Chapter 2

I was sold to the Rao of Ilore, Slender and tall was he. When his litter carried him down the street I peeped through the thatch to see. Ah, the eyes of the Rao of Ilore, My lover that was to be!

The hair that lay on his youthful brow Was curled like an ocean wave; His eyes were lit with a tender smile, But his lips were soft and grave. For sake of these things I was still with joy When the silver coins were paid, And they took me up to the Palace gates, Delighted and unafraid. Ah, the eyes of the Rao of Ilore, May never their brilliance fade!

So near was I to the crown of life! Ten thousand times, alas! The Diwan leant from the latticed hall, Looked down and saw me pass. He begged for me from the Rao of Ilore, Who answered, “She is thine, Thou wert ever more than a father to me, And thy desires are mine.” Ah, the eyes of the Rao of Ilore That never had looked in mine!

My years were spent in the Diwan’s Courts, My youth died down that day. For sake of thine own content of mind My lost beloved, I pray That never my Lord a love may know Like that he threw away. Ah, the eyes of the Rao of Ilore, Who threw my life away!

To M. C. N.

Thou hast no wealth, nor any pride of power, Thy life is offered on affection’s altar. Small sacrifices claim thee, hour by hour, Yet on the tedious path thou dost not falter.

To the unknowing, well thy days might seem Circled by solitude and tireless duty, Yet is thy soul made radiant by a dream Of delicate and rainbow-coloured beauty.

Never a flower trembles in the wind, Never a sunset lingers on the sea, But something of its fragrance joins thy mind, Some sparkle of its light remains with thee.

Thus when thy spirit enters on its rest, Thy lips shall say, “I too have known the best!”

Disappointment

Oh, come, Beloved, before my beauty fades, Pity the sorrow of my loneliness. I am a Rosebush that the Cypress shades, No sunbeams find or lighten my distress.

Daily I watch the waning of my bloom. Ah, piteous fading of a thing so fair! While Fate, remorseless, weaving at her loom, Twines furtive silver in my twisted hair.

This noon I watched a tremulous fading rose Rise on the wind to court a butterfly. “One speck of pollen, ere my petals close, Bring me one touch of love before I die!”

But the gay butterfly, who had the power To grant, refused, flew far across the dell, And, as he fertilised a younger flower, The petals of the rose, defrauded, fell.

Such was my fate, thou hast not come to me, Thine eyes are absent, and thy voice is mute, Though I am slim, as this Papaya tree, With breasts out-pointing, even as its fruit.

Beauty was mine, it brought me no caress, My lips were red, yet there were none to taste, I saw my youth consume in loneliness, And all the fervour of my heart run waste.

While I still hoped that Thou would’st come to me, I and the garden waited for their Lord. Here He will rest, beneath this Champa tree; Hence, all ye spike-set grasses from the sward!

In this cool rillet I shall bathe His feet, Come, rounded pebbles from a smoother shore. This is the honey that His lips will eat, Hasten, O bees, enhance the amber store!

Ripen, ye Custard Apples, round and fair, Practise your songs, O Bulbuls, on the bough, Surely some sweeter sweetness haunts the air; Maybe His feet draw near us, even now!

Disperse, ye fireflies, clustered on the palm, Love heeds no lamp, he welcomes moonless skies: Soon shall ye find, O stars, serene and calm, Your sparkling rivals in my lover’s eyes!

Closely I wove my leafy Jasmin bowers, Hoping to hide my pleasure and my shame, Where the Lantana’s indecisive flowers Vary from palest rose to orange flame.

Ay, there were lovely hours, ’neath fern and palm, Almost my aching longing I forgot. White nights of silence, noons of golden calm, All past, all wasted, since Thou camest not!

Night after night the Champa trees distilled Their cruel sweetness on the careless air. Noon after noon I watched the Bulbuls build, And saw with hungry eyes the Sun-birds pair.

None came, and none will come; no use to wait,-- Youth’s fragrance dies, its tender light dies down. I will arise, before it grows too late, And seek the noisy brilliance of the town.

These many waiting years I longed for gold, Now must I needs console me with alloy. Before this beauty fades, this pulse grows cold, I may not love, I will at least enjoy!

Farewell, my Solitude of scented flowers, Across whose glades the emerald parrots gleam, Haunt of false hope, and home of wasted hours, I am awake, at last,--Guard thou the dream!

On Pilgrimage

Oh, youthful bearer of my palanquin, Thy glossy hair lies loosened on thy neck, The “tears of labour” gem thy velvet skin, Whose even texture knows no other fleck.

Thy slender shoulder strains beneath my weight; Too fair thou art for work, sweet slave of mine. Would that this idle breast, reversing fate, A willing serf to love, supported thine!

I smell the savage scent of sun-warmed fur Close in the Jungle, musky, hot and sweet.-- The air comes from thy shoulder, even as myrrh, Would we were as the panthers, free to meet.

The Temple road is steep; I grieve to see Thy slender ankles bruised among the clods. Oh, my Beloved, if I might worship thee! Beauty is greater far than all the Gods.

The Rice-boat

I slept upon the Rice-boat That, reef protected, lay At anchor, where the palm-trees Infringe upon the bay. The windless air was heavy With cinnamon and rose, The midnight calm seemed waiting, Too fateful for repose.

One joined me on the Rice-boat With wild and waving hair, Whose vivid words and laughter Awoke the silent air. Oh, beauty, bare and shining, Fresh washen in the bay, One well may love by moonlight What one would not love by day!

Above among the cordage The night wind hardly stirred, The lapping of the ripples Was all the sound we heard. Love reigned upon the Rice-boat, And Peace controlled the sea, The spirit’s consolation, The senses’ ecstasy.

Though many things and mighty Are furthered in the West, The ancient Peace has vanished Before To-day’s unrest. For how among their striving, Their gold, their lust, their drink, Shall men find time for dreaming Or any space to think?

Think not I scorn the Science That lightens human pain; Though man’s reliance often Is placed on it in vain. Maybe the long endeavour, The patience and the strife, May some day solve the riddle, The Mystery of Life.

Perchance I do not value Things Western as I ought, The trains,--that take us, whither? The ships,--that reach, what port? To me it seems but chaos Of greed and haste and rage, The endless, aimless, motion Of squirrels in a cage.

Here, where some ruined temple In solitude decays, With carven walls still hallowed With prayers of bygone days, Here, where the coral outcrops Make “flowers of the sea,” The olden Peace yet lingers, In hushed serenity.

Ah, silent, silver moonlight, Whose charm impartial falls On tanks of sacred water And squalid city walls, Whose mystic whiteness hallows The lowest and the least, To thee men owe the glamour That draws them to the East.

And as this azure water, Unflecked hy wave or foam, Conceals in its tranquillity The dreaded white shark’s home, So if love be illusion I ask the dream to stay, Content to love by moonlight What I might not love by day.

Lallji my Desire

“This is no time for saying ‘no’” Were thy last words to me, And yet my lips refused the kiss They might have given thee. How could I know That thou wouldst go To sleep so far from me?

They took thee to the Burning-Ghat, Oh, Lallji, my desire, And now a faint and lonely flame Uprises from the pyre. The thin grey smoke in spirals drifts Across the opal sky. Would that I were a wife of thine, And thus with thee could die! How could I know That thou wouldst go, Oh, Lallji, my desire? The lips I missed The flames have kissed Upon the Sandal pyre.

If one should meet me with a knife And cut my heart in twain, Then would he see the smoke arise From every severed vein. Such is the burning, inward fire, The anguish of my pain, For my Beloved, whose dying lips Implored a kiss--in vain! How could I know That thou wouldst go, Oh, Lallji, my desire? Too young thou art To lay thy heart Upon the Sandal pyre.

Thy wife awaits her coming child; What were a child to me, If I might take thee in these arms And face the flames with thee? The priests are chanting round the pyre, At dusk they will depart And leave to thee thy lonely rest, To me my lonelier heart. How could I know Thou lovedst me so? Upon the Sandal pyre He lies forsaken. The flames have taken My Lallji, my desire!

Rutland Gate

His back is bent and his lips are blue, Shivering out in the wet: “Here’s a florin, my man, for you, Go and get drunk and forget!”

Right in the midst of a Christian land, Rotted with wealth and ease, Broken and draggled they let him stand Till his feet on the pavement freeze.

God leaves His poor in His vicars’ care, For He hears the church-bells ring, His ears are buzzing with constant prayer And the hymns His people sing.

Can His pity picture the anguish here, Can He see, through a London fog, The man who has worked “nigh seventy year” To die the death of a dog?

No one heeds him, the crowds pass on. Why does he want to live? “Take this florin, and get you gone, Go and get drunk,--and forgive!”

Atavism

Deep in the jungle vast and dim, That knew not a white man’s feet, I smelt the odour of sun-warmed fur, Musky, savage, and sweet.

Far it was from the huts of men And the grass where Sambur feed; I threw a stone at a Kadapu tree That bled as a man might bleed.

Scent of fur and colour of blood:-- And the long dead instincts rose, I followed the lure of my season’s mate,-- And flew, bare-fanged, at my foes.

* * *

Pale days: and a league of laws Made by the whims of men. Would I were back with my furry cubs In the dusk of a jungle den.

Middle-age

The sins of Youth are hardly sins, So frank they are and free. ’T is but when Middle-age begins We need morality.

Ah, pause and weigh this bitter truth: That Middle-age, grown cold, No comprehension has of Youth, No pity for the Old.

Youth, with his half-divine mistakes, She never can forgive, So much she hates his charm which makes Worth while the life we live.

She scorns Old Age, whose tolerance And calm, well-balanced mind (Knowing how crime is born of chance) Can pardon all mankind.

Yet she, alas! has all the power Of strength and place and gold, Man’s every act, through every hour, Is by her laws controlled.

All things she grasps with sordid hands And weighs in tarnished scales. She neither feels, nor understands, And yet her will prevails!

Cold-blooded vice and careful sin, Gold-lust, blind selfishness,-- The shortest, cheapest way to win Some, worse than cheap, success.

Such are her attributes and aims, Yet meekly we obey, While she to guide and order claims All issues of the day.

You seek for honour, friendship, truth? Let Middle-age be banned! Go, for warm-hearted acts, to Youth; To Age,--to understand!

The Jungle Flower

Ah, the cool silence of the shaded hours, The scent and colour of the jungle flowers!

Thou art one of the jungle flowers, strange and fierce and fair, Palest amber, perfect lines, and scented with champa flower. Lie back and frame thy face in the gloom of thy loosened hair; Sweet thou art and loved--ay, loved--for an hour.

But thought flies far, ah, far, to another breast, Whose whiteness breaks to the rose of a twin pink flower, Where wind the azure veins that my lips caressed When Fate was gentle to me for a too-brief hour.

There is my spirit’s home and my soul’s abode, The rest are only inns on the traveller’s road.

From Behind the Lattice

I see your red-gold hair and know How white the hidden skin must be, Though sun-kissed face and fingers show The fervour of the noon-day glow, The keenness of the sea.

My longing fancies ebb and flow, Still circling constant unto this; My great desire (ah, whisper low) To plant on thy forbidden snow The rosebud of a kiss.

The scarlet flower would spread and grow, Your whiteness change and flush, (Be still, my reckless heart, beat slow, ’T is but a dream that stirs thee so!) To one transparent blush.

Wings

Was it worth while to forego our wings To gain these dextrous hands? Truly they fashion us wonderful things As the fancy of man demands.

But--to fly! to sail through the lucid air From crest to violet crest Of these great grey mountains, quartz-veined and bare, Where the white clouds gather and rest.

Even to flutter from flower to flower,-- To skim the tops of the trees,-- In the roseate light of a sun-setting hour To drift on a sea-going breeze.

Ay, the hands have marvellous skill To create us curious things,-- Baubles, playthings, weapons to kill,-- But--I would we had chosen wings!

Song of the Parao (Camping-ground)

Heart, my heart, thou hast found thy home! From gloom and sorrow thou hast come forth, Thou who wast foolish, and sought to roam ’Neath the cruel stars of the frozen North.

Thou hast returned to thy dear delights; The golden glow of the quivering days, The silver silence of tropical nights, No more to wander in alien ways.

Here, each star is a well-loved friend; To me and my heart at the journey’s end.

These are my people, and this my land, I hear the pulse of her secret soul. This is the life that I understand, Savage and simple and sane and whole.

Washed in the light of a clear fierce sun,-- Heart, my heart, the journey is done.

See! the painted piece of the skies, Where the rose-hued opal of sunset lies. Hear the passionate Koel calling From coral trees, where the dusk is falling.

See my people, slight limbed and tall. The maiden’s bosom they scorn to cover: The breasts that shall call and enthral her lover, Things of beauty, are free to all.

Free to the eyes, that think no shame That a girl should bloom like a forest flower. Who hold that Love is a sacred flame,-- Outward beauty a God-like dower.

Who further regard it as no disgrace If loveliness lessen to serve the race, Nor point the finger of jesting scorn At her who carries the child unborn.

Ah, my heart, but we wandered far From the light of the slanting fourfold Star!

Oh, palm-leaf thatch, where the melon thrives Beneath the shade of the tamarind tree, Thou coverest tranquil, graceful lives, That want so little, that knew no haste, Nor the bitter goad of a too-full hour; Whose soft-eyed women are lithe and tall, And wear no garment below the knee, Nor veil or raiment above the waist, But the beautiful hair, that dowers them all, And falls to the ground in a scented shower.

The youths return from their swift-flowing bath, With the swinging grace that their height allows, Lightly climbing the river-side path, Their soft hair knotted above their brows.

Elephants wade the darkening river, Their bells, which tinkle in minor thirds, Faintly sweet, like passionate birds Whose warbling wakens a sense of pain,-- Thrill through the nerves and make them quiver,-- Heart, my heart, art thou happy again?

Here is beauty to feast thine eyes. Here is the land of thy long desire. See how the delicate spirals rise Azure and faint from the wood-fed fire.

Where the cartmen wearily share their food, Ere they, by their bullocks, lie down to rest. Heart of mine, dost thou find it good This wide red road by the winds caressed?

This lone Parao, where the fireflies light? These tom-toms, fretting the peace of night?

Heart, thou hast wandered and suffered much, Death has robbed thee, and Life betrayed, But there is ever a solace for such In that they are not lightly afraid.

The strength that found them the fire to love Finds them also the force to forget. Thy joy in thy dreaming lives to prove Thou art not mortally wounded yet.

Here, ’neath the arch of the vast, clear sky, Where range upon range the remote grey hills Far in the distance recede and die, There is no space for thy trivial ills.

On the low horizon towards the sea, Faint yet vivid, the lightnings play, The lucid air is kind as a kiss, The falling twilight is cool and grey. What has sorrow to do with thee? Love was cruel? thou now art free. Life unkind? it has given thee this!

The Tom-toms

Dost thou hear the tom-toms throbbing, Like a lonely lover sobbing For the beauty that is robbing him of all his life’s delight? Plaintive sounds, restrained, enthralling, Seeking through the twilight falling Something lost beyond recalling, in the darkness of the night.

Oh, my little, loved Firoza, Come and nestle to me closer, Where the golden-balled Mimosa makes a canopy above, For the day, so hot and burning, Dies away, and night, returning, Sets thy lover’s spirit yearning for thy beauty and thy love.

Soon will come the rosy warning Of the bright relentless morning, When, thy soft caresses scorning, I shall leave thee in the shade. All the day my work must chain me, And its weary bonds restrain me, For I may not re-attain thee till the light begins to fade.

But at length the long day endeth, As the cool of night descendeth His last strength thy lover spendeth in returning to thy breast, Where beneath the Babul nightly, While the planets shimmer whitely, And the fire-flies glimmer brightly, thou shalt give him love and rest.

Far away, across the distance, The quick-throbbing drums’ persistence Shall resound, with soft insistence, in the pauses of delight, Through the sequence of the hours, While the starlight and the flowers Consecrate this love of ours, in the Temple of the Night.

Written in Cananore

I

Who was it held that Love was soothing or sweet? Mine is a painful fire, at its whitest heat.

Who said that Beauty was ever a gentle joy? Thine is a sword that flashes but to destroy.

Though mine eyes rose up from thy Beauty’s banquet, calm and refreshed, My lips, that were granted naught, can find no rest.

My soul was linked with thine, through speech and silent hours, As the sound of two soft flutes combined, or the scent of sister flowers.

But the body, that wretched slave of the Sultan, Mind, Who follows his master ever, but far behind,

Nothing was granted him, and every rebellious cell Rises up with angry protest, “It is not well!

Night is falling; thou hast departed; I am alone; And the Last Sweetness of Love thou hast not given--I have not known!”

II

Somewhere, Oh, My Beloved One, the house is standing, Waiting for thee and me; for our first caresses. It may be a river-boat, or a wave-washed landing, The shade of a tree in the jungle’s dim recesses, Some far-off mountain tent, ill-pitched and lonely, Or the naked vault of the purple heavens only.

But the Place is waiting there; till the Hour shall show it, And our footsteps, following Fate, find it and know it.

Where we shall worship the greatest of all the Gods in his pomp and power,-- I sometimes think that I shall not care to survive that hour!

Feroke

The rice-birds fly so white, so silver white, The velvet rice-flats lie so emerald green, My heart inhales, with sorrowful delight, The sweet and poignant sadness of the scene.

The swollen tawny river seeks the sea, Its hungry waters, never satisfied, Beflecked with fallen log and torn-up tree, Engulph the fisher-huts on either side.

The current brought a stranger yesterday, And laid him on the sand beneath a palm, His worn young face was partly torn away, His eyes, that saw the world no more, were calm

We could not close his eyelids, stiff with blood,-- But, oh, my brother, I had changed with thee For I am still tormented in the flood, Whilst thou hast done thy work, and reached the sea.

My Desire

Fate has given me many a gift To which men most aspire, Lovely, precious and costly things, But not my heart’s desire.

Many a man has a secret dream Of where his soul would be, Mine is a low verandah’d house In a tope beside the sea.

Over the roof tall palms should wave, Swaying from side to side, Every night we should fall asleep To the rhythm of the tide.

The dawn should be gay with song of birds, And the stir of fluttering wings. Surely the joy of life is hid In simple and tender things!

At eve the waves would shimmer with gold In the rosy sunset rays, Emerald velvet flats of rice Would rest the landward gaze.

A boat must rock at the laterite steps In a reef-protected pool, For we should sail through the starlit night When the winds were calm and cool.

I am so tired of all this world, Its folly and fret and care. Find me a little scented home Amongst thy loosened hair.

Give me a soft and secret place Against thine amber breast, Where, hidden away from all mankind, My soul may come to rest.

Many a man has a secret dream Of where his life might be; Mine is a lovely, lonely place With sunshine and the sea.

Sher Afzul

This was the tale Sher Afzul told to me, While the spent camels bubbled on their knees, And ruddy camp-fires twinkled through the gloom Sweet with the fragrance from the Sinjib trees.

I had a friend who lay, condemned to death In gaol for murder, wholly innocent, Yet caught in webs of luckless circumstance;-- Thou know’st how lies, of good and ill intent,

Cluster like flies around a justice-court, Wheel within wheel, revolving screw on screw;-- But from his prison he escaped and fled, Keeping his liberty a night or two

Among the lonely hills, where, shackled still, He braved a village, seeking for a file To loose his irons; alas! he lost his life Through the base sweetness of a woman’s smile.

Lovely she was, and young, who gave the youth Kind words, and promised succor and repose, Till on the quilt of false security He found exhausted sleep; but, ere he rose,

Entered the guards, brought by her messenger. Thus was he captured, slain, and on her breast Soon shone the guerdon of her treachery, The price of blood; in gold made manifest.

I might have killed her? Brave men have died thus. Revenge demanded keener punishment. So I walked softly on those lilac hills, Touching my _rhibab_ lightly as I went.

I found her fair: ’t was no unpleasant task In the young spring-time when the fruit-trees flower, To pass her door, and pause, and pass again, Shading mine eyes against her beauty’s power.

Warmly I wooed her, while the almond trees Broke into fragile clouds of rosy snow. Her dawning passion feared her lord’s return, Ever she pleaded softly, “Let us go.”