Amenophis and Other Poems Sacred and Secular :: :: University of Virginia Library

Meantime the King, as one secure from ill,
His foes withdrawn, work'd out his utmost will,
And the long vale of Nile, from side to side,
From North to South-ward, swept and purified,
Bringing the land back to her earlier ways.
Now, as gray herons, whom men and dogs upraise
From their still mere, and scatter through the copse,
When those they fear are gone, from the tree-tops
(Their leader calling them with one shrill cry)
Come down and o'er the mere in ecstasy
One moment skim, with outstretch'd neck and bent;
Then settle in their haunts down, well content,
Lords of the place, to dig and dive for food,
—So back on Egypt came the multitude
Of her strange-headed Gods, and crowd the soil

Then in the polish'd temples, by long toil
Cameo'd with acts of kings, and holy names,
From low-built altars sparkled the white flames,
Incense, and fat of sheep, and phoenix-root.
And Buto's oracle, long choked and mute,
Regain'd her voice, for counsel or to warn,
And Memnon's image sang once more at morn.

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Likewise the Linus-burden Fair, O fair,
Each reaping-band alternate taking share,
Across the Nile, above the harvest boats,
In melancholy cadence answering floats:
And Isis on the husbandmen pours down
Her yearly blessings in the cornsheaves brown.
So to its earlier ways the land return'd,

But the King's heart, which first within him burn'd,
Raising the faith up, and from their abodes
Chasing the enemy of the blesséd Gods,
Grew cold, he knew not why; and all his toil
Came back upon him with a dull recoil,
As when in dreamland men uproll a stone
Which ever to their hand returns anon
Making their labour piteous: and the thirst
To see the God, was hot in him as erst;
So far as light 'twas, to the light was true,
Yet to his heart's desire no nearer drew.
So sate he crown'd with care, and sick at ease.

‘All has been done, that should Osiris please;
‘His foes driven out; the whole land once more his:
‘The God is debtor to Amenophis.
‘Should he not pay, shall I pay sacrifice?
‘Alas! but I can aid me thus nowise.
‘For, seen or unseen, satisfied or irate,
‘The Gods are there, and masters of our fate.

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‘Yet if I saw him once, then might I know
‘Whether our prayers and deeds reach him, or no.
‘I must be sure here, or in doubt of all.
‘For the great vision I, the Pharaoh, call!
‘However named, however form'd, appear:
‘The King of Kings can look on thee, and bear.’
Thus thinking, he survey'd the pictured wall,
And watch'd the flushing sunbeam softly crawl
O'er Rhampsinitus, red and huge of limb,
Dicing with Isis in Amenthes dim.
Then with quick steps a Nubian, crisp-hair'd, small,
White-girded, broke the silence of the hall:
Holding above his head a letter seal'd,
And said ‘This for the King of Kings,’ and kneel'd.
But when Amenophis took it, he was gone.
And the King, wondering, read the scroll anon.

The dead son of Paapis to the King.
‘From dark Amenthes this last word I bring:
‘Because thou hast, among the leprous throng,
‘Driven hence a holy priest, doing him wrong,
‘Who now in the great quarry, a brown speck
‘Beneath the ledgy rocks, and o'er his neck
‘A halter hung, wearied and shrunk in limb,
‘Melts his life down, a soldier scourging him,
‘Though he has trodden where the angels trod,
‘Holding free converse with the most high God,
‘And seeing that, which thou shalt never see,—
‘I then, son of Paapis, say to thee

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‘Repent thee of this thing, and set him free.
‘For I who counsell'd thee to do this wrong
‘Am call'd away from life, in mid-age strong,
‘From pleasures, and all sweet things on the earth,
‘From wisdom, and from wisdom's inner mirth
‘When a man thinks of all he knows,—but then
‘Dies down among the herd of common men,
‘And is like me, a shade, and man no more.’

Then the King shouted, and his raiment tore,
Like one who suddenly to madness goes
From reason calm, nor his own purpose knows,
Nor what he was, remembers; but despair
Folds round him as a robe, closer than air;
Sitting like stone: and should the world go by,
The show of it had not reach'd his absent eye.

Only a memory murmur'd in his brain
Restless and saying low The toil is vain:
That also, Thou to see my face shalt pray,
But he thou mockest shall mock thee that day.

Then far off, faint, like insect voices fine
Heard and not heard, when midday sunbeams shine
On meadows, where the golden grasses rear
Their spiked array above the listener's ear,
High notes, in intermittent strain, stole through
Where the King sate, and mingled with his woe:
But he just raised his hand, as though to chase
Some clear-wing'd gauzy minstrel from his face.

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Next, four-string'd lyres, as near the music draws,
With webs of rich embroidery fill'd each pause,
And mellow chords beat undulating low
Like throbs from happy hearts that overflow
With too much happiness.

Anon they stand
Before the throne, the Lydian chorus-band:
And now, as one who thanks the Gods,

To lovers of music this passage may faintly recall the marvellous Quartet in A minor (Op. 132),—Beethoven's hymn upon recovery from severe illness. In the central portion of this Poem without words, the solemn Canzone Lidico of thanksgiving is soon followed by the brilliant outburst, marked Sentendosi nuova forza.

restored
To life from sickness, a full strain they pour'd,
Sweetness unearthly, solemn blissfulness:—
Now, as if new force came within them, press
Hurried, and bounding high: then, gliding, toy
With the low notes, and sighs of utter joy.
Last, a gay march like wreathéd pearls flung round.
Then one sang out, in words of Lydian sound:

‘Return, Adonis, for the Hours are near:
‘Return, Cythéré: thy beloved is here.
‘The long months’ tomb hath hid each dainty limb;
‘O bitter frost-months, parting her and him!
‘Seal'd in the barren cave he may forget,
‘But Cypris Queen sighs and remembers yet,—
‘The hyacinth beds, that from the pinewood dip,
‘The little Loves that flew from lip to lip
‘Like birds from bough to bough, and all that bliss:—
‘O Cypris dear! and yet to end in this!
‘—Dióné's child, lament him now no more;
‘The Hours Adonis to thine arms restore.

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‘Lo here for thee and here for him we spread
‘The ivory couch, and smooth the purple bed:
‘O young Adonis, crown for us the year!
‘Sick with delay, let thy fair face appear;
‘Here with the violet-crown'd take up thy rest;
‘Blest in thy coming, in thy going blest.’

So Anaïs fair sang, and before the throne
Crouch'd and her eyes hid, when the rest were gone.
But from his heart meanwhile despair had fled,
By the soft touch of music banishéd,
And the consoling passion of that strain:
And calmer blood came back into his brain,
And hopes and thoughts more fitting man's estate.
Then on a low stool at his feet she sate,
Drawing the gauze over her breast, and laid
Her head into his hands, and smiled, and said,

‘O Lord and King, if I may speak thee aught
‘Of counsel, (thou being wise, and Anaïs nought),
‘But 'tis not so as thou this thing hast done
‘That in my country men the God have won,
‘As, chasing them who other altars prize,
‘Or taking heaven by storm with instant cries.
‘For in their quiet seats They sit and smile.
‘And though 'tis said their forms were seen erewhile
‘By mortal men, as those round Ilios slain,
‘Aiding the Heroes in their toil and pain,

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‘Yet at their own good will from heaven they shot,
‘Like lightning flashes keen, and then were not.
‘Likewise as though by chance, at moments when
‘None reck'd: as he of the Arcadian glen,
‘Laphanés, Euphorion's son, the shining Two
‘Housed in Azania: or where, neath the snow
‘Of Bermion, mid the gardens of the King,
‘The sixty-petall'd roses burn in spring,
‘And men came by and caught Silenus there
‘Sleep-flush'd and rose-drunk in the lavish air.
‘But far from me, my Lord, may such things lie!
‘Lest I should see the blesséd ones, and die:—
‘But I would live; what pleasure is in death?
‘For we have but a cubit's span of breath,
‘The gnat's one-day life; and, e'en thus, the sun
‘Oft hides his face, ere our brief line be run.
‘Let me be so, or let me cease to be.—
‘O young Adonis, thus I envy thee,
‘Having no frozen age, but in thy bloom
‘Closed in the chambers of the restful tomb!

Then he: ‘O little heedful of thy doom!
‘As though indeed this one fair hour of love
‘Were all the circle, neath us, and above!
‘Whilst, deep in central space, Osiris sits
‘Judging the soul, as from the corpse it flits,
‘Whether it willeth not, or if it will.
‘And Horus holds the scale of Good and Ill,

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And he I name not, standing with his rod,
Measures the dreadful balance for the God.
Seek not the Babylonian star-lore vain,
But simply bear whate'er the Powers ordain.
For so it must be, Anaïs, even so;
Whether we will it, Anaïs mine, or no.
And these things often in thy soul should'st view,
Lest, too late waking, thou shalt find them true.
Remember'st not the words thy kinsman sung,
The young Aeolian minstrel to the young?—
‘—O thou too confident in the strength of youth,
‘All too young yet to dread the day of truth;
‘When the sad years are white upon thy head,
‘And that dark plumage of thy shoulders shed,
‘And the soft blush-rose blanch'd from out the cheek,
‘And from thy eloquent mirror-glass shall speak
‘Another Anaïs, then, Alas, wilt say,
‘Why, what I think now, thought I not that day?
‘Or why, when wisdom comes, in wisdom's train.
‘Do not the untarnish'd roses bloom again?”

Then Anaïs soft: ‘So be it, an it must!
We are their playthings; they are strong and just.
And I have heard how Peleus and his son,
Cadmus, and Herakles, and many a one
Like them, as Gods among the Gods are set:
—Where all our night long their sun shineth yet,
And red-rose meadows round their city fold,
And waveless waters starr'd with flowers of gold.

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‘Likewise they toil not now by sea or shore,
‘With the just Gods living for evermore,
‘Life without tears.

But I would rather be
‘With him that lies by Megara-on-sea,
‘Diokles, who erewhile from Athens came,
‘He who loved children, and was loved of them:
‘—Ever around his tomb, when Spring is nigh,
‘The village-youths with rival kisses vie;
‘And he who sweetest lip on lip hath press'd,
‘Goes violet-crown'd, and is proclaim'd the Best.
‘So would I lie, and list the whispers sweet,
‘And rosy shufflings of unsandall'd feet.
‘—Be these things as they may! But O my lord
‘Wilt thou not hearken to the wise man's word,
‘Loosing the lepers from their misery?
‘For to the God should they be left, whom he
‘Hath smitten with a heavy hand, and woe.
‘Have pity on them: Let the people go.’
So Anaïs pleaded, with a woman's heart
Right to the right, and to the better part
Strove to win o'er the King.

But whether pride
Wrought in him for his purposes defied,
Or wrath of mere despair, some say his heart
Was harden'd, and refused the better part,
Hurling his chariots on, and seaward chased
Those whom, at Heaven's command, the waves embraced

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As friends, and yielded passage; but the host
Of Egypt and her King were sunk and lost.
For as a mountain torrent to the sea
So rush'd all Egypt's might confusedly,
And the sea claim'd his own.

But when the morn
Came, pure and peaceful from the tempest born,
Over a plain of smiles the sunbeams glide,
And the white whispers of the rippling tide.

—But God hath also gentler ways to deal
With his own creature, and with him can feel,
Pitying his pride of heart, not smiting him.
Nor is He less within the twilight dim
Of seeking souls, than in the soul upright
That sees him face to face, and walks in light;
Knowing all knowledge nothing before His.

Thus also fared it with Amenophis.
For other stories tell, how the King's heart
Was changed and soften'd to the better part
By Anaïs and her sweet womanliness.
And how he loosed the people from duresse,
Giving them gifts, that they should take their way
East, where the dwellings of their kinsfolk lay,
And serve the God of all, so as they chose.

Then the great King and his land had repose
A many years, and all things rich and good:
For Nilus bless'd them with his living flood,

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And kine, and wine, and golden granaries.
And from the leprous taint they had release,
Cleansing the land: nor did the Lybian foe,
Nor he from far Assyria, work them woe
Wasting as locusts: nor the pirate-bands
Of Crete or Sidon, dropping on the sands,
Harry the palm-roof'd cabin-huts, or those
In cities, where the seven-branch'd Nile outflows.
But when the time was now fulfill'd, that he
Should go, where man at length the God may see,
Then Anaïs, being younger, was afraid
Lest she alone should linger, life-delay'd.
So, going to the shrine, the God besought,
That if her faithfulness had merit aught,
He would vouchsafe them what for man was best.

Thus having pray'd, she took the maiden vest
Wherein she cross'd the seas, and crown'd her head.
Likewise the King came robed and garlanded;
And sacrifice was held, and feasting high.
Then, where close-veil'd from touch of human eye
The image of great Isis darkly gleams,
Within the furthest shrine, a place of dreams,
Silent, before the smouldering altar-brand,
With the last kisses, and the hand on hand,
They fell on sleep together where they lay;
Awaking to the long, long, better Day.