University of Virginia Library

THE GENIUS OF SOLOMON.

Surely the roses in this woman's hair
Bring thoughts of gods as holy and more fair
Than the austere Jehovah of our race,
Who shone on Sinai with terrific face—
Surely the strange white goddess of the moon
Worshipped by night with many a wandering tune,
Whose tresses gleam adown the wanton hills,
And whose soft altars shine beside the rills,
Hath somewhat in her that our cold high God
Lacks—he can smite with red impetuous rod,
But this soft goddess of the smooth fair night
Brings only endless, amorous delight:—
O gentle daughter of a foreign tribe,
What think'st thou—surely, but for curse and gibe
Of priests and sour-faced prophets, long ago
I had raised many an altar, white as snow,
To the delicious gods whose black locks gleam
By many a pure and pale Assyrian stream.
Our high God loathes the names of Ashtaroth
And Moloch—at their rites his soul is wroth;
Yea, at the sight of their smooth heathen breasts
He lifts the thunderous lance that near him rests;
Yet do I fancy—soft girl is it so?
That thy soft goddess' bosom is of snow,
And all her golden locks are passing fair,
And subtle fragrances her shoulders bear,
And marvellous delights unknown to Jews
Thy nation wins—why, why should we refuse
To mingle delicate reverence for strange gods
With our own joys, for fear of those fierce rods
Wherewith Jehovah's anger scourges those
Who love not only lilies, but the rose
As well?—my maiden of the long black hair,
Brought to me from some distant city fair
By the rough hands of strenuous men of war,
Some city underneath an occult star,
Now lift thy laughing lips and tell to me
What strange gods rule beside that foreign sea.
What temples golden, glorious as the sun,
Smile towards the skies no Hebrew glance has won.
What sister-women fairer than our race,
Pass laughing towards these temples with bright face
When evening calls the people unto prayer;
O, more than David I love liberal air,
And I would stretch my soul beyond these bounds,
Seeking far skies no mountain-tower surrounds—
Loving the lovely gods of all the earth,
Joining the innocent unshackled mirth
Of many a white-limbed cluster of fair girls,
Twining an amorous hand through alien curls.
O lady of love, brought to King Solomon,
On whom a ray of his great glory has shone,
What think'st thou? Kiss me, teach me with thine hands
To lift up prayers towards gods of many lands.
Yea—turn my face this night as thine hath turned
Full many a time towards deities scorned and spurned
By the rude votaries of the lonely One
Who rules severely above the gold glad sun,
Above the lingering circlet of the moon,
Above the clamorous rivers' far-spread tune,
Above the billows and breezes of the sea,
Above thy beauty—yes, sweet, above me—
Above the lordly king of this rich town,
At whose straight knees the wandering tribes bend down;
And who has in his royal seraglio
Flowers plucked where'er the foot of love can go.
Help me; forget thy sorrow for this night,
Turn towards the King those orbs of gentlest light,
Help me to teach the people in spite of priest
And prophet, that a splendour in the least
Slight plant or insect shows that One alone
Frowns not from one vast immemorial throne,
Not mixed with Nature—standing high aloof
Beyond our daring thoughts, our wisest proof—
Beyond our words—beyond adoring looks,
Silent as endless deserts empty of brooks;
Naked as if the ornate world were nought,
Clothed only in his own pale boundless Thought,
Apart from us—apart from all these flowers;
Lifted above the bloom of rose-hung bowers;
Lifted above the glare of sacred torches,
And voices tender of maidens in the porches;
Raised terribly above these earthly things,
Supported by insufferable wings
Of brilliance no man can gaze upon—
Rather that every blossom of the field
Some living breath of deity doth yield,
And that strong gods pervade the flowing air,
And shine beneath the dark-green billows fair;
And that the lordly forests, dim and tall,
Are but the wood-nymphs' interwoven hall,
And that the mountain-sides are trodden indeed
By sacred steps of gods who intercede
For even the most remote uncultured race—
Nay—blush not, sweet one, look me in the face,
For, though I am a king, I long to be
One with the fervent Nature that I see.
Lo! one red rose has fallen from out thy hair,
What goddess, love, I wonder white and fair
Resides within the bush whence this was plucked?
Whose fragrant mouth full many a bee hath sucked
As the soft lips have glimmered from each flower.
Would that I might in her sequestered bower
Bring gifts of holy meaning, love, with thee,
And that her quiet face might smile on me,
For I am weary:—Weary of the days
Not given to song, not crowned with flowers and bays,
Not wreathed with wisdom's blossoms nor with lore
Unsearched—but dull and bloomless as before.
Once in the night the Spirit of the Lord
Came unto me, and pierced me as with sword
Tender, and asked me to desire a gift
Of God—then tremulous voice I did uplift,
Craving that wisdom from on high might shine
Upon the anointed prince of Abraham's line.
And God has given me wisdom—I am wise
Beyond these Hebrews, who, with downcast eyes
And querulous and introspective gaze,
Pass through Jerusalem on holy days,
Seeking the steaming altars of their God:—
Weary I am of his superb abode;
Weary of smoking spices and of myrrh,
And fine-wrought ceilings woven of foreign fir,
And delicate hangings coloured blue and red,
With golden intermingled rivulets shed
Between, and sheen of ivory, and brass
Immeasurable, and white foam of glass,
And pointed windows and rich-carven panes,
Blended in crimson evanescent stains;
And endless wealth of radiant sapphire stones,
Ruby and onyx, emerald—and the tones
Of subtle music wandering through the roof
And round the walls of velvet warp and woof.
I long for gods who plunge in running rivers;
I long for women-gods—my strained heart shivers
With weariness—I feel a lone fatigue,
I long to flee this city many a league,
And in some quiet warm flower-haunted wood
Find a new goddess, tender and wise and good.
The very thought contamination brings—
That Judah's prince should muse upon these things,
Is sure pollution—yet I deem that worth
Is found in every corner of God's earth.
In thee I can discover many a grace
Wanting to our fierce narrow-minded race;
And why should the great Ruler of the wind
And sea be fashioned after one male mind,
And womanhood excluded from his heart
And bosom?—the dark clouds asunder part,
And in prophetic vision I can see
Throned far above Jehovah a form like thee.
I am before my people! they will keep
For ever their monotheistic sleep,
And dream for ever Sinaitic dreams—
It is their fate—their mission—but fair gleams
Of wider faiths have shone upon the king—
They understand me not—and so I bring
My stores of hope and yearning to the feet
Of this poor captive damsel, mute and sweet.
Dost understand me, maiden, when I say
That I can pierce beyond this present day
Of bigoted slow worship, to a time
When faith shall be more fervid, more sublime?
These women in my harem all bring tales
Half-muttered coyly underneath their veils,
Of worships tenderer than the worship here;
And though our smug-faced prophets frown or sneer,
I see that every tender thing is true,
Whether it be an ancient tale or new.
Speak to thy sisters, bright one, tell them I
Would gather wisdom from beneath each sky,
Even as I gather roses from each land,
For kingly love to grasp with passionate hand;
Sparing no timid blossom of any race
If she be fair, with pure blood in her face.
Nothing can stay the flame-flushed plumes of thought,
Before their fire tradition is of nought
Avail—I cannot—though I would, conceal
The limitless strange yearnings that I feel.
The brides that I have brought from many lands,
Have taught me secrets no man understands
Of all these men whose brains are fat with lore
Unshapely, gathered in the days of yore.
O dark eyed maiden with the long dark hair,
Open the casement—let the fragrant air
Of night delight our brows. See, every star
Flames like a god or goddess from afar!
I wonder wherein doth Jehovah sit?
By which star are his golden candles lit?
Which sun doth God choose for his lonely throne?
By what night-breezes is his forehead shown,
As their embraces part the rigid hair?—
Rather I would be touched by fingers fair
Of star-like goddesses whose golden beauty
Forms of itself the only law of duty,
Seeing that all fair things are as good as fair.
Draw back now, maiden, from the darkling air,
And when thou thinkest of King Solomon,
Remember how this night his love hath shown
To thee the voiceless dream that round him clings
With hurtle of incessant airy wings,
Driving and goading all his spirit on
Beyond the paths where David's banner shone;
Beyond the safe soft roads of common life,
Towards limitless deserts of uncertain strife;
Beyond the narrow barriers of his race,
Towards some new God of boundless fearless face.
Alas! thy roses all have fallen—even so
These thoughts they gave me flutter and fall, and go.