A witch dwelt high upon stern Endor's cliff.
The place was dark: for night had drawn the veiling
Between the mountain peaks that stand still, stiff,
The frozen sentinels of Time; and sailing
Aloft upon the evening air, the smoke
Of hostile camp-fires blackened e'en the night.
Here dwelt this hag to horrid witchcraft given,
A withered, fangless thing whose mutterings spoke
Of all the secrets of Hell's shadow-light.
The wind was coldly wailing. Near her fire,
She crouched. Behind her, through a passage riven
By some swift thunderbolt of wrath divine,
Appeared a man in closely wrapped attire.
Like some lithe snake she turned and cringed
In fear and yet in anger: "By what sign,
And wherefore come you here?" her lips half snarled.
The man unwrapped his mantle deeply fringed;
He threw a purse before her. "For this cost,
Let thine unseen familiar call from rest
The one I name to thee"—She rose all gnarled;
And thus she spake: "Seek not to hide thy mien;
My spirit tells me that thou art—" Her lean
Hand grasped the splintered rock—"Thou art the King!
And whom wouldst thou, my Lord, seek in this fane
Of Chaldee calculations, law and ring?"
"Serve me but well to-night; and be thou wise—
Charm as I bid; and gratitude shall last
All time from me to thee—fulfill this quest—"
He paused his speech and glanced to either side—
"Summon me Samuel. Let his spirit rise
Upon the night in wreathèd, hazy guise."
The fire-embers faded red, and died;
King Saul sat staring into sable space;
The witch was mumbling by the fire-side
Whence curled up wisps of smoke. His heart beat fast.
Within the gray appeared a dim-lit face.
In silent terror gazed the King. At last,
Was audible a voice upon the wind:
"What would'st thou, Saul? What would'st thou learn from me?"
"Samuel, 'tis thou—" and then, as in a gust
The storm sweeps down upon the plain, words burst
In hot-lipped passion uncontrolled and fast—
"Aid me; O, aid me; for I yearn, I thirst
To drink this David's blood. The frenzied lust
Of unfulfilled ambition desert-dry
Burns in my throat. Is my seed barren cast
On earth? Am I condemned to plod, a beast
For any burden? Spectre, tell me why
Should I be King of men, and yet the least
Who cannot even hold or give mine own?"
"The princely David shalt thou never gain;
Thou dream'st a dream, O King, it is in vain—
Once fixed, the star of forecast cannot wane—
The star of forecast cannot wane—wane—wane—"
The spectre's voice swept on upon the wind;
The spectre faded into argent gloom.
Down shot a nacreous moonbeam dim-outlined.
The King's eyes fell upon the armied plain.
There rose a shout again, and yet again—
Below was movement, battling of armed men,
And shrieking clash of arms. How fiercely shines
That flaring light! His camp was sheathed in flame!
In flame that wrote upon his soul the lines:
"Once fixed the star of forecast cannot wane;
Thine all has been in vain, in vain, in vain—"
April and May, 1912. |