In some quaint Nürnbergmaler-atelierUprummaged. When and where was never clear,Nor yet how he obtained it. When, by whom'T was painted—who shall say? itself a gloomResisting inquisition. I opineIt is a Dürer. Humph?—that touch, this lineAre not deniable; distinguished graceIn the pure oval of the noble face;The color badly tarnished. Half in lightExtend it, so; incline; the exquisiteExpression leaps abruptly: piercing scorn,Imperial beauty; icy, each a thornOf light—disdainful eyes and ... well! no use!Effaced and but beheld, a sad abuseOf patience. Often, vaguely visible,The portrait fills each feature, making swellThe soul with hope: avoiding face and hairAlive with lively warmth; astonished there"Occult substantial!" you exult, when, ho!You hold a blur; an undetermined glowDislimns a daub.—Restore?—ah, I have triedOur best restorers, all! it has defied ...Storied, mysterious, say, mayhap a ghostLives in the canvas; hers, some artist lost,A duchess', haply. Her he worshipped; daredNot tell he worshipped; from his window staredOf Nuremburg one sunny morn when shePassed paged to court. Her cold nobilityLoved, lived for like a purpose; seized and pliedA feverish brush—her face! despaired and died.The narrow Judengasse; gables frownAround a skinny usurer's, where brownAnd dirty in a corner long it lay,Heaped in a pile of riff-raff, such as—say,Retables done in tempora and oldPanels by Wohlgemuth; stiff paintings coldOf martyrs and apostles, names forgot;Holbeins and Dürers, say, a haloed lotOf praying saints, madonnas: such, perchance,Mid wine-stained purples mothed; a whole romanceOf crucifixes, rosaries; inlaidArms Saracen-elaborate; a strayedNiello of Byzantium; rich workIn bronze, of Florence; here a delicate dirk,There holy patens.So, my ancestor,The first De Herancour, esteemed by farThis piece most precious, most desirable;Purchased and brought to Paris. It looked wellIn the dark panelling above the oldHearth of his room. The head's religious gold,The soft severity of the nun face,Made of the room an apostolic placeRevered and feared.—Like some lived scene I seeThat Gothic room; its Flemish tapestry:Embossed above the aged lintel, shield—Deep Or-enthistled, in an Argent fieldThree Sable mallets—arms De Herancour,Carved with the torso of the crest that bore,Outstretched, two mallets. Lozenge-paned, embayed,Its slender casements; on a lectern laid,A vellum volume of black-lettered text;Near by a blinking taper—as if vexedWith silken gusts a nervous curtain sends,Behind which, maybe, daggered Murder bends;—Waxed floors of rosy oak, whereon the redTorchlight of Medicean wrath is shed,Down knightly corridors; a carven couchSword-slashed; dark velvets of the chairs that crouch,It seems, with fright; clear-clashing near, more near,The stir of searching steel.What find they here?—'T is St. Bartholomew's—a HuguenotDead in his chair?—dead! violently shotWith horror, eyes glued on a portrait there,Coiling his neck one blood line, like a hairOf finest fire; the portrait, like a fiend,—Looking exalted visitation,—leanedFrom its black panel; in its eyes a hateDemonic; hair—a glowing auburn, lateA dim, enduring golden."Just one threadOf the fierce hair around his throat," they said,"Twisting a burning ray, he—staring-dead."
In some quaint Nürnbergmaler-atelierUprummaged. When and where was never clear,Nor yet how he obtained it. When, by whom'T was painted—who shall say? itself a gloomResisting inquisition. I opineIt is a Dürer. Humph?—that touch, this lineAre not deniable; distinguished graceIn the pure oval of the noble face;The color badly tarnished. Half in lightExtend it, so; incline; the exquisiteExpression leaps abruptly: piercing scorn,Imperial beauty; icy, each a thornOf light—disdainful eyes and ... well! no use!Effaced and but beheld, a sad abuseOf patience. Often, vaguely visible,The portrait fills each feature, making swellThe soul with hope: avoiding face and hairAlive with lively warmth; astonished there"Occult substantial!" you exult, when, ho!You hold a blur; an undetermined glowDislimns a daub.—Restore?—ah, I have triedOur best restorers, all! it has defied ...Storied, mysterious, say, mayhap a ghostLives in the canvas; hers, some artist lost,A duchess', haply. Her he worshipped; daredNot tell he worshipped; from his window staredOf Nuremburg one sunny morn when shePassed paged to court. Her cold nobilityLoved, lived for like a purpose; seized and pliedA feverish brush—her face! despaired and died.
The narrow Judengasse; gables frownAround a skinny usurer's, where brownAnd dirty in a corner long it lay,Heaped in a pile of riff-raff, such as—say,Retables done in tempora and oldPanels by Wohlgemuth; stiff paintings coldOf martyrs and apostles, names forgot;Holbeins and Dürers, say, a haloed lotOf praying saints, madonnas: such, perchance,Mid wine-stained purples mothed; a whole romanceOf crucifixes, rosaries; inlaidArms Saracen-elaborate; a strayedNiello of Byzantium; rich workIn bronze, of Florence; here a delicate dirk,There holy patens.
So, my ancestor,The first De Herancour, esteemed by farThis piece most precious, most desirable;Purchased and brought to Paris. It looked wellIn the dark panelling above the oldHearth of his room. The head's religious gold,The soft severity of the nun face,Made of the room an apostolic placeRevered and feared.—
Like some lived scene I seeThat Gothic room; its Flemish tapestry:Embossed above the aged lintel, shield—Deep Or-enthistled, in an Argent fieldThree Sable mallets—arms De Herancour,Carved with the torso of the crest that bore,Outstretched, two mallets. Lozenge-paned, embayed,Its slender casements; on a lectern laid,A vellum volume of black-lettered text;Near by a blinking taper—as if vexedWith silken gusts a nervous curtain sends,Behind which, maybe, daggered Murder bends;—Waxed floors of rosy oak, whereon the redTorchlight of Medicean wrath is shed,Down knightly corridors; a carven couchSword-slashed; dark velvets of the chairs that crouch,It seems, with fright; clear-clashing near, more near,The stir of searching steel.
What find they here?—'T is St. Bartholomew's—a HuguenotDead in his chair?—dead! violently shotWith horror, eyes glued on a portrait there,Coiling his neck one blood line, like a hairOf finest fire; the portrait, like a fiend,—Looking exalted visitation,—leanedFrom its black panel; in its eyes a hateDemonic; hair—a glowing auburn, lateA dim, enduring golden.
"Just one threadOf the fierce hair around his throat," they said,"Twisting a burning ray, he—staring-dead."
Ismael, the Sultan, in the Ramazan,Girdled with guards and many a yataghan,Pachas and amins, viziers wisdom-gray,And holy marabouts, betook his wayThrough Mekinez.—Written the angel's word,Of Eden's Kauther, reads, "Slay! praying the Lord!Pray! slaying the victims!" so the Sultan went,The Cruel Sultan, with this good intent,In white bournouse and sea-green caftan cladFirst to the mosque. Long each muezzin hadSummoned the faithful unto prayer and letThe "Allah Akbar!" from each minaret,Call to their thousand lamps of blazing gold.Prostrated prayed the Sultan. On the oldMosaics of the mosque—whose hollow steamedWith aloes-incense—lean ecstatics dreamedOn Allah and his Prophet, and how greatIs God, and how unstable man's estate.Conviction on him, in this chanting lowOf Koran texts, the Caliph's passion soExalted rose,—lamps of religious awe,Loud smitings of the everlasting lawOn unbelievers,—trebly manifestThe Faith's anointed sword he feels confessed.So from the mosque, whose arabesques above—The marvellous work of Oriental love—Seen with new splendors of Heaven's blue and gold,Applauding all, he, as the gates are rolledOgival back to let the many forth,Cries war to all the unbelieving North.Soon have they passed the tight bazaar; alongClose, crooked streets, too narrow for the throng;The place of owls and tombs; the merloned wall,Camel and steed and ass. Projecting allIts towering battlements, his palace gray,Seraglios and courts, against the dayLifts, vanishes. And now, soul-set on hate,From Mekinez they pass the scolloped gate.Two dozing beggars, baking each a sore,Sprawl in the sun the city gate before;A leprous cripple and a thief, whose eyes—Burnt out with burning iron,—as suppliesThe law for thieves,—two fly-thick wounds blood-raw,Lifted shrill voices as they heard or saw;Praised God, and flung into the dust each faceWith words of "victory and Allah's graceAttend our Caliph, Mouley-Ismael!Even at the cost of ours his days be well!"And grimly smiling as he grimly passed,"While God most merciful, who is, shall last,—Now by Es Sirat!—will a liar's wordAnd thief's prevail or prosper?—Pray the Lord!—What! at your lives' cost?—my devout intent!Even as 't is bidden let their necks be bent!Though words be pious, evil at the soulNaught is the prayer!—So let their prayer be whole.Nay! give them gold; but when the sequins ceaseFrom the slaves' hands, by these my SoudaneseThey die!" he said; and even as he saidRolled in the dust each writhing, withered head.And frowning westward, as the day grew late,Four bleeding heads stared from the city gate'Neath this inscription, for the passer-by,"There is no virtue but in God the High."
Ismael, the Sultan, in the Ramazan,Girdled with guards and many a yataghan,Pachas and amins, viziers wisdom-gray,And holy marabouts, betook his wayThrough Mekinez.—Written the angel's word,Of Eden's Kauther, reads, "Slay! praying the Lord!Pray! slaying the victims!" so the Sultan went,The Cruel Sultan, with this good intent,
In white bournouse and sea-green caftan cladFirst to the mosque. Long each muezzin hadSummoned the faithful unto prayer and letThe "Allah Akbar!" from each minaret,Call to their thousand lamps of blazing gold.Prostrated prayed the Sultan. On the oldMosaics of the mosque—whose hollow steamedWith aloes-incense—lean ecstatics dreamedOn Allah and his Prophet, and how greatIs God, and how unstable man's estate.Conviction on him, in this chanting lowOf Koran texts, the Caliph's passion soExalted rose,—lamps of religious awe,Loud smitings of the everlasting lawOn unbelievers,—trebly manifestThe Faith's anointed sword he feels confessed.
So from the mosque, whose arabesques above—The marvellous work of Oriental love—Seen with new splendors of Heaven's blue and gold,Applauding all, he, as the gates are rolledOgival back to let the many forth,Cries war to all the unbelieving North.
Soon have they passed the tight bazaar; alongClose, crooked streets, too narrow for the throng;The place of owls and tombs; the merloned wall,Camel and steed and ass. Projecting allIts towering battlements, his palace gray,Seraglios and courts, against the dayLifts, vanishes. And now, soul-set on hate,From Mekinez they pass the scolloped gate.
Two dozing beggars, baking each a sore,Sprawl in the sun the city gate before;A leprous cripple and a thief, whose eyes—Burnt out with burning iron,—as suppliesThe law for thieves,—two fly-thick wounds blood-raw,Lifted shrill voices as they heard or saw;Praised God, and flung into the dust each faceWith words of "victory and Allah's graceAttend our Caliph, Mouley-Ismael!Even at the cost of ours his days be well!"
And grimly smiling as he grimly passed,"While God most merciful, who is, shall last,—Now by Es Sirat!—will a liar's wordAnd thief's prevail or prosper?—Pray the Lord!—What! at your lives' cost?—my devout intent!Even as 't is bidden let their necks be bent!Though words be pious, evil at the soulNaught is the prayer!—So let their prayer be whole.Nay! give them gold; but when the sequins ceaseFrom the slaves' hands, by these my SoudaneseThey die!" he said; and even as he saidRolled in the dust each writhing, withered head.
And frowning westward, as the day grew late,Four bleeding heads stared from the city gate'Neath this inscription, for the passer-by,"There is no virtue but in God the High."
An intimation of some previous life,Or dark dream, in the present dim-divined,Of some uncertain sleep—or lived or dreamedIn some dead life—between a dusk and dawn;From heathen battles to Toledo's gates,Far off defined, his corselet and camail,Damascened armet, shattered; in an eve'sAnger of brass a galloping glitter, oneRode arrow-wounded. And the city caughtA cry before him and a wail behind,Of walls beleaguered; battles; conquered kings;Triumphant Taric; broken Spain and slaves.And I, a Moslem slave, a miser Jew's,Housed near the Tagus—squalid and aloneSave for his slave, held dear—to beat and starve—Leaner than my lank shadow when the moon,A burning beacon, westerns; and my bonesA visible hunger; famished with the fear,Soul-garb of slaves, I bore him—I, who heldHim soul and self, more hated than his God,Stood silent; fools had laughed; I saw my way.War-time crops weapons; and the blade I boughtWas subtly pointed. For, I knew his ways:The nightly nuptials of his jars of gemsAnd bags of doublas—oh, I knew his ways.A shadow, woven in the hangings, hidTill time saidnow; gaunt from the hangings stoleBehind him; humped and stooping so, his heartClove through the faded tunic, murrey-dyed;Grinned exultation while the grim, slow bloodDrenched black and darkened round the oblong wound,And his old face thinned grayer than morn's moon.Rubies from Badakhshân in rose lights drippedSlim tears of poppy-purple crystal; dull,Red, ember-pregnant, carbuncles whereinFevered a captive crimson; bugles wanOf cat-eyed hyacinths; moon-emeraldsWith starry greenness stabbed; in limpid stainsOf liquid lilac, Persian amethysts;Fire-opals savage and mesmeric withVoluptuous flame, long, sweet, and sensuous asSoft eyes of Orient women; sapphires beamedWith talismanic violet, from tombs,Deev-guarded, of primordial Solimans;Length-agonized with fire, diamonds ofGolconda—This, a sandaled dervise bareSeven days, beneath a red Arabian sun,Seven nights, beneath a round Arabian moon,Under his tongue; an Emeer's ransom, heldOf some wild tribe.... Bleached in the perishing wasteA Bedouin Arab found sand-strangled bones,A skeleton, vulture-torn, fierce in whose skullOne blazing eye—the diamond. At AleppoBartered—a bauble for his desert love.—Jacinth and Indian pearl, gem jolting gem,Flashed, rutilating in the irised light,A rain of splintered fire; and his head,Long-haired, white-sunk among them.Yet I tookAll—though his eyes burned in them; though, meseemed,Each several jewel glared a separate curse....Well! dead men work us mischief from the grave.Richer than all Castile and yet not dareDrink but from cups of Roman murra, sparBowl-sprayed with fibrile gold! spar sensitiveOf poison! I, no slave, yet all a slaveTo fear a dead fool's malice!—Still, how else!Feasting within the music of my halls,While perfumed beauty danced in sinuous robes,Diaphanous, more silken than those famedOf loomed Amorgos or of classic Kos,Draining the unflawed murrhine, Xeres-brimmed,Had I reeled poisoned, dying wolfsbane-slain!
An intimation of some previous life,Or dark dream, in the present dim-divined,Of some uncertain sleep—or lived or dreamedIn some dead life—between a dusk and dawn;
From heathen battles to Toledo's gates,Far off defined, his corselet and camail,Damascened armet, shattered; in an eve'sAnger of brass a galloping glitter, oneRode arrow-wounded. And the city caughtA cry before him and a wail behind,Of walls beleaguered; battles; conquered kings;Triumphant Taric; broken Spain and slaves.
And I, a Moslem slave, a miser Jew's,Housed near the Tagus—squalid and aloneSave for his slave, held dear—to beat and starve—Leaner than my lank shadow when the moon,A burning beacon, westerns; and my bonesA visible hunger; famished with the fear,Soul-garb of slaves, I bore him—I, who heldHim soul and self, more hated than his God,Stood silent; fools had laughed; I saw my way.
War-time crops weapons; and the blade I boughtWas subtly pointed. For, I knew his ways:The nightly nuptials of his jars of gemsAnd bags of doublas—oh, I knew his ways.A shadow, woven in the hangings, hidTill time saidnow; gaunt from the hangings stoleBehind him; humped and stooping so, his heartClove through the faded tunic, murrey-dyed;Grinned exultation while the grim, slow bloodDrenched black and darkened round the oblong wound,And his old face thinned grayer than morn's moon.
Rubies from Badakhshân in rose lights drippedSlim tears of poppy-purple crystal; dull,Red, ember-pregnant, carbuncles whereinFevered a captive crimson; bugles wanOf cat-eyed hyacinths; moon-emeraldsWith starry greenness stabbed; in limpid stainsOf liquid lilac, Persian amethysts;Fire-opals savage and mesmeric withVoluptuous flame, long, sweet, and sensuous asSoft eyes of Orient women; sapphires beamedWith talismanic violet, from tombs,Deev-guarded, of primordial Solimans;Length-agonized with fire, diamonds ofGolconda—This, a sandaled dervise bareSeven days, beneath a red Arabian sun,Seven nights, beneath a round Arabian moon,Under his tongue; an Emeer's ransom, heldOf some wild tribe.... Bleached in the perishing wasteA Bedouin Arab found sand-strangled bones,A skeleton, vulture-torn, fierce in whose skullOne blazing eye—the diamond. At AleppoBartered—a bauble for his desert love.—Jacinth and Indian pearl, gem jolting gem,Flashed, rutilating in the irised light,A rain of splintered fire; and his head,Long-haired, white-sunk among them.
Yet I tookAll—though his eyes burned in them; though, meseemed,Each several jewel glared a separate curse....
Well! dead men work us mischief from the grave.Richer than all Castile and yet not dareDrink but from cups of Roman murra, sparBowl-sprayed with fibrile gold! spar sensitiveOf poison! I, no slave, yet all a slaveTo fear a dead fool's malice!—Still, how else!Feasting within the music of my halls,While perfumed beauty danced in sinuous robes,Diaphanous, more silken than those famedOf loomed Amorgos or of classic Kos,Draining the unflawed murrhine, Xeres-brimmed,Had I reeled poisoned, dying wolfsbane-slain!
Against each prince now she had held her own,An easy victor for the seven yearsO'er kings and sons of kings; Eddetma, sheWho, when much sought in marriage, hating men,Espoused their ways to win beyond their worthThrough martial exercise and hero deeds:She, who accomplished in all warlike arts,Let cry through every kingdom of the kings:—"Eddetma weds with none but him who provesHimself her master in the push of arms,Her suitor's foeman she. And he who fails,So overcome of woman, woman-scorned,Disarmed, dishonored, yet shall he depart,Brow-bearing, forehead-stigmatized with fire,'Behold, a freedman of Eddetma this.'Let cry, and many princes put to shame,Pretentious courtiers small in thew and thigh,Proud-palanquined from principalitiesOf Irak and of Hind and farther Sind.Though she was queenly as that Empress ofThe proud Amalekites, Tedmureh, andMore beautiful, yet she had held her own.To Behram of the Territories, oneSon of a Persian monarch swaying kings,Came bruit of her and her noised victories,Her maiden beauty and her warrior strength;Eastward he journeyed from his father's court,With men and steeds and store of wealth and arms,To the rich city where her father reigned,Its seven citadels by Seven Seas.And messengered the monarch with a giftOf savage vessels wroughten out of gold,Of foreign fabrics stiff with gems and gold.Vizier-ambassadored the old king gaveHis answer to the suitor:—"I, my son,What grace have I above the grace of God?What power is mine but a material?What rule have I unto the substanceless?Me, than the shadow of the Prophet's shadeLess, God invests with power but of man;Man! and the right beyond man's right is God's;His the dominion of the secret soul—And His her soul! Now hath my daughter sworn,By all her vestal soul, that none shall knowHer but her better in the listed field,Determining spear and sword.—Grant Fate thy trust;She hangs her hand upon to-morrow's joust,A prize to win.—My greeting and farewell."Informed Eddetma and the lists arose.Armored and keen with a Chorasmian mace,Davidean hauberk came she. Her the prince,Harnessed in scaly gold Arabian, met;So clanged the prologue of the battle. AsCloser it waxed, Prince Behram, who a whileWithheld his valor,—in that she he lovedOpposed him and beset him, woman whomHe had not scathed for the Chosroës' wealth,—Beheld his madness; how he were undoneWith shining shame unless he strove withal,Whirled fiery sword and smote; the bassinetRushed from the haughty face that long had scornedThe wide world's vanquished royalty, and soRushed on his own defeat. For like untoA moon gray clouds have caverned all the eve,The thunder splits and, virgin triumph, thereShe sails a silver aspect, vanquished soWas Behram by his blow. A wavering strengthSwerved in its purpose; with no final strokeStunned stood he and surrendered; stared and stared,All his strong life absorbed into her face,All the wild warrior, arrowed by her eyes,Tamed, and obedient to lip and look.Then she on him, as condor on a kite,Plunged pitiless and beautiful and fierce,One trophy more to added victories;Haled off his arms, amazement dazing him;Seized steed and garb, confusion filling him;And scoffed him forth brow-branded with his shame.Dazzled, six days he sat, a staring trance;But on the seventh, casting stupor off,Rose, and the straitness of the case that heldHim as with manacles of knitted fire,Considered, and decided on a way....Once when Eddetma with a houri bandOf high-born damsels, under eunuch guard,In the walled palace pleasaunce took her ease,Under a myrrh-bush by a fountain side,Where Afrits' nostrils snorted diamond rainIn scooped cornelian, one, a dim, hoar head,—A patriarch mid gardener underlings,—Bent spreading gems and priceless ornamentsOf jewelled amulets of hollow goldSweet with imprisoned ambergris and musk;Symbolic stones in sorcerous carcanets,Gem-talismans in cabalistic gold.Whereon the princess marvelled and bade ask,What did the elder with his riches there?Who, questioned, mumbled in his bushy beard,"To buy a wife withal"; whereat they laughedAs oafs when wisdom stumbles. Quoth a maid,With orient midnight in her starry eyes,And tropic music on her languid tongue,"And what if I should wed with thee, O beardGrayer than my great-grandfather's, what then?""One kiss, no more, and, child, thou wert divorced,"He; and the humor took them till the birds,That listened in the spice-tree and the plane,Sang gayly of the gray-beard and his kiss.Then quoth the princess, "Thou wilt wed with himAnsada?" mirth in her two eyes' gazelles,And gravity bird-nestled in her speech;And took Ansada's hand and laid it inThe old man's staggering hand, and he unbentThin, wrinkled brows and on his staff arose,Weighed with the weight of many heavy years,And kissed her leaning on his shaking staff,And heaped her bosom with an Amir's wealth,And left them laughing at his foolish beard.Now on the next day, as she took her easeWith her glad troop of girlhood,—maidens whoSo many royal tulips seemed,—behold,Bowed with white years, upon a flowery swardThe ancient with new jewelry and gems,Wherefrom the sun coaxed wizard fires and litGlimmers in glowing green and pendent pearl,Ultramarine and beaded, vivid rose;And so they stood to wonder, and one askedAs yesternoon wherefore the father thereDisplayed his Sheikh locks and the genie gems?—"Another marriage and another kiss?—What! doth the tomb-ripe court his youth again?O aged, libertine in wish not deed!O prodigal of wives as well as wealth!Here stands thy damsel"; trilled the Peri-tallDiarra with the raven in her hair,Two lemon-flowers blowing in her cheeks,And took the dotard's jewels with the kissIn merry mockery.Ere the morrow's dawn,Bethought Eddetma: "Shall my handmaidens,Teasing a gray-beard's whim to wrinkled smiles,For withered kisses still divide his wealth?While I stand idle, lose the caravanWhose least is notable?—My right and mine—Betide me what betides."...And with the mornBefore the man,—for privily she came,Stood habited as of her tire-maidsIn humble raiment. Now the ancient sawAnd knew her for the princess that she was,And kindling gladness of the knowledge madeTwo sparkling forges of his deep dark eyesBeneath the ashes of his priestly brows.Not timidly she came; but coy approachBecame the maiden of Eddetma's suite;And humbly answered he, "All my old heart!"—Responsive to her quavering request—"The daughter of the king did give thee leave?And thou wouldst well?—Then wed with me forth-right.Thy hand, thy lips." So he arose and gaveHer of barbaric jewelry and gems,And seized her hand and from her lips the kiss,When from his age, behold, the dotage fell,And from the man all palsied hoariness;Victorious-eyed and amorous with youth,A god in ardent capabilitiesResistless held her; and she, swooning, sawGloating the branded brow of Prince Behram.
Against each prince now she had held her own,An easy victor for the seven yearsO'er kings and sons of kings; Eddetma, sheWho, when much sought in marriage, hating men,Espoused their ways to win beyond their worthThrough martial exercise and hero deeds:She, who accomplished in all warlike arts,Let cry through every kingdom of the kings:—"Eddetma weds with none but him who provesHimself her master in the push of arms,Her suitor's foeman she. And he who fails,So overcome of woman, woman-scorned,Disarmed, dishonored, yet shall he depart,Brow-bearing, forehead-stigmatized with fire,'Behold, a freedman of Eddetma this.'Let cry, and many princes put to shame,Pretentious courtiers small in thew and thigh,Proud-palanquined from principalitiesOf Irak and of Hind and farther Sind.Though she was queenly as that Empress ofThe proud Amalekites, Tedmureh, andMore beautiful, yet she had held her own.
To Behram of the Territories, oneSon of a Persian monarch swaying kings,Came bruit of her and her noised victories,Her maiden beauty and her warrior strength;Eastward he journeyed from his father's court,With men and steeds and store of wealth and arms,To the rich city where her father reigned,Its seven citadels by Seven Seas.And messengered the monarch with a giftOf savage vessels wroughten out of gold,Of foreign fabrics stiff with gems and gold.Vizier-ambassadored the old king gaveHis answer to the suitor:—"I, my son,What grace have I above the grace of God?What power is mine but a material?What rule have I unto the substanceless?Me, than the shadow of the Prophet's shadeLess, God invests with power but of man;Man! and the right beyond man's right is God's;His the dominion of the secret soul—And His her soul! Now hath my daughter sworn,By all her vestal soul, that none shall knowHer but her better in the listed field,Determining spear and sword.—Grant Fate thy trust;She hangs her hand upon to-morrow's joust,A prize to win.—My greeting and farewell."Informed Eddetma and the lists arose.Armored and keen with a Chorasmian mace,Davidean hauberk came she. Her the prince,Harnessed in scaly gold Arabian, met;So clanged the prologue of the battle. AsCloser it waxed, Prince Behram, who a whileWithheld his valor,—in that she he lovedOpposed him and beset him, woman whomHe had not scathed for the Chosroës' wealth,—Beheld his madness; how he were undoneWith shining shame unless he strove withal,Whirled fiery sword and smote; the bassinetRushed from the haughty face that long had scornedThe wide world's vanquished royalty, and soRushed on his own defeat. For like untoA moon gray clouds have caverned all the eve,The thunder splits and, virgin triumph, thereShe sails a silver aspect, vanquished soWas Behram by his blow. A wavering strengthSwerved in its purpose; with no final strokeStunned stood he and surrendered; stared and stared,All his strong life absorbed into her face,All the wild warrior, arrowed by her eyes,Tamed, and obedient to lip and look.Then she on him, as condor on a kite,Plunged pitiless and beautiful and fierce,One trophy more to added victories;Haled off his arms, amazement dazing him;Seized steed and garb, confusion filling him;And scoffed him forth brow-branded with his shame.
Dazzled, six days he sat, a staring trance;But on the seventh, casting stupor off,Rose, and the straitness of the case that heldHim as with manacles of knitted fire,Considered, and decided on a way....
Once when Eddetma with a houri bandOf high-born damsels, under eunuch guard,In the walled palace pleasaunce took her ease,Under a myrrh-bush by a fountain side,Where Afrits' nostrils snorted diamond rainIn scooped cornelian, one, a dim, hoar head,—A patriarch mid gardener underlings,—Bent spreading gems and priceless ornamentsOf jewelled amulets of hollow goldSweet with imprisoned ambergris and musk;Symbolic stones in sorcerous carcanets,Gem-talismans in cabalistic gold.Whereon the princess marvelled and bade ask,What did the elder with his riches there?Who, questioned, mumbled in his bushy beard,"To buy a wife withal"; whereat they laughedAs oafs when wisdom stumbles. Quoth a maid,With orient midnight in her starry eyes,And tropic music on her languid tongue,"And what if I should wed with thee, O beardGrayer than my great-grandfather's, what then?""One kiss, no more, and, child, thou wert divorced,"He; and the humor took them till the birds,That listened in the spice-tree and the plane,Sang gayly of the gray-beard and his kiss.
Then quoth the princess, "Thou wilt wed with himAnsada?" mirth in her two eyes' gazelles,And gravity bird-nestled in her speech;And took Ansada's hand and laid it inThe old man's staggering hand, and he unbentThin, wrinkled brows and on his staff arose,Weighed with the weight of many heavy years,And kissed her leaning on his shaking staff,And heaped her bosom with an Amir's wealth,And left them laughing at his foolish beard.
Now on the next day, as she took her easeWith her glad troop of girlhood,—maidens whoSo many royal tulips seemed,—behold,Bowed with white years, upon a flowery swardThe ancient with new jewelry and gems,Wherefrom the sun coaxed wizard fires and litGlimmers in glowing green and pendent pearl,Ultramarine and beaded, vivid rose;And so they stood to wonder, and one askedAs yesternoon wherefore the father thereDisplayed his Sheikh locks and the genie gems?—"Another marriage and another kiss?—What! doth the tomb-ripe court his youth again?O aged, libertine in wish not deed!O prodigal of wives as well as wealth!Here stands thy damsel"; trilled the Peri-tallDiarra with the raven in her hair,Two lemon-flowers blowing in her cheeks,And took the dotard's jewels with the kissIn merry mockery.
Ere the morrow's dawn,Bethought Eddetma: "Shall my handmaidens,Teasing a gray-beard's whim to wrinkled smiles,For withered kisses still divide his wealth?While I stand idle, lose the caravanWhose least is notable?—My right and mine—Betide me what betides."...
And with the mornBefore the man,—for privily she came,Stood habited as of her tire-maidsIn humble raiment. Now the ancient sawAnd knew her for the princess that she was,And kindling gladness of the knowledge madeTwo sparkling forges of his deep dark eyesBeneath the ashes of his priestly brows.Not timidly she came; but coy approachBecame the maiden of Eddetma's suite;And humbly answered he, "All my old heart!"—Responsive to her quavering request—"The daughter of the king did give thee leave?And thou wouldst well?—Then wed with me forth-right.Thy hand, thy lips." So he arose and gaveHer of barbaric jewelry and gems,And seized her hand and from her lips the kiss,When from his age, behold, the dotage fell,And from the man all palsied hoariness;Victorious-eyed and amorous with youth,A god in ardent capabilitiesResistless held her; and she, swooning, sawGloating the branded brow of Prince Behram.
Among the tales, wherein it hath been told,In golden letters in a book of gold,Of Hatim Taï's hospitality,Who, substanceless in death and shadowy,Made men his guests upon that mountain topWhereon his tomb grayed from a thistle crop;—A tomb of rock where women hewn of stone,Rude figures, spread dishevelled hair; whose moanFrom dark to daybreak made the silence cry;The camel drivers, being tented nigh,"Ghouls or hyenas," shuddering would sayBut only girls of granite find at day:—And of that city, Sheddad son of AadBuilt mid the Sebaa sands.—A king who hadDominion of the world and many kings.—Builded in pride and power out of thingsUnstable of the earth. For he had readOf Paradise, and to his soul had said,"Now in this life the like of ParadiseI 'll build me and the Prophet's may despise,Knowing no need of that he promises."So for this city taxed the lands and seas,And Columned Irem, on a blinding height,Blazed in the desert like a chrysolite;The manner of its building, it is told,Alternate bricks of silver and of gold:How Sheddad with his women and his slaves,His thousand viziers, armored troops as wavesOf ocean countless, God with awful flame—Shot sheer in thunder on him—God, his shameConfounded and abolished, ere his eyesHad glimpsed bright follies of that Paradise;Lay blotted to a wilderness the landAccurséd, and the city lost in sand:Among such tales—who questions of their sooth?—One is recorded of an Arab youth:The Khalif Hisham ben AbdulmelikHunting one day, by some unwonted freakRode parted from his retinue and gaveChase to an antelope. Without or slave,Amir or vizier to a pasture placeOf sheep he came, where dark, in tattered grace,Watched one, an Arab youth. And as it cameThe antelope drew off, with mouth of flameAnd tongue of fire to the youth he turnedShouting, "Ho! fellow! in what school hast learned!Seest not the buck escapes me? worthless one!O desert dullard!"Rising in the sun,"O ignorant," he said, "of that just worthOf those the worthy of our Muslim earth!In that thou look'st upon me—what thou art!—As one fit for contempt, thou lack'st no partOf my disdain?—Allah! I would not ownA dog of thine for friend no other known—Of speech a tyrant, manners of an ass!"And flung him, rags and rage, into the grass.Provoked, astonished, wrinkled angrily,Hissed Hisham, "Slave! thou know'st me not I see!"Calmly the youth, "Aye, verily I know,O mannerless! thy tongue hath told me so,Thy tongue commanding ere it spake mepeace—Soon art thou known, nor late may knowledge cease.""O dog! I am thy Khalif! by a hairThy life hangs rav'ling.""May it dangle thereTill thou art rotted!—Whiles, upon thy headMisfortunes shower!—Of his dwelling place,Allah, be thou forgetful!—What! his graceHisham ben Merwan, king of many words—Few generosities!"...A flash of swordsIn drifts of dust and lo! the Khalif's troopsSurrounding ride. As when a merlin stoopsSome stranger quarry, prey that swims the wind,Heron or eagle; kenning not its kindThere whence 'tis cast until it, towering, feelsAn eagle's tearing talons, falling reelsIn broken circles downward—so the youth,An Arab fearless as the face of TruthOf all that made him instant of his death,Waited with eyes indifferent, equal breath.The palace reached, "Bring in the prisonerBefore the Khalif," and he came as wereHe in no wise concerned: unquestioning wentChin bowed on breast, and on his feet a bentDark gaze of scornful freedom unafraid,Till at the Khalif's throne his steps were staid;And unsaluting, standing head held down,An armed attendant blazed him with a frown,"Dog of the Bedouins! thy eyes rot out!Insulter! must the whole big world needs shout'Commander of the Faithful,' so thou see?"To him the Arab sneering, "Verily,Packsaddle of an ass."The Khalif's rageExceeded now, and, "By my realm and rage!Arab, thy hour is come, thy very last;Thy hope is vanished and thy life is past."The shepherd answered, "Aye?—by Allah, then,O Hisham, if my time be stretched again,Unscissored of what Destiny ordain,Little or great, thy words give little pain."Then the chief Chamberlain, "O vilest oneOf all the Arabs! wilt thou not be doneBandying thy baseness with the Ruler ofThe Faithful?" spat upon his face. A scoffFiery made answer:"There be some have heardThe nonsense of our God, the text absurd,'One day each soul whatever shall be promptTo bow before me and to give accompt.'"Then wroth indeed was Hisham; hotly said,"He braves us!—headsman, ho! his peevish head!See; canst thou medicine its speech anew,Doctor its multiplying words to few;Divorce them well." So, where the Arab stood,Bound him; made kneel upon the cloth of blood:With curving sword the headsman leaned at pause,And, even as 'tis custom made of laws,To the descendant of the Prophet quoth,"O Khalif, shall I strike?""By Iblis' oath!Strike!" answered Hisham; but again the slaveQuestioned; and yet again the Khalif gaveHis nodded "yea"; and for the third time thenHe asked—and knowing neither men nor JinnMight save him if the Khalif spake assent,Signalled the sword, the youth with body bentLaughed—till the wang-teeth of each jaw appeared,Laughed—as with scorn the King of kings he 'd beard,Insulting death. So, with redoubled spleenRoared Hisham rising, "It is truly seenThat thou art mad who mockest Azrael!"The Arab answered: "Listen!—Once befell,Commander of the Faithful, that a hawk,A hungry hawk, pounced on a sparrow-cock;And winging nestward with his meal in claw,To him the sparrow, for the creature sawThe hawk's conceit, addressed this slyly, 'Oh,Most great, most royal, there is not, I know,That in me which will stay thy stomach's stress,I am too paltry for thy mightiness';With which the hawk was pleased, and flattered soIn his self-praise, he let the sparrow go."Then smiled the Khalif Hisham; and a signStaying the scimitar, that hung malignA threatening crescent, said, "God bless, preserveThe Prophet whom all true believers serve!—Now by my kinship to the Prophet, andHad he at first but spake us thus this handHad ne'er been reckless, and instead of hateHe had had all—except the Khalifate."Bade stuff his mouth with jewels and entreatHim courteously, then from the palace beat.
Among the tales, wherein it hath been told,In golden letters in a book of gold,Of Hatim Taï's hospitality,Who, substanceless in death and shadowy,Made men his guests upon that mountain topWhereon his tomb grayed from a thistle crop;—A tomb of rock where women hewn of stone,Rude figures, spread dishevelled hair; whose moanFrom dark to daybreak made the silence cry;The camel drivers, being tented nigh,"Ghouls or hyenas," shuddering would sayBut only girls of granite find at day:—
And of that city, Sheddad son of AadBuilt mid the Sebaa sands.—A king who hadDominion of the world and many kings.—Builded in pride and power out of thingsUnstable of the earth. For he had readOf Paradise, and to his soul had said,"Now in this life the like of ParadiseI 'll build me and the Prophet's may despise,Knowing no need of that he promises."So for this city taxed the lands and seas,And Columned Irem, on a blinding height,Blazed in the desert like a chrysolite;The manner of its building, it is told,Alternate bricks of silver and of gold:How Sheddad with his women and his slaves,His thousand viziers, armored troops as wavesOf ocean countless, God with awful flame—Shot sheer in thunder on him—God, his shameConfounded and abolished, ere his eyesHad glimpsed bright follies of that Paradise;Lay blotted to a wilderness the landAccurséd, and the city lost in sand:Among such tales—who questions of their sooth?—One is recorded of an Arab youth:
The Khalif Hisham ben AbdulmelikHunting one day, by some unwonted freakRode parted from his retinue and gaveChase to an antelope. Without or slave,Amir or vizier to a pasture placeOf sheep he came, where dark, in tattered grace,Watched one, an Arab youth. And as it cameThe antelope drew off, with mouth of flameAnd tongue of fire to the youth he turnedShouting, "Ho! fellow! in what school hast learned!Seest not the buck escapes me? worthless one!O desert dullard!"
Rising in the sun,"O ignorant," he said, "of that just worthOf those the worthy of our Muslim earth!In that thou look'st upon me—what thou art!—As one fit for contempt, thou lack'st no partOf my disdain?—Allah! I would not ownA dog of thine for friend no other known—Of speech a tyrant, manners of an ass!"And flung him, rags and rage, into the grass.
Provoked, astonished, wrinkled angrily,Hissed Hisham, "Slave! thou know'st me not I see!"Calmly the youth, "Aye, verily I know,O mannerless! thy tongue hath told me so,Thy tongue commanding ere it spake mepeace—Soon art thou known, nor late may knowledge cease."
"O dog! I am thy Khalif! by a hairThy life hangs rav'ling."
"May it dangle thereTill thou art rotted!—Whiles, upon thy headMisfortunes shower!—Of his dwelling place,Allah, be thou forgetful!—What! his graceHisham ben Merwan, king of many words—Few generosities!"...
A flash of swordsIn drifts of dust and lo! the Khalif's troopsSurrounding ride. As when a merlin stoopsSome stranger quarry, prey that swims the wind,Heron or eagle; kenning not its kindThere whence 'tis cast until it, towering, feelsAn eagle's tearing talons, falling reelsIn broken circles downward—so the youth,An Arab fearless as the face of TruthOf all that made him instant of his death,Waited with eyes indifferent, equal breath.
The palace reached, "Bring in the prisonerBefore the Khalif," and he came as wereHe in no wise concerned: unquestioning wentChin bowed on breast, and on his feet a bentDark gaze of scornful freedom unafraid,Till at the Khalif's throne his steps were staid;And unsaluting, standing head held down,An armed attendant blazed him with a frown,"Dog of the Bedouins! thy eyes rot out!Insulter! must the whole big world needs shout'Commander of the Faithful,' so thou see?"
To him the Arab sneering, "Verily,Packsaddle of an ass."
The Khalif's rageExceeded now, and, "By my realm and rage!Arab, thy hour is come, thy very last;Thy hope is vanished and thy life is past."The shepherd answered, "Aye?—by Allah, then,O Hisham, if my time be stretched again,Unscissored of what Destiny ordain,Little or great, thy words give little pain."
Then the chief Chamberlain, "O vilest oneOf all the Arabs! wilt thou not be doneBandying thy baseness with the Ruler ofThe Faithful?" spat upon his face. A scoffFiery made answer:
"There be some have heardThe nonsense of our God, the text absurd,'One day each soul whatever shall be promptTo bow before me and to give accompt.'"
Then wroth indeed was Hisham; hotly said,"He braves us!—headsman, ho! his peevish head!See; canst thou medicine its speech anew,Doctor its multiplying words to few;Divorce them well." So, where the Arab stood,Bound him; made kneel upon the cloth of blood:With curving sword the headsman leaned at pause,And, even as 'tis custom made of laws,To the descendant of the Prophet quoth,"O Khalif, shall I strike?"
"By Iblis' oath!Strike!" answered Hisham; but again the slaveQuestioned; and yet again the Khalif gaveHis nodded "yea"; and for the third time thenHe asked—and knowing neither men nor JinnMight save him if the Khalif spake assent,Signalled the sword, the youth with body bentLaughed—till the wang-teeth of each jaw appeared,Laughed—as with scorn the King of kings he 'd beard,Insulting death. So, with redoubled spleenRoared Hisham rising, "It is truly seenThat thou art mad who mockest Azrael!"
The Arab answered: "Listen!—Once befell,Commander of the Faithful, that a hawk,A hungry hawk, pounced on a sparrow-cock;And winging nestward with his meal in claw,To him the sparrow, for the creature sawThe hawk's conceit, addressed this slyly, 'Oh,Most great, most royal, there is not, I know,That in me which will stay thy stomach's stress,I am too paltry for thy mightiness';With which the hawk was pleased, and flattered soIn his self-praise, he let the sparrow go."
Then smiled the Khalif Hisham; and a signStaying the scimitar, that hung malignA threatening crescent, said, "God bless, preserveThe Prophet whom all true believers serve!—Now by my kinship to the Prophet, andHad he at first but spake us thus this handHad ne'er been reckless, and instead of hateHe had had all—except the Khalifate."Bade stuff his mouth with jewels and entreatHim courteously, then from the palace beat.
THE END.