Collected Works (Vol. II)

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