Shifting Scenes and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Well, dear! our little world is hushed and still,
And the great world is far away, as we,
Sitting together, on this tranquil night,
Pause in our talk, and think a little while,
And look into the fire, and see the past
Unfold itself, and all its scrolls flash up
In sudden sparkles of swift thought.

Our boys
Are in their cradles, safe and well; and dreams
Are filling both their baby-hearts and souls.
Our eldest child was with us as we walked
Over the hills, and through the woods to-day,
For the first time;—his little trotting steps
Falling on both our hearts, like music heard
When heads are bowed, and the cathedral chant
Goes up to God on faltering steps of prayer.
Here are the sticks I cut for him; and he,
With the imagination of a child,

Pronounced them tall as trees; and, in his hands,
They towered up lofty as the Alpine pines—
Our little darling Jacky!—Hope and pride
Of both our hearts.

And little Harry, too,
Is lying in his cot—our “two-year old”—
With smiles dimpling his little happy face
Into angelic sweetness:—Bless them both!
“Grandpa” has said “Good-night,” and all is hushed;
You, sitting at your customary work,
Ask for a story. Well, then, take these lines—
The echo of a legend from afar,
A winter dream of southern summer-time,
A medley of the distant—and the near;
The present—and the past; and if you see
The moral that is hidden in the tale,
Then will the tale be dearer for its sake,
Although it is not branded on its front,
Nor made to dance attendance, everywhere—
A lackey to the story through the whole—:
'Tis a love-offering:—Take it then as such!

I. ABSENT.

Scene: A Garden near the Royal Palace. Time, Evening. Hayti, the Wife of Jug Dev Purmar, is walking alone.

Her eyelids droop; her cheek is wet;
And all its budded roses blow
Fainter, and fainter still, and grow
Like lilies white, and whiter yet.

Her happy babes, that all the day
Ran up and down the garden-walk,
And filled the air with their dear talk,
In a sweet slumber softly lay:

Her glorious babes—so bright and fair—
She almost wonders, as she sings,
They do not spread out gauzy wings,
And soar into the summer air.

Their laughter is so rich and deep,
She links it with the songs of birds;
And all their little lisping words
Come trembling to her in her sleep;

And all the light of their sweet eyes
Is garnered in her heart of hearts:
She often thinks with shuddering starts,
They are bright aliens of the skies;

And trembles, lest some holy night,
A glory-form should break the gloom,
And, shimmering through their little room,
Take them for ever out of sight!

So wondrously their faces burn,
So purely dance the sudden gushes,
She often thinks the tell-tale blushes
For some more radiant planet yearn;—

Somewhere beyond the gleaming bars
Of sunset, on a golden even—
Somewhere—she knows not where—in heaven,
Whence comes the spirit-peep of stars.

Her one sweet boy, so merry and wise,
And her two dainty little girls,
Shining behind a dance of curls,
That dazzle the mother's loving eyes,

And give her heart-beats, as she sees
The floating glory glimmer and break,
Like rippled moonlight on a lake,
Through the cool darkness of the trees.

Like streaming moonbeams, through the boughs,
Lending a lustre to each other,
The loved twin-sisters and their brother
Go gleaming on with brightening brows;

And into her heart of hearts they go,
With all their laughters and their wiles,
Their innocent words, and happy smiles,
And all their life's unsullied glow,

Awaking dim imaginings
Of happy isles and regions tender,
Where beings of supernal splendour
Glide hushing through a gleam of wings;

And faëry palfreys come and go
From castles hid in hoary woods
By faëry streams, where falling floods
Fall silent as the falling snow.

And now each baby calmly sleeps;
Her happy nest is warm and well;
Why should her bosom heave and swell?
How is it the beaming mother weeps?

Her stalwart husband's at the war,
And tongues are false, and friends are few,
And kings are mortal, and the true
Can meet no charges when afar.

II. ENEMIES AT COURT.

Scene: An Apartment in the Palace. Present, Sidh Raj, the King; Ameer, and Sivar, Conspirators, and Enemies of Jug Dev Purmar.
Sidh Raj.
He lies who says that Jug Dev is not brave!
Thrice have the breezes borne his banners home
Scorched in the breath of battle, ragged and torn,
Crimson with carnage, but victorious.
Thrice have the eager messengers rushed up
The forest avenues, with straining eyes,
Crying to all the winds the note of conquest.
Thrice has he gone down into the garden of Death,
And torn up victory by the bloody roots.
His bickering brand has beaten back the hosts
Of the on-coming fate that threatened us
Three times; and as a storm goes through the woods
Shaking their ancient empire like a leaf,
And tumbling the grim giants down in heaps
Of grey dishevelled ruin, even so
Did he go down imperial to the foe,
And they lay strewn and wasted.

Ameer.
Good, my lord
The King speaks true. No man denies the might
And valour of Purmar. They have been proven
In battles endless, both abroad and here;
In camp and palace, by the river's marge,
And in the imprisoned darkness of the forest;
In broils of his own seeking—at the court
Of him to whom his fealty is sworn.
His aim is sure; his arm is mailed in might;
His step is doom; his very look is death.
He is a very Azrael to our foes;
But, may it please the King, his wings are long,
And flap the blood of kinsmen in our face!

Sidh Raj.
Ha! The old story?

Ameer.
Not so old, my lord;
But every child in Rájput, ten years born,
Remembers, shuddering, how the brave Jug Dev
Slew the King's brother in the open day.

Sidh Raj.
He well deserved his fate:—his doom was just.

Ameer.
The King is very merciful. The world
Is less so.

Sidh Raj.
Ha! Sir Dark-face, of the thin
And shrivelled sneer, with its pale treachery
Dancing like death-lights on thy cruel lips!
I do believe the breasts that gave thee suck
Were bitter with the bite of aspics, that
Thy veins run thick with poison 'stead of blood,
So wicked are thy words, so pinched and worn
Thy looks, and such a fire of hellish hate
Glints deadly-bright through thy half-closed lids,
Like the live levin leaping through shut clouds.

Sivar.
Let not the King be angry! Ameer speaks
What thousands hold imprisoned in their breasts.
He is too bold, perchance; in the face of his king
He should seek courteous terms, and silken speech,
And keep the rude and ragged garb of truth
For plainer presences, and lighter talk.
His loyalty is greater than his wit.

Sidh Raj.

Do ye all mock me? What is't ye would say?
No fear of Ameer's prudence! He would plant
One hand upon his bosom, and with speech
All tender sleekness—Devil's milk and honey—
He would come sidling up unto his friend,
And send the hot blood hissing to his eyes,
A dagger in his heart!

Away with you,
Base time-servers! that just have courage to crawl
Behind your monarch's chair, and whisper fraud
And treachery against his bravest friend,
Who fights his battles and your own; defends
The homes which you could not defend; hurls back
The coming ruin; props your roofs;
And hunts the hungry wolf away that laps
Your very children's blood!

Slaves that ye are!
So tanned and rubicund! So free of speech!
All plump as sun-stained berries in the woods;
While he seeks famine just that you may feast,
And, with his arms, buys freedom for your sons;
And is paid back in slander.

Ameer.
It is well
The King should spurn his slaves. And yet—

Sidh Raj.
And yet?

Ameer.
The King hath friends as true, though with less thews,
Less brawn and muscle than Jug Dev Purmar:—
With less blood on their hands, of friend and foe:—
Friends who ne'er bullied the Monarch to his face,

Nor slew his brother in the open court,
Nor scored their bravery on their country's heart.

Sivar.
The tiger-cat is brave who tears our kids;
The lion is no coward, though he kills
And munches in the dark.

Sidh Raj.
What ho! Our friend
Is a poor warrior simply; not much skilled
In the sweet speech of courtiers; does not serve
Rank meat on silver platters; nor brim up
A golden goblet full of poisoned wine;
But gives you homely fare and honest speech,
And so has done with it. Your daintier selves
He cannot rival in luxuriousness:—
He knows it well;—be satisfied. He fights
That you may feast; he toils in sweat and gore
That you may dally through a summer day
With the light wenches in the laughing woods;
He wrestles in the bloody billows of war,
And grips the hard and bony hand of death
That you may mingle in the merry dance,
And lap the sweets of lips more ruddy than wine.
His deeds are rough—his speech is like his deeds—
And this hath angered you.

Several Courtiers.
If we might speak,
Not for ourselves, but for our Monarch?—

Sidh Raj.
Then
You would drop poisoned honey in his ears,
Say loyal things with most disloyal hearts,
Claim all our trust with treachery in your souls,
Speak honest-sounding words with lying lips,
And, while a falsehood festered on your tongue,
Pay eager deference, outwardly, to truth.
Bring in a robed and jewelled skeleton,
And let the royal diadem blaze up
And burn above his white and ghastly brows;
Bow down in worship; hail him as your King;
And give him sceptre o'er your rotten hearts:—
But as for him ye wot of—he is true.

Ameer.
If the King would but listen to his slaves—

Sidh Raj.
He would hear slave's-talk;—not a doubt. What more?

Ameer.
'Tis said, he whispers that a day will come

When Rájput shall bow down her haughty head,
And take him, on his own terms, as her king.

Sidh Raj.
'Tis said too, my good friend, not long ago,
A certain pampered courtier, menial-like,
Lifted his eyes up to that Queen of Love,
Hayti, the spotless wife of brave Purmar.
'Tis also said the Warrior met the Chief
Gay in his flaunting feathers and his silks,
And sadly spoiled his plumage! Nay, 'tis said
That, in that hour, the gaudy butterfly
Shook all the gold-dust from his shining wings,
Slipped off his purple down, his burning bronze,
His velvet spots, and all his ruby rings,
And was a wasp thereafter. Was it so?

Ameer.
My lord the King is pleasant.

Sidh Raj.
It is well
Ameer thinks so!

Sivar.
My lord! If I might speak—

Sidh Raj.

But to what end? Full well I know thy speech,
From its first stammer to its rounded pause.
What! is Sidh Râj so weak that he will give
His mighty war-horse to the wolves, because

The foolish dogs go baying at his heels?
Or shall he cast his trusty brand away
Because a slave has dared to breathe on it?
And have ye all forgotten who it was
That, in the hour of deadly peril, saved
Your monarch's life, while you stood white as trees
That have been barked by lightning?

Ah! that day,
That was a blush of fruits and fluttering wings—
A rich delirium of sounds and odours—
When every breath was balm, and the great cusp
Of the bright heavens gleamed with gorgeous gold,
And all the forest was a trembling thrill
Of blended music, and of odour-rain,
And we, with all our train, went out and danced
Beneath the quivering boughs, and in our sport
Flung the ripe fruit, half-bursting, at the girls;—
When in upon our merriment there broke
That grand and gleaming terror; with his eyes
Burning their sockets in the lust of blood,—
The hungry lion, flaming on his prey,—
And his mane rolling billows of stormy fire,
And ye shrank back, and whitened in the blaze
Of his fierce anger—when, as suddenly,
A flash shot through the hot and sultry gloom,
And in the midst of us, even like a god,
His great brand dripping gore, and all his soul
Hurried in crownèd crimson to his face,
Stood Jug Purmar!

Ameer.
But, my good lord and King—

Sidh Raj.
And even now, hath he not left his bride,
With all her budded beauties in rich bloom,
To battle for our kingdom?

Ameer.
Dearer than bride,
With all her jewels warming on her breast,
Is the rich prize he seeks.

Sidh Raj.
(Not heeding the interruption).
And hath exchanged
The eager clamour of his happy babes,
Who with plump fingers patted his swart cheeks,
For the shrill shriek of war, the sudden stab,
The crunching blow, the terrible death-grip,
And the fierce wrestle on the slippery sands,
Sodden with gore!

Sivar.
He fights the best
Whose stake is heaviest in the bloody fray;
And he who sees a sceptre in the mirk,
May edge his shoulders through a world of foes.

Ameer.
He who walks over slaughter to a throne—

Sidh Raj
(to Sivar).
Thou never didst love Purmar, hoary friend;
And yet, O Sivar, I have known thee lay
Great burdens of applause upon his back.

Sivar.
I might cry “mighty” to the glistening force
Of the sleeked torrent, as it glided by,
With all its hurrying waters gathered up
And marshalled for the dread and terrible plunge;
But if I saw a pale face gleaming white
Amid the snaky blackness of its folds,
And going ghastly down the ebon wall,
I should look on with horror evermore.

Sidh Raj.
Thou hast not spoken, Ali: What sayest thou?
Thy heart is gentle, and thy words are wise.

Ali.
I would say simply this, my noble King,
That, if the pillars that support our roof
Be given to shaking, why the roof may fall.

Sidh Raj.
A fool's speech truly! Is there nothing more?

Sivar.
And the same shoulders that prop up the throne
Have power to hurl it, with its pearlèd state,
And all its purple honours, to the dust!

III. THE WARRIOR'S BABES.

Scene: The Forest near the Garden. Three Children playing.

Three little babes are laughing
In among the trees,
Six little eyes are dancing
Glad as summer bees,
In the cool of leaves, in the gleam of springs,
In the shadow and the breeze.

Trailing golden garlands
With many a tug and bound,
Breaking off the blossoms,
Showering odours round;
With a laugh, and a shout, and a clap of hands,
Purpling all the ground.

Through the tangled forest,
By the river's brim,
And through the crouching mosses
Beneath the arches dim;
With faces bright, and with hair like light,
They go with ruddy swim.

Still laughing and still crushing
Berries in the rout,
Tossing up their garlands
With merry laugh and shout;
Through the sun and the shade with a sudden skip
Bounding in and out.

And, where the holy silence
A sandalled pilgrim stands,
And communes with the forest,
In hushed uplifted hands,
In the wild sweet glee of their infancy
They break the solemn bands,

And carry all their gladness
With sudden turns and dips
Down the dusky silence,
Into the deep eclipse,
Till the grim woods laugh, and the gnarlèd boughs
Bud out in eyes and lips.

IV. IN THE FIELD.

Scene: The Camp between the Opposing Hosts.

All splashed with bloody foam, the heroes stand.
Three stabs have weakened Purmar, and the blood
And gore well freely. Two swift blinding blows
Have lopped the flesh from Afrah; and still hot
And fierce the battle rages.

Three set times
Did Purmar come before the opposing hosts,
And challenge any hero to the fight;
But they, beholding his majestic mien,
His towering height, and mighty strength of limb,
And knowing well the prowess of his arm,
Returned no answer.

Till grim Afrah rose,
The dread of Rájput. Snake-like in his scales,
Writhing, the warrior came, and glowed and gleamed
With hate and envy. Both their blades leapt out
At the same moment, and both bickered bright
Over the heads of both the eager hosts,
Whose faces paled with passion where they stood.
Both the swart heroes fought in rings of fire
As the sun flamed upon their burning brands;

A moment more, and both their blades ran blood.
With his keen dagger Afrah stabbed the side,
And brought the Rájput hero to his knee;
Who, on his feet once more, hurled high his brand
And smote slim Afrah on the shoulder-blade.
Afrah, impatient, closed upon his foe,
Relying on his pliancy of limb,
And strength compacted in the smallest space,
Hurled high the Rájput warrior; every nerve
Beat as a pulse of fire; and every limb
Ran down with lightning as they tugged and swerved;
Both their huge shoulders burst in knotted wreaths,
Like rings of serpents writhing in the fight;
The earth shook under them as down they fell,
Afrah beneath, and Purmar on his foe;
And all the thirsty wildnerness of sand
Drank mighty draughts of blood. Blinded with gore,
Each seized another weapon. Afrah first
Aimed a fierce blow at Purmar's bleeding face,
Which, parrying, the Rájput hero swung
His terrible war-club, knotted like an oak,
And brought it down with all his giant force
On the tall front of Afrah. Down he dropt,
Like a huge monarch of the forest, struck
By thunder, 'mid his peers; and all the host
Of Rájput, that had stood in silent awe,
Broke, like a loosened torrent, into shouts
Of wild acclaim.

Meanwhile, Purmar, half blind,

Beheld a gleam of lances as he reeled
On to the camp of Rájput; and a swirl
Of giddy smoke floated 'twixt him and heaven;
And all the distant forests and blue hills
Span round and round in ruddy wheels of light;
And heads and faces of the army near
Danced as on rippling water; broken glints
Of far-off shining rivers, green of leaves
Sun-touched, and aching wastes of dreary sand,
With ghastly faces lighting up the mirk,
Whirled, in a roaring chaos round his head,
As on he staggered to his tumbling tent.

V. THE LONELY WIFE.

Scene: A Room in Purmar's House. Hayti alone.

All day in purple sat the sun
Amid his sumptuous train;
All night the pale moon, weird and wan,
Wandered through clouds and rain.
All day the winds, like laden wings,
Dropt odours rich and dim;
All night they shrieked through groaning boughs,
And caverns dark and grim.
All day the hills were crown'd with light,
Light laved their shining sides;
All night the torrents roared and dashed
Their black and sunless tides
Through thunderous glooms and avenues
Of ghastly ribbèd rocks,
Whose every pallid bone of flint
Shuddered beneath the shocks.
All day the sun-crowned forest thrilled,
And hummed with bee and bird;
The tiger and the lion roared
All night, and were not heard;

So fiercely shrieked the murderous storm,
So wailed the shrill winds thin;
With such an angry shout the heavens
Tumbled the darkness in.

My day is done, and, like a flower,
Folds all its sweetness up,
The wine of life is rudely dashed
Out of the golden cup;
And all the sunny hours, flower-wreathed,
That danced upon my floor,
Have taken all their garlands off,
And sing and dance no more;
My day is done, my sun has gone
Down to a weary bed;
The night comes shuddering down the heavens—
The night—with all its dead!

I look into my children's eyes,
I stroke their shining hair,
I kiss their little ruddy lips,
I see him budding there;
I go about my household tasks
Blindly, with eyes down-bent;
All night I ask my aching heart
How the long day was spent;
All day I wonder when the night
Will come to cool my brow;
Both night and day I thrust my arms
Through the barred dungeon—now.

I cannot rest. Some greedy want
Eats all the light away,
And on the pearlèd bosom of sleep
Gnaws at my heart alway
The daily heavens blaze like brass
Above my burning head;
And then the shuddering night comes down—
The night—with all its dead.

I see the first pale streak of dawn,
I see the giant limb
O' the sun stride o'er the bars of heaven
Out of his dungeon dim;
I see the shadows gather and leap
In their evening thunder-race;
I hear the night-winds howl and moan
Up in the moon's pale face.
No rest have I at night or morn,
For evermore I see
The red surge creep, the red waves leap
Up in a bloody sea;
And evermore a great fear comes
Swooning across my soul,
As I hear my husband's well-known name
In Death's dark muster-call.
Sometimes I hope; a little space
The sun shines through the rain;
But soon the gathering blackness comes,
And then I grope again

Through charnel-damps, by reeking walls,
With darkness overhead—
Touching the cold and crawling things
That batten on the dead.
O heavens! I would I only knew
If I a widow be:—
Sometimes I clutch my happy babes,
And cry—“My orphans three!”
They only smile up in my face;
They only clap their hands;
They fling their blossoms at my feet
And skim along the sands.
Sometimes, in self-deceit, I bring
His quiet evening meal
And listen—not a bird can fly,
Nor drowsy beetle wheel.
But I can hear it:—oh! I hear
The midnight midges hum,
And listen till the stars burn out,
But still he does not come!
I know he will not; yet no leaf
Nor blade of grass can stir,
But through my heart a wildering rush
Goes with a giddy whirr,
And dashes all the fevered blood
Up to my heated brain;
I cannot bear it; but I sit
And listen yet again.
Sometimes a lonely footstep comes

Along the crispèd grass;
I cry with joy, and through the door
Bewildered burst—alas!
It is to feel two shining eyes
Burn in upon my brain;
And go like serpents o'er my wounds
With poison to my pain:
I hoped for Purmar, but behold
The wild and wicked leer,
The deadly hate, the deadlier lust,
The fiend-smile of Ameer!
I shut the door, I wring my hands,
And something wrings my soul;
For, by the present drear I see
The golden past unroll;
But something sends a deadly smoke
O'er every sunny scene,
And all its crowned and regal joys
Shrivel to phantoms lean;
And all the present agony
Pales o'er its beaming brow:
I cannot, though I struggle, leap
Out of the seething now.
My day is done, my sun has gone
Down to a weary bed;
The night comes shuddering down the heavens—
The night—with all its dead!

VI. AT COURT AGAIN.

Scene: An Inner Room in the Palace. The conspirators, Ameer and Sivar, together.
Ameer.
The poison 'gins to work. The wine of victory
Already blackens on his parchèd lips.
He shudders at the shout of conquest.

Sivar.
Ay!
His glances flame as they would shrivel up
The gladdened crowds, who come with eager eyes,
Crying, “Another battle won!” even as
After long droughts, and on the windy nights,
A fire goes roaring through the forest boughs.

Ameer.
He sees his diamonds dimmed in his own blood;
He sees the hand of Purmar on his crown
Fingering its jewels, and his shadow flung
Black as a death-pall o'er his tottering throne;
And every wind that carries home the news
Rustles with doom.

Sivar.
I saw the clouds of doubt
Gathering when last we spoke together. He
Pooh-poohed our foolish arguments, as one
Who, after a ghastly dream, hears the interpretation
And finds it dark as death.

Ameer.
He joys no more
In Purmar's triumphs. We were as the seers
Who make the same sign which the phantoms dread
In midnight mystery made beneath the moon,
And utter, in broad daylight, the weird words
He heard the ghostly voices whispering low.

Sivar.
He laughed at all our warnings as one laughs
Who hears the steps of ruin in the dark
Coming to meet him. All his words of trust
Were wrung from him, like drops of agony.

Ameer.
Had he not doubted first, our silly talk
Would have fallen light as April rains
On the thick walls of serried adamant
That front the sea; but now a whisper shakes him.
He starts aside as though he were suddenly stung
By some fierce serpent-thought. In festive hours

His looks grow dark, as though he saw a hand
All white and ghastly pluck the garlands green
Off the bright brows of all the laughing girls,
And painting pallid death-signs on their cheeks.
His old victorious banners whistle doom
Flapping above his throne. Down his vast halls,
In all their gloomy gorgeousness, he walks
As though he saw a sudden dagger gleam,
Poisoned and pointing at his royal heart.

Sivar.
Let's nurse these visions up to the maddening point,
When he will dare and do.

Ameer.
No heavy task!
Leave him alone and all his nightly dreams
Will swarm with lean hands beckoning but one way.

Sivar.
The cup already winks before his eyes;
Frame an excuse, and he will drain it dry!
He hates the name of Purmar now;
And all the noise of battle in his ears
Gathers in tempest for his special head.
What are the foes of Rájput now to him?
Triumph is but an ugly mockery
Whichever way it falls. The victor-wreath,
In any case, is rank and foul with death.

Ameer.
But what a sorry fool is this, to doubt
His best friend at our bidding, thus;—to “cast
His trusty brand away, because a slave
Has dared to breathe on it:”—These were his words.

Sivar.
He hath most royal notions of Purmar.
He talks of sceptres as of baubles, poor
In such a grasp; kingdoms were but as shells
Laid in so wide a palm; and diadems
Would gain great lustre on so grand a brow.
He hears his name shouted in ecstacy
On every wind of heaven. He sees his plumes
Tossing in triumph through the thick of war;
And in his ears the chariot-wheels of fate
Go thundering through the dust of coming years,
With Purmar holding by the golden reins.

Ameer.
We must strip off this gorgeous cloth of gold,
And place a beggar's weeds upon his back;
Whisper base trifles in the warrior's name,
And rob the hero of his heroism;
Pluck off his gear, and pin a whirligig
Upon the big brows of this wooden god.

Sivar.
The lion singed is but a sorry beast!

Ameer.
To look at, truly! We must trim his claws,
And draw his teeth.

Sivar.
And then, when all is done;
When we have slighted all his victories,
Trampled his broidered banners in the mire,
Tarnished the lustre of his mighty arms,
And all befouled his white and spotless fame,
And cloaked the hero up in infamy,
Then will the hatred of Sidh Râj break out
Unchecked by fear, and then—

Ameer.
Good-bye, Purmar!
And then for scornful Hayti.

Sivar.
Ay, and then,
When this gigantic bugbear is no more—
We need not boast nor bully, but may say—
Monarchs have sat more safely than Sidh Râj!

VII. FAR AWAY.

Scene: The Garden; Hayti singing.

Ah! the heavens are too high,
And the sunshine, and the light,
And the purple mountains far,
And the moonbeam, and the star,
And the round and rolling white
Of the sun-cloud, sailing bright
Through a sea of molten light,
And the shows of day and night
Seem not what they are!

Evermore a glory breaks
Over peak and over plain
In the distance, far away;
And the gorgeous skirts of day
Hide the hollows full of pain;
Hide the rents, and hide the rain;
Hide the dark funereal train;
Hide the clouds that come again;
But no living thing can say
It hath touched the gorgeous day,

Which for ever, and for ever,
Glideth on, a golden river,
Far away! Far away!

Evermore there bursts a bud
Which may never come to bloom;
Evermore, in cloudy car,
Beameth up some royal star,
Which some evil thing may mar;
Evermore the summer seas
Shake in light; the laden trees
Stoop in glory to the breeze;
But the beauty of the flower,
And the lustre on the sea,
And the glory on the tree,
And the radiance of the star,
Are not star, nor tree, nor flower,
Yet of that, which, hour by hour,
Lendeth them their golden dower,
Who may know it? For the flower,
Star, and sea,
Bud, and tree,
Seem not what they are!

Evermore a crimson dawn,
Or a glory-swimming noon,
Or a night as bright as day—
With a never-ending play
Of beaming star and moon—

Gladdens all the heaven with dreams,
Gladdens all the earth with gleams
Of forgotten things, and streams
Dimpled lustre on the river
Far away;
But for ever all the glory
Of the never-ending story,
And for ever, and for ever
All the bright and ceaseless play
Of the sunbeam,
Of the moonbeam,
On the tree-top, on the river,
Are for ever, ah! for ever,
Far away! far away!

VIII. FRIENDSHIP.

Scene: A Private Room in the Palace; Sidh Raj alone.

Great acts beget great thoughts, great purposes,
And noble aims; and he whose deeds transcend
The deeds of kings, has kinglier aims than they.
Shall he, then, who has trodden down all ranks
In high endeavour, for the sake of rank,
Fall to the bottom of the lowest abyss,
And be a kingless king through treachery?—
Shall he, whose life has been a constant growth
Of all unselfish virtues, of high aims,
Suddenly shrink, until the very dwarf
Who conjures to the rustics in the woods
Might write “black traitor” on his princely brow?
I'll not believe it!

There be those who say
The hand that grasps a sceptre need not mind
The blood that purples on the royal palm;
But is he one of these? And are the rags—
The merest emblems of regality—
So precious that a royal soul should fling
All that is kingliest eagerly away
For their sake merely? Then were he discrowned

The jewelled diadem blazing on his brow;
Then were he sceptreless although the gold
Of royalty burned hot within his hand;
And then were he, the kingliest soul alive,
Suddenly beggared, though an empire flung
Its kingdoms at his feet, and though his robes
Trailed on the marble floors of palaces.

He, whom foul wrong has placed upon a throne,
Has sorry subjects! He who rules through crime
Rules none but criminals. All are not kings
Who wear the robes of royalty; a slave
May don the purple, and be still a slave.
Shall he, who is a king by right, be less,
And break his golden sceptre on his knee
For a mere beggar's bauble red with blood?
He would not bring this stain upon his soul!
My old familiar friend!—my counsellor!—
My heart, and hand, and soul—my more than brother,
Who hast in endless conflicts shed thy blood,
Hast led my armies, won my victories,
And been before me, like an uncrowned god
In every grand emprize—uncrowned because
Greater than crowns and empire,—shall I plant
My foot upon thy neck at last, and feel
Thee dwindle, till a monarch's cloak can hide
In its starred folds all thy nobility?
Shall I grow large in death, and thou grow less
Than any honest beggar in the realm,

Though sitting on a throne?

Nay! Shall I doubt
Thy pure high-mindedness, because I wear
These robes, and slaves are fawning at my feet?

IX. WHERE ARE THEY?

Hayti alone in the Garden.

Dreams! dreams! dreams!
Ah! the gush of morning
Reddening all the streams;
Ah! the smoking mountains;
Ah! the leaping fountains
Drinking in the beams;
Ah! the golden tassels
Of the forest hoar;
Ah! the gush of glory
Breaking evermore
On the forest, with its gums
Pouring incense at the gate
Of the dawn, where, clad in state,
All the sumptuous menials wait
For the King who never comes!
Whither, whither
Goeth all this dance of light,
When the trembling lids of night
Shut upon the heavens? Ah! whither

Goeth all this dance of light,
All this marriage-robe of white,
Whither? Whither?
Ah for ever! Ah for ever!
They are dreams.

Dreams! dreams! dreams!
Ah! the ripple-silvered sea,
Ah! the blooms upon the tree,
Ah! the whirr of bird and bee,
And the music of the streams;
Ah! the plumed and painted play
Of the golden-robèd day
With his quiver full of beams;
Ah! the ripple and the shiver
Of the sleek and shining river,
Ah! the tremble and the quiver
Of the crimson flower-gauzes,—
Ah! the music and the pauses
Through the day;
Ah! the shimmer and the glimmer
Of the blossom-laden boughs;
Ah! the whimple and the dimple
Of the laughter-haunted brows,
Where are they—
And the crimson of the rose,
And the evanescent glows
Of the bud that never blows,

Where are they—
When, from out the black and riven
Tent o' the swirled and swinging heaven,
Leaps the Storm-King with his levin,
Where are they?

X. THE CONSPIRATORS.

Scene: An Apartment in the Palace. Sivar and Ameer in conversation. Ali breaks in.
Ali.
Well, have you heard the news?

Ameer.
What news?

Ali.
Nay, then,
I see ye have not! Certain schemes have failed.
The mesh of cobwebs, friends, hath given way.
The lion is at large once more, and soon—

Ameer.
What lion and what schemes?

Sivar.
Nay, friend, speak out;
Leave riddles to the idle. In a word,
Is't well?

Ali.
All's lost! Your schemes are nought but smoke.

Ameer.
Speak, man! What is it? Have the ancient gods
Broken the silence of a thousand years
To warn or favour him thou wottest of?

Ali.
The war is over. Purmar's coming home!

Ameer.
All's lost, indeed, then!

Sivar.
How is this? Was not
The messenger in time?

Ali.
He was, to meet
The army wending homeward, rich with spoils,
And drunk with victory—banners and plumes,
Chariots and horsemen gleaming in red gold,
And clamorous with conquest:—Heaps of gems,
And skins, and slaves—captives of high degree,
And princely trophies of his prowess brings
The chieftain to the monarch.

Ameer.
And the lad?
He did not say his message?

Ali.
But he did!
Aye, word for word.

Ameer.
The fool!

Sivar.
All's lost, indeed;
And we, I fear, with all!

Ameer.
What! told Purmar
To change his tactics, with that laughing crowd
Of old victorious faces looking on,
And heaping petty insults on the chief
Whilst triumph blazed about his hated brows
In every conquered banner?

Ali.
Every word
The stripling breathed into the warrior's ear
Of his commission.

Sivar.
Aye, and more, no doubt?

Ali.
No doubt!

Ameer.
Then let us hope the message thrilled
The hot hate of Purmar through every vein:—
Our triumph may be yet.

Ali.
No fear of that—
No hope, I mean! For I am told the lad
Spake of the love of Sidh Râj, and revealed
The state of things in Rájput.

Ameer.
Traitor! Ha?

Ali.
Who? Where? The lad? Aye, maybe so.

Ameer.
Aye he
And others nearer!

Ali.
Youngster have a care!

Sivar.
Nay, spare your breath friends; you will need it all.
Hath the king laughed at us? What does it mean?

Ali.
He was sincere. He doubted his old friend,
Thanks to your hints.

Ameer.
And yours.

Sivar.
Already, ha!
Is this black fruit, recrimination, ripe?
Peace! We are all embroiled; and if so be
That Purmar will forgive the royal fool,
So much the worse for us. His hate will fall
Sharp as his blade upon our plotting heads!

Ameer.
We'll wait and see the issue; if advèrse,
Then for the sunny jungles of the south,
And farewell Rájput.

XI. HOPE.

Hayti in the Garden, singing.

Another day! Another day
Cometh in cool and calm,
With flashing rills, and music-thrills,
With bee, and bud, and balm;
Adown the heavens he traileth light
And crimson as he goes;
And all earth's nestlings, eager and bright,
Purple and pallid, blue and white,
Their daintiest hearts unclose;
And a flutter of homage greeteth him,
And a garlanded glory meeteth him,
And a dance of springs
And a rush of wings
Go with him as he goes!

Another day! Another day
Showering from on high,
In bright attire, in car of fire,
Burneth along the sky;

And every dew-cup, to the brim,
Trembles with wine of gold,
And, caught in silver, with a swim
Of purple and azure, rich and dim,
Go mists o'er wood and wold;
And a song leaps up like a thing of light,
From the hush of the woods, half drowned in night,
And a flashing wing dips darkly bright
From out of the cloud that saileth white
With him o'er wood and wold,
And a blush of bowers,
And a dance of flowers,
Litter his path with gold.

Another day! Another day
Cometh in cool and calm,
With flashing rills, with music-thrills,
With bee, and bud, and balm;
And now no more the weary rose
Lifteth her head in vain;
In his burning kiss her red lip blows,
In his look of love her red cheek glows—
She hath caught his fiery stain;
And the purple tufts where the violets are
No longer stir and sigh—
“Oh! the Day, the Day, in his golden car,
And his crimson robes—he flames afar,
But he never cometh nigh”—

For they feel him on their veinèd tips,
They feel him on their dusky lips,
He flames up in their eye.
And a drowsied odour shimmer,
And a mellowed purple glimmer,
And a whirl of white
And a dance of light
Go with him gleaming by.

Another day! Another day
Cometh with cool and calm,
With flashing rills, with music-thrills,
With bee, and bud, and balm;
And into my inmost heart he goes
With bird, and bud, and beam,
And every withered blossom blows,
And every thorn sprouts out a rose,
And every waste-place gleams and glows,
And brightens like a dream;
And a thousand love-caresses
Shake out their silken tresses,
And dance along the way,
Where the bliss-bud bloweth,
Where the day-dawn goeth,
Where the life-stream floweth
For ever and aye;
And all the dewy splendour
Of the passion strange and tender,
With its silent, sweet surrender,

Is with me now alway,
And faileth not,
And paleth not,
With the pale and fainting day.

XII. VENGEANCE.

Scene: Outside the Royal Palace, wherein the King entertains Purmar and the Victorious Captains:— Ameer and Sivar, together.
Ameer.
Now is the time for vengeance. Every hour
Rolls the doom onward.

Sivar.
Aye! the wine will mount,
And then the dark tale will unfold itself,
Before the gaping crowd, and then the ire—
The terrible ire—of Purmar will break out
Fiercer than fire.

Ameer.
Ere that, we'll see what fire
Will do to quench it!

Sivar.
Are you ready?

Ameer.
Yes.
The faggots are besmeared, the train is set;
But I shall wait until the midnight hour,
When all the wine of revelry is red
And runs in riot through the festal halls,
And then a fiercer flame than burns the brim
Of sparkling goblets shall surprise them all,
And fold them warm in fiery winding-sheets!
Just at the midnight hour, we light a spark
Shall make a bonfire of Purmar; and all
The warriors who have “gained our victories”—
And Sidh Râj with the rest—feathers and all,
Plumes, purple robes of state, and crown, shall be
Cinders to-morrow! You will join me then?

Sivar.
I will!

XIII. NEMESIS.

Scene: The Palace. Ali has beckoned Sidh Raj and Jug Dev Purmar outside.

Jug Dev arose,
The monarch following, out into the air
Where the night burned with all her cabbala,
With her star symbols and her mystic calm;
All unobserved as yet. The revelry
Went on, but dragged a weary weight. The jibes
Fell dead and stale, and all the merriment
Trod on the skirts of dark forbidden things,
And passed like pageant past a place of tombs
When all the midnight flambeaux flame and flash
Full on the ghastly emblems. Every voice
Had whispered undertones; and every laugh
Was bitter at the core; and though the wine
Ran ripe and red, it warmed, but did not cheer.
Some secret seemed to lurk beneath each word,
And all the conversation rippled on
Like conscious waters, in whose ooze and slime
The uncoffined dead lie white, with glazèd eyes.
Portentous silence drew about the hall.

Each soul sat brooding in a ring of night,
Wherein no step unconsecrate might tread;
Some special terror leered with fiendish eyes
In at the window of each separate heart,
And knocked with ghostly warning at the door.

When, in a moment, all the paled lamps fell,
Sputtering their jets of fire, whereby each saw
White faces leaping ghastly through the gloom,
As all his neighbours rose upon their feet.
Then three sharp shrieks, like deadly daggers, stabbed
The silence:—Out into the breezy night
The revellers hurried through the open door,
And, looking up, beheld the stedfast heavens
Ruddy with stains of fire, and all the far
And dusky mountains staggering through the night,
To meet the fire-king in his furious raid.
High up, the palace was aflame. And there,
Perched on the topmost tower, in agony
Clutching each other were the traitor pair,
Ameer and Sivar; for some unknown hand
Had prematurely kindled the first spark
That caught them in their own thick mesh of fire.

And now the red and roaring surge updashed
Its flaming spume about the buttresses,
Shot up its tremulous tongues of forked wrath,
And grew and gathered round the fated tower;—

Its inpent fury bursting through the rents
And broken fissures, leaping on the night.
Hot lips of flame kissed the black cornices,
Blue jets of fire hissed through the crevices,
Fierce crested waves curled inward, dashed and broke
In glittering spray about the battlements,
Horrible cones shot up into the heavens,
Thin snakes of flame span out into the night,
Long sweeping billows flung their fiery forth
Full on the blistered front of shrinking walls;
And still the two forms, black amid the glow,
Loomed high above the red and rolling sea,
That now retreated, now roared out amain
In threefold fury, with its fiery waves
Lusting for conquest; till, at length, the beams
And rafters bent, and broke, and fell; and then
With a long roll, the mighty fabric lurched
Shuddering inwards.

All the hollow glooms
And dark domains of night, that had been filled
With the fierce splendour, all the startled hills
That on their crests had felt the ruddy glow,
And all the beasts of prey, from holes and dens,
Sank back into the dark, and disappeared,
As silence once more fell upon the night.

XIV. AT HOME.

Scene: The House of Jug Dev Purmar.
Time, Evening.
Hayti.
And shall I wake the children?

Purmar.

Let them sleep,
And I will look on them. All the home-joys
Come fluttering their warm welcome to my soul,
Joys all too long estranged, which, in the heat
And hurry of war, draining the heart-blood dry,
Seemed sad and distant as the pitying moon
To him who sees her as the ship goes down
Amid the boiling surf, lashed white with rage,
And recollects the dewy tender time
Of tears and kisses underneath her beams
With the sole maid he loves. Ah! I have stood,
Falchion in hand, and stayed the deadly stroke,
Thinking of wives far off, and helpless babes,
Dreading to put the hated name of death
Into their innocent prattle;—turned away,

Lest haply some small childish voice should say,
In aftertimes, with wonder in its eyes,
“My father's dead, slain by the great Purmar,
Who made so many orphans long ago!”

Down the red path of slaughter, littered with death,
Thou and thy little ones came hand in hand
With most melodious steps, and healed the wounds
Of ghastliest anarchy, and sounds of woe.
In the war-fever, when the blood was high,
And all the shadowy halls of sleep ran red
With gore and carnage—rang with fighting men,
And the strong horror of the tug and strife,
Ye came upon me like the breath of spring,
Murmuring along the grass and early leaves,
And flowers sprang up with deep ambrosial cups,
Full of cool nectar and delicious dew.

While I was wounded, lying in my tent,
The noise of battle clanging in my ears,
A feverish sleep came o'er me; and I stood
Hard by a mountain, black and thunderous,
Which, as I gazed upon it, cracked i' the midst,
Broke into hollow caverns, jagged and dark,
Whence came a noise as of a gathering host
Of trampling millions from the nether world,
That boomed and thundered through the black abyss,
Until at last the hideous van appeared:—
They were the dead of countless centuries

Who had been slain in battle. On they came
With all their gaping wounds shedding new blood,
And the white woe of deadliest agony
Dashed on their upturned faces, on the which
The moon, hanging between two thunder-clouds,
Shed pallid lustres, weird, and sharp, and wan.
Eagerly upward welled the wondrous waves
Of this great human sea; and all that came
Were as the waters in a sandy creek
To the on-coming ocean still behind,
Its mighty volume rolling thunderous,
And wide, and dark, with slow and sullen swell.
Thousands on thousands wound from out the gloom,
Crowding on tumbling thousands. Heads came up
Livid and ghastly through the welling wounds
Of the tormented mountain, gleaming white,
Followed by countless myriads, till the plain
Ran o'er and weltered with the thickening throng,
And all the little hills grew black with forms
That huddled and hasted from the crushing crowds
That choked the hidden hollows lying between.
Long dreary hours, all through that horrible night,
The endless millions rolled from out the mouths
Of the black caverns, waves still following waves
Exhaustless, dark, and dreadful, till the dawn
Of a drear day, that day was none, broke white
And sad as a last death-smile on the hills;
And still the hurrying crowds came hastening on,
Millions on millions, hour by hour they came:

And dim and far as the extremest verge
Of the horizon, where the faint blue hills
Melted into the pallor of the heavens,
Wended the fearful throng, and then went down
Into some nether world beyond my ken.
Night came again with torrents of woeful rain,
And winds that whistled through the ghastly gloom;
And still the unending millions came up
Through the black ragged fissures, till the day
Once more came tossing-troubled on the hills,
Dashing white billows of glory in his path,
That turned to pallors of death upon their brows;
And through that day the millions wended on
O'er plain and mountain, out into the east,
Till night dropped down with thunder in her hand,
And forked lightnings played round her zone,
That shot upon the dazeless eyes of all
That ever-gathering multitude, that turned
Their scatheless sockets up to the blue blaze
With melancholy meaning:—On, and on,
For ever and for ever came the crowds,
Till the soul sickened:—On and on,
Millions on millions, crowds on crushing crowds,
For ever and for ever.

Till at last,
Just as the day broke with an angry blaze
Over the edges of the mountain peaks,
Out of that black and weltering abyss,

Out of that ghastly death-throng glode, you four—
Thou and thy children—meekly, silently,
With balm and healing, and with calm love-looks;
And straightway all the scene was changed. I lay
Beneath the quiet boom of summer boughs,
Dallying softly with the teasing winds,
That rippled up among the shadowy leaves—
Still cool with night dews in the early dawn—
And shook down honey and odour. By my side
Sparkled a tiny river, where I slaked
The feverous thirst that burned within my blood;
And, looking on you all, ye seemed so near,
And yet so strangely far, so true and real,
And yet so evanescent, sweet, and dim—
Wrapped in dream-azures and in mists of sleep—
That, as I stretched my arms to clasp you all,
To fold you to my soothed and softened heart,
Four cloudy shapes passed by me, and I woke,
And heard the sword-blades ringing sharp and near,
And shouts and clamours of victory and defeat,
And all the fury of battle by my tent.

And now I see you all, so like my dreams,
But with no glances in your deep dark eyes
Looking afar; I touch you, and behold!
No cloudy phantom passes through my arms;
I press you to my heart, and do not wake
To wounds and agony, and sounds of war
Jangling dread arms for ever!

There they lie,
My innocent babes! all folded up in sleep
Silent and sweet as flowers; all their day-smiles
Hanging in rosy hues upon their cheeks,
All their day-laughter lying deep and warm
In silken dimples; all their daily tasks,
Their garland-gatherings in the empurpled woods,
Forgotten, or enacted o'er in dreams.
How sweet they look!—the two meek infant girls,
Each in her little nest, and the bright boy,
With merry thoughts shut up within the lids
Of his dark dreaming eyes, and laughing out
Of the rich reel of his ambrosial curls.

Oh! if we could but draw aside the veil
Which hangs between them and futurity,—
Could see the bright and dew-sprent path of youth
All through its many windings, and behold
The poisonous reptiles coiled amid its flowers,
And the grim company of beasts of prey
Lurking amid the thickets by the way,—
Could we behold the far-off ghostly shapes
Poising their poisoned barbs even as we speak,
And waiting in the mists of distant years
For the set time to flame before the eyes
Of their now slumbering victims,—could we see
The man and woman in the sleeping child,
Catch the wan woe-look on the budding cheek,
Hear the thick sighs of sorrow in the dark,

And read the history from this dawning time
When the young steps stumble through clumps of flowers,
And the young heart dances its fill of glee,
And the young soul wears all its gala-robes,
On through the distance, till the lone-path winds
Over the craggy heights that cut the feet,
And where, weary and wan, with garments soiled,
And hair dishevelled, through the wind and rain,
With red eyes blinded by the storms o' the world,
They go grief-laden past the hollow caves
Strewn o'er with bones, and stretch their woe-worn hands
Out towards the distant arches, lying low
And dim and dark, beyond the mountain-slopes,
Through which the weary walk to endless rest—
With what an agony of love we'd press
The little brows now lying milky white!
We should hear sorrow surging in each tone,
And hollow wails sounding through every laugh,
And every look would catch the haggard hue
Of passing suffering, every word would be
Symbolic of some agony to come,
And every childish antic seem to wave
Some grim old woe out of its cavern-hold;
And every innocent wile would be the dress
Wherein gaunt wretchedness was quaintly dight,
And every look a window where the face
Of some pale spectre came to sun itself.

But now they live, sweet in the present hour
As untouched roses cool with evening dew,
Reposing on the present, with no fear
Shooting athwart the heaven of their dreams,
And lying beautiful and hushed in sleep
As though each morrow were a festal morn,
And they its chosen actors.