I am He who howls in the night;
I am He who moans in the snow;
I am He who hath never seen light;
I am He who mounts from below.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My car is the car of Death;
My wings are the wings of dread;
My breath is the north wind\u2019s breath;
My prey are the cold and the dead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In old Auvergne, when schools were poor and few,
And peasants fancy\u2019d what they scarcely knew,
When lords and gentry shunn\u2019d their Monarch\u2019s throne
For solitary castles of their own,
There dwelt a man of rank, whose fortress stood
In the hush\u2019d twilight of a hoary wood.
De Blois his name; his lineage high and vast,
A proud memorial of an honour\u2019d past;
But curious swains would whisper now and then
That Sieur De Blois was not as other men.
In person dark and lean, with glossy hair,
And gleaming teeth that he would often bare,
With piercing eye, and stealthy roving glance,
And tongue that clipt the soft, sweet speech of France;
The Sieur was little lov\u2019d and seldom seen,
So close he kept within his own demesne.
The castle servants, few, discreet, and old,
Full many a tale of strangeness might have told;
But bow\u2019d with years, they rarely left the door
Wherein their sires and grandsires serv\u2019d before.
Thus gossip rose, as gossip rises best,
When mystery imparts a keener zest;
Seclusion oft the poison tongue attracts,
And scandal prospers on a dearth of facts.
\u2019Twas said, the Sieur had more than once been spy\u2019d
Alone at midnight by the river\u2019s side,
With aspect so uncouth, and gaze so strange,
That rustics cross\u2019d themselves to see the change;
Yet none, when press\u2019d, could clearly say or know
Just what it was, or why they trembled so.
De Blois, as rumour whisper\u2019d, fear\u2019d to pray,
Nor us\u2019d his chapel on the Sabbath day;
Howe\u2019er this may have been, \u2019twas known at least
His household had no chaplain, monk, or priest.
But if the Master liv\u2019d in dubious fame,
Twice fear\u2019d and hated was his noble Dame;
As dark as he, in features wild and proud,
And with a weird supernal grace endow\u2019d,
The haughty mistress scorn\u2019d the rural train
Who sought to learn her source, but sought in vain.
Old women call\u2019d her eyes too bright by half,
And nervous children shiver\u2019d at her laugh;
Richard, the dwarf (whose word had little weight),
Vow\u2019d she was like a serpent in her gait,
Whilst ancient Pierre (the aged often err)
Laid all her husband\u2019s mystery to her.
Still more absurd were those odd mutter\u2019d things
That calumny to curious list\u2019ners brings;
Those subtle slanders, told with downcast face,
And muffled voice\u2014those tales no man may trace;
Tales that the faith of old wives can command,
Tho\u2019 always heard at sixth or seventh hand.
Thus village legend darkly would imply
That Dame De Blois possess\u2019d an evil eye;
Or going further, furtively suggest
A lurking spark of sorcery in her breast;
Old M\u00e8re Allard (herself half witch) once said
The lady\u2019s glance work\u2019d strangely on the dead.
So liv\u2019d the pair, like many another two
That shun the crowd, and shrink from public view.
They scorn\u2019d the doubts by ev\u2019ry peasant shewn,
And ask\u2019d but one thing\u2014to be let alone!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2019Twas Candlemas, the dreariest time of year,
With fall long gone, and spring too far to cheer,
When little Jean, the bailiff\u2019s son and heir,
Fell sick and threw the doctors in despair.
A child so stout and strong that few would think
An hour might carry him to death\u2019s dark brink,
Yet pale he lay, tho\u2019 hidden was the cause,
And Galens search\u2019d in vain thro\u2019 Nature\u2019s laws.
But stricken sadness could not quite suppress
The roving thought, or wrinkled grandam\u2019s guess:
Tho\u2019 spoke by stealth, \u2019twas known to half a score
That Dame De Blois rode by the day before;
She had (they said) with glances weird and wild
Paus\u2019d by the gate to view the prattling child,
Nor did they like the smile which seem\u2019d to trace
New lines of evil on her proud, dark face.
These things they whisper\u2019d, when the mother\u2019s cry
Told of the end\u2014the gentle soul gone by;
In genuine grief the kindly watcher wept,
Whilst the lov\u2019d babe with saints and angels slept.
The village priest his simple rites went thro\u2019,
And good Michel nail\u2019d up the box of yew;
Around the corpse the holy candles burn\u2019d,
The mourners sighed, the parents dumbly yearn\u2019d.
Then one by one each sought his humble bed,
And left the lonely mother with her dead.
Late in the night it was, when o\u2019er the vale
The storm-king swept with pandemoniac gale;
Deep pil\u2019d the cruel snow, yet strange to tell,
The lightning sputter\u2019d while the white flakes fell;
A hideous presence seem\u2019d abroad to steal,
And terror sounded in the thunder\u2019s peal.
Within the house of grief the tapers glow\u2019d
Whilst the poor mother bow\u2019d beneath her load;
Her salty eyes too tired now to weep,
Too pain\u2019d to see, too sad to close in sleep.
The clock struck three, above the tempest heard,
When something near the lifeless infant stirr\u2019d;
Some slipp\u2019ry thing, that flopp\u2019d in awkward way,
And climb\u2019d the table where the coffin lay;
With scaly convolutions strove to find
The cold, still clay that death had left behind.
The nodding mother hears\u2014starts broad awake\u2014
Empower\u2019d to reason, yet too stunn\u2019d to shake;
The pois\u2019nous thing she sees, and nimbly foils
The ghoulish purpose of the quiv\u2019ring coils:
With ready axe the serpent\u2019s head she cleaves,
And thrills with savage triumph whilst she grieves.
The injur\u2019d reptile hissing glides from sight,
And hides its cloven carcass in the night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The weeks slipp\u2019d by, and gossip\u2019s tongue began
To call the Sieur De Blois an alter\u2019d man;
With curious mien he oft would pace along
The village street, and eye the gaping throng.
Yet whilst he shew\u2019d himself as ne\u2019er before,
His wild-eyed lady was observ\u2019d no more.
In course of time, \u2019twas scarce thought odd or ill
That he his ears with village lore should fill;
Nor was the town with special rumour rife
When he sought out the bailiff and his wife:
Their tale of sorrow, with its ghastly end,
Was told, indeed, by ev\u2019ry wond\u2019ring friend.
The Sieur heard all, and low\u2019ring rode away,
Nor was he seen again for many a day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When vernal sunshine shed its cheering glow,
And genial zephyrs blew away the snow,
To frighten\u2019d swains a horror was reveal\u2019d
In the damp herbage of a melting field.
There (half preserv\u2019d by winter\u2019s frigid bed)
Lay the dark Dame De Blois, untimely dead;
By some assassin\u2019s stroke most foully slain,
Her shapely brow and temples cleft in twain.
Reluctant hands the dismal burden bore
To the stone arches of the husband\u2019s door,
Where silent serfs the ghastly thing receiv\u2019d,
Trembling with fright, but less amaz\u2019d than griev\u2019d;
The Sieur his dame beheld with blazing eyes,
And shook with anger, more than with surprise.
(At least \u2019tis thus the stupid peasants told
Their wide-mouth\u2019d wives when they the tale unroll\u2019d.)
The village wonder\u2019d why De Blois had kept
His spouse\u2019s loss unmention\u2019d and unwept,
Nor were there lacking sland\u2019rous tongues to claim
That the dark master was himself to blame.
But village talk could scarcely hope to solve
A crime so deep, and thus the months revolve:
The rural train repeat the gruesome tale,
And gape and marvel more than they bewail.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Swift flew the sun, and winter once again
With icy talons gripp\u2019d the frigid plain.
December brought its store of Christmas cheer,
And grateful peasants hail\u2019d the op\u2019ning year;
But by the hearth as Candlemas drew nigh,
The whisp\u2019ring ancients spoke of things gone by.
Few had forgot the dark demoniac lore
Of things that came the Candlemas before,
And many a crone intently eyed the house
Where dwelt the sadden\u2019d bailiff and his spouse.
At last the day arriv\u2019d, the sky o\u2019erspread
With dark\u2019ning messengers and clouds of lead;
Each neighb\u2019ring grove Aeolian warnings sigh\u2019d,
And thick\u2019ning terrors broadcast seem\u2019d to bide.
The good folk, tho\u2019 they knew not why, would run
Swift past the bailiff\u2019s door, the scene to shun;
Within the house the grieving couple wept,
And mourn\u2019d the child who now forever slept.
On rush\u2019d the dusk in doubly hideous form,
Borne on the pinions of the gath\u2019ring storm;
Unusual murmurs fill\u2019d the rainless wind,
The rising river lash\u2019d the troubled shore;
Black thro\u2019 the night the awful storm-god prowl\u2019d,
And froze the list\u2019ners\u2019 life-blood as he howl\u2019d;
Gigantic trees like supple rushes sway\u2019d,
Whilst for his home the trembling cotter pray\u2019d.
Now falls a sudden lull amidst the gale;
With less\u2019ning force the circling currents wail;
Far down the stream that laves the neighb\u2019ring mead
Burst a new ululation, wildly key\u2019d;
The peasant train a frantic mien assume,
And huddle closer in the spectral gloom:
To each strain\u2019d ear the truth too well is known,
For that dread sound can come from wolves alone!
The rustics close attend, when ere they think,
A lupine army swarms the river\u2019s brink;
From out the waters leap a howling train
That rend the air, and scatter o\u2019er the plain:
With flaming orbs the frothing creatures fly,
And chant with hellish voice their hungry cry.
First of the pack a mighty monster leaps
With fearless tread, and martial order keeps;
Th\u2019 attendant wolves his yelping tones obey,
And form in columns for the coming fray:
No frighten\u2019d swain they harm, but silent bound
With a fix\u2019d purpose o\u2019er the frozen ground.
Straight course the monsters thro\u2019 the village street,
Unholy vigour in their flying feet;
Thro\u2019 half-shut blinds the shelter\u2019d peasants peer,
And wax in wonder as they lose in fear.
Th\u2019 excited pack at last their goal perceive,
And the vex\u2019d air with deaf\u2019ning clamour cleave;
The churls, astonish\u2019d, watch th\u2019 unnatural herd
Flock round a cottage at the leader\u2019s word:
Quick spreads the fearsome fact, by rumour blown,
That the doom\u2019d cottage is the bailiff\u2019s own!
Round and around the howling daemons glide,
Whilst the fierce leader scales the vine-clad side;
The frantic wind its horrid wail renews,
And mutters madly thro\u2019 the lifeless yews.
In the frail house the bailiff calmly waits
The rav\u2019ning horde, and trusts th\u2019 impartial Fates,
But the wan wife revives with curious mien
Another monster and an older scene;
Amidst th\u2019 increasing wind that rocks the walls,
The dame to him the serpent\u2019s deed recalls:
Then as a nameless thought fills both their minds,
The bare-fang\u2019d leader crashes thro\u2019 the blinds.
Across the room, with murd\u2019rous fury rife,
Leaps the mad wolf, and seizes on the wife;
With strange intent he drags his shrieking prey
Close to the spot where once the coffin lay.
Wilder and wilder roars the mounting gale
That sweeps the hills and hurtles thro\u2019 the vale;
The ill-made cottage shakes, the pack without
Dance with new fury in demoniac rout.
Quick as his thought, the valiant bailiff stands
Above the wolf, a weapon in his hands;
The ready axe that serv\u2019d a year before,
Now serves as well to slay one monster more.
The creature drops inert, with shatter\u2019d head,
Full on the floor, and silent as the dead;
The rescu\u2019d wife recalls the dire alarms,
And faints from terror in her husband\u2019s arms.
But as he holds her, all the cottage quakes,
And with full force the titan tempest breaks:
Down crash the walls, and o\u2019er their shrinking forms
Burst the mad revels of the storm of storms.
Th\u2019 encircling wolves advance with ghastly pace,
Hunger and murder in each gleaming face,
But as they close, from out the hideous night
Flashes a bolt of unexpected light:
The vivid scene to ev\u2019ry eye appears,
And peasants shiver with returning fears.
Above the wreck the scatheless chimney stays,
Its outline glimm\u2019ring in the fitful rays,
Whilst o\u2019er the hearth still hangs the household shrine,
The Saviour\u2019s image and the Cross divine!
Round the blest spot a lambent radiance glows,
And shields the cotters from their stealthy foes:
Each monstrous creature marks the wondrous glare,
Drops, fades, and vanishes in empty air!
The village train with startled eyes adore,
And count their beads in rev\u2019rence o\u2019er and o\u2019er.
Now fades the light, and dies the raging blast,
The hour of dread and reign of horror past.
Pallid and bruis\u2019d, from out his toppled walls
The panting bailiff with his good wife crawls:
Kind hands attend them, whilst o\u2019er all the town
A strange sweet peace of spirit settles down.
Wonder and fear are still\u2019d in soothing sleep,
As thro\u2019 the breaking clouds the moon rays peep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Here paus\u2019d the prattling grandam in her speech,
Confus\u2019d with age, the tale half out of reach;
The list\u2019ning guest, impatient for a clue,
Fears \u2019tis not one tale, but a blend of two;
He fain would know how far\u2019d the widow\u2019d lord
Whose eerie ways th\u2019 initial theme afford,
And marvels that the crone so quick should slight
His fate, to babble of the wolf-wrack\u2019d night.
The old wife, press\u2019d, for greater clearness strives,
Nods wisely, and her scatter\u2019d wits revives;
Yet strangely lingers on her latter tale
Of wolf and bailiff, miracle and gale.
When (quoth the crone) the dawn\u2019s bright radiance bath\u2019d
Th\u2019 eventful scene, so late in terror swath\u2019d,
The chatt\u2019ring churls that sought the ruin\u2019d cot
Found a new marvel in the gruesome spot.
From fallen walls a trail of gory red,
As of the stricken wolf, erratic led;
O\u2019er road and mead the new-dript crimson wound,
Till lost amidst the neighb\u2019ring swampy ground:
With wonder unappeas\u2019d the peasants burn\u2019d,
For what the quicksand takes is ne\u2019er return\u2019d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Once more the grandam, with a knowing eye,
Stops in her tale, to watch a hawk soar by;
The weary list\u2019ner, baffled, seeks anew
For some plain statement, or enlight\u2019ning clue.
Th\u2019 indulgent crone attends the puzzled plea,
Yet strangely mutters o\u2019er the mystery.
The Sieur? Ah, yes\u2014that morning all in vain
His shaking servants scour\u2019d the frozen plain;
No man had seen him since he rode away
In silence on the dark preceding day.
His horse, wild-eyed with some unusual fright,
Came wand\u2019ring from the river-bank that night.
His hunting-hound, that mourn\u2019d with piteous woe,
Howl\u2019d by the quicksand swamp, his grief to shew.
The village folk thought much, but utter\u2019d less;
The servants\u2019 search wore out in emptiness:
For Sieur De Blois (the old wife\u2019s tale is o\u2019er)
Was lost to mortal sight for evermore.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
By H.P. Lovecraft I am He who howls in the night;I am He who moans in the snow;I am He who hath never seen light;I am He who mounts from below. My car is the car of Death;My wings are the wings of dread;My breath is the north wind\u2019s breath;My prey are the cold and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1766","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\n