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PART  III

I

 
     Lo, how bright-eyed morn awaketh
       Tower and temple, nook and Nile;
     How the sun exultant maketh
       All the world return his smile!
 
 
     O'er the dry sand, vapour twinkleth,
     Like an eye when old age wrinkleth;
     While, along the watered shore
     Runs a river of gold ore.
 
 
     Temple-front and court resemble
       Mirrors swung in wavering light;
     While the tapering columns tremble
       At the view of their own height.
 

II

 
     Marble shaft, and granite portal,
     Statues of the Gods immortal
     Quiver, with their figures bent,
     In a liquid pediment
 
 
     Thence the flood-leat followeth swiftly,
       Where the peasant, spade in hand,
     Guideth many a runnel deftly
       Through his fruit and pasture-land;
 
 
     Oft, the irriguous bank cross-slicing,
     Plaited trickles he keeps enticing;
     Till their gravelly gush he feels,
     Overtaking his brown heels.
 

III

 
     Life—that long hath born the test of
       More than ours could bear, and live,
     Springs anew, to make the best of
       Every chance the Gods may give,
 
 
     Doum-tree stiffeneth flagging feather;
     Pate-leaves cease to cling together;
     Citrons clear their welted rind;
     Vines their mildewed sprays unwind.
 
 
     Gourds, and melons, spread new lustre
       On their veiny dull shagreen;
     While the starred pomegranates cluster
       Golden balls, with pink between.
 

IV

 
     Yea, but heaven hath ordered duly,
     Lest mankind should wax unruly,
     Egypt, garner of all lore,
     Narrow as a threshing-floor.
 
 
     East, and West, lies desolation,
       Infinite, untracked, untold
     Shroud for all of God's creation,
       When the wild blast lifts its fold;
 
 
     There eternal melancholy
     Maketh all delight unholy;
     As a stricken widow glides
     Past a group of laughing brides.
 
 
     Who is this, that so disdaineth
       Dome and desert, fear and fate;
     While his jewell'd horse he reineth.
       At Amen-Ra's temple-gate?
 
 
     He, who crushed the kings of Asia,
     Like a pod of colocasia;
     Whom the sons of Anak fled,
     Puling infants at his tread.
 
 
     Who, with his own shoulders, lifted
       Thrones of many a conquered land;
     Who the rocks of Scythia rifted—
       King Sesostris waves his hand
 

VI

 
     Blare of trumpet fills the valley;
     Slowly, and majestically,
     Swingeth wide, in solemn state,
     Lord Amen-Ra's temple-gate.
 
 
     Thence the warrior-host emeigeth,
       Casque, and corselet, spear, and shield;
     As the tide of red ore suigeth
       From the furnace-door revealed.
 
 
     After them, tumultuous rushing,
     Mob, and medley, crowd, and crushing;
     And the hungry file of priests,
     Loosely zoned for larger feasts.
 

VII

 
     "Look!" The whispered awe enhances
       With a thrill their merry treat;
     As one readeth grim romances,
       In a sunny window-seat
 
 
     "Look! It is the maid selected
     For the sacrifice expected:
     By the Gods, how proud and brave
     Steps she to her watery grave!"
 
 
     Strike up cymbals, gongs, and tabours,
       Clarions, double-flutes, and drums;
     All that bellows, or belabours,
       In a surging discord comes.
 

VIII

 
     Scarce Duke Iram can keep under
     His wild steed's disdain and wonder,
     While his large eyes ask alway—
     "Dareth man attempt to neigh?"
 
 
     He hath snuffed the great Sahara,
       And the mute parade of stars;
     Shall he brook this shrill fanfara,
       Ramshorns, pigskins, screechy jars?
 
 
     What hath he to do with rabble?
     Froth is better than their babble;
     Let him toss them flakes of froth,
     To pronounce his scorn and wrath.
 

IX

 
     With his nostrils fierce dilating,
       With his crest a curling sea,
     All his volumed power is waiting
       For the will, to set it free.
 
 
     "Peace, my friend!"   The touch he knoweth
     Calms his heart, howe'er it gloweth:
     Horse can shame a man, to quell
     Passion, where he loveth well.
 
 
     "Nay, endure we," saith the rider,
       "Till her plighted word be paid;
     Then, though Satan stand beside her,
       God shall help me swing this blade."
 

X

 
     Lo, upon the deep-piled dais,
     Wrought in hallowed looms of Sais,
     O'er the impetuous torrent's swoop,
     Stands the sacrificial group!
 
 
     Tall High-priest, with zealot fires
       Blazing in those eyeballs old,
     Swathes him, as his rank requires,
       Head to foot, in linen fold.
 
 
     Seven attendants round him vying,
     In a lighter vesture plying,
     Four with skirts, and other three
     Tunic'd short from waist to knee.
 

XI

 
     Free among them stands the maiden,
       Clad in white for her long rest;
     Crowned with gold, and jewel-laden,
       With a lily on her breast
 
 
     Lily is the mark that showeth
     Where that pure and sweet heart gloweth;
     Here must come, to shed her life,
     Point of sacrificial knife.
 
 
     Here the knife is, cold and gleaming,
       Here the colder butcher band.
     Was the true love nought but dreaming,
       Feeble heart, and coward hand?
 

XII

 
     Strength unto the weak is given,
     When their earthly bonds are riven;
     Ere the spirit is called away,
     Heaven begins its tranquil sway.
 
 
     Life hath been unstained, and therefore
       Pleasant to look back upon;
     But there is not much to care for,
       When the light of love is gone.
 
 
     Still, though love were twice as fleeting,
     Longeth she for one last greeting;
     If her eyes might only dwell
     Once on his, to say farewell
 

XIII

 
     "Glorious Hapi," spake Piromis,
       Lifting high his weapon'd hand;
     "Earth thy footstool, heaven thy dome is,
       We the pebbles on thy strand.
 
 
     "Thou hast leaped the cubits twenty,
     Dowering us with peace and plenty;
     Mutha shows thee her retreat,
     And the desert licks thy feet,
 
 
     "We have passed through our purgation,
       Once again we are thy kin;
     God, accept our expiation,
       Maiden pure of mortal sin."
 

XIV

 
     "Ha!" the king cried, smiling blandly;
     "Ha!" the trumpets answered grandly.
     Proudly priest whirled, knife on high,
     While the maiden bowed—to die.
 
 
     Sudden, through the ranks beside her,
       Scattering men, like sparks of flint,
     Burst a snow-white horse and rider,
       Rapid as the lightning's glint.
 
 
     One blow hurls Arch-priest to quiver
     Headless, in his beloved river,
     In the twinkling of an eye,
     All the rest are dead, or fly.
 

XV

 
     Iram, from Pyropus sweeping,
     As a mower swathes the rye,
     Caught his love, in terror sleeping,
     And her light form swings on high.
 
 
     "Soul of Khons!" Sesostris shouted,
     Striding down the planks blood-grouted—
     Into his beard fell something light,
     And he spat, and swooned with fright.
 
 
     What hath made this great king stagger,
       Reel, and shriek—"unclean, unclean!"
     Thunderbolt, or flash of dagger?
       Nay, 'twas but a garden bean.
 

XVI

 
     Brave Pyropus, blood-bespattered,
     Snorts at men and corpses scattered,
     Throws his noble chest more wide,
     Leaps into the leaping tide.
 
 
     Vainly hiss a thousand arrows,
       Launched at random through the foam;
     Every stroke the distance narrows
       Twixt him and his desert home.
 
 
     Sorely tried, and passion-shaken,
     Long amid her foes forsaken,
     Now, in tumult of surprise,
     Lita knows not where she lies.
 
 
     Till a bright wave breaks upon her,
       And her clear perceptions wake—
     All his valour, prowess, honour,
       Scorn of life, for her poor sake!
 
 
     Gently then her eyes she raises,
     (Eyes, whence all the pure soul gazes)
     Softly brings her lips to his—
     Lips, wherein the whole heart is.
 
 
     Let the furious waters welter,
       Let the rough winds roar above;
     Waves are warmth, and storms are shelter,
       In the upper heaven of love.
 

XVIII

 
     Fierce the flood, and wild the danger;
     Yet the noble desert-ranger
     Flinches not, nor flags, before
     He hath brought them safe ashore.
 
 
     Lives there man, who would have striven,
       Reckless thus of storm and sword;
     Leaped into the gulf, and given
       Heart and soul, to please his Lord?
 
 
     With caresses they have plied him,
     Hand in hand they kneel beside him,
     While their mutual vows they plight
     To the God of life and light
 

XIX

 
     Ha!  What meaneth yon sword-flashing?
       Trumps, and shouts from wave and isle?
     Lo, the warrior galleys dashing,
       To avenge insulted Nile!
 
 
     Haste!  The brave steed, leaping lightly,
     'Neath his double burden sprightly,
     Challenges, with scornful note,
     Every horse in Pharaoh's boat.
 
 
     King of Egypt, curb thy rages;
       Lo, how trouble should be borne!
     Memnon soothes the woe of ages,
       With a sweet song, every morn.
 

KADISHA; OR, THE FIRST JEALOUSY

AN EASTERN LEGEND

HERE IS A CURIOUS LEGEND AS TO THE ORIGIN OP JEALOUSY. WHEN ADAM AND EVE WERE IN PARADISE, THE FORMER WAS ACCUSTOMED TO RETIRE AT EVENTIDE TO THE RECESSES OF THE GARDEN, FOR THE PURPOSE OF PRAYER. ON ONE OF THESE OCCASIONS THE DEVIL APPEARED TO EVE, AND INFORMED HER THAT HER SOLITUDE WAS TO BE ACCOUNTED FOR BY THE ATTRACTIONS OF ANOTHER FAIR ONE. EVE REPLIED THAT IT COULD NOT BE SO, AS SHE WAS THE ONLY WOMAN IN EXISTENCE. "IF I SHOW YOU ANOTHER, WILL YOU BELIEVE ME?" RETURNED THE EVIL ONE, AND PRODUCED A MIRROR, IN WHICH SHE SAW HER OWN REFLECTION, AND MISTOOK IT FOR HER RIVAL. See "Life in Abyssinia," by Mr. Parkyns. Murray, Albemarle Street.

The Kadisha, flowing to the south of Lebanon, is called "the holy river," as having been a minor stream of Paradise.

PART   I

 
     True love's regale is incomplete,
     'Till bitter leaven make it sweet;
     Accept not then our tale amiss,
     That jealousy was part of bliss;
     But rather note a mercy here,
     That fact was thus outrun by fear;
     And so, before the harder bout,
       When sin must be encountered too,
       A woman's heart already knew
     The way to conquer doubt
 

I

 
     "When sleep was in the summer air,
       And stars looked down on Paradise,
     And palms and cedars answered fair
       The visionary night-wind's sighs,
         And murmuring prayer:
 
 
     When every flower was in its hood
       (By clasps of diamond dew retained),
     Or sunk to elude Phalcena's brood,
       Down slumber's breast with shadows veined,
         In solitude:
 
 
       The citron, stephanote, and rose,
         Pomegranate, hoya, calycanth,
         And yet unwanted amaranth,
       Were sweetness in repose:
 

II

 
     When rivulets were loth to creep,
       Except unto the pillow moss,
     And distant lake, encurtained deep,
       Was but a silver thread across
         The eyes of sleep:
 
 
     When nightingales, in the sycamore,
       Sang low and soft, as an echo dreaming;
     And slept the moon upon heaven's shore—
       The tidal shore of heaven, beaming
         With lazuled ore:
 
 
       When new-born earth was fain to lean
         In Summer's arms, recovering
         The unaccustomed toil of Spring,
       Why slept not Eve, their Queen?
 

III

 
     Upon a smooth fern-mantled stone
       She sat, and watched the wicket-gate,
     Not timid in her woman's throne,
       Nor lonely in her sinless state,
         Though all alone;
 
 
     For having spread her simple board
       With grapes, and peaches, milk, and flowers,
     She strewed sweet mastic o'er the sward,
       And waited through the bridal hours
         Step of her lord.
 
 
       Such innocence around her breathed,
         And freshness of young nature's play,
         The sensitive plant shrank not away,
       And cactus' swords were sheathed.
 

IV

 
     The vision of her beauty fell,
       Like music on a moonlit place,
     Or trembles of a silver bell,
       Or memories of a sacred face,
         Too dear to tell:
 
 
     The grace that wandered free of laws,
       The look that lit the heart's confession,
     Had never dreamed how fair it was;
       Nor guessed that purity's expression
         Is beauty's cause:
 
 
       No more that unenquiring heart
         Perused the sweet home of her breast,
         Than turtle-doves unline their nest
       To scan the outer part
 

V

 
     Although, in all that garden fair,
       Whate'er delight abode, or grew,
     Flowers, and trees, and balmy air,
       Fountains, and birds, and heaven blue
         Beyond compare:
 
 
     In her their various charms had met,
       And grown more varied by combining,
     As budded plants do give and get,
       Each inmate doubling while resigning
         His several debt:
 
 
       And yet she nursed one joy, above
         Her thousand charms, nor bora of them,
         But blooming on a single stem—
       Her true faith in her love.
 

VI

 
     And though, before she heard his foot,
       The moon had climbed the homestead palm,
     Flinging to her the shadowed fruit,
       And tree-frogs ceased to break the calm,
         And birds were mute,
 
 
     With sudden transport ever new,
       She blushed, and sprang from forth the bower,
     Her eyes, as bright as moon-lit dew,
       Her bosom glad as snow-veiled flower,
         When sun shines through;
 
 
       He, with a natural dignity
         Untaught self-consciousness by harm,
         Sustained her with his manly arm,
       And smiled upon her glee.
 

VII

 
     Next day, when early evening shone
       Along the walks of Paradise,
     Strewing with gold the hills, her throne,
       Embarrassing the winds with spice
         (Too rich a loan),
 
 
     Fair Eve was in her bower of ease,
       A cool arcade of fruit and flowers,
 
 
     From North and East enclasped by trees,
       But open to the Western showers,
         And Southern breeze.
 
 
       Here followed she her gardening trade,
         Her favourites' simple needs attending,
         And singing soft, above them bending,
       A song herself had made.
 

VIII

 
     In evening's calm, she walked between
       The tints and shades of rich delight,
     While overhead came, arching green,
       Many a shrub and parasite,
         To crown their Queen;
 
 
     There laughed the joy of the rose, among
       Myrtle and Iris, heaven's eye,
     Magnole, with cups of moonlight hung,
       And Fuchsia's sunny chandlery,
         And coral tongue;
 
 
       And where the shy brook fluttered through,
         Nepenthe held her chalice leaf
         (Undrained as yet by human grief),
       And broad Nymphaea grew.
 

IX

 
     But where the path bent towards the wood,
       Across it hung a sombre screen,
     The deadly night-shade, leaden-hued;
       And there behind it, darkly seen,
         A Being stood:
 
 
     The form, if any form it had,
       Was likest to a nightly vision
     In mantle of amazement clad,
       A terror-sense, without precision,
         Of something bad.
 
 
       A tremble chilled the forest shade,
         A roving lion turned and fled,
         The birds cowered home in hush of dread;
       But Eve was not afraid.
 

X

 
     She stood before him, sweetly bold,
       To keep him from her garden shrine,
     With hair that fell, a shower of gold,
       Around her figure's snowy line
         And rosy mould:
 
 
     He (with a re-awakened sense
       Of goodness, long for ever lost,
     And angel beauty's pure defence)
       Shrank back, unable to accost
         Such innocence:
 
 
       But envy soon scoffed down his shame;
         And with a smile, designed for fawning,
         But like hell's daybreak sickly dawning,
       His crafty accents came.
 

XI

 
     "Sweet ignorance, 'tis sad and hard
       To break thy fond confiding spell;
     And my soft heart hath such regard
       For thine, that I will never tell
         What may be spared."
 
 
     He turned aside, o'erwhelmed with pain,
       And drew a sigh of deep compassion:
     She trembled, flushed, and gazed again,
       And prayed him quick, in woman's fashion,
         To speak it plain:
 
 
       "Then, if thou must be taught to grieve,
         And scorn the guile thou hast adored—
         The man who calls himself thy lord,
       Where goes he, every eve?"
 

XII

 
     "Nay, then," she cried, "if that be all,
       I care not what thou hast to say;
     The guile that lurks therein is small—
       My husband but retires to pray,
         At evening call."
 
 
     "To pray? Oh yes, and on his knees
       May-hap to find a lovely being:
     Devotions so devout as these
       Are best at night, with no one seeing,
         Among the trees."
 
 
       She blushed as deep as modesty,
         Then glancing back as bright as cride,
         "What woman can he find,' she cried,
       "In all the world, but me?"
 

XIII

 
     He laughed with a superior sneer,
       Enough to shake e'en woman's faith;
     "Wilt thou believe me, simple dear,
       If I am able now," he saith,
         "To show her here?"
 
 
     She cried aloud with gladsome heart,
       "Be that the test whereon to try thee;
     Nature and heaven shall take my part:
       Come, show this rival; I defy thee
         And all thy art."
 
 
       A mirror, held in readiness,
         He set upright before her feet—
         "Now can thy simple charms compete
       With beauty such as this?"
 

XIV

 
     A lovelier sight therein she saw
       Than ever yet had charmed her eyes,
     A fairer picture, void of flaw,
       Than any, even Paradise
       Itself, could draw;
 
 
     A woman's form of perfect grace,
       In shadowy softness delicate;
     Though flushed by sunset's rich embrace,
       A white rose could not imitate
         Her innocent face:
 
 
       Then, through the deepening glance of fear,
         The shaft of doubt came quivering,
         The sorrow-shaft—a sigh its wing,
       And for its barb a tear.
 

XV

 
     "Ah me!" she cried, "too true it is!
       A simple homely thing, like Eve,
     Hath not a chance to rival this,
       But must resign herself to grieve
         O'er by-gone bliss.
 
 
     "Till now it was enough for me
       To be what God our Father made;
     Oh, Adam, I was proud to be
       (As I have felt, and thou hast said)
         A part of thee.
 
 
       "No marvel that my lord can spare
         His true and heaven-appointed bride.
         And yet affection might have tried
       To fancy me as fair."
 

XVI

 
     The Tempter, glorying in his wile,
       Hath ta'en his mirror and withdrawn;
     Again the flowers look up and smile,
       And brightens off from air and lawn
         The taint of guile.
 
 
     But smiles come not again to Eve,
       Nor brightens off her dark reflection:
     Her garland-crown she hath ceased to weave,
       And, plucking, maketh no selection;
         Only to grieve.
 
 
       She feels a dewy radiance steep
         The languid petals of her eyes,
         And hath another sad surprise,
       To know the way to weep,