Part 3

THE king’s lone road, his visit, his return, Were not unknown to Dalica, nor long The wondrous tale from royal ears delayed. When the young queen had heard who taught the rites Her mind was shaken, and what first she asked Was, whether the sea-maids were very fair, And was it true that even gods were moved By female charms beneath the waves profound, And joined to them in marriage, and had sons— Who knows but Gebir sprang then from the gods! He that could pity, he that could obey, Flattered both female youth and princely pride, The same ascending from amid the shades Showed Power in frightful attitude: the queen Marks the surpassing prodigy, and strives To shake off terror in her crowded court, And wonders why she trembles, nor suspects How Fear and Love assume each other’s form, By birth and secret compact how allied. Vainly (to conscious virgins I appeal), Vainly with crouching tigers, prowling wolves, Rocks, precipices, waves, storms, thunderbolts, All his immense inheritance, would Fear The simplest heart, should Love refuse, assail: Consent—the maiden’s pillowed ear imbibes Constancy, honour, truth, fidelity, Beauty and ardent lips and longing arms; Then fades in glimmering distance half the scene, Then her heart quails and flutters and would fly— ’Tis her belovéd! not to her! ye Powers! What doubting maid exacts the vow? behold Above the myrtles his protesting hand! Such ebbs of doubt and swells of jealousy Toss the fond bosom in its hour of sleep And float around the eyelids and sink through. Lo! mirror of delight in cloudless days, Lo! thy reflection: ’twas when I exclaimed, With kisses hurried as if each foresaw Their end, and reckoned on our broken bonds, And could at such a price such loss endure: “Oh, what to faithful lovers met at morn, What half so pleasant as imparted fears!” Looking recumbent how love’s column rose Marmoreal, trophied round with golden hair, How in the valley of one lip unseen He slumbered, one his unstrung low impressed. Sweet wilderness of soul-entangling charms! Led back by memory, and each blissful maze Retracing, me with magic power detain Those dimpled cheeks, those temples violet-tinged, Those lips of nectar and those eyes of heaven! Charoba, though indeed she never drank The liquid pearl, or twined the nodding crown, Or when she wanted cool and calm repose Dreamed of the crawling asp and grated tomb, Was wretched up to royalty: the jibe Struck her, most piercing where love pierced before, From those whose freedom centres in their tongue, Handmaidens, pages, courtiers, priests, buffoons. Congratulations here, there prophecies, Here children, not repining at neglect While tumult sweeps them ample room for play, Everywhere questions answered ere begun, Everywhere crowds, for everywhere alarm. Thus winter gone, nor spring (though near) arrived, Urged slanting onward by the bickering breeze That issues from beneath Aurora’s car, Shudder the sombrous waves; at every beam More vivid, more by every breath impelled, Higher and higher up the fretted rocks Their turbulent refulgence they display. Madness, which like the spiral element The more it seizes on the fiercer burns, Hurried them blindly forward, and involved In flame the senses and in gloom the soul. Determined to protect the country’s gods And asking their protection, they adjure Each other to stand forward, and insist With zeal, and trample under foot the slow; And disregardful of the Sympathies Divine, those Sympathies whose delicate hand Touching the very eyeball of the heart, Awakens it, not wounds it nor inflames, Blind wretches! they with desperate embrace Hang on the pillar till the temple fall. Oft the grave judge alarms religious wealth And rouses anger under gentle words. Woe to the wiser few who dare to cry “People! these men are not your enemies, Inquire their errand, and resist when wronged.” Together childhood, priesthood, womanhood, The scribes and elders of the land, exclaim, “Seek they not hidden treasure in the tombs? Raising the ruins, levelling the dust, Who can declare whose ashes they disturb! Build they not fairer cities than our own, Extravagant enormous apertures For light, and portals larger, open courts Where all ascending all are unconfined, And wider streets in purer air than ours? Temples quite plain with equal architraves They build, nor bearing gods like ours embossed. Oh, profanation! Oh, our ancestors!” Though all the vulgar hate a foreign face, It more offends weak eyes and homely age, Dalica most, who thus her aim pursued. “My promise, O Charoba, I perform. Proclaim to gods and men a festival Throughout the land, and bid the strangers eat; Their anger thus we haply may disarm.” “O Dalica,” the grateful queen replied, “Nurse of my childhood, soother of my cares, Preventer of my wishes, of my thoughts, Oh, pardon youth, oh, pardon royalty! If hastily to Dalica I sued, Fear might impel me, never could distrust. Go then, for wisdom guides thee, take my name, Issue what most imports and best beseems, And sovereignty shall sanction the decree.” And now Charoba was alone, her heart Grew lighter; she sat down, and she arose, She felt voluptuous tenderness, but felt That tenderness for Dalica; she praised Her kind attention, warm solicitude, Her wisdom—for what wisdom pleased like hers! She was delighted; should she not behold Gebir? she blushed; but she had words to speak, She formed them and re-formed them, with regret That there was somewhat lost with every change; She could replace them—what would that avail?— Moved from their order they have lost their charm. While thus she strewed her way with softest words, Others grew up before her, but appeared A plenteous rather than perplexing choice: She rubbed her palms with pleasure, heaved a sigh, Grew calm again, and thus her thoughts revolved— “But he descended to the tombs! the thought Thrills me, I must avow it, with affright. And wherefore? shows he not the more beloved Of heaven? or how ascends he back to day? Then has he wronged me? could he want a cause Who has an army and was bred to reign? And yet no reasons against rights he urged, He threatened not, proclaimed not; I approached, He hastened on; I spake, he listened; wept, He pitied me; he loved me, he obeyed; He was a conqueror, still am I a queen.” She thus indulged fond fancies, when the sound Of timbrels and of cymbals struck her ear, And horns and howlings of wild jubilee. She feared, and listened to confirm her fears; One breath sufficed, and shook her refluent soul. Smiting, with simulated smile constrained, Her beauteous bosom, “Oh, perfidious man! Oh, cruel foe!” she twice and thrice exclaimed, “Oh, my companions equal-aged! my throne, My people! Oh, how wretched to presage This day, how tenfold wretched to endure!” She ceased, and instantly the palace rang With gratulation roaring into rage— ’Twas her own people. “Health to Gebir! health To our compatriot subjects! to our queen! Health and unfaded youth ten thousand years!” Then went the victims forward crowned with flowers, Crowned were tame crocodiles, and boys white-robed Guided their creaking crests across the stream. In gilded barges went the female train, And hearing others ripple near, undrew The veil of sea-green awning: if they found Whom they desired, how pleasant was the breeze! If not, the frightful water forced a sigh. Sweet airs of music ruled the rowing palms, Now rose they glistening and aslant reclined, Now they descended, and with one consent Plunging, seemed swift each other to pursue, And now to tremble wearied o’er the wave. Beyond and in the suburbs might be seen Crowds of all ages: here in triumph passed Not without pomp, though raised with rude device, The monarch and Charoba; there a throng Shone out in sunny whiteness o’er the reeds. Nor could luxuriant youth, or lapsing age Propped by the corner of the nearest street, With aching eyes and tottering knees intent, Loose leathery neck and worm-like lip outstretched, Fix long the ken upon one form, so swift Through the gay vestures fluttering on the bank, And through the bright-eyed waters dancing round, Wove they their wanton wiles and disappeared. Meantime, with pomp august and solemn, borne On four white camels tinkling plates of gold, Heralds before and Ethiop slaves behind, Each with the signs of office in his hand, Each on his brow the sacred stamp of years, The four ambassadors of peace proceed. Rich carpets bear they, corn and generous wine, The Syrian olive’s cheerful gift they bear, With stubborn goats that eye the mountain tops Askance and riot with reluctant horn, And steeds and stately camels in their train. The king, who sat before his tent, descried The dust rise reddened from the setting sun. Through all the plains below the Gadite men Were resting from their labour; some surveyed The spacious site ere yet obstructed—walls Already, soon will roofs have interposed; Some ate their frugal viands on the steps Contented; some, remembering home, prefer The cot’s bare rafters o’er the gilded dome, And sing, for often sighs, too, end in song: “In smiling meads how sweet the brook’s repose, To the rough ocean and red restless sands! Where are the woodland voices that increased Along the unseen path on festal days, When lay the dry and outcast arbutus On the fane step, and the first privet-flowers Threw their white light upon the vernal shrine?” Some heedless trip along with hasty step Whistling, and fix too soon on their abodes: Haply and one among them with his spear Measures the lintel, if so great its height As will receive him with his helm unlowered. But silence went throughout, e’en thoughts were hushed, When to full view of navy and of camp Now first expanded the bare-headed train. Majestic, unpresuming, unappalled, Onward they marched, and neither to the right Nor to the left, though there the city stood, Turned they their sober eyes; and now they reached Within a few steep paces of ascent The lone pavilion of the Iberian king. He saw them, he awaited them, he rose, He hailed them, “Peace be with you:” they replied, “King of the western world, be with you peace.”

FIFTH BOOK.

ONCE a fair city, courted then by king, Mistress of nations, thronged by palaces, Raising her head o’er destiny, her face Glowing with pleasure and with palms refreshed, Now pointed at by Wisdom or by Wealth, Bereft of beauty, bare of ornaments, Stood in the wilderness of woe, Masar. Ere far advancing, all appeared a plain; Treacherous and fearful mountains, far advanced. Her glory so gone down, at human step The fierce hyena frighted from the walls Bristled his rising back, his teeth unsheathed, Drew the long growl and with slow foot retired. Yet were remaining some of ancient race, And ancient arts were now their sole delight: With Time’s first sickle they had marked the hour When at their incantation would the Moon Start back, and shuddering shed blue blasted light. The rifted rays they gathered, and immersed In potent portion of that wondrous wave, Which, hearing rescued Israel, stood erect, And led her armies through his crystal gates. Hither (none shared her way, her counsel none) Hied the Masarian Dalica: ’twas night, And the still breeze fell languid on the waste. She, tired with journey long and ardent thoughts Stopped; and before the city she descried A female form emerge above the sands. Intent she fixed her eyes, and on herself Relying, with fresh vigour bent her way; Nor disappeared the woman, but exclaimed, One hand retaining tight her folded vest, “Stranger, who loathest life, there lies Masar. Begone, nor tarry longer, or ere morn The cormorant in his solitary haunt Of insulated rock or sounding cove Stands on thy bleachéd bones and screams for prey. My lips can scatter them a hundred leagues, So shrivelled in one breath as all the sands We tread on could not in as many years. Wretched who die nor raise their sepulchre! Therefore begone.” But Dalica unawed (Though in her withered but still firm right-hand Held up with imprecations hoarse and deep Glimmered her brazen sickle, and enclosed Within its figured curve the fading moon) Spake thus aloud. “By yon bright orb of Heaven, In that most sacred moment when her beam Guided first thither by the forkéd shaft, Strikes through the crevice of Arishtah’s tower—” “Sayst thou?” astonished cried the sorceress, “Woman of outer darkness, fiend of death, From what inhuman cave, what dire abyss, Hast thou invisible that spell o’erheard? What potent hand hath touched thy quickened corse, What song dissolved thy cerements, who unclosed Those faded eyes and filled them from the stars? But if with inextinguished light of life Thou breathest, soul and body unamerced, Then whence that invocation? who hath dared Those hallowed words, divulging, to profane?” Dalica cried, “To heaven, not earth, addressed, Prayers for protection cannot be profane.” Here the pale sorceress turned her face aside Wildly, and muttered to herself amazed; “I dread her who, alone at such an hour, Can speak so strangely, who can thus combine The words of reason with our gifted rites, Yet will I speak once more.—If thou hast seen The city of Charoba, hast thou marked The steps of Dalica?” “What then?” “The tongue Of Dalica has then our rites divulged.” “Whose rites?” “Her sister’s, mother’s, and her own.” “Never.” “How sayst thou never? one would think, Presumptuous, thou wert Dalica.” “I am, Woman, and who art thou?” With close embrace, Clung the Masarian round her neck, and cried: “Art thou then not my sister? ah, I fear The golden lamps and jewels of a court Deprive thine eyes of strength and purity. O Dalica, mine watch the waning moon, For ever patient in our mother’s art, And rest on Heaven suspended, where the founts Of Wisdom rise, where sound the wings of Power; Studies intense of strong and stern delight! And thou too, Dalica, so many years Weaned from the bosom of thy native land, Returnest back and seekest true repose. Oh, what more pleasant than the short-breathed sigh When laying down your burden at the gate, And dizzy with long wandering, you embrace The cool and quiet of a homespun bed.” “Alas,” said Dalica, “though all commend This choice, and many meet with no control, Yet none pursue it! Age by Care oppressed Feels for the couch, and drops into the grave. The tranquil scene lies further still from Youth: Frenzied Ambition and desponding Love Consume Youth’s fairest flowers; compared with Youth Age has a something something like repose. Myrthyr, I seek not here a boundary Like the horizon, which, as you advance, Keeping its form and colour, yet recedes; But mind my errand, and my suit perform. Twelve years ago Charoba first could speak: If her indulgent father asked her name, She would indulge him too, and would reply ‘What? why, Charoba!’ raised with sweet surprise, And proud to shine a teacher in her turn. Show her the graven sceptre; what its use? ’Twas to beat dogs with, and to gather flies. She thought the crown a plaything to amuse Herself, and not the people, for she thought Who mimic infant words might infant toys: But while she watched grave elders look with awe On such a bauble, she withheld her breath; She was afraid her parents should suspect They had caught childhood from her in a kiss; She blushed for shame, and feared—for she believed. Yet was not courage wanting in the child. No; I have often seen her with both hands Shake a dry crocodile of equal height, And listen to the shells within the scales, And fancy there was life, and yet apply The jagged jaws wide open to her ear. Past are three summers since she first beheld The ocean; all around the child await Some exclamation of amazement here: She coldly said, her long-lashed eyes abased, ‘Is this the mighty ocean? is this all!’ That wondrous soul Charoba once possessed, Capacious then as earth or heaven could hold, Soul discontented with capacity, Is gone, I fear, for ever. Need I say She was enchanted by the wicked spells Of Gebir, whom with lust of power inflamed The western winds have landed on our coast? I since have watched her in each lone retreat, Have heard her sigh and soften out the name, Then would she change it for Egyptian sounds More sweet, and seem to taste them on her lips, Then loathe them—Gebir, Gebir still returned. Who would repine, of reason not bereft! For soon the sunny stream of youth runs down, And not a gadfly streaks the lake beyond. Lone in the gardens, on her gathered vest How gently would her languid arm recline! How often have I seen her kiss a flower, And on cool mosses press her glowing cheek! Nor was the stranger free from pangs himself. Whether by spell imperfect, or while brewed The swelling herbs infected him with foam, Oft have the shepherds met him wandering Through unfrequented paths, oft overheard Deep groans, oft started from soliloquies Which they believe assuredly were meant For spirits who attended him unseen. But when from his illuded eyes retired That figure Fancy fondly chose to raise, He clasped the vacant air and stood and gazed; Then owning it was folly, strange to tell, Burst into peals of laughter at his woes. Next, when his passion had subsided, went Where from a cistern, green and ruined, oozed A little rill, soon lost; there gathered he Violets, and harebells of a sister bloom, Twining complacently their tender stems With plants of kindest pliability. These for a garland woven, for a crown He platted pithy rushes, and ere dusk The grass was whitened with their roots nipped off. These threw he, finished, in the little rill And stood surveying them with steady smile: But such a smile as that of Gebir bids To Comfort a defiance, to Despair A welcome, at whatever hour she please. Had I observed him I had pitied him; I have observed Charoba, I have asked If she loved Gebir. ‘Love him!’ she exclaimed With such a start of terror, such a flush Of anger, ‘I love Gebir? I in love?’ And looked so piteous, so impatient looked— And burst, before I answered, into tears. Then saw I, plainly saw I, ’twas not love; For such her natural temper, what she likes She speaks it out, or rather she commands. And could Charoba say with greater ease Bring me a water-melon from the Nile,’ Than, if she loved him, ‘Bring me him I love.’ Therefore the death of Gebir is resolved.” “Resolved indeed,” cried Myrthyr, nought surprised, “Precious my arts! I could without remorse Kill, though I hold thee dearer than the day, E’en thee thyself, to exercise my arts. Look yonder! mark yon pomp of funeral! Is this from fortune or from favouring stars? Dalica, look thou yonder, what a train! What weeping! Oh, what luxury! Come, haste, Gather me quickly up these herbs I dropped, And then away—hush! I must unobserved From those two maiden sisters pull the spleen: Dissemblers! how invidious they surround The virgin’s tomb, where all but virgins weep.” “Nay, hear me first,” cried Dalica; “’tis hard To perish to attend a foreign king.” “Perish! and may not then mine eye alone Draw out the venom drop, and yet remain Enough? the portion cannot be perceived.” Away she hastened with it to her home, And, sprinkling thrice flesh sulphur o’er the hearth, Took up a spindle with malignant smile, And pointed to a woof, nor spake a word; ’Twas a dark purple, and its dye was dread. Plunged in a lonely house, to her unknown, Now Dalica first trembled: o’er the roof Wandered her haggard eyes—’twas some relief. The massy stones, though hewn most roughly, showed The hand of man had once at least been there: But from this object sinking back amazed, Her bosom lost all consciousness, and shook As if suspended in unbounded space. Her thus entranced the sister’s voice recalled. “Behold it here dyed once again! ’tis done.” Dalica stepped, and felt beneath her feet The slippery floor, with mouldered dust bestrewn; But Myrthyr seized with bare bold-sinewed arm The grey cerastes, writhing from her grasp, And twisted off his horn, nor feared to squeeze The viscous poison from his glowing gums. Nor wanted there the root of stunted shrub Which he lays ragged, hanging o’er the sands, And whence the weapons of his wrath are death: Nor the blue urchin that with clammy fin Holds down the tossing vessel for the tides. Together these her scient hand combined, And more she added, dared I mention more. Which done, with words most potent, thrice she dipped The reeking garb; thrice waved it through the air: She ceased; and suddenly the creeping wool Shrunk up with crispèd dryness in her hands. “Take this,” she cried, “and Gebir is no more.”

SIXTH BOOK.