Chronicles and Characters :: :: University of Virginia Library

Mohammed, the divine, ere yet his name
Blazed in the front of everlasting fame,
Withdrew into the Desert, and abode
Hard by Mount Hara, long alone with God.

But from the solitude his soul swept forth
And view'd the world,—east, west, and south, and north:
Weakness without, and wickedness within:
And how the people murmur'd, as in Zin,
Yet lack'd the heavenly food; how, on each side,
The Roman, and the Persian, in their pride,
Were perishing from empire; how the Jew
Defamed Jehovah; how the Christian crew,
Wrangling around a desecrated Christ,
Blacken'd the Light of God with smoke and mist

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Of idol-incense; how, in midst of this,
Confusion crumbling down to the abyss,
A void was, day by day, and hour by hour,
Forming fit verge and scope for some new Power.

And he perceived that every Power is good
First,—since it comes from God, be it understood:
But, after resting many years on earth,
Power dwindles from the primal strength of birth,
Grows weak, then gets confused, and, last, goes mad.
So that it is the weakness that is bad,
And not the potency, of creeds, and schools,
And kings, and whatsoever reigns or rules.
For, howsoe'er the ruler wield the rod,
His right to rule is by the grace of God,
Not the disgrace of man, which they that cause
By wrongful rule, are rebels to God's laws.

And, whilst he thought on this, and thought beside
How nothing now was wanting to provide
That novel Power which should regenerate
Mankind, renew belief, and re-create
Creation, but one bold man's active will,
Mohammed's secret thoughts were troubled, till
They made a darkness on his countenance.

Then Amru timidly raised up his glance
Upon the Prophet's face. Amru, his friend,

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Who, thro' those solitudes to watch and tend
Upon him, stole from Mecca, when the light
Was fading out, and, footing the deep night,
At daybreak found him in the wilderness;
And, all day long, beneath an intense stress
Of silence, breathing low, was fain to lie,
Just tolerated by the kingly eye
Of his great friend, endeavouring to become
Like a mere piece of the rock's self,—so dumb
And gray, and motionless. Amru, at last
Look'd up; and saw Mohammed's face o'ercast,
And murmur'd
“O Mohammed, art thou sad?”

But still the Prophet seem'd as tho' he had
Nor seen, nor heard, him.

Amru then arose,
And crept a little nearer, and sat close
Against the skirting of his robe, and said
“Mohammed, peace be with thee!”

Still, his head
Mohammed lifted not, nor answer'd aught.
Then Amru said again

“What is thy thought,
Mohammed?”

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And Mohammed answer'd
“Friend,
A sad thought; which I think you will not mend.
For first, I thought upon the mighty world
Which lies beyond this wilderness, unfurl'd
Like a great chart, to read in. And I saw
How in all places the old power and law
Are falling off. Again, I thought upon
My Arabs in the ages coming on;
The weakness, and the wickedness, of all
The ancient races; our own strength; God's call;
And all we might be, if we heard but that.
But if, I thought, I tell this people what
God, who speaks to me in the solitude,
Hath bid me tell them, the loud rabble rude
Will mock me, crying ‘Who made thee to be
A teacher of us?’ If I answer ‘He
Whose name is Very God, and God Alone,
He, and none other,’ surely they will stone
Or tear me. For tho' I, to prove the Lord
Hath sent me to them, should proclaim His word,
They will not heed it. Men were never wise
(And never will be yet!) to recognize
God, when He speaks by Law and Order: since
In these there's nothing startling to convince
The jaded sense of those that day by day
See law and order working every way
Around them,—yet in vain! And still God speaks

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Only by law and order; never breaks
The old law even to fulfil the new.
But men are ever eager, when they view
Some seeming strange disorder, to exclaim
‘A god! a god!’ They think they hear God's name
In thunder and in earthquake, but are deaf
To the low lispings of the fallen leaf,
And the soft hours. As tho' it were God's way
To make man's mere bewilderment obey
Some one of His immutably-fix'd laws
By breaking of another,—for no cause
Better than set agaping apes and fools—
Ruling His world by riving his own rules!
A worthy way! Sure am I, if anon
Some mighty-mouthèd prodigy . . . yon stone,
Say,—dumb as Pharaoh in his pyramid,
Should suddenly find tongue, and, speaking, bid
The hearers worship me,—or where, below
There, like a mangled serpent trailing slow,
The camel-path twists in and out the rocks,
Yon sandy fissure, which the sly bitch-fox
Would choose well for her yellow nursery,
Gave forth a voice, to every passer by
Proclaiming me the Appointed One, . . . they all
Would straightway grovel at my feet, and call
Heaven to attest how they believed,—each thief
And liar vigorous in his vow'd belief!
But 'twill not be.”

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After a little pause,
“Why not?” said Amru.

“Why not, friend? Because,”
Mohammed answer'd, “Allah will not bring
His heaven and earth together, just to wring
Credence from creatures incapacious, slight,
And void, as these. Nor, tho' his own hand write
The wondrous warrant to this life of mine,
Dare I so much as publish the divine
Commission. Still the cautious earth and skies
Keep close the secret. Let who will be wise.
God shuts me in the hollow of His hand;
Tho' in my heart I hear His stern command
‘Go forth, and preach.’”
With petulant foot he spurn'd
The sandy pebbles from him.
Amru turn'd
His forehead, bright with sudden bravery, up:
And all his face flow'd over, as a cup
Wherein wine mantles, with a noble thought.

“And God doth well!” he answer'd, “tho' by nought,
Mohammed, proved a mightier miracle
(And, sure, God's gracious gift!) than is the spell
Thou hast to sway to thine my inmost heart,
Do I undoubtingly believe thou art
The Man Appointed,—yet, indeed, for such

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As these, of whom thou speakest, needing much
More gross and vulgar warrant for belief,
—Incompetent to see in thee the Chief
Of Prophets, by the dominant pale brow
And eyes from which the sworded seraphs bow
Their foreheads abasht,—O wherefore need God send
A miracle more mighty than—a Friend,
Who loves” . . .

“A friend!”

—“I say, what miracle
Diviner than the heart that loveth well?”

“So well?” Mohammed faulter'd.

“Even so,”
Said Amru, drooping faint his head, as tho'
The effort to uplift that heavy weight
Of his devoted passion proved too great,
And dragg'd him down to earth.
Mohammed sat
Gasping against the silence: staring at
The man before him, with a smould'ring eye:
Whilst his hand shut and open'd silently,
As tho' the Fiend's black forelock, slipping thro'
His feverish clutch, just foil'd him: and the hue
Waned into whiteness on his swarthy cheek.

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Then Amru, when Mohammed would not speak,
Lifted his looks, and gazed, as tho' in doubt
Of what strange thing the silence was about.
And Amru said
“Mohammed, let thy slave
Find favour in thy sight!—albeit, I have
No wit in counsel. Get thee privily
Again to Mecca. Leave this night to me.
To-morrow, stand up in the marketplace
And plead against the people, face to face,
And call them hither; prophesying they
By sign and miracle along the way
Shall know The Man Appointed. I, meanwhile,
Will creep into yon crevice . . . Ha! dost smile,
Mohammed? Dost approve the thing I mean?
—Will creep into yon crevice, and, unseen,
Await the multitude,—which must come by,
Thou guiding. Unto whom a voice shall cry
‘This is Mohammed! I, the Lord of Heaven,
Make known to all this people, I have given
To him to preach My Law,—that he may be
My Prophet, to all nations under Me.’
—Smile! smile again, Mohammed! . . . Only smile
Less terribly upon me! . . . Of the vile
The vilest,—yet thy servant, Aweful One!
Less terribly, Mohammed! . .
“Then, anon
When all the place is silent—the crowd far—

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Far out of sight—and nothing but yon star
To witness,—I will steal out of the cave.” . . .

“Hah!” . . .

“—O Mohammed, am I not thy slave?
Look not so fiercely on me! . . . And far off
Follow the silly people. Who will scoff?
Who will misdoubt thee then? . . . Mohammed, speak!”

Mohammed spake not.

All the Prophet's cheek
Was wan with whirling thoughts that o'er it cast
Their troubled shades, and left it calm at last,
As battle fields,—when battles have been won,
Or lost, and dawn breaks slowly.

“Be it, my son,
As thou hast spoken. This is God's command.”
He wearily sigh'd, and laid a heavy hand
On Amru's shoulder. “I to Mecca go
This night. At dawn, as thou hast said, so do.”

And all night long, over the silent sand,
Under the silent stars, across the land
Mohammed fled: as tho' he heard the feet

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Of Iblis following, and a voice repeat
Close at his ear, monotonous and slow,

“Thou wouldst have had this man trust thee. But now,
Mohammed, thou thyself must trust to him.”

And the voice ceased not; nor the feet; till, dim
At first, then flaring in a stormy sky,
The drear dawn lighten'd o'er him angrily.

That day he stood up in the market-place,
And pleaded with the people face to face;
Pouring from urns of solitary thought
A piercing eloquence upon them, brought,
Word after word, by wondrous Spirits from far,
Shrill with the music of the morning star,
Weighty with thunder. Some averr'd they saw
The light that lighted Moses, when the Law
On Sinai from God's finger he received,
Enhalo all his brow. The noon achieved
The dawn's desire. They followed him by flocks
Far thro' the Desert to the rifted rocks.
And, ever as they journey'd, in their van
A thunder cloud, that, since the day began,
Had labour'd to demolish half the sky,
Travell'd to reach Mount Hara, and there die.
And still the people follow'd: and, beside
The mountain halting, heard a voice which cried

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(Out of a rocky fissure, the ground story
Of some wild coney's dismal dormitory)

“This is Mohammed! I, the Lord of Heaven,
Proclaim to all this people, I have given
To him to preach My Law, that he may be
My Prophet, to all nations under Me.”

And, as the voice ceased, suddenly a streak
Of fork'd fire flicker'd from a riven creek
In the spent cloud, which, splitting overhead
Bellow'd.
And all the people cried, and said
“The Voice of God!”
And then did each man fall
Flat at the Prophet's feet, and, grovelling, call
On Heaven's Appointed.
“Speak, Mohammed! speak!”

Mohammed spake not.

All the Prophet's cheek
Was white with pain, as warring angels pass'd
Across his trampled soul—left bare at last
As battle fields,—when battles have been won,
Or lost, and dawn breaks slowly.

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Blocks of stone,
Tumbled by ages in the rifted sand,
Burn'd white about the lion-colour'd land,
And, beaten by a blinding sunlight, made
Blots, in a level glare, of sprinkled shade.
Mohammed stretch'd his hand. Not Moses' rod
Won easier reverence.

“Ay! the Voice of God
Hath spoken, not to be misunderstood,
This day unto us. Wherefore, it seems good
To build, O friends, an altar to The Lord
Here on the spot from whence the wondrous Word
Hath issued. And see! Nature, warn'd before
Of this forecast event, hath furnish'd store
Of stone to build with. Never from this day
Be it averr'd that any beast of prey
Or reptile base hath been allow'd to dwell
Where God first housed His Holy Oracle!
Cram every crevice of this mountain flaw:
Leave not a loophole for the leopard's paw,
A cranny that a mouse might wriggle thro'!
If anything unclean hath crept into
This Mouth of Earth where Heaven's high Voice abode
Erewhile, O friends,—worm, adder, viper, toad,
There let it perish 'neath a costlier tomb
Than ever reptile own'd! Seal up the womb
Of this dread prodigy. Hark! from you cloud

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Above us, Spirits of the thunder, bow'd
To watch, grow wild, impatient to be gone.
Begin the work. Pile strong with ponderous stone
The altar. Bear ye each his burthen . . . Nay,
None but myself the first firm stone shall lay
Unto this sacred fabric!” . . .

Then himself,
Fiercely dislodging from its sandy shelf
A mighty mountain fragment, roll'd, with might
And main, the rock-surrender'd offering right
Against the cave. And turn'd himself about
And hid his face. In prayer, as who shall doubt?

And, when the people heard this, they were glad
Exceedingly: not only to have had
No heavier task enjoin'd them, but because
If any man profane had dared to pause
And doubt till then, he, certes, had no choice
But to believe henceforth. For, if the voice
Were nothing more than human, the command
Was something less. Could mere Ambition stand
Thus calmly contemplating, stone by stone,
The immurement of some creature of its own?
And so they hearten'd to the work, until
The rocky altar rose against the hill;
And then Mohammed blest it.

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And that day,
Upon that altar, Providence, they say,
Founded a new Religion. Which, thus reared
In the lone Desert, spread, and soon ensphered
The quadripartite globe. But, from that day,
Mohammed went no more alone to pray
On Hara, as his wont had been before.

For him, the sweet of solitude was o'er.

It is needless to mention that this has no foundation whatever in fact. It is told by Vanini in one of his Dialogues, “De admirandis Naturæ,” &c., and there used by him, as here by me, without scruple, to serve a purpose by way of illustration. As regards Mohammed himself, it is a gross calumny. But, as regards every form of Religious Authority founded on fear of the Supernatural, whereof Mohammed is here the dramatic representative, it is no calumny, but, rather, the feeble illustration of a formidable fact.

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THE ROSES OF SAADI.

I.MOSES AND THE DERVISH.

God, that heaven's seven climates hath spread forth,
To every creature, even as is the worth,
The lot apportions, and the use of things.
If to the creeping cat were given wings,
No sparrow's egg would ever be a bird.

Moses the Prophet, who with God conferr'd,
Beheld a Dervish, that, for dire distress
And lack of clothes to hide his nakedness,
Buried his body in the desert sand.
This Dervish cried
“O Moses, whom the Hand
Of the Most High God favours! make thy prayer
That He may grant me food and clothes to wear
Who knows the misery of me, and the need.”

Then Moses pray'd to God, that He would feed
And clothe that Dervish.

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Nine days after this,
Returning from Mount Sinai in bliss,
Having beheld God's face, the Prophet met
The Dervish in the hands of Justice, set
Between two officers; and, all about,
The rabble follow'd him with hoot, and shout,
And jeer.
The Prophet ask'd of those that cried
“What hath befallen this man?”

And they replied
“He hath drunk wine, and, having slain a man,
Is going to the death.”

Moses began
To praise the Maker of the Universe,
Seeing that his prayer, tho' granted, proved perverse,
Since God to every living soul sets forth
The circumstance according to the worth.

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II.THE BOY AND THE RING.

Fair chance, held fast, is merit. A certain king
Of Persia had a jewel in a ring.
He set it on the dome of Azud high;
And, when they saw it flashing in the sky,
Made proclamation to his royal troop,
That whoso sent an arrow thro' the hoop
That held the gem, should have the ring to wear.

It chanced there were four hundred archers near,
Of the king's company, about the king.

Each took his aim, and shot, and miss'd the ring.

A boy, at play upon the terraced roof
Of a near building, bent his bow aloof
At random, and behold! the morning breeze
His little arrow caught, and bore with ease
Right thro' the circlet of the gem. The king,
Well-pleased, unto the boy assign'd the ring.

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Then the boy burnt his arrows and his bow.

The king, astonish'd, said “Why dost thou so,
Seeing thy first shot hath had great success?”

He answer'd “Lest my second make that less.”

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III.THE EYES OF MAHMUD.

Sultàn Mahmùd, son of Sabaktogin,
Swept with his sceptre the hot sands of Zin,
Spread forth his mantle over Palestine,
And made the carpet of his glory shine
From Cufah to Cashmere; and, in his pride
Said “All these lands are mine.”

At last he died.

Then his sons laid him with exceeding state
In a deep tomb. Upon the granite gate
Outside they graved in gold his titles all,
And all the names of kingdoms in his thrall,
And all his glory. And beside his head
They placed a bag of rice, a loaf of bread,
And water in a pitcher. This they did
In order that, if God should haply bid
His servant Death to let this sultan go
Because of his surpassing greatness, so

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He might not come back hungry. But he lay
In his high marble coffin night and day
Motionless, without majesty or will.

Darkness sat down beside him, and was still.

Afterwards, when a hundred years had roll'd,
A certain king, desiring to behold
This famous sultan, gave command to unlock
The granite gate of that sepulchral rock,
And, with a lamp, went down into the tomb,
And all his court.

Out of the nether gloom
There rose a loathsome stench intolerable.
Hard by the marble coffin, on a sill
Of mildew'd stone the earthen pitcher stood,
Untouch'd, untasted. Rats, a ravenous brood,
Had scatter'd all the rice, and gnaw'd the bread.
All that was left upon his marble bed
Of the great Sultan was a little heap
Of yellow bones, and a dry skull, with deep
Eye-sockets. But in those eye-sockets, lo!
Two living eyes were rolling to and fro,
Now left, now right, with never any rest.

Then was the king amazed, and smote his breast
And call'd on God for grace. But not the less

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Those dismal eyes with dreadful restlessness
Continually in their socket-holes
Roll'd right and left, like pain'd and wicked souls.
Then said the king “Call here an Abid, wise
And righteous, to rebuke those wicked eyes
That will not rest.”
And when the Abid came
The king said “O mine Abid, in the name
Of the High God that judges quick and dead,
Speak to those eyes.”

The Abid, trembling, said
“Eyes of Mahmud, why is your rest denied
In death? What seek ye here?”

The eyes replied,
Still rolling in their wither'd sockets there,
“God's curse upon this darkness! Where, O where
Be my possessions? For with fierce endeavour
Ever we seek them, but can find them never.”

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THE APPLE OF LIFE.

From the river Euphrates, the river whose source is in Paradise, far
As red Egypt,—sole lord of the land and the sea, 'twixt the eremite star
Of the orient desert's lone dawn, and the porch of the chambers of rest
Where the great sea is girded with fire, and Orion returns in the West,
And the ships come and go in grand silence,—King Solomon reign'd. And behold,
In that time there was everywhere silver as common as stones be, and gold
That for plenty was 'counted as silver, and cedar as sycamore trees
That are found in the vale, for abundance. For God to the King gave all these,
With glory exceeding; moreover all kings of the earth to him came,
Because of his wisdom, to hear him. So great was King Solomon's fame.

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And for all this the King's soul was sad. And his heart said within him, “Alas,
“For man dies! if his glory abideth, himself from his glory shall pass.
And that which remaineth behind him, he seeth it not any more:
For how shall he know what comes after, who knoweth not what went before?
I have planted me gardens and vineyards, and gotten me silver and gold,
And my hand from whatever my heart hath desired I did not withhold:
And what profit have I in the works of my hands which I take not away?
I have searchèd out wisdom and knowledge: and what do they profit me, they?
As the fool dieth, so doth the wise. What is gather'd is scatter'd again.
As the breath of the beasts, even so is the breath of the children of men:
And the same thing befalleth them both. And not any man's soul is his own.”

This he thought, as he sat in his garden, and watch'd the great sun going down
In the glory thereof; and the earth and the sky, in that glory, became

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Clothed clear with the gladness of colour, and bathed in the beauty of flame.
And “Behold,” said the King, “in a moment the glory shall vanish!” Even then,
While he spake, he was 'ware of a man drawing near him, who seem'd to his ken
(By the hair in its blackness like flax that is burn'd in the hemp-dresser's shed,
And the brow's smoky hue, and the smouldering eyeball more livid than lead)
As the sons of the land that lies under the sword of the Cherub whose wing
Wraps in wrath the shut gateways of Paradise. He, being come to the King,
Seven times made obeisance before him. To whom, “What art thou,” the King cried,
“That thus unannounced to King Solomon comest?” The man, spreading wide
The palm of his right hand, show'd in it an apple yet bright from the Tree
In whose stem springs the life never-failing which Sin lost to Adam, when he,
Tasting knowledge forbidden, found death in the fruit of it . . . So doth the Giver
Evil gifts to the evil apportion. And “Hail! let the King live for ever!”
Bowing down at the feet of the monarch, and laughingly, even as one

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Whose meaning, in joy or in jest, hovers hid 'twixt the word and the tone,
Said the stranger (as lightly the apple he dropp'd in the hand of the King),
“For lo ye! from 'twixt the four rivers of Eden, God gave me to bring
To his servant King Solomon, even to my lord that on Israel's throne
He hath 'stablisht, this fruit from the Tree in whose branch Life abideth: for none
Shall taste death, having tasted this apple.”
And therewith he vanish'd.

Remain'd
In the hand of the King the life-apple: ambrosial of breath, golden-grain'd,
Rosy-bright as a star dipt in sunset. The King turn'd it o'er, and perused
The fruit, which, alluring his lip, in his hand lay untasted.

He mused,
“Life is good: but not life in itself. Life eternal, eternally young,
That were life to be lived, or desired! Well it were if a man could prolong
The manhood that moves in the muscles, the rapture that mounts in the brain
When life at the prime, in the pastime of living, led on by the train

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Of the jubilant senses, exulting goes forth, brave of body and spirit,
To conquer, choose, claim, and enjoy what 'twas born to achieve or inherit.
The dance, and the festal procession! the pride in the strenuous play
Of the sinews that, eager for service, the will, tho' it wanton, obey!
When in veins lightly flowing, the fertile and bountiful impulses beat,
When the dews of the dawn of Desire on the roses of Beauty are sweet:
And the eye glows with glances that kindle, the lip breathes the warmth that inspires,
And the hand hath yet vigour to seize the good thing which the spirit desires!
O well for the foot that bounds forward! and ever the wind it awakes
Lifts no lock from the forehead yet white, not a leaf that is wither'd yet shakes
From the loose flowers wreathing young tresses! and ever the earth and the skies
Abound in rich ardours, rejoicings, and raptures of endless surprise!
Life is sweet to the young that yet know not what life is. But life, after Youth,
The gay liar, leaves hold of the bauble, and Age, with his terrible truth,

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Picks it up, and perceives it is broken, and knows it unfit to engage
The care it yet craves . . . . Life eternal, eternally wedded to Age!
What gain were in that? Why should any man seek what he loathes to prolong?
The twilight that darkens the eyeball: the dull ear that's deaf to the song,
When the maidens rejoice and the bride to the bridegroom, with music, is led:
The palsy that shakes 'neath the blossoms that fall from the chill bridal bed.
When the hand saith ‘I did,’ not ‘I will do,’ the heart saith ‘It was,’ not ‘'Twill be,’
Too late in man's life is Forever—too late comes this apple to me!”
Then the King rose. And lo, it was evening. And leaning, because he was old,
On the sceptre that, curiously sculptured in ivory garnish'd with gold,
To others a rod of dominion, to him was a staff for support,
Slow paced he the murmurous pathways where myrtles, in court up to court,
Mixt with roses in garden on garden, were ranged around fountains that fed
With cool music green odorous twilights: and so, never lifting his head

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To look up from the way he walk'd wearily, he to the House of his Pride
Reascended, and enter'd.

In cluster, high lamps, spices, odours, each side,
Burning inward and onward, from cinnamon ceilings, down distances vast
Of voluptuous vistas, illumined deep halls thro' whose silentness pass'd
King Solomon sighing; where columns colossal stood, gather'd in groves
As the trees of the forest in Libanus,—there where the wind, as it moves,
Whispers “I, too, am Solomon's servant!”—huge trunks hid in garlands of gold,
On whose tops the skill'd sculptors of Sidon had granted men's gaze to behold
How the phœnix that sits on the cedar's lone summit 'mid fragrance and fire,
Ever dying and living, hath loaded with splendours her funeral pyre;
How the stork builds her nest on the pine-top; the date from the palm-branch depends;
And the shaft of the blossoming aloe soars crowning the life which it ends.
And from hall on to hall, in the doors, mute, magnificent slaves, watchful-eyed,

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Bow'd to earth as King Solomon pass'd them. And, passing, King Solomon sigh'd.
And, from hall on to hall pacing feebly, the king mused . . . “O fair Shulamite!
“Thy beauty is brighter than starlight on Hebron when Hebron is bright,
Thy sweetness is sweeter than Carmel. The King rules the nations; but thou,
Thou rulest the King, my Belovèd.”

So murmur'd King Solomon low
To himself, as he pass'd thro' the portal of porphyry, that dripp'd, as he pass'd,
From the myrrh-sprinkled wreaths on the locks and the lintels; and enter'd at last,
Still sighing, the sweet cedarn chamber, contrived for repose and delight,
Where the beautiful Shulamite slumber'd. And straightway, to left and to right,
Bowing down as he enter'd, the Spirits in bondage to Solomon, there
Keeping watch o'er his love, sank their swords, spread their wings, and evanish'd in air.
The King with a kiss woke the sleeper. And, showing the fruit in his hand,
“Behold! this was brought me erewhile by one coming,” he said, “from the land

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That lies under the sword of the Cherub. 'Twas pluckt by strange hands from the Tree
Of whose fruit whoso tasteth shall die not. And therefore I bring it to thee,
My belovèd. For thou of the daughters of women art fairest. And lo,
I, the King, I that love thee, whom men of man's sons have call'd wisest, I know
That in knowledge is sorrow. Much thought is much care. In the beauty of youth,
Not the wisdom of age, is enjoyment. Nor spring, is it sweeter, in truth,
Than winter, to roses once wither'd. The garment, tho' broider'd with gold,
Fades apace where the moth frets the fibres. So I, in my glory, grow old.
And this life maketh mine (save the bliss of my soul in the beauty of thee)
No sweetness so great now that greatly unsweet 'twere to lose what to me
Life prolong'd, at its utmost, can promise. But thine, O thou spirit of bliss,
Thine is all that the living desire,—youth, beauty, love, joy in all this!
And O were it not well for the praise of the world to maintain evermore
This mould of a woman, God's masterwork, made for mankind to adore?

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Wherefore keep thou the gift I resign. Live for ever, rejoicing in life!
And of women unborn yet the fairest shall still be King Solomon's wife.”
So he said, and so dropp'd in her bosom the apple.

But when he was gone,
And the beautiful Shulamite, eyeing the gift of the King, sat alone
With the thoughts the King's words had awaken'd, as ever she turn'd and perused
The fruit that, alluring her lip, in her hand lay untasted—she mused,
“Life is good; but not life in itself. So is youth, so is beauty. Mere stuff
Are all these for Love's usance. To live, it is well; but it is not enough.
Well, too, to be fair, to be young; but what good is in beauty and youth
If the lovely and young are not surer than they that be neither, forsooth,
Young nor lovely, of being beloved? O my love, if thou lovest not me,
Shall I love my own life? Am I fair, if not fair, Azariah, to thee?”
Then she hid in her bosom the apple. And rose.

And, reversing the ring

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That, inscribed with the word that works wonders, and sign'd with the seal of the King,
Hath o'er spirits and demons dominion—(for she, for a plaything, erewhile
From King Solomon's awful forefinger, had won it away with a smile)—
The beautiful Shulamite folded her veil o'er her forehead and eyes,
And, with footsteps that fleeted as silent and swift as a bird's shadow flies,
Unseen from the palace, she pass'd, and pass'd down to the city unseen,
Unseen pass'd the green garden wicket, the vineyard, the cypresses green,
And stood by the doors of the house of the Prince Azariah. And cried,
In the darkness she cried—“Azariah, awaken! ope, ope to me wide!
“Ope the door, ope the lattice! Arise! Let me in, O my love! It is I.
Thee, the bride of King Solomon, loveth. Love, tarry not. Love, shall I die
At thy doors? I am sick of desire. For my love is more comely than gold.
More precious to me is my love than the throne of a king that is old.
Behold, I have pass'd thro' the city, unseen of the watchmen. I stand

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By the doors of the house of my love, till my love lead me in by the hand.”
Azariah arose. And unbolted the door to the fair Shulamite.
“O my queen, what dear folly is this, that hath led thee alone, and by night,
To the house of King Solomon's servant? For lo you, the watchmen awake.
And much for my own, O my queen, must I fear, and much more for thy sake.
For at that which is done in the chamber the leek on the housetop shall peep:
And the hand of a king it is heavy: the eyes of a king never sleep:
But the bird of the air beareth news to the king, and the stars of the sky
Are as soldiers by night on the turrets. I fear, O my queen, lest we die.”
“Fear thou not, O my love! Azariah fear nothing. For lo, what I bring!
'Tis the fruit of the Tree that in Paradise God hideth under the wing
Of the Cherub that chased away Adam. And whoso this apple doth eat
Shall live—live for ever! And since unto me my own life is less sweet
Than thy love, Azariah (sweet only thy love maketh life unto me!),

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Therefore eat! Live, and love, for life's sake, still, the love that gives life unto thee!”
Then she held to his lips the life-apple, and kiss'd him.

But soon as alone,
Azariah lean'd out from his lattice, he mutter'd “'Tis well! She is gone.”
While the fruit in his hand lay untasted. “Such visits,” he mused, “may cost dear.
“In the love of the great is great danger, much trouble, and care more than cheer.”
Then he laugh'd, and stretch'd forth his strong arms. For he heard from the streets of the city
The song of the women that sing in the doors after dark their love ditty.
And the clink of the wine-cup, the voice of the wanton, the tripping of feet,
And the laughter of youths running after, allured him. And “Life, it is sweet
“While it lasts,” sang the women, “and sweeter the good minute, in that it goes,
For who, if the rose bloom'd for ever, so greatly would care for the rose?
Wherefore haste! pluck the time in the blossom.” The prince mused, “The counsel is well.”
And the fruit to his lips he uplifted: yet paused. “Who is he that can tell

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“What his days shall bring forth? Life for ever . . . But what sort of life? Ah, the doubt!”
'Neath his cloak then he thrust back the apple. And open'd the door and pass'd out
To the house of the harlot Egyptian. And mused, as he went, “Life is good:
“But not life in itself. It is well while the wine-cup is hot in the blood,
And a man goeth whither he listeth, and doeth the thing that he will,
And liveth his life as he lusteth, and taketh in freedom his fill
Of the pleasure that pleaseth his humour, and feareth no snare by the way.
Shall I care to be loved by a queen, if my pride with my freedom I pay?
Better far is a handful in quiet than both hands, tho' fill'd to overflow
With pride, in vexation of spirit. And sweeter the roses that blow
From the wild seeds the wind, where he wanders, with heedless beneficence flings,
Than those that are guarded by dragons to brighten the gardens of kings.
Let a man take his chance, and be happy. The hart, tho' hard press'd by the hounds
When the horn of the hunter hath scatter'd the herd from the hills where it sounds,

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Is more to be envied, tho' Death with his dart follow fast to destroy,
Than the tame beast that, pent in the paddock, tastes neither the danger nor joy
Of the mountain, and all its surprises. The main thing is, not to live long,
But to live. Better moments of rapture soon ended than ages of wrong.
Life's feast is best spiced by the flavour of death in it. Just the one chance
To lose it to-morrow the life that a man lives to-day doth enhance.
The may-be for me, not the must-be! Best flourish while flourish the flowers,
And fall ere the frost falls. The dead, do they rest or arise with new powers?
Either way, well for them. Mine, meanwhile, be the cup of life's fulness to-night.
And to-morrow . . . Well, time to consider” (he felt at the fruit): “What delight
Of his birthright had Esau, when hungry? To-day with its pottage is sweet.
For a man cannot feed and be full on the faith of to-morrow's baked meat.
Open! open, my dark-eyed beguiler of darkness!”

Up rose to his knock,

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Light of foot, the lascivious Egyptian, and lifted the latch from the lock,
And open'd. And led in the prince to her chamber, and shook out her hair,
Dark, heavy, and humid with odours; her bosom beneath it laid bare,
And sleek sallow shoulder; and sloped back her face, as, when falls the slant South
In wet whispers of rain, flowers bend back to catch it; so she, with shut mouth
Half-unfolding for kisses; and sank, as they fell, 'twixt his knees, with a laugh,
On the floor, in a flood of deep hair flung behind her full throat; held him half
Aloof with one large languid arm, while the other up-propp'd, where she lay,
Limbs flowing in fulness and lucid in surface as waters at play,
Tho' in firmness as slippery marble. Anon she sprang loose from his clasp,
And whirl'd from the table a flagon of silver twined round by an asp
That glitter'd,—rough gold and red rubies; and pour'd him, and praised him, the wine
Wherewith she first brighten'd the moist lip that murmur'd, “Ha, fool! art thou mine?
“I am thine. This will last for an hour.” Then, humming strange words of a song,

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Sung by maidens in Memphis the old, when they bore the Crown'd Image along,
Apples yellow and red from a basket with vine-leaves o'erlaid she 'gan take,
And play'd with, peel'd, tost them, and caught them, and bit them, for idleness' sake;
But the rinds on the floor she flung from her, and laugh'd at the figures they made,
As her foot pusht them this way and that way together. And, “Look, fool,” she said,
“It is all sour fruit, this! But those I fling from me,—see here by the stain!—
Shall carry the mark of my teeth in their flesh. Could they feel but the pain,
O my soul, how these teeth should go through them! Fool, fool, what good gift dost thou bring?
For thee have I sweeten'd with cassia my chambers.” “A gift for a king,”
Azariah laugh'd loud; and tost to her the apple. “This comes from the Tree
“Of whose fruit whoso tastes lives for ever. I care not. I give it to thee.
Nay, witch! 'tis worth more than the shekels of gold thou hast charm'd from my purse.
Take it. Eat. Life is sweeter than knowledge: and Eve, thy sly mother, fared worse,
O thou white-toothèd taster of apples!” “Thou liest, fool?” “Taste, then, and try.

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For the truth of the fruit's in the eating. 'Tis thou art the serpent, not I.”
And the strong man laugh'd loud as he push'd at her lip the life-apple. She caught
And held it away from her, musing; and mutter'd . . . “Go to! It is nought.
“Fool, why dost thou laugh?” And he answer'd, “Because, witch, it tickles my brain
“Intensely to think that all we, that be Something while yet we remain,
We, the princes of people—ay, even the King's self—shall die in our day,
And thou, that art Nothing, shall sit on our graves, with our grandsons, and play.”
So he said, and laugh'd louder.

But when, in the grey of the dawn, he was gone,
And the wan light wax'd large in the window, as she on her bed sat alone,
With the fruit that, alluring her lip, in her hand lay untasted, perusing,
Perplext, the gay gift of the Prince, the dark woman thereat fell a musing,
And she thought . . . “What is Life without Honour? And what can the life that I live
“Give to me, I shall care to continue, not caring for aught it can give?

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I, despising the fools that despise me—a plaything not pleasing myself—
Whose life, for the pelf that maintains it, must sell what is paid not by pelf!
I? . . . the man call'd me Nothing. He said well. ‘The great in their glory must go.’
And why should I linger, whose life leadeth nowhere?—a life which I know
To name is to shame—struck, unsexed, by the world from its list of the lives
Of the women whose womanhood, saved, gets them leave to be mothers and wives.
And the fancies of men change. And bitterly bought is the bread that I eat;
For, tho' purchased with body and spirit, when purchased 'tis yet all unsweet.”
Her tears fell: they fell on the apple. She sigh'd . . . “Sour fruit, like the rest!
“Let it go with the salt tears upon it. Yet life . . . it were sweet if possess'd
In the power thereof, and the beauty. ‘A gift for a king’ . . . did he say?
Ay, a king's life is life as it should be—a life like the light of the day,
Wherein all that liveth rejoiceth. For is not the King as the sun
That shineth in heaven and seemeth both heaven and itself all in one?

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Then to whom may this fruit, the life-giver, be worthily given? Not me.
Nor the fool Azariah that sold it for folly. The King! only he,—
Only he hath the life that's worth living for ever. Whose life, not alone
Is the life of the King, but the life of the many made mighty in one.
To the King will I carry this apple. And he (for the hand of a king
Is a fountain of hope) in his handmaid shall honour the gift that I bring.
And men for this deed shall esteem me, with Rahab by Israel praised,
As first among those who, tho' lowly, their shame into honour have raised:
Such honour as lasts when life goes, and, while life lasts, shall lift it above
What, if loved by the many I loathe, must be loathed by the few I could love.”

So she rose, and went forth thro' the city. And with her the apple she bore
In her bosom: and stood 'mid the multitude, waiting therewith in the door
Of the hall where the King, to give judgment, ascended at morning his throne:

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And, kneeling there, cried, “Let the King live for ever! Behold, I am one
“Whom the vile of themselves count the vilest. But great is the grace of my lord.
And now let my lord on his handmaid look down, and give ear to her word.”
Thereat, in the witness of all, she drew forth, and (uplifting her head)
Show'd the Apple of Life, which who tastes, tastes not death. “And this apple,” she said,
“Last night was deliver'd to me, that thy servant should eat, and not die.
But I said to the soul of thy servant, ‘Not so. For behold, what am I?
That the King, in his glory and gladness, should cease from the light of the sun,
Whiles I, that am least of his slaves, in my shame and abasement live on.’
For not sweet is the life of thy servant, unless to thy servant my lord
Stretch his hand, and show favour. For surely the frown of a king is a sword,
But the smile of the King is as honey that flows from the clefts of the rock,
And his grace is as dew that from Horeb descends on the heads of the flock:
In the King is the heart of a host: the King's strength is an army of men:

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And the wrath of the King is a lion that roareth by night from his den:
But as grapes from the vines of En-Gedi are favours that fall from his hands,
And as towers on the hill-tops of Shenir the throne of King Solomon stands.
And for this, it were well that for ever the King, who is many in one,
Should sit, to be seen thro' all time, on a throne 'twixt the moon and the sun!
For how shall one lose what he hath not? Who hath, let him keep what he hath.
Wherefore I to the King give this apple.”

Then great was King Solomon's wrath.
And he rose, rent his garment, and cried, “Woman, whence came this apple to thee?”
But when he was 'ware of the truth, then his heart was awaken'd. And he
Knew at once that the man who, erewhile, unawares coming to him, had brought
That Apple of Life was, indeed, God's good Angel of Death. And he thought
“In mercy, I doubt not, when man's eyes were open'd and made to see plain
All the wrong in himself, and the wretchedness, God sent to close them again

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For man's sake, his last friend upon earth—Death, the servant of God, who is just.
Let man's spirit to Him whence it cometh return, and his dust to the dust!”

Then the Apple of Life did King Solomon seal in an urn that was sign'd
With the seal of Oblivion: and summon'd the Spirits that walk in the wind
Unseen on the summits of mountains, where never the eagle yet flew;
And these he commanded to bear far away,—out of reach, out of view,
Out of hope, out of memory,—higher than Ararat buildeth his throne,
In the Urn of Oblivion the Apple of Life.

But on green jaspar-stone
Did the King write the story thereof for instruction. And Enoch, the seer,
Coming afterward, search'd out the meaning. And he that hath ears, let him hear.