Chapter 1

Last Poems Translations from the Book of Indian Love

Laurence Hope [Adela Florence Cory “Violet” Nicolson]

Dedication to Malcolm Nicolson

I, who of lighter love wrote many a verse, Made public never words inspired by thee, Lest strangers’ lips should carelessly rehearse Things that were sacred and too dear to me.

Thy soul was noble; through these fifteen years Mine eyes familiar, found no fleck nor flaw, Stern to thyself, thy comrades’ faults and fears Proved generously thine only law.

Small joy was I to thee; before we met Sorrow had left thee all too sad to save. Useless my love--as vain as this regret That pours my hopeless life across thy grave.

L. H.

The Masters

Oh, Masters, you who rule the world, Will you not wait with me awhile, When swords are sheathed and sails are furled, And all the fields with harvest smile? I would not waste your time for long, I ask you but, when you are tired, To read how by the weak, the strong Are weighed and worshipped and desired.

When weary of the Mart, the Loom, The Withering-house, the Riffle-blocks, The Barrack-square, the Engine-room, The pick-axe, ringing on the rocks,-- When tents are pitched and work is done, While restful twilight broods above, By fresh-lit lamp, or dying sun, See in my songs how women love.

We shared your lonely watch by night, We knew you faithful at the helm, Our thoughts went with you through the fight, That saved a soul,--or wrecked a realm Ah, how our hearts leapt forth to you, In pride and joy, when you prevailed, And when you died, serene and true: --We wept in silence when you failed!

Oh, brain that did not gain the gold! Oh, arm, that could not wield the sword, Here is the love, that is not sold, Here are the hearts to hail you Lord!

You played and lost the game? What then? The rules are harsh and hard we know, You, still, Oh, brothers, are the men Whom we in secret reverence so. Your work was waste? Maybe your share Lay in the hour you laughed and kissed; Who knows but what your son shall wear The laurels that his father missed?

Ay, you who win, and you who lose, Whether you triumph,--or despair,-- When your returning footsteps choose The homeward track, our love is there. For, since the world is ordered thus, To you the fame, the stress, the sword, We can but wait, until to us You give yourselves, for our reward.

To Whaler’s deck and Coral beach, To lonely Ranch and Frontier-Fort, Beyond the narrow bounds of speech I lay the cable of my thought. I fain would send my thanks to you, (Though who am I, to give you praise?) Since what you are, and work you do, Are lessons for our easier ways.

’Neath alien stars your camp-fires glow, I know you not,--your tents are far. My hope is but in song to show, How honoured and dear you are.

I Shall Forget

Although my life, which thou hast scarred and shaken, Retains awhile some influence of thee, As shells, by faithless waves long since forsaken, Still murmur with the music of the Sea,

I shall forget. Not thine the haunting beauty, Which, once beheld, for ever holds the heart, Or, if resigned from stress of Fate or Duty, Takes part of life away:--the dearer part.

I gave thee love; thou gavest but Desire. Ah, the delusion of that summer night! Thy soul vibrated at the rate of Fire; Mine, with the rhythm of the waves of Light.

It is my love for thee that I regret, Not thee, thyself, and hence,--I shall forget!

The Lament of Yasmini, the Dancing-Girl

Ah, what hast thou done with that Lover of mine? The Lover who only cared for thee? Mine for a handful of nights, and thine For the Nights that Are and the Days to Be, The scent of the Champa lost its sweet-- So sweet is was in the Times that Were!-- Since His alone, of the numerous feet That climb my steps, have returned not there. Ahi, Yasmini, return not there!

Art thou yet athrill at the touch of His hand, Art thou still athirst for His waving hair? Nay, passion thou never couldst understand, Life’s heights and depths thou wouldst never dare. The Great Things left thee untouched, unmoved, The Lesser Things had thy constant care. Ah, what hast thou done with the Lover I loved, Who found me wanting, and thee so fair? Ahi, Yasmini, He found her fair!

Nay, nay, the greatest of all was thine; The love of the One whom I craved for so, But much I doubt if thou couldst divine The Grace and Glory of Love, or know The worth of the One whom thine arms embraced. I may misjudge thee, but who can tell? So hard it is, for the one displaced, To weigh the worth of a rival’s spell. Ahi, Yasmini, thy rival’s spell!

And Thou, whom I loved: have the seasons brought That fair content, which allured Thee so? Is it all that Thy delicate fancy wrought? Yasmini wonders; she may not know. Yet never the Stars desert the sky, To fade away in the desolate Dawn, But Yasmini watches their glory die, And mourns for her own Bright Star withdrawn. Ahi, Yasmini, the lonely dawn!

Ah, never the lingering gold dies down In a sunset flare of resplendent light, And never the palm-tree’s feathery crown Uprears itself to the shadowy night, But Yasmini thinks of those evenings past, When she prayed the glow of the glimmering West To vanish quickly, that night, at last, Might bring Thee back to her waiting breast. Ahi, Yasmini, how sweet that rest!

Yet I would not say that I always weep; The force, that made such a desperate thing Of my love for Thee, has not fallen asleep, The blood still leaps, and the senses sing, While other passion has oft availed. (Other Love--Ah, my One, forgive!--) To aid, when Churus and Opium failed;-- I could not suffer so much and live. Ahi, Yasmini, who had to live!

Nay, why should I say “Forgive” to Thee? To whom my lovers and I are naught, Who granted some passionate nights to me, Then rose and left me with never a thought! And yet, Ah, yet, for those Nights that Were, Thy passive limbs and thy loose loved hair, I would pay, as I _have_ paid, all these days, With the love that kills and the thought that slays. Ahi, Yasmini, thy youth it slays!

The youthful widow, with shaven hair, Whose senses ache for the love of a man, The young Priest, knowing that women are fair, Who stems his longing as best he can, These suffer not as I suffer for Thee; For the Soul desires what the senses crave, There will never be pleasure or peace for me, Since He who wounded, alone could save. Ahi, Yasmini, He will not save!

The torchlight flares, and the lovers lean Towards Yasmini, with yearning eyes, Who dances, wondering what they mean, And gives cold kisses, and scant replies. They talk of Love, she withholds the name,-- (Love came to her as a Flame of Fire!) From things that are only a weary shame; Trivial Vanity;--light Desire. Ahi, Yasmini, the light Desire!

Yasmini bends to the praise of men, And looks in the mirror, upon her hand,[1] To curse the beauty that failed her then-- Ah, none of her lovers can understand! How her whole life hung on that beauty’s power, The spell that waned at the final test, The charm that paled in the vital hour,-- Which won so many,--yet lost the best! Ahi, Yasmini, who lost the best!

She leaves the dancing to reach the roof, With the lover who claims the passing hour, Her lips are his, but her eyes aloof While the starlight falls in a silver shower. Let him take what pleasure, what love, he may, He, too, will suffer e’er life be spent,-- But Yasmini’s soul has wandered away To join the Lover, who came,--and went! Ahi, Yasmini, He came,--and went!

[1] Indian women wear a small mirror in a ring on their thumbs.

Among the Rice Fields

She was fair as a Passion-flower, (But little of love he knew.) Her lucent eyes were like amber wine, And her eyelids stained with blue.

He called them the Gates of Fair Desire, And the Lakes where Beauty lay, But I looked into them once, and saw The eyes of Beasts of Prey.

He praised her teeth, that were small and white As lilies upon his lawn, While I remembered a tiger’s fangs That met in a speckled fawn.

She had her way; a lover the more, And I had a friend the less. For long there was nothing to do but wait And suffer his happiness.

But now I shall choose the sharpest Kriss And nestle it in her breast, For dead, he is drifting down to sea, And his own hand wrought his rest

The Bride

Beat on the Tom-toms, and scatter the flowers, Jasmin, Hibiscus, vermillion and white, This is the day, and the Hour of Hours, Bring forth the Bride for her Lover’s delight. Maidens no more, as a maiden shall claim her, Near, in his Mystery, draweth Desire. Who, if she waver a moment, shall blame her? She is a flower, and love is a fire. Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!

Give her the anklets, the rings and the necklace, Darken her eyelids with delicate Art, Heighten the beauty, so youthful and fleckless, By the Gods favoured, oh, Bridegroom thou art! Twine in thy fingers her fingers so slender, Circle together the Mystical Fire, Bridegroom,--a whisper--be gentle and tender, Choti Tinchaurya knows not desire. Abhi Tinchaurya syani hogayi!

Bring forth the silks and the veil that shall cover Beauty, till yesterday, careless and wild, Red are her lips for the kiss of a lover, Ripe are her breasts for the lips of a child. Centre and Shrine of Mysterious Power, Chalice of Pleasure and Rose of Delight, Shyly aware of the swift-coming hour, Waiting the shade and the silence of night, Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!

Still must the Bridegroom his longing dissemble, Longing to loosen the silk-woven cord, Ah, how his fingers will flutter and tremble, Fingers well skilled with the bridle and sword. Thine is his valor oh, Bride, and his beauty, Thine to possess and re-issue again, Such is thy tender and passionate duty, Licit thy pleasure and honoured thy pain. Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!

Choti Tinchaurya, lovely and tender, Still all unbroken to sorrow and strife. Come to the Bridegroom who, silk-clad and slender, Brings thee the Honour and Burden of Life. Bidding farewell to thy light-hearted playtime, Worship thy Lover with fear and delight, Art thou not ever, though slave of his daytime, Choti Tinchaurya, queen of his night? Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!

Unanswered

Something compels me, somewhere. Yet I see No clear command in Life’s long mystery.

Oft have I flung myself beside my horse, To drink the water from the roadside mire, And felt the liquid through my being course, Stilling the anguish of my thirst’s desire.

A simple want; so easily allayed; After the burning march; water and shade.

Also I lay against the loved one’s heart Finding fulfilment in that resting-place, Feeling my longing, quenched, was but a part Of nature’s ceaseless striving for the race.

But now, I know not what they would with me; Matter or Force or God, if Gods there be.

I wait; I question; Nature heeds me not. She does but urge in answer to my prayer, “Arise and do!” Alas, she adds not what; “Arise and go!” Alas, she says not where!

The Net of Memory

I cast the Net of Memory, Man’s torment and delight, Over the level Sands of Youth That lay serenely bright, Their tranquil gold at times submerged In the Spring Tides of Love’s Delight.

The Net brought up, in silver gleams, Forgotten truth and fancies fair: Like opal shells, small happy facts Within the Net entangled were With the red coral of his lips, The waving seaweed of his hair.

We were so young; he was so fair.

The Cactus Thicket

“The Atlas summits were veiled in purple gloom, But a golden moon above rose clear and free. The cactus thicket was ruddy with scarlet bloom Where, through the silent shadow, he came to me.”

“All my sixteen summers were but for this, That He should pass, and, pausing, find me fair. You Stars! bear golden witness! My lips were his; I would not live till others have fastened there.”

“Oh take me, Death, ere ever the charm shall fade, Ah, close these eyes, ere ever the dream grow dim. I welcome thee with rapture, and unafraid, Even as yesternight I welcomed Him.”

“Not now, Impatient one; it well may be That ten moons hence I shall return for thee.”

Song of the Peri

Beauty, the Gift of Gifts, I give to thee. Pleasure and love shall spring around thy feet As through the lake the lotuses arise Pinkly transparent and divinely sweet.

I give thee eyes aglow like morning stars, Delicate brows, a mist of sable tresses, That all the journey of thy lie may be Lit up by love and softened by caresses.

For those who once were proud and softly bred Shall, kneeling, wait thee as thou passest by, They who were pure shall stretch forth eager hands Crying, “Thy pity, Lord, before we die!”

And one shall murmur, “If the sun at dawn Shall open and caress a happy flower, What blame to him, although the blossom fade In the full splendour of his noontide power?”

And one, “If aloes close together grow It well may chance a plant shall wounded be, Pierced by the thorntips of another’s leaves, Thus am I hurt unconsciously by thee.”

For some shall die and many more shall sin, Suffering for thy sake till seven times seven, Because of those most perfect lips of thine Which held the power to make or mar their heaven.

And though thou givest back but cruelty, Their love, persistent, shall not heed nor care, All those whose ears are fed with blame of thee Shall say, “It may be so, but he was fair.”

Ay, those who lost the whole of youth for thee, Made early and for ever, shamed and sad, Shall sigh, re-living some sweet memory, “Ah, once it was his will to make me glad.”

Thy nights shall be as bright as summer days, The sequence of thy sins shall seem as duty, Since I have given thee, Oh, Gift of Gifts!-- The pale perfection of unrivalled beauty.

Though in my Firmament thou wilt not shine

Talk not, my Lord, of unrequited love, Since love requites itself most royally. Do we not live but by the sun above, And takes he any heed of thee or me?

Though in my firmament thou wilt not shine, Thy glory, as a Star, is none the less. Oh, Rose, though all unplucked by hand of mine, Still am I debtor to thy loveliness.

The Convert

The sun was hot on the tamarind trees, Their shadows shrivelled and shrank. No coolness came on the off-shore breeze That rattled the scrub on the bank. She stretched her appealing arms to me, Uplifting the Flagon of Love to me, Till--great indeed was my unslaked thirst-- I paused, I stooped, and I drank!

I went with my foe to the edge of the crater,-- But no one to return, we knew,-- The lava’s heat had never been greater Than the ire between us two. He flung back his head and he mocked at me, He spat unspeakable words at me, Our eyes met, and our knives met, I saw red, and I slew!

Such were my deeds when my youth was hot, And force was new to my hand, With many more that I tell thee not, Well known in my native land. These show thy Christ when thou prayest to Him, He too was a man thou sayest of Him, Therefore He, when I reach His feet, Will remember, and understand.

Ashore

Out I came from the dancing-place: The night-wind met me face to face--

A wind off the harbour, cold and keen, “I know,” it whistled, “where thou hast been.”

A faint voice fell from the stars above-- “Thou? whom we lighted to shrines of Love!”

I found when I reached my lonely room A faint sweet scent in the unlit gloom.

And this was the worst of all to bear, For someone had left while lilac there.

The flower you loved, in times that were.

Yasin Khan

Ay, thou has found thy kingdom, Yasin Khan, Thy fathers’ pomp and power are thine, at last. No more the rugged roads of Khorasan, The scanty food and tentage of the past!

Wouldst thou make war? thy followers know no fear. Where shouldst thou lead them but to victory? Wouldst thou have love? thy soft-eyed slaves draw near, Eager to drain thy strength away from thee.

My thoughts drag backwards to forgotten days, To scenes etched deeply on my heart by pain; The thirsty marches, ambuscades, and frays, The hostile hills, the burnt and barren plain.

Hast thou forgotten how one night was spent, Crouched in a camel’s carcase by the road, Along which Akbar’s soldiers, scouting, went, And he himself, all unsuspecting, rode?

Did we not waken one despairing dawn, Attacked in front, cut off in rear, by snow, Till, like a tiger leaping on a fawn, Half of the hill crashed down upon the foe?

Once, as thou mournd’st thy lifeless brother’s fate, The red tears falling from thy shattered wrist, A spent Waziri, forceful still, in hate, Covered they heart, ten paces off,--and missed!

Ahi, men thrust a worn and dinted sword Into a velvet-scabbarded repose; The gilded pageants that salute thee Lord Cover _one_ sorrow-rusted heart, God knows.

Ah, to exchange this wealth of idle days For one cold reckless night of Khorasan! To crouch once more before the camp-fire blaze That lit the lonely eyes of Yasin Khan.

To watch the starlight glitter on the snows, The plain stretched round us like a waveless sea, Waiting until thy weary lids should close To slip my furs and spread them over thee.

How the wind howled about the lonely pass, While the faint snow-shine of that plateaued space Lit, where it lay upon the frozen grass, The mournful, tragic beauty of thy face.

Thou hast enough caressed the scented hair Of these soft-breasted girls who waste thee so. Hast thou not sons for every adult year? Let us arise, O Yasin Khan, and go!

Let us escape from these prison bars To gain the freedom of an open sky, Thy soul and mine, alone beneath the stars, Intriguing danger, as in days gone by.

Nay; there is no returning, Yasin Khan. The white peaks ward the passes, as of yore, The wind sweeps o’er the wastes of Khorasan;-- But thou and I go thitherward no more.

Close, ah, too close, the bitter knowledge clings, We may not follow where my fancies yearn. The years go hence, and wild and lovely things, _Their own_, go with them, never to return.

Khristna and His Flute

(Translation by Moolchand)

Be still, my heart, and listen, For sweet and yet acute I hear the wistful music Of Khristna and his flute. Across the cool, blue evenings, Throughout the burning days, Persuasive and beguiling, He plays and plays and plays.

Ah, none may hear such music Resistant to its charms, The household work grows weary, And cold the husband’s arms. I must arise and follow, To seek, in vain pursuit, The blueness and the distance, The sweetness of that flute!

In linked and liquid sequence, The plaintive notes dissolve Divinely tender secrets That none but he can solve. Oh, Khristna, I am coming, I can no more delay. “My heart has flown to join thee,” How can my footsteps stay?

Beloved, such thoughts have peril; The wish is in my mind That I had fired the jungle, And left no leaf behind,-- Burnt all bamboos to ashes, And made their music mute,-- To save thee from the magic Of Khristna and his flute.

Song of Jasoda

Had I been young I could have claimed to fold thee For many days against my eager breast; But, as things are, how can I hope to hold thee Once thou hast wakened from this fleeting rest?

Clear shone the moonlight, so that thou couldst find me, Yet not so clear that thou couldst see my face, Where in the shadow of the palms behind me I waited for thy steps, for thy embrace.

What reck I now my morning life was lonely? For widowed feet the ways are always rough. Though thou hast come to me at sunset only, Still thou hast come, my Lord, it is enough.

Ah, mine no more the glow of dawning beauty, The fragrance and the dainty gloss of youth, Worn by long years of solitude and duty, I have no bloom to offer thee in truth.

Yet, since these eyes of mine have never wandered, Still may they gleam with long forgotten light. Since in no wanton way my youth was squandered, Some sense of youth still clings to me to-night.

_Thy_ lips are fresh as dew on budding roses, The gold of dawn still lingers in thy hair, While the abandonment of sleep discloses How every attitude of youth is fair.

Thou art so pale, I hardly dare caress thee, Too brown my fingers show against the white. Ahi, the glory, that I should possess thee, Ahi, the grief, but for a single night!

The tulip tree has pallid golden flowers That grow more rosy as their petals fade; Such is the splendour of my evening hours Whose time of youth was wasted in the shade.

I shall not wait to see to-morrow’s morning, Too bright the golden dawn for me,--too bright,-- How could I bear thine eyes’ unconscious scorning Of what so pleased thee in the dimmer light?

It may be wine had brought some brief illusion, Filling thy brain with rainbow fantasy, Or youth, with moonlight, making sweet collusion, Threw an alluring glamour over me

Therefore I leave thee softly, to awaken When the first sun rays warm thy blue-veined breast, Smiling and all unknowing I have taken The poppied drink that brings me endless rest.

Thus would I have thee rise; thy fancy laden With the vague sweetness of the bygone night, Thinking of me as some consenting maiden, Whose beauty blossomed first for thy delight.

While I, if any kindly visions hover Around the silence of my last repose, Shall dream of thee, my pale and radiant lover, Who made my life so lovely at its close!

Song of Ramesram Temple Girl

Now is the season of my youth, Not thus shall I always be, Listen, dear Lord, thou too art young, Take thy pleasure with me. My hair is straight as the falling rain, And fine as morning mist, I am a rose awaiting thee That none have touched or kissed.

Do as thou wilt with mine and me, Beloved, I only pray, Follow the promptings of thy youth. Let there be no delay!

A leaf that flutters upon the bough, A moment, and it is gone,-- A bubble amid the fountain spray,-- Ah, pause, and think thereon; For such is youth and its passing bloom That wait for thee this hour, If aught in thy heart incline to me Ah, stoop and pluck thy flower!

Come, my Lord, to the temple shade, Where cooling fountains play, If aught in thy heart incline to love Let there be no delay!

Many shall faint with love of me And I shall slake their thirst, But Fate has brought thee hither to-day That thou shouldst be the first. Old, so old are the temple-walls, Love is older than they; But I am the short-lived temple rose, Blooming for thee to-day.

Thine am I, Prince, and only thine, What is there more so say? If aught in thy heart incline to love Let there be no delay!

The Rao of Ilore