"Oh why does not our child return?Too long he surely stays."—Thus to theMuni, blind and stern,His partner gently says."For fruits and water when he goesHe never stays so long,Oh can it be, beset by foes,He suffers cruel wrong?"Some distance he has gone, I fear,A more circuitous round,—Yet why should he? The fruits are near,The river near our bound."I die of thirst,—it matters notIf Sindhu be but safe,What if he leave us, and this spot,Poor birds in cages chafe."Peevish and fretful oft we are,—Ah, no—that cannot be:Of our blind eyes he is the star,Without him, what were we?"Too much he loves us to forsake,But something ominous,Here in my heart, a dreadful ache,Says, he is gone from us."Why do my bowels for him yearn,What ill has crossed his path?Blind, helpless, whither shall we turn,Or how avert the wrath?"Lord of my soul—what means my pain?This horrid terror,—likeSome cloud that hides a hurricane;Hang not, O lightning,—strike!"Thus while she spake, the king drew nearWith haggard look and wild,Weighed down with grief, and pale with fear,Bearing the lifeless child.Rustled the dry leaves neath his foot,And made an eerie sound,A neighbouring owl began to hoot,All else was still around.At the first rustle of the leavesTheMunianswered clear,"Lo, here he is—oh wherefore grievesThy soul, my partner dear?"The words distinct, the monarch heard,He could no further go,His nature to its depths was stirred,He stopped in speechless woe.No steps advanced,—the sudden pauseAttention quickly drew,Rolled sightless orbs to learn the cause,But, hark!—the steps renew."Where art thou, darling—why so longHast thou delayed to-night?We die of thirst,—we are not strong,This fasting kills outright."Speak to us, dear one,—only speak,And calm our idle fears,Where hast thou been, and what to seek?Have pity on these tears."With head bent low the monarch heard,Then came a cruel throbThat tore his heart,—still not a word,Only a stifled sob!"It is not Sindhu—who art thou?And where is Sindhu gone?There's blood upon thy hands—avow!""There is."—"Speak on, speak on."The dead child in their arms he placed,And briefly told his tale,The parents their dead child embraced,And kissed his forehead pale."Our hearts are broken. Come, dear wife,On earth no more we dwell;Now welcome Death, and farewell Life,And thou, O king, farewell!"We do not curse thee, God forbidBut to my inner eyeThe future is no longer hid,Thou too shalt like us die."Die—for a son's untimely loss!Die—with a broken heart!Now help us to our bed of moss,And let us both depart."Upon the moss he laid them down,And watched beside the bed;Death gently came and placed a crownUpon each reverend head.Where the Sarayu's waves dash freeAgainst a rocky bank,The monarch had the corpses threeConveyed by men of rank;There honoured he with royal pompTheir funeral obsequies,—Incense and sandal, drum and tromp,And solemn sacrifice.What is the sequel of the tale?How died the king?—Oh man,A prophet's words can never fail—Go, read the Ramayan.
"Oh why does not our child return?Too long he surely stays."—Thus to theMuni, blind and stern,His partner gently says."For fruits and water when he goesHe never stays so long,Oh can it be, beset by foes,He suffers cruel wrong?"Some distance he has gone, I fear,A more circuitous round,—Yet why should he? The fruits are near,The river near our bound."I die of thirst,—it matters notIf Sindhu be but safe,What if he leave us, and this spot,Poor birds in cages chafe."Peevish and fretful oft we are,—Ah, no—that cannot be:Of our blind eyes he is the star,Without him, what were we?"Too much he loves us to forsake,But something ominous,Here in my heart, a dreadful ache,Says, he is gone from us."Why do my bowels for him yearn,What ill has crossed his path?Blind, helpless, whither shall we turn,Or how avert the wrath?"Lord of my soul—what means my pain?This horrid terror,—likeSome cloud that hides a hurricane;Hang not, O lightning,—strike!"Thus while she spake, the king drew nearWith haggard look and wild,Weighed down with grief, and pale with fear,Bearing the lifeless child.Rustled the dry leaves neath his foot,And made an eerie sound,A neighbouring owl began to hoot,All else was still around.At the first rustle of the leavesTheMunianswered clear,"Lo, here he is—oh wherefore grievesThy soul, my partner dear?"The words distinct, the monarch heard,He could no further go,His nature to its depths was stirred,He stopped in speechless woe.No steps advanced,—the sudden pauseAttention quickly drew,Rolled sightless orbs to learn the cause,But, hark!—the steps renew."Where art thou, darling—why so longHast thou delayed to-night?We die of thirst,—we are not strong,This fasting kills outright."Speak to us, dear one,—only speak,And calm our idle fears,Where hast thou been, and what to seek?Have pity on these tears."With head bent low the monarch heard,Then came a cruel throbThat tore his heart,—still not a word,Only a stifled sob!"It is not Sindhu—who art thou?And where is Sindhu gone?There's blood upon thy hands—avow!""There is."—"Speak on, speak on."The dead child in their arms he placed,And briefly told his tale,The parents their dead child embraced,And kissed his forehead pale."Our hearts are broken. Come, dear wife,On earth no more we dwell;Now welcome Death, and farewell Life,And thou, O king, farewell!"We do not curse thee, God forbidBut to my inner eyeThe future is no longer hid,Thou too shalt like us die."Die—for a son's untimely loss!Die—with a broken heart!Now help us to our bed of moss,And let us both depart."Upon the moss he laid them down,And watched beside the bed;Death gently came and placed a crownUpon each reverend head.Where the Sarayu's waves dash freeAgainst a rocky bank,The monarch had the corpses threeConveyed by men of rank;There honoured he with royal pompTheir funeral obsequies,—Incense and sandal, drum and tromp,And solemn sacrifice.What is the sequel of the tale?How died the king?—Oh man,A prophet's words can never fail—Go, read the Ramayan.
"Oh why does not our child return?Too long he surely stays."—Thus to theMuni, blind and stern,His partner gently says.
"For fruits and water when he goesHe never stays so long,Oh can it be, beset by foes,He suffers cruel wrong?
"Some distance he has gone, I fear,A more circuitous round,—Yet why should he? The fruits are near,The river near our bound.
"I die of thirst,—it matters notIf Sindhu be but safe,What if he leave us, and this spot,Poor birds in cages chafe.
"Peevish and fretful oft we are,—Ah, no—that cannot be:Of our blind eyes he is the star,Without him, what were we?
"Too much he loves us to forsake,But something ominous,Here in my heart, a dreadful ache,Says, he is gone from us.
"Why do my bowels for him yearn,What ill has crossed his path?Blind, helpless, whither shall we turn,Or how avert the wrath?
"Lord of my soul—what means my pain?This horrid terror,—likeSome cloud that hides a hurricane;Hang not, O lightning,—strike!"
Thus while she spake, the king drew nearWith haggard look and wild,Weighed down with grief, and pale with fear,Bearing the lifeless child.
Rustled the dry leaves neath his foot,And made an eerie sound,A neighbouring owl began to hoot,All else was still around.
At the first rustle of the leavesTheMunianswered clear,"Lo, here he is—oh wherefore grievesThy soul, my partner dear?"
The words distinct, the monarch heard,He could no further go,His nature to its depths was stirred,He stopped in speechless woe.
No steps advanced,—the sudden pauseAttention quickly drew,Rolled sightless orbs to learn the cause,But, hark!—the steps renew.
"Where art thou, darling—why so longHast thou delayed to-night?We die of thirst,—we are not strong,This fasting kills outright.
"Speak to us, dear one,—only speak,And calm our idle fears,Where hast thou been, and what to seek?Have pity on these tears."
With head bent low the monarch heard,Then came a cruel throbThat tore his heart,—still not a word,Only a stifled sob!
"It is not Sindhu—who art thou?And where is Sindhu gone?There's blood upon thy hands—avow!""There is."—"Speak on, speak on."
The dead child in their arms he placed,And briefly told his tale,The parents their dead child embraced,And kissed his forehead pale.
"Our hearts are broken. Come, dear wife,On earth no more we dwell;Now welcome Death, and farewell Life,And thou, O king, farewell!
"We do not curse thee, God forbidBut to my inner eyeThe future is no longer hid,Thou too shalt like us die.
"Die—for a son's untimely loss!Die—with a broken heart!Now help us to our bed of moss,And let us both depart."
Upon the moss he laid them down,And watched beside the bed;Death gently came and placed a crownUpon each reverend head.
Where the Sarayu's waves dash freeAgainst a rocky bank,The monarch had the corpses threeConveyed by men of rank;
There honoured he with royal pompTheir funeral obsequies,—Incense and sandal, drum and tromp,And solemn sacrifice.
What is the sequel of the tale?How died the king?—Oh man,A prophet's words can never fail—Go, read the Ramayan.
A terror both of gods and menWas Heerun Kasyapu, the king;No bear more sullen in its den,No tiger quicker at the spring.In strength of limb he had not met,Since first his black flag he unfurled,Nor in audacious courage, yet,His equal in the wide, wide world.The holy Veds he tore in shreds;Libations, sacrifices, rites,He made all penal; and the headsOf Bramins slain, he flung to kites,"I hold the sceptre in my hand,I sit upon the ivory throne,Bow down to me—'tis my command,And worship me, and me alone."No god has ever me withstood,Why raise ye altars?—cease your pains!I shall protect you, give you food,If ye obey,—or else the chains."Fled at such edicts, self-exiled,The Bramins and the pundits wise,To live thenceforth in forests wild,Or caves in hills that touch the skies.In secret there, they altars raised,And made oblations due by fire,Their gods, their wonted gods, they praised,Lest these should earth destroy in ire;They read the Veds, they prayed and mused,Full well they knew that Time would bringFor favours scorned, and gifts misused,Undreamt of changes on his wing.Time changes deserts bare to meads,And fertile meads to deserts bare,Cities to pools, and pools with reedsTo towns and cities large and fair.Time changes purple into rags,And rags to purple. Chime by chime,Whether it flies, or runs, or drags—The wise wait patiently on Time.Time brought the tyrant children four,Rahd, Onoorahd, Prehlad, Sunghrad,Who made his castle gray and hoar,Once full of gloom, with sunshine glad.No boys were e'er more beautiful,No brothers e'er loved more each other,No sons were e'er more dutiful,Nor ever kissed a fonder mother.Nor less beloved were they of himWho gave them birth, Kasyapu proud,But made by nature stern and grim,His love was covered by a cloudFrom which it rarely e'er emerged,To gladden these sweet human flowers.They grew apace, and now Time urgedThe education of their powers.Who should their teacher be? A manAmong the flatterers in the courtWas found, well-suited to the planThe tyrant had devised. ReportGave him a wisdom owned by few,And certainly to trim his sail,And veer his bark, none better knew,Before a changing adverse gale.And Sonda Marco,—such his name,—Took home the four fair boys to teachAll knowledge that their years became,Science, and war, and modes of speech,But he was told, if death he feared,Never to tell them of the soul,Of vows, and prayers, and rites revered,And of the gods who all control.The sciences the boys were taughtThey mastered with a quickness strange,But Prehlad was the one for thought,He soared above the lesson's range.One day the tutor unseen heardThe boy discuss forbidden themes,As if his inmost heart were stirred,And he of truth from heaven had gleams."O Prince, what mean'st thou?" In his frightThe teacher thus in private said—"Talk on such subjects is not right,Wouldst thou bring ruin on my head?There are no gods except the king,The ruler of the world is he!Look up to him, and do not bringDestruction by a speech too free."Be wary for thy own sake, child,If he should hear thee talking so,Thou shalt for ever be exiled,And I shall die, full well I know.Worthy of worship, honour, praise,Is thy great father. Things unseen,Whatarethey?—Themes of poets' lays!Theyarenot and have never been."Smiling, the boy, with folded hands,As sign of a submission meek,Answered his tutor. "Thy commandsAre ever precious. Do not seekTo lay upon me what I feelWould be unrighteous. Let me hearThose inner voices that revealLong vistas in another sphere."The gods that rule the earth and sea,Shall I abjure them and adoreA man? It may not, may not be;Though I should lie in pools of goreMy conscience I would hurt no more;But I shall follow what my heartTells me is right, so I imploreMy purpose fixed no longer thwart."The coward calls black white, white black,At bidding, or in fear of death;Such suppleness, thank God, I lack,To die is but to lose my breath.Is death annihilation? No.New worlds will open on my view,When persecuted hence I go,The right is right,—the true is true."All's over now, the teacher thought,Now let this reach the monarch's ear!And instant death shall be my lot.They parted, he in abject fear.And soon he heard a choral songSung by young voices in the praiseOf gods unseen, who right all wrong,And rule the worlds from primal days."What progress have thy charges made?Let them be called, that I may see."And Sonda Marco brought as badeHis pupils to the royal knee.Three passed the monarch's test severe,The fourth remained: then spake the king,"Now, Prehlad, with attention hear,I know thou hast the strongest wing!"What is the cream of knowledge, child,Which men take such great pains to learn?"With folded hands he answered mild:"Listen, O Sire! To speak I yearn.All sciences are nothing worth,—Astronomy that tracks the star,Geography that maps the earth,Logic, and Politics, and War,—"And Medicine, that strives to healBut only aggravates disease,All, all are futile,—so I feel,For me, O father, none of these.That is true knowledge which can showThe glory of the living gods,—Divest of pride, make men belowHumble and happy, though but clods."That is true knowledge which can makeUs mortals, saintlike, holy, pure,The strange thirst of the spirit slakeAnd strengthen suffering to endure.That is true knowledge which can changeOur very natures, with its glow;The sciences whate'er their rangeFeed but the flesh, and make a show.""Where hast thou learnt this nonsense, boy?Where live these gods believed so great?Can they like me thy life destroy?Have they such troops and royal state?Above all gods is he who rulesThe wide, wide earth, from sea to sea,Men, devils, gods,—yea, all but foolsBow down in fear and worship me!"And dares an atom from my loinsAgainst my kingly power rebel?Though heaven itself to aid him joins,His end is death—the infidel!I warn thee yet,—bow down, thou slave,And worship me, or thou shalt die!We'll see what gods descend to save—What gods with me their strength will try!"Thus spake the monarch in his ire,One hand outstretched, in menace rude,And eyes like blazing coals of fire.And Prehlad, in unruffled moodStraight answered him; his head bent low,His palms joined meekly on his breastAs ever, and his cheeks aglowHis rock-firm purpose to attest."Let not my words, Sire, give offence,To thee, and to my mother, bothI give as due all reverence,And to obey thee am not loth.But higher duties sometimes clashWith lower,—then these last must go,—Or there will come a fearful crashIn lamentation, fear, and woe!"The gods who made us are the lifeOf living creatures, small and great;We see them not, but space is rifeWith their bright presence and their state.They are the parents of us all,'Tis they create, sustain, redeem,Heaven, earth and hell, they hold in thrall,And shall we these high gods blaspheme?"Blest is the man whose heart obeysAnd makes their law of life his guide,He shall be led in all his ways,His footsteps shall not ever slide;In forests dim, on raging seas,In certain peace shall he abide,What though he all the world displease,His gods shall all his wants provide!""Cease, babbler! 'tis enough! I knowThy proud, rebellious nature well.Ho! Captain of our lifeguards, ho!Take down this lad to dungeon-cell,And bid the executioner waitOur orders." All unmoved and calm,He went, as reckless of his fate,Erect and stately as a palm.Hushed was the hall, as down he past,No breath, no whisper, not a sign,Through ranks of courtiers, all aghastLike beaten hounds that dare not whine.Outside the door, the Captain spoke,"Recant," he said beneath his breath;"The lion's anger to provokeIs death, O prince, is certain death.""Thanks," said the prince,—"I have revolvedThe question in my mind with care,Do what you will,—I am resolved,To do the right, all deaths I dare.The gods, perhaps, may please to spareMy tender years; if not,—why, stillI never shall my faith forswear,I can but say, be done their will."Whether in pity for the youth,The headsman would not rightly plyThe weapon, or the gods in truthHad ordered that he should not die,Soon to the king there came reportThe sword would not destroy his son,The council held thereon was short,The king's look frightened every one."There is a spell against cold steelWhich known, the steel can work no harm,Some sycophant with baneful zealHath taught this foolish boy the charm.It would be wise, O king, to dealSome other way, or else I fearMuch damage to the common weal."Thus spake the wily-tongued vizier.Dark frowned the king.—"Enough of this,—Death, instant death, is my command!Go throw him down some precipice,Or bury him alive in sand."With terror dumb, from that wide hallDeparted all the courtier band,But not one man amongst them allDared raise against the prince his hand.And now vague rumours ran around,Men talked of them with bated breath:The river has a depth profound,The elephants trample down to death,The poisons kill, the firebrands burn.Had every means in turn been tried?Some said they had,—but soon they learnThe brave young prince had not yet died.For once more in the Council-HallHe had been cited to appear,'Twas open to the public all,And all the people came in fear.Banners were hung along the wall,The King sat on his peacock throne,And now the hoary MarechalBrings in the youth,—bare skin and bone."Who shall protect thee, Prehlad, now?Against steel, poison, water, fire,Thou art protected, men avowWho treason, if but bold, admire.In our own presence thou art broughtThat we and all may know the truth—Where are thy gods?—I long have soughtBut never found them, hapless youth."Will they come down, to prove their strength?Will they come down, to rescue thee?Let them come down, for once, at length,Come one, or all, to fight with me.Where are thy gods? Or are they dead,Or do they hide in craven fear?There lies my gage. None ever saidI hide from any,—far or near.""My gracious Liege, my Sire, my King!If thou indeed wouldst deign to hear,In humble mood, my words would springLike a pellucid fountain clear,For I have in my dungeon darkLearnt more of truth than e'er I knew,There is one God—One only,—mark!To Him is all our service due."Hath He a shape, or hath He none?I know not this, nor care to know,Dwelling in light, to which the sunIs darkness,—He sees all below,Himself unseen! In Him I trust,He can protect me if He will,And if this body turn to dust,He can new life again instil."I fear not fire, I fear not sword,All dangers, father, I can dare;Alone, I can confront a horde,For oh! my God is everywhere!""What! everywhere? Then in this hall,And in this crystal pillar bright?Now tell me plain, before us all,Is He herein, thy God of light?"The monarch placed his steel-gloved handUpon a crystal pillar near,In mockful jest was his demand,The answer came, low, serious, clear:"Yes, father, God is even here,And if He choose this very hourCan strike us dead, with ghastly fear,And vindicate His name and power.""Where is this God? Now let us see."He spumed the pillar with his foot,Down, down it tumbled, like a treeSevered by axes from the root,And from within, with horrid clangThat froze the blood in every vein,A stately sable warrior sprang,Like some phantasma of the brain.He had a lion head and eyes,A human body, feet and hands,Colossal,—such strange shapes ariseIn clouds, when Autumn rules the lands!He gave a shout;—the boldest quailed,Then struck the tyrant on the helm,And ripped him down; and last, he hailedPrehlad as king of all the realm!A thunder clap—the shape was gone!One king lay stiff, and stark, and dead,Another on the peacock throneBowed reverently his youthful head.Loud rang the trumpets; louder stillA sovereign people's wild acclaim.The echoes ran from hill to hill,"Kings rule for us and in our name."Tyrants of every age and climeRemember this,—that awful shapeShall startle you when comes the time,And send its voice from cape to cape.As human, peoples suffer pain,But oh, the lion strength is theirs,Woe to the king when galls the chain!Woe, woe, their fury when he dares!
A terror both of gods and menWas Heerun Kasyapu, the king;No bear more sullen in its den,No tiger quicker at the spring.In strength of limb he had not met,Since first his black flag he unfurled,Nor in audacious courage, yet,His equal in the wide, wide world.The holy Veds he tore in shreds;Libations, sacrifices, rites,He made all penal; and the headsOf Bramins slain, he flung to kites,"I hold the sceptre in my hand,I sit upon the ivory throne,Bow down to me—'tis my command,And worship me, and me alone."No god has ever me withstood,Why raise ye altars?—cease your pains!I shall protect you, give you food,If ye obey,—or else the chains."Fled at such edicts, self-exiled,The Bramins and the pundits wise,To live thenceforth in forests wild,Or caves in hills that touch the skies.In secret there, they altars raised,And made oblations due by fire,Their gods, their wonted gods, they praised,Lest these should earth destroy in ire;They read the Veds, they prayed and mused,Full well they knew that Time would bringFor favours scorned, and gifts misused,Undreamt of changes on his wing.Time changes deserts bare to meads,And fertile meads to deserts bare,Cities to pools, and pools with reedsTo towns and cities large and fair.Time changes purple into rags,And rags to purple. Chime by chime,Whether it flies, or runs, or drags—The wise wait patiently on Time.Time brought the tyrant children four,Rahd, Onoorahd, Prehlad, Sunghrad,Who made his castle gray and hoar,Once full of gloom, with sunshine glad.No boys were e'er more beautiful,No brothers e'er loved more each other,No sons were e'er more dutiful,Nor ever kissed a fonder mother.Nor less beloved were they of himWho gave them birth, Kasyapu proud,But made by nature stern and grim,His love was covered by a cloudFrom which it rarely e'er emerged,To gladden these sweet human flowers.They grew apace, and now Time urgedThe education of their powers.Who should their teacher be? A manAmong the flatterers in the courtWas found, well-suited to the planThe tyrant had devised. ReportGave him a wisdom owned by few,And certainly to trim his sail,And veer his bark, none better knew,Before a changing adverse gale.And Sonda Marco,—such his name,—Took home the four fair boys to teachAll knowledge that their years became,Science, and war, and modes of speech,But he was told, if death he feared,Never to tell them of the soul,Of vows, and prayers, and rites revered,And of the gods who all control.The sciences the boys were taughtThey mastered with a quickness strange,But Prehlad was the one for thought,He soared above the lesson's range.One day the tutor unseen heardThe boy discuss forbidden themes,As if his inmost heart were stirred,And he of truth from heaven had gleams."O Prince, what mean'st thou?" In his frightThe teacher thus in private said—"Talk on such subjects is not right,Wouldst thou bring ruin on my head?There are no gods except the king,The ruler of the world is he!Look up to him, and do not bringDestruction by a speech too free."Be wary for thy own sake, child,If he should hear thee talking so,Thou shalt for ever be exiled,And I shall die, full well I know.Worthy of worship, honour, praise,Is thy great father. Things unseen,Whatarethey?—Themes of poets' lays!Theyarenot and have never been."Smiling, the boy, with folded hands,As sign of a submission meek,Answered his tutor. "Thy commandsAre ever precious. Do not seekTo lay upon me what I feelWould be unrighteous. Let me hearThose inner voices that revealLong vistas in another sphere."The gods that rule the earth and sea,Shall I abjure them and adoreA man? It may not, may not be;Though I should lie in pools of goreMy conscience I would hurt no more;But I shall follow what my heartTells me is right, so I imploreMy purpose fixed no longer thwart."The coward calls black white, white black,At bidding, or in fear of death;Such suppleness, thank God, I lack,To die is but to lose my breath.Is death annihilation? No.New worlds will open on my view,When persecuted hence I go,The right is right,—the true is true."All's over now, the teacher thought,Now let this reach the monarch's ear!And instant death shall be my lot.They parted, he in abject fear.And soon he heard a choral songSung by young voices in the praiseOf gods unseen, who right all wrong,And rule the worlds from primal days."What progress have thy charges made?Let them be called, that I may see."And Sonda Marco brought as badeHis pupils to the royal knee.Three passed the monarch's test severe,The fourth remained: then spake the king,"Now, Prehlad, with attention hear,I know thou hast the strongest wing!"What is the cream of knowledge, child,Which men take such great pains to learn?"With folded hands he answered mild:"Listen, O Sire! To speak I yearn.All sciences are nothing worth,—Astronomy that tracks the star,Geography that maps the earth,Logic, and Politics, and War,—"And Medicine, that strives to healBut only aggravates disease,All, all are futile,—so I feel,For me, O father, none of these.That is true knowledge which can showThe glory of the living gods,—Divest of pride, make men belowHumble and happy, though but clods."That is true knowledge which can makeUs mortals, saintlike, holy, pure,The strange thirst of the spirit slakeAnd strengthen suffering to endure.That is true knowledge which can changeOur very natures, with its glow;The sciences whate'er their rangeFeed but the flesh, and make a show.""Where hast thou learnt this nonsense, boy?Where live these gods believed so great?Can they like me thy life destroy?Have they such troops and royal state?Above all gods is he who rulesThe wide, wide earth, from sea to sea,Men, devils, gods,—yea, all but foolsBow down in fear and worship me!"And dares an atom from my loinsAgainst my kingly power rebel?Though heaven itself to aid him joins,His end is death—the infidel!I warn thee yet,—bow down, thou slave,And worship me, or thou shalt die!We'll see what gods descend to save—What gods with me their strength will try!"Thus spake the monarch in his ire,One hand outstretched, in menace rude,And eyes like blazing coals of fire.And Prehlad, in unruffled moodStraight answered him; his head bent low,His palms joined meekly on his breastAs ever, and his cheeks aglowHis rock-firm purpose to attest."Let not my words, Sire, give offence,To thee, and to my mother, bothI give as due all reverence,And to obey thee am not loth.But higher duties sometimes clashWith lower,—then these last must go,—Or there will come a fearful crashIn lamentation, fear, and woe!"The gods who made us are the lifeOf living creatures, small and great;We see them not, but space is rifeWith their bright presence and their state.They are the parents of us all,'Tis they create, sustain, redeem,Heaven, earth and hell, they hold in thrall,And shall we these high gods blaspheme?"Blest is the man whose heart obeysAnd makes their law of life his guide,He shall be led in all his ways,His footsteps shall not ever slide;In forests dim, on raging seas,In certain peace shall he abide,What though he all the world displease,His gods shall all his wants provide!""Cease, babbler! 'tis enough! I knowThy proud, rebellious nature well.Ho! Captain of our lifeguards, ho!Take down this lad to dungeon-cell,And bid the executioner waitOur orders." All unmoved and calm,He went, as reckless of his fate,Erect and stately as a palm.Hushed was the hall, as down he past,No breath, no whisper, not a sign,Through ranks of courtiers, all aghastLike beaten hounds that dare not whine.Outside the door, the Captain spoke,"Recant," he said beneath his breath;"The lion's anger to provokeIs death, O prince, is certain death.""Thanks," said the prince,—"I have revolvedThe question in my mind with care,Do what you will,—I am resolved,To do the right, all deaths I dare.The gods, perhaps, may please to spareMy tender years; if not,—why, stillI never shall my faith forswear,I can but say, be done their will."Whether in pity for the youth,The headsman would not rightly plyThe weapon, or the gods in truthHad ordered that he should not die,Soon to the king there came reportThe sword would not destroy his son,The council held thereon was short,The king's look frightened every one."There is a spell against cold steelWhich known, the steel can work no harm,Some sycophant with baneful zealHath taught this foolish boy the charm.It would be wise, O king, to dealSome other way, or else I fearMuch damage to the common weal."Thus spake the wily-tongued vizier.Dark frowned the king.—"Enough of this,—Death, instant death, is my command!Go throw him down some precipice,Or bury him alive in sand."With terror dumb, from that wide hallDeparted all the courtier band,But not one man amongst them allDared raise against the prince his hand.And now vague rumours ran around,Men talked of them with bated breath:The river has a depth profound,The elephants trample down to death,The poisons kill, the firebrands burn.Had every means in turn been tried?Some said they had,—but soon they learnThe brave young prince had not yet died.For once more in the Council-HallHe had been cited to appear,'Twas open to the public all,And all the people came in fear.Banners were hung along the wall,The King sat on his peacock throne,And now the hoary MarechalBrings in the youth,—bare skin and bone."Who shall protect thee, Prehlad, now?Against steel, poison, water, fire,Thou art protected, men avowWho treason, if but bold, admire.In our own presence thou art broughtThat we and all may know the truth—Where are thy gods?—I long have soughtBut never found them, hapless youth."Will they come down, to prove their strength?Will they come down, to rescue thee?Let them come down, for once, at length,Come one, or all, to fight with me.Where are thy gods? Or are they dead,Or do they hide in craven fear?There lies my gage. None ever saidI hide from any,—far or near.""My gracious Liege, my Sire, my King!If thou indeed wouldst deign to hear,In humble mood, my words would springLike a pellucid fountain clear,For I have in my dungeon darkLearnt more of truth than e'er I knew,There is one God—One only,—mark!To Him is all our service due."Hath He a shape, or hath He none?I know not this, nor care to know,Dwelling in light, to which the sunIs darkness,—He sees all below,Himself unseen! In Him I trust,He can protect me if He will,And if this body turn to dust,He can new life again instil."I fear not fire, I fear not sword,All dangers, father, I can dare;Alone, I can confront a horde,For oh! my God is everywhere!""What! everywhere? Then in this hall,And in this crystal pillar bright?Now tell me plain, before us all,Is He herein, thy God of light?"The monarch placed his steel-gloved handUpon a crystal pillar near,In mockful jest was his demand,The answer came, low, serious, clear:"Yes, father, God is even here,And if He choose this very hourCan strike us dead, with ghastly fear,And vindicate His name and power.""Where is this God? Now let us see."He spumed the pillar with his foot,Down, down it tumbled, like a treeSevered by axes from the root,And from within, with horrid clangThat froze the blood in every vein,A stately sable warrior sprang,Like some phantasma of the brain.He had a lion head and eyes,A human body, feet and hands,Colossal,—such strange shapes ariseIn clouds, when Autumn rules the lands!He gave a shout;—the boldest quailed,Then struck the tyrant on the helm,And ripped him down; and last, he hailedPrehlad as king of all the realm!A thunder clap—the shape was gone!One king lay stiff, and stark, and dead,Another on the peacock throneBowed reverently his youthful head.Loud rang the trumpets; louder stillA sovereign people's wild acclaim.The echoes ran from hill to hill,"Kings rule for us and in our name."Tyrants of every age and climeRemember this,—that awful shapeShall startle you when comes the time,And send its voice from cape to cape.As human, peoples suffer pain,But oh, the lion strength is theirs,Woe to the king when galls the chain!Woe, woe, their fury when he dares!
A terror both of gods and menWas Heerun Kasyapu, the king;No bear more sullen in its den,No tiger quicker at the spring.In strength of limb he had not met,Since first his black flag he unfurled,Nor in audacious courage, yet,His equal in the wide, wide world.
The holy Veds he tore in shreds;Libations, sacrifices, rites,He made all penal; and the headsOf Bramins slain, he flung to kites,"I hold the sceptre in my hand,I sit upon the ivory throne,Bow down to me—'tis my command,And worship me, and me alone.
"No god has ever me withstood,Why raise ye altars?—cease your pains!I shall protect you, give you food,If ye obey,—or else the chains."Fled at such edicts, self-exiled,The Bramins and the pundits wise,To live thenceforth in forests wild,Or caves in hills that touch the skies.
In secret there, they altars raised,And made oblations due by fire,Their gods, their wonted gods, they praised,Lest these should earth destroy in ire;They read the Veds, they prayed and mused,Full well they knew that Time would bringFor favours scorned, and gifts misused,Undreamt of changes on his wing.
Time changes deserts bare to meads,And fertile meads to deserts bare,Cities to pools, and pools with reedsTo towns and cities large and fair.Time changes purple into rags,And rags to purple. Chime by chime,Whether it flies, or runs, or drags—The wise wait patiently on Time.
Time brought the tyrant children four,Rahd, Onoorahd, Prehlad, Sunghrad,Who made his castle gray and hoar,Once full of gloom, with sunshine glad.No boys were e'er more beautiful,No brothers e'er loved more each other,No sons were e'er more dutiful,Nor ever kissed a fonder mother.
Nor less beloved were they of himWho gave them birth, Kasyapu proud,But made by nature stern and grim,His love was covered by a cloudFrom which it rarely e'er emerged,To gladden these sweet human flowers.They grew apace, and now Time urgedThe education of their powers.
Who should their teacher be? A manAmong the flatterers in the courtWas found, well-suited to the planThe tyrant had devised. ReportGave him a wisdom owned by few,And certainly to trim his sail,And veer his bark, none better knew,Before a changing adverse gale.
And Sonda Marco,—such his name,—Took home the four fair boys to teachAll knowledge that their years became,Science, and war, and modes of speech,But he was told, if death he feared,Never to tell them of the soul,Of vows, and prayers, and rites revered,And of the gods who all control.
The sciences the boys were taughtThey mastered with a quickness strange,But Prehlad was the one for thought,He soared above the lesson's range.One day the tutor unseen heardThe boy discuss forbidden themes,As if his inmost heart were stirred,And he of truth from heaven had gleams.
"O Prince, what mean'st thou?" In his frightThe teacher thus in private said—"Talk on such subjects is not right,Wouldst thou bring ruin on my head?There are no gods except the king,The ruler of the world is he!Look up to him, and do not bringDestruction by a speech too free.
"Be wary for thy own sake, child,If he should hear thee talking so,Thou shalt for ever be exiled,And I shall die, full well I know.Worthy of worship, honour, praise,Is thy great father. Things unseen,Whatarethey?—Themes of poets' lays!Theyarenot and have never been."
Smiling, the boy, with folded hands,As sign of a submission meek,Answered his tutor. "Thy commandsAre ever precious. Do not seekTo lay upon me what I feelWould be unrighteous. Let me hearThose inner voices that revealLong vistas in another sphere.
"The gods that rule the earth and sea,Shall I abjure them and adoreA man? It may not, may not be;Though I should lie in pools of goreMy conscience I would hurt no more;But I shall follow what my heartTells me is right, so I imploreMy purpose fixed no longer thwart.
"The coward calls black white, white black,At bidding, or in fear of death;Such suppleness, thank God, I lack,To die is but to lose my breath.Is death annihilation? No.New worlds will open on my view,When persecuted hence I go,The right is right,—the true is true."
All's over now, the teacher thought,Now let this reach the monarch's ear!And instant death shall be my lot.They parted, he in abject fear.And soon he heard a choral songSung by young voices in the praiseOf gods unseen, who right all wrong,And rule the worlds from primal days.
"What progress have thy charges made?Let them be called, that I may see."And Sonda Marco brought as badeHis pupils to the royal knee.Three passed the monarch's test severe,The fourth remained: then spake the king,"Now, Prehlad, with attention hear,I know thou hast the strongest wing!
"What is the cream of knowledge, child,Which men take such great pains to learn?"With folded hands he answered mild:"Listen, O Sire! To speak I yearn.All sciences are nothing worth,—Astronomy that tracks the star,Geography that maps the earth,Logic, and Politics, and War,—
"And Medicine, that strives to healBut only aggravates disease,All, all are futile,—so I feel,For me, O father, none of these.That is true knowledge which can showThe glory of the living gods,—Divest of pride, make men belowHumble and happy, though but clods.
"That is true knowledge which can makeUs mortals, saintlike, holy, pure,The strange thirst of the spirit slakeAnd strengthen suffering to endure.That is true knowledge which can changeOur very natures, with its glow;The sciences whate'er their rangeFeed but the flesh, and make a show."
"Where hast thou learnt this nonsense, boy?Where live these gods believed so great?Can they like me thy life destroy?Have they such troops and royal state?Above all gods is he who rulesThe wide, wide earth, from sea to sea,Men, devils, gods,—yea, all but foolsBow down in fear and worship me!
"And dares an atom from my loinsAgainst my kingly power rebel?Though heaven itself to aid him joins,His end is death—the infidel!I warn thee yet,—bow down, thou slave,And worship me, or thou shalt die!We'll see what gods descend to save—What gods with me their strength will try!"
Thus spake the monarch in his ire,One hand outstretched, in menace rude,And eyes like blazing coals of fire.And Prehlad, in unruffled moodStraight answered him; his head bent low,His palms joined meekly on his breastAs ever, and his cheeks aglowHis rock-firm purpose to attest.
"Let not my words, Sire, give offence,To thee, and to my mother, bothI give as due all reverence,And to obey thee am not loth.But higher duties sometimes clashWith lower,—then these last must go,—Or there will come a fearful crashIn lamentation, fear, and woe!
"The gods who made us are the lifeOf living creatures, small and great;We see them not, but space is rifeWith their bright presence and their state.They are the parents of us all,'Tis they create, sustain, redeem,Heaven, earth and hell, they hold in thrall,And shall we these high gods blaspheme?
"Blest is the man whose heart obeysAnd makes their law of life his guide,He shall be led in all his ways,His footsteps shall not ever slide;In forests dim, on raging seas,In certain peace shall he abide,What though he all the world displease,His gods shall all his wants provide!"
"Cease, babbler! 'tis enough! I knowThy proud, rebellious nature well.Ho! Captain of our lifeguards, ho!Take down this lad to dungeon-cell,And bid the executioner waitOur orders." All unmoved and calm,He went, as reckless of his fate,Erect and stately as a palm.
Hushed was the hall, as down he past,No breath, no whisper, not a sign,Through ranks of courtiers, all aghastLike beaten hounds that dare not whine.Outside the door, the Captain spoke,"Recant," he said beneath his breath;"The lion's anger to provokeIs death, O prince, is certain death."
"Thanks," said the prince,—"I have revolvedThe question in my mind with care,Do what you will,—I am resolved,To do the right, all deaths I dare.The gods, perhaps, may please to spareMy tender years; if not,—why, stillI never shall my faith forswear,I can but say, be done their will."
Whether in pity for the youth,The headsman would not rightly plyThe weapon, or the gods in truthHad ordered that he should not die,Soon to the king there came reportThe sword would not destroy his son,The council held thereon was short,The king's look frightened every one.
"There is a spell against cold steelWhich known, the steel can work no harm,Some sycophant with baneful zealHath taught this foolish boy the charm.It would be wise, O king, to dealSome other way, or else I fearMuch damage to the common weal."Thus spake the wily-tongued vizier.
Dark frowned the king.—"Enough of this,—Death, instant death, is my command!Go throw him down some precipice,Or bury him alive in sand."With terror dumb, from that wide hallDeparted all the courtier band,But not one man amongst them allDared raise against the prince his hand.
And now vague rumours ran around,Men talked of them with bated breath:The river has a depth profound,The elephants trample down to death,The poisons kill, the firebrands burn.Had every means in turn been tried?Some said they had,—but soon they learnThe brave young prince had not yet died.
For once more in the Council-HallHe had been cited to appear,'Twas open to the public all,And all the people came in fear.Banners were hung along the wall,The King sat on his peacock throne,And now the hoary MarechalBrings in the youth,—bare skin and bone.
"Who shall protect thee, Prehlad, now?Against steel, poison, water, fire,Thou art protected, men avowWho treason, if but bold, admire.In our own presence thou art broughtThat we and all may know the truth—Where are thy gods?—I long have soughtBut never found them, hapless youth.
"Will they come down, to prove their strength?Will they come down, to rescue thee?Let them come down, for once, at length,Come one, or all, to fight with me.Where are thy gods? Or are they dead,Or do they hide in craven fear?There lies my gage. None ever saidI hide from any,—far or near."
"My gracious Liege, my Sire, my King!If thou indeed wouldst deign to hear,In humble mood, my words would springLike a pellucid fountain clear,For I have in my dungeon darkLearnt more of truth than e'er I knew,There is one God—One only,—mark!To Him is all our service due.
"Hath He a shape, or hath He none?I know not this, nor care to know,Dwelling in light, to which the sunIs darkness,—He sees all below,Himself unseen! In Him I trust,He can protect me if He will,And if this body turn to dust,He can new life again instil.
"I fear not fire, I fear not sword,All dangers, father, I can dare;Alone, I can confront a horde,For oh! my God is everywhere!""What! everywhere? Then in this hall,And in this crystal pillar bright?Now tell me plain, before us all,Is He herein, thy God of light?"
The monarch placed his steel-gloved handUpon a crystal pillar near,In mockful jest was his demand,The answer came, low, serious, clear:"Yes, father, God is even here,And if He choose this very hourCan strike us dead, with ghastly fear,And vindicate His name and power."
"Where is this God? Now let us see."He spumed the pillar with his foot,Down, down it tumbled, like a treeSevered by axes from the root,And from within, with horrid clangThat froze the blood in every vein,A stately sable warrior sprang,Like some phantasma of the brain.
He had a lion head and eyes,A human body, feet and hands,Colossal,—such strange shapes ariseIn clouds, when Autumn rules the lands!He gave a shout;—the boldest quailed,Then struck the tyrant on the helm,And ripped him down; and last, he hailedPrehlad as king of all the realm!
A thunder clap—the shape was gone!One king lay stiff, and stark, and dead,Another on the peacock throneBowed reverently his youthful head.Loud rang the trumpets; louder stillA sovereign people's wild acclaim.The echoes ran from hill to hill,"Kings rule for us and in our name."
Tyrants of every age and climeRemember this,—that awful shapeShall startle you when comes the time,And send its voice from cape to cape.As human, peoples suffer pain,But oh, the lion strength is theirs,Woe to the king when galls the chain!Woe, woe, their fury when he dares!
Three happy children in a darkened room!What do they gaze on with wide-open eyes?A dense, dense forest, where no sunbeam pries,And in its centre a cleared spot.—There bloomGigantic flowers on creepers that embraceTall trees; there, in a quiet lucid lakeThe white swans glide; there, "whirring from the brake,"The peacock springs; there, herds of wild deer race;There, patches gleam with yellow waving grain;There, blue smoke from strange altars rises light,There, dwells in peace, the poet-anchorite.But who is this fair lady? Not in vainShe weeps,—for lo! at every tear she shedsTears from three pairs of young eyes fall amain,And bowed in sorrow are the three young heads.It is an old, old story, and the layWhich has evoked sad Sîta from the pastIs by a mother sung.... 'Tis hushed at lastAnd melts the picture from their sight away,Yet shall they dream of it until the day!When shall those children by their mother's sideGather, ah me! as erst at eventide?
Three happy children in a darkened room!What do they gaze on with wide-open eyes?A dense, dense forest, where no sunbeam pries,And in its centre a cleared spot.—There bloomGigantic flowers on creepers that embraceTall trees; there, in a quiet lucid lakeThe white swans glide; there, "whirring from the brake,"The peacock springs; there, herds of wild deer race;There, patches gleam with yellow waving grain;There, blue smoke from strange altars rises light,There, dwells in peace, the poet-anchorite.But who is this fair lady? Not in vainShe weeps,—for lo! at every tear she shedsTears from three pairs of young eyes fall amain,And bowed in sorrow are the three young heads.It is an old, old story, and the layWhich has evoked sad Sîta from the pastIs by a mother sung.... 'Tis hushed at lastAnd melts the picture from their sight away,Yet shall they dream of it until the day!When shall those children by their mother's sideGather, ah me! as erst at eventide?
Three happy children in a darkened room!What do they gaze on with wide-open eyes?A dense, dense forest, where no sunbeam pries,And in its centre a cleared spot.—There bloomGigantic flowers on creepers that embraceTall trees; there, in a quiet lucid lakeThe white swans glide; there, "whirring from the brake,"The peacock springs; there, herds of wild deer race;There, patches gleam with yellow waving grain;There, blue smoke from strange altars rises light,There, dwells in peace, the poet-anchorite.But who is this fair lady? Not in vainShe weeps,—for lo! at every tear she shedsTears from three pairs of young eyes fall amain,And bowed in sorrow are the three young heads.It is an old, old story, and the layWhich has evoked sad Sîta from the pastIs by a mother sung.... 'Tis hushed at lastAnd melts the picture from their sight away,Yet shall they dream of it until the day!When shall those children by their mother's sideGather, ah me! as erst at eventide?
Near Hastings, on the shingle-beach,We loitered at the timeWhen ripens on the wall the peach,The autumn's lovely prime.Far off,—the sea and sky seemed blent,The day was wholly done,The distant town its murmurs sent,Strangers,—we were alone.We wandered slow; sick, weary, faint,Then one of us sat down,No nature hers, to make complaint;—The shadows deepened brown.A lady past,—she was not young,But oh! her gentle faceNo painter-poet ever sung,Or saw such saintlike grace.She past us,—then she came again,Observing at a glanceThat we were strangers; one, in pain,—Then asked,—Were we from France?We talked awhile,—some roses redThat seemed as wet with tears,She gave my sister, and she said,"God bless you both, my dears!"Sweet were the roses,—sweet and full,And large as lotus flowersThat in our own wide tanks we cullTo deck our Indian bowers.But sweeter was the love that gaveThose flowers to one unknown,I think that He who came to saveThe gift a debt will own.The lady's name I do not know,Her face no more may see,But yet, oh yet I love her so!Blest, happy, may she be!Her memory will not depart,Though grief my years should shade,Still bloom her roses in my heart!And they shall never fade!
Near Hastings, on the shingle-beach,We loitered at the timeWhen ripens on the wall the peach,The autumn's lovely prime.Far off,—the sea and sky seemed blent,The day was wholly done,The distant town its murmurs sent,Strangers,—we were alone.We wandered slow; sick, weary, faint,Then one of us sat down,No nature hers, to make complaint;—The shadows deepened brown.A lady past,—she was not young,But oh! her gentle faceNo painter-poet ever sung,Or saw such saintlike grace.She past us,—then she came again,Observing at a glanceThat we were strangers; one, in pain,—Then asked,—Were we from France?We talked awhile,—some roses redThat seemed as wet with tears,She gave my sister, and she said,"God bless you both, my dears!"Sweet were the roses,—sweet and full,And large as lotus flowersThat in our own wide tanks we cullTo deck our Indian bowers.But sweeter was the love that gaveThose flowers to one unknown,I think that He who came to saveThe gift a debt will own.The lady's name I do not know,Her face no more may see,But yet, oh yet I love her so!Blest, happy, may she be!Her memory will not depart,Though grief my years should shade,Still bloom her roses in my heart!And they shall never fade!
Near Hastings, on the shingle-beach,We loitered at the timeWhen ripens on the wall the peach,The autumn's lovely prime.Far off,—the sea and sky seemed blent,The day was wholly done,The distant town its murmurs sent,Strangers,—we were alone.
We wandered slow; sick, weary, faint,Then one of us sat down,No nature hers, to make complaint;—The shadows deepened brown.A lady past,—she was not young,But oh! her gentle faceNo painter-poet ever sung,Or saw such saintlike grace.
She past us,—then she came again,Observing at a glanceThat we were strangers; one, in pain,—Then asked,—Were we from France?We talked awhile,—some roses redThat seemed as wet with tears,She gave my sister, and she said,"God bless you both, my dears!"
Sweet were the roses,—sweet and full,And large as lotus flowersThat in our own wide tanks we cullTo deck our Indian bowers.But sweeter was the love that gaveThose flowers to one unknown,I think that He who came to saveThe gift a debt will own.
The lady's name I do not know,Her face no more may see,But yet, oh yet I love her so!Blest, happy, may she be!Her memory will not depart,Though grief my years should shade,Still bloom her roses in my heart!And they shall never fade!
Not dead,—oh no,—she cannot die!Only a swoon, from loss of blood!Levite England passes her by,Help, Samaritan! None is nigh;Who shall stanch me this sanguine flood?Range the brown hair, it blinds her eyne,Dash cold water over her face!Drowned in her blood, she makes no sign,Give her a draught of generous wine.None heed, none hear, to do this grace.Head of the human column, thusEver in swoon wilt thou remain?Thought, Freedom, Truth, quenched ominous,Whence then shall Hope arise for us,Plunged in the darkness all again!No, she stirs!—There's a fire in her glance,Ware, oh ware of that broken sword!What, dare ye for an hour's mischance,Gather around her, jeering France,Attila's own exultant horde?Lo, she stands up,—stands up e'en now,Strong once more for the battle-fray,Gleams bright the star, that from her browLightens the world. Bow, nations, bow,Let her again lead on the way!
Not dead,—oh no,—she cannot die!Only a swoon, from loss of blood!Levite England passes her by,Help, Samaritan! None is nigh;Who shall stanch me this sanguine flood?Range the brown hair, it blinds her eyne,Dash cold water over her face!Drowned in her blood, she makes no sign,Give her a draught of generous wine.None heed, none hear, to do this grace.Head of the human column, thusEver in swoon wilt thou remain?Thought, Freedom, Truth, quenched ominous,Whence then shall Hope arise for us,Plunged in the darkness all again!No, she stirs!—There's a fire in her glance,Ware, oh ware of that broken sword!What, dare ye for an hour's mischance,Gather around her, jeering France,Attila's own exultant horde?Lo, she stands up,—stands up e'en now,Strong once more for the battle-fray,Gleams bright the star, that from her browLightens the world. Bow, nations, bow,Let her again lead on the way!
Not dead,—oh no,—she cannot die!Only a swoon, from loss of blood!Levite England passes her by,Help, Samaritan! None is nigh;Who shall stanch me this sanguine flood?
Range the brown hair, it blinds her eyne,Dash cold water over her face!Drowned in her blood, she makes no sign,Give her a draught of generous wine.None heed, none hear, to do this grace.
Head of the human column, thusEver in swoon wilt thou remain?Thought, Freedom, Truth, quenched ominous,Whence then shall Hope arise for us,Plunged in the darkness all again!
No, she stirs!—There's a fire in her glance,Ware, oh ware of that broken sword!What, dare ye for an hour's mischance,Gather around her, jeering France,Attila's own exultant horde?
Lo, she stands up,—stands up e'en now,Strong once more for the battle-fray,Gleams bright the star, that from her browLightens the world. Bow, nations, bow,Let her again lead on the way!
Broad daylight, with a sense of weariness!Mine eyes were closed, but I was not asleep,My hand was in my father's, and I feltHis presence near me. Thus we often pastIn silence, hour by hour. What was the needOf interchanging words when every thoughtThat in our hearts arose, was known to each,And every pulse kept time? Suddenly there shoneA strange light, and the scene as sudden changed.I was awake:—It was an open plainIllimitable,—stretching, stretching—oh, so far!And o'er it that strange light,—a glorious lightLike that the stars shed over fields of snowIn a clear, cloudless, frosty winter night,Only intenser in its brilliance calm.And in the midst of that vast plain, I saw,For I was wide awake,—it was no dream,A tree with spreading branches and with leavesOf divers kinds,—dead silver and live gold,Shimmering in radiance that no words may tell!Beside the tree an Angel stood; he pluckedA few small sprays, and bound them round my head.Oh, the delicious touch of those strange leaves!No longer throbbed my brows, no more I feltThe fever in my limbs—"And oh," I cried,"Bind too my father's forehead with these leaves."One leaf the Angel took and therewith touchedHis forehead, and then gently whispered "Nay!"Never, oh never had I seen a faceMore beautiful than that Angel's, or more fullOf holy pity and of love divine.Wondering I looked awhile,—then, all at onceOpened my tear-dimmed eyes—When lo! the lightWas gone—the light as of the stars when snowLies deep upon the ground. No more, no more,Was seen the Angel's face. I only foundMy father watching patient by my bed,And holding in his own, close-prest, my hand.
Broad daylight, with a sense of weariness!Mine eyes were closed, but I was not asleep,My hand was in my father's, and I feltHis presence near me. Thus we often pastIn silence, hour by hour. What was the needOf interchanging words when every thoughtThat in our hearts arose, was known to each,And every pulse kept time? Suddenly there shoneA strange light, and the scene as sudden changed.I was awake:—It was an open plainIllimitable,—stretching, stretching—oh, so far!And o'er it that strange light,—a glorious lightLike that the stars shed over fields of snowIn a clear, cloudless, frosty winter night,Only intenser in its brilliance calm.And in the midst of that vast plain, I saw,For I was wide awake,—it was no dream,A tree with spreading branches and with leavesOf divers kinds,—dead silver and live gold,Shimmering in radiance that no words may tell!Beside the tree an Angel stood; he pluckedA few small sprays, and bound them round my head.Oh, the delicious touch of those strange leaves!No longer throbbed my brows, no more I feltThe fever in my limbs—"And oh," I cried,"Bind too my father's forehead with these leaves."One leaf the Angel took and therewith touchedHis forehead, and then gently whispered "Nay!"Never, oh never had I seen a faceMore beautiful than that Angel's, or more fullOf holy pity and of love divine.Wondering I looked awhile,—then, all at onceOpened my tear-dimmed eyes—When lo! the lightWas gone—the light as of the stars when snowLies deep upon the ground. No more, no more,Was seen the Angel's face. I only foundMy father watching patient by my bed,And holding in his own, close-prest, my hand.
Broad daylight, with a sense of weariness!Mine eyes were closed, but I was not asleep,My hand was in my father's, and I feltHis presence near me. Thus we often pastIn silence, hour by hour. What was the needOf interchanging words when every thoughtThat in our hearts arose, was known to each,And every pulse kept time? Suddenly there shoneA strange light, and the scene as sudden changed.I was awake:—It was an open plainIllimitable,—stretching, stretching—oh, so far!And o'er it that strange light,—a glorious lightLike that the stars shed over fields of snowIn a clear, cloudless, frosty winter night,Only intenser in its brilliance calm.And in the midst of that vast plain, I saw,For I was wide awake,—it was no dream,A tree with spreading branches and with leavesOf divers kinds,—dead silver and live gold,Shimmering in radiance that no words may tell!Beside the tree an Angel stood; he pluckedA few small sprays, and bound them round my head.Oh, the delicious touch of those strange leaves!No longer throbbed my brows, no more I feltThe fever in my limbs—"And oh," I cried,"Bind too my father's forehead with these leaves."One leaf the Angel took and therewith touchedHis forehead, and then gently whispered "Nay!"Never, oh never had I seen a faceMore beautiful than that Angel's, or more fullOf holy pity and of love divine.Wondering I looked awhile,—then, all at onceOpened my tear-dimmed eyes—When lo! the lightWas gone—the light as of the stars when snowLies deep upon the ground. No more, no more,Was seen the Angel's face. I only foundMy father watching patient by my bed,And holding in his own, close-prest, my hand.
Wavered the foremost soldiers,—then fell back.Fallen was their leader, and loomed right beforeThe sullen Prussian cannon, grim and black,With lighted matches waving. Now, once more,Patriots and veterans!—Ah! 'Tis in vain!Back they recoil, though bravest of the brave;No human troops may stand that murderous rain;But who is this—that rushes to a grave?It is a woman,—slender, tall, and brown!She snatches up the standard as it falls,—In her hot haste tumbles her dark hair down,And to the drummer-boy aloud she callsTo beat the charge; then forwards on thepontThey dash together;—who could bear to seeA woman and a child, thus Death confront,Nor burn to follow them to victory?I read the story and my heart beats fast!Well might all Europe quail before thee, France,Battling against oppression! Years have past,Yet of that time men speak with moistened glance.Va-nu-pieds!When rose high your MarseillaiseMan knew his rights to earth's remotest bound,And tyrants trembled. Yours alone the praise!Ah, had a Washington but then been found!
Wavered the foremost soldiers,—then fell back.Fallen was their leader, and loomed right beforeThe sullen Prussian cannon, grim and black,With lighted matches waving. Now, once more,Patriots and veterans!—Ah! 'Tis in vain!Back they recoil, though bravest of the brave;No human troops may stand that murderous rain;But who is this—that rushes to a grave?It is a woman,—slender, tall, and brown!She snatches up the standard as it falls,—In her hot haste tumbles her dark hair down,And to the drummer-boy aloud she callsTo beat the charge; then forwards on thepontThey dash together;—who could bear to seeA woman and a child, thus Death confront,Nor burn to follow them to victory?I read the story and my heart beats fast!Well might all Europe quail before thee, France,Battling against oppression! Years have past,Yet of that time men speak with moistened glance.Va-nu-pieds!When rose high your MarseillaiseMan knew his rights to earth's remotest bound,And tyrants trembled. Yours alone the praise!Ah, had a Washington but then been found!
Wavered the foremost soldiers,—then fell back.Fallen was their leader, and loomed right beforeThe sullen Prussian cannon, grim and black,With lighted matches waving. Now, once more,Patriots and veterans!—Ah! 'Tis in vain!Back they recoil, though bravest of the brave;No human troops may stand that murderous rain;But who is this—that rushes to a grave?
It is a woman,—slender, tall, and brown!She snatches up the standard as it falls,—In her hot haste tumbles her dark hair down,And to the drummer-boy aloud she callsTo beat the charge; then forwards on thepontThey dash together;—who could bear to seeA woman and a child, thus Death confront,Nor burn to follow them to victory?
I read the story and my heart beats fast!Well might all Europe quail before thee, France,Battling against oppression! Years have past,Yet of that time men speak with moistened glance.Va-nu-pieds!When rose high your MarseillaiseMan knew his rights to earth's remotest bound,And tyrants trembled. Yours alone the praise!Ah, had a Washington but then been found!
A sea of foliage girds our garden round,But not a sea of dull unvaried green,Sharp contrasts of all colours here are seen;The light-green graceful tamarinds aboundAmid the mangoe clumps of green profound,And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;And o'er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,Red,—red, and startling like a trumpet's sound.But nothing can be lovelier than the rangesOf bamboos to the eastward, when the moonLooks through their gaps, and the white lotus changesInto a cup of silver. One might swoonDrunken with beauty then, or gaze and gazeOn a primeval Eden, in amaze.
A sea of foliage girds our garden round,But not a sea of dull unvaried green,Sharp contrasts of all colours here are seen;The light-green graceful tamarinds aboundAmid the mangoe clumps of green profound,And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;And o'er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,Red,—red, and startling like a trumpet's sound.But nothing can be lovelier than the rangesOf bamboos to the eastward, when the moonLooks through their gaps, and the white lotus changesInto a cup of silver. One might swoonDrunken with beauty then, or gaze and gazeOn a primeval Eden, in amaze.
A sea of foliage girds our garden round,But not a sea of dull unvaried green,Sharp contrasts of all colours here are seen;The light-green graceful tamarinds aboundAmid the mangoe clumps of green profound,And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;And o'er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,Red,—red, and startling like a trumpet's sound.But nothing can be lovelier than the rangesOf bamboos to the eastward, when the moonLooks through their gaps, and the white lotus changesInto a cup of silver. One might swoonDrunken with beauty then, or gaze and gazeOn a primeval Eden, in amaze.
Love came to Flora asking for a flowerThat would of flowers be undisputed queen,The lily and the rose, long, long had beenRivals for that high honour. Bards of powerHad sung their claims. "The rose can never towerLike the pale lily with her Juno mien"—"But is the lily lovelier?" Thus betweenFlower-factions rang the strife in Psyche's bower."Give me a flower delicious as the roseAnd stately as the lily in her pride"—"But of what colour?"—"Rose-red," Love first chose,Then prayed,—"No, lily-white,—or, both provide;"And Flora gave the lotus, "rose-red" dyed,And "lily-white,"—the queenliest flower that blows.
Love came to Flora asking for a flowerThat would of flowers be undisputed queen,The lily and the rose, long, long had beenRivals for that high honour. Bards of powerHad sung their claims. "The rose can never towerLike the pale lily with her Juno mien"—"But is the lily lovelier?" Thus betweenFlower-factions rang the strife in Psyche's bower."Give me a flower delicious as the roseAnd stately as the lily in her pride"—"But of what colour?"—"Rose-red," Love first chose,Then prayed,—"No, lily-white,—or, both provide;"And Flora gave the lotus, "rose-red" dyed,And "lily-white,"—the queenliest flower that blows.
Love came to Flora asking for a flowerThat would of flowers be undisputed queen,The lily and the rose, long, long had beenRivals for that high honour. Bards of powerHad sung their claims. "The rose can never towerLike the pale lily with her Juno mien"—"But is the lily lovelier?" Thus betweenFlower-factions rang the strife in Psyche's bower."Give me a flower delicious as the roseAnd stately as the lily in her pride"—"But of what colour?"—"Rose-red," Love first chose,Then prayed,—"No, lily-white,—or, both provide;"And Flora gave the lotus, "rose-red" dyed,And "lily-white,"—the queenliest flower that blows.
Like a huge Python, winding round and roundThe rugged trunk, indented deep with scarsUp to its very summit near the stars,A creeper climbs, in whose embraces boundNo other tree could live. But gallantlyThe giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hungIn crimson clusters all the boughs among,Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee;And oft at nights the garden overflowsWith one sweet song that seems to have no close,Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose.When first my casement is wide open thrownAt dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest;Sometimes, and most in winter,—on its crestA grey baboon sits statue-like aloneWatching the sunrise; while on lower boughsHis puny offspring leap about and play;And far and near kokilas hail the day;And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows;And in the shadow, on the broad tank castBy that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast,The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed.But not because of its magnificenceDear is the Casuarina to my soul:Beneath it we have played; though years may roll,O sweet companions, loved with love intense,For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear!Blent with your images, it shall ariseIn memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes!What is that dirge-like murmur that I hearLike the sea breaking on a shingle-beach?It is the tree's lament, an eerie speech,That haply to the unknown land may reach.Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith!Ah, I have heard that wail far, far awayIn distant lands, by many a sheltered bay,When slumbered in his cave the water-wraithAnd the waves gently kissed the classic shoreOf France or Italy, beneath the moon,When earth lay trancèd in a dreamless swoon:And every time the music rose,—beforeMine inner vision rose a form sublime,Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy primeI saw thee, in my own loved native clime.Therefore I fain would consecrate a layUnto thy honour, Tree, beloved of thoseWho now in blessed sleep, for aye, repose,Dearer than life to me, alas! were they!Mayst thou be numbered when my days are doneWith deathless trees—like those in Borrowdale,Under whose awful branches lingered pale"Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton,And Time the shadow;" and though weak the verseThat would thy beauty fain, oh fain rehearse,May Love defend thee from Oblivion's curse.
Like a huge Python, winding round and roundThe rugged trunk, indented deep with scarsUp to its very summit near the stars,A creeper climbs, in whose embraces boundNo other tree could live. But gallantlyThe giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hungIn crimson clusters all the boughs among,Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee;And oft at nights the garden overflowsWith one sweet song that seems to have no close,Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose.When first my casement is wide open thrownAt dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest;Sometimes, and most in winter,—on its crestA grey baboon sits statue-like aloneWatching the sunrise; while on lower boughsHis puny offspring leap about and play;And far and near kokilas hail the day;And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows;And in the shadow, on the broad tank castBy that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast,The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed.But not because of its magnificenceDear is the Casuarina to my soul:Beneath it we have played; though years may roll,O sweet companions, loved with love intense,For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear!Blent with your images, it shall ariseIn memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes!What is that dirge-like murmur that I hearLike the sea breaking on a shingle-beach?It is the tree's lament, an eerie speech,That haply to the unknown land may reach.Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith!Ah, I have heard that wail far, far awayIn distant lands, by many a sheltered bay,When slumbered in his cave the water-wraithAnd the waves gently kissed the classic shoreOf France or Italy, beneath the moon,When earth lay trancèd in a dreamless swoon:And every time the music rose,—beforeMine inner vision rose a form sublime,Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy primeI saw thee, in my own loved native clime.Therefore I fain would consecrate a layUnto thy honour, Tree, beloved of thoseWho now in blessed sleep, for aye, repose,Dearer than life to me, alas! were they!Mayst thou be numbered when my days are doneWith deathless trees—like those in Borrowdale,Under whose awful branches lingered pale"Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton,And Time the shadow;" and though weak the verseThat would thy beauty fain, oh fain rehearse,May Love defend thee from Oblivion's curse.
Like a huge Python, winding round and roundThe rugged trunk, indented deep with scarsUp to its very summit near the stars,A creeper climbs, in whose embraces boundNo other tree could live. But gallantlyThe giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hungIn crimson clusters all the boughs among,Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee;And oft at nights the garden overflowsWith one sweet song that seems to have no close,Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose.
When first my casement is wide open thrownAt dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest;Sometimes, and most in winter,—on its crestA grey baboon sits statue-like aloneWatching the sunrise; while on lower boughsHis puny offspring leap about and play;And far and near kokilas hail the day;And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows;And in the shadow, on the broad tank castBy that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast,The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed.
But not because of its magnificenceDear is the Casuarina to my soul:Beneath it we have played; though years may roll,O sweet companions, loved with love intense,For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear!Blent with your images, it shall ariseIn memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes!What is that dirge-like murmur that I hearLike the sea breaking on a shingle-beach?It is the tree's lament, an eerie speech,That haply to the unknown land may reach.
Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith!Ah, I have heard that wail far, far awayIn distant lands, by many a sheltered bay,When slumbered in his cave the water-wraithAnd the waves gently kissed the classic shoreOf France or Italy, beneath the moon,When earth lay trancèd in a dreamless swoon:And every time the music rose,—beforeMine inner vision rose a form sublime,Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy primeI saw thee, in my own loved native clime.
Therefore I fain would consecrate a layUnto thy honour, Tree, beloved of thoseWho now in blessed sleep, for aye, repose,Dearer than life to me, alas! were they!Mayst thou be numbered when my days are doneWith deathless trees—like those in Borrowdale,Under whose awful branches lingered pale"Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton,And Time the shadow;" and though weak the verseThat would thy beauty fain, oh fain rehearse,May Love defend thee from Oblivion's curse.
CHISWICK PRESS:C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT,CHANCERY LANE.