PART II.
T he Summer Palace stood by night
Lit up in dazzling sheen,
The doors unfolded, and the pomp
Stirred in between;
—To a burst of royal music
Came the Queen.
Her eyes like stars of speedwell
Shone down the great saloon;
She came, and all before her
Knew it was June;
The passing of her presence
Was too soon.
The little curls around her head
Were all her crown of gold,
Her delicate arms drooped downward
In slender mould,
As white-veined leaves of lilies
Curve and fold.
All in white,—not ivory
For young bloom past away,—
Blossom-white, rose-white,
White of the May;
'Twixt white dress and white neck,
Who could say?
She moved to measure of music,
As a swan sails the stream;
Where her looks fell was summer,
When she smiled was a dream;
All faces bowing towards her
Sunflowers seem.
O the rose upon her silent mouth,
The perfect rose that lies!
O the roses red, the roses deep,
Within her cheeks that rise!
O the rose of rapture of her face
To our eyes!
The tall fair Princes smile and sigh
For grace of one sweet glance,
The glittering dancers fill the floor,
The Queen leads the dance;
The dial-hands to midnight
Still advance.
Dance down to the melting music!
Hark to the viols' strain!
Their notes are piercing, piercing,
Again, again;
The pulse of the air is beating
Throbs of pain.
Does the dancing languish slower?
Oh, the soft flutes wail and sigh;
In silver falling and calling,
They seek reply;
And the heart is sinking, sinking,
Why, ah why?
Oh, the high harp-strings resounding!
So long, so clear they are:
A cry is ringing in heaven
From star to star,
Rising sharper and fainter
From afar.
The Queen has danced from end to end;
Oh, the candles burn so bright!
But her blue eyes look far away
Into the night;
And the roses on her cheeks and lips
Have grown white.
Oh, why is the Queen so pale to-night?
And why does silence fall,
As one by one they turn to her,
Upon them all?
Whence comes that cold wind shivering
Down the hall?
The hour draws close to midnight,
The banquet board is spread;
The lamps are lit, the guests are set,
The Queen at the head:
For the feasting at kings' tables
Grace be said!
The shaded light of rubies
Streams from every part
Down the golden supper;—
Who is sick at heart?
Oh, hush! for the Queen is listening,
Lips apart.
She sits with wide and open eyes,
The wine-cup in her hand;
And all the guests are ill at ease,
Nor understand;
Is it not some enchanted
Strange far land?
The twelve long strokes of midnight
With clash and clang affright;
The rose-glow seems to darken
Before their sight;
But the Queen has swooned back heavily,
Cold and white.
They lifted her, a burden
Like broken lily-flowers;
They laid her on her own bed,
Within her bowers;
They mourned, and they tended her,
For six hours.
At the first hour after midnight,
The Queen nor spoke nor stirred;
At the second, by her bedside,
No breath they heard;
They said, "Is she living?"
At the third.
At the fourth hour they watched sadly
At her feet and her head;
At the fifth, standing idle,
No word they said;
At the sixth, "Bring candles
For one dead."
Swept low down across the East,
Through the morning grey,
A flock of white clouds swiftly,
Dim, far away;
Like a flight of white wings:—
What were they?
Through the palace suddenly,
Through every floor,
Wailed a wind and whistled,
Shook every door,
Rattled through the windows,
Then passed o'er.
And as they stood with tapers tall
Around the Queen, there came
A soft and far-off fluttering
Over her frame,
And from between her sleeping lips,
One faint flame.
They take her hand, they call on her,
She answers them likewise;
She sits upright, she looks around,
With her blue eyes,
And a smile as of thy secrets,
Paradise!
Winter is here, and has not brought
The Traveller of renown;
Why has he not come back again
To court and town?
Rumours and questionings pass
Up and down.
Is it only the wolves of the Northland
Know where his bones lie white?
Only the swans could tell us,
In southward flight?
Is it only the wind could whisper
To the night?
The Queen sits still and smiling,
She hears the talk prevail,
She speaks no word, she gives no glance,
She tells no tale;
In the golden shadow always
She is pale.
—-H. E. Hamilton-King.