Cosmo De' Medici An Historical Tragedy: And Other Poems: By Richard Hengist Horne |
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| THE FAIR OF ALMACHARA. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | Cosmo De' Medici |  |
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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!
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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.
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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.
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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;
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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!
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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,
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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 | |