John William Polidori: The Vampyre, a Tale
Der Vampyr
Théophile Gautier: La Morte Amoureuse

Vita

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The Vampyre, a Tale

It happened that in the midst of the dissipations attendant upon a London winter, there appeared at the various parties of the leaders of the ton a nobleman, more remarkable for his singularities, than his rank. He gazed upon the mirth around him, as if he could not participate therein. Apparently, the light laughter of the fair only attracted his attention, that he might by a look quell it, and throw fear into those breasts where thoughtlessness reigned. Those who felt this sensation of awe, could not explain whence it arose: some attributed it to the dead grey eye, which, fixing upon the object’s face, did not seem to penetrate, and at one glance to pierce through to the inward workings of the heart; but fell upon the cheek with a leaden ray that weighed upon the skin it could not pass. His peculiarities caused him to be invited to every house; all wished to see him, and those who had been accustomed to violent excitement, and now felt the weight of ennui, were pleased at having something in their presence capable of engaging their attention. In spite of the deadly hue of his face, which never gained a warmer tint, either from the blush of modesty, or from the strong emotion of passion, though its form and outline were beautiful, many of the female hunters after notoriety attempted to win his attentions, and gain, at least, some marks of what they might term affection: Lady Mercer, who had been the mockery of every monster shewn in drawing-rooms since her marriage, threw herself in his way, and did all but put on the dress of a mountebank, to attract his notice: — though in vain: — when she stood before him, though his eyes were apparently fixed upon her’s, still it seemed as if they were unperceived; — even her unappalled impudence was baffled, and she left the field. But though the common adultress could not influence even the guidance of his eyes, it was not that the female sex was indifferent to him: yet such was the apparent caution with which he spoke to the virtuous wife and innocent daughter, that few knew he ever addressed himself to females. He had, however, the reputation of a winning tongue; and whether it was that it even overcame the dread of his singular character, or that they were moved by his apparent hatred of vice, he was as often among those females who form the boast of their sex from their domestic virtues, as among those who sully it by their vices.

About the same time, there came to London a young gentleman of the name of Aubrey: he was an orphan left with an only sister in the possession of great wealth, by parents who died while he was yet in childhood. Left also to himself by guardians, who thought it their duty merely to take care of his fortune, while they relinquished the more important charge of his mind to the care of mercenary subalterns, he cultivated more his imagination than his judgment. He had, hence, that high romantic feeling of honour and candour, which daily ruins so many milliners’ apprentices. He believed all to sympathise with virtue, and thought that vice was thrown in by Providence merely for the picturesque effect of the scene, as we see in romances: he thought that the misery of a cottage merely consisted in the vesting of clothes, which were as warm, but which were better adapted to the painter’s eye by their irregular folds and various coloured patches. He thought, in fine, that the dreams of poets were the realities of life. He was handsome, frank, and rich: for these reasons, upon his entering into the gay circles, many mothers surrounded him, striving which should describe with least truth their languishing or romping favourites: the daughters at the same time, by their brightening countenances when he approached, and by their sparkling eyes, when he opened his lips, soon led him into false notions of his talents and his merit. Attached as he was to the romance of his solitary hours, he was startled at finding, that, except in the tallow and wax candles that flickered, not from the presence of a ghost, but from want of snuffing, there was no foundation in real life for any of that congeries of pleasing pictures and descriptions contained in those volumes, from which he had formed his study. Finding, however, some compensation in his gratified vanity, he was about to relinquish his dreams, when the extraordinary being we have above described, crossed him in his career.

He watched him; and the very impossibility of forming an idea of the character of a man entirely absorbed in himself, who gave few other signs of his observation of external objects, than the tacit assent to their existence, implied by the avoidance of their contact: allowing his imagination to picture every thing that flattered its propensity to extravagant ideas, he soon formed this object into the hero of a romance, and determined to observe the offspring of his fancy, rather than the person before him. He became acquainted with him, paid him attentions, and so far advanced upon his notice, that his presence was always recognised. He gradually learnt that Lord Ruthven’s affairs were embarrassed, and soon found, from the notes of preparation in — — Street, that he was about to travel. Desirous of gaining some information respecting this singular character, who, till now, had only whetted his curiosity, he hinted to his guardians, that it was time for him to perform the tour, which for many generations has been thought necessary to enable the young to take some rapid steps in the career of vice towards putting themselves upon an equality with the aged, and not allowing them to appear as if fallen from the skies, whenever scandalous intrigues are mentioned as the subjects of pleasantry or of praise, according to the degree of skill shewn in carrying them on. They consented: and Aubrey immediately mentioning his intentions to Lord Ruthven, was surprised to receive from him a proposal to join him. Flattered by such a mark of esteem from him, who, apparently, had nothing in common with other men, he gladly accepted it, and in a few days they had passed the circling waters.

Hitherto, Aubrey had had no opportunity of studying Lord Ruthven’s character, and now he found, that, though many more of his actions were exposed to his view, the results offered different conclusions from the apparent motives to his conduct. His companion was profuse in his liberality; — the idle, the vagabond, and the beggar, received from his hand more than enough to relieve their immediate wants. But Aubrey could not avoid remarking, that it was not upon the virtuous, reduced to indigence by the misfortunes attendant even upon virtue, that he bestowed his alms; — these were sent from the door with hardly suppressed sneers; but when the profligate came to ask something, not to relieve his wants, but to allow him to wallow in his lust, or to sink him still deeper in his iniquity, he was sent away with rich charity. This was, however, attributed by him to the greater importunity of the vicious, which generally prevails over the retiring bashfulness of the virtuous indigent. There was one circumstance about the charity of his Lordship, which was still more impressed upon his mind: all those upon whom it was bestowed, inevitably found that there was a curse upon it, for they were all either led to the scaffold, or sunk to the lowest and the most abject misery. At Brussels and other towns through which they passed, Aubrey was surprized at the apparent eagerness with which his companion sought for the centres of all fashionable vice; there he entered into all the spirit of the faro table: he betted, and always gambled with success, except where the known sharper was his antagonist, and then he lost even more than he gained; but it was always with the same unchanging face, with which he generally watched the society around: it was not, however, so when he encountered the rash youthful novice, or the luckless father of a numerous family; then his very wish seemed fortune’s law — this apparent abstractedness of mind was laid aside, and his eyes sparkled with more fire than that of the cat whilst dallying with the half-dead mouse. In every town, he left the formerly affluent youth, torn from the circle he adorned, cursing, in the solitude of a dungeon, the fate that had drawn him within the reach of this fiend; whilst many a father sat frantic, amidst the speaking looks of mute hungry children, without a single farthing of his late immense wealth, wherewith to buy even sufficient to satisfy their present craving. Yet he took no money from the gambling table; but immediately lost, to the ruiner of many, the last gilder he had just snatched from the convulsive grasp of the innocent: this might but be the result of a certain degree of knowledge, which was not, however, capable of combating the cunning of the more experienced. Aubrey often wished to represent this to his friend, and beg him to resign that charity and pleasure which proved the ruin of all, and did not tend to his own profit; — but he delayed it — for each day he hoped his friend would give him some opportunity of speaking frankly and openly to him; however, this never occurred. Lord Ruthven in his carriage, and amidst the various wild and rich scenes of nature, was always the same: his eye spoke less than his lip; and though Aubrey was near the object of his curiosity, he obtained no greater gratification from it than the constant excitement of vainly wishing to break that mystery, which to his exalted imagination began to assume the appearance of something supernatural.

They soon arrived at Rome, and Aubrey for a time lost sight of his companion; he left him in daily attendance upon the morning circle of an Italian countess, whilst he went in search of the memorials of another almost deserted city. Whilst he was thus engaged, letters arrived from England, which he opened with eager impatience; the first was from his sister, breathing nothing but affection; the others were from his guardians, the latter astonished him; if it had before entered into his imagination that there was an evil power resident in his companion, these seemed to give him sufficient reason for the belief. His guardians insisted upon his immediately leaving his friend, and urged, that his character was dreadfully vicious, for that the possession of irresistible powers of seduction, rendered his licentious habits more dangerous to society. It had been discovered, that his contempt for the adultress had not originated in hatred of her character; but that he had required, to enhance his gratification, that his victim, the partner of his guilt, should be hurled from the pinnacle of unsullied virtue, down to the lowest abyss of infamy and degradation: in fine, that all those females whom he had sought, apparently on account of their virtue, had, since his departure, thrown even the mask aside, and had not scrupled to expose the whole deformity of their vices to the public gaze.

Aubrey determined upon leaving one, whose character had not yet shown a single bright point on which to rest the eye. He resolved to invent some plausible pretext for abandoning him altogether, purposing, in the mean while, to watch him more closely, and to let no slight circumstances pass by unnoticed. He entered into the same circle, and soon perceived, that his Lordship was endeavouring to work upon the inexperience of the daughter of the lady whose house he chiefly frequented. In Italy, it is seldom that an unmarried female is met with in society; he was therefore obliged to carry on his plans in secret; but Aubrey’s eye followed him in all his windings, and soon discovered that an assignation had been appointed, which would most likely end in the ruin of an innocent, though thoughtless girl. Losing no time, he entered the apartment of Lord Ruthven, and abruptly asked him his intentions with respect to the lady, informing him at the same time that he was aware of his being about to meet her that very night. Lord Ruthven answered, that his intentions were such as he supposed all would have upon such an occasion; and upon being pressed whether he intended to marry her, merely laughed. Aubrey retired; and, immediately writing a note, to say, that from that moment he must decline accompanying his Lordship in the remainder of their proposed tour, he ordered his servant to seek other apartments, and calling upon the mother of the lady, informed her of all he knew, not only with regard to her daughter, but also concerning the character of his Lordship. The assignation was prevented. Lord Ruthven next day merely sent his servant to notify his complete assent to a separation; but did not hint any suspicion of his plans having been foiled by Aubrey’s interposition.

Having left Rome, Aubrey directed his steps towards Greece, and crossing the Peninsula, soon found himself at Athens. He then fixed his residence in the house of a Greek; and soon occupied himself in tracing the faded records of ancient glory upon monuments that apparently, ashamed of chronicling the deeds of freemen only before slaves, had hidden themselves beneath the sheltering soil or many coloured lichen. Under the same roof as himself, existed a being, so beautiful and delicate, that she might have formed the model for a painter wishing to pourtray on canvass the promised hope of the faithful in Mahomet’s paradise, save that her eyes spoke too much mind for any one to think she could belong to those who had no souls. As she danced upon the plain, or tripped along the mountain’s side, one would have thought the gazelle a poor type of her beauties; for who would have exchanged her eye, apparently the eye of animated nature, for that sleepy luxurious look of the animal suited but to the taste of an epicure. The light step of Ianthe often accompanied Aubrey in his search after antiquities, and often would the unconscious girl, engaged in the pursuit of a Kashmere butterfly, show the whole beauty of her form, floating as it were upon the wind, to the eager gaze of him, who forgot the letters he had just decyphered upon an almost effaced tablet, in the contemplation of her sylph-like figure. Often would her tresses falling, as she flitted around, exhibit in the sun’s ray such delicately brilliant and swiftly fading hues, it might well excuse the forgetfulness of the antiquary, who let escape from his mind the very object he had before thought of vital importance to the proper interpretation of a passage in Pausanias. But why attempt to describe charms which all feel, but none can appreciate? — It was innocence, youth, and beauty, unaffected by crowded drawing-rooms and stifling balls. Whilst he drew those remains of which he wished to preserve a memorial for his future hours, she would stand by, and watch the magic effects of his pencil, in tracing the scenes of her native place; she would then describe to him the circling dance upon the open plain, would paint, to him in all the glowing colours of youthful memory, the marriage pomp she remembered viewing in her infancy; and then, turning to subjects that had evidently made a greater impression upon her mind, would tell him all the supernatural tales of her nurse. Her earnestness and apparent belief of what she narrated, excited the interest even of Aubrey; and often as she told him the tale of the living vampyre, who had passed years amidst his friends, and dearest ties, forced every year, by feeding upon the life of a lovely female to prolong his existence for the ensuing months, his blood would run cold, whilst he attempted to laugh her out of such idle and horrible fantasies; but Ianthe cited to him the names of old men, who had at last detected one living among themselves, after several of their near relatives and children had been found marked with the stamp of the fiend’s appetite; and when she found him so incredulous, she begged of him to believe her, for it had been, remarked, that those who had dared to question their existence, always had some proof given, which obliged them, with grief and heartbreaking, to confess it was true. She detailed to him the traditional appearance of these monsters, and his horror was increased, by hearing a pretty accurate description of Lord Ruthven; he, however, still persisted in persuading her, that there could be no truth in her fears, though at the same time he wondered at the many coincidences which had all tended to excite a belief in the supernatural power of Lord Ruthven.

Aubrey began to attach himself more and more to Ianthe; her innocence, so contrasted with all the affected virtues of the women among whom he had sought for his vision of romance, won his heart; and while he ridiculed the idea of a young man of English habits, marrying an uneducated Greek girl, still he found himself more and more attached to the almost fairy form before him. He would tear himself at times from her, and, forming a plan for some antiquarian research, he would depart, determined not to return until his object was attained; but he always found it impossible to fix his attention upon the ruins around him, whilst in his mind he retained an image that seemed alone the rightful possessor of his thoughts. Ianthe was unconscious of his love, and was ever the same frank infantile being he had first known. She always seemed to part from him with reluctance; but it was because she had no longer any one with whom she could visit her favourite haunts, whilst her guardian was occupied in sketching or uncovering some fragment which had yet escaped the destructive hand of time. She had appealed to her parents on the subject of Vampyres, and they both, with several present, affirmed their existence, pale with horror at the very name. Soon after, Aubrey determined to proceed upon one of his excursions, which was to detain him for a few hours; when they heard the name of the place, they all at once begged of him not to return at night, as he must necessarily pass through a wood, where no Greek would ever remain, after the day had closed, upon any consideration. They described it as the resort of the vampyres in their nocturnal orgies, and denounced the most heavy evils as impending upon him who dared to cross their path. Aubrey made light of their representations, and tried to laugh them out of the idea; but when he saw them shudder at his daring thus to mock a superior, infernal power, the very name of which apparently made their blood freeze, he was silent.

Next morning Aubrey set off upon his excursion unattended; he was surprised to observe the melancholy face of his host, and was concerned to find that his words, mocking the belief of those horrible fiends, had inspired them with such terror. When he was about to depart, Ianthe came to the side of his horse, and earnestly begged of him to return, ere night allowed the power of these beings to be put in action; — he promised. He was, however, so occupied in his research, that he did not perceive that day-light would soon end, and that in the horizon there was one of those specks which, in the warmer climates, so rapidly gather into a tremendous mass, and pour all their rage upon the devoted country. — He at last, however, mounted his horse, determined to make up by speed for his delay: but it was too late. Twilight, in these southern climates, is almost unknown; immediately the sun sets, night begins: and ere he had advanced far, the power of the storm was above — its echoing thunders had scarcely an interval of rest — its thick heavy rain forced its way through the canopying foliage, whilst the blue forked lightning seemed to fall and radiate at his very feet. Suddenly his horse took fright, and he was carried with dreadful rapidity through the entangled forest. The animal at last, through fatigue, stopped, and he found, by the glare of lightning, that he was in the neighbourhood of a hovel that hardly lifted itself up from the masses of dead leaves and brushwood which surrounded it. Dismounting, he approached, hoping to find some one to guide him to the town, or at least trusting to obtain shelter from the pelting of the storm. As he approached, the thunders, for a moment silent, allowed him to hear the dreadful shrieks of a woman mingling with the stifled, exultant mockery of a laugh, continued in one almost unbroken sound; — he was startled: but, roused by the thunder which again rolled over his head, he, with a sudden effort, forced open the door of the hut. He found himself in utter darkness: the sound, however, guided him. He was apparently unperceived; for, though he called, still the sounds continued, and no notice was taken of him. He found himself in contact with some one, whom he immediately seized; when a voice cried, “Again baffled!” to which a loud laugh succeeded; and he felt himself grappled by one whose strength seemed superhuman: determined to sell his life as dearly as he could, he struggled; but it was in vain: he was lifted from his feet and hurled with enormous force against the ground: — his enemy threw himself upon him, and kneeling upon his breast, had placed his hands upon his throat — when the glare of many torches penetrating through the hole that gave light in the day, disturbed him; — he instantly rose, and, leaving his prey, rushed through the door, and in a moment the crashing of the branches, as he broke through the wood, was no longer heard. The storm was now still; and Aubrey, incapable of moving, was soon heard by those without. They entered; the light of their torches fell upon the mud walls, and the thatch loaded on every individual straw with heavy flakes of soot. At the desire of Aubrey they searched for her who had attracted him by her cries; he was again left in darkness; but what was his horror, when the light of the torches once more burst upon him, to perceive the airy form of his fair conductress brought in a lifeless corse. He shut his eyes, hoping that it was but a vision arising from his disturbed imagination; but he again saw the same form, when he unclosed them, stretched by his side. There was no colour upon her cheek, not even upon her lip; yet there was a stillness about her face that seemed almost as attaching as the life that once dwelt there: — upon her neck and breast was blood, and upon her throat were the marks of teeth having opened the vein: — to this the men pointed, crying, simultaneously struck with horror, “A Vampyre! a Vampyre!” A litter was quickly formed, and Aubrey was laid by the side of her who had lately been to him the object of so many bright and fairy visions, now fallen with the flower of life that had died within her. He knew not what his thoughts were — his mind was benumbed and seemed to shun reflection, and take refuge in vacancy — he held almost unconsciously in his hand a naked dagger of a particular construction, which had been found in the hut. They were soon met by different parties who had been engaged in the search of her whom a mother had missed. Their lamentable cries, as they approached the city, forewarned the parents of some dreadful catastrophe. — To describe their grief would be impossible; but when they ascertained the cause of their child’s death, they looked at Aubrey, and pointed to the corse. They were inconsolable; both died broken-hearted.

Aubrey being put to bed was seized with a most violent fever, and was often delirious; in these intervals he would call upon Lord Ruthven and upon Ianthe — by some unaccountable combination he seemed to beg of his former companion to spare the being he loved. At other times he would imprecate maledictions upon his head, and curse him as her destroyer. Lord Ruthven, chanced at this time to arrive at Athens, and, from whatever motive, upon hearing of the state of Aubrey, immediately placed himself in the same house, and became his constant attendant. When the latter recovered from his delirium, he was horrified and startled at the sight of him whose image he had now combined with that of a Vampyre; but Lord Ruthven, by his kind words, implying almost repentance for the fault that had caused their separation, and still more by the attention, anxiety, and care which he showed, soon reconciled him to his presence. His lordship seemed quite changed; he no longer appeared that apathetic being who had so astonished Aubrey; but as soon as his convalescence began to be rapid, he again gradually retired into the same state of mind, and Aubrey perceived no difference from the former man, except that at times he was surprised to meet his gaze fixed intently upon him, with a smile of malicious exultation playing upon his lips: he knew not why, but this smile haunted him. During the last stage of the invalid’s recovery, Lord Ruthven was apparently engaged in watching the tideless waves raised by the cooling breeze, or in marking the progress of those orbs, circling, like our world, the moveless sun; — indeed, he appeared to wish to avoid the eyes of all.

Aubrey’s mind, by this shock, was much weakened, and that elasticity of spirit which had once so distinguished him now seemed to have fled for ever. He was now as much a lover of solitude and silence as Lord Ruthven; but much as he wished for solitude, his mind could not find it in the neighbourhood of Athens; if he sought it amidst the ruins he had formerly frequented, Ianthe’s form stood by his side — if he sought it in the woods, her light step would appear wandering amidst the underwood, in quest of the modest violet; then suddenly turning round, would show, to his wild imagination, her pale face and wounded throat, with a meek smile upon her lips. He determined to fly scenes, every feature of which created such bitter associations in his mind. He proposed to Lord Ruthven, to whom he held himself bound by the tender care he had taken of him during his illness, that they should visit those parts of Greece neither had yet seen. They travelled in every direction, and sought every spot to which a recollection could be attached: but though they thus hastened from place to place, yet they seemed not to heed what they gazed upon. They heard much of robbers, but they gradually began to slight these reports, which they imagined were only the invention of individuals, whose interest it was to excite the generosity of those whom they defended from pretended dangers. In consequence of thus neglecting the advice of the inhabitants, on one occasion they travelled with only a few guards, more to serve as guides than as a defence. Upon entering, however, a narrow defile, at the bottom of which was the bed of a torrent, with large masses of rock brought down from the neighbouring precipices, they had reason to repent their negligence; for scarcely were the whole of the party engaged in the narrow pass, when they were startled by the whistling of bullets close to their heads, and by the echoed report of several guns. In an instant their guards had left them, and, placing themselves behind rocks, had begun to fire in the direction whence the report came. Lord Ruthven and Aubrey, imitating their example, retired for a moment behind the sheltering turn of the defile: but ashamed of being thus detained by a foe, who with insulting shouts bade them advance, and being exposed to unresisting slaughter, if any of the robbers should climb above and take them in the rear, they determined at once to rush forward in search of the enemy. Hardly had they lost the shelter of the rock, when Lord Ruthven received a shot in the shoulder, which brought him to the ground. Aubrey hastened to his assistance; and, no longer heeding the contest or his own peril, was soon surprised by seeing the robbers’ faces around him — his guards having, upon Lord Ruthven’s being wounded, immediately thrown up their arms and surrendered.

By promises of great reward, Aubrey soon induced them to convey his wounded friend to a neighbouring cabin; and having agreed upon a ransom, he was no more disturbed by their presence — they being content merely to guard the entrance till their comrade should return with the promised sum, for which he had an order. Lord Ruthven’s strength rapidly decreased; in two days mortification ensued, and death seemed advancing with hasty steps. His conduct and appearance had not changed; he seemed as unconscious of pain as he had been of the objects about him: but towards the close of the last evening, his mind became apparently uneasy, and his eye often fixed upon Aubrey, who was induced to offer his assistance with more than usual earnestness — “Assist me! you may save me — you may do more than that — I mean not my life, I heed the death of my existence as little as that of the passing day; but you may save my honour, your friend’s honour.” — “How? tell me how? I would do any thing,” replied Aubrey. — “I need but little — my life ebbs apace — I cannot explain the whole — but if you would conceal all you know of me, my honour were free from stain in the world’s mouth — and if my death were unknown for some time in England — I — I — but life.” — “It shall not be known.” — “Swear!” cried the dying man, raising himself with exultant violence, “Swear by all your soul reveres, by all your nature fears, swear that, for a year and a day you will not impart your knowledge of my crimes or death to any living being in any way, whatever may happen, or whatever you may see.” — His eyes seemed bursting from their sockets: “I swear!” said Aubrey; he sunk laughing upon his pillow, and breathed no more.

Aubrey retired to rest, but did not sleep; the many circumstances attending his acquaintance with this man rose upon his mind, and he knew not why; when he remembered his oath a cold shivering came over him, as if from the presentiment of something horrible awaiting him. Rising early in the morning, he was about to enter the hovel in which he had left the corpse, when a robber met him, and informed him that it was no longer there, having been conveyed by himself and comrades, upon his retiring, to the pinnacle of a neighbouring mount, according to a promise they had given his lordship, that it should be exposed to the first cold ray of the moon that rose after his death. Aubrey astonished, and taking several of the men, determined to go and bury it upon the spot where it lay. But, when he had mounted to the summit he found no trace of either the corpse or the clothes, though the robbers swore they pointed out the identical rock on which they had laid the body. For a time his mind was bewildered in conjectures, but he at last returned, convinced that they had buried the corpse for the sake of the clothes.

Weary of a country in which he had met with such terrible misfortunes, and in which all apparently conspired to heighten that superstitious melancholy that had seized upon his mind, he resolved to leave it, and soon arrived at Smyrna. While waiting for a vessel to convey him to Otranto, or to Naples, he occupied himself in arranging those effects he had with him belonging to Lord Ruthven. Amongst other things there was a case containing several weapons of offence, more or less adapted to ensure the death of the victim. There were several daggers and ataghans. Whilst turning them over, and examining their curious forms, what was his surprise at finding a sheath apparently ornamented in the same style as the dagger discovered in the fatal hut — he shuddered — hastening to gain further proof, he found the weapon, and his horror may be imagined when he discovered that it fitted, though peculiarly shaped, the sheath he held in his hand. His eyes seemed to need no further certainty — they seemed gazing to be bound to the dagger; yet still he wished to disbelieve; but the particular form, the same varying tints upon the haft and sheath were alike in splendour on both, and left no room for doubt; there were also drops of blood on each.

He left Smyrna, and on his way home, at Rome, his first inquiries were concerning the lady he had attempted to snatch from Lord Ruthven’s seductive arts. Her parents were in distress, their fortune ruined, and she had not been heard of since the departure of his lordship. Aubrey’s mind became almost broken under so many repeated horrors; he was afraid that this lady had fallen a victim to the destroyer of Ianthe. He became morose and silent; and his only occupation consisted in urging the speed of the postilions, as if he were going to save the life of some one he held dear. He arrived at Calais; a breeze, which seemed obedient to his will, soon wafted him to the English shores; and he hastened to the mansion of his fathers, and there, for a moment, appeared to lose, in the embraces and caresses of his sister, all memory of the past. If she before, by her infantine caresses, had gained his affection, now that the woman began to appear, she was still more attaching as a companion.

Miss Aubrey had not that winning grace which gains the gaze and applause of the drawing-room assemblies. There was none of that light brilliancy which only exists in the heated atmosphere of a crowded apartment. Her blue eye was never lit up by the levity of the mind beneath. There was a melancholy charm about it which did not seem to arise from misfortune, but from some feeling within, that appeared to indicate a soul conscious of a brighter realm. Her step was not that light footing, which strays where’er a butterfly or a colour may attract — it was sedate and pensive. When alone, her face was never brightened by the smile of joy; but when her brother breathed to her his affection, and would in her presence forget those griefs she knew destroyed his rest, who would have exchanged her smile for that of the voluptuary? It seemed as if those eyes, — that face were then playing in the light of their own native sphere. She was yet only eighteen, and had not been presented to the world, it having been thought by her guardians more fit that her presentation should be delayed until her brother’s return from the continent, when he might be her protector. It was now, therefore, resolved that the next drawing-room, which was fast approaching, should be the epoch of her entry into the “busy scene.” Aubrey would rather have remained in the mansion of his fathers, and fed upon the melancholy which overpowered him. He could not feel interest about the frivolities of fashionable strangers, when his mind had been so torn by the events he had witnessed; but he determined to sacrifice his own comfort to the protection of his sister. They soon arrived in town, and prepared for the next day, which had been announced as a drawing-room.

The crowd was excessive — a drawing-room had not been held for a long time, and all who were anxious to bask in the smile of royalty, hastened thither. Aubrey was there with his sister. While he was standing in a corner by himself, heedless of all around him, engaged in the remembrance that the first time he had seen Lord Ruthven was in that very place — he felt himself suddenly seized by the arm, and a voice he recognized too well, sounded in his ear — “Remember your oath.” He had hardly courage to turn, fearful of seeing a spectre that would blast him, when he perceived, at a little distance, the same figure which had attracted his notice on this spot upon his first entry into society. He gazed till his limbs almost refusing to bear their weight, he was obliged to take the arm of a friend, and forcing a passage through the crowd, he threw himself into his carriage, and was driven home. He paced the room with hurried steps, and fixed his hands upon his head, as if he were afraid his thoughts were bursting from his brain. Lord Ruthven again before him — circumstances started up in dreadful array — the dagger — his oath. — He roused himself, he could not believe it possible — the dead rise again! — He thought his imagination had conjured up the image his mind was resting upon. It was impossible that it could be real — he determined, therefore, to go again into society; for though he attempted to ask concerning Lord Ruthven, the name hung upon his lips, and he could not succeed in gaining information. He went a few nights after with his sister to the assembly of a near relation. Leaving her under the protection of a matron, he retired into a recess, and there gave himself up to his own devouring thoughts. Perceiving, at last, that many were leaving, he roused himself, and entering another room, found his sister surrounded by several, apparently in earnest conversation; he attempted to pass and get near her, when one, whom he requested to move, turned round, and revealed to him those features he most abhorred. He sprang forward, seized his sister’s arm, and, with hurried step, forced her towards the street: at the door he found himself impeded by the crowd of servants who were waiting for their lords; and while he was engaged in passing them, he again heard that voice whisper close to him — “Remember your oath!” — He did not dare to turn, but, hurrying his sister, soon reached home.

Aubrey became almost distracted. If before his mind had been absorbed by one subject, how much more completely was it engrossed, now that the certainty of the monster’s living again pressed upon his thoughts. His sister’s attentions were now unheeded, and it was in vain that she intreated him to explain to her what had caused his abrupt conduct. He only uttered a few words, and those terrified her. The more he thought, the more he was bewildered. His oath startled him; — was he then to allow this monster to roam, bearing ruin upon his breath, amidst all he held dear, and not avert its progress? His very sister might have been touched by him. But even if he were to break his oath, and disclose his suspicions, who would believe him? He thought of employing his own hand to free the world from such a wretch; but death, he remembered, had been already mocked. For days he remained in this state; shut up in his room, he saw no one, and ate only when his sister came, who, with eyes streaming with tears, besought him, for her sake, to support nature. At last, no longer capable of bearing stillness and solitude, he left his house, roamed from street to street, anxious to fly that image which haunted him. His dress became neglected, and he wandered, as often exposed to the noon-day sun as to the midnight damps. He was no longer to be recognized; at first he returned with the evening to the house; but at last he laid him down to rest wherever fatigue overtook him. His sister, anxious for his safety, employed people to follow him; but they were soon distanced by him who fled from a pursuer swifter than any — from thought. His conduct, however, suddenly changed. Struck with the idea that he left by his absence the whole of his friends, with a fiend amongst them, of whose presence they were unconscious, he determined to enter again into society, and watch him closely, anxious to forewarn, in spite of his oath, all whom Lord Ruthven approached with intimacy. But when he entered into a room, his haggard and suspicious looks were so striking, his inward shudderings so visible, that his sister was at last obliged to beg of him to abstain from seeking, for her sake, a society which affected him so strongly. When, however, remonstrance proved unavailing, the guardians thought proper to interpose, and, fearing that his mind was becoming alienated, they thought it high time to resume again that trust which had been before imposed upon them by Aubrey’s parents.

Desirous of saving him from the injuries and sufferings he had daily encountered in his wanderings, and of preventing him from exposing to the general eye those marks of what they considered folly, they engaged a physician to reside in the house, and take constant care of him. He hardly appeared to notice it, so completely was his mind absorbed by one terrible subject. His incoherence became at last so great, that he was confined to his chamber. There he would often lie for days, incapable of being roused. He had become emaciated, his eyes had attained a glassy lustre; — the only sign of affection and recollection remaining displayed itself upon the entry of his sister; then he would sometimes start, and, seizing her hands, with looks that severely afflicted her, he would desire her not to touch him. “Oh, do not touch him — if your love for me is aught, do not go near him!” When, however, she inquired to whom he referred, his only answer was, “True! true!” and again he sank into a state, whence not even she could rouse him. This lasted many months: gradually, however, as the year was passing, his incoherences became less frequent, and his mind threw off a portion of its gloom, whilst his guardians observed, that several times in the day he would count upon his fingers a definite number, and then smile.

The time had nearly elapsed, when, upon the last day of the year, one of his guardians entering his room, began to converse with his physician upon the melancholy circumstance of Aubrey’s being in so awful a situation, when his sister was going next day to be married. Instantly Aubrey’s attention was attracted; he asked anxiously to whom. Glad of this mark of returning intellect, of which they feared he had been deprived, they mentioned the name of the Earl of Marsden. Thinking this was a young Earl whom he had met with in society, Aubrey seemed pleased, and astonished them still more by his expressing his intention to be present at the nuptials, and desiring to see his sister. They answered not, but in a few minutes his sister was with him. He was apparently again capable of being affected by the influence of her lovely smile; for he pressed her to his breast, and kissed her cheek, wet with tears, flowing at the thought of her brother’s being once more alive to the feelings of affection. He began to speak with all his wonted warmth, and to congratulate her upon her marriage with a person so distinguished for rank and every accomplishment; when he suddenly perceived a locket upon her breast; opening it, what was his surprise at beholding the features of the monster who had so long influenced his life. He seized the portrait in a paroxysm of rage, and trampled it under foot. Upon her asking him why he thus destroyed the resemblance of her future husband, he looked as if he did not understand her — then seizing her hands, and gazing on her with a frantic expression of countenance, he bade her swear that she would never wed this monster, for he — — But he could not advance — it seemed as if that voice again bade him remember his oath — he turned suddenly round, thinking Lord Ruthven was near him but saw no one. In the meantime the guardians and physician, who had heard the whole, and thought this was but a return of his disorder, entered, and forcing him from Miss Aubrey, desired her to leave him. He fell upon his knees to them, he implored, he begged of them to delay but for one day. They, attributing this to the insanity they imagined had taken possession of his mind, endeavoured to pacify him, and retired.

Lord Ruthven had called the morning after the drawing-room, and had been refused with every one else. When he heard of Aubrey’s ill health, he readily understood himself to be the cause of it; but when he learned that he was deemed insane, his exultation and pleasure could hardly be concealed from those among whom he had gained this information. He hastened to the house of his former companion, and, by constant attendance, and the pretence of great affection for the brother and interest in his fate, he gradually won the ear of Miss Aubrey. Who could resist his power? His tongue had dangers and toils to recount — could speak of himself as of an individual having no sympathy with any being on the crowded earth, save with her to whom he addressed himself; — could tell how, since he knew her, his existence, had begun to seem worthy of preservation, if it were merely that he might listen to her soothing accents; — in fine, he knew so well how to use the serpent’s art, or such was the will of fate, that he gained her affections. The title of the elder branch falling at length to him, he obtained an important embassy, which served as an excuse for hastening the marriage, (in spite of her brother’s deranged state,) which was to take place the very day before his departure for the continent.

Aubrey, when he was left by the physician and his guardians, attempted to bribe the servants, but in vain. He asked for pen and paper; it was given him; he wrote a letter to his sister, conjuring her, as she valued her own happiness, her own honour, and the honour of those now in the grave, who once held her in their arms as their hope and the hope of their house, to delay but for a few hours that marriage, on which he denounced the most heavy curses. The servants promised they would deliver it; but giving it to the physician, he thought it better not to harass any more the mind of Miss Aubrey by, what he considered, the ravings of a maniac. Night passed on without rest to the busy inmates of the house; and Aubrey heard, with a horror that may more easily be conceived than described, the notes of busy preparation. Morning came, and the sound of carriages broke upon his ear. Aubrey grew almost frantic. The curiosity of the servants at last overcame their vigilance, they gradually stole away, leaving him in the custody of an helpless old woman. He seized the opportunity, with one bound was out of the room, and in a moment found himself in the apartment where all were nearly assembled. Lord Ruthven was the first to perceive him: he immediately approached, and, taking his arm by force, hurried him from the room, speechless with rage. When on the staircase, Lord Ruthven whispered in his ear — “Remember your oath, and know, if not my bride to day, your sister is dishonoured. Women are frail!” So saying, he pushed him towards his attendants, who, roused by the old woman, had come in search of him. Aubrey could no longer support himself; his rage not finding vent, had broken a blood-vessel, and he was conveyed to bed. This was not mentioned to his sister, who was not present when he entered, as the physician was afraid of agitating her. The marriage was solemnized, and the bride and bridegroom left London.

Aubrey’s weakness increased; the effusion of blood produced symptoms of the near approach of death. He desired his sister’s guardians might be called, and when the midnight hour had struck, he related composedly what the reader has perused — he died immediately after.

The guardians hastened to protect Miss Aubrey; but when they arrived, it was too late. Lord Ruthven had disappeared, and Aubrey’s sister had glutted the thirst of a Vampyre!

⮝

Der Vampyr

Vorwort des Ueberſetzers ⮵

er durch ſeine poetiſchen Werke auch in Deutſchland bekannte und geſchätzte Lord Byron befand ſich einſt während ſeines Aufenthalts in der Schweiz in einer Geſellſchaft, wo man auf den Gedanken kam, zur gemeinſchaftlichen Unterhaltung Geſpenſtergeſchichten zu erzählen. Die Veranlaſſung dazu war die ſo eben beendigte Lectüre eines Buchs: Phantasmagoriana betitelt. Die nachſtehende Erzählung iſt diejenige, welche der Lord Byron vortrug. Die, welche Miß Godwin (die Tochter des berühmten Godwin), die auch von der Geſellſchaft war, vorgetragen hat, iſt unter dem Titel: Frankenſtein or the modern Prometheus, erſchienen. In Byrons Erzählung wird man alle die Vorzüge wieder finden, die ihn nicht nur unter ſeinen Landsleuten, ſondern auch im Auslande unter einem anſehnlichen Kreiſe von Leſern zu einem Lieblingsdichter erhoben haben. Seine feurige Phantaſie reißt auch den Widerſtrebenden mit ſich fort, und ſeine düſterſten Bilder werden von den Stralen ſeines ſeltenen Genius erleuchtet.

Einleitung ⮵

⮝

Der Vampyr, eine Erzählung von Lord Byron

⮝

Auszug aus einem Briefe enthaltend eine Nachricht über Lord Byrons Aufenthalt auf der Insel Mitylene ⮵

⮝

Journal des Voyages, 1879-80.
 

Alfons Mucha
 

Vampir-Gedichte

Heinrich August Ossenfelder: Der Vampir ⮵

Mein liebes Mägdchen glaubet
Beständig steif und feste,
An die gegebnen Lehren
Der immer frommen Mutter;
Als Völker an der Theyse
An tödtliche Vampiere
Heyduckisch feste glauben.
Nun warte nur Christianchen,
Du willst mich gar nicht lieben;
Ich will mich an dir rächen,
Und heute in Tockayer
Zu einem Vampir trinken.
Und wenn du sanfte schlummerst,
Von deinen schönen Wangen
Den frischen Purpur saugen.
Alsdenn wirst du erschrecken,
Wenn ich dich werde küssen
Und als ein Vampir küssen:
Wenn du dann recht erzitterst
Und matt in meine Arme,
Gleich einer Todten sinkest
Alsdenn will ich dich fragen,
Sind meine Lehren besser,
Als deiner guten Mutter?
 

John Stagg: The Vampyre ⮵

“Why looks my lord so deadly pale?
 Why fades the crimson from his cheek?
What can my dearest husband ail?
 Thy heartfelt cares, O Herman, speak!
 
“Why, at the silent hour of rest,
 Dost thou in sleep so sadly mourn?
Has tho’ with heaviest grief oppress’d,
 Griefs too distressful to be borne.
 
“Why heaves thy breast? — why throbs thy heart?
 O speak! and if there be relief
Thy Gertrude solace shall impart,
 If not, at least shall share thy grief.
 
“Wan is that cheek, which once the bloom
 Of manly beauty sparkling shew’d;
Dim are those eyes, in pensive gloom,
 That late with keenest lustre glow’d.
 
“Say why, too, at the midnight hour,
 You sadly pant and tug for breath,
As if some supernat’ral pow’r
 Were pulling you away to death?
 
“Restless, tho’ sleeping, still you groan,
 And with convulsive horror start;
O Herman! to thy wife make known
 That grief which preys upon thy heart.”
 
“O Gertrude! how shall I relate
 Th’ uncommon anguish that I feel;
Strange as severe is this my fate, —
 A fate I cannot long conceal.
 
“In spite of all my wonted strength,
 Stern destiny has seal’d my doom;
The dreadful malady at length
 Wil drag me to the silent tomb!”
 
“But say, my Herman, what’s the cause
 Of this distress, and all thy care.
That, vulture-like, thy vitals gnaws,
 And galls thy bosom with despair?
 
“Sure this can be no common grief,
 Sure this can be no common pain?
Speak, if this world contain relief,
 That soon thy Gertrude shall obtain.”
 
“O Gertrude, ’tis a horrid cause,
 O Gertrude, ’tis unusual care,
That, vulture-like, my vitals gnaws,
 And galls my bosom with despair.
 
“Young Sigismund, my once dear friend,
 But lately he resign’d his breath;
With others I did him attend
 Unto the silent house of death.
 
“For him I wept, for him I mourn’d,
 Paid all to friendship that was due;
But sadly friendship is return’d,
 Thy Herman he must follow too!
 
“Must follow to the gloomy grave,
 In spite of human art or skill;
No pow’r on earth my life can save,
 ’Tis fate’s unalterable will!
 
“Young Sigismund, my once dear friend,
 But now my persecutor foul,
Doth his malevolence extend
 E’en to the torture of my soul.
 
“By night, when, wrapt in soundest sleep,
 All mortals share a soft repose,
My soul doth dreadful vigils keep,
 More keen than which hell scarely knows.
 
“From the drear mansion of the tomb,
 From the low regions of the dead,
The ghost of Sigismund doth roam,
 And dreadful haunts me in my bed!
 
“There, vested in infernal guise,
 (By means to me not understood,)
Close to my side the goblin lies,
 And drinks away my vital blood!
 
“Sucks from my veins the streaming life,
 And drains the fountain of my heart!
O Gertrude, Gertrude! dearest wife!
 Unutterable is my smart.
 
“When surfeited, the goblin dire,
 With banqueting by suckled gore,
Will to his sepulchre retire,
 Till night invites him forth once more.
 
“Then will he dreadfully return,
 And from my veins life’s juices drain;
Whilst, slumb’ring, I with anguish mourn,
 And toss with agonizing pain!
 
“Already I’m exhausted, spent;
 His carnival is nearly o’er,
My soul with agony is rent,
 To-morrow I shall be no more!
 
“But, O my Gertrude! dearest wife!
 The keenest pangs hath last remain’d —
When dead, I too shall seek thy life,
 Thy blood by Herman shall be drain’d!
 
“But to avoid this horrid fate,
 Soon as I’m dead and laid in earth,
Drive thro’ my corpse a jav’lin straight; —
 This shall prevent my coming forth.
 
“O watch with me, this last sad night,
 Watch in your chamber here alone,
But carefully conceal the light
 Until you hear my parting groan.
 
“Then at what time the vesper-bell
 Of yonder convent shall be toll’d,
That peal shall ring my passing knell,
 And Herman’s body shall be cold!
 
“Then, and just then, thy lamp make bare,
 The starting ray, the bursting light,
Shall from my side the goblin scare,
 And shew him visible to sight!”
 
The live-long night poor Gertrude sate,
 Watch’d by her sleeping, dying lord;
The live-long night she mourn’d his fate,
 The object whom her soul ador’d.
 
Then at what time the vesper-bell
 Of yonder convent sadly toll’d,
The, then was peal’d his passing knell,
 The hapless Herman he was cold!
 
Just at that moment Gertrude drew
 From ’neath her cloak the hidden light;
When, dreadful! she beheld in view
 The shade of Sigismund! — sad sight!
 
Indignant roll’d his ireful eyes,
 That gleam’d with wild horrific stare;
And fix’d a moment with surprise,
 Beheld aghast th’ enlight’ning glare.
 
His jaws cadaverous were besmear’d
 With clott’d carnage o’er and o’er,
And all his horrid whole appear’d
 Distent, and fill’d with human gore!
 
With hideous scowl the spectre fled;
 She shriek’d aloud; — then swoon’d away!
The hapless Herman in his bed,
 All pale, a lifeless body lay!
 
Next day in council ’twas decree,
 (Urg’d at the instance of the state,)
That shudd’ring nature should be freed
 From pests like these ere ’twas too late.
 
The choir then burst the fun’ral dome
 Where Sigismund was lately laid,
And found him, tho’ within the tomb,
 Still warm as life, and undecay’d.
 
With blood his visage was distain’d,
 Ensanguin’d were his frightful eyes,
Each sign of former life remain’d,
 Save that all motionless he lies.
 
The corpse of Herman they contrive
 To the same sepulchre to take,
And thro’ both carcases they drive,
 Deep in the earth, a sharpen’d stake!
 
By this was finish’d their career,
 Thro’ this no longer they can roam;
From them their friends have nought to fear,
 Both quiet keep the slumb’ring tomb.
 

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: Die Braut von Corinth ⮵

 Nach Corinthus von Athen gezogen
Kam ein Jüngling, dort noch unbekannt.
Einen Bürger hofft er sich gewogen,
Beyde Väter waren gastverwandt,
Hatten frühe schon
Töchterchen und Sohn
Braut und Bräutigam, in Ernst, genannt.
 
 Aber wird er auch willkommen scheinen
Wenn er theuer nicht die Gunst erkauft?
Er ist noch ein Heide mit den Seinen,
Und sie sind schon Christen und getauft.
Keimt ein Glaube neu,
Wird oft Lieb und Treu
Wie ein böses Unkraut ausgerauft.
 
 Und schon lag das ganze Haus im stillen,
Vater, Töchter, nur die Mutter wacht,
Sie empfängt den Gast mit bestem Willen
Gleich ins Prunkgemach wird er gebracht
Wein und Essen prangt
Eh er es verlangt,
So versorgend wünscht sie gute Nacht.
 
 Aber bey dem wohlbestellten Essen
Wird die Lust der Speise nicht erregt,
Müdigkeit läßt Speis’ und Trank vergessen,
Daß er angekleidet sich aufs Bette legt,
Und er schlummert fast,
Als ein seltner Gast
Sich zur offnen Thür hereinbewegt.
 
 Denn er sieht, bey seiner Lampe Schimmer
Tritt mit weißem Schleyer und Gewand,
Sittsam still ein Mädchen in das Zimmer
Um die Stirn ein schwarz und goldnes Band,
Wie sie ihn erblickt,
Hebt sie, die erschrickt,
Mit Erstaunen eine weiße Hand.
 
 Bin ich, rief sie aus, so fremd im Hause
Daß ich von dem Gaste nicht vernahm?
Ach! so hält man mich in meiner Klause!
Und nun überfällt mich hier die Schaam.
Ruhe nur so fort,
Auf dem Lager dort
Und ich gehe schnell so wie ich kam.
 
 Bleibe schönes Mädchen! ruft der Knabe,
Rafft von seinem Lager sich geschwind,
Hier ist Ceres, hier ist Bacchus Gabe
Und du bringst den Amor liebes Kind.
Bist für Schrecken blaß,
Liebe komm und laß
Laß uns sehn, wie froh die Götter sind.
 
 Ferne bleib, o Jüngling! bleibe stehen,
Ich gehöre nicht den Freuden an
Schon der letzte Schritt ist, ach! geschehen,
Durch der guten Mutter kranken Wahn,
Die genesend schwur;
Jugend und Natur
Sey dem Himmel künftig unterthan.
 
 Und der alten Götter bunt Gewimmel
Hat sogleich das stille Haus geleert,
Unsichtbar wird einer nur im Himmel,
Und ein Heiland wird am Kreutz verehrt,
Opfer fallen hier,
Weder Lamm noch Stier,
Aber Menschenopfer unerhört.
 
 Und er fragt und wäget alle Worte,
Deren keines seinem Geist entgeht,
Ist es möglich? daß am stillen Orte
Die geliebte Braut hier vor mir steht!
Sey die meine nur!
Unsrer Väter Schwur
Hat vom Himmel Segen uns erfleht.
 
 Mich erhältst du nicht, du gute Seele,
Meiner zweyten Schwester gönnt man dich,
Wenn ich mich in stiller Klause quäle,
Ach! in ihren Armen denk an mich,
Die an dich nur denkt,
Die sich liebend kränkt,
In die Erde bald verbirgt sie sich.
 
 Nein! bey dieser Flamme seys geschworen,
Gütig zeigt sie Hymen uns voraus,
Bist der Freude nicht und mir verlohren,
Kommst mit mir in meines Vaters Haus.
Liebchen bleibe hier,
Feyre gleich mit mir
Unerwartet unsern Hochzeitschmaus.
 
 Und schon wechseln sie der Treue Zeichen,
Golden reicht sie ihm die Kette dar,
Und er will ihr eine Schale reichen,
Silbern, künstlich wie nicht eine war.
Die ist nicht für mich,
Doch ich bitte dich
Eine Locke gieb von deinem Haar.
 
 Eben schlug die dumpfe Geisterstunde
Und nun schien es ihr erst wohl zu seyn.
Gierig schlürfte sie mit blassem Munde
Nun den dunkel blutgefärbten Wein,
Doch vom Waizenbrot
Was er freundlich bot,
Nahm sie nicht den kleinsten Bissen ein.
 
 Und dem Jüngling reichte sie die Schale,
Der wie sie nun hastig lüstern trank,
Liebe fordert er beym stillen Mahle,
Ach! sein armes Herz war Liebekrank,
Doch sie widersteht,
Wie er immer fleht,
Bis er weinend auf das Bette sank.
 
 Und sie kommt und wirft sich zu ihm nieder:
Ach! wie ungern seh ich dich gequält!
Aber ach! berührst du meine Glieder,
Fühlst du schaudernd was ich dir verheelt.
Wie der Schnee so weiß,
Aber kalt wie Eis
Ist das Liebchen, das du dir erwählt.
 
 Heftig faßt er sie mit starken Armen
Von der Liebe Jugendkraft durchmannt:
Hoffe doch bey mir noch zu erwarmen
Wärst du selbst mir aus dem Grab gesandt!
Wechselhauch und Kuß!
Liebesüberfluß!
Brennst du nicht und fühlest mich entbrannt?
 
 Liebe schließet fester sie zusammen,
Thränen mischen sich in ihre Lust,
Gierig saugt sie seines Mundes Flammen
Eins ist nur im andern sich bewußt;
Seine Liebeswuth
Wärmt ihr starres Blut,
Doch es schlägt kein Herz in ihrer Brust.
 
 Unterdessen schleichet auf dem Gange
Häuslich spät die Mutter noch vorbey,
Horchet an der Thür und horchet lange,
Welch ein sonderbarer Ton es sey?
Klag und Wonne Laut,
Bräutigams und Braut,
Und des Liebestammelns Raserey.
 
 Unbeweglich bleibt sie an der Thüre
Weil sie erst sich überzeugen muß,
Und sie hört die höchsten Liebesschwüre
Lieb und Schmeichelworte mit Verdruß —
Still der Hahn erwacht
Aber Morgennacht
Bist du wieder da? – und Kuß auf Kuß.
 
 Länger hält die Mutter nicht das Zürnen
Oefnet das bekannte Schloß geschwind —
Giebt es hier im Hause solche Dirnen
Die dem Fremden gleich zu Willen sind? —
So zur Thür hinein!
Bey der Lampe Schein
Sieht sie, Gott! sie sieht ihr eigen Kind.
 
 Und der Jüngling will im ersten Schrecken
Mit des Mädchens eignem Schleyerflor,
Mit dem Teppich die Geliebte decken,
Doch sie windet gleich sich selbst hervor;
Wie mit Geists Gewalt
Hebet die Gestalt,
Lang und langsam sich im Bett’ empor.
 
 Mutter! Mutter! spricht sie hohle Worte,
So mißgönnt ihr mir die schöne Nacht!
Ihr vertreibt mich von dem warmen Orte,
Bin ich zur Verzweiflung nur erwacht?
Ists euch nicht genug;
Daß ins Leichentuch
Daß ihr früh mich in das Grab gebracht?
 
 Aber aus der schwerbedeckten Enge
Treibet mich ein eigenes Gericht,
Eurer Priester summende Gesänge,
Und ihr Segen haben kein Gewicht;
Salz und Wasser kühlt
Nicht wo Jugend fühlt,
Ach die Erde kühlt die Liebe nicht.
 
 Dieser Jüngling war mir erst versprochen,
Als noch Venus heitrer Tempel stand.
Mutter habt ihr doch das Wort gebrochen
Weil ein fremd, ein falsch Gelübd euch band!
Doch kein Gott erhört,
Wenn die Mutter schwört
Zu versagen ihrer Tochter Hand.
 
 Aus dem Grabe werd ich ausgetrieben,
Noch zu suchen das vermißte Gut,
Noch den schon verlohrnen Mann zu lieben,
Und zu saugen seines Herzens Blut.
Ists um den geschehn,
Muß nach andern gehn
Und das junge Volk erliegt der Wuth.
 
 Schöner Jüngling, kannst nicht länger leben,
Du versiechest nun an diesem Ort,
Meine Kette hab ich dir gegeben,
Deine Locke nehm ich mit mir fort.
Sieh sie an genau,
Morgen bist du grau,
Und nur braun erscheinst du wieder dort.
 
 Höre Mutter nun die letzte Bitte:
Einen Scheiterhaufen schichte du,
Oefne meine bange kleine Hütte,
Bring in Flammen Liebende zur Ruh.
Wenn der Funke sprüht,
Wenn die Asche glüht,
Eilen wir den alten Göttern zu.
 

Gottfried August Bürger: Lenore ⮵

 Lenore fuhr um’s Morgenrot
Empor aus schweren Träumen:
„Bist untreu, Wilhelm, oder todt?
Wie lange wilst du säumen?“ —
Er war mit König Friedrichs Macht
Gezogen in die Prager Schlacht,
Und hatte nicht geschrieben:
Ob er gesund geblieben.
 
 Der König und die Kaiserin,
Des langen Haders müde,
Erweichten ihren harten Sin,
Und machten endlich Friede;
Und jedes Heer, mit Sing und Sang,
Mit Paukenschlag und Kling und Klang,
Geschmükt mit grünen Reisern,
Zog heim zu seinen Häusern.
 
 Und überal al überal,
Auf Wegen und auf Stegen,
Zog Alt und Jung dem Jubelschall
Der Kommenden entgegen.
Gottlob! rief Kind und Gattin laut,
Wilkommen! manche frohe Braut.
Ach! aber für Lenoren
War Grus und Kus verloren.
 
 Sie frug den Zug wol auf und ab,
Und frug nach allen Namen;
Doch keiner war, der Kundschaft gab,
Von allen, so da kamen.
Als nun das Heer vorüber war,
Zerraufte sie ihr Rabenhaar,
Und warf sich hin zur Erde,
Mit wütiger Geberde.
 
 Die Mutter lief wol hin zu ihr: —
„Ach, daß sich Gott erbarme!
Du trautes Kind, was ist mit dir?“ —
Und schloß sie in die Arme. —
„O Mutter, Mutter! hin ist hin!
Nun fahre Welt und alles hin!
Bei Gott ist kein Erbarmen.
O weh, o weh mir Armen!“ —
 
 „Hilf Gott, hilf! Sieh uns gnädig an!
Kind, bet’ ein Vaterunser!
Was Gott thut, das ist wolgethan.
Gott, Gott erbarmt sich Unser!“ —
„O Mutter, Mutter! Eitler Wahn!
Gott hat an mir nicht wolgethan!
Was half, was half mein Beten?
Nun ist’s nicht mehr vonnöten.“ —
 
 „Hilf Gott, hilf! wer den Vater kent,
Der weis, er hilft den Kindern.
Das hochgelobte Sakrament
Wird deinen Jammer lindern.“ —
„O Mutter, Mutter! was mich brent,
Das lindert mir kein Sakrament!
Kein Sakrament mag Leben
Den Todten wiedergeben.“ —
 
 „Hör, Kind! wie, wenn der falsche Man,
Im fernen Ungerlande,
Sich seines Glaubens abgethan,
Zum neuen Ehebande?
Las fahren, Kind, sein Herz dahin!
Er hat es nimmermehr Gewin!
Wann Seel’ und Leib sich trennen,
Wird ihn sein Meineid brennen.“ —
 
 „O Mutter, Mutter! Hin ist hin!
Verloren ist verloren!
Der Tod, der Tod ist mein Gewin!
O wär’ ich nie geboren! —
Lisch aus, mein Licht, auf ewig aus!
Stirb hin, stirb hin in Nacht und Graus!
Bei Gott ist kein Erbarmen.
O weh, o weh mir Armen!“ —
 
 „Hilf Gott, hilf! Geh nicht ins Gericht
Mit deinem armen Kinde!
Sie weis nicht, was die Zunge spricht.
Behalt ihr nicht die Sünde!
Ach, Kind, vergis dein irdisch Leid,
Und denk an Gott und Seligkeit!
So wird doch deiner Seelen
Der Bräutigam nicht felen.“ —
 
 „O Mutter! Was ist Seligkeit?
O Mutter! Was ist Hölle?
Bei ihm, bei ihm ist Seligkeit,
Und ohne Wilhelm Hölle! —
Lisch aus, mein Licht, auf ewig aus!
Stirb hin, stirb hin in Nacht und Graus!
Ohn’ ihn mag ich auf Erden,
Mag dort nicht selig werden.“ — — —
 
 So wütete Verzweifelung
Ihr in Gehirn und Adern.
Sie fuhr mit Gottes Fürsehung
Vermessen fort zu hadern;
Zerschlug den Busen, und zerrang
Die Hand, bis Sonnenuntergang,
Bis auf am Himmelsbogen
Die goldnen Sterne zogen.
 
 Und aussen, horch! ging’s trap trap trap,
Als wie von Rosseshufen;
Und klirrend stieg ein Reiter ab,
An des Geländers Stufen;
Und horch! und horch! den Pfortenring
Ganz lose, leise, klinglingling!
Dann kamen durch die Pforte
Vernemlich diese Worte:
 
 „Holla, Holla! Thu auf, mein Kind!
Schläfst, Liebchen, oder wachst du?
Wie bist noch gegen mich gesint?
Und weinest oder lachst du?“ —
„Ach, Wilhelm, du? — — So spät bei Nacht? — -
Geweinet hab’ ich und gewacht;
Ach, grosses Leid erlitten!
Wo komst du hergeritten?“ —
 
 „Wir satteln nur um Mitternacht.
Weit rit ich her von Böhmen.
Ich habe spat mich aufgemacht,
Und wil dich mit mir nemen.“ —
„Ach, Wilhelm, erst herein geschwind!
Den Hagedorn durchsaust der Wind,
Herein, in meinen Armen.
Herzliebster, zu erwarmen!“ —
 
 „Las sausen durch den Hagedorn,
Las sausen, Kind, las sausen!
Der Rappe schart; es klirt der Sporn.
Ich darf alhier nicht hausen.
Kom, schürze spring’ und schwinge dich
Auf meinen Rappen hinter mich!
Mus heut noch hundert Meilen
Mit dir ins Brautbett’ eilen.“ —
 
 „Ach! woltest hundert Meilen noch
Mich heut ins Brautbett’ tragen?
Und horch! es brumt die Glocke noch,
Die elf schon angeschlagen.“ —
„Sieh hin, sieh her! der Mond scheint hell.
Wir und die Todten reiten schnell.
Ich bringe dich, zur Wette,
Noch heut ins Hochzeitbette.“ —
 
 „Sag an, wo ist dein Kämmerlein?
Wo? Wie dein Hochzeitbetchen?“ —
„Weit, weit von hier! — — Stil, kühl und klein! — —
Sechs Bretter und zwei Bretchen!“ —
„Hat’s Raum für mich?“ — „Für dich und mich!
Kom, schürze, spring und schwinge dich!
Die Hochzeitgäste hoffen;
Die Kammer steht uns offen.“ —
 
 Schön Liebchen schürzte, sprang und schwang
Sich auf das Ros behende;
Wol um den trauten Reiter schlang
Sie ihre Lilienhände;
Und hurre hurre, hop hop hop!
Ging’s fort in sausendem Galop,
Daß Ros und Reiter schnoben,
Und Kies und Funken stoben.
 
 Zur rechten und zur linken Hand,
Vorbei vor ihren Blicken,
Wie flogen Anger, Haid’ und Land!
Wie donnerten die Brücken! —
„Graut Liebchen auch? — — Der Mond scheint hell!
Hurrah! die Todten reiten schnell!
Graut Liebchen auch vor Todten?“ —
„Ach nein! — doch las die Todten!“ —
 
 Was klang dort für Gesang und Klang?
Was flatterten die Raben? — —
Horch Glockenklang! horch Todtensang!
„Last uns den Leib begraben!“
Und näher zog ein Leichenzug,
Der Sarg und Todtenbaare trug.
Das Lied war zu vergleichen
Dem Unkenruf in Teichen.
 
 „Nach Mitternacht begrabt den Leib,
Mit Klang und Sang und Klage!
Jezt führ’ ich heim mein junges Weib.
Mit, mit zum Brautgelage!
Kom, Küster, hier! Kom mit dem Chor,
Und gurgle mir das Brautlied vor!
Kom, Pfaff’, und sprich den Segen,
Eh wir zu Bett’ uns legen!“ —
 
 Stil Klang und Sang. — — Die Baare schwand. — —
Gehorsam seinem Rufen,
Kam’s, hurre hurre! nachgerant,
Hart hinter’s Rappen Hufen;
Und immer weiter, hop hop hop!
Ging’s fort in sausendem Galop,
Daß Ros und Reiter schnoben,
Und Kies und Funken stoben.
 
 Wie flogen rechts, wie flogen links,
Gebirge, Bäum’ und Hecken!
Wie flogen links, und rechts, und links
Die Dörfer, Städt’ und Flecken! —
„Graut Liebchen auch? — — Der Mond scheint hell!
Hurrah! die Todten reiten schnell!
Graut Liebchen auch vor Todten?“ —
„Ach! Las sie ruhn, die Todten!“ —
 
 Sieh da! sieh da! Am Hochgericht
Tanzt, um des Rades Spindel,
Halb sichtbarlich, bei Mondenlicht,
Ein luftiges Gesindel. —
„Sasa! Gesindel, hier! Kom hier!
Gesindel, kom und folge mir!
Tanz’ uns den Hochzeitreigen,
Wann wir zu Bette steigen!“ —
 
 Und das Gesindel husch husch husch!
Kam hinten nachgeprasselt,
Wie Wirbelwind am Haselbusch
Durch dürre Blätter rasselt.
Und weiter, weiter, hop hop hop!
Ging’s fort in sausendem Galop,
Daß Ros und Reiter schnoben,
Und Kies und Funken stoben.
 
 Wie flog, was rund der Mond beschien,
Wie flog es in die Ferne!
Wie flogen oben über hin
Der Himmel und die Sterne! —
„Graut Liebchen auch? — — Der Mond scheint hell!
Hurrah! die Todten reiten schnell!
Graut Liebchen auch vor Todten?“ —
„O weh! Las ruhn die Todten!“ — — —
 
 „Rapp’! Rapp’! Mich dünkt der Hahn schon ruft. — -
Bald wird der Sand verrinnen — —
Rapp’! Rapp’! Ich wittre Morgenluft — -
Rapp’! Tumle dich von hinnen! —
Volbracht, volbracht ist unser Lauf!
Das Hochzeitbette thut sich auf!
Die Todten reiten schnelle!
Wir sind, wir sind zur Stelle.“ — — —
 
 Rasch auf ein eisern Gitterthor
Ging’s mit verhängtem Zügel.
Mit schwanker Gert’ ein Schlag davor
Zersprengte Schlos und Riegel.
Die Flügel flogen klirrend auf,
Und über Gräber ging der Lauf.
Es blinkten Leichensteine
Rund um im Mondenscheine.
 
 Ha sieh! Ha sieh! im Augenblik,
Huhu! ein gräslich Wunder!
Des Reiters Koller, Stük für Stük,
Fiel ab, wie mürber Zunder.
Zum Schädel, ohne Zopf und Schopf,
Zum nakten Schädel ward sein Kopf;
Sein Körper zum Gerippe,
Mit Stundenglas und Hippe.
 
 Hoch bäumte sich, wild schnob der Rapp’,
Und sprühte Feuerfunken;
Und hui! war’s unter ihr hinab
Verschwunden und versunken.
Geheul! Geheul aus hoher Luft,
Gewinsel kam aus tiefer Gruft.
Lenorens Herz, mit Beben,
Rang zwischen Tod und Leben.
 
 Nun tanzten wol bei Mondenglanz,
Rund um herum im Kreise,
Die Geister einen Kettentanz,
Und heulten diese Weise:
„Gedult! Gedult! Wenn’s Herz auch bricht!
Mit Gott im Himmel hadre nicht!
Des Leibes bist du ledig;
Gott sey der Seele gnädig!“
 

Wilhelm Wackernagel: Der Vampir ⮵

 Keine Ruh’ auf meinem kalten Pfühle,
Keine Ruh’ in meiner dunklen Nacht;
Durch die Straßen sternenhell und kühle,
Treibt mich des Verlangens Zaubermacht;
Sonder Rast und Ruh
Such’ ich immer zu;
Alles schlummert, meine Sehnsucht wacht.
 
 Ob in keiner von den stillen Kammern
Ruhet eine hochgewölbte Brust,
Die sich’s lohnte gierig zu umklammern,
Auszusaugen mit erneuter Lust?
Wieder such’ ich heut,
Was mich sonst erfreut:
Meiden hab’ ich’s nur zu lang gewusst.
 
 Sieh, ummauert dort von festen Ziegeln,
Sieh, es schlummert dort ein schöner Mann,
Wohlverwahrt mit Schlössern und mit Riegeln,
Und ein braunes Röcklein hat er an.
Seine Brust wie voll!
Dieser Jüngling soll,
Mich mit Blut zu füllen soll er dran,
 
 Bis zum Grunde will die Brust ich leeren,
Schlürfen will ich seines Herzens Blut:
Neues Leben soll er mir gewähren.
Neu erwecken die erlosch’ne Glut;
Ists um den geschehn,
Muss nach andern gehn,
Und das ganze Volk erliegt der Wut.
 

Heinrich Heine: Die Beschwörung ⮵

Der junge Franziskaner sitzt
Einsam in der Klosterzelle,
Er liest im alten Zauberbuch,
Genannt der Zwang der Hölle.
 
Und als die Mitternachtstunde schlug,
Da konnt er nicht länger sich halten,
Mit bleichen Lippen ruft er an
Die Unterweltsgewalten.
 
Ihr Geister! holt mir aus dem Grab
Die Leiche der schönsten Frauen,
Belebt sie mir für diese Nacht,
Ich will mich dran erbauen.
 
Er spricht das grause Beschwörungswort,
Da wird sein Wunsch erfüllet,
Die arme verstorbene Schönheit kommt,
In weißen Laken gehüllet.
 
Ihr Blick ist traurig. Aus kalter Brust
Die schmerzlichen Seufzer steigen.
Die Todte setzt sich zu dem Mönch,
Sie schauen sich an und schweigen.
 

Heinrich Heine: Helena ⮵

 Du hast mich beschworen aus dem Grab
Durch deinen Zauberwillen,
Belebtest mich mit Wollustgluth —
Jetzt kannst du die Gluth nicht stillen.
 
 Preß deinen Mund an meinen Mund,
Der Menschen Odem ist göttlich!
Ich trinke deine Seele aus,
Die Todten sind unersättlich.
 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Christabel ⮵

Part I
’Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;
Tu—whit! Tu—whoo!
And hark, again! the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew.
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;
From her kennel beneath the rock
She maketh answer to the clock,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;
Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
Some say, she sees my lady’s shroud.
 
Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray:
’Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
 
The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late,
A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothèd knight;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that’s far away.
 
She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak
But moss and rarest misletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayeth she.
 
The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady Christabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be,
But what it is she cannot tell. —
On the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
 
The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady’s cheek —
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
 
Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
 What sees she there?
 
There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone:
The neck that made that white robe wan,
Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
Her blue-veined feet unsandl’d were,
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair.
I guess, ’twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she —
Beautiful exceedingly!
 
Mary mother, save me now!
(Said Christabel) And who art thou?
 
The lady strange made answer meet,
And her voice was faint and sweet: —
Have pity on my sore distress,
I scarce can speak for weariness:
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!
Said Christabel, How camest thou here?
And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,
Did thus pursue her answer meet: —
 
My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine:
Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn:
They choked my cries with force and fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind,
And they rode furiously behind.
They spurred amain, their steeds were white:
And once we crossed the shade of night.
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
I have no thought what men they be;
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey’s back,
A weary woman, scarce alive.
Some muttered words his comrades spoke:
He placed me underneath this oak;
He swore they would return with haste;
Whither they went I cannot tell —
I thought I heard, some minutes past,
Sounds as of a castle bell.
Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she).
And help a wretched maid to flee.
 
Then Christabel stretched forth her hand,
And comforted fair Geraldine:
O well, bright dame! may you command
The service of Sir Leoline;
And gladly our stout chivalry
Will he send forth and friends withal
To guide and guard you safe and free
Home to your noble father’s hall.
 
She rose: and forth with steps they passed
That strove to be, and were not, fast.
Her gracious stars the lady blest,
And thus spake on sweet Christabel:
All our household are at rest,
The hall as silent as the cell;
Sir Leoline is weak in health,
And may not well awakened be,
But we will move as if in stealth,
And I beseech your courtesy,
This night, to share your couch with me.
 
They crossed the moat, and Christabel
Took the key that fitted well;
A little door she opened straight,
All in the middle of the gate;
The gate that was ironed within and without,
Where an army in battle array had marched out.
The lady sank, belike through pain,
And Christabel with might and main
Lifted her up, a weary weight,
Over the threshold of the gate:
Then the lady rose again,
And moved, as she were not in pain.
 
So free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court: right glad they were.
And Christabel devoutly cried
To the lady by her side,
Praise we the Virgin all divine
Who hath rescued thee from thy distress!
Alas, alas! said Geraldine,
I cannot speak for weariness.
So free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court: right glad they were.
 
Outside her kennel, the mastiff old
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.
The mastiff old did not awake,
Yet she an angry moan did make!
And what can ail the mastiff bitch?
Never till now she uttered yell
Beneath the eye of Christabel.
Perhaps it is the owlet’s scritch:
For what can ail the mastiff bitch?
 
They passed the hall, that echoes still,
Pass as lightly as you will!
The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
Amid their own white ashes lying;
But when the lady passed, there came
A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
And Christabel saw the lady’s eye,
And nothing else saw she thereby,
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,
Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.
O softly tread, said Christabel,
My father seldom sleepeth well.
 
Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,
And jealous of the listening air
They steal their way from stair to stair,
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,
And now they pass the Baron’s room,
As still as death, with stifled breath!
And now have reached her chamber door;
And now doth Geraldine press down
The rushes of the chamber floor.
 
The moon shines dim in the open air,
And not a moonbeam enters here.
But they without its light can see
The chamber carved so curiously,
Carved with figures strange and sweet,
All made out of the carver’s brain,
For a lady’s chamber meet:
The lamp with twofold silver chain
Is fastened to an angel’s feet.
 
The silver lamp burns dead and dim;
But Christabel the lamp will trim.
She trimmed the lamp, and madeit bright,
And left it swinging to and fro,
While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
Sank down upon the floor below.
 
O weary lady, Geraldine,
I pray you, drink this cordial wine!
It is a wine of virtuous powers;
Mymother made it of wild flowers.
 
And will your mother pity me,
Who am a maiden most forlorn?
Christabel answered — Woe is me!
She died the hour that I was born.
I have heard the grey-haired friar tell
How on her death-bed she did say,
That she should hear the castle-bell
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.
O mother dear! thatthou wert here!
I would, said Geraldine, she were!
 
But soon with altered voice, said she —
“Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!
I have power to bid thee flee.’
Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?
Why stares she with unsettled eye?
Can she the bodiless dead espy?
 
And why with hollow voice cries she,
“Off, woman, off! this hour is mine —
Though thou her guardian spirit be,
Off, woman, off! ’tis given to me.’
 
Then Christabel knelt by the lady’s side,
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue —
Alas! said she, this ghastly ride —
Dear lady! it hath wildered you!
The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
And faintly said, ’’tis over now!’
 
Again the wild-flower wine she drank:
Her fair large eyes ’gan glitter bright,
And from the floor whereon she sank,
The lofty lady stood upright:
She was most beautiful to see,
Like a lady of a far countrèe.
 
And thus the lofty lady spake —
“All they who live in the upper sky,
Do love you, holy Christabel!
And you love them, and for their sake
And for the good which me befel,
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden, to requite you well.
But now unrobe yourself; for I
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.’
 
Quoth Christabel, So let it be!
And as the lady bade, did she.
Her gentle limbs did she undress,
And lay down in her loveliness.
 
But through her brain of weal and woe
So many thoughts moved to and fro,
That vain it were her lids to close;
So half-way from the bed she rose,
And on her elbow did recline
To look at the lady Geraldine.
 
Beneath the lamp the lady bowed,
And slowly rolled her eyes around;
Then drawing in her breath aloud,
Like one that shuddered, she unbound
The cincture from beneath her breast:
Her silken robe, and inner vest,
Dropt to her feet, and full in view,
Behold! her bosom and half her side —
A sight to dream of, not to tell!
O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!
 
Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;
Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
Deep from within she seems half-way
To lift some weight with sick assay,
And eyes the maid and seeks delay;
Then suddenly, as one defied,
Collects herself in scorn and pride,
And lay down by the Maiden’s side! —
And in her arms the maid she took,
 Ah wel-a-day!
And with low voice and doleful look
These words did say:
“In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;
 But vainly thou warrest,
  For this is alone in
 Thy power to declare,
  That in the dim forest
 Thou heard’st a low moaning,
And found’st a bright lady, surpassingly fair;
And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.’
 
The Conclusion to Part I
It was a lovely sight to see
The lady Christabel, when she
Was praying at the old oak tree.
 Amid the jaggèd shadows
 Of mossy leafless boughs,
 Kneeling in the moonlight,
 To make her gentle vows;
Her slender palms together prest,
Heaving sometimes on her breast;
Her face resigned to bliss or bale —
Her face, oh call it fair not pale,
And both blue eyes more bright than clear,
Each about to have a tear.
 
With open eyes (ah woe is me!)
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,
Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis,
Dreaming that alone, which is —
O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,
The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?
And lo! the worker of these harms,
That holds the maiden in her arms,
Seems to slumber still and mild,
As a mother with her child.
 
A star hath set, a star hath risen,
O Geraldine! since arms of thine
Have been the lovely lady’s prison.
O Geraldine! one hour was thine —
Thou’st had thy will! By tairn and rill,
The night-birds all that hour were still.
But now they are jubilant anew,
From cliffand tower, tu—whoo! tu—whoo!
Tu—whoo! tu—whoo! from wood and fell!
 
And see! the lady Christabel
Gathers herself from out her trance;
Her limbs relax, her countenance
Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids
Close o’er her eyes; and tears she sheds —
Large tears that leave the lashes bright!
And oft the while she seems to smile
As infants at a sudden light!
 
Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,
Like a youthful hermitess,
Beauteous in a wilderness,
Who, praying always, prays in sleep.
And, if she move unquietly,
Perchance, ’tis but the blood so free
Comes back and tingles in her feet.
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.
What if her guardian spirit ’twere,
What if she knew her mother near?
But this she knows, in joys and woes,
That saints will aid if men will call:
For the blue sky bends over all!
 
Part II
Each matin bell, the Baron saith,
Knells us back to a world of death.
These words Sir Leoline first said,
When he rose and found his lady dead:
These words Sir Leoline will say
Many a morn to his dying day!
 
And hence the custom and law began
That still at dawn the sacristan,
Who duly pulls the heavy bell,
Five and forty beads must tell
Between each stroke — a warning knell,
Which not a soul can choose but hear
From Bratha Head to Wyndermere.
 
Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell!
And let the drowsy sacristan
Still count as slowly as he can!
There is no lack of such, I ween,
As well fill up the space between.
In Langdale Pike and Witch’s Lair,
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,
With ropes of rock and bells of air
Three sinful sextons’ ghosts are pent,
Who all give back, one after t’other,
The death-note to their living brother;
And oft too, by the knell offended,
Just as their one! two! three! is ended,
The devil mocks the doleful tale
With a merry peal from Borodale.
 
The air is still! through mist and cloud
That merry peal comes ringing loud;
And Geraldine shakes off her dread,
And rises lightly from the bed;
Puts on her silken vestments white,
And tricks her hair in lovely plight,
And nothing doubting of her spell
Awakens the lady Christabel.
“Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel?
I trust that you have rested well.’
 
And Christabel awoke and spied
The same who lay down by her side —
O rather say, the same whom she
Raised up beneath the old oak tree!
Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair!
For she belike hath drunken deep
Of all the blessedness of sleep!
And while she spake, her looks, her air
Such gentle thankfulness declare,
That (so it seemed) her girded vests
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts.
“Sure I have sinn’d!’ said Christabel,
“Now heaven be praised if all be well!’
 
And in low faltering tones, yet sweet,
Did she the lofty lady greet
With such perplexity of mind
As dreams too lively leave behind.
 
So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed
Her maiden limbs, and having prayed
That He, who on the cross did groan,
Might wash away her sins unknown,
She forthwith led fair Geraldine
To meet her sire, Sir Leoline.
 
The lovely maid and the lady tall
Are pacing both into the hall,
And pacing on through page and groom,
Enter the Baron’s presence-room.
 
The Baron rose, and while he prest
His gentle daughter to his breast,
With cheerful wonder in his eyes
The lady Geraldine espies,
And gave such welcome to the same,
As might beseem so bright a dame!
 
But when he heard the lady’s tale,
And when she told her father’s name,
Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale,
Murmuring o’er the name again,
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?
Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanced, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart’s best brother:
They parted — ne’er to meet again!
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining —
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between; —
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.
 
Sir Leoline, a moment’s space,
Stood gazing on the damsel’s face:
And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine
Came back upon his heart again.
 
O then the Baron forgot his age,
His noble heart swelled high with rage;
He swore by the wounds in Jesu’s side
He would proclaim it far and wide,
With trump and solemn heraldry,
That they, who thus had wronged the dame,
Were base as spotted infamy!
“And if they dare deny the same,
My herald shall appoint a week,
And let the recreant traitors seek
My tourney court — that there and then
I may dislodge their reptile souls
From the bodies and forms of men!’
He spake: his eye in lightning rolls!
For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned
In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!
 
And now the tears were on his face,
And fondly in his arms he took
Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace,
Prolonging it with joyous look.
Which when she viewed, a vision fell
Upon the soul of Christabel,
The vision of fear, the touch and pain!
She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again —
(Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee,
Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)
 
Again she saw that bosom old,
Again she felt that bosom cold,
And drew in her breath with a hissing sound:
Whereat the Knight turned wildly round,
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid
With eyes upraised, as one that prayed.
 
The touch, the sight, had passed away,
And in its stead that vision blest,
Which comforted her after-rest
While in the lady’s arms she lay,
Had put a rapture in her breast,
And on her lips and o’er her eyes
Spread smiles like light!
    With new surprise,
“What ails then my belovèd child?
The Baron said — His daughter mild
Made answer, ’All will yet be well!’
I ween, she had no power to tell
Aught else: so mighty was the spell.
 
Yet he, who saw this Geraldine,
Had deemed her sure a thing divine:
Such sorrow with such grace she blended,
As if she feared she had offended
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid!
And with such lowly tones she prayed
She might be sent without delay
Home to her father’s mansion.
    ’Nay!
Nay, by my soul!’ said Leoline.
“Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine!
Go thou, with sweet music and loud,
And take two steeds with trappings proud,
And take the youth whom thou lov’st best
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song,
And clothe you both in solemn vest,
And over the mountains haste along,
Lest wandering folk, that are abroad,
Detain you on the valley road.
 
“And when he has crossed the Irthing flood,
My merry bard! he hastes, he hastes
Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood,
And reaches soon that castle good
Which stands and threatens Scotland’s wastes.
 
“Bard Bracy! bard Bracy! your horses are fleet,
Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet,
More loud than your horses’ echoing feet!
And loud and loud to Lord Roland call,
Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall!
Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free —
Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me!
He bids thee come without delay
With all thy numerous array
And take thy lovely daughter home:
And he will meet thee on the way
With all his numerous array
White with their panting palfreys’ foam:
And, by mine honour! I will say,
That I repent me of the day
When I spake words of fierce disdain
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine! —
— For since that evil hour hath flown,
Many a summer’s sun hath shone;
Yet ne’er found I a friend again
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.
 
The lady fell, and clasped his knees,
Her face upraised, her eyes o’erflowing;
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice,
His gracious Hail on all bestowing! —
“Thy words, thou sire of Christabel,
Are sweeter than my harp can tell;
Yet might I gain a boon of thee,
This day my journey should not be,
So strange a dream hath come to me,
That I had vowed with music loud
To clear yon wood from thing unblest.
Warned by a vision in my rest!
For in my sleep I saw that dove,
That gentle bird, whom thou dost love,
And call’st by thy own daughter’s name —
Sir Leoline! I saw the same
Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan,
Among the green herbs in the forest alone.
Which when I saw and when I heard,
I wonder’d what might ail the bird;
For nothing near it could I see
Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old tree.
 
“And in my dream methought I went
To search out what might there be found;
And what the sweet bird’s trouble meant,
That thus lay fluttering on the ground.
I went and peered, and could descry
No cause for her distressful cry;
But yet for her dear lady’s sake
I stooped, methought, the dove to take,
When lo! I saw a bright green snake
Coiled around its wings and neck.
Green as the herbs on which it couched,
Close by the dove’s its head it crouched;
And with the dove it heaves and stirs,
Swelling its neck as she swelled hers!
I woke; it was the midnight hour,
The clock was echoing in the tower;
But though my slumber was gone by,
This dream it would not pass away —
It seems to live upon my eye!
 
And thence I vowed this self-same day
With music strong and saintly song
To wander through the forest bare,
Lest aught unholy loiter there.’
 
Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while,
Half-listening heard him with a smile;
Then turned to Lady Geraldine,
His eyes made up of wonder and love;
And said in courtly accents fine,
“Sweet maid, Lord Roland’s beauteous dove,
With arms more strong than harp or song,
Thy sire and I will crush the snake!’
He kissed her forehead as he spake,
And Geraldine in maiden wise
Casting down her large bright eyes,
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine
She turned her from Sir Leoline;
Softly gathering up her train,
That o’er her right arm fell again;
And folded her arms across her chest,
And couched her head upon her breast,
And looked askance at Christabel
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
 
A snake’s small eye blinks dull and shy;
And the lady’s eyes they shrunk in her head,
Each shrunk up to a serpent’s eye
And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,
At Christabel she looked askance! —
One moment — and the sight was fled!
But Christabel in dizzy trance
Stumbling on the unsteady ground
Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound;
And Geraldine again turned round,
And like a thing, that sought relief,
Full of wonder and full of grief,
She rolled her large bright eyes divine
Wildly on Sir Leoline.
 
The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,
She nothing sees — no sight but one!
The maid, devoid of guile and sin,
I know not how, in fearful wise,
So deeply she had drunken in
That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,
That all her features were resigned
To this sole image in her mind:
And passively did imitate
That look of dull and treacherous hate!
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance;
Still picturing that look askance
With forced unconscious sympathy
Full before her father’s view —
As far as such a look could be
In eyes so innocent and blue!
 
And when the trance was o’er, the maid
Paused awhile, and inly prayed:
Then falling at the Baron’s feet,
“By my mother’s soul do I entreat
That thou this woman send away!’
She said: and more she could not say:
For what she knew she could not tell,
O’er-mastered by the mighty spell.
 
Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,
Sir Leoline? Thy only child
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride,
So fair, so innocent, so mild;
The same, for whom thy lady died!
O by the pangs of her dear mother
Think thou no evil of thy child!
For her, and thee, and for no other,
She prayed the moment ere she died:
Prayed that the babe for whom she died,
Might prove her dear lord’s joy and pride!
 That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,
  Sir Leoline!
 And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,
  Her child and thine?
 
Within the Baron’s heart and brain
If thoughts, like these, had any share,
They only swelled his rage and pain,
And did but work confusion there.
His heart was cleft with pain and rage,
His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,
Dishonoured thus in his old age;
Dishonoured by his only child,
And all his hospitality
To the wronged daughter of his friend
By more than woman’s jealousy
Brought thus to a disgraceful end —
He rolled his eye with stern regard
Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
And said in tones abrupt, austere —
“Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here?
I bade thee hence!’ The bard obeyed;
And turning from his own sweet maid,
The agèd knight, Sir Leoline,
Led forth the lady Geraldine!
 
The Conclusion to Part II
A little child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself,
A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
That always finds, and never seeks,
Makes such a vision to the sight
As fills a father’s eyes with light;
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
Upon his heart, that he at last
Must needs express his love’s excess
With words of unmeant bitterness.
Perhaps ’tis pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other;
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
To dally with wrong that does no harm.
Perhaps ’tis tender too and pretty
At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity.
And what, if in a world of sin
(O sorrow and shame should this be true!)
Such giddiness of heart and brain
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it ’s most used to do.
 

George Gordon Byron: The Giaour ⮵

(...) But thou, false Infidel! shalt writhe
Beneath avenging Monkir’s scythe;
And from its torment ’scape alone
To wander round lost Eblis’ throne;
And fire unquenched, unquenchable,
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell;
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!
But first, on earth as vampire sent,
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent:
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race;
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse:
Thy victims ere they yet expire
Shall know the demon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
But one that for thy crime must fall,
The youngest, most beloved of all,
Shall bless thee with a father’s name
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame!
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark
Her cheek’s last tinge, her eye’s last spark,
And the last glassy glance must view
Which freezes o’er its lifeless blue;
Then with unhallowed hand shalt tear
The tresses of her yellow hair,
Of which in life a lock when shorn
Affection’s fondest pledge was worn,
But now is borne away by thee,
Memorial of thine agony!
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip;
Then stalking to thy sullen grave,
Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave;
Till these in horror shrink away
From spectre more accursed than they!
 

John Keats: La Belle Dame sans Merci ⮵

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
 Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
 And no birds sing.
 
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
 So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
 And the harvest’s done.
 
I see a lily on thy brow,
 With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
 Fast withereth too.
 
I met a lady in the meads,
 Full beautiful — a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
 And her eyes were wild.
 
I made a garland for her head,
 And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
 And made sweet moan.
 
I set her on my pacing steed,
 And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
 A faery’s song.
 
She found me roots of relish sweet,
 And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said —
 “I love thee true’.
 
She took me to her Elfin grot,
 And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
 With kisses four.
 
And there she lullèd me asleep,
 And there I dreamed — Ah! woe betide! —
The latest dream I ever dreamt
 On the cold hill side.
 
I saw pale kings and princes too,
 Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried — “La Belle Dame sans Merci
 Thee hath in thrall!’
 
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
 With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
 On the cold hill’s side.
 
And this is why I sojourn here,
 Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
 And no birds sing.
 

Henry Thomas Liddell: The Vampire Bride ⮵

“I am come — I am come! once again from the tomb,
 In return for the ring which you gave;
That I am thine, and that thou art mine,
 This nuptial pledge receive.”
 
He lay like a corse “neath the Demon’s force,
 And she wrapp’d him in a shround;
And she fixed her teeth his heart beneath,
 And she drank of the warm life-blood!
 
And ever and anon murmur’d the lips of stone,
 “Soft and warm is this couch of thine,
Thou’lt to-morrow be laid on a colder bed —
 Albert! that bed will be mine!”
 

Edgar Allan Poe: Ulalume. A Ballad ⮵

The skies they were ashen and sober;
  The leaves they were crispéd and sere —
  The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
  Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
  In the misty mid region of Weir —
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
  In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
 
Here once, through an alley Titanic,
  Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul —
  Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
  As the scoriac rivers that roll —
  As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
  In the ultimate climes of the pole —
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
  In the realms of the boreal pole.
 
Our talk had been serious and sober,
  But our thoughts they were palsied and sere —
  Our memories were treacherous and sere —
For we knew not the month was October,
  And we marked not the night of the year —
  (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber —
  (Though once we had journeyed down here) —
We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
  Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
 
And now, as the night was senescent
  And star-dials pointed to morn —
  As the star-dials hinted of morn —
At the end of our path a liquescent
  And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
  Arose with a duplicate horn —
Astarte’s bediamonded crescent
  Distinct with its duplicate horn.
 
And I said —“She is warmer than Dian:
  She rolls through an ether of sighs —
  She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
  These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
  To point us the path to the skies —
  To the Lethean peace of the skies —
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
  To shine on us with her bright eyes —
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
  With love in her luminous eyes.”
 
But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
  Said —“Sadly this star I mistrust —
  Her pallor I strangely mistrust: —
Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!
  Oh, fly! — let us fly! — for we must.”
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
  Wings till they trailed in the dust —
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
  Plumes till they trailed in the dust —
  Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
 
I replied —“This is nothing but dreaming:
  Let us on by this tremulous light!
  Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendor is beaming
  With Hope and in Beauty to-night: —
  See! — it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
  And be sure it will lead us aright —
We safely may trust to a gleaming
  That cannot but guide us aright,
  Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”
 
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
  And tempted her out of her gloom —
  And conquered her scruples and gloom:
And we passed to the end of the vista,
  But were stopped by the door of a tomb —
  By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said — “What is written, sweet sister,
  On the door of this legended tomb?”
  She replied — “Ulalume — Ulalume —
  ’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”
 
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
  As the leaves that were crispèd and sere —
  As the leaves that were withering and sere,
And I cried — “It was surely October
  On this very night of last year
  That I journeyed — I journeyed down here —
  That I brought a dread burden down here —
  On this night of all nights in the year,
  Oh, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber —
  This misty mid region of Weir —
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber —
  In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”
 
Said we, then — the two, then — “Ah, can it
  Have been that the woodlandish ghouls —
  The pitiful, the merciful ghouls —
To bar up our way and to ban it
  From the secret that lies in these wolds —
  From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds —
Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
  From the limbo of lunary souls —
This sinfully scintillant planet
  From the Hell of the planetary souls?”
 

Charles Baudelaire: Le Vampire ⮵

Toi qui, comme un coup de couteau,
Dans mon cœur plaintif es entrée;
Toi qui, forte comme un troupeau
De démons, vins, folle et parée,
 
De mon esprit humilié
Faire ton lit et ton domaine;
— Infâme à qui je suis lié
Comme le forçat à la chaîne,
 
Comme au jeu le joueur têtu,
Comme à la bouteille l’ivrogne,
Comme aux vermines la charogne
— Maudite, maudite sois-tu!
 
J’ai prié le glaive rapide
De conquérir ma liberté,
Et j’ai dit au poison perfide
De secourir ma lâcheté.
 
Hélas! le poison et le glaive
M’ont pris en dédain et m’ont dit:
« Tu n’es pas digne qu’on t’enlève
À ton esclavage maudit,
 
Imbécile! — de son empire
Si nos efforts te délivraient,
Tes baisers ressusciteraient
Le cadavre de ton vampire! »
 

Charles Baudelaire: Les Métamorphoses du vampire ⮵

La femme cependant, de sa bouche de fraise,
En se tordant ainsi qu’un serpent sur la braise,
Et pétrissant ses seins sur le fer de son busc,
Laissait couler ces mots tout imprégnés de musc:
— « Moi, j’ai la lèvre humide, et je sais la science
De perdre au fond d’un lit l’antique conscience.
Je sèche tous les pleurs sur mes seins triomphants,
Et fais rire les vieux du rire des enfants.
Je remplace, pour qui me voit nue et sans voiles,
La lune, le soleil, le ciel et les étoiles!
Je suis, mon cher savant, si docte aux voluptés,
Lorsque j’étouffe un homme en mes bras redoutés,
Ou lorsque j’abandonne aux morsures mon buste,
Timide et libertine, et fragile et robuste,
Que sur ces matelas qui se pâment d’émoi,
Les anges impuissants se damneraient pour moi! »
 
Quand elle eut de mes os sucé toute la mœlle,
Et que languissamment je me tournai vers elle
Pour lui rendre un baiser d’amour, je ne vis plus
Qu’une outre aux flancs gluants, toute pleine de pus!
Je fermai les deux yeux, dans ma froide épouvante,
Et quand je les rouvris à la clarté vivante,
À mes côtés, au lieu du mannequin puissant
Qui semblait avoir fait provision de sang,
Tremblaient confusément des débris de squelette,
Qui d’eux-mêmes rendaient le cri d’une girouette
Ou d’une enseigne, au bout d’une tringle de fer,
Que balance le vent pendant les nuits d’hiver.
 

[Charles Baudelaire]: Die Verwandlung des Vampirs ⮵

Das Weib indessen mit dem erdbeerfarbnen Munde,
Sich windend schlangengleich auf glühend heißem Grunde,
Die festen Brüste in das Mieder eingeschnürt,
Es sprach ein Wort aus, das wie Ambrahauch verführt:
 
— „Auf meinen Lippen liegt ein Schmelz, mir wurden Gaben,
Die das Gewissen im Alkoven tief begraben.
Die Tränen trocknen schnell an meiner stolzen Brust,
Die Greise lachen wie die Kinder voller Lust.
 
Wer hüllenlos und nackt mich sieht, verzichtet gerne
Auf Mond und Sonne und den Himmel und die Sterne!
Ich bin, mein weiser Freund, in meiner Kunst geschickt,
Wenn fürchterlich mein Arm den schwachen Mann umstrickt,
 
Und seinem wilden Biß blüht meine Brust entgegen,
So schwach und stark zugleich, so schüchtern und verwegen,
Selbst Engel gäben auf dem Bett sich und heiß,
Die doch geschlechtslos sind, für mich der Hölle preis!“
 
Als aus den Gliedern sie mir alles Mark gesogen,
Und als ich stöhnend mich auf sie hinabgebogen
Zum langen Liebeskuß, da sah ich sie nicht mehr:
Ein Schlauch lag neben mir, mit Schleim und Eiter schwer!
 
Ich schloß die Augen schnell in fröstelndem Erbeben,
Um sie am Morgen neu emporzuheben,
Doch mir zur Seite an des Ungeheuers Statt,
Das ganz, so glaubte ich, von meinem Blute satt,
 
Da war ein klapperndes Skelett allein zu sehen,
Abscheulich rasseld wie der Wetterfahne Drehen,
Und wie ein Aushängeschild, am Eisen festgemacht,
Das klappernd sich bewegt im Sturm der Winternacht.
 

Richard Dehmel: Bastard ⮵

Nun weißt du, Herz, was immer so
in deinen Wünschen bangt und glüht,
wie nach dem ersten Sonnenschimmer
die graue Nacht verlangt und glüht,
und was in deinen Lüsten
nach Seele dürstet wie nach Blut,
und was dich jagt von Herz zu Herz
aus dumpfer Sucht zu lichter Glut.
 
In früher Morgenstunde
hielt heut mein Alb mich schwer umstrickt:
aus meinem Herzen wuchs ein Baum,
o wie er drückt! er schwankt und nickt;
sein seltsam Laubwerk thut sich auf,
und aus den düstern Zweigen rauscht
mit großen heißen Augen
ein junges Vampyrweib — und lauscht.
 
Da kam genaht und ist schon da
Apoll im Sonnenwagen;
es flammt sein Blick den Baum hinan,
die Vampyrbraut genießt den Bann
mit dürstendem Behagen.
Es sehnt sein Arm sich wild empor,
vier Augen leuchten trunken;
das Nachtweib und der Sonnenfürst,
sie liegen hingesunken.
 
Es preßt mein Herz die schwere Last
der üppigen Sekunden,
es stampft auf mir der Rosse Hast —
er hat sich ihr entwunden.
Schon schwillt ihr Bauch von seiner Frucht,
hohl fleht ihr Auge: bleibe!
Er stößt sie sich vom Leibe,
von Ekel zuckt des Fußes Wucht,
hin ras’t des Wagens goldne Flucht.
 
Es windet sich im Krampfe
und stöhnt das graue Mutterweib,
mit ihren Vampyrfingern gräbt
sie sich den Lichtsohn aus dem Leib,
er ächzt — ein Schrei — Erbarmen: ich,
mich hält der dunkle Arm umkrallt,
da bin ich wach — — doch hör’ich,
wie noch ihr Fluch und Segen hallt:
 
Drum sollst du dulden dies dein Herz,
das so von Wünschen bangt und glüht,
wie nach dem ersten Sonnenschimmer
die graue Nacht verlangt und glüht,
und sollst in deinen Lüsten
nach Seele dürsten wie nach Blut,
und sollst dich mühn von Herz zu Herz
aus dumpfer Sucht zu lichter Glut!
 

Aleister Crowley: The Vampire ⮵

I

Let me away! Then is it not enough
 That you have won me to your wickedness?
 That we have touched the strange and sexless love
 Whose heart is death? That you and I express
 
The poison of a thousand evil flowers
 And drain that cup of bitterness, my Lola?
 That you have killed my safe and sunny hours—
 A Venus to seduce Savonarola!
 
Why have you taken this most monstrous shape,
 Imperious malison and hate flung after?
 You clutch me like a gross lascivious ape,
 And like a gloating devil’s rings the laughter.
 
O sweet my maid, bethink yourself awhile!
 Recall the glad kiss and the gentle smile!

II

Where are you? Who am I? O who am I?
 Why do I lie and let you? I was strong—
 I was so strong I might have bid you die
 With one swift arrow from my quiver, song.
 
Now you are over me; you hold me here;
 You grip my flesh till bleeding bruises start;
 You threaten me with — can I name the fear?
 I always knew you never had a heart.
 
God! who am I? My Lola, speak to me!
 Tell me you love me; tell me — I am dazed
 With something terrible and strange I see
 Even in the mouth that kissed, the lips that praised.
 
You leer above me like a brooding fiend
 Waiting to leap upon a babe unweaned.

III

Kiss me at least! We always were good friends—
 Kiss me for old times’ sake — Kiss me just once!
 I know this ends — as every sweet thing ends!
 But — say you are not angry! Ere you pounce,
 
Forgive me! You could make me glad to die,
 I think, if you would only kill me kindly.
 Just one swift razor-stroke — cut low! — and I
 Would pass the portal happily and blindly.
 
Yes! I would like to think the fountain sprang
 Straight from my throat and slaked your aching thirst,
 Shot to your hot red heart one red hot pang,
 Then left you cool and smiling as at first.
 
I give you freely my heart’s agony.
 But oh! oh! speak to me! do speak to me!

IV

God! do not wait then! kill me now; have done!
 Why do you watch me mute and immobile,
 Sitting like death between me and the sun,
 A sphinx with eyes of jade and jaws of steel?
 
Let me rise up to kneel to you and pray!
 I hate this hell of agony supine.
 You killed her yesterday; kill me to-day;
 Let me not hang like Christ! Now snap my spine!
 
Surely you know the trick — when from your lips
 I see a thin chill stream of stark black blood
 Trickling, the stream of hate that glows and grips
 My lesser life within its sickening flood.
 
Be pitiful, and end your cruelty!
 Suck out the life of me, that I may die!

V

O brooding vampire, why art thou arisen?
 Why art thou so unquiet in the tomb?
 Why has thy corpse burst brilliant out of prison?
 Whence get the lips their blood, the cheeks their bloom?
 
Is there no garlic I may wear against thee?
 No succour in the consecrated Host?
 Nay, if thou slay not it is thou restrainst thee.
 I am the virgin, thou the Holy Ghost.
 
There is no comfort nor defence nor peace
 From thee (and all thy malice) in the world:
 Thou sittest through the aching centuries
 Like the old serpent in his horror curled
 
Ready to strike, strike home — and yet not striking
 Till thou hast lipped the victim to thy liking!

VI

Am I not beautiful? Your lithe mouth twitches
 As if already you were glutted on
 This fair firm flesh that fears you and yet itches
 — You know it — for some master malison.
 
Perhaps you mean to let me go? Ah sweet!
 How seven times sweet if you will let me go—
 Oh! Oh! I want to worship at your feet.
 Why do you stab me with a smiling “No”?
 
Say “no” at least — to see you sitting there
 So dumb is madness — why then, let me go!
 I will — and you sit quiet — did you dare?
 To everything the answer still is “No!”
 
You coward! Coward! Coward! let me rise!—
 I cannot bear the hunger in your eyes.

VII

You are afraid of me — I see it now.
 You know that if you loose me, never again
 Will I be such a fool. I wonder how
 I ever took this destiny of pain.
 
Loose me! You dare not. Take your eyes away!
 You dare not. O you laugh! You trust your power;
 There you are wrong — but had you turned to-day,
 I would have murdered you within the hour.
 
Yes! you do well — you know the dreadful weight
 Pale silence sheds, not Atlas could uplift.
 You know the spell to conquer love and hate,
 To win the world and win it at a gift.
 
You are afraid of that, then — had you spoken,
 You fear the spell upon me had been broken!

VIII

Even that taunt has left you smiling still,
 And silent still — and that is ten times worse.
 Where is my will, my adamantine will?
 Curse God and die? I can nor die nor curse.
 
Ah, but I can. The agony extends—
 I am wrapt up all in an equal hell.
 There is a point at which emotion ends.
 I am come through to peace, though pain yet swell
 
Its paean in my every vein and nerve.
 Try me, o God, convulse me to the marrow!
 I am its element; I shall not swerve.
 I am Apollo too; I loose one arrow
 
Swift enough, straight enough to conquer you.
 O Sphinx! Gaze on! I can be silent too.

🞯 🞯 🞯 🞯 🞯

IX

Now then the pressure and the pain increase,
 And ever nearer grows the exulting rose
 Your face; and like a Malay with his kriss
 That runs amok, your passion gleams and grows.
 
It shakes me to the soul; by that you are stilled;
 You hold yourself together, like a man
 Stabbed to the heart, who, knowing he is killed,
 Lets his whole life out in his yataghan,
 
And strikes one masterstroke. So now you breathe
 Close on my face; you strip me of defence;
 You sing in obscure words whose crowns enwreathe
 My forehead with their viewless violence,
 
So that I lie, as at the appointed term,
 Awaiting the foul kisses of the worm.

X

You close on me; by God, you breed in me!
 My flesh corrupt is tingling with the kiss
 Of myriads, like the innumerable sea
 In waves of life that feeds its boundless bliss
 
On the eroded earth. These are your thoughts,
 Your living thoughts that throng my stagnant veins!
 Your jackals howl among the holy courts;
 Your monster brood of devils in my brains
 
Laughs; oh! they feast on my decaying blood;
 They gnaw the last sweet morsel from my bones.—
 As on the parched-up earth there flames the flood
 Of the monsoon, black dust and barren stones
 
Leap into green, so I whose epitaph
 Your passion writes, awake to live — to laugh!

XI

Even to the end of all must I resist.
 New deaths, new births, each minute boiling over.
 I can go on for ever, an you list—
 Now, now! O no! I will not. O my lover!
 
Spare me! Enough! Take pity! Mutely moans
 Your mouth in little sobs and calls and cries
 And catches of the breath, whose bliss atones
 In once for all the long-drawn agonies.
 
Now that the pain swings over into pleasure,
 Now that the union which is death is done,
 The wine of bliss rolls out in brimming measure.
 The moon is dead — all glory to the Sun!
 
Now, now! Oh no! Oh no! I penetrate—
 I pierce. Enough. God! God! how Thou art great!

XII

Then closer, closer. No! — then stop — think well
 What is this wonder we awake. Now think
 We are cast down to the abyss of hell
 Or tremble upon heaven’s dizzy brink—
 
Which? All’s the same. Go on. No — what is this?
 Why dally? To the hilt! Ah mine, ah mine!
 Kiss me — I cannot kiss you — kiss me! Kiss!
 Oh! God! Oh God! Forgive me; I am thine.—
 
Horses and chariots that champ and clang!
 The roar of blazing cressets that environ
 The form that fuses in the perfect pang.
 A blast of air through the molten iron—
 
One scream of light. Creating silence drops
 Into that silence when creation — stops.

XIII

So — é finita la commedia.
 “And if the King like not the comedy”
 (Twine in your hair the fallen gardenia!)
 “Why then, belike he likes it not, pardie!”
 
What will the “King” — the British Public — say
 When they perceive their sorrow was my fun,
 Their Hecuba my mocking Brinvilliers?
 I neither know nor care. What we have done
 
We have done. Admit, though, you are rare and rich!
 This palely-wandering knight has found a flame
 Both merciless and beautiful, you witch!
 You play the game, and frankly, as a game!
 
This is the hour of prattle — tell me true!
 I have never met another such. Have you?

XIV

Yet all the comedy was tragedy.
 I truly felt all that I farced to feel.
 Because the wheel revolves, forsooth, shall we
 Deny a top and bottom to the wheel?
 
I am the centre too, and stand apart.
 I am the All, who made the All, in All
 Who am, being Naught. I am the bloodbright Heart
 Wreathed with the Snake, and chaos is their pall.
 
Thou art as I; this mystery is ours.
 These blood-bought bastards of futility
 Can never know us, fair and free-born flowers.
 So they may say — they will — of you and me:
 
“These poets never know green cheese from chalk;
 This is the sort of nonsense lovers talk.”
 

Ethel Archer: The Vampire ⮵

I dream in strange laughterless mazes;
I wake at the set of the sun;
All poppied the paean of praise is
That lives on the lives it has won.
And crimson grow cheeks that are ashen,
And gold gleam the locks that are grey,
For I live — and bright blood is my passion,
Hot-veined in the heart of the day!
 
Aha! For the rapture that dazes!
Wine-drained as the breast of a nun
Droops the throat that my savage soul raises,
Thirsting yet for the life that is done!
Sharp as rocks where strong billows have thundered,
Calm as seas where strange tempests have run,
Strong as Death; were the Derelicts sundered
Feed the Soul without Hope, which is One.
 
In the Vault of the Infinite Spaces,
By the Moon of a mirrorless Sea,
I lie, while Eternity races —
Dream-bound in the visions of me.
See poppied lips pale in the star-light,
The lustiest swoon at my breath,
Till the were-wolves howl — ho! ’tis the far light! —
Even so — I caress — it is Death!
 

Madison Julius Cawein: The Vampire ⮵

A lily in a twilight place?
A moonflow’r in the lonely night? —
Strange beauty of a woman’s face
 Of wildflow’r-white
 
The rain that hangs a star’s green ray
Slim on a leaf-point’s restlessness,
Is not so glimmering green and gray
 As was her dress.
 
I drew her dark hair from her eyes,
And in their deeps beheld a while
Such shadowy moonlight as the skies
 Of Hell may smile.
 
She held her mouth up redly wan,
And burning cold, — I bent and kissed
Such rosy snow as some wild dawn
 Makes of a mist.
 
God shall not take from me that hour,
When round my neck her white arms clung!
When “neath my lips, like some fierce flower,
 Her white throat swung!
 
Or words she murmured while she leaned!
Witch-words, she holds me softly by, —
The spell that binds me to a fiend
 Until I die.