Dreams and Days: Poems Part 9

"How shall we honor the man who creates?"

Asked the Bedouin chief, the poet Antar;-- "Who unto the truth flings open our gates, Or fashions new thoughts from the light of a star; Or forges with craft of his finger and brain Some marvelous weapon we copy in vain; Or chants to the winds a wild song that shall wander forever undying?

"See! His reward is in envies and hates; In lips that deny, or in stabs that may kill."

"Nay," said the smith; "for there's one here who waits Humbly to serve you with unmeasured skill, Sure that no utmost devotion can fail, Offered to _you_, nor unfriended a.s.sail The heart of the hero and poet Antar, whose fame is undying!"

"Speak," said the chief. Then the smith: "O Antar, It is I who would serve you! I know, by the soul Of the poet within you, no envy can bar The stream of your grat.i.tude,--once let it roll.

Listen. The lightning, your camel that slew, _I_ caught, and wrought in this sword-blade for you;-- Sword that no foe shall encounter unhurt, or depart from undying."

Burst from the eyes of Antar a swift rain,--Grat.i.tude's glittering drops,--as he threw One shining arm round the smith, like a chain.

Closer the man to his bosom he drew; Thankful, caressing, with "Great is my debt."

"Yea," said the smith, and his eyelids were wet: "I knew the sword Dham would unite me with you in an honor undying."

"So?" asked the chief, as his thumb-point at will Silently over the sword's edge played.

--"Ay!" said the smith, "but there's one thing, still: Who is the smiter, shall smite with this blade?"

Jealous, their eyes met; and fury awoke.

"_I_ am the smiter!" Antar cried. One stroke Rolled the smith's head from his neck, and gave him remembrance undying.

"Seek now who may, no search will avail: No man the mate of this weapon shall own!"

Yet, in his triumph, the chieftain made wail: "Slain is the craftsman, the one friend alone Able to honor the man who creates.

I slew him--_I_, who am poet! O fates, Grant that the envious blade slaying artists shall make them undying!"

"AT THE GOLDEN GATE"

Before the golden gate she stands, With drooping head, with idle hands Loose-clasped, and bent beneath the weight Of unseen woe. Too late, too late!

Those carved and fretted, Starred, resetted Panels shall not open ever To her who seeks the perfect mate.

Only the tearless enter there: Only the soul that, like a prayer, No bolt can stay, no wall may bar, Shall dream the dreams grief cannot mar.

No door of cedar, Alas, shall lead her Unto the stream that shows forever Love's face like some reflected star!

They say that golden barrier hides A realm where deathless spring abides; Where flowers shall fade not, and there floats Thro' moon-rays mild or sunlit motes-- 'Mid dewy alleys That gird the palace, And fountain'd spray's unceasing quiver-- A dulcet rain of song-birds' notes.

The sultan lord knew not her name; But to the door that fair shape came: The hour had struck, the way was right, Traced by her lamp's pale, flickering light.

But ah, whose error Has brought this terror?

Whose fault has foiled her fond endeavor?

The gate swings to: her hope takes flight.

The harp, the song, the nightingales She hears, beyond. The night-wind wails Without, to sound of feast within, While here she stands, shut out by sin.

And be that revel Of angel or devil, She longs to sit beside the giver, That she at last her prize may win.

Her lamp has fallen; her eyes are wet; Frozen she stands, she lingers yet; But through the garden's gladness steals A whisper that each heart congeals-- A moan of grieving Beyond relieving, Which makes the proudest of them shiver.

And suddenly the sultan kneels!

The lamp was quenched; he found her dead, When dawn had turned the threshold red.

Her face was calm and sad as fate: His sin, not hers, made her too late.

Some think, unbidden She brought him, hidden, A truer bliss that came back never To him, unblest, who closed the gate.

CHARITY

I

Unarmed she goeth; yet her hands Strike deeper awe than steel-caparison'd bands.

No fatal hurt of foe she fears,-- Veiled, as with mail, in mist of gentle tears.

II

'Gainst her thou canst not bar the door: Like air she enters, where none dared before.

Even to the rich she can forgive Their regal selfishness,--and let them live!

HELEN AT THE LOOM

Helen, in her silent room, Weaves upon the upright loom; Weaves a mantle rich and dark, Purpled over, deep. But mark How she scatters o'er the wool Woven shapes, till it is full Of men that struggle close, complex; Short-clipp'd steeds with wrinkled necks Arching high; spear, shield, and all The panoply that doth recall Mighty war; such war as e'en For Helen's sake is waged, I ween.

Purple is the groundwork: good!

All the field is stained with blood-- Blood poured out for Helen's sake; (Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!) But the shapes of men that pa.s.s Are as ghosts within a gla.s.s, Woven with whiteness of the swan, Pale, sad memories, gleaming wan From the garment's purple fold Where Troy's tale is twined and told.

Well may Helen, as with tender Touch of rosy fingers slender She doth knit the story in Of Troy's sorrow and her sin, Feel sharp filaments of pain Reeled off with the well-spun skein, And faint blood-stains on her hands From the shifting, sanguine strands.

Gently, sweetly she doth sorrow: What has been must be to-morrow; Meekly to her fate she bows.

Heavenly beauties still will rouse Strife and savagery in men: Shall the lucid heavens, then, Lose their high serenity, Sorrowing over what must be?

If she taketh to her shame, Lo, they give her not the blame,-- Priam's wisest counselors, Aged men, not loving wars.

When she goes forth, clad in white, Day-cloud touched by first moonlight, With her fair hair, amber-hued As vapor by the moon imbued With burning brown, that round her clings, See, she sudden silence brings On the gloomy whisperers Who would make the wrong all hers.

So, Helen, in thy silent room, Labor at the storied loom; (Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!) Let thy aching sorrow make Something strangely beautiful Of this fabric; since the wool Comes so tinted from the Fates, Dyed with loves, hopes, fears, and hates.

Thou shalt work with subtle force All thy deep shade of remorse In the texture of the weft, That no stain on thee be left;-- Ay, false queen, shalt fashion grief, Grief and wrong, to soft relief.

Speed the garment! It may chance, Long hereafter, meet the glance, Of Oenone; when her lord, Now thy Paris, shall go tow'rd Ida, at his last sad end, Seeking her, his early friend, Who alone can cure his ill, Of all who love him, if she will.

It were fitting she should see In that hour thine artistry, And her husband's speechless corse In the garment of remorse!

But take heed that in thy work Naught unbeautiful may lurk.

Ah, how little signifies Unto thee what fortunes rise, What others fall! Thou still shall rule, Still shalt twirl the colored spool.

Though thy yearning woman's eyes Burn with glorious agonies, Pitying the waste and woe, And the heroes falling low In the war around thee, here, Yet the least, quick-trembling tear 'Twixt thy lids shall dearer be Than life, to friend or enemy.

There are people on the earth Doomed with doom of too great worth.