THE UNION OF RADHA AND KRISHNA.
Thus followed soft and lasting peace, and griefs
Died while she listened to his tender tongue,
Her eyes of antelope alight with love;
And while he led the way to the bride-bower
The maidens of her train adorned her fair
With golden marriage-cloths, and sang this song:
(What follows is to the Music Vasanta and the Mode Yati.)
Follow, happy Radha! follow,—
In the quiet falling twilight—
The steps of him who followed thee
So steadfastly and far;
Let us bring thee where the banjulas
Have spread a roof of crimson,
Lit up by many a marriage-lamp
Of planet, sun, and star:
For the hours of doubt are over,
And thy glad and faithful lover
Hath found the road by tears and prayers
To thy divinest side;
And thou wilt not now deny him
One delight of all thy beauty,
But yield up open-hearted
His pearl, his prize, his bride.
Oh, follow! while we fill the air
With songs and softest music;
Lauding thy wedded loveliness,
Dear Mistress past compare!
For there is not any splendour
Of Apsarasas immortal—
No glory of their beauty rich—
But Radha has a share;
Oh, follow! while we sing the song
That fills the worlds with longing,
The music of the Lord of love
Who melts all hearts with bliss;
For now is born the gladness
That springs from mortal sadness,
And all soft thoughts and things and hopes
Were presages of this.
Then, follow, happiest Lady!
Follow him thou lovest wholly;
The hour is come to follow now
The soul thy spells have led;
His are thy breasts like jasper-cups,
And his thine eyes like planets;
Thy fragrant hair, thy stately neck,
Thy queenly sumptuous head;
Thy soft small feet, thy perfect lips,
Thy teeth like jasmine petals,
Thy gleaming rounded shoulders,
And long caressing arms,
Being thine to give, are his; and his
The twin strings of thy girdle,
And his the priceless treasure
Of thine utter-sweetest charms.
So follow! while the flowers break forth
In white and amber clusters,
At the breath of thy pure presence,
And the radiance on thy brow;
Oh, follow where the Asokas wave
Their sprays of gold and purple,
As if to beckon thee the way
That Krishna passed but now;
He is gone a little forward!
Though thy steps are faint for pleasure,
Let him hear the tattling ripple
Of the bangles round thy feet;
Moving slowly o'er the blossoms
On the path which he has shown thee,
That when he turns to listen
It may make his fond heart beat.
And loose thy jewelled girdle
A little, that its rubies
May tinkle softest music too,
And whisper thou art near;
Though now, if in the forest
Thou should'st bend one blade of Kusha
With silken touch of passing foot,
His heart would know and hear;
Would hear the wood-buds saying,
"It is Radha's foot that passes;"
Would hear the wind sigh love-sick,
"It is Radha's fragrance, this;"
Would hear thine own heart beating
Within thy panting bosom,
And know thee coming, coming,
His—ever,—ever—his!
"Mine! "—hark! we are near enough for hearing—
"Soon she will come—she will smile—she will say
Honey-sweet words of heavenly endearing;
O soul! listen; my Bride is on her way!"
Hear'st him not, my Radha?
Lo, night bendeth o'er thee—
Darker than dark Tamâla-leaves—
To list thy marriage-song;
Dark as the touchstone that tries gold,
And see now—on before thee—
Those lines of tender light that creep
The clouded sky along:
O night! that trieth gold of love,
This love is proven perfect!
O lines that streak the touchstone sky,
Plash forth true shining gold!
O rose-leaf feet, go boldly!
O night!—that lovest lovers—
Thy softest robe of silence
About these bridals fold!
See'st thou not, my Radha?
Lo, the night, thy bridesmaid,
Comes!—her eyes thick-painted
With soorma of the gloom—
The night that binds the planet-worlds
For jewels on her forehead,
And for emblem and for garland
Loves the blue-black lotus-bloom;
The night that scents her breath so sweet
With cool and musky odours,
That joys to spread her veil of shade
Over the limbs of love;
And when, with loving weary,
Yet dreaming love, they slumber,
Sets the far stars for silver lamps
To light them from above.
So came she where he stood, awaiting her
At the bower's entry, like a god to see,
With marriage-gladness and the grace of heaven.
The great pearl set upon his glorious head
Shone like a moon among the leaves, and shone
Like stars the gems that kept her gold gown close:
But still a little while she paused—abashed
At her delight, of her deep joy afraid—
And they that tended her sang once more this:
(What follows is to the Music Varâdi and the Mode Rupaka.)
Enter, thrice-happy! enter, thrice-desired!
And let the gates of Hari shut thee in
With the soul destined to thee from of old.
Tremble not! lay thy lovely shame aside;
Lay it aside with thine unfastened zone,
And love him with the love that knows not fear,
Because it fears not change; enter thou in,
Flower of all sweet and stainless womanhood!
For ever to grow bright, for ever new;
Enter beneath the flowers, O flower-fair!
Beneath these tendrils, Loveliest! that entwine
And clasp, and wreathe and cling, with kissing stems;
Enter, with tender-blowing airs of heaven,
Soft as love's breath and gentle as the tones
Of lover's whispers, when the lips come close:
Enter the house of Love, O loveliest!
Enter the marriage-bower, most beautiful!
And take and give the joy that Hari grants,
Thy heart has entered, let thy feet go too!
Lo, Krishna! lo, the one that thirsts for thee!
Give him the drink of amrit from thy lips.
Then she, no more delaying, entered straight;
Her step a little faltered, but her face
Shone with unutterable quick love; and—while,
The music of her bangles passed the porch—
Shame, which had lingered in her downcast eyes,
Departed shamed[5] ... and like the mighty deep,
Which sees the moon and rises, all his life
Uprose to drink her beams.
(Here ends that Sarga of the Gîta Govinda entitled
Radhikamilane Sanandadamodaro.)
[5] This complete anticipation (salajjâ lajjâpi) of the line—
"Upon whose brow shame is ashamed to sit"
—occurs at the close of the Sarga, part of which is here perforce omitted, along with the whole of the last one.
Hari keep you! He whose might,
On the King of Serpents seated,
Flashes forth in dazzling light
From the Great Snake's gems repeated:
Hari keep you! He whose graces,
Manifold in majesty,—
Multiplied in heavenly places—
Multiply on earth—to see
Better with a hundred eyes
Her bright charms who by him lies.
What skill may be in singing,
What worship sound in song,
What lore be taught in loving,
What right divined from wrong:
Such things hath Jayadeva—
In this his Hymn of Love,
Which lauds Govinda ever,—
Displayed; may all approve!
THE END OF THE INDIAN SONG OF SONGS
MISCELLANEOUS ORIENTAL POEMS.
THE RAJPOOT WIFE.
Sing something, Jymul Rao! for the goats are gathered now,
And no more water is to bring;
The village-gates are set, and the night is gray as yet,
God hath given wondrous fancies to thee:—sing!
Then Jymul's supple fingers, with a touch that doubts and lingers,
Sets athrill the saddest wire of all the six;
And the girls sit in a tangle, and hush the tinkling bangle,
While the boys pile the flame with store of sticks.
And vain of village praise, but full of ancient days,
He begins with a smile and with a sigh—
"Who knows the babul-tree by the bend of the Ravee?"
Quoth Gunesh, "I!" and twenty voices, "I!"
"Well—listen! there below, in the shade of bloom and bough,
Is a musjid of carved and coloured stone;
And Abdool Shureef Khan—I spit, to name that man!—
Lieth there, underneath, all alone.
"He was Sultan Mahmoud's vassal, and wore an Amir's tassel
In his green hadj-turban, at Nungul.
Yet the head which went so proud, it is not in his shroud;
There are bones in that grave,—but not a skull!
"And, deep drove in his breast, there moulders with the rest
A dagger, brighter once than Chundra's ray;
A Rajpoot lohar whet it, and a Rajpoot woman set it
Past the power of any hand to tear away.
"'Twas the Ranee Neila true, the wife of Soorj Dehu,
Lord of the Rajpoots of Nourpoor;
You shall hear the mournful story, with its sorrow and its glory,
And curse Shureef Khan,—the soor!"
All in the wide Five-Waters was none like Soorj Dehu,
To foeman who so dreadful, to friend what heart so true?
Like Indus, through the mountains came down the Muslim ranks,
And town-walls fell before them as flooded river-banks;
But Soorj Dehu the Rajpoot owned neither town nor wall;
His house the camp, his roof-tree the sky that covers all;
His seat of state the saddle; his robe a shirt of mail;
His court a thousand Rajpoots close at his stallion's tail.
Not less was Soorj a Rajah because no crown he wore
Save the grim helm of iron with sword-marks dinted o'er;
Because he grasped no sceptre save the sharp tulwar, made
Of steel that fell from heaven,—for 'twas Indra forged that blade!
And many a starless midnight the shout of "Soorj Dehu"
Broke up with spear and matchlock the Muslim's "Illahu."
And many a day of battle upon the Muslim proud
Tell Soorj, as India's lightning falls from the silent cloud.
Nor ever shot nor arrow, nor spear nor slinger's stone,
Could pierce the mail that Neila the Ranee buckled on:
But traitor's subtle tongue-thrust through fence of steel can break;
And Soorj was taken sleeping, whom none had ta'en awake.
Then at the noon, in durbar, swore fiercely Shureef Khan
That Soorj should die in torment, or live a Mussulman.
But Soorj laughed lightly at him, and answered, "Work your will!
The last breath of my body shall curse your Prophet still."
With words of insult shameful, and deeds of cruel kind,
They vexed that Rajpoot's body, but never moved his mind.
And one is come who sayeth, "Ho! Rajpoots! Soorj is bound;
Your lord is caged and baited by Shureef Khan, the hound.
"The Khan hath caught and chained him, like a beast, in iron cage,
And all the camp of Islam spends on him spite and rage;
"All day the coward Muslims spend on him rage and spite;
If ye have thought to help him, 'twere good ye go to-night."
Up sprang a hundred horsemen, flashed in each hand a sword;
In each heart burned the gladness of dying for their lord;
Up rose each Rajpoot rider, and buckled on with speed
The bridle-chain and breast-cord, and the saddle of his steed.
But unto none sad Neila gave word to mount and ride;
Only she called the brothers of Soorj unto her side,
And said, "Take order straightway to seek this camp with me;
If love and craft can conquer, a thousand is as three.
"If love be weak to save him, Soorj dies—and ye return,
For where a Rajpoot dieth, the Rajpoot widows burn."
Thereat the Ranee Neila unbraided from her hair
The pearls as great as Kashmir grapes Soorj gave his wife to wear,
And all across her bosoms—like lotus-buds to see—
She wrapped the tinselled sari of a dancing Kunchenee;
And fastened on her ankles the hundred silver bells,
To whose light laugh of music the Nautch-girl darts and dwells.
And all in dress a Nautch-girl, but all in heart a queen,
She set her foot to stirrup with a sad and settled mien.
Only one thing she carried no Kunchenee should bear,
The knife between her bosoms;—ho, Shureef! have a care!
Thereat, with running ditty of mingled pride and pity,
Jymul Rao makes the six wires sigh;
And the girls with tearful eyes note the music's fall and rise,
And the boys let the fire fade and die.
All day lay Soorj the Rajpoot in Shureef's iron cage,
All day the coward Muslims spent on him spite and rage.
With bitter cruel torments, and deeds of shameful kind,
They racked and broke his body, but could not shake his mind.
And only at the Azan, when all their worst was vain,
They left him, like dogs slinking from a lion in his pain.
No meat nor drink they gave him through all that burning day,
And done to death, but scornful, at twilight-time he lay.
So when the gem of Shiva uprose, the shining moon,
Soorj spake unto his spirit, "The end is coming soon."
"I would the end might hasten, could Neila only know—
What is that Nautch-girl singing with voice so known and low?
"Singing beneath the cage-bars the song of love and fear
My Neila sang at parting!—what doth that Nautch-girl here?
"Whence comes she by the music of Neila's tender strain,
She, in that shameless tinsel?—O Nautch-girl, sing again!"
"Ah, Soorj!"—so followed answer—"here thine own Neila stands,
Faithful in life and death alike,—look up, and take my hands:
"Speak low, lest the guard hear us;—to-night, if thou must die,
Shureef shall have no triumph, but bear thee company."
So sang she like the Koil that dies beside its mate;
With eye as black and fearless, and love as hot and great.
Then the Chief laid his pale lips upon the little palm,
And sank down with a smile of love, his face all glad and calm;
And through the cage-bars Neila felt the brave heart stop fast,
"O Soorj!"—she cried—"I follow! have patience to the last."
She turned and went. "Who passes?" challenged the Mussulman;
"A Nautch-girl, I."—"What seek'st thou?"—"The presence of the Khan;"
"Ask if the high chief-captain be pleased to hear me sing;"
And Shureef, full of feasting, the Kunchenee bade bring.
Then, all before the Muslims, aflame with lawless wine,
Entered the Ranee Neila, in grace and face divine;
And all before the Muslims, wagging their goatish chins,
The Rajpoot Princess set her to the "bee-dance" that begins,
"If my love loved me, he should be a bee,
I the yellow champâk, love the honey of me."
All the wreathed movements danced she of that dance;
Not a step she slighted, not a wanton glance;
In her unveiled bosom chased th' intruding bee,
To her waist—and lower—she! a Rajpoot, she!
Sang the melting music, swayed the languorous limb:
Shureef's drunken heart beat—Shureef's eyes waxed dim.
From his finger Shureef loosed an Ormuz pearl—
"By the Prophet," quoth he, "'tis a winsome girl!"
"Take this ring; and 'prithee, come and have thy pay,
I would hear at leisure more of such a lay."
Glared his eyes on her eyes, passing o'er the plain,
Glared at the tent-purdah—never glared again!
Never opened after unto gaze or glance,
Eyes that saw a Rajpoot dance a shameful dance;
For the kiss she gave him was his first and last—
Kiss of dagger, driven to his heart, and past.
At her feet he wallowed, choked with wicked blood;
In his breast the katar quivered where it stood.
At the hilt his fingers vainly—wildly—try,
Then they stiffen feeble;—die! thou slayer, die!
From his jewelled scabbard drew she Shureef's sword,
Cut a-twain the neck-bone of the Muslim lord.
Underneath the starlight,—sooth, a sight of dread!
Like the Goddess Kali, comes she with the head,
Comes to where her brothers guard their murdered chief;
All the camp is silent, but the night is brief.
At his feet she flings it, flings her burden vile;
"Soorj! I keep my promise! Brothers, build the pile!"
They have built it, set it, all as Rajpoots do
From the cage of iron taken Soorj Dehu;
In the lap of Neila, seated on the pile,
Laid his head—she radiant, like a queen the while.
Then the lamp is lighted, and the ghee is poured—
"Soorj, we burn together: O my love, my lord!"
In the flame and crackle dies her tender tongue,
Dies the Ranee, truest, all true wives among.
At the dawn a clamour runs from tent to tent,
Like the wild geese cackling when the night is spent.
"Shureef Khan lies headless! gone is Soorj Dehu!
And the wandering Nautch-girl, who has seen her, who?"
This but know the sentries, at the "breath of morn"
Forth there fared two horsemen, by the first was borne.
The urn of clay, the vessel that Rajpoots use to bring
The ashes of dead kinsmen to Gungas' holy spring.
KING SALADIN.
Long years ago—so tells Boccaccio
In such Italian gentleness of speech
As finds no echo in this northern air
To counterpart its music—long ago,
When Saladin was Soldan of the East,
The kings let cry a general crusade;
And to the trysting-plains of Lombardy
The idle lances of the North and West
Rode all that spring, as all the spring runs down
Into a lake, from all its hanging hills,
The clash and glitter of a hundred streams.
Whereof the rumour reached to Saladin;
And that swart king—as royal in his heart
As any crowned champion of the Cross—
That he might fully, of his knowledge, learn
The purpose of the lords of Christendom,
And when their war and what their armament,
Took thought to cross the seas to Lombardy.
Wherefore, with wise and trustful Amirs twain,
All habited in garbs that merchants use,
With trader's band and gipsire on the breasts
That best loved mail and dagger, Saladin
Set forth upon his journey perilous.
In that day, lordly land was Lombardy!
A sea of country-plenty, islanded
With cities rich; nor richer one than thee,
Marble Milano! from whose gate at dawn—
With ear that little recked the matin-bell,
But a keen eye to measure wall and foss—
The Soldan rode; and all day long he rode
For Pavia; passing basilic, and shrine,
And gaze of vineyard-workers, wotting not
Yon trader was the Lord of Heathenesse.
All day he rode; yet at the wane of day
No gleam of gate, or ramp, or rising spire,
Nor Tessin's sparkle underneath the stars
Promised him Pavia; but he was 'ware
Of a gay company upon the way,
Ladies and lords, with horses, hawks, and hounds:
Cap-plumes and tresses fluttered by the wind
Of merry race for home. "Go!" said the king
To one that rode upon his better hand,
"And pray these gentles of their courtesy
How many leagues to Pavia, and the gates
What hour they close them?" Then the Saracen
Set spur, and being joined to him that seemed
First of the hunt, he told the message—they
Checking the jangling bits, and chiding down
The unfinished laugh to listen—but by this
Came up the king, his bonnet in his hand,
Theirs doffed to him: "Sir Trader," Torel said
(Messer Torello 'twas, of Istria),
"They shut the Pavian gate at even-song,
And even-song is sung." Then turning half,
Muttered, "Pardie, the man is worshipful,
A stranger too!" "Fair lord!" quoth Saladin,
"Please you to stead some weary travellers,
Saying where we may lodge, the town so far
And night so near" "Of my heart, willingly,"
Made answer Torel, "I did think but now
To send my knave an errand—he shall ride
And bring you into lodgment—oh! no thanks,
Our Lady keep you!" then with whispered hest
He called their guide and sped them. Being gone.
Torello told his purpose, and the band,
With ready zeal and loosened bridle-chains,
Rode for his hunting-palace, where they set
A goodly banquet underneath the planes,
And hung the house with guest-lights, and anon
Welcomed the wondering strangers, thereto led
Unwitting, by a world of winding paths;
Messer Torello, at the inner gate,
Waiting to take them in—a goodly host,
Stamped current with God's image for a man
Chief among men, truthful, and just, and free.
Then he, "Well met again, fair sirs! Our knave
Hath found you shelter better than the worst:
Please you to leave your selles, and being bathed,
Grace our poor supper here." Then Saladin,
Whose sword had yielded ere his courtesy,
Answered, "Great thanks, Sir Knight, and this much blame,
You spoil us for our trade! two bonnets doffed,
And travellers' questions holding you afield,
For those you give us this." "Sir! not your meed,
Nor worthy of your breeding; but in sooth
That is not out of Pavia." Thereupon
He led them to fair chambers decked with all
Makes tired men glad; lights, and the marble bath,
And flasks that sparkled, liquid amethyst,
And grapes, not dry as yet from evening dew.
Thereafter at the supper-board they sat;
Nor lacked it, though its guest was reared a king,
Worthy provend in crafts of cookery,
Pastel, pasticcio—all set forth on gold;
And gracious talk and pleasant courtesies,
Spoken in stately Latin, cheated time
Till there was none but held the stranger-sir,
For all his chapman's dress of cramasie,
Goodlier than silks could make him. Presently
Talk rose upon the Holy Sepulchre:
"I go myself," said Torel, "with a score
Of better knights—the flower of Pavia—
To try our steel against King Saladin's.
Sirs! ye have seen the countries of the Sun,
Know you the Soldan?" Answer gave the king,
"The Soldan we have seen—'twill push him hard
If, which I nothing doubt, you Pavian lords
Are valorous as gentle;—we, alas!
Are Cyprus merchants making trade to France—
Dull sons of Peace." "By Mary!" Torel cried,
"But for thy word, I ne'er heard speech so fit
To lead the war, nor saw a hand that sat
Liker a soldier's in the sabre's place;
But sure I hold you sleepless!" Then himself
Playing the chamberlain, with torches borne,
Led them to restful beds, commending them
To sleep and God, Who hears—Allah or God—
When good men do his creatures charities.
At dawn the cock, and neigh of saddled steeds,
Broke the king's dreams of battle—not their own,
But goodly jennets from Torello's stalls,
Caparisoned to bear them; he their host
Up, with a gracious radiance like the sun,
To bid them speed. Beside him in the court
Stood Dame Adalieta; comely she,
And of her port as queenly, and serene
As if the braided gold about her brows
Had been a crown. Mutual good-morrow given,
Thanks said and stayed, the lady prayed her guest
To take a token of his sojourn there,
Marking her good-will, not his worthiness;
"A gown of miniver—these furbelows
Are silk I spun—my lord wears ever such—
A housewife's gift! but those ye love are far;
Wear it as given for them." Then Saladin—
"A precious gift, Madonna, past my thanks;
And—but thou shalt not hear a 'no' from me—
Past my receiving; yet I take it; we
Were debtors to your noble courtesy
Out of redemption—this but bankrupts us."
"Nay, sir,—God shield you!" said the knight and dame.
And Saladin, with phrase of gentilesse
Returned, or ever that he rode alone,
Swore a great oath in guttural Arabic,
An oath by Allah—startling up the ears
Of those three Christian cattle they bestrode—
That never yet was princelier-natured man,
Nor gentler lady;—and that time should see
For a king's lodging quittance royal repaid.
It was the day of the Passaggio:
Ashore the war-steeds champed the burnished bit;
Afloat the galleys tugged the mooring-chain:
The town was out; the Lombard armourers—
Red-hot with riveting the helmets up,
And whetting axes for the heathen heads—
Cooled in the crowd that filled the squares and street:
To speed God's soldiers. At the none that day
Messer Torello to the gate came down,
Leading his lady;—sorrow's hueless rose
Grew on her cheek, and thrice the destrier
Struck fire, impatient, from the pavement-squares,
Or ere she spoke, tears in her lifted eyes,
"Goest thou, lord of mine?" "Madonna, yes!"
Said Torel, "for my soul's weal and the Lord
Ride I to-day: my good name and my house
Reliant I intrust thee, and—because
It may be they shall slay me, and because,
Being so young, so fair, and so reputed,
The noblest will entreat thee—wait for me,
Widow or wife, a year, and month, and day;
Then if thy kinsmen press thee to a choice,
And if I be not come, hold me for dead;
Nor link thy blooming beauty with the grave
Against thine heart." "Good my lord!" answered she,
"Hardly my heart sustains to let thee go;
Thy memory it can keep, and keep it will,
Though my one lord, Torel of Istria,
Live, or——" "Sweet, comfort thee! San Pietro speed!
I shall come home: if not, and worthy knees
Bend for this hand, whereof none worthy lives,
Least he who lays his last kiss thus upon it,
Look thee, I free it——" "Nay!" she said, "but I,
A petulant slave that hugs her golden chain,
Give that gift back, and with it this poor ring:
Set it upon thy sword-hand, and in fight
Be merciful and win, thinking of me."
Then she, with pretty action, drawing on
Her ruby, buckled over it his glove—
The great steel glove—and through the helmet bars
Took her last kiss;—then let the chafing steed
Have its hot will and go.
But Saladin,
Safe back among his lords at Lebanon,
Well wotting of their quest, awaited it,
And held the Crescent up against the Cross,
In many a doughty fight Ferrara blades
Clashed with keen Damasc, many a weary month
Wasted afield; but yet the Christians
Won nothing nearer to Christ's sepulchre;
Nay, but gave ground. At last, in Acre pent,
On their loose files, enfeebled by the war,
Came stronger smiter than the Saracen—
The deadly Pest: day after day they died,
Pikeman and knight-at-arms; day after day
A thinner line upon the leaguered wall
Held off the heathen:—held them off a space;
Then, over-weakened, yielded, and gave up
The city and the stricken garrison.
So to sad chains and hateful servitude
Fell all those purple lords—Christendom's stars,
Once high in hope as soaring Lucifer,
Now low as sinking Hesper: with them fell
Messer Torello—never one so poor
Of all the hundreds that his bounty fed
As he in prison—ill-entreated, bound,
Starved of sweet light, and set to shameful tasks;
And that great load at heart to know the days
Fast flying, and to live accounted dead.
One joy his gaolers left him,—his good hawk;
The brave, gay bird that crossed the seas with him:
And often, in the mindful hour of eve,
With tameless eye and spirit masterful,
In a feigned anger checking at his hand,
The good gray falcon made his master cheer.
One day it chanced Saladin rode afield
With shawled and turbaned Amirs, and his hawks—
Lebanon-bred, and mewed as princes lodge—
Flew foul, forgot their feather, hung at wrist,
And slighted call. The Soldan, quick in wrath,
Bade slay the cravens, scourge the falconer,
And seek some wight who knew the heart of hawks,
To keep it hot and true. Then spake a Sheikh—
"There is a Frank in prison by the sea,
Far-seen herein." "Give word that he be brought,"
Quoth Saladin, "and bid him set a cast:
If he hath skill, it shall go well for him."
Thus by the winding path of circumstance
One palace held, as prisoner and prince,
Torello and his guest: unwitting each,
Nay and unwitting, though they met and spake
Of that goshawk and this—signors in serge,
And chapmen crowned, who knows?—till on a time
Some trick of face, the manner of some smile,
Some gleam of sunset from the glad day gone,
Caught the king's eye, and held it. "Nazarene!
What native art thou?" asked he. "Lombard I,
A man of Pavia." "And thy name?" "Torel,
Messer Torello called in happier times,
Now best uncalled." "Come hither, Christian!"
The Soldan said, and led the way, by court
And hall and fountain, to an inner room
Rich with king's robes: therefrom he reached a gown,
And "Know'st thou this?" he asked. "High lord! I might
Elsewhere," quoth Torel, "here 'twere mad to say
Yon gown my wife unto a trader gave
Who shared our board." "Nay, but that gown is this,
And she the giver, and the trader I,"
Quoth Saladin; "I! twice a king to-day,
Owing a royal debt and paying it."
Then Torel, sore amazed, "Great lord, I blush,
Remembering how the Master of the East
Lodged sorrily." "It's Master's Master thou!"
Gave answer Saladin, "come in and see
What wares the Cyprus traders keep at home;
Come forth and take thy place, Saladin's friend,"
Therewith into the circle of his lords,
With gracious mien the Soldan led his slave;
And while the dark eyes glittered, seated him
First of the full divan. "Orient lords,"
So spake he,—"let the one who loves his king
Honour this Frank, whose house sheltered your king;
He is my brother:" then the night-black beards
Swept the stone floor in ready reverence,
Agas and Amirs welcoming Torel:
And a great feast was set, the Soldan's friend
Royally garbed, upon the Soldan's hand,
Shining the bright star of the banqueters.
All which, and the abounding grace and love
Shown him by Saladin, a little held
The heart of Torel from its Lombard home
With Dame Adalieta: but it chanced
He sat beside the king in audience,
And there came one who said, "Oh, Lord of lords,
That galley of the Genovese which sailed
With Frankish prisoners is gone down at sea."
"Gone down!" cried Torel. "Ay! what recks it, friend,
To fall thy visage for?" quoth Saladin;
"One galley less to ship-stuffed Genoa!"
"Good my liege!" Torel said, "it bore a scroll
Inscribed to Pavia, saying that I lived;
For in a year, a month, and day, not come,
I bade them hold me dead; and dead I am,
Albeit living, if my lady wed,
Perchance constrained." "Certes," spake Saladin,
"A noble dame—the like not won, once lost—
How many days remain?" "Ten days, my prince,
And twelvescore leagues between my heart and me:
Alas! how to be passed?" Then Saladin—
"Lo! I am loath to lose thee—wilt thou swear
To come again if all go well with thee,
Or come ill speeding?" "Yea, I swear, my king,
Out of true love," quoth Torel, "heartfully."
Then Saladin, "Take here my signet-seal;
My admiral will loose his swiftest sail
Upon its sight; and cleave the seas, and go
And clip thy dame, and say the Trader sends
A gift, remindful of her courtesies."
Passed were the year, and month, and day; and passed
Out of all hearts but one Sir Torel's name,
Long given for dead by ransomed Pavians:
For Pavia, thoughtless of her Eastern graves,
A lovely widow, much too gay for grief,
Made peals from half a hundred campaniles
To ring a wedding in. The seven bells
Of Santo Pietro, from the nones to noon,
Boomed with bronze throats the happy tidings out;
Till the great tenor, overswelled with sound,
Cracked itself dumb. Thereat the sacristan,
Leading his swinkèd ringers down the stairs,
Came blinking into sunlight—all his keys
Jingling their little peal about his belt—
Whom, as he tarried, locking up the porch,
A foreign signor, browned with southern suns,
Turbaned and slippered, as the Muslims use,
Plucked by the cope. "Friend," quoth he—'twas a tongue
Italian true, but in a Muslim mouth—
"Why are your belfries busy—is it peace
Or victory, that so ye din the ears
Of Pavian lieges?" "Truly, no liege thou!"
Grunted the sacristan, "who knowest not
That Dame Adalieta weds to-night
Her fore-betrothed,—Sir Torel's widow she,
That died i' the chain?" "To-night!" the stranger said
"Ay, sir, to-night!—why not to-night?—to-night!
And you shall see a goodly Christian feast
If so you pass their gates at even-song,
For all are asked."
No more the questioner,
But folded o'er his face the Eastern hood,
Lest idle eyes should mark how idle words
Had struck him home. "So quite forgot!—so soon!—
And this the square wherein I gave the joust,
And that the loggia, where I fed the poor;
And yon my palace, where—oh, fair! oh, false!—
They robe her for a bridal. Can it be?
Clean out of heart, with twice six flying moons,
The heart that beat on mine as it would break,
That faltered forty oaths. Forced! forced!—not false—
Well! I will sit, wife, at thy wedding-feast,
And let mine eyes give my fond faith the lie."
So in the stream of gallant guests that flowed
Feastward at eve, went Torel; passed with them
The outer gates, crossed the great courts with them,
A stranger in the walls that called him lord.
Cressets and coloured lamps made the way bright,
And rose-leaves strewed to where within the doors
The master of the feast, the bridegroom, stood,
A-glitter from his forehead to his foot,
Speaking fair welcomes. He, a courtly lord,
Marking the Eastern guest, bespoke him sweet,
Prayed place for him, and bade them set his seat
Upon the dais. Then the feast began,
And wine went free as wit, and music died—
Outdone by merrier laughter.—only one
Nor ate nor drank, nor spoke nor smiled; but gazed
On the pale bride, pale as her crown of pearls,
Who sate so cold and still, and sad of cheer,
At the bride-feast.
But of a truth, Torel
Read the thoughts right that held her eyelids down,
And knew her loyal to her memories.
Then to a little page who bore the wine,
He spake, "Go tell thy lady thus from me:
In mine own land, if any stranger sit
A wedding-guest, the bride, out of her grace,
In token that she knows her guest's good-will,
In token she repays it, brims a cup,
Wherefrom he drinking she in turn doth drink;
So is our use." The little page made speed
And told the message. Then that lady pale—
Ever a gentle and a courteous heart—
Lifted her troubled eyes and smiled consent
On the swart stranger. By her side, untouched,
Stood the brimmed gold; "Bear this," she said, "and pray
He hold a Christian lady apt to learn
A kindly lesson." But Sir Torel loosed
From off his finger—never loosed before—
The ring she gave him on the parting day;
And ere he drank, behind his veil of beard
Dropped in the cup the ruby, quaffed, and sent.—
Then she, with sad smile, set her lips to drink,
And—something in the Cyprus touching them,
Glanced—gazed—the ring!—her ring!—Jove! how she eyes
The wistful eyes of Torel!—how, heartsure,
Under all guise knowing her lord returned,
She springs to meet him coming!—telling all
In one great cry of joy.
O me! the rout,
The storm of questions! stilled, when Torel spake
His name, and, known of all, claimed the Bride Wife,
Maugre the wasted feast, and woful groom.
All hearts but his were light to see Torel;
But Adalieta's lightest, as she plucked
The bridal-veil away. Something therein—
A lady's dagger—small, and bright, and fine—
Clashed out upon the marble. "Wherefore that?"
Asked Torel; answered she, "I knew you true;
And I could live, so long as I might wait;
But they—they pressed me hard! my days of grace
Ended to-night—and I had ended too,
Faithful to death, if so thou hadst not come."
THE CALIPH'S DRAUGHT.
Upon a day in Ramadan—
When sunset brought an end of fast,
And in his station every man
Prepared to share the glad repast—
Sate Mohtasim in royal state,
The pillaw smoked upon the gold;
The fairest slave of those that wait
Mohtasim's jewelled cup did hold.
Of crystal carven was the cup,
With turquoise set along the brim,
A lid of amber closed it up;
'Twas a great king that gave it him.
The slave poured sherbet to the brink,
Stirred in wild honey and pomegranate,
With snow and rose-leaves cooled the drink,
And bore it where the Caliph sate.
The Caliph's mouth was dry as bone,
He swept his beard aside to quaff:—
The news-reader beneath the throne,
Went droning on with ghain and kaf.—
The Caliph drew a mighty breath,
Just then the reader read a word—
And Mohtasim, as grim as death,
Set down the cup and snatched his sword.
"Ann' amratan shureefatee!"
"Speak clear!" cries angry Mohtasim;
"Fe lasr ind' ilj min ulji,"—
Trembling the newsman read to him
How in Ammoria, far from home,
An Arab girl of noble race
Was captive to a lord of Roum;
And how he smote her on the face,
And how she cried, for life afraid,
"Ya, Mohtasim! help, O my king!"
And how the Kafir mocked the maid,
And laughed, and spake a bitter thing,
"Call louder, fool! Mohtasim's ears
Are long as Barak's—if he heed—
Your prophet's ass; and when he hears,
He'll come upon a spotted steed!"
The Caliph's face was stern and red,
He snapped the lid upon the cup;
"Keep this same sherbet, slave," he said,
"Till such time as I drink it up.
Wallah! the stream my drink shall be,
My hollowed palm my only bowl,
Till I have set that lady free,
And seen that Roumi dog's head roll."
At dawn the drums of war were beat,
Proclaiming, "Thus saith Mohtasim,
'Let all my valiant horsemen meet,
And every soldier bring with him
A spotted steed,'" So rode they forth,
A sight of marvel and of fear;
Pied horses prancing fiercely north;
The crystal cup borne in the rear!
When to Ammoria he did win,
He smote and drove the dogs of Roum,
And rode his spotted stallion in,
Crying, "Labbayki! I am come!"
Then downward from her prison-place
Joyful the Arab lady crept;
She held her hair before her face,
She kissed his feet, she laughed and wept.
She pointed where that lord was laid:
They drew him forth, he whined for grace:
Then with fierce eyes Mohtasim said—
"She whom thou smotest on the face
Had scorn, because she called her king:
Lo! he is come! and dost thou think
To live, who didst this bitter thing
While Mohtasim at peace did drink?"
Flashed the fierce sword—rolled the lord's head;
The wicked blood smoked in the sand.
"Now bring my cup!" the Caliph said.
Lightly he took it in his hand,
As down his throat the sweet drink ran
Mohtasim in his saddle laughed,
And cried, "Taiba asshrab alan!
By God! delicious is this draught!"
HINDOO FUNERAL SONG.
Call on Rama! call to Rama!
Oh, my brothers, call on Rama!
For this Dead
Whom we bring,
Call aloud to mighty Rama.
As we bear him, oh, my brothers,
Call together, very loudly,
That the Bhûts
May be scared;
That his spirit pass in comfort.
Turn his feet now, calling "Rama,"
Calling "Rama," who shall take him
When the flames
Make an end:
Ram! Ram!—oh, call to Rama.
SONG OF THE SERPENT-CHARMERS.
Come forth, oh, Snake! come forth, oh, glittering Snake!
Oh shining, lovely, deadly Nâg! appear,
Dance to the music that we make,
This serpent-song, so sweet and clear,
Blown on the beaded gourd, so clear,
So soft and clear.
Oh, dread Lord Snake! come forth and spread thy hood,
And drink the milk and suck the eggs; and show
Thy tongue; and own the tune is good:
Hear, Maharaj! how hard we blow!
Ah, Maharaj! for thee we blow;
See how we blow!
Great Uncle Snake! creep forth and dance to-day!
This music is the music snakes love best;
Taste the warm white new milk, and play
Standing erect, with fangs at rest,
Dancing on end, sharp fangs at rest,
Fierce fangs at rest.
Ah, wise Lord Nâg! thou comest!—Fear thou not!
We make salaam to thee, the Serpent-King,
Draw forth thy folds, knot after knot;
Dance, Master! while we softly sing;
Dance, Serpent! while we play and sing,
We play and sing.
Dance, dreadful King! whose kisses strike men dead;
Dance this side, mighty Snake! the milk is here!
[They seize the Cobra by the neck.]
Ah, shabash! pin his angry head!
Thou fool! this nautch shall cost thee dear;
Wrench forth his fangs! this piping clear,
It costs thee dear!
SONG OF THE FLOUR-MILL.
Turn the merry mill-stone, Gunga!
Pour the golden grain in;
Those that twist the Churrak fastest
The cakes soonest win:
Good stones, turn!
The fire begins to burn;
Gunga, stay not!
The hearth is nearly hot.
Grind the hard gold to silver;
Sing quick to the stone;
Feed its mouth with dal and bajri,
It will feed us anon.
Sing, Gunga! to the mill-stone,
It helps the wheel hum;
Blithesome hearts and willing elbows
Make the fine meal come:
Handsful three
For you and for me;
Now it falls white,
Good stones, bite!
Drive it round and round, my Gunga!
Sing soft to the stone;
Better corn and churrak-working
Than idleness and none.
TAZA BA TAZA
Akbar sate high in the ivory hall,
His chief musician he bade them call;
Sing, said the king, that song of glee.
Taza ba taza, now ba now.
Sing me that music sweet and free,
Taza ba taza, now ba now;
Here by the fountain sing it thou,
Taza ba taza, now ba now.
Bending full low, his minstrel took
The Vina down from its painted nook.
Swept the strings of silver so
Taza ba taza, now ba now;
Made the gladsome Vina go
Taza ba taza, now ba now;
Sang with light strains and brightsome brow
Taza ba taza, now ba now.
"What is the lay for love most fit?
What is the melody echoes it?
Ever in tune and ever meet,
Taza ba taza, now ba now;
Ever delightful and ever sweet
Taza ba taza, now ba now;
Soft as the murmur of love's first vow,
Taza ba taza, now ba now."
"What is the bliss that is best on earth?
Lovers' light whispers and tender mirth;
Bright gleams the sun on the Green Sea's isle,
But a brighter light has a woman's smile:
Ever, like sunrise, fresh of hue,
Taza ba taza, now ba now;
Ever, like sunset, splendid and new,
Taza ba taza, now ba now."
"Thereunto groweth the graceful vine
To cool the lips of lovers with wine,
Haste thee and bring the amethyst cup,
That happy lovers may drink it up;
And so renew their gentle play,
Taza ba taza, now ba now;
Ever delicious and new alway,
Taza ba taza, now ba now."
"Thereunto sigheth the evening gale
To freshen the cheeks which love made pale;
This is why bloometh the scented flower,
To gladden with grace love's secret bower:
Love is the zephyr that always blows,
Taza ba taza, now ba now;
Love is the rose-bloom that ever glows,
Taza ba taza, now ba now."
Akbar, the mighty one, smiled to hear
The musical strain so soft and clear;
Danced the diamonds over his brow
To taza ba taza, now ba now:
His lovely ladies rocked in a row
To taza ba taza, now ba now;
Livelier sparkled the fountain's flow,
Boose sittan ba kaum uzo;
Swifter and sweeter the strings did go,
Mutrib i khoosh nuwa bejo;
Never such singing was heard, I trow;
Taza ba taza, now ba now.
THE MUSSULMAN PARADISE.
(From the Arabic of the Fifty-sixth Súrat of the Koran, entitled "The Inevitable.")
When the Day of Wrath and Mercy cometh, none shall doubt it come;
Unto hell some it shall lower, and exalt to heaven some.
When the Earth with great shocks shaketh, and the mountains crumble flat,
Quick and Dead shall be divided fourfold:—on this side and that.
The "Companions of the Right Hand" (ah! how joyful they will be!)
The "Companions of the Left Hand" (oh! what misery to see!)
Such, moreover, as of old times loved the truth, and taught it well,
First in faith, they shall be foremost in reward. The rest to hell.
But those souls attaining Allah, oh! the Gardens of good cheer
Kept to bless them! Yea, besides the "faithful," many shall be there.
Lightly lying on soft couches, beautiful with 'broidered gold,
Friends with friends, they shall be served by youths immortal, who shall hold.
"Akwâb, abareek"—cups and goblets, brimming with celestial wine,
Wine that hurts not head or stomach: this and fruits of heav'n which shine.
Bright, desirable; and rich flesh of what birds they relish best.
Yea! and—feasted—there shall soothe them damsels fairest, stateliest;
Damsels, having eyes of wonder, large black eyes, like hidden pearls,
"Lulu-l-maknûn": Allah grants them for sweet love those matchless girls.
Never in that Garden hear they speech of folly, sin, or dread,
Only Peace; "SALAMUN" only; that one word for ever said.
Peace! Peace! Peace!—and the "Companions of the Right Hand" (ah! those bowers!)
They shall lodge 'mid thornless lote-groves; under mawz-trees thick with flowers;
Shaded, fed, by flowing waters; near to fruits that never cloy,
Hanging ever ripe for plucking; and at hand the tender joy,
Of those Maids of Heaven—the Hûris. Lo! to these we gave a birth
Specially creating. Lo! they are not as the wives of earth.
Ever virginal and stainless, howsooften they embrace,
Always young, and loved, and loving, these are. Neither is there grace,
Like the grace and bliss the Black-eyed keep for you in Paradise;
Oh, "Companions of the Right Hand"! oh! ye others who were wise!
DEDICATION OF A POEM FROM THE SANSKRIT.
Sweet, on the daisies of your English grave
I lay this little wreath of Indian flowers,
Fragrant for me because the scent they have
Breathes of the memory of our wedded hours;
For others scentless; and for you, in heaven,
Too pale and faded, dear dead wife! to wear,
Save that they mean—what makes all fault forgiven—
That he who brings them lays his heart, too, there.
April 9, 1865.