The Souls of the Slain
The thick lids of Night closed upon meAlone at the BillOf the Isle by the Race —Many-caverned, bald, wrinkled of face—And with darkness and silence the spirit was on meTo brood and be still.
No wind fanned the flats of the ocean,Or promontory sides,Or the ooze by the strand,Or the bent-bearded slope of the land,Whose base took its rest amid everlong motionOf criss-crossing tides.
Soon from out of the Southward seemed nearingA whirr, as of wingsWaved by mighty-vanned flies,Or by night-moths of measureless size,And in softness and smoothness well-nigh beyond hearingOf corporal things.
And they bore to the bluff, and alighted—A dim-discerned trainOf sprites without mould,Frameless souls none might touch or might hold—On the ledge by the turreted lantern, farsightedBy men of the main.
And I heard them say “Home!” and I knew themFor souls of the felledOn the earth’s nether bordUnder Capricorn, whither they’d warred,And I neared in my awe, and gave heedfulness to themWith breathings inheld.
Then, it seemed, there approached from the northwardA senior soul-flameOf the like filmy hue:And he met them and spake: “Is it you,O my men?” Said they, “Aye! We bear homeward and hearthwardTo list to our fame!”
“I’ve flown there before you,” he said then:“Your households are well;But—your kin linger lessOn your glory arid war-mightinessThan on dearer things.”—“Dearer?” cried these from the dead then,“Of what do they tell?”
“Some mothers muse sadly, and murmurYour doings as boys—Recall the quaint waysOf your babyhood’s innocent days.Some pray that, ere dying, your faith had grown firmer,And higher your joys.
“A father broods: ‘Would I had set himTo some humble trade,And so slacked his high fire,And his passionate martial desire;Had told him no stories to woo him and whet himTo this due crusade!”
“And, General, how hold out our sweethearts,Sworn loyal as doves?”—“Many mourn; many thinkIt is not unattractive to prinkThem in sables for heroes. Some fickle and fleet heartsHave found them new loves.”
“And our wives?” quoth another resignedly,“Dwell they on our deeds?”—“Deeds of home; that live yetFresh as new—deeds of fondness or fret;Ancient words that were kindly expressed or unkindly,These, these have their heeds.”
—“Alas! then it seems that our gloryWeighs less in their thoughtThan our old homely acts,And the long-ago commonplace factsOf our lives—held by us as scarce part of our story,And rated as nought!”
Then bitterly some: “Was it wise nowTo raise the tomb-doorFor such knowledge? Away!”But the rest: “Fame we prized till to-day;Yet that hearts keep us green for old kindness we prize nowA thousand times more!”
Thus speaking, the trooped apparitionsBegan to disbandAnd resolve them in two:Those whose record was lovely and trueBore to northward for home: those of bitter traditionsAgain left the land,
And, towering to seaward in legions,They paused at a spotOverbending the Race—That engulphing, ghast, sinister place—Whither headlong they plunged, to the fathomless regionsOf myriads forgot.
And the spirits of those who were homingPassed on, rushingly,Like the Pentecost Wind;And the whirr of their wayfaring thinnedAnd surceased on the sky, and but left in the gloamingSea-mutterings and me.
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