At closing of El-Majed's awful day,When the last quivering sunbeams, choked with dustAnd fume of blood, failed on the level plain,In the last charge, when gathered all our knightsThe precious handful who from morn had stemmedThe fury of the multitudinous hostsOf Islam, where in youth's hot fire and prideRamped the young lion-whelp, Ben-Saladin;As down the slope we rode at eventide,The dying sunlight faintly smiled to greetOur tattered guidons and our dinted helmsAnd lance-heads blooming with the battle's rose.Into the vale, dusk with the shadow of death,With silent lips and ringing mail we rode.And something in the spirit of the hour,Or fate, or memory, or sorrow, or sin,Or love, which unto me is all of these,Possessed and bound me; for when dashed our troopIn stormy clangor on the Paynim linesThe soul of my dead youth came into me;Faded away my oath; the woes of Zion,God was forgot; blazed in my leaping heart,With instant flash, life's inextinguished fires;Plunging along each tense limb poured the bloodHot with its years of sleeping-smothered flame.And in a dream I charged, and in a dreamI smote resistless; foemen in my pathFell unregarded, like the wayside flowersClipped by the truant's staff in daisied lanes.For over me burned lustrous the dear eyesOf my beloved; I strove as at a joustTo gain at end the guerdon of her smile.And ever, as in the dense melee I dashed,Her name burst from my lips, as lightning breaksOut of the plunging wrack of summer storms.
O my lost love! Bright o'er the waste of years—That bliss and beauty shines upon my soul;As far beyond yon desert hangs the sun,Gilding with tender beam the barren stretchOf sands that intervene. In this still lightThe old sweet memories glimmer back to me.Fair summers of my youth,—the idle daysI wandered in the bosky coverts hidIn the dim woods that girt my ancient home;The blue young eyes I met and worshipped there;The love that growing turned those gloomy wildsTo faery dells, and filled the vernal airWith light that bathed the hills of Paradise;The warm, long days of rapturous summer-time,When through the forests thick and lush we strayed,And love made our own sunshine in the shades.And all things fair and graceful in the woodsI loved with liberal heart; the violetsWere dear for her dear eyes, the quiring birdsThat caught the musical tremble of her voice.O happy twilights in the leafy glooms!When in the glowing dusk the winsome artsAnd maiden graces that all day had keptUs twain and separate melted awayIn blushing silence, and my love was mineUtterly, utterly, with clinging armsAnd quick, caressing fingers, warm red lips,Where vows, half uttered, drowned in kisses, died;Mine, with the starlight in her passionate eyes;The wild wind of the woodland breathing lowTo wake the elfin music of the leaves,And free the prisoned odors of the flowers,In honor of young Love come to his throne!While we under the stars, with twining armsAnd mutual lips insatiate, gave our souls—Madly forgetting earth and heaven—to love!
In desert march or battles flame,In fortress and in field,Our war-cry is thy holy name,Thy love our joy and shield!And if we falter, let thy powerThy stern avenger be,And God forget us in the hourWe cease to think of thee!
Curse me not, God of Justice and of Love!Pitiful God, let my long woe atone!
I cannot deem but God has pitied me;Else why with painful care have I been saved,Whenever tossed and drenched in the fierce tideOf Saladin's victories by the walls profanedOf Jaffa, on the sands of far Daroum,Or in the battle thundering on the downsOf Ramlah, or the bloody day that shedRed horrors on high Gaza's parapets?For never a storm of fatal fight has ragedIn Islam's track of rout and ruin sweptFrom Egypt to Gebail, but when the ebbOf battle came I and my host have lain,Scarred, scorched, safe somewhere on its fiery shore.At Marcab's lingering siege, where day by dayWe told the Moslem legions toiling slow,Planting their engines, delving in their minesTo quench in our destruction this last lightOf Christendom, our fortress in the crags,God's beacon swung defiant from the stars;One thunderous night I knew their miners gropedBelow, and thought ere morn to die, in crushAnd tumult of the falling citadel.And pondering of my fate—the broken stormSobbing its life away—I was awareThere grew between me and the quieting skiesA face and form I knew,—not as in dreams,The sad dishevelled loveliness of earth,But lighter than the thin air where she swayed,—Gold hair flame-fluttered, eyes and mouth aglowWith lambent light of spiritual joy.With sweet command she beckoned me awayAnd led me vaguely dreaming, till I sawWhere the wild flood in sudden fury had burstA passage through the rocks: and thence I ledMy host unharmed, following her luminous eyes,Until the East was gray, and with a smileWooing me heavenward still she passed awayInto the rosy trouble of the dawn.
And I believe my love is shrived in heaven,And I believe that I shall soon be free.
For ever, as I journey on, to meWaking or sleeping come faint whisperingsAnd fancies not of earth, as if the gatesOf near eternity stood for me ajar,And ghostly gales come blowing o'er my soulFraught with the amaranth odors of the skies.I go to join the Lion-Heart at Acre,And there, after due homage to my liege,And after patient penance of the church,And after final devoir in the fight,If that my God be gracious, I shall die.And so I pray—Lord pardon if I sin!—That I may lose in death's imbittered wave,The stain of sinful loving, and may findIn glory again the love I lost below,With all of fair and bright and unattained,Beautiful in the cherishing smile of God,By the glad waters of the River of Life!
Night hangs above the valley; dies the dayIn peace, casting his last glance on my cross,And warns me to my prayers.Ave Maria!Mother of God! the evening fadesOn wave and hill and lea,
And in the twilight's deepening shadesWe lift our souls to thee!In passion's stress—the battles strife,The desert's lurking harms,Maid-Mother of the Lord of LifeProtect thy men-at-arms!
Translations.
The Way to Heaven
From the German.
One day the Sultan, grand and grim,Ordered the Mufti brought to him."Now let thy wisdom solve for meThe question I shall put to thee.
"The different tribes beneath my swayFour several sects of priests obey;Now tell me which of all the fourIs on the path to Heaven's door."
The Sultan spake, and then was dumb.The Mufti looked about the room,And straight made answer to his lord.Fearing the bowstring at each word:
"Thou, godlike in thy lofty birth,Who art our Allah upon earth,Illume me with thy favoring ray,And I will answer as I may.
"Here, where thou thronest in thy hall,I see there are four doors in all;And through all four thy slaves may gazeUpon the brightness of thy face.
"That I came hither safely throughWas to thy gracious message due,And, blinded by thy splendor's flame,I cannot tell the way I came."
After Heine: Countess Jutta
From the German of Heinrich Heine.
The Countess Jutta passed over the RhineIn a light canoe by the moon's pale shine.The handmaid rows and the Countess speaks:"Seest thou not there where the water breaksSeven corpses swimIn the moonlight dim?So sorrowful swim the dead!
"They were seven knights full of fire and youth,They sank on my heart and swore me truth.I trusted them; but for Truth's sweet sake,Lest they should be tempted their oaths to break,I had them bound,And tenderly drowned!So sorrowful swim the dead!"
The merry Countess laughed outright!It rang so wild in the startled night!Up to the waist the dead men riseAnd stretch lean fingers to the skies.They nod and stareWith a glassy glare!So sorrowful swim the dead!
A Blessing.
When I look on thee and feel how dear,How pure, and how fair thou art,Into my eyes there steals a tear,And a shadow mingled of love and fearCreeps slowly over my heart.
And my very hands feel as if they would layThemselves on thy fair young head,And pray the good God to keep thee alwayAs good and lovely, as pure and gay,—When I and my wild love are dead.
To the Young.
Letyour feet not falter, your course not alterBy golden apples, till victory's won!The sword's sharp clangor, the dart's shrill anger,Swerve not the hero thundering on.
A bold beginning is half the winning,An Alexander makes worlds his fee.No long debating! The Queens are waitingIn his pavilion on bended knee.
Thus swift pursuing his wars and wooing,He mounts old Darius' bed and throne.O glorious ruin! O blithe undoing!O drunk death-triumph in Babylon!
The Golden Calf.
Double flutes and horns resoundAs they dance the idol round;Jacob's daughters, madly reeling,Whirl about the golden calf.Hear them laugh!Kettledrums and laughter pealing.
Dresses tucked above their knees,Maids of noblest families,In the swift dance blindly wheeling,Circle in their wild careerRound the steer,—Kettledrums and laughter pealing.
Aaron's self, the guardian grayOf the faith, at last gives way,Madness all his senses stealing;Prances in his high priest's coatLike a goat,—Kettledrums and laughter pealing.
The Azra.
Daily walked the fair and lovelySultan's daughter in the twilight,—In the twilight by the fountain,Where the sparkling waters plash.
Daily stood the young slave silentIn the twilight by the fountain,Where the plashing waters sparkle,Pale and paler every day.
Once by twilight came the princessUp to him with rapid questions:"I would know thy name, thy nation,Whence thou comest, who thou art."
And the young slave said, "My name isMahomet, I come from Yemmen.I am of the sons of Azra,Men who perish if they love."
Good and Bad Luck.
Good luck is the gayest of all gay girls,Long in one place she will not stay,Back from your brow she strokes the curls,Kisses you quick and flies away.
But Madame Bad Luck soberly comesAnd stays,—no fancy has she for flitting,—Snatches of true love-songs she hums,And sits by your bed, and brings her knitting.
L'Amour du Mensonge.
After Charles Baudelaire.
When I behold thee, O my indolent love,To the sound of ringing brazen melodies,Through garish halls harmoniously move,Scattering a scornful light from languid eyes;
When I see, smitten by the blazing lights,Thy pale front, beauteous in its bloodless glowAs the faint fires that deck the Northern nights,And eyes that draw me wheresoever I go;
I say, She is fair, too coldly strange for speech;A crown of memories, her calm brow above,Shines; and her heart is like a bruised red peach,Ripe as her body for intelligent love.
Art thou late fruit of spicy savor and scent?A funeral vase awaiting tearful showers?An Eastern odor, waste and oasis blent?A silken cushion or a bank of flowers?
I know there are eyes of melancholy sheenTo which no passionate secrets e'er were given;Shrines where no god or saint has ever been,As deep and empty as the vault of Heaven.
But what care I if this be all pretense?'T will serve a heart that seeks for truth no more,All one thy folly or indifference,—Hail, lovely mask, thy beauty I adore!
Amor Mysticus.
From the Spanish of Sor Marcela de Carpio.
Let them say to my LoverThat here I lie!The thing of His pleasure,His slave am I.
Say that I seek HimOnly for love,And welcome are torturesMy passion to prove.
Love giving giftsIs suspicious and cold;I have all, my Belovèd,When Thee I hold.
Hope and devotionThe good may gain;I am but worthyOf passion and pain.
So noble a LordNone serves in vain,For the pay of my loveIs my love's sweet pain.
I love Thee, to love Thee,—No more I desire;By faith is nourishedMy love's strong fire.
I kiss Thy handsWhen I feel their blows;In the place of caressesThou givest me woes.
But in Thy chastisingIs joy and peace.O Master and Love,Let Thy blows not cease.
Thy beauty, Belovèd,With scorn is rife,But I know that Thou lovest meBetter than life.
And because Thou lovest me,Lover of mine,Death can but make meUtterly Thine.
I die with longingThy face to see;Oh! sweet is the anguishOf death to me!