IThe sun moves here as a master-mage of nature all day long,With fingers of heat and light that touch to a mystical growth all things.The spell of him puts pale Time to sleep, as an opiate strange and strong,And a waft of his wand, the wind, enchantment brings.IIThe python roots of the rubber-tree where the cobra slips in peaceAre wonders that he has waved from the earth as a presage of his power.And the giant stems of the bamboo-grass, the pool astounded, sees,Are a marvel to keep it still hour after hour.IIIThe long lianas that reach in dreamy rout from tree to treeAre dazed with the sense of sap that he calls to the tangle of their sprays.The scarlet-hearted hibiscus stands entranced and the torrid beeIs husht upon its rim, as in amazeIVAnd there the palms, the talipot with its lofty blossom-spire,The cocoanut and the slim areca listening awaitWhat sorceries of his trembling rays of equatorial fireWill next be laid upon some lesser mate.VThe river, too, that he winds as a magic circle round the wealthHe has here engendered, has the glide of a serpent lost in trance;And scents of clove and cinnamon that sip cool from it, in stealthPour it upon the air like necromance.VIAnd down where the rain-tree and the rife breadfruit together leanOver its flow, and the flying-foxes hanging head to earthSuddenly drop then flap aloft on large bat-wing, is seenMore of his mazing wizardry in birth.VIIAll day long it is so that his hot hypnotic eye commandsWith steady ray; and the earth obedient brings enchantment forth.All night long in the humid dark the high-voiced hyla-bandsChant of it in chill strain from South to North.VIIIA wondrous mage, in a land whose dreams are made realityAs swift as clouds are made when the young Monsoon is in the South.A land that is born of the sea and by it destined e'er to beBeyond all fear of famishing and drouth.
I
The sun moves here as a master-mage of nature all day long,With fingers of heat and light that touch to a mystical growth all things.The spell of him puts pale Time to sleep, as an opiate strange and strong,And a waft of his wand, the wind, enchantment brings.
II
The python roots of the rubber-tree where the cobra slips in peaceAre wonders that he has waved from the earth as a presage of his power.And the giant stems of the bamboo-grass, the pool astounded, sees,Are a marvel to keep it still hour after hour.
III
The long lianas that reach in dreamy rout from tree to treeAre dazed with the sense of sap that he calls to the tangle of their sprays.The scarlet-hearted hibiscus stands entranced and the torrid beeIs husht upon its rim, as in amaze
IV
And there the palms, the talipot with its lofty blossom-spire,The cocoanut and the slim areca listening awaitWhat sorceries of his trembling rays of equatorial fireWill next be laid upon some lesser mate.
V
The river, too, that he winds as a magic circle round the wealthHe has here engendered, has the glide of a serpent lost in trance;And scents of clove and cinnamon that sip cool from it, in stealthPour it upon the air like necromance.
VI
And down where the rain-tree and the rife breadfruit together leanOver its flow, and the flying-foxes hanging head to earthSuddenly drop then flap aloft on large bat-wing, is seenMore of his mazing wizardry in birth.
VII
All day long it is so that his hot hypnotic eye commandsWith steady ray; and the earth obedient brings enchantment forth.All night long in the humid dark the high-voiced hyla-bandsChant of it in chill strain from South to North.
VIII
A wondrous mage, in a land whose dreams are made realityAs swift as clouds are made when the young Monsoon is in the South.A land that is born of the sea and by it destined e'er to beBeyond all fear of famishing and drouth.
A star that I love,The sea, and I,Spake together across the night."Have peace," said the star,"Have power," said the sea,"Yea!" I answered, "and Fame's delight!"The wind on his wayTo ArabyPaused and listened and sighed and said,"I passed on the sandsA Pharaoh's tomb:All these did he have—and he is dead."
A star that I love,The sea, and I,Spake together across the night."Have peace," said the star,"Have power," said the sea,"Yea!" I answered, "and Fame's delight!"
The wind on his wayTo ArabyPaused and listened and sighed and said,"I passed on the sandsA Pharaoh's tomb:All these did he have—and he is dead."
There is in Egypt by the ancient NileA temple of imperishable stone,Stupendous, columned, hieroglyphed, and knownTo all the world as Faith's supremest shrine.Half in debris it stands, a granite pileGigantic, stayed midway in resurrection,An awe, an inspiration, a dejectionTo all who would the cryptic past divine.The god of it was Ammon, and a throngOf worshippers from Thebes the royal-gatedForever at its fervid pylons waitedWhile priests poured ever a prophetic song.And yet this Ammon, who gave Egypt laws,Is not—and is forgot—and never was!
There is in Egypt by the ancient NileA temple of imperishable stone,Stupendous, columned, hieroglyphed, and knownTo all the world as Faith's supremest shrine.Half in debris it stands, a granite pileGigantic, stayed midway in resurrection,An awe, an inspiration, a dejectionTo all who would the cryptic past divine.The god of it was Ammon, and a throngOf worshippers from Thebes the royal-gatedForever at its fervid pylons waitedWhile priests poured ever a prophetic song.And yet this Ammon, who gave Egypt laws,Is not—and is forgot—and never was!
A white tomb in the desert,An Arab at his prayersBeside the Nile's dark water,Where the lone camel fares.An ibis on the sunset,A slow shadouf at rest,And in the caravansaryLow music for the guest.Above the tawny cityA gleam of minarets,Resounding the muezzin'sClear call as the sun sets.A mystery, a silence,A breathing of strange balm,A peace from Allah on the windAnd on the sky his calm.
A white tomb in the desert,An Arab at his prayersBeside the Nile's dark water,Where the lone camel fares.An ibis on the sunset,A slow shadouf at rest,And in the caravansaryLow music for the guest.
Above the tawny cityA gleam of minarets,Resounding the muezzin'sClear call as the sun sets.A mystery, a silence,A breathing of strange balm,A peace from Allah on the windAnd on the sky his calm.
I woke at night in my eternal tombThe desert sands had hid a thousand years,And heard the Nile-crier across the gloomCalling, "The flood has come! beseech the gods!"I rose in haste, as one who blindly hears,And sought the barterers of grain and wineCulled for the praise and service of divineGreat Isis, by the slave who for her plods.But as I passed along, woe! what was this,Strange faces and strange fashions and strange fanesStanding upon the midnight; Oh, the painsThat swept across my startled thought's abyss!I moaned. My body crumbled into dust.And then my soul fled Here—where all souls must.
I woke at night in my eternal tombThe desert sands had hid a thousand years,And heard the Nile-crier across the gloomCalling, "The flood has come! beseech the gods!"I rose in haste, as one who blindly hears,And sought the barterers of grain and wineCulled for the praise and service of divineGreat Isis, by the slave who for her plods.But as I passed along, woe! what was this,Strange faces and strange fashions and strange fanesStanding upon the midnight; Oh, the painsThat swept across my startled thought's abyss!I moaned. My body crumbled into dust.And then my soul fled Here—where all souls must.
Behold, the wind of the Desert rose,Khamsin, in a shroud of sand,And swept the Libyan waste, acrossTo far Somali-land.His voice was thick with the drouth of deathAnd smote the earth as a burning breath,Or as a curse which Allah saithUnto a demon-band.The caravan from the oasisOf palm-engirt KûrkûrShuddered and couched in shaken heaps,The horror to endure.Its mighty Sheik, like a soul in HellWho longs for the lute of Israfel,Longed for the trickle of Keneh's well,Imperishably pure!Three days he longed, and the wind three daysAbout him whirled the shroud.Then did a shrill dawn bring the sun—And a gaunt vulture-crowd.A few bleak bones on the Desert stillLie for the Judgment Day to thrillAgain into life—if Allah will:Let not your heart be proud.
Behold, the wind of the Desert rose,Khamsin, in a shroud of sand,And swept the Libyan waste, acrossTo far Somali-land.His voice was thick with the drouth of deathAnd smote the earth as a burning breath,Or as a curse which Allah saithUnto a demon-band.
The caravan from the oasisOf palm-engirt KûrkûrShuddered and couched in shaken heaps,The horror to endure.Its mighty Sheik, like a soul in HellWho longs for the lute of Israfel,Longed for the trickle of Keneh's well,Imperishably pure!
Three days he longed, and the wind three daysAbout him whirled the shroud.Then did a shrill dawn bring the sun—And a gaunt vulture-crowd.A few bleak bones on the Desert stillLie for the Judgment Day to thrillAgain into life—if Allah will:Let not your heart be proud.
IMany are on the sea to-dayWith all sails set.The tide rolls in a restive gray,The wind blows wet.The gull is weary of his wings,And I am weary of all things.Heavy upon me longing lies,My sad eyes gazeAcross the leagues that sink and riseAnd sink always.My life has sunk and risen so,I'd have it cease awhile to flow.IIAll the winds of the sea weary,All the waves of the sea rest,All the wants of my heart settleSoftly now in my breast.All the stars that in heaven anchor,Golden buoys of Elysian light,Send me across the gulf promiseThat I am faring right.So while clouds that are left lonelyAt the gates of the far WestWait, so still, for the moon's stillerStealing from her nest,I am held by a low vesperHaunting afar the vague twilight,Then with my soul at peace whisperHallowedly good-night.
I
Many are on the sea to-dayWith all sails set.The tide rolls in a restive gray,The wind blows wet.The gull is weary of his wings,And I am weary of all things.
Heavy upon me longing lies,My sad eyes gazeAcross the leagues that sink and riseAnd sink always.My life has sunk and risen so,I'd have it cease awhile to flow.
II
All the winds of the sea weary,All the waves of the sea rest,All the wants of my heart settleSoftly now in my breast.All the stars that in heaven anchor,Golden buoys of Elysian light,Send me across the gulf promiseThat I am faring right.
So while clouds that are left lonelyAt the gates of the far WestWait, so still, for the moon's stillerStealing from her nest,I am held by a low vesperHaunting afar the vague twilight,Then with my soul at peace whisperHallowedly good-night.
A Latin and Greek, praise God, are we, Armenian and Copt,And we're all drunk as drunk can be, for we've together sopped.Not one of us but spits at the creed the others mouth and purr,But we all believe, we all believe, in the Holy Sepulchre!The Armenian singsThe Copt comes out of Egypt-land and with a braggart faceHe'll tell you that his fathers piled the Pyramids in place.In his Monophysite Christ we set no faith, the blasphemer!But we all believe, we all believe, in the Holy Sepulchre!The Latin singsThe Greek will curse you if you call his Ikons images,And damns your soul to Hell—no purgatory, if you please!About Procession of the Ghost he's prickly as a burr,But he believes, as we all believe, in the Holy Sepulchre!The Copt singsOf heretics God leaves unburnt, Armenians are worst,They will not celebrate the Day, that was for Christ the first.No wine with water mixed for them, as well mix heathen myrrh—Or not believe, as we all believe, in the Holy Sepulchre!The Greek singsThe Latin swears his Roman Pope is judge infallible.Wherefore you may be very sure the Devil from his skullWill drink a toast unto all liars, who such a lie aver—Tho they believe, as we all believe, in the Holy Sepulchre!The Four againA Latin and Greek, praise God, are we, Armenian and Copt,And we're all drunk as drunk can be, for we've together sopped.Not one of us but hankers to hang all Jews on a Juniper,For we all believe, we all believe, in the Holy Sepulchre!
A Latin and Greek, praise God, are we, Armenian and Copt,And we're all drunk as drunk can be, for we've together sopped.Not one of us but spits at the creed the others mouth and purr,But we all believe, we all believe, in the Holy Sepulchre!
The Armenian sings
The Copt comes out of Egypt-land and with a braggart faceHe'll tell you that his fathers piled the Pyramids in place.In his Monophysite Christ we set no faith, the blasphemer!But we all believe, we all believe, in the Holy Sepulchre!
The Latin sings
The Greek will curse you if you call his Ikons images,And damns your soul to Hell—no purgatory, if you please!About Procession of the Ghost he's prickly as a burr,But he believes, as we all believe, in the Holy Sepulchre!
The Copt sings
Of heretics God leaves unburnt, Armenians are worst,They will not celebrate the Day, that was for Christ the first.No wine with water mixed for them, as well mix heathen myrrh—Or not believe, as we all believe, in the Holy Sepulchre!
The Greek sings
The Latin swears his Roman Pope is judge infallible.Wherefore you may be very sure the Devil from his skullWill drink a toast unto all liars, who such a lie aver—Tho they believe, as we all believe, in the Holy Sepulchre!
The Four again
A Latin and Greek, praise God, are we, Armenian and Copt,And we're all drunk as drunk can be, for we've together sopped.Not one of us but hankers to hang all Jews on a Juniper,For we all believe, we all believe, in the Holy Sepulchre!
Soft and fair by the Desert's edge,And on the dim blue edge of the sea,Where white gulls wing all day and fledgeTheir young on the high cliff's sandy ledge,There is a city I have beheld,Sometime or where, by day or dream,I know not which, for it seems enspelledAs I am by its memory.Pale minarets of the Prophet pierceAbove it into the white of the skies,And sails enchanted a thousand yearsFlit at its feet while fancy steers.No face of all its faces to meIs known—no passion of it or pain.It is but a city by the sea,Enshrined forever beyond my eyes!
Soft and fair by the Desert's edge,And on the dim blue edge of the sea,Where white gulls wing all day and fledgeTheir young on the high cliff's sandy ledge,There is a city I have beheld,Sometime or where, by day or dream,I know not which, for it seems enspelledAs I am by its memory.
Pale minarets of the Prophet pierceAbove it into the white of the skies,And sails enchanted a thousand yearsFlit at its feet while fancy steers.No face of all its faces to meIs known—no passion of it or pain.It is but a city by the sea,Enshrined forever beyond my eyes!
When we two walk, my love, on the pathThe moon makes over the sea,To the end of the world where sorrow hathAn end that is ecstasy,Should we not think of the other roadOf wearying dust and stoneOur feet would fare did each but careTo follow the way alone?When we two slip at night to the skiesAnd find one star that we keepAs a trysting-place to which our eyesMay lead our souls ere sleep,Should we not pause for a little spaceAnd think how many must sighBecause they gaze over starry waysWith no heart-comrade by?When we two then lie down to our dreamsThat deepen still the delightOf our wandering where stars and streamsStray in immortal light,Should we not grieve with the myriadsFrom East of earth to WestWho lay them down at night but to drownThe longing for some loved breast?Ah, yes, for life has a thousand gifts,But love it is gives life.Who walks thro his world alone e'er liftsA soul that is sorrow-rife.But they to whom it is given to treadThe moon-path and not sinkCan ever say the unhappiest wayEarth has is fair to the brink.
When we two walk, my love, on the pathThe moon makes over the sea,To the end of the world where sorrow hathAn end that is ecstasy,Should we not think of the other roadOf wearying dust and stoneOur feet would fare did each but careTo follow the way alone?
When we two slip at night to the skiesAnd find one star that we keepAs a trysting-place to which our eyesMay lead our souls ere sleep,Should we not pause for a little spaceAnd think how many must sighBecause they gaze over starry waysWith no heart-comrade by?
When we two then lie down to our dreamsThat deepen still the delightOf our wandering where stars and streamsStray in immortal light,Should we not grieve with the myriadsFrom East of earth to WestWho lay them down at night but to drownThe longing for some loved breast?
Ah, yes, for life has a thousand gifts,But love it is gives life.Who walks thro his world alone e'er liftsA soul that is sorrow-rife.But they to whom it is given to treadThe moon-path and not sinkCan ever say the unhappiest wayEarth has is fair to the brink.
Softly the bamboo bendsAs the sun sinks down unglowing,Softer the willow endsA sigh to the dusk around.Quickly the brief bat wendsHis flittering way, thro flowingFields of the autumn air,That are husht of the city's sound.Temple and thatch and streamAre forgetting the light that lingers,Mountain and mist in dreamAlready are lost, afar.Faintingly comes the beamOf the moon—then viewless fingersTinkle a samisen,And astir on the East is a star.
Softly the bamboo bendsAs the sun sinks down unglowing,Softer the willow endsA sigh to the dusk around.Quickly the brief bat wendsHis flittering way, thro flowingFields of the autumn air,That are husht of the city's sound.
Temple and thatch and streamAre forgetting the light that lingers,Mountain and mist in dreamAlready are lost, afar.Faintingly comes the beamOf the moon—then viewless fingersTinkle a samisen,And astir on the East is a star.
When moonlight on the faceOf the great Buddha fallsAs he sits in NirvanaOn the shores of Kamakura,When the pines about him placeSoft shadows at his feetLike offerings of penitence and tears,I hear in the graceOf the wind's low susurraA voice that calls me stillTo my home within the West,But I've lingered overlongIn the East's strange arcanaAnd no more is there desire within my breast.I left it when a boy,That far home and, alas,'Twas so fair that my dreamingEarth had fairer was a madness.I left it for the joyOf wandering the world,And heathen-hearted lands have I beheld!But when at last cloyOf delight brought sadnessLike lotus to my veins,And forgetfulness seemed fate,I had fared unto this shrineAnd the moon as now was beaming,And here have I awaited—and await.But not for any giftOf its god, or any graceThat in living or in dyingMen in text or sutra sigh for.And not for any shriftNirvana has, or skiesWhere Paradise imperishably smiles.But only for the siftOf the wind, that seems to die forMy soul's enduring peaceIn the dwelling of the Tomb.And only for the driftOf the moon that comes denyingEternity to everything but Doom.
When moonlight on the faceOf the great Buddha fallsAs he sits in NirvanaOn the shores of Kamakura,When the pines about him placeSoft shadows at his feetLike offerings of penitence and tears,I hear in the graceOf the wind's low susurraA voice that calls me stillTo my home within the West,But I've lingered overlongIn the East's strange arcanaAnd no more is there desire within my breast.
I left it when a boy,That far home and, alas,'Twas so fair that my dreamingEarth had fairer was a madness.I left it for the joyOf wandering the world,And heathen-hearted lands have I beheld!But when at last cloyOf delight brought sadnessLike lotus to my veins,And forgetfulness seemed fate,I had fared unto this shrineAnd the moon as now was beaming,And here have I awaited—and await.
But not for any giftOf its god, or any graceThat in living or in dyingMen in text or sutra sigh for.And not for any shriftNirvana has, or skiesWhere Paradise imperishably smiles.But only for the siftOf the wind, that seems to die forMy soul's enduring peaceIn the dwelling of the Tomb.And only for the driftOf the moon that comes denyingEternity to everything but Doom.
Under the torii, robed in green,The old priest creeps to the shrine.Over the bridge the still stork stands,The crow caws not in the pine.Far in the distance bugles blow,War's bloody memory wakes.The priest prays on—for his sons that are dead,And the heart within him breaks.
Under the torii, robed in green,The old priest creeps to the shrine.Over the bridge the still stork stands,The crow caws not in the pine.
Far in the distance bugles blow,War's bloody memory wakes.The priest prays on—for his sons that are dead,And the heart within him breaks.
Against the phantom gold of failing skiesI see the ghost of Fujiyama riseAnd think of the innumerable eyesThat have beheld its vision sunset-crowned.The peasant in his field of rice or tea,The prince in gardens dreaming by the sea,The priest to whom the sêmi in the treeWas but some shrilling soul's incarnate sound.And as I think upon them, lo, the tranceOf backward time and distant circumstance,Of Karma's all-remembering necromance,Lies suddenly before my boundless sight.It is as if, a moment, BuddhahoodWere given to me; as if understoodAt last were vague Nirvana's vaguer good;As if time were dissolved in living light.
Against the phantom gold of failing skiesI see the ghost of Fujiyama riseAnd think of the innumerable eyesThat have beheld its vision sunset-crowned.The peasant in his field of rice or tea,The prince in gardens dreaming by the sea,The priest to whom the sêmi in the treeWas but some shrilling soul's incarnate sound.
And as I think upon them, lo, the tranceOf backward time and distant circumstance,Of Karma's all-remembering necromance,Lies suddenly before my boundless sight.It is as if, a moment, BuddhahoodWere given to me; as if understoodAt last were vague Nirvana's vaguer good;As if time were dissolved in living light.
Out on the sea the sampans rideAnd the mountains brim with mist and sun.O we are in Japan againAnd the spell is about us spun!The spell of the old enchanting East,Of Buddha and many a blissful priest,The spell that has never, never ceasedTo haunt us!Glad we behold the temple-topsAnd the lanterns in religious rowStanding, like acolytes of stone,Where the pine and camphor grow.And o'er them the old pagoda praysBlessing upon their dreaming days,And upon the eightfold sacred waysFrom Sorrow!Ah, and the torii too is thereWhere the tranced sea enters to his shrineDaily, with tidal mysteryAnd majesty divine.He enters now, as the nuptial seaOf love first entered our hearts, to beLord of their tides eternally,And Master!
Out on the sea the sampans rideAnd the mountains brim with mist and sun.O we are in Japan againAnd the spell is about us spun!The spell of the old enchanting East,Of Buddha and many a blissful priest,The spell that has never, never ceasedTo haunt us!
Glad we behold the temple-topsAnd the lanterns in religious rowStanding, like acolytes of stone,Where the pine and camphor grow.And o'er them the old pagoda praysBlessing upon their dreaming days,And upon the eightfold sacred waysFrom Sorrow!
Ah, and the torii too is thereWhere the tranced sea enters to his shrineDaily, with tidal mysteryAnd majesty divine.He enters now, as the nuptial seaOf love first entered our hearts, to beLord of their tides eternally,And Master!
I have heard the wild geese,I have seen the leaves fall,There was frost last nightOn the garden wall.It is gone to-dayAnd I hear the wind call.The wind?... that is all.If the swallow will lightWhen evening is near;If the crane will not screamLike a soul in fear;I will think no moreOf the dying year,And the wind, its seer.
I have heard the wild geese,I have seen the leaves fall,There was frost last nightOn the garden wall.It is gone to-dayAnd I hear the wind call.The wind?... that is all.
If the swallow will lightWhen evening is near;If the crane will not screamLike a soul in fear;I will think no moreOf the dying year,And the wind, its seer.
Down the Yang-tse bat-wing junkAnd tatterdemalion sampan glide,Sails of brown and black and yellow swinging.Down the Yang-tse bat-wing junksFish-eyed and gaudy take the tide,Forth to the sea in sloth they ride,The coolies singing.Off in the field the peasant toilsAnd along the canal the low tows slip,Fruit of the red persimmon piled upon them.Off in the field the peasant toils—With lip and brow the dull years stripBare of the dreams of life, whose gripHas grimly drawn them.High on the hill the yamên restsAnd the temple beside it sleeps in sun,Far in the distance faints the city dreary.High on the hill the yamên rests,And dun dead shadows o'er it run:This is the land where Time begunAnd now grows weary.
Down the Yang-tse bat-wing junkAnd tatterdemalion sampan glide,Sails of brown and black and yellow swinging.Down the Yang-tse bat-wing junksFish-eyed and gaudy take the tide,Forth to the sea in sloth they ride,The coolies singing.
Off in the field the peasant toilsAnd along the canal the low tows slip,Fruit of the red persimmon piled upon them.Off in the field the peasant toils—With lip and brow the dull years stripBare of the dreams of life, whose gripHas grimly drawn them.
High on the hill the yamên restsAnd the temple beside it sleeps in sun,Far in the distance faints the city dreary.High on the hill the yamên rests,And dun dead shadows o'er it run:This is the land where Time begunAnd now grows weary.
The wild sea-armies led by the windAre following in our wake,White-crested shouting millions moving on.They have broken their camp of Calm and o'erThe world rebellion make,With banner of cloud and mist above them drawn.They have heard the call of infinite Death,The ordering of his word,"Arise, go forth and conquer where ye can;For that is the only law ye know,Its mandate men have heard,Let them beware when they your path would span."Let them beware, for I am lordOf all that on earth has name,And unto you is given most my might.Ride on, ye have many a ship to rend,And many a mast to maim,And many a land to lash and soul to fright."So on they ride, a ravaging horde,From shore to shuddering shore,Beyond us in the bleak star-buried dawn;Nor know that when they have camped againAnd sleep, Life will restoreUnto her world the hope they have withdrawn.
The wild sea-armies led by the windAre following in our wake,White-crested shouting millions moving on.They have broken their camp of Calm and o'erThe world rebellion make,With banner of cloud and mist above them drawn.
They have heard the call of infinite Death,The ordering of his word,"Arise, go forth and conquer where ye can;For that is the only law ye know,Its mandate men have heard,Let them beware when they your path would span.
"Let them beware, for I am lordOf all that on earth has name,And unto you is given most my might.Ride on, ye have many a ship to rend,And many a mast to maim,And many a land to lash and soul to fright."
So on they ride, a ravaging horde,From shore to shuddering shore,Beyond us in the bleak star-buried dawn;Nor know that when they have camped againAnd sleep, Life will restoreUnto her world the hope they have withdrawn.
The palms along the old fort wall are paling,The mountains in the evening light are red,The moon has dropped into the moat from heaven,A spell barbaric over all is spread.But what is that to him, a stranger lonely,In a land strange to all his faith and dim?He cares not for old splendours, he would onlyHear on the air a simple Sabbath hymn.The paddy-birds their snowy flight are takingFrom the tall tamarind unto their nest,The bullock-carts along the road are creaking,The bugles o'er the wall are sounding rest.On a calm jetty looking off to MeccaSons of Mahomet watch the low day's rim.He too is waiting for it—with an echoUpon his lips of a believer's hymn.The red gate-towers rise against the twilight,The palace of the heathen king is hid,The white bridge bent across the moat beside itSeems now of all unholinesses rid.He wishes it were so with all this cityWhose Buddha-built pagodas skyward swim;But he can only gaze on them and pity—And sing within his heart a Christian hymn.
The palms along the old fort wall are paling,The mountains in the evening light are red,The moon has dropped into the moat from heaven,A spell barbaric over all is spread.But what is that to him, a stranger lonely,In a land strange to all his faith and dim?He cares not for old splendours, he would onlyHear on the air a simple Sabbath hymn.
The paddy-birds their snowy flight are takingFrom the tall tamarind unto their nest,The bullock-carts along the road are creaking,The bugles o'er the wall are sounding rest.On a calm jetty looking off to MeccaSons of Mahomet watch the low day's rim.He too is waiting for it—with an echoUpon his lips of a believer's hymn.
The red gate-towers rise against the twilight,The palace of the heathen king is hid,The white bridge bent across the moat beside itSeems now of all unholinesses rid.He wishes it were so with all this cityWhose Buddha-built pagodas skyward swim;But he can only gaze on them and pity—And sing within his heart a Christian hymn.
Cast me out from among you,I will not see my childLaid aloft where the vulturesMay clamour for him, wild!The earth you say is holy,Not to be soiled by death,And a Parsee still should hold divineWhat Zoroaster saith.Ay, and so I will hold it,But see his pale sweet face,As pure as the palest flowerLeft dead in Spring's embrace.The sun we worship dailyShrined it for seven years,Then shall it go to cruel beaks,There where the sea-wind veers?No, no, no! tho you send meA beggar from your door,You, my lord, whom I honour,And you, his sisters four,To whom there have come no childrenTo make your bosoms feelHow even a thought so full of throeCan make my sick brain reel.Ah, you are deaf? you scorn meAnd loathe, as a thing defiled?My lord, I am but a womanWho longs to see her childLaid in a tomb, entreasuredUnder the shrouding sod.O would I had never given birth,Or that earth had no God!
Cast me out from among you,I will not see my childLaid aloft where the vulturesMay clamour for him, wild!The earth you say is holy,Not to be soiled by death,And a Parsee still should hold divineWhat Zoroaster saith.
Ay, and so I will hold it,But see his pale sweet face,As pure as the palest flowerLeft dead in Spring's embrace.The sun we worship dailyShrined it for seven years,Then shall it go to cruel beaks,There where the sea-wind veers?
No, no, no! tho you send meA beggar from your door,You, my lord, whom I honour,And you, his sisters four,To whom there have come no childrenTo make your bosoms feelHow even a thought so full of throeCan make my sick brain reel.
Ah, you are deaf? you scorn meAnd loathe, as a thing defiled?My lord, I am but a womanWho longs to see her childLaid in a tomb, entreasuredUnder the shrouding sod.O would I had never given birth,Or that earth had no God!
I see as in a pale mirageThe palm that o'er you sways,The waters of the Jumna wan are beating.One pearl-cloud, like a far-off Taj,A dome of grief betrays—Its beauty as was yours will be too fleeting!The world is wider than I knewNow that your face is gone!While you were here no destiny seemed boundless.So I am lost and find no clueTo any dusk or dawn!Life has become a quest decayed and groundless.Come back! come back or let me findThe jungle leads at lastUnto your lips and bosom recreated!O somewhere I again must windMy arms about you, castInto one word my love all unabated!
I see as in a pale mirageThe palm that o'er you sways,The waters of the Jumna wan are beating.One pearl-cloud, like a far-off Taj,A dome of grief betrays—Its beauty as was yours will be too fleeting!
The world is wider than I knewNow that your face is gone!While you were here no destiny seemed boundless.So I am lost and find no clueTo any dusk or dawn!Life has become a quest decayed and groundless.
Come back! come back or let me findThe jungle leads at lastUnto your lips and bosom recreated!O somewhere I again must windMy arms about you, castInto one word my love all unabated!
Where the road leads from Delhi to the South,And dingy camel-trains creep in the dustPast ruin-heaps of old FirozabadAnd Indropat unpitied of the drouth;By a lone tree, above a Pool whose sadPrayer-water all the turban-people trust,Is a heat-hidden tomb, and on it justA few faint blades of bent and grieving grass."Jehanara's it is," with ready mouthA Moslem tells the stranger, "once she said,'The covering of the poor is only grass,Let it be mine alone when I am dead.'"And who has stood there, where about her RestRise high Imperial tombs, knows hers is best.
Where the road leads from Delhi to the South,And dingy camel-trains creep in the dustPast ruin-heaps of old FirozabadAnd Indropat unpitied of the drouth;By a lone tree, above a Pool whose sadPrayer-water all the turban-people trust,Is a heat-hidden tomb, and on it justA few faint blades of bent and grieving grass."Jehanara's it is," with ready mouthA Moslem tells the stranger, "once she said,'The covering of the poor is only grass,Let it be mine alone when I am dead.'"And who has stood there, where about her RestRise high Imperial tombs, knows hers is best.
As the cocoanut-palmThat pines, my love,Away from the soundOf the planter's voice,Am I, for I hearNo more resoundYour song by the pearl-strewn sea!The sun may comeAnd the moon wax round,And in its beamMy mates may rejoice,But I feast notAnd my heart is dumb,As I long, O long, for thee!In the jungle-deeps,Where the cobra creeps,The leopard liesIn wait for me.But O, my love,When the daylight diesThere is more to my dread than he!Harsh lonely tearsThat assail my eyesAre worse to bear,For the miseryThat makes them wellIs the long, long yearsThat I moan away from thee!O again, again,In my katamaranA-keel would I pushTo your palmy door!Again would I hearThe heave and hushOf your song by the plantain-tree.But far awayDo I toil and crushThe hopes that ariseAt my sick heart's core.For never nearDoes it come, the dayThat draws me again to thee!
As the cocoanut-palmThat pines, my love,Away from the soundOf the planter's voice,Am I, for I hearNo more resoundYour song by the pearl-strewn sea!The sun may comeAnd the moon wax round,And in its beamMy mates may rejoice,But I feast notAnd my heart is dumb,As I long, O long, for thee!
In the jungle-deeps,Where the cobra creeps,The leopard liesIn wait for me.But O, my love,When the daylight diesThere is more to my dread than he!Harsh lonely tearsThat assail my eyesAre worse to bear,For the miseryThat makes them wellIs the long, long yearsThat I moan away from thee!
O again, again,In my katamaranA-keel would I pushTo your palmy door!Again would I hearThe heave and hushOf your song by the plantain-tree.But far awayDo I toil and crushThe hopes that ariseAt my sick heart's core.For never nearDoes it come, the dayThat draws me again to thee!
From a far minaret of faithful cloudA wraith-muezzin of the sunset criedOver the sea that swung with sultan pride,"Allah is Beauty, there is none beside!Allah is Beauty, not to be deniedBy Death or any Infidel dark-browed!"And every wave that worshipped, every oneUnder the mosque of heaven arching high,Lifted a white crest with assenting sighAnd answered, "Let all gods but Allah die,Yea, let all gods! until the world shall cry,Beauty alone is left under the sun!"
From a far minaret of faithful cloudA wraith-muezzin of the sunset criedOver the sea that swung with sultan pride,"Allah is Beauty, there is none beside!Allah is Beauty, not to be deniedBy Death or any Infidel dark-browed!"
And every wave that worshipped, every oneUnder the mosque of heaven arching high,Lifted a white crest with assenting sighAnd answered, "Let all gods but Allah die,Yea, let all gods! until the world shall cry,Beauty alone is left under the sun!"
Upon an image of immortal stone,Seated and vast, the moon of Luxor falls,Lending to it a stillness that appals,A mystery Osirian and strange.The hands outplaced upon the knees in loneAnd placid majesty reveal the powerOf Egypt in her most triumphal hour,The calm of tyranny that cannot change.It is of that Great king, who heard the criesOf millions toil to lift him to the skies,Who saw them perish at their task like flies,Yet let no eye of pity o'er them range.What rue, then, if his desecrated faceRots now at Cairo in a mummy case?
Upon an image of immortal stone,Seated and vast, the moon of Luxor falls,Lending to it a stillness that appals,A mystery Osirian and strange.The hands outplaced upon the knees in loneAnd placid majesty reveal the powerOf Egypt in her most triumphal hour,The calm of tyranny that cannot change.It is of that Great king, who heard the criesOf millions toil to lift him to the skies,Who saw them perish at their task like flies,Yet let no eye of pity o'er them range.What rue, then, if his desecrated faceRots now at Cairo in a mummy case?
At Bedrashein between the pyramidsI saw the wingèd sun fold up his pinionsAnd sink into the nether world's dominionsWhere Set sent ill on the Egyptian dead.I saw the ancient Desert, that outbidsThe Nile for the date-lands between them spread,Fling over Memphis that is vanishèd,Another shroud of sand, then bid his minions,The winds, lie down upon their boundless bed.I saw where temples vowed to SerapisAnd granite splendours men name PharaonicAre kept by Time in silence and sardonicConcealment—mummied in deep mystic tombs.And when the stars came out in quiet bliss,I heard Eternity with all its dooms,Past and to come, sound softly the mnemonicOf Death who waits all worlds that Life enwombs.
At Bedrashein between the pyramidsI saw the wingèd sun fold up his pinionsAnd sink into the nether world's dominionsWhere Set sent ill on the Egyptian dead.I saw the ancient Desert, that outbidsThe Nile for the date-lands between them spread,Fling over Memphis that is vanishèd,Another shroud of sand, then bid his minions,The winds, lie down upon their boundless bed.
I saw where temples vowed to SerapisAnd granite splendours men name PharaonicAre kept by Time in silence and sardonicConcealment—mummied in deep mystic tombs.And when the stars came out in quiet bliss,I heard Eternity with all its dooms,Past and to come, sound softly the mnemonicOf Death who waits all worlds that Life enwombs.
The camel at the old sakiyehToils around and round.Aweary is he of the NileAnd of the wailing soundOf the slow wheel he turns all dayTo lift the water on its wayOver the fields of Ahmed Bey,That with green grain abound.Aweary is he, too, of fellà heenWho compel him on,With thick-voiced chanting till the dayOver the West has gone.For the bold Desert was he made,The Bedouin, his lord, to aid,Not for this peasant wheel of tradeThat ever must be drawn.But on he toils while dahabiyehAnd dark felucca glideBelow him on the glassy flowOf the gray river's tide.Then when the night has come lies down,In sleep the servile day to drown—Like all whom Life turns with a frownFrom their true fate aside.
The camel at the old sakiyehToils around and round.Aweary is he of the NileAnd of the wailing soundOf the slow wheel he turns all dayTo lift the water on its wayOver the fields of Ahmed Bey,That with green grain abound.
Aweary is he, too, of fellà heenWho compel him on,With thick-voiced chanting till the dayOver the West has gone.For the bold Desert was he made,The Bedouin, his lord, to aid,Not for this peasant wheel of tradeThat ever must be drawn.
But on he toils while dahabiyehAnd dark felucca glideBelow him on the glassy flowOf the gray river's tide.Then when the night has come lies down,In sleep the servile day to drown—Like all whom Life turns with a frownFrom their true fate aside.