Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DEAD-HOUSE, by ALICE CARY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DEAD-HOUSE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: In the dead of night to the dead-house
Last Line: All under her queenly cover.
Subject(s): Death; Dead, The


IN the dead of night to the Dead-house,
She cometh -- a maiden fair --
By the feet so slight and slender,
By the hand so white and tender,
And by the silken and shining lengths
Of the girlish, golden hair,
Dragging under and over
The arms of the men that bear.
Oh! make of your pity a cover,
And softly, silently bear:
Perhaps for the sake of a lover,
Loved all too well, she is there!

In the dead of night to the Dead-house!
So lovely and so lorn --
Straighten the tangled tresses,
They have known a mother's kisses,
And hide with their shining veil of grace
The sightless eyes and the pale, sad face
From men and women's scorn.
Aye, veil the poor face over,
And softly, silently bear:
Perhaps for the sake of a lover,
Loved all too well, she is there.

In the dead of night to the Dead-house!
Bear her in from the street:
The watch at his watching found her --
Ah! say it low nor wound her,
For though the heart in the bosom
Has ceased to throb and beat,
Speak low, when you say how they found her
Buried alive in the sleet.
Speak low, and make her a cover
All out of her shining hair:
Perhaps for the sake of a lover,
Loved all too well, she was there.

Desolate left in the Dead-house!
Your cruel judgments spare,
Ye know not why she is there:
Be slow to pronounce your "mene,"
Remember the Magdalene;
Be slow with your harsh award --
Remember the Magdalene;
Remember the dear, dear Lord!
Holy, and high above her,
By the length of her sin and shame,
He could take her and love her --
Praise to his precious name.

With oil of gentle mercy
The tide of your censure stem;
Have ye no scarlet sinning?
No need for yourselves of winning
Those sweetest words man ever spake
In all the world for pity's sake,
Those words the heardest heart that break:
"Neither do I condemn."

In the light of morn to the Dead-house
There cometh a man so old --
"My child!" he cries; "I will wake her;
Close, close in my arms I will take her,
And bear her back on my shoulder,
My poor stray lamb to the fold!
How came she in this dreadful place?"
And he stoops and puts away from the face
The queenly cover of gold.
"No, no!" he says, "it is not my girl!"
As he lifts the tresses curl by curl,
"She was never so pale and cold!"

In the light of morn in the Dead-house,
He prattleth like a child --
"No, no!" he says, "it cannot be --
Her sweet eyes would have answered me,
And her sweet mouth must have smiled --
She would have asked for her mother,
And for the good little brother
That thought it pastime and pleasure
To be up and at work for her.
And she doth not smile nor stir."
And then, with his arms outspread
From the slender feet to the head,
He taketh the fearful measure.
"No, no!" he says, "she would wake and smile" --
But he listens breathless all the while
If haply the heart may beat,
And tenderly with trembling hands
Out of the shining silken bands
Combs the frozen sleet.

In the light of morn in the Dead-house,
He prattleth on and on --
"As like her mother's as can be
These two white hands; but if 'twere she
Who out of our house is gone,
I must have found here by her side
He to whom she was promised bride:
And yet this way along the sleet
We tracked the little wandering feet.
And yesterday, her mother said,
When she waked and called her from her bed,
She looked like one a dream had crazed --
Her mother thought the sunshine dazed,
And thought it childish passion
That made her, when she knelt to pray,
Falter, and be afraid to say,
Lord, keep us from temptation.
And I bethink, the mother said --
(What puts such thoughts into my head?)
That never once the live-long day
Her darling sung the old love-lay
That't was her use to sing and hum
As hums the bee to the blossom;
And that when night was nearly come
She took from its place in her bosom
The picture worn and cherished long,
And as if that had done her wrong,
Or, as if in sudden ire,
And it were something to abhor,
She laid it, not as she used at night
Among the rose-leaves in the drawer,
But out of her bosom and out of sight
With its face against the fire.

"But why should I torment my heart
(And the tear from his cheek he dashes)
As if such thoughts had any part
With these pale, piteous ashes?"
He opens the lids, and the eyes are blue,
"But these are frost and my child's were dew!
No, no! it is not my poor lost girl."
And he takes the tresses curl by curl
And tenderly feels them over.
"If it were she, the watch I know
Would never have dragged her out of the snow --
Why, where should be her lover!"
And down the face and bosom fair
He spread the long loose flood of hair,
And left her in the Dead-house there,
All under her queenly cover.





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