The music-lesson of Confucius, And Other Poems

THE beautiful Queen of Hungary,
A sad and weary woman was she,
Since for many weeks a terrible pain
Seemed burning and darting through her brain.
Long were the nights, for little she slept;
Longer the days, for all day she wept;
Wretched as woman with pain could be
Was the beautiful Queen of Hungary.

Nothing at all could the doctors do,
Though they searched their folios through and through;
And the wonder was as the weeks went by,
That of such torment she did not die.
But her Majesty had a will of her own,
And a brave little heart as ever was known,
And very determined to live was she,
The beautiful Queen of Hungary.

Finding all pharmacy false and fair,
Her Majesty took to penance and prayer,
‘Blessed Otilia, aid me!’ she cried:
‘Sweet Juliana, be thou my guide!’
For these are the saints whom the Church has said
Should be called upon for a pain in the head,
So she went to them for a remedy:
The beautiful Queen of Hungary.

Long she prayed, till at length it seemed
That though still waking and praying she dreamed.
All around shone a living light
Of angels in angels gleaming bright,
A glory of faces in all the air,
Each blended of faces still more fair,
And rapt in this radiant mystery,
Was the beautiful Queen of Hungary.

But where the splendour brightest shone
Two fairer figures stood gazing down
On the suffering Queen with a loving air,
The two she had called on in her prayer;
Oh! the fondest lover has never known
Such beauty in her he would call his own,
And on earth such light you could never see
As shone on the Queen of Hungary.

Saint Juliana the silence broke,
And thus to the kneeling lady spoke:
‘Long hast thou suffered—'tis time to know
The pleasure which comes when torments go.
Mary the Mother is Rose of Heaven,—
By the Rosa Mystica life is given;
Take, in her name, of rose-mary,
Oh, penitent Queen of Hungary!

‘Then of Melissa, the honeyed balm,
Which soothed of old the martyr's qualm,
Spirit of rose from the garden bower,
Of fresh sweet mint and the orange-flower,
Blended together these scents give forth
The freshest fragrance known on earth;
And since it was first revealed to thee,
They shall call it the water of Hungary.’

The heavenly recipé was tried
With great success, and far and wide
Men boasted much of its power to cure,
And said that in headaches 'twas ever sure.
With time some changes o'er it came,
Till at last they changed its very name,
Yet 'tis true enough, and to many known,
That this was the first of Eau de Cologne,
So whenever you use it grateful be
To the sainted Queen Elsa of Hungary.

FRANGIPANI.

WHILE Mutio da Frangipani chose
To walk on earth and lead the course called life,
Men said he was a mighty alchemist,
The greatest master of all mystic lore;
And yet they never feared him. Where he went
All women smiled, and men held out their hands,
Or gave him kindest greeting. One could tell,
In street or hall, where Frangipani stood
By the gay group around him, and the laugh
Reëchoing his own—but his, indeed,
Ah, that was laughter like a Grecian god's,
Deep, resonant, and wild as the full bay
Of Odin's hounds—and when that laugh was heard
The sick would raise their eyelids and exclaim,
‘We shall be well, for Frangipani comes!’
And then the nurse would add: ‘Yes, when he comes
My labour will be ended. Faith, I think
That Frangipani's shadow is worth more
Than any doctor, body, soul, and all,
Who walks the streets of Rome. Ah, there's a man
Who does not dread the poor. Yet he's a lord,
One of our oldest, noblest families,
And true unto its name. Did you ne'er hear
How centuries ago there lived a count
So full of kindness and all charity

That when a famine came he gave his gold
Unto the poor, until one loaf of bread
Was all remaining to him, and of this
He gave a beggar half, and gained thereby
The name, so famous in our history,
Of Frangipani—“he who breaks the bread”?
This picture hangs in the south-western hall
Of their old palace; and 'tis very strange
How greatly it resembles Mutio,
Who passes all his time in doing good.’
This was his reputation, but his ways
Were little like the ways of those who live
Deep in the darkest learning. Dance and song
Were merrier for his presence. Once he gave
An honest inn-keeper, whose trade was dull,
The recipé for that great cordial
Ros Solis or rosoglio—‘the sundew,’
Of musk and coriander and sweet seeds
Well steeped in good red wine of Italy.
A cordial which made the landlord rich,
And then went forth o'er all the Christian world
As a most excellent and Christian drink,
Well suited unto ladies. Truly, he
Was greatly loved by them, and 'twas not strange,
Although the stories were which people told
Of his most liberal friendship. Thus 'twas said
That ten brief words once whispered in the ear
Of Clara di Savelli in a dance
Taught her a secret which prolonged her youth
Full forty years. And when she died at last,
She looked into her mirror, with a smile
At her still wondrous beauty, and exclaimed,
‘I need not die were Frangipani here:
Yet—do not send for him. I'm tired of play,
And need a little rest. Tell him I'll come
On earth again some day to visit him.

There came a strange disease o'er Italy,
What 'twas we know not—but it vexed men sore,
Till Frangipani found a remedy
Exceeding pleasant, sweet as summer flowers:
A perfumed powder in a velvet bag
Inhaled from hour to hour. It was a cast
Of odours rare—of orris mixed with spice,
Sandal and violet, with musk and rose
Combined in due proportion. Thus he made
The first bouquet of scents. The malady
Soon passed away—the remedy remains,
And with it lives the alchemist's great name
In most enduring fragrance, for he said
'Twas Frangipani's legacy to all
The ladies of all time; he loved them so,
That he would have his name for ever breathed
By them as 'twere a spirit 'mong the flowers.

SWEET MARJORAM.

AMARACOS the beautiful was page,
Or, as some say, the son of Cinyras,
A famous hero in the morning time
Of history, when history was a dream,
And gods meant passions, feelings, scents, and sounds,
And kings and queenly girls and children fair
Acted with singing flowers and talking birds,
Strange fairy tales of nature's mysteries.
Cinyras in the isle of Cyprus served
As the high-priest of Venus. Very dear
To him was her great name, and all her rites
Were as the very spirit of his soul,
For he had looked on beauty through all lands,
And cast his worship starward in the night
Through the dark violet heaven—and in all
Had found that by her power all things drew
Together and made life;—yea, death itself
Was but a pause to leap to life again;
And therefore by much study of this thought
It seemed to him the chiefest end of life
To honour her, and this he taught his son;
The pride and glory of the services
Of Aphrodite's temple filled his soul.

Love leads to present rapture,—then to pain,
But all through Love in time is healed again.

There was a grand procession to the shrine
On the great festival, when, as they say,
A voice is heard upon the silent hills
Through all the world, yea, and through all the worlds,
Proclaiming worship to the Queen of Love.
And in the train upon this holy day,
Most beautiful among the beautiful
Went young Amáracos. His office was
To bear the precious Alabaster vase
Which in the olden time had come to earth,
Soft borne by doves unto the Cyprian shrine,
A gift from Venus to her worshippers.
What was within the vase no sage could say,
But this they knew, it gave a sweet perfume
Unlike all fragrant odours known on earth,
And every one did deem himself most blessed
Who could inhale it. Therefore he who bore
The vase was in great honour. All the lords
Of all the land came smiling to the boy,
Each seeking by his courtesy to inhale
The sacred breath of Venus, for they deemed
The mystic vase sent forth an aura sweet
Like that which hangs around the dame divine;
And as he went, bearing his sacred charge,
Hearing his beauty praised by young and old,
Full of the glory of the loveliness
In which he lived, to which his life was given,
Pride swelled within his heart, yet scarce had risen,
When, lo! a wild dove from a wood near by,
Dashed boldly on the wing close to his head:
Yes—flapped her pinions in his very face,
And he, all startled by this portent strange,
Let fall the vase—he felt it slip—in vain!
A fright like sickness flashed across his soul:
Down went the vase and shattered on the ground.
One long loud wail rose from the gentle boy,

And instant agony thrilled all the crowd
At this most dark disaster. Then they saw
Amáracos fall down upon the earth
Dead to the heart, but even as he fell
He vanished from their sight, and with him went
The fragments of the vase. Nothing remained,
But on the earth a new-grown herb there stood
Beside a mantle, and its leaves gave forth,
Richer and sweeter than the vase had done,
The self-same sacred fragrance, which is called
The scent Amárakine. The plant grew well,
And others throve from it in every land.
A better gift from Venus than the first:—
And maidens call it the Sweet Marjoram.

JESSAMINE.

AN ARAB POEM.

THE secret mystery of the Jessamine
Sung by an Arab poet long ago,
Azzodmo'l Moccádesi the sage,
Among the voices of the Morning Land.

‘Jas in the Arab language is despair,
And Min the darkest meaning of a lie.
Thus cried the Jessamine among the flowers,
‘How justly doth a lie
Draw on its head despair!
Among the fragrant spirits of the bowers
The boldest and the strongest still was I.
Although so fair,
Therefore from Heaven
A stronger perfume unto me was given
Than any blossom of the summer hours.

“And there is nothing unto me so sweet
As to be borne from loving friend to friend
When minutes chase the minutes ever fleet,
And the beginning seems too near the end.
Then I cast all my secret treasure forth,
And she who puts me in her bosom finds,
The warmer place she gives, the better worth,
The odour sweeter than the summer winds,
Bestowed by me upon each pleasant breast
Between the pillows where I had my rest.

‘Where'er I go I make my secret known
And cast my sweet aroma all around,
And the most delicate and gifted own
That in my breath a fresher life is found.
But chiefly I delight
When anxious passion wakened to a glow
By my seductive fragrance flames to fire,
And eyes meet eyes and souls each other know,
Even to rapture all ineffable
Which nothing knew before,
And lips to lips are given
As souls in heaven
They—go—
To bliss
And in one long sweet passionate gasp expire!

‘Among the flowers no perfume is like mine;
That which is best in me comes from within.
So those who in this life would rise and shine
Should seek internal excellence to win.
And though 'tis true that falsehood and despair
Meet in my name, yet bear it still in mind
That where they meet they perish. All is fair
When they are gone, and nought remains behind.’

ROSE PERFUME.

JIZCHACH BEN AKIBA the Cabalist,
The Emperor Rudolph's friend and favourite,
Dwelling at Prague, determined to resist
The power of death, however he might smite,
Therefore he charmed all metals, beasts, and men,
All hills and rivulets, all rocks and trees,
The reeds which rustled by the oozy fen,
All birds which ran or soared or skimmed the seas,
That none of them should harm him, and at last,
When he had made the mighty list complete,
He proudly cried, ‘The hour will soon be past,
And Azrael lie conquered at my feet!’
With this he plucked a rose, but as he smelt
Its fragrance knew that death had reached his heart,
And saw the awful shade who never knelt
To king or magian, standing with his dart:
‘How hast thou dared,’ he cried, “to use that flower,
Against my life, when by the mighty charm
Of God 'twas bound to spare me from thy power,
And never yield itself to do me harm?’
‘Son,’ said the angel, ‘it is not the rose
Which kills thee, but the rose's sweet perfume.
The wine is not the goblet whence it flows,
The fragrance not the blossom or its bloom.
'Twas through that fragrance that I reached thy brain;
But hadst thou charmed the perfume with thy spell
I could have used the perfume's life again,
Or that life's spirit, as thou know'st full well.
And still beyond, the subtle tinctures seven,
Which spread in circles infinite to heaven.

SWEET BASIL.

Quo mollius eo suavius.
‘The softer the sweeter.’

THE state of Genoa was strong and proud,
So was the Duke of Milan, and the pair
Fell to disputing trifles, and to talk
Of war, as dogs ere fighting show their teeth,
And growl with savage boast before they bite.

But ere it came to blows the Genoese,
At least, the wiser of their senators,
Summoned the man most learned in the law
Of all their land, Francesco Marchio,
And bade him go to Milan and the Duke,
And call on him for speedy settlement
Of all the points disputed. So he went,
And was received with that great courtesy,
And very liberal hospitality,
Which all the great in station, or in soul,
Show unto those who stand too near the line
Of enmity to be considered friend,
And yet not near enough to count as foes.

Day after day passed by, and nought was done,
Though oft Francesco Marchio pressed his claim
To be considered. All their answers were—
‘We'll see to it—a thousand pardons, Sir!—

Your Excellence is ever in our mind.
The case must be considered. Genoa
Is doubtless a great state, but every state
Has its own time and method—we have ours:
In the mean time we pray you to accept
Our warm assurances of great respect.’—
And so they played the never-ending air
With all the modulations; which to hear
And not rush forth enraged, to hang himself
Driven to madness by monotony,
Is the great task of every diplomat,
Which once achieved, leads to the height of fame.

A wary, shrewd, old, well-filed Genoese
Was this same Marchio, so he took his time,
Or let the Duke of Milan take it, till
The want of courtesy in the long delay
Had turned against the host. Meanwhile he spread
A busy rumour that the Genoese
Had sent him there but to procrastinate
And hinder settlement, while they themselves
Were gathering men and arms to go to war.

When this fine tale went buzzing through the town,
There came a speedy summons from the Duke
To Marchio, and the cunning councillor
Hastened to heed the bidding. But few words
Had passed between them ere Francesco held
Some twigs of fair sweet-Basil forth, and said,
‘I pray your Highness mark this curious herb;
Touch it but lightly, stroke it softly, Sir,
And it gives forth an odour sweet and rare;
But crush it harshly and you'll make a scent
Most disagreeable. So with Genoa,—
Handle it gently, 'tis all gentleness,
But treat it rudely, 'twill be rude in turn.’

The speech, 'tis said, impressed the Ducal host,
And soon the ambassador, full-satisfied,
Returned to Genoa. The state, well-pleased,
Gave him sweet-Basil for his coat-of-arms
As a reward, and for a motto put
Quo mollius eo suavius in his shield.

University of Virginia Library

POEMS OF PERFUMES.