University of Virginia Library

Search this document 

collapse sectionI. 
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
collapse section 
EASTERN THOUGHTS
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse sectionII. 
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  


194

EASTERN THOUGHTS

I. THE THINKER AND THE POET.

Sunshine often falls refulgent
After all the corn is in;
Often Allah grants indulgent
Pleasure that may guard from sin:
Hence your wives may number four;
Though he best consults his reason,
Best secures his house from treason,
Who takes one and wants no more.
Nor less well the man once gifted
With one high and holy Thought,
Will not let his mind be shifted,
But adores it, as he ought;
Well for him whose spirit's youth
Rests as a contented lover,
Nor can other charms discover
Than in his absorbing Truth!

195

But the heaven-enfranchised Poet
Must have no exclusive home,
He must feel, and freely show it,—
Phantasy is made to roam:
He must give his passions range,
He must serve no single duty,
But from Beauty pass to Beauty,
Constant to a constant change.
With all races, of all ages,
He must people his Hareem;
He must search the tents of sages,
He must scour the vales of dream:
Ever adding to his store,
From new cities, from new nations,
He must rise to new creations,
And, unsated, ask for more.
In the manifold, the various,
He delights, as Nature's child,—
Grasps at joys the most precarious,
Rides on hopes, however wild!
Though his heart at times perceives
One enduring Love hereafter,
Glimmering through his tears and laughter,
Like the sun through autumn leaves.

196

II. THE EASTERN EPICUREAN.

You are moaning, “Life is waning,”
You are droning, “Flesh is weak:”
Tell me too, what I am gaining
While I listen, while you speak.
If you say the rose is blooming,
But the blast will soon destroy it,
Do so, not to set me glooming,
But to make me best enjoy it.
Calm the heart's insatiate yearning
Towards the distant, the unknown:
Only do so, without turning
Men to beasts, or flesh to stone.
Cry not loud, “The world is mad!
Lord! how long shall folly rule?”
If you've nothing but the sad
To replace the jovial fool.
Sorrow is its own clear preacher,—
Death is still on Nature's tongue;—
Life and joy require the teacher,
Honour Youth and keep it young.

197

Even you, ascetics, rightly,
Should appreciate Love and Joy;—
For what you regard so lightly
Where's the merit to destroy?

III.

“To endure and to pardon is the wisdom of life.” Kuràn, 42, v. 41.

Father! if we may well endure
The ill that with our lives begins,
May'st Thou, to whom all things are pure,
Endure our follies and our sins!
Brothers! if we return you good
For evil thought or malice done,
Doubt not, that in our hearts a blood
As hot as in your own may run.

198

IV. PHYSICAL AND MORAL BLINDNESS.

[_]

The hab'ts here alluded to are familiar to every traveller in those parts of the East where a large portion of the population are subject to ophthalmia and other diseases of the eyes, brought on by dirt and carelessness. In Egypt the number is much increased by those who have blinded themselves, or been blinded by their parents, to avoid the conscription.

The child whose eyes were never blest
With heavenly light, or lost it soon,
About another's neck will rest
Its arm, and walk like you at noon;
The blind old man will place his palm
Upon a child's fresh-blooming head,
And follow through the croud in calm
That infantine and trusty tread.
We, too, that in our spirits dark
Traverse a wild and weary way,
May in these sweet resources mark
A lesson, and be safe as they:
Resting, when young, in happy faith
On fair affection's daily bond,
And afterwards resigned to death,
Feeling the childly life beyond.

199

V. DISCORDANT ELEMENTS.

In the sight of God all-seeing
Once a handful of loose foam
Played upon the sea of being,
Like a child about its home:
In his smile it shone delighted,
Danced beneath his swaying hand,
But at last was cast benighted
On the cold and alien land.
Can it wait till waves returning
Bear it to its parent breast?
Can it bear the noontide's burning,
Dwelling Earth's contented guest?
Oh! no,—it will filter slowly
Through the hard ungenial shore,
Till each particle be wholly
In the deep absorbed once more.

200

VI. THE TWO THEOLOGIES.

THE MYSTIC

It must be that the light divine
That on your soul is pleased to shine
Is other than what falls on mine:
For you can fix and formalize
The Power on which you raise your eyes,
And trace him in his palace-skies;
You can perceive and almost touch
His attributes as such and such,
Almost familiar overmuch.
You can his thoughts and ends display,
In fair historical array,
From Adam to the judgment-day.
You can adjust to time and place
The sweet effusions of his grace,
And feel yourself before his face.

201

You walk as in some summer night,
With moon or stars serenely bright,
On which you gaze—at ease—upright.
But I am like a flower sun-bent,
Exhaling all its life and scent
Beneath the heat omnipotent.
I have not comforts such as you,—
I rather suffer good than do,—
Yet God is my Deliverer too.
I cannot think Him here or there—
I think Him ever everywhere—
Unfading light, unstifled air.
I lay a piteous mortal thing,—
Yet shadowed by his spirit's wing,
A deathless life could in me spring:
And thence I am, and still must be;
What matters whether I or He?—
Little was there to love in me.
I know no beauty, bliss, or worth,
In that which we call Life on earth,
That we should mourn its loss or dearth:

202

That we should sorrow for its sake,
If God will the imperfect take
Unto Himself, and perfect make.
O Lord! our separate lives destroy!
Merge in thy gold our soul's alloy,—
Pain is our own, and Thou art Joy!

203

VII. LOSS AND GAIN.

Myriad Roses, unregretted, perish in their vernal bloom,
That the essence of their sweetness once your Beauty may perfume.
Myriad Veins of richest life-blood empty for their priceless worth,
To exalt one Will imperial over spacious realms of earth.
Myriad Hearts are pained and broken that one Poet may be taught
To discern the shapes of passion and describe them as he ought.
Myriad Minds of heavenly temper pass as passes moon or star,
That one philosophic Spirit may ascend the solar car.
Sacrifice and Self-devotion hallow earth and fill the skies,
And the meanest Life is sacred whence the highest may arise.

204

VIII. THE MOTH.

Parted from th' eternal presence,
Into life the Soul is born,
In its fragmentary essence
Left unwittingly forlorn.
In the shrubbery's scented shadows
First the insect tries its wings,
In the evening's misty meadows
It pursues the faëry rings.
Where the trelliced roses clamber,
And the jasmine peeps between,
Looks the gardener's lowly chamber
On the garden—on the green.
Through the sultry veil of vapour,
Like a nearer nether star,
Shines the solitary taper,
Seen and known by friend afar.
Then the Moth, by strange attraction,
Leaves the garden, leaves the field,
Cannot rest in sweet inaction,
Cannot taste what earth can yield.

205

As the lov'd one to the lover,
As a treasure, once your own,
That you might some way recover,
Seems to him that fiery cone.
Round he whirls with pleasure tingling—
Shrinks aghast—returns again—
Ever wildly intermingling
Deep delight and burning pain.
Highest nature wills the capture,
“Light to light” th' instinct cries,
And, in agonising rapture,
Falls the Moth, and bravely dies!
Think not what thou art, Believer;
Think but what thou may'st become;
For the World is thy deceiver,
And the Light thy only home!

206

IX. THE SAYINGS OF RABIA.

[_]

Rabia was a holy woman, who lived in the second century of the Hegira. Her sayings and thoughts are collected by many devotional Arabic writers: they are a remarkable development of a purely Christian mystical spirit so early in the history of Islam; the pantheistic mysticism of Sufism soon followed, and obtained a signal victory over the bare positive theism of the Prophet, clothing the heartless doctrine with a radiant vesture of imagination.

I.

A pious friend one day of Rabia asked,
How she had learnt the truth of Allah wholly?
By what instructions was her memory tasked—
How was her heart estranged from this world's folly?
She answered—“Thou who knowest God in parts,
Thy spirit's moods and processes, can tell;
I only know that in my heart of hearts
I have despised myself and loved Him well.”

II.

Some evil upon Rabia fell,
And one who loved and knew her well
Murmured that God with pain undue
Should strike a child so fond and true:
But she replied—“Believe and trust
That all I suffer is most just;

207

I had in contemplation striven
To realise the joys of heaven;
I had extended fancy's flights
Through all that region of delights,—
Had counted, till the numbers failed,
The pleasures on the blest entailed,—
Had sounded the ecstatic rest
I should enjoy on Allah's breast;
And for those thoughts I now atone
That were of something of my own,
And were not thoughts of Him alone.”

III.

When Rabia unto Mekkeh came,
She stood awhile apart—alone,
Nor joined the croud with hearts on flame
Collected round the sacred stone.
She, like the rest, with toil had crossed
The waves of water, rock, and sand,
And now, as one long tempest-tossed,
Beheld the Kaabeh's promised land.
Yet in her eyes no transport glistened;
She seemed with shame and sorrow bowed;
The shouts of prayer she hardly listened,
But beat her heart and cried aloud:—

208

“O heart! weak follower of the weak,
That thou should'st traverse land and sea,
In this far place that God to seek
Who long ago had come to thee!”

IV.

Round holy Rabia's suffering bed
The wise men gathered, gazing gravely—
“Daughter of God!” the youngest said,
“Endure thy Father's chastening bravely;
They who have steeped their souls in prayer
Can every anguish calmly bear.”
She answered not, and turned aside,
Though not reproachfully nor sadly;
“Daughter of God!” the eldest cried,
“Sustain thy Father's chastening gladly,
They who have learnt to pray aright,
From pain's dark well draw up delight.”
Then she spoke out,—“Your words are fair;
But, oh! the truth lies deeper still;
I know not, when absorbed in prayer,
Pleasure or pain, or good or ill;
They who God's face can understand
Feel not the motions of His hand.”

209

X. PLEASURE AND PAIN.

Who can determine the frontier of Pleasure?
Who can distinguish the limit of Pain?
Where is the moment the feeling to measure?
When is experience repeated again?
Ye who have felt the delirium of passion—
Say, can ye sever its joys and its pangs?
Is there a power in calm contemplation
To indicate each upon each as it hangs?
I would believe not;—for spirit will languish
While sense is most blest and creation most bright;
And life will be dearer and clearer in anguish
Than ever was felt in the throbs of delight.
See the Fakeer as he swings on his iron,
See the thin Hermit that starves in the wild;
Think ye no pleasures the penance environ,
And hope the sole bliss by which pain is beguiled?
No! in the kingdoms those spirits are reaching,
Vain are our words the emotions to tell;
Vain the distinctions our senses are teaching,
For Pain has its Heaven and Pleasure its Hell!

210

XI. THE PEACE OF GOD.

“The blessed shall hear no vain words, but only the word—Peace.” Kuran, chap. xix. v. 63.

Peace is God's direct assurance
To the souls that win release
From this world of hard endurance—
Peace—he tells us—only Peace.
There is Peace in lifeless matter—
There is Peace in dreamless sleep—
Will then Death our being shatter
In annihilation's deep?
Ask you this? O mortal trembler!
Hear the Peace that Death affords—
For your God is no dissembler,
Cheating you with double words:—
To this life's inquiring traveller,
Peace of knowledge of all good;
To the anxious truth-unraveller,
Peace of wisdom understood:—

211

To the loyal wife, affection
Towards her husband, free from fear,—
To the faithful friend, selection
Of all memories kind and dear:—
To the lover, full fruition
Of an unexhausted joy,—
To the warior, crowned ambition,
With no envy's base alloy:—
To the ruler, sense of action,
Working out his great intent,—
To the prophet, satisfaction
In the mission he was sent:—
To the poet, conscious glory
Flowing from his Father's face:—
Such is Peace in holy story,
Such is Peace in heavenly grace.

212

XII. CHRISTIAN ENDURANCE.

TO HARRIET MARTINEAU.

Mortal! that standest on a point of time,
With an eternity on either hand,
Thou hast one duty above all sublime,
Where thou art placed serenely there to stand:
To stand undaunted by the threatening death,
Or harder circumstance of living doom,
Nor less untempted by the odorous breath
Of Hope, that rises even from the tomb.
For Hope will never dull the present pain,
And Time will never keep thee safe from fall,
Unless thou hast in thee a mind to reign
Over thyself, as God is over all.
'Tis well on deeds of good, though small, to thrive,
'Tis well some part of ill, though small, to cure,
'Tis well with onward, upward, hopes to strive,
Yet better and diviner to endure.

213

What but this virtue's solitary power,
Through all the lusts and dreams of Greece and Rome,
Bore the selected spirits of the hour
Safe to a distant, immaterial home?
What but this lesson, resolutely taught,
Of Resignation, as God's claim and due,
Hallows the sensuous hopes of Eastern thought,
And makes Mohammed's mission almost true?
But in that patience was the seed of scorn—
Scorn of the world and brotherhood of man;
Not patience such as in the manger born
Up to the cross endured its earthly span.
Thou must endure, yet loving all the while,
Above, yet never separate from, thy kind,—
Meet every frailty with the gentlest smile,
Though to no possible depth of evil blind.
This is the riddle thou hast life to solve;
But in the task thou shalt not work alone:
For, while the worlds about the sun revolve,
God's heart and mind are ever with his own!
 

The meaning of the word “Muslim:”—“El Islam” also signifies “the resigning.”


214

THE KIOSK.

Beneath the shadow of a large-leaved plane,
Above the ripple of a shallow stream,
Beside a cypress-planted cemetery,
In a gay-painted trellis-worked kiosk,
A company of easy Muslims sat,
Enjoying the calm measure of delight
God grants the faithful even here on earth.
Most pleasantly the bitter berry tastes,
Handed by that bright-eyed and neat-limbed boy;
Most daintily the long chibouk is filled
And almost before emptied, filled again;
Or, with a free good-will, from mouth to mouth
Passes the cool Nargheelee serpentine.
So sit they, with some low occasional word
Breaking the silence in itself so sweet,
While o'er the neighbouring bridge the caravan
Winds slowly in one line interminable

215

Of camel after camel, each with neck
Jerked up, as sniffing the far desert air.
Then one serene old Turk, with snow-white beard
Hanging amid his pistol-hilts profuse,
Spoke out—“Till sunset all the time is ours,
And we should take advantage of the chance
That brings us here together. This my friend
Tells by his shape of dress and peakèd cap
Where his home lies: he comes from furthest off,
So let the round of tales begin with him.”
Thus challenged, in his thoughts the Persian dived,
And, with no waste of faint apologies,
Related a plain story of his life,
Nothing adventurous, terrible, or strange,
But, as he said, a simple incident,
That any one there present might have known.
 

The hookah of the Levant.

THE PERSIAN'S STORY.

“Wakedi, and the Heshemite, and I,
Called each the other friend, and what we meant
By all the meaning of that common word,
One tale among a hundred—one round pearl
Dropped off the chain of daily circumstance
Into the Poet's hand—one luscious fruit
Scarce noticed in the summer of the tree,
Is here preserved, that you may do the like.

216

“The Ramadhan's long days (where'er they fall
Certain to seem the longest of the year)
Were nearly over, and the populous streets
Were silent as if haunted by the plague;
For all the town was crowding the bazaar,
To buy new garments, as beseemed the time,
In honour of the Prophet and themselves.
But in our house my wife and I still sat,
And looked with sorrow in each other's face.
It was not for ourselves—we well could let
Our present clothes serve out another year,
And meet the neighbours' scoffs with quiet minds;
But for our children we were grieved and shamed;
That they should have to hide their little heads,
And take no share of pleasure in the Feast,
Or else contrast their torn and squalid vests
With the gay freshness of their playmates' garb.
At last my wife spoke out—‘Where are your friends?
Where is Wakedi? where the Heshemite?
That you are worn and pale with want of gold,
And they perchance with coin laid idly by
In some closed casket, or in some vain sport
Wasted, for want of honest purposes?’
My heart leapt light within me at these words,
And I, rejoicing at my pain as past,
Sent one I trusted to the Heshemite,
Told him my need in few plain written words,
And, ere an hour had passed, received from him

217

A purse of gold tied up, sealed with his name:
And in a moment I was down the street,
And, in my mind's eye, chose the children's clothes.
—But between will and deed, however near,
There often lies a gulf impassable.
So, ere I reached the gate of the Bazaar,
Wakedi's slave accosted me—his breath
Cut short with haste; and from his choaking throat
His master's message issued word by word.
The sum was this:—a cruel creditor,
Taking the 'vantage of the season's use,
Pressed on Wakedi for a debt, and swore
That, unless paid ere evening-prayer, the law
Should wring by force the last of his demand.
Wakedi had no money in the house,
And I was prayed, in this his sudden strait,
To aid him, in my duty as a friend.
Of course I took the Heshemite's sealed purse
Out of my breast, and gave it to the slave;
Yet I must own, oppressed with foolish fear
Of my wife's tears, and, might be, bitter words,
If empty-handed I had home returned,
I sat all night, half-sleeping, in the mosque,
Beneath the glimmering feathers, eggs, and lamps,
And only in the morning nerved my heart,
To tell her of our disappointed pride.
She, when I stammered out my best excuse,
Abashed me with her kind approving calm,

218

Saying—‘The parents' honour clothes the child.’
Thus I grew cheerful in her cheerfulness,
And we began to sort the children's vests,
And found them not so sordid after all.
‘This might be turned—that stain might well be hid—
This remnant might be used.’ So we went on
Almost contented, till surprised we saw
The Heshemite approach, and with quick steps
Enter the house, and in his hand he showed
The very purse tied up, sealed with his name,
Which I had given to help Wakedi's need!
At once he asked us, mingling words and smiles,
‘What means this secret? you sent yester morn
Asking for gold, and I, without delay,
Returned the purse containing all I had.
But I too found myself that afternoon
Wanting to buy a sash to grace the feast;
And sending to Wakedi, from my slave
Received this purse I sent you the same morn
Unopened.’ ‘Easy riddle,’ I replied,
‘And, as I hope, no miracle for me—
That what you gave me for my pleasure's fee
Should serve Wakedi in his deep distress.’
And then I told him of Wakedi's fate:
And we were both o'ercome with anxious care
Lest he, obeying his pure friendship's call,
Had perilled his own precious liberty,
Or suffered some hard judgment of the law.

219

But to our great delight and inward peace,
Wakedi a few moments after stood
Laughing behind us, ready to recount,
How Allah, loving the unshrinking faith
With which he had supplied his friend's desire
Regardless of his own necessity,
Assuaged the creditor's strong rage, and made
His heart accessible to gentle thoughts,
Granting Wakedi time to pay the debt.
—Thus our three tales were gathered into one,
Just as I give them you, and with the purse
Then opened in the presence of the three—
We gave my children unpretending vests,
Applied a portion to Wakedi's debts,
And bought the Heshemite the richest sash
The best silk merchant owned in the Bazaar.”
Soon as he ceased, a pleasant murmur rose,
Not only of applause, but of good words,
Dwelling upon the subject of the tale;
Each to his neighbour in low utterance spoke
Of Friendship and its blessings, and God's grace,
By which man is not left alone to fight.
His daily battle through a cruel world.
The next in order, by his garb and look,
A Syrian merchant seemed, who made excuse

220

That he had nothing of his own to tell,
But if the adventure of one like himself,
Who roamed the world for interchange of gain,
Encountering all the quaint varieties
Of men and nature, pleased them, it was theirs.

THE SYRIAN'S STORY.

“A merchant of Damascus, to whom gain
Tasted the sweetest when most boldly won,
Crossed the broad Desert, crossed th' Arabian Gulf,
Entered with goods the far-secluded land
That Franks call Abyssinia, and became
The favourite and companion of its King.
And little wonder—for to that rude chief
He spoke of scenes and sights so beautiful,
Of joys and splendours that had hardly place
In his imagined Paradise, of arts
By which all seasons were made sweet and mild.
In the hot sandy winds and blazing sun,
He spoke of alleys of delicious shade,
Of coloured glass that tempered the sharp light,
Of fountains bubbling up through heaps of flowers,
And boys and maidens fanning genial airs:
In the bleak snow-time, when the winds rung shrill
Through the ill-jointed palace, he pourtrayed
The Syrian winter of refreshing cool,

221

And breezes pregnant with all health to man.
At last the King no more could hold in check
The yearning of his heart, and spoke aloud—
‘Friend! what is now to me my royal state,
My free command of all these tribes of men,
My power to slay or keep alive,—my wealth,
Which once I deemed the envy of all kings,—
If by my life amid these wild waste hills
I am shut out from that deliciousness
Which makes existence heavenly in your words,—
If I must pass into my Father's tomb,
These pleasures all untasted, this bright earth
To me in one dark corner only known?
Why should I not, for some, short time, lay by
My heavy sceptre, and with wealth in hand,
And thee to guide and light me in my path,
Travel to those fair countries God-endowed,—
And then with store of happy memories,
And thoughts, for pauses of the lion-hunt,
And tales to tell, to keep the evenings warm,
Return once more to my paternal throne?’
Gladly the merchant, weary with his stay
In that far land, and fearing lest kind force
Might hold him prisoner there for some long time,
Accepted the proposal, praised the scheme
As full of wise, and just, and manly thought,
Recounted the advantages the land
Would from their King's experience surely draw:

222

And ended by determining the day
When they two should set out upon their road,
Worthily armed, with ample store of gold,
And gems adroitly hid about their dress.
“The day arrived, big with such change of life
To this brave Monarch: in barbaric pomp
Were gathered all the princes of the race,
All men of name and prowess in the state,
And tributary chiefs from Ethiop hills.
With mingled admiration and dismay
They heard the King announce he should go forth
To distant nations ere that sun went down;—
That for two years they would not see his face;
But then he trusted God he should return
Enriched with wisdom, worthier of his rule,
And able to impart much good to them.
Then to the trust of honourable men
Committing separate provinces and towns,
And over all, in delegated rule,
Establishing his favourite brother's power,
Amid applauses, tumults, prayers, and tears,
Towards the Arabian Gulf he bent his way.
A well-manned boat lay ready on the shore;
A prosperous gale was playing on the sea;
And after some few days of pleasant sail,
From Djedda's port to Mekkeh's blessed walls
The Merchant and the King advanced alone.

223

“At every step he made in this new world,
At every city where they stopped a while
On their long journey, with the fresh delight
His eye was ravished and his heart was full;
And when at last upon his vision flashed
Holy Damascus, with its mosques, and streams,
A gem of green set in the golden sand,
The King embraced his friend; and, thanking God
That he had led him to this heaven, despised
The large dominion of his Afric birth,
And vowed he'd rather be a plain man there,
Than rule o'er all the sources of the Nile.
Thus in Damascus they were safely housed,
And as the King's gold through the Merchant's hands
Flowed freely, friends came pouring in amain,
Deeming it all the fortunate reward
Of the bold Merchants venture; for he spoke
To none about the secret King, who seemed
Rather some humble fond companion brought
From the far depths of that gold-teeming land.
Oh! what a life of luxury was there!
Velvet divans, curtains of broidered silk,
Carpets, as fine a work of Persian looms
As those that in the Mosque at Mekkeh lie;
The longest, straitest, pipes in all the East,
With amber mouth-pieces as clear as air;

224

Fresh sparkling sherbet, such as Franks adore;
And maidens who might dazzle by their charms
The Sultan seated in his full Hareem.
The months rolled on with no diminished joys,
Nay, each more lavish in magnificence
Than that which went before; and, drunk with pleasure,
The Merchant lost all sense and estimate
Of the amount of wealth he and the King
Had brought together from that distant clime.
The gold was soon exhausted, yet remained
A princely store of jewels, which for long
Sustained that fabric of enchanted life,
But one by one were spent and passed away;
Then came the covert sale of splendours bought;
Then money borrowed easily at first,
But every time extracted with more pain
From the strong griping clutch of usury.
But all the while, unwitting of the truth,
Without the faintest shadow of distrust
Of his friend's prudence, care, or honesty,
Taking whatever share of happiness
He gave him with an absolute content,
Tranquil the Abyssinian King remained,
Confiding and delighted as a child.
 

Statius (Sylv. 1, 6, 14), speaks of Syrian plums, as, “Quod ramis pia germinat Damascus.”

Our champagne is the favourite sherbet of the East.

“At last the hour came on, though long delayed,
When the bare fact before the Merchant's eyes

225

Stood out, that he was ruined without hope!
What could be done? Not only for himself,
But for his friend, that poor deluded King,
Become an useless burthen on his hands?
He knew his doors, that guests so lately thronged,
Would soon be thronged as thick with creditors;
And he himself, by law, be forced to pay
In person, where he had no gold to give:
He must escape that very hour—but how?
Without one good piastre to defray
His cost upon the road, or bribe the porters
To set his creditors on some false scent.
Then rose a thought within him, and, it seemed,
Was gladly welcomed by a sudden start,
And a half-cruel, half-compassionate, smile.
For straight he sought the Abyssinian King,
Whom he found watching with a quiet smile
The gold fish in the fountain gleam and glide.
He led him, ever ductile, by the hand
Down many streets into a close-built court
Where sat together many harsh-browed men,
Whom he accosted thus: ‘Friends, I want gold;
Here is a slave I brought with me last year
From Abyssinia; he is stout and strong,
And, but for some strange crotchets in his head
Of his own self-importance and fond dreams,
Which want a little waking now and then
By means that you at least know well to use,

226

A trusty servant and long-headed man;
Take him at your own price—I have no time
To drive a bargain.’ ‘Well, so much,’—one cried—
‘So much’ another. ‘Bring your purses out,
You have bid most, and let me count the coin.’
Dumb as a rock the Abyssinian King,
Gathering the meaning of the villany,
Stood for a while; then, in a frantic burst,
Rushed at his base betrayer, who, his arm
Avoiding, gathered up his gold and fled:
And the slave-merchant, as a man to whom
All wild extremities of agony
Were just as common as his daily bread,
Shouted, and like a felon in a cage
The King was soon forced down by many hands.
“None know what afterwards became of him:
Haply he died, as was the best for him;
And, but that the false Merchant, proud of crime,
Oft told the story as a good device
And laughable adventure of his craft,
The piteous fate of that deluded King
Had been as little known to anyone
As to the subjects of his distant realm,
Who still, perchance, expect their Lord's return,
Laden with all the wealth of Eastern lands.”

227

'Twas strange to see how upon different minds
The Syrian's tale with different meanings fell.
One moralised of the vicissitudes
Of mortal greatness, how the spider's web
Is just as safe from harm and violence
As the bright-woven destiny of kings.
Another cursed the Merchant for his deed:
And a third laughed aloud and laughed again,
Considering the strange contrast of the pomp
Of that departure from a regal throne
And grand commission of so many powers,
With the condition of a kennelled slave;
For true it is, that nothing moves to mirth
More than the gap that fortune often leaps,
Dragging some wretched man along with her.
To an Egyptian soldier, scarred and bronzed,
The duty of narration came the next:
Who said, “that soldiers' tales were out of place
Told in calm places and at evening hours:
His songs required the music of the gun:
He could recount a thousand desperate feats,
Hair-breadth escapes and miracles of war,
Were he but cowering round a low watch-fire
Almost in hearing of the enemy;
But now his blood was cold, and he was dull,
And even had forgot his own wild past.
They all had heard—had East and West not heard

228

Of Mehemet Ali and of Ibrahim?
It might be that the Great Pasha was great,
But he was fond of trade—of getting gold,
Not by fair onslaught and courageous strength,
But by mean interchange with other lands
Of produce better in his own consumed;
This was like treason to a soldier's heart;
And all he hoped was that when Ibrahim
Sat in his father's seat, he would destroy
That flight of locusts—Jew, and Greek, and Frank,
Who had corrupted Egypt and her power,
By all their mercenary thoughts and acts,
And sent him there, brave soldier as he was,
To go beg service at the Sultan's hand.
Yet Ibrahim's heart was still a noble one;
No man could contradict him and not fear
Some awful vengeance;—was this story known?”

THE EGYPTIAN'S STORY

“Once, when in Syria he had let war loose,
And was reducing, under one strong sway,
Druses, and Christians, and Mohammedans,
He heard that his lost child, the favourite
Born of a favourite wife, had been let fall
By a young careless Nubian nurse, and hurt,
So as to cripple it through all its days.
No word of anger passed the warrior's lips,—

229

No one would think the story on his mind
Rested a single moment. But due time
Brought round his glad return, and he once more
Entered his hall, within which, on each side,
Long marble stairs curved towards the balcony,
Where right and left the women's chambers spread;
Upon the landing stood the glad Hareem
To welcome him with music, shouts, and songs;
Yet he would not ascend a single step,
But cried—‘Where is the careless Nubian girl
That let my child fall on the stony ground?’
Trembling and shrieking down one marble flight
She was pushed forward, till she reached the floor:
Then Ibrahim caught her in one giant grasp,
Dragged her towards him, and one brawny hand
Tight-twisting in her long and glossy hair,
And with the other drawing the sharp sword
Well known at Nezib and at Koniah,
Sheer from her shoulders severed the young head,
And casting it behind him, at few bounds
Cleared the high stair and to his bosom pressed
The darling wife his deed had just reveng'd.
O! he is god-like in his hour of rage!
His wrath is like the plague that falls on man
With indiscriminate fury, and for this
His name is honoured through the spacious East,
Where all things powerful meet their just reward.”

230

The Soldier paused; and surely some one else
Had taken up the burden of a tale;
But at that moment through the cypress stems
Shot the declining crimson of the sun
Full on the faces of that company,
Who for some instants in deep silence watched
The last appearance of the ruddy rim,
And, little needing the clear warning voice
Which issued round the neighbouring minaret,—
Bidding all earthly thoughts and interests
Sink in their breasts as sunk that fiery sun—
Bowed, old and young, their heads in blest accord,
Believers in one Prophet and one God!
 

Story-telling is, now as ever, the delight of the East: in the coffee and summer houses, at the corners of the streets, in the courts of the mosque, sit the grave and attentive crowd, hearing with childly pleasure the same stories over and over again, applauding every new turn of expression or incident, but not requiring them any more than the hearers of a European sermon.


231

THE TENT.

Why should a man raise stone and wood
Between him and the sky?
Why should he fear the brotherhood
Of all things from on high?
Why should a man not raise his form
As shelterless and free
As stands in sunshine or in storm
The mountain and the tree?
Or if we thus, as creatures frail
Before our time should die,
And courage and endurance fail
Weak Nature to supply;—
Let us at least a dwelling choose,
The simplest that can keep
From parching heat and noxious dews
Our pleasure and our sleep.
The Fathers of our mortal race,
While still remembrance nursed
Traditions of the glorious place
Whence Adam fled accursed,—

232

Rested in tents, as best became
Children, whose mother earth
Had overspread with sinful shame
The beauty of her birth.
In cold they sought the sheltered nook,
In heat the airy shade,
And oft their casual home forsook
The morrow it was made;
Diverging many separate roads,
They wandered, fancy-driven,
Nor thought of other fixed abodes
Than Paradise or Heaven.
And while this holy sense remained,
'Mid easy shepherd cares,
In tents they often entertained
The Angels unawares:
And to their spirits' fervid gaze
The mystery was revealed,
How the world's wound in future days
Should by God's love be healed.
Thus we, so late and far a link
Of generation's chain,
Delight to dwell in tents, and think
The old world young again;

233

With Faith as wide and Thought as narrow
As theirs, who little more
From life demanded than the sparrow
Gay-chirping by the door.
The Tent! how easily it stands,
Almost as if it rose
Spontaneous from the green or sand,
Express for our repose:
Or, rather, it is we who plant
This root, where'er we roam,
And hold, and can to others grant,
The comforts of a home.
Make the Divan—the carpets spread,
The ready cushions pile;
Rest, weary heart! rest, weary head!
From pain and pride awhile:
And all your happiest memories woo,
And mingle with your dreams
The yellow desert glimmering through
The subtle veil of beams.
We all have much we would forget—
Be that forgotten now!
And placid Hope, instead, shall set
Her seal upon your brow:

234

Imagination's prophet eye
By her shall view unfurled
The future greatnesses that lie
Hid in the Eastern world.
To slavish tyrannies their term
Of terror she foretells;
She brings to bloom the faith whose germ
In Islam deeply dwells;
Accomplishing each mighty birth
That shall one day be born
From marriage of the western earth
With nations of the morn!
Then fold the Tent—then on again;
One spot of ashen black,
The only sign that here has lain
The traveller's recent track:
And gladly forward, safe to find
At noon and eve a home,
Till we have left our Tent behind,
The homeless ocean-foam!

235

THE BURDEN OF EGYPT.

[_]

Our land is the temple of the world, but Egypt will be forsaken, and the land which was once the seat of the divinity will be void of religion. Then this holy seat will be full of idolatry, idols' temples, and dead men's tombs. O Egypt! there will remain only a faint show of thy religion, not believed by posterity, and nought but the letters engraven on thy pillars will declare thy pious deeds. The divinity will fly to heaven, and Egypt will be forsaken by God and man. I call upon Thee, most holy River! I foretell unto Thee what will come to pass. Thy waters and holy streams will be filled with blood, and will overflow thy banks, so that the dead will be more numerous than the living; and he that remains alive will be known to be an Egyptian only by his language, but in his deeds he will seem a barbarian. Hermes Trismegistus.

I

After the phantasies of many a night,
After the deep desires of many a day,
Rejoicing as an ancient Eremite
Upon the Desert's edge at last I lay:
Before me rose, in wonderful array,
Those works where man has rivalled Nature most,
Those Pyramids, that fear no more decay
Than waves inflict upon the rockiest coast,
Or winds on mountain-steeps, and like endurance boast.

II

Fragments the deluge of old Time has left
Behind it in its subsidence—long Walls

236

Of cities of their very names bereft—
Lone Columns, remnants of majestic halls,—
Rich-traceried chambers, where the night-dew falls,—
All have I seen with feelings due, I trow,
Yet not with such as these memorials
Of the great unremembered, that can show
The mass and shape they wore four thousand years ago.

III

The screaming Arabs left me there alone,
Hoping small gain from one who silent dreamed;
Till o'er the sand each solemn shadow thrown
Like that of Etna to my fancy seemed,
While in the minaretted distance gleamed
Purple and faint-green relics of the day,
And the warm air grew chill, and then I deemed
I saw a Shape dark-lined against the gray
Slowly approach my couch, but whence I could not say.

IV

The starry beauty of its earnest gaze
The heavenly nature of that form revealed,

237

Seen through the dimness of the evening haze,
That magnified the figure it concealed:
It was the Genius who has trust to wield
The destinies of this our living hour,
Who wills not that the studious heart should shield
Itself from the requirements of his power,
Or seek a selfish rest, whatever tempests lour.

V

Just at that moment, o'er the stony East
An arch of crimson radiance caught my sight,
That gradually expanded and increast,
Till the large moon arose—and all was light!
Then I beheld advancing opposite
Another Shape, to which the Genius turned
As with a look of anger and despite,
While with a curious eagerness I burned,
And marked the Shape as one that much my weal concerned.

VI

It was a female Form—divinely tall,
Yet somewhat bowed, as by invisible weight,
A face whose pallor almost might appal,
Had not the charm of features been so great:
Her gathered amice, like the web of fate,

238

Was party-coloured, and her forehead bound
With such gold-work as fairies fabricate
In flowery cells, and stamp with letters round
That mock the learned sage and foolish eyes astound.

VII

But passing by her without word or sign
The first came straight to me and looked awhile,
And laid his hand affectionately on mine,
And veiled his sternness with a gentle smile:
Making, by some unutterable wile,
The homely duties I could hardly prize,
And occupations I had left as vile,
Rise to my conscience like domestic ties,
For which my soul was bound all else to sacrifice.

VIII

“Thou that art born into this favoured age,
So fertile in all enterprise of thought,
Bound in fresh mental conflicts to engage
The liberties for which your fathers fought,—
Be not thy spirit contemplation-fraught,
Musing and mourning! Thou must act and move,
Must teach your children more than ye were taught,
Brighten intelligence, disseminate love,
And, through the world around, make way to worlds above.

239

IX

“The total surface of this sphered earth
Is now surveyed by philosophic eyes;
Nor East nor West conceals a secret worth—
In the wide Ocean no Atlantis lies:
Nations and men, that would be great and wise,
Thou knowest, can do no more than men have done;
No wondrous impulse, no divine surprise,
Can bring this planet nearer to the sun,—
Civilisation's prize no royal road has won.

X

“So not to distant people, to far times,
Turn mind and heart, life's honest artisan!
Seek not miraculous virtues, mighty crimes,
Making a demon or a god of man:
Deem not that ever, wide as mind can scan,
He has been better in the mass than now,
A thing of wider intellectual span,
A creature of more elevated brow,
A being Hope has right more richly to endow.”

XI

Thus in clear language, not without reproof,
The Spirit of the Present, eagle-eyed,
Conjured me not to lie in thought aloof
From actual life, casting my fancy wide:

240

I know not what my tongue confused replied;
But she to whom my anxious looks appealed,
Now seated near in tutelary pride,
Spoke firmly for me, and would nowise yield
A cause she felt at heart, and on so fair a field.

XII

She cried, “I am the Past!” and I inherit
Some rights and powers that thou canst not dethrone,
Therefore, unresting and untiring Spirit,
Thou shalt not make the Poet all thine own:
Time was when all men deemed that I alone
Was chartered his bright presence to possess,
That thou in heart and hand wert cold as stone,
And he would perish in thy rude caress,
Strong to insult and crush, but impotent to bless.

XIII

“But things are changed: over the Poet's soul
No more my sway and dignities extend,—
Thy influences now his moods control,
If yet my lover, he is more thy friend:
But, since his errant footsteps hither tend,
Some little while by me he must remain,
Some little while beneath my memories bend,
And, when he hath full-stored his eager brain,
He shall return and be thy servitor again.

241

XIV

“And surely here I claim but what I ought
In this my holiest place, my special shrine,
My Land of Egypt! where the human thought
Is linked to Chaos and the light divine,
Disparting darkness—led from line to line
Of regal generations deep engraved,
Or richly wrought in hieroglyphic sign,
On Palaces, Tombs, Temples, that have saved
Their beauty through such storms as rocks have hardly braved.

XV

“Here Fancy bows to Truth: Eldest of Time,
Child of the world's fresh morning, Egypt saw
These Pyramids rise gradually sublime,
And eras pass, whose records, as with awe,
Nature has willed from History to withdraw;
Yet learn, that on these stones has Abraham gazed,
These regions round acknowledged Joseph's law,
That obelisk from granite bed was raised,
Ere Moses in its shade sat and Jehovah praised.

XVI

“This Nile was populous with floating life
For ages ere the Argo swept the seas,

242

Ere Helen woke the fires of Grecian strife
Thebes had beheld a hundred dynasties:
And when the Poet, whom all grandeurs please,
Named her the Hundred-gated and the Queen
Of earthly cities, she had reached the lees
Of her large cup of glory, and was seen
Image and type of what her perfect pride had been.

XVII

“Here Greece, so often hailed progenitrix
Of mortal wisdom, nurse of ancient lore,
First skilled the ideal beautiful to fix
In plastic forms that shall not perish more,
Seems a pretender, who astutely bore
O'er his young locks a show of reverent grey,—
And Rome, whose greatness thou couldst once adore,
Appears, with all her circumstance of sway,
A mere familiar face, a thing of yesterday.

XVIII

“Thus recognise that here the Past is all,
And Thou, the Present, nothing: no display

243

Of intellectual vigour can appal
Me, who can count the ages as a day:
But lest thy subtle words should lead astray
Him, who to me commits his heart awhile,
Depart to thine own kingdoms far away;
And we with grave delight will days beguile
Of wintry name, but blest with summer's blandest smile.”

XIX

So were we left, the Past and I together;
But how wise converse did itself unfold,
And how we breathed in that delicious weather
Whose balm was never hurt by heat or cold,
And how the scrolls of Nature were uprolled
Before me in that sacred company,
Are what can never in such words be told
As may seem worthy the reality:
Faint are the shades I give of what was given to me.

XX

O Thou beneficent and bounteous stream!
Thou Patriarch River! on whose ample breast
We dwelt the time that full at once could seem
Of busiest travel and of softest rest:
No wonder that thy being was so blest

244

That gratitude of old to worship grew,
That as a living God Thou wert addrest,
And to itself the immediate agent drew
To one creative power the feelings only due.

XXI

For in thy title and in Nature's truth
Thou art and makest Egypt: were thy source
But once arrested in its bubbling youth,
Or turned extravagant to some new course,
By a fierce crisis of convulsive force,
Egypt would cease to be—the intrusive sand
Would smother its rich fields without remorse,
And scarce a solitary palm would stand
To tell, that barren vale was once the wealthiest land.

XXII

Scarce with more certain order waves the Sun
His matin banners in the Eastern sky,
Than at the reckoned period are begun
Thy operations of fertility;

245

Through the long sweep thy bosom swelling high
Expands between the sandy mountain chains,
The walls of Libya and of Araby,
Till in the active virtue it contains
The desert bases sink and rise prolific plains.

XXIII

See through the naked length no blade of grass,
No animate sign relieves the dismal strand,
Such it might seem our orb's first substance was,
Ere touched by God with generative hand;
Yet at one step we reach the teeming land
Lying fresh-green beneath the scorching sun,
As succulent as if at its command
It held all rains that fall, all brooks that run,
And this, O generous Nile! is thy vast benison.

XXIV

Whence comest Thou, so marvellously dowered
As never other stream on earth beside?
Where are thy founts of being, thus empowered
To form a nation by their annual tide?
The charts are silent; history guesses wide;
Adventure from thy quest returns ashamed;
And each new age, in its especial pride,
Believes that it shall be as that one named,
In which to all mankind thy birth-place was proclaimed.

246

XXV

Though Priests upon thy banks, mysterious Water!
Races of men in lofty knowledge schooled,
Though warriors, winning fame through shock and slaughter,
Sesostris to Napoleon, here have ruled:
Yet has the secret of thy sources fooled
The monarch's strength, the labours of the wise,
And, though the world's desire has never cooled,
Our practised vision little more descries
Than old Herodotus beheld with simple eyes.

XXVI

And now in Egypt's late degraded day,
A venerating love attends thee still,
And the poor Fellah, from thee torn away,
Feels a strange yearning his rude bosom fill;
Like the remembered show of lake and hill,
That wrings the Switzer's soul, though fortune smile,
Thy mirage haunts him, uncontrolled by will,
And wealth or war in vain the heart beguile
That clings to its mud-hut and palms, beside the Nile.

247

XXVII

The Palm! the Princess of the Sylvan race;
When islanded amid the level green,
Or charming the wild desert with her grace,
The only verdure of the sultry scene:
Ever, with simple majesty of mien,
No other growth of nature can assume,
She reigns—and most when, in the evening sheen,
The stable column and the waving plume
Shade the delicious lights that all around allume.

XXVIII

Yet this fair family's most lofty peers
Are dwarfed and stunted to the traveller's eye,
When by them its enormous bulk uprears
Some antique work of pomp or piety,—
Columns that may in height and girth defy
The sturdiest oaks that British glades adorn,
Or chesnuts on the slopes of Sicily,—
And walls that when, by time, to fragments torn,
Still look like towering cliffs by mountain-torrents worn.

XXIX

'Twould seem as if some people that had held
Their pristine seat in lands of stony hill
Once from their ancient boundaries outswelled,
And took these vales to conquer and to till:

248

So, where the memory and tradition still
Of temples cut in living rocks remains,
This one Idea the artists' breasts might fill,
Who built amid the Nile's alluvial plains,
First to erect the Rocks and then work out the Fanes.

XXX

Nor, when the architect's presiding thought
Stood out in noble form, solid and clear,
Was all the hieratic purpose wrought,
Or sacred objects their completion near:
For giant shapes of beauty and of fear
Must make each part for open worship fit,
And mystic language, known to priest and seer,
In very volumes on the walls be writ,
Whose sense is late revealed to searching modern wit.

XXXI

Within—without—no little space is lost,
Though hardly obvious to a stranger eye;
With lavish labour and uncounted cost
Is overlaid each nook of masonry;
No base too deep—no architrave too high
For these weird records of a nation's lore,
And early pride, that yearned to deify
The names and titles that their monarchs bore—
That what they loved and feared their children might adore.

249

XXXII

Thus the Eternal Trinities, whose birth
Is in the primal reason of mankind,
Were mingled with the mighty of the earth,
To whom was given the trust to loose and bind
The destinies of nations: thus behind
The God, came close the great victorious King;
Till with the regal image were combined
All the dim thoughts and phantasies that cling
Round power, for power's own sake, as round a sacred thing.

XXXIII

But walls, once stedfast as their base of rock,
Have crumbled into heaps o'er which we climb,
And graceless children leap from block to block,
The spawn of Nature on the graves of Time:
Into the tabernacle's night sublime,
Through the long fissures curious sunrays peep;
Say! if the Priests, who led this sacred mime,

250

Could loose their spicy cerements and the sleep
Of many thousand years,—say, would they smile or weep?

XXXIV

If that religion were a subtle wile
Dominion over feeble minds to keep,
If 'twere in truth a mime, they well might smile;
But if 'twere truth itself, they well might weep;
And why not truth itself? truth not less deep
For being fragmentary,—though a gleam,
Not less a portion of the fires that steep
Mankind's brute matter in the heavenly stream,
And lead to waking life through mazy modes of dream.

XXXV

Theirs was the sin to cumber faith with fear—
To tremble where they should have feared and loved;
To overlook the glory close and near,
And only reverence it in space removed;
Their pride of wisdom knew not it behoved
Man's mind to worship but man's heart still more,
Nor could conceive the doctrine thus approved,
When far away from Egypt and its lore,
Judæa's race, once free, the world's bright future bore.

251

XXXVI

For right to mediate between God and man
The Art of Greece long combated in vain;
Far earlier here was shown the heavenly plan
How Nature's self could not that privilege gain;
So now organic life can scarce obtain
Its recognition of divinity,—
Past like the godhead of the Grecian fane:
And thus we know Ideas alone can be
Idols divine enough for man's high destiny.

XXXVII

Who would not feel and satisfy this want,
Watching, as I, in Karnak's roofless halls,
Subnuvolar lights of evening sharply slant
Through pillared masses and on wasted walls?
Who would not learn, there is no form but palls
On the progressive spirit of mankind,
When here around in soulless sorrow falls
That which seemed permanence itself, designed
To rase the sense of death from out all human mind.

XXXVIII

For near the temple ever lies the tomb,
The dwelling, not the dungeon, of the dead,

252

Where they abide in glorifying gloom,
In lofty chambers with rich colours spread,
Vast corridors, all carved and decorated
For entertainment of their ghostly lord,
When he may leave his alabaster bed,
And see, with pleasure earth could scarce afford,
These subterranean walls his power and wealth record.

XXXIX

Often 'twas willed this splendour should be sealed
Not only from profane but priestly eyes,
That to no future gaze might be revealed
The secret palace where a Pharaoh lies,
Amid his world-enduring obsequies;
And though we, children of a distant shore,
Here search and scan, yet much our skill defies;
One chance the less, some grains of sand the more,
And never had been found that vault's mysterious door.

XL

Not without cause the Persian's brutal hate
The regal corpse of Amasis profaned;
The Arabs' greed would hardly venerate
These halls of death, while hope of gain remained:

253

So much for ages with base passions stained;
But who are now the spoilers? We, even we;
Now the worst fiends of ruin are unchained,
That sons of science and civility
May bear the fragments home, beyond the midland sea.

XLI

Soon will these miracles of eldest art
Be but as quarries hollowed in base stone; .
Soon will the tablets, that might bear their part
In shedding light on tracts of time unknown
Be by caprice or avarice overthrown;
While worn by bitter frost of northern gloom
The obelisks will stand defaced and lone,
And god-like effigies, that had for room
The Nile and Desert, pine in narrow prison-gloom.

XLII

But from that Theban Kingdom desolate
Benevolent winds, opposing the swift tide,

254

Impelled me onward, nor did once abate
Till the strong Cataract checked my vessel's pride:
How happy in that cool bright air to glide
By Esne, Edfou, Ombos! each in turn
A pleasure, and to other joys a guide;—
Labourless motion—yet enough to earn
Syene's roseate cliffs —Egypt's romantic bourn.

XLIII

Tranquil above the rapids, rocks, and shoals,
The Tivoli of Egypt, Philæ lies;
No more the frontier-fortress that controls
The rush of Ethiopian enemies,—
No more the Isle of Temples to surprise,
With Hierophantic courts and porticoes,
The simple stranger, but a scene where vies
Dead Art with living Nature to compose
For that my pilgrimage a fit and happy close.

XLIV

There I could taste without distress of thought
The placid splendours of a Nubian night,
The sky with beautiful devices fraught
Of suns and moons and spaces of white light:

255

While on huge gateways rose the forms of Might,
Awful as when the People's heart they swayed,
And the grotesque grew solemn to my sight;
And earnest faces thronged the colonnade,
As if they wailed a faith forgotten or betrayed.

XLV

There too, in calmer mood, I sent aflight
My mind through realms of marvel stretching far,
O'er Abyssinian Alps of fabled height,
O'er Deserts where no paths or guidance are,
Save when, by pilotage of some bright star,
As on the ocean, wends the caravan;
And then I almost mourned the mythic bar
That in old times along that frontier ran,
When gods came down to feast with Ethiopian man.

XLVI

For I remember races numberless,
Whom still those latitudes in mystery fold,
And asked, what does the Past, my monitress,
For them within her genial bosom hold?
Where is for them the tale of history told?
How is their world advancing on its way?
How are they wiser, better, or more bold,

256

That they were not created yesterday?
Why are we life-taught men, why poor ephemerals they?

XLVII

Present and Past are question'd there in vain,
And hang their heads unanswering: there in fee
The Future holds her absolute domain,
Empress of what a third of Earth shall be:
But will our generations live to see
Plenty through those unwatered regions reign,—
Science there dwell as with the white and free,—
To gentle thoughts subside the heated brain,—
And lawless tribes be bound in Order's sacred chain:

XLVIII

May such things be? Ask him who hopes and prays
Rather than reasons. Good men have not quailed
Before the problem. and high justice weighs
The thoughts that prompted, not the deeds that failed.
What matter that the world has mocked and railed?
What matter that they perish, work undone?
The prescience of such souls has ever hailed,
Long ere the dawn, the coming of the sun,
And, may be, by such Faith the Light itself is won.
 

I cannot here enter into chronological arguments, but I may mention that the schemes of Egyptian history, that give it the largest field of time, seem to me the most probable.

The noise of the Arabs is the greatest drawback to the pleasure of an excursion to the Pyramids—most disagreeable ciceroni besetting you on every side and in numbers that renders resistance impossible.

At Hieropolis.

That is, with the hundred temples: there was no wall round Thebes, therefore no gates; but the Pylones, or massive gates of the Temples, were evidently the object of foreign astonishment and admiration.

In the oldest form of Egyptian theology of which we have cognizance, the Nile is a God, and the phrase “the proper rising of the God,” is found on the tablet in front of the sphynx erected under Nero: the Egyptian theologians also imagined divisions in Heaven similar to those of earth, and could conceive no Paradise without a celestial Nile.

The Egypt of Homer is the river not the country: all the other Greek names of Egypt are derived from the Nile: its Coptic name was Phiaro— hence probably Pharaoh. In somewhat the same sense is India derived from the Indus.

In all probability the Nile has no one particular source, but is created by the convergence of many small streams, like the Thames and the Rhone. We have an excellent vindication for our geographical ignorance on this point in that of Pliny, with regard to the Rhine. Hundreds of years after the first passage of the river by Roman troops, he writes “that the Rhine takes its rise in the most hidden parts of the earth, in a region of perpetual night, amidst forests for ever inaccessible to human footsteps” (iii. 24). The source of the Iser seems, too, to have been equally undiscovered.

The earlier Egyptians arranged their gods habitually in threes; when the theology got confused, the groups became more numerous and varied— just as new characters crept into the hieroglyphics and the titles of the Kings within the ovals became much longer.

Throughout Egyptian history the King is divine; there were temples in front of the Pyramids, and the Labyrinth is the temple of another dynasty; so down to the latest and basest times. The most contemptible of the Ptolemies is on his coins—“the adorable God;” and Cleopatra, on her later ones—“the younger goddess.”

“The Egyptians thought it more worthy of the Gods to adore them in symbols animated by their creating breath, than in empty images of inert matter; they regarded the intelligence of animals as connecting them with Gods and men.”—Champollion.

e.g. that of Osiris I., discovered by a happy hazard by Belzoni, and from which the alabaster coffin was taken, now in Sir J. Soane's museum. The tombs of the Theban kings, as yet known, are confined to a single dynasty; there must be somewhere in the neighbourhood the sepultures of all the others, probably equal in magnificence and interest.

“I have travelled through Greece, Egypt, Nubia, and much of Asia Minor, and I have witnessed much destruction of monuments; but everywhere the injurers were Europeans, the pretext science, and the motive gain.”—Prokesch.

Unless the Pasha will have doors erected and watched, and all pillage forbidden, under heavy penalties; the figures are now being stripped from the walls every day

That of Luxor, at Paris, has already lost the sharpness of the edges.

In the quarries of red granite at Syene may be seen the marks of the tools employed a thousand years ago, as fresh as if they had been left yesterday, and the form of an obelisk may be traced, partially dissevered from its native rock.

Canopus, the ornament of the Southern hemisphere, is called by the Arabs, “the caravan-seducer”— a large caravan having been lost in the desert by the driver taking it for Venus.


257

A TRAVELLER'S IMPRESSION ON THE NILE.

When you have lain for weeks together
On such a noble river's breast,
And learnt its face in every weather,
And loved its motions and its rest,—
'Tis hard at some appointed place
To check your course and turn your prow,
And objects for themselves retrace
You past with added hope just now.
The silent highway forward beckons,
And all the bars that reason plants
Now disappointed fancy reckons
As foolish fears or selfish wants.
The very rapids, rocks, and shoals
Seem but temptations which the stream
Holds out to energetic souls,
That worthy of its love may seem.
But life is full of limits; heed not
One more or less—the forward track
May often give you what you need not,
While wisdom waits on turning back.