 | Fragments and Fancies |  |
LAMENT OF AN EGYPTIAN PRINCESS.
She leaned upon a sumptuous couch, which shone
With many a blazing dye and burning stone;
Cups of the rose-scented onyx glitter'd there,
With many a crystal vase, and cresset fair;
The far-off spice-wood's treasures there were heap'd,
Till in warm fragrance every breeze was steep'd,
That pierced its way through golden trellised bowers,
Ruffling the unfolded leaves and lustrous flowers.
Silence hung o'er that odorous porphyry hall,
Scarce broken by the fountain's lulling fall;
Silence—though she who sate there, pale and lone,
Held a fair lute that pour'd no wakening tone—
But she hath risen now from her dreamy trance,
To cast around a wild and mournful glance;
The paleness passes from her stately brow,
Her form dilates with passion's grandeur now!—
Melts from her mien the dull and cold eclipse,
The mighty-rushing strain o'erflows her lips!—
With many a blazing dye and burning stone;
Cups of the rose-scented onyx glitter'd there,
With many a crystal vase, and cresset fair;
The far-off spice-wood's treasures there were heap'd,
Till in warm fragrance every breeze was steep'd,
That pierced its way through golden trellised bowers,
Ruffling the unfolded leaves and lustrous flowers.
Silence hung o'er that odorous porphyry hall,
Scarce broken by the fountain's lulling fall;
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Held a fair lute that pour'd no wakening tone—
But she hath risen now from her dreamy trance,
To cast around a wild and mournful glance;
The paleness passes from her stately brow,
Her form dilates with passion's grandeur now!—
Melts from her mien the dull and cold eclipse,
The mighty-rushing strain o'erflows her lips!—
Exultingly ye still roll on! in melody and power,
Streams of my Royal Fatherland!—with sun-gifts for your dower,
Roll on—roll on—exultingly! but, oh! my heart—no more
Must to the bounding of your waves bound as 'twas wont of yore.
Streams of my Royal Fatherland!—with sun-gifts for your dower,
Roll on—roll on—exultingly! but, oh! my heart—no more
Must to the bounding of your waves bound as 'twas wont of yore.
But this is nought. No! nought to ye! proud everlasting streams,
Still trembling to the crimson'd light of sultry noontide beams;
Still glorying in your billowy course the same as when I stray'd
Along your flowering shores beneath the Cedar's feathery shade.
Still trembling to the crimson'd light of sultry noontide beams;
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Along your flowering shores beneath the Cedar's feathery shade.
Yet there, walk in dark beauty still, old Egypt's regal daughters,
All—all but me, the stricken deer, lone thirsting for its waters;
My Sisters! sweet companions of my Childhood's laughing years,
Shed ye for me while lingering there Love's vain, unreck'd of tears?
All—all but me, the stricken deer, lone thirsting for its waters;
My Sisters! sweet companions of my Childhood's laughing years,
Shed ye for me while lingering there Love's vain, unreck'd of tears?
And doth my recollected form still haunt your wanderings there,
Unwither'd by intense regret, unchanged by burdening care?
And doth my recollected voice rise mingling soft and low,
With the deep bewildering music of the waves' triumphant flow.
Unwither'd by intense regret, unchanged by burdening care?
And doth my recollected voice rise mingling soft and low,
With the deep bewildering music of the waves' triumphant flow.
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Oh, Sisters! dwell in gladness there, ye beautiful and bless'd,
Nor dream that on the stranger's shores your young souls might find rest—
Ye tender flowers! ye would but droop when chain'd to alien thrones,
Pale those pomegranate cheeks would grow, and faint those laughing tones.
Nor dream that on the stranger's shores your young souls might find rest—
Ye tender flowers! ye would but droop when chain'd to alien thrones,
Pale those pomegranate cheeks would grow, and faint those laughing tones.
Though here my step is greeted with the cymbal and the lute,
My heart sends no rich answer forth—the broken shell is mute;
Though these porphyry halls are starry with bright wealth of gold and gem,
I droop like some night-blowing flower, sun-smitten on the stem!
My heart sends no rich answer forth—the broken shell is mute;
Though these porphyry halls are starry with bright wealth of gold and gem,
I droop like some night-blowing flower, sun-smitten on the stem!
Though here the o'er-arching heav'ns shed down soft splendours o'er the land,
And though the rivers bluely roll to a golden-flowering strand—
Tho' these pleasure-shades be emerald bright, these palace-chambers fair,
Oh! the Beautiful—the Beautiful—for me is only there!
And though the rivers bluely roll to a golden-flowering strand—
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Oh! the Beautiful—the Beautiful—for me is only there!
Would I might be a drifting leaf, cast on those flashing floods,
Where Egypt's precious sunshine in its full-blown radiance broods;
For e'en the loveliest sunshine here, to me shines dim and cold,
Oh! might I on Choaspes' stream, its gathered rays behold!
Where Egypt's precious sunshine in its full-blown radiance broods;
For e'en the loveliest sunshine here, to me shines dim and cold,
Oh! might I on Choaspes' stream, its gathered rays behold!
Oh! that I might my land—my home—in breathless transport part,
And seek thy odorous shades once more, all matchless that thou art;
But clouds have liberty above, and restless birds around,
While the Queen of this resplendent land in sumptuous chains lies bound.
And seek thy odorous shades once more, all matchless that thou art;
But clouds have liberty above, and restless birds around,
While the Queen of this resplendent land in sumptuous chains lies bound.
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The jewel-roughened goblet to my throbbing lips I press
But to dash it on the marble floor, in a passion of distress;
Bring me the blessed waters from those well-known native springs,
More lovely than Heaven's vernal dews shed from the Morning's wings.
But to dash it on the marble floor, in a passion of distress;
Bring me the blessed waters from those well-known native springs,
More lovely than Heaven's vernal dews shed from the Morning's wings.
Bear hence these jewelled goblets with their sculptured traceries bright—
The waters sparkling o'er the brim are loathsome in my sight;
Bring from Choaspes' worshipped stream the sweet and precious draughts,
To quench my fevered thirst at length—and soothe my phrenzied thoughts.
The waters sparkling o'er the brim are loathsome in my sight;
Bring from Choaspes' worshipped stream the sweet and precious draughts,
To quench my fevered thirst at length—and soothe my phrenzied thoughts.
Forgive! my bosom's lord, forgive, this wild and fitful mood,
Forgive, if all thy tenderness my dark soul hath withstood;
May'st thou ne'er know what 'tis to pine in weary dreams away,
And turn thee sorrowing from the Sun, and all the pomps of day!
Forgive, if all thy tenderness my dark soul hath withstood;
May'st thou ne'er know what 'tis to pine in weary dreams away,
And turn thee sorrowing from the Sun, and all the pomps of day!
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Thine own fair Land spreads laughingly around thy cloudless path,
Thou dost not bend 'neath Memory's power, a tempest in its wrath!
The scenes thou'st known and loved of old, still charm thy raptured eye—
Think with what yearning languishment the Exile's heart must die!
Thou dost not bend 'neath Memory's power, a tempest in its wrath!
The scenes thou'st known and loved of old, still charm thy raptured eye—
Think with what yearning languishment the Exile's heart must die!
Even now a full and fervid dream came sweeping through my mind,
Within whose bright transparence—streams—skies—land-scapes—shone enshrined!
Those skies—those landscapes—I have loved, and panted to behold!
Those streams that gird my Land with Orient hyacinth and gold!
Within whose bright transparence—streams—skies—land-scapes—shone enshrined!
Those skies—those landscapes—I have loved, and panted to behold!
Those streams that gird my Land with Orient hyacinth and gold!
I am parted from thee, glorious Home! and the Heavens look coldly down
On the banished One, whose aching brows lie crushed beneath a crown;
Those Heavens—those Heavens—that mirrored burn—depth within depth unfurled
In the hundred hundred Rivers of that Queen-Land of the World!
On the banished One, whose aching brows lie crushed beneath a crown;
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In the hundred hundred Rivers of that Queen-Land of the World!
May the wild winds, that proudly go in triumph where they will,
Bear to those scenes one murmured tone which from my lip doth thrill!
Like wandering flower-seeds—dreamy scents—or broken whisperings sweet,
Shall be the breathings of my Love, borne on their pinions fleet.
Bear to those scenes one murmured tone which from my lip doth thrill!
Like wandering flower-seeds—dreamy scents—or broken whisperings sweet,
Shall be the breathings of my Love, borne on their pinions fleet.
Oh! that at once my burning soul they thus might waft along—
To where the founts of glory roll—majestically strong!—
Where musk-winds rich, and sunbeams play!—birds float—and flower shades quiver—
Mantling with sudden radiances the old Imperial River!
To where the founts of glory roll—majestically strong!—
Where musk-winds rich, and sunbeams play!—birds float—and flower shades quiver—
Mantling with sudden radiances the old Imperial River!
Roll on!—roll ever-sounding on, in melody and power,
The amethyst's heart-hues are dim to thy foam's far-gleaming shower—
Oh! when this fainting heart of love hath drooped away and died,
May ye to every age bear on a voice of strength and pride!
The amethyst's heart-hues are dim to thy foam's far-gleaming shower—
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May ye to every age bear on a voice of strength and pride!
It will be so, immortal Founts!—and that I feel it will,
Makes my quick heart with deep delight o'erpoweringly to thrill—
Anguish and Exultation rend a Spirit long o'erworn—
I sink—I faint—Farewell, glad Skies of Summer and of Morn!
Makes my quick heart with deep delight o'erpoweringly to thrill—
Anguish and Exultation rend a Spirit long o'erworn—
I sink—I faint—Farewell, glad Skies of Summer and of Morn!
Silence once more hung o'er that princely hall,
Save ye might hear that wild heart's rise and fall,
Loud—quick and loud!—But now the paleness cold
Steals o'er her forehead, 'neath her hair's rich fold.
In the swift rushing of that strain went by
The might—the strength—of battling Agony,
Her darkly-glorious eye is downwards bent,
Languor and fervour in its stillness blent;
The fringed lid glitters with the unconscious tear—
But, hark! what stealthy step approaches near?
What Form hath leant on that flowered ballustrade
(In kingly robes, resplendently arrayed,
O'er whom the sycamores and myrtles flung
Their verdurous shadows) while the Mourner sung?
Oh! who hath hastened to that Mourner's side?
Raise, raise those drooping eyes! thou Queen! and Bride!
Whose whispered tones of love have made thee start?
Whose piercing eyes have questioned thy wrung heart?
—That gaze hath brought back the impassioned glow,
Like sunset waves, o'er all thy cheek and brow.
Who hath thus waked thee from thy second trance
By the soft magic of one pitying glance?
Crowned Daughter of the Pharaohs! is it he
Who bore thee from thy home of Infancy!—
And is't for him to bring back Joy's rich smile
To thy worn cheek—Flower of the haughty Nile!
Oh! Woman!—unto every love thus true,
Well may thine hours of rosy calm be few!
Save ye might hear that wild heart's rise and fall,
Loud—quick and loud!—But now the paleness cold
Steals o'er her forehead, 'neath her hair's rich fold.
In the swift rushing of that strain went by
The might—the strength—of battling Agony,
Her darkly-glorious eye is downwards bent,
Languor and fervour in its stillness blent;
The fringed lid glitters with the unconscious tear—
But, hark! what stealthy step approaches near?
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(In kingly robes, resplendently arrayed,
O'er whom the sycamores and myrtles flung
Their verdurous shadows) while the Mourner sung?
Oh! who hath hastened to that Mourner's side?
Raise, raise those drooping eyes! thou Queen! and Bride!
Whose whispered tones of love have made thee start?
Whose piercing eyes have questioned thy wrung heart?
—That gaze hath brought back the impassioned glow,
Like sunset waves, o'er all thy cheek and brow.
Who hath thus waked thee from thy second trance
By the soft magic of one pitying glance?
Crowned Daughter of the Pharaohs! is it he
Who bore thee from thy home of Infancy!—
And is't for him to bring back Joy's rich smile
To thy worn cheek—Flower of the haughty Nile!
Oh! Woman!—unto every love thus true,
Well may thine hours of rosy calm be few!
| Fragments and Fancies | |