For whether I sink in the foaming flood, or swing on the triple tree, Or die in my grave as a Christian should, is much the same to me. C. G. Leland.-Born 1824. 1924.-BEDOUIN SONG. From the Desert I come to thee In the speed of my desire. And the midnight hears my cry: With a love that shall not die And the leaves of the Judgment Look from thy window and see My passion and my pain; I lie on the sands below, And I faint in thy disdain. Let the night-winds touch thy brow Till the sun grows cold, My steps are nightly driven, And open thy chamber door, And the stars are old, B. Taylor.-Born 1825. 1925. THE ARAB TO THE PALM. Next to thee, O fair gazelle, O Beddowee, girl, beloved so well; Next to the fearless Nedjidee, With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm; Next to ye both I love the Tree Our tribe is many, our poets vie Are not so light as his slender stem. Full of passion and sorrow is he, And when the warm south winds arise, Quickening odours, kisses of balm, O Tree of Love, by that love of thine, Give me the secret of the sun, If I were a King, O stately Tree, B. Taylor.-Born 1825. 1926.—KUBLEH; A STORY OF THE ASSYRIAN DESERT. The black-eyed children of the Desert drove Their suppliant necks, and knelt upon the sand; The hunters quarter'd by the kindled fires Bore its full burden of confused delight Rose broad and black against the burning West. The shadows deepen'd, and the stars came out Sparkling in violet ether; one by one Glimmer'd the ruddy camp-fires on the plain, And shapes of steed and horseman moved among The dusky tents with shout and jostling cry, And neigh and restless prancing. Children ran To hold the thongs, while every rider drove His quivering spear in the earth, and by his door Tether'd the horse he loved. In midst of all Stood Shammeriyah, whom they dared not touch,- The foal of wondrous Kubleh, to the Sheik Blazed brighter, and the dogs no longer bay'd, When Shammar hunters with the boys sat down To cleanse their bloody knives, came Alimàr, And boys laid down the knives half burnish'd, saying: "Tell us of Kubleh, whom we never saw— Of wondrous Kubleh!" Closer flock'd the group With eager eyes about the flickering fire, "God is great! O Arabs, never yet since Mahmoud rode In Bagdad's stables from the marble floorWho, swathed in purple housings, pranced in state The gay bazaars, by great Al-Raschid back'd: To Persia's kings-the foals of sacred mares, "Who ever told, in all the Desert Land, The many deeds of Kubleh? Who can tell Whence came she, whence her like shall come again? O Arabs, like a tale of Scherezade "Her form was lighter, in its shifting grace, Than some impassion'd Almée's, when the dance Unbinds her scarf, and golden anklets gleam rang From tent to tent, her keen and restless eye Shone like a blood-red ruby, and her neigh Rang wild and sharp above the clash of spears. "The tribes of Tigris and the Desert knew her: Sofuk before the Shammar bands she bore Reeking with sweat and dust, and fetlockdeep In curdling gore. When hot and lurid haze Stifled the crimson sun, she swept before The whirling sand-spout, till her gusty mane Flared in its vortex, while the camels lay Groaning and helpless on the fiery waste. "The tribes of Taurus and the Caspian knew her: The Georgian chiefs have heard her trumpetneigh Before the walls of Tiflis. Pines that grow On ancient Caucasus have harbour'd her, Sleeping by Sofuk, in their spicy gloom. The surf of Trebizond has bathed her flanks, When from the shore she saw the white-sail'd bark That brought him home from Stamboul. Never yet, O Arabs, never yet was like to Kubleh! "And Sofuk loved her. She was more to him Than all his snowy-bosom'd odalisques. "At last she died: Died, while the fire was yet in all her limbsDied for the life of Sofuk, whom she loved. The base Jebours-on whom be Allah's curse! Came on his path, when far from any camp, And would have slain him, but that Kubleh sprang Against the javelin-points and bore them down, And made the wind a laggard. On and on Bare ridges rose before her, came and pass'd; Were fleck'd with crimson foam. He would have turn'd To save his treasure, though himself were lost, But Kubleh fiercely snapp'd the brazen rein. At last, when through her spent and quivering frame The sharp throes ran, our distant tents arose, "They dug her grave 1927. THE POET IN THE EAST. All things to him were the visible forms Or gleam'd in the gold of the cloud unroll'd He look'd above in the cloudless calm, And a brother to him was the princely Palm, His feet went forth on the myrtled hills, They knew the Poet's tread, And, half in shade and half in sun, With a passionate thrill in her crimson heart She had waited for the hour! And, like a bride's, the Poet kiss'd The lips of the glorious flower. Then the Nightingale who sat above In the boughs of the citron-tree, For the rose you kiss'd with the kiss of love. And further sang the Nightingale : "Your bower not distant lies. I heard the sound of a Persian lute The Poet said: "I will here abide, 1928.-KILIMANDJARO. Hail to thee, monarch of African mountains, Feeding for ever the fountains that make thee Father of Nile and Creator of Egypt! The years of the world are engraved on thy forehead; Time's morning blush'd red on thy firstfallen snows; Yet lost in the wilderness, nameless, unnoted, Of Man unbeholden, thou wert not till now. Knowledge alone is the being of Nature, Giving a soul to her manifold features, Lighting through paths of the primitive darkness The footsteps of Truth and the vision of Song. Knowledge has born thee anew to Creation, And long-baffled Time at thy baptism rejoices. Take, then, a name, and be fill'd with existence, Yea, be exultant in sovereign glory, While from the hand of the wandering poet Floating alone, on the flood of thy making, Through Africa's mystery, silence, and fire, Lo! in my palm, like the Eastern enchanter, I dip from the waters a magical mirror, And thou art reveal'd to my purified vision. I see thee, supreme in the midst of thy comates, Standing alone twixt the Earth and the Heir of the Sunset and Herald of Morn. Giving the scope of the Book of Creation. Gather to riotous torrents of crystal, And, giving each shelvy recess where they dally The blooms of the North and its evergreen Garners where storeth his treasures the Thunder, The Lightning his falchion, his arrows the Hail! Sovereign Mountain, thy brothers give wel. come : They, the baptized and the crowned of ages, Mingle their sounds in magnificent chorus Who, in the urns of the Indian Ganges, Lo! unto each is the seal of his lordship, Nor question'd the right that his majesty giveth; Each in his awful supremacy forces B. Taylor.-Born 1825. 1929.-AN ORIENTAL IDYL. A silver javelin which the hills Have hurl'd upon the plain below, The fleetest of the Pharpar's rills, Beneath me shoots in flashing flow. I hear the never-ending laugh Of jostling waves that come and go, And suck the bubbling pipe, and quaff The sherbet cool'd in mountain snow The flecks of sunshine gleam like stars No evil fear, no dream forlorn, Darkens my heaven of perfect blue; My blood is temper'd to the mornMy very heart is steep'd in dew. What Evil is, I cannot tell; But half I guess what Joy may be; And, as a pearl within its shell, The happy spirit sleeps in me. I feel no more the pulse's strife,- Upon the glittering pageantries Of gay Damascus streets I look As idly as a babe that sees The painted pictures of a book. Forgotten now are name and race; The Past is blotted from my brain; For memory sleeps, and will not trace The weary pages o'er again. I only know the morning shines, And sweet the dewy morning ait; But does it play with tendrill'd vines ? Or does it lightly lift my hair ? Deep-sunken in the charm'd repose, This ignorance is bliss extreme: O, pluck me not from out my dream! 1930.-HASSAN TO HIS MARE. Come, my beauty! come, my desert darling! On my shoulder lay thy glossy head! Fear not, though the barley-sack be empty, Here's the half of Hassan's scanty bread. Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty! And thou know'st my water-skin is free: Drink and welcome, for the wells are distant, And my strength and safety lie in thee. Bend thy forehead now, to take my kisses! Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye: Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the saddle Thou art proud he owns thee: so am I. Let the Sultan bring his boasted horses, Prancing with their diamond-studded reins; They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness When they course with thee the desert plains! Let the Sultan bring his famous horses, Let him bring his golden swords to meBring his slaves, his eunuchs, and his harem ; He would offer them in vain for thee. We have seen Damascus, O my beauty! Take them for a handful of thy hair! Khaled sings the praises of his mistress, He will find his passion growing cooler To thy milky dugs shall crouch and cling. In the summers that are past, And the willow trails its branches lower Than when I saw them last. They strive to shut the sunshine wholly To fill the house, that once was joyful, The songs she loved to hear; And still, her footsteps in the passage, Her timid words of maiden welcome I think she has but newly left me, She stays without, perchance, a moment, I hear the rustle of her garments— O, fluttering heart! control thy tumult, She tarries long: but lo, a whisper Beyond the open door, And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, A shadow on the floor! |