Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse Part 8

"Wife, mirror'd here too deep to see, "A little way down yonder path, "And I will show the form which hath "Enchanted thee, and me."

XI

Kadisha is a streamlet fair, Which hurries down the pebbled way, As one who hath small time to spare, So far to go, so much to say To summer air;

Sometimes the wavelets wimple in O'erlapping tiers of crystal shelves, And little circles dimple in, As if the waters quaffed themselves, The while they spin:

Thence in a clear pool, overbent With lotus-tree and tamarind flower, Empearled, and lulled in golden bower, Kadisha sleeps content.

XII

Their steps awoke the quiet dell; The first of men was smiling gay; Still trembled Eve beneath the spell, The mystery of that pa.s.sion-sway She could not quell.

As they approached the silver strand, He plucked a moss-rose budding sweetly, And wreathing bright her tresses' band, Therein he set the blossom featly, And took her hand:

He led her past the maiden-hair, Forget-me-not, and meadow-sweet, Until the margin held her feet, Like water-lilies fain

XIII

"Behold," he cried, "on yonder wave, The only one with whom I stray, The only image still I have, Too often, even while I pray To Him who gave.

The form she saw was long unknown, Except as that beheld yestreen; Till viewing, not that form alone, But his, with hands enclasped between, She guessed her own.

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And, bending o'er in sweet surprise, Perused, with simple child's delight, The flowing hair, and forehead white, And soft inquiring eyes.

XIV

Then, blushing to a fairer tint Than waves might ever hope to catch, "I see," she cried, "a lovely print; But surely I can never match This lily glint!

"So pure, so innocent, and bright, So charming free, without endeavour, So fancy-touched with pensive light I I think that I could gaze for ever, With new delight

"And now that rose-bud in my hair, Perhaps it should be placed above-- And yet, I will not change it, love, Since mou hast set it there.

XV

"Vain Eve, why glory thus in Eve?

What matter Tor thy form or face?

Thy beauty is, if love believe Thee worthy of that treasured place Thou ne'er shalt leave.

"Oh, husband; mine and mine alone, Take back my faith that dared to wander; Forgive my joy to have thee shown Not transient, as thine image yonder, But all my own.

"And, love, if this be vain of me, This pleasure, and the pride I take; Tis only for thy dearer sake, To be so fair to thee."

XVI

No more she said; but smiling fell, And lost her sorrow on his breast; Her love-bright eyes upon him dwell, Like troubled waters laid at rest In comfort's well:

Tis nothing more, an' if she weep, Than joy she cannot else reveal; As onyx-gems of Pison keep A tear-vein, where the sun may steal Throughout their deep.

May every Adam's fairer part Thus, only thus, a rival find-- The image of herself, enshrined Within the faithful heart!

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MOUNT ARAFA

IN TWO PARTS

"Mount Arafa, situated about a mile from Mecca, is held in great veneration by the Mussulmans, as a place very proper for penitence. Its fitness in this respect is accounted for by a tradition that Adam and Eve, on being banished out of Paradise, in order to do penance for their transgression were parted from each other, and after a separation of six score years, met again upon this mountain." Ockley's "_History of the Saracens_," p. 60

THE PARTING

I

Driven away from Eden's gate With biasing falchions fenced about, Into a desert desolate, A miserable pair came out, To meet their fate.

To wander in a world of woe, To ache and starve, to burn and shiver, With every living thing their foe-- The fire of G.o.d above, the river Of death below.

Of home, of hope, of Heaven bereft; It is the destiny of man To cower beneath his Maker's ban, And hide from his own theft!

II

The father of a world unborn-- Who hath begotten death, ere life-- In sullen silence plods forlorn; His love and pride in his fair wife Are rage and scorn.

Instead of Angel ministers, What hath he now but fiends devouring; Instead of grapes and melons, burs; In lieu of manna, crab and souring-- By whose fault? Hers!

Alack, good sire of feeble knees, New penance waits thee; since--when thus Thou shouldst have wept for all of us-- Thou mournest thine own ease I

III

The mother of all loving wives (Condemned unborn to many a tear) Is fain to take his hand, and strives In sorrow to be doubly dear-- But shame deprives.

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The shame, the woe, the black surprise, That love's first dream should have such ending, To weep, and wipe neglected eyes I Oh loss of true love, far transcending Lost Paradise!

For is it faith, that cannot live One gloomy hour, and soar above The clouds of fate? And is it love, That will not e'en forgive?

IV

The houseless monarch of the earth Hath quickly found what empire means; For while he scoffs with bitter mirth, And curses, after Eden's scenes, This dreary dearth.