Chapter 3

I was—how many a time!— That Second Calendar, Son of a King, On whom ’twas vehemently enjoined, Pausing at one mysterious door, To pry no closer, but content his soul With his kind Forty. Yet I could not rest For idleness and ungovernable Fate. And the Black Horse, which fed on sesame (That wonder-working word!), Vouchsafed his back to me, and spread his vans, And soaring, soaring on From air to air, came charging to the ground Sheer, like a lark from the midsummer clouds, And, shaking me out of the saddle, where I sprawled Flicked at me with his tail, And left me blinded, miserable, distraught (Even as I was in deed, When doctors came, and odious things were done On my poor tortured eyes With lancets; or some evil acid stung And wrung them like hot sand, And desperately from room to room Fumble I must my dark, disconsolate way), To get to Bagdad how I might. But there I met with Merry Ladies. O you three— Safie, Amine, Zobëidé—when my heart Forgets you all shall be forgot! And so we supped, we and the rest, On wine and roasted lamb, rose-water, dates, Almonds, pistachios, citrons. And Haroun Laughed out of his lordly beard On Giaffar and Mesrour (_I_ knew the Three For all their Mossoul habits). And outside The Tigris, flowing swift Like Severn bend for bend, twinkled and gleamed With broken and wavering shapes of stranger stars; The vast, blue night Was murmurous with peris’ plumes And the leathern wings of genies; words of power Were whispering; and old fishermen, Casting their nets with prayer, might draw to shore Dead loveliness: or a prodigy in scales Worth in the Caliph’s Kitchen pieces of gold: Or copper vessels, stopped with lead, Wherein some Squire of Eblis watched and railed, In durance under potent charactry Graven by the seal of Solomon the King . . .

Then, as the Book was glassed In Life as in some olden mirror’s quaint, Bewildering angles, so would Life Flash light on light back on the Book; and both Were changed. Once in a house decayed From better days, harbouring an errant show (For all its stories of dry-rot Were filled with gruesome visitants in wax, Inhuman, hushed, ghastly with Painted Eyes), I wandered; and no living soul Was nearer than the pay-box; and I stared Upon them staring—staring. Till at last, Three sets of rafters from the streets, I strayed upon a mildewed, rat-run room, With the two Dancers, horrible and obscene, Guarding the door: and there, in a bedroom-set, Behind a fence of faded crimson cords, With an aspect of frills And dimities and dishonoured privacy That made you hanker and hesitate to look, A Woman with her litter of Babes—all slain, All in their nightgowns, all with Painted Eyes Staring—still staring; so that I turned and ran As for my neck, but in the street Took breath. The same, it seemed, And yet not all the same, I was to find, As I went up! For afterwards, Whenas I went my round alone— All day alone—in long, stern, silent streets, Where I might stretch my hand and take Whatever I would: still there were Shapes of Stone, Motionless, lifelike, frightening—for the Wrath Had smitten them; but they watched, This by her melons and figs, that by his rings And chains and watches, with the hideous gaze, The Painted Eyes insufferable, Now, of those grisly images; and I Pursued my best-belovéd quest, Thrilled with a novel and delicious fear. So the night fell—with never a lamplighter; And through the Palace of the King I groped among the echoes, and I felt That they were there, Dreadfully there, the Painted staring Eyes, Hall after hall . . . Till lo! from far A Voice! And in a little while Two tapers burning! And the Voice, Heard in the wondrous Word of God, was—whose? Whose but Zobëidé’s, The lady of my heart, like me A True Believer, and like me An outcast thousands of leagues beyond the pale! . . .

Or, sailing to the Isles Of Khaledan, I spied one evenfall A black blotch in the sunset; and it grew Swiftly . . . and grew. Tearing their beards, The sailors wept and prayed; but the grave ship, Deep laden with spiceries and pearls, went mad, Wrenched the long tiller out of the steersman’s hand, And, turning broadside on, As the most iron would, was haled and sucked Nearer, and nearer yet; And, all awash, with horrible lurching leaps Rushed at that Portent, casting a shadow now That swallowed sea and sky; and then, Anchors and nails and bolts Flew screaming out of her, and with clang on clang, A noise of fifty stithies, caught at the sides Of the Magnetic Mountain; and she lay, A broken bundle of firewood, strown piecemeal About the waters; and her crew Passed shrieking, one by one; and I was left To drown. All the long night I swam; But in the morning, O, the smiling coast Tufted with date-trees, meadowlike, Skirted with shelving sands! And a great wave Cast me ashore; and I was saved alive. So, giving thanks to God, I dried my clothes, And, faring inland, in a desert place I stumbled on an iron ring— The fellow of fifty built into the Quays: When, scenting a trap-door, I dug, and dug; until my biggest blade Stuck into wood. And then, The flight of smooth-hewn, easy-falling stairs, Sunk in the naked rock! The cool, clean vault, So neat with niche on niche it might have been Our beer-cellar but for the rows Of brazen urns (like monstrous chemist’s jars) Full to the wide, squat throats With gold-dust, but a-top A layer of pickled-walnut-looking things I knew for olives! And far, O, far away, The Princess of China languished! Far away Was marriage, with a Vizier and a Chief Of Eunuchs and the privilege Of going out at night To play—unkenned, majestical, secure— Where the old, brown, friendly river shaped Like Tigris shore for shore! Haply a Ghoul Sat in the churchyard under a frightened moon, A thighbone in his fist, and glared At supper with a Lady: she who took Her rice with tweezers grain by grain. Or you might stumble—there by the iron gates Of the Pump Room—underneath the limes— Upon Bedreddin in his shirt and drawers, Just as the civil Genie laid him down. Or those red-curtained panes, Whence a tame cornet tenored it throatily Of beer-pots and spittoons and new long pipes, Might turn a caravansery’s, wherein You found Noureddin Ali, loftily drunk, And that fair Persian, bathed in tears, You’d not have given away For all the diamonds in the Vale Perilous You had that dark and disleaved afternoon Escaped on a roc’s claw, Disguised like Sindbad—but in Christmas beef! And all the blissful while The schoolboy satchel at your hip Was such a bulse of gems as should amaze Grey-whiskered chapmen drawn From over Caspian: yea, the Chief Jewellers Of Tartary and the bazaars, Seething with traffic, of enormous Ind.—

Thus cried, thus called aloud, to the child heart The magian East: thus the child eyes Spelled out the wizard message by the light Of the sober, workaday hours They saw, week in week out, pass, and still pass In the sleepy Minster City, folded kind In ancient Severn’s arm, Amongst her water-meadows and her docks, Whose floating populace of ships— Galliots and luggers, light-heeled brigantines, Bluff barques and rake-hell fore-and-afters—brought To her very doorsteps and geraniums The scents of the World’s End; the calls That may not be gainsaid to rise and ride Like fire on some high errand of the race; The irresistible appeals For comradeship that sound Steadily from the irresistible sea. Thus the East laughed and whispered, and the tale, Telling itself anew In terms of living, labouring life, Took on the colours, busked it in the wear Of life that lived and laboured; and Romance, The Angel-Playmate, raining down His golden influences On all I saw, and all I dreamed and did, Walked with me arm in arm, Or left me, as one bediademed with straws And bits of glass, to gladden at my heart Who had the gift to seek and feel and find His fiery-hearted presence everywhere. Even so dear Hesper, bringer of all good things, Sends the same silver dews Of happiness down her dim, delighted skies On some poor collier-hamlet—(mound on mound Of sifted squalor; here a soot-throated stalk Sullenly smoking over a row Of flat-faced hovels; black in the gritty air A web of rails and wheels and beams; with strings Of hurtling, tipping trams)— As on the amorous nightingales And roses of Shíraz, or the walls and towers Of Samarcand—the Ineffable—whence you espy The splendour of Ginnistan’s embattled spears, Like listed lightnings. Samarcand! That name of names! That star-vaned belvedere Builded against the Chambers of the South! That outpost on the Infinite! And behold! Questing therefrom, you knew not what wild tide Might overtake you: for one fringe, One suburb, is stablished on firm earth; but one Floats founded vague In lubberlands delectable—isles of palm And lotus, fortunate mains, far-shimmering seas, The promise of wistful hills— The shining, shifting Sovranties of Dream.

BRIC-À-BRAC

1877–1888

‘_The tune of the time_.’—HAMLET, _concerning_ OSRIC

BALLADE OF A TOYOKUNI COLOUR-PRINT

_To_ W. A.

WAS I a Samurai renowned, Two-sworded, fierce, immense of bow? A histrion angular and profound? A priest? a porter?—Child, although I have forgotten clean, I know That in the shade of Fujisan, What time the cherry-orchards blow, I loved you once in old Japan.

As here you loiter, flowing-gowned And hugely sashed, with pins a-row Your quaint head as with flamelets crowned, Demure, inviting—even so, When merry maids in Miyako To feel the sweet o’ the year began, And green gardens to overflow, I loved you once in old Japan.

Clear shine the hills; the rice-fields round Two cranes are circling; sleepy and slow, A blue canal the lake’s blue bound Breaks at the bamboo bridge; and lo! Touched with the sundown’s spirit and glow, I see you turn, with flirted fan, Against the plum-tree’s bloomy snow . . . I loved you once in old Japan!

_Envoy_

Dear, ’twas a dozen lives ago; But that I was a lucky man The Toyokuni here will show: I loved you—once—in old Japan.

BALLADE (DOUBLE REFRAIN) OF YOUTH AND AGE

I. M. Thomas Edward Brown (1829–1896)

SPRING at her height on a morn at prime, Sails that laugh from a flying squall, Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme— Youth is the sign of them, one and all. Winter sunsets and leaves that fall, An empty flagon, a folded page, A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball— These are a type of the world of Age.

Bells that clash in a gaudy chime, Swords that clatter in onsets tall, The words that ring and the fames that climb— Youth is the sign of them, one and all. Hymnals old in a dusty stall, A bald, blind bird in a crazy cage, The scene of a faded festival— These are a type of the world of Age.

Hours that strut as the heirs of time, Deeds whose rumour’s a clarion-call, Songs where the singers their souls sublime— Youth is the sign of them, one and all. A staff that rests in a nook of wall, A reeling battle, a rusted gage, The chant of a nearing funeral— These are a type of the world of Age.

_Envoy_

Struggle and turmoil, revel and brawl— Youth is the sign of them, one and all. A smouldering hearth and a silent stage— These are a type of the world of Age.

BALLADE (DOUBLE REFRAIN) OF MIDSUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS

_To_ W. H.

WITH a ripple of leaves and a tinkle of streams The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise, And the winds are one with the clouds and beams— Midsummer days! Midsummer days! The dusk grows vast; in a purple haze, While the West from a rapture of sunset rights, Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise— Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

The wood’s green heart is a nest of dreams, The lush grass thickens and springs and sways, The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams— Midsummer days! Midsummer days! In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways, All secret shadows and mystic lights, Late lovers murmur and linger and gaze— Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

There’s a music of bells from the trampling teams, Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze, The rich, ripe rose as with incense steams— Midsummer days! Midsummer days! A soul from the honeysuckle strays, And the nightingale as from prophet heights Sings to the Earth of her million Mays— Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

_Envoy_

And it’s O, for my dear and the charm that stays— Midsummer days! Midsummer days! It’s O, for my Love and the dark that plights— Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

BALLADE OF DEAD ACTORS

I. M. Edward John Henley (1861–1898)

WHERE are the passions they essayed, And where the tears they made to flow? Where the wild humours they portrayed For laughing worlds to see and know? Othello’s wrath and Juliet’s woe? Sir Peter’s whims and Timon’s gall? And Millamant and Romeo? Into the night go one and all.

Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed? The plumes, the armours—friend and foe? The cloth of gold, the rare brocade, The mantles glittering to and fro? The pomp, the pride, the royal show? The cries of war and festival? The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow? Into the night go one and all.

The curtain falls, the play is played: The Beggar packs beside the Beau; The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid; The Thunder huddles with the Snow. Where are the revellers high and low? The clashing swords? The lover’s call? The dancers gleaming row on row? Into the night go one and all.

_Envoy_

Prince, in one common overthrow The Hero tumbles with the Thrall: As dust that drives, as straws that blow, Into the night go one and all.

BALLADE MADE IN THE HOT WEATHER

_To_ C. M.

FOUNTAINS that frisk and sprinkle The moss they overspill; Pools that the breezes crinkle; The wheel beside the mill, With its wet, weedy frill; Wind-shadows in the wheat; A water-cart in the street; The fringe of foam that girds An islet’s ferneries; A green sky’s minor thirds— To live, I think of these!

Of ice and glass the tinkle, Pellucid, silver-shrill; Peaches without a wrinkle; Cherries and snow at will, From china bowls that fill The senses with a sweet Incuriousness of heat; A melon’s dripping sherds; Cream-clotted strawberries; Dusk dairies set with curds— To live, I think of these!

Vale-lily and periwinkle; Wet stone-crop on the sill; The look of leaves a-twinkle With windlets clear and still; The feel of a forest rill That wimples fresh and fleet About one’s naked feet; The muzzles of drinking herds; Lush flags and bulrushes; The chirp of rain-bound birds— To live, I think of these!

_Envoy_

Dark aisles, new packs of cards, Mermaidens’ tails, cool swards, Dawn dews and starlit seas, White marbles, whiter words— To live, I think of these!

BALLADE OF TRUISMS

GOLD or silver, every day, Dies to gray. There are knots in every skein. Hours of work and hours of play Fade away Into one immense Inane. Shadow and substance, chaff and grain, Are as vain As the foam or as the spray. Life goes crooning, faint and fain, One refrain: ‘If it could be always May!’

Though the earth be green and gay, Though, they say, Man the cup of heaven may drain; Though, his little world to sway, He display Hoard on hoard of pith and brain: Autumn brings a mist and rain That constrain Him and his to know decay, Where undimmed the lights that wane Would remain, If it could be always May.

_Yea_, alas, must turn to _Nay_, Flesh to clay. Chance and Time are ever twain. Men may scoff, and men may pray, But they pay Every pleasure with a pain. Life may soar, and Fortune deign To explain Where her prizes hide and stay; But we lack the lusty train We should gain, If it could be always May.

_Envoy_

Time, the pedagogue, his cane Might retain, But his charges all would stray Truanting in every lane— Jack with Jane— If it could be always May.

DOUBLE BALLADE OF LIFE AND FATE

FOOLS may pine, and sots may swill, Cynics gibe, and prophets rail, Moralists may scourge and drill, Preachers prose, and fainthearts quail. Let them whine, or threat, or wail! Till the touch of Circumstance Down to darkness sink the scale, Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.

What if skies be wan and chill? What if winds be harsh and stale? Presently the east will thrill, And the sad and shrunken sail, Bellying with a kindly gale, Bear you sunwards, while your chance Sends you back the hopeful hail:— ‘Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.’

Idle shot or coming bill, Hapless love or broken bail, Gulp it (never chew your pill!), And, if Burgundy should fail, Try the humbler pot of ale! Over all is heaven’s expanse. Gold’s to find among the shale. Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.

Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill, Good Sir Galahad seeks the Grail, Proud Sir Pertinax flaunts his frill, Hard Sir Æger dints his mail; And the while by hill and dale Tristram’s braveries gleam and glance, And his blithe horn tells its tale:— ‘Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.’

Araminta’s grand and shrill, Delia’s passionate and frail, Doris drives an earnest quill, Athanasia takes the veil: Wiser Phyllis o’er her pail, At the heart of all romance Reading, sings to Strephon’s flail:— ‘Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.’

Every Jack must have his Jill (Even Johnson had his Thrale!): Forward, couples—with a will! This, the world, is not a jail. Hear the music, sprat and whale! Hands across, retire, advance! Though the doomsman’s on your trail, Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.

_Envoy_

Boys and girls, at slug and snail And their kindred look askance. Pay your footing on the nail: Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.

DOUBLE BALLADE OF THE NOTHINGNESS OF THINGS

THE big teetotum twirls, And epochs wax and wane As chance subsides or swirls; But of the loss and gain The sum is always plain. Read on the mighty pall, The weed of funeral That covers praise and blame, The —isms and the —anities, Magnificence and shame:— ‘O Vanity of Vanities!’

The Fates are subtile girls! They give us chaff for grain. And Time, the Thunderer, hurls, Like bolted death, disdain At all that heart and brain Conceive, or great or small, Upon this earthly ball. Would you be knight and dame? Or woo the sweet humanities? Or illustrate a name? O Vanity of Vanities!

We sound the sea for pearls, Or drown them in a drain; We flute it with the merles, Or tug and sweat and strain; We grovel, or we reign; We saunter, or we brawl; We answer, or we call; We search the stars for Fame, Or sink her subterranities; The legend’s still the same:— ‘O Vanity of Vanities!’

Here at the wine one birls, There some one clanks a chain. The flag that this man furls That man to float is fain. Pleasure gives place to pain: These in the kennel crawl, While others take the wall. _She_ has a glorious aim, _He_ lives for the inanities. What comes of every claim? O Vanity of Vanities!

Alike are clods and earls. For sot, and seer, and swain, For emperors and for churls, For antidote and bane, There is but one refrain: But one for king and thrall, For David and for Saul, For fleet of foot and lame, For pieties and profanities, The picture and the frame:— ‘O Vanity of Vanities!’

Life is a smoke that curls— Curls in a flickering skein, That winds and whisks and whirls A figment thin and vain, Into the vast Inane. One end for hut and hall! One end for cell and stall! Burned in one common flame Are wisdoms and insanities. For this alone we came:— ‘O Vanity of Vanities!’

_Envoy_

Prince, pride must have a fall. What is the worth of all Your state’s supreme urbanities? Bad at the best’s the game. Well might the Sage exclaim:— ‘O Vanity of Vanities!’

AT QUEENSFERRY

_To_ W. G. S.

THE blackbird sang, the skies were clear and clean We bowled along a road that curved a spine Superbly sinuous and serpentine Thro’ silent symphonies of summer green. Sudden the Forth came on us—sad of mien, No cloud to colour it, no breeze to line: A sheet of dark, dull glass, without a sign Of life or death, two spits of sand between. Water and sky merged blank in mist together, The Fort loomed spectral, and the Guardship’s spars Traced vague, black shadows on the shimmery glaze: We felt the dim, strange years, the grey, strange weather, The still, strange land, unvexed of sun or stars, Where Lancelot rides clanking thro’ the haze.

ORIENTALE

SHE’S an enchanting little Israelite, A world of hidden dimples!—Dusky-eyed, A starry-glancing daughter of the Bride, With hair escaped from some Arabian Night, Her lip is red, her cheek is golden-white, Her nose a scimitar; and, set aside The bamboo hat she cocks with so much pride, Her dress a dream of daintiness and delight. And when she passes with the dreadful boys And romping girls, the cockneys loud and crude, My thought, to the Minories tied yet moved to range The Land o’ the Sun, commingles with the noise Of magian drums and scents of sandalwood A touch Sidonian—modern—taking—strange!

IN FISHERROW

A HARD north-easter fifty winters long Has bronzed and shrivelled sere her face and neck; Her locks are wild and grey, her teeth a wreck; Her foot is vast, her bowed leg spare and strong. A wide blue cloak, a squat and sturdy throng Of curt blue coats, a mutch without a speck, A white vest broidered black, her person deck, Nor seems their picked, stern, old-world quaintness wrong. Her great creel forehead-slung, she wanders nigh, Easing the heavy strap with gnarled, brown fingers, The spirit of traffic watchful in her eye, Ever and anon imploring you to buy, As looking down the street she onward lingers, Reproachful, with a strange and doleful cry.

BACK-VIEW

_To_ D. F.

I WATCHED you saunter down the sand: Serene and large, the golden weather Flowed radiant round your peacock feather, And glistered from your jewelled hand. Your tawny hair, turned strand on strand And bound with blue ribands together, Streaked the rough tartan, green like heather, That round your lissome shoulder spanned. Your grace was quick my sense to seize: The quaint looped hat, the twisted tresses, The close-drawn scarf, and under these The flowing, flapping draperies— My thought an outline still caresses, Enchanting, comic, Japanese!

CROLUIS

_To_ G. W.