The Legend Of The Stone

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, That glimmered there, Seemed phantoms, wandering wan and white, 'Mid trees half bare.

I stood beside the grave of one Who, here in life, Was false to me; who had undone My child and wife: I stood beside his grave until The moon came up-- It seemed the dark, unhallowed hill Lifted a cup.

No stone was there to mark his grave, No flower to grace-- 'Twas 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 though strange eyes glowed bright Within the gloom! Though, evil blue, a witch's-light Burnt by each tomb! Or that each crooked thorn-tree seemed A hag, black-cloaked! Or that the owl above me screamed, The raven croaked!

I cursed him: cursed him when the day Burnt 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 th' hate of hate.

Once at my side I seemed to hear A low voice say,-- "'Twere better to forgive,--and fear Thy God,--and pray." I laughed; and from pale lips of stone On sculptured tombs Wild laughter leapt, and then a moan Swept through the glooms.

And then I felt a change--a force, That seemed to seize My body, like some fearful curse, And, fastening, freeze It downward, deeper than the knees, Into the earth-- While still among the twisted trees Rang mocking mirth.

And then I felt such fear, despair, As 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 more than sin, O damned and 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.