Part 2

And he went his way Barefooted, fasting long, with many prayers; But even as one who, followed unawares, Suddenly in the darkness feels a hand Thrill with its touch his own, and his cheek fanned By odors subtly sweet, and whispers near Of words he loathes, yet cannot choose but hear, So, while the Rabbi journeyed, chanting low The wail of David's penitential woe, Before him still the old temptation came, And mocked him with the motion and the shame Of such desires that, shuddering, he abhorred Himself; and, crying mightily to the Lord To free his soul and cast the demon out, Smote with his staff the blankness round about.

At length, in the low light of a spent day, The towers of Ecbatana far away Rose on the desert's rim; and Nathan, faint And footsore, pausing where for some dead saint The faith of Islam reared a domed tomb, Saw some one kneeling in the shadow, whom He greeted kindly: "May the Holy One Answer thy prayers, O stranger!" Whereupon The shape stood up with a loud cry, and then, Clasped in each other's arms, the two gray men Wept, praising Him whose gracious providence Made their paths one. But straightway, as the sense Of his transgression smote him, Nathan tore Himself away: "O friend beloved, no more Worthy am I to touch thee, for I came, Foul from my sins, to tell thee all my shame. Haply thy prayers, since naught availeth mine, May purge my soul, and make it white like thine. Pity me, O Ben Isaac, I have sinned!"

Awestruck Ben Isaac stood. The desert wind Blew his long mantle backward, laying bare The mournful secret of his shirt of hair. "I too, O friend, if not in act," he said, "In thought have verily sinned. Hast thou not read, 'Better the eye should see than that desire Should wander?' Burning with a hidden fire That tears and prayers quench not, I come to thee For pity and for help, as thou to me. Pray for me, O my friend!" But Nathan cried, "Pray thou for me, Ben Isaac!"

Side by side In the low sunshine by the turban stone They knelt; each made his brother's woe his own, Forgetting, in the agony and stress Of pitying love, his claim of selfishness; Peace, for his friend besought, his own became; His prayers were answered in another's name; And, when at last they rose up to embrace, Each saw God's pardon in his brother's face!

Long after, when his headstone gathered moss, Traced on the targum-marge of Onkelos In Rabbi Nathan's hand these words were read: "/Hope not the cure of sin till Self is dead; Forget it in love's service, and the debt Thou, canst not pay the angels shall forget; Heaven's gate is shut to him who comes alone; Save thou a soul, and it shall save thy own!/" 1868.

NOREMBEGA.

Norembega, or Norimbegue, is the name given by early French fishermen and explorers to a fabulous country south of Cape Breton, first discovered by Verrazzani in 1524. It was supposed to have a magnificent city of the same name on a great river, probably the Penobscot. The site of this barbaric city is laid down on a map published at Antwerp in 1570. In 1604 Champlain sailed in search of the Northern Eldorado, twenty-two leagues up the Penobscot from the Isle Haute. He supposed the river to be that of Norembega, but wisely came to the conclusion that those travellers who told of the great city had never seen it. He saw no evidences of anything like civilization, but mentions the finding of a cross, very old and mossy, in the woods.

THE winding way the serpent takes The mystic water took, From where, to count its beaded lakes, The forest sped its brook.

A narrow space 'twixt shore and shore, For sun or stars to fall, While evermore, behind, before, Closed in the forest wall.

The dim wood hiding underneath Wan flowers without a name; Life tangled with decay and death, League after league the same.

Unbroken over swamp and hill The rounding shadow lay, Save where the river cut at will A pathway to the day.

Beside that track of air and light, Weak as a child unweaned, At shut of day a Christian knight Upon his henchman leaned.

The embers of the sunset's fires Along the clouds burned down; "I see," he said, "the domes and spires Of Norembega town."

"Alack! the domes, O master mine, Are golden clouds on high; Yon spire is but the branchless pine That cuts the evening sky."

"Oh, hush and hark! What sounds are these But chants and holy hymns?" "Thou hear'st the breeze that stirs the trees Though all their leafy limbs."

"Is it a chapel bell that fills The air with its low tone?" "Thou hear'st the tinkle of the rills, The insect's vesper drone."

"The Christ be praised!--He sets for me A blessed cross in sight!" "Now, nay, 't is but yon blasted tree With two gaunt arms outright!"

"Be it wind so sad or tree so stark, It mattereth not, my knave; Methinks to funeral hymns I hark, The cross is for my grave!

"My life is sped; I shall not see My home-set sails again; The sweetest eyes of Normandie Shall watch for me in vain.

"Yet onward still to ear and eye The baffling marvel calls; I fain would look before I die On Norembega's walls.

"So, haply, it shall be thy part At Christian feet to lay The mystery of the desert's heart My dead hand plucked away.

"Leave me an hour of rest; go thou And look from yonder heights; Perchance the valley even now Is starred with city lights."

The henchman climbed the nearest hill, He saw nor tower nor town, But, through the drear woods, lone and still, The river rolling down.

He heard the stealthy feet of things Whose shapes he could not see, A flutter as of evil wings, The fall of a dead tree.

The pines stood black against the moon, A sword of fire beyond; He heard the wolf howl, and the loon Laugh from his reedy pond.

He turned him back: "O master dear, We are but men misled; And thou hast sought a city here To find a grave instead."

"As God shall will! what matters where A true man's cross may stand, So Heaven be o'er it here as there In pleasant Norman land?

"These woods, perchance, no secret hide Of lordly tower and hall; Yon river in its wanderings wide Has washed no city wall;

"Yet mirrored in the sullen stream The holy stars are given Is Norembega, then, a dream Whose waking is in Heaven?

"No builded wonder of these lands My weary eyes shall see; A city never made with hands Alone awaiteth me--

"'_Urbs Syon mystica_;' I see Its mansions passing fair, '/Condita caelo/;' let me be, Dear Lord, a dweller there!"

Above the dying exile hung The vision of the bard, As faltered on his failing tongue The song of good Bernard.

The henchman dug at dawn a grave Beneath the hemlocks brown, And to the desert's keeping gave The lord of fief and town.

Years after, when the Sieur Champlain Sailed up the unknown stream, And Norembega proved again A shadow and a dream,

He found the Norman's nameless grave Within the hemlock's shade, And, stretching wide its arms to save, The sign that God had made,

The cross-boughed tree that marked the spot And made it holy ground He needs the earthly city not Who hath the heavenly found. 1869.

MIRIAM.

TO FREDERICK A. P. BARNARD.

THE years are many since, in youth and hope, Under the Charter Oak, our horoscope We drew thick-studded with all favoring stars. Now, with gray beards, and faces seamed with scars From life's hard battle, meeting once again, We smile, half sadly, over dreams so vain; Knowing, at last, that it is not in man Who walketh to direct his steps, or plan His permanent house of life. Alike we loved The muses' haunts, and all our fancies moved To measures of old song. How since that day Our feet have parted from the path that lay So fair before us! Rich, from lifelong search Of truth, within thy Academic porch Thou sittest now, lord of a realm of fact, Thy servitors the sciences exact; Still listening with thy hand on Nature's keys, To hear the Samian's spheral harmonies And rhythm of law. I called from dream and song, Thank God! so early to a strife so long, That, ere it closed, the black, abundant hair Of boyhood rested silver-sown and spare On manhood's temples, now at sunset-chime Tread with fond feet the path of morning time. And if perchance too late I linger where The flowers have ceased to blow, and trees are bare, Thou, wiser in thy choice, wilt scarcely blame The friend who shields his folly with thy name. AMESBURY, 10th mo., 1870.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

One Sabbath day my friend and I After the meeting, quietly Passed from the crowded village lanes, White with dry dust for lack of rains, And climbed the neighboring slope, with feet Slackened and heavy from the heat, Although the day was wellnigh done, And the low angle of the sun Along the naked hillside cast Our shadows as of giants vast. We reached, at length, the topmost swell, Whence, either way, the green turf fell In terraces of nature down To fruit-hung orchards, and the town With white, pretenceless houses, tall Church-steeples, and, o'ershadowing all, Huge mills whose windows had the look Of eager eyes that ill could brook The Sabbath rest. We traced the track Of the sea-seeking river back, Glistening for miles above its mouth, Through the long valley to the south, And, looking eastward, cool to view, Stretched the illimitable blue Of ocean, from its curved coast-line; Sombred and still, the warm sunshine Filled with pale gold-dust all the reach Of slumberous woods from hill to beach,-- Slanted on walls of thronged retreats From city toil and dusty streets, On grassy bluff, and dune of sand, And rocky islands miles from land; Touched the far-glancing sails, and showed White lines of foam where long waves flowed Dumb in the distance. In the north, Dim through their misty hair, looked forth The space-dwarfed mountains to the sea, From mystery to mystery!

So, sitting on that green hill-slope, We talked of human life, its hope And fear, and unsolved doubts, and what It might have been, and yet was not. And, when at last the evening air Grew sweeter for the bells of prayer Ringing in steeples far below, We watched the people churchward go, Each to his place, as if thereon The true shekinah only shone; And my friend queried how it came To pass that they who owned the same Great Master still could not agree To worship Him in company. Then, broadening in his thought, he ran Over the whole vast field of man,-- The varying forms of faith and creed That somehow served the holders' need; In which, unquestioned, undenied, Uncounted millions lived and died; The bibles of the ancient folk, Through which the heart of nations spoke; The old moralities which lent To home its sweetness and content, And rendered possible to bear The life of peoples everywhere And asked if we, who boast of light, Claim not a too exclusive right To truths which must for all be meant, Like rain and sunshine freely sent. In bondage to the letter still, We give it power to cramp and kill,-- To tax God's fulness with a scheme Narrower than Peter's house-top dream, His wisdom and his love with plans Poor and inadequate as man's. It must be that He witnesses Somehow to all men that He is That something of His saving grace Reaches the lowest of the race, Who, through strange creed and rite, may draw The hints of a diviner law. We walk in clearer light;--but then, Is He not God?--are they not men? Are His responsibilities For us alone and not for these?

And I made answer: "Truth is one; And, in all lands beneath the sun, Whoso hath eyes to see may see The tokens of its unity. No scroll of creed its fulness wraps, We trace it not by school-boy maps, Free as the sun and air it is Of latitudes and boundaries. In Vedic verse, in dull Koran, Are messages of good to man; The angels to our Aryan sires Talked by the earliest household fires; The prophets of the elder day, The slant-eyed sages of Cathay, Read not the riddle all amiss Of higher life evolved from this.

"Nor doth it lessen what He taught, Or make the gospel Jesus brought Less precious, that His lips retold Some portion of that truth of old; Denying not the proven seers, The tested wisdom of the years; Confirming with his own impress The common law of righteousness. We search the world for truth; we cull The good, the pure, the beautiful, From graven stone and written scroll, From all old flower-fields of the soul; And, weary seekers of the best, We come back laden from our quest, To find that all the sages said Is in the Book our mothers read, And all our treasure of old thought In His harmonious fulness wrought Who gathers in one sheaf complete The scattered blades of God's sown wheat, The common growth that maketh good His all-embracing Fatherhood.

"Wherever through the ages rise The altars of self-sacrifice, Where love its arms has opened wide, Or man for man has calmly died, I see the same white wings outspread That hovered o'er the Master's head! Up from undated time they come, The martyr souls of heathendom, And to His cross and passion bring Their fellowship of suffering. I trace His presence in the blind Pathetic gropings of my kind,-- In prayers from sin and sorrow wrung, In cradle-hymns of life they sung, Each, in its measure, but a part Of the unmeasured Over-Heart; And with a stronger faith confess The greater that it owns the less. Good cause it is for thankfulness That the world-blessing of His life With the long past is not at strife; That the great marvel of His death To the one order witnesseth, No doubt of changeless goodness wakes, No link of cause and sequence breaks, But, one with nature, rooted is In the eternal verities; Whereby, while differing in degree As finite from infinity, The pain and loss for others borne, Love's crown of suffering meekly worn, The life man giveth for his friend Become vicarious in the end; Their healing place in nature take, And make life sweeter for their sake.

"So welcome I from every source The tokens of that primal Force, Older than heaven itself, yet new As the young heart it reaches to, Beneath whose steady impulse rolls The tidal wave of human souls; Guide, comforter, and inward word, The eternal spirit of the Lord Nor fear I aught that science brings From searching through material things; Content to let its glasses prove, Not by the letter's oldness move, The myriad worlds on worlds that course The spaces of the universe; Since everywhere the Spirit walks The garden of the heart, and talks With man, as under Eden's trees, In all his varied languages. Why mourn above some hopeless flaw In the stone tables of the law, When scripture every day afresh Is traced on tablets of the flesh? By inward sense, by outward signs, God's presence still the heart divines; Through deepest joy of Him we learn, In sorest grief to Him we turn, And reason stoops its pride to share The child-like instinct of a prayer."

And then, as is my wont, I told A story of the days of old, Not found in printed books,--in sooth, A fancy, with slight hint of truth, Showing how differing faiths agree In one sweet law of charity. Meanwhile the sky had golden grown, Our faces in its glory shone; But shadows down the valley swept, And gray below the ocean slept, As time and space I wandered o'er To tread the Mogul's marble floor, And see a fairer sunset fall On Jumna's wave and Agra's wall.

The good Shah Akbar (peace be his alway!) Came forth from the Divan at close of day Bowed with the burden of his many cares, Worn with the hearing of unnumbered prayers,-- Wild cries for justice, the importunate Appeals of greed and jealousy and hate, And all the strife of sect and creed and rite, Santon and Gouroo waging holy fight For the wise monarch, claiming not to be Allah's avenger, left his people free, With a faint hope, his Book scarce justified, That all the paths of faith, though severed wide, O'er which the feet of prayerful reverence passed, Met at the gate of Paradise at last.

He sought an alcove of his cool hareem, Where, far beneath, he heard the Jumna's stream Lapse soft and low along his palace wall, And all about the cool sound of the fall Of fountains, and of water circling free Through marble ducts along the balcony; The voice of women in the distance sweet, And, sweeter still, of one who, at his feet, Soothed his tired ear with songs of a far land Where Tagus shatters on the salt sea-sand The mirror of its cork-grown hills of drouth And vales of vine, at Lisbon's harbor-mouth.

The date-palms rustled not; the peepul laid Its topmost boughs against the balustrade, Motionless as the mimic leaves and vines That, light and graceful as the shawl-designs Of Delhi or Umritsir, twined in stone; And the tired monarch, who aside had thrown The day's hard burden, sat from care apart, And let the quiet steal into his heart From the still hour. Below him Agra slept, By the long light of sunset overswept The river flowing through a level land, By mango-groves and banks of yellow sand, Skirted with lime and orange, gay kiosks, Fountains at play, tall minarets of mosques, Fair pleasure-gardens, with their flowering trees Relieved against the mournful cypresses; And, air-poised lightly as the blown sea-foam, The marble wonder of some holy dome Hung a white moonrise over the still wood, Glassing its beauty in a stiller flood.

Silent the monarch gazed, until the night Swift-falling hid the city from his sight; Then to the woman at his feet he said "Tell me, O Miriam, something thou hast read In childhood of the Master of thy faith, Whom Islam also owns. Our Prophet saith 'He was a true apostle, yea, a Word And Spirit sent before me from the Lord.' Thus the Book witnesseth; and well I know By what thou art, O dearest, it is so. As the lute's tone the maker's hand betrays, The sweet disciple speaks her Master's praise."

Then Miriam, glad of heart, (for in some sort She cherished in the Moslem's liberal court The sweet traditions of a Christian child; And, through her life of sense, the undefiled And chaste ideal of the sinless One Gazed on her with an eye she might not shun,-- The sad, reproachful look of pity, born Of love that hath no part in wrath or scorn,) Began, with low voice and moist eyes, to tell Of the all-loving Christ, and what befell When the fierce zealots, thirsting for her blood, Dragged to his feet a shame of womanhood. How, when his searching answer pierced within Each heart, and touched the secret of its sin, And her accusers fled his face before, He bade the poor one go and sin no more. And Akbar said, after a moment's thought, "Wise is the lesson by thy prophet taught; Woe unto him who judges and forgets What hidden evil his own heart besets! Something of this large charity I find In all the sects that sever human kind; I would to Allah that their lives agreed More nearly with the lesson of their creed! Those yellow Lamas who at Meerut pray By wind and water power, and love to say 'He who forgiveth not shall, unforgiven, Fail of the rest of Buddha,' and who even Spare the black gnat that stings them, vex my ears With the poor hates and jealousies and fears Nursed in their human hives. That lean, fierce priest Of thy own people, (be his heart increased By Allah's love!) his black robes smelling yet Of Goa's roasted Jews, have I not met Meek-faced, barefooted, crying in the street The saying of his prophet true and sweet,-- 'He who is merciful shall mercy meet!'"

But, next day, so it chanced, as night began To fall, a murmur through the hareem ran That one, recalling in her dusky face The full-lipped, mild-eyed beauty of a race Known as the blameless Ethiops of Greek song, Plotting to do her royal master wrong, Watching, reproachful of the lingering light, The evening shadows deepen for her flight, Love-guided, to her home in a far land, Now waited death at the great Shah's command. Shapely as that dark princess for whose smile A world was bartered, daughter of the Nile Herself, and veiling in her large, soft eyes The passion and the languor of her skies, The Abyssinian knelt low at the feet Of her stern lord: "O king, if it be meet, And for thy honor's sake," she said, "that I, Who am the humblest of thy slaves, should die, I will not tax thy mercy to forgive. Easier it is to die than to outlive All that life gave me,--him whose wrong of thee Was but the outcome of his love for me, Cherished from childhood, when, beneath the shade Of templed Axum, side by side we played. Stolen from his arms, my lover followed me Through weary seasons over land and sea; And two days since, sitting disconsolate Within the shadow of the hareem gate, Suddenly, as if dropping from the sky, Down from the lattice of the balcony Fell the sweet song by Tigre's cowherds sung In the old music of his native tongue. He knew my voice, for love is quick of ear, Answering in song.

This night he waited near To fly with me. The fault was mine alone He knew thee not, he did but seek his own; Who, in the very shadow of thy throne, Sharing thy bounty, knowing all thou art, Greatest and best of men, and in her heart Grateful to tears for favor undeserved, Turned ever homeward, nor one moment swerved From her young love. He looked into my eyes, He heard my voice, and could not otherwise Than he hath done; yet, save one wild embrace When first we stood together face to face, And all that fate had done since last we met Seemed but a dream that left us children yet, He hath not wronged thee nor thy royal bed; Spare him, O king! and slay me in his stead!"

But over Akbar's brows the frown hung black, And, turning to the eunuch at his back, "Take them," he said, "and let the Jumna's waves Hide both my shame and these accursed slaves!" His loathly length the unsexed bondman bowed "On my head be it!"

Straightway from a cloud Of dainty shawls and veils of woven mist The Christian Miriam rose, and, stooping, kissed The monarch's hand. Loose down her shoulders bare Swept all the rippled darkness of her hair, Veiling the bosom that, with high, quick swell Of fear and pity, through it rose and fell.

"Alas!" she cried, "hast thou forgotten quite The words of Him we spake of yesternight? Or thy own prophet's, 'Whoso doth endure And pardon, of eternal life is sure'? O great and good! be thy revenge alone Felt in thy mercy to the erring shown; Let thwarted love and youth their pardon plead, Who sinned but in intent, and not in deed!"

One moment the strong frame of Akbar shook With the great storm of passion. Then his look Softened to her uplifted face, that still Pleaded more strongly than all words, until Its pride and anger seemed like overblown, Spent clouds of thunder left to tell alone Of strife and overcoming. With bowed head, And smiting on his bosom: "God," he said, "Alone is great, and let His holy name Be honored, even to His servant's shame! Well spake thy prophet, Miriam,--he alone Who hath not sinned is meet to cast a stone At such as these, who here their doom await, Held like myself in the strong grasp of fate. They sinned through love, as I through love forgive; Take them beyond my realm, but let them live!"

And, like a chorus to the words of grace, The ancient Fakir, sitting in his place, Motionless as an idol and as grim, In the pavilion Akbar built for him Under the court-yard trees, (for he was wise, Knew Menu's laws, and through his close-shut eyes Saw things far off, and as an open book Into the thoughts of other men could look,) Began, half chant, half howling, to rehearse The fragment of a holy Vedic verse; And thus it ran: "He who all things forgives Conquers himself and all things else, and lives Above the reach of wrong or hate or fear, Calm as the gods, to whom he is most dear."

Two leagues from Agra still the traveller sees The tomb of Akbar through its cypress-trees; And, near at hand, the marble walls that hide The Christian Begum sleeping at his side. And o'er her vault of burial (who shall tell If it be chance alone or miracle?) The Mission press with tireless hand unrolls The words of Jesus on its lettered scrolls,-- Tells, in all tongues, the tale of mercy o'er, And bids the guilty, "Go and sin no more!"