« PreviousContinue »
Lo! the Dawn Sprang with Buddh's Victory; lo! in the East
Flamed the first fires of beauteous Day, poured forth
Through fleeting folds of Night's black drapery.
High in the widening blue the herald-star Faded to paler silver as there shot
Brighter and brightest bars of rosy gleam Across the grey. Far off the shadowy hills Saw the great Sun, before the world was 'ware,
And donned their crowns of crimson; flower by flower
Felt the warm breath of Morn, and 'gan unfold
Their tender lids. Over the spangled grass Swept the swift footsteps of the lovely Light,
Turning the tears of Night to joyous gems Decking the earth with radiance, 'broider[fringe, The sinking storm-clouds with a golden Gilding the feathers of the palms which waved
Glad salutation; darting beams of gold
And whispering, Children, praise the Whereat there piped anthems of all the birds,
The koil's fluted song, the bulbul's hymn, The "morning! morning!" of the painted thrush,
The twitter of the sunbirds starting forth To find the honey ere the bees be out, The grey crow's caw, the parrot's scream, the strokes [chirp, Of the green hammersmith, the myna's The never-finished love-talk of the doves: Yea! and so holy was the influence Of that high Dawn which came with victory, [spread
That far and near in homes of men there An unknown peace. The slayer hid his knife; [shroff
The robber laid his plunder back; the Counted full tale of coins; all evil hearts Grew gentle, kind hearts gentler, as the
Of that divinest Daybreak lightened earth. Kings at fierce war called truce; the sick men leaped [smiled Laughing from beds of pain; the dying As though they knew that happy Morn was sprung [East;
From fountains farther than the utmost And over the heart of sad Yasodhara, Sitting forlorn at Prince Siddartha's bed, Came sudden bliss, as if love should not fail,
Nor such vast sorrow miss to end in joy. So glad the world was-though it wist not why[songs
That over desolate wastes went swooning Of mirth, the voice of bodiless Prets and Bhuts,
Foreseeing Buddh; and Devas in the air Cried, "It is finished, finished!" and the priests
Stood with the wondering people in the streets, [the sky, Watching those golden splendours flood
And saying, "There hath happed some mighty thing."
Also in Ran and jungle grew that day Friendship amongst the creatures: spotted deer [cubs, Browsed fearless where the tigress fed her And cheetahs lapped the pool beside the bucks; [scoured, Under the eagle's rock the brown hares While his fierce beak but preened an idle wing;
[beam, The snake sunned all his jewels in the With deadly fangs in sheath; the shrike let pass
The nestling finch; the emerald halcyons Sate dreaming while the fishes played beneath;
Nor hawked the merops, though the butterflies
Crimson, and blue, and amber-flitted thick Around his perch.
A DEAD MAN'S MESSAGE.
See Palgrave's "Arabia."
He who died at Azan sends this, to comfort faithful friends.
FAITHFUL friends! It lies, I know, Pale and cold, and still as snow; And you say, "Abdullah's dead!" Weeping at its feet and head. I can see your falling tears, I can hear your sighs and prayers; Yet I smile, and whisper this, "I am not the thing you kiss; • Cease your wail and let it lie, It was mine; it is not I!"
Sweet friends! what the women lave
Which kept him from the splendid stars.
Loving friends! be wise and dry
'Tis a simple sea-shell, one Out of which the pearl is gone; The shell is nothing-leave it there-The pearl, the soul-was all-is here! 'Tis an earthen pot, whose lid Allah sealed, the while it hid That treasure of His treasury
A mind that loved Him; let it be!
Allah glorious, Allah good,
Lives and loves you;-lost, 'tis true,
In a perfect Paradise,
And a life which never dies.
Farewell friends! yet not farewell:
Be ye certain-all seems love
La Allah, illa Allah," yea,
He that died at Azan gave
The pride which smouldered in his breast; for she
Had ruled his wayward temper as a child, And as he grew to boyhood. He recalled The long dark tresses of her raven hair, Which she would bind across her marble brow,
Her tender, loving eyes, her princely mien,
It is scarcely necessary to tell the well-informed reader that the story of Griselda forms the concluding Novel of the Tenth Day in the "Decameron" of Boccaccio, and that it has been often quoted as the most touching of all the tales which make up that most witty and amusing book.
And the white flowing veil which swept athwart
The sable tokens of her widowed state.
And he would cry when weary of the chase, "Oh! the drear sadness of this lonely state, The vacant chamber where my mother spun,
The vacant chair wherein my mother sate, She whom they say my father 'Constance' called ! [greet
When shall these halls such other inmate As shall be fit to stand where Constance stood?
No, that can never be: I'll hie me then Back to the chase, and in my hounds and hawks
Find some poor solace for a mother's loss.
To live unloved, to see no loving face,
To feel no loving hand, to know no heart That beats and throbs responsive to one's
Walked on the terrace 'neath the castle wall
To greet the Count upon his natal day. And Gualtiero stood amid the crowd Conspicuous by gay dress and manly gait, And easy courteous bearing; and he spake Kind words of friendship now to this, now that,
Waving his plumèd bonnet to the crowd.
Stepped forth six burghers from the rest,
"Most noble Count, son of a noble sire, Nor a less noble mother's son, we crave Audience and due attention at thine hands. We were thy father's vassals; we are thine;
And that allegiance that we paid to him
Of Northern Lombardy or our Tuscan
Would gladly call her Gualtiero's bride,
Forbids me to ambition aught that is
Of Gualtiero, be she who she may,
He spoke: the burghers swore, and straight retired; [path The gay crowd parted, and the terraceLay lonely and deserted as in knots Of twain and three the burghers homeward paced,
Much pondering in perplexed wonder
Fringed with a scanty flower-bed and o'erhung
By a dark grove of olives, intermixed
Was scarcely passing into womanhood,
And prized was she much by her rustic