And chambers fair with flowery tapestriesThey led us, wondering, till at last we cameInto a vast, dim hall of glimmering gold,The end of all our journeying.And, as we halted on the threshold,My eyes could see but little for a moment,In the dusky, heavy air,Through the ceaseless cloud of incense,Rising from the smouldering braziersTo the gold, grey-clouded dome,Tingling strangely in my nostrils,As I came from morning airs;Then slowly filling them with drowsy fume,When, looking up with half-dazed eyes,I saw the King upon his golden throne:And through my bodyRaged rebellious blood,In baffled riot beatingAt my corded wrists,As if to burst the galling bonds,That I might hurl that lean, swart face,So idly turning towards us,With thin curled lips,And cold, incurious eyes,To headlong death--Yea! even though I tumbledThe towers of Babylon round about my head.And, when our captors bowed their foreheads low,Obsequious to the throne,I stood upright,And gazed my loathing on that listless form--The gay, embroidered robe,The golden cap, that prankt the crispèd locks,The short, square beard, new-oiled and barbered--But, in a flash,A heavy blowFell on my head,And struck me to my kneesBefore the sleek, indifferent king.And then, on either hand,With gripping palms upon my shoulders set,The Nubians towered above meLike mighty men of stone.And savagely I struggled,Half-stunned, to rise again;When, as I vainly battledIn their unrelenting clutch,My eyes lit for the first time on the Queen,Who sat upon the daïs, by her lordHalf-shadowed, on a throne of ivory,And all the hate died in me, as I sawThe face that hovered over me in dream,When I had slept beneath the low-boughed cedar:The moon-pale brows, o'er which the clustered hairHung like the smoke of torches, ruddy-gold,Against a canopy of peacock plumes:The deep brown, burning eyes,From which the soul looked on me in fierce pity.And, as I gazed on that exultant beauty,The hunter and the slayer of menWas slain within me instantly,And I forgot the mountains and my home;My desolate mother, and my father's death;My captive sisters ... and the thronèd King!I was as one, that moment,New-born into the worldFull-limbed and thewed,Yet, with the wondering heartOf earth-bewildered childhood.And, unto me, it seemedThat, as the Queen looked down on me,There stole into her eyesSome dim remembrance of old dreams,That in their brown depths flickeredWith strange, elusive light,Like stars that tremble in still forest-pools.One spake--I scarce knew whom, nor cared--And bade me choose,Before the throne,Between a life of slavery,Or merciful, swift death--Death, that but a moment since,I would have dragged, exulting, on me--And with my eyes still set on the Queen's face,I answered:"I will serve":And scarcely heeded that my wrists were loosed.And, huddled in a stifling hut,That night, among my fellows,I could not sleep at all:But gazed, wild-eyed, till dawn upon that face,Which hovered o'er me, like the moon of dreams;And seemed to draw the wandering tides of lifeIn one vast wave, which ever stroveTo climb the heavens wherein she moved,That it might break in triumphing foam about her.Not then, nor ever afterwards,Was I a slave, among my fellow-slaves,But one, who, with mean drudgery,And daily penance servesBefore a holy altar,That, sometimes, as he labours, his glad eyesMay catch a gleam of the immortal lightWithin the secret shrine;Yea! and, maybe, shall look, one day, with trembling,On the bright-haired, imperishable god.And, even when, day after day,I bore the big reed-baskets, ladenWith wet clay, digged beyond the Western moat,Although I seemed to tread,As treads the ox that turns the water-wheel,A blindfold round of servitude,My quenchless vision ever burned before me:And when, in after days, I fedThe roaring oven-furnaces;And toiled by them through sweltering days,Though over me, at times, would comeGreat longing for the hill-tops,And the noise of torrent-waters:Or when, more skilled, I mouldedThe damp clay into bricks;And spread the colour and the glaze;And in strength-giving heat of glowing kilns,I baked them durable,Clean-shaped, and meet for service:My vision flamed yet brighter;And unto me it seemedAs if my gross and useless clay were burnedIn a white ecstasy of lustral fire,That, in the fashioning of the house of love,I might serve perfectly the builder's need.Thus, many months, I laboured;Till, one day, at the noontide hour of rest,I lay; and with a sharpened reed--As temple-scribes write down the holy loreOn tablets of wet clay--On the moist earth beside me,I limned a young fawn, croppingA bunch of tender, overhanging leaves.And, as I slowly drew,I dreamt a little sadly of the days,When I, too, roamed, untethered,And drinking in, unquestioning,The sunshine and the air,And all the rapture of the earth that turns,New every morning to the wondering sun,Refashioned in still nights of starry dews:But one, the while, unseen of me,Watched my unconscious hand, approving:And I was set, next morning,Among the craftsmen, who so deftly limnedThe hunts and battles for the palace walls.And, happily, with them I livedA life of loving labour, for each lineFlowed from the knowledge of my heart:I drew the startled ostrichFleeing from the far-flung noose:The brindled lynx; the onagaIn dewy-plashing flight;The bristling boar, at bay,Crouched in a deadly ring of threatening spears,With streaming nostrils, and red eyes ablaze;The striped hyæna; the gaunt, green-eyed wolf;The skulking jackal; the grey, brush-tailed fox;The hunting leopard and the antelope,In mid-chase tense,With every thew astrain;The dappled panther; the brown-eyed gazelle,Butting with black horns through the tangled brakeThe nimble hare, alert, with pricked-up ears;The tiger, crouched, with yellow eyes afire;The shaggy mountain-goat,Perched on the utmost crag,Against the afterglow of lucent ruby,Or, poised with bunching hoofsIn mid-spring over a dark, yawning chasm;Or the black stallion, with his tameless troop,Fording a mountain-river in the dawn.And, sometimes, as we toiled,A terrible fleeting raptureWould come upon me, when the QueenPassed by us with her maidens;Or paused, a moment, gazing,With tranced and kindling eyes upon our labours:But never did I dare, at any time,To lift my eyes to hers,And look, as soul on soul,As on the day her beauty brought to birthThe strange new life within me.In silence she would ever leave us;And ever with her passing perishedThe light and colour of my work;So that my heart failed, daunted by that glimpseOf the ever-living beauty.And, sometimes, I would carve in ruddy teak,Or ivory, from the Indian merchants bought,Or in the rare, black basalt, little beastsTo please the idle fancies of the King;Or model in wet clay, and cast in bronze,Great bulls and lions for the palace-courts;Or carve him seals of lapis-lazuli,Of jasper, amethyst and serpentine,Chalcedony--carnelian, chrysoprase,Agate, sardonyx, and chalcedonyx--Green jade, and alabaster;Or cut in stones that flashed and flickeredLike a glancing kingfisher,Or, in the sun-filled amber,The kite with broad wings spread,Or little fluttering doves that peckedA golden bunch of dates:And then of these in settings of fine goldMade fillets, rings and ear-rings.Thus, one day,Dreaming, as ever, of the Queen,I wrought a golden serpent for her hair:And when I brought it to the King, next morn,Where he sat brooding over chess,He bade me bear it to the Queen, myself,And so, I went unto her, where she sat,Among her singing maidens, at the loom,Weaving a silken web of Tyrian dye.I laid the trinket at her feet, in silence:And she arose, and set it in her hair,Whose living lustre far outshoneThe cold, dead metal I had fashioned,As she stood before me, dreaming,In her robe of flowing blue;Then looked a moment on me with kind eyes.And though she spoke no word,I turned, and fled, in trembling,Before the light that shivered through me,And struck my soul with shuddering ecstasy:And, still, through many days,Although I did not look againUpon those dreaming eyes,Their visionary lightWithin my soul, revealed eternity.Thus, have the mortal yearsFlowed onward to the perfect end--This day of days,That never night shall quench,Nor darkness vanquish:And, at dawn,I die.And yet, this morning, as I slowly climbedThe steep, ascending stagesThat lead up to the hanging-gardens--Where, tier on tier,The great brick arches boreTheir April wealth of blossoms,Plumed with palm and dusky cypress--I little knew that IWho came to carve a garlandRound a fountain's porphry basin,Should scale so soon the utmost peak of life.Throughout the morn I toiled,Until an hour ere noon--For no one, save the King and Queen,May walk in those high gardens, after midday--When, underneath a cypress shade,I paused, a moment, resting;And looking down upon the basking city,Beneath me slumbering deeply--Garden on garden glowing, grove on grove,Like some green fabric, shot with myriad hues,And chequered with white clusters of flat roofs,Aquiver in clear heat:And then I gazed up through the aching azure,At the restless kites that hoverEver over Babylon:And, as I watched one broad-winged bird that hungAbove the seven-coloured pyramidOf Bel's great temple,With wide pinions spread,As though it kept eternal vigil overThe golden image in the golden shrine,I thought of eagles poisedAbove the peaks of glittering snows,Beyond the Eastern plains.Half-dreaming, thus, I lay,Lulled by the tinkling waters,Till, unawares, sleep slowly overcame me;And noonday drifted by:And still, I slept, unheeding:And, in my sleep,I looked on Beauty in a quiet placeOf forest gloom and immemorial dream:When, something rousing me from slumber,With waking eyes that yet seemed dream-enchanted,I looked upon the Queen,Where, in a secret close,Set thickly round with screens of yew and ilex,She stood upon the dark, broad brimOf a wide granite basin, gazing down,With dreaming eyes, into the glooming cool,Unraimented, save of the flickering gleam,Reflected from the lucent waters,That flowed before her silently:And slowly, from her feet,The cold light rippled up her body, till,Entangled in the meshes of her hair,It flooded the calm rapture of her face:When, dreaming still, she lifted up her eyes,Unseeing; and I looked upon her soul,Unveiled, in naked immortality,Untrammelled by the trappings of brief time,And cloaks of circumstance.How long I looked upon the perfect beauty,I cannot tell--Each moment, flowing to eternity,Bearing me further from time's narrow shores;Though, yet, a little while,From those unshadowed deeps time sought to hold me.Suddenly, I feltA ghostly arrow pierce my life;And I leapt up, and turning,I saw the King beside me,With steely, glittering eyesShooting barbed anger,Though he coldly spake,With evil, curling lips:"Slave, thou art dead!"And yet I did not quail:But, looking 'twixt his brows,I answered: and he blenched before my words:"Nay! I have seen:"And am newborn, a King!"And then his craven fingersWent quaking to his wagging beard,As if he felt my clutch upon his throat:Yet, though, with one quick blow,I might have hurled him down to death,I never stirred:And, eyeing me, he summonedThe negro-eunuchs, who kept watch below:But I, ere they could spring up the first stage,Went forth to meet them;And they bound my wrists.And so, down from the hills, my life has flowed,Until, at fullest flood, it meets the sea.With calm and unregretful heart, I waitTill dawn shall loose the arrow from the bow.I, who, with eager, faltering hand have soughtTo fashion a little beauty, in the end,Have looked on the perfect beauty, and I die--Even as the priest, who, in the heart of night,Trembling before the thunder-riven shrine,Looks on the face of God, and perishes.I die...And yet, maybe, when earth lies heavilyUpon the time-o'ertoppled towers,And tumbled walls, and broken gates of brass;And the winds whisper one another:"Where, Oh! where is Babylon?"In the dim underworld of dreaming shades,My soul shall seek out beautyAnd look, once more,Upon the unveiled vision...And not die.Night passes: and already in the court,Amid the plash of fountains,There sounds the pad of naked feet approaching.With slow, deliberate pace,As though they trod out all my perished years,The Nubians come, to lead me out to death.Slowly the great door opens;And clearer comes the call of waters;Cool airs are on my brow ...Lo! ... in the East, the dawn.LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKAKRA THE SLAVE***
And chambers fair with flowery tapestriesThey led us, wondering, till at last we cameInto a vast, dim hall of glimmering gold,The end of all our journeying.And, as we halted on the threshold,My eyes could see but little for a moment,In the dusky, heavy air,Through the ceaseless cloud of incense,Rising from the smouldering braziersTo the gold, grey-clouded dome,Tingling strangely in my nostrils,As I came from morning airs;Then slowly filling them with drowsy fume,When, looking up with half-dazed eyes,I saw the King upon his golden throne:And through my bodyRaged rebellious blood,In baffled riot beatingAt my corded wrists,As if to burst the galling bonds,That I might hurl that lean, swart face,So idly turning towards us,With thin curled lips,And cold, incurious eyes,To headlong death--Yea! even though I tumbledThe towers of Babylon round about my head.And, when our captors bowed their foreheads low,Obsequious to the throne,I stood upright,And gazed my loathing on that listless form--The gay, embroidered robe,The golden cap, that prankt the crispèd locks,The short, square beard, new-oiled and barbered--But, in a flash,A heavy blowFell on my head,And struck me to my kneesBefore the sleek, indifferent king.And then, on either hand,With gripping palms upon my shoulders set,The Nubians towered above meLike mighty men of stone.And savagely I struggled,Half-stunned, to rise again;When, as I vainly battledIn their unrelenting clutch,My eyes lit for the first time on the Queen,Who sat upon the daïs, by her lordHalf-shadowed, on a throne of ivory,And all the hate died in me, as I sawThe face that hovered over me in dream,When I had slept beneath the low-boughed cedar:The moon-pale brows, o'er which the clustered hairHung like the smoke of torches, ruddy-gold,Against a canopy of peacock plumes:The deep brown, burning eyes,From which the soul looked on me in fierce pity.And, as I gazed on that exultant beauty,The hunter and the slayer of menWas slain within me instantly,And I forgot the mountains and my home;My desolate mother, and my father's death;My captive sisters ... and the thronèd King!I was as one, that moment,New-born into the worldFull-limbed and thewed,Yet, with the wondering heartOf earth-bewildered childhood.And, unto me, it seemedThat, as the Queen looked down on me,There stole into her eyesSome dim remembrance of old dreams,That in their brown depths flickeredWith strange, elusive light,Like stars that tremble in still forest-pools.One spake--I scarce knew whom, nor cared--And bade me choose,Before the throne,Between a life of slavery,Or merciful, swift death--Death, that but a moment since,I would have dragged, exulting, on me--And with my eyes still set on the Queen's face,I answered:"I will serve":And scarcely heeded that my wrists were loosed.
And chambers fair with flowery tapestries
They led us, wondering, till at last we came
Into a vast, dim hall of glimmering gold,
The end of all our journeying.
And, as we halted on the threshold,
My eyes could see but little for a moment,
In the dusky, heavy air,
Through the ceaseless cloud of incense,
Rising from the smouldering braziers
To the gold, grey-clouded dome,
Tingling strangely in my nostrils,
As I came from morning airs;
Then slowly filling them with drowsy fume,
When, looking up with half-dazed eyes,
I saw the King upon his golden throne:
And through my body
Raged rebellious blood,
In baffled riot beating
At my corded wrists,
As if to burst the galling bonds,
That I might hurl that lean, swart face,
So idly turning towards us,
With thin curled lips,
And cold, incurious eyes,
To headlong death--
Yea! even though I tumbled
The towers of Babylon round about my head.
And, when our captors bowed their foreheads low,
Obsequious to the throne,
I stood upright,
And gazed my loathing on that listless form--
The gay, embroidered robe,
The golden cap, that prankt the crispèd locks,
The short, square beard, new-oiled and barbered--
But, in a flash,
A heavy blow
Fell on my head,
And struck me to my knees
Before the sleek, indifferent king.
And then, on either hand,
With gripping palms upon my shoulders set,
The Nubians towered above me
Like mighty men of stone.
And savagely I struggled,
Half-stunned, to rise again;
When, as I vainly battled
In their unrelenting clutch,
My eyes lit for the first time on the Queen,
Who sat upon the daïs, by her lord
Half-shadowed, on a throne of ivory,
And all the hate died in me, as I saw
The face that hovered over me in dream,
When I had slept beneath the low-boughed cedar:
The moon-pale brows, o'er which the clustered hair
Hung like the smoke of torches, ruddy-gold,
Against a canopy of peacock plumes:
The deep brown, burning eyes,
From which the soul looked on me in fierce pity.
And, as I gazed on that exultant beauty,
The hunter and the slayer of men
Was slain within me instantly,
And I forgot the mountains and my home;
My desolate mother, and my father's death;
My captive sisters ... and the thronèd King!
I was as one, that moment,
New-born into the world
Full-limbed and thewed,
Yet, with the wondering heart
Of earth-bewildered childhood.
And, unto me, it seemed
That, as the Queen looked down on me,
There stole into her eyes
Some dim remembrance of old dreams,
That in their brown depths flickered
With strange, elusive light,
Like stars that tremble in still forest-pools.
One spake--
I scarce knew whom, nor cared--
And bade me choose,
Before the throne,
Between a life of slavery,
Or merciful, swift death--
Death, that but a moment since,
I would have dragged, exulting, on me--
And with my eyes still set on the Queen's face,
I answered:
"I will serve":
And scarcely heeded that my wrists were loosed.
And, huddled in a stifling hut,That night, among my fellows,I could not sleep at all:But gazed, wild-eyed, till dawn upon that face,Which hovered o'er me, like the moon of dreams;And seemed to draw the wandering tides of lifeIn one vast wave, which ever stroveTo climb the heavens wherein she moved,That it might break in triumphing foam about her.Not then, nor ever afterwards,Was I a slave, among my fellow-slaves,But one, who, with mean drudgery,And daily penance servesBefore a holy altar,That, sometimes, as he labours, his glad eyesMay catch a gleam of the immortal lightWithin the secret shrine;Yea! and, maybe, shall look, one day, with trembling,On the bright-haired, imperishable god.And, even when, day after day,I bore the big reed-baskets, ladenWith wet clay, digged beyond the Western moat,Although I seemed to tread,As treads the ox that turns the water-wheel,A blindfold round of servitude,My quenchless vision ever burned before me:And when, in after days, I fedThe roaring oven-furnaces;And toiled by them through sweltering days,Though over me, at times, would comeGreat longing for the hill-tops,And the noise of torrent-waters:Or when, more skilled, I mouldedThe damp clay into bricks;And spread the colour and the glaze;And in strength-giving heat of glowing kilns,I baked them durable,Clean-shaped, and meet for service:My vision flamed yet brighter;And unto me it seemedAs if my gross and useless clay were burnedIn a white ecstasy of lustral fire,That, in the fashioning of the house of love,I might serve perfectly the builder's need.Thus, many months, I laboured;Till, one day, at the noontide hour of rest,I lay; and with a sharpened reed--As temple-scribes write down the holy loreOn tablets of wet clay--On the moist earth beside me,I limned a young fawn, croppingA bunch of tender, overhanging leaves.And, as I slowly drew,I dreamt a little sadly of the days,When I, too, roamed, untethered,And drinking in, unquestioning,The sunshine and the air,And all the rapture of the earth that turns,New every morning to the wondering sun,Refashioned in still nights of starry dews:But one, the while, unseen of me,Watched my unconscious hand, approving:And I was set, next morning,Among the craftsmen, who so deftly limnedThe hunts and battles for the palace walls.And, happily, with them I livedA life of loving labour, for each lineFlowed from the knowledge of my heart:I drew the startled ostrichFleeing from the far-flung noose:The brindled lynx; the onagaIn dewy-plashing flight;The bristling boar, at bay,Crouched in a deadly ring of threatening spears,With streaming nostrils, and red eyes ablaze;The striped hyæna; the gaunt, green-eyed wolf;The skulking jackal; the grey, brush-tailed fox;The hunting leopard and the antelope,In mid-chase tense,With every thew astrain;The dappled panther; the brown-eyed gazelle,Butting with black horns through the tangled brakeThe nimble hare, alert, with pricked-up ears;The tiger, crouched, with yellow eyes afire;The shaggy mountain-goat,Perched on the utmost crag,Against the afterglow of lucent ruby,Or, poised with bunching hoofsIn mid-spring over a dark, yawning chasm;Or the black stallion, with his tameless troop,Fording a mountain-river in the dawn.And, sometimes, as we toiled,A terrible fleeting raptureWould come upon me, when the QueenPassed by us with her maidens;Or paused, a moment, gazing,With tranced and kindling eyes upon our labours:But never did I dare, at any time,To lift my eyes to hers,And look, as soul on soul,As on the day her beauty brought to birthThe strange new life within me.In silence she would ever leave us;And ever with her passing perishedThe light and colour of my work;So that my heart failed, daunted by that glimpseOf the ever-living beauty.And, sometimes, I would carve in ruddy teak,Or ivory, from the Indian merchants bought,Or in the rare, black basalt, little beastsTo please the idle fancies of the King;Or model in wet clay, and cast in bronze,Great bulls and lions for the palace-courts;Or carve him seals of lapis-lazuli,Of jasper, amethyst and serpentine,Chalcedony--carnelian, chrysoprase,Agate, sardonyx, and chalcedonyx--Green jade, and alabaster;Or cut in stones that flashed and flickeredLike a glancing kingfisher,Or, in the sun-filled amber,The kite with broad wings spread,Or little fluttering doves that peckedA golden bunch of dates:And then of these in settings of fine goldMade fillets, rings and ear-rings.
And, huddled in a stifling hut,
That night, among my fellows,
I could not sleep at all:
But gazed, wild-eyed, till dawn upon that face,
Which hovered o'er me, like the moon of dreams;
And seemed to draw the wandering tides of life
In one vast wave, which ever strove
To climb the heavens wherein she moved,
That it might break in triumphing foam about her.
Not then, nor ever afterwards,
Was I a slave, among my fellow-slaves,
But one, who, with mean drudgery,
And daily penance serves
Before a holy altar,
That, sometimes, as he labours, his glad eyes
May catch a gleam of the immortal light
Within the secret shrine;
Yea! and, maybe, shall look, one day, with trembling,
On the bright-haired, imperishable god.
And, even when, day after day,
I bore the big reed-baskets, laden
With wet clay, digged beyond the Western moat,
Although I seemed to tread,
As treads the ox that turns the water-wheel,
A blindfold round of servitude,
My quenchless vision ever burned before me:
And when, in after days, I fed
The roaring oven-furnaces;
And toiled by them through sweltering days,
Though over me, at times, would come
Great longing for the hill-tops,
And the noise of torrent-waters:
Or when, more skilled, I moulded
The damp clay into bricks;
And spread the colour and the glaze;
And in strength-giving heat of glowing kilns,
I baked them durable,
Clean-shaped, and meet for service:
My vision flamed yet brighter;
And unto me it seemed
As if my gross and useless clay were burned
In a white ecstasy of lustral fire,
That, in the fashioning of the house of love,
I might serve perfectly the builder's need.
Thus, many months, I laboured;
Till, one day, at the noontide hour of rest,
I lay; and with a sharpened reed--
As temple-scribes write down the holy lore
On tablets of wet clay--
On the moist earth beside me,
I limned a young fawn, cropping
A bunch of tender, overhanging leaves.
And, as I slowly drew,
I dreamt a little sadly of the days,
When I, too, roamed, untethered,
And drinking in, unquestioning,
The sunshine and the air,
And all the rapture of the earth that turns,
New every morning to the wondering sun,
Refashioned in still nights of starry dews:
But one, the while, unseen of me,
Watched my unconscious hand, approving:
And I was set, next morning,
Among the craftsmen, who so deftly limned
The hunts and battles for the palace walls.
And, happily, with them I lived
A life of loving labour, for each line
Flowed from the knowledge of my heart:
I drew the startled ostrich
Fleeing from the far-flung noose:
The brindled lynx; the onaga
In dewy-plashing flight;
The bristling boar, at bay,
Crouched in a deadly ring of threatening spears,
With streaming nostrils, and red eyes ablaze;
The striped hyæna; the gaunt, green-eyed wolf;
The skulking jackal; the grey, brush-tailed fox;
The hunting leopard and the antelope,
In mid-chase tense,
With every thew astrain;
The dappled panther; the brown-eyed gazelle,
Butting with black horns through the tangled brake
The nimble hare, alert, with pricked-up ears;
The tiger, crouched, with yellow eyes afire;
The shaggy mountain-goat,
Perched on the utmost crag,
Against the afterglow of lucent ruby,
Or, poised with bunching hoofs
In mid-spring over a dark, yawning chasm;
Or the black stallion, with his tameless troop,
Fording a mountain-river in the dawn.
And, sometimes, as we toiled,
A terrible fleeting rapture
Would come upon me, when the Queen
Passed by us with her maidens;
Or paused, a moment, gazing,
With tranced and kindling eyes upon our labours:
But never did I dare, at any time,
To lift my eyes to hers,
And look, as soul on soul,
As on the day her beauty brought to birth
The strange new life within me.
In silence she would ever leave us;
And ever with her passing perished
The light and colour of my work;
So that my heart failed, daunted by that glimpse
Of the ever-living beauty.
And, sometimes, I would carve in ruddy teak,
Or ivory, from the Indian merchants bought,
Or in the rare, black basalt, little beasts
To please the idle fancies of the King;
Or model in wet clay, and cast in bronze,
Great bulls and lions for the palace-courts;
Or carve him seals of lapis-lazuli,
Of jasper, amethyst and serpentine,
Chalcedony--carnelian, chrysoprase,
Agate, sardonyx, and chalcedonyx--
Green jade, and alabaster;
Or cut in stones that flashed and flickered
Like a glancing kingfisher,
Or, in the sun-filled amber,
The kite with broad wings spread,
Or little fluttering doves that pecked
A golden bunch of dates:
And then of these in settings of fine gold
Made fillets, rings and ear-rings.
Thus, one day,Dreaming, as ever, of the Queen,I wrought a golden serpent for her hair:And when I brought it to the King, next morn,Where he sat brooding over chess,He bade me bear it to the Queen, myself,And so, I went unto her, where she sat,Among her singing maidens, at the loom,Weaving a silken web of Tyrian dye.I laid the trinket at her feet, in silence:And she arose, and set it in her hair,Whose living lustre far outshoneThe cold, dead metal I had fashioned,As she stood before me, dreaming,In her robe of flowing blue;Then looked a moment on me with kind eyes.And though she spoke no word,I turned, and fled, in trembling,Before the light that shivered through me,And struck my soul with shuddering ecstasy:And, still, through many days,Although I did not look againUpon those dreaming eyes,Their visionary lightWithin my soul, revealed eternity.
Thus, one day,
Dreaming, as ever, of the Queen,
I wrought a golden serpent for her hair:
And when I brought it to the King, next morn,
Where he sat brooding over chess,
He bade me bear it to the Queen, myself,
And so, I went unto her, where she sat,
Among her singing maidens, at the loom,
Weaving a silken web of Tyrian dye.
I laid the trinket at her feet, in silence:
And she arose, and set it in her hair,
Whose living lustre far outshone
The cold, dead metal I had fashioned,
As she stood before me, dreaming,
In her robe of flowing blue;
Then looked a moment on me with kind eyes.
And though she spoke no word,
I turned, and fled, in trembling,
Before the light that shivered through me,
And struck my soul with shuddering ecstasy:
And, still, through many days,
Although I did not look again
Upon those dreaming eyes,
Their visionary light
Within my soul, revealed eternity.
Thus, have the mortal yearsFlowed onward to the perfect end--This day of days,That never night shall quench,Nor darkness vanquish:And, at dawn,I die.
Thus, have the mortal years
Flowed onward to the perfect end--
This day of days,
That never night shall quench,
Nor darkness vanquish:
And, at dawn,
I die.
And yet, this morning, as I slowly climbedThe steep, ascending stagesThat lead up to the hanging-gardens--Where, tier on tier,The great brick arches boreTheir April wealth of blossoms,Plumed with palm and dusky cypress--I little knew that IWho came to carve a garlandRound a fountain's porphry basin,Should scale so soon the utmost peak of life.Throughout the morn I toiled,Until an hour ere noon--For no one, save the King and Queen,May walk in those high gardens, after midday--When, underneath a cypress shade,I paused, a moment, resting;And looking down upon the basking city,Beneath me slumbering deeply--Garden on garden glowing, grove on grove,Like some green fabric, shot with myriad hues,And chequered with white clusters of flat roofs,Aquiver in clear heat:And then I gazed up through the aching azure,At the restless kites that hoverEver over Babylon:And, as I watched one broad-winged bird that hungAbove the seven-coloured pyramidOf Bel's great temple,With wide pinions spread,As though it kept eternal vigil overThe golden image in the golden shrine,I thought of eagles poisedAbove the peaks of glittering snows,Beyond the Eastern plains.Half-dreaming, thus, I lay,Lulled by the tinkling waters,Till, unawares, sleep slowly overcame me;And noonday drifted by:And still, I slept, unheeding:And, in my sleep,I looked on Beauty in a quiet placeOf forest gloom and immemorial dream:When, something rousing me from slumber,With waking eyes that yet seemed dream-enchanted,I looked upon the Queen,Where, in a secret close,Set thickly round with screens of yew and ilex,She stood upon the dark, broad brimOf a wide granite basin, gazing down,With dreaming eyes, into the glooming cool,Unraimented, save of the flickering gleam,Reflected from the lucent waters,That flowed before her silently:And slowly, from her feet,The cold light rippled up her body, till,Entangled in the meshes of her hair,It flooded the calm rapture of her face:When, dreaming still, she lifted up her eyes,Unseeing; and I looked upon her soul,Unveiled, in naked immortality,Untrammelled by the trappings of brief time,And cloaks of circumstance.How long I looked upon the perfect beauty,I cannot tell--Each moment, flowing to eternity,Bearing me further from time's narrow shores;Though, yet, a little while,From those unshadowed deeps time sought to hold me.
And yet, this morning, as I slowly climbed
The steep, ascending stages
That lead up to the hanging-gardens--
Where, tier on tier,
The great brick arches bore
Their April wealth of blossoms,
Plumed with palm and dusky cypress--
I little knew that I
Who came to carve a garland
Round a fountain's porphry basin,
Should scale so soon the utmost peak of life.
Throughout the morn I toiled,
Until an hour ere noon--
For no one, save the King and Queen,
May walk in those high gardens, after midday--
When, underneath a cypress shade,
I paused, a moment, resting;
And looking down upon the basking city,
Beneath me slumbering deeply--
Garden on garden glowing, grove on grove,
Like some green fabric, shot with myriad hues,
And chequered with white clusters of flat roofs,
Aquiver in clear heat:
And then I gazed up through the aching azure,
At the restless kites that hover
Ever over Babylon:
And, as I watched one broad-winged bird that hung
Above the seven-coloured pyramid
Of Bel's great temple,
With wide pinions spread,
As though it kept eternal vigil over
The golden image in the golden shrine,
I thought of eagles poised
Above the peaks of glittering snows,
Beyond the Eastern plains.
Half-dreaming, thus, I lay,
Lulled by the tinkling waters,
Till, unawares, sleep slowly overcame me;
And noonday drifted by:
And still, I slept, unheeding:
And, in my sleep,
I looked on Beauty in a quiet place
Of forest gloom and immemorial dream:
When, something rousing me from slumber,
With waking eyes that yet seemed dream-enchanted,
I looked upon the Queen,
Where, in a secret close,
Set thickly round with screens of yew and ilex,
She stood upon the dark, broad brim
Of a wide granite basin, gazing down,
With dreaming eyes, into the glooming cool,
Unraimented, save of the flickering gleam,
Reflected from the lucent waters,
That flowed before her silently:
And slowly, from her feet,
The cold light rippled up her body, till,
Entangled in the meshes of her hair,
It flooded the calm rapture of her face:
When, dreaming still, she lifted up her eyes,
Unseeing; and I looked upon her soul,
Unveiled, in naked immortality,
Untrammelled by the trappings of brief time,
And cloaks of circumstance.
How long I looked upon the perfect beauty,
I cannot tell--
Each moment, flowing to eternity,
Bearing me further from time's narrow shores;
Though, yet, a little while,
From those unshadowed deeps time sought to hold me.
Suddenly, I feltA ghostly arrow pierce my life;And I leapt up, and turning,I saw the King beside me,With steely, glittering eyesShooting barbed anger,Though he coldly spake,With evil, curling lips:"Slave, thou art dead!"And yet I did not quail:But, looking 'twixt his brows,I answered: and he blenched before my words:"Nay! I have seen:"And am newborn, a King!"And then his craven fingersWent quaking to his wagging beard,As if he felt my clutch upon his throat:Yet, though, with one quick blow,I might have hurled him down to death,I never stirred:And, eyeing me, he summonedThe negro-eunuchs, who kept watch below:But I, ere they could spring up the first stage,Went forth to meet them;And they bound my wrists.
Suddenly, I felt
A ghostly arrow pierce my life;
And I leapt up, and turning,
I saw the King beside me,
With steely, glittering eyes
Shooting barbed anger,
Though he coldly spake,
With evil, curling lips:
"Slave, thou art dead!"
And yet I did not quail:
But, looking 'twixt his brows,
I answered: and he blenched before my words:
"Nay! I have seen:
"And am newborn, a King!"
And then his craven fingers
Went quaking to his wagging beard,
As if he felt my clutch upon his throat:
Yet, though, with one quick blow,
I might have hurled him down to death,
I never stirred:
And, eyeing me, he summoned
The negro-eunuchs, who kept watch below:
But I, ere they could spring up the first stage,
Went forth to meet them;
And they bound my wrists.
And so, down from the hills, my life has flowed,Until, at fullest flood, it meets the sea.With calm and unregretful heart, I waitTill dawn shall loose the arrow from the bow.I, who, with eager, faltering hand have soughtTo fashion a little beauty, in the end,Have looked on the perfect beauty, and I die--Even as the priest, who, in the heart of night,Trembling before the thunder-riven shrine,Looks on the face of God, and perishes.I die...And yet, maybe, when earth lies heavilyUpon the time-o'ertoppled towers,And tumbled walls, and broken gates of brass;And the winds whisper one another:"Where, Oh! where is Babylon?"In the dim underworld of dreaming shades,My soul shall seek out beautyAnd look, once more,Upon the unveiled vision...And not die.
And so, down from the hills, my life has flowed,
Until, at fullest flood, it meets the sea.
With calm and unregretful heart, I wait
Till dawn shall loose the arrow from the bow.
I, who, with eager, faltering hand have sought
To fashion a little beauty, in the end,
Have looked on the perfect beauty, and I die--
Even as the priest, who, in the heart of night,
Trembling before the thunder-riven shrine,
Looks on the face of God, and perishes.
I die...
And yet, maybe, when earth lies heavily
Upon the time-o'ertoppled towers,
And tumbled walls, and broken gates of brass;
And the winds whisper one another:
"Where, Oh! where is Babylon?"
In the dim underworld of dreaming shades,
My soul shall seek out beauty
And look, once more,
Upon the unveiled vision...
And not die.
Night passes: and already in the court,Amid the plash of fountains,There sounds the pad of naked feet approaching.With slow, deliberate pace,As though they trod out all my perished years,The Nubians come, to lead me out to death.Slowly the great door opens;And clearer comes the call of waters;Cool airs are on my brow ...Lo! ... in the East, the dawn.
Night passes: and already in the court,
Amid the plash of fountains,
There sounds the pad of naked feet approaching.
With slow, deliberate pace,
As though they trod out all my perished years,
The Nubians come, to lead me out to death.
Slowly the great door opens;
And clearer comes the call of waters;
Cool airs are on my brow ...
Lo! ... in the East, the dawn.
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKAKRA THE SLAVE***