The Complete H.P. Lovecraft Collection (Xist Classics)

by H. P. Lovecraft

  Temples and cities pois’d in air

  And blazing glories—sphere on sphere.

  On Receiving a Picture of Swans

  With pensive grace the melancholy Swan

  Mourns o’er the tomb of luckless Phaëton;

  On grassy banks the weeping poplars wave,

  And guard with tender care the wat’ry grave.

  Would that I might, should I too proudly claim

  An Heav’nly parent, or a Godlike fame,

  When flown too high, and dash’d to depths below,

  Receive such tribute as a Cygnus’ woe!

  The faithful bird, that dumbly floats along,

  Sighs all the deeper for his want of song.

  The Outpost

  When evening cools the yellow stream,

  And shadows stalk the jungle’s ways,

  Zimbabwe’s palace flares ablaze

  For a great King who fears to dream.

  For he alone of all mankind

  Waded the swamp that serpents shun;

  And struggling toward the setting sun,

  Came on the veldt that lies behind.

  No other eyes had vented there

  Since eyes were lent for human sight—

  But there, as sunset turned to night,

  He found the Elder Secret’s lair.

  Strange turrets rose beyond the plain,

  And walls and bastions spread around

  The distant domes that fouled the ground

  Like leprous fungi after rain.

  A grudging moon writhed up to shine

  Past leagues where life can have no home;

  And paling far-off tower and dome,

  Shewed each unwindowed and malign.

  Then he who in his boyhood ran

  Through vine-hung ruins free of fear,

  Trembled at what he saw—for here

  Was no dead, ruined seat of man.

  Inhuman shapes, half-seen, half-guessed,

  Half solid and half ether-spawned,

  Seethed down from starless voids that yawned

  In heav’n, to these blank walls of pest.

  And voidward from that pest-mad zone

  Amorphous hordes seethed darkly back,

  Their dim claws laden with the wrack

  Of things that men have dreamed and known.

  The ancient Fishers from Outside—

  Were there not tales the high-priest told,

  Of how they found the worlds of old,

  And took what pelf their fancy spied?

  Their hidden, dread-ringed outposts brood

  Upon a million worlds of space;

  Abhorred by every living race,

  Yet scatheless in their solitude.

  Sweating with fright, the watcher crept

  Back to the swamp that serpents shun,

  So that he lay, by rise of sun,

  Safe in the palace where he slept.

  None saw him leave, or come at dawn,

  Nor does his flesh bear any mark

  Of what he met in that curst dark—

  Yet from his sleep all peace has gone.

  When evening cools the yellow stream,

  And shadows stalk the jungle’s ways,

  Zimbabwe’s palace flares ablaze,

  For a great King who fears to dream.

  Pacifist War Song—1917

  We are the valiant Knights of Peace

  Who prattle for the Right:

  Our banner is of snowy fleece,

  Inscribed: “TOO PROUD TO FIGHT!”

  By sweet Chautauqua’s flow’ry banks

  We love to sing and play,

  But should we spy a foeman’s ranks,

  We’d proudly run away!

  When Prussian fury sweeps the main

  Our freedom to deny;

  Of tyrant laws we ne’er complain,

  But gladsomely comply!

  We do not fear the submarines

  That plough the troubled foam;

  We scorn the ugly old machines—

  And safely stay at home!

  They say our country’s close to war,

  And soon must man the guns;

  But we see naught to struggle for—

  We love the gentle Huns!

  What tho’ their hireling Greaser bands

  Invade our southern plains?

  We well can spare those boist’rous lands,

  Content with what remains!

  Our fathers were both rude and bold,

  And would not live like brothers;

  But we are of a finer mould—

  We’re much more like our mothers!

  The Peace Advocate

  (Supposed to be a “pome,” but cast strictly in modern metre.)

  The vicar sat in the firelight’s glow,

  A volume in his hand;

  And a tear he shed for the widespread woe,

  And the anguish brought by the vicious foe

  That overran the land.

  But ne’er a hand for his King rais’d he,

  For he was a man of peace;

  And he car’d not a whit for the victory

  That must come to preserve his nation free,

  And the world from fear release.

  His son had buckled on his sword,

  The first at the front was he;

  But the vicar his valiant child ignor’d,

  And his noble deeds in the field deplor’d,

  For he knew not bravery.

  On his flock he strove to fix his will,

  And lead them to scorn the fray.

  He told them that conquest brings but ill;

  That meek submission would serve them still

  To keep the foe away.

  In vain did he hear the bugle’s sound

  That strove to avert the fall.

  The land, quoth he, is all men’s ground,

  What matter if friend or foe be found

  As master of us all?

  One day from the village green hard by

  The vicar heard a roar

  Of cannon that rivall’d the anguish’d cry

  Of the hundreds that liv’d, but wish’d to die

  As the enemy rode them o’er.

  Now he sees his own cathedral shake

  At the foeman’s wanton aim.

  The ancient tow’rs with the bullets quake;

  The steeples fall, the foundations break,

  And the whole is lost in flame.

  Up the vicarage lane file the cavalcade,

  And the vicar, and daughter, and wife

  Scream out in vain for the needed aid

  That only a regiment might have made

  Ere they lose what is more than life.

  Then quick to his brain came manhood’s thought,

  As he saw his erring course;

  And the vicar his dusty rifle brought

  That the foe might at least by one be fought,

  And force repaid with force.

  One shot—the enemy’s blasting fire

  A breach in the wall cuts thro’,

  But the vicar replies with his waken’d ire;

  Fells one arm’d brute for each fallen spire,

  And in blood is born anew.

  Two shots—the wife and daughter sink,

  Each with a mortal wound;

  And the vicar, too madden’d by far to think,

  Rushes boldly on to death’s vague brink,

  With the manhood he has found.

  Three shots—but shots of another kind

  The smoky regions rend;

  And upon the foeman with rage gone blind,

  Like a ceaseless, resistless, avenging wind,

  The rescuing troops descend.

  The smoke-pall clears, and the vicar’s son

  His father’s life has sav’d;

  And the vicar looks o’er the ruin done,

  Ere the vict’ry by his child was won,

  His face with care engrav’d.

  The vic
ar sat in the firelight’s glow,

  The volume in his hand,

  That brought to his hearth the bitter woe

  Which only a husband and father can know,

  And truly understand.

  With a chasten’d mien he flung the book

  To the leaping flames before;

  And a breath of sad relief he took

  As the pages blacken’d beneath his look—

  The fool of Peace no more!

  Epilogue

  The rev’rend parson, wak’d to man’s estate,

  Laments his wife’s and daughter’s common fate.

  His martial son in warm embrace enfolds,

  And clings the tighter to the child he holds.

  His peaceful notions, banish’d in an hour,

  Will nevermore his wit or sense devour;

  But steep’d in truth, ’tis now his nobler plan

  To cure, yet recognise, the faults of man.

  The Poe-et’s Nightmare

  A Fable

  Luxus tumultus semper causa est.

  Lucullus Languish, student of the skies,

  And connoisseur of rarebits and mince pies,

  A bard by choice, a grocer’s clerk by trade,

  (Grown pessimist thro’ honours long delay’d),

  A secret yearning bore, that he might shine

  In breathing numbers, and in song divine.

  Each day his fountain pen was wont to drop

  An ode or dirge or two about the shop,

  Yet naught could strike the chord within his heart

  That throbb’d for poesy, and cry’d for art.

  Each eve he sought his bashful Muse to wake

  With overdoses of ice-cream and cake;

  But thou’ th’ ambitious youth a dreamer grew,

  Th’ Aonian Nymph declin’d to come to view.

  Sometimes at dusk he scour’d the heav’ns afar,

  Searching for raptures in the evening star;

  One night he strove to catch a tale untold

  In crystal deeps—but only caught a cold.

  So pin’d Lucullus with his lofty woe,

  Till one drear day he bought a set of Poe:

  Charm’d with the cheerful horrors there display’d,

  He vow’d with gloom to woo the Heav’nly Maid.

  Of Auber’s tarn and Yaanek’s slope he dreams,

  And weaves an hundred Ravens in his schemes.

  Not far from our young hero’s peaceful home

  Lies the fair grove wherein he loves to roam.

  Tho’ but a stunted copse in vacant lot,

  He dubs it Tempe, and adores the spot;

  When shallow puddles dot the wooded plain,

  And brim o’er muddy banks with muddy rain,

  He calls them limpid lakes or poison pools

  (Depending on which bard his fancy rules).

  ’Tis here he comes with Heliconian fire

  On Sundays when he smites the Attic lyre;

  And here one afternoon he brought his gloom,

  Resolv’d to chant a poet’s lay of doom.

  Roget’s Thesaurus, and a book of rhymes,

  Provide the rungs whereon his spirit climbs:

  With this grave retinue he trod the grove

  And pray’d the Fauns he might a Poe-et prove.

  But sad to tell, ere Pegasus flew high,

  The not unrelish’d supper hour drew nigh;

  Our tuneful swain th’ imperious call attends,

  And soon above the groaning table bends.

  Tho’ it were too prosaic to relate

  Th’ exact particulars of what he ate

  (Such long-drawn lists the hasty reader skips,

  Like Homer’s well-known catalogue of ships),

  This much we swear: that as adjournment near’d,

  A monstrous lot of cake had disappear’d!

  Soon to his chamber the young bard repairs,

  And courts soft Somnus with sweet Lydian airs;

  Thro’ open casement scans the star-strown deep,

  And ’neath Orion’s beams sinks off to sleep.

  Now start from airy dell the elfin train

  That dance each midnight o’er the sleeping plain,

  To bless the just, or cast a warning spell

  On those who dine not wisely, but too well.

  First Deacon Smith they plague, whose nasal glow

  Comes from what Holmes hath call’d “Elixir Pro”;

  Group’d round the couch his visage they deride,

  Whilst thro’ his dreams unnumber’d serpents glide.

  Next troop the little folk into the room

  Where snores our young Endymion, swath’d in gloom:

  A smile lights up his boyish face, whilst he

  Dreams of the moon—or what he ate at tea.

  The chieftain elf th’ unconscious youth surveys,

  And on his form a strange enchantment lays:

  Those lips, that lately thrill’d with frosted cake,

  Uneasy sounds in slumbrous fashion make;

  At length their owner’s fancies they rehearse,

  And lisp this awesome Poe-em in blank verse:

  Aletheia Phrikodes

  Omnia risus et omnia pulvis et omnia nihil.

  Demoniac clouds, up-pil’d in chasmy reach

  Of soundless heav’n, smother’d the brooding night;

  Nor came the wonted whisp’rings of the swamp,

  Nor voice of autumn wind along the moor,

  Nor mutter’d noises of th’ insomnious grove

  Whose black recesses never saw the sun.

  Within that grove a hideous hollow lies,

  Half bare of trees; a pool in centre lurks

  That none dares sound; a tarn of murky face

  (Tho’ naught can prove its hue, since light of day,

  Affrighted, shuns the forest-shadow’d banks).

  Hard by, a yawning hillside grotto breathes,

  From deeps unvisited, a dull, dank air

  That sears the leaves on certain stunted trees

  Which stand about, clawing the spectral gloom

  With evil boughs. To this accursed dell

  Come woodland creatures, seldom to depart:

  Once I behold, upon a crumbling stone

  Set altar-like before the cave, a thing

  I saw not clearly, yet from glimpsing, fled.

  In this half-dusk I meditate alone

  At many a weary noontide, when without

  A world forgets me in its sun-blest mirth.

  Here howl by night the werewolves, and the souls

  Of those that knew me well in other days.

  Yet on this night the grove spake not to me;

  Nor spake the swamp, nor wind along the moor,

  Nor moan’d the wind about the lonely eaves

  Of the bleak, haunted pile wherein I lay.

  I was afraid to sleep, or quench the spark

  Of the low-burning taper by my couch.

  I was afraid when thro’ the vaulted space

  Of the old tow’r, the clock-ticks died away

  Into a silence so profound and chill

  That my teeth chatter’d—giving yet no sound.

  Then flicker’d low the light, and all dissolv’d,

  Leaving me floating in the hellish grasp

  Of body’d blackness, from whose beating wings

  Came ghoulish blasts of charnel-scented mist.

  Things vague, unseen, unfashion’d, and unnam’d

  Jostled each other in the seething void

  That gap’d, chaotic, downward to a sea

  Of speechless horror, foul with writhing thoughts.

  All this I felt, and felt the mocking eyes

  Of the curs’d universe upon my soul;

  Yet naught I saw nor heard, till flash’d a beam

  Of lurid lustre thro’ the rotting heav’ns,

  Playing on scenes I labour’d not to see.

  Methought the namel
ess tarn, alight at last,

  Reflected shapes, and more reveal’d within

  Those shocking depths than ne’er were seen before;

  Methought from out the cave a demon train,

  Grinning and smirking, reel’d in fiendish rout;

  Bearing within their reeking paws a load

  Of carrion viands for an impious feast.

  Methought the stunted trees with hungry arms

  Grop’d greedily for things I dare not name;

  The while a stifling, wraith-like noisomeness

  Fill’d all the dale, and spoke a larger life

  Of uncorporeal hideousness awake

  In the half-sentient wholeness of the spot.

  Now glow’d the ground, and tarn, and cave, and trees,

  And moving forms, and things not spoken of,

  With such a phosphorescence as men glimpse

  In the putrescent thickets of the swamp

  Where logs decaying lie, and rankness reigns.

  Methought a fire-mist drap’d with lucent fold

  The well-remember’d features of the grove,

  Whilst whirling ether bore in eddying streams

  The hot, unfinish’d stuff of nascent worlds

  Hither and thither thro’ infinities

  Of light and darkness, strangely intermix’d;

  Wherein all entity had consciousness,

  Without th’ accustom’d outward shape of life.

  Of these swift-circling currents was my soul,

  Free from the flesh, a true constituent part;

  Nor felt I less myself, for want of form.

  Then clear’d the mist, and o’er a star-strown scene,

  Divine and measureless, I gaz’d in awe.

  Alone in space, I view’d a feeble fleck

  Of silvern light, marking the narrow ken

  Which mortals call the boundless universe.

  On ev’ry side, each as a tiny star,

  Shone more creations, vaster than our own,

  And teeming with unnumber’d forms of life;

  Tho’ we as life would recognise it not,

  Being bound to earthy thoughts of human mould.

  As on a moonless night the Milky Way

  In solid sheen displays its countless orbs