Lectures on poetry delivered at Oxford By Sir Francis Hastings Doyle ... Second Series |
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| I. | PART I. |
| II. |
 | Lectures on poetry delivered at Oxford |  |
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.
| Lectures on poetry delivered at Oxford | |