Lectures on poetry delivered at Oxford By Sir Francis Hastings Doyle ... Second Series |
 | INSTALLATION ODE WRITTEN FOR THE OXFORD COMMEMORATION OF 1870
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 | Lectures on poetry delivered at Oxford |  |
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INSTALLATION ODE WRITTEN FOR THE OXFORD COMMEMORATION OF 1870
AND OTHER POEMS
BY SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE, BART.
PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD
233
NEAMET AND NOAM.
FOUNDED ON ONE OF THE MINOR STORIES IN LANE'S ARABIAN NIGHTS.
I. PART I.
Where swift Euphrates, full of life, as when
Nimrod towered high above the sons of men,
Sweeps past his tamarisks and willows, round
Forgotten tombs, and many a haunted mound,
Cufa the Moslem city stood; of old
By zealous Omar planted to uphold
Whate'er the Prophet taught, that more and more
Wise men might build up knowledge, and explore,
With Faith still growing into perfect sight,
Mysterious depths of God's unfathomed light.
Nimrod towered high above the sons of men,
Sweeps past his tamarisks and willows, round
Forgotten tombs, and many a haunted mound,
Cufa the Moslem city stood; of old
By zealous Omar planted to uphold
Whate'er the Prophet taught, that more and more
Wise men might build up knowledge, and explore,
With Faith still growing into perfect sight,
Mysterious depths of God's unfathomed light.
There, among many names to honour known,
On loving lips one lingered, one alone;
Wealthy, and wise, and kind, of noble race,
Hatim the Good was ever first in place.
E'en she whose evil eye strikes at the great,
Pale Envy, grudged him not his prosperous fate;
E'en the fierce viceroy masked in smiles his silent hate.
On loving lips one lingered, one alone;
Wealthy, and wise, and kind, of noble race,
Hatim the Good was ever first in place.
E'en she whose evil eye strikes at the great,
Pale Envy, grudged him not his prosperous fate;
E'en the fierce viceroy masked in smiles his silent hate.
Yet though his life as happy men may greet,
For whom on earth is happiness complete?
Shades of old sorrow kept his palace chill,
Old wounds, unhealed by Time, were bleeding still.
A troop of bright-eyed striplings should have ridden,
And romped about his bridle-rein unchidden;
A laughing band of gentle daughters prest
Close to his side, and sung him into rest.
But Allah willed it not: when she who bore
His child, died in her prime, he sought no more
The love of women; his whole heart was set
Upon that child—the youthful Neamet.
And well a father's eye might rest with pride
On that wild boy, deep-haired and purple-eyed,
When through the glades he flashed like light, and went
Exulting in his airy merriment—
Full of sweet hope, like a bloom-crowded tree,
And beautiful as sunrise o'er the sea;
For not till then had Nature toiled to give
Such wondrous charms to aught about to live,
Nor poet's thought, nor art's divine endeavour
Enriched the world with such a vision—never
Has Phidian shape or dream of Raphael
Embodied childhood's heavenly grace as well;
So that where'er he passed in brightness, Love,
Like his own shadow, with him seemed to move,
And blessings, from all hearts about him shed,
Lay like spring-dews upon that flower-like head.
For whom on earth is happiness complete?
240
Old wounds, unhealed by Time, were bleeding still.
A troop of bright-eyed striplings should have ridden,
And romped about his bridle-rein unchidden;
A laughing band of gentle daughters prest
Close to his side, and sung him into rest.
But Allah willed it not: when she who bore
His child, died in her prime, he sought no more
The love of women; his whole heart was set
Upon that child—the youthful Neamet.
And well a father's eye might rest with pride
On that wild boy, deep-haired and purple-eyed,
When through the glades he flashed like light, and went
Exulting in his airy merriment—
Full of sweet hope, like a bloom-crowded tree,
And beautiful as sunrise o'er the sea;
For not till then had Nature toiled to give
Such wondrous charms to aught about to live,
Nor poet's thought, nor art's divine endeavour
Enriched the world with such a vision—never
Has Phidian shape or dream of Raphael
Embodied childhood's heavenly grace as well;
So that where'er he passed in brightness, Love,
Like his own shadow, with him seemed to move,
And blessings, from all hearts about him shed,
Lay like spring-dews upon that flower-like head.
Oft on his couch, just ere the day-break, laid,
When stars grow large and white before they fade,
Thrice happy thus to wake, in tender joy
Hatim lay musing on that peerless boy,
Till glowed the years to be with rapture, drawn
From fountains brighter than that coming dawn.
Oft said he (when like some far river's flow
These dreams of bliss within were murmuring low),
‘Riches I ask not—riches now are mine;
I ask no daughter of a royal line
To welcome on our knees; enough for me
If one as bright in loveliness there be
By Allah sent to share his destiny.
What though for him no wealthy foreign scold,
Hard as her gems, and yellow as her gold
(A barren heiress, a mere name of wife),
Sit sullen at the board, discolouring life;
Nor yet some haughty maid, to kings allied,
Invade the house, a tyrant, not a bride.
Still, if divinely granted to our prayer,
A mate be found, gracious, and wise, and fair,
Outshining other maids and dowered like him
With powers to make all rival beauty dim;
If on our hearth, when these young lives unite,
Float down from heaven a blessing and a light,
This rude earth, touched and warmed by their soft eyes,
May blossom as with flowers from Paradise,
And Hatim's house, a fire that shines apart,
Be known as holding empire o'er the heart,
Known by that gift of God through regions wide,
As a fair shrine to beauty sanctified:
And thus enriched and graced may well contemn
The Caliph's, or the Sultan's diadem—
May well from such a glorious height look down
On the White Czar who threatens Othman's crown.’
When stars grow large and white before they fade,
Thrice happy thus to wake, in tender joy
Hatim lay musing on that peerless boy,
Till glowed the years to be with rapture, drawn
From fountains brighter than that coming dawn.
Oft said he (when like some far river's flow
These dreams of bliss within were murmuring low),
241
I ask no daughter of a royal line
To welcome on our knees; enough for me
If one as bright in loveliness there be
By Allah sent to share his destiny.
What though for him no wealthy foreign scold,
Hard as her gems, and yellow as her gold
(A barren heiress, a mere name of wife),
Sit sullen at the board, discolouring life;
Nor yet some haughty maid, to kings allied,
Invade the house, a tyrant, not a bride.
Still, if divinely granted to our prayer,
A mate be found, gracious, and wise, and fair,
Outshining other maids and dowered like him
With powers to make all rival beauty dim;
If on our hearth, when these young lives unite,
Float down from heaven a blessing and a light,
This rude earth, touched and warmed by their soft eyes,
May blossom as with flowers from Paradise,
And Hatim's house, a fire that shines apart,
Be known as holding empire o'er the heart,
Known by that gift of God through regions wide,
As a fair shrine to beauty sanctified:
And thus enriched and graced may well contemn
The Caliph's, or the Sultan's diadem—
May well from such a glorious height look down
On the White Czar who threatens Othman's crown.’
By such thoughts led, when Spring, through fluttering showers,
With her gay voice broke on the dream of flowers,
When, underneath the flushing almond trees,
The splendour of the bright anemones
Ran, like a scarlet flame along the ground,
Up to the white rose thickets gleaming round,
Through the clear lights of morning Hatim went,
Urged onward by some deep presentiment;
It seemed as if a hidden spirit still
Moved with his pulse, and quenched all human will,
For breaths of strange emotion on him fell,
Rapid as lightning, irresistible.
Like one who walks in charmèd sleep alone,
Following some hand of power through ways unknown,
Into the ancient market-place hard by
He passed, nor knew he how, nor knew he why.
There slaves from every land, of every hue,
In ordered files were ranked for public view.
Ionian girls, with glance of liquid jet,
Half-fire, half softened by some fond regret,
And fragrant tresses darker than the violet;
Proud Gothic captives, golden-haired and slim,
Frowned near, amid a knot of Nubians grim;
Next whom in stately beauty, tall and fair,
Caucasian youths and virgins gathered there,
Bright with new hopes, and fresh from mountain air.
Here, dragged by pirates o'er the wild sea-foam,
With deep blue eyes yet weeping for her home
Beside Halzaphron's cliff, a British maid;
Close to her from the lion-haunted glade
Through which Tacazze rolls his roaring flood,
Slight, graceful women of Amharic blood,
Just free from the fierce Arab's cramping chain,
Moved their lithe limbs, and rose erect again.
With her gay voice broke on the dream of flowers,
When, underneath the flushing almond trees,
The splendour of the bright anemones
242
Up to the white rose thickets gleaming round,
Through the clear lights of morning Hatim went,
Urged onward by some deep presentiment;
It seemed as if a hidden spirit still
Moved with his pulse, and quenched all human will,
For breaths of strange emotion on him fell,
Rapid as lightning, irresistible.
Like one who walks in charmèd sleep alone,
Following some hand of power through ways unknown,
Into the ancient market-place hard by
He passed, nor knew he how, nor knew he why.
There slaves from every land, of every hue,
In ordered files were ranked for public view.
Ionian girls, with glance of liquid jet,
Half-fire, half softened by some fond regret,
And fragrant tresses darker than the violet;
Proud Gothic captives, golden-haired and slim,
Frowned near, amid a knot of Nubians grim;
Next whom in stately beauty, tall and fair,
Caucasian youths and virgins gathered there,
Bright with new hopes, and fresh from mountain air.
Here, dragged by pirates o'er the wild sea-foam,
With deep blue eyes yet weeping for her home
Beside Halzaphron's cliff, a British maid;
Close to her from the lion-haunted glade
Through which Tacazze rolls his roaring flood,
Slight, graceful women of Amharic blood,
Just free from the fierce Arab's cramping chain,
Moved their lithe limbs, and rose erect again.
243
These one and all Hatim regarded not,
Drawn onward, onward to the appointed spot;
Where, shrinking from the tumult and the press,
A woman stood, dark, pale, and motionless.
Well might we weep for her—weep to behold
One brought so low, that was so great of old—
If hers were now the story to be told;
But life for her, burnt into darkness blind
As a spent fire, lay choked and dead behind.
That wasted form drooped feeble and forlorn,
Like the moon waning in a winter morn,
And o'er her beauty, once a world's delight,
The stain of grief spread like a clinging blight,
So that men came and went with heedless eye,
And Hatim, like the rest, had wandered by,
But that before him, clinging to her side,
Shone like the morning star, that hoped-for bride.
Scarce five years old she seemed, of beauty rare,
Matching that lovely boy—beyond expression fair;
So looked, we well might deem, that mystic child
By Helen's phantom from her nurse beguiled,
Whose wondrous legend in the days of old,
With bated breath each Dorian mother told,
O'er that unconquered land of proud renown,
Where, from Boreum's cliff, flung sparkling down
Through his massed oleander blooms, that quiver
With double life, glassed on the shining river
In rose-hued curves, beneath a southern sun,
The limpid waters of Eurotas run—
Yes! in Laconia's mountain-guarded vale,
Each maiden heard delightedly the tale,
How when a Spartan girl was doomed to lie
On grim Taygetus, and there to die,
Lest her foul features should bring down disgrace
On a stern sire, and mar his ancient race;
As by a faithful slave, beyond the throng
Of jeering chiefs, the babe was borne along,
A stately woman, not of mortal birth,
Silently rose out of the sacred earth,
Smote numb that nurse, with one imperial look,
Then from her powerless arms the infant took;
To be restored when each harsh human line
Was changed to beauty, under love divine;
Whilst all that marred her form was lifted then,
As a vile mask, not to be worn again;
And radiance from within was round her thrown,
Like the gleams flushing through an opal stone.
Such seemed this heaven-sent maid—as if from far
She had been touched by some empyrean star
Kindling unearthly charms. Why need I say
That Hatim bore her from the mart away?
Whilst the wan mother, slowly reconciled
To life that dawned in brightness for her child,
Became less sad, yea, smiled at times to see
Those fair young things laugh in their tameless glee?
All know how fast on to Death's shoreless deep
The unending tides of life's great river sweep—
How childhood merges into youth, and so
Man's ages into one another flow;
Enough to say, that as the years went by
These children bloomed in bright tranquillity—
That Neamet, with fearless grace, would rein
The wildest war-horse in his father's train;
That, when her song throbbed through the flowering dales,
Amid the silence of the nightingales,
Fair Noam's lute and lay all hearts could thrill,
As if touched by the angel Israfil.
The boy, though full of joyous youth, and strong
O'er rough and smooth to urge the chase along—
Though wild, as haggard falcon in her flight,
He ever sought on danger's edge delight;
Would for an asking look all sport forego,
Fling down the spear, unstring his favourite bow,
To lie beneath the light of those sweet eyes,
Whilst the moon stole into the deepening skies;
And twine amid her raven curls the red
Pomegranate blossoms that grew over-head:
Careless, though hounds and eager vassals wait
Round his white Arab, snorting at the gate.
Thus side by side, and hand in hand, the two
Linked like a double star, in beauty grew.
O'er the bright flowers, and under echoing trees
Their welcome laughter rippled as a breeze,
Till childhood passing swift through cloudless days,
Melted behind them to a golden haze;
And, spreading its sweet leaves from hour to hour,
Their bud of love became a living flower.
Thus all men watched them—lovers without guile—
And read their open secret with a smile—
Read and rejoiced, in looks so fresh and gay,
As men rejoice to greet a blithe spring day,
Till Hatim, gladdened by the general joy,
Betrothed with solemn rites the girl and boy—
That boy, the gem of Cufa's youth; that girl
Of Cufa's maidenhood the flawless pearl.
Drawn onward, onward to the appointed spot;
Where, shrinking from the tumult and the press,
A woman stood, dark, pale, and motionless.
Well might we weep for her—weep to behold
One brought so low, that was so great of old—
If hers were now the story to be told;
But life for her, burnt into darkness blind
As a spent fire, lay choked and dead behind.
That wasted form drooped feeble and forlorn,
Like the moon waning in a winter morn,
And o'er her beauty, once a world's delight,
The stain of grief spread like a clinging blight,
So that men came and went with heedless eye,
And Hatim, like the rest, had wandered by,
But that before him, clinging to her side,
Shone like the morning star, that hoped-for bride.
Scarce five years old she seemed, of beauty rare,
Matching that lovely boy—beyond expression fair;
So looked, we well might deem, that mystic child
By Helen's phantom from her nurse beguiled,
Whose wondrous legend in the days of old,
With bated breath each Dorian mother told,
O'er that unconquered land of proud renown,
Where, from Boreum's cliff, flung sparkling down
Through his massed oleander blooms, that quiver
With double life, glassed on the shining river
In rose-hued curves, beneath a southern sun,
The limpid waters of Eurotas run—
Yes! in Laconia's mountain-guarded vale,
Each maiden heard delightedly the tale,
How when a Spartan girl was doomed to lie
On grim Taygetus, and there to die,
244
On a stern sire, and mar his ancient race;
As by a faithful slave, beyond the throng
Of jeering chiefs, the babe was borne along,
A stately woman, not of mortal birth,
Silently rose out of the sacred earth,
Smote numb that nurse, with one imperial look,
Then from her powerless arms the infant took;
To be restored when each harsh human line
Was changed to beauty, under love divine;
Whilst all that marred her form was lifted then,
As a vile mask, not to be worn again;
And radiance from within was round her thrown,
Like the gleams flushing through an opal stone.
Such seemed this heaven-sent maid—as if from far
She had been touched by some empyrean star
Kindling unearthly charms. Why need I say
That Hatim bore her from the mart away?
Whilst the wan mother, slowly reconciled
To life that dawned in brightness for her child,
Became less sad, yea, smiled at times to see
Those fair young things laugh in their tameless glee?
All know how fast on to Death's shoreless deep
The unending tides of life's great river sweep—
How childhood merges into youth, and so
Man's ages into one another flow;
Enough to say, that as the years went by
These children bloomed in bright tranquillity—
That Neamet, with fearless grace, would rein
The wildest war-horse in his father's train;
That, when her song throbbed through the flowering dales,
Amid the silence of the nightingales,
Fair Noam's lute and lay all hearts could thrill,
As if touched by the angel Israfil.
245
O'er rough and smooth to urge the chase along—
Though wild, as haggard falcon in her flight,
He ever sought on danger's edge delight;
Would for an asking look all sport forego,
Fling down the spear, unstring his favourite bow,
To lie beneath the light of those sweet eyes,
Whilst the moon stole into the deepening skies;
And twine amid her raven curls the red
Pomegranate blossoms that grew over-head:
Careless, though hounds and eager vassals wait
Round his white Arab, snorting at the gate.
Thus side by side, and hand in hand, the two
Linked like a double star, in beauty grew.
O'er the bright flowers, and under echoing trees
Their welcome laughter rippled as a breeze,
Till childhood passing swift through cloudless days,
Melted behind them to a golden haze;
And, spreading its sweet leaves from hour to hour,
Their bud of love became a living flower.
Thus all men watched them—lovers without guile—
And read their open secret with a smile—
Read and rejoiced, in looks so fresh and gay,
As men rejoice to greet a blithe spring day,
Till Hatim, gladdened by the general joy,
Betrothed with solemn rites the girl and boy—
That boy, the gem of Cufa's youth; that girl
Of Cufa's maidenhood the flawless pearl.
Whilst thus in Hatim's house reigned mirth and love,
Far other passions the fierce Viceroy move.
Hardened he was, and one without remorse,
Who passed from force to fraud, from fraud to force;
Keen still to keep his evil powers secure,
He bribed the great, and then oppressed the poor.
Long had he raised himself above the laws,
Giving his cruel will the rein, because
An aged monarch, dozing in his hall,
Had almost let the golden sceptre fall.
But to that weary heart death brought release,
So with his fathers slept the King in peace:
And now a youthful prince, who sought renown
By justice to his people, wore the crown;
Whilst the sleek flatterers who had basely sold—
Blinding their lord—the lives of men for gold,
Trembled themselves, and scarce had strength to send
Faint messages, warning each ruthless friend,
Still, somehow, in the Viceroy's startled ear,
These words of warning sounded low but clear:
‘The taint of blood, from thy far province blown,
Creeps mist-like onward, and infects the throne;
Low cries of women and of children beat
Like wailing winds upon the judgment-seat.
In the old days we may have been as thou,
And let our passions have their way; but now
Perforce we are reformed; devoutly bent,
Like echoes to the Caliph we assent,
Thy name the burthen is of our lament.
Thy long career of what we now call crime,
For vengeance marks thee out—be wise in time!’
‘Enough,’ he thought; ‘though Fortune flout me thus,
Yet is the Caliph young and amorous;
A lion in the net will strive in vain,
To bind this lion we have beauty's chain.
Noam's sweet eyes and angel voice must fill
His heart with dreams, relax that iron will,
And drain all purpose from his heart, until,
Whilst the fresh hours their fresh allurements bring,
He shrink and dwindle to a common king.
Fair Noam must be mine, and his through me;
Yet is there need of night and secresy.
That house in wealth, in friends, in arms is strong,
We may not venture upon open wrong—
Though swift, we must be patient, even as Fate,
They garner all who know but how to wait.’
Far other passions the fierce Viceroy move.
Hardened he was, and one without remorse,
Who passed from force to fraud, from fraud to force;
Keen still to keep his evil powers secure,
He bribed the great, and then oppressed the poor.
246
Giving his cruel will the rein, because
An aged monarch, dozing in his hall,
Had almost let the golden sceptre fall.
But to that weary heart death brought release,
So with his fathers slept the King in peace:
And now a youthful prince, who sought renown
By justice to his people, wore the crown;
Whilst the sleek flatterers who had basely sold—
Blinding their lord—the lives of men for gold,
Trembled themselves, and scarce had strength to send
Faint messages, warning each ruthless friend,
Still, somehow, in the Viceroy's startled ear,
These words of warning sounded low but clear:
‘The taint of blood, from thy far province blown,
Creeps mist-like onward, and infects the throne;
Low cries of women and of children beat
Like wailing winds upon the judgment-seat.
In the old days we may have been as thou,
And let our passions have their way; but now
Perforce we are reformed; devoutly bent,
Like echoes to the Caliph we assent,
Thy name the burthen is of our lament.
Thy long career of what we now call crime,
For vengeance marks thee out—be wise in time!’
‘Enough,’ he thought; ‘though Fortune flout me thus,
Yet is the Caliph young and amorous;
A lion in the net will strive in vain,
To bind this lion we have beauty's chain.
Noam's sweet eyes and angel voice must fill
His heart with dreams, relax that iron will,
And drain all purpose from his heart, until,
Whilst the fresh hours their fresh allurements bring,
He shrink and dwindle to a common king.
247
Yet is there need of night and secresy.
That house in wealth, in friends, in arms is strong,
We may not venture upon open wrong—
Though swift, we must be patient, even as Fate,
They garner all who know but how to wait.’
From that day forth he coiled his wiles around
Her gentle life; without a sign or sound
He overhung her careless steps, and knew
All she had done, and all she hoped to do:
Her comings and her goings watched, but she
Heeded no more than laughing infancy.
So the fierce python, floating in his wrath
From tree to tree above the forest path,
By which their way all trembling creatures take,
At night, to some clear stream or shining lake,
Through the thick leafage shoots his baleful slope
Down on an unsuspecting antelope,
Tightening his nets of death, ring over ring,
Around that innocent and lovely thing.
Her gentle life; without a sign or sound
He overhung her careless steps, and knew
All she had done, and all she hoped to do:
Her comings and her goings watched, but she
Heeded no more than laughing infancy.
So the fierce python, floating in his wrath
From tree to tree above the forest path,
By which their way all trembling creatures take,
At night, to some clear stream or shining lake,
Through the thick leafage shoots his baleful slope
Down on an unsuspecting antelope,
Tightening his nets of death, ring over ring,
Around that innocent and lovely thing.
Still, help he needed to prepare the way—
Help to decoy his victim, and betray;
But well man's heart he knew, and looking round,
Among the falsely good his tool he found.
Help to decoy his victim, and betray;
But well man's heart he knew, and looking round,
Among the falsely good his tool he found.
There was a woman, old, and worn, and white,
Loud in her prayers by day, and loud by night;
Austere of life and speech, by fasting grown
A ghastly hide stretched over nerve and bone.
Yet though behung with rosaries and beads,
She drawled her chapters out, and chanted creeds—
Though God's name, ever-wise and ever-great,
Sat on her bloodless lips, early and late,
This seeming saint was but a living lie,
Greedy and base, a tool for gold to buy.
She asked a month to lure away the maid:
‘Expect me then, and her with me,’ she said;
And in that month, from dawn throughout the day,
At Noam's door she prayed, or feigned to pray,
Till that bright creature, easy of access,
Revered her life, and pitied her distress—
Relieved her, loved her, trusted her, and deemed
That she was even holier than she seemed—
So holy that no evil could come near
One to the Prophet, yea, to God, so dear.
Whilst Neamet, contemptuously kind,
With love, and hope, and youthful ardour blind,
Although he loathed the crone, yet heeded not;
Though his heart warned him often, he forgot
How instinct, surer than all thought, shrinks more
From the asp hissing than the lion's roar.
Soon then, it chanced that in her simple way,
Young Noam from her house was led astray;
Some vain pretext there was of things divine—
To hear how holy men pray round their shrine,
Some mosque to view, some blessing to obtain,
She went undoubting forth—nor came again.
Loud in her prayers by day, and loud by night;
Austere of life and speech, by fasting grown
A ghastly hide stretched over nerve and bone.
Yet though behung with rosaries and beads,
She drawled her chapters out, and chanted creeds—
Though God's name, ever-wise and ever-great,
Sat on her bloodless lips, early and late,
248
Greedy and base, a tool for gold to buy.
She asked a month to lure away the maid:
‘Expect me then, and her with me,’ she said;
And in that month, from dawn throughout the day,
At Noam's door she prayed, or feigned to pray,
Till that bright creature, easy of access,
Revered her life, and pitied her distress—
Relieved her, loved her, trusted her, and deemed
That she was even holier than she seemed—
So holy that no evil could come near
One to the Prophet, yea, to God, so dear.
Whilst Neamet, contemptuously kind,
With love, and hope, and youthful ardour blind,
Although he loathed the crone, yet heeded not;
Though his heart warned him often, he forgot
How instinct, surer than all thought, shrinks more
From the asp hissing than the lion's roar.
Soon then, it chanced that in her simple way,
Young Noam from her house was led astray;
Some vain pretext there was of things divine—
To hear how holy men pray round their shrine,
Some mosque to view, some blessing to obtain,
She went undoubting forth—nor came again.
Alas for Neamet! who that day stood
Far from her in the forest solitude
With Syrian weapons armed; from sunrise there
He tracked the mother-wolf home to her lair;
Or, having tamed and trained his mighty horse,
Till it became a mere mechanic force,
Flung that fierce steed, as men a javelin fling,
To meet the wounded panther in her spring.
Yet, amid all the pleasure and the pride—
The wild emotions that the chase supplied,
The hard-won triumph, and the daring ride—
An unseen presence seemed his heart to fill,
Low whispers muttered of some coming ill;
And over all the rising floods of bloom
There fell, he thought, a shadow and a gloom,
Darkening the mid-day sun, so that for him,
Without a cloud, the bright blue sky grew dim.
Far from her in the forest solitude
With Syrian weapons armed; from sunrise there
He tracked the mother-wolf home to her lair;
Or, having tamed and trained his mighty horse,
Till it became a mere mechanic force,
Flung that fierce steed, as men a javelin fling,
To meet the wounded panther in her spring.
249
The wild emotions that the chase supplied,
The hard-won triumph, and the daring ride—
An unseen presence seemed his heart to fill,
Low whispers muttered of some coming ill;
And over all the rising floods of bloom
There fell, he thought, a shadow and a gloom,
Darkening the mid-day sun, so that for him,
Without a cloud, the bright blue sky grew dim.
Alas for Neamet, when he returned!
No lamp within his lady's window burned.
By a sad restlessness disquieted
The household servants moved and murmurèd;
As, when on summer summer storms are thrown,
The tree-tops of the forest toss and moan;
With stammering lips, bowed heads, and faces pale,
They falter forth their version of the tale.
Alas for Noam, from her lover torn!
Alas for Neamet, left there to mourn!
All day he rested not, but sought and sought—
The eve no peace, the night no slumber brought;
One feeling never slacked its rush of pain,
But like the sea, beat round his wavering brain.
Or if he slept, he felt dim sorrow press,
And moved, bewildered and companionless,
He knew not why, through some grey wilderness;
Then waking with a start, across his soul
Yet doubting, mists of gloomy wonder roll,
Till straight the piercing shafts of memory flew,
And poisoned wounds within began to burn anew.
So was he racked; but soon delirium came,
And fever parched him, withering like a flame.
Then all men gave him up to death, except
His father, who still wrestled, prayed, and wept—
Wrestled with God convulsively, and poured
Mind, heart, and spirit out before the Lord!
At that dread moment, in the halls below,
A sudden step was heard to live and grow;
The gates, untouched, their folds wide open spread,
The whole house throbbed to that mysterious tread,
And, in strange garb, there shone within the door
A stately presence never seen before.
As drifted snows his hair and beard were white,
His eye gleamed full of wild, yet solemn light,
Across his massive forehead lines were wrought,
That spake of years of strife and years of thought;
Yet like a granite headland in its place,
Against whose scorning front, and steadfast base,
The bitter hatred of the maddened main
Flings itself, raging ever, but in vain,
Through his long struggles, worn but unsubdued
By warfare more than human, firm he stood!
They guessed him soon to be that Median sage,
Whose deeds were known, unknown his name or age;
Some whispered, that, before the Prophet's birth,
He had foretold that gift of heaven to earth,
That, still unchanged, whilst on the slow years rolled,
Clad in the heirship of enchantments old
From Kingly Magian priests, he dwelt apart
To worship, and all-powerful in his art,
Won by no compact, serving foul desire,
But through consuming thought, and zeal like fire,
He ruled dark spirits with an iron rod,
And bade them toil to do the work of God.
We cannot tell if these wild tales be true,
But yet strange gifts were his; full well he knew
The secret virtue of all herbs that grew;
Heard often, when no earthly sound was there,
Oracular voices on the midnight air;
Or felt, through heaven's great silence, from afar
The music floating round each ancient star.
No lamp within his lady's window burned.
By a sad restlessness disquieted
The household servants moved and murmurèd;
As, when on summer summer storms are thrown,
The tree-tops of the forest toss and moan;
With stammering lips, bowed heads, and faces pale,
They falter forth their version of the tale.
Alas for Noam, from her lover torn!
Alas for Neamet, left there to mourn!
All day he rested not, but sought and sought—
The eve no peace, the night no slumber brought;
One feeling never slacked its rush of pain,
But like the sea, beat round his wavering brain.
Or if he slept, he felt dim sorrow press,
And moved, bewildered and companionless,
He knew not why, through some grey wilderness;
Then waking with a start, across his soul
Yet doubting, mists of gloomy wonder roll,
Till straight the piercing shafts of memory flew,
And poisoned wounds within began to burn anew.
So was he racked; but soon delirium came,
And fever parched him, withering like a flame.
250
His father, who still wrestled, prayed, and wept—
Wrestled with God convulsively, and poured
Mind, heart, and spirit out before the Lord!
At that dread moment, in the halls below,
A sudden step was heard to live and grow;
The gates, untouched, their folds wide open spread,
The whole house throbbed to that mysterious tread,
And, in strange garb, there shone within the door
A stately presence never seen before.
As drifted snows his hair and beard were white,
His eye gleamed full of wild, yet solemn light,
Across his massive forehead lines were wrought,
That spake of years of strife and years of thought;
Yet like a granite headland in its place,
Against whose scorning front, and steadfast base,
The bitter hatred of the maddened main
Flings itself, raging ever, but in vain,
Through his long struggles, worn but unsubdued
By warfare more than human, firm he stood!
They guessed him soon to be that Median sage,
Whose deeds were known, unknown his name or age;
Some whispered, that, before the Prophet's birth,
He had foretold that gift of heaven to earth,
That, still unchanged, whilst on the slow years rolled,
Clad in the heirship of enchantments old
From Kingly Magian priests, he dwelt apart
To worship, and all-powerful in his art,
Won by no compact, serving foul desire,
But through consuming thought, and zeal like fire,
He ruled dark spirits with an iron rod,
And bade them toil to do the work of God.
We cannot tell if these wild tales be true,
But yet strange gifts were his; full well he knew
The secret virtue of all herbs that grew;
251
Oracular voices on the midnight air;
Or felt, through heaven's great silence, from afar
The music floating round each ancient star.
With gracious looks on stepped that agèd man,
And thus to speak in solemn tones began:
‘Nay, tremble not my friends, ye need not fear,
For not without a warrant am I here;
To save thy son from death, thee from despair,
I come, for great the strength and life of prayer!
Thine hath availed thee much; not Solomon
In all his treasury of spells had one
Of half the strength to master and compel
The struggling powers of earth, and air, and hell;
That word of thine, with faith and passion blent,
By God's acceptance armed, to me was sent—
To me, whom now He deigns to make His instrument—
And on its silent wing have I been borne
From distant hills beneath the earliest morn.
Rise Hatim, rise, and lead me to thy son,
For now or never must this task be done!’
He went, and raised that form so faint, so frail;
Kissed the dry lips, and touched the temples pale,
Fixing, then soft with tears, on that white face
The eye, which demons shrank from into space.
At once that look, intense with rays divine,
Warmed his dull blood, as by the warmth of wine;
Youth, health, and love, like birds in spring, returned;
His heart dilated, and his spirit burned.
Like a cloud rushing off the sun, beneath
That radiant glance the deepening mist of death
Rolled fast away from the blind nerves and brain,
And light shone out of those dim eyes again.
Then said the sage, ‘I bring thee hope—for lo
Where weeping sits the faithful maid I know;
I could send vassal genii on her track,
By my strong art, and waft her wondering back
Swift as the lightning's flash; but He who tries
The hearts of men has willed it otherwise.
The Caliph on his throne must learn from me
That he is raised so high the truth to see,
That he whose will towards evil hath been bent,
Although a King, must suffer and repent—
Must, under God, renew his right to sway,
By full atonement in the blaze of day.
But now, arise! no hour is to be lost,
Lest by some evil star our path be crossed;
Saturn not long his malice idle keeps,
Not long, unharming, the red planet sleeps;
We must go forth, whilst yet to us is given
A light of hope from yonder smiling heaven.’
Then Hatim blest his son, and for the Mede
Bade them lead out his noblest Arab steed.
Joy, mixed with awe, on that glad household fell,
Whilst they closed round to bid their boy farewell,
Thence by Hit's sullen wells they journeyed on,
Towards Tadmor, summoned up by Solomon,
Whose demon columns yet unbroken stand,
Snow-white against the Desert's yellow sand—
Past Antar's iron ridge they toil, to reach
Kuteifah's crag, and Bahret's glittering beach;
Till Asia's pearl in her full lustre met
Their eyes, amid her emerald meadows set—
There shone she in the sunset's mellow gleams,
Damascus—city of the lucid streams.
‘At length,’ exclaimed the Mede, ‘our goal is won;
I am thy father, thou art now my son!’
And thus to speak in solemn tones began:
‘Nay, tremble not my friends, ye need not fear,
For not without a warrant am I here;
To save thy son from death, thee from despair,
I come, for great the strength and life of prayer!
Thine hath availed thee much; not Solomon
In all his treasury of spells had one
Of half the strength to master and compel
The struggling powers of earth, and air, and hell;
That word of thine, with faith and passion blent,
By God's acceptance armed, to me was sent—
To me, whom now He deigns to make His instrument—
And on its silent wing have I been borne
From distant hills beneath the earliest morn.
Rise Hatim, rise, and lead me to thy son,
For now or never must this task be done!’
He went, and raised that form so faint, so frail;
Kissed the dry lips, and touched the temples pale,
Fixing, then soft with tears, on that white face
The eye, which demons shrank from into space.
At once that look, intense with rays divine,
Warmed his dull blood, as by the warmth of wine;
Youth, health, and love, like birds in spring, returned;
His heart dilated, and his spirit burned.
Like a cloud rushing off the sun, beneath
That radiant glance the deepening mist of death
Rolled fast away from the blind nerves and brain,
And light shone out of those dim eyes again.
252
Where weeping sits the faithful maid I know;
I could send vassal genii on her track,
By my strong art, and waft her wondering back
Swift as the lightning's flash; but He who tries
The hearts of men has willed it otherwise.
The Caliph on his throne must learn from me
That he is raised so high the truth to see,
That he whose will towards evil hath been bent,
Although a King, must suffer and repent—
Must, under God, renew his right to sway,
By full atonement in the blaze of day.
But now, arise! no hour is to be lost,
Lest by some evil star our path be crossed;
Saturn not long his malice idle keeps,
Not long, unharming, the red planet sleeps;
We must go forth, whilst yet to us is given
A light of hope from yonder smiling heaven.’
Then Hatim blest his son, and for the Mede
Bade them lead out his noblest Arab steed.
Joy, mixed with awe, on that glad household fell,
Whilst they closed round to bid their boy farewell,
Thence by Hit's sullen wells they journeyed on,
Towards Tadmor, summoned up by Solomon,
Whose demon columns yet unbroken stand,
Snow-white against the Desert's yellow sand—
Past Antar's iron ridge they toil, to reach
Kuteifah's crag, and Bahret's glittering beach;
Till Asia's pearl in her full lustre met
Their eyes, amid her emerald meadows set—
There shone she in the sunset's mellow gleams,
Damascus—city of the lucid streams.
‘At length,’ exclaimed the Mede, ‘our goal is won;
I am thy father, thou art now my son!’
This district of Asia, as Mr. Lane informs us, was called ‘Anthemusia,’ or ‘The Flowery Land,’ by the Greeks. I is still remarkable for its flowers, more especially for an abundance of white roses.
I have kept this one line as a protest against the foolish theory, that the cæsura in the Alexandrine must be on the sixth syllable. I altered others in deference to friendly criticism because the matter was not worth contesting.
253
II. PART II.
And thus as father and as son, the two
Passed with their slaves the royal city through,
Here earnest work, there careless mirth was loud,
Bee-like, or drone-like hummed that swarming crowd,
For there was held a solemn festival,
When these two reared, on pillars firm and tall,
Their spacious tent close to the Harem wall.
Merchants they seemed, and gems they brought to sell,
Veined through with splendours inconceivable—
None such 'mid Ava's glowing pebbles are,
Nor in the river-beds of Malabar.
Gems were they, that had shot their dazzling rays
Around some angel brow, in ancient days,
Ere yet in heaven was heard the sound of strife,
Or the red clay grew quick with Adam's life.
But whence, or how, the Magian called them through
Space measureless and void, He only knew.
Robes, too, shone there woven beneath the light
Of fairy lands, by fairy fingers white,
Steeped, as it were, in living smiles, that played,
Like many-coloured flames, about the braid.
For healing, too, strange elements they kept
Wherein lost powers and hidden magic slept;
Thus soon through that old city, built by man
From Eden fresh, the tale of wonder ran;
How chased by them, like baffled beasts of prey
Before the sun, diseases fled away.
So all men reverenced the sage, and yet
With deeper love they followed Neamet.
Beautiful was he, and without a peer;
But not for that alone they held him dear.
The sage around him breathed an atmosphere—
A subtle essence of delight and power,
Clothing his youth, as fragrance clothes a flower;
And in that atmosphere he moved and dwelt,
Till underneath his presence all men felt,
Down to the roots of being, a sweet sense
Of swift, inexplicable influence,
That drew their hearts out of themselves away,
Each motion of his spirit to obey;
As the numb soul of iron wakes to own
Life, thrilling through it, from the mystic stone.
Passed with their slaves the royal city through,
Here earnest work, there careless mirth was loud,
Bee-like, or drone-like hummed that swarming crowd,
For there was held a solemn festival,
When these two reared, on pillars firm and tall,
Their spacious tent close to the Harem wall.
Merchants they seemed, and gems they brought to sell,
Veined through with splendours inconceivable—
None such 'mid Ava's glowing pebbles are,
Nor in the river-beds of Malabar.
Gems were they, that had shot their dazzling rays
Around some angel brow, in ancient days,
Ere yet in heaven was heard the sound of strife,
Or the red clay grew quick with Adam's life.
But whence, or how, the Magian called them through
Space measureless and void, He only knew.
Robes, too, shone there woven beneath the light
Of fairy lands, by fairy fingers white,
Steeped, as it were, in living smiles, that played,
Like many-coloured flames, about the braid.
For healing, too, strange elements they kept
Wherein lost powers and hidden magic slept;
Thus soon through that old city, built by man
From Eden fresh, the tale of wonder ran;
How chased by them, like baffled beasts of prey
Before the sun, diseases fled away.
So all men reverenced the sage, and yet
With deeper love they followed Neamet.
254
But not for that alone they held him dear.
The sage around him breathed an atmosphere—
A subtle essence of delight and power,
Clothing his youth, as fragrance clothes a flower;
And in that atmosphere he moved and dwelt,
Till underneath his presence all men felt,
Down to the roots of being, a sweet sense
Of swift, inexplicable influence,
That drew their hearts out of themselves away,
Each motion of his spirit to obey;
As the numb soul of iron wakes to own
Life, thrilling through it, from the mystic stone.
But Time passed on; day after day, the same,
And still no tidings of lost Noam came.
She, when that traitress foul had given her up
To drink the bitter dregs of sorrow's cup,
Had found no mosque, no blessing—but was taken
Straight to the Viceroy's hall, and there forsaken.
He sneered and said, ‘Those glorious eyes are wet
With angry tears, that heart is sore, but yet
The queen I make to-day with thanks shall own her debt.
As the sun quenches moonlight, so the ray
Of power's bright orb will drive faint love away;
Or, if that love to Neamet still clings,
Think, short the life of those who rival kings.
It rests with you to save him or to kill.’
'Twas thus, with beating heart and broken will,
The bride of Neamet—no more a bride—
Was borne, escorted, and accompanied
By fifty horsemen, on in hurrying flight,
Unto the Caliph's mansions of delight.
There, though betrothed with Moslem rites, they gave
Her to the King, as paramour and slave.
He, doting on her beauty, left no art
Of love untried to touch and win her heart;
Poured out as gifts, in wild magnificence,
All that could glad the eye or charm the sense;
But vainly all, she, fixed and silent there,
Sat like a marble shape, in dumb despair.
To her, bewildered and disconsolate,
The Caliph seemed like an embodied Fate—
A Fate from whose stern grasp she might not fly,
Though, true to Neamet, she yet could die;
Her lord and master wondered, ne'er till then
His love had failed to win back love again.
But knightly was his nature, and he thought,
Like other youths, to earn the prize he sought.
And so she daily grew more thin and weak,
And the rose-blush upon her tender cheek,
Through changes never-ending, ebbed away
As sunset clouds wane into dimness grey.
Her memory to the loved one's image clung,
His voice within her ears for ever rung;
Too well she knew, yea, seemed almost to see,
How sad, how lost, how changed by grief was he.
Or if she slept, in dreams she saw him still,
But saw him dead, and felt Death's icy chill;
Then, waking with a scream, she lay forlorn,
And sobbed, and moaned, and shivered till the morn.
Just at that time it chanced the Caliph heard
How the great city to its depth was stirred
By the strange lore and power of that strange man,
The agèd Mede, the wise magician;
One trusted by the King at once was sent,
Though with scant hope, to seek the sage's tent.
A daughter, fading in her youth, she said,
Had made her bold to ask the Magian's aid.
He answered: ‘Ere I search yon orbs of heaven,
Her name, her age, her birth-place must be given;
For if the voice of her own stars be dumb,
Knowledge availeth not—the end must come.’
‘In Cufa were we born,’ she said, and lied;
‘My daughter Noam is an Emir's bride;
Scarce sixteen springs have touched her with their breath,
Now winter threatens, and the frost of death.’
‘Thy words are false,’ he answered straight; ‘but still
Insight they give me how to use my skill.
She shall not die. Do thou, my son, prepare
Our balms from Eden mixed with spices rare.
Thy horoscope and hers are one; though mine
The saving thought, the fated hand is thine.’
The boy went forth, re-entering soon he bore
A casket of white moon-stone from their store.
‘Take this, a charm it holds whose destined scope
Is to relight the dying lamp of Hope;
Pain in its presence, sorrows are no more,
It will the maid to loving arms restore.’
The woman took the gift with reverence due,
And to her lady's chamber straight withdrew.
By mystic letters here and there embrowned,
With gold embossed that casket was, and bound,
And this the healing balm that Noam in it found:
‘My love, I come to die, or to regain thee,
Noam, to die for thee, long-sought;
Nor let my death, even for a moment pain thee,
For life, if lonely life, is nought.
Long mateless years would be but death for either—
False death, since far from wicked men
The true death joins us. Let us die together,
Or live, as we have lived, again.’
Poor Noam trembled, shaken from her grief,
From head to foot she trembled as a leaf,
Then, bathed in tears, half bitter and half sweet,
Threw herself down before the woman's feet.
‘O my friend, look in pity on our lot,
Save him, and help him, and betray him not.’
And then she told her all from first to last:
How their blue sky of love was overcast,
How on their heads the sudden thunder fell,
She told her, pleading passionately well,
Until that agèd woman, weeping too,
Recalled past years when she was warm and true,
And vowed to aid them in that dangerous hour
With her whole spirit, her whole heart, and power;
Yea, though the Caliph should the deed mislike,
She would face death to save them—let him strike!
Then, seeking Neamet, she led him through
A wicket gate by windings known to few;
Next, as a girl disguised, she placed him where
To Noam's chamber rose an ivory stair.
‘Be calm,’ she said, ‘be cautious; the sixth door
As you move through yon golden corridor—
Pass it, and find yourself at Noam's feet.
The sixth, I say; be silent and discreet.’
But Neamet, impetuous and young,
As from the leash a greyhound, onward sprung,
His heart beat wildly, many-coloured light
Flashed round his dim and palpitating sight,
His knees fail under him, he seems to hear
The voice of a great flood within his ear;
The rooms come gliding past him, and the ground
Heaves into billows like a sea around.
What wonder, then, if 'mazed and passion-tost,
The clue went from him and the path was lost?
What wonder that amid the gathering gloom
He reeled on blindly to that royal room,
Where the maid Leila, on her maiden throne,
Twin sister to the Caliph, mused alone?
‘Nay, who is this?’ she cried; ‘new come, I trow;
Why, Noam's self is not so fair as thou.
Still she gazed on; but when from Neamet
Her gracious looks and words no answer met,
She rose, and touched his breast, then in surprise
She started back, scarce trusting her own eyes.
Then half in wrath, she cried, and half in fear,
‘Thou art no maiden,—what has brought thee here?
What hast thou done, rash youth? Why thus disguised?
Back, back at once, if life be not despised.
I would not see thee slain;’ but then he fell
At her feet, pleading passionately well,
And told her the whole tale from first to last:
How their blue sky of love was overcast,
And what the Mede had done for him, and what
The agèd slave, and how he heeded not,
But lost in passion's mist had gone astray
To place his life in her fair hands that day.
Then his great beauty, and yet more the spell
Wrought by the mighty master, served him well.
At length she spake, thrilled through with the sweet pain
Of pity, which she could not hide, though fain:
‘I vow to guide you through this dangerous hour,
With my whole spirit, my whole heart and power;
Yea, though my brother should the act mislike,
And in his anger slay me—let him strike!
Yet lose not hope; who knows him if not I?
Trust but in Allah, and we shall not die.’
Then to her maids she called, ‘At once begin,
My children, to set forth a feast within;
With incense, flowers, and crimson hangings graced,
Let the hall brighten—only make ye haste.
And thou, Mamouna, tell my brother dear,
That I entreat his gracious presence here,
And as thou goest, through the dim light guide
This rival fair one to fair Noam's side.’
She said and smiled, then whispered, ‘Neamet,
Take heed, for snares around thee may be set.
None but myself must speak to him; and oh,
Would it were over! His great heart I know;
But yet the will of kings who can foretell—
As the sea, fathomless, inscrutable?
This, this at least, young Neamet, I give,
One golden moment thou hast now to live;
I would forego all possibilities
Of sceptred pomp, all that before me lies—
The mocking splendours, whilst the heart is dead,
When I draw near my joyless marriage bed,
As Caliph's sister, not as woman wed.
Away with them! I could lose all to be
Noam, whose rush of rapture waiteth thee,
Though with my blood I bought the dear delight
Of love, for one sweet hour, in Fate's despite.
At least that one sweet hour is thine; no eye
Upon that meeting, worth a life, shall pry.
Go, and be happy, but return before
The Caliph comes, or ye may meet no more.’
Why tell how lovers one another greet,
With no eye watching, no tongue to repeat—
How their joy, sparkling out to upper air
From gloom, made rich the bleak wastes of despair;
As that flood, conscious of the Prophet's hand,
Leapt from black rocks in Horeb's thirsty land,
To hide with flowers and fruit the desert sand.
Enough to say it passed, as all things will,
And they returned to wait and tremble still.
The Princess soothed them ever with a smile,
That cheered, though sick at heart herself the while—
Till silver trumpets sounded, and the beat
Was heard without of slowly-stepping feet;
Then leaving guards without, the Caliph came:
She rose, and called him by his childish name—
A name of early love, with power to bring
A breath from dawn, a freshness as of spring.
She placed young Neamet before his eyes,
Whilst his strong heart grew soft with memories,
And cried, ‘Behold, this is my gift; I pray
That what I give thee thou wilt love alway.’
The Caliph gazed upon the seeming bride
Delightedly, and laughing low, replied,
‘Thanks, thanks, sweet sister mine, no need to fear
Lest I hold not this bright young creature dear;
Thy slave is fair as Noam is, and they
Shall live together from this very day.
But tell me, Leila, how it comes that thou
Hast wept? There is a trouble on thy brow,
Thy cheeks are pale, and dark around thine eyes
The trace of tears from some fresh sorrow lies.’
‘Tell me, my own,’ she answered, ‘am I pale?
In truth, but now I heard a piteous tale
Of two unhappy lovers, into pain
By foes entrapped, and mercilessly slain.’
And then she told him all from first to last,
Much as from Neamet to her it passed,
But added this: ‘He unto whom the maid
Was by that wicked chief but now betrayed,
The king, regarding not their plighted troth,
In his own halls has foully murdered both:
Red-reeking on the steps of his divan,
Their young blood cries aloud to God from man!’
Ere the last word had died upon her lips,
As the sun frowns, pressed by some dark eclipse,
A gloom of instant anger blackly flies
Across his broad clear brow and radiant eyes;
Then all at once, aflame with righteous ire,
Up leapt the Caliph like a beacon fire.
‘A most unroyal act,’ he cries, ‘indeed;
Could not their love, their beauty, for them plead?
There are three reasons strong against the deed:
First, all who love should pardon lovers; all
Who know how beauty can the heart enthrall
Must feel for other men, as true must hold
That by the poet sung so well of old;
Though law be trampled on, and power defied,
“The faults of love by love are justified.”
But here no fault there was, no wrong was done,
The daring lover but reclaimed his own.
Who risks his life for love, to him belong
The praise and tears of youth, the poet's song;
And whoso lays on him a murderous hand
Accurst through all the years to come shall stand.
Next, the king's house gives shelter; The king's face
Should be known there but as a sign of grace.
Who once sees God may not be shut from bliss;
We kings should emulate our God in this.
And my third reason, stronger yet I deem:
Justice should shine as the sun's perfect beam;
No colour on its whiteness should infringe,
To cloud that pure ray with an alien tinge.
Nor is there any truth more clear than this,
“He who decides in haste, though right, decides amiss.
We, above all, who stand in Allah's place,
His delegates, should weigh the lightest case
With a grave patience and deliberate care
(As Heaven is), slow to punish, quick to spare.
Beyond this general duty to the laws,
If I, the king, am judge in my own cause,
Surely, then, surely there is tenfold need
Of wrath, and urging passion to take heed,
To silence them when they grow loud, and steel
The heart against their blind and bitter zeal.
But this man, neither reverencing love
Nor his own roof-tree (brooding shamed above
The shameful act), nor yet the eternal claim
Of justice upon every royal name,
A stain on us, his brethren, hath let fall,
Together with himself, dishonouring all;
I know not where he reigns, perchance afar,
Beyond the reach of this bright scimitar;
But this, at least, the caitiff wretch shall know,
That if I meet him here on earth below,
Aye, or in heaven itself, I hold him as a foe.’
He paused; at once the Princess, half-afraid,
Yet full of hope, the truth before him laid.
‘Nay, he is ruler of no rival state
From thee remote; nor is there need of hate,
If thou wilt be but to thyself a friend;
Thou art the man—all but the bitter end.
‘See now;’ and then she placed them side by side,
‘The daring lover here, and there the bride;
Kneel, Noam, in thy mournful loveliness,
To ask of this great judge a great redress;
Kneel, Neamet, let thy just claim be heard,
Our Caliph never has recalled his word.’
A flush of dark red anger flitted o'er
His cheek, to leave it paler than before;
His eye shot savage fire, a scarlet stain
Rushed o'er his wounded lip, then dropped like rain;
But when he saw the lovers prostrate lie,
He smiled once more, though somewhat bitterly.
‘Fear not,’ he said, ‘I can be firm and strong
Against myself—ye shall not suffer wrong;
But thou, my sister, thou with whom I strayed,
From my first youth, through sunshine and through shade,
I should have deemed that thou, so wise and kind,
With all our childish memories intertwined,
With our twinned souls laid bare to one another,
Whilst yet thou wast but sister to thy brother,
Without a thought why I was called the prince,
Might know my heart as none have known it since.
Leila, was this well done? I thought that we,
What then we were, till death—till death should be,
That through thy spirit, crystal-clear as glass
From the sea-city, truth should ever pass
Undimmed and undistorted; but, alas!
It is the curse of kings that they must live
Ever alone; and, therefore, I forgive.
Yet learn thou also, lady, to be just;
Loving me still—love with a nobler trust.
But it is time these children to release
From doubt and fear; Go, little ones, in peace;
This hand of mine shall on your foemen fall,
Ruthless as that which gloomed along the wall,
When Cyrus came in wrath at Allah's call;
So dread them not, your debt is fully paid
If the wise Median will but lend his aid,
And teach me how to rule; with such a guide
I scarce can swerve from the straight path aside.’
The Magian straight was summoned from his tent,
His stately form before the Caliph bent;
From the throne questioned then, he would not hide
Aught from the Caliph, but at once replied:
‘I come,’ he said, ‘of a forgotten race,
Once mighty amongst nations; now their place
Knows them no more. My very name will sound
Strange in your ears, though widely once renowned;
It tells of a dim past, an older creed,
For I was named Deioces the Mede.
That name a dauntless chief in days of yore,
From whom I here inherit it, first bore.
Long years have fled since I was taught in youth
To ride, to draw the bow, to speak the truth;
Great rivers in that time have turned aside
Their course; great forests have been born and died;
Great empires have arisen, but to fall;
Great hearts are dust, yet I live on through all.
From the dead summers that have dropped away,
From centuries old that bloomed but to decay,
I have drawn out the spirit and the power,
As the bee, murmuring on from flower to flower,
Draws virtue forth; then, faithful to a trust,
Reels home beneath her load of golden dust.
All I have hived and garnered thus, is due,
Great King, to justice-loving kings, like you—
Hence, if your will avouch it, I abide,
A loyal servant, ever at your side.’
So near the throne Deioces remained,
Shared his lord's toil, his mighty life sustained;
His great soul, through its depths, with wisdom fed,
Till it was filled, as is the ocean bed,
For ever with a light of waters overspread;
And thus in strength and nobleness he grew,
Nor did love fail, nor friendships firm and true.
Through a long reign his power, his wealth, his fame,
By peace and war increased, until his name,
Motar the Just, beneath the sun unfurled,
Shone like a banner streaming o'er the world;
And when his days were done, and Azrael
Called him to reap the harvest sown so well,
The nations that lay safe beneath his wing
Had but one heart to mourn their noble King.
'Tis said that when the funeral rites were o'er,
Deioces the Mede was seen no more;
He vanished, silent as a drop of dew,
Or voiceless cloud that melts amid the blue;
Men turned, and he was gone; to reappear
Perchance, when Islam's danger draweth near.
Still, why swift hours of golden sunshine mar
With shadows from a darkness yet afar?
Let the grim future claim its prey—but now
A mandate from the Court tells Hatim how
He is to execute a righteous doom,
And rule his province in the dead man's room,
Like a house built on shifting sands alone,
By the King's breath that power was overthrown;
So fell the Viceroy, and the land had rest,
Whilst high and low the name of Motar blest;
His noble heart rejoiced to see meanwhile
Those married lovers on each other smile,
And showered his favours down with bounteous hand,
Till they asked leave to go to their own land.
Dismissed with royal gifts and speeches fair,
Thus home to Cufa went that lovely pair.
Soon goodly sons and daughters, graced by Heaven
With strength and beauty, to their arms were given;
They rose, fulfilling Hatim's early dream,
Like palm-trees rising by a silver stream;
And thus with joy, with love that could not pall,
They dwelt together in that stately hall,
Till the divider, Death, came down and ended all.
And still no tidings of lost Noam came.
She, when that traitress foul had given her up
To drink the bitter dregs of sorrow's cup,
Had found no mosque, no blessing—but was taken
Straight to the Viceroy's hall, and there forsaken.
He sneered and said, ‘Those glorious eyes are wet
With angry tears, that heart is sore, but yet
The queen I make to-day with thanks shall own her debt.
As the sun quenches moonlight, so the ray
Of power's bright orb will drive faint love away;
Or, if that love to Neamet still clings,
Think, short the life of those who rival kings.
It rests with you to save him or to kill.’
'Twas thus, with beating heart and broken will,
The bride of Neamet—no more a bride—
Was borne, escorted, and accompanied
By fifty horsemen, on in hurrying flight,
Unto the Caliph's mansions of delight.
There, though betrothed with Moslem rites, they gave
Her to the King, as paramour and slave.
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Of love untried to touch and win her heart;
Poured out as gifts, in wild magnificence,
All that could glad the eye or charm the sense;
But vainly all, she, fixed and silent there,
Sat like a marble shape, in dumb despair.
To her, bewildered and disconsolate,
The Caliph seemed like an embodied Fate—
A Fate from whose stern grasp she might not fly,
Though, true to Neamet, she yet could die;
Her lord and master wondered, ne'er till then
His love had failed to win back love again.
But knightly was his nature, and he thought,
Like other youths, to earn the prize he sought.
And so she daily grew more thin and weak,
And the rose-blush upon her tender cheek,
Through changes never-ending, ebbed away
As sunset clouds wane into dimness grey.
Her memory to the loved one's image clung,
His voice within her ears for ever rung;
Too well she knew, yea, seemed almost to see,
How sad, how lost, how changed by grief was he.
Or if she slept, in dreams she saw him still,
But saw him dead, and felt Death's icy chill;
Then, waking with a scream, she lay forlorn,
And sobbed, and moaned, and shivered till the morn.
Just at that time it chanced the Caliph heard
How the great city to its depth was stirred
By the strange lore and power of that strange man,
The agèd Mede, the wise magician;
One trusted by the King at once was sent,
Though with scant hope, to seek the sage's tent.
A daughter, fading in her youth, she said,
Had made her bold to ask the Magian's aid.
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Her name, her age, her birth-place must be given;
For if the voice of her own stars be dumb,
Knowledge availeth not—the end must come.’
‘In Cufa were we born,’ she said, and lied;
‘My daughter Noam is an Emir's bride;
Scarce sixteen springs have touched her with their breath,
Now winter threatens, and the frost of death.’
‘Thy words are false,’ he answered straight; ‘but still
Insight they give me how to use my skill.
She shall not die. Do thou, my son, prepare
Our balms from Eden mixed with spices rare.
Thy horoscope and hers are one; though mine
The saving thought, the fated hand is thine.’
The boy went forth, re-entering soon he bore
A casket of white moon-stone from their store.
‘Take this, a charm it holds whose destined scope
Is to relight the dying lamp of Hope;
Pain in its presence, sorrows are no more,
It will the maid to loving arms restore.’
The woman took the gift with reverence due,
And to her lady's chamber straight withdrew.
By mystic letters here and there embrowned,
With gold embossed that casket was, and bound,
And this the healing balm that Noam in it found:
‘My love, I come to die, or to regain thee,
Noam, to die for thee, long-sought;
Nor let my death, even for a moment pain thee,
For life, if lonely life, is nought.
Long mateless years would be but death for either—
False death, since far from wicked men
The true death joins us. Let us die together,
Or live, as we have lived, again.’
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From head to foot she trembled as a leaf,
Then, bathed in tears, half bitter and half sweet,
Threw herself down before the woman's feet.
‘O my friend, look in pity on our lot,
Save him, and help him, and betray him not.’
And then she told her all from first to last:
How their blue sky of love was overcast,
How on their heads the sudden thunder fell,
She told her, pleading passionately well,
Until that agèd woman, weeping too,
Recalled past years when she was warm and true,
And vowed to aid them in that dangerous hour
With her whole spirit, her whole heart, and power;
Yea, though the Caliph should the deed mislike,
She would face death to save them—let him strike!
Then, seeking Neamet, she led him through
A wicket gate by windings known to few;
Next, as a girl disguised, she placed him where
To Noam's chamber rose an ivory stair.
‘Be calm,’ she said, ‘be cautious; the sixth door
As you move through yon golden corridor—
Pass it, and find yourself at Noam's feet.
The sixth, I say; be silent and discreet.’
But Neamet, impetuous and young,
As from the leash a greyhound, onward sprung,
His heart beat wildly, many-coloured light
Flashed round his dim and palpitating sight,
His knees fail under him, he seems to hear
The voice of a great flood within his ear;
The rooms come gliding past him, and the ground
Heaves into billows like a sea around.
What wonder, then, if 'mazed and passion-tost,
The clue went from him and the path was lost?
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He reeled on blindly to that royal room,
Where the maid Leila, on her maiden throne,
Twin sister to the Caliph, mused alone?
‘Nay, who is this?’ she cried; ‘new come, I trow;
Why, Noam's self is not so fair as thou.
Still she gazed on; but when from Neamet
Her gracious looks and words no answer met,
She rose, and touched his breast, then in surprise
She started back, scarce trusting her own eyes.
Then half in wrath, she cried, and half in fear,
‘Thou art no maiden,—what has brought thee here?
What hast thou done, rash youth? Why thus disguised?
Back, back at once, if life be not despised.
I would not see thee slain;’ but then he fell
At her feet, pleading passionately well,
And told her the whole tale from first to last:
How their blue sky of love was overcast,
And what the Mede had done for him, and what
The agèd slave, and how he heeded not,
But lost in passion's mist had gone astray
To place his life in her fair hands that day.
Then his great beauty, and yet more the spell
Wrought by the mighty master, served him well.
At length she spake, thrilled through with the sweet pain
Of pity, which she could not hide, though fain:
‘I vow to guide you through this dangerous hour,
With my whole spirit, my whole heart and power;
Yea, though my brother should the act mislike,
And in his anger slay me—let him strike!
Yet lose not hope; who knows him if not I?
Trust but in Allah, and we shall not die.’
Then to her maids she called, ‘At once begin,
My children, to set forth a feast within;
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Let the hall brighten—only make ye haste.
And thou, Mamouna, tell my brother dear,
That I entreat his gracious presence here,
And as thou goest, through the dim light guide
This rival fair one to fair Noam's side.’
She said and smiled, then whispered, ‘Neamet,
Take heed, for snares around thee may be set.
None but myself must speak to him; and oh,
Would it were over! His great heart I know;
But yet the will of kings who can foretell—
As the sea, fathomless, inscrutable?
This, this at least, young Neamet, I give,
One golden moment thou hast now to live;
I would forego all possibilities
Of sceptred pomp, all that before me lies—
The mocking splendours, whilst the heart is dead,
When I draw near my joyless marriage bed,
As Caliph's sister, not as woman wed.
Away with them! I could lose all to be
Noam, whose rush of rapture waiteth thee,
Though with my blood I bought the dear delight
Of love, for one sweet hour, in Fate's despite.
At least that one sweet hour is thine; no eye
Upon that meeting, worth a life, shall pry.
Go, and be happy, but return before
The Caliph comes, or ye may meet no more.’
Why tell how lovers one another greet,
With no eye watching, no tongue to repeat—
How their joy, sparkling out to upper air
From gloom, made rich the bleak wastes of despair;
As that flood, conscious of the Prophet's hand,
Leapt from black rocks in Horeb's thirsty land,
To hide with flowers and fruit the desert sand.
260
And they returned to wait and tremble still.
The Princess soothed them ever with a smile,
That cheered, though sick at heart herself the while—
Till silver trumpets sounded, and the beat
Was heard without of slowly-stepping feet;
Then leaving guards without, the Caliph came:
She rose, and called him by his childish name—
A name of early love, with power to bring
A breath from dawn, a freshness as of spring.
She placed young Neamet before his eyes,
Whilst his strong heart grew soft with memories,
And cried, ‘Behold, this is my gift; I pray
That what I give thee thou wilt love alway.’
The Caliph gazed upon the seeming bride
Delightedly, and laughing low, replied,
‘Thanks, thanks, sweet sister mine, no need to fear
Lest I hold not this bright young creature dear;
Thy slave is fair as Noam is, and they
Shall live together from this very day.
But tell me, Leila, how it comes that thou
Hast wept? There is a trouble on thy brow,
Thy cheeks are pale, and dark around thine eyes
The trace of tears from some fresh sorrow lies.’
‘Tell me, my own,’ she answered, ‘am I pale?
In truth, but now I heard a piteous tale
Of two unhappy lovers, into pain
By foes entrapped, and mercilessly slain.’
And then she told him all from first to last,
Much as from Neamet to her it passed,
But added this: ‘He unto whom the maid
Was by that wicked chief but now betrayed,
The king, regarding not their plighted troth,
In his own halls has foully murdered both:
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Their young blood cries aloud to God from man!’
Ere the last word had died upon her lips,
As the sun frowns, pressed by some dark eclipse,
A gloom of instant anger blackly flies
Across his broad clear brow and radiant eyes;
Then all at once, aflame with righteous ire,
Up leapt the Caliph like a beacon fire.
‘A most unroyal act,’ he cries, ‘indeed;
Could not their love, their beauty, for them plead?
There are three reasons strong against the deed:
First, all who love should pardon lovers; all
Who know how beauty can the heart enthrall
Must feel for other men, as true must hold
That by the poet sung so well of old;
Though law be trampled on, and power defied,
“The faults of love by love are justified.”
But here no fault there was, no wrong was done,
The daring lover but reclaimed his own.
Who risks his life for love, to him belong
The praise and tears of youth, the poet's song;
And whoso lays on him a murderous hand
Accurst through all the years to come shall stand.
Next, the king's house gives shelter; The king's face
Should be known there but as a sign of grace.
Who once sees God may not be shut from bliss;
We kings should emulate our God in this.
And my third reason, stronger yet I deem:
Justice should shine as the sun's perfect beam;
No colour on its whiteness should infringe,
To cloud that pure ray with an alien tinge.
Nor is there any truth more clear than this,
“He who decides in haste, though right, decides amiss.
We, above all, who stand in Allah's place,
His delegates, should weigh the lightest case
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(As Heaven is), slow to punish, quick to spare.
Beyond this general duty to the laws,
If I, the king, am judge in my own cause,
Surely, then, surely there is tenfold need
Of wrath, and urging passion to take heed,
To silence them when they grow loud, and steel
The heart against their blind and bitter zeal.
But this man, neither reverencing love
Nor his own roof-tree (brooding shamed above
The shameful act), nor yet the eternal claim
Of justice upon every royal name,
A stain on us, his brethren, hath let fall,
Together with himself, dishonouring all;
I know not where he reigns, perchance afar,
Beyond the reach of this bright scimitar;
But this, at least, the caitiff wretch shall know,
That if I meet him here on earth below,
Aye, or in heaven itself, I hold him as a foe.’
He paused; at once the Princess, half-afraid,
Yet full of hope, the truth before him laid.
‘Nay, he is ruler of no rival state
From thee remote; nor is there need of hate,
If thou wilt be but to thyself a friend;
Thou art the man—all but the bitter end.
‘See now;’ and then she placed them side by side,
‘The daring lover here, and there the bride;
Kneel, Noam, in thy mournful loveliness,
To ask of this great judge a great redress;
Kneel, Neamet, let thy just claim be heard,
Our Caliph never has recalled his word.’
A flush of dark red anger flitted o'er
His cheek, to leave it paler than before;
His eye shot savage fire, a scarlet stain
Rushed o'er his wounded lip, then dropped like rain;
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He smiled once more, though somewhat bitterly.
‘Fear not,’ he said, ‘I can be firm and strong
Against myself—ye shall not suffer wrong;
But thou, my sister, thou with whom I strayed,
From my first youth, through sunshine and through shade,
I should have deemed that thou, so wise and kind,
With all our childish memories intertwined,
With our twinned souls laid bare to one another,
Whilst yet thou wast but sister to thy brother,
Without a thought why I was called the prince,
Might know my heart as none have known it since.
Leila, was this well done? I thought that we,
What then we were, till death—till death should be,
That through thy spirit, crystal-clear as glass
From the sea-city, truth should ever pass
Undimmed and undistorted; but, alas!
It is the curse of kings that they must live
Ever alone; and, therefore, I forgive.
Yet learn thou also, lady, to be just;
Loving me still—love with a nobler trust.
But it is time these children to release
From doubt and fear; Go, little ones, in peace;
This hand of mine shall on your foemen fall,
Ruthless as that which gloomed along the wall,
When Cyrus came in wrath at Allah's call;
So dread them not, your debt is fully paid
If the wise Median will but lend his aid,
And teach me how to rule; with such a guide
I scarce can swerve from the straight path aside.’
The Magian straight was summoned from his tent,
His stately form before the Caliph bent;
From the throne questioned then, he would not hide
Aught from the Caliph, but at once replied:
264
Once mighty amongst nations; now their place
Knows them no more. My very name will sound
Strange in your ears, though widely once renowned;
It tells of a dim past, an older creed,
For I was named Deioces the Mede.
That name a dauntless chief in days of yore,
From whom I here inherit it, first bore.
Long years have fled since I was taught in youth
To ride, to draw the bow, to speak the truth;
Great rivers in that time have turned aside
Their course; great forests have been born and died;
Great empires have arisen, but to fall;
Great hearts are dust, yet I live on through all.
From the dead summers that have dropped away,
From centuries old that bloomed but to decay,
I have drawn out the spirit and the power,
As the bee, murmuring on from flower to flower,
Draws virtue forth; then, faithful to a trust,
Reels home beneath her load of golden dust.
All I have hived and garnered thus, is due,
Great King, to justice-loving kings, like you—
Hence, if your will avouch it, I abide,
A loyal servant, ever at your side.’
So near the throne Deioces remained,
Shared his lord's toil, his mighty life sustained;
His great soul, through its depths, with wisdom fed,
Till it was filled, as is the ocean bed,
For ever with a light of waters overspread;
And thus in strength and nobleness he grew,
Nor did love fail, nor friendships firm and true.
Through a long reign his power, his wealth, his fame,
By peace and war increased, until his name,
Motar the Just, beneath the sun unfurled,
Shone like a banner streaming o'er the world;
265
Called him to reap the harvest sown so well,
The nations that lay safe beneath his wing
Had but one heart to mourn their noble King.
'Tis said that when the funeral rites were o'er,
Deioces the Mede was seen no more;
He vanished, silent as a drop of dew,
Or voiceless cloud that melts amid the blue;
Men turned, and he was gone; to reappear
Perchance, when Islam's danger draweth near.
Still, why swift hours of golden sunshine mar
With shadows from a darkness yet afar?
Let the grim future claim its prey—but now
A mandate from the Court tells Hatim how
He is to execute a righteous doom,
And rule his province in the dead man's room,
Like a house built on shifting sands alone,
By the King's breath that power was overthrown;
So fell the Viceroy, and the land had rest,
Whilst high and low the name of Motar blest;
His noble heart rejoiced to see meanwhile
Those married lovers on each other smile,
And showered his favours down with bounteous hand,
Till they asked leave to go to their own land.
Dismissed with royal gifts and speeches fair,
Thus home to Cufa went that lovely pair.
Soon goodly sons and daughters, graced by Heaven
With strength and beauty, to their arms were given;
They rose, fulfilling Hatim's early dream,
Like palm-trees rising by a silver stream;
And thus with joy, with love that could not pall,
They dwelt together in that stately hall,
Till the divider, Death, came down and ended all.
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VERSES FOR THE FIRST PAGE OF A SHAKSPERE.
PRESENTED TO MISS JULIA TOLLEMACHE ON HER MARRIAGE.
If by some wizard Shakspere's pen
To me for one short hour were lent,
This heart of mine, sweet Julia, then
Might find fit words for all it meant:
To me for one short hour were lent,
This heart of mine, sweet Julia, then
Might find fit words for all it meant:
Words that should make your name as dear
To other times as it is now,
And still shine on, year after year,
A wreath of stars around your brow.
To other times as it is now,
And still shine on, year after year,
A wreath of stars around your brow.
But as, alas, this may not be,
I can but say your soul is such
That could our Shakspere know it, he
Would love you as I love you—much.
I can but say your soul is such
That could our Shakspere know it, he
Would love you as I love you—much.
For what you are, that once were they
Whose bloom he watched with grave delight,
Then smiled in his benignant way
(As on May rose-buds fresh and white).
Whose bloom he watched with grave delight,
Then smiled in his benignant way
(As on May rose-buds fresh and white).
Trusting that each young flower was sure
To reach a larger, warmer life;
And from a maiden, perfect pure,
Become a pure and happy wife.
To reach a larger, warmer life;
And from a maiden, perfect pure,
Become a pure and happy wife.
May 1873.
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STANZAS SUGGESTED BY THE ABOVE.
They dream, but dreams are of the night;
Will not the sun rise by-and-by?
Or is the hope that thirsts for light
Only a mocking lie?
Will not the sun rise by-and-by?
Or is the hope that thirsts for light
Only a mocking lie?
A wondrous dawn may wake, and turn
To floods of life the phantom snows,
Whilst desert sands that drift and burn
Shall blossom as the rose.
To floods of life the phantom snows,
Whilst desert sands that drift and burn
Shall blossom as the rose.
The pine and palm may feel that then
Both cold and heat, and Time and Space,
On polar crag, in tropic glen,
To other laws give place.
Both cold and heat, and Time and Space,
On polar crag, in tropic glen,
To other laws give place.
Through them, whilst the young heavens grow rife
With joy, and airs divinely sweet,
Distance dies off from spirit-life,
That severed hearts may meet.
With joy, and airs divinely sweet,
Distance dies off from spirit-life,
That severed hearts may meet.
Oh leave that thought to float above,
Each parching leaf, each blighted bough;
It breathes of hope, it breathes of love,
It worketh on—even now,
Each parching leaf, each blighted bough;
It breathes of hope, it breathes of love,
It worketh on—even now,
In that dark pine's despairing breast,
To melt the bitter frost of pain;
And on his drooping palm-tree's crest
Falls like the early rain.
To melt the bitter frost of pain;
And on his drooping palm-tree's crest
Falls like the early rain.
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HELEN.
IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.
Amid the green brook-fringing grasses
Droops Helen, with her young life shattered.
O'er brow and arm, in shining masses,
The golden curls are scattered.
Droops Helen, with her young life shattered.
O'er brow and arm, in shining masses,
The golden curls are scattered.
Her white feet play within the river,
As throbs her heart, so play they faster,
With sand and foam-bells troubling ever
Each crystal wave flung past her.
As throbs her heart, so play they faster,
With sand and foam-bells troubling ever
Each crystal wave flung past her.
From a branch o'er the bright flood leaning,
To watch each shadow as it glances,
A bird sings with such force and meaning,
She hears (it seems) not fancies.
To watch each shadow as it glances,
A bird sings with such force and meaning,
She hears (it seems) not fancies.
Remonstrance warbled thus: ‘Oh, maiden,
Why taint my pure stream thus? Why wrong her?
With sand and foam, and tears o'erladen,
She mirrors heaven no longer.
Why taint my pure stream thus? Why wrong her?
With sand and foam, and tears o'erladen,
She mirrors heaven no longer.
‘The sun, the moon, the stars within her,
Lost nothing of their living beauty.
Depart then, leaving Time to win her
Back to the light of duty.’
Lost nothing of their living beauty.
Depart then, leaving Time to win her
Back to the light of duty.’
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The maiden murmured, ‘Yes! too surely
She brightens when I am not near her.
The blue sky, since she floweth purely,
Holds her as dear, or dearer.
She brightens when I am not near her.
The blue sky, since she floweth purely,
Holds her as dear, or dearer.
‘But woe is me—for endless sorrow—
A maiden's soul, unlike this river,
Once darkened, knows no brighter morrow.
Her heaven is gone for ever.’
A maiden's soul, unlike this river,
Once darkened, knows no brighter morrow.
Her heaven is gone for ever.’
| Lectures on poetry delivered at Oxford | |