NOTE.

The following Poems bear somewhat a vague title, because such only would describe the nature of Poems which have been derived in very different degrees from the sources thus indicated. Some are mere translations; others have been modelled anew, and only such portions used of the originals as were adapted to my purpose: of others it is only the imagery and thought which are Eastern, and these have been put together in new combinations; while of others it is the story, and nothing more, which has been borrowed, it may be from some prose source. On this subject, however, more information will be given in the Notes.

ALEXANDER AT THE GATES OF PARADISE.
A Legend from the Talmud.

Fierce was the glare of Cashmere’s middle day,

When Alexander for Hydaspes bent,

Through trackless wilds urged his impetuous way

Yet in that vast and sandy continent

A little vale he found, so calm, so sweet,

He there awhile to tarry was content.

A crystal stream was murmuring at his feet,

Whereof the Monarch, when his meal was done,

Took a long draught, to slake his fever heat.

Again he drank, and yet again, as one

Who would have drained that river crystalline

Of all its waves, and left it dry anon:

For in his veins, ofttimes a-fire with wine,

And in his bosom, throne of sleepless pride,

The while he drank, went circling peace divine.

It seemed as though all evil passions died

Within him, slaked was every fire accurst;

So that in rapturous joy aloud he cried:

“Oh! might I find where these pure waters first

Shoot sparkling from their living fountain-head,

Oh! there to quench my spirit’s inmost thirst.

“Sure, if we followed where these waters led,

We should at last some fairer region gain

Than yet has quaked beneath our iron tread,—

“Some land that should in very truth contain

Whate’er we dream of beautiful and bright,

And idly dreaming of, pursue in vain;

“That land must stoop beneath our conquering might.

Companions dear, this toil remains alone,

To win that region of unmatched delight.

“Oh faithful in a thousand labours known,

One toil remains, the noblest and the last;

Let us arise—and make that land our own.”

—Through realms of darkness, wildernesses vast,

All populous with sights and sounds of fear,

In heat and cold, by day and night, he past,

With trumpet clang, with banner and with spear,

Yearning to drink that river, where it sent

Its first pure waters forth, serene and clear;

Till boldest captains sank, their courage spent,

And dying cried—“This stream all search defies,”—

But never would he tarry nor repent,

Nor pitched his banners, till before his eyes

Rose high as heaven in its secluded state

The mighty verdant wall of Paradise.

And lo! that stream, which early still and late

He had tracked upward, issued bright and clear

From underneath the angel-guarded gate:

—“And who art thou that hast adventured here,

Daring to startle this serene abode

With flash of mortal weapons, sword and spear?”

So the angelic sentinel of God,

Fire flashing, to the bold invader cried,

Whose feet profane those holy precincts trod.

The Son of Philip without dread replied,

“Is Alexander’s fame unknown to thee,

Which the world knows—mine, who have victory tied

“To my sword’s hilt, and who, while stoop to me

All other lands, would win what rich or fair

This land contains, and have it mine in fee?”

—“Thou dost thyself proclaim that part or share

Thou hast not here.—O man of blood and sin,

Go back—with those blood-stainèd hands despair

“This place of love and holy peace to win:

This is the gate of righteousness, and they,

The righteous, only here may enter in.”

Around, before him, lightnings dart and play:

He undismayed—“Of travail long and hard

At least some trophy let me bear away.”

—“Lo! then this skull—which if thou wilt regard,

And to my question seek for fit reply,

All thy long labours shall have full reward.

“Once in that hollow circle lodged an eye,

That was, like thine, for ever coveting,

Which worlds on worlds had failed to satisfy.

“Now while thou gazest on that ghastly ring,

From whence of old a greedy eye outspied,

Say thou what was it,—for there was a thing,—

“Which filled at last and throughly satisfied

The eye that in that hollow circle dwelt,

So that, ‘Enough, I have enough,’ it cried.”

—Blank disappointment at the gift he felt,

And hardly taking, turned in scorn away,

Nor he the riddle of the Angel spelt,

But cried unto his captains, “We delay,

And at these portals lose our time in vain,

By more than mortal terrors kept at bay:

“Come—other lands as goodly spoils contain,

Come—all too long untouched the Indian gold,

The pearls and spice of Araby remain.

“Come, and who will this riddle may unfold.”

Then stood before him, careless of his ire,

An Indian sage, and rendered answer bold—

“Lord of the world, commanded to enquire

What was it that could satisfy an eye,

That organ of man’s wandering vast desire,—

“By deed and word thou plainly dost reply,

That its desire can nothing tame or quell,

That it can never know sufficiency.

“While thou enlargest thy desire as hell,

Filling thine hand, but filling not thy lust,

Thou dost proclaim man’s eye insatiable:

“Such answer from thy lips were only just;

Yet ’twas not so. One came at last, who threw

Into yon face an heap of vilest dust,

“Whereof a few small grains did fall into

And filled the orb and hollow of that eye,

When that which suffisance not ever knew,

Was fain, ‘Enough, I have enough,’ to cry.”