Chapter 4

ONCE a fair city, courted then by king, Mistress of nations, thronged by palaces, Raising her head o’er destiny, her face Glowing with pleasure and with palms refreshed, Now pointed at by Wisdom or by Wealth, Bereft of beauty, bare of ornaments, Stood in the wilderness of woe, Masar. Ere far advancing, all appeared a plain; Treacherous and fearful mountains, far advanced. Her glory so gone down, at human step The fierce hyena frighted from the walls Bristled his rising back, his teeth unsheathed, Drew the long growl and with slow foot retired. Yet were remaining some of ancient race, And ancient arts were now their sole delight: With Time’s first sickle they had marked the hour When at their incantation would the Moon Start back, and shuddering shed blue blasted light. The rifted rays they gathered, and immersed In potent portion of that wondrous wave, Which, hearing rescued Israel, stood erect, And led her armies through his crystal gates. Hither (none shared her way, her counsel none) Hied the Masarian Dalica: ’twas night, And the still breeze fell languid on the waste. She, tired with journey long and ardent thoughts Stopped; and before the city she descried A female form emerge above the sands. Intent she fixed her eyes, and on herself Relying, with fresh vigour bent her way; Nor disappeared the woman, but exclaimed, One hand retaining tight her folded vest, “Stranger, who loathest life, there lies Masar. Begone, nor tarry longer, or ere morn The cormorant in his solitary haunt Of insulated rock or sounding cove Stands on thy bleachéd bones and screams for prey. My lips can scatter them a hundred leagues, So shrivelled in one breath as all the sands We tread on could not in as many years. Wretched who die nor raise their sepulchre! Therefore begone.” But Dalica unawed (Though in her withered but still firm right-hand Held up with imprecations hoarse and deep Glimmered her brazen sickle, and enclosed Within its figured curve the fading moon) Spake thus aloud. “By yon bright orb of Heaven, In that most sacred moment when her beam Guided first thither by the forkéd shaft, Strikes through the crevice of Arishtah’s tower—” “Sayst thou?” astonished cried the sorceress, “Woman of outer darkness, fiend of death, From what inhuman cave, what dire abyss, Hast thou invisible that spell o’erheard? What potent hand hath touched thy quickened corse, What song dissolved thy cerements, who unclosed Those faded eyes and filled them from the stars? But if with inextinguished light of life Thou breathest, soul and body unamerced, Then whence that invocation? who hath dared Those hallowed words, divulging, to profane?” Dalica cried, “To heaven, not earth, addressed, Prayers for protection cannot be profane.” Here the pale sorceress turned her face aside Wildly, and muttered to herself amazed; “I dread her who, alone at such an hour, Can speak so strangely, who can thus combine The words of reason with our gifted rites, Yet will I speak once more.—If thou hast seen The city of Charoba, hast thou marked The steps of Dalica?” “What then?” “The tongue Of Dalica has then our rites divulged.” “Whose rites?” “Her sister’s, mother’s, and her own.” “Never.” “How sayst thou never? one would think, Presumptuous, thou wert Dalica.” “I am, Woman, and who art thou?” With close embrace, Clung the Masarian round her neck, and cried: “Art thou then not my sister? ah, I fear The golden lamps and jewels of a court Deprive thine eyes of strength and purity. O Dalica, mine watch the waning moon, For ever patient in our mother’s art, And rest on Heaven suspended, where the founts Of Wisdom rise, where sound the wings of Power; Studies intense of strong and stern delight! And thou too, Dalica, so many years Weaned from the bosom of thy native land, Returnest back and seekest true repose. Oh, what more pleasant than the short-breathed sigh When laying down your burden at the gate, And dizzy with long wandering, you embrace The cool and quiet of a homespun bed.” “Alas,” said Dalica, “though all commend This choice, and many meet with no control, Yet none pursue it! Age by Care oppressed Feels for the couch, and drops into the grave. The tranquil scene lies further still from Youth: Frenzied Ambition and desponding Love Consume Youth’s fairest flowers; compared with Youth Age has a something something like repose. Myrthyr, I seek not here a boundary Like the horizon, which, as you advance, Keeping its form and colour, yet recedes; But mind my errand, and my suit perform. Twelve years ago Charoba first could speak: If her indulgent father asked her name, She would indulge him too, and would reply ‘What? why, Charoba!’ raised with sweet surprise, And proud to shine a teacher in her turn. Show her the graven sceptre; what its use? ’Twas to beat dogs with, and to gather flies. She thought the crown a plaything to amuse Herself, and not the people, for she thought Who mimic infant words might infant toys: But while she watched grave elders look with awe On such a bauble, she withheld her breath; She was afraid her parents should suspect They had caught childhood from her in a kiss; She blushed for shame, and feared—for she believed. Yet was not courage wanting in the child. No; I have often seen her with both hands Shake a dry crocodile of equal height, And listen to the shells within the scales, And fancy there was life, and yet apply The jagged jaws wide open to her ear. Past are three summers since she first beheld The ocean; all around the child await Some exclamation of amazement here: She coldly said, her long-lashed eyes abased, ‘Is this the mighty ocean? is this all!’ That wondrous soul Charoba once possessed, Capacious then as earth or heaven could hold, Soul discontented with capacity, Is gone, I fear, for ever. Need I say She was enchanted by the wicked spells Of Gebir, whom with lust of power inflamed The western winds have landed on our coast? I since have watched her in each lone retreat, Have heard her sigh and soften out the name, Then would she change it for Egyptian sounds More sweet, and seem to taste them on her lips, Then loathe them—Gebir, Gebir still returned. Who would repine, of reason not bereft! For soon the sunny stream of youth runs down, And not a gadfly streaks the lake beyond. Lone in the gardens, on her gathered vest How gently would her languid arm recline! How often have I seen her kiss a flower, And on cool mosses press her glowing cheek! Nor was the stranger free from pangs himself. Whether by spell imperfect, or while brewed The swelling herbs infected him with foam, Oft have the shepherds met him wandering Through unfrequented paths, oft overheard Deep groans, oft started from soliloquies Which they believe assuredly were meant For spirits who attended him unseen. But when from his illuded eyes retired That figure Fancy fondly chose to raise, He clasped the vacant air and stood and gazed; Then owning it was folly, strange to tell, Burst into peals of laughter at his woes. Next, when his passion had subsided, went Where from a cistern, green and ruined, oozed A little rill, soon lost; there gathered he Violets, and harebells of a sister bloom, Twining complacently their tender stems With plants of kindest pliability. These for a garland woven, for a crown He platted pithy rushes, and ere dusk The grass was whitened with their roots nipped off. These threw he, finished, in the little rill And stood surveying them with steady smile: But such a smile as that of Gebir bids To Comfort a defiance, to Despair A welcome, at whatever hour she please. Had I observed him I had pitied him; I have observed Charoba, I have asked If she loved Gebir. ‘Love him!’ she exclaimed With such a start of terror, such a flush Of anger, ‘I love Gebir? I in love?’ And looked so piteous, so impatient looked— And burst, before I answered, into tears. Then saw I, plainly saw I, ’twas not love; For such her natural temper, what she likes She speaks it out, or rather she commands. And could Charoba say with greater ease Bring me a water-melon from the Nile,’ Than, if she loved him, ‘Bring me him I love.’ Therefore the death of Gebir is resolved.” “Resolved indeed,” cried Myrthyr, nought surprised, “Precious my arts! I could without remorse Kill, though I hold thee dearer than the day, E’en thee thyself, to exercise my arts. Look yonder! mark yon pomp of funeral! Is this from fortune or from favouring stars? Dalica, look thou yonder, what a train! What weeping! Oh, what luxury! Come, haste, Gather me quickly up these herbs I dropped, And then away—hush! I must unobserved From those two maiden sisters pull the spleen: Dissemblers! how invidious they surround The virgin’s tomb, where all but virgins weep.” “Nay, hear me first,” cried Dalica; “’tis hard To perish to attend a foreign king.” “Perish! and may not then mine eye alone Draw out the venom drop, and yet remain Enough? the portion cannot be perceived.” Away she hastened with it to her home, And, sprinkling thrice flesh sulphur o’er the hearth, Took up a spindle with malignant smile, And pointed to a woof, nor spake a word; ’Twas a dark purple, and its dye was dread. Plunged in a lonely house, to her unknown, Now Dalica first trembled: o’er the roof Wandered her haggard eyes—’twas some relief. The massy stones, though hewn most roughly, showed The hand of man had once at least been there: But from this object sinking back amazed, Her bosom lost all consciousness, and shook As if suspended in unbounded space. Her thus entranced the sister’s voice recalled. “Behold it here dyed once again! ’tis done.” Dalica stepped, and felt beneath her feet The slippery floor, with mouldered dust bestrewn; But Myrthyr seized with bare bold-sinewed arm The grey cerastes, writhing from her grasp, And twisted off his horn, nor feared to squeeze The viscous poison from his glowing gums. Nor wanted there the root of stunted shrub Which he lays ragged, hanging o’er the sands, And whence the weapons of his wrath are death: Nor the blue urchin that with clammy fin Holds down the tossing vessel for the tides. Together these her scient hand combined, And more she added, dared I mention more. Which done, with words most potent, thrice she dipped The reeking garb; thrice waved it through the air: She ceased; and suddenly the creeping wool Shrunk up with crispèd dryness in her hands. “Take this,” she cried, “and Gebir is no more.”

SIXTH BOOK.

NOW to Aurora borne by dappled steeds, The sacred gate of orient pearl and gold, Smitten with Lucifer’s light silver wand, Expanded slow to strains of harmony: The waves beneath in purpling rows, like doves Glancing with wanton coyness tow’rd their queen, Heaved softly; thus the damsel’s bosom heaves When from her sleeping lover’s downy cheek, To which so warily her own she brings Each moment nearer, she perceives the warmth Of coming kisses fanned by playful dreams. Ocean and earth and heaven was jubilee. For ’twas the morning pointed out by Fate When an immortal maid and mortal man Should share each other’s nature knit in bliss. The brave Iberians far the beach o’erspread Ere dawn with distant awe; none hear the mew, None mark the curlew flapping o’er the field; Silence held all, and fond expectancy. Now suddenly the conch above the sea Sounds, and goes sounding through the woods profound. They, where they hear the echo, turn their eyes, But nothing see they, save a purple mist Roll from the distant mountain down the shore: It rolls, it sails, it settles, it dissolves— Now shines the nymph to human eye revealed, And leads her Tamar timorous o’er the waves. Immortals crowding round congratulate The shepherd; he shrinks back, of breath bereft: His vesture clinging closely round his limbs Unfelt, while they the whole fair form admire, He fears that he has lost it, then he fears The wave has moved it, most to look he fears. Scarce the sweet-flowing music he imbibes, Or sees the peopled ocean; scarce he sees Spio with sparkling eyes, and Beroe Demure, and young Ione, less renowned, Not less divine, mild-natured; Beauty formed Her face, her heart Fidelity; for gods Designed, a mortal too Ione loved. These were the nymphs elected for the hour Of Hesperus and Hymen; these had strewn The bridal bed, these tuned afresh the shells, Wiping the green that hoarsened them within: These wove the chaplets, and at night resolved To drive the dolphins from the wreathéd door. Gebir surveyed the concourse from the tents, The Egyptian men around him; ’twas observed By those below how wistfully he looked, From what attention with what earnestness Now to his city, now to theirs, he waved His hand, and held it, while they spake, outspread. They tarried with him, and they shared the feast. They stooped with trembling hand from heavy jars The wines of Gades gurgling in the bowl; Nor bent they homeward till the moon appeared To hang midway betwixt the earth and skies. ’Twas then that leaning o’er the boy beloved, In Ocean’s grot where Ocean was unheard, “Tamar!” the nymph said gently, “come awake! Enough to love, enough to sleep, is given, Haste we away.” This Tamar deemed deceit, Spoken so fondly, and he kissed her lips, Nor blushed he then, for he was then unseen. But she arising bade the youth arise. “What cause to fly?” said Tamar; she replied, “Ask none for flight, and feign none for delay.” “Oh, am I then deceived! or am I cast From dreams of pleasure to eternal sleep, And, when I cease to shudder, cease to be!” She held the downcast bridegroom to her breast, Looked in his face and charmed away his fears. She said not “Wherefore leave I then embraced You a poor shepherd, or at most a man, Myself a nymph, that now I should deceive?” She said not—Tamar did, and was ashamed. Him overcome her serious voice bespake. “Grief favours all who bear the gift of tears! Mild at first sight he meets his votaries And casts no shadow as he comes along: But after his embrace the marble chills The pausing foot, the closing door sounds loud, The fiend in triumph strikes the roof, then falls The eye uplifted from his lurid shade. Tamar, depress thyself, and miseries Darken and widen: yes, proud-hearted man! The sea-bird rises as the billows rise; Nor otherwise when mountain floods descend Smiles the unsullied lotus glossy-haired. Thou, claiming all things, leanest on thy claim Till overwhelmed through incompliancy. Tamar, some silent tempest gathers round!” “Round whom?” retorted Tamar; “thou describe The danger, I will dare it.” “Who will dare What is unseen?” “The man that is unblessed.” “But wherefore thou? It threatens not thyself, Nor me, but Gebir and the Gadite host.” “The more I know, the more a wretch am I.” Groaned deep the troubled youth, “still thou proceed.” “Oh, seek not destined evils to divine, Found out at last too soon! cease here the search, ’Tis vain, ’tis impious, ’tis no gift of mine: I will impart far better, will impart What makes, when winter comes, the sun to rest So soon on ocean’s bed his paler brow, And night to tarry so at spring’s return. And I will tell sometimes the fate of men Who loosed from drooping neck the restless arm Adventurous, ere long nights had satisfied The sweet and honest avarice of love; How whirlpools have absorbed them, storms o’er-whelmed, And how amid their struggles and their prayers The big wave blackened o’er the mouths supine: Then, when my Tamar trembles at the tale, Kissing his lips half open with surprise, Glance from the gloomy story, and with glee Light on the fairer fables of the gods. Thus we may sport at leisure where we go Where, loved by Neptune and the Naiad, loved By pensive Dryad pale, and Oread The spritely nymph whom constant Zephyr wooes, Rhine rolls his beryl-coloured wave; than Rhine What river from the mountains ever came More stately! most the simple crown adorns Of rushes and of willows interwined With here and there a flower: his lofty brow Shaded with vines and mistletoe and oak He rears, and mystic bards his fame resound. Or gliding opposite, th’ Illyrian gulf Will harbour us from ill.” While thus she spake, She touched his eyelashes with libant lip, And breathed ambrosial odours, o’er his cheek Celestial warmth suffusing: grief dispersed, And strength and pleasure beamed upon his brow. Then pointed she before him: first arose To his astonished and delighted view The sacred isle that shrines the queen of love. It stood so near him, so acute each sense, That not the symphony of lutes alone, Or coo serene or billing strife of doves, But murmurs, whispers, nay the very sighs Which he himself had uttered once, he heard. Next, but long after and far off, appear The cloud-like cliffs and thousand towers of Crete, And further to the right, the Cyclades: Phoebus had raised and fixed them, to surround His native Delos and aërial fane. He saw the land of Pelops, host of gods, Saw the steep ridge where Corinth after stood Beckoning the serious with the smiling arts Into the sunbright bay; unborn the maid That to assure the bent-up hand unskilled Looked oft, but oftener fearing who might wake. He heard the voice of rivers; he descried Pindan Peneus and the slender nymphs That tread his banks but fear the thundering tide; These, and Amphrysos and Apidanus And poplar-crowned Spercheus, and reclined On restless rocks Enipeus, whore the winds Scattered above the weeds his hoary hair. Then, with Pirene and with Panope, Evenus, troubled from paternal tears, And last was Achelous, king of isles. Zacynthus here, above rose Ithaca, Like a blue bubble floating in the bay. Far onward to the left a glimmering light Glanced out oblique, nor vanished; he inquired Whence that arose, his consort thus replied— “Behold the vast Eridanus! ere long We may again behold him and rejoice. Of noble rivers none with mightier force Rolls his unwearied torrent to the main.” And now Sicanian Etna rose to view: Darkness with light more horrid she confounds, Baffles the breath and dims the sight of day. Tamar grew giddy with astonishment And, looking up, held fast the bridal vest; He heard the roar above him, heard the roar Beneath, and felt it too, as he beheld, Hurl, from earth’s base, rocks, mountains, to the skies. Meanwhile the nymph had fixed her eyes beyond, As seeing somewhat, not intent on aught. He, more amazed than ever, then exclaimed, “Is there another flaming isle? or this Illusion, thus passed over unobserved?” “Look yonder,” cried the nymph, without reply, “Look yonder!” Tamar looked, and saw afar Where the waves whitened on the desert shore. When from amid grey ocean first he caught The heights of Calpé, saddened he exclaimed, “Rock of Iberia! fixed by Jove and hung With all his thunder-hearing clouds, I hail Thy ridges rough and cheerless! what though Spring Nor kiss thy brow nor cool it with a flower, Yet will I hail thee, hail thy flinty couch, Where Valour and where Virtue have reposed.” The nymph said, sweetly smiling, “Fickle man Would not be happy could he not regret! And I confess how, looking back, a thought Has touched and tuned or rather thrilled my heart, Too soft for sorrow and too strong for joy: Fond foolish maid, ’twas with mine own accord It soothed me, shook me, melted, drowned, in tears. But weep not thou; what cause hast thou to weep? Wouldst thou thy country? wouldst those caves abhorred, Dungeons and portals that exclude the day? Gebir, though generous, just, humane, inhaled Rank venom from these mansions. Rest, O king In Egypt thou! nor, Tamar! pant for sway. With horrid chorus, Pain, Diseases, Death, Stamp on the slippery pavement of the proud, And ring their sounding emptiness through earth. Possess the ocean, me, thyself, and peace.” And now the chariot of the Sun descends, The waves rush hurried from his foaming steeds, Smoke issues from their nostrils at the gate, Which when they enter, with huge golden bar Atlas and Calpe close across the sea.

SEVENTH BOOK.