The Lathe of Morpheus; or, The dream song. A tribute to B.C. from E.M

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.

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.

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.