Part 5

It was the day of the Passaggio: Ashore the war-steeds champed the burnished bit; Afloat the galleys tugged the mooring-chain: The town was out; the Lombard armourers-- Red-hot with riveting the helmets up, And whetting axes for the heathen heads-- Cooled in the crowd that filled the squares and street: To speed God's soldiers. At the none that day Messer Torello to the gate came down, Leading his lady;--sorrow's hueless rose Grew on her cheek, and thrice the destrier Struck fire, impatient, from the pavement-squares, Or ere she spoke, tears in her lifted eyes, "Goest thou, lord of mine?" "Madonna, yes!" Said Torel, "for my soul's weal and the Lord Ride I to-day: my good name and my house Reliant I intrust thee, and--because It may be they shall slay me, and because, Being so young, so fair, and so reputed, The noblest will entreat thee--wait for me, Widow or wife, a year, and month, and day; Then if thy kinsmen press thee to a choice, And if I be not come, hold me for dead; Nor link thy blooming beauty with the grave Against thine heart." "Good my lord!" answered she, "Hardly my heart sustains to let thee go; Thy memory it can keep, and keep it will, Though my one lord, Torel of Istria, Live, or----" "Sweet, comfort thee! San Pietro speed! I shall come home: if not, and worthy knees Bend for this hand, whereof none worthy lives, Least he who lays his last kiss thus upon it, Look thee, I free it----" "Nay!" she said, "but I, A petulant slave that hugs her golden chain, Give that gift back, and with it this poor ring: Set it upon thy sword-hand, and in fight Be merciful and win, thinking of me." Then she, with pretty action, drawing on Her ruby, buckled over it his glove-- The great steel glove--and through the helmet bars Took her last kiss;--then let the chafing steed Have its hot will and go. But Saladin, Safe back among his lords at Lebanon, Well wotting of their quest, awaited it, And held the Crescent up against the Cross, In many a doughty fight Ferrara blades Clashed with keen Damasc, many a weary month Wasted afield; but yet the Christians Won nothing nearer to Christ's sepulchre; Nay, but gave ground. At last, in Acre pent, On their loose files, enfeebled by the war, Came stronger smiter than the Saracen-- The deadly Pest: day after day they died, Pikeman and knight-at-arms; day after day A thinner line upon the leaguered wall Held off the heathen:--held them off a space; Then, over-weakened, yielded, and gave up The city and the stricken garrison. So to sad chains and hateful servitude Fell all those purple lords--Christendom's stars, Once high in hope as soaring Lucifer, Now low as sinking Hesper: with them fell Messer Torello--never one so poor Of all the hundreds that his bounty fed As he in prison--ill-entreated, bound, Starved of sweet light, and set to shameful tasks; And that great load at heart to know the days Fast flying, and to live accounted dead. One joy his gaolers left him,--his good hawk; The brave, gay bird that crossed the seas with him: And often, in the mindful hour of eve, With tameless eye and spirit masterful, In a feigned anger checking at his hand, The good gray falcon made his master cheer.

One day it chanced Saladin rode afield With shawled and turbaned Amirs, and his hawks-- Lebanon-bred, and mewed as princes lodge-- Flew foul, forgot their feather, hung at wrist, And slighted call. The Soldan, quick in wrath, Bade slay the cravens, scourge the falconer, And seek some wight who knew the heart of hawks, To keep it hot and true. Then spake a Sheikh-- "There is a Frank in prison by the sea, Far-seen herein." "Give word that he be brought," Quoth Saladin, "and bid him set a cast: If he hath skill, it shall go well for him."

Thus by the winding path of circumstance One palace held, as prisoner and prince, Torello and his guest: unwitting each, Nay and unwitting, though they met and spake Of that goshawk and this--signors in serge, And chapmen crowned, who knows?--till on a time Some trick of face, the manner of some smile, Some gleam of sunset from the glad day gone, Caught the king's eye, and held it. "Nazarene! What native art thou?" asked he. "Lombard I, A man of Pavia." "And thy name?" "Torel, Messer Torello called in happier times, Now best uncalled." "Come hither, Christian!" The Soldan said, and led the way, by court And hall and fountain, to an inner room Rich with king's robes: therefrom he reached a gown, And "Know'st thou this?" he asked. "High lord! I might Elsewhere," quoth Torel, "here 'twere mad to say Yon gown my wife unto a trader gave Who shared our board." "Nay, but that gown is this, And she the giver, and the trader I," Quoth Saladin; "I! twice a king to-day, Owing a royal debt and paying it." Then Torel, sore amazed, "Great lord, I blush, Remembering how the Master of the East Lodged sorrily." "It's Master's Master thou!" Gave answer Saladin, "come in and see What wares the Cyprus traders keep at home; Come forth and take thy place, Saladin's friend," Therewith into the circle of his lords, With gracious mien the Soldan led his slave; And while the dark eyes glittered, seated him First of the full divan. "Orient lords," So spake he,--"let the one who loves his king Honour this Frank, whose house sheltered your king; He is my brother:" then the night-black beards Swept the stone floor in ready reverence, Agas and Amirs welcoming Torel: And a great feast was set, the Soldan's friend Royally garbed, upon the Soldan's hand, Shining the bright star of the banqueters.

* * * * *

All which, and the abounding grace and love Shown him by Saladin, a little held The heart of Torel from its Lombard home With Dame Adalieta: but it chanced He sat beside the king in audience, And there came one who said, "Oh, Lord of lords, That galley of the Genovese which sailed With Frankish prisoners is gone down at sea." "Gone down!" cried Torel. "Ay! what recks it, friend, To fall thy visage for?" quoth Saladin; "One galley less to ship-stuffed Genoa!" "Good my liege!" Torel said, "it bore a scroll Inscribed to Pavia, saying that I lived; For in a year, a month, and day, not come, I bade them hold me dead; and dead I am, Albeit living, if my lady wed, Perchance constrained." "Certes," spake Saladin, "A noble dame--the like not won, once lost-- How many days remain?" "Ten days, my prince, And twelvescore leagues between my heart and me: Alas! how to be passed?" Then Saladin-- "Lo! I am loath to lose thee--wilt thou swear To come again if all go well with thee, Or come ill speeding?" "Yea, I swear, my king, Out of true love," quoth Torel, "heartfully." Then Saladin, "Take here my signet-seal; My admiral will loose his swiftest sail Upon its sight; and cleave the seas, and go And clip thy dame, and say the Trader sends A gift, remindful of her courtesies." Passed were the year, and month, and day; and passed Out of all hearts but one Sir Torel's name, Long given for dead by ransomed Pavians: For Pavia, thoughtless of her Eastern graves, A lovely widow, much too gay for grief, Made peals from half a hundred campaniles To ring a wedding in. The seven bells Of Santo Pietro, from the nones to noon, Boomed with bronze throats the happy tidings out; Till the great tenor, overswelled with sound, Cracked itself dumb. Thereat the sacristan, Leading his swinkèd ringers down the stairs, Came blinking into sunlight--all his keys Jingling their little peal about his belt-- Whom, as he tarried, locking up the porch, A foreign signor, browned with southern suns, Turbaned and slippered, as the Muslims use, Plucked by the cope. "Friend," quoth he--'twas a tongue Italian true, but in a Muslim mouth-- "Why are your belfries busy--is it peace Or victory, that so ye din the ears Of Pavian lieges?" "Truly, no liege thou!" Grunted the sacristan, "who knowest not That Dame Adalieta weds to-night Her fore-betrothed,--Sir Torel's widow she, That died i' the chain?" "To-night!" the stranger said "Ay, sir, to-night!--why not to-night?--to-night! And you shall see a goodly Christian feast If so you pass their gates at even-song, For all are asked." No more the questioner, But folded o'er his face the Eastern hood, Lest idle eyes should mark how idle words Had struck him home. "So quite forgot!--so soon!-- And this the square wherein I gave the joust, And that the loggia, where I fed the poor; And yon my palace, where--oh, fair! oh, false!-- They robe her for a bridal. Can it be? Clean out of heart, with twice six flying moons, The heart that beat on mine as it would break, That faltered forty oaths. Forced! forced!--not false-- Well! I will sit, wife, at thy wedding-feast, And let mine eyes give my fond faith the lie." So in the stream of gallant guests that flowed Feastward at eve, went Torel; passed with them The outer gates, crossed the great courts with them, A stranger in the walls that called him lord. Cressets and coloured lamps made the way bright, And rose-leaves strewed to where within the doors The master of the feast, the bridegroom, stood, A-glitter from his forehead to his foot, Speaking fair welcomes. He, a courtly lord, Marking the Eastern guest, bespoke him sweet, Prayed place for him, and bade them set his seat Upon the dais. Then the feast began, And wine went free as wit, and music died-- Outdone by merrier laughter.--only one Nor ate nor drank, nor spoke nor smiled; but gazed On the pale bride, pale as her crown of pearls, Who sate so cold and still, and sad of cheer, At the bride-feast. But of a truth, Torel Read the thoughts right that held her eyelids down, And knew her loyal to her memories. Then to a little page who bore the wine, He spake, "Go tell thy lady thus from me: In mine own land, if any stranger sit A wedding-guest, the bride, out of her grace, In token that she knows her guest's good-will, In token she repays it, brims a cup, Wherefrom he drinking she in turn doth drink; So is our use." The little page made speed And told the message. Then that lady pale-- Ever a gentle and a courteous heart-- Lifted her troubled eyes and smiled consent On the swart stranger. By her side, untouched, Stood the brimmed gold; "Bear this," she said, "and pray He hold a Christian lady apt to learn A kindly lesson." But Sir Torel loosed From off his finger--never loosed before-- The ring she gave him on the parting day; And ere he drank, behind his veil of beard Dropped in the cup the ruby, quaffed, and sent.-- Then she, with sad smile, set her lips to drink, And--something in the Cyprus touching them, Glanced--gazed--the ring!--her ring!--Jove! how she eyes The wistful eyes of Torel!--how, heartsure, Under all guise knowing her lord returned, She springs to meet him coming!--telling all In one great cry of joy. O me! the rout, The storm of questions! stilled, when Torel spake His name, and, known of all, claimed the Bride Wife, Maugre the wasted feast, and woful groom. All hearts but his were light to see Torel; But Adalieta's lightest, as she plucked The bridal-veil away. Something therein-- A lady's dagger--small, and bright, and fine-- Clashed out upon the marble. "Wherefore that?" Asked Torel; answered she, "I knew you true; And I could live, so long as I might wait; But they--they pressed me hard! my days of grace Ended to-night--and I had ended too, Faithful to death, if so thou hadst not come."

_THE CALIPH'S DRAUGHT_.

Upon a day in Ramadan-- When sunset brought an end of fast, And in his station every man Prepared to share the glad repast-- Sate Mohtasim in royal state, The pillaw smoked upon the gold; The fairest slave of those that wait Mohtasim's jewelled cup did hold.

Of crystal carven was the cup, With turquoise set along the brim, A lid of amber closed it up; 'Twas a great king that gave it him. The slave poured sherbet to the brink, Stirred in wild honey and pomegranate, With snow and rose-leaves cooled the drink, And bore it where the Caliph sate.

The Caliph's mouth was dry as bone, He swept his beard aside to quaff:-- The news-reader beneath the throne, Went droning on with _ghain_ and _kaf_.-- The Caliph drew a mighty breath, Just then the reader read a word-- And Mohtasim, as grim as death, Set down the cup and snatched his sword.

"_Ann' amratan shureefatee!_" "Speak clear!" cries angry Mohtasim; "_Fe lasr ind' ilj min ulji_,"-- Trembling the newsman read to him How in Ammoria, far from home, An Arab girl of noble race Was captive to a lord of Roum; And how he smote her on the face,

And how she cried, for life afraid, "Ya, Mohtasim! help, O my king!" And how the Kafir mocked the maid, And laughed, and spake a bitter thing, "Call louder, fool! Mohtasim's ears Are long as Barak's--if he heed-- Your prophet's ass; and when he hears, He'll come upon a spotted steed!"

The Caliph's face was stern and red, He snapped the lid upon the cup; "Keep this same sherbet, slave," he said, "Till such time as I drink it up. Wallah! the stream my drink shall be, My hollowed palm my only bowl, Till I have set that lady free, And seen that Roumi dog's head roll."

At dawn the drums of war were beat, Proclaiming, "Thus saith Mohtasim, 'Let all my valiant horsemen meet, And every soldier bring with him A spotted steed,'" So rode they forth, A sight of marvel and of fear; Pied horses prancing fiercely north; The crystal cup borne in the rear!

When to Ammoria he did win, He smote and drove the dogs of Roum, And rode his spotted stallion in, Crying, "_Labbayki!_ I am come!" Then downward from her prison-place Joyful the Arab lady crept; She held her hair before her face, She kissed his feet, she laughed and wept.

She pointed where that lord was laid: They drew him forth, he whined for grace: Then with fierce eyes Mohtasim said-- "She whom thou smotest on the face Had scorn, because she called her king: Lo! he is come! and dost thou think To live, who didst this bitter thing While Mohtasim at peace did drink?"

Flashed the fierce sword--rolled the lord's head; The wicked blood smoked in the sand. "Now bring my cup!" the Caliph said. Lightly he took it in his hand, As down his throat the sweet drink ran Mohtasim in his saddle laughed, And cried, "_Taiba asshrab alan!_ By God! delicious is this draught!"

_HINDOO FUNERAL SONG_.

Call on Rama! call to Rama! Oh, my brothers, call on Rama! For this Dead Whom we bring, Call aloud to mighty Rama.

As we bear him, oh, my brothers, Call together, very loudly, That the Bhûts May be scared; That his spirit pass in comfort.

Turn his feet now, calling "Rama," Calling "Rama," who shall take him When the flames Make an end: Ram! Ram!--oh, call to Rama.

_SONG OF THE SERPENT-CHARMERS._

Come forth, oh, Snake! come forth, oh, glittering Snake! Oh shining, lovely, deadly Nâg! appear, Dance to the music that we make, This serpent-song, so sweet and clear, Blown on the beaded gourd, so clear, So soft and clear.

Oh, dread Lord Snake! come forth and spread thy hood, And drink the milk and suck the eggs; and show Thy tongue; and own the tune is good: Hear, Maharaj! how hard we blow! Ah, Maharaj! for thee we blow; See how we blow!

Great Uncle Snake! creep forth and dance to-day! This music is the music snakes love best; Taste the warm white new milk, and play Standing erect, with fangs at rest, Dancing on end, sharp fangs at rest, Fierce fangs at rest.

Ah, wise Lord Nâg! thou comest!--Fear thou not! We make salaam to thee, the Serpent-King, Draw forth thy folds, knot after knot; Dance, Master! while we softly sing; Dance, Serpent! while we play and sing, We play and sing.

Dance, dreadful King! whose kisses strike men dead; Dance this side, mighty Snake! the milk is here!

[_They seize the Cobra by the neck_.]

Ah, _shabash_! pin his angry head! Thou fool! this nautch shall cost thee dear; Wrench forth his fangs! this piping clear, It costs thee dear!

_SONG OF THE FLOUR-MILL._

Turn the merry mill-stone, Gunga! Pour the golden grain in; Those that twist the Churrak fastest The cakes soonest win: Good stones, turn! The fire begins to burn; Gunga, stay not! The hearth is nearly hot. Grind the hard gold to silver; Sing quick to the stone; Feed its mouth with dal and bajri, It will feed us anon.

Sing, Gunga! to the mill-stone, It helps the wheel hum; Blithesome hearts and willing elbows Make the fine meal come: Handsful three For you and for me; Now it falls white, Good stones, bite! Drive it round and round, my Gunga! Sing soft to the stone; Better corn and churrak-working Than idleness and none.

_TAZA BA TAZA_

Akbar sate high in the ivory hall, His chief musician he bade them call; Sing, said the king, that song of glee. _Taza ba taza, now ba now._ Sing me that music sweet and free, _Taza ba taza, now ba now_; Here by the fountain sing it thou, _Taza ba taza, now ba now._

Bending full low, his minstrel took The Vina down from its painted nook. Swept the strings of silver so _Taza ba taza, now ba now;_ Made the gladsome Vina go _Taza ba taza, now ba now;_ Sang with light strains and brightsome brow _Taza ba taza, now ba now_.

"What is the lay for love most fit? What is the melody echoes it? Ever in tune and ever meet, _Taza ba taza, now ba now;_ Ever delightful and ever sweet _Taza ba taza, now ba now;_ Soft as the murmur of love's first vow, _Taza ba taza, now ba now_."

"What is the bliss that is best on earth? Lovers' light whispers and tender mirth; Bright gleams the sun on the Green Sea's isle, But a brighter light has a woman's smile: Ever, like sunrise, fresh of hue, _Taza ba taza, now ba now_; Ever, like sunset, splendid and new, _Taza ba taza, now ba now_."

"Thereunto groweth the graceful vine To cool the lips of lovers with wine, Haste thee and bring the amethyst cup, That happy lovers may drink it up; And so renew their gentle play, _Taza ba taza, now ba now_; Ever delicious and new alway, _Taza ba taza, now ba now_."

"Thereunto sigheth the evening gale To freshen the cheeks which love made pale; This is why bloometh the scented flower, To gladden with grace love's secret bower: Love is the zephyr that always blows, _Taza ba taza, now ba now_; Love is the rose-bloom that ever glows, _Taza ba taza, now ba now_."

Akbar, the mighty one, smiled to hear The musical strain so soft and clear; Danced the diamonds over his brow To _taza ba taza, now ba now_: His lovely ladies rocked in a row To _taza ba taza, now ba now_;

Livelier sparkled the fountain's flow, _Boose sittan ba kaum uzo_; Swifter and sweeter the strings did go, _Mutrib i khoosh nuwa bejo_; Never such singing was heard, I trow; _Taza ba taza, now ba now_.

_THE MUSSULMAN PARADISE_.

(_From the Arabic of the Fifty-sixth Súrat of the Koran, entitled "The Inevitable._")

When the Day of Wrath and Mercy cometh, none shall doubt it come; Unto hell some it shall lower, and exalt to heaven some.

When the Earth with great shocks shaketh, and the mountains crumble flat, Quick and Dead shall be divided fourfold:--on this side and that.

The "Companions of the Right Hand" (ah! how joyful they will be!) The "Companions of the Left Hand" (oh! what misery to see!)

Such, moreover, as of old times loved the truth, and taught it well, First in faith, they shall be foremost in reward. The rest to hell.

But those souls attaining Allah, oh! the Gardens of good cheer Kept to bless them! Yea, besides the "faithful," many shall be there.

Lightly lying on soft couches, beautiful with 'broidered gold, Friends with friends, they shall be served by youths immortal, who shall hold.

"_Akwâb, abareek_"--cups and goblets, brimming with celestial wine, Wine that hurts not head or stomach: this and fruits of heav'n which shine.

Bright, desirable; and rich flesh of what birds they relish best. Yea! and--feasted--there shall soothe them damsels fairest, stateliest;

Damsels, having eyes of wonder, large black eyes, like hidden pearls, "_Lulu-l-maknûn_": Allah grants them for sweet love those matchless girls.

Never in that Garden hear they speech of folly, sin, or dread, Only PEACE; "_SALAMUN_" only; that one word for ever said.

PEACE! PEACE! PEACE!--and the "Companions of the Right Hand" (ah! those bowers!) They shall lodge 'mid thornless lote-groves; under mawz-trees thick with flowers;

Shaded, fed, by flowing waters; near to fruits that never cloy, Hanging ever ripe for plucking; and at hand the tender joy,

Of those Maids of Heaven--the Hûris. Lo! to these we gave a birth Specially creating. Lo! they are not as the wives of earth.

Ever virginal and stainless, howsooften they embrace, Always young, and loved, and loving, these are. Neither is there grace,

Like the grace and bliss the Black-eyed keep for you in Paradise; Oh, "Companions of the Right Hand"! oh! ye others who were wise!

_DEDICATION OF A POEM FROM THE SANSKRIT_.

Sweet, on the daisies of your English grave I lay this little wreath of Indian flowers, Fragrant for me because the scent they have Breathes of the memory of our wedded hours;

For others scentless; and for you, in heaven, Too pale and faded, dear dead wife! to wear, Save that they mean--what makes all fault forgiven-- That he who brings them lays his heart, too, there.

_April_ 9, 1865.

_THE RAJAH'S RIDE_.

A PUNJAB SONG.

Now is the Devil-horse come to Sindh! Wah! wah! gooroo!--that is true! His belly is stuffed with the fire and the wind, But a fleeter steed had Runjeet Dehu!

It's forty koss from Lahore to the ford, Forty and more to far Jummoo; Fast may go the Feringhee lord, But never so fast as Runjeet Dehu!

Runjeet Dehu was King of the Hill, Lord and eagle of every crest; Now the swords and the spears are still, God will have it--and God knows best!