summary="table">

Encamped Philistines lay upon the plain
While Israel held the barren hillock's rise.
Like palm trees in the waste, their gay tents shone;
And many camp-fires vied with sunset skies,
Yet fewer on the hills than blazed below
Down in the darkening valley where had grown
As many flickering lights as flakes of snow
That fall on wintry Lebanus.
Alone
Before his tent, strode Saul; his head was bowed
As bows a palm tree to the tempest blast.
Was this deep thought? Or was the spirit cowed
By some high-topping terror? Then at last
Tensely he spoke as to the blackening cloud
That hung above the sunset: "I, so strong,
Yet cannot banish thee, ill-omened shroud,
That round my writhing soul wraps as a pall
Of mute foreboding?—He and Philistine join
In lowering hate against me on the plain—
God, God, my soul has sought Thy soul; wherein
But Thine Omnipotence can triumph lie?
Yet Thou art wordless.—Shall the King still call
Unto the Silent?"
The clouds were scudding fast
As if breathed through the Heavens by God's sigh.
There turned his eyes; then o'er the valley cast.
"Yet will I win," he cried. "Fate cannot last.
The days are all at odds; the powers conspire
To crush my mortal Will. Oh, I will cast,
And trample dim foreboding in the mire!
Let Fate come on; I'll meet him half the way;
And win——" Ceased in the air his words.
Sudden,
The sky grew dark; a frail gust stirred the fire,
Filling the air with monotone of woe:
"Thou dream'st a dream; it is in vain, in vain;
Him never shalt thou gain——" The sound was flown.
With features fury-tortured, hands clenched fast,
Up leaped he, straining arms stretched forth.
"My foe
I'll rend, rend, rend; hear me ye breeze's blast!
My royal root shall bloom; and David—lost.
Jehovah's evil Providence, I'll cast
Into a sea embalmed in endless frost!"

III

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.

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THE PROPHECY OF SAINT MARK

A METRICAL SHORT-STORY

Pale night upon its swift, aërial loom Wove the soft, vaporous substance of the gloom. The story-sculptured Gothic porch lay dim And silent in drab haze with which the spring Covers its carpentry of summer bloom. A maiden stood within the porch's pale. "It is the night," she sighed, "Saint Marcus' night When ghosts of all foredoomed to sickness wing Into the church to pray; so runs the tale. Those who make no return shall feel the grim, Fell scythe of Death within the year. The light Must flicker up each face as past they sail. But Gascon, O my Gascon, shalt thou die? Year after year, I wait—Thy strong-wrought mail Surely is sword-proof—" And a hovering sigh Passed through her lips more still than silence, frail. The lowering mist grew darker. From the womb Of day, young night was born. The paling light Was flecked with haze-clouds flickering in the gloom; And to and fro in stately pageantry, Strange shadow-shapes like liquid-silver spume Charmed into lightness, formed an imagery Of things half-human. Still the maiden pale Waited and hung upon each shadowy trail Of lingering vapors fainting to and fro. They took the shape of flitting forms in mail Or monkish cowl. A Merlin-magic spell Seemed laid upon her. "And art thou to go?" She whispered as some well-known face amid The rest swept by her through that portal fell. And some, not marked for Death, returned again; And some returned not. O'er the porch's rail, Leant her light body as she scanned each form, And tensely looked with terror anxious-eyed. Why does she shrink with all-consuming pain, And seek