[18] "Violet-crowned Athens."—Pindar.
[19] The whole of this scene was suggested by Pliny's account of the artist Pausias and his mistress Glycera,Lib. 35 c. 40.
[20] The traveller Shaw mentions a beautiful rill In Barbary, which is received into a large basin calledShrub wee krub, "Drink and away"— there being great danger of meeting with thieves and assassins in such places.
[21] The Arabian shepherd has a peculiar ceremony in weaning the young camel; when the proper time arrives, he turns the camel towards the rising star, Canopus, and says, "Do you see Canopus? from this moment you taste not another drop of milk."—Richardson.
[22] "Whoever returns from a pilgrimage to Mecca hangs this plant (the mitre-shaped Aloe) over his street door, as a token of his having performed this holy journey."—Hasselquist.
[23] This form of notice to the caravans to prepare for marching was applied by Hafiz to the necessity of relinquishing the pleasures of this world, and preparing for death:—"For me what room is there for pleasure in the bower of Beauty, when every moment the bell makes proclamation, 'Bind on your burden'?"
[24] The watchmen, in the camp of the caravans, go their rounds, crying one after another, "God is one," etc.
[25] "It was customary," says Irwin, "to light up fires on the mountains, within view of Cosseir, to give notice of the approach of the caravans that came from the Nile."
[26] the Hume.
[27] The name which the Greeks give to the Virgin Mary.
Well may you wonder at my flightFrom those fair Gardens in whose bowersLingers whate'er of wise and bright,Of Beauty's smile or Wisdom's light,Is left to grace this world of ours.Well may my comrades as they roamOn such sweet eyes as this inquireWhy I have left that happy homeWhere all is found that all desire,And Time hath wings that never tire:Where bliss in all the countless shapesThat Fancy's self to bliss hath givenComes clustering round like roadside grapesThat woo the traveller's lip at even;Where Wisdom flings not joy away—As Pallas in the stream they sayOnce flung her flute—but smiling ownsThat woman's lip can send forth tonesWorth all the music of those spheresSo many dream of but none hears;Where Virtue's self puts on so wellHer sister Pleasure's smile that, loathFrom either nymph apart to dwell,We finish by embracing both.Yes, such the place of bliss, I ownFrom all whose charms I just have flown;And even while thus to thee I write,And by the Nile's dark flood recline,Fondly, in thought I wing my flightBack to those groves and gardens bright,And often think by this sweet lightHow lovelily they all must shine;Can see that graceful temple throwDown the green slope its lengthened shade,While on the marble steps belowThere sits some fair Athenian maid,Over some favorite volume bending;And by her side a youthful sageHolds back the ringlets that descendingWould else o'ershadow all the page.But hence such thoughts!—nor let me grieveO'er scenes of joy that I but leave,As the bird quits awhile its nestTo come again with livelier zest.
And now to tell thee—what I fearThou'lt gravely smile at—whyI'm hereTho' thro' my life's short, sunny dream,I've floated without pain or careLike a light leaf down pleasure's stream,Caught in each sparkling eddy there;Tho' never Mirth awaked a strainThat my heart echoed not again;Yet have I felt, when even most gay,Sad thoughts—I knew not whence or why—Suddenly o'er my spirit fly,Like clouds that ere we've time to say"How bright the sky is!" shade the sky.Sometimes so vague, so undefinedWere these strange darkenings of my mind—"While naught but joy around me beamedSo causelessly they've come and flown,That not of life or earth they seemed,But shadows from some world unknown.More oft, however, 'twas the thoughtHow soon that scene with all its playOf life and gladness must decay—Those lips I prest, the hands I caught—Myself—the crowd that mirth had broughtAround me—swept like weeds away!
This thought it was that came to shedO'er rapture's hour its worst alloys;And close as shade with sunshine wedIts sadness with my happiest joys.Oh, but for this disheartening voiceStealing amid our mirth to sayThat all in which we most rejoiceEre night may be the earthworm's prey—Butfor this bitter—only this—Full as the world is brimmed with bliss,And capable as feels my soulOf draining to its dregs the whole,I should turn earth to heaven and be,If bliss made Gods, a Deity?
Thou know'st that night—the very lastThat 'mong my Garden friends I past—When the School held its feast of mirthTo celebrate our founder's birth.And all that He in dreams but sawWhen he set Pleasure on the throneOf this bright world and wrote her lawIn human hearts was felt and known—Notin unreal dreams but true,Substantial joy as pulse e'er knew—By hearts and bosoms, that each feltItselfthe realm where Pleasure dwelt.
That night when all our mirth was o'er,The minstrels silent, and the feetOf the young maidens heard no more—So stilly was the time, so sweet,And such a calm came o'er that scene,Where life and revel late had been—Lone as the quiet of some bayFrom which the sea hath ebbed away—That still I lingered, lost in thought,Gazing upon the stars of night,Sad and intent as if I soughtSome mournful secret in their light;And asked them mid that silence whyMan, glorious man, alone must dieWhile they, less wonderful than he,Shine on thro' all eternity.
That night—thou haply may'st forgetIts loveliness—but 'twas a nightTo make earth's meanest slave regretLeaving a world so soft and bright.On one side in the dark blue skyLonely and radiant was the eyeOf Jove himself, while on the other,'Mong stars that came out one by one,The young moon—like the Roman motherAmong her living jewels—shone."Oh that from yonder orbs," I thought,"Pure and eternal as they are,"There could to earth some power be brought,"Some charm with their own essence fraught"To make man deathless as a star,"And open to his vast desires"A course, as boundless and sublime"As that which waits those comet-fires,"That burn and roam throughout all time!"
While thoughts like these absorbed my mind,That weariness which earthly blissHowever sweet still leaves behind,As if to show how earthly 'tis,Came lulling o'er me and I laidMy limbs at that fair statue's base—That miracle, which Art hath madeOf all the choice of Nature's grace—To which so oft I've knelt and sworn.That could a living maid like herUnto this wondering world be born,I would myself turn worshipper.
Sleep came then o'er me—and I seemedTo be transported far awayTo a bleak desert plain where gleamedOne single, melancholy ray.Throughout that darkness dimly shedFrom a small taper in the handOf one who pale as are the deadBefore me took his spectral stand,And said while awfully a smileCame o'er the wanness of his cheek—"Go and beside the sacred Nile"You'll find the Eternal Life you seek."
Soon as he spoke these words the hueOf death o'er all his features grewLike the pale morning when o'er nightShe gains the victory full of light;While the small torch he held becameA glory in his hand whose flameBrightened the desert suddenly,Even to the far horizon's line—Along whose level I could seeGardens and groves that seemed to shineAs if then o'er them freshly playedA vernal rainbow's rich cascade;And music floated every where,Circling, as 'twere itself the air,And spirits on whose wings the hueOf heaven still lingered round me flew,Till from all sides such splendors broke,That with the excess of light I woke!
Such was my dream;—and I confessTho' none of all our creedless schoolE'er conned, believed, or reverenced lessThe fables of the priest-led foolWho tells us of a soul, a mind,Separate and pure within us shrined,Which is to live—ah, hope too bright!—For ever in yon fields of light;Who fondly thinks the guardian eyesOf Gods are on him—as if blestAnd blooming in their own blue skiesThe eternal Gods were not too wiseTo let weak man disturb their rest!—Tho' thinking of such creeds as thouAnd all our Garden sages think,Yet is there something, I allow,In dreams like this—a sort of linkWith worlds unseen which from the hourI first could lisp my thoughts till nowHath mastered me with spell-like power.
And who can tell, as we're combinedOf various atoms—some refined,Like those that scintillate and playIn the fixt stars—some gross as theyThat frown in clouds or sleep in clay—Who can be sure but 'tis the bestAnd brightest atoms of our frame,Those most akin to stellar flame,That shine out thus, when we're at rest;—Even as the stars themselves whose lightComes out but in the silent night.Or is it that there lurks indeedSome truth in Man's prevailing creedAnd that our Guardians from on highCome in that pause from toil and sinTo put the senses' curtain byAnd on the wakeful soul look in!
Vain thought!—but yet, howe'er it be,Dreams more than once have proved to meOracles, truer far than OakOr Dove or Tripod ever spoke.And 'twas the words—thou'lt hear and smile—The words that phantom seemed to speak—"Go and beside the sacred Nile"You'll find the Eternal Life you seek"—That haunting me by night, by day,At length as with the unseen handOf Fate itself urged me awayFrom Athens to this Holy Land;Where 'mong the secrets still untaught,The mysteries that as yet nor sunNor eye hath reached—oh, blessed thought!—May sleep this everlasting one.
Farewell—when to our Garden friendsThou talk'st of the wild dream that sendsThe gayest of their school thus far,Wandering beneath Canopus' star,Tell them that wander where he willOr howsoe'er they now condemnHis vague and vain pursuit he stillIs worthy of the School and them;—Still all their own—nor e'er forgetsEven while his heart and soul pursueThe Eternal Light which never sets,The many meteor joys thatdo,But seeks them, hails them with delightWhere'er they meet his longing sight.And if his lifemustwane awayLike other lives at least the day,The hour it lasts shall like a fireWith incense fed in sweets expire.
Memphis.
'Tis true, alas—the mysteries and the loreI came to study on this, wondrous shore.Are all forgotten in the new delights.The strange, wild joys that fill my days and nights.Instead of dark, dull oracles that speakFrom subterranean temples, thoseIseekCome from the breathing shrines where Beauty lives,And Love, her priest, the soft responses gives.Instead of honoring Isis in those ritesAt Coptos held, I hail her when she lightsHer first young crescent on the holy stream—When wandering youths and maidens watch her beamAnd number o'er the nights she hath to run,Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun.While o'er some mystic leaf that dimly lendsA clew into past times the student bends,And by its glimmering guidance learns to treadBack thro' the shadowy knowledge of the dead—The only skill, alas,Iyet can claimLies in deciphering some new loved-one's name—Some gentle missive hinting time and place,In language soft as Memphian reed can trace.
And where—oh where's the heart that could withstandThe unnumbered witcheries of this sun-born land,Where first young Pleasure's banner was unfurledAnd Love hath temples ancient as the world!Where mystery like the veil by Beauty wornHides but to win and shades but to adorn;Where that luxurious melancholy bornOf passion and of genius sheds a gloomMaking joy holy;—where the bower and tombStand side by side and Pleasure learns from DeathThe instant value of each moment's breath.Couldst thou but see how like a poet's dreamThis lovely land now looks!—the glorious streamThat late between its banks was seen to glide'Mong shrines and marble cities on each sideGlittering like jewels strung along a chainHath now sent forth its waters, and o'er plainAnd valley like a giant from his bedRising with outstretched limbs hath grandly spread.While far as sight can reach beneath as clearAnd blue a heaven as ever blest our sphere,Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domesAnd high-built temples fit to be the homesOf mighty Gods, and pyramids whose hourOutlasts all time above the waters tower!
Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that makeOne theatre of this vast, peopled lake,Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce givesOf life and motion ever moves and lives.Here, up the steps of temples from the waveAscending in procession slow and grave.Priests in white garments go, with sacred wandsAnd silver cymbals gleaming in their hands;While there, rich barks—fresh from those sunny tractsFar off beyond the sounding cataracts—Glide with their precious lading to the sea,Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros ivory,Gems from the Isle of Meroe, and those grainsOf gold washed down by Abyssinian rains.Here where the waters wind into a bayShadowy and cool some pilgrims on their wayTo Saïs or Bubastus among bedsOf lotus flowers that close above their headsPush their light barks, and there as in a bower,Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour;Oft dipping in the Nile, when faint with heat,That leaf from which its waters drink most sweet.—While haply not far off beneath a bankOf blossoming acacias many a prankIs played in the cool current by a trainOf laughing nymphs, lovely as she,[1] whose chainAround two conquerors of the world was cast,But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.
For oh! believe not them who dare to brandAs poor in charms the women of this land.Tho' darkened by that sun whose spirit flowsThro' every vein and tinges as it goes,'Tis but the embrowning of the fruit that tellsHow rich within the soul of ripeness dwells—The hue their own dark sanctuaries wear,Announcing heaven in half-caught glimpses there.And never yet did tell-tale looks set freeThe secret of young hearts more tenderly.Such eyes!—long, shadowy, with that languid fallOf the fringed lids which may be seen in allWho live beneath the sun's too ardent rays—Lending such looks as on their marriage daysYoung maids cast down before a bridegroom's gaze!Then for their grace—mark but the nymph-like shapesOf the young village girls, when carrying grapesFrom green Anthylla or light urns of flowers—Not our own Sculpture in her happiest hoursE'er imaged forth even at the touch of him[2]Whose touch was life, more luxury of limb!Then, canst thou wonder if mid scenes like theseI should forget all graver mysteries,All lore but Love's, all secrets but that bestIn heaven or earth, the art of being blest!Yet are there times—tho' brief I own their stay,Like summer-clouds that shine themselves away—Moments of gloom, when even these pleasures pallUpon my saddening heart and I recallThat garden dream—that promise of a power,Oh, were there such!—to lengthen out life's hour,On, on, as thro' a vista far awayOpening before us into endless day!And chiefly o'er my spirit did this thoughtCome on that evening—bright as ever broughtLight's golden farewell to the world—when firstThe eternal pyramids of Memphis burstAwfully on my sight-standing sublimeTwixt earth and heaven, the watch-towers of Time,From whose lone summit when his reign hath pastFrom earth for ever he will look his last!
There hung a calm and solemn sunshine roundThose mighty monuments, a hushing soundIn the still air that circled them which stoleLike music of past times into my soul.I thought what myriads of the wise and braveAnd beautiful had sunk into the grave,Since earth first saw these wonders—and I said"Are things eternal only for the Dead?"Hath Man no loftier hope than this which dooms"His only lasting trophies to be tombs?"But'tisnot so—earth, heaven, all nature shows"Hemaybecome immortal—mayunclose"The wings within him wrapt, and proudly rise"Redeemed from earth, a creature of the skies!
"And who can say, among the written spells"From Hermes' hand that in these shrines and cells"Have from the Flood lay hid there may not be"Some secret clew to immortality,"Some amulet whose spell can keep life's fire"Awake within us never to expire!"'Tis known that on the Emerald Table, hid"For ages in yon loftiest pyramid,"The Thrice-Great[3] did himself engrave of old"The chymic mystery that gives endless gold."And why may not this mightier secret dwell"Within the same dark chambers? who can tell"But that those kings who by the written skill"Of the Emerald Table called forth gold at will"And quarries upon quarries heapt and hurled,"To build them domes that might outstand the world—"Who knows, but that the heavenlier art which shares"The life of Gods with man was also theirs—"That they themselves, triumphant o'er the power"Of fate and death, are living at this hour;"And these, the giant homes they still possess."Not tombs but everlasting palaces"Within whose depths hid from the world above"Even now they wander with the few they love,"Thro' subterranean gardens, by a light"Unknown on earth which hath nor dawn nor night!"Else, why those deathless structures? why the grand"And hidden halls that undermine this land?"Why else hath none of earth e'er dared to go"Thro' the dark windings of that realm below,"Nor aught from heaven itself except the God"Of Silence thro' those endless labyrinths trod?"Thus did I dream—wild, wandering dreams, I own,But such as haunt me ever, if alone,Or in that pause 'twixt joy and joy I be,Like a ship husht between two waves at sea.Then do these spirit whisperings like the soundOf the Dark Future come appalling round;Nor can I break the trance that holds me then,Till high o'er Pleasure's surge I mount again!
Even now for new adventure, new delight,My heart is on the wing;—this very night,The Temple on that island halfway o'erFrom Memphis' gardens to the eastern shoreSends up its annual rite[4] to her whose beamsBring the sweet time of night-flowers and dreams;The nymph who dips her urn in silent lakesAnd turns to silvery dew each drop it takes;—Oh! not our Dian of the North who chainsIn vestal ice the current of young veins,But she who haunts the gay Bubastian[5] groveAnd owns she sees from her bright heaven above,Nothing on earth to match that heaven but Love.Think then what bliss will be abroad to-night!—Besides those sparkling nymphs who meet the sightDay after day, familiar as the sun,Coy buds of beauty yet unbreathed uponAnd all the hidden loveliness that lies,—Shut up as are the beams of sleeping eyesWithin these twilight shrines—tonight shall beLet loose like birds for this festivity!And mark, 'tis nigh; already the sun bidsHis evening farewell to the Pyramids.As he hath done age after age till theyAlone on earth seem ancient as his ray;While their great shadows stretching from the lightLook like the first colossal steps of NightStretching across the valley to invadeThe distant hills of porphyry with their shade.Around, as signals of the setting beam,Gay, gilded flags on every housetop gleam:While, hark!—from all the temples a rich swellOf music to the Moon—farewell—farewell.
[1] Cleopatra.
[2] Apellas.
[3] The Hermes Trismegistus.
[4] The great Festival of the Moon.
[5] Bubastis, or Isis, was the Diana of the Egyptian mythology.
Memphis.
There is some star—or may it beThat moon we saw so near last night—Which comes athwart my destinyFor ever with misleading light.If for a moment pure and wiseAnd calm I feel there quick doth fallA spark from some disturbing eyes,That thro' my heart, soul, being flies,And makes a wildfire of it all.I've seen—oh, Cleon, that this earthShould e'er have given such beauty birth!—That man—but, hold—hear all that pastSince yester-night from first to last.
The rising of the Moon, calm, slow,And beautiful, as if she cameFresh from the Elysian bowers below,Was with a loud and sweet acclaimWelcomed from every breezy height,Where crowds stood waiting for her light.And well might they who viewed the sceneThen lit up all around them, sayThat never yet had Nature beenCaught sleeping in a lovelier rayOr rivalled her own noontide faceWith purer show of moonlight grace.
Memphis—still grand, tho' not the sameUnrivalled Memphis that could seizeFrom ancient Thebes the crown of Fame,And wear it bright thro' centuries—Now, in the moonshine, that came downLike a last smile upon that crown.Memphis, still grand among her lakes,Her pyramids and shrines of fire,Rose like a vision that half breaksOn one who dreaming still awakesTo music from some midnight choir:While to the west—where gradual sinksIn the red sands from Libya rolled.Some mighty column or fair sphynx,That stood in kingly courts of old—It seemed as, mid the pomps that shoneThus gayly round him Time looked on,Waiting till all now bright and blest,Should sink beneath him like the rest.
No sooner had the setting sunProclaimed the festal rite begun,And mid their idol's fullest beamsThe Egyptian world was all afloat,Than I who live upon these streamsLike a young Nile-bird turned my boatTo the fair island on whose shoresThro' leafy palms and sycamoresAlready shone the moving lightsOf pilgrims hastening to the rites.While, far around like ruby sparksUpon the water, lighted barks,Of every form and kind—from thoseThat down Syene's cataract shoots,To the grand, gilded barge that rowsTo tambour's beat and breath of flutes,And wears at night in words of flameOn the rich prow its master's name;—All were alive and made this seaOf cities busy as a hillOf summer ants caught suddenlyIn the overflowing of a rill.
Landed upon the isle, I soonThro' marble alleys and small grovesOf that mysterious palm she loves,Reached the fair Temple of the Moon;And there—as slowly thro' the lastDim-lighted vestibule I past—Between the porphyry pillars twinedWith palm and ivy, I could seeA band of youthful maidens windIn measured walk half dancingly,Round a small shrine on which was placedThat bird[1] whose plumes of black and whiteWear in their hue by Nature tracedA type of the moon's shadowed light.
In drapery like woven snowThese nymphs were clad; and each belowThe rounded bosom loosely woreA dark blue zone or bandelet,With little silver stars all o'erAs are the skies at midnight set.While in their tresses, braided thro',Sparkled that flower of Egypt's lakes,The silvery lotus in whose hueAs much delight the young Moon takesAs doth the Day-God to beholdThe lofty bean-flower's buds of gold.And, as they gracefully went roundThe worshipt bird, some to the beatOf castanets, some to the soundOf the shrill sistrum timed their feet;While others at each step they tookA tinkling chain of silver shook.
They seemed all fair—but there was oneOn whom the light had not yet shone,Or shone but partly—so downcastShe held her brow, as slow she past.And yet to me there seemed to dwellA charm about that unseen face—A something in the shade that fellOver that brow's imagined graceWhich won me more than all the bestOutshining beauties of the rest.Andheralone my eyes could seeEnchained by this sweet mystery;And her alone I watched as roundShe glided o'er that marble ground,Stirring not more the unconscious airThan if a Spirit were moving there.Till suddenly, wide open flewThe Temple's folding gates and threwA splendor from within, a floodOf glory where these maidens stood.While with that light—as if the sameRich source gave birth to both—there cameA swell of harmony as grandAs e'er was born of voice and band,Filling the gorgeous aisles aroundWith luxury of light and sound.
Then was it, by the flash that blazedFull o'er her features—oh 'twas then,As startingly her eyes she raised,But quick let fall their lids again,I saw—not Psyche's self when firstUpon the threshold of the skiesShe paused, while heaven's glory burstNewly upon her downcast eyes,Could look more beautiful or blushWith holier shame than did this maid,Whom now I saw in all that gushOf splendor from the aisles, displayed.Never—tho' well thou know'st how muchI've felt the sway of Beauty's star—Never did her bright influence touchMy soul into its depths so far;And had that vision lingered thereOne minute more I should have flown,ForgetfulwhoI was and where.And at her feet in worship thrownProffered my soul thro' life her own.
But scarcely had that burst of lightAnd music broke on ear and sight,Than up the aisle the bird took wingAs if on heavenly mission sent,While after him with graceful springLike some unearthly creatures, meantTo live in that mixt elementOf light and song the young maids went;And she who in my heart had thrownA spark to burn for life was flown.
In vain I tried to follow;—bandsOf reverend chanters filled the aisle:Where'er I sought to pass, their wandsMotioned me back, while many a fileOf sacred nymphs—but ah, not theyWhom my eyes looked for thronged the way.Perplext, impatient, mid this crowdOf faces, lights—the o'erwhelming cloudOf incense round me, and my bloodFull of its new-born fire—I stood,Nor moved, nor breathed, but when I caughtA glimpse of some blue, spangled zone,Or wreath of lotus, which I thoughtLike those she wore at distance shone.
But no, 'twas vain—hour after hour,Till my heart's throbbing turned to pain,And my strained eyesight lost its power,I sought her thus, but all in vain.At length, hot—wildered—in despair,I rushed into the cool night-air,And hurrying (tho' with many a lookBack to the busy Temple) tookMy way along the moonlight shore,And sprung into my boat once more.There is a Lake that to the northOf Memphis stretches grandly forth,Upon whose silent shore the DeadHave a proud city of their own,[2]With shrines and pyramids o'erspread—Where many an ancient kingly headSlumbers, immortalized in stone;And where thro' marble grots beneathThe lifeless, ranged like sacred things,Nor wanting aught of life but breath,Lie in their painted coverings,And on each new successive raceThat visit their dim haunts belowLook with the same unwithering faceThey wore three thousand years ago.
There. Silence, thoughtful God, who lovesThe neighborhood of death in grovesOf asphodel lies hid and weavesHis hushing spell among the leaves—Nor ever noise disturbs the airSave the low, humming, mournful soundOf priests within their shrines at prayerFor the fresh Dead entombed around.
'Twas toward this place of death—in moodMade up of thoughts, half bright, half dark—I now across the shining floodUnconscious turned my light-winged bark.The form of that young maid in allIts beauty was before me still;And oft I thought, if thus to callHer image to my mind at will,If but the memory of that oneBright look of hers for ever gone,Was to my heart worth all the restOf woman-kind, beheld, possest—What would it be if wholly mine,Within these arms as in a shrine,Hallowed by Love, I saw her shine—An idol, worshipt by the lightOf her own beauties, day and night—If 'twas a blessing but to seeAnd lose again, what wouldthisbe?
In thoughts like these—but often crostBy darker threads—my mind was lost,Till near that City of the Dead,Waked from my trance, I saw o'erhead—As if by some enchanter bidSuddenly from the wave to rise—Pyramid over pyramidTower in succession to the skies;While one, aspiring, as if soon,'Twould touch the heavens, rose over all;And, on its summit, the white moonRested as on a pedestal!
The silence of the lonely tombsAnd temples round where naught was heardBut the high palm-tree's tufted plumes,Shaken at times by breeze or bird,Formed a deep contrast to the sceneOf revel where I late had been;To those gay sounds that still came o'er,Faintly from many a distant shore,And the unnumbered lights that shoneFar o'er the flood from Memphis onTo the Moon's Isle and Babylon.
My oars were lifted and my boatLay rocked upon the rippling stream;While my vague thoughts alike afloat,Drifted thro' many an idle dream.With all of which, wild and unfixtAs was their aim, that vision mixt,That bright nymph of the Temple—now,With the same innocence of browShe wore within the lighted fane—Now kindling thro' each pulse and veinWith passion of such deep-felt fireAs Gods might glory to inspire;—And now—oh Darkness of the tomb,That must eclipse even light like hers!Cold, dead, and blackening mid the gloomOf those eternal sepulchres.
Scarce had I turned my eyes awayFrom that dark death-place, at the thought,When by the sound of dashing sprayFrom a light oar my ear was caught,While past me, thro' the moonlight, sailed.A little gilded bark that boreTwo female figures closely veiledAnd mantled towards that funeral shore.They landed—and the boat againPut off across the watery plain.
Shall I confess—totheeI may—That never yet hath come the chanceOf a new music, a new rayFrom woman's voice, from woman's glance,Which—let it find me how it might,In joy or grief—I did not bless,And wander after as a lightLeading to undreamt, happiness.And chiefly now when hopes so vainWere stirring in my heart and brain,When Fancy had allured my soulInto a chase as vague and farAs would be his who fixt his goalIn the horizon or some star—Anybewilderment that broughtMore near to earth my high-flown thought—The faintest glimpse of joy, less pure,Less high and heavenly, but more sure,Came welcome—and was then to meWhat the first flowery isle must beTo vagrant birds blown out to sea.
Quick to the shore I urged my bark,And by the bursts of moonlight shedBetween the lofty tombs could markThose figures as with hasty treadThey glided on—till in the shadeOf a small pyramid, which thro'Some boughs of palm its peak displayed,They vanisht instant from my view.
I hurried to the spot—no traceOf life was in that lonely place;And had the creed I hold by taughtOf other worlds I might have thoughtSome mocking spirits had from thenceCome in this guise to cheat my sense.
At length, exploring darkly roundThe Pyramid's smooth sides, I foundAn iron portal—opening high'Twixt peak and base—and, with a prayerTo the bliss-loving Moon whose eyeAlone beheld me sprung in there.Downward the narrow stairway ledThro' many a duct obscure and dread,A labyrinth for mystery made,With wanderings onward, backward, round,And gathering still, where'er it wound.But deeper density of shade.
Scarce had I asked myself, "Can aught"That man delights in sojourn here?"—When, suddenly, far off, I caughtA glimpse of light, remote, but clear—Whose welcome glimmer seemed to pourFrom some alcove or cell that endedThe long, steep, marble corridor,Thro' which I now, all hope, descended.Never did Spartan to his brideWith warier foot at midnight glide.It seemed as echo's self were deadIn this dark place, so mute my tread.Reaching at length that light, I saw—Oh! listen to the scene now raisedBefore my eyes—then guess the awe,The still, rapt awe with which I gazed.
'Twas a small chapel, lined aroundWith the fair, spangling marble foundIn many a ruined shrine that standsHalf seen above the Libyan sands.The walls were richly sculptured o'er,And charactered with that dark loreOf times before the Flood, whose keyWas lost in the "Universal Sea."—While on the roof was pictured brightThe Theban beetle as he shines,When the Nile's mighty flow declinesAnd forth the creature springs to light,With life regenerate in his wings:—Emblem of vain imaginings!Of a new world, when this is gone,In which the spirit still lives on!
Direct beneath this type, reclinedOn a black granite altar, layA female form, in crystal shrined,And looking fresh as if the rayOf soul had fled but yesterday,While in relief of silvery hueGraved on the altar's front were seenA branch of lotus, broken in two,As that fair creature's life had been,And a small bird that from its sprayWas winging like her soul away.
But brief the glimpse I now could spareTo the wild, mystic wonders round;For there was yet one wonder thereThat held me as by witchery bound.The lamp that thro' the chamber shedIts vivid beam was at the headOf her who on that altar slept;And near it stood when first I came—Bending her brow, as if she keptSad watch upon its silent flame—A female form as yet so placedBetween the lamp's strong glow and me,That I but saw, in outline traced,The shadow of her symmetry.Yet did my heart—I scarce knew why—Even at that shadowed shape beat high.Nor was it long ere full in sightThe figure turned; and by the lightThat touched her features as she bentOver the crystal monument,I saw 'twas she—the same—the same—That lately stood before me, brighteningThe holy spot where she but cameAnd went again like summer lightning!
Upon the crystal o'er the breastOf her who took that silent rest,There was a cross of silver lying—Another type of that blest home,Which hope and pride and fear of dyingBuild for us in a world to come:—This silver cross the maiden raisedTo her pure lips:—then, having gazedSome minutes on that tranquil face,Sleeping in all death's mournful grace,Upward she turned her brow serene,As if intent on heaven those eyesSaw them nor roof nor cloud betweenTheir own pure orbits and the skies,And, tho' her lips no motion made,And that fixt look was all her speech,I saw that the rapt spirit prayedDeeper within than words could reach.
Strange power of Innocence, to turnTo its own hue whate'er comes near,And make even vagrant Passion burnWith purer warmth within its sphere!She who but one short hour beforeHad come like sudden wild-fire o'erMy heart and brain—whom gladly evenFrom that bright Temple in the faceOf those proud ministers of heaven,I would have borne in wild embrace,And risked all punishment, divineAnd human, but to make her mine;—She, she was now before me, thrownBy fate itself into my arms—There standing, beautiful, alone,With naught to guard her but her charms.Yet did I, then—did even a breathFrom my parched lips, too parched to move,Disturb a scene where thus, beneathEarth's silent covering, Youth and DeathHeld converse thro' undying love?No—smile and taunt me as thou wilt—Tho' but to gaze thus was delight,Yet seemed it like a wrong, a guilt,To win by stealth so pure a sight:And rather than a look profaneShould then have met those thoughtful eyes,Or voice or whisper broke the chainThat linked her spirit with the skies,I would have gladly in that placeFrom which I watched her heavenward face,Let my heart break, without one beatThat could disturb a prayer so sweet.Gently, as if on every tread.My life, my more than life depended,Back thro' the corridor that ledTo this blest scene I now ascended,And with slow seeking and some painAnd many a winding tried in vainEmerged to upper earth again.
The sun had freshly risen, and downThe marble hills of Araby,Scattered as from a conqueror's crownHis beams into that living sea.There seemed a glory in his light,Newly put on—as if for pride.Of the high homage paid this nightTo his own Isis, his young bride.,Now fading feminine awayIn her proud Lord's superior ray.
My mind's first impulse was to flyAt once from this entangling net—New scenes to range, new loves to try,Or in mirth, wine and luxuryOf every sense that might forget.But vain the effort—spell-bound still,I lingered, without power or willTo turn my eyes from that dark door,Which now enclosed her 'mong the dead;Oft fancying, thro' the boughs that o'erThe sunny pile their flickering shed.'Twas her light form again I sawStarting to earth—still pure and bright,But wakening, as I hoped, less awe,Thus seen by morning's natural light,Than in that strange, dim cell at night.
But no, alas—she ne'er returned:Nor yet—tho' still I watch—nor yet,Tho' the red sun for hours hath burned,And now in his mid course hath metThe peak of that eternal pileHe pauses still at noon to bless,Standing beneath his downward smile,Like a great Spirit shadowless!—Nor yet she comes—while here, alone,Sauntering thro' this death-peopled place,Where no heart beats except my own,Or 'neath a palm-tree's shelter thrown,By turns I watch and rest and traceThese lines that are to waft to theeMy last night's wondrous history.
Dost thou remember, in that IsleOf our own Sea where thou and ILingered so long, so happy a while,Till all the summer flowers went by—How gay it was when sunset broughtTo the cool Well our favorite maids—Some we had won, and some we sought—To dance within the fragrant shades,And till the stars went down attuneTheir Fountain Hymns[3] to the young moon?
That time, too—oh, 'tis like a dream—When from Scamander's holy tideI sprung as Genius of the Stream,And bore away that blooming bride,Who thither came, to yield her charms(As Phrygian maids are wont ere wed)Into the cold Scamander's arms,But met and welcomed mine, instead—Wondering as on my neck she fell,How river-gods could love so well!Who would have thought that he who rovedLike the first bees of summer then,Rifling each sweet nor ever lovedBut the free hearts that loved again,Readily as the reed repliesTo the least breath that round it sighs—Is the same dreamer who last nightStood awed and breathless at the sightOf one Egyptian girl; and nowWanders among these tombs with browPale, watchful, sad, as tho' he just,Himself, had risen from out their dust!
Yet so it is—and the same thirstFor something high and pure, aboveThis withering world, which from the firstMade me drink deep of woman's love—As the one joy, to heaven most nearOf all our hearts can meet with here—Still burns me up, still keeps awakeA fever naught but death can slake.
Farewell; whatever may befall—Or bright, or dark—thou'lt know it all.
[1] The Ibis.
[2] Necropolis, or the City of the Dead, to the south of Memphis.
[3] These Songs of the Well, as they were called by the ancients, are still common in the Greek isles.
Rejoice, my friend, rejoice;—the youthful ChiefOf that light Sect which mocks at all belief,And gay and godless makes the present hourIts only heaven, is now within our power.Smooth, impious school!—not all the weapons aimed,At priestly creeds, since first a creed was framed,E'er struck so deep as that sly dart they wield,The Bacchant's pointed spear in laughing flowers concealed.And oh, 'twere victory to this heart, as sweetAs any _thou _canst boast—even when the feetOf thy proud war-steed wade thro' Christian blood,To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood,And bring him tamed and prostrate to imploreThe vilest gods even Egypt's saints adore.What!—do these sages think, tothemaloneThe key of this world's happiness is known?That none but they who make such proud paradeOf Pleasure's smiling favors win the maid,Or that Religion keeps no secret place,No niche in her dark fanes for Love to grace?
Fools!—did they know how keen the zest that's givenTo earthly joy when seasoned well with heaven;How Piety's grave mask improves the hueOf Pleasure's laughing features, half seen thro',And how the Priest set aptly within reachOf two rich worlds, traffics for bliss with each,Would they not, Decius—thou, whom the ancient tie'Twixt Sword and Altar makes our best ally—Would they not change their creed, their craft, for ours?Leave the gross daylight joys that in their bowersLanguish with too much sun, like o'er-blown flowers,For the veiled loves, the blisses undisplayedThat slyly lurk within the Temple's shade?And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's school—Where cold Philosophy usurps a rule,Like the pale moon's, o'er passion's heaving tide,Till Pleasure's self is chilled by Wisdom's pride—Be taught byus, quit shadows for the true,Substantial joys we sager Priests pursue,Who far too wise to theorize on blissOr pleasure's substance for its shade to miss.Preachotherworlds but live for onlythis:-Thanks to the well-paid Mystery round us flung,Which, like its type the golden cloud that hungO'er Jupiter's love-couch its shade benign,Round human frailty wraps a veil divine.
Still less should they presume, weak wits, that theyAlone despise the craft of us who pray;—Still less their creedless vanity deceiveWith the fond thought that we who pray believe.Believe!—Apis forbid—forbid it, allYe monster Gods before whose shrines we fall—Deities framed in jest as if to tryHow far gross Man can vulgarize the sky;How far the same low fancy that combinesInto a drove of brutes yon zodiac's signs,And turns that Heaven itself into a placeOf sainted sin and deified disgrace,Can bring Olympus even to shame more deep,Stock it with things that earth itself holds cheap.Fish, flesh, and fowl, the kitchen's sacred brood,Which Egypt keeps for worship, not for food—All, worthy idols of a Faith that seesIn dogs, cats, owls, and apes, divinities!
Believe!—oh, Decius, thou, who feel'st no careFor things divine beyond the soldier's share,Who takes on trust the faith for which he bleeds,A good, fierce God to swear by, all he needs—Little canst thou, whose creed around thee hangsLoose as thy summer war-cloak guess the pangsOf loathing and self-scorn with which a heartStubborn as mine is acts the zealot's part—The deep and dire disgust with which I wadeThro' the foul juggling of this holy trade—This mud profound of mystery where the feetAt every step sink deeper in deceit.Oh! many a time, when, mid the Temple's blaze,O'er prostrate fools the sacred cist I raise,Did I not keep still proudly in my mindThe power this priestcraft gives me o'er mankind—A lever, of more might, in skilful hand,To move this world, than Archimede e'er planned—I should in vengeance of the shame I feelAt my own mockery crush the slaves that kneelBesotted round; and—like that kindred breedOf reverend, well-drest crocodiles they feed,At famed Arsinoë[1]—make my keepers bless,With their last throb, my sharp-fanged Holiness.
Say,isit to be borne, that scoffers, vainOf their own freedom from the altar's chain,Should mock thus all that thou thy blood hast sold.And I my truth, pride, freedom, to uphold?It must not be:—think'st thou that Christian sect,Whose followers quick as broken waves, erectTheir crests anew and swell into a tide,That threats to sweep away our shrines of pride—Think'st thou with all their wondrous spells even theyWould triumph thus, had not the constant playOf Wit's resistless archery cleared their way?—That mocking spirit, worst of all the foes,Our solemn fraud, our mystic mummery knows,Whose wounding flash thus ever 'mong the signsOf a fast-falling creed, prelusive shines,Threatening such change as do the awful freaksOf summer lightning ere the tempest breaks.
But, to my point—a youth of this vain school,But one, whom Doubt itself hath failed to coolDown to that freezing point where Priests despairOf any spark from the altar catching there—Hath, some nights since—it was, me thinks, the nightThat followed the full Moon's great annual rite—Thro' the dark, winding ducts that downward strayTo these earth—hidden temples, tracked his way,Just at that hour when, round the Shrine, and me,The choir of blooming nymphs thou long'st to see,Sing their last night-hymn in the Sanctuary.The clangor of the marvellous Gate that standsAt the Well's lowest depth—which none but handsOf new, untaught adventurers, from above,Who know not the safe path, e'er dare to move—Gave signal that a foot profane was nigh:—'Twas the Greek youth, who, by that morning's sky,Had been observed, curiously wandering roundThe mighty fanes of our sepulchral ground.
Instant, the Initiate's Trials were prepared,—The Fire, Air, Water; all that Orpheus dared,That Plato, that the bright-haired Samian[2] past,With trembling hope, to come to—what, at last?Go, ask the dupes of Priestcraft; question himWho mid terrific sounds and spectres dimWalks at Eleusis; ask of those who braveThe dazzling miracles of Mithra's CaveWith its seven starry gates; ask all who keepThose terrible night-mysteries where they weepAnd howl sad dirges to the answering breeze.O'er their dead Gods, their mortal Deities—Amphibious, hybrid things that died as men,Drowned, hanged, empaled, to rise as gods again;—Askthem, what mighty secret lurks belowThis seven-fold mystery—can they tell thee? No;Gravely they keep that only secret, wellAnd fairly kept—that they have none to tell;And duped themselves console their humbled prideBy duping thenceforth all mankind beside.
And such the advance in fraud since Orpheus' time—That earliest master of our craft sublime—So many minor Mysteries, imps of fraud,From the great Orphic Egg have winged abroad,That, still to uphold our Temple's ancient boast,And seem most holy, we must cheat the most;Work the best miracles, wrap nonsense roundIn pomp and darkness till it seems profound;Play on the hopes, the terrors of mankind,With changeful skill; and make the human mindLike our own Sanctuary, where no rayBut by the Priest's permission wins its way—Where thro' the gloom as wave our wizard rods.Monsters at will are conjured into Gods;While Reason like a grave-faced mummy standsWith her arms swathed in hieroglyphic bands.But chiefly in that skill with which we useMan's wildest passions for Religion's views,Yoking them to her car like fiery steeds,Lies the main art in which our craft succeeds.And oh be blest, ye men of yore, whose toilHath, for our use, scooped out from Egypt's soilThis hidden Paradise, this mine of fanes,Gardens and palaces where Pleasure reignsIn a rich, sunless empire of her own,With all earth's luxuries lighting up her throne:—A realm for mystery made, which underminesThe Nile itself and, 'neath the Twelve Great ShrinesThat keep Initiation's holy rite,Spreads its long labyrinths of unearthly light.A light that knows no change—its brooks that runToo deep for day, its gardens without sun,Where soul and sense, by turns, are charmed, surprised.And all that bard or prophet e'er devisedFor man's Elysium, priests have realized.
Here, at this moment—all his trials past.And heart and nerve unshrinking to the last—Our new Initiate roves—as yet left freeTo wander thro' this realm of mystery;Feeding on such illusions as prepareThe soul, like mist o'er waterfalls, to wearAll shapes and lines at Fancy's varying will,Thro' every shifting aspect, vapor still;—Vague glimpses of the Future, vistas shown.By scenic skill, into that world unknown.Which saints and sinners claim alike their own;And all those other witching, wildering arts,Illusions, terrors, that make human hearts,Ay, even the wisest and the hardiest quailToanygoblin throned behind a veil.Yes—such the spells shall haunt his eye, his ear,Mix wild his night-dreams, form his atmosphere;Till, if our Sage be not tamed down, at length,His wit, his wisdom, shorn of all their strength,Like Phrygian priests, in honor of the shrine—If he become not absolutely mine,Body and soul and like the tame decoyWhich wary hunters of wild doves employDraw converts also, lure his brother witsTo the dark cage where his own spirit flits.And give us if not saints good hypocrites—If I effect not this then be it saidThe ancient spirit of our craft hath fled,Gone with that serpent-god the Cross hath chasedTo hiss its soul out in the Theban waste.
[1] For the trinkets with which the sacred Crocodiles were ornamented see the "Epicurean" chap x.
[2] Pythagoras.