THE MESSENGER WITH THE BOW-STRING
INTO the banquet-hall of all delights
Grimly he forced his way,
Amid the perfumes and the fairy lights,
And trickling fountain-spray,
Where mandolins were sounding low and sweet,
And on the marble tiles
Twinkled and shone the dancers’ slender feet,
And all was joy and smiles.
One dark blot on the joyous life and stir,
There stood he, fierce and still,
Holding his token out as messenger
Of the stern Caliph’s will—
A loosened bow-string from the bow untied.
Laughter was changed to wail,
And all the happy song in silence died
On lips grown mute and pale.
Death’s sudden summons! Still the flowers fair
Proffered their cups of bloom;
Still rose the mazy fountain in the air,
Scattering its soft perfume;
But in one moment, though these bright things stayed,
Death’s shape, all grimly gray,
Entered the hall with soundless step and laid
A shadow on the day.
Into our summer palace of delight,
Flower-hung and fairy-fanned,
Entered the ghastly messenger last night,
The bow-string in his hand.
Amid the fulness of full life he stood,
A spectral form to see,
And held the signal out with gesture rude
And beckoned silently.
Still smile the late pink roses on their stem,
And heliotropes, thick set,
Woo every passing hand to gather them;
The brown, sweet mignonette
Still spreads a fragrant carpet, and the gay
Nasturtiums flaunt and soar,
Making a mimic sunshine on the gray;
But death is at the door!
O messenger! have patience for a space.
Summer is fresh and strong;
Never so beautiful her radiant face,
Never so sweet her song.
Wait but a little, till our shivering souls
Are strong to bear. He stands
Speechless, unheedful, answers not, and holds
The bow-string in his hands.