The Legend Of The Stone.

By Madison Julius Cawein

The year was dying, and the day Was almost dead; The West, beneath a sombre gray, Was sombre red. The gravestones in the ghostly light, 'Mid trees half bare, Seemed phantoms, clothed in glimmering white, That haunted there. I stood beside the grave of one, Who, here in life, Had wronged my home; who had undone My child and wife. I stood beside his grave until The moon came up - As if the dark, unhallowed hill Lifted a cup. No stone was there to mark his grave, No flower to grace - 'T was meet that weeds alone should wave In such a place. I stood beside his grave until The stars swam high, And all the night was iron still From sky to sky. What cared I if strange eyes seemed bright Within the gloom! If, evil blue, a wandering light Burnt by each tomb! Or that each crookd thorn-tree seemed A witch-hag cloaked! Or that the owl above me screamed, The raven croaked! For I had cursed him when the day Was sullen red; Had cursed him when the West was gray, And day was dead; And now when night made dark the pole, Both soon and late I cursed his body, yea, and soul, With the hate of hate. Once in my soul I seemed to hear A low voice say, - 'T were better to forgive, - and fear Thy God, - and pray. I laughed; and from pale lips of stone On sculptured tombs A mocking laugh replied alone Deep in the glooms. And then I felt, I felt - as if Some force should seize The body; and its limbs stretch stiff, And, fastening, freeze Down, downward deeper than the knees Into the earth - While still among the twisted trees That voice made mirth. And in my Soul was fear, despair, - Like lost ones feel, When knotted in their pitch-stiff hair, They feel the steel Of devils' forks lift up, through sleet Of hell's slant fire, Then plunge, - as white from head to feet I grew entire. A voice without me, yet within, As still as frost, Intoned: Thy sin is thrice a sin, Thrice art thou lost. Behold, how God would punish thee! For this thy crime - Thy crime of hate and blasphemy - Through endless time! O'er him, whom thou wouldst not forgive, Record what good He did on earth! and let him live Loved, understood! Be memory thine of all the worst He did thine own! There at the head of him I cursed I stood - a stone.