The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Lathe of Morpheus; or, The dream song.

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Lathe of Morpheus; or, The dream song.

Author: E. M.

Release date: September 3, 2020 [eBook #63113]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LATHE OF MORPHEUS; OR, THE DREAM SONG. *** 


[1]


THE LATHE OF MORPHEUS

OR

THE DREAM SONG


[2]




[3]


THE

LATHE OF MORPHEUS

OR

THE DREAM SONG


A TRIBUTE

TO

B. C.

FROM

E. M.


PRIVATELY PRINTED

1915


[4]


H. G. Commin,

Bookseller,

Bournemouth.






[5]


CONTENTS








PAGE





Part I
To Bridget: The Invocation
}
The Song
7





Part II
The Garden of Sleep
}
The Dream
}
10





Part III
The Lathe of Morpheus
}
}
14





Part IV
The Vision Glorious
}
}
21





Part V
The Leaden Table
}
}
24





Part VI
To Bridget: An Apologia
}
31




To Bridget:
I
Carmen Tristis
}
33




II
Carmen Laeti
}
34




III
Sonnet to a Bowl of Gold and Scarlet Tulips
}
35





[6]






[7]


Part I.

TO BRIDGET.

THE INVOCATION.










Though oft-times ill-sifting memory with deft digits thickly draws


Ashen grey curtains thwart my vagrant brain;


She ne’er from me can hide thy face and form,


Nor cloaked Oblivion, from streams of Lethe borne.


Ensnare in sable trammel, behind her basalt doors


Thy eyes, thy lips, thy smile,—that ere again


My gaping senses steep


And lull to fragrant sleep.


Fiercer in Morning Sun than in turgid hues of Night


Calcined and adust, parching my thirsting sight


Thy welcome form appears,


Grief-giving while it cheers.
[8]

Bridget! Unreal! Dead phantom of a form


Yet living, breathing—sneering, wreathed in olive scorn


Haunt not my seered soul pierced by thy secret sting;


Death to a pulsing throb, Life to a pulseless thing!


Now through the Gardens of Sleep, I see thy lovely mystic face


Pale ’gainst the scandent tendrils and resin-bleeding cones


Paler than ivory white, colder than bleachened bones,


Pallid and alburnous, fired for a lingering space


By eyes that never human in earthy regions saw.


Let me yet behold thee, far fairer than ere of yore!


For ’neath that polished painted mask of seeming deadened Love


I know some poignant passion must course in sinuous stream
[9]

Plashing with crystal foam in lustrous realms above,


From a sea, where the gods’ romances are woven in wondrous dream.


Bridget unmask! speak to me, awake, and radiant rise!


Phœnix-inspired flying from former fires into cerulean skies!


Though still wrapped in the scented cerements of the mummy I thought was you


I would gaze on the risen Bridget, as a being both real and true;


Nothing strange or new—just true.


In the place of a ghost of a woman, whose self I never knew


In the place of an empty phantom as cold as the summer dew.












[10]


Part II.

THE GARDEN OF SLEEP.










Lo! there in the Garden I behold my princess


Yea! there in the Garden of Sleep.


There in the Garden I fain would caress


My lovely princess


In the Garden of Sleep.


’Neath the jasamine trees, and the lilac and rose


There stands my princess—so close—yes so close.






Alloyed with the lilies—the orange pink lilies—


Among the roses and lilies


Stands my azure princess


Lo! there in the Garden of Sleep.


Midst the trembling narcissus and cadmium dillies


Midst the daf-o-down-dilies


Glides my faëry princess


In her gold-azure dress.
[11]





Veridian the foliage packed heavy in creepers,


Olive the pine tree with sap-oozing cones;


Each rustling leaf bestirring the sleepers,


The brown buzzing bees and the resonant drones.


Dreaming with legs all bespattered with pollen;


—The passionate kiss of a love giving flower—


While velvety moths in flight silent and solemn,


Creep dreamily forth from each scent-giving bower;


And purple clematis with quivering tendrils


Drink in the pure air, and sleep-whisp’ring wind


Sad pale perfumed firs wave feathery branches


In Columbine’s fingers gently clasped and entwined


In Columbine’s pensile and pale greeny tendrils


There in the Garden of Sleep.


Where silver fountains leap


Hid in a deep recess


There roams my dear princess


’Neath the Castle of Dreams.
[12]

Sunk there in a carpet of starwort and cress,


Where myrtle and eglantines gracefully sway


Anent the feet of my lovely princess


Lies a large bronzen bowl where the dragonflies play


In the sunbeams that blue amber lotus caress.


Filled to the brim through a lazuli funnel,


Fed from the meads by a soft lisping brook;


Pours itself forth int’ a silvery runnel,


Which laughing, flows on through that cool shaded nook,


Cool as the shadows that lie in the dress


Of my peerless princess;


Blue and crystal the bronzen bowl, reflecting the vault above


Sapphire and crystal the red bronze bowl, reflecting the face of my love


Red and gold the glittering carp that sport in the waters below


Ruby and gold the shimmering carp—the hues of a sunset glow.
[13]

White, ivory-white, and golden green are the lights that fall from the lilies


Golden-orange and orange-green, the shades of the daf-o-down-dilies.


But far more fair in that fair recess


Are the ivory hands of my pale princess


—There in the Garden of Sleep—


And her lustrous eyes of ebon black


Curtained with lashes so silken and sleek,


The poise of her head, the line of her back,


Arched, as she culls the blood red rose


What a wonderful, classical, graceful pose


One tapering finger wantonly plays


With a lambent jewel that gently sways


O’er her breast.


In that Garden of Rest,


Where all that is purest, tenderest—best


One with another loving contest


For a smile or a kiss or a passing caress


From my azure princess.












[14]


Part III.

*THE LATHE OF MORPHEUS.










Hid in a tenebrose valley veiled by the mushroom pine,


Aloof in the lathe of Morpheus—I know a sombre tomb


Engraved on its brazen portal is enchiseled this mystic sign:


“Behold thou vagrant pilgrim, dark Morphia’s Hetacomb.”






Seizing the knocker in my outstretched hand


I crashed the head athwart the leaden sign;


An answering echo wandered o’er the Land


Breaking in thunderous knocks, a pale reflex of mine.
[15]

Slowly before my wondering eyes the door


Broke in a thousand fragments to the floor;


Disclosing a gaping orifice with rusty mildewed rim


The entrance to a stairway, torturous, long and grim,


Whose polished steps trailed from the sight to denser gloom within.


Then passing ’twixt two monoliths engraved one “Death,” one “Sin.”


I heard in the chasm below me the Marid’s enchanted hymn,


And I felt the chill of their icy breath,


As they dully intoned that Song of Death:—


“Black and green; with sober sheen;


They wander to and fro.


But none of mortal birth may glean


The rhythm; or why ’tis so.”


Aghast by these secret words of power,


From my forehead dripped an acrid shower


Of clotted sweat, and my trembling knees


Quaked together, like nude limbs of trees
[16]

Bark and knock on a wintry night,


For the pith of my soul was bathed in fright.


So catching my breath for a mighty shout,


I felt my life with my breath go out.


Yet only a whisper hissed forth from my lips,


Breaking between my chattering teeth in strangled shivering lisps


As I wailed to the dimness within;


“O! ye who haunt these fœtid bowers, cold Winter has gone and Spring


Hath come with her flowers.”


But all that I heard in answer, up the ebon polished stair


Was the Deathless chant of the Marids; the Jinn with the shimmering hair;


That woeful hymn of the Marids—that canticle of despair.






“Scarlet and blue in radiant hue


They wander through Space and Time.


But none of mortal birth, save Thou


May know the rhythm or rhyme.


Great is Suleyman Daood’s son!


Great is Allah! the Only One!


When Life is lost, then Death is won.
[17]

But by virtue of the sacred fire


Here be the few who may ne’er expire.” ...






Faint and weary with soul oppressed,


I was fearful to list for the fateful rest


Of the Song of Death—the dirge they sang—


That ne’er had been learned by mortal man.






So grasping the banister lest I fell,


Madly I shouted: “Hail, Jans of Hell!


Servants of Iblees! Peace where ye dwell!


Ye chanters of songs that none may tell,


Ye who shun the light of God’s good day,


Answer me! set me on my way


Down these labyrinth corridors of this Tomb of fire;


Built by Magins round smoking Pyre


Where Vathek offered through lust of Power


All the youth of his City,


Without sorrow or pity,


To the gluted ghool who on evil hour


Came to his Palace with Satan’s dower.”


And still no answer—but louder grew


That fearful hymn that no mortal knew.
[18]

And through the transcendent stillness of the air


I saw their beryl eyes and gleaming hair;


Each holding aloft one leprous quivering hand


The other chained o’er the heart by a molten burning band.






And up from the darkness, deep down beneath,


There came the murmur of voices and the moving of teeth.


Then as if at a sign, or previously bidden,


The two pillars close and the entrance is hidden,


And from corner to corner the vaulting is riven.






The banisters vanish to float thinly away,


The black sheeny steps coil, totter and sway,


All is Darkness around, above and below,


And blood-chilling fingers brush my forehead, like snow;


A hurricane rose, and a wild whistling wind


Swept up from beneath, and in it entwined
[19]

Were the shadowy Marids with luminous eyes,


And a stench like to woodlands where the undergrowth dies


Assailed the dank ether; whilst thousands of flies,


The minions of Iblees sped whirling around;


And flesh semi-fermented smoked on the ground.


Then in the midst of this utter distress


I breathed forth the NAME of my azure Princess.






...






To me awaking from this evil dream,


Rose tinted morn appeared in fulgent light,


While great Apollo with his spears did seem


To be dispelling all the hosts of night,


Proud Helios in chariot thwart the sky,


Coursing through fleecy clouds kept on his way,


And in the dimmer distance, I descry


—Where Night her maukish raiment casts away—
[20]

A crowd of fleeing objects, gleaming hair


Flying behind them in the morning air.


But brimming joys my sorrowing senses greet,


For ’midst the blossoms, sun-kissed at my feet,


There where the leaping springs the thirsty banks caress


Appeared the vision of my pale Princess.












* Lathe (lath)—Anglo-Saxon laeth: a division of a county.
Here the Division belonging to Morpheus in the County
of Sleep, itself a division of the Realm of Unconsciousness.










[21]


Part IV.

THE VISION GLORIOUS.










When Luna o’er the vault would fain hold sway


Striving the steeds of Phœbus to assay;


And he, the drifting racks with gilded spear had riven;


With ochreous steeds coursing the plain of Heaven,


Bore high aloft his flambent crimson bowl


Steering on ruddy Hesperus for goal.


And far behind his chariot’s dust did leave


That frail ætherial gleam—the Star of eve.


I, wearied with the day’s fatiguing sorrow


Called to proud Helios “Hasten thou the morrow”!


Then clapped dim eyes upon the scene around


The sullen austere hills, the humid misty ground


Sad that the spectral lances of the moon


Essayed the glowing firmament so soon.
[22]

For when tired Earth the arms of Day is leaving


For those of sterner Night, yet fondly cleaving


Still to Sunshine’s fingers, rose tipped as they lie


Aslant the woods, the valleys, ground and sky,


The heart of man,—in that calm solitude—alone


Sighs for his faded hopes now cold as stone


Weeps for his sins, hoping yet to atone


For actions past, unalterable—and done—


Performed, accomplished, finished—everyone—


Then inly prays with eager expectation


To Holy patron Saint,—for his salvation—


With some such thoughts as these, I sadly gazed


Over the moonlit garden’s scented air


And peering through the mist, I stood amazed,


For—lo! my patron Saint was standing there.


Gabled in raiment pale-azure as the sea


Of Northern climes, thus she appeared to me;
[23]

Azure and Silver, like to a frozen tear


Shed into Ocean by some arctic Mear;


Holy her features—haloed her raven hair,


Black eyebrows curving over dreaming eyes


She stood awhile in ecstacy, radiant, passing fair;


No one more lovely being beyond our earthy skies


Stirred by this hallowed mirage, my heart gave forth a cry,


“Blessed St. Bridget save me! intercede for my soul on High.”


Then came back a whispered echo over the sighing spray


“Blessed St. Bridget save me! Ora pro me.”


Serenely the lovely vision smiled peacefully on me,


Then slowly faded into the even’s mist.


Drying my dewy eyelids I sank on bended knee,


And prayed to the One who had suffered, nailed to a torture-tree,


Whose gaping wounds poor doubting Thomas kissed.












[24]


Part V.

THE LEADEN TABLET.










Then to my couch I bent my weary way,


And deep in sage reflection sank my soul.


Striving in halting phrases still to pray.


Striving to purge my heart, my mind, my whole.


Sinuous seductive music charmed the air,


Sweet fragrance cast such perfume all around


That I was dazed, and seeking everywhere,


No trace or sign of ought was to be found.


Then in the pentiled garth in virent ramage clothed


Open to view when lying on my bed,


—A spot that in the sunlight much I loathed—


Transpired the vision of a lovely head.


Golden of hair with slanting eyes of green,


Sharp pearléd teeth, of glassy, milky sheen,
[25]

Red rounded lips, like cherry cut in twain,


Chiseled and shapely ears straight backward lain,


A nose that Venus, of the Greeks adored,


Would madly envy; e’en she could scarce afford


To match her perfect body with the limbs


That tardy came to view below the head.


And still my haunted memory dizzy swims


When’er I view in thought her glowing form.


Mutely voluptuous, standing by my bed,


Redolent of Eve! Scented like fragrant morn!


Those rounded breasts like snowy apple fruit


Culled from pomegranate tree with leaves of tourmaline


Not even Heaven could stand contented mute


If He beheld those arms so serpentine


Those humid lips, like plum blooms when the sun is warm,


Nude to the waist, there kirtled round


With Zone of silver, prank’d with palest grey,


Like misty fleeces which at dawn are found


Clinging round hills to greet the break of Day.
[26]

Then draperies of leaden hue


Veiled her legs and feet from view.


With supple motion, noble tread


Smiling she glided t’ward my bed;


And stretching forth her rippling arms


She bade me look upon her charms.


And forth from her lips this triplet came


“Ivan, Ivan, je t’aime, le t’aime.


Je te tiens et je te maintendrai


Je ne cherche qu’un et je l’ai merité”


Purling this triplet to a murmuring strain


A magic mean of pleasure and of pain


Languid toward my bed she came,


And my soul was burnt with a lusting flame.






Rising I seized her serpent hand, icy as Death it lay on my palm


As she kissed my lips, the winds’ wild band played through her hair the Marids psalm.


There ’twixt her naked bosoms swayed that awful leaden sign


Bearing that occult message, that terrible fateful line,
[27]

Lo! there trembled the leaden Tablet that hung on the Brazen tomb,


“Behold! thou vagrant pilgrim dark Morphia’s Hecatomb!”


With a howl of ghoulish laughter,


Like the noise of pouring water


She leapt into the air above me,


High into the air above me.


“Take me into thy arms and love me!


Or Burn till the crack of Doom!


Yea, I am the leaden tablet!


From the Night mare’s stable tomb


Forsake thou the eyes of thy Bridget!


The ebon eyes of thy Bridget!


And work with a sulphur digit


Through the weft of my firey loom.


Work on my loom of Passion


Where the threads of every fashion


That in Zamiel’s flax fields bloom.


Come twin-soul to my cavern!


Press firm thy lips against mine!


Drink from Love’s joyous tavern,


Drink deep of Passion’s wine!


And care no more and care no less


For the ebon eyes of thy pale Princess.
[28]

I will give you a golden promise of a pleasure that none have known,


And in mine own arms thou shalt learn it; just we two beings alone


Shall live in a world of Pleasure, in a Palace of utter Delight


Come sweet child, the love of my leisure, sleep in mine arms to-night.”






“Dost thou give me a golden promise of pleasure apart from pain?


Of a life that is always happy, of a rose-bed that none may gain,


Save we two being together, alone in a world of our own?


Take me, ‘my sacrifice,’ take me, to the Loom and the flaxen Zone.”


She lifted me into her bosom, caressing my hair the while,


And over her lips of crimson there played a terrible smile


“Yourself for the coming bridal, myself I will comely deck,”


And she fastened her teeth white and gleaming deep into the vein of my neck.
[29]

And I dreamed as ye dream with Morphia


Just a floating, fainting away;


A dream that is bought from Morphia


And Death is the price ye pay.






But horrid terror seized upon my heart


Bidding me fight.


So vainly struggling in unequal part


I fought for right.


Seeking by blows my ebbing life to save,


On through the night;


Fighting the fiend, who thirsting, tightly clave;


—A ghastly sight—


Teeth deep embedded, drinking from my vein;


Till morning light


Greeted by crowing cockerel, smiling came;


Then gripping tight,


I seized her gulping throat in clenching hands.


With all my might,


Thumbs fixed like iron bands.


Panting I crushed her skull,


Kneeling upon her breast.
[30]

Then with a vicious pull


I tore out her pulsing throat,


Leaving the quivering rest,


Eyes stagnant glazed and dull


Wrapped, morient in my coat.






Sweating and breathless, blindly I sought for water;


Prone to the floor I fell stumbling thwart Zamiel’s daughter.


Blood, from my aching wound, dripped to the floor;


Faint in a numbing swound I lay in my gore.


Then gentle hands poured cooling draught betwixt my parchéd lips


Forcing the elixir of life back in thirsty sips


And bending o’er my tumbled couch my azure pale Princess


Left on the Vampire’s burning wounds her cooling lips’ impress.












[31]


Part VI.

THE APOLOGIA.










O Bridget! whose white skin is like to petals of the gladiola flower,


Remember this, that from that destined hour


When thou was christened, thou was named “POWER.”


Power thou hast—and that a wonderous awful gift—


Under whose diction thou can’st sink or lift


Souls, spirits, hearts, from mirky cleft and rift


To higher ways. But also thou can’st drive


Creatures so deep, that few can ever dive


Down to the depths and bring them up alive,


Power thy sister e’er will be through life.


“POWER” will rise victorious from every worldly strife.


Power is “POWER’S” heritage, manifest and rife,


Beware of Power—two edged—a double-bladed knife.
[32]

Dreams and haunting visions by thy name alone


I oft-times have conquered; trusting in thee I’ve gone


Through perils gaunt and numerous ground on Passion’s stone.


Bridget, although it ere may be thy mission


To play at games with Power’s mate—Ambition—


See! hidden at her back stands Sinuous Sedition!


Loving perhaps too much thy tenderer, truer side


I to my inward passion have at length complied,


Lest in the smothering of it, I to myself had lied.


Crudely and roughly shaken from Euterpe’s sieve


These frail halting stanzas now to thy care I give,


Feeling that every letter by thee wast made to live.


Scorn not then this limping, poor, procession


Of rhythmic lines; nor treat with proud aggression


These faulty verses; waiting at thy session


For tempered judgment; merciful then be


Ever with kindness keeping within thy memory,


That every written sentiment, is a living part of me.








Written at “Stagsden,”

Bournemouth, 1915.






[33]


TO BRIDGET.


“CARMEN TRISTIS.”










How can I sing a song, love, when my heart is full of woe?


Grief that is hard to bear, love; grief that is gnawing and slow


Crimson rimmed are my eyes, love; bitter my soul within;


Bid me to mope and mourn, love, for I haven’t the mind to sing.






Though the Sun may shine in the skies, dear,


Though the day be blithesome and gay;


When the Mirth of my heart quietly dies, dear,


Poor homage to joy can I pay.






For I am far from thy love, dear,


From thee who my heart feeds with smiles;


More fair than the blossoms above, dear,


Or the Pearls of the fairy isles.






How then can I sing a song, love?


How then may I carol a lay?


When thee, for whom my eyes long, love,


Art far from my sight away.








Bournemouth,

April 10th, 1915.






[34]


“CARMEN LAETI.”










When Mirth and Joy come flitting in,


The heart with glee is filled within.


When I shall journey back to thee


My soul will dance in gaiety.






Merriment shall reign supreme,


In every eye a joyous beam;


Mirth shall caper all day long,


In every heart an airy song.






Bid me to sing a round-a-lay


And I will trill to break of day


A Ballad, pastorale, stave or air


Or roulade to my Lady’s hair.






As blithesome lark from Morn’s pearl dew


Is lost to sight in Heaven’s blue


Rising with carol to the skies


So am I lost in my lady’s eyes.








Bournemouth,

April 11th, 1915.


Note: The form of these two Songs was suggested from reading
a book of Elizabethan verse.






[35]


SONNET TO A BOWL OF GOLD AND SCARLET TULIPS.










O blossoms! when I gaze


Down into your fair, radiant faces,


Glowing up at me from verdant graces;


Your rarities amaze.


The very gold-bars of the Summer Sun


May well give place to your more candent hue.


For sunshine yet, I still can seek in you;


E’en when the Orb’s illuminèd course is run.


Your damask pinions, furled about your form


Give subtle sheen and incense to the air;


Your gold-dust tongues kiss to the winds pale care


Alone for peace and pleasure were ye borne.


Whilst to my mind ye bring me, by your grace,


A yet more lovely and more radiant face.








Bournemouth,

April 12th, 1915.