PART III

Lo, how bright-eyed morn awaketh

Tower and temple, nook and Nile;

How the sun exultant maketh

All the world return his smile!

O'er the dry sand, vapour twinkleth,

Like an eye when old age wrinkleth;

While, along the watered shore

Runs a river of gold ore.

Temple-front and court resemble

Mirrors swung in wavering light;

While the tapering columns tremble

At the view of their own height.

Marble shaft, and granite portal,

Statues of the Gods immortal

Quiver, with their figures bent,

In a liquid pediment

Thence the flood-leat followeth swiftly,

Where the peasant, spade in hand,

Guideth many a runnel deftly

Through his fruit and pasture-land;

Oft, the irriguous bank cross-slicing,

Plaited trickles he keeps enticing;

Till their gravelly gush he feels,

Overtaking his brown heels.

Life — that long hath born the test of

More than ours could bear, and live,

Springs anew, to make the best of

Every chance the Gods may give,

Doum-tree stiffeneth flagging feather;

Pate-leaves cease to cling together;

Citrons clear their welted rind;

Vines their mildewed sprays unwind.

Gourds, and melons, spread new lustre

On their veiny dull shagreen;

While the starred pomegranates cluster

Golden balls, with pink between.

Yea, but heaven hath ordered duly,

Lest mankind should wax unruly,

Egypt, garner of all lore,

Narrow as a threshing-floor.

East, and West, lies desolation,

Infinite, untracked, untold

Shroud for all of God's creation,

When the wild blast lifts its fold;

There eternal melancholy

Maketh all delight unholy;

As a stricken widow glides

Past a group of laughing brides.

Who is this, that so disdaineth

Dome and desert, fear and fate;

While his jewell'd horse he reineth.

At Amen-Ra's temple-gate?

He, who crushed the kings of Asia,

Like a pod of colocasia;

Whom the sons of Anak fled,

Puling infants at his tread.

Who, with his own shoulders, lifted

Thrones of many a conquered land;

Who the rocks of Scythia rifted —

King Sesostris waves his hand

Blare of trumpet fills the valley;

Slowly, and majestically,

Swingeth wide, in solemn state,

Lord Amen-Ra's temple-gate.

Thence the warrior-host emeigeth,

Casque, and corselet, spear, and shield;

As the tide of red ore suigeth

From the furnace-door revealed.

After them, tumultuous rushing,

Mob, and medley, crowd, and crushing;

And the hungry file of priests,

Loosely zoned for larger feasts.

“Look!” The whispered awe enhances

With a thrill their merry treat;

As one readeth grim romances,

In a sunny window-seat

“Look! It is the maid selected

For the sacrifice expected:

By the Gods, how proud and brave

Steps she to her watery grave!”

Strike up cymbals, gongs, and tabours,

Clarions, double-flutes, and drums;

All that bellows, or belabours,

In a surging discord comes.

Scarce Duke Iram can keep under

His wild steed's disdain and wonder,

While his large eyes ask alway —

“Dareth man attempt to neigh?”

He hath snuffed the great Sahara,

And the mute parade of stars;

Shall he brook this shrill fanfara,

Ramshorns, pigskins, screechy jars?

What hath he to do with rabble?

Froth is better than their babble;

Let him toss them flakes of froth,

To pronounce his scorn and wrath.

With his nostrils fierce dilating,

With his crest a curling sea,

All his volumed power is waiting

For the will, to set it free.

“Peace, my friend!” The touch he knoweth

Calms his heart, howe'er it gloweth:

Horse can shame a man, to quell

Passion, where he loveth well.

“Nay, endure we,” saith the rider,

“Till her plighted word be paid;

Then, though Satan stand beside her,

God shall help me swing this blade.”

Lo, upon the deep-piled dais,

Wrought in hallowed looms of Sais,

O'er the impetuous torrent's swoop,

Stands the sacrificial group!

Tall High-priest, with zealot fires

Blazing in those eyeballs old,

Swathes him, as his rank requires,

Head to foot, in linen fold.

Seven attendants round him vying,

In a lighter vesture plying,

Four with skirts, and other three

Tunic'd short from waist to knee.

Free among them stands the maiden,

Clad in white for her long rest;

Crowned with gold, and jewel-laden,

With a lily on her breast

Lily is the mark that showeth

Where that pure and sweet heart gloweth;

Here must come, to shed her life,

Point of sacrificial knife.

Here the knife is, cold and gleaming,

Here the colder butcher band.

Was the true love nought but dreaming,

Feeble heart, and coward hand?

Strength unto the weak is given,

When their earthly bonds are riven;

Ere the spirit is called away,

Heaven begins its tranquil sway.

Life hath been unstained, and therefore

Pleasant to look back upon;

But there is not much to care for,

When the light of love is gone.

Still, though love were twice as fleeting,

Longeth she for one last greeting;

If her eyes might only dwell

Once on his, to say farewell

“Glorious Hapi,” spake Piromis,

Lifting high his weapon'd hand;

“Earth thy footstool, heaven thy dome is,

We the pebbles on thy strand.

“Thou hast leaped the cubits twenty,

Dowering us with peace and plenty;

Mutha shows thee her retreat,

And the desert licks thy feet,

“We have passed through our purgation,

Once again we are thy kin;

God, accept our expiation,

Maiden pure of mortal sin.”

“Ha!” the king cried, smiling blandly;

“Ha!” the trumpets answered grandly.

Proudly priest whirled, knife on high,

While the maiden bowed — to die.

Sudden, through the ranks beside her,

Scattering men, like sparks of flint,

Burst a snow-white horse and rider,

Rapid as the lightning's glint.

One blow hurls Arch-priest to quiver

Headless, in his beloved river,

In the twinkling of an eye,

All the rest are dead, or fly.

Iram, from Pyropus sweeping,

As a mower swathes the rye,

Caught his love, in terror sleeping,

And her light form swings on high.

“Soul of Khons!” Sesostris shouted,

Striding down the planks blood-grouted —

Into his beard fell something light,

And he spat, and swooned with fright.

What hath made this great king stagger,

Reel, and shriek — “unclean, unclean!”

Thunderbolt, or flash of dagger?

Nay,‘ twas but a garden bean.

Brave Pyropus, blood-bespattered,

Snorts at men and corpses scattered,

Throws his noble chest more wide,

Leaps into the leaping tide.

Vainly hiss a thousand arrows,

Launched at random through the foam;

Every stroke the distance narrows

Twixt him and his desert home.

Sorely tried, and passion-shaken,

Long amid her foes forsaken,

Now, in tumult of surprise,

Lita knows not where she lies.

Till a bright wave breaks upon her,

And her clear perceptions wake —

All his valour, prowess, honour,

Scorn of life, for her poor sake!

Gently then her eyes she raises,

( Eyes, whence all the pure soul gazes )

Softly brings her lips to his —

Lips, wherein the whole heart is.

Let the furious waters welter,

Let the rough winds roar above;

Waves are warmth, and storms are shelter,

In the upper heaven of love.

Fierce the flood, and wild the danger;

Yet the noble desert-ranger

Flinches not, nor flags, before

He hath brought them safe ashore.

Lives there man, who would have striven,

Reckless thus of storm and sword;

Leaped into the gulf, and given

Heart and soul, to please his Lord?

With caresses they have plied him,

Hand in hand they kneel beside him,

While their mutual vows they plight

To the God of life and light

Ha! What meaneth yon sword-flashing?

Trumps, and shouts from wave and isle?

Lo, the warrior galleys dashing,

To avenge insulted Nile!

Haste! The brave steed, leaping lightly,

‘ Neath his double burden sprightly,

Challenges, with scornful note,

Every horse in Pharaoh's boat.

King of Egypt, curb thy rages;

Lo, how trouble should be borne!

Memnon soothes the woe of ages,

With a sweet song, every morn.