The Legend Of The Stone.

The year was dying, and the day      Was almost dead;     The West, beneath a sombre gray,      Was sombre red.     The gravestones in the ghostly light,      'Mid trees half bare,     Seemed phantoms, clothed in glimmering white,      That haunted there.     I stood beside the grave of one,      Who, here in life,     Had wronged my home; who had undone      My child and wife.     I stood beside his grave until      The moon came up -     As if the dark, unhallowed hill      Lifted a cup.     No stone was there to mark his grave,      No flower to grace -     'T was meet that weeds alone should wave      In such a place.     I stood beside his grave until      The stars swam high,     And all the night was iron still      From sky to sky.     What cared I if strange eyes seemed bright      Within the gloom!     If, evil blue, a wandering light      Burnt by each tomb!     Or that each crookd thorn-tree seemed      A witch-hag cloaked!     Or that the owl above me screamed,      The raven croaked!     For I had cursed him when the day      Was sullen red;     Had cursed him when the West was gray,      And day was dead;     And now when night made dark the pole,      Both soon and late     I cursed his body, yea, and soul,      With the hate of hate.     Once in my soul I seemed to hear      A low voice say, -     'T were better to forgive, - and fear      Thy God, - and pray.     I laughed; and from pale lips of stone      On sculptured tombs     A mocking laugh replied alone      Deep in the glooms.     And then I felt, I felt - as if      Some force should seize     The body; and its limbs stretch stiff,      And, fastening, freeze     Down, downward deeper than the knees      Into the earth -     While still among the twisted trees      That voice made mirth.     And in my Soul was fear, despair, -      Like lost ones feel,     When knotted in their pitch-stiff hair,      They feel the steel     Of devils' forks lift up, through sleet      Of hell's slant fire,     Then plunge, - as white from head to feet      I grew entire.     A voice without me, yet within,      As still as frost,     Intoned: Thy sin is thrice a sin,      Thrice art thou lost.     Behold, how God would punish thee!      For this thy crime -     Thy crime of hate and blasphemy -      Through endless time!     O'er him, whom thou wouldst not forgive,      Record what good     He did on earth! and let him live      Loved, understood!     Be memory thine of all the worst      He did thine own!     There at the head of him I cursed      I stood - a stone.