THE HOUSE
37
The third one, ruddy as they twain are wan,
Hungrily gazes, sees her tower of lies
Blasted that instant in some wizard wise—
The frozen look—the miserable man !
What sudden barb of what detested dart
Springs from Apollo’s bowstring to his
heart?
On sense-dulled ears what Voice rings the
decree ?
‘“*For thee the women burn: the wine is
cool:
For thee the fresco and the fruit—thou
fool !
This night thy soul shall be required of thee.!”
THE HOUSE.
A NIGHTMARE.!
Written at Anuradhapura.
I must be ready for my friend to-night.
So, such pale flowers as winter bears
bedeck
The old oak walls: the wood-fire’s cheerful
light .
Flashes upon the fire-dogs silver-bright.
Wood? why, the jetsam of yon broken
wreck
Where the white sea runs o’er the sandy
neck
That joins my island to the land when tides
Run low. What curious fancies through
my brain
Run, all so wild and all so pleasant! Glides
No phantom creeping from the under sides
Of the grey globe: no avatar of pain
Gathering a body from the wind and rain.
1 This, with slight variations, was one of the
regular dreams of Allen Bennett Macgregor,
just as the ‘‘ flying ’’ dream, the ‘‘ naked in
church’ dream, the ‘‘taken in adultery”
dream, the ‘‘lost tooth” dream, the ‘‘ being
shaved” dream, and many others of specific
type recur from time to time in the life of most
people.—A. C.
So the night fell, and gently grew the
shades
In firelight fancies taking idle form ;
Often a flashing May-day ring of maids,
Or like an army through resounding glades
Glittering, with martial music, trumpet,
shawm,
Drum—so I build the echoes of the storm
Into a pageant of triumphant shapes.
So, as the night grows deeper, and no
moon
Stirs the black heaven, no star its cloud
escapes,
I sit and watch the fire: my musing drapes
My soul in darker dreams; the storm’s
wild tune
Rolls ever deeper in my shuddering swoon :
Whereat I start, shudder, and pull together
My mind. Why, surely it must be the
hour!
My friend is coming through the wet wild
weather
Across the moor’s inhospitable heather
To the old stately tower—my own dear
tower.
He will not fail me for a sudden shower !
My friend! How often have I longed to
gee
Again his gallant figure and that face
Radiant—how long ago we parted !—we
The dearest friends that ever were! Ahme!
I curse even now that hateful parting-
place.
But now—he comes!
Apace
How glad I am!
Fly the glad minutes—There he is at last !
I know the firm foot on the marble floor.
The hour-glass turns! What miseries to cast
For ever to the limbo of the past !
He knocks—my friend! O joy for ever-
more !
He calls!
door !”
‘‘Open the door! Open the