The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14, No. 84, October, 1864. Various

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      Earth's graves and sorrows as they grow,

      Cast me in musings manifold

      Before his pale, unanswering face.

      A thousand winters might have rolled

      Above his head. I saw no trace

      Of youth or age, of time or change,

      Upon his fixed immortal grace.

      A smell of new-turned mould, a strange,

      Dank, earthen odor from him blew,

      Cold as the icy winds that range

      The moving hills which sailors view

      Floating around the Northern Pole,

      With horrors to the shivering crew.

      His garments, black as minèd coal,

      Cast midnight shadows on his way;

      And as his black steed softly stole,

      Cat-like and stealthy, jocund day

      Died out before him, and the grass,

      Then sear and tawny, turned to gray.

      The hardy flowers that will not pass

      For the shrewd autumn's chilling rain

      Closed their bright eyelids, and, alas!

      No summer opened them again.

      The strong trees shuddered at his touch,

      And shook their foliage to the plain.

      A sheaf of darts was in his clutch;

      And wheresoe'er he turned the head

      Of any dart, its power was such

      That Nature quailed with mortal dread,

      And crippling pain and foul disease

      For sorrowing leagues around him spread.

      Whene'er he cast o'er lands and seas

      That fatal shaft, there rose a groan;

      And borne along on every breeze

      Came up the church-bell's solemn tone,

      And cries that swept o'er open graves,

      And equal sobs from cot and throne.

      Against the winds she tasks and braves,

      The tall ship paused, the sailors sighed,

      And something white slid in the waves.

      One lamentation, far and wide,

      Followed behind that flying dart.

      Things soulless and immortal died,

      As if they filled the self-same part;

      The flower, the girl, the oak, the man,

      Made the same dust from pith or heart,

      Then spoke I, calmly as one can

      Who with his purpose curbs his fear,

      And thus to both my question ran:—

      "What two are ye who cross me here,

      Upon these desolated lands,

      Whose open fields lie waste and drear

      Beneath the tramplings of the bands

      Which two great armies send abroad,

      With swords and torches in their hands?"

      To which the bright one, as a god

      Who slowly speaks the words of fate,

      Towards his dark comrade gave a nod,

      And answered:—"I anticipate

      The thought that is your own reply.

      You know him, or the fear and hate

      Upon your pallid features lie.

      Therefore I need not call him Death:

      But answer, soldier, who am I?"

      Thereat, with all his gathered breath,

      He blew his clarion; and there came,

      From life above and life beneath,

      Pale forms of vapor and of flame,

      Dim likenesses of men who rose

      Above their fellows by a name.

      There curved the Roman's eagle-nose,

      The Greek's fair brows, the Persian's beard,

      The Punic plume, the Norman bows;

      There the Crusader's lance was reared;

      And there, in formal coat and vest,

      Stood modern chiefs; and one appeared,

      Whose arms were folded on his breast,

      And his round forehead bowed in thought,

      Who shone supreme above the rest.

      Again the bright one quickly caught

      His words up, as the martial line

      Before СКАЧАТЬ