Phantasmagoria And Other Poems Part 9

The Third Voice

[Picture: Quick tears were raining down his face]

Not long this transport held its place: Within a little moment's s.p.a.ce Quick tears were raining down his face

His heart stood still, aghast with fear; A wordless voice, nor far nor near, He seemed to hear and not to hear.

"Tears kindle not the doubtful spark.

If so, why not? Of this remark The bearings are profoundly dark."

"Her speech," he said, "hath caused this pain.

Easier I count it to explain The jargon of the howling main,

"Or, stretched beside some babbling brook, To con, with inexpressive look, An unintelligible book."

Low spake the voice within his head, In words imagined more than said, Soundless as ghost's intended tread:

"If thou art duller than before, Why quittedst thou the voice of lore?

Why not endure, expecting more?"

"Rather than that," he groaned aghast, "I'd writhe in depths of cavern vast, Some loathly vampire's rich repast."

[Picture: He groaned aghast]

"'Twere hard," it answered, "themes immense To coop within the narrow fence That rings _thy_ scant intelligence."

"Not so," he urged, "nor once alone: But there was something in her tone That chilled me to the very bone.

"Her style was anything but clear, And most unpleasantly severe; Her epithets were very queer.

"And yet, so grand were her replies, I could not choose but deem her wise; I did not dare to criticise;

"Nor did I leave her, till she went So deep in tangled argument That all my powers of thought were spent."

A little whisper inly slid, "Yet truth is truth: you know you did."

A little wink beneath the lid.

And, sickened with excess of dread, p.r.o.ne to the dust he bent his head, And lay like one three-quarters dead

The whisper left him-like a breeze Lost in the depths of leafy trees- Left him by no means at his ease.

Once more he weltered in despair, With hands, through denser-matted hair, More tightly clenched than then they were.

When, bathed in Dawn of living red, Majestic frowned the mountain head, "Tell me my fault," was all he said.

When, at high Noon, the blazing sky Scorched in his head each haggard eye, Then keenest rose his weary cry.

And when at Eve the unpitying sun Smiled grimly on the solemn fun, "Alack," he sighed, "what _have_ I done?"

[Picture: Tortured, unaided, and alone]

But saddest, darkest was the sight, When the cold grasp of leaden Night Dashed him to earth, and held him tight.

Tortured, unaided, and alone, Thunders were silence to his groan, Bagpipes sweet music to its tone:

"What? Ever thus, in dismal round, Shall Pain and Mystery profound Pursue me like a sleepless hound,

"With crimson-dashed and eager jaws, Me, still in ignorance of the cause, Unknowing what I broke of laws?"

The whisper to his ear did seem Like echoed flow of silent stream, Or shadow of forgotten dream,

The whisper trembling in the wind: "Her fate with thine was intertwined,"

So spake it in his inner mind:

[Picture: a scared dullard, gibbering low]

"Each orbed on each a baleful star: Each proved the other's blight and bar: Each unto each were best, most far:

"Yea, each to each was worse than foe: Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low, AND SHE, AN AVALANCHE OF WOE!"

TeMA CON VARIAZINI

[Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed "setting" by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.

For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a morsel of supreme Venison-whose every fibre seems to murmur "Excelsior!"-yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also-

I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle- _Nor anything that cost me much_: _High prices profit those who sell_, _But why should I be fond of such_?

To glad me with his soft black eye _My son comes trotting home from school_; _He's had a fight but can't tell why_- _He always was a little fool_!

But, when he came to know me well, _He kicked me out_, _her testy Sire_: _And when I stained my hair_, _that Belle_ _Might note the change_, _and thus admire_

And love me, it was sure to dye _A muddy green or staring blue_: _Whilst one might trace_, _with half an eye_, _The still triumphant carrot through_.

A GAME OF FIVES

[Picture: Five little girls]