Direct beneath this type, reclined
On a black granite altar, lay
A female form, in crystal shrined,
And looking fresh as if the ray
Of soul had fled but yesterday,
While in relief of silvery hue
Graved on the altar's front were seen
A branch of lotus, broken in two,
As that fair creature's life had been,
And a small bird that from its spray
Was winging like her soul away.
But brief the glimpse I now could spare
To the wild, mystic wonders round;
For there was yet one wonder there
That held me as by witchery bound.
The lamp that thro' the chamber shed
Its vivid beam was at the head
Of her who on that altar slept;
And near it stood when first I came—
Bending her brow, as if she kept
Sad watch upon its silent flame—
A female form as yet so placed
Between the lamp's strong glow and me,
That I but saw, in outline traced,
The shadow of her symmetry.
Yet did my heart—I scarce knew why—
Even at that shadowed shape beat high.
Nor was it long ere full in sight
The figure turned; and by the light
That touched her features as she bent
Over the crystal monument,
I saw 'twas she—the same—the same—
That lately stood before me, brightening
The holy spot where she but came
And went again like summer lightning!
Upon the crystal o'er the breast
Of her who took that silent rest,
There was a cross of silver lying—
Another type of that blest home,
Which hope and pride and fear of dying
Build for us in a world to come:—
This silver cross the maiden raised
To her pure lips:—then, having gazed
Some minutes on that tranquil face,
Sleeping in all death's mournful grace,
Upward she turned her brow serene,
As if intent on heaven those eyes
Saw them nor roof nor cloud between
Their own pure orbits and the skies,
And, tho' her lips no motion made,
And that fixt look was all her speech,
I saw that the rapt spirit prayed
Deeper within than words could reach.
Strange power of Innocence, to turn
To its own hue whate'er comes near,
And make even vagrant Passion burn
With purer warmth within its sphere!
She who but one short hour before
Had come like sudden wild-fire o'er
My heart and brain—whom gladly even
From that bright Temple in the face
Of those proud ministers of heaven,
I would have borne in wild embrace,
And risked all punishment, divine
And human, but to make her mine;—
She, she was now before me, thrown
By fate itself into my arms—
There standing, beautiful, alone,
With naught to guard her but her charms.
Yet did I, then—did even a breath
From my parched lips, too parched to move,
Disturb a scene where thus, beneath
Earth's silent covering, Youth and Death
Held converse thro' undying love?
No—smile and taunt me as thou wilt—
Tho' but to gaze thus was delight,
Yet seemed it like a wrong, a guilt,
To win by stealth so pure a sight:
And rather than a look profane
Should then have met those thoughtful eyes,
Or voice or whisper broke the chain
That linked her spirit with the skies,
I would have gladly in that place
From which I watched her heavenward face,
Let my heart break, without one beat
That could disturb a prayer so sweet.
Gently, as if on every tread.
My life, my more than life depended,
Back thro' the corridor that led
To this blest scene I now ascended,
And with slow seeking and some pain
And many a winding tried in vain
Emerged to upper earth again.
The sun had freshly risen, and down
The marble hills of Araby,
Scattered as from a conqueror's crown
His beams into that living sea.
There seemed a glory in his light,
Newly put on—as if for pride.
Of the high homage paid this night
To his own Isis, his young bride.,
Now fading feminine away
In her proud Lord's superior ray.
My mind's first impulse was to fly
At once from this entangling net—
New scenes to range, new loves to try,
Or in mirth, wine and luxury
Of every sense that might forget.
But vain the effort—spell-bound still,
I lingered, without power or will
To turn my eyes from that dark door,
Which now enclosed her 'mong the dead;
Oft fancying, thro' the boughs that o'er
The sunny pile their flickering shed.
'Twas her light form again I saw
Starting to earth—still pure and bright,
But wakening, as I hoped, less awe,
Thus seen by morning's natural light,
Than in that strange, dim cell at night.
But no, alas—she ne'er returned:
Nor yet—tho' still I watch—nor yet,
Tho' the red sun for hours hath burned,
And now in his mid course hath met
The peak of that eternal pile
He pauses still at noon to bless,
Standing beneath his downward smile,
Like a great Spirit shadowless!—
Nor yet she comes—while here, alone,
Sauntering thro' this death-peopled place,
Where no heart beats except my own,
Or 'neath a palm-tree's shelter thrown,
By turns I watch and rest and trace
These lines that are to waft to thee
My last night's wondrous history.
Dost thou remember, in that Isle
Of our own Sea where thou and I
Lingered so long, so happy a while,
Till all the summer flowers went by—
How gay it was when sunset brought
To the cool Well our favorite maids—
Some we had won, and some we sought—
To dance within the fragrant shades,
And till the stars went down attune
Their Fountain Hymns[3] to the young moon?
That time, too—oh, 'tis like a dream—
When from Scamander's holy tide
I sprung as Genius of the Stream,
And bore away that blooming bride,
Who thither came, to yield her charms
(As Phrygian maids are wont ere wed)
Into the cold Scamander's arms,
But met and welcomed mine, instead—
Wondering as on my neck she fell,
How river-gods could love so well!
Who would have thought that he who roved
Like the first bees of summer then,
Rifling each sweet nor ever loved
But the free hearts that loved again,
Readily as the reed replies
To the least breath that round it sighs—
Is the same dreamer who last night
Stood awed and breathless at the sight
Of one Egyptian girl; and now
Wanders among these tombs with brow
Pale, watchful, sad, as tho' he just,
Himself, had risen from out their dust!
Yet so it is—and the same thirst
For something high and pure, above
This withering world, which from the first
Made me drink deep of woman's love—
As the one joy, to heaven most near
Of all our hearts can meet with here—
Still burns me up, still keeps awake
A fever naught but death can slake.