Anon.

Giaour

 

But first on earth, as Vampyre sent,

Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent;

Then ghastly haunt the native place,

And suck the blood of all thy race;

There from thy daughter, sister, wife,

At midnight drain the stream of life;

Yet loathe the banquet which perforce

Must feed thy livid living corse,

Thy victims, ere they yet expire,

Shall know the demon for their sire;

As cursing thee, thou cursing them,

Thy flowers are withered on the stem.

But one that for thy crime must fall,

The youngest, best beloved of all,

Shall bless thee with a father's name--

That word shall wrap thy heart in flame!

Yet thou must end thy task and mark

Her cheek's last tinge--her eye's last spark,

And the last glassy glance must view

Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue;

Then with unhallowed hand shall tear

The tresses of her yellow hair,

Of which, in life a lock when shorn

Affection's fondest pledge was worn--

But now is borne away by thee

Memorial of thine agony!

Yet with thine own best blood shall drip;

Thy gnashing tooth, and haggard lip;

Then stalking to thy sullen grave,

Go--and with Gouls and Afrits rave,

Till these in horror shrink away

From spectre more accursed than they.

 

 

Anon.

Third Canto on the Undead

 

The sky is changed!--and such a change; Oh, night!

  And storm and darkness, ye are wond'rous strong,

  Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light

  Of a dark eye in woman! Far along

  From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,

  Leaps the lire thunder! Not from one lone cloud,

  But every mountain now hath found a tongue,

  And Jura answers thro' her misty shroud,

  Back to the joyous Alps who call to her aloud!

 

  And this is in the night:--Most glorious night!

  Thou wer't not sent for slumber! let me be

  A sharer in thy far and fierce delight,--

  A portion of the tempest and of me!

  How the lit lake shines a phosphoric sea,

  And the big rain comet dancing to the earth!

  And now again 'tis black,--and now the glee

  Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth,

  As if they did rejoice o'er a young; earthquake's birth,

 

  Now where the swift Rhine cleaves his way between

  Heights which appear, as lovers who have parted

  In haste, whose mining depths so intervene,

  That they can meet no more, tho' broken hearted;

  Tho' in their souls which thus each other thwarted,

  Love was the very root of the fond rage

  Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed--

  Itself expired, but leaving; them an age

  Of years all winter--war within themselves to wage.

 

 

 

Ray Bradbury

Thought and Space

 

    Space--thy boundaries are

      Time and time alone.

    No earth-born rocket,

      seedling skyward sown,

    Will ever reach your cold,

      infinite end,

    This power is not Man's to

      build or send.

    Great deities laugh down,

      venting their mirth,

    At struggling bipeds on

      a cloud-wrapped Earth,

    Chained solid on a war-swept,

      waning globe,

    For FATE, who witnesses,

      to pry and probe.

    BUT LIST! One weapon have

      I stronger yet!

    Prepare Infinity! And

      Gods regret!

    Thought, quick as light,

      shall pierce the veil,

    To reach the lost beginnings

      Holy Grail.

    Across the sullen void on

      soundless trail,

    Where new spawned suns and

      chilling planets wail,

    One thought shall travel

      midst the gods' playthings,

    Past cindered globes where

      choking flame still sings.

    No wall of force yet have ye

      firmly wrought,

    That chains the supreme

      strength of purest thought.

    Unleashed, without a body's

      slacking hold,

    Thought leaves the ancient

      Earth behind to mold.

    And when the galaxies have

      heeded DEATH,

    And welcomed lastly SPACE'S

      poisoned breath,

    Still shall thought travel

      as an arrow flown.

    SPACE--thy boundaries are

      TIME----AND TIME ALONE!

 

 

 

Henry Hasse

Lost Soul

 

    From far across the desolate moor I heard

    The echo of a wild and anguished cry--

    A tortured voice that shrieked aloud a word,

    A name, that shivered 'cross the leaden sky.

    I stopped--stared 'round--I knew that voice did sound

    A faint, familiar note within my brain.

    I fled across that dark and desolate ground

    Seeking out the direction whence it came.

    Forebodingly, that voice kept echoing

    Within a brain that did not seem my own ...

    A vague remembrance of a recent thing

    I could not grasp ... I was a lost and lone

    Forsaken soul that sped I knew not where,

    Wondering frightenedly what I did seek....

    At last I found it, there beside a bare

    And lonely road, when trembling and weak,

    I gazed upon a gallows-tree where hung

    A corpse, the very site of which did freeze

    The blood within my veins; a corpse that swung

    Grotesquely to and fro upon the breeze.

    And then, through rising panic, closer still

    I peered--then saw!--and knew! Again that cry

    That shrieked a name--the cry that issued shrill

    From my own throat, and shivered to the sky!

 

           *       *       *       *       *

 

    The name I shriek beneath the gallows-tree

    Was mine. The dead thing swinging there was me!

 

 

 

Joseph E. Kellerman

The Phantoms

 

    All day they played among the purple flowers

    That lay like frozen flames upon the lawn;

    Or dreamed within the shadows of the towers

    Whose turret tops were painted as the dawn.

    Bright was the garden; peace went everywhere

    There was no breath of movement nor any sound

    Save butterflies that clove the heavy air,

    Or when the bright fruit dropped slowly to the ground.

    Then the flowers drooped, from sliver thorns that tore;

    Too soon the sun had died in amber smoke,

    And frightened now but silent as before

    The phantoms watched the garden change its cloak.

    Great sable moths flew out, and one by one

    The towers melted with the fallen sun.

 

 

 

Emil Pataja

Marmok

 

    Sleep that doth harbour a dream of dread,

    Whence come the fingers that beckoned and led

    My dream-stung soul from my canopied bed--

    Whither dost take me, ere I am dead?

    Beyond the skull-grinning mid-March moon

    Over the phosphorous-lit lagoon

    Out past the darkest pits of the night,

    Fast thru the stars in this evil flight;

    Lead thee me out past the rim of space,

    Show me that ravenous, pain-black face,

    Marmok, whose myrmidons ever are questing

    For souls who wander at nite, unresting.

    Then shall I know an ultimate bliss

    Tasting the fury of that cosmic kiss,

    Whilst my earth-cloak lies limply on the floor

    To waken and gibber forevermore.

 

 

 

E.T. Pine

Asphodel

 

    Down where skies are always dark,

    Where is ever heard the bark

    Of monstrous ebon hounds of hell,

    In a dreadful fearsome knell,

    Never fading, ever bright,

    With a weird and spectral light,

    Blooms a flower of ancient days,

    Shining in a crimson maze;

    When the black bat shrilly screams

    Asphodel, you haunt my dreams--

 

    From the lands of distant death

    Steals the perfume of your breath:

 

    Some night soon the wind will blow

    Saffron seeds to fall and grow

    By my casement window, where,

    Sleeps my loved one, still and fair;

    Then, the night you are to bloom

    I shall creep from out my room,

    From your blossom by the wall

    Shall I hear her dear voice call:

    Mournfully the wind will cry,

    And shadows cover all the sky--

    My lips will touch the loved dead

    When where you nod I lay my head....

 

 

 

Edgar Allan Poe

The Haunted Palace

 

                         I.

     In the greenest of our valleys,

         By good angels tenanted,

     Once a fair and stately palace--

         Radiant palace--reared its head.

     In the monarch Thought's dominion--

         It stood there!

     Never seraph spread a pinion

         Over fabric half so fair.

                         II.

     Banners yellow, glorious, golden,

         On its roof did float and flow;

     (This--all this--was in the olden

         Time long ago)

     And every gentle air that dallied,

         In that sweet day,

     Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,

         A winged odor went away.

                         III.

     Wanderers in that happy valley

         Through two luminous windows saw

     Spirits moving musically

         To a lute's well-tunéd law,

     Round about a throne, where sitting

         (Porphyrogene!)

     In state his glory well befitting,

         The ruler of the realm was seen.

                          IV.

     And all with pearl and ruby glowing

         Was the fair palace door,

     Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,

         And sparkling evermore,

     A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty

         Was but to sing,

     In voices of surpassing beauty,

         The wit and wisdom of their king.

                         V.

     But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

         Assailed the monarch's high estate;

     (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow

         Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)

     And, round about his home, the glory

         That blushed and bloomed

     Is but a dim-remembered story

         Of the old time entombed.

                         VI.

     And travellers now within that valley,

         Through the red-litten windows, see

     Vast forms that move fantastically

         To a discordant melody;

     While, like a rapid ghastly river,

         Through the pale door,

     A hideous throng rush out forever,

         And laugh--but smile no more.

 

 

 

Doug Rogers

Satan's Mistress

 

    Where flames of purgatory twist, and Earth's transgressors dwell,

    She dances swathed in heated mist, before the gates of Hell.

    Her gleaming naked body flees before the Demon fires,

    Along the shores of molten seas--ridged high by fuming pyres.

    Her hair, a liquid cape of flame, whips hot about her breasts,

    A strumpet in the Devil's name, which he alone invests,

    Gives power to a woman born of brimstone, steam and smoke,

    Her soul, a spark in early morn, flares up to share the yoke

    Of evil Mephistopheles upon his throne of death,

    Unheeding shrieks and doleful pleas choked out by dying breath.

    The Devil's Mistress dances down thru dungeons carved from bone,

    Upon her head the sinner's crown, each jewel a sigh, a moan.

    Before the wailing souls in caves, tossed down from earthly things,

    To charred and cindered minds of slaves her dancing passion brings.

    Then, tired of her evil joke, and laughing at her games,

    She draws about her fiery cloak to vanish in the flames.