AN EASTERN LEGEND

True love's regale is incomplete,

‘ Till bitter leaven make it sweet;

Accept not then our tale amiss,

That jealousy was part of bliss;

But rather note a mercy here,

That fact was thus outrun by fear;

And so, before the harder bout,

When sin must be encountered too,

A woman's heart already knew

The way to conquer doubt

“When sleep was in the summer air,

And stars looked down on Paradise,

And palms and cedars answered fair

The visionary night-wind's sighs,

And murmuring prayer:

When every flower was in its hood

( By clasps of diamond dew retained ),

Or sunk to elude Phalcena's brood,

Down slumber's breast with shadows veined,

In solitude:

The citron, stephanote, and rose,

Pomegranate, hoya, calycanth,

And yet unwanted amaranth,

Were sweetness in repose:

When rivulets were loth to creep,

Except unto the pillow moss,

And distant lake, encurtained deep,

Was but a silver thread across

The eyes of sleep:

When nightingales, in the sycamore,

Sang low and soft, as an echo dreaming;

And slept the moon upon heaven's shore —

The tidal shore of heaven, beaming

With lazuled ore:

When new-born earth was fain to lean

In Summer's arms, recovering

The unaccustomed toil of Spring,

Why slept not Eve, their Queen?

Upon a smooth fern-mantled stone

She sat, and watched the wicket-gate,

Not timid in her woman's throne,

Nor lonely in her sinless state,

Though all alone;

For having spread her simple board

With grapes, and peaches, milk, and flowers,

She strewed sweet mastic o'er the sward,

And waited through the bridal hours

Step of her lord.

Such innocence around her breathed,

And freshness of young nature's play,

The sensitive plant shrank not away,

And cactus’ swords were sheathed.

The vision of her beauty fell,

Like music on a moonlit place,

Or trembles of a silver bell,

Or memories of a sacred face,

Too dear to tell:

The grace that wandered free of laws,

The look that lit the heart's confession,

Had never dreamed how fair it was;

Nor guessed that purity's expression

Is beauty's cause:

No more that unenquiring heart

Perused the sweet home of her breast,

Than turtle-doves unline their nest

To scan the outer part

Although, in all that garden fair,

Whate'er delight abode, or grew,

Flowers, and trees, and balmy air,

Fountains, and birds, and heaven blue

Beyond compare:

In her their various charms had met,

And grown more varied by combining,

As budded plants do give and get,

Each inmate doubling while resigning

His several debt:

And yet she nursed one joy, above

Her thousand charms, nor bora of them,

But blooming on a single stem —

Her true faith in her love.

And though, before she heard his foot,

The moon had climbed the homestead palm,

Flinging to her the shadowed fruit,

And tree-frogs ceased to break the calm,

And birds were mute,

With sudden transport ever new,

She blushed, and sprang from forth the bower,

Her eyes, as bright as moon-lit dew,

Her bosom glad as snow-veiled flower,

When sun shines through;

He, with a natural dignity

Untaught self-consciousness by harm,

Sustained her with his manly arm,

And smiled upon her glee.

Next day, when early evening shone

Along the walks of Paradise,

Strewing with gold the hills, her throne,

Embarrassing the winds with spice

( Too rich a loan ),

Fair Eve was in her bower of ease,

A cool arcade of fruit and flowers,

From North and East enclasped by trees,

But open to the Western showers,

And Southern breeze.

Here followed she her gardening trade,

Her favourites’ simple needs attending,

And singing soft, above them bending,

A song herself had made.

In evening's calm, she walked between

The tints and shades of rich delight,

While overhead came, arching green,

Many a shrub and parasite,

To crown their Queen;

There laughed the joy of the rose, among

Myrtle and Iris, heaven's eye,

Magnole, with cups of moonlight hung,

And Fuchsia's sunny chandlery,

And coral tongue;

And where the shy brook fluttered through,

Nepenthe held her chalice leaf

( Undrained as yet by human grief ),

And broad Nymphaea grew.

But where the path bent towards the wood,

Across it hung a sombre screen,

The deadly night-shade, leaden-hued;

And there behind it, darkly seen,

A Being stood:

The form, if any form it had,

Was likest to a nightly vision

In mantle of amazement clad,

A terror-sense, without precision,

Of something bad.

A tremble chilled the forest shade,

A roving lion turned and fled,

The birds cowered home in hush of dread;

But Eve was not afraid.

She stood before him, sweetly bold,

To keep him from her garden shrine,

With hair that fell, a shower of gold,

Around her figure's snowy line

And rosy mould:

He ( with a re-awakened sense

Of goodness, long for ever lost,

And angel beauty's pure defence )

Shrank back, unable to accost

Such innocence:

But envy soon scoffed down his shame;

And with a smile, designed for fawning,

But like hell's daybreak sickly dawning,

His crafty accents came.

“Sweet ignorance,‘ tis sad and hard

To break thy fond confiding spell;

And my soft heart hath such regard

For thine, that I will never tell

What may be spared.”

He turned aside, o'erwhelmed with pain,

And drew a sigh of deep compassion:

She trembled, flushed, and gazed again,

And prayed him quick, in woman's fashion,

To speak it plain:

“Then, if thou must be taught to grieve,

And scorn the guile thou hast adored —

The man who calls himself thy lord,

Where goes he, every eve?”

“Nay, then,” she cried, “if that be all,

I care not what thou hast to say;

The guile that lurks therein is small —

My husband but retires to pray,

At evening call.”

“To pray? Oh yes, and on his knees

May-hap to find a lovely being:

Devotions so devout as these

Are best at night, with no one seeing,

Among the trees.”

She blushed as deep as modesty,

Then glancing back as bright as cride,

“What woman can he find,’ she cried,

“In all the world, but me?”

He laughed with a superior sneer,

Enough to shake e'en woman's faith;

“Wilt thou believe me, simple dear,

If I am able now,” he saith,

“To show her here?”

She cried aloud with gladsome heart,

“Be that the test whereon to try thee;

Nature and heaven shall take my part:

Come, show this rival; I defy thee

And all thy art.”

A mirror, held in readiness,

He set upright before her feet —

“Now can thy simple charms compete

With beauty such as this?”

A lovelier sight therein she saw

Than ever yet had charmed her eyes,

A fairer picture, void of flaw,

Than any, even Paradise

Itself, could draw;

A woman's form of perfect grace,

In shadowy softness delicate;

Though flushed by sunset's rich embrace,

A white rose could not imitate

Her innocent face:

Then, through the deepening glance of fear,

The shaft of doubt came quivering,

The sorrow-shaft — a sigh its wing,

And for its barb a tear.

“Ah me!” she cried, “too true it is!

A simple homely thing, like Eve,

Hath not a chance to rival this,

But must resign herself to grieve

O'er by-gone bliss.

“Till now it was enough for me

To be what God our Father made;

Oh, Adam, I was proud to be

( As I have felt, and thou hast said )

A part of thee.

“No marvel that my lord can spare

His true and heaven-appointed bride.

And yet affection might have tried

To fancy me as fair.”

The Tempter, glorying in his wile,

Hath ta'en his mirror and withdrawn;

Again the flowers look up and smile,

And brightens off from air and lawn

The taint of guile.

But smiles come not again to Eve,

Nor brightens off her dark reflection:

Her garland-crown she hath ceased to weave,

And, plucking, maketh no selection;

Only to grieve.

She feels a dewy radiance steep

The languid petals of her eyes,

And hath another sad surprise,

To know the way to weep,