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

Finding my way to the building, I hunted up a sergeant and a blanket, got a fire kindled in the dismantled chimney, and sat before it in my single garment, like a moist, but undismayed Choctaw, until my horse and clothing could be brought round from the Causeway. It seemed strange that the morning had not yet dawned, after the uncounted periods that must have elapsed; but when my wardrobe arrived, I looked at my watch and found that my night in the water had lasted precisely one hour.

Galloping home, I turned in with alacrity, and without a drop of whiskey, and waked a few hours after in excellent condition. The rapid changes of which that Department has seen so many—and, perhaps, to so little purpose—soon transferred us to a different scene. I have been on other scouts since then, and by various processes, but never with a zest so novel as was afforded by that night's experience. The thing soon got wind in the regiment, and led to only one ill consequence, so far as I know. It rather suppressed a way I had of lecturing the officers on the importance of reducing their personal baggage to a minimum. They got a trick of congratulating me, very respectfully, on the thoroughness with which I had once conformed my practice to my precepts.

ON A LATE VENDUE

The red flag—not the red flag of the loathed and deadly pestilence that has destroyed so many lives and disfigured so many fair and so many manly countenances, but (in some circumstances) the scarcely less ominous flag of the auctioneer—has been displayed from the handsome and substantial red-brick house in Kensington-Place Gardens, London, in which Thackeray lately lived, and in which he wrote the opening chapters of his last and never-to-be-completed work, which we are all reading with mingled pleasure and regret.

I rejoice to see the flags and pennants gracefully waving from the masts of the outward or the inward bound ship; to see our beautiful national ensign,—the ensign that is destined sooner or later, so all loyal and patriotic men and women hope and believe, triumphantly to float over the largest, the freest, the happiest, the most prosperous country in the whole wide world,—to see the stars and stripes fluttering in the breeze from the city flag-staff and the village liberty-pole; to see the dancing banners and the fluttering pennons of a regiment of brave and stalwart men marching in all the pride, pomp, and circumstance of war to the defence of their country in this her hour of danger and of need. As a child, I loved to see the colors of the holiday-soldiers flapping in the wind and flaunting in the sun on "muster-day." Nay, was not an uncle of mine (he is an old man now, and is fond of bragging of the brave days of old, when he was a gay and gallant sunshine-soldier) the standard-bearer of a once famous company of fair-weather soldiers?—dead now, most of them, and their

"bones are dust,And their good swords rust";

—and did not this daring and heroic uncle of mine, while bravely upbearing his gorgeous silken banner (a gift of the beautiful and all-accomplished ladies of Seaport) in a well-contested sham fight, receive, from the accidental discharge of a field-piece, an honorable and soldier-like wound, and of which he ever after boasted louder, and took more pride in, than the bravest veteran in Grant's gallant army of the scars and injuries received at the siege of Vicksburg? And no wonder at that, perhaps. For you will find hundreds who have been cut by the sword or pierced by the bullet of a Rebel, to one who has been ever so slightly wounded upon a holiday training-field.

But I never could, and I never shall, abide the sight of the red and ruthless flag of the vendue-master. 'Tis a signal that death is still busy, and that to many the love of money is greater than the love of friends and of those nearer and dearer than friends,—that fortune is fickle and that prosperity has fled,—that humbugs and sharpers are alive and active. 'Tis a reminder—and therefore may have its use in the world—of our mortality, an admonisher of our pride, a represser of our love of greed and gain. 'Tis evidently an invention of Satan's, this selling by vendue; and perhaps the first auction was that by which Cain sold the house and furniture of his brother Abel, then lately deceased. If there were no such thing in the world as death and misfortune and humbug, that bit of blood-colored bunting would be but seldom flaunting in the wind.

Charles Lamb counsels those who would enjoy true peace and quiet to retire into a Quaker meeting; and if our sentimental readers (and for such only is this paper written) would find wherewithal to feed and pamper their melancholy, let them follow the mercenary flags, and become haunters of auctions,—let them attend the sales of the effects of their deceased friends and acquaintances,—let them see A's favorite horse, or B's favorite country-seat, or C's favorite books and pictures knocked down, amid the laughter of the crowd and the smart sayings and witty retorts of the auctioneer, to the highest bidder,—and they will be sadder, if not wiser, men than they were before. Such scenes should have more effect on them than all the fine sermons on the vanities and nothings of life ever preached. Sir Richard Steele, in his beautiful paper, in the "Tatler," on "The Death of Friends," says, in speaking of his mother's sorrow for his father's death, there was a dignity in her grief amidst all the wildness of her transport that made pity the weakness of his heart ever since; and perhaps it is owing to the impressions I received at the first auction I ever attended that I am now an inveterate sentimentalist.

How well I remember that auction! Looking back "through the dim posterns of the mind" into the far-off days of my childhood, I see, among other things, the large and comfortable mansion—it was the home of plenty and the temple of hospitality—in which I passed some of the goldenest hours of my boyhood. But the finest play has an end, and the sweetest feasts and the merriest pastimes do not last forever. Very suddenly, indeed, did my visits to that happy home cease. For my good friends of the "great house"—the dearest old lady and the kindest and merriest old gentleman that ever patted a little boy on the head—were both seized (oh, woe the day!) by a terrible disease, and died in spite of all that the great doctor from Boston did to cure them. The last time I entered the dear old house was on a beautiful balmy summer morning; the birds were singing as I have never heard them sing since, and all Nature seemed as glad and exultant as if death, misfortune, and auctioneers were banished from the world. I found there, in place of the late kind host and hostess, a crowd—so they seemed to me—of rude and coarse-minded people; and I saw the hateful red flag of the auctioneer hanging over the door.

An eagle in a dove-cot, a fox in a barn-yard, a wolf among sheep, is mild, merciful, and humane, when compared with the flock of human vultures that had invaded this once happy residence, and were greedily stripping it of all that the taste and the wealth of its late occupants had furnished it with. Should I live to be a thousand years old, I do not think I should forget the unladylike proceedings of sundry old women at that auction. With what a free and contemptuous manner they examined the fine old furniture, and handled the fine old china, and coolly rummaged and ransacked every nook and corner, and peeped and pried into every box, chest, and closet that was not locked! And their tongues, you may be sure, were not idle the while!

The auctioneer was a little dried-up mummy of a man, the ugliness of whose countenance was, as it were, emphasized by a disagreeable leer which would ever and anon deepen into a broad grin; this man, with his dreary jokes and vapid small-talk, was equally repulsive to me.

Oh, the tap of his little hammer did knock against my very heart!

Of all the hammers in this busy and hammering world, from the huge forge-hammer with which the brawny blacksmith deals telling blows upon the glowing iron and beats it into shape, to the tiny hammer that the watchmaker so deftly handles, the ivory-headed, ebony-handled instrument of the auctioneer is the most potent. From the day it was first upraised by the original auctioneer—the nameless and unknown founder of a mighty line of auctioneers—over the chattels of some unfortunate mortal, to the present time, when the red flag is constantly waving in all the great cities and towns of the world, what an immense amount of property of all kinds and descriptions has come under that little instrument! At its fall the ancestral acres of how many spendthrift heirs have passed away from their families forever into the hands of wealthy plebeian parvenus! By a few strokes Dives's splendid mansion, and Crœsus's magnificent country-seat, and Phaëton's famous fast horses become the property of others. At its tap human beings have been sold into worse than Egyptian bondage.

Horace Walpole confidently hoped that his famous collection of virtù would be the envy and admiration of the relic-mongers and the curiosity-seekers of two or three hundred years hence; but he had not been dead fifty years before the red flag was waving over Strawberry Hill, and it was not taken down till the villa had been despoiled of all the curious and costly toys and bawbles with which it was packed and crammed. At each stroke of the hammer,—and for four-and-twenty days the quaint Gothic mansion resounded with the "Going, going, gone" of the auctioneer,—at every stroke of the hammer Walpole must have turned uneasily in his grave; for at every stroke of that fatal implement some beautiful miniature, or rare engraving, or fine painting, or precious old coin, or beloved old vase, or bit of curious old armor, or equally curious relic of the olden time, passed into the possession of some unknown person or other.

And the Duke of Roxburghe's magnificent collection of rare, curious, and valuable books, in the gathering of which he spent a goodly portion of his life, and evinced the policy and finesse of the most wily statesman and the shrewdness and cunning of a Jew money-lender, was soon after his decease scattered, by the hammer of Evans, over England and the Continent. A circumstantial history of this memorable sale was written by Dibdin the bibliomaniac.

I do not, however, grieve much—indeed, to state the precise truth, I do not grieve at all—at the dismantling of Strawberry Hill, or at the sale of the Roxburghe library; but at the vendition of Samuel Johnson's dusty and dearly loved books (they were sold by Mr. Christie, "at his Great Room in Pall-Mall," on Wednesday, February 16, 1785) I own to being a trifle sad and sentimental. For Walpole, with all his cleverness, is a man one cannot love; and as for the bibliographical Duke, he evidently thought more of a rare edition or a unique copy than of all the charms of wit, poetry, or eloquence. I suspect that a splendid binding would please him more than a splendid passage. Whereas Johnson (he was never without a book in his pocket to read at by-times when he had nothing else to do) had a scholar's love for books, and liked them for what they contained, and not merely because they were rare and costly.

Neither can I think unmoved of the dispersion "under the hammer" of the fine library at Greta Hall, which Southey had taken so much pains and pleasure in collecting, and which was, as his son has observed, the pride of his eyes and the joy of his heart,—a library which contained many a "monarch folio," and many a fine old quarto, and thousands of small, but precious volumes of ancient lore, and which was particularly rich in rare old Spanish and Portuguese books. Many of the old volumes in this library had seen such hard service, and had been so roughly handled by former owners, that they were in a very ragged condition when they came into Southey's possession; and as he could not afford to have them equipped in serviceable leather, his daughters and female friends comfortably and neatly clothed them in colored cotton prints. The twelve or fourteen hundred volumes thus bound filled an entire room, which the poet designated as the "Cottonian Library." I saw, a year or two ago, among the costly and valuable works upon the shelves of a Boston bookstore, two or three volumes of this "Cottonian Library." They are not there now. Perhaps the lucky purchaser of them may be a reader of this article. If so, let me congratulate him upon possessing such rare and interesting memorials of the famous and immortal biographer of Doctor Daniel Dove of Doncaster.

And sure I am that no gentle reader can contemplate the fate of Charles Lamb's library without becoming a prey to

"Mild-eyed melancholy."

Elia's books,—his "midnight darlings," his "folios," his "huge Switzer-like tomes of choice and massy divinity," his "kind-hearted play-books," his book of "Songs and Posies," his rare old treatises, and quaint and curious tractates,—the rich gleanings from the old London book-stalls by one who knew a good book, as Falstaff knew the Prince, by instinct,—books that had been the solace and delight of his life, the inspirers and prompters of his best and noblest thoughts, the food of his mind, and the nourishers of his fancies, ideas, and feelings,—these books, with the exception of those retained by some of Elia's personal friends, were, after Mary Lamb's death, purchased by an enterprising New-York bookseller, and shipped to America, where Lamb has ever had more readers and truer appreciators than in England. The arrival in New York of his "shivering folios" created quite a sensation among the Cisatlantic admirers of "the gentle Elia." The lovers of rare old books and the lovers of Charles Lamb jostled each other in the way to Bartlett and Welford's shop, where the treasures (having escaped the perils of the sea) were safely housed, and where a crowd of literati was constantly engaged in examining them.

The sale was attended by a goodly company of book-collectors and book-readers. All the works brought fair prices, and were purchased by (or for) persons in various parts of the country. Among the bidders were (I am told) Geoffrey Crayon,—Mr. Sparrowgrass,—Clark, of the "Knickerbocker" magazine,—that lover of the angle and true disciple of Izaak Walton, the late Rev. Dr. Bethune,—Burton, the comedian,—and other well-known authors, actors, and divines. The black-letter Chaucer—Speght's edition, folio, London, 1598,—the identical copy spoken of by Elia in his letter to Ainsworth, the novelist—was knocked down to Burton for twenty-five dollars. I know not who was the fortunate purchaser of "The Works of Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle,"—an especial favorite of Lamb's. Neither do I know the name of the buyer of "The Works of Michael Drayton." They brought twenty-eight dollars. A number of volumes (one of them my correspondent opines was "The Dunciad," variorum edition) were bought by an enthusiastic lover of Elia who came all the way from St. Louis on purpose to attend this auction. The English nation should have purchased Lamb's library. But instead of comfortably filling an alcove or two in the British Museum, it crossed the Atlantic and was widely scattered over the United States of America. Will it ever be brought together again? Ah, me! such things do not happen in the annals of books.

'Tis no wonder that the old blind scholar, Bardo de' Bardi, in George Eliot's grand story of "Romola," knowing as he did the usual fate of private libraries, manifested a constant fear that his noble collection of books would be merged in some other library after his death. Every generous soul must heartily despise Tito Melema for basely disposing of Bardo's library for lucre. There are plenty of good people, however, who would uphold him in that transaction. Indeed, do not most of us with unseemly haste and unnatural greed dispose of the effects of our deceased friends and relations? The funeral is hardly over before we begin to get ready for the auction. "I preserve," says Montaigne, "a bit of writing, a seal, a prayer-book, a particular sword, that has been used by my friends and predecessors, and have not thrown the long staves my father carried in his hand out of my closet." If the essayist lived in these days, and followed the customs that now obtain, he would send the sword and the staves, along with the other useless and (to him) worthless tokens and remembrancers of the dead and gone Montaignes, to the auction-room, and cheerfully pocket the money they brought.

Thackeray had been dead but a few weeks when a scene similar to the one he has so truthfully described in the seventeenth chapter of "Vanity Fair" occurred at his own late residence. The voice of "Mr. Hammerdown" was heard in the house, and the rooms were filled with a motley crowd of auction-haunters and relic-hunters, (among whom, of course, were Mr. Davids and Mr. Moses,)—a rabble-rout of thoughtless and unfeeling men and women, eager to get an "inside view" of the home of the great satirist. The wine in his cellars,—the pictures upon his walls,—the books in his library,—the old "cane-bottomed chair" in which he sat while writing many of his best works, and which he has immortalized in a fine ballad,—the gifts of kind friends, liberal publishers, and admiring readers,—yea, his house itself, and the land it stands on,—passed under the hammer of the auctioneer. O good white head, low lying in the dust of Kensal Green! it matters little to thee now what becomes of the red brick mansion built so lovingly in the style of Queen Anne's time, and filled with such admirable taste from cellar to roof; but many a pilgrim from these shores will step aside from the roar of London and pay a tribute of remembrance to the house where lived and died the author of "Henry Esmond" and "Vanity Fair."

THE RIDE TO CAMP

When all the leaves were red or brown,Or golden as the summer sun,And now and then came flickering downUpon the grasses hoar and dun,Through which the first faint breath of frostHad as a scorching vapor run,I rode, in solemn fancies lost,To join my troop, whose low tents shoneFar vanward to our camping host.Thus as I slowly journeyed on,I was made suddenly awareThat I no longer rode alone.Whence came that strange, incongruous pair?Whether to make their presence plainTo mortal eyes from earth or airThe essence of these spirits twainHad clad itself in human guise,As in a robe, is question vain.I hardly dared to turn my eyes,So faint my heart beat; and my blood,Checked and bewildered with surprise,Within its aching channels stood,And all the soldier in my heartScarce mustered common hardihood.But as I paused, with lips apart,Strong shame, as with a sturdy arm,Shook me, and made my spirit start,And all my stagnant life grew warm;Till, with my new-found courage wild,Out of my mouth there burst a stormOf song, as if I thus beguiledMy way with careless melody:Whereat the silent figures smiled.Then from a haughty, asking eyeI scanned the uninvited pair,And waited sternly for reply.One shape was more than mortal fair;He seemed embodied out of light;The sunbeams rippled through his hair;His cheeks were of the color brightThat dyes young evening, and his eyesGlowed like twin planets, that to sightIncrease in lustre and in size,The more intent and long our gaze.Full on the future's pain and prize,Half seen through hanging cloud and haze,His steady, far, and yearning lookBlazed forth beneath his crown of bays.His radiant vesture, as it shook,Dripped with great drops of golden dew;And at each step his white steed took,The sparks beneath his hoof-prints flew,As if a half-cooled lava-floodHe trod, each firm step breaking through.This figure seemed so wholly good,That as a moth which reels in light,Unknown till then, nor understood,My dazzled soul swam; and I mightHave swooned, and in that presence died,From the mere splendor of the sight,Had not his lips, serene with prideAnd cold, cruel purpose, made me swerveFrom aught their fierce curl might deride.A clarion of a single curveHung at his side by slender bands;And when he blew, with faintest nerve,Life burst throughout those lonely lands;Graves yawned to hear, Time stood aghast,The whole world rose and clapped its hands.Then on the other shape I castMy eyes. I know not how or whyHe held my spellbound vision fast.Instinctive terror bade me fly,But curious wonder checked my will.The mysteries of his awful eye,So dull, so deep, so dark, so chill,And the calm pity of his browAnd massive features hard and still,Lovely, but threatening, and the bowOf his sad neck, as if he toldEarth's graves and sorrows as they grow,Cast me in musings manifoldBefore his pale, unanswering face.A thousand winters might have rolledAbove his head. I saw no traceOf 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 rangeThe moving hills which sailors viewFloating 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 dayDied out before him, and the grass,Then sear and tawny, turned to gray.The hardy flowers that will not passFor the shrewd autumn's chilling rainClosed 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 headOf any dart, its power was suchThat Nature quailed with mortal dread,And crippling pain and foul diseaseFor sorrowing leagues around him spread.Whene'er he cast o'er lands and seasThat fatal shaft, there rose a groan;And borne along on every breezeCame 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 canWho 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 drearBeneath the tramplings of the bandsWhich two great armies send abroad,With swords and torches in their hands?"To which the bright one, as a godWho slowly speaks the words of fate,Towards his dark comrade gave a nod,And answered:—"I anticipateThe thought that is your own reply.You know him, or the fear and hateUpon 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 roseAbove 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 caughtHis words up, as the martial lineBefore my eyes dissolved to nought:—"Soldier, these heroes all are mine;And I am Glory!" As a tombThat groans on opening, "Say, were thine,"Cried the dark figure. "I consumeThee and thy splendors utterly.More names have faded in my gloomThan chronicles or poesyHave kept alive for babbling earthTo boast of in despite of me."The other cried, in scornful mirth,"Of all that was or is thou curse,Thou dost o'errate thy frightful worth!Between the cradle and the hearse,What one of mine has lived unknown,Whether through triumph or reverse?For them the regal jewels shone,For them the battled line was spread;Victorious or overthrown,My splendor on their path was shed.They lived their life, they ruled their day:I hold no commerce with the dead.Mistake me not, and falsely say,'Lo, this is slow, laborious Fame,Who cares for what has passed away,'—My twin-born brother, meek and tame,Who troops along with crippled Time,And shrinks at every cry of shame,And halts at every stain and crime;While I, through tears and blood and guilt,Stride on, remorseless and sublime.War with his offspring as thou wilt;Lay thy cold lips against their cheek.The poison or the dagger-hiltIs what my desperate children seek.Their dust is rubbish on the hills;Beyond the grave they would not speak.Shall man surround his days with ills,And live as if his only careWere how to die, while full life thrillsHis bounding blood? To plan and dare,To use life is life's proper end:Let death come when it will, and where!"—"You prattle on, as babes that spendTheir morning half within the brinkOf the bright heaven from which they wend;But what I am you dare not think.Thick, brooding shadow round me lies;You stare till terror makes you wink;I go not, though you shut your eyes.Unclose again the loathful lid,And lo, I sit beneath the skies,As Sphinx beside the pyramid!"So Death, with solemn rise and fallOf voice, his sombre mind undid.He paused; resuming,—"I am all;I am the refuge and the rest;The heart aches not beneath my pall.O soldier, thou art young, unpressedBy snarling grief's increasing swarm;While joy is dancing in thy breast,Fly from the future's fated harm;Rush where the fronts of battle meet,And let me take thee on my arm!"Said Glory,—"Warrior, fear deceit,Where Death gives counsel. Run thy race;Bring the world cringing to thy feet!Surely no better time nor placeThan this, where all the Nation callsFor help, and weakness and disgraceLag in her tents and council-halls,And down on aching heart and brainBlow after blow unbroken falls.Her strength flows out through every vein;Mere time consumes her to the core;Her stubborn pride becomes her bane.In vain she names her children o'er;They fail her in her hour of need;She mourns at desperation's door.Be thine the hand to do the deed,To seize the sword, to mount the throne,And wear the purple as thy meed!No heart shall grudge it; not a groanShall shame thee. Ponder what it wereTo save a land thus twice thy own!"Use gave a more familiar airTo my companions; and I spokeMy heart out to the ethereal pair:—"When in her wrath the Nation brokeHer easy rest of love and peace,I was the latest who awoke.I sighed at passion's mad increase.I strained the traitors to my heart.I said, 'We vex them; let us cease.'I would not play the common part.Tamely I heard the Southrons' brag:I said, 'Their wrongs have made them smart.'At length they struck our ancient flag,—Their flag as ours, the traitors damned!—And braved it with their patchwork-rag.I rose, when other men had calmedTheir anger in the marching throng;I rose, as might a corpse embalmed,Who hears God's mandate, 'Right my wrong!'I rose and set me to His deed,With His great Spirit fixed and strong.I swear, that, when I drew this sword,And joined the ranks, and sought the strife,I drew it in Thy name, O Lord!I drew against my brother's life,Even as Abraham on his childDrew slowly forth his priestly knife.No thought of selfish ends defiledThe holy fire that burned in me;No gnawing care was thus beguiled.My children clustered at my knee;Upon my braided soldier's coatMy wife looked,—ah, so wearily!—It made her tender blue eyes float.And when my wheeling rowels rang,Or on the floor my sabre smote,The sound went through her like a pang.I saw this; and the days to comeForewarned me with an iron clang,That drowned the music of the drum,That made the rousing bugle faint;And yet I sternly left my home,—Haply to fall by noisome taintOf foul disease, without a deedTo sound in rhyme or shine in paint;But, oh, at least, to drop a seed,Humble, but faithful to the last,Sown by my Country in her need!O Death, come to me, slow or fast;I'll do my duty while I may!Though sorrow burdens every blast,And want and hardship on me layTheir bony gripes, my life is pledged,And to my Country given away!Nor feel I any hope, new-fledged,Arise, strong Glory, at thy voice.Our sword the people's will has edged,Our rule stands on the people's choice.This land would mourn beneath a crown,Where born slaves only could rejoice.How should the Nation keep it down?What would a despot's fortunes be,After his days of strength had flown,Amidst this people, proud and free,Whose histories from such sources run?The thought is its own mockery.I pity the audacious oneWho may ascend that thorny throne,And bide a single setting sun.Day dies; my shadow's length has grown;The sun is sliding down the west.That trumpet in my camp was blown.From yonder high and wooded crestI shall behold my squadron's camp,Prepared to sleep its guarded restIn the low, misty, poisoned dampThat wears the strength, and saps the heart,And drains the surgeon's watching lamp.Hence, phantoms! in God's peace depart!I was not fashioned for your will:I scorn the trump, and brave the dart!"They grinned defiance, lingering still."I charge ye quit me, in His nameWho bore His cross against the hill!—By Him who died a death of shame,That I might live, and ye might die,—By Christ the Martyr!"—As a flameLeaps sideways when the wind is high,The bright one bounded from my side,At that dread name, without reply;And Death drew in his mantle wide,And shuddered, and grew ghastly pale,As if his dart had pricked his side.There came a breath, a lonely wail,Out of the silence o'er the land;Whether from souls of bliss or bale,What mortal brain may understand?Only I marked the phantoms wentClosely together, hand in hand,As if upon one errand bent.