The Poe-et's Nightmare

Written 1916

           A Fable

           Luxus tumultus semper causa est. 

           Lucullus Languish, student of the skies, 

           And connoisseur of rarebits and mince pies, 

           A bard by choice, a grocer's clerk by trade, 

           (Grown pessimist through honours long delay'd) 

           A secret yearning bore, that he might shine 

           In breathing numbers, and in song divine. 

           Each day his fountain pen was wont to drop 

           An ode or dirge or two about the shop, 

           Yet naught could strike the chord within his heart 

           That throbb'd for poesy, and cry'd for art. 

           Each eve he sought his bashful Muse to wake 

           With overdoses of ice cream and cake, 

           But though th'ambitious youth a dreamer grew, 

           Th' Aonian Nymph delcin'd to come to view. 

           Something at dusk he scour'd the heav'ns afar 

           Searching for raptures in the evening star; 

           One night he strove to catch a tale untold 

           In crystal deeps - but only caught a cold. 

           So pin'd Lucullus with his lofty woe, 

           Till one drear day he bought a set of Poe: 

           Charm'd with the cheerful horrors there display's, 

           He vow'd with gloom to woo the Heav'nly Maid. 

           Of Auber's Tarn and Yaanek's slope he dreams, 

           And weaves an hundred Ravens in his schemes. 

           Not far from our young hero's peaceful home, 

           Lies the fair grove wherein he loves to roam. 

           Though but a stunted copse in vacant lot, 

           He dubs it Temp-e, and adores the spot; 

           When shallow puddles dot the wooded plain, 

           And brim o'er muddy banks with muddy rain, 

           He calls them limpid lakes or poison pools, 

           (Depending on which bard his fancy rules.) 

           'Tis here he comes with Heliconian fire 

           On Sundays when he smites the Attic lyre; 

           And here one afternoon he brought his gloom, 

           Resolv'd to chant a poet's lay of doom. 

           Roget's Thesaurus, and a book of rhymes, 

           Provide the rungs whereon his spirit climbs: 

           With this grave retinue he trod the grove 

           And pray'd the Fauns he might a Poe-et prove. 

           But sad to tell, ere Pegasus flew high, 

           The not unrelish'd supper hour drew nigh; 

           Our tuneful swain th'imperious call attends, 

           And soon above the groaning table bends. 

           Though it were too prosaic to relate 

           Th' exact particulars of what he ate, 

           (Such long-drawn lists the hasty reader skips, 

           Like Homer's well-known catalogue of ships) 

           This much we swear: that as adjournment near'd, 

           A monstrous lot of cake had disappear'd! 

           Soon to his chamber the young bard repairs, 

           And courts soft Somnus with sweet Lydian airs; 

           Through open casement scans the star-strown deep, 

           And 'neath Orion's beams sinks off to sleep. 

           Now start from airy dell the elfin train 

           That dance each midnight o'er the sleeping plain, 

           To bless the just, or cast a warning spell 

           On those who dine not wisely, but too well. 

           First Deacon Smith they plague, whose nasal glow 

           Comes from what Holmes hath call'd "Elixir Pro"; 

           Group'd round the couch his visage they deride, 

           Whilst through his dreams unnumber'd serpents glide. 

           Next troop the little folk into the room 

           Where snore our young Endymion, swath'd in gloom: 

           A smile lights up his boyish face, whilst he 

           Dreams of the moon - or what he ate at tea. 

           The chieftain elf th' unconscious youth surveys, 

           and on his form a strange enchantment lays: 

           Those lips, that lately trill'd with frosted cake, 

           Uneasy sounds in slumbrous fashion make; 

           At length their owner's fancies they rehearse, 

           And lisp this awesome Poe-em in blank verse: 

           Aletheia Phrikodes

           Omnia risus et omnia pulvis et omnia nihil. 

           Demoniac clouds, up-pil'd in chasmy reach 

           Of soundless heav'n, smother'd the brooding night; 

           Nor came the wonted whisp'rings of the swamp, 

           Nor voice of autumn wind along the moor, 

           Nor mutter'd noises of th' insomnious grove 

           Whose black recesses never saw the sun. 

           Within that grove a hideous hollow lies, 

           Half bare of trees; a pool in centre lurks 

           That none dares sound; a tarn of murky face, 

           (Though naught can prove its hue, since light of day, 

           Affrighted, shuns the forest-shadow's banks.) 

           Hard by, a yawning hillside grotto breathes 

           From deeps unvisited, a dull, dank air 

           That sears the leaves on certain stunted trees 

           Which stand about, clawing the spectral gloom 

           With evil boughs. To this accursed dell 

           Come woodland creatures, seldom to depart: 

           Once I behold, upon a crumbling stone 

           Set altar-like before the cave, a thing 

           I saw not clearly, yet from glimpsing, fled. 

           In this half-dusk I meditate alone 

           At many a weary noontide, when without 

           A world forgets me in its sun-blest mirth. 

           Here howls by night the werewolves, and the souls 

           Of those that knew me well in other days. 

           Yet on this night the grove spake not to me; 

           Nor spake the swamp, nor wind along the moor 

           Nor moan'd the wind about the lonely eaves 

           Of the bleak, haunted pile wherein I lay. 

           I was afraid to sleep, or quench the spark 

           Of the low-burning taper by my couch. 

           I was afraid when through the vaulted space 

           Of the old tow'r, the clock-ticks died away 

           Into a silence so profound and chill 

           That my teeth chatter'd - giving yet no sound. 

           Then flicker'd low the light, and all dissolv'd 

           Leaving me floating in the hellish grasp 

           Of body'd blackness, from whose beating wings 

           Came ghoulish blasts of charnel-scented mist. 

           things vague, unseen, unfashion'd, and unnam'd 

           Jostled each other in the seething void 

           That gap'd, chaotic, downward to a sea 

           Of speechless horror, foul with writhing thoughts. 

           All this I felt, and felt the mocking eyes 

           Of the curs's universe upon my soul; 

           Yet naught I saw nor heard, till flash'd a beam 

           Of lurid lustre through the rotting heav'ns, 

           Playing on scenes I labour'd not to see. 

           Methought the nameless tarn, alight at last, 

           Reflected shapes, and more reveal'd within 

           Those shocking depths that ne'er were seen before; 

           Methought from out the cave a demon train, 

           Grinning and smirking, reel'd in fiendish rout; 

           Bearing within their reeking paws a load 

           Of carrion viands for an impious feast. 

           Methought the stunted trees with hungry arms 

           Grop'd greedily for things I dare not name; 

           The while a stifling, wraith-like noisomeness 

           Fill'd all the dale, and spoke a larger life 

           Of uncorporeal hideousness awake 

           In the half-sentient wholeness of the spot. 

           Now glow'd the ground, and tarn, and cave, and trees, 

           And moving forms, and things not spoken of, 

           With such a phosphorescence as men glimpse 

           In the putrescent thickets of the swamp 

           Where logs decaying lie, and rankness reigns. 

           Methought a fire-mist drap'd with lucent fold 

           The well-remember'd features of the grove, 

           Whilst whirling ether bore in eddying streams 

           The hot, unfinish'd stuff of nascent worlds 

           Hither and thither through infinity 

           Of light and darkness, strangely intermix'd; 

           Wherein all entity had consciousness, 

           Without th' accustom'd outward shape of life. 

           Of these swift circling currents was my soul, 

           Free from the flesh, a true constituent part; 

           Nor felt I less myself, for want of form. 

           Then clear'd the mist, and o'er a star-strown scene 

           Divine and measureless, I gaz'd in awe. 

           Alone in space, I view'd a feeble fleck 

           Of silvern light, marking the narrow ken 

           Which mortals call the boundless universe. 

           On ev'ry side, each as a tiny star, 

           Shone more creations, vaster than our own, 

           And teeming with unnumber'd forms of life; 

           Though we as life would recognize it not, 

           Being bound to earthy thoughts of human mould. 

           As on a moonless night the Milky Way 

           In solid sheen displays its countless orbs 

           To weak terrestrial eyes, each orb a sun; 

           So beam'd the prospect on my wond'ring soul; 

           A spangled curtain, rich with twinkling gems, 

           Yet each a mighty universe of suns. 

           But as I gaz'd, I sens'd a spirit voice 

           In speech didactic, though no voice it was, 

           Save as it carried thought. It bade me mark 

           That all the universes in my view 

           Form'd but an atom in infinity; 

           Whose reaches pass the ether-laden realms 

           Of heat and light, extending to far fields 

           Where flourish worlds invisible and vague, 

           Fill'd with strange wisdom and uncanny life, 

           And yet beyond; to myriad spheres of light, 

           To spheres of darkness, to abysmal voids 

           That know the pulses of disorder'd force. 

           Big with these musings, I survey'd the surge 

           Of boundless being, yet I us'd not eyes, 

           For spirit leans not on the props of sense. 

           The docent presence swell'd my strength of soul; 

           All things I knew, but knew with mind alone. 

           Time's endless vista spread before my thought 

           With its vast pageant of unceasing change 

           And sempiternal strife of force and will; 

           I saw the ages flow in stately stream 

           Past rise and fall of universe and life; 

           I saw the birth of suns and worlds, their death, 

           Their transmutation into limpid flame, 

           Their second birth and second death, their course 

           Perpetual through the aeons' termless flight, 

           Never the same, yet born again to serve 

           The varying purpose of omnipotence. 

           And whilst I watch'd, I knew each second's space 

           Was greater than the lifetime of our world. 

           Then turn'd my musings to that speck of dust 

           Whereon my form corporeal took its rise; 

           That speck, born but a second, which must die 

           In one brief second more; that fragile earth; 

           That crude experiment; that cosmic sport 

           Which holds our proud, aspiring race of mites 

           And moral vermin; those presuming mites 

           Whom ignorance with empty pomp adorns, 

           And misinstructs in specious dignity; 

           Those mites who, reas'ning outward, vaunt themselves 

           As the chief work of Nature, and enjoy 

           In fatuous fancy the particular care 

           Of all her mystic, super-regnant pow'r. 

           And as I strove to vision the sad sphere 

           Which lurk'd, lost in ethereal vortices; 

           Methough my soul, tun'd to the infinite, 

           Refus'd to glimpse that poor atomic blight; 

           That misbegotten accident of space; 

           That globe of insignificance, whereon 

           (My guide celestial told me) dwells no part 

           Of empyreal virtue, but where breed 

           The coarse corruptions of divine disease; 

           The fest'ring ailments of infinity; 

           The morbid matter by itself call'd man: 

           Such matter (said my guide) as oft breaks forth 

           On broad Creation's fabric, to annoy 

           For a brief instant, ere assuaging death 

           Heal up the malady its birth provok'd. 

           Sicken'd, I turn'd my heavy thoughts away. 

           Then spake th' ethereal guide with mocking mien, 

           Upbraiding me for searching after Truth; 

           Visiting on my mind the searing scorn 

           Of mind superior; laughing at the woe 

           Which rent the vital essence of my soul. 

           Methought he brought remembrance of the time 

           When from my fellows to the grove I stray'd, 

           In solitude and dusk to meditate 

           On things forbidden, and to pierce the veil 

           Of seeming good and seeming beauteousness 

           That covers o'er the tragedy of Truth, 

           Helping mankind forget his sorry lot, 

           And raising Hope where Truth would crush it down. 

           He spake, and as he ceas'd, methought the flames 

           Of fuming Heav'n revolv'd in torments dire; 

           Whirling in maelstroms of revellious might, 

           Yet ever bound by laws I fathom'd not. 

           Cycles and epicycles of such girth 

           That each a cosmos seem'd, dazzled my gaze 

           Till all a wild phantasmal flow became. 

           Now burst athwart the fulgent formlessness 

           A rift of purer sheen, a sight supernal, 

           Broader that all the void conceiv'd by man, 

           Yet narrow here. A glimpse of heav'ns beyond; 

           Of weird creations so remote and great 

           That ev'n my guide assum'd a tone of awe. 

           Borne on the wings of stark immensity, 

           A touch of rhythm celestial reach'd my soul; 

           Thrilling me more with horror than with joy. 

           Again the spirit mock'd my human pangs, 

           And deep revil'd me for presumptuous thoughts; 

           Yet changing now his mien, he bade me scan 

           The wid'ning rift that clave the walls of space; 

           He bade me search it for the ultimate; 

           He bade me find the truth I sought so long; 

           He bade me brave th' unutterable Thing, 

           The final Truth of moving entity. 

           All this he bade and offer'd - but my soul, 

           Clinging to life, fled without aim or knowledge, 

           Shrieking in silence through the gibbering deeps. 

                        * * * * * *

           Thus shriek'd the young Lucullus, as he fled 

           Through gibbering deeps - and tumbled out of bed; 

           Within the room the morning sunshine gleams, 

           Whilst the poor youth recalls his troubled dreams. 

           He feels his aching limbs, whose woeful pain 

           Informs his soul his body lives again, 

           And thanks his stars - or cosmoses - or such - 

           That he survives the noxious nightmare's clutch. 

           Thrill'd with the music of th' eternal spheres, 

           (Or is it the alarm-clock that he hears?) 

           He vows to all the Pantheon, high and low, 

           No more to feed on cake, or pie, or Poe. 

           And now his gloomy spirits seem to rise, 

           As he the world beholds with clearer eyes; 

           The cup he thought too full of dregs to quaff, 

           Affords him wine enough to raise a laugh. 

           (All this is metaphor - you must not think 

           Our late Endymion prone to stronger drink!) 

           With brighter visage and with lighter heart, 

           He turns his fancies to the grocer's mart; 

           And strange to say, at last he seems to find 

           His daily duties worthy of his mind. 

           Since Truth prov'd such a high and dang'rous goal, 

           Our bard seeks one less trying to his soul; 

           With deep-drawn breath he flouts his dreary woes, 

           And a good clerk from a bad poet grows! 

           Now close attend my lay, ye scribbling crew 

           That bay the moon in numbers strange and new; 

           That madly for the spark celestial bawl 

           In metres short or long, or none at all; 

           Curb your rash force, in numbers or at tea, 

           Nor over-zealous for high fancies be; 

           Reflect, ere ye the draught Pierian take, 

           What worthy clerks or plumbers ye might make; 

           Wax not too frenzied in the leaping line 

           That neither sense nor measure can confine, 

           Lest ye, like young Lucullus Launguish, groan 

           Beneath Poe-etic nightmares of your own!