Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan Part 12

FRANCE.

1870.

Not dead,--oh no,--she cannot die!

Only a swoon, from loss of blood!

Levite England pa.s.ses her by, Help, Samaritan! None is nigh; Who shall stanch me this sanguine flood?

Range the brown hair, it blinds her eyne, Dash cold water over her face!

Drowned in her blood, she makes no sign, Give her a draught of generous wine.

None heed, none hear, to do this grace.

Head of the human column, thus Ever in swoon wilt thou remain?

Thought, Freedom, Truth, quenched ominous, Whence then shall Hope arise for us, Plunged in the darkness all again!

No, she stirs!--There's a fire in her glance, Ware, oh ware of that broken sword!

What, dare ye for an hour's mischance, Gather around her, jeering France, Attila's own exultant horde?

Lo, she stands up,--stands up e'en now, Strong once more for the battle-fray, Gleams bright the star, that from her brow Lightens the world. Bow, nations, bow, Let her again lead on the way!

THE TREE OF LIFE.

Broad daylight, with a sense of weariness!

Mine eyes were closed, but I was not asleep, My hand was in my father's, and I felt His presence near me. Thus we often past In silence, hour by hour. What was the need Of interchanging words when every thought That in our hearts arose, was known to each, And every pulse kept time? Suddenly there shone A strange light, and the scene as sudden changed.

I was awake:--It was an open plain Illimitable,--stretching, stretching--oh, so far!

And o'er it that strange light,--a glorious light Like that the stars shed over fields of snow In a clear, cloudless, frosty winter night, Only intenser in its brilliance calm.

And in the midst of that vast plain, I saw, For I was wide awake,--it was no dream, A tree with spreading branches and with leaves Of divers kinds,--dead silver and live gold, Shimmering in radiance that no words may tell!

Beside the tree an Angel stood; he plucked A few small sprays, and bound them round my head.

Oh, the delicious touch of those strange leaves!

No longer throbbed my brows, no more I felt The fever in my limbs--"And oh," I cried, "Bind too my father's forehead with these leaves."

One leaf the Angel took and therewith touched His forehead, and then gently whispered "Nay!"

Never, oh never had I seen a face More beautiful than that Angel's, or more full Of holy pity and of love divine.

Wondering I looked awhile,--then, all at once Opened my tear-dimmed eyes--When lo! the light Was gone--the light as of the stars when snow Lies deep upon the ground. No more, no more, Was seen the Angel's face. I only found My father watching patient by my bed, And holding in his own, close-prest, my hand.

ON THE FLY-LEAF OF ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN'S NOVEL ENt.i.tLED "MADAME THeReSE."

Wavered the foremost soldiers,--then fell back.

Fallen was their leader, and loomed right before The sullen Prussian cannon, grim and black, With lighted matches waving. Now, once more, Patriots and veterans!--Ah! 'Tis in vain!

Back they recoil, though bravest of the brave; No human troops may stand that murderous rain; But who is this--that rushes to a grave?

It is a woman,--slender, tall, and brown!

She s.n.a.t.c.hes up the standard as it falls,-- In her hot haste tumbles her dark hair down, And to the drummer-boy aloud she calls To beat the charge; then forwards on the _pont_ They dash together;--who could bear to see A woman and a child, thus Death confront, Nor burn to follow them to victory?

I read the story and my heart beats fast!

Well might all Europe quail before thee, France, Battling against oppression! Years have past, Yet of that time men speak with moistened glance.

_Va-nu-pieds!_ When rose high your Ma.r.s.eillaise Man knew his rights to earth's remotest bound, And tyrants trembled. Yours alone the praise!

Ah, had a Washington but then been found!

SONNET.--BAUGMAREE.

A sea of foliage girds our garden round, But not a sea of dull unvaried green, Sharp contrasts of all colours here are seen; The light-green graceful tamarinds abound Amid the mangoe clumps of green profound, And palms arise, like pillars gray, between; And o'er the quiet pools the seemuls lean, Red,--red, and startling like a trumpet's sound.

But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes Into a cup of silver. One might swoon Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze On a primeval Eden, in amaze.

SONNET.--THE LOTUS.

Love came to Flora asking for a flower That would of flowers be undisputed queen, The lily and the rose, long, long had been Rivals for that high honour. Bards of power Had sung their claims. "The rose can never tower Like the pale lily with her Juno mien"-- "But is the lily lovelier?" Thus between Flower-factions rang the strife in Psyche's bower.

"Give me a flower delicious as the rose And stately as the lily in her pride"-- "But of what colour?"--"Rose-red," Love first chose, Then prayed,--"No, lily-white,--or, both provide;"

And Flora gave the lotus, "rose-red" dyed, And "lily-white,"--the queenliest flower that blows.

OUR CASUARINA TREE.

Like a huge Python, winding round and round The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars Up to its very summit near the stars, A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound No other tree could live. But gallantly The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung In crimson cl.u.s.ters all the boughs among, Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee; And oft at nights the garden overflows With one sweet song that seems to have no close, Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose.

When first my cas.e.m.e.nt is wide open thrown At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest; Sometimes, and most in winter,--on its crest A grey baboon sits statue-like alone Watching the sunrise; while on lower boughs His puny offspring leap about and play; And far and near kokilas hail the day; And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows; And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast By that h.o.a.r tree, so beautiful and vast, The water-lilies spring, like snow enma.s.sed.

But not because of its magnificence Dear is the Casuarina to my soul: Beneath it we have played; though years may roll, O sweet companions, loved with love intense, For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear!

Blent with your images, it shall arise In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes!

What is that dirge-like murmur that I hear Like the sea breaking on a shingle-beach?

It is the tree's lament, an eerie speech, That haply to the unknown land may reach.

Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith!

Ah, I have heard that wail far, far away In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay, When slumbered in his cave the water-wraith And the waves gently kissed the cla.s.sic sh.o.r.e Of France or Italy, beneath the moon, When earth lay tranced in a dreamless swoon: And every time the music rose,--before Mine inner vision rose a form sublime, Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy prime I saw thee, in my own loved native clime.

Therefore I fain would consecrate a lay Unto thy honour, Tree, beloved of those Who now in blessed sleep, for aye, repose, Dearer than life to me, alas! were they!

Mayst thou be numbered when my days are done With deathless trees--like those in Borrowdale, Under whose awful branches lingered pale "Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton, And Time the shadow;" and though weak the verse That would thy beauty fain, oh fain rehea.r.s.e, May Love defend thee from Oblivion's curse.