1. |
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ON THE VANITY OF HUMAN AMBITION
H. P. Lovecraft (January 1923)
Apollo, chasing Daphne, claim'd his prize
But lo! she turn'd to wood before his eyes.
More modern swains at golden prizes aim,
And ever strive some worldly thing to claim,
True bliss, methinks, a man can only find
True bliss, methinks, a man can only find (bis)
In virtuous life, and cultivated mind.
True bliss, methinks, a man can only find
In virtuous life, and cultivated mind.
Yet 'tis the same as in Apollo's case,
For, once attain'd, the purest gold seems base.
All that men seek's unworthy of the quest,
Yet seek they will, and never pause for rest.
True bliss, methinks, a man can only find
In virtuous life, and cultivated mind.
True bliss, methinks, a man can only find
In virtuous life, and cultivated mind.
(ad lib)
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2. |
THE MESSENGER
05:06
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THE MESSENGER
H.P. Lovecraft (November 1929)
The thing, he said, would come that night at three
From the old churchyard on the hill below;
But crouching by an oak fire’s wholesome glow,
I tried to tell myself it could not be. it could not be
Then at the door that cautious rattling came
And the mad truth devoured me like a flame!
Surely, I mused, it was a pleasantry
Devised by one who did not truly know
The Elder Sign, bequeathed from long ago,
That sets the fumbling forms of darkness free.
Then at the door that cautious rattling came
And the mad truth devoured me like a flame!
... like a flame
He had not meant it no but still I lit
Another lamp as starry Leo climbed
Out of the Seekonk, and a steeple chimed
Three and the firelight faded, bit by bit.
Then at the door that cautious rattling came
And the mad truth devoured me like a flame!
Then at the door that cautious rattling came
And the mad truth devoured me like a flame!
Then at the door that cautious rattling came
And the mad truth devoured me like a flame!
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3. |
THE CONSCRIPT
04:16
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THE CONSCRIPT
H. P. Lovecraft (1918?)
I am a peaceful working man
I am not wise or strong
But I can follow Nature’s plan
In labour, rest, and song.
One day the men that rule us all
Decided we must die,
Else pride and freedom surely fall
In the dim bye and bye.
They told me I must write my name
Upon a scroll of death;
That some day I should rise to fame
By giving up my breath.
I do not know what I have done
That I should thus be bound
To wait for tortures one by one,
And then an unmark’d mound.
I hate no man, and yet they say
That I must fight and kill;
That I must suffer day by day
To please a master’s will.
I used to have a conscience free,
But now they bid it rest;
They’ve made a number out of me,
And I must ne’er protest.
They tell of trenches, long and deep,
Fill’d with the mangled slain;
They talk till I can scarcely sleep,
So reeling is my brain.
They tell of filth, and blood, and woe;
Of things beyond belief;
Of things that make me tremble so
With mingled fright and grief.
I do not know what I shall do
Is not the law unjust?
I can’t do what they want me to,
And yet they say I must!
Each day my doom doth nearer bring;
Each day the State prepares;
Sometimes I feel a watching thing
That stares, and stares, and stares.
I never seem to sleep my head
Whirls in the queerest way.
Why am I chosen to be dead
Upon some fateful day?
Yet hark some fibre is o’erwrought
A giddying wine I quaff
Things seem so odd, I can do naught
But laugh, and laugh, and laugh!
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4. |
DESPAIR
03:38
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DESPAIR
H. P. Lovecraft (February 1919)
O’er the midnight moorlands crying,
Thro’ the cypress forests sighing,
In the night-wind madly flying,
Hellish forms with streaming hair;
In the barren branches creaking,
By the stagnant swamp-pools speaking,
Past the shore-cliffs ever shrieking;
Damn’d daemons of despair.
...Despair, Despair, Despair...
Once, I think I half remember,
Ere the grey skies of November
Quench’d my youth’s aspiring ember,
Liv’d there such a thing as bliss;
Skies that now are dark were beaming,
Gold and azure, splendid seeming
Till I learn’d it all was dreaming
Deadly drowsiness of Dis.
...Dis, Despair, Despair...
But the stream of Time, swift flowing,
Brings the torment of half-knowing
Dimly rushing, blindly going
Past the never-trodden lea;
And the voyager, repining,
Sees the wicked death-fires shining,
Hears the wicked petrel’s whining
As he helpless drifts to sea.
Sea, sea, sea, sea, Despair, Despair, Despair...
Evil wings in ether beating;
Vultures at the spirit eating;
Things unseen forever fleeting
Black against the leering sky.
Ghastly shades of bygone gladness,
Clawing fiends of future sadness,
Mingle in a cloud of madness
Ever on the soul to lie.
Thus the living, lone and sobbing,
In the throes of anguish throbbing,
With the loathsome Furies robbing
Night and noon of peace and rest.
But beyond the groans and grating
Of abhorrent Life, is waiting
Sweet Oblivion, culminating
All the years of fruitless quest.
...Despair, Despair, Despair, Despair...
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VIGIL France
“The world is indeed comic, but the joke is on mankind.”
― H.P. Lovecraft
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