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    Debris Selections from Poems
    Debris Selections from Poems
    Debris Selections from Poems
    Ebook121 pages1 hour

    Debris Selections from Poems

    By Madge Morris Wagner

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    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Debris Selections from Poems

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      Book preview

      Debris Selections from Poems - Madge Morris Wagner

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Debris, by Madge Morris

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: Debris

      Selections From Poems

      Author: Madge Morris

      Release Date: July 2, 2005 [EBook #16108]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEBRIS ***

      Produced by Michael Gray

      D E B R I S

      SELECTIONS FROM POEMS

      BY MADGE MORRIS

      SACRAMENTO

      H. S. CROCKER & CO., PRINTERS

      1881.

      To the one who, reading, may fancy—

      With a kindly thought for me—

      There's a grain of gold in its driftings,

      I dedicate this Debris.

      CONTENTS

      PREFACE.

      The waif is born of emergency, and timidly launched on the rough sea of opinion. Critic, touch it gently; it assumes nothing—has nothing to assume; and your scalpel can only pain its

      AUTHOR.

      MYSTERY OF CARMEL

      The Mission floor was with weeds o'ergrown,

      And crumbling and shaky its walls of stone;

      Its roof of tiles, in tiers and tiers,

      Had stood the storms of a hundred years.

      An olden, weird, medieval style

      Clung to the mouldering, gloomy pile,

      And the rhythmic voice of the breaking waves

      Sang a lonesome dirge in its land of graves.

      As I walked in the Mission old and gray—

      The Mission Carmel at Monterey.

      An ancient owl went fluttering by,

      Scared from his haunt. His mournful cry

      Wakened the echoes, till roof and wall

      Caught and re-echoed the dismal call

      Again and again, till it seemed to me

      Some Jesuit soul, in mockery—

      Stripped of rosary, gown, and cowl—

      Haunted the place, in this dreary owl.

      Surely I shivered with fright that day,

      Alone in the Mission, old and gray—

      The Mission Carmel at Monterey.

      Near the chapel vault was a dungeon grim,

      And they say that many a chanted hymn

      Has rung a knell on the moldy air

      For luckless errant prisoned there,

      As kneeling monk and pious nun

      Sang orison at set of sun.

      A single window, dark and small,

      Showed opening in the heavy wall,

      Nor other entrance seemed attained

      That erst had human footstep gained.

      I paused before the uncanny place

      And peered me into its darksome space.

      Had it of secret aught to tell,

      That locked up darkness kept it well.

      I turned, and lo! by my side there stood

      A being of strangest naturehood.

      Startled, I glanced him o'er and o'er,

      Wondering I noted him not before.

      His form was stooped with the weight of years,

      And on his cheek was a trace of tears;

      Over all his face a shade of pain

      That deepened and vanished, and came again.

      Fixed he his woeful eyes on me—

      Through my very soul they seemed to see.

      And lightly he laid his hand on mine—

      His hand was cold as the vestal shrine.

      'Tis haunted, he said, "haunted, and he

      Who dares at night-noon go with me

      To this cursed place, by phantoms trod,

      Must fear not devil, man, nor God."

      Tell me the story, I cried, tell me!

      And frightened was I at my bravery.

      A curious smile his thin lips curved,

      That well had my bravery unnerved.

      And this is the story he told that day

      To me in the Mission old and gray—

      The Mission Carmel at Monterey.

      "Each midnight, since have seventy years

      Begun their cycle around the spheres,

      Two faces have looked from that window there.

      One is a woman's, young and fair,

      With tender eyes and floating hair.

      Love, and regret, and dumb despair,

      Are told in each tint of the fair sweet face.

      The other is crowned with a courtly grace,

      Gazing, with all a lover's pride,

      On the beautiful woman by his side.

      Anon! a change flits o'er his mien,

      And baffled rage in his glance is seen.

      Paler they grow as the hours go by,

      With the pallor that comes with the summons to die.

      Slowly fading, and shrinking away,

      Clutched in the grasp of a gaunt decay,

      Till the herald of morn on the sky is thrown;

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