Poems from Eastern Sources: The Steadfast Prince; and Other Poems

PART II. 152

Chapter 113,668 wordsPublic domain

ORPHEUS AND THE SIRENS 173

ST. CHRYSOSTOM 184

THE OIL OF MERCY 185

THE TREE OF LIFE.—FROM THE GERMAN OF RÜCKERT 192

THE TREE OF LIFE.—FROM AN OLD LATIN POEM 195

PARADISE.—FROM THE GERMAN OF RÜCKERT 199

THE LOREY LEY.—FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE 203

“OH THOU OF DARK FOREBODINGS DREAR” 205

THE PRODIGAL 206

THE CORREGAN.—A BALLAD OF BRITTANY 208

SONNET 214

SONNET 215

SONNET 216

THE ETRURIAN KING 217

THE FAMINE 219

THE PRIZE OF SONG 231

NOTES 235

ERRATA.

Page 39, line 9, for _one_ read _our_.

— 191, — 11, dele comma.

— 215, — 2, for _light_ read _slight_.

POEMS FROM EASTERN SOURCES.

NOTE.

The following Poems bear somewhat a vague title, because such only would describe the nature of Poems which have been derived in very different degrees from the sources thus indicated. Some are mere translations; others have been modelled anew, and only such portions used of the originals as were adapted to my purpose: of others it is only the imagery and thought which are Eastern, and these have been put together in new combinations; while of others it is the story, and nothing more, which has been borrowed, it may be from some prose source. On this subject, however, more information will be given in the Notes.

ALEXANDER AT THE GATES OF PARADISE.

A Legend from the Talmud.

Fierce was the glare of Cashmere’s middle day, When Alexander for Hydaspes bent, Through trackless wilds urged his impetuous way

Yet in that vast and sandy continent A little vale he found, so calm, so sweet, He there awhile to tarry was content.

A crystal stream was murmuring at his feet, Whereof the Monarch, when his meal was done, Took a long draught, to slake his fever heat.

Again he drank, and yet again, as one Who would have drained that river crystalline Of all its waves, and left it dry anon:

For in his veins, ofttimes a-fire with wine, And in his bosom, throne of sleepless pride, The while he drank, went circling peace divine.

It seemed as though all evil passions died Within him, slaked was every fire accurst; So that in rapturous joy aloud he cried:

“Oh! might I find where these pure waters first Shoot sparkling from their living fountain-head, Oh! there to quench my spirit’s inmost thirst.

“Sure, if we followed where these waters led, We should at last some fairer region gain Than yet has quaked beneath our iron tread,—

“Some land that should in very truth contain Whate’er we dream of beautiful and bright, And idly dreaming of, pursue in vain;

“That land must stoop beneath our conquering might. Companions dear, this toil remains alone, To win that region of unmatched delight.

“Oh faithful in a thousand labours known, One toil remains, the noblest and the last; Let us arise—and make that land our own.”

—Through realms of darkness, wildernesses vast, All populous with sights and sounds of fear, In heat and cold, by day and night, he past,

With trumpet clang, with banner and with spear, Yearning to drink that river, where it sent Its first pure waters forth, serene and clear;

Till boldest captains sank, their courage spent, And dying cried—“This stream all search defies,”— But never would he tarry nor repent,

Nor pitched his banners, till before his eyes Rose high as heaven in its secluded state The mighty verdant wall of Paradise.

And lo! that stream, which early still and late He had tracked upward, issued bright and clear From underneath the angel-guarded gate:

—“And who art thou that hast adventured here, Daring to startle this serene abode With flash of mortal weapons, sword and spear?”

So the angelic sentinel of God, Fire flashing, to the bold invader cried, Whose feet profane those holy precincts trod.

The Son of Philip without dread replied, “Is Alexander’s fame unknown to thee, Which the world knows—mine, who have victory tied

“To my sword’s hilt, and who, while stoop to me All other lands, would win what rich or fair This land contains, and have it mine in fee?”

—“Thou dost thyself proclaim that part or share Thou hast not here.—O man of blood and sin, Go back—with those blood-stainèd hands despair

“This place of love and holy peace to win: This is the gate of righteousness, and they, The righteous, only here may enter in.”

Around, before him, lightnings dart and play: He undismayed—“Of travail long and hard At least some trophy let me bear away.”

—“Lo! then this skull—which if thou wilt regard, And to my question seek for fit reply, All thy long labours shall have full reward.

“Once in that hollow circle lodged an eye, That was, like thine, for ever coveting, Which worlds on worlds had failed to satisfy.

“Now while thou gazest on that ghastly ring, From whence of old a greedy eye outspied, Say thou what was it,—for there was a thing,—

“Which filled at last and throughly satisfied The eye that in that hollow circle dwelt, So that, ‘Enough, I have enough,’ it cried.”

—Blank disappointment at the gift he felt, And hardly taking, turned in scorn away, Nor he the riddle of the Angel spelt,

But cried unto his captains, “We delay, And at these portals lose our time in vain, By more than mortal terrors kept at bay:

“Come—other lands as goodly spoils contain, Come—all too long untouched the Indian gold, The pearls and spice of Araby remain.

“Come, and who will this riddle may unfold.” Then stood before him, careless of his ire, An Indian sage, and rendered answer bold—

“Lord of the world, commanded to enquire What was it that could satisfy an eye, That organ of man’s wandering vast desire,—

“By deed and word thou plainly dost reply, That its desire can nothing tame or quell, That it can never know sufficiency.

“While thou enlargest thy desire as hell, Filling thine hand, but filling not thy lust, Thou dost proclaim man’s eye insatiable:

“Such answer from thy lips were only just; Yet ’twas not so. One came at last, who threw Into yon face an heap of vilest dust,

“Whereof a few small grains did fall into And filled the orb and hollow of that eye, When that which suffisance not ever knew, Was fain, ‘Enough, I have enough,’ to cry.”

CHIDHER’S WELL.

Thee have thousands sought in vain Over land and barren main,

II.

Chidher’s well,—of which they say That it maketh young again;

III.

Fountain of eternal youth, Washing free from every stain.

IV.

To its waves the aged moons Aye betake them, when they wane;

And the suns their golden light, While they bathe therein, retain.

VI.

From that fountain drops are flung, Mingling with the vernal rain,

VII.

And the old Earth clothes itself In its young attire again.

VIII.

Thitherward the freckled trout Up the water-courses strain,

IX.

And the timid wild gazelles Seek it through the desert plain.

Great Iskander[A], mighty Lord, Sought that fountain, but in vain;

XI.

Through the land of darkness went In its quest with fruitless pain,

XII.

While through wealth of conquered worlds Did his thirst unslaked remain.

XIII.

Many more with parchèd lip Must lie down, and dizzy brain,

XIV.

And of that, a fountain sealed Unto them, in death complain.

XV.

If its springs to thee are known, Weary wanderer, tell me plain.

XVI.

From beneath the throne of God It must well, a lucid vein.

XVII.

To its sources lead me, Lord, That I do not thirst again,

XVIII.

And my lips not any more Shall the earth’s dark waters stain.

[Footnote A: Alexander.]

THE BANISHED KINGS.

On a fair ship, borne swiftly o’er the deep, A man was lying, wrapt in dreamless sleep; When unawares upon a sunken rock That vessel struck, and shattered with the shock. But strange! the plank where lay the sleeper bore Him wrapt in deep sleep ever, to the shore: It bore him safely through the foam and spray, High up on land, where couched ’mid flowers he lay. Sweet tones first woke him from his sleep, when round His couch observant multitudes he found: All hailed him then, and did before him bow, And with one voice exclaimed,—“Our King art thou.” With jubilant applause they bore him on, And set him wondering on a royal throne: And some his limbs with royal robes arrayed, And some before him duteous homage paid, And some brought gifts, all rare and costly things, Nature’s and Art’s profusest offerings. Around him counsellors and servants prest, All eager to accomplish his behest. Wish unaccomplished of his soul was none; The thing that he commanded, it was done.

Much he rejoiced, and he had well nigh now Forgotten whence he hither came, and how; Until at eve, of homage weary grown, He craved a season to be left alone. Alone in hall magnificent he sate, And mused upon the wonder of his fate, When lo! an aged counsellor, a seer Before unnoticed, to the King drew near, —“And thee would I too gratulate, my son, Who hast thy reign in happy hour begun: Seen hast thou the beginning, yet attend, While I shall also shew to thee the end. That this new fortune do not blind thee quite, Both sides observe, its shadowy as its bright: Heed what so many who have ruled before, Failing to heed, must rue for evermore. Though sure thy state and firm thy throne appear, King only art thou for the Present here. A time is fixed, albeit unknown to thee, Which when it comes, thou banished hence shalt be. Round this fair isle, though hidden from the eye By mist and vapour, many islands lie: Bare are their coasts, and dreary and forlorn, And unto them the banished kings are borne; On each of these an exiled king doth mourn. For when a new king comes, they bear away The old, whom now no vassals more obey; Unhonoured and unwilling he is sent Unto his dreary island banishment, While all who girt his throne with service true Now fall away from him, to serve the new.

“What I have told thee lay betimes to heart, And ere thy rule is ended, take thy part, That thou hereafter on thine isle forlorn Do not thy vanished kingdom vainly mourn, When nothing of its pomp to thee remains, On that bare shore, save only memory’s pains.

“Much, O my Prince! my words have thee distrest, Thy head has sunk in sorrow on thy breast; Yet idle sorrow helps not—I will show A nobler way, which shall true help bestow. This counsel take—to others given in vain, While no belief from them my words might gain.— Know then whilst thou art Monarch here, there stand Helps for the future many at command. Then, while thou canst, employ them to adorn That island, whither thou must once be borne. Unbuilt and waste and barren now that strand, There gush no fountains from the thirsty sand, No groves of palm-trees have been planted there, Nor plants of odorous scent embalm that air, While all alike have shunned to contemplate That they should ever change their flattering state. But make thou there provision of delight, Till that which now so threatens, may invite; Bid there thy servants build up royal towers, And change its barren sands to leafy bowers; Bid fountains there be hewn, and cause to bloom Immortal amaranths, shedding rich perfume. So when the world, which speaks thee now so fair, And flatters so, again shall strip thee bare, And sends thee naked forth in harshest wise, Thou joyfully wilt seek thy Paradise. _There_ will not vex thee memories of the past, While hope will heighten here the joys thou hast. This do, while yet the power is in thine hand, While thou hast helps so many at command.”

Then raised the Prince his head with courage new, And what the sage advised, prepared to do. He ruled his realm with meekness, and meanwhile He marvellously decked the chosen isle; Bade there his servants build up royal towers, And change its barren sands to leafy bowers; Bade fountains there be hewn, and caused to bloom Immortal amaranths, shedding rich perfume. And when he long enough had kept his throne, To him sweet odours from that isle were blown: Then knew he that its gardens blooming were, And all the yearnings of his soul were there. Grief was it not to him, but joy, when they His crown and sceptre bade him quit one day; When him his servants rudely did dismiss, ’Twas not the sentence of his ended bliss, But pomp and power he cheerfully forsook, And to his isle a willing journey took, And found diviner pleasure on that shore, Than all, his proudest state had known before.

THE

BALLADS OF HAROUN AL RASCHID.

THE SPILT PEARLS.

His courtiers of the Caliph crave— “Oh, say how this may be, That of thy slaves, this Ethiop slave Is best beloved by thee?

II.

“For he is hideous as the Night: But when has ever chose A nightingale for its delight, A hueless, scentless rose?”

III.

The Caliph then—“No features fair Nor comely mien are his: Love is the beauty he doth wear, And Love his glory is.

IV.

“Once when a camel of my train There fell in narrow street, From broken casket rolled amain Rich pearls before my feet.

“I winking to my slaves, that I Would freely give them these, At once upon the spoil they fly, The costly boon to seize.

VI.

“One only at my side remained— Beside this Ethiop, none: He, moveless as the steed he reined, Behind me sat alone.

VII.

“‘What will thy gain, good fellow, be, Thus lingering at my side?’— —‘My King, that I shall faithfully Have guarded thee,’ he cried.

VIII.

“‘True servant’s title he may wear, He only who has not, For his Lord’s gifts, how rich soe’er, His Lord himself forgot!’”

IX.

—So thou alone dost walk before Thy God with perfect aim, From him desiring nothing more Beside himself to claim.

For if thou not to him aspire, But to his gifts alone, Not Love, but covetous desire, Has brought thee to his throne.

XI.

While such thy prayer, it climbs above In vain—the golden key Of God’s rich treasure-house of love, Thine own will never be.

II.

THE BARMECIDES.

Haroun the Just!—yet once that name Of Just the ruler ill became, By whose too hasty sentence died The royal-hearted Barmecide. O Barmecide, of hand and heart So prompt, so forward to impart, Of bounty so unchecked and free, That once a Poet sung, how he Would fear thy very hand to touch, Lest he should learn to give too much, Lest, catching the contagion thence Of thy unmatched munificence, A beggar he should soon remain, Helpless his bounty to restrain— O Barmecide of royal heart, My childhood’s tears again will start Into mine eyes, the tears I shed, As I remember, when I read Of harsh injustice done to thee, And all thy princely family.

—What marvel that the Caliph, stung With secret consciousness of wrong, Or now desiring every trace Of that large bounty to efface, With penalty of death forbade That mourning should for them be made; That any should with grateful song Their memory in men’s hearts prolong? —“And who art thou, that day by day Hast dared my mandate disobey? Who art thou whom my guards have found, Now standing on some grass-grown mound, Now wandering ’mid the ruined towers, Fall’n palaces, and wasted bowers Of those, at length for traitors known, And by my justice overthrown— Singing a plaintive dirge for them Whom my just vengeance did condemn; Till ever, as I learn, around Thy steps a listening crowd is found, Who still unto thy sad lament Do with their sobs and tears consent; While in the bosom of that throng Rise thoughts that do their Monarch wrong? What doom I did for this assign Thou knewest, and that doom is thine.”

But then the offender,—“Give me room, And I will gladly take my doom, O King, to spend my latest breath, Ere I am hurried to my death, In telling for what highest grace I was beholden to that race, Whose memory my heart hath kept, Whose sunken glories I have wept. For then, at least, it will appear That not in disobedience mere Thy mandate high I overpast. —O King, I was the least and last Of all the servitors of him, Whose glory in thy frown grew dim,— The least and last—yet he one day To me, his meanest slave, did say That he was fain my guest to be, And the next day would sup with me. More time I willingly had craved, But my excuses all he waved, And by no train accompanied, His two sons only at his side, At my poor lodging lighted down, Which at the limits of the town Stood in a close and narrow street. Him I and mine did humbly greet, Standing before him while he shared What we meanwhile had best prepared Of entertainment, though the best Was poor and mean for such a guest.

“But supper done, with cheerful mien, ‘Thy house,’ he cried, ‘I have not seen, Thy gardens;—let me pace awhile Along some cool and shadowy aisle.’ I thought he mocked me, but replied, ‘Possessions have I not so wide: For house, another room with this Our only habitation is; And garden have I none to show, Unless that narrow court below, Shut in with lofty walls, that name In right of four dwarf shrubs may claim.’ —‘Nay, nay,’ he answered, ‘there is more, If only we could find the door.’ Again I told him, but in vain, That he had seen my whole domain. —‘Nay, go then quick, a mason call.’ Him bade he straightway pierce the wall. —‘But shall we in this wise invade A neighbour’s house?’—No heed he paid, And I stood dumb, and wondering Whereto he would the issue bring. Anon he through the opening past, He and his sons, and I the last; When suddenly myself I found In ample space of garden ground, Or rather in a Paradise Of rare and wonderful device, With stately walks and alleys wide, Far stretching upon every side; And streams, upon whose either bank Stood lofty platanes, rank by rank, And marble fountains, scattering high Illumined dew-drops in the sky; And making a low tinkling sound, As sliding down from mound to mound, They did at last their courses take Down to a calm and lucid lake, By which, on gently sloping height, There stood a palace of delight; And many slaves, but all of rare And perfect beauty, marshalled there, Did each to me incline the knee, Exclaiming all—‘Thy servants we.’

“And then my Lord cried, laughing—‘Nay, While this is thine, how could’st thou say That thou had’st shown me all before? Thine is it all.’—He said no more, But at my benefactor’s feet I falling, thanks would render meet. He, scarcely listening, turned his head, And to his eldest son he said: ‘This house, these gardens, ’twere in vain, Unless enabled to maintain, That he should call them his;—my son, Let us not leave this grace half done:’ Who then replied—‘My farms beyond The Tigris I by sealèd bond This night before we part, will see Made over unto him in fee,’ —‘’Tis well; but there will months ensue, Ere his incomings will be due. What shall there, the meanwhile, be done?’ He turned unto his younger son, Who answered—‘I will bid that gold, Ten thousand pieces, shall be told Unto his steward presently; These shall his urgent needs supply.’ ’Twas done upon that very eve; And done, anon they took their leave, And left me free to contemplate The wonders of my novel state.

“Prince of the faithful, mighty King, My fortunes from this source had spring, Which, if they since that time have grown, Him their first author still I own. Nor when that name, which was the praise Of all the world, on evil days Had fall’n, was I content to let Be quite forgotten the large debt I owe to him;—content to die, If such shall be thy pleasure high, And my offence shall seem to thee Deserving of such penalty.”

What marvel that the King who heard Was in his inmost bosom stirred? What marvel that he owned the force Of late regret and vain remorse? That spreading palm, whose boughs had made Far stretching such an ample shade For many a wanderer through life’s waste, He had hewn down in guilty haste; That fountain free, that springing well Of goodness inexhaustible, His hand had stopt it, ne’er again To slake the thirst of weary men. That genial sun, which evermore Did on a cold, chill world outpour Its rays of love and life and light, ’Twas he who quenched in darkest night. What marvel that he owned the force Of late regret and vain remorse, And (all he could) now freely gave The life the other did not crave? Nay more, the offender did dismiss With gifts and praise—nor only this, But did the unrighteous law reverse Which had forbidden to rehearse, And in the minds of men prolong, By grateful speech or plaintive song, The bounteous acts and graces wide, And goodness of the Barmecide.

III.

THE FESTIVAL.

Five hundred princely guests before Haroun Al Raschid sate: Five hundred princely guests or more Admired his royal state.

II.

For never had that glory been So royally displayed, Nor ever such a gorgeous scene Had eye of man surveyed.

III.

He, most times meek of heart, yet now Of spirit too elate, Exclaimed—“Before me Cesars bow, On me two empires wait.

IV.

“Yet all our glories something lack, We do our triumphs wrong, Until to us reflected back In mirrors clear of song.

“Call him then unto whom this power Is given, this skill sublime— Now win from us some gorgeous dower With song that fits the time.”

VI.

—“My King, as I behold thee now, May I behold thee still, While prostrate worlds before thee bow, And wait upon thy will!

VII.

“May evermore this clear pure heaven, Whence every speck and stain Of trouble far away is driven, Above thy head remain!”

VIII.

The Caliph cried—“Thou wishest well; There waits thee golden store For this—but, oh! resume the spell, I fain would listen more.”

IX.

—“Drink thou life’s sweetest goblet up, O King, and may its wine, For others’ lips a mingled cup, Be all unmixed for thine.

“Live long—the shadow of no grief Come ever near to thee: As thou in height of place art chief, So chief in gladness be.”

XI.

Haroun Al Raschid cried again— “I thank thee—but proceed, And now take up an higher strain, And win an higher mead.”

XII.

Around that high magnific hall, One glance the poet threw On courtiers, king, and festival, And did the strain renew.

XIII.

—“And yet, and yet—shalt thou at last Lie stretched on bed of death: Then, when thou drawest thick and fast With sobs thy painful breath—

XIV.

“When Azrael glides through guarded gate, Through hosts that camp around Their lord in vain—and will not wait, When thou art sadly bound

XV.

“Unto thine house of dust alone, O King, when thou must die,— This pomp a shadow thou shalt own, This glory all a lie.”

XVI.

Then darkness on all faces hung, And through the banquet went Low sounds the murmuring guests among Of angry discontent.

XVII.

And him anon they fiercely urge— “What guerdon shall be thine? What does it, this untimely dirge, ’Mid feasts, and flowers, and wine?

XVIII.

“One lord demanded in his mirth A strain to heighten glee; But, lo! at thine his tears come forth In current swift and free.”

XIX.

—“Peace—not to him rebukes belong, But rather highest grace; He gave me what I asked, a song To fit the time and place.”

XX.

All voices at that voice were stilled; Again the Caliph cried,— “He saw our mouths with laughter filled, He saw us drunk with pride;

XXI.

“And bade us know that every road, By monarch trod or slave, Thick set with thorns, with roses strowed, Doth issue in the grave.”

THE EASTERN NARCISSUS.

Thou art the fox, O man, that, maugre all His cunning, did into the water fall. This fox was travelling once o’er hill and dell, And reached at length the margin of a well; His head he stooped into the well, when, lo! Another fox did in the water show. He winks, he nods—the other fox replies: “What, ho! we must be better friends,” he cries; And more acquaintance covetous to win, Without more thought jumped Reynard headlong in. He reached the bottom at a single bound, But there no fox beside himself he found: Upward again he now would gladly spring, But to ascend was no such easy thing. He splashes, struggles, and in sad voice cries, “Fool that I was! I deemed myself more wise. Ah wretch! will no one come unto my aid?”— But prayer and effort both were vainly made: Soon did the water drag him down to death; With a loud cry he sank the waves beneath.

Thou art the fox of which the fable tells— This world of sense the Devil’s well of wells. Thou saw’st reflected thine own image there, And didst plunge headlong in without a care. Oh happy! if thou struggle back to-day, Ere the strong whirlpool drags thee down for aye.

THE SEASONS.

WINTER.

White ermine now the mountains wear, To shield their naked shoulders bare.

II.

The dark pine wears the snow, as head Of Ethiop doth white turban wear.

III.

The floods are armed with silver shields, Through which the Sun’s sword cannot fare;

IV.

For he who trod heaven’s middle road In golden arms, on golden chair,

Now through small corner of the sky Creeps low, nor warms the foggy air.

VI.

To mutter ’twixt their teeth the streams, In icy fetters, scarcely dare.

VII.

Hushed is the busy hum of life; ’Tis silence in the earth and air.

VIII.

From mountains issues the gaunt wolf, And from its forest depths the bear.

IX.

Where is the garden’s beauty now? The thorn is here; the rose, oh! where?

The trees, like giant skeletons, Wave high their fleshless arms and bare;

XI.

Or stand like wrestlers, stripped and bold, And wildest winds to battle dare.

XII.

It seems a thing impossible That earth its glories should repair;

XIII.

That ever this bleak world again Should bright and beauteous mantle wear,

XIV.

Or sounds of life again be heard In this dull earth and vacant air.

II.

SPRING.

Who was it that so lately said, All pulses in thine heart were dead,

II.

Old Earth, that now in festal robes Appearest, as a bride new wed?

III.

Oh wrapt so late in winding-sheet, Thy winding-sheet, oh! where is fled?

IV.

Lo! ’tis an emerald carpet now Where the young monarch, Spring, may tread.

He comes,—and, a defeated king, Old Winter, to the hills is fled.

VI.

The warm wind broke his frosty spear, And loosed the helmet from his head;

VII.

And he weak showers of arrowy sleet For his strongholds has vainly sped.

VIII.

All that was sleeping is awake, And all is living that was dead.

IX.

Who listens now, can hear the streams Leap tinkling down their pebbly bed,

Or see them, from their fetters free, Like silver snakes the meadows thread.

XI.

The joy, the life, the hope of earth, They slept awhile, they were not dead:

XII.

Oh thou, who say’st thy sere heart ne’er With verdure can again be spread;

XIII.

Oh thou, who mournest them that sleep, Low lying in an earthy bed;

XIV.

Look out on this reviving world, And be new hopes within thee bred.

III.

SUMMER.

Now seems all nature to conspire As to dissolve the world in fire,

II.

Which dies among its odorous sweets, A Phœnix on its funeral pyre.

III.

Simoom breathes hotly from the waste, The green earth quits its green attire;

IV.

Floats o’er the plain the liquid heat, Cheating the traveller’s fond desire—

Illusion fair of lake and stream, Receding as he draweth nigher.

VI.

Ice is more precious now than gold, Snow more than silver men desire.

VII.

’Tis far to seek unfailing wells For tender maid or aged sire;

VIII.

Men know the worth of water now, And learn to prize God’s blessing higher;

IX.

The shallow pools have disappeared, Caked into iron is the mire.

Through clouds of dust the crimson sun Glares on the earth in lurid ire;

XI.

The parchèd earth with thirsty lips Is gasping, ready to expire.

XII.

Oh happy, who by liquid streams In shady gardens can retire,

XIII.

Where murmuring falls and whispering trees Sweet slumber to invite conspire;

XIV.

Or where he may deceive the time With volume sage, or pensive lyre.

IV.

AUTUMN.

Thine, Autumn, is unwelcome lore— To tell the world its pomp is o’er:

II.

To whisper in the rose’s ear That all her beauty is no more;

III.

And bid her own the faith how vain, Which Spring to her so lately swore.

IV.

A queen deposed, she quits her state; The nightingales her fall deplore:

The hundred-voicèd bird may woo The thousand-leavèd flower no more.

VI.

The jasmine sinks its head in shame, The sharp east wind its tresses shore;

VII.

And robbed in passing cruelly The tulip of the crown it wore.

VIII.

The lily’s sword is broken now, That was so bright and keen before;

IX.

And not a blast can blow, but strews With leaf of gold the earth’s dank floor.

The piping winds sing Nature’s dirge As through the forest bleak they roar,

XI.

Whose leafy screen, like locks of eld, Each day shows scantier than before.

XII.

Thou fadest as a flower, O man! Of food for musing here is store.

XIII.

O man! thou fallest as a leaf: Pace thoughtfully earth’s leaf-strewn floor;

XIV.

Welcome the sadness of the time, And lay to heart this natural lore.

MOSES AND JETHRO.

When Moses once on Horeb’s rocky steep, A banished man, was keeping Jethro’s sheep, What time his flocks along the hills and dells Made music with their bleatings and their bells, He by the thoughts that stirred within him, drawn Deep in the mountain, heard at early dawn One who in prayer did all his soul outpour, With deep heart-earnestness, but nothing more. For strange his words were, savage and uncouth, And little did he know in very sooth Of that great Lord, to whom his vows were made. The other for a moment listening staid, Until, his patience altogether spent— “Good friend, for whom are these same noises meant? For him, who dwells on high? this babbling vain, Which vexes even a man’s ear with pain? Oh, stop thy mouth—thou dost but heap up sin, Such prayer as this can no acceptance win, But were enough to make God’s blessings cease.” Rebuked, the simple herdsman held his peace, And only crying—“Thou hast rent my heart,” He fled into the desert far apart: While with himself, and with his zeal content, His steps the Son of Amram homeward bent, And ever to himself applauses lent— Much wondering that he did not find the same From his adopted sire, but rather blame, Who having heard, replied—

“Was this well done? What wouldst thou have to answer, O my son, If God should say in anger unto thee— ‘Why hast thou driven my worshipper from me, Why hast thou robbed me of my dues of prayer? Well pleasing offering in my sight they were, And music in mine ears, if not in thine’— He doth its bounds to every soul assign, Its voice, its language—using which to tell His praise, he counts that it doth praise him well; And when there is a knocking at heaven’s gate, And at its threshold many suppliants wait, Then simple Love will often enter in, While haughty Science may no entrance win. Thus while his words were rougher husks than thine, They yet might keep a kernel more divine,— Rude vessel guarding a more precious wine.

“_All_ prayer is childlike—falls as short of HIM The wisdom of the wisest Seraphim, As the child’s small conceit of heavenly things; A line to sound his depths no creature brings. Before the Infinite, the One, the All, Must every difference disappear and fall, There is no wise nor simple, great nor small. For him the little clod of common earth Has to the diamond no inferior worth; Nor doth the Ocean, world-encompassing, Unto his thought more sense of vastness bring Than tiny dew-drop—atoms in his eye A sun, and a sun-mote, dance equally: Not that the great (here understand aright) Is worthless as the little in his sight, Rather the little precious as the great, And, pondered in his scales, of equal weight: So that herein lies comfort—not despair, As though we were too little for his care.

“God is so great, there can be nothing small To him—so loving he embraces all,— So wise, the wisdom and simplicity Of man for him must on a level be: But while all this, more prompt to feel the wrong, And to resent it with displeasure strong, When from him there is rudely, proudly turned The meanest soul that loved him, and that yearned After his grace—oh, haste then and begone, Rebuild the altar thou hast overthrown; Replace the offering which on that did stand, Till rudely scattered by thy hasty hand— Removing, if thou canst, what made it rise A faulty and imperfect sacrifice. And henceforth, in this gloomy world and dark, Prize every taper yielding faintest spark, And if perchance it burn not clear and bright, Snuff, if thou canst, but do not quench it quite.”

PROVERBS

TURKISH AND PERSIAN.

All skirts extended of thy mantle hold, When angel hands from heav’n are scattering gold.

II.

Sects seventy-two, they say, the world infest, And each and all lie hidden in thy breast.

III.

One staff of Moses, slight as it appears, Aye breaks in shivers Pharaoh’s thousand spears.

IV.

Forget not Death, O man! for thou mayst be Of one thing certain,—he forgets not thee.

Speaks one of good which falls not to thy lot, He also speaks of ill which thou hast not.

VI.

Boast not thy service rendered to the King, ’Tis grace enough he lets thee service bring.

VII.

Lies once thy cart in quagmire overthrown, Thy path to thee by thousands will be shown.

VIII.

Oh square thyself for use—a stone that may Fit in the wall, is left not in the way.

IX.

Never the game has happy issue won, Which with the cotton has the fire begun.

The world’s great wheel in silence circles round, An housewife’s spindle with unceasing sound.

XI.

Who doth the raven for a guide invite, Must marvel not on carcases to light.

XII.

The king but with one apple maketh free, And straight his servants have cut down the tree.

XIII.

Two friends will in a needle’s eye repose, But the whole world is narrow for two foes.

XIV.

Rejoice not when thine enemy doth die, Thou hast not won immortal life thereby.

XV.

Be bold to bring forth fruit—though stick and stone At the fruit-bearing trees are flung alone.

XVI.

All things that live from God their sustenance wait, And sun and moon are beggars at his gate.

XVII.

While in thy lips thy words thou dost confine, Thou art their lord—once uttered, they are thine.

XVIII.

Boldly thy bread upon the waters throw, And if the fishes do not, God will know.

XIX.

What will not time and toil—? through these a worm Will into silk a mulberry leaf transform.

XX.

When what thou willest has befall’n not, still This help remains, what has befall’n to will.

XXI.

The lily with ten tongues can hold its peace; Wilt thou with one from babbling never cease?

XXII.

How shall the praise of silence best be told? To speak is silver, to hold peace is gold.

XXIII.

Thy word unspoken thou canst any day Speak, but thy spoken ne’er again unsay.

XXIV.

O babbler, couldst thou but the cause divine Why one tongue only, but two ears are thine!

XXV.

What mystic roses in thy breast will blow, If on the wind their leaves thou straightway strow!

The good that one man flings aside That in his discontent and pride He treads on, and rejects no less. Out of his count of happiness, Another wiser, even from this Would build an edifice of bliss, For whose fair shelter he would pay Glad offerings of praise alway.

This truth a Sage had need to learn— This we may by his aid discern Who once, reduced to last distress, Was culling a few herbs to dress, With these his hunger to allay; And flinging, as he went his way, The coarse and outer leaves aside, With rising discontent he cried, “I marvel if at all there be A wretch so destitute as me The wide world over.”—This he said, And turning (not by chance) his head, Behind him saw another sage, Whom a like office did engage, Who followed with weak steps behind, Seeking, like him, a meal to find, But who, with anxious quest and pain, To gather up the leaves was fain, By him rejected with disdain.

Nor other lesson he would teach, The Poet in his Persian speech, Who tells how through the desert he Was toiling once, how painfully! While his unsandalled naked feet Were scorched and blistered by the heat Of fiery sands—and harsh and hard He did his destiny regard; And evil thoughts did in him stir, That he, a faithful worshipper, A pilgrim to God’s holy fane, Should such necessities sustain. Nor did a better mood succeed, With glad endurance of his need, Nor saw he what of sin was pent In murmuring heart and malcontent, Till entering a low chapel, there One prostrate on his face in prayer He marked, and unto him espied Not shoes alone, but feet denied.

LOVE.

Love is it, Love divine, that hath an impulse lent To man, and beast, and worm, and every element.

II.

All riddles Love can solve, all mysteries unfold; Ask what thou wilt, and Love the answer will present.

III.

I asked the circling heavens why they so swiftly moved: Round Love’s eternal throne they ever wheeling went.

IV.

I asked the waves what made their murmurs never cease: Shall we in Love’s great hymn with silence be content?

I asked the bickering fire when it would climb no more: When with the fire above in Love’s communion blent.

VI.

Night asked I why she hung the world with darkness round: To consecrate the world for Love a bridal tent.

VII.

I asked the Westwind why it breathed so soft and warm: All roses to unfold for Love the Westwind meant.

VIII.

I sought for some escape from the labyrinth of Love; And found my bliss was there to be for ever pent.

IX.

O soul, that until now hast sullenly refused Thy portion in Love’s joy, O sullen heart, relent;

Oh! see Love’s mighty dance, oh! hear its choral hymn; Stand up—in dance and hymn to take thy part consent.

THE FALCON.

High didst thou once in honour stand, The falcon on a Prince’s hand:

II.

Thine eye, unhooded and unsealed, All depths of being pierced and scanned:

III.

All worlds of space, from end to end, Thy never-wearied pinion spanned.

IV.

O falcon of the spiritual heaven— Entangled in an earthly band,

While all too eagerly thy prey Pursuing in a lower land—

VI.

In hope abide;—thy Monarch yet For thy release shall give command,

VII.

And bid thee to resume again Thy place upon thy Monarch’s hand.

LIFE THROUGH DEATH.

A pagan King tormented fiercely all Who would not on his senseless idols call, Nor worship them:—and him were brought before, A mother and her child, with many more. The child, fast bound, was flung into the flame, Her faith the mother did in fear disclaim: But when she cried—“O sweetest! live as I,” He answered—“Mother dear, I do not die; Come, mother, bliss of heaven is here my gain, Although I seem to you in fiery pain. This fire serves only for your eyes to cheat, Like Jesus’ breath of balm ’tis cool and sweet. Come—learn what riches with our God are stored, And how he feeds me at the angelic board. Come, prove this fire—like water-floods it cools, While your world’s water burns like sulphur pools. Come—Abraham’s secret, when he found alone Sweet roses in the furnace, here is known. Into a world of death thou barest me, O mother, death, not life, I owed to thee. Fair world I deemed it once of glorious pride, Till in this furnace I was deified; But now I know it for a dungeon-tomb, Since God has brought me into larger room. Oh! now at length I live—from my pure heaven Each cloud, that stained it once, away is driven: Come, mother, come, and with thee many bring; Cry, ‘Here is spread the banquet of the King;’ Come, all ye faithful—come, and dare to prove The bitter-sweet, the pain and bliss of love.”

So cried the child unto that crowd of men; All hearts with fiery longings kindled then; Towàrd the pile they headlong rushing came, And soon their souls fed sweetly on the flame.

II.

A dew-drop falling on the wild sea wave, Exclaimed in fear—“I perish in this grave;” But in a shell received, that drop of dew Unto a pearl of marvellous beauty grew; And, happy now, the grace did magnify Which thrust it forth—as it had feared, to die;— Until again, “I perish quite,” it said, Torn by rude diver from its ocean bed: O unbelieving!—so it came to gleam Chief jewel in a Monarch’s diadem.

III.

The seed must die, before the corn appears Out of the ground, in blade and fruitful ears. Low must those ears by sickle’s edge be lain, Ere thou canst treasure up the golden grain. The grain is crushed, before the bread is made, And the bread broke, ere life to man conveyed. Oh! be content to die, to be laid low, And to be crushed, and to be broken so; If thou upon God’s table may’st be bread, Life-giving food for souls an-hungerèd.

THE WORLD.

“O beauteous world! what features fair Thine needs would show beyond compare, If it were possible to find Thy glories all in one combined! Show me, O Lord, the world—the bright Fair world reveal unto my sight.”

This prayer the youth had made, whose way Soon after through the desert lay, Where he far off a woman spied, Wandering, by none accompanied. “Who art thou?” he exclaimed.—“In me See her whom thou hast longed to see.” —“What meanest thou?” More plain reply This time she made—“The world am I.” —“Then let me see thy countenance fair, Which doth so many hearts ensnare.” She from her face the veil withdrew, And straight the hidden was in view, A visage painted all and bleared, Where signs of lust and hate appeared: One bloody hand she raised on high, Crooked was the other and awry. “How? what is this?” he shuddering Exclaimed—“Who art thou, loathsome thing?” “I with this bloody hand,” she said, “Do ever strike my lovers dead: The other hand its shape has won With beckoning yet more lovers on; Those ever hurl I forth with might, And these with flatteries I invite. Even I admire, while thus I show, I never lack of lovers know.” —“But tell me yet, how this may be, That when such thousands wait on thee Already, thou dost ever seek More lovers still?” She then did speak: “Though these are thousands, never yet A man among them have I met; Who rightly bear of man the name, My company avoid like shame; And thus remain I desolate, Even while on me such thousands wait.”

My brother, let her answer be Deep graven on thy memory: A man, my brother, wouldst thou prove, Far keep thee from this woman’s love.

THE MONK AND SINNER.

In days of old, when holy Prophets trod This earth, the living oracles of God, What time one such his mission did fulfil, There lived a youth, a prodigy of ill: So foul the tablets of his heart and black, That Satan’s self from them had started back. Him as the plague sought every soul to shun, At him in horror pointed every one; And in the city, where this sinful youth All bosoms filled with horror or with ruth, In the same city dwelt a Monk as well, Round whom all crowded when he left his cell. Great name for prayer and penance he had gained, And he one day that Prophet entertained: When in their sight this sinner did appear, Who yet for awe presumed not to draw near, But falling back, like moth from stunning light, Lay on the ground, as blinded by their sight. And as in spring relents the frozen ground, Even so it seemed as though his heart unbound, Streamed from his eyes like loosened floods the tears: “Woe’s me,” he cried; “for thirty guilty years— My life’s best treasure have I spent in vain, And death and hell are now my only gain. I totter on a dark chasm’s dreadful brink, Hell’s jaws are yawning for me, and I sink: Yet since none ever thou didst from thee cast, I stretch my hands to thee; Lord, hold them fast.”

But here the Monk with lifted eyebrows—“Peace, Blasphemer,—from thy useless clamors cease: And darest thou, thus steeped in sin, make free With him, God’s holy Prophet, and with me? My God, this one thing grant me, that I may Stand far from this man on the judgment day.”— More he had said, but on the Prophet broke Swift inspiration, and he straightway spoke: “Two here have prayed—diverse has been their prayer, Yet granted both their supplications are. He who in mire of sin now thirty years Has rolled, forgiveness asks with many tears: Ne’er yet his head has contrite sinner lain Upon the threshold of God’s throne in vain. All he has sinned to him shall be forgiven, Whom God has chose a denizen of heaven. That monk has prayed upon the other hand That he may never near this sinner stand; That this may be so, hell his place must be, Where never more this sinner he shall see. Whose robe is white, but heart is black with pride, He for himself hell’s gate has opened wide, For weighed in God the All-sufficient’s scale, Not claims nor righteousness of man avail; But these are costly in his sight indeed,— Repentance, poverty, and sense of need.”

What, thou askest, is the heaven, and the round earth and the sea, And their dwellers, men and angels,—if with God compared they be?

II.

Heaven and earth, and men and angels, all that anywhere is named, Matched with him, lose name and being, and to nothing shrink ashamed.

III.

So ’tis seen when this world’s Sultan in his glory forth doth ride, Highest, lowest, beggars, Emirs, all alike their faces hide.

IV.

Its unnumbered billows rolling, great to thee the Ocean seems; Great the Sun, from golden fountains pouring out a flood of beams:

Yet the faithful, God-enlightened, know another wonderland, Where the Ocean is a dew-drop, and the Sun a grain of sand.

VI.

In the forest’s dark recesses hast thou marked the glow-worm’s light, In a green dell unbeholden, twinkling through the storm and night?

VII.

Once a pilgrim said—“O gentle star, that shinest nightly, say, Why dost thou appear not ever in the bright and sunny day?”

VIII.

Hear what then the gentle glow-worm answered from its mouth of fire,— “In the gloomy forest shine I, but before the sun expire.”

THE SUPPLIANT.

All night the lonely suppliant prayed, All night his earnest crying made, Till standing by his side at morn, The Tempter said in bitter scorn, “Oh! peace:—what profit do you gain From empty words and babblings vain? ‘Come, Lord—oh, come!’ you cry alway; You pour your heart out night and day; Yet still no murmur of reply,— No voice that answers, ‘Here am I.’”

Then sank that stricken heart in dust, That word had withered all its trust; No strength retained it now to pray, While Faith and Hope had fled away And ill that mourner now had fared, Thus by the Tempter’s art ensnared, But that at length beside his bed His sorrowing Angel stood, and said,— “Doth it repent thee of thy love, That never now is heard above Thy prayer, that now not any more It knocks at heaven’s gate as before?”

—“I am cast out—I find no place, No hearing at the throne of grace. ‘Come, Lord—oh, come!’ I cry alway, I pour my heart out night and day, Yet never until now have won The answer,—‘Here am I, my son.’”

—“Oh, dull of heart! enclosed doth lie, In each ‘Come, Lord,’ an ‘Here am I.’ Thy love, thy longing, are not thine— Reflections of a love divine: Thy very prayer to thee was given, Itself a messenger from heaven. Whom God rejects, they are not so; Strong bands are round them in their woe; Their hearts are bound with bands of brass, That sigh or crying cannot pass. All treasures did the Lord impart To Pharaoh, save a contrite heart: All other gifts unto his foes He freely gives, nor grudging knows; But Love’s sweet smart, and costly pain, A treasure for his friends remain.”

THE PANTHEIST;

OR,

THE ORIGIN OF EVIL.

One who in subtle questions took delight Came running to my lodging late one night, And straight began:—“Wilt thou affirm that sin Had in man’s will its root and origin, When that will did itself from God proceed? Whate’er then followed, he must have decreed. If evil, then, be not against God’s will, ’Tis wrongly named, it is not truly ill. Rather the world a chess-board we should name, And God both sides is playing of the game: Moses and Pharaoh _seem_ opposed, for they Do thus God’s greatness on two sides display; They seem opposed, but at the root are one, And each his part allotted has well done; And that which men so blindly evil call, And hate and fear and shun, is, after all, Only as those discordant notes whereby Well-skilled musicians heighten melody;— But as the dark ground cunning painters lay, To bring the bright hues into clearer day: ’Tis good, as yet imperfect, incomplete— Fruit that is sour, while passing on to sweet.”

Then I, who knew the world had travelled o’er This line of thought a thousand times before, Would all debate have willingly put by, Yet with this tale at last must make reply:— “The head of Seid his comrade struck one day— Seid meant the blow in earnest to repay; But then the striker—‘Pardon, friend, the blow— I am inquiring, and two things would know: See, when my hand did on your head alight, Straight various bruises there appeared in sight. Now, prithee, give me a reply to this, If head or hand their ultimate cause is? And if you really do with them agree Who but in pain a lesser pleasure see?’ Seid then—‘O fool! my agony is great, And think’st thou I can idly speculate?’” “The same I say;—let him display his skill On the world’s woe, who does not feel its ill; Let speculate the man who feels no pain, To whom the world is all a pageant vain— An empty show, stretched out that he may sit, And crying ‘Fie!’ or ‘Bravo!’ show his wit. Me the deep feeling of its mighty woe Robs of all wish herein my skill to show; I only know that evil is no dream— A thing that is, and does not merely seem: Nor ask I now who open left the well, Whereinto, walking carelessly, I fell; Not how I stumbled in the well, but how I may get out, is all my question now.”

GHAZEL.

What is the good man and the wise? Ofttimes a pearl which none doth prize;

II.

Or jewel rare, which men account A common pebble, and despise.

III.

Set forth upon the world’s bazaar, It mildly gleams, but no one buys,

IV.

Till it in anger Heaven withdraws From the world’s undiscerning eyes:

And in its shell the pearl again, And in its mine the jewel lies.

THE RIGHTEOUS OF THE WORLD.

The Rabbis, who devise strange dooms of wrath and ill, For them who knew not here God’s perfect law and will, Yet these have told how they, as many as with true And faithful heart fulfilled and loved the good they knew, The Righteous of the world shall once delivered be From darkness, and brought in God’s countenance to see: Which thing they thus recount:—It shall befall one day In those eternal courts where it is day alway, Before him will the Just sit ranged in order meet, The holy Angels all will stand upon their feet, And while they hymn the praise, the glory and the worth Of him who by a word created heaven and earth, Will ever high and higher be borne and swept along Heaven’s azure-vaulted roofs the full concent of song: Then will that mighty voice of jubilee be heard, Until from end to end the spacious world is stirred, Until even those that lie excluded from his face, The Righteous of the world who knew not of his grace And law, while living—now will triumph in his name, And with their loud Amen will join the glad acclaim.

Then he who knoweth all, yet purposing to show His goodness, will demand from whence these voices grow. The ministering angels then will answer and will say, The while they veil for awe their faces—“These are they Who did not know thy law while living, and for this They lie in hell remote from glory and from bliss; They cry Amen from thence.”—But he will of his grace Compassion take on them and on their mournful case, Will give the golden key from heaven’s crystal floors, Which opens with a touch hell’s forty thousand doors, To Michael, mighty prince:—but he will fly amain, On mercy’s errand swift, with all the angelic train. Hell’s forty thousand gates will open at his word, Its narrow chambers deep with expectation stirred. And as a man draws up his neighbour from a pit, When he shall have therein through evil hap alit, The prisoners he will draw from dungeons where they lay, And extricating lift from the deep and miry clay,— Will wash and cleanse their wounds where they have plaguèd been, And clothe in garments white, and beautiful and clean; And taking by the hand, will lead them to the gate Of Paradise, where they must for a moment wait. Till there with leave brought in, they fall upon their face, And worship God, and praise and magnify his grace: While all that had before their places round the throne, Will give new thanks for this new mercy he has shown, And by new voices swelled, and higher and more strong, Ring through the vaults of heaven the full concent of song.

MAXIMS.

“Who truly strives?” they asked.—Then one replied, “The man who owns no other goal, beside The throne of God, and till he there arrives Allows himself no rest, he truly strives.”

II.

Honour each thing for that it once may be, In bud the rose, in egg the chicken see: Bright butterfly behold in hideous worm, And trust that man enfolds an angel form.

III.

Aye let humility thy garment be, Which never suffer to be drawn from thee, Although a Chosroes’ mantle in its stead By Fortune’s hand to thee were offerèd.

IV.

A pebble thrown into the mighty sea Sinks and disturbs not its tranquillity— No ocean, but a shallow pool, the man, Whom every little wrong disquiet can.

THE TRUE FRIEND.

He is a friend who, treated as a foe, Now even more friendly than before doth show: Who to his brother still remains a shield, Although a sword for him his brother wield; Who of the very stones against him cast, Builds friendship’s altar higher and more fast.

VI.

PRIDE.

With needle’s point more easily you will Uproot and quite unfasten a huge hill, Than from the bosom you will dig up pride; And the ant’s footfall sooner is descried, On black earth moving in the darkest night, Than are pride’s secret movements brought to light.

THE FALCON’S REWARD.

Beneath the fiery cope of middle day The youthful Prince, his train left all behind With eager ken gazed round him every way, If springing well he anywhere might find.

II.

His favourite falcon, from long aëry flight Returning, and from quarry struck at last, Told of the chase, which with its keen delight Had thus allured him on so far and fast,—

III.

Till gladly he had welcomed in his drought The dullest pool that gathered in the rain— But such, or fount of clearer wave, he sought Long through that land of barrenness in vain.

IV.

What pleasure when, slow stealing o’er a rock, He spied the glittering of a little rill, Which yet, as if his burning thirst to mock, Did its rare treasures drop by drop distil.

A golden goblet from his saddle-bow He loosed, and from his steed alighted down, To wait until that fountain, trickling slow, Shall in the end his golden goblet crown.

VI.

When set beside the promise of that draught, How poor had seemed to him the costliest wine, That ever with its beaded bubbles laughed,— When set beside that nectar more divine.

VII.

The brimming vessel to his lips at last He raised, when, lo! the falcon on his hand, With beak’s and pinion’s sudden impulse, cast That cup’s rare treasure all upon the sand.

VIII.

Long was it ere that fountain, pulsing slow, Caused once again that chalice to run o’er; When, thinking no like hindrance now to know, He raised it to his parchèd lips once more:

IX.

Once more, as if to cross his purpose bent, The watchful bird,—as if on this one thing, That drink he should not of that stream, intent,— Struck from his hand the cup with eager wing.

But when this new defeat his purpose found, Swift penalty this time the bird must pay; Hurled down with angry force upon the ground, Before her master’s feet in death she lay:

XI.

And he, twice baffled, did meanwhile again From that scant rill to slake his thirst prepare; When, down the crags descending, of his train One cried, “O Monarch, for thy life forbear!

XII.

“Coiled in these waters at their fountain head, And causing them so feebly to distil, A poisonous snake of hugest growth lies dead, And doth with venom all the streamlet fill.”

XIII.

Dropped from his hand the cup;—one look he cast Upon the faithful bird before his feet, Whose dying struggles now were almost past, For whom a better guerdon had been meet;

XIV.

Then homeward rode in silence many a mile:— But if such thoughts did in his bosom grow, As did in mine the painfulness beguile Of that his falcon’s end, what man can know?

XV.

I said, “Such chalices the world fills up For us, and bright and without bale they seem— A sparkling potion in a jewelled cup, Nor know we drawn from what infected stream.

XVI.

“Our spirit’s thirst they promise to assuage, And we those cups unto our death had quaffed, If Heaven did not in dearest love engage To dash the chalice down, and mar the draught.

XVII.

“Alas for us, if we that love are fain With wrath and blind impatience to repay, Which nothing but our weakness doth restrain,— As he repaid his faithful bird that day;

XVIII.

“If an indignant eye we lift above, To lose some sparkling goblet ill content, Which, but for that keen watchfulness of love, Swift certain poison through our veins had sent.”

THE CONVERSION OF ABRAHAM.

Fond heart, when learnest thou to say, I love not pomps that fade away, Nor glories that decay and wane, Nor lights that rise to set again? When wilt thou turn where Abraham turned, And learn the lesson Abraham learned? Beyond the river while he dwelt, He with his kin to idols knelt, And nightly gazing on the sky, Worshipped the starry host on high. But when he saw their splendours fail, And that bright multitude grow pale, He left them, and adored the moon; But she too wanly wanèd soon. Baffled, he knelt unto the sun; But when _his_ race of light was done, He cried, “To such no vows I bring— I worship not the perishing!” And turned him to the God, whose hand Made sun, and moon, and starry band— An everlasting Light, in whom Decrease and shadow find no room.

SONNET.

What child of dust with glory was arrayed Like Solomon?—his bidding, while he stood In his obedience and first state of good, The upper and the under worlds obeyed— All spirits, good and evil; yea, he made Hell’s concourse and involuntary brood Do drudging work for him—hew stones, bring wood, And in the rearing of God’s temple aid. But when he fell from God, the self-same hour They fell from him—against him dared to turn, Defied his might, his ring, his seal of power; Made him the subject of their mock and scorn; While before them he now must crouch and cower, Of strength and wisdom, as of goodness, shorn.

THE DEAD DOG.

For the man whose heart and eye Are made wise by charity, Something will appear always That may have his honest praise; There will glimmer points of light In the darkest, saddest night. Thus a crowd once gathered round The dead carcase of an hound; Flung upon the open way, In the market-place it lay; And the idle multitude, Vulture-like, around it stood, One exclaiming, “I declare That he poisons quite the air:” But the next, “He is not worth Pains of putting under earth;” And against the poor dead thing Each in turn his stone must fling: Till one wiser passing by, Just exclaimed, while eagerly They were venting each his spite,— “See his teeth, how pearly white!” Straight the others, with self-blame, Shrunk away in silent shame.

Fair vessel hast thou seen with honey filled, Which is no sooner opened, than descend Upon the clammy sweets by bees distilled A troop of flies, quick swarming without end?

II.

Yet these when one doth fan away and beat, Such as had lighted with a fearful care On the jar’s edge, nor cumbered wings and feet, Lightly they mount into the upper air.

III.

But all that headlong plunged those sweets among, No flight is theirs, in cloying sweetness bound; The heavy toils have all around them clung, In woful surfeiting their lives are drowned.

IV.

Such vessel is this world—fanned evermore By death’s dark Angel with his mighty wing; Then all that had in pleasure’s honied store Their spirits sunk, they upward cannot spring.

Only they mount who, on this vessel’s side With heed alighting, had with extreme lip Just ventured, there while suffered to abide, Its sweets in measure and with fear to sip.

FRAGMENTS.

THE CERTAINTY OF FAITH.

What thou of God and of thyself dost know, So know that none can force thee to forego; For oh! his knowledge is a worthless art, Which, while it forms not of himself a part, The foremost man he meets with readier skill In sleight of words, can rob him of at will. Faith feels not of _her_ lore more sure nor less, If all the world deny it or confess: Did the whole world exclaim, “Like Solomon, Thou sittest high on Wisdom’s noblest throne,” She would not, than before, be surer then, Nor draw more courage from the assent of men. Or did the whole world cry, “Oh, fond and vain! What idle dream is this which haunts thy brain?” To the whole world Faith boldly would reply, “The whole world can, but I can never, lie.”

II.

MAN’S TWOFOLD NATURE.

An hen, though such tame creatures mostly are, Yet once received a water-bird in care; Its mother-instinct drew the fledgling still To the wide ocean floods to roam at will; Its timid nurse, upon the other hand, Sought evermore to lead it back to land. O Man! thy mother, Heaven, thy nurse is Earth, And thou of both wert nurtured from thy birth; From thy true mother comes thine impulse free To launch forth boldly upon being’s sea; While aye thy nurse fears for thee, and would fain Thee to a narrow slip of dry restrain.

III.

SCIENCE AND LOVE.

Who that might watch the moon in heaven, would look At its weak image in the water-brook? Who were content, that might in presence stand Of one beloved, with letters from his hand? When thou hast learned the name, hast thou the thing? What life to thee will definitions bring? Will the four letters, R, O, S, and E, The rose’s hues and fragrance bring to thee? Feed not on husks, but these strip off and feed On the rich kernel, which is food indeed. Say, who of choice would wash in arid sand, While limpid streams were bubbling close at hand? Bare Science is dry sand;—thy spirit’s wings Bathe thou in Love’s delicious water-springs. Be thou the bee, which ever to its cell Not wax alone, but honey brings as well: Good is the wax for light, but better still What will thine hive with storèd sweetness fill.

IV.

The business of the world is child’s play mere; Too many, ah! the children playing here: Their pleasure and their woe, their loss and gain, Alike mean nothing, and alike are vain; As children’s, who, to pass the time away, Build up their booths, and buy and sell in play; But homeward hungering must at eve repair, And standing leave their booths with all their ware: So the world’s children, when _their_ night is come, With empty satchels turn them sadly home.

Sage, that would’st maker of thine own God be, When made, alas! what will he profit thee? Most like art thou to children that astride On reeds or wooden horses proudly ride; And as they trail them on the ground, they cry, “This is the lightning, and its Lord am I!” Yet, while they deem their horses them upbear, Themselves the bearers of their horses are; And when they grow aweary of their course, They find no strength in them, no help, no force. How otherwise they fare—how fresh, how strong, Not of themselves, but borne of God along! How jubilant to him they lift their head, Till the ninth heaven shakes underneath their tread!

VI.

Man, the caged bird that owned an higher nest, Is here awhile detained, reluctant guest, Who beak and plumage shatters in his rage, And with his prison doth vain war engage: For him the falcon watches, and his snare The bloody fowler doth for him prepare. Exiled from home, he here doth sadly sing, In spring lacks autumn, and in autumn spring. Far from his nest, he shivers on a wall, Where blows on him of rude misfortune fall— His head with weight of misery sore bowed down, His pinion clogged with dust, his courage gone. Then from his nest in heaven is heard a cry, And straight he spreads his wings divine on high: Lift him, O Lord, unto the Lotus tree, No meaner pitch may with his birth agree; Grant him a pinion of such lofty flight, That he may on the Lotus tree alight: In thy bright palaces his nest prepare;— Oh, happy, happy bird that nesteth there!

NOTES

THE POEMS FROM EASTERN SOURCES.

Page 3.

ALEXANDER AT THE GATES OF PARADISE.

See Eisenmenger’s “Entdecktes Judenthum,” v. ii. p. 321, with whom I trust that my readers will not agree, for he has scarcely patience to finish this “narrische Talmudische Fabel,” as he styles it. It reappears, slightly modified, in the Persian tradition, according to which Alexander, having conquered the world, determined to seek out the fountain of life. See the following note. In like manner, in the Christian poems of the middle ages, Alexander is made to recognise at last the vanity and emptiness of all the glory which he has won, and is hardly turned from his purpose of going forth at last in search of the lost Paradise. See Rosenkranz “Gesch. d. Deutschen Poesie in Mittelalter,” p. 367. Very notable is this making of Alexander, and no other—the man from whom the confession comes, that the world has not that which can truly satisfy man’s spirit, but that he still yearns for something beyond. It is like, in the Scripture, the same confession coming from the lips of Solomon; for in each case the experiment has been made under the most favourable circumstances: so that in one case, as in the other, it may be asked, “What can the man do that cometh after the king?”

P. 11.

CHIDHER’S WELL.

Of Chidher’s Well, the Eastern λουτρον παλιγγενεσιας, Von Hammer, in his very interesting introduction to his “History of Persian Poetry,” gives a good account. Among other things he says, “Cotemporary with Moses lived the Prophet Chiser, of whom some hold that he is the same with Elias, while others altogether distinguish them. He is one of the chief personages of Eastern Mythology, the ever-ready helper of the oppressed, the Genius of spring, the deliverer in peril, the admonisher of princes, the avenger of unrighteousness, the guide through the wilderness of the world, and, finally, the ever-youthful guardian of the fountain of life. As such he revives the youth of men, and beasts, and plants, gives back lost beauty, and in spring arrays the dead earth with its fresh garments of green. His fountain bestows on whosoever drinks it eternal beauty, youth, and wisdom. What wonder then that all mortals with burning desire seek it, though as yet not one, not even Alexander, the conqueror of the world, who, in quest of it, undertook an expedition into the land of darkness, has found it!” Probably this, his journey through the land of darkness, is but a mythic form of his expedition through the Libyan desert to the temple of Jupiter Ammon.

On this poem I may observe, that it is the first of several in the volume written with an arrangement of rhyme hardly familiar to the English reader, which yet is that of a great part, as I believe, of the lyric poetry of the East, and which may not, perhaps, be unworthy of a place among us. According to the laws of the Ghazel,—for poems in this metre are so entitled,—the two first lines must rhyme, and then this rhyme repeats itself in the second line of each succeeding couplet, which is, in fact, a new stanza, till the end of the poem,—the termination of the first line in each of these following couplets being left free. This single rule of the one repeated rhyme being observed, the Ghazel admits otherwise of the greatest possible variety; it may be composed, as is this present, in short trochaics, in longer or shorter iambics, or, in fact, in lines of whatsoever length or arrangement of syllables the poet will. In Germany, the Ghazel has been perfectly domesticated. Rückert and Count Platen are, I believe, considered to have cultivated it with the greatest success.

P. 14.

THE BANISHED KINGS.

See Rükert’s “Brahmanische Erzählungen,” p. 5. I am not aware whether the Parable is of his own constructing, or whether it be, as the name of the volume would intimate, derived from an Indian source.

P. 20.

THE SPILT PEARLS.

This story is from the Bustan of Saadi. See Tholuck’s “Blüthensammlung aus der Morgenländischen Mystik,” p. 239. With the moral of this story we may compare the memorable words of St. Bernard, when of God he says, “Ipse retributor, ipse retributio nostra, nec jam aliud quam ipsum expectamus ab ipso.”

P. 24.

THE BARMECIDES.

The anecdote on which this poem is founded is related by Sylvestre de Sacy in his “Chrestomathie Arabe,” v. ii. See also D’Herbelot’s “Bibliotheque Orientale,” s. v. Barmekian. For the sake of those who are as ignorant as myself of the Eastern languages I would remark, that “Al Raschid” is a title signifying The Just.

P. 35.

THE FESTIVAL.

This story also is to be found in the “Chrestomathie Arabe” (v. ii. p. 3) of Sylvestre de Sacy.

P. 41.

THE EASTERN NARCISSUS.

In the attempt made by the Neo-Platonists to put a new life into the old Grecian Mythology, Narcissus falling in love with his own image in the water-brook was made the symbol of man casting himself forth into the world of shows and appearances, and expecting to find the good that would answer to his nature there, but indeed finding nothing but disappointment and death.—The fable is Feridoddin Attar’s, who, born in 1216, perished in the invasion of Dschengischan at the beginning of the next century. The account of the manner in which he was converted to the life of contemplative piety is remarkable. He was originally a rich merchant of spices. A pious dervisch entered his warehouse and craved an alms. Ferid bade him to be gone. The dervisch answered, “That can I do easily, for I possess nothing save my hood; but thou, with so many heavy sacks, how wilt thou contrive to be gone when the hour of thy departure has arrived?” These words made so deep an impression on Ferid, that, from that moment, he gave up his worldly strivings, and dedicated himself to the spiritual life.

P. 55.

MOSES AND JETHRO.

This story is one among the many remarkable extracts which Tholuck, in his “Blüthensammlung aus d. Morg. Myst.,” has given (p. 128) from the poems of the chief of the mystical writers of Persia, Dschelaleddin Rumi. In his treating of the subject, however, that indifference to all positive religion, and all fixed forms and outlines of truth, which is the very essence of the Mystic, comes so strongly out, that I have been obliged to write the story anew, seeking to bring out that which is really its valuable part—that truth which a great Christian writer expressed when he said, “Sæpe amor intrat, ubi scientia foris stat.”

P. 64.

_The good that one man flings aside._

I must acknowledge that I have only assumed from internal evidence, that this story of the Sage gathering herbs is of Eastern origin, owing it myself to Calderon, who introduces it in his famous drama, “La Vida es Sueño.” The second incident of the rebuke which the pilgrim through the desert met with for his unthankfulness and discontent is related by Saadi in his “Rosarium,” and he tells it as having come upon himself.

P. 71.

LIFE THROUGH DEATH.

See Tholuck’s “Blüthensammlung &c.” p. 69. There can be no doubt that the poet has a deeper meaning than lies on the surface: the furnace is that of self-denial, which the natural man thinks will be death, but which, if he dares to prove, he finds to be life. Being willing to lose his life, he finds it.

In relation to v. 12, it may be needful to observe, that the Mahomedans believe it was in the breath of Christ that the healing virtue lay, by which his miraculous cures were effected. It is a tradition alike Jewish and Mahomedan, that Abraham was flung into the furnace by Nimrod, for refusing to worship his false gods; whereupon the flames, instead of scorching and consuming, were turned for him into a bed of jasmine and roses.

P. 74.

_The seed must die, before the corn appears._

Compare John xii. 24, “Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.”

P. 75.

THE WORLD.

See Von Hammer’s “Gesch. d. schönen Redekunst Persiens,” p. 236.

P. 78.

THE MONK AND SINNER.

It is difficult not to be struck with the deep moral resemblance which this story of Saadi’s bears to that related by St. Luke, ch. vii. 36-50. We have here reproduced to us the Pharisee and the woman that was a sinner, and all the deep relations of law and grace; and a reference to the original, or at least _my_ original, in Tholuck’s “Blüthensammlung &c.,” p. 251, will prove that I have not sought to throw upon it any colouring which it did not in itself already possess.

P. 81.

_What, thou askest, is the heaven_, &c.

See Tholuck’s “Blüthensammlung &c.,” p. 243.

P. 84.

THE SUPPLIANT.

See the same, p. 84. Even in the same spirit Augustine gives the reason why no true prayer can be unheard by God:—“quoniam ad ipsum redit, quod ab ipso processit.”

P. 87.

THE PANTHEIST.

The doctrine of evil as not indeed evil, but only an inferior kind of good, to which the Pantheist is of necessity driven, is wrought out with great skill and frequency by the Eastern Mystics—often comes out in their writings in its most offensive shapes. It is curious to notice how completely they have anticipated this view, which continually reappears in the philosophical systems of our own day, and is in them brought forward as some mighty discovery, as a key to all the perplexities of the actual world. See Tholuck’s “Saufismus,” p. 255, seq., and “Blüthensammlung &c.,” pp. 133, 145.

P. 91.

THE RIGHTEOUS OF THE WORLD.

See Eisenmenger’s “Entdeckt. Judenthum,” v. ii. p. 362.

P. 96.

THE FALCON’S REWARD.

This story, at its root so similar to that of Beth Gellert, is told in the “Calila and Dimna,” and I believe is to be found in many other quarters.

P. 101.

THE CONVERSION OF ABRAHAM.

See D’Herbelot’s “Biblioth. Orient.” s. v. Abraham.

P. 103.

SONNET.

See Eisenmenger’s “Entdeckt. Judenthum,” v. i. p. 355.

P. 104.

THE DEAD DOG.

See Von Hammer’s “Gesch. d. schön. Redek. Persiens,” p. 108.

P. 106.

_Fair vessel hast thou seen with honey filled._

This poem is also from the “Calila and Dimna.” With the main thought of it we may compare the beautiful lines of Prudentius:—

“Haud secus ac si olim per sudum lactea forte Lapsa columbarum nubes descendat in arvum Ruris frugiferi, laqueos ubi callidus auceps Prætendit, lentoque illevit vimina visco; Sparsit et insidias siliquis vel farre doloso. Illiciunt alias fallentia grana, gulamque Innectunt avidam tortæ retinacula setæ, Molle vel implicitas gluten circumligat alas: Ast aliæ, quas nullus amor prælectat edendi, Gressibus innocuis sterili spatiantur in herba, Suspectamque cavent oculos convertere ad escam. Mox ubi jam cœlo revolandum, pars petit æthram Libera sideream, plaudens super aëra pennis; Pars captiva jacet, laceris et saucia plumis Pugnat humi, et volucres nequicquam suspicit auras, Sic animas,” &c.

P. 113.

_Man, the caged bird that owned an higher nest._

See Von Hammer’s “Gesch. d. schön. Redek. Persiens,” p. 389.

THE STEADFAST PRINCE.

NOTE.

The subject of the following Poem was first suggested to me by Calderon’s noble drama, “El Principe Constante,” accessible not only to the Spanish, but, through Schlegel’s admirable translation, to the German scholar also: from it also I have derived the name. I am, however, much more indebted to a Life of the Prince, published at Berlin, 1827, which gives many original documents connected with the unfortunate expedition to Africa, and actual details of the captivity, and sufferings, and death of the Prince;—a little volume which strikingly exemplifies how far richer and deeper will oftentimes be the simple truth than any fiction, since all that even so great a poet as Calderon has imagined for the casting a glory round his Christian hero is weak and poor compared with the simple reality;—which, however, I may add, I have not so strictly followed but that I have felt myself at liberty to alter and modify the details as best suited my purpose.

It may be of interest to the English reader to know how much of English blood was in the veins of the Prince:—his mother, Philippa, who married John the First of Portugal, was sister to our fourth Henry.

THE STEADFAST PRINCE.

Only the best composed and worthiest hearts God sets to act the hard’st and constant’st parts.—DANIEL.