The Castle of Remembrance

Before my hearth with head low-bowedI dream, and strive to reach again,Across the misty past's gray cloud,Unto Remembrance's domain,

Where tree and house and upland wayAre blurred and blue like passing ghosts,And the eye, ponder though it may,Consults in vain the guiding-posts.

Now gropingly to gain a sightOf all the buried world, I pressThrough mystic marge of shade and lightAnd limbo of forgetfulness.

But white, diaphanous Memory stands,Where many roadways meet and spread,Like Ariadne, in my handsThrusting her little ball of thread.

Henceforth the way is all secure.The shrouded sun hath reappeared,And o'er the trees with vision sureI see the castle tower upreared.

Beneath the boughs where day grows darkWith shower on shower of leaves down-pouredThe dear old path through moss and barkStill lengthens far its narrow cord.

But creeping-plant and bramble-sprayHave wrought a net to daunt me now.The stubborn branch I force awaySwings fiercely back to lash my brow.

I come upon the house at last.No window lit with lamp or face,No breath of smoke from gables vast,To touch with life the mouldering place!

Bridges are crumbling. Moats are still,And slimed with rank, green refuse-flowers,And tortuous waves of ivy fillThe crevices and choke the towers.

The portico in moonlight wanes.Time sculptures it to suit his whim.And with the wash of many rainsMy coloured coat of arms is dim.

The door I open eagerly.The ancient hinges creak and halt.A breath of dampness wafts to meThe musty odour of the vault.

The hairy nettle sharp of sting,The coarse and broad-leafed burdock weedIn court-yard nooks are prospering,By spreading hemlocks canopied.

Upon two marble monsters near,That guard the mossy steps of stone,The shadow of a tree falls clear,That in my absence has upgrown.

Sudden the lion sentinels raiseTheir paws, aggressive and malign,And challenge me with their white gaze;But soft I breathe the countersign.

I pass. The old dog menaceth,But falls back hushed, the shades amid.My resonant footstep wakenethCrouched echoes in their corners hid.

Through yellow panes of glass a rayOf dubious light creeps down the hallWhere ancient tapestries displayApollo's fortunes from the wall.

Fair tree-bound Daphne still with graceStretches her tufted fingers green.But in the amorous god's embraceShe fades, a formless phantom seen.

I watch divine Apollo stand,Herdsman to acarus-riddled sheep,The Muses Nine, a haggard band,Upon a faded Pindus weep;

While Solitude in scanty gownTraces "Desertion" in the dustThat through the air she sifteth downUpon a marble stand august.

And now, among forgotten things,I find, like sleepers manifold,Pastels bedimmed, dark picturings,Young beauties, and the friends of old.

My faltering fingers lift a crape,--And lo, my love with look and lure!With puffing skirts and prisoned shape!Cidalise a la Pompadour!

A tender, blossoming rose she feelsAgainst her ribboned bodice pressed,Whose lace half hides and half revealsA snowy, azure-veined breast.

Within her eyes gleam sparkles lush,As on the rime-kissed, deadened leaves.Upon her cheek a purple flush--Death's own cosmetic hue!--deceives.

She startles as I come before,And fixeth soft on me her eyes,Reproachfully forevermore,Yet with a charm and witching wise.

Life bore me from thee at its will,Yet on my heart thy name is laid,Thou dead delight, that lingereth still,Bedizened for the masquerade!

Envious of Art, fair Nature wroughtTo overpass Murillo's fame,--From Andalusia here she broughtThe face that lights the second frame.

By some poetical caprice,Our atmosphere of mist and cloud,With rare exotic charm's increaseThis other Petra Camara dowed.

Warm orange tones are gilding yetHer lovely skin of roseate hue.Her eyelids fair have lashes jetThat beams of sunshine filter through.

There shimmers fine a pearly gleamBetween her scarlet lips elate;Her beauty flashes forth supreme--A bright south summer pomegranate.

Long to the sound of Spain's guitar,I told her praise 'mid song and glass.She came alone one evenstar,And all my room Alhambra was.

Farther I see a robust Fair,With strong and gem-beladen arms.In pearls of price and velvet rareAre set her ivory bosom's charms.

Her ennui is a weary queen's,An adulating court amid.Superb, aloof, her hand she leansUpon a casket's jewelled lid.

Her sensuous lips their crimes confess,As crimson with the blood of hearts.With brutal, mad voluptuousnessHer conquering eye a challenge darts.

Here dwells, in lieu of tender grace,Vertiginous allure, whereofA cruel Venus ruled a race,Presiding o'er malignant love.

Unnatural mother to her child,This Venus all imperative!O thou, my bitter joy and wild,--Farewell forever! I forgive!

Within its frame in shadow fine,The misty glass that still enduresReveals another face than mine,--The earliest of my portraitures.

A retrospective ghost, with faceOf vanished type, steps from the vastDim mirror of his biding-placeIn tenebrous, forgotten past.

Gay in his doublet satin-rose,Coloured in bold and vivid way,He seems as if about to poseFor Deveria or Boulanger.

Terror of glabrous commoner,His flowing locks in royal guise,Like mane of lion, or sinisterKing's hair, fall heavy to his thighs.

Romanticist of bold conceit,Knight of an art which strives anew,He hurled himself at Drama's feet,When erst Hernani's trumpet blew.

Night falls. The corners are astirWith many shapes and shadows tall.The Unknown--grim stage-carpenter--Sets up its darksome frights o'er all.

A sudden burst of candles, weirdWith aureoles, like lamps of death!The room is populous, and blearedWith folk brought hither by a breath!

Down step the portraits from the wall,--A ruddy-litten company!Circling the fireplace in the hall,Where the wood blazes suddenly.

The figures wrested from the tombsHave lost their rigid, frozen mien,The gradual glow of life illumesThe Past with flush incarnadine.

A colour lights the faces pale,As in the days of old delight.Friends whom my thought shall never fail,I thank ye, that ye came to-night!

Now eighteen-thirty shows to meIts great and valiant-hearted men.(Ah, like Otranto's pirates, weWho were an hundred, are but ten!)

And one his reddish beard spreads out,Like Barbarossa in his cave.Another his mustachio stoutCurls at the ends in fashion suave.

Under the ample fold that cloaksAn ever unrevealed ill,Petrus a cigarette now smokes,Naming it "papelito" still.

Another cometh, fain to tellHis visions and his hopes supreme.Like Icarus on the sands he fell,Where lie all broken shafts of dream.

And one a drama hath begot,Planned after some new model's freak,Which, merging all things in its plot,Makes Calderon with Moliere speak.

Tom, late forsaken by his Dear,Love's Labour's Lost must low recite;And Fritz to Cidalise makes clearFaust's vision of Walpurgis Night.

But dawn comes through the window free.Diaphanous the phantoms grow.The objects of realityStrike through their shapes that merge and go.

The candles are consumed away.The ember-lights no longer gleamUpon the hearth. No thing shall stay.Farewell, O castle of my dream!

December gray shall turn once moreThe glass of Time, for all we fret!The present enters at my door,And vainly bids me to forget.