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D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature. , Pf?4«*? 7 bfe Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by Abel Rgtd, in tin- Office of tilt Librarian of Congress, at Washington. S. W. Green, Printer and Electrotyper, 16 & 18 Jacob St., New- York. POT-POURRI THE RUINED PALACE DREAM-MERE ISRAFIDDLESTRINGS THE GHOULS IN THE BELFRY HULLALOO TO ANY HANNIBAL LEIGH RAVING THE MONSTER MAGGOT POETIC FRAGMENTS UNDER-LINES THE RUINED PALACE In a green depth, like a chalice, By most sweet flowers tenanted, Stood a fair and stately palace. There a poet soul — now dead — Lived in days in vain lamented, — Had lived to-day, But was wayward — or demented, Weak or worse, — who dares to say ? For his thought was streak'd with fancies, To all simple truth untrue : Bizarre as the hues of pansies, — The dark shades he knew. And he wander'd from this Aidenn : Wander'd, and was lost, alas ! Though his own beloved maiden Track'd his footsteps through the grass. He return'd not. Devastation Housed in his disorder'd rooms ; On his couch lay Desolation ; Vampyres flitted through the glooms. By the pure white Parian fountains Lounged the Ghouls obscenely Ipare : Never wind came from the mountains To refresh the stagnant air. O'er the garden walks neglected Crawl'd the toad, the worm, the snail ; Droop'd the young buds unrespected : Loving care could not avail. For the poet soul, the master, Could alone that place Make beautiful and from disaster Free — as Aidenn — by God's grace. When]he the palace left, and garden, — The moment that he would depart Speech is vain. And tears but harden On the world's ice heart. * DREAM-MERE On a root, knobb'd, gnarl'd, and lonely. Overstuck with toadstools only, Sits an Eidolon named Night, — On a toadstool half upright. I have seen this sprite but newly, And J look'd at him quite throughly, In his ultimate dim Thule, As he sate there half upright, In a wild weird clime, and singing sublime, Out of tune — out of time. Bottomless hollows and roaring floods, And caves and chasms and haunted woods, Forms that no man can discover For the dews that drip all over ; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore ; Shoreless seas that still aspire, Surging to hellish heavens of fire ; Boundless lakes all lone and dead, Where sometimes Night lies outspread In the waters still and chilly, With his nose in a lolling lily. By these shoreless lakes outspread, These lone waters, lone and dead, These lone waters, still and chilly (Night's nose in the lolling lily); By these toppling crags, — no river Murmurs near, no leaflets quiver, All so dark and dead and chilly ; By these dank woods, by the swamp Where the toad and bull-frog romp ; — By these dismal tarns, by the holes Where dwell the Ghouls — Poor damp souls ! By each corner most unjolly, By each crevice melancholy, By my own poetic folly — Frenzy of poetic drift, In an unexpected rift, There, I swear, I met aghast In a sheet the unmemoried Past, In a shroud a Ghost whose eye Looking into vacancy Made me shudder, start, and sigh, — One forgotten, from thought outdriven, I know not whether on Earth or in Heaven. For the heart whose woes are legion Tis a peaceful, soothing region — This same desert drear of Night, Where the Eidolon sits upright On his toadstool, or outspread Lies lolling on his lily-bed, — For the spirit that likes a shadow Tis, O 'tis an Eldorado, — Though the traveler, traveling through it, Ever fails to interview it (No one ever openly knew it), For its mysteries all are closed By the darkness superposed Of the Eidolon, who, I wee*n, Wills not the formless should be seen : And thus the sad soul that here passes Is like a blind ass without glasses. On his root, knobb'd, gnarl'd, and lonely Overstuck with toadstools only, Squats the Eidolon named Night, Squats in sad poetic plight. Is there more, and would you know it, Fix the headgear of the Poet, Wandering God knows where, but newly From this ultimate dim Thule. ISRAFIDDLESTRINGS The Angel Israfel whose heartstrings are a fiddle. In heaven a Spirit doth dwell Whose heartstrings are a fiddle (The reason he sings so well — This fiddler Israfel), And the giddy stars (will any one tell Why giddy ?) to attend his spell Cease their hymns in the middle. On the height of her go Totters the Moon and blushes As the song of that fiddle rushes Across her bow. The red Lightning stands to listen ; And the eyes of the Pleiads glisten As each of the seven puts its fist in Its eyes, for the mist in. s And they say — it's a riddle — That all these listening things, That stop in the middle For the heart-strung riddle With which the Spirit sings, Are held as on a griddle By these unusual strings. Wherefore thou art not wrong, Israfel ! in that thou boastest Fiddlestrings uncommon strong : To thee the fiddle-strings belong With which thou toastest Other hearts, as on a prong. Yes ! heaven is thine : but this Is a world of sours and sweets, — Where cold meats are cold meats, And the eater's most perfect bliss Is the shadow of him who treats. As Israfiddle Has griddled, — he fiddle as I, — He might not fiddle so wild a riddle As this mad melody, While the Pleiads all would leave off in the middle Hearing my griddle-cry. THE GHOULS IN THE BELFRY Hear the story of the Ghouls ! Who will tell us of the Ghouls? Who has been told ? Of the Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls — Who are neither man nor woman, Who are neither beast nor human, Who are neither fish nor cayman, — Who will tell us, clerk or layman ? They are- Ghouls : Live in holes Like moles Under the boles, boles, boles Of old trees where the forest rolls Of the mouldy days of old ; Or in tarns, tarns, tarns Dull and dismal as the yarns Of morbific spools, — Dank tarns and dismal pools. There dwell the Ghouls, With other tarn'd fowls, — Not to say fools. But the high tarn nation place is The dank tarn of Auber In the Ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. There they sit with their faces Bow'd down to their knees, At the feet of dead trees, With the dew dropping down from their hair, They sit there from the end of October To the end of the winter next year. IO These are woodlandish Ghouls, Damp, desolate souls Who have nothing to do But be haunting the dank tarn of Auber Through the mildewest part of the year, That begins at the end of October In the woodlandish Ghouldom of Weir. Yes ! these are the woodlandish Ghouls — Ghouls — Ghouls — Ghouls With no business kind of controls — Mere shoals. But busier, — ah! much busier polls Have the Churchyard Ghouls, Prowling there for the bodies of poor dead souls ; And who after supper Take an upper Climb to their goal in the steeple : Where they sit, where they brood, where they heap ill On the people undergone : Sitting cheeks by jowls. Now and then they roll a stone, Having set the bells a-tolling In a muffled monotone, On the people undergone. And their King it is who tolls, As he lolls, lolls, lolls On his throne all carved with scrolls In his palace in the steeple, Where he lolls among his people : Ah ! his people who roll stones, In muffled monotones, On the hearts o' the underfolk, 1 1 Jn the dead of night awoke By the melancholy yells, By the miserable howls, To say nothing of the growls, Of these Ghouls, Of these tollers of the bells, As they toll, toll, toll ; Toll; Toll; Toll A paean from the bells : And the merry bosom swells Of the Ghoul-King as he tolls, As he dances and he yells To the throbbing of the bells As they toll, Toll, Toll. It is so the poet tells Who has heard these ghoulish bells; And whose rheumy running rhyme, Bowl'd in time, time, time, With the throbbing and the sobbing And the bobbing and hobnobbing And sense-robbing of the bells, Could alone expound their yells, For the clamor each expels, From the loud full-hammer'd tone, Sometime hoarsening to a groan, Sometime worsening to a moan, Till one bell tolls out alone In a muffled monotone 12 Between murmuring and moan, — Till the King loll'd there, as shown, On his scroll-becarven throne, Grown weary of the yells And the bowling of the bells (Well ! well !— to be so bold) As they moan and groan and yell Pell-mell, Would be fain to be unthroned, For the pain too wholly own'd, Untold but wholly known, (Toll de roll!) Of the moans, groans, yells. As they shake the steeple stone And awake the undergone (Rest his soul !) With the tolling of their knells, Roll'd like blood-drops from heart-wells, Misereres out of cells, Or weird witch-moulded spells Under fells : The bells, bells, bells, Whose tolling ever tells Of Ghouls, of hells, of knells, Told by bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, The unholy yelling, knelling, wholly sense-dispellin| Moaning, groaning, all-atoning, Rolling tolling of the bells, Bells, Bells. ■3 HULLALOO The eves were as grey as grey embers, The leaves dirty yellow and sere,— They were yellow, but dusky and sere ; That eve was the worst of November's, — And they are the worst of the year. 'Twas an eve that one surely remembers, Being out in the dusk with my dear : For the fire was gone out to weak embers ; So I went out too, with my dear. Hear then ! — Through an alley Satanic Of hemlock, I roam'd with my love, — Of hemlock with Sarah, my love. O my passion was quite oceanic, With waves like the wind in a grove, When the wind maketh waves in a grove And the leaves with a sort of a panic Seem taken ; I thought of the stove And, shivering, as if with a panic Was taken, at thought of the stove. Our talk at the first had been jolly, But our words soon were slow as our walk, Our young memories scarcely could walk ; Then we thought it was right melancholy To be out in the dark without talk — For we knew that we came out to talk ; Still we felt in our hearts it was folly The vast dream of silence to baulk, Till, whispering at last, I said — Golly ! And Sarah back whisper'd me — Lawk ! And now as the night was senescent, And some roosters were hinting of morn, — Foolish roosters then hinting of morn ! — As the night grew more old and unpleasant, We saw in the distance a horn Out of which a miraculous crescent To the sides of the road was outborne ; 'Twas Sal's father's horn lanthorn there present, The crescent distinct from the horn. And I said — He is better than Dian ; But I wish that his light had more size,— And the light wasn't much for its size; He has guess'd — that's a thing to rely on — Has father, the way our walk lies, And he has come out like Orion, The fellow up there in the skies, — Yes, Sally ! those stars in the skies, — Come out like another Orion To help me take care of my prize, To take her safe home bye and bye on The pathway that fatherward lies. But Sarah, uplifting her finger, Said — Surely that light I mistrust, — That lanthorn 1 strangely mistrust ; O hasten ! O let us not linger ! O fly ! let us fly ! for we must. In terror she spoke, letting sink her Voice, — O he'll make such a dust ! In anguish she sobb'd, letting sink her Sweet voice, as if fearing a bust, — O but father'll kick up such a dust ! I replied — this is nothing but dreaming ; We need but keep out of the light, — But he kept dodging us with the light ; And Sarah would soon have been screaming, — She shook like a leaf with affright, Like a leaf, or a bird in a fright; So I lifted her out of the gleaming Through a gap in the hedge, out of sight : And her father went on, never deeming He left us behind in the night. Then to pacify Sarah I kiss'd her, And soon took her out of the gloom, — It was getting quite cold in the gloom, And she cried ; but I said — Dear ! desist or I never shall get you safe home. Then we ran and in good time got home. Father said — How on airth have I miss'd her? She said — I was never from home. No, Pa ! I was never from home. I have been all the night in my room. Now my head is as grey as an ember ; And my heart is all crisped and sere, — Like a crisp leaf that's wither'd and sere ; And yet I am fain to remember Above all the nights in the year — Ah, Sally ! if you were but here — That night of all nights in the year — Ah, Sally ! if you were but here — That cold dreamy night of November, That night of all nights in the year, That long ago night of November, — The night we were out in, my dear! [6 TO ANY Thank heaven ! the crisis Of hunger is past ; And you can't guess how nice is This little breakfast, Now the thing call'd good Giving Is come to at last. 1 eat what I love And recover my strength ; And my jaws only move As I lie at full length. I might sit — but I feel I am better at length. And I lie so composedly, Feeding and fed, A careless beholder Might fancy me dead : Not seeing my jaws work Might fancy me dead. The grunting and groaning, The writhing and raving, Are quieted now, With that horrible craving At stomach — that horrible Stomachic craving. The sickness, the faintness, The emptiness-pain, Have ceased ; and my stomach's A stomach again, And feels like a stomach Not living in vain. And oh ! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated, — the terrible Torture of thirst •For a napthaline river Or fusil lake burst : I'd have drunk dirty waler, For quenching that thirst, Of a puddle that flows With a smell and no sound From a hole but a very few Feet underground, Though I holded my nose As I stoop'd to the ground. And ah ! let it never Be foolishly said That this my mahogany Is not well spread : With such victual before me I call it a spread ; And such drink — my cosmogony Knows nought instead. My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes : The upsetting or ever 'Twas wetting one's nose is All over. Sweet spirit ! Thy acent in my nose is. And now while so pleasantly Curl'd up it fancies A fragranter odour Than rue has, or pansies. Or even than rosemary Mingled with pansies, - The beautiful bourbon The Puritan fancies. And so I lie happily, Drinking a many And eating a few. It will cost a big penny. I don't mind the cost: For I have not a penny. HANNIBAL LEIGH It was many and many a year ago — It seems so long to me — That there lived in a city which you may know A man named Hannibal Leigh ; And this man he seem'd to have nothing to do But to drink and get drunk with me. . I was a fool and he was a fool, In this city by the sea : For we drank and got drunk till we made it a rule That neither should drunker be ; And we drank till we might have lesson'd a school Of fishes, such drinkers were we. l 9 And this was the reason that long ago In this city by the sea A fusilier spirit of ill distilling Destroy'd my Hannibal Leigh. 'Tvvas a spirit of ill when my pal was willing To drink for ever with me ; And some were saying — it was fulfilling A kind o' warning to me. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying him and me, — Yes ! that was the reason, whatever was given In that city by the sea, Why the fusilier spirit came out a-killing My still-swilling Hannibal Leigh. But I drink all the longer and drink it more strong, For the two, foi I drink like three, — For myself once and twice for Leigh ; And no fusil here nor in heaven along Nor spirit down under the sea Shall ever dissever our drinks to do wrong To the spirit of Hannibal Leigh. For whenever I drink I endeavor to think I am drinking with Hannibal Leigh ; And my hand never raise but to drink to the praise Of my drink-Kaiser Llannibal Leigh ; And in all the night tide I hold on to the side Of the counter, the counter where Hannibal died ; And I think that I llannibal see And I'm Hannibal Hannibal's me. 20 RAVING Once upon a midnight, weary, As I maunder'd, gin-and-beery, O'er an' oft repeated story Till my friends thought me a bore, — Sitting weeping, and half sleeping, Something set my flesh a-creeping, And I saw a Raven peeping Through my room's unopen'd door. See that Raven ! said I to them, — Trying to get through the door, — A black Raven — nothing more. Now I was not drunk, but weary, For my head was out-of-geary With close ,study of quaint volumes Curious in forgotten lore : (Though they said Delirium tremens) I'd been reading bits of Hemans, And some leaves of Jacob Behmen's, Two or three — perhaps a score : . And I said — It is a Raven Rampant just outside the door,— Striding through — I said — and swore. I insisted, and I twisted And resisted, and persisted Though they held me and, close-fisted, Saw no Raven at the door ; I forgot all I had read of, — For that ill bird took my head off, 2 1 Like a coffin lid of lead oft The dead brain of one no more. Would I trust their words instead of What I saw right through the door? Through the door — I said — and swore. Yes ! it is a Raven surely, Though he does look so demurety Like a doctor come to assure me I am drunk : not so — I swore, Drunk? I drunk? I've not been drinking; I'm but overcome with thinking : There I saw that Raven winking In the middle of the floor. Doctor ! there's the Raven rampant In the middle of the floor: He has hopp'd straight through the door. Look ! his curst' wings brush the dust oft That fallen, broken, batter'd bust of Psyche, — where it lies in the shadow, Shatter'd, flung down on the floor. See ! he spurns the broken pieces. Catch him, Doctor ! — when he ceases He will rend me. Past release is Nothing! Nothing on the floor? — Yes ! the Psyche lies in the shadow, Lieth shatter'd on the floor : To be lifted nevermore. 22 THE MONSTER MAGGOT A Poet ! — With never a single theme Of glory or delight, He folds his wings for a gloomy dream Of Death despair-bedight ; And, willing not that Beauty use His wilderness of soul, He chooseth for his daintier muse Raven or Ghoul. And now a " Conqueror Worm " he sings, — A blood-red crawling shape, Invisible woe from its condor wings Out-flapping, all agape ; While angels bewing'd, bedight in veils, Watch mumubling mimes, with tears, In a play where a maniac Horror wails To the music of the spheres. The play is the play of Human Woes, Of Madness, Sin, and Death : There is nothing else the Poet knows God's azure sky beneath But Madness, Horror, and Sin, Death and Sorrow, and Wrong : Even so doth the Singer begin, *So ends his Song. "It writhes" — the Worm, — "with mortal pangs " The mimes become its food ; " And the angels sob at vermin fangs " In human gore imbued," — 2 3 This monster terrible, formless, huge, Means — put in plainest terms: Our Poet needs a vermifuge. The child's disease is worms. POETIC FRAGMENTS PART OF AN UNFINISHED GHOUL-POEM — Said we then — the two, then — Ah ! can it Have been that the woodlandish Ghouls — The pitiful, the merciful Ghouls — To bar up our way and to ban it From the secret that lies in these wolds — From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds- Have drawn up the spectre of a planet From the limbo of lunary souls — This sinfully scintillant planet From the hell of the planetary souls ? POT-POURRI — "A ROSEMARY odour " Commingled with pansies — " With rue'' :— Your poet has fancies : But methinks such an odour Were odious to more than a few. 2 4 UNDER-LINES On a Poet's Tomb. Tomb'd in dishonor! Not like thine own Ghoul Have I thus dug thee out, Unhappy One ! For critical devouring; but some words Writ heedlessly above thee call for words Of answering rebuke. If Israfel In heaven needs his own heart-strings for his lyre — The only organ of harmonious worth — Shall not earth's poet? And if he be weak, Rent by ill memories, harsh with sour desire, Untunable, rejoicing not in good, Can aught but discord issue ? Speech absurd Of " art for art's sake ! " when art is not art Out of the circles of the universe, Out of the song of the eternities, Or unfit to attend the ear of God. My mocking words aim at, not thee, but those Who would strain praise for thee, disgracing Truth. IC'i LpjCC OB* 5£ cE c ^ «wc« ( 5 • cr C C <«g C<£c 'CZ'C b o c a <*E ceo <0' * (V co macs C ( | o free o < >< cc arc cicc ^t_cfe >c C CCCi >C C C€cC CC< >C C C € o o£ _ C ( <-C ucci ccc^ottc<< : K^7" ^ - ^C «CCc<