The Dream of Margaret

It fell upon a summer night     The village folk were soundly sleeping,     Unconscious of the glamour white     In which the moon all things was steeping;     One window only showed a light;     Behind it, silent vigil keeping,     Sat Margaret, as one in trance,     The dark-eyed daughter of the Manse.     A flood of strange, sweet thoughts was surging     Her passionate heart and brain within.     At last, some secret impulse urging,     She laid aside her garment thin,     And from its snowy folds emerging,     Like Lamia from the serpent-skin,     She stood before her mirror bright     Naked, and lovely as the night.     Her dark hair oer her shoulders flowing     Might well have been a silken pall     Oer Galateas image glowing     To life and love: she was withal     The lamplight oer her radiance throwing     With her high bosom virginal,     A woman made to madden men,     A Cleopatra born again.     Hers was the beauty dark and splendid,     Whose spell upon the heart of man     Falls swiftly as, when day is ended,     Night falls in lands Australian.     Her rich, ripe, scarlet lips, bow-bended,     Smiled as such ripe lips only can;     Her eyes, wherein strange lightnings shone,     Were deeper than Oblivion.     With round, white arms, whose warm caress     No lover knew, raised towards the ceiling,     She looked like some young Pythoness     The secrets dark of Fate revealing,     Or goddess in divine distress     To higher powers for help appealing.     This invocation, standing so,     She sang in clear, sweet tones, but low:     Soul, from this narrow,     Mean life we know,     Speed as an arrow     From bended bow!     Seek, and discover,     On land or sea,     My destined lover,     Whereer he be.     How shalt thou know him,     My hearts desire?     His mien will show him,     His glance of fire.     High is his bearing,     His pride is high,     His spirit daring     Burns in his eye.     Birds have done mating;     The Spring is past;     My arms are waiting,     My heart beats fast.     Oh, why, she sighed, has Fate awarded     This lot to me whose heart is bold?     My days by trifles are recorded,     My suitors men whose God is gold.     Oh for the Heroes helmed and sworded,     The lovers of the days of old,     Who broke for ladies many a lance     In gallant days of old Romance!     Would I had lived in that great time when     A ladys love was knights best boon;     When sword with sword made ringing rhyme, when     Mailed sea-kings fought from noon to moon,     And thought the slaughter grim no crime, when     The prize was golden-haired Gudrun.     Then I might find swords, broad and bright     And keen as theirs, for me to fight.     But narrow bounds my life environ,     And hold my eager spirit in.     The men I see no heart of fire in     Their bodies bear. My love to win     A man must have a will of iron,     A soul of flame. Then sweet were sin     Or Death for him! With ardent glance     Thus spake the daughter of the Manse.     Then, with a smile, she fell asleep in     Her white and dainty maiden bed.     The chaste, cold moon alone could peep in,     And view her tresses dark outspread     Upon an arm whose clasp might keep in     The life of one given up for dead:     And, as she drifted down the stream     Of Slumber deep, she dreamt a dream.     .         .         .         .         .     It was a banquet rich and rare,     The wine of France was foaming madly;     The proud and great of earth were there,     And all were slaves to serve her gladly,     And yet on them with haughty air     She gazed, half-scornfully, half-sadly;     The Lady of the Feast was she     So ran her strange dream-fantasy.     A Prince was at her fair right hand,     And at her left a famous leader     Of hosts, with look of high command,     And blacker than the tents of Kedar     An Eastern King, barbaric, grand,     Sat near their Queen they had decreed her.     Below the proud, the brave, the wise,     Sat charmed by her mesmeric eyes.     Then thus she spake: O Lords of Earth!     Than you I know none nobler, braver;     And yet your fame, and rank, and birth,     And wealth in my sight find small favour,     For all too well I know their worth     Long since for me they lost their savour.     The Spirit, fit to mate with mine,     Must be demoniac or divine.     A toast! she cried. The gallant throng     Sprang up, their foaming glasses clinking.     Satan! The Spirit proud and strong!     The bravest lover to my thinking!     The Wine of Life Ive drunk too long:     The Wine of death I now am drinking! . . .     Our Queen she was a moment since     Bear forth the body! said the Prince.     .         .         .         .         .     A ghostly wind arose, all wet     With tears, and full of cries and wailing,     And wringing hands, and faces set     In bitter anguish unavailing;     It bore the soul of Margaret             To where a voice, in tones of railing,     Cried, Spirit proud, thou hast done well!     Thou art within the Gates of Hell!     The soul of Margaret passed slowly,     Yet bravely, through the Hall of Dread,     The roof whereof was hidden wholly     By black clouds hanging overhead.     No sound disturbed the melancholy     Deep silence,which itself seemed dead.     No wailing of the damned was heard,     No voice the fearful stillness stirred.     But that deep silence held in keeping     The secret of Eternal Woe     That yet seemed like a serpent creeping     Around the walls. It was as though     The cries of pain and hopeless weeping     Had died out ages long ago.     No face was seen, no figure dread. . . .     Were all the damned and devils dead?     No lustre known on earth was gleaming     In that dread Hall, but some weird light     Around the pillars vast was streaming,     And down the vistas infinite;     A light like that men see in dreaming,     And, waking, shudder with affright.     Its glare a baleful splendour shed     For ever through the Hall of Dread.     Then suddenly she was aware     That from the walls, and all around her,     In motionless and burning stare,     Millions of eyes glowed, that spellbound her:     The everlasting dumb despair     That spoke from them made Pity founder;     And, as she passed along the floor,     She trod on burning millions more.     For floor and pillar, roof and all,     Were full of eyes, for ever burning     Twas these that lit the Dreadful Hall,     These were the damned beyond returning,     Sealed up in pillar, floor, and wall,     Without a tongue to voice their yearning,     Or grief, or hate, so God might know:     Their eyes alone could speak their woe.     Her way lit by the weird light flowing     From those sad, awful eyes, she passed     To where, her terror ever growing,     Upon a Throne, in fire set fast,     And like a Rose of fire far-glowing,     She saw a Figure, Veiled and Vast.     She trembled, for she knew full well     She stood before the Lord of Hell.     And then, an instant courage taking,     She knelt before the burning throne,     And, all her hopes of heaven forsaking,     She cried, O Lord, make me thine own!     For men, though they be of Gods making,     I love not. Thee I love alone.     The figure veiled spake thus: Arise,     O Spirit proud, and most unwise!     And as It spake, unveiling slowly,     A brow of awful beauty shone     On Margarets soul, yet Melancholy     And Woe Eternal sat thereon.     But, lo! the form was woman wholly.     A faint smile played her lips upon,     As in a voice low, sweet, and level     She said: My dear, I am the Devil!     With one wild wail of bitter scorning     The stricken soul of Margaret fled,     Sore harrowed by that dreadful warning;     And, shrieking, through the Hall of Dread     She passed . . . and woke . . . and it was morning,     And she was in her own white bed.     .         .         .         .         .     Soon afterwards, the tale runs, she     Took veil within a nunnery.