Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich / [by Thomas Bailey Aldrich] [electronic text]

I.
CLOTH OF GOLD.

CLOTH OF GOLD.

PROEM.

YOU ask us if by rule or no Our many-colored songs are wrought: Upon the cunning loom of thought, We weave our fancies, so and so.

The busy shuttle comes and goes Across the rhymes, and deftly weaves A tissue out of autumn leaves, With here a thistle, there a rose.

With art and patience thus is made The poet's perfect Cloth of Gold: When woven so, nor moth nor mould Nor time can make its colors fade.

AN ARAB WELCOME.

BECAUSE thou com'st, a weary guest, Unto my tent, I bid thee rest.

This cruse of oil, this skin of wine, These tamarinds and dates are thine; And while thou eatest, Medjid, there, Shall bathe the heated nostrils of thy mare.

Illah il' Allah! Even so An Arab chieftain treats a foe, Holds him as one without a fault Who breaks his bread and tastes his salt; And, in fair battle, strikes him dead With the same pleasure that he gives him bread!

A TURKISH LEGEND.

A CERTAIN Pasha, dead these thousand years, Once from his harem fled in sudden tears,

And had this sentence on the city's gate Deeply engraven, "Only God is great."

So those four words above the city's noise Hung like the accents of an angel's voice,

And evermore, from the high barbacan, Saluted each returning caravan.

Lost is that city's glory. Every gust Lifts, with crisp leaves, the unknown Pasha's dust.

And all is ruin—save one wrinkled gate Whereon is written, "Only God is great."

THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS.

KIND was my friend who, in the Eastern land, Remembered me with such a gracious hand, And sent this Moorish Crescent which has been Worn on the haughty bosom of a queen.

No more it sinks and rises in unrestTo the soft music of her heathen breast; No barbarous chief shall bow before it more, No turbaned slave shall envy and adore.

I place beside this relic of the Sun A Cross of Cedar brought from Lebanon, Once borne, perchance, by some pale monk who trod The desert to Jerusalem—and his God.

Here do they lie, two symbols of two creeds, Each meaning something to our human needs, Both stained with blood, and sacred made by faith, By tears, and prayers, and martyrdom, and death.

That for the Moslem is, but this for me! The waning Crescent lacks divinity: It gives me dreams of battles, and the woes Of women shut in dim seraglios.

But when this Cross of simple wood I see, The Star of Bethlehem shines again for me, And glorious visions break upon my gloom— The patient Christ, and Mary at the Tomb!

THE UNFORGIVEN.

NEAR my bed, there, hangs the picture jewels could not buy from me: 'T is a Siren, a brown Siren, in her sea-weed drapery, Playing on a lute of amber, by the margin of a sea.

In the east, the rose of morning seems as if 't would blossom soon, But it never, never blossoms, in this picture; and the moon Never ceases to be crescent, and the June is always June.

And the heavy-branched banana never yields its creamy fruit; In the citron-trees are nightingales forever stricken mute; And the Siren sits, her fingers on the pulses of the lute.

In the hushes of the midnight, when the heliotropes grow strong With the dampness, I hear music—hear a quiet, plaintive song— A most sad, melodious utterance, as of some immortal wrong—

Like the pleading, oft repeated, of a Soul that pleads in vain, Of a damnéd Soul repentant, that would fain be pure again!— And I lie awake and listen to the music of her pain.

And whence comes this mournful music?—whence, unless it chance to be From the Siren, the brown Siren, in her sea-weed drapery, Playing on a lute of amber, by the margin of a sea.

DRESSING THE BRIDE.

A FRAGMENT.

"DRESSING THE BRIDE." Page 21.

So, after bath, the slave-girls brought The broidered raiment for her wear, The misty izar from Mosul, The pearls and opals for her hair,

The slippers for her supple feet, (Two radiant crescent moons they were,) And lavender, and spikenard sweet, And attars, nedd, and richest musk. When they had finished dressing her, (The eye of morn, the heart's desire!) Like one pale star against the dusk, A single diamond on her brow Trembled with its imprisoned fire!

TWO SONGS FROM THE PERSIAN.

I.

O CEASE, sweet music, let us rest! Too soon the hateful light is born; Henceforth let day be counted night, And midnight called the morn.

O CEASE, sweet music, let us rest! A tearful, languid spirit lies, Like the dim scent in violets, In beauty's gentle eyes.

There is a sadness in sweet sound That quickens tears. O music, lestWe weep with thy strange sorrow, cease! Be still, and let us rest.

II.

Ah! sad are they who know not love, But, far from passion's tears and smiles, Drift down a moonless sea, beyond The silvery coasts of fairy isles.

And sadder they whose longing lips Kiss empty air, and never touch The dear warm mouth of those they love— Waiting, wasting, suffering much.

But clear as amber, fine as musk, Is life to those who, pilgrim-wise, Move hand in hand from dawn to dusk, Each morning nearer Paradise.

O, not for them shall angels pray! They stand in everlasting light, They walk in Allah's smile by day, And nestle in his heart by night.

TIGER-LILIES.

I LIKE not lady-slippers, Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms, Nor yet the flaky roses, Red, or white as snow;

I like the chaliced lilies, The heavy Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies, That in our garden grow.

For they are tall and slender; Their mouths are dashed with carmine; And when the wind sweeps by them, On their emerald stalks They bend so proud and graceful— They are Circassian women, The favorites of the Sultan, Adown our garden walks!

And when the rain is falling, I sit beside the window And watch them glow and glisten, How they burn and glow! O for the burning lilies, The tender Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies, That in our garden grow

THE SULTANA.

In the draperies' purple gloom, In the gilded chamber she stands, I catch a glimpse of her bosom's bloom, And the white of her jewelled hands.

Each wandering wind that blows By the lattice, seems to bear From her parted lips the scent of the rose, And the jasmine from her hair.

Her dark-browed odalisques lean To the fountain's feathery rain, And a paroquet, by the broidered screen, Dangles its silvery chain.

But pallid, luminous, cold, Like a phantom she fills the place, Sick to the heart, in that cage of gold, With her sumptuous disgrace!

THE WORLD'S WAY.

AT Haroun's court it chanced, upon a time, An Arab poet made this pleasant rhyme:

"The new moon is a horseshoe, wrought of God, Wherewith the Sultan's stallion shall be shod."

On hearing this, his highness smiled, and gave The man a gold-piece. Sing again, O slave!

Above his lute the happy singer bent, And turned another gracious compliment.

And, as before, the smiling Sultan gave The man a sekkah. Sing again, O slave!

Again the verse came, fluent as a rill That wanders, silver-footed, down a hill.

The Sultan, listening, nodded as before, Still gave the gold, and still demanded more.

The nimble fancy that had climbed so high Grew weary with its climbing by and by:

Strange discords rose; the sense went quite amiss; The singer's rhymes refused to meet and kiss:

Invention flagged, the lute had got unstrung, And twice he sang the song already sung.

The Sultan, furious, called a mute, and said, O Musta, straightway whip me off his head!

Poets! not in Arabia alone You get beheaded when your skill is gone.

LATAKIA.

I.

WHEN all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wizard-work of silver lace,

I draw my sofa on the rug Before the ancient chimney-place. Upon the painted tiles are mosques And minarets, and here and there A blind muezzin lifts his hands And calls the faithful unto prayer. Folded in idle, twilight dreams, I hear the hemlock chirp and sing As if within its ruddy core It held the happy heart of Spring. Ferdousi never sang like that, Nor Saadi grave, nor Hafiz gay: I lounge, and blow white rings of smoke, And watch them rise and float away.

II.

The curling wreaths like turbans seem Of silent slaves that come and go— Or Viziers, packed with craft and crime, Whom I behead from time to time, With pipe-stem, at a single blow.

And now and then a lingering cloud Takes gracious form at my desire, And at my side my lady stands, Unwinds her veil with snowy hands— A shadowy shape, a breath of fire!

O Love, if you were only here Beside me in this mellow light,

Though all the bitter winds should blow, And all the ways be choked with snow, 'T would be a true Arabian night!

WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN.

"WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN." Page 28.

When the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan, Even before he gets so far As the place where the clustered palm-trees are, At the last of the thirty palace-gates, The flower of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom, Orders a feast in his favorite room — Glittering squares of colored ice, Sweetened with syrop, tinctured with spice, Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates, Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces, Limes, and citrons, and apricots, And wines that are known to Eastern princes; And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots Of spicéd meats and costliest fish And all that the curious palate could wish, Pass in and out of the cedarn doors; Scattered over mosaic floors Are anemones, myrtles, and violets, And a musical fountain throws its jets Of a hundred colors into the air. The dusk Sultana loosens her hair,

And stains with the henna-plant the tips Of her pointed nails, and bites her lips Till they bloom again; but, alas, that rose Not for the Sultan buds and blows! Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman When he goes to the city Ispahan.

Then at a wave of her sunny hand The dancing-girls of Samarcand Glide in like shapes from fairy-land, Making a sudden mist in air Of fleecy veils and floating hairAnd white arms lifted. Orient blood Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes. And there, in this Eastern Paradise, Filled with the breath of sandal-wood, And Khoten musk, and aloes and myrrh, Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan, Sipping the wines of Astrakhan; And her Arab lover sits with her. That's when the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan.

Now, when I see an extra light, Flaming, flickering on the night From my neighbor's casement opposite, I know as well as I know to pray, I know as well as a tongue can say, That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman Has gone to the city Ispahan.

HASCHEESH.

I.

STRICKEN with dreams, I wandered through the night; The heavens leaned down to me with splendid fires; The south-wind breathing upon unseen lyres Made music as I went; and to my sight A Palace shaped itself against the skies: Great sapphire-studded portals suddenly Opened on vast Ionic galleries Of gold and porphyry, and I could see, Through half-drawn curtains that let in the day, Dim tropic gardens stretching far away.

II.

Ah! what a wonder fell upon my soul, When from that structure of the upper airs I saw unfold a flight of crystal stairs For my ascending.... Then I heard the roll Of unseen oceans clashing at the Pole.... A terror seized upon me... a vague sense Of near calamity. "O, lead me hence!" I shrieked, and lo! from out a darkling hole That opened at my feet, crawled after me, Up the broad staircase, creatures of huge size, Fanged, warty monsters, with their lips and eyes Hung with slim leeches sucking hungrily.—

Away, vile drug! I will avoid thy spell, Honey of Paradise, black dew of Hell!

A PRELUDE.

HASSAN BEN ABDUL at the Ivory Gate Of Bagdad sat and chattered in the sun, Like any magpie chattered to himself And four lank, swarthy Arab boys that stopt A gambling game with peach-pits, and drew near. Then Iman Khan, the friend of thirsty souls, The seller of pure water, ceased his cry, And placed his water-skins against the gate— They looked so like him, with their sallow cheeks Puffed out like Iman's. Then a eunuch came And swung a pack of sweetmeats from his head, And stood— a hideous pagan cut in jet. And then a Jew, whose sandal-straps were red With desert-dust, limped, cringing, to the crowd— He, too, would listen; and close after him A jeweller that glittered like his shop. Then two blind mendicants, who wished to go Six diverse ways at once, came stumbling by, But hearing Hassan chatter, sat them down. And if the Khaleef had been riding near, He would have paused to listen like the rest, For Hassan's fame was ripe in all the East. From white-walled Cairo to far Ispahan,

From Mecca to Damascus, he was known, Hassan, the Arab with the Singing Heart. His songs were sung by boatmen on the Nile, By Beddowee maidens, and in Tartar camps, While all men loved him as they loved their eyes; And when he spake, the wisest, next to him, Was he who listened. And thus Hassan sung. —And I, a stranger lingering in Bagdad, Half English and half Arab, by my beard! Caught at the gilded epic as it grew, And for my Christian brothers wrote it down.