Far o’er the dun wold,
Baby, behold
’Mid the mist and the snow, fast, fast, and more fast—
In the teeth of the blast—flies Lilith at last.
Pale Lilith flies!
Nearer, my babe!
By Ganges still the Indian mother weaves
Above her babe her mat of plantain leaves,
And laughing, plaits. Or pausing, sweet and low
Her voice blends with the river’s drowsy flow;
The while she fitful sings that old, old strain,
Forgetting that the love, the deathless pain
Of wandering Lilith lives and throbs again
When falls the tricksy Elf-babes’ mocking cry
Faintly across her crooning lullaby—
Ah, happy babe, that here may sleep
Where the blue river winds along,
And sweet the trysting bulbuls keep
The night o’er-brimmed with pulsing song.
Not so, mine own, as legends tell,
In lands remote, beyond the day,
The soulless babes of Lilith dwell,
Or vanish ’mong the cold mists gray.
Or oft in elfin glee they ride
O’er burning deserts blown adrift,
Or singing idly, idly glide
Afar beyond Night’s purple rift.
But thou, my babe, for thee shall grow
The lilies, nodding by the stream;
For thee, the poppy’s sleepy glow;
For thee, the jonquil’s pallid gleam.
My baby, sleep! Against the sky
The pippul lifts its trembling crest.
O baby, hush each wailing cry,
Close to the holy river’s breast.
Not here shall come that pale wraith fair,
Who, wandering once in Northern lands,
Bore o’er long reaches sere and bare
The death-flower white, for baby hands.
Fear not, mine own, the Elf-babes shrill,
Nor Lilith tall, with brow of snow.
They may not haunt thy slumbers still
Where Ganges’ sacred waters flow.
Where coral reefs gnaw with white cruel teeth
The yellow surf, and the torn billows seethe—
When shines the Southern Cross o’er placid isles,
The Afric mother sits, and singing, smiles,
Unheeding that a dead world’s hidden pain
Beats wildly rhythmic through her pure refrain,
And lingers softly still an echoed sigh
Low in Earth’s cradle-song—sweet lullaby.
A warning song of doom—a song of woe,
Of terror wild, she sings, down bending low,
The while bright gleams the Starry Cross above
Yet tells to her no tale of tender love
Of Him who lifteth after-time a cross
That healeth all the wide world’s sin and loss.