 | Poems of the war |  |
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Miscellaneous Poems.
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PRINCE ADEB.
In Sana, O, in Sana, God, the Lord,Was very kind and and merciful to me!
Forth from the Desert in my rags I came,
Weary and sore of foot. I saw the spires
And swelling bubbles of the golden domes
Rise through the trees of Sana, and my heart
Grew great within me with the strength of God;
And I cried out, “Now shall I right myself,—
I, Adeb the despised,—for God is just!”
There he who wronged my father dwelt in peace,—
My warlike father, who, when gray hairs crept
Around his forehead, as on Lebanon
The whitening snows of winter, was betrayed
To the sly Imam, and his tented wealth
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And his first crowing,—in a single night:
And I, poor Adeb, sole of all my race,
Smeared with my father's and my kinsmen's blood,
Fled through the Desert, till one day a tribe
Of hungry Bedouins found me in the sand,
Half mad with famine, and they took me up,
And made a slave of me,—of me, a prince!
All was fulfilled at last. I fled from them,
In rags and sorrow. Nothing but my heart,
Like a strong swimmer, bore me up against
The howling sea of my adversity.
At length o'er Sana, in the act to swoop,
I stood like a young eagle on a crag.
The traveller passed me with suspicious fear:
I asked for nothing; I was not a thief.
The lean dogs snuffed around me: my lank bones,
Fed on the berries and the crusted pools,
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Called me a little from the common path,
And gave me figs and barley in a bag.
I paid her with a kiss, with nothing more,
And she looked glad; for I was beautiful,
And virgin as a fountain, and as cold.
I stretched her bounty, pecking like a bird,
Her figs and barley, till my strength returned.
So when rich Sana lay beneath my eyes,
My foot was as the leopard's, and my hand
As heavy as the lion's brandished paw;
And underneath my burnished skin the veins
And stretching muscles played, at every step,
In wondrous motion. I was very strong.
I looked upon my body, as a bird
That bills his feathers ere he takes to flight,—
I, watching over Sana. Then I prayed;
And on a soft stone, wetted in the brook,
Ground my long knife; and then I prayed again.
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As, softly stepping down the hills, I saw
The Imam's summer-palace all ablaze
In the last flash of sunset. Every fount
Was spouting fire, and all the orange-trees
Bore blazing coals, and from the marble walls
And gilded spires and columns, strangely wrought,
Glared the red light, until my eyes were pained
With the fierce splendor. Till the night grew thick,
I lay within the bushes, next the door,
Still as a serpent, as invisible.
The guard hung round the portal. Man by man
They dropped away, save one lone sentinel,
And on his eyes God's finger lightly fell;
He slept half standing. Like a summer wind
That threads the grove, yet never turns a leaf,
I stole from shadow unto shadow forth;
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Like a soft gust, a little way ajar,—
My body's narrow width, no more,—and stood
Beneath the cresset in the painted hall.
I marvelled at the riches of my foe;
I marvelled at God's ways with wicked men.
Then I reached forth, and took God's waiting hand:
And so He led me over mossy floors,
Flowered with the silken summer of Shiraz,
Straight to the Imam's chamber. At the door
Stretched a brawn eunuch, blacker than my eyes:
His woolly head lay like the Kaba-stone
In Mecca's mosque, as silent and as huge.
I stepped across it, with my pointed knife
Just missing a full vein along his neck,
And, pushing by the curtains, there I was—
I, Adeb the despised—upon the spot
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I could have shouted for the joy in me.
Fierce pangs and flashes of bewildering light
Leaped through my brain and danced before my eyes.
So loud my heart beat, that I feared its sound
Would wake the sleeper; and the bubbling blood
Choked in my throat, till, weaker than a child,
I reeled against a column, and there hung
In a blind stupor. Then I prayed again;
And, sense by sense, I was made whole once more.
I touched myself; I was the same; I knew
Myself to be lone Adeb, young and strong,
With nothing but a stride of empty air
Between me and God's justice. In a sleep,
Thick with the fumes of the accursed grape,
Sprawled the false Imam. On his shaggy breast,
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Of some foul stream, the fairest woman slept
These roving eyes have ever looked upon.
Almost a child, her bosom barely showed
The change beyond her girlhood. All her charms
Were budding, but half opened; for I saw
Not only beauty wondrous in itself,
But possibility of more to be
In the full process of her blooming days.
I gazed upon her, and my heart grew soft,
As a parched pasture with the dew of heaven.
While thus I gazed she smiled, and slowly raised
The long curve of her lashes; and we looked
Each upon each in wonder, not alarm,—
Not eye to eye, but soul to soul, we held
Each other for a moment. All her life
Seemed centred in the circle of her eyes.
She stirred no limb; her long-drawn, equal breath
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In calm unbroken. Not a sign of fear
Touched the faint color on her oval cheek,
Or pinched the arches of her tender mouth.
She took me for a vision, and she lay
With her sleep's smile unaltered, as in doubt
Whether real life had stolen into her dreams,
Or dreaming stretched into her outer life.
I was not graceless to a woman's eyes.
The girls of Damar paused to see me pass,
I walking in my rags, yet beautiful.
One maiden said, “He has a prince's air!”
I am a prince; the air was all my own.
So thought the lily on the Imam's breast;
And lightly as a summer mist, that lifts
Before the morning, so she floated up,
Without a sound or rustle of a robe,
From her coarse pillow, and before me stood
With asking eyes. The Imam never moved.
A stride and blow were all my need, and they
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I held a warning finger to my lips,
And whispered in her small, expectant ear,
“Adeb, the son of Akem!” She replied
In a low murmur, whose bewildering sound
Almost lulled wakeful me to sleep, and sealed
The sleeper's lids in tenfold slumber, “Prince,
Lord of the Imam's life and of my heart,
Take all thou seest,—it is thy right, I know,—
But spare the Imam for thy own soul's sake!”
Then I arrayed me in a robe of state,
Shining with gold and jewels; and I bound
In my long turban gems that might have bought
The lands 'twixt Babelmandeb and Sahan.
I girt about me, with a blazing belt,
A scimitar o'er which the sweating smiths
In far Damascus hammered for long years,
Whose hilt and scabbard shot a trembling light
From diamonds and rubies. And she smiled,
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To see me look so fair,—in pride she smiled.
I hung long purses at my side. I scooped,
From off a table, figs and dates and rice,
And bound them to my girdle in a sack.
Then over all I flung a snowy cloak,
And beckoned to the maiden. So she stole
Forth like my shadow, past the sleeping wolf
Who wronged my father, o'er the woolly head
Of the swart eunuch, down the painted court,
And by the sentinel who standing slept.
Strongly against the portal, through my rags,—
My old base rags,—and through the maiden's veil,
I pressed my knife,—upon the wooden hilt
Was “Adeb, son of Akem,” carved by me
In my long slavehood,—as a passing sign
To wait the Imam's waking. Shadows cast
From two high-sailing clouds upon the sand
Passed not more noiseless than we two, as one,
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The fragrance of the stables. As I slid
The wide doors open, with a sudden bound
Uprose the startled horses; but they stood
Still as the man who in a foreign land
Hears his strange language, when my Desert call,
As low and plaintive as the nested dove's,
Fell on their listening ears. From stall to stall,
Feeling the horses with my groping hands,
I crept in darkness; and at length I came
Upon two sister mares whose rounded sides,
Fine muzzles, and small heads, and pointed ears,
And foreheads spreading 'twixt their eyelids wide,
Long slender tails, thin manes, and coats of silk,
Told me, that, of the hundred steeds there stalled,
My hand was on the treasures. O'er and o'er
I felt their bony joints, and down their legs
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These I led forth and saddled. Upon one
I set the lily, gathered now for me,—
My own, henceforth, forever. So we rode
Across the grass, beside the stony path,
Until we gained the highway that is lost,
Leading from Sana, in the eastern sands:
When, with a cry that both the Desert-born
Knew without hint from whip or goading spur,
We dashed into a gallop. Far behind
In sparks and smoke the dusty highway rose;
And ever on the maiden's face I saw,
When the moon flashed upon it, the strange smile
It wore on waking. Once I kissed her mouth,
When she grew weary, and her strength returned.
All through the night we scoured between the hills:
The moon went down behind us, and the stars
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A planet blazing straight against our eyes,
The road had softened, and the shadowy hills
Had flattened out, and I could hear the hiss
Of sand spurned backward by the flying mares.—
Glory to God! I was at home again!
The sun rose on us; far and near I saw
The level Desert; sky met sand all round.
We paused at mid-day by a palm-crowned well,
And ate and slumbered. Somewhat, too, was said:
The words have slipped my memory. That same eve
We rode sedately through a Hamoum camp,—
I, Adeb, prince amongst them, and my bride.
And ever since amongst them I have ridden,
A head and shoulders taller than the best;
And ever since my days have been of gold,
My nights have been of silver,—God is just!
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ABON'S CHARITY.
Poor, very poor had Abon Hassen grown;
Of all the wealth his fathers called their own
To him remained two sequins. These he gave
To a low wretch, a miserable knave;
As full of sin and falsehood as the brain
Of the big-eared and red-faced rogue, whose gain
Grew from long tables, heaped with bills and gold,
Beneath whose shade the loathsome beggar rolled,
And whined for alms, to every passer-by,
In Allah's name. Young Abon's tender eye
Shone, like the morning sun, upon the place
Where lay the beggar; and a regal grace
Crowned his fair forehead, as he quickly cast
His sequins down, and, blushing, onward passed,
With “Take them, then, in Allah's holy name:
Thy greater need, poor soul, puts mine to shame!”
The youth passed quickly; but the lying tongue
Of the vile wretch pursued, and round him rung
The old, stale blessings that for years had paid
Such simple victims, glib words of his trade;
As bare of meaning, in their prayers and praise,
As to the parrot is the parrot's phrase.
But Abon paused, as if the seventh heaven
Before his eyes its ivory gates had riven;
Paused with a strange, sweet warmth about his heart,
With music in his ears, and far apart
From this rough world one moment he was caught,
Beyond the bounds of sense or farthest thought,
Into the depths of an ecstatic trance;
And there he reeled till rapture verged on pain.
Then slid he gently from that eminence;
And Abon whispered, as he woke again,
“Surely the hand of Allah touched me then!”
Of all the wealth his fathers called their own
To him remained two sequins. These he gave
To a low wretch, a miserable knave;
As full of sin and falsehood as the brain
Of the big-eared and red-faced rogue, whose gain
Grew from long tables, heaped with bills and gold,
Beneath whose shade the loathsome beggar rolled,
And whined for alms, to every passer-by,
In Allah's name. Young Abon's tender eye
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Where lay the beggar; and a regal grace
Crowned his fair forehead, as he quickly cast
His sequins down, and, blushing, onward passed,
With “Take them, then, in Allah's holy name:
Thy greater need, poor soul, puts mine to shame!”
The youth passed quickly; but the lying tongue
Of the vile wretch pursued, and round him rung
The old, stale blessings that for years had paid
Such simple victims, glib words of his trade;
As bare of meaning, in their prayers and praise,
As to the parrot is the parrot's phrase.
But Abon paused, as if the seventh heaven
Before his eyes its ivory gates had riven;
Paused with a strange, sweet warmth about his heart,
With music in his ears, and far apart
From this rough world one moment he was caught,
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Into the depths of an ecstatic trance;
And there he reeled till rapture verged on pain.
Then slid he gently from that eminence;
And Abon whispered, as he woke again,
“Surely the hand of Allah touched me then!”
Out of the distance suddenly arose
A cry of terror; then the rapid blows
Of flying hoofs, along the stony way,
Broke on his ears. The crowd, in pale dismay,
Pressed back against the houses, leaving clear
The middle street; down which, in mad career,
A furious horse, whose meteor mane and tail
Blew straight behind him, on the roaring gale
Of his own speed, rushed headlong. And there clung
To the wild steed a form that toppling swung
Hither and thither in his giddy seat,
Helpless and failing. An old man, more meet
For propping cushions on the soft divan,
Than that fierce throne, was he. No venturous man,
Of all the throng, essayed to stop the course
Of the swift steed. Now Abon knew a horse
As well as one may know his own right hand.
No breed or cross betwixt the sea and sand,
Syrian or Arab, but young Abon knew;
And all their points of difference could view
In one quick glance. So Abon, without heed
Or thought of danger, towards the maddened steed
Sprang, as the leopard bounds, and caught the bit.
Borne from his feet an instant, he alit
With his firm hand still on the golden shank
Of the long curb; till on his haunches sank
The astonished horse, wide-eyed, subdued to naught.
Then from the saddle agile Abon caught
A mass of silks and jewels, falling prone
On his strong breast; and he who filled the throne
Of fair Damascus, without scratch or harm,
Lay safely panting upon Abon's arm.
A cry of terror; then the rapid blows
Of flying hoofs, along the stony way,
Broke on his ears. The crowd, in pale dismay,
Pressed back against the houses, leaving clear
The middle street; down which, in mad career,
A furious horse, whose meteor mane and tail
Blew straight behind him, on the roaring gale
Of his own speed, rushed headlong. And there clung
To the wild steed a form that toppling swung
Hither and thither in his giddy seat,
Helpless and failing. An old man, more meet
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Than that fierce throne, was he. No venturous man,
Of all the throng, essayed to stop the course
Of the swift steed. Now Abon knew a horse
As well as one may know his own right hand.
No breed or cross betwixt the sea and sand,
Syrian or Arab, but young Abon knew;
And all their points of difference could view
In one quick glance. So Abon, without heed
Or thought of danger, towards the maddened steed
Sprang, as the leopard bounds, and caught the bit.
Borne from his feet an instant, he alit
With his firm hand still on the golden shank
Of the long curb; till on his haunches sank
The astonished horse, wide-eyed, subdued to naught.
Then from the saddle agile Abon caught
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On his strong breast; and he who filled the throne
Of fair Damascus, without scratch or harm,
Lay safely panting upon Abon's arm.
When Abon Hassen, whom men call “the good,”
Years after, the Pasha, in counsel stood
With holy men before the mosque he raised
To hold his master's bones; and Osman praised
The glories of the temple; Abon told
The story of the beggar and the gold,
The trance, the flying horse; and how he stepped,
Watching the kingdom while his master slept,
Through actions spotless in the people's sight,
By slow advances to his princely height;—
Said Osman, holiest of the holy men,
“Surely the hand of Allah touched thee then!”
Years after, the Pasha, in counsel stood
With holy men before the mosque he raised
To hold his master's bones; and Osman praised
The glories of the temple; Abon told
The story of the beggar and the gold,
The trance, the flying horse; and how he stepped,
Watching the kingdom while his master slept,
Through actions spotless in the people's sight,
By slow advances to his princely height;—
Said Osman, holiest of the holy men,
“Surely the hand of Allah touched thee then!”
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IDLENESS.
If I do no more than this,
I do something grand, I wis.
If I do no more than slumber
Where these locust-blossoms cumber
The young grass, while in and out
Voyage the humming bees about;
And the fields of new-turned land,
In long brown waves on every hand,
Mix their strong life-giving smell
With the violets of the dell,
Till I, half drunk with country gladness,
Forget the moody city-sadness;—
I do something grand, I wis.
If I do no more than slumber
Where these locust-blossoms cumber
The young grass, while in and out
Voyage the humming bees about;
And the fields of new-turned land,
In long brown waves on every hand,
Mix their strong life-giving smell
With the violets of the dell,
Till I, half drunk with country gladness,
Forget the moody city-sadness;—
If I do no more than gaze,
Through the flimsy spring-tide haze,
Far into the sapphire deeps,
Where white cloud after white cloud creeps;
Or watch the triumph of the sun,
When his western stand is won,
And crimson stain and golden bar
Are drawn across the evening-star;
And slowly broaden on my sight
The glories of the deeper night,
Till I, o'ertaken with boding sorrow,
Shrink from inevitable to-morrow;—
Through the flimsy spring-tide haze,
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Where white cloud after white cloud creeps;
Or watch the triumph of the sun,
When his western stand is won,
And crimson stain and golden bar
Are drawn across the evening-star;
And slowly broaden on my sight
The glories of the deeper night,
Till I, o'ertaken with boding sorrow,
Shrink from inevitable to-morrow;—
If I do no more than look
Into that dark and awful book
Which, like a prophet's fatal scroll,
Lies open in my deathless soul;
Whose pictured joy and pictured woe
Mean more than any man may know;
Close secret, hidden in death and birth,
Reflex and prophecy of earth;
With earth's sweet sounds and scented blooms,
Its splendors and its solemn glooms,
All things the senses care about,
As clear within us as without;
As if from us creation grew
In some strange way, we one time knew:—
If I do no more than this,
I do something grand, I wis.
Into that dark and awful book
Which, like a prophet's fatal scroll,
Lies open in my deathless soul;
Whose pictured joy and pictured woe
Mean more than any man may know;
Close secret, hidden in death and birth,
Reflex and prophecy of earth;
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Its splendors and its solemn glooms,
All things the senses care about,
As clear within us as without;
As if from us creation grew
In some strange way, we one time knew:—
If I do no more than this,
I do something grand, I wis.
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WINTER WINDS.
O winter winds, your mournful roar
Is burden of the song I sing;
An everlasting dirge ye pour,
A restless pain that beats the door
Of heaven with its wounded wing.
Is burden of the song I sing;
An everlasting dirge ye pour,
A restless pain that beats the door
Of heaven with its wounded wing.
Grief has no faith; the common woe
That sees a future hope unfold,
Draws comfort thence; but as ye blow,
O winter winds, a grief I know
That cannot, would not be consoled.
That sees a future hope unfold,
Draws comfort thence; but as ye blow,
O winter winds, a grief I know
That cannot, would not be consoled.
Ye wail o'er earth left desolate,
O'er beauty stricken with decay;
Ye howl behind the path of fate,
Deaf to the voice that bids you wait,
Ye cry for what has passed away.
O'er beauty stricken with decay;
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Deaf to the voice that bids you wait,
Ye cry for what has passed away.
And I who stand with drooping eyes,
What heart have I to rise and greet
The beckoning hopes, that dimly rise,
While all I loved and trusted lies
In ashes at my faltering feet?
What heart have I to rise and greet
The beckoning hopes, that dimly rise,
While all I loved and trusted lies
In ashes at my faltering feet?
O winter winds, add moan to moan!
For though ye give me no relief,
Ye sound a fitting undertone,
A dreary note whose heavy drone
Keeps measure with my shriller grief.
For though ye give me no relief,
Ye sound a fitting undertone,
A dreary note whose heavy drone
Keeps measure with my shriller grief.
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ELISHA KENT KANE.
February 27, 1857.
O mother Earth, thy task is done
With him who slumbers here below;
From thy cold Arctic brow he won
A glory purer than thy snow.
With him who slumbers here below;
From thy cold Arctic brow he won
A glory purer than thy snow.
Thy warmer bosom gently nursed
The dying hero; for his eye
The tropic Spring's full splendors burst,—
“In vain!” a thousand voices cry.
The dying hero; for his eye
The tropic Spring's full splendors burst,—
“In vain!” a thousand voices cry.
“In vain, in vain!” The poet's art
Forsook me when the people cried;
Naught but the grief that fills my heart,
And memories of my friend, abide.
Forsook me when the people cried;
Naught but the grief that fills my heart,
And memories of my friend, abide.
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We parted in the midnight street,
Beneath a cold autumnal rain;
He wrung my hand, he stayed my feet
With “Friend, we shall not meet again.”
Beneath a cold autumnal rain;
He wrung my hand, he stayed my feet
With “Friend, we shall not meet again.”
I laughed; I would not then believe;
He smiled; he left me; all was o'er.
How much for my poor laugh I 'd give!—
How much to see him smile once more!
He smiled; he left me; all was o'er.
How much for my poor laugh I 'd give!—
How much to see him smile once more!
I know my lay bemeans the dead,
That sorrow is an humble thing,
That I should sing his praise instead,
And strike it on a higher string.
That sorrow is an humble thing,
That I should sing his praise instead,
And strike it on a higher string.
Let stronger minstrels raise their lay,
And follow where his fame has flown;
To the whole world belongs his praise,
His friendship was to me alone.
And follow where his fame has flown;
To the whole world belongs his praise,
His friendship was to me alone.
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So close against my heart he lay,
That I should make his glory dim,
And hear a bashful whisper say,
“I praise myself in praising him.”
That I should make his glory dim,
And hear a bashful whisper say,
“I praise myself in praising him.”
O gentle mother, following nigh
His long, long funeral march, resign
To me the right to lift this cry,
And part the sorrow that is thine.
His long, long funeral march, resign
To me the right to lift this cry,
And part the sorrow that is thine.
O father, mourning by his bier,
Forgive this song of little worth!
My eloquence is but a tear,
I cannot, would not rise from earth.
Forgive this song of little worth!
My eloquence is but a tear,
I cannot, would not rise from earth.
O stricken brothers, broken band,—
The link that held the jewels lost,—
I pray you give me leave to stand
Amid you, from the sorrowing host.
The link that held the jewels lost,—
I pray you give me leave to stand
Amid you, from the sorrowing host.
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We 'll give his honors to the world,
We 'll hark for echoes from afar;
Where'er our country's flag 's unfurled
His name shall shine in every star.
We 'll hark for echoes from afar;
Where'er our country's flag 's unfurled
His name shall shine in every star.
We feel no fear that time shall keep
Our hero's memory. Let us move
A little from the world to weep,
And for our portion take his love.
Our hero's memory. Let us move
A little from the world to weep,
And for our portion take his love.
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DIRGE.
A. W. November 20, 1863.
Annie's dead, Annie's dead!
In that sentence all is said.
Lily form and rosy head,
Still and cold, yet half divine;
Though the lights no longer shine
Whence her gentle soul looked through
Its clear essence, calmly true:
Ah! the solemn inward view
Those inverted eyeballs cast,
Ere her spirit heavenward passed!
Annie 's dead!
In that sentence all is said.
Lily form and rosy head,
Still and cold, yet half divine;
Though the lights no longer shine
Whence her gentle soul looked through
Its clear essence, calmly true:
Ah! the solemn inward view
Those inverted eyeballs cast,
Ere her spirit heavenward passed!
Annie 's dead!
Annie 's dead, Annie 's dead!
Sister angels, overhead,
Have your greeting hands outspread;
Let a welcome cry be given,
As she treads the skirts of heaven;
For a soul from earth more free,
More of your own purity,
Never joined your company.
Match her ye of heavenly mould,
Even thus, thus mortal cold!
Annie 's dead!
Sister angels, overhead,
Have your greeting hands outspread;
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As she treads the skirts of heaven;
For a soul from earth more free,
More of your own purity,
Never joined your company.
Match her ye of heavenly mould,
Even thus, thus mortal cold!
Annie 's dead!
Annie 's dead, Annie 's dead!
Why should this be oversaid?
Why should I abase my head?—
I who loved her from afar,
As the dreamer may the star;
I who bowed my humble eye,
Scarcely bold enough to sigh,
When she chanced to pass me by;
Trembling lest a word might stir
The high calm that reigned in her.
Annie 's dead!
Why should this be oversaid?
Why should I abase my head?—
I who loved her from afar,
As the dreamer may the star;
I who bowed my humble eye,
Scarcely bold enough to sigh,
When she chanced to pass me by;
Trembling lest a word might stir
The high calm that reigned in her.
Annie 's dead!
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Annie 's dead, Annie 's dead!
But a gleam of light hath sped
Through death's shadow close and dread;
For wherever such as thou
Wanderest, must be sunshine now.
Dweller of some aery isle,
Floating up to God the while,
If I read aright that smile;
Hear aright my heart that saith,
“Shall I fall in love with death?”
Annie 's dead!
But a gleam of light hath sped
Through death's shadow close and dread;
For wherever such as thou
Wanderest, must be sunshine now.
Dweller of some aery isle,
Floating up to God the while,
If I read aright that smile;
Hear aright my heart that saith,
“Shall I fall in love with death?”
Annie 's dead!
| Poems of the war | |