Cosmo De' Medici An Historical Tragedy: And Other Poems: By Richard Hengist Horne |
 | MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. |
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 | Cosmo De' Medici |  |
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
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“It is not metres, but a metre-making argument that makes a
poem;—a thought so passionate and alive, that, like the spirit of a
plant or an animal, it has an architecture of its own, and adorns
Nature with a new thing. .......... And this is the reward:
that the ideal shall be the real to thee, and the impressions of the
actual world shall fall like summer rain, copious but not troublesome,
to this invulnerable essence. Thou shalt have the whole land for thy
park and manor, the sea for thy bath and navigation, without tax,
and without envy.”
Emerson.
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ARCTIC HEROES.
A FRAGMENT OF NAVAL HISTORY.
PROLOGUE.
The Phantom of a Sea-king rises over Eirek's-fjörd.Phantom.
Through the dense fog, bleak wind and frozen mist,
Standing on this invisible peak of ice,
I, only son of Thorwald, Norway's chief,—
I, the “red-handed Eirek”—born at sea
When the storm sang a war-dirge to the harps
Of mermen for the war-smiths I should slay—
Now come to speak, beneath the Sea-king's stars
Who hold their thoughtful Court above this gloom;
Albeit none else in these void solitudes
My phantom voice will hear. Far less can echoes
Reach to the human shores of future time,
Or e'en this present time, from my strong day,
Through the long freezing centuries, and through
The worked and re-worked forms of dead men's earth,
With all man's ever-dying histories.
Standing on this invisible peak of ice,
I, only son of Thorwald, Norway's chief,—
I, the “red-handed Eirek”—born at sea
When the storm sang a war-dirge to the harps
Of mermen for the war-smiths I should slay—
Now come to speak, beneath the Sea-king's stars
Who hold their thoughtful Court above this gloom;
Albeit none else in these void solitudes
My phantom voice will hear. Far less can echoes
Reach to the human shores of future time,
Or e'en this present time, from my strong day,
Through the long freezing centuries, and through
The worked and re-worked forms of dead men's earth,
With all man's ever-dying histories.
But to the constellations, and those stars
That served as separate or correlative signs,
I do recall my bodily presence here,
Amidst these Arctic powers and mysteries,
A thousand years before Mount Skapta's fiend
Disgorged his fire-founts with their lava streams
That swept off Iceland's flocks, herds, thriving homes,
Dried rivers up, destroyed grass, grain and fish,
And brought a deadly famine on the isle.
I do recall my bodily presence here,—
Long ere the necromantic needle's law
Gave power to man;—and with no other guides
Than flights of birds, and chief the raven's wing,
Presence of deer, white foxes, walrus, bears,
Memory of land-marks, currents, lights in heaven—
Fixt, shifting, ghastly splendours of all hues—
But more than all the impulse from within—
The Scandinavian spirit of the brine,
That sent us forth to conquest, plunder, fame!
That served as separate or correlative signs,
I do recall my bodily presence here,
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A thousand years before Mount Skapta's fiend
Disgorged his fire-founts with their lava streams
That swept off Iceland's flocks, herds, thriving homes,
Dried rivers up, destroyed grass, grain and fish,
And brought a deadly famine on the isle.
I do recall my bodily presence here,—
Long ere the necromantic needle's law
Gave power to man;—and with no other guides
Than flights of birds, and chief the raven's wing,
Presence of deer, white foxes, walrus, bears,
Memory of land-marks, currents, lights in heaven—
Fixt, shifting, ghastly splendours of all hues—
But more than all the impulse from within—
The Scandinavian spirit of the brine,
That sent us forth to conquest, plunder, fame!
Now let me vanish back, to sleep for ever
In my cathedral monument of ice,
Whose pinnacles prismatic are the shows
That please this race—but whose majestic silence
Befits the resting-place of valiant souls
Who to forbidden knowledge led the way!
In my cathedral monument of ice,
Whose pinnacles prismatic are the shows
That please this race—but whose majestic silence
Befits the resting-place of valiant souls
Who to forbidden knowledge led the way!
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1st Man.
We are out of hearing now: give thy heart words.
[They walk in silence some steps further, and then pause.
2nd Man.
Here 'midst the sea's unfathomable ice,
Life-piercing cold and the remorseless night
Which blinds our thoughts, nor changes its dead face,
Save in the 'ghast smile of the hopeless moon,
Must slowly close our sum of wasted hours,
And with them all the enterprising dreams,
Efforts, endurance, and resolve which make
The power and glory of us Englishmen.
1st Man.
It may be so.
2nd Man.
Oh, doubt not but it must.
Day after day, week crawling after week,
So slowly that they scarcely seem to move,
Nor we to know it till our calendar
Shows us that months have lapsed away, and left
Our drifting time while here our bodies lie,
Like melancholy blots upon the snow.
Thus have we lived, and gradually seen
By calculations which appear to mock
Our hearts with their false figures, that 'tis now
Three years since we were cut from off the world,
By these impregnable walls of solid ocean!
1st Man.
All this is true: the physical elements
We thought to conquer, are too strong for us.
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We have felt the crush of battle, side by side;
Seen our best friends, with victory in their eyes,
Suddenly smitten down, a mangled heap,
And thought our own turn might be next; yet never
Drooped we in spirit, or such horror felt
As in the voiceless tortures of this place
Which freezes up the mind.
1st Man.
Not yet.
2nd Man.
I feel it.
Death, flying red-eyed from the cannon's mouth,
Were child's play to confront, compared with this:
Inch by inch famine in the silent frost,
The cold anatomies of our dear friends,
One by one carried in their rigid sheets
To lie beneath the snow, till he that's last
Creeps to the lonely horror of his berth
Within the vacant ship; and while the bears
Grope round and round, thinks of his distant home,
Those dearest to him—glancing rapidly
Through his past life—then with a wailful sigh,
And a brief prayer, his soul becomes a blank.
1st Man.
This is despair: I'll hear no more of it.
We have provisions still.
2nd Man.
And for how long?
1st Man.
A flock of wild birds may pass over us,
And some our shots may reach.
2nd Man.
And by this chance
Find food for one day more.
1st Man.
Yes, and thank God;
For preservation the next day may come,
And rescue from old England.
2nd Man.
All our fuel
Is nearly gone; and as the last log burns,
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The frozen circle sitting round.
1st Man.
Nay, nay—
2nd Man.
Have we not burnt bulkhead, partition, door,
Till one grim family, with glassy eyes
And hollow voices, crouch beneath the deck,
Which soon—our only safeguard—we must burn?
1st Man.
Our boats, loose spars, our masts—the forecastle—
Must serve us ere that pass. But if indeed
Nothing avail, and no help penetrate
To this remote place, inaccessible
Perchance for years, except to some wild bird—
Or creature, stranger than the crimson snow—
We came here knowing all this might befall,
And set our lives at stake. God's will be done.
I, too, have felt the horrors of our fate;
Jammed in a moving field of solid ice,
Borne onward day and night we knew not where,
Till the loud cracking sounds reverberating
Far distant, were soon followed by the rending
Of the vast pack, whose heaving blocks and wedges
Like crags broke loose, all rose to our destruction,
As by some ghastly instinct. Then the hand
Of winter smote the all-congealing air,
And with its freezing tempest piled on high
These massy fragments which environ us,—
Cathedrals many-spired, by lightning riven;
Sharp-angled chaos-heaps of palaced cities,
With splintered pyramids, and broken towers,
That yawn for ever at the bursting moon,
And her four pallid flame-spouts:—now, appalled
By the long roar o' the cloud-like avalanche,—
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In silence tow'rds our frozen ships. So Death
Hath often whispered to me in the night,
And I have seen him in the Aurora-gleam,
Smile as I rose and came upon the deck;
Or when the icicle's prismatic glance
Bright, flashing—and then, colourless, unmoved ice,
Emblem'd our passing life, and its cold end.
O, friend in many perils, fail not now!
Am I not, e'en as thou art, utterly sick
Of my own heavy heart, and loading clothes?
A mind, that in its firmest hour hath fits
Of madness for some change, that shoot across
Its stedfastness, and scarce are trampled down:
Yet, friend, I will not let my spirit sink,
Nor shall mine eyes, e'en with snow-blindness veiled,
Man's great prerogative of inward sight
Forego, nor cease therein to speculate
On England's feeling for her countrymen;
Whereof relief will some day surely come.
2nd Man.
I well believe it; but, I feel, too late.
1st Man.
Then, if too late, one noble task remains,
And one consoling thought: we, to the last,
With firmness, order, and considerate care,
Will act as though our death-beds were at home,
Gray heads with honour sinking to the tomb;
So future ages shall record that we,
Imprisoned in these frozen horrors, held
Our sense of duty, both to man and God.
(The muffled beat of the ship's bell sounds for evening prayers.) The Two Men return; they ascend the steps in the snow—then the ladder—and disappear beneath the snow-covered housing of the deck.
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GENIUS.
Far out at sea—the sun was high,
While veer'd the wind, and flapp'd the sail—
We saw a snow-white butterfly
Dancing before the fitful gale,
Far out at sea!
While veer'd the wind, and flapp'd the sail—
We saw a snow-white butterfly
Dancing before the fitful gale,
Far out at sea!
The little wanderer, who had lost
His way, of danger nothing knew;
Settled awhile upon the mast,—
Then flutter'd o'er the waters blue,
Far out at sea.
His way, of danger nothing knew;
Settled awhile upon the mast,—
Then flutter'd o'er the waters blue,
Far out at sea.
Above, there gleam'd the boundless sky;
Beneath, the boundless ocean sheen;
Between them danced the butterfly,
The spirit-life of this vast scene,—
Far out at sea.
Beneath, the boundless ocean sheen;
Between them danced the butterfly,
The spirit-life of this vast scene,—
Far out at sea.
The tiny soul then soar'd away,
Seeking the clouds on fragile wings,
Lured by the brighter, purer ray
Which hope's ecstatic morning brings,
Far out at sea.
Seeking the clouds on fragile wings,
Lured by the brighter, purer ray
Which hope's ecstatic morning brings,
Far out at sea.
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Away he sped with shimmering glee!
Scarce seen—now lost—yet onward borne!
Night comes!—with wind and rain—and he
No more will dance before the Morn,
Far out at sea.
Scarce seen—now lost—yet onward borne!
Night comes!—with wind and rain—and he
No more will dance before the Morn,
Far out at sea.
He dies unlike his mates, I ween;
Perhaps not sooner, or worse cross'd,—
And he hath felt, thought, known, and seen
A larger life and hope—though lost
Far out at sea!
Perhaps not sooner, or worse cross'd,—
And he hath felt, thought, known, and seen
A larger life and hope—though lost
Far out at sea!
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THE CATARACT OF THE MOHAWK.
Ye black rocks, huddled like a fallen wall,
Ponderous and steep,
Where silver currents downward coil and fall,
And rank weeds weep!—
Thou broad and shallow bed, whose sullen floods
Show barren islets of red stones and sand,—
Shrunk is thy might beneath a fatal Hand,
That will erase all memories from the woods.
Ponderous and steep,
Where silver currents downward coil and fall,
And rank weeds weep!—
Thou broad and shallow bed, whose sullen floods
Show barren islets of red stones and sand,—
Shrunk is thy might beneath a fatal Hand,
That will erase all memories from the woods.
No more with war-paint, shells, and feathers grim,
The Indian chief
Casts his long, frightful shade from bank or brim.
A blighted leaf
Floats by—the emblem of his history!
For though when rains are strong, the cataract
Again rolls on, its currents soon contract,
Or serve for neighbouring mill and factory.
The Indian chief
Casts his long, frightful shade from bank or brim.
A blighted leaf
Floats by—the emblem of his history!
For though when rains are strong, the cataract
Again rolls on, its currents soon contract,
Or serve for neighbouring mill and factory.
A cloud,—of dragon's blood in hue—hangs blent
With streaks and veins
Of gall-stone yellow, and of orpiment,
O'er thy remains.
Never again, with grandeur, in the beam
Of sun-rise, or of noon, or changeful night,
Shalt thou in thunder chaunt thine old birth-right:
Fallen Mohawk! pass to thy stormy dream!
With streaks and veins
Of gall-stone yellow, and of orpiment,
O'er thy remains.
Never again, with grandeur, in the beam
Of sun-rise, or of noon, or changeful night,
Shalt thou in thunder chaunt thine old birth-right:
Fallen Mohawk! pass to thy stormy dream!
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DON QUIXOTE AT THE GRAVE OF ROZINANTE.
I.
Droop, stately trees!And bow your heads with all their heaviest shades,
While your leaves quiver as the daylight fades:
Let midnight dews distil upon this grave,
Where sleeps my friend—the loyal and the brave—
Droop, stately trees!
II.
O, ignorant earth!Can'st thou indeed contain the spirit high
That bore me through my task of chivalry?
Alive, so correspondent with my soul—
Can it be dead—erased from hope's white scroll—
Nothing, henceforth?
III.
This long, black shield—This interposing darkness of despair
But separates us now, and taints the air,
Higher enchantments, bred of virtuous aim,
May melt, and give a constellated fame
In starry field!
IV.
Whate'er thy doom,My heart, chief mourner, shall companion thee,
Thou rarest friend—true in extremity;
And this old, withered arm shall battle wage
With death's foul Shadows, smiting back their rage
Into the gloom!
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ORIZÀBA.
I.
I saw thee, Orizàba, in my youth,Morn after morn,
When shot and shell bore death, and future ruth
To many a home forlorn.
And, after War's revolting face
Faded before el Norté blast,
Oft-times I hied me to thy mountain-base,
And, seated near thy swarthy village, framed
Some verses of a Legend,—which I lost,
Drifting from place to place;
But now, from their dark lumber-nook reclaim'd,
Upon the world's wide ocean they are cast.
II.
A Slave in ancient Mexico,Tended a Princess thro' the woods.
Rain suddenly rush'd down in floods,
Till wind and darkness ruled below.
Into some wild-beasts' cave the Slave convey'd
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Tore down great boughs to screen the royal maid,
And at her feet sat watchful through the night.
At dawn the tempest lull'd, and clear'd away:
They issued forth, and saw the first red ray
On Orizàba's snows, above the cloud-rocks gray.
III.
They mark the crimsoning sun-rise tingeThe clouds above that mountain peak—
Like strong blood flushing passion's cheek—
Then take, below, a yeasty fringe,
Which opens out in many a streak
Of coming light and radiant smiles—
An ocean-sky, with lovely isles,
Where silent billows flow, and break.
IV.
They watch the peak's clear outline glow!The clouds with hope's new birthday yearn!
The palpitating silver snow
Glitters, then seems to blush and burn,
And snatch a robe of gleaming gold,
Its swelling bosom to enfold.
That virgin gold took fire before the rise
Of Orizàba's Sun—whose wheel-spokes hurl'd
Beams that made heaven a furnace of all dyes,
Till life's sustainer burst upon the world!
The Slave and Princess tow'rds each other press'd—
Each face was glorified—each soul confess'd!
“I love thee!” cried the Slave—and from that hour was blest.
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NEWTON.
[_]
(Written after a Lecture on the Discoveries of Sir Isaac Newton, delivered by the late Professor Wilson, M.A., in Melbourne.)
The Earth was but a platform for thy power,
Whereon to watch and work, by day and night;
The Moon, to thee, was but heaven's evening flower;
The Sun, a loftier argument of light.
Each planet was thy fellow-traveller bright,
In vision—and, in thought, still nearer home;—
Throughout the Universe thy soul took flight,
And touch'd at suns whose rays may never come!
Whereon to watch and work, by day and night;
The Moon, to thee, was but heaven's evening flower;
The Sun, a loftier argument of light.
Each planet was thy fellow-traveller bright,
In vision—and, in thought, still nearer home;—
Throughout the Universe thy soul took flight,
And touch'd at suns whose rays may never come!
Tho' star-tranced Tycho, and the thought sublime
Of Kepler, fathom'd Heaven's infinity,
To thee t'was left to prove the laws that chime
Through spheres and atoms—being, and to be:
Profound, alike, in thy humility—
“A child that gather'd shells—kneeling beside the sea.”
Of Kepler, fathom'd Heaven's infinity,
To thee t'was left to prove the laws that chime
Through spheres and atoms—being, and to be:
Profound, alike, in thy humility—
“A child that gather'd shells—kneeling beside the sea.”
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PELTERS OF PYRAMIDS.
Nought loves another as itself,
Nor venerates another so;
Nor is it possible to thought
A greater than itself to know.
Blake.
Nor venerates another so;
Nor is it possible to thought
A greater than itself to know.
Blake.
A shoal of idlers, from a merchant craft
Anchor'd off Alexandria, went ashore,
And mounting asses in their headlong glee,
Round Pompey's Pillar rode with hoots and taunts,—
As men oft say “What art thou more than we?”
Next in a boat they floated up the Nile,
Singing and drinking, swearing senseless oaths,
Shouting, and laughing most derisively
At all majestic scenes. A bank they reach'd,
And clambering up, play'd gambols among tombs;
And in portentous ruins (through whose depths—
The mighty twilight of departed Gods—
Both sun and moon glanced furtive, as in awe)
They hid, and whoop'd, and spat on sacred things.
Anchor'd off Alexandria, went ashore,
And mounting asses in their headlong glee,
Round Pompey's Pillar rode with hoots and taunts,—
As men oft say “What art thou more than we?”
Next in a boat they floated up the Nile,
Singing and drinking, swearing senseless oaths,
Shouting, and laughing most derisively
At all majestic scenes. A bank they reach'd,
And clambering up, play'd gambols among tombs;
And in portentous ruins (through whose depths—
The mighty twilight of departed Gods—
Both sun and moon glanced furtive, as in awe)
They hid, and whoop'd, and spat on sacred things.
At length, beneath the blazing sun they lounged
Near a great Pyramid. Awhile they stood
With stupid stare, until resentment grew,
In the recoil of meanness from the vast;
And gathering stones, they with coarse oaths and jibes,
(As they would say, “What art thou more than we?”)
Pelted the Pyramid! But soon these men,
Hot and exhausted, sat them down to drink—
Wrangled, smoked, spat, and laughed, and drowsily
Cursed the bald Pyramid, and fell asleep.
Near a great Pyramid. Awhile they stood
With stupid stare, until resentment grew,
In the recoil of meanness from the vast;
And gathering stones, they with coarse oaths and jibes,
(As they would say, “What art thou more than we?”)
Pelted the Pyramid! But soon these men,
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Wrangled, smoked, spat, and laughed, and drowsily
Cursed the bald Pyramid, and fell asleep.
Night came:—a little sand went drifting by—
And morn again was in the soft blue heavens.
The broad slopes of the shining Pyramid
Look'd down in their austere simplicity
Upon the glistening silence of the sands
Whereon no trace of mortal dust was seen.
And morn again was in the soft blue heavens.
The broad slopes of the shining Pyramid
Look'd down in their austere simplicity
Upon the glistening silence of the sands
Whereon no trace of mortal dust was seen.
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A TORCH-RACE
IN MEMORY OF PROMETHEUS.
Sanctæ Promethéæ retinens vestigia flammæ.
Milton, ad Patrem.
From thy temple of honor in Academe's groves,
Where sages and poets have taught divine truths,
When night clothes the statues of Gods and their Loves,
See!—a Torch-Race of fifty!—all marble-white youths.
Where sages and poets have taught divine truths,
When night clothes the statues of Gods and their Loves,
See!—a Torch-Race of fifty!—all marble-white youths.
Through the plane-trees and olives, the elm-rows and bays,
The grass-walks, the vine-walks, and labyrinth ways,
They rush and they rend,—they tear down, and dash,
With frantic brands flaming—the cry, shout, and crash
Of sapling and bough, arch'd bowers, trellice frames—
This once, the mute victims of these sacred Games!
The grass-walks, the vine-walks, and labyrinth ways,
They rush and they rend,—they tear down, and dash,
With frantic brands flaming—the cry, shout, and crash
Of sapling and bough, arch'd bowers, trellice frames—
This once, the mute victims of these sacred Games!
Midst tree-trunks, and shrub-tops, and founts of the rock,
The long-bearded comets stream on in one flock,
While cymbals and harps to the chorus respond,
With the double-pipe screaming, above and beyond;
And bulls-horns, and goats-horns, and conch-shells all drone,
Like Hephaistos when drunk in his forges alone,
And the roar of the flames and the song of the God,
Made Ætna's foot tremble, from lava to sod!
The long-bearded comets stream on in one flock,
While cymbals and harps to the chorus respond,
With the double-pipe screaming, above and beyond;
And bulls-horns, and goats-horns, and conch-shells all drone,
Like Hephaistos when drunk in his forges alone,
And the roar of the flames and the song of the God,
Made Ætna's foot tremble, from lava to sod!
Now the Race is ascending—now winding—now slanting,
And we leap up-and-down to their gasping and panting,
All lookers-on dance, in their wild-eyed delight,
As this Torch-Race Promethean, glorifies night!
And we leap up-and-down to their gasping and panting,
All lookers-on dance, in their wild-eyed delight,
As this Torch-Race Promethean, glorifies night!
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O'er the clear circus' space, and slope of the hill,
The contest grows straighter, with steadying will:
Some fall—disappear—and some torch-blazes mingle,
Till the rapturous file becomes lengthened and single—
For now 'tis the high road!—the half mile's fierce strain
To the gorged lungs, the sinews, the blood-throbbing brain!
The contest grows straighter, with steadying will:
Some fall—disappear—and some torch-blazes mingle,
Till the rapturous file becomes lengthened and single—
For now 'tis the high road!—the half mile's fierce strain
To the gorged lungs, the sinews, the blood-throbbing brain!
Oh, the fast-flashing torch in the hand of that boy
Who leads the mad meteors!—a hand to fire Troy!
He will win!—he must win!—yet fleet as sharp wind,
Two other mad meteors now blaze close behind!
They toss, whirl, and tear, and side-by-side flare—
The wild brands out-streaming like tempest-torn hair!
While circles, and figures, and scrolls, are all blended
With sparkling devices, from Hades ascended!
Now closing concentric, intenser each light,
Which contracts and turns pale with this passion of flight!
Who leads the mad meteors!—a hand to fire Troy!
He will win!—he must win!—yet fleet as sharp wind,
Two other mad meteors now blaze close behind!
They toss, whirl, and tear, and side-by-side flare—
The wild brands out-streaming like tempest-torn hair!
While circles, and figures, and scrolls, are all blended
With sparkling devices, from Hades ascended!
Now closing concentric, intenser each light,
Which contracts and turns pale with this passion of flight!
But in vain!—'tis a Game where the prize is for one—
The first flying Torch, is still first—and 'tis done!
That youth of a Titan-line, wins the great Race!—
Then falls dead!—for his heart grew too large for life's space!
And t'were better die thus, than rot slow in one place.
The first flying Torch, is still first—and 'tis done!
That youth of a Titan-line, wins the great Race!—
Then falls dead!—for his heart grew too large for life's space!
And t'were better die thus, than rot slow in one place.
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ARM-FOLDED STAND!
(To Le Conte de Lisle, Paris, 1875.)
Γνωθι σεαυτον.
I
Arm-folded, stand upon thy rock, and smileWith quiet consciousness of what thou art,
Watching the waves in their contentious boil!
Thy genius stoops not to the common mart,
And from thy lofty thoughts, the half soul'd crowd recoil.
II
The world moves on in Science,—but for ArtThe old stupidity still reigns a King
Who drives the same ways, in the same gilt cart,
Seeing no phœnix but on well-sunned wing.
Apollo is no god, without a “hall-marked” dart.
III
But, some day, France—through accident, or dream—Will ask “How came it men were blind as stone?
Seek we his house with laurels! and the beam
Of fair prosperity!—atone! atone!”
They find the shutters closed. All dark. The body's gone!
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THE LAUREL-SEED.
“Marmora findit.”
I.
A Despot gazed on sun-set clouds,
Then sank to sleep amidst the gleam;—
Forthwith, a myriad starving slaves
Must realize his lofty dream.
Then sank to sleep amidst the gleam;—
Forthwith, a myriad starving slaves
Must realize his lofty dream.
Year upon year, all night and day,
They toil'd, they died—and were replaced;
At length, a marble fabric rose
With cloud-like domes and turrets graced.
They toil'd, they died—and were replaced;
At length, a marble fabric rose
With cloud-like domes and turrets graced.
No anguish of those herds of slaves,
E'er shook one dome or wall asunder,
Nor wars of other mighty Kings,
Nor lustrous javelins of the thunder.
E'er shook one dome or wall asunder,
Nor wars of other mighty Kings,
Nor lustrous javelins of the thunder.
II.
One sunny morn a lonely bird,
Pass'd o'er, and dropt a laurel-seed;
The plant sprang up amidst the walls
Whose chinks were full of moss and weed.
Pass'd o'er, and dropt a laurel-seed;
The plant sprang up amidst the walls
Whose chinks were full of moss and weed.
The laurel tree grew large and strong,
Its roots went searching deeply down;
It split the marble walls of Wrong,
And blossom'd o'er the Despot's crown.
Its roots went searching deeply down;
It split the marble walls of Wrong,
And blossom'd o'er the Despot's crown.
And in its boughs a nightingale
Sings to those world-forgotten graves;
And o'er its head a skylark's voice
Consoles the spirits of the slaves.
Sings to those world-forgotten graves;
And o'er its head a skylark's voice
Consoles the spirits of the slaves.
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PRAYERS WITHOUT WORDS.
A Quartette.
Chorus.O, Spirit of the Unknown Universe!
And of this earth's fair bridal-bed and hearse,
Thou know'st how large—how small—man's soul—
His yearning life, and Death's revolving goal!
What human words can fitting be
For all we feel, hope, think, and see?
1st Voice.
When in a cloudless frosty night
We woo the Moon, so young and bright,
And know her age so many thousand years,
A prayer comes from the heart—and tears
Confuse the sight;—
But words we have not for our hopes and fears.
Chorus.
O, Spirit of the Unknown Universe, &c.
2nd Voice.
When wandering in a lonely wood,
Peopled with thronging and conflicting Shades,
All we have felt and understood
Grows into prayers—and all unuttered fades!
Chorus.
O, Spirit, &c.
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Or, lying wide awake at night,
When Thought and Silence breed within the brain,
Thou see'st ascending crowds with pinions white!
Thou hear'st an unknown tongue in choral strain!—
Struck mute with ecstacy, thou striv'st to join the flight.
Chorus.
O, Spirit, &c.
2nd, 3rd and 4th Voices.
Sitting beneath broad cataracts,
Between the waters and the rock,
The sense of Power makes dumb thy thought's pale flock,
More than the white hell's dirge distracts!
Chorus.
O, Spirit, &c.
4th Voice.
When swimming in the solemn sea
Beneath the stars,
One soul alone with God's Infinity,
Which the brain's scope bedims and mars,—
My prayers breathe upward silently!
Chorus.
O, Spirit of the Unknown Universe,
And of this earth's fair bridal-bed and hearse,
Thou know'st how large—how small—man's soul—
His yearning life, and Death's revolving goal!
What human words can fitting be
For all we feel, hope, think, and see?
138
THE WATER-MILL.
Evening Scene near an old Water Mill, in company with C--- E---and Eva.
The spell of silence deep,
And dream that is not sleep,
Intensely reign above the magic scene;
O'er the weird pulse of air,
And wooded isle's dark hair,
And o'er the water's tomb-like depths serene.
And dream that is not sleep,
Intensely reign above the magic scene;
O'er the weird pulse of air,
And wooded isle's dark hair,
And o'er the water's tomb-like depths serene.
The influence of dream,
Tho' bound to sleep it seem,
A wider sphere with visions doth enwreath;
O'er Nature's zone 'tis wound,
Diffused through life around,
In joy, in sorrow, and perchance thro' death.
Tho' bound to sleep it seem,
A wider sphere with visions doth enwreath;
O'er Nature's zone 'tis wound,
Diffused through life around,
In joy, in sorrow, and perchance thro' death.
Oh, I have spent my youth
In sadness and in truth,
With feelings deep that no return have known;
So from fond hope I wove
Imaginings of love,
Tasted of heaven—awoke—and all was gone!
In sadness and in truth,
With feelings deep that no return have known;
So from fond hope I wove
Imaginings of love,
Tasted of heaven—awoke—and all was gone!
But now my heart hath found
A balm for every wound,
A refuge, a twin-spirit—long denied—
And mute with deep excess
Of unhoped happiness,
I stand with thee, fond Eva, by my side.
A balm for every wound,
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And mute with deep excess
Of unhoped happiness,
I stand with thee, fond Eva, by my side.
Dim Trance lies in the trees,
And Awe, that fear half sees!
With sense of elemental life we dwell;
In sweetness and mild pain,
Like some elysian strain,
Our souls yearn forth, and mingle with the spell.
And Awe, that fear half sees!
With sense of elemental life we dwell;
In sweetness and mild pain,
Like some elysian strain,
Our souls yearn forth, and mingle with the spell.
The mill-wheel's voice is mute,
No lonely owlets hoot,
Nor bat's wild cries, or frighten'd shade obtrude;
The wind lies clasp'd in death,
Who sucks its last faint breath,
And spell-bound on a stone sits Solitude!
No lonely owlets hoot,
Nor bat's wild cries, or frighten'd shade obtrude;
The wind lies clasp'd in death,
Who sucks its last faint breath,
And spell-bound on a stone sits Solitude!
The grief-hair'd willows weep
Slow dews, like tears of sleep,
And lost enchantments float by, silently;
Only a thrill around,
Seems often like a sound
Of whispers—trickling drops—and far-off sea.
Slow dews, like tears of sleep,
And lost enchantments float by, silently;
Only a thrill around,
Seems often like a sound
Of whispers—trickling drops—and far-off sea.
Athwart the distance dim,
Three magic cygnets swim,
With necks and wings unearthly in their motion:—
Like spirits, in their pride
And death-white shape, they glide
Now here—now there—dumb as our rapt devotion.
Three magic cygnets swim,
With necks and wings unearthly in their motion:—
Like spirits, in their pride
And death-white shape, they glide
Now here—now there—dumb as our rapt devotion.
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The dripping wing and hum
Of water-insects come
At intervals—but unlike life or breath:
O'er moveless reeds and grass
Illusive visions pass;
Oblivion floats in undecaying death!
Of water-insects come
At intervals—but unlike life or breath:
O'er moveless reeds and grass
Illusive visions pass;
Oblivion floats in undecaying death!
A pallid flickering gleams
With our clairvoyant dreams,
And steeps each sense in strangely-working charms;
While movelessly we lean,
United with the scene—
A trance that broods beneath o'ermarbled forms!
With our clairvoyant dreams,
And steeps each sense in strangely-working charms;
While movelessly we lean,
United with the scene—
A trance that broods beneath o'ermarbled forms!
Yet doth one vision flow,
For we are such as know
Each other's inmost thoughts and feelings deep;
So that the subtle power
Whose presence rules the hour,
Unites in us, and like one pulse doth creep.
For we are such as know
Each other's inmost thoughts and feelings deep;
So that the subtle power
Whose presence rules the hour,
Unites in us, and like one pulse doth creep.
The world is far away,
Its heart-ache and its clay;
And all the narrow springs of evil powers,
Like snakes in darkness wind,
Leaving no trace behind
To soil the beauty of our opiate bowers.
Its heart-ache and its clay;
And all the narrow springs of evil powers,
Like snakes in darkness wind,
Leaving no trace behind
To soil the beauty of our opiate bowers.
Each hope and passion wild
Sleeps like a languid child,
And dim Imagination glides, and rests!
His star-crown melts away—
Cloud-throne and sceptred sway—
Into one living dream, deep welling through our breasts.
Sleeps like a languid child,
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His star-crown melts away—
Cloud-throne and sceptred sway—
Into one living dream, deep welling through our breasts.
Ah, me! that thus sublime
Could pass an age of time—
A silent rapture of divinity!
With nought to think or move,
Save an absorbing Love,
Thrilling, and melting to eternity.
Could pass an age of time—
A silent rapture of divinity!
With nought to think or move,
Save an absorbing Love,
Thrilling, and melting to eternity.
But now the electric scene
Wanders—and Time again
Lifts his dull head, and shakes his locks all gray!
Slowly thy steps do wend,—
And silently, my friend,
Thou bear'st thy deep-devoted Love away.
Wanders—and Time again
Lifts his dull head, and shakes his locks all gray!
Slowly thy steps do wend,—
And silently, my friend,
Thou bear'st thy deep-devoted Love away.
Oh, shall I turn mine eyes
To gaze into thine eyes—
Or dream ungazing?—O'er the murmuring ford
Their hazy forms now pass,
Like ghosts o'er the morass,
And I am left alone—with thee, my soul's adored.
To gaze into thine eyes—
Or dream ungazing?—O'er the murmuring ford
Their hazy forms now pass,
Like ghosts o'er the morass,
And I am left alone—with thee, my soul's adored.
142
JACOB VAN DORT; OR THE MODERN SADDUCEE.
I.
Jacob Van Dort, of Amsterdam—A man considered thoroughly good,
As husband, father, citizen,
Incapable of lies or sham,
I am—
Our people say I am;—
A model of sound flesh and blood:
And at our synagogue, 'midst holy men,
Devoutly I have ever knelt and stood.
II.
Thus have I lived for ninety years in health,With fair fame, happiness, and wealth:
Now I am lying
Serenely dying,
What have I done in my life's span—
My little circle oppidan—
To look for life beyond the fate
Of worlds that have some final date?
III.
What is this Immortality,—This dazzling prism beyond the range of Time?—
Far as my brain can climb,—
Then, struggling on—and shimmering back to me?
143
IV.
It is not possible to gainA truthful comprehension of this thought—
This dream so god-like and un-sane—
Fearing, resisting, hating to be naught.
V.
Would not a million yearsIn rising circles, satisfy man's hope?—
Ten millions, then, of life 'midst dying spheres—
Would'st thou still cry, ‘give me yet wider scope?’
VI.
We know not what we crave—We plunge through wordy midnights of the mind—
And all because we dread our needful grave,
Seeking to reconstruct the laws designed.
VII.
What has the best man done—What could the best that ever lived e'er do—
To justify a rank with Star and Sun?
Nay more—for they may end when dates fall due.
VIII.
Be rational, Van Dort—firmly resigned—Die in thy senses!
Die as thou liv'd'st, illusions all withstood,
And pious pretences.
Dying, you scarce can hold your health's strong mind;
But some of it keep clear:
Be trustful of the Power which brought you here
That your “hereafter” will be good,
And last as long as Nature means it should.
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IX.
Whate'er the Future bring to thee,Be grateful for all good thou hast enjoy'd,—
Oh, deeply grateful if security
From bodily pain and weakness hath been thine;
No faculties destroyed—
Worn dull, or cloy'd,
While silver age did o'er thee smile and shine.
Write on my tomb
In golden letters, but of simplest sort—
“Jacob Van Dort,
Contented—grateful—whatso'er may come.”
X.
O, God-aspiring man!Who crav'st a life beyond thy measuring brain—
A Never-ceasing spin of thy small story—
Which Million'd years on Millions no more hold
Than morn's first clouds unrolled
Comprise a Universe of Everlasting glory—
Why should God give thy problem-dream
A life to last beyond—or with each Solar Scheme?
145
TIMBUCTOO.
BY A NATIVE YOUTH.
Must I still live in Timbuctoo,
'Midst burning and shifting sands,
In a small straw hut, near a foul morass—
When the earth has sweet green lands?
'Midst burning and shifting sands,
In a small straw hut, near a foul morass—
When the earth has sweet green lands?
No breath of air, no song of a bird,
And scarcely the voice of man,
Save the water-carrier's wailful cry,
As he plods to fill calabash-can.
And scarcely the voice of man,
Save the water-carrier's wailful cry,
As he plods to fill calabash-can.
No fruit, no tree, no herbage, nor soil
Where a plant or root might grow,
Save the desert-shrub full of wounding thorns,
As the lips of the camels know.
Where a plant or root might grow,
Save the desert-shrub full of wounding thorns,
As the lips of the camels know.
The main street steams with the caravans,
Tir'd oxen and camels kneel down;
Box, package, and bales, are sold or exchang'd,—
And the train leaves our silent town.
Tir'd oxen and camels kneel down;
Box, package, and bales, are sold or exchang'd,—
And the train leaves our silent town.
The white man comes—and the white man goes—
But his looks and his words remain;
They show me my heart can put forth green leaves,
And my withering thoughts find rain.
But his looks and his words remain;
They show me my heart can put forth green leaves,
And my withering thoughts find rain.
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Oh, why was I born in Timbuctoo,—
For now that I hear the roar
Of distant lands, with large acts in men's hands,
I can rest in my hut no more.
For now that I hear the roar
Of distant lands, with large acts in men's hands,
I can rest in my hut no more.
New life! hope! change!
Your echoes are in my brain;
Farewell to my thirsty home,
I must traverse the land and main!
Your echoes are in my brain;
Farewell to my thirsty home,
I must traverse the land and main!
And can I, then, leave thee, poor Timbuctoo,
Where I first beheld the sky?—
Where my own lov'd maid, now sleeps in the shade—
Where the bones of my parents lie!
Where I first beheld the sky?—
Where my own lov'd maid, now sleeps in the shade—
Where the bones of my parents lie!
147
THE WATER-FLY AND THE JELLY-FISH.
Inscribed to Professor Owen.
Bright in silver glancings—o'er the sunny sea-shore,
Skimming fast I flew, midst pools in rocky rings;
Playing through the sea-weeds—dancing with their shadows,
Proud of my wings!
Skimming fast I flew, midst pools in rocky rings;
Playing through the sea-weeds—dancing with their shadows,
Proud of my wings!
Gaily my image woo'd me to the water,
Close, ah, too closely,—dazzling my eyes—
Dipping down, I'm seiz'd! by something slimy, floating
In pale opal dyes!
Close, ah, too closely,—dazzling my eyes—
Dipping down, I'm seiz'd! by something slimy, floating
In pale opal dyes!
Now, I am crush'd within a freezing silence!—
Gazing up to Heaven, thro' pale transparent walls:
Moveless, while I feel my gleaming gelid prison
Joys in my thralls!
Gazing up to Heaven, thro' pale transparent walls:
Moveless, while I feel my gleaming gelid prison
Joys in my thralls!
Slowly, ah me! my delicate structure's failing!—
Melting, absorb'd within this idle mass:
Sunny-life, farewell!—thy liquid rays still smiling,
Quiver—and pass!
Melting, absorb'd within this idle mass:
Sunny-life, farewell!—thy liquid rays still smiling,
Quiver—and pass!
148
THE CHURCH POOR-BOX.
I am a Poor-Box! here I stick,
Nailed to a wall of white-washed brick,
Teeming with ‘fancies coming thick,’
That sometimes mingle
With solid pence from those who kneel;
While now and then, O, joy! I feel
A sixpence tingle.
Nailed to a wall of white-washed brick,
Teeming with ‘fancies coming thick,’
That sometimes mingle
With solid pence from those who kneel;
While now and then, O, joy! I feel
A sixpence tingle.
The robin on me oft doth hop;
I am the woodlouse' working shop,
And friendly spiders sometimes drop
A line to me;
While e'en the sun will often stop
To shine on me.
I am the woodlouse' working shop,
And friendly spiders sometimes drop
A line to me;
While e'en the sun will often stop
To shine on me.
I love the ghostly churchyard owl,
Who stares at me through his grey cowl!
I love the sheep-dog's moon-struck howl,
And its sad sense;
It shows he has some sort of soul,
With no pretence.
Who stares at me through his grey cowl!
I love the sheep-dog's moon-struck howl,
And its sad sense;
It shows he has some sort of soul,
With no pretence.
I love our sharp-arch'd windows, painted
With gawky figures,—sceptred, sainted;
Through which me the sun, as if he'd fainted,
Wears a false smile,—
Like the fair Spectre that once haunted
Our western aisle!
With gawky figures,—sceptred, sainted;
Through which me the sun, as if he'd fainted,
Wears a false smile,—
Like the fair Spectre that once haunted
Our western aisle!
149
I love the old church-meadow mower;
Our organist and his bellows-blower;
The village maidens in full flower;
Our boys that sing;
Our strong men who in belfry tower
Blithe changes ring!
Our organist and his bellows-blower;
The village maidens in full flower;
Our boys that sing;
Our strong men who in belfry tower
Blithe changes ring!
I am of sterling, close, hard grain
As any box on land or main,—
But age, my friends, who can sustain
In solitude?
Neglect might make a saint complain,
Whate'er his wood.
As any box on land or main,—
But age, my friends, who can sustain
In solitude?
Neglect might make a saint complain,
Whate'er his wood.
Heaven hath, no doubt, a large design:
Some hearts are harder-grain'd than mine;
Some men too fat, and some too fine,
And some ‘can't spare it:’
I do not mean to warp and pine,
But humbly bear it.
Some hearts are harder-grain'd than mine;
Some men too fat, and some too fine,
And some ‘can't spare it:’
I do not mean to warp and pine,
But humbly bear it.
This is a cold and draughty place,
And folks pass by with quickened pace,—
Praying, perchance, (a dinner-grace)
But ever then,
I feel the comfort of His face
Who pities men!
And folks pass by with quickened pace,—
Praying, perchance, (a dinner-grace)
But ever then,
I feel the comfort of His face
Who pities men!
I saw last week, in portly style,
A usurer coming down the aisle,—
His chin a screw, his nose a file,
With gimlet eye;
He turned his head, to cough and smile—
And sidled by.
A usurer coming down the aisle,—
His chin a screw, his nose a file,
With gimlet eye;
He turned his head, to cough and smile—
And sidled by.
150
I saw the same rich man, this morn,
With sickly cheek and gait forlorn,
As feeble, almost, as when born:
He drop't some pelf,
Pitying the poor—the weak and worn—
Meaning himself.
With sickly cheek and gait forlorn,
As feeble, almost, as when born:
He drop't some pelf,
Pitying the poor—the weak and worn—
Meaning himself.
I saw last year, a courtly dame
With splendid bust, and jewels' flame,
And all the airs of feathered game—
A high-bred star-thing!
All saw the gold—but close she came,
And dropt—a farthing!
With splendid bust, and jewels' flame,
And all the airs of feathered game—
A high-bred star-thing!
All saw the gold—but close she came,
And dropt—a farthing!
Two days ago, she passed this way,
Heart-broken—prematurely gray—
Her beauty like its mother-clay.
She gave me gold:—
“I am like thee,” I heard her say—
“Hollow and cold.”
Heart-broken—prematurely gray—
Her beauty like its mother-clay.
She gave me gold:—
“I am like thee,” I heard her say—
“Hollow and cold.”
Ere day-break, on a snowy night,
When earth was angel-plumage white,
A gent' with studs and chains bedight,
Wrought me sore grief,—
Forcing my lid with main and might,—
In short, a thief!
When earth was angel-plumage white,
A gent' with studs and chains bedight,
Wrought me sore grief,—
Forcing my lid with main and might,—
In short, a thief!
I saw the Devil sit on a stile,
Eating a turnip, with a smile;
Then cross a field of some half-mile,
To come to Church:
He wink'd one eye, with provoking glee,
As he saw the small box of Charity
Thus left in the lurch.
Eating a turnip, with a smile;
Then cross a field of some half-mile,
To come to Church:
He wink'd one eye, with provoking glee,
As he saw the small box of Charity
Thus left in the lurch.
151
The farmer gives when crops are good,
Because the markets warm his blood;
The traveller, 'scaped from field and flood,
Endows the Poor;
The dying miser sends his mud—
To make Heaven sure.
Because the markets warm his blood;
The traveller, 'scaped from field and flood,
Endows the Poor;
The dying miser sends his mud—
To make Heaven sure.
A lover with his hoped-for bride
(Her parents being close beside),
Drew forth his purse with sleek-faced pride,—
Rattling my wood:
All day I felt a pain in my side—
He was “so good.”
(Her parents being close beside),
Drew forth his purse with sleek-faced pride,—
Rattling my wood:
All day I felt a pain in my side—
He was “so good.”
The General, fresh from sacking towns,
My humble claim to pity owns;
The Justice on his shilling frowns;
But worst of all,
Arch-hypocrites display their crowns
Beside my wall.
My humble claim to pity owns;
The Justice on his shilling frowns;
But worst of all,
Arch-hypocrites display their crowns
Beside my wall.
There came a little child one day,
Just old enough to know its way,
And clambering up, it seemed to say,
“Poor lonely Box”—
Gave me a kiss—and went away
With drooping locks.
Just old enough to know its way,
And clambering up, it seemed to say,
“Poor lonely Box”—
Gave me a kiss—and went away
With drooping locks.
I have to play a thankless part:
With most men's charities I smart;
But those who give with a child's heart,
From pure fount sprung,
Warm my drear life—console my lot:—
The rest I take on cross-grain'd knot—
Wise head—still tongue.
With most men's charities I smart;
But those who give with a child's heart,
From pure fount sprung,
Warm my drear life—console my lot:—
The rest I take on cross-grain'd knot—
Wise head—still tongue.
152
SOLITUDE AND THE LILY.
(Lockerbie, 1873.)
THE LILY.I bend above the moving stream,
And see myself in my own dream,—
Heaven passing, while I do not pass.
Something divine pertains to me,
Or I to it;—reality
Escapes me on this liquid glass.
SOLITUDE.
The changeful clouds that float or poise on high,
Emblem earth's night and day of history—
Renewed for ever, evermore to die.
Thy life-dream is thy fleeting loveliness;
But mine is concentrated consciousness—
A life apart from pleasure or distress.
The grandeur of the Whole
Absorbs my soul,
While my caves sigh o'er human littleness.
THE LILY.
Ah, Solitude!
Of marble Silence fit abode,—
I do prefer my fading face,
My loss of loveliness and grace,
With cloud-dreams ever in my view;—
Also the hope that other eyes
May share my rapture in the skies,
And, if illusion, feel it true.
153
EUTHANASIA.
Physician! strong of mind as tender-hearted,Let not the body, whose last hold hath parted,
Linger in agony, and at Death's porches
Swing blind, with frantic arms that toss like torches;
But when the final day is come,
Lull all its being for the tomb,
And with a gentle opiate-trance
Prelude the long dream's cold romance,
Or exaltation on the shore
Beyond Time's distant ocean-roar—
Or whatso'er may be in store,—
So that no pangs the sense invest,
Sinking in capacious rest,
As a bird fills up its nest,—
And, absorbed—ray after ray—
As night steals, mingling, o'er the day,
Flowing melt, and melting fade,
Like a soft evasive shade—
The last on Life's remote highway.
154
HAJARLIS.
A Tragic Ballad, set to an old Arabian air.
I loved Hajarlis—and was loved—
Both children of the Desert, we;
And deep as were her lustrous eyes,
My image ever could I see:
Both children of the Desert, we;
And deep as were her lustrous eyes,
My image ever could I see:
And in my heart she also shone,
As doth a star above a well;
And we each other's thoughts enjoyed,
As camels listen to a bell.
As doth a star above a well;
And we each other's thoughts enjoyed,
As camels listen to a bell.
A Sheik unto Hajarlis came,
And said “Thy beauty fires my dreams!
Young Ornab spurn—fly to my tent—
So shalt thou walk in golden beams.”
And said “Thy beauty fires my dreams!
Young Ornab spurn—fly to my tent—
So shalt thou walk in golden beams.”
But from the Sheik my maiden turned,
And he was wroth with her, and me;
Hajarlis down a pit was lowered,
And I was fastened to a tree.
And he was wroth with her, and me;
Hajarlis down a pit was lowered,
And I was fastened to a tree.
Nor bread, nor water, had she there;
But oft a slave would come, and go:
O'er the pit bent he, muttering words—
And aye took back the unvarying ‘No!’
But oft a slave would come, and go:
O'er the pit bent he, muttering words—
And aye took back the unvarying ‘No!’
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The simoom came with sullen glare!—
Breathed Desert-mysteries through my tree!—
I only heard the starving sighs
From that pit's mouth unceasingly.
Breathed Desert-mysteries through my tree!—
I only heard the starving sighs
From that pit's mouth unceasingly.
Day after day—night after night—
Hajarlis' famished moans I hear!
And then I prayed her to consent—
For my sake, in my wild despair.
Hajarlis' famished moans I hear!
And then I prayed her to consent—
For my sake, in my wild despair.
Calm strode the Sheik—looked down the pit,
And said, “Thy beauty now is gone:
Thy last moans will thy lover hear,
While thy slow torments feed my scorn.”
And said, “Thy beauty now is gone:
Thy last moans will thy lover hear,
While thy slow torments feed my scorn.”
They spared me that I still might know
Her thirst and frenzy—till at last
The pit was silent!—and I felt
Her life—and mine—were with the past!
Her thirst and frenzy—till at last
The pit was silent!—and I felt
Her life—and mine—were with the past!
A friend, that night, cut through my bonds:
The Sheik amidst his camels slept;—
We fired his tent, and drove them in—
And then with joy I scream'd and wept!
The Sheik amidst his camels slept;—
We fired his tent, and drove them in—
And then with joy I scream'd and wept!
And cried “A spirit comes arrayed,
From that dark pit, in golden beams!
Thy slaves are fled—thy camels mad—
Harjarlis once more fires thy dreams!”
From that dark pit, in golden beams!
Thy slaves are fled—thy camels mad—
Harjarlis once more fires thy dreams!”
The camels blindly trod him down,
While still we drove them o'er his bed;
Then with a stone I beat his breast,
As I would smite him ten times dead!
While still we drove them o'er his bed;
Then with a stone I beat his breast,
As I would smite him ten times dead!
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I dragg'd him far out on the sands—
And vultures came—a screaming shoal!—
And while they fang'd and flapp'd, I prayed
Great Allah to destroy his soul!
And vultures came—a screaming shoal!—
And while they fang'd and flapp'd, I prayed
Great Allah to destroy his soul!
And day and night, again I sat
Above that pit, and thought I heard
Harjarlis' moans—and cried “my love!”
With heart still breaking at each word.
Above that pit, and thought I heard
Harjarlis' moans—and cried “my love!”
With heart still breaking at each word.
Is it the night-breeze in my ear,
That woos me, like a fanning dove?—
Is it herself?—O, desert-sands,
Enshroud me ever with my love!
That woos me, like a fanning dove?—
Is it herself?—O, desert-sands,
Enshroud me ever with my love!
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A STAR OVER NIAGARA.
BRIEF COLLOQUY OF TWO SPIRITS.
Blake.More form, and less of catalogues, brave Walter
A cumulative rush of powers
O'erwhelms design. Give to Art's flowers
A spirit more ethereal.
Whitman.
No defaulter
Am I, pure Star!—but my waves boil to hear
Echoes of sham-psalms, o'er æsthetic tea,
While pantomime shines foul round many an altar,
And saintly-sensual courtships leer,
Or half-born poets woo the fruitless tear,
Lost to our nature's cosmic energy.
Star, of rare beams! by thee
All sons of Art should better learn to steer—
Thou (living) man of men, incapable of fear!
Blake.
Flow thine own way. Let the Great Baby jeer,
Or pass: the living truth it doth not see.
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LINES TO A CHILD.
(Polly Mayflower, of New South Wales.)
O, Mayflower! grave as morning light—
As silent—and as fair;
And thoughtful, with half closing eyes,
Oft hid in saffron hair;—
What dost thou think of, Polly,
By day, or noon, or night?
Thy childhood is too wise
For the world's busy folly.
It surely, Mayflower, can't be that,—
For in the noisy scene
Thou never yet hast been,
Nor in its shadows sat.
As silent—and as fair;
And thoughtful, with half closing eyes,
Oft hid in saffron hair;—
What dost thou think of, Polly,
By day, or noon, or night?
Thy childhood is too wise
For the world's busy folly.
It surely, Mayflower, can't be that,—
For in the noisy scene
Thou never yet hast been,
Nor in its shadows sat.
Half dreaming thou dost stand:—
Oh, take me to thy Land,
Wherever that may be!
In childhood's sweet romance,
Where fairies sing and dance,
And heavenly visions glance
Like sunrise through a tree!
Oh, take me to thy Land,
Wherever that may be!
In childhood's sweet romance,
Where fairies sing and dance,
And heavenly visions glance
Like sunrise through a tree!
And something more, I ween,
Than ever can be seen,
Or ever will be heard—
Teems in thy voiceless thought,
With twilight reasonings fraught,
As song pervades the bird
While mute it sits amidst the foliage green.
Than ever can be seen,
Or ever will be heard—
Teems in thy voiceless thought,
With twilight reasonings fraught,
As song pervades the bird
While mute it sits amidst the foliage green.
159
THE SLAVE.
A SEA-PIECE, OFF JAMAICA.
Before us in the sultry dawn arose
Indigo-tinted mountains; and ere noon
We near'd an isle that lay like a festoon,
And shared the ocean's glittering repose.
Indigo-tinted mountains; and ere noon
We near'd an isle that lay like a festoon,
And shared the ocean's glittering repose.
We saw plantations spotted with white huts;
Estates midst orange groves and towering trees;
Rich yellow lawns embrown'd by soft degrees;
Plots of intense gold freak'd with shady nuts.
Estates midst orange groves and towering trees;
Rich yellow lawns embrown'd by soft degrees;
Plots of intense gold freak'd with shady nuts.
A dead hot silence tranced sea, land, and sky:
And now a long canoe came gliding forth,
Wherein there sat an old man fierce and swarth,
Tiger-faced, black-fang'd, and with jaundiced eye.
And now a long canoe came gliding forth,
Wherein there sat an old man fierce and swarth,
Tiger-faced, black-fang'd, and with jaundiced eye.
Pure white, with pale blue chequer'd, and red fold
Of head-cloth 'neath straw brim, this Master wore;
While in the sun-glare stood with high-raised oar
A naked Image all of burnished gold.
Of head-cloth 'neath straw brim, this Master wore;
While in the sun-glare stood with high-raised oar
A naked Image all of burnished gold.
Golden his bones—high-valued in the mart—
His minted muscles, and his glossy skin;
Golden his life of action—but within
The slave is human in a bleeding heart.
His minted muscles, and his glossy skin;
Golden his life of action—but within
The slave is human in a bleeding heart.
160
THE PLOUGH.
A LANDSCAPE IN BERKSHIRE.
Above yon sombre swell of land
Thou see'st the dawn's grave orange hue,
With one pale streak like yellow sand,
And over that a vein of blue.
Thou see'st the dawn's grave orange hue,
With one pale streak like yellow sand,
And over that a vein of blue.
The air is cold above the woods;
All silent is the earth and sky,
Except with his own lonely moods
The blackbird holds a colloquy.
All silent is the earth and sky,
Except with his own lonely moods
The blackbird holds a colloquy.
Over the broad hill creeps a beam,
Like hope that gilds a good man's brow,
And now ascends the nostril-stream
Of stalwart horses come to plough.
Like hope that gilds a good man's brow,
And now ascends the nostril-stream
Of stalwart horses come to plough.
Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind—
Your labour is for future hours!
Advance—spare not—nor look behind—
Plough deep and straight with all your powers.
Your labour is for future hours!
Advance—spare not—nor look behind—
Plough deep and straight with all your powers.
161
THE FAIR OF ALMACHARA.
“A Delineation of the great Fair of Almachàra, in Arabia, which,
to avoid the great heat of the sun, is kept in the night, and by the
light of the moon:”
Sir Thomas Browne's
Musgæum Clausum.
I.
The intolerant sun sinks down with glaring eye
Behind the horizontal desert-line,
And upwards casts his robes to float on high,
Suffusing all the clouds with his decline;
Till their intense gold doth incarnadine,
And melt in angry hues, which darken as they die.
Behind the horizontal desert-line,
And upwards casts his robes to float on high,
Suffusing all the clouds with his decline;
Till their intense gold doth incarnadine,
And melt in angry hues, which darken as they die.
Slow rose the naked beauty of the Moon
In broad relief against the gloomy vault:
Each smouldering field in azure melted soon,
Before the tenderness of that assault;
And the pure Image that men's souls exalt,
Stood high aloof from earth, as in some vision'd swoon.
In broad relief against the gloomy vault:
Each smouldering field in azure melted soon,
Before the tenderness of that assault;
And the pure Image that men's souls exalt,
Stood high aloof from earth, as in some vision'd swoon.
But now she seem'd, from that clear altitude,
To gaze below, with a far-sheening smile,
On Arab tents, gay groups, and gambols rude,
As in maternal sympathy the while;
And now, like swarming bees, o'er many a mile
Forth rush the swarthy forms o' the gilded multitude!
To gaze below, with a far-sheening smile,
On Arab tents, gay groups, and gambols rude,
As in maternal sympathy the while;
And now, like swarming bees, o'er many a mile
Forth rush the swarthy forms o' the gilded multitude!
162
II.
Hark to the cymbals singing!
Hark to their hollow quot!
The gong sonorous swinging
At each sharp pistol-shot!
Bells of sweet tone are ringing!
The Fair begins
With countless dins,
And many a grave-faced plot!—
Hark to their hollow quot!
The gong sonorous swinging
At each sharp pistol-shot!
Bells of sweet tone are ringing!
The Fair begins
With countless dins,
And many a grave-faced plot!—
Trumpets and tympans sound
'Neath the Moon's brilliant round,
Which doth entrance
Each passionate dance,
And glows or flashes
Midst jewell'd sashes,
Cap, turban, and tiàra,
In a tossing sea
Of ecstasy,
At the Fair of Almachàra!
'Neath the Moon's brilliant round,
Which doth entrance
Each passionate dance,
And glows or flashes
Midst jewell'd sashes,
Cap, turban, and tiàra,
In a tossing sea
Of ecstasy,
At the Fair of Almachàra!
III.
First came a troop of Dervishes,
Who sang a solemn song,
And at each chorus one leapt forth
And spun himself so long
That silver coins, and much applause,
Were shower'd down by the throng.
Who sang a solemn song,
And at each chorus one leapt forth
And spun himself so long
That silver coins, and much applause,
Were shower'd down by the throng.
163
Then pass'd a long and sad-link'd chain
Of foreign Slaves for sale:
Some clasp'd their hands and wept like rain,
Some with resolve were pale;
By death or fortitude, they vow'd,
Deliverances should not fail.
Of foreign Slaves for sale:
Some clasp'd their hands and wept like rain,
Some with resolve were pale;
By death or fortitude, they vow'd,
Deliverances should not fail.
And neighing steeds with bloodshot eyes,
And tails as black as wind
That sweeps the storm-expectant seas,
Bare-back'd career'd behind;
Yet, docile to their master's call,
Their steep-arch'd necks inclined.
And tails as black as wind
That sweeps the storm-expectant seas,
Bare-back'd career'd behind;
Yet, docile to their master's call,
Their steep-arch'd necks inclined.
Trumpets and tympans sound
'Neath the moon's brilliant round,
Which doth entrance
Each passionate dance,
And glows or flashes
'Mid cymbal-clashes,
Rich jewell'd sashes,
Cap, turban, and tiàra,
In a tossing sea
Of ecstasy,
At the Fair of Almachàra!
'Neath the moon's brilliant round,
Which doth entrance
Each passionate dance,
And glows or flashes
'Mid cymbal-clashes,
Rich jewell'd sashes,
Cap, turban, and tiàra,
In a tossing sea
Of ecstasy,
At the Fair of Almachàra!
IV.
There sit the Serpent-charmers,
Enwound with maze on maze
Of orby folds, which, working fast,
Puzzle the moon-lit gaze.
Boas and amphisbœnæ gray
Flash like currents in their play,
Hissing and kissing, till the crowd
Shriek with delight, or pray aloud!
Enwound with maze on maze
Of orby folds, which, working fast,
Puzzle the moon-lit gaze.
164
Flash like currents in their play,
Hissing and kissing, till the crowd
Shriek with delight, or pray aloud!
Now rose a crook-back'd Juggler,
Who clean cut off both legs;
Astride on his shoulders set them,
Then danced on wooden pegs:
And presently his head droop'd off,
When another juggler came,
Who gathered his frisky fragments up
And stuck them in a frame,—
From which he issued as at first,—
Continuing thus the game.
Who clean cut off both legs;
Astride on his shoulders set them,
Then danced on wooden pegs:
And presently his head droop'd off,
When another juggler came,
Who gathered his frisky fragments up
And stuck them in a frame,—
From which he issued as at first,—
Continuing thus the game.
Trumpets and tympans sound
'Neath the moon's brilliant round,
Which doth entrance
Each passionate dance,
And glows or flashes
'Mid cymbal clashes,
Rich jewell'd sashes,
Cap, turban, and tiàra,
In a tossing sea
Of ecstasy,
At the fair of Almachàra!
'Neath the moon's brilliant round,
Which doth entrance
Each passionate dance,
And glows or flashes
'Mid cymbal clashes,
Rich jewell'd sashes,
Cap, turban, and tiàra,
In a tossing sea
Of ecstasy,
At the fair of Almachàra!
V.
There do we see the Merchants
Smoking with grave pretence;
There, too, the humble dealers
In cassia and frankincense;
And many a Red-Sea mariner,
Swept from its weedy waves,
Who comes to sell his coral rough,
Torn from its rocks and caves,—
With red clay for the potteries,
Which careful baking craves.
Smoking with grave pretence;
There, too, the humble dealers
In cassia and frankincense;
165
Swept from its weedy waves,
Who comes to sell his coral rough,
Torn from its rocks and caves,—
With red clay for the potteries,
Which careful baking craves.
There, too, the Bedouin Tumblers
Roll round like rapid wheels,
Or tie their bodies into knots,
Hiding both head and heels:
Now standing on each other's heads,
They race about the Fair,
Or with strange energies inspired
Leap high into the air,
And wanton thus above the sand
In graceful circles rare.
Roll round like rapid wheels,
Or tie their bodies into knots,
Hiding both head and heels:
Now standing on each other's heads,
They race about the Fair,
Or with strange energies inspired
Leap high into the air,
And wanton thus above the sand
In graceful circles rare.
There sit the Opium-eaters,
Chanting their gorgeous dreams;
While some, with hollow faces,
Seem lit by ghastly gleams,—
Dumb—and with fixed grimaces!
Chanting their gorgeous dreams;
While some, with hollow faces,
Seem lit by ghastly gleams,—
Dumb—and with fixed grimaces!
There dance the Arab maidens,
With burnish'd limbs all bare,
Caught by the Moon's keen silver
Through frantic jets of hair!
O, naked Moon! O, wondrous face!
Eternal sadness—beauty—grace—
Smile on the passing human race!
With burnish'd limbs all bare,
Caught by the Moon's keen silver
Through frantic jets of hair!
O, naked Moon! O, wondrous face!
Eternal sadness—beauty—grace—
Smile on the passing human race!
166
Trumpets and tympans sound
'Neath the moon's brilliant round,
Which doth entrance
Each passionate dance,
And glows or flashes
'Mid cymbal clashes,
Rich jewell'd sashes,
Cap, turban, and tiàra.
In a tossing sea
Of ecstasy,
At the Fair of Almachàra!
'Neath the moon's brilliant round,
Which doth entrance
Each passionate dance,
And glows or flashes
'Mid cymbal clashes,
Rich jewell'd sashes,
Cap, turban, and tiàra.
In a tossing sea
Of ecstasy,
At the Fair of Almachàra!
VI.
There, too, the Story-tellers,
With long beards and bald pates,
Right earnestly romancing
Grave follies of the Fates,
For which their circling auditors
Throw coins and bags of dates.
Some of the youths and maidens shed
Sweet tears, or turn quite pale;
But silence, and the clouded pipe,
O'er all the rest prevail.
With long beards and bald pates,
Right earnestly romancing
Grave follies of the Fates,
For which their circling auditors
Throw coins and bags of dates.
Some of the youths and maidens shed
Sweet tears, or turn quite pale;
But silence, and the clouded pipe,
O'er all the rest prevail.
Mark yon Egyptian Sorcerer,
In black and yellow robes!
His ragged raven locks he twines
Around two golden globes!
And now he lashes a brazen gong,
Whirling about with shriek and song;
Till the globes burst in fire,
Which, in a violet spire,
Shoots o'er the loftiest tent-tops there,
Then fades away in perfume rare;
With music somewhere in the sky—
Whereat the Sorcerer seems to die!
In black and yellow robes!
His ragged raven locks he twines
Around two golden globes!
And now he lashes a brazen gong,
Whirling about with shriek and song;
Till the globes burst in fire,
Which, in a violet spire,
167
Then fades away in perfume rare;
With music somewhere in the sky—
Whereat the Sorcerer seems to die!
Broad cymbals are clashing,
And flying and flashing!
And spinning and pashing!
The silver bells ringing!
All tingling and dinging!
Gongs booming and swinging!
The Fair's at its height
In the cool brilliant night!
While streams the Moon's glory
On javelins and sabres,
And long beards all hoary,
Midst trumpets and tabors,—
Wild strugglings and trammels
Of leaders and camels
And horsemen, in masses,
Midst droves of wild asses,—
The clear beams entrancing,
The passionate dancing,
Glaring fixt, or in flashes,
From jewels in sashes,
Cap, turban, tiàra;—
'Tis a tossing sea
Of ecstasy,
At the Fair of Almachàra!
And flying and flashing!
And spinning and pashing!
The silver bells ringing!
All tingling and dinging!
Gongs booming and swinging!
The Fair's at its height
In the cool brilliant night!
While streams the Moon's glory
On javelins and sabres,
And long beards all hoary,
Midst trumpets and tabors,—
Wild strugglings and trammels
Of leaders and camels
And horsemen, in masses,
Midst droves of wild asses,—
The clear beams entrancing,
The passionate dancing,
Glaring fixt, or in flashes,
From jewels in sashes,
Cap, turban, tiàra;—
'Tis a tossing sea
Of ecstasy,
At the Fair of Almachàra!
| Cosmo De' Medici | |