Jabberwocky and Other Nonsense

by Lewis Carroll

[50] In some still cavern deep,

  The fevered brain might slumber cool,

  The eyes forget to weep:

  Within that goblet’s mystic rim

  Are draughts of healing, stored for him

  Whose heart is sick, whose sight is dim,

  Who prayeth but to sleep!”

  The evening-breeze went moaning by,

  Like mourner for the dead,

  And stirred, with shrill complaining sigh,

  [60] The tree-tops overhead –

  My guardian-angel seemed to stand

  And mutely wave a warning hand –

  With sudden terror all unmanned,

  I turned myself and fled!

  A cottage-gate stood open wide:

  Soft fell the dying ray

  On two fair children, side by side,

  That rested from their play –

  Together bent the earnest head,

  [70] As ever and anon they read

  From one dear Book: the words they said

  Come back to me to-day.

  Like twin cascades on mountain-stair

  Together wandered down

  The ripples of the golden hair,

  The ripples of the brown:

  While, through the tangled silken haze,

  Blue eyes looked forth in eager gaze,

  More starlike than the gems that blaze

  [80] About a monarch’s crown.

  My son, there comes to each an hour

  When sinks the spirit’s pride –

  When weary hands forget their power

  The strokes of death to guide:

  In such a moment, warriors say,

  A word the panic-rout may stay,

  A sudden charge redeem the day

  And turn the living tide.

  I could not see, for blinding tears,

  [90] The glories of the west:

  A heavenly music filled mine ears,

  A heavenly peace my breast.

  “Come unto Me, come unto Me –

  All ye that labour, unto Me –

  Ye heavy-laden, come to Me –

  And I will give you rest.”

  The night drew onwards: thin and blue

  The evening mists arise

  To bathe the thirsty land in dew,

  [100] As erst in Paradise –

  While over silent field and town

  The deep blue vault of heaven looked down;

  Not, as of old, in angry frown,

  But bright with angels’ eyes.

  Blest day! Then first I heard the voice

  That since hath oft beguiled

  These eyes from tears, and bid rejoice

  This heart with anguish wild –

  Thy mother, boy, thou hast not known,

  [110] So soon she left me here to moan –

  Left me to weep and watch, alone,

  Our one beloved child.

  Though, parted from my aching sight,

  Like homeward-speeding dove,

  She passed into the perfect light

  That floods the world above;

  Yet our twin spirits, well I know –

  Though one abide in pain below –

  Love, as in summers long ago,

  [120] And evermore shall love.

  So with a glad and patient heart

  I move toward mine end:

  The streams, that flow awhile apart,

  Shall both in ocean blend.

  I dare not weep: I can but bless

  The Love that pitied my distress,

  And lent me, in Life’s wilderness,

  So sweet and true a friend.

  But if there be – O if there be

  [130] A truth in what they say,

  That angel-forms we cannot see

  Go with us on our way;

  Then surely she is with me here,

  I dimly feel her spirit near –

  The morning-mists grow thin and clear,

  And Death brings in the Day.

  Beatrice

  In her eyes is the living light

  Of a wanderer to earth

  From a far celestial height:

  Summers five are all the span –

  Summers five since Time began

  To veil in mists of human night

  A shining angel-birth.

  Does an angel look from her eyes?

  Will she suddenly spring away,

  [10] And soar to her home in the skies?

  Beatrice! Blessing and blessed to be!

  Beatrice! Still, as I gaze on thee,

  Visions of two sweet maids arise,

  Whose life was of yesterday:

  Of a Beatrice pale and stern,

  With the lips of a dumb despair,

  With the innocent eyes that yearn –

  Yearn for the young sweet hours of life,

  Far from sorrow and far from strife,

  [20] For the happy summers, that never return,

  When the world seemed good and fair:

  Of a Beatrice glorious, bright –

  Of a sainted, ethereal maid,

  Whose blue eyes are deep fountains of light,

  Cheering the poet that broodeth apart,

  Filling with gladness his desolate heart,

  Like the moon when she shines thro’ a cloudless night

  On a world of silence and shade.

  And the visions waver and faint,

  [30] And the visions vanish away

  That my fancy delighted to paint –

  She is here at my side, a living child,

  With the glowing cheek and the tresses wild,

  Nor death-pale martyr, nor radiant saint,

  Yet stainless and bright as they.

  For I think, if a grim wild beast

  Were to come from his charnel-cave,

  From his jungle-home in the East –

  Stealthily creeping with bated breath,

  [40] Stealthily creeping with eyes of death –

  He would all forget his dream of the feast,

  And crouch at her feet a slave.

  She would twine her hand in his mane,

  She would prattle in silvery tone,

  Like the tinkle of summer rain –

  Questioning him with her laughing eyes,

  Questioning him with a glad surprise,

  Till she caught from those fierce eyes again

  The love that lit her own.

  [50] And be sure, if a savage heart,

  In a mask of human guise,

  Were to come on her here apart –

  Bound for a dark and a deadly deed,

  Hurrying past with pitiless speed –

  He would suddenly falter and guiltily start

  At the glance of her pure blue eyes.

  Nay, be sure, if an angel fair,

  A bright seraph undefiled,

  Were to stoop from the trackless air,

  [60] Fain would she linger in glad amaze –

  Lovingly linger to ponder and gaze,

  With a sister’s love and a sister’s care,

  On the happy, innocent child.

  [Acrostic Lines to Lorina, Alice and Edith]

  Little maidens, when you look

  On this little story-book,

  Reading with attentive eye

  Its enticing history;

  Never think that hours of play

  Are your only holiday,

  And that, in a time of joy,

  Lessons serve but to annoy.

  If in any HOUSE you find

  [10] Children of a gentle mind,

  Each the others helping ever,

  Each the others vexing never,

  Daily task and pastime daily

  In their order taking gaily –

  Then be very sure that they

  Have a life of HOLIDAY.

  The Path of Roses

  In the dark silence of an ancient room,

  Whose one tall window fronted to the West,

  Where, thr
ough laced tendrils of a hanging vine,

  The sunset glow was fading into night,

  Sat a pale Lady, resting weary hands

  Upon a great clasped volume, and her face

  Within her hands. Not as in rest she bowed,

  But large hot tears went coursing down her cheek,

  And her low-panted sobs broke awfully

  [10] Upon the sleeping echoes of the night.

  Soon she unclasped the volume once again,

  And read the words in tone of agony,

  As in self-torture, weeping as she read:

  “He crowns the glory of his race;

  He prayeth but in some fair place

  To meet his foeman face to face;

  “And battling for the true, the right,

  From ruddy dawn to purple night,

  To perish in the midmost fight;

  [20] “Where foes are fierce, and weapons strong

  Where roars the battle loud and long,

  Where blood is dropping in the throng.

  “Still, with a dim and glazing eye

  To watch the tide of victory,

  To hear in death the battle-cry.

  “Then, gathered grandly to his grave,

  To rest among the true and brave,

  In holy ground, where yew-trees wave;

  “Where, from church-windows sculptured fair,

  [30] Float out upon the evening air

  The note of praise, the voice of prayer;

  “Where no vain marble mockery

  Insults with loud and boastful lie

  The simple soldier’s memory;

  “Where sometimes little children go,

  And read, in whispered accent slow,

  The name of him who sleeps below.”

  Her voice died out; like one in dreams she sat.

  “Alas!” she sighed, “for what can woman do?

  [40] Her life is aimless, and her death unknown;

  Hemmed in by social forms she pines in vain:

  Man has his work, but what can woman do?”

  And answer came there from the creeping gloom,

  The creeping gloom that settled into night:

  “Peace, for thy lot is other than a man’s:

  His is a path of thorns; he beats them down –

  He faces death – he wrestles with despair:

  Thine is of roses; to adorn and cheer

  His barren lot, and hide the thorns in flowers.”

  [50] She spake again: in bitter tone she spake:

  “Aye, as a toy, the puppet of an hour;

  Or a fair posy, newly plucked at morn,

  But flung aside and withered ere the night.”

  And answer came there from the creeping gloom,

  The creeping gloom, that blackened into night:

  “So shalt thou be the lamp to light his path,

  What time the shades of sorrow close around.”

  And, so it seemed to her, an awful light

  Pierced slowly through the darkness, orbed, and grew,

  [60] Until all passed away – the ancient room –

  The sunlight dying through the trellised vine –

  The one tall window – all had passed away,

  And she was standing on the mighty hills.

  Beneath, around, and far as eye could see,

  Squadron on squadron, stretched opposing hosts,

  Ranked as for battle, mute and motionless.

  Anon a distant thunder shook the ground,

  The tramp of horses, and a troop shot by –

  Plunged headlong in that living sea of men –

  [70] Plunged to their death: back from that fatal field

  A scattered handful, fighting hard for life,

  Broke through the serried lines; but, as she gazed

  They shrank and melted, and their forms grew thin –

  Grew pale as ghosts when the first morning ray

  Dawns from the East – the trumpet’s brazen blare

  Died into silence – and the vision passed; –

  Passed to a room where sick and dying lay,

  In long, sad line – there brooded Fear and Pain –

  Darkness was there, the shade of Azrael’s wing.

  [80] But there was one that ever, to and fro,

  Moved with light footfall: purely calm her face,

  And those deep steadfast eyes that starred the gloom:

  Still, as she went, she ministered to each

  Comfort and counsel; cooled the fevered brow

  With softest touch, and in the listening ear

  Of the pale sufferer whispered words of peace.

  The dying warrior, gazing as she passed,

  Clasped his thin hands and blessed her. Bless her too,

  THOU who didst bless the merciful of old!

  [90] So prayed the Lady, watching tearfully

  Her gentle moving onward, till the night

  Had veiled her wholly, and the vision passed.

  Then once again the awful whisper came:

  “So in the darkest path of man’s despair,

  Where War and Terror shake the troubled earth,

  Lies woman’s mission; with unblenching brow

  To pass through scenes of anguish and affright

  Where men grow sick and tremble; unto her

  All things are sanctified, for all are good.

  [100] Nothing so mean, but shall deserve her care;

  Nothing so great, but she may bear her part.

  No life is vain: each hath his place assigned:

  Do thou thy task, and leave the rest to heaven.”

  And there was silence, but the Lady made

  No answer, save one deeply-breathed “Amen.”

  And she arose, and in that darkening room

  Stood lonely as a spirit of the night –

  Stood calm and fearless in the gathered night –

  And raised her eyes to heaven. There were tears

  [110] Upon her face, but in her heart was peace,

  Peace that the world nor gives nor takes away!

  The Sailor’s Wife

  See! There are tears upon her face –

  Tears newly shed, and scarcely dried:

  Close, in an agonised embrace,

  She clasps the infant at her side.

  Peace dwells in those soft-lidded eyes,

  Those parted lips that faintly smile –

  Peace, the foretaste of Paradise,

  In heart too young for care or guile.

  No peace that mother’s features wear;

  [10] But quivering lip, and knotted brow,

  And broken mutterings, all declare

  The fearful dream that haunts her now.

  The storm-wind, rushing through the sky,

  Wails from the depths of cloudy space;

  Shrill, piercing as the seaman’s cry

  When Death and he are face to face.

  Familiar tones are in the gale;

  They ring upon her startled ear:

  And quick and low she pants the tale

  [20] That tells of agony and fear:

  “Still that phantom-ship is nigh –

  With a vexed and life-like motion,

  All beneath an angry sky,

  Rocking on an angry ocean.

  “Round the straining mast and shrouds

  Throng the spirits of the storm;

  Darkly seen through driving clouds,

  Bends each gaunt and ghastly form.

  “See! The good ship yields at last!

  [30] Dumbly yields, and fights no more;

  Driving, in the frantic blast,

  Headlong on the fatal shore.

  “Hark! I hear her battered side,

  With a low and sullen shock,

  Dashed, amid the foaming tide,

  Full upon a sunken rock.

  “His face shines out against the sky,

  Like a ghost, so cold and white;

  With a dead despairing eye

&n
bsp; [40] Gazing through the gathered night.

  “Is he watching, through the dark,

  Where a mocking ghostly hand

  Points to yonder feeble spark

  Glimmering from the distant land?

  “Sees he, in this hour of dread,

  Hearth and home, and wife and child?

  Loved ones who, in summers fled,

  Clung to him and wept and smiled?

  “Reeling sinks the fated bark

  [50] To her tomb beneath the wave;

  Must he perish in the dark –

  Not a hand stretched out to save?

  “See the spirits, how they crowd!

  Watching death with eyes that burn!

  Waves rush in –” she shrieks aloud,

  Ere her waking sense return.

  The storm is gone: the skies are clear:

  Hush’d is that bitter cry of pain:

  The only sound that meets her ear

  [60] The heaving of the sullen main.

  Though heaviness endure the night,

  But joy shall come with break of day;

  She shudders with a strange delight –

  The fearful dream is pass’d away.

  She wakes; the grey dawn streaks the dark;

  With early song the copses ring:

  Far off she hears the watch-dog bark

  A joyful bark of welcoming!

  Stolen Waters

  The light was faint, and soft the air

  That breathed around the place;

  And she was lithe, and tall, and fair,

  And with a wayward grace

  Her queenly head she bare.

  With glowing cheek, with gleaming eye,

  She met me on the way:

  My spirit owned the witchery

  Within her smile that lay:

  [10] I followed her, I know not why.

  The trees were thick with many a fruit,

  The grass with many a flower:

  My soul was dead, my tongue was mute,

  In that accursëd hour.

  And, in my dream, with silvery voice,

  She said, or seemed to say,

  “Youth is the season to rejoice –”

  I could not choose but stay;

  I could not say her nay.

  [20] She plucked a branch above her head,

  With rarest fruitage laden:

  “Drink of the juice, Sir Knight,” she said,

  “ ’Tis good for knight and maiden.”

  Oh, blind mine eye that would not trace –

  And deaf mine ear that would not heed –

  The mocking smile upon her face,

  The mocking voice of greed!

  I drank the juice, and straightway felt

  A fire within my brain;

  [30] My soul within me seemed to melt

  In sweet delirious pain.

  “Sweet is the stolen draught,” she said;

  “Hath sweetness stint or measure?