispered echo over the sighing spray
  “Blessed St. Bridget save me! _Ora pro me._”
  Serenely the lovely vision smiled peacefully on me,
  Then slowly faded into the even’s mist.
  Drying my dewy eyelids I sank on bended knee,
  And prayed to the One who had suffered, nailed to a torture-tree,
  Whose gaping wounds poor doubting Thomas kissed.




PART V.

THE LEADEN TABLET.


  Then to my couch I bent my weary way,
  And deep in sage reflection sank my soul.
  Striving in halting phrases still to pray.
  Striving to purge my heart, my mind, my whole.
  Sinuous seductive music charmed the air,
  Sweet fragrance cast such perfume all around
  That I was dazed, and seeking everywhere,
  No trace or sign of ought was to be found.
  Then in the pentiled garth in virent ramage clothed
  Open to view when lying on my bed,
  —A spot that in the sunlight much I loathed—
  Transpired the vision of a lovely head.
  Golden of hair with slanting eyes of green,
  Sharp pearléd teeth, of glassy, milky sheen,
  Red rounded lips, like cherry cut in twain,
  Chiseled and shapely ears straight backward lain,
  A nose that Venus, of the Greeks adored,
  Would madly envy; e’en she could scarce afford
  To match her perfect body with the limbs
  That tardy came to view below the head.
  And still my haunted memory dizzy swims
  When’er I view in thought her glowing form.
  Mutely voluptuous, standing by my bed,
  Redolent of Eve! Scented like fragrant morn!
  Those rounded breasts like snowy apple fruit
  Culled from pomegranate tree with leaves of tourmaline
  Not even Heaven could stand contented mute
  If He beheld those arms so serpentine
  Those humid lips, like plum blooms when the sun is warm,
  Nude to the waist, there kirtled round
  With Zone of silver, prank’d with palest grey,
  Like misty fleeces which at dawn are found
  Clinging round hills to greet the break of Day.
  Then draperies of leaden hue
  Veiled her legs and feet from view.
  With supple motion, noble tread
  Smiling she glided t’ward my bed;
  And stretching forth her rippling arms
  She bade me look upon her charms.
  And forth from her lips this triplet came
  “Ivan, Ivan, _je t’aime, le t’aime._
  _Je te tiens et je te maintendrai_
  _Je ne cherche qu’un et je l’ai merité_”
  Purling this triplet to a murmuring strain
  A magic mean of pleasure and of pain
  Languid toward my bed she came,
  And my soul was burnt with a lusting flame.

  Rising I seized her serpent hand, icy as Death it lay on my palm
  As she kissed my lips, the winds’ wild band played through her hair
    the Marids psalm.
  There ’twixt her naked bosoms swayed that awful leaden sign
  Bearing that occult message, that terrible fateful line,
  Lo! there trembled the leaden Tablet that hung on the Brazen tomb,
  “Behold! thou vagrant pilgrim dark Morphia’s Hecatomb!”
  With a howl of ghoulish laughter,
  Like the noise of pouring water
  She leapt into the air above me,
  High into the air above me.
  “Take me into thy arms and love me!
  Or Burn till the crack of Doom!
  Yea, I am the leaden tablet!
  From the Night mare’s stable tomb
  Forsake thou the eyes of thy Bridget!
  The ebon eyes of thy Bridget!
  And work with a sulphur digit
  Through the weft of my firey loom.
  Work on my loom of Passion
  Where the threads of every fashion
  That in Zamiel’s flax fields bloom.
  Come twin-soul to my cavern!
  Press firm thy lips against mine!
  Drink from Love’s joyous tavern,
  Drink deep of Passion’s wine!
  And care no more and care no less
  For the ebon eyes of thy pale Princess.
  I will give you a golden promise of a pleasure that none have known,
  And in mine own arms thou shalt learn it; just we two beings alone
  Shall live in a world of Pleasure, in a Palace of utter Delight
  Come sweet child, the love of my leisure, sleep in mine arms to-night.”

  “Dost thou give me a golden promise of pleasure apart from pain?
  Of a life that is always happy, of a rose-bed that none may gain,
  Save we two being together, alone in a world of our own?
  Take me, ‘my sacrifice,’ take me, to the Loom and the flaxen Zone.”
  She lifted me into her bosom, caressing my hair the while,
  And over her lips of crimson there played a terrible smile
  “Yourself for the coming bridal, myself I will comely deck,”
  And she fastened her teeth white and gleaming deep into the vein of
    my neck.
  And I dreamed as ye dream with Morphia
  Just a floating, fainting away;
  A dream that is bought from Morphia
  And Death is the price ye pay.

  But horrid terror seized upon my heart
  Bidding me fight.
  So vainly struggling in unequal part
  I fought for right.
  Seeking by blows my ebbing life to save,
  On through the night;
  Fighting the fiend, who thirsting, tightly clave;
  —A ghastly sight—
  Teeth deep embedded, drinking from my vein;
  Till morning light
  Greeted by crowing cockerel, smiling came;
  Then gripping tight,
  I seized her gulping throat in clenching hands.
  With all my might,
  Thumbs fixed like iron bands.
  Panting I crushed her skull,
  Kneeling upon her breast.
  Then with a vicious pull
  I tore out her pulsing throat,
  Leaving the quivering rest,
  Eyes stagnant glazed and dull
  Wrapped, morient in my coat.

  Sweating and breathless, blindly I sought for water;
  Prone to the floor I fell stumbling thwart Zamiel’s daughter.
  Blood, from my aching wound, dripped to the floor;
  Faint in a numbing swound I lay in my gore.
  Then gentle hands poured cooling draught betwixt my parchéd lips
  Forcing the elixir of life back in thirsty sips
  And bending o’er my tumbled couch my azure pale Princess
  Left on the Vampire’s burning wounds her cooling lips’ impress.




PART VI.

THE APOLOGIA.


  O Bridget! whose white skin is like to petals of the gladiola flower,
  Remember this, that from that destined hour
  When thou was christened, thou was named “POWER.”
  Power thou hast—and that a wonderous awful gift—
  Under whose diction thou can’st sink or lift
  Souls, spirits, hearts, from mirky cleft and rift
  To higher ways. But also thou can’st drive
  Creatures so deep, that few can ever dive
  Down to the depths and bring them up alive,
  Power thy sister e’er will be through life.
  “POWER” will rise victorious from every worldly strife.
  Power is “POWER’S” heritage, manifest and rife,
  Beware of Power—two edged—a double-bladed knife.
  Dreams and haunting visions by thy name alone
  I oft-times have conquered; trusting in thee I’ve gone
  Through perils gaunt and numerous ground on Passion’s stone.
  Bridget, although it ere may be thy mission
  To play at games with Power’s mate—Ambition—
  See! hidden at her back stands Sinuous Sedition!
  Loving perhaps too much thy tenderer, truer side
  I to my inward passion have at length complied,
  Lest in the smothering of it, I to myself had lied.
  Crudely and roughly shaken from Euterpe’s sieve
  These frail halting stanzas now to thy care I give,
  Feeling that every letter by thee wast made to live.
  Scorn not then this limping, poor, procession
  Of rhythmic lines; nor treat with proud aggression
  These faulty verses; waiting at thy session
  For tempered judgment; merciful then be
  Ever with kindness keeping within thy memory,
  That every written sentiment, is a living part of me.

Written at “Stagsden,” Bournemouth, 1915.




TO BRIDGET.

“CARMEN TRISTIS.”


  How can I sing a song, love, when my heart is full of woe?
  Grief that is hard to bear, love; grief that is gnawing and slow
  Crimson rimmed are my eyes, love; bitter my soul within;
  Bid me to mope and mourn, love, for I haven’t the mind to sing.

  Though the Sun may shine in the skies, dear,
  Though the day be blithesome and gay;
  When the Mirth of my heart quietly dies, dear,
  Poor homage to joy can I pay.

  For I am far from thy love, dear,
  From thee who my heart feeds with smiles;
  More fair than the blossoms above, dear,
  Or the Pearls of the fairy isles.

  How then can I sing a song, love?
  How then may I carol a lay?
  When thee, for whom my eyes long, love,
  Art far from my sight away.

Bournemouth, April 10th, 1915.




“CARMEN LAETI.”


  When Mirth and Joy come flitting in,
  The heart with glee is filled within.
  When I shall journey back to thee
  My soul will dance in gaiety.

  Merriment shall reign supreme,
  In every eye a joyous beam;
  Mirth shall caper all day long,
  In every heart an airy song.

  Bid me to sing a round-a-lay
  And I will trill to break of day
  A Ballad, pastorale, stave or air
  Or roulade to my Lady’s hair.

  As blithesome lark from Morn’s pearl dew
  Is lost to sight in Heaven’s blue
  Rising with carol to the skies
  So am I lost in my lady’s eyes.

Bournemouth, April 11th, 1915.

NOTE: The form of these two Songs was suggested from reading a book of
Elizabethan verse.




SONNET TO A BOWL OF GOLD AND SCARLET TULIPS.


  O blossoms! when I gaze
  Down into your fair, radiant faces,
  Glowing up at me from verdant graces;
  Your rarities amaze.
  The very gold-bars of the Summer Sun
  May well give place to your more candent hue.
  For sunshine yet, I still can seek in you;
  E’en when the Orb’s illuminèd course is run.
  Your damask pinions, furled about your form
  Give subtle sheen and incense to the air;
  Your gold-dust tongues kiss to the winds pale care
  Alone for peace and pleasure were ye borne.
  Whilst to my mind ye bring me, by your grace,
  A yet more lovely and more radiant face.

Bournemouth, April 12th, 1915.