 | Under Cross and Crescent |  |
93
MY GARDEN
(IN TURKEY)
Six giant pines their stems upraise
Above a rosy Judas-tree,
Here, where, approach'd by winding ways,
A hanging garden fronts the sea,
And here it was, in ancient days,
A Christian chapel used to be.
Above a rosy Judas-tree,
Here, where, approach'd by winding ways,
A hanging garden fronts the sea,
And here it was, in ancient days,
A Christian chapel used to be.
The grey wall rises sheer and high,
With flow'r and rock-weed overgrown,
And ivy-bines that underlie
And help to fasten stone to stone,
A world of sea, a patch of sky,
And then this garden of my own,
With flow'r and rock-weed overgrown,
And ivy-bines that underlie
And help to fasten stone to stone,
A world of sea, a patch of sky,
And then this garden of my own,
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Like eagle's nest on ruin'd tow'r
Or beetling crag perch'd high in air,
Or some fair lady's secret bow'r
Approach'd by winding turret-stair,
A garden bright with bud and flow'r
Above the world and all its care.
Or beetling crag perch'd high in air,
Or some fair lady's secret bow'r
Approach'd by winding turret-stair,
A garden bright with bud and flow'r
Above the world and all its care.
And in the substance of the wall,
Half hid by hanging ivy-tress,
The sacred apse, conceal'd and small,
And fashion'd so that none might guess
It was a holy place at all,
Or ever priest came there to bless.
Half hid by hanging ivy-tress,
The sacred apse, conceal'd and small,
And fashion'd so that none might guess
It was a holy place at all,
Or ever priest came there to bless.
Yet it was here, when Faith was young,
And angry tempests lash'd the wave,
That weeping women knelt and clung
And pray'd to Christ to hear and save,
And grateful hymns of praise were sung
To thank Him for the gifts He gave.
And angry tempests lash'd the wave,
That weeping women knelt and clung
And pray'd to Christ to hear and save,
And grateful hymns of praise were sung
To thank Him for the gifts He gave.
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From yonder niche methinks I see,
Through blinding roots that intertwine,
The Virgin mild, with Babe on knee,
Gaze down with countenance benign,
And all this precinct seems to me
Less of a garden than a shrine.
Through blinding roots that intertwine,
The Virgin mild, with Babe on knee,
Gaze down with countenance benign,
And all this precinct seems to me
Less of a garden than a shrine.
And from my heart of hearts I pray,
As erst so many pray'd of yore,
For lov'd ones biding far away
O'er land and sea, on storm-girt shore,
For God seems nearer here to-day
Than ever He has seem'd before.
As erst so many pray'd of yore,
For lov'd ones biding far away
O'er land and sea, on storm-girt shore,
For God seems nearer here to-day
Than ever He has seem'd before.
As, by this solitude beguiled,
I listen to the pine-tree's sigh,
Though Christian cross be now defiled,
Whilst star and crescent wave on high,
And where the Virgin Mother smiled
The lizard blinks his gold-rimm'd eye!
I listen to the pine-tree's sigh,
Though Christian cross be now defiled,
Whilst star and crescent wave on high,
And where the Virgin Mother smiled
The lizard blinks his gold-rimm'd eye!
96
AT THE MOUTH OF THE BLACK SEA
Not through these gates the Conqueror of yore
Came with the Moslem horde that overran
The Empire of the East, and in its van
Spread consternation; since the men who wore
Their winding-sheets for headgear, and who bore
The dreaded horse-tails, by a subtle plan
Conceived of Mahomet, their “grim Soldan,”
Carried their galleys with them over-shore.
Came with the Moslem horde that overran
The Empire of the East, and in its van
Spread consternation; since the men who wore
Their winding-sheets for headgear, and who bore
The dreaded horse-tails, by a subtle plan
Conceived of Mahomet, their “grim Soldan,”
Carried their galleys with them over-shore.
Yet we, the children of these latter days,
Instinctively look seaward, straining eyes
To where the white-wing'd vessels come and go
Through the blue strait, and even as we gaze
O'er dancing waters under smiling skies,
Seem to await the coming of a foe.
Instinctively look seaward, straining eyes
To where the white-wing'd vessels come and go
Through the blue strait, and even as we gaze
O'er dancing waters under smiling skies,
Seem to await the coming of a foe.
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IN A TURKISH LANE
Surely this lane is English, where the bine
Trails o'er the hawthorn hedge beneath the limes
That shade the dusty highway in a line,
And the air breathes the freshness of old times!
The blackberries and hazel-nuts are ripe,
And in the valley, by the trickling rill,
The apples redden and the finches pipe,
Whilst English heath and bracken clothe the hill.
The bee is busy with his harvesting
(The well-known bee, that hummeth as he goes!);—
And, overhead, behold, upon the wing,
A flight of what are surely English crows!
A sheep-track winds away upon the wold,
Amongst the heather, and is lost to view
Beyond the hurdles of an English fold,
There stands the herdsman: Is he English too?
He leans upon his staff, and tow'rs aloft
A stately presence, clad in strange array,
Wearing the head-gear that is never doft
To greet the passing stranger on the way;
Bare-legged, of feature fierce and aquiline,
Draped in his many-colour'd rags that cling
With a barbaric grace without design,
And looking ev'ry inch a shepherd-king.
There, on the slope, his motley charges graze,
Ring-streak'd and parti-colour'd, like to those
That Jacob tended in the olden days;
And there, below, his kinsman's waggon goes
Drawn by its team of buffalo that bow
Their sullen brows beneath the heavy yoke
And laden with the autumn's overflow
Of fruit and grain. His shrouded women-folk—
Weird, ghostly figures, huddled side by side,
Squat by the way beneath the drooping boughs,
Stolid and still, moon-faced and almond-eyed,
And seeming mindless as the beasts that browse.
The flat-roof'd hamlet nestles in the vale;
No spire is there uprising to the sky;
No trim “God's acre;” without latch or pale
To guard their bones, the dead all scatter'd lie
On the lone hillside, where their tombstones rise,
Or, grey with age, lie prone amongst the heath
Fall'n and forgotten. Here the jackal hies
And rears her young amidst the realms of Death;
And here the fox-faced dogs that haunt the plain
Hold their wild revels at the midnight hour,
And fight for who knows what ill-gotten gain
Amongst the silent company whose pow'r
And glory have departed hence.
Trails o'er the hawthorn hedge beneath the limes
That shade the dusty highway in a line,
And the air breathes the freshness of old times!
The blackberries and hazel-nuts are ripe,
And in the valley, by the trickling rill,
The apples redden and the finches pipe,
Whilst English heath and bracken clothe the hill.
The bee is busy with his harvesting
(The well-known bee, that hummeth as he goes!);—
And, overhead, behold, upon the wing,
A flight of what are surely English crows!
A sheep-track winds away upon the wold,
Amongst the heather, and is lost to view
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There stands the herdsman: Is he English too?
He leans upon his staff, and tow'rs aloft
A stately presence, clad in strange array,
Wearing the head-gear that is never doft
To greet the passing stranger on the way;
Bare-legged, of feature fierce and aquiline,
Draped in his many-colour'd rags that cling
With a barbaric grace without design,
And looking ev'ry inch a shepherd-king.
There, on the slope, his motley charges graze,
Ring-streak'd and parti-colour'd, like to those
That Jacob tended in the olden days;
And there, below, his kinsman's waggon goes
Drawn by its team of buffalo that bow
Their sullen brows beneath the heavy yoke
And laden with the autumn's overflow
Of fruit and grain. His shrouded women-folk—
Weird, ghostly figures, huddled side by side,
Squat by the way beneath the drooping boughs,
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And seeming mindless as the beasts that browse.
The flat-roof'd hamlet nestles in the vale;
No spire is there uprising to the sky;
No trim “God's acre;” without latch or pale
To guard their bones, the dead all scatter'd lie
On the lone hillside, where their tombstones rise,
Or, grey with age, lie prone amongst the heath
Fall'n and forgotten. Here the jackal hies
And rears her young amidst the realms of Death;
And here the fox-faced dogs that haunt the plain
Hold their wild revels at the midnight hour,
And fight for who knows what ill-gotten gain
Amongst the silent company whose pow'r
But stay!
What creature comes, conceal'd, yet close at hand,
Thus seeming, as it moves upon its way,
To snap the cistus-stalks and plough the sand,
Even as though some elfin battery
Of cumbrous artillery, arrayed,
To do to death shrew-mouse or butterfly,
Were lumb'ring hither through the thicket's shade? . . .
'Tis but a mail-clad tortoise with his mate
Trudging abroad to take the ev'ning air,
And hast'ning now, it may be, being late,
To where his young await parental care,
Scaring the swift slim lizard as he goes,
That ever and anon, like shining blade,
Glides from the sheathing mass of heath and rose
And flees before him, quaking and afraid,
To brave some fresh alarm! There, where the way
Leads southward, o'er the breezy upland Down,
If you should follow it, by close of day,
You will behold a city of renown
Before you spread. Out of the sunset glow
Its mosques, and minarets, and cypress-spires,
As if by magic art, will seem to grow
And flash and glisten with a thousand fires.
A city girt by mountain-range and sea,
Beauteous without, and being thus so fair,
Not mine the sacrilegious hand shall be
To lift thy veil and lay the plague-spot bare,
Oh, world-famed city! from thine high estate
So fall'n and abased! For, now, at least,
Only thy beauty need I estimate,
Display'd to charm, though even as a feast
'Twere wiser to forego. Why strip the soul
Thus richly shrouded, or attempt to drain
The draught that lurks in howso fair a bowl?
Here, on the confines of this spacious plain,
The free unfetter'd spirit with the lark
Seeks to soar skyward, far beyond the scope
Of human sin, and all her offspring dark,
And rise, rejoicing, on the wings of Hope. . . .
So, by these signs and wonders, we may know,
Dcspite the sturdy husbandmen that toil
And tend and till, and all the plants that grow
And twine and tangle, as on English soil,
That this cannot be England! Leagues away
Our sea-girt island lies, the home of storms
And drifting mists; yet, for this cause, to-day,
Grown so much dearer that my bosom warms
At thought of her, till memory is pain
And I would try forgetting! But, to prove
My heart unchanged, I love this Turkish lane,
And hither often come to tell my love.
What creature comes, conceal'd, yet close at hand,
Thus seeming, as it moves upon its way,
To snap the cistus-stalks and plough the sand,
Even as though some elfin battery
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To do to death shrew-mouse or butterfly,
Were lumb'ring hither through the thicket's shade? . . .
'Tis but a mail-clad tortoise with his mate
Trudging abroad to take the ev'ning air,
And hast'ning now, it may be, being late,
To where his young await parental care,
Scaring the swift slim lizard as he goes,
That ever and anon, like shining blade,
Glides from the sheathing mass of heath and rose
And flees before him, quaking and afraid,
To brave some fresh alarm! There, where the way
Leads southward, o'er the breezy upland Down,
If you should follow it, by close of day,
You will behold a city of renown
Before you spread. Out of the sunset glow
Its mosques, and minarets, and cypress-spires,
As if by magic art, will seem to grow
And flash and glisten with a thousand fires.
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Beauteous without, and being thus so fair,
Not mine the sacrilegious hand shall be
To lift thy veil and lay the plague-spot bare,
Oh, world-famed city! from thine high estate
So fall'n and abased! For, now, at least,
Only thy beauty need I estimate,
Display'd to charm, though even as a feast
'Twere wiser to forego. Why strip the soul
Thus richly shrouded, or attempt to drain
The draught that lurks in howso fair a bowl?
Here, on the confines of this spacious plain,
The free unfetter'd spirit with the lark
Seeks to soar skyward, far beyond the scope
Of human sin, and all her offspring dark,
And rise, rejoicing, on the wings of Hope. . . .
So, by these signs and wonders, we may know,
Dcspite the sturdy husbandmen that toil
And tend and till, and all the plants that grow
And twine and tangle, as on English soil,
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Our sea-girt island lies, the home of storms
And drifting mists; yet, for this cause, to-day,
Grown so much dearer that my bosom warms
At thought of her, till memory is pain
And I would try forgetting! But, to prove
My heart unchanged, I love this Turkish lane,
And hither often come to tell my love.
103
TO THE YELKOWAN
Oh, ‘chaser of the wind!’ oh, Yelkowan!If thou art truly one whose soul is lost,
Pursuing, 'neath an everlasting ban,
Thy work of expiation, at the cost
Of flitting gaily through the gates of Death,
With these, thy comrades, that like living flow'rs
Scatter'd at random by the breeze's breath,
And freed from all the sorrows that are ours,
Speed o'er the changing wave the livelong day,
Joyous of heart, and ever strong of wing,
Fain would I have thee point me out the way
That led to thy delightful wandering!
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Yet meet the mercy due to souls forgiven? . . .
Tell me thy secret, and that sweet sin's name
That barr'd the door to ev'ry other heaven
Save this bright Paradise, with blue above
And blue beneath, 'twixt banks of rosy bloom.
Tell it to me, that I may teach my love
To merit, ere too late, the lightest doom
Reserved, as yet, for the lost souls of man,
Oh, ‘chaser of the wind!’ oh, Yelkowan!
One of the birds (said to be the souls of the lost) that fly backwards and forwards over the waters of the Bosphorus, and are never seen to rest.
105
“VÆ VICTIS”
“Were you not well paid?” ask'd Zil'ullah Khan.
To the chiefs of the mutineers he spoke,
Who, bent 'neath the weight of shackle and yoke,
Were led to the foot of his silk divan;
And, as out of his lips he puff'd the smoke,
His eyes look'd, laughing, at every man;
“We were right well paid, oh, Zil'ullah Khan!”
To the chiefs of the mutineers he spoke,
Who, bent 'neath the weight of shackle and yoke,
Were led to the foot of his silk divan;
And, as out of his lips he puff'd the smoke,
His eyes look'd, laughing, at every man;
“We were right well paid, oh, Zil'ullah Khan!”
“Were you not well clad?” ask'd Zil'ullah Khan;
Still his eye was merry, his voice was sweet,
As he gazed at the rebels prone at his feet
Who were trapp'd like birds by his subtle plan,
And they straightway answer'd him, as was meet,
Though sad were the accents of every man—
“We were right well clad, oh, Zil'ullah Khan!”
Still his eye was merry, his voice was sweet,
As he gazed at the rebels prone at his feet
Who were trapp'd like birds by his subtle plan,
And they straightway answer'd him, as was meet,
Though sad were the accents of every man—
“We were right well clad, oh, Zil'ullah Khan!”
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“Were you not well fed?” ask'd Zil'ullah Khan
(They who knew him best might know well the end);
But as each one look'd his last on his friend
With eyes grown haggard and cheeks wax'd wan
(Since now God alone could their cause defend!),
Came the answer firmly from every man—
“We were right well fed, oh, Zil'ullah Khan!”
(They who knew him best might know well the end);
But as each one look'd his last on his friend
With eyes grown haggard and cheeks wax'd wan
(Since now God alone could their cause defend!),
Came the answer firmly from every man—
“We were right well fed, oh, Zil'ullah Khan!”
“Then why did ye this?” ask'd Zil'ullah Khan.
He had risen, now, from his princely place,
And the laughing look on his cunning face
Gave way to another, which none might scan
But he forthwith abandon'd all hope of grace,
Yet the answer came clearly from every man—
“We are God's accurst, oh, Zil'ullah Khan!”
He had risen, now, from his princely place,
And the laughing look on his cunning face
Gave way to another, which none might scan
But he forthwith abandon'd all hope of grace,
Yet the answer came clearly from every man—
“We are God's accurst, oh, Zil'ullah Khan!”
“Take and blind them all!” said Zil'ullah Khan;
He spoke as though weary and half awake,
As he made the movement a man might make
Who would flick away flies with a feather fan;
“I would sleep awhile, for mine eyelids ache!”
And the answer came calmly from every man—
“Let it be as thou wilt, oh, Zil'ullah Khan!”
He spoke as though weary and half awake,
As he made the movement a man might make
Who would flick away flies with a feather fan;
“I would sleep awhile, for mine eyelids ache!”
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“Let it be as thou wilt, oh, Zil'ullah Khan!”
And five hundred men, ere the day was done,
Could look upon neither moon nor sun.
Could look upon neither moon nor sun.
108
“SCORPIO”: THE SCORPION
At first, I deem'd some wind-blown spray,
Acacia, or jessamin,
Thro' open window wafted in,
All tremulous and quiv'ring lay
Upon the matting at my feet:
Acacia, or jessamin,
Thro' open window wafted in,
All tremulous and quiv'ring lay
Upon the matting at my feet:
A second look. . . . Beheld at last
Oh, creature diabolical,
Whose lineaments zodiacal
Have yet an odd familiar cast,
Here, then, and in the flesh, we meet!
Oh, creature diabolical,
Whose lineaments zodiacal
Have yet an odd familiar cast,
Here, then, and in the flesh, we meet!
There is thy coat of plated mail,
Eight loathly legs with cloven feet,
Two lobster-claws that clasp and meet,
Six-jointed, curved, Satanic tail,
Ending in poison-pouch and spear!
Eight loathly legs with cloven feet,
Two lobster-claws that clasp and meet,
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Ending in poison-pouch and spear!
No colleague of the solar band
Save Leo, with tempestuous roar,
Had served to terrify me more
At dead of night, with none at hand
In this, my strait, to help or hear!
Save Leo, with tempestuous roar,
Had served to terrify me more
At dead of night, with none at hand
In this, my strait, to help or hear!
Doubtless to do some evil deed
Thou playest truant thus, thro' space
Descending from thy proper place
Betwixt the Scales and Archer-steed
And hiding underneath my chair!
Thou playest truant thus, thro' space
Descending from thy proper place
Betwixt the Scales and Archer-steed
And hiding underneath my chair!
Had I not spied thee lying low
I ween thou would'st have made me feel
Thy poison's pow'r, and in my heel
Planted thy sting, with which we know
Orion once was wounded there!
I ween thou would'st have made me feel
Thy poison's pow'r, and in my heel
Planted thy sting, with which we know
Orion once was wounded there!
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Now for the death that thou must die! . . .
To keep thy horrid form entire
I'll compass thee with coals of fire,
Until, for very agony,
Thou die'st of self-inflicted sting;
To keep thy horrid form entire
I'll compass thee with coals of fire,
Until, for very agony,
Thou die'st of self-inflicted sting;
Thus shall I learn if false or true
The ancient legend! Or, for lack
Of coals, I'll plunge into thy back
A red-hot spear, and drown thee, too,
In something sharp and torturing;
The ancient legend! Or, for lack
Of coals, I'll plunge into thy back
A red-hot spear, and drown thee, too,
In something sharp and torturing;
Acetic acid, turpentine,—
Or might it not be best to boil
Or burn outright, in seething oil?
Or shall I steep thee deep in wine
Like Clarence, and thus seal thy doom?
Or might it not be best to boil
Or burn outright, in seething oil?
Or shall I steep thee deep in wine
Like Clarence, and thus seal thy doom?
Nay, far too kind such death would be
Creature unconscionably vile!
Simpler, to cork thee in a phial
Wherein all men may mock at thee
And turn it to thy living tomb!
Creature unconscionably vile!
Simpler, to cork thee in a phial
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And turn it to thy living tomb!
But, first of all, to roof thee o'er
With tumbler overturn'd! . . . 'Tis done!
Now, bide thy time, accursèd one,
Whilst, like some grim Inquisitor,
I ponder on thy future fate,
With tumbler overturn'd! . . . 'Tis done!
Now, bide thy time, accursèd one,
Whilst, like some grim Inquisitor,
I ponder on thy future fate,
Considering thee at mine ease
Out of thy venom's reach! . . . Aye, try
To scale those walls of crystal sky!—
Struggle and battle as you please!
In vain, in vain! Too late, too late!
Out of thy venom's reach! . . . Aye, try
To scale those walls of crystal sky!—
Struggle and battle as you please!
In vain, in vain! Too late, too late!
What labour wasted on thy make!
And all for what? . . . That ev'ry hand
Should be against thee, in the land
That breeds thee, loathing! With the snake
Holding thee pest to crush and slay!
And all for what? . . . That ev'ry hand
Should be against thee, in the land
That breeds thee, loathing! With the snake
Holding thee pest to crush and slay!
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Hurl'd thus upon the Universe,
No option giv'n, no “by your leave,”
Some hidden purpose to achieve
Doubtless, tho' counted as a curse;—
Branded with murder from the day
No option giv'n, no “by your leave,”
Some hidden purpose to achieve
Doubtless, tho' counted as a curse;—
Branded with murder from the day
When thou, in most unnatural wise,
Ere drawing thine accursèd breath,
Dost do thy mother unto death,
Who of her monstrous travail dies;
No loss, yet surely to thy shame,
Ere drawing thine accursèd breath,
Dost do thy mother unto death,
Who of her monstrous travail dies;
No loss, yet surely to thy shame,
Making thee seem more consummate
In crass malignity! . . . But, still,
Poor puppet of th' Eternal Will!
What pow'r had'st thou to mould thy fate
Or shape thy course for praise or blame?
In crass malignity! . . . But, still,
Poor puppet of th' Eternal Will!
What pow'r had'st thou to mould thy fate
Or shape thy course for praise or blame?
Just a mere chance, it seems to me,
Prepost'rous as it may appear,—
And thou had'st sat in judgment here
Whilst I, intern'd instead of thee,
Had struggled thus without avail.
Prepost'rous as it may appear,—
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Whilst I, intern'd instead of thee,
Had struggled thus without avail.
I might have been a scorpion,
Crawl'd out my day in scaly thrall,
Dead to hope, faith, ambition, all
That mortals lean or count upon,
Just clasping pincers, curling tail,
Crawl'd out my day in scaly thrall,
Dead to hope, faith, ambition, all
That mortals lean or count upon,
Just clasping pincers, curling tail,
And seeking that which most might feel
My venom'd sting by day or night;
A veritable Ishmaelite
On whose predestin'd head man's heel
Is ever ready to descend!
My venom'd sting by day or night;
A veritable Ishmaelite
On whose predestin'd head man's heel
Is ever ready to descend!
Now, how to show my thankfulness
That this is not? . . . Were I to spare
Thee, dusky captive, struggling there,
Thou would'st restrain thee none the less,
But strike at husband, child, or friend,
That this is not? . . . Were I to spare
Thee, dusky captive, struggling there,
Thou would'st restrain thee none the less,
But strike at husband, child, or friend,
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Still, even Death, they say, is sweet
In lethal chambers, where you pass
From dreams to sleep, and 'neath this glass
Such peaceful end to thee I'll mete,
Then have thee neatly set and press'd;
In lethal chambers, where you pass
From dreams to sleep, and 'neath this glass
Such peaceful end to thee I'll mete,
Then have thee neatly set and press'd;
Since, haply, had'st thou had thy way,
Thou might'st have chosen to have been
The Envoy of a mighty Queen,
And stood before me here to-day
Wearing a ribbon on thy breast!
Thou might'st have chosen to have been
The Envoy of a mighty Queen,
And stood before me here to-day
Wearing a ribbon on thy breast!
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“KÈYF”
What is this numbing torpor that pervades
Soul, sense, and frame? and what this waking dream
Wherein men pass, like unsubstantial shades
Athwart my sight? Hath some Lethean stream
Engulfed my spirit? . . . Is my heart out-burn'd
To pulseless ashes? Love, Ambition, Hate,
Where are ye fled? What magic pow'r hath turn'd
All the keen impulses that animate
Intenser natures to this growing sense
Of aimless impotence? . . . The days go by,
A few more such, and we must journey hence
And be no more remember'd. Do I sigh
For so sad fate, lament the common lot,
The condemnation which we share with all
Who live and breathe? Nay, I lament it not.
Am I not dead already? Can so small
A transformation move me? . . . True, I know
That which I call my heart goes beating on,
But Life, as Life was once, with fervid glow
Of passionate abandonment, is gone
Maybe for evermore! . . . Yet, would I end
This equable placidity of mood
And brave again the ills that might transcend? . . .
Nay! this is rest, and surely rest is good!
Soul, sense, and frame? and what this waking dream
Wherein men pass, like unsubstantial shades
Athwart my sight? Hath some Lethean stream
Engulfed my spirit? . . . Is my heart out-burn'd
To pulseless ashes? Love, Ambition, Hate,
Where are ye fled? What magic pow'r hath turn'd
All the keen impulses that animate
Intenser natures to this growing sense
Of aimless impotence? . . . The days go by,
A few more such, and we must journey hence
And be no more remember'd. Do I sigh
For so sad fate, lament the common lot,
The condemnation which we share with all
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Am I not dead already? Can so small
A transformation move me? . . . True, I know
That which I call my heart goes beating on,
But Life, as Life was once, with fervid glow
Of passionate abandonment, is gone
Maybe for evermore! . . . Yet, would I end
This equable placidity of mood
And brave again the ills that might transcend? . . .
Nay! this is rest, and surely rest is good!
Would one not think, O Love! would one not think
That here, in these old gardens, hid away
From envious eyes, upon the shady brink
Of these blue waters, thou wouldst hold thy sway,
On nights when moonbeams glisten on the stream,
And when, like ghosts of thy departed hours,
Out of the dim, mysterious darkness, gleam
The blossoms of the great magnolia flow'rs? . . .
But Love, too, sleeps, or lingers and is late;
And, did he come, for all that he might bring,
Who knows but, likewise, Jealousy and Hate,
Finding the garden-wicket on the swing,
Might force an entry, and might here abide,
With all their venomous and dreaded brood? . . .
So it were better Love should stay outside,
For this is rest, and surely rest is good!
That here, in these old gardens, hid away
From envious eyes, upon the shady brink
Of these blue waters, thou wouldst hold thy sway,
On nights when moonbeams glisten on the stream,
And when, like ghosts of thy departed hours,
Out of the dim, mysterious darkness, gleam
The blossoms of the great magnolia flow'rs? . . .
117
And, did he come, for all that he might bring,
Who knows but, likewise, Jealousy and Hate,
Finding the garden-wicket on the swing,
Might force an entry, and might here abide,
With all their venomous and dreaded brood? . . .
So it were better Love should stay outside,
For this is rest, and surely rest is good!
Thus is it with Ambition and her train,
Hope and her castles, Fancy and her dreams,
So doth this creeping apathy attain
Body and soul, till all emotion seems
Superfluous and vain; the better part
To rest, to wait, to draw unruffled breath,
Counting the calm pulsations of a heart
Serenely grateful for its living death.
For they that have no share in this repose,
How do they fare? What harvest do they reap?
To know them vainly striving in the throes
Of greed or passion makes my waking-sleep
The more contented! All the dross they prize,
What doth it profit for so brief a space?
Nay, stupefaction, in the end, were wise
If, when Death comes, we fail to know his face!
Too tired, alike, for pleasure or for pain,
I drift and dream, until I deem this best,
Resigned to all I lose, so I but gain
The priceless privilege to rest! to rest! . . .
Hope and her castles, Fancy and her dreams,
So doth this creeping apathy attain
Body and soul, till all emotion seems
Superfluous and vain; the better part
To rest, to wait, to draw unruffled breath,
Counting the calm pulsations of a heart
Serenely grateful for its living death.
For they that have no share in this repose,
How do they fare? What harvest do they reap?
118
Of greed or passion makes my waking-sleep
The more contented! All the dross they prize,
What doth it profit for so brief a space?
Nay, stupefaction, in the end, were wise
If, when Death comes, we fail to know his face!
Too tired, alike, for pleasure or for pain,
I drift and dream, until I deem this best,
Resigned to all I lose, so I but gain
The priceless privilege to rest! to rest! . . .
119
SUNSET AND NIGHT
(Stamboul from Pera)
A blaze of lurid gold, and daylight setsBehind the cypress-spires, where dead men lie
Beneath their turban'd tombstones, and the sky
Is dappled with the hue of violets;
Here gleams the Golden Horn, with fishers, nets,
And all the fleet of varied ships that fly
The flags of half the world, and there, on high,
The city with its mosques and minarets.
And now succeeds a very second day
Of light and life; a firmament where half
The stars, from dwellings of both rich and poor,
Twinkle below: frogs croak and mongrels bay,
And then the Bekdji, with his tapping staff,
Wakes us all up to prove we sleep secure.
120
WHICH WILL SURVIVE?
The lady on the silk divan,
Save when she flirted with her fan
Or smooth'd her moigir's gauzy fold,
Or on her zither chanced to play,
By the casement's curtain'd and latticed pane
That look'd o'er her master's wide domain,
A captive, though caged in a caged of gold,
Loll'd idly through the livelong day.
Save when she flirted with her fan
Or smooth'd her moigir's gauzy fold,
Or on her zither chanced to play,
By the casement's curtain'd and latticed pane
That look'd o'er her master's wide domain,
A captive, though caged in a caged of gold,
Loll'd idly through the livelong day.
And all around the imprint bore
Of luxury, and nothing more
But childish taste for painted toys,
With famish'd soul and pamper'd sense,
Yet a soul that knew not its need of food,
And sense that languish'd from lassitude,
And childishness cheated of childish joys
And robbed of its childish innocence.
Of luxury, and nothing more
But childish taste for painted toys,
With famish'd soul and pamper'd sense,
121
And sense that languish'd from lassitude,
And childishness cheated of childish joys
And robbed of its childish innocence.
But yet another 'prison'd thing,
A seamew with a broken wing,
Broken and clipp'd to keep from flight,
Seen through the arch of the open door,
In a spray of the oleander's shade
Outspread on the courtyard pavement, made
A brighter dapple of living light
Where all was white, on the marble floor.
A seamew with a broken wing,
Broken and clipp'd to keep from flight,
Seen through the arch of the open door,
In a spray of the oleander's shade
Outspread on the courtyard pavement, made
A brighter dapple of living light
Where all was white, on the marble floor.
The lady's slaves, in rich array,
Who fed the seagull day by day,
Of any creature held in thrall
Had never seen, so they averred,
A thing so patient and so resigned,
That never either yearn'd or pined
For past or future, and yet, withal,
So sorrowful and sad a bird.
Who fed the seagull day by day,
Of any creature held in thrall
Had never seen, so they averred,
122
That never either yearn'd or pined
For past or future, and yet, withal,
So sorrowful and sad a bird.
But when the one who ruled his fate
In foolish fashion would dilate
On perils of the world outside,
And pity those that strove and press'd
(E'en she, who never had known, forsooth!
The snares of a defenceless youth,
Or set herself bravely to stem some tide
That might have needed a will to breast!),
In foolish fashion would dilate
On perils of the world outside,
And pity those that strove and press'd
(E'en she, who never had known, forsooth!
The snares of a defenceless youth,
Or set herself bravely to stem some tide
That might have needed a will to breast!),
Then would the bird whose wings were clipp'd
Look at the lady as she sipp'd
Her coffee from the gilded cup
(Sipp'd it, and found it sweet and good),
Propelling from each keen black eye,
That once had look'd on Liberty,
Enough of scorn to have withered up
The soul that could only have understood!
Look at the lady as she sipp'd
Her coffee from the gilded cup
(Sipp'd it, and found it sweet and good),
123
That once had look'd on Liberty,
Enough of scorn to have withered up
The soul that could only have understood!
As though he knew that lady bright,
Half mistress and half parasite,
Amidst the press of new-born things,
Must die the death and share the fate
Reserved for those who earn no place
Or part in Time's relentless race,
The butterflies whose painted wings
Outspread in the autumn, all too late,
Half mistress and half parasite,
Amidst the press of new-born things,
Must die the death and share the fate
Reserved for those who earn no place
Or part in Time's relentless race,
The butterflies whose painted wings
Outspread in the autumn, all too late,
And thus would come to be, ere long,
A thing of legend and of song,
To healthy human minds no more,
Once her appointed race was run,
Than the fairies who sat upon mushroom thrones
Or the mermaids who fed upon dead men's bones,
The play'd-out puppets of mythic lore
Whose days, by the light of our days, are done.
A thing of legend and of song,
To healthy human minds no more,
Once her appointed race was run,
124
Or the mermaids who fed upon dead men's bones,
The play'd-out puppets of mythic lore
Whose days, by the light of our days, are done.
Whilst his own brood, strong, fresh, and fair,
On wide spread wing would cleave the air
And dip and dive o'er the ocean wave,
And whirl and eddy before the wind,—
For all that their sire, a weary while,
Once spent his days in durance vile,
The slave of one, herself a slave,
Whose passing will leave no trace behind!
On wide spread wing would cleave the air
And dip and dive o'er the ocean wave,
And whirl and eddy before the wind,—
For all that their sire, a weary while,
Once spent his days in durance vile,
The slave of one, herself a slave,
Whose passing will leave no trace behind!
125
THE BEAR AND HIS LEADER
I
With dust of travel on his feet,
And lust of evil in his eye,
He strides along, the “tum-tums” beat,
The dogs all bark, the urchins fly.
And lust of evil in his eye,
He strides along, the “tum-tums” beat,
The dogs all bark, the urchins fly.
A prouder type of Nature's child
One well might search the world to find,
Strong, and untameable, and wild,
Yet learn'd in cunning of a kind.
One well might search the world to find,
Strong, and untameable, and wild,
Yet learn'd in cunning of a kind.
His stalwart limbs show lithe and brown
Betwixt the rents in coloured rags,
As thus he goes from to town
With swinging gait that never flags.
Betwixt the rents in coloured rags,
As thus he goes from to town
With swinging gait that never flags.
126
The hot sun beats upon his brow,
Beneath its mat of tangled hair,
His fierce teeth gleam in even row
(This is the man, and not the bear).
Beneath its mat of tangled hair,
His fierce teeth gleam in even row
(This is the man, and not the bear).
II
Patient and meek, with head abased,
And weary steps that lag and strain,
He follows, sad and solemn-faced,
A captive, led by noose and chain.
And weary steps that lag and strain,
He follows, sad and solemn-faced,
A captive, led by noose and chain.
His eyes are humbled to the dust,
He scarcely seems to see or hear;
He takes no heed of shove or thrust,
Of playful gibe or cruel jeer.
He scarcely seems to see or hear;
He takes no heed of shove or thrust,
Of playful gibe or cruel jeer.
He dreams, maybe, of forest-home,
This victim of an adverse fate;
Of fruited bough, and honeycomb,
And sportive young, and tender mate.
This victim of an adverse fate;
Of fruited bough, and honeycomb,
And sportive young, and tender mate.
127
“How long? How long?” he seems to sigh;
“Oh, weary while since this began!
My feet are sore, my throat is dry!”
(This is the bear, and not the man.)
“Oh, weary while since this began!
My feet are sore, my throat is dry!”
(This is the bear, and not the man.)
As thus along the village street
They pass, this uncongenial pair,
I think, “Which would I rather meet
Alone, the leader or the bear?”
They pass, this uncongenial pair,
I think, “Which would I rather meet
Alone, the leader or the bear?”
128
THE FORTY NAILS (“QIRQ-TANÉ CHIVI”)
Each time a bitter grief assails,
And lov'd ones hence depart,
The proverb says that forty nails
Are planted in the heart,
And lov'd ones hence depart,
The proverb says that forty nails
Are planted in the heart,
Whence, day by day, despite our pain,
A nail is bound to fall;
But one will evermore remain,
The sharpest of them all.
A nail is bound to fall;
But one will evermore remain,
The sharpest of them all.
Alas, alas! my heart and I
Well know that this is true!
How many nails, in days gone by,
Have pierced us through and through!
Well know that this is true!
How many nails, in days gone by,
Have pierced us through and through!
129
And some have dropped, as years went on,
For all our grief and pain,
But still, in spite of what are gone,
Full forty more remain.
For all our grief and pain,
But still, in spite of what are gone,
Full forty more remain.
Full forty more, ah, woe is me!
That grief will not let fall,
And one there is must ever be
The sharpest of them all!
That grief will not let fall,
And one there is must ever be
The sharpest of them all!
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