LEGEND OF THE INDIAN CHAMBER.

I.

"BASIL! set my house in order,
For, when I return to-day,
I shall bring with me a stranger,
Tarrying on his homeward way.
Open fling the Indian Chamber,
And the arras free from mould;
There array a goodly banquet,

Such as cheered my sires of old-
When, from chase or war returning,
Dukes and princes of my line,
From the evening till the morning,
Filled the cup and drained the wine."
"Master, in thy lordly castle

There are many halls of pride,
Where no damps the walls encumber-
Where no spells of gloom abide.
In the gallery of the Titans,

In the hall of Count Lothaire,
In the grand saloon of columns,
Better had ye banquet there.
But the dreary Indian Chamber,

Oh! bethink you, master mine-
There have slept, in mortal slumber,
All the princes of your line.
"There the mourners ever gather,
Forth to bear the noble dead-
There you saw your stately father,
And your noble brother laid;
There, save in these times of anguish,
Never, since my life began,
Entered in a ray of sunlight,

Or the step of mortal man.
And the sounds of mystic meaning-
Master! need I speak of these?—
Which from that lone eastern chamber
Meet the ear-the spirit freeze!"

With a brow of haughty pallor,
Straight the baron turned away,
In a scornful accent saying,

""Tis my mandate, slave!—obey."
Then in haste, with gloomy aspect,
Forth he went upon his steed,
Rushing headlong on his pathway,
Like an evil spirit freed.
And with sad and stricken spirit,
Basil watched his lord depart,
While a dark and evil omen,
Hearse-like, pressed upon his heart.

Long he lingered at the portal,
Bound as with a gloomy dream;
Long he looked upon the landscape,

Which before him ceased to seem;

Then, with low and prayerful mutterings,
Shaking oft his tresses gray,
Clasping oft his withered fingers,
Basil went upon his way.
Passed he up the ancient stairway,
Groped he through the echoing aisle,
Where, to seek the olden chapel,
Oft had passed a kingly file.

Climbed he the remotest turret

Of that castle grand and vast, And before the Indian Chamber Wearily he paused at last: Yes, a moment there he faltered,

He who oft had stood the shock Of the hottest, fiercest battle,

Firm as a primeval rock.

On the bolt his fingers trembled,

Scarcely could their strength unclose
The immense and ponderous fastening,
Rusted by its long repose.

Yet a moment-yet a moment,
Ere the door was open flung,
Paused the old and awe-struck Basil,
Fervent avés on his tongue.

As if Heaven his prayer had answered,
Peace and comfort round him stole,
And a calm and lofty courage

Nerved his hand and filled his soul.
With a slight, yet sudden effort,
Back the oaken door he threw,
And upon the darkened threshold
Stood the fearful place to view.
Dark and dreary was that chamber,
Which in lengthened gloom appeared,
With its dark and mystic arras,

Wrought in symbols wild and weird.
Lifelike were the gorgeous figures,
Giantlike they seemed to loom
In the dim, imperfect twilight
Of that long-forsaken room.
Warily the old man entered:
With a solemn step he trod
Through the drear and dark apartment,
Trusting to his fathers' God.

In the ample hearth he kindled
Brands that, in departed days,

Quenched and blackened, had been left thereStrange and ghostly seemed their blaze.

And upon the marble table

Ranged the regal store of plate,
And arrayed the goodly banquet,
As became his master's state:
Urn, and vase, and chalice, brimming
With the floods of ruby wine,
As beseemed the dukes and princes
Of that mighty Norman line.
Then he silently betook him

To his first-appointed task-
Wiping from the ancient arras

Many a spot of mould and mask.
But the dark and loathing horror,
It befits me not to speak,

Which, while still his task pursuing,
Shook his hand, and blanched his cheek:
For he could not but remember

How, in long-departed years,

Woven was that wondrous fabric

By the spells of Indian seers.

Wrought with themes of Hindoo story,

Lifelike, in their coloring bold,

Yemen's fall, and Vishnu's glory,
Was that arras quaint and old

Juggernaut's remorseless chariot,
Funeral pyre, and temple proud,
Bungalow, and rajah's palace,

With their strange and motley crowd;
Jungle low, and flower-crowned river,

Dancing-girls, with anklets bright—
These, like gorgeous dreams of fever,
Crowded on the gazer's sight.
And the long and twisting serpents,

And the tigers crouching grim,
Seemed the dark and fearful guardians
Of that Indian Chamber dim.
To the simple, earnest spirit

Of the old and faithful man,
For a Christian hand to touch them,
Was to merit Christian ban.
Saint and martyr inly calling,

Still he wrought his master's will,
When a terror more appalling
Caused his very veins to chill.
In that dreary Indian Chamber,
Strangely grand and desolate,

With its long and hearse-like hangings,
Stood a plumed bed of state.
Closed around with solemn mystery
As a kingly purple pall,
High it towered, a silent history
Of departed funeral.

And with eyes amazed-distended

By their dread and spell-bound look-
Basil gazed in stony horror:

Lo! the trailing curtains shook.
And a groan of hollow anguish

From the close-drawn hangings broke,
As if one for ages sleeping
Suddenly to torture woke.
God of terror!-slowly parted

By a wan and spectral hand,
Back were drawn the purple curtains-
Back, as with a spirit wand:
And a face of ghostly beauty,

With its dark and streaming hair,
And its eyes of ghoul-like brightness,
Seemed upon his sense to glare.
How in that terrific moment

Basil's senses kept their throne, Is alone to God and angels

In its wondrous mystery known.
How he gathered faith and firmness

To uplift his agéd hand,
And address the disembodied,
Man may never understand:
Save that in the ghostly features
Still a semblance he descried
To the high and lovely lady
Who had been his master's bride.
"In the name of God the Father,
In the name of God the Son,
In the name of all good angels,

Speak to me, unearthly one!
Answer why, from wave returning,
Moanest thou in anguish here;
Surely for some holy purpose

Thou art suffered to appear.
If for evil I defy thee,

By the cross upon my breast,
By my faith in life eternal,
And my yearning hope for rest."
Then with moveless lips the phantom

Spake in low and hollow tones,
As if shaped to words and meaning
Were the night-wind's hollow moans:
"Basil! darkly was I murdered

Sailing on the river Rhine,
By thy harsh and ruthless master,
Last of an illustrious line.
False the tale his lips have uttered,
False the tears his eyes have shed-
I was hurled upon the water

With the marks of murder red!
"Basil! thou art good and faithful:
Thee I charge, by hopes divine,
With a hundred chanted masses
Shrive my soul by Mary's shrine.
None shall stay thy holy fervor,

None forbid the sacred rite;
For thy master's life is destined

To expire in crime to-night!"
Fixed in awe, the aged Basil

Gazing on the spectre stood;
But not with the waning phantom
Passed away his icy mood.

Long in that drear Indian Chamber,

Like a form of sculptured stone,
Kept the old and awe-struck servant

Vigil terrible and lone;

Till the sound of coming footsteps,

And of voices loud and clear,
And of ringing spur and sabre,

Smote upon his spell-bound ear:
And in haste the door was opened,

And with high and pluméd crest
Entered in the noble baron,
Ushering in a foreign guest.
"Basil! all is dark and sombre;
Cast fresh fagots on the hearth,
And illume the silver sconces
To preside above our mirth.
Let the chamber glow like sunlight;
Ill this gloom befits our glee."
Then loud laughed the stately baron-
Seldom, seldom so laughed he.
"T was a sound that chilled with terror

All that knew his nature well:
"Twas the heaven's electric flashing
Ere the bolt of lightning fell.

II.

Now the chamber glowed like sunlight— Strange and wondrous in that glare Was the weird and ancient arras, Were the figures woven there; Wavering with the flickering torches Seemed the motley multitude; Twisting serpent, rolling chariot, All with ghostly life imbued;

Crouching tiger-hideous idol—

All that grand and splendid masque, Mixture strange of truth and fable,

As in sunshine seemed to bask.

"Long have I sojourned in India,"
Thus the lofty stranger said;
"There, for wealth and idle treasure,
Health, and youth, and blood, I shed.
And I feel like one who dreameth,
As I on these walls survey
All those objects so familiar,

Year by year and day by day."
All in strange and blended splendor,
Like a vision of the night—
Never yet on earthly fabric

Glowed a scene so rich and bright.
Fixed upon the spell-wrought arras
Was the eastern stranger's gaze;
With his head and heart averted,

There he dreamed of other days:
When, with eyes of watchful terror,
Basil saw his master glide,
And within the golden chalice
Brimming with its purple tide,
With a stealthy, glancing motion,
As a conjuror works his spell,
Cast a drop of ruby liquid

From a tiny rose-lipped shell.
"Hither turn, thou eastern dreamer:
Pledge me in this golden cup;
"Tis our old and feudal custom-
He who tastes must quaff it up.
Why that brow of gloom and pallor?
Answer, why that sudden start?"
Low the eastern stranger muttered

Of the spells that chilled his heart: "No! my eyes have not deceived me, As I fondly dreamed erewhile; See the victim's bride descending From the rajah's funeral pile. "See, she cometh!-wildly streaming Are her robes-her raven hair: See, she cometh; darkly gleaming

From her eyes their fell despair! Now she stands beside the altar,

In the Bramin's sacred shrine; Now a jewelled cup she seizes—

Flames within it seem to shine; Now, O God! she leaves the arrasSteps upon the chamber floor: We are lost-the prey of demons; Baron, I will gaze no more!" Turned away the soul-sick stranger, Traversed he the chamber high, When the baron's awful aspect Chained his step and fixed his eye. Never from his memory perished Through long years of after-life In the camp, the court, the battle, That remorseful face of strife. Rooted as a senseless statue, In his hand the cup of gold; Lips apart and eyes distended, Stood the Norman baron bold!

High her cup the phantom lifted,

Flames within it seemed to roll; Then alone these words she uttered

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Pledge me in thy feudal bowl!" Chained and speechless, guest and servant Saw the baron drain the draught; Saw him fall convulsed and blackened As the deadly bowl he quaffed; Saw the phantom bending o'er him, As libation on his head Slowly, and with mien exulting,

From the cup of flames she shed.

Then a shriek of smothered anguish
Rang the Indian Chamber through,
While a gust of icy bleakness

From the waving arras blew.
In its breath the watchers shuddered,
And the portals open rung,

And the ample hearth was darkened,
As if ice was on it flung;
And the lofty torches warring
For a moment in the blast,
In their sconces were extinguished,
Leaving darkness o'er the past!

SHE COMES TO ME.

SHE comes to me in robes of snow,
The friend of all my sinless years-
Even as I saw her long ago,

Before she left this vale of tears.
She comes to me in robes of snow-
She walks the chambers of my rest,
With soundless footsteps, sad and slow,
That wake no echo in my breast.

I see her in my visions yet,*

I see her in my waking hours; Upon her pale, pure brow is set

A crown of azure hyacinth flowers. Her golden hair waves round her face,

And o'er her shoulders gently falls: Each ringlet hath the nameless grace My spirit yet on earth recalls.

And, bending o'er my lowly bed,

She murmurs-"Oh, fear not to die!...
For thee an angel's tears are shed,
An angel's feast is spread on high.
"Come, then, and meet the joy divire
That features of the spirits wear:
A fleeting pleasure here is thine-
An angel's crown awaits thee there.
"Listen! it is a choral hymn❞—

And, gliding softly from my couch,
Her spirit-face waxed faint and dim,

Her white robes vanished at my touch
She leaves me with her robes of snow-
Hushed is the voice that used to thrill
Around the couch of pain and wo
She leaves me to my darkness still.

I WALK IN DREAMS OF POETRY.

I WALK in dreams of poetry;

They compass me around;

I hear a low and startling voice
In every passing sound;
I meet in every gleaming star,
On which at eve I gaze,
A deep and glorious eye, to fill
My soul with burning rays.
I walk in dreams of poetry;

The very air I breathe

Is filled with visions wild and free,
That round my spirit wreathe;
A shade, a sigh, a floating cloud,

A low and whispered tone-
These have a language to my brain,
A language deep and lone.

I walk in dreams of poetry,
And in my spirit bow
Unto a lone and distant shrine,

That none around me know.
From every heath and hill I bring

A garland rich and rare,

Of flowery thought and murmuring sigh,
To wreathe mine altar fair.
I walk in dreams of poetry:
Strange spells are on me shed;
I have a world within my soul
Where no one else may tread-
A deep and wide-spread universe,
Where spirit-sound and sight
Mine inward vision ever greet

With fair and radiant light.
My footsteps tread the earth below,

While soars my soul to heaven:
Small is my portion here-yet there
Bright realms to me are given.
I clasp my kindred's greeting hands,
Walk calmly by their side,
And yet I feel between us stands
A barrier deep and wide.

I watch their deep and household joy
Around the evening hearth,

When the children stand beside each knee
With laugh and shout of mirth.
But oh! I feel unto my soul

A deeper joy is brought

To rush, with eagle wings and strong,
Up in a heaven of thought.

I watch them in their sorrowing hours,

When, with their spirits tossed,

I hear them wail with bitter cries
Their earthly prospects crossed;
I feel that I have sorrows wild
In my heart buried deep-
Immortal griefs, that none may share

With me-nor eyes can weep.
And strange it is: I can not say
If it is wo or weal,

That thus unto my heart can flow

Fountains so few may feel; The gift that can my spirit raise The cold, dark earth above,

Has flung a bar between my soul
And many a heart I love.
Yet I walk in dreams of poetry,

And would not change that path,
Though on it from a darkened sky
Were poured a tempest's wrath.
Its flowers are mine, its deathless blooms,
I know not yet the thorn;

I dream not of the evening glooms
In this my radiant morn.
Oh! still in dreams of poetry

Let me for ever tread,
With earth a temple, where divine,
Bright oracles are shed:
They soften down the earthly ills

From which they can not save;
They make a romance of our life;
They glorify the grave.

REGRET.

No voice hath breathed upon mine ear
Thy name since last we met;
No sound disturbed the silence drear,
Where sleep entombed from year to year
Thy memory, my regret.

It was not just, it was not meet,
For one so loved as I,

To coldly hear thy parting feet,
To lose for aye thine accents sweet,

Nor feel a wish to die.

Oh, no such heartless calm was not

The doom deserved by thee;
Thou whose devotedness was bought
By years of gloom, an alien's lot,

A grave beyond the sea.

I deemed not then that time at last
Should link with tears thy name;
And from the ashes of the past,
That Sorrow, with its bitter blast,
Should wake the avenging flame.

I deemed not then that when the grave
Had made thee long its own,
My soul with yearnings deep should crave
The truth, the fervent love that gave

Thy heart its passionate tone.
And yield to olden memories

The boon it once denied,
When, with calm brow and tearless eyes,
I saw thy faded energies,

I mocked thy broken pride.
All this is past; thou art at rest,
And now the strife is mine:
In turn I bear the weary breast,
The restless heart, the brain oppressed,
That in those years were thine.
And all too late, the consciousness
Of thy perfections rare,
Thy deep, thy fervent tenderness,
Thy true, thy strong devotedness,
Have waked me to despair.