Hark to the sound of trump and lyre,
In the olive-groves before us,
And the rhythmic beat, the pulse of fire,
Throb in the full-voiced chorus !
More than Memnonian grandeur speaks
In the triumph of the pæan,
And all the glory of the Greeks
Breathes o'er the old Ægean.
Here shall the ancient Dawn return,
That lit the earliest poet,
Whose very ashes in his urn
Would radiate glory through it,
The dawn of Life, when Life was Song, And Song the life of Nature,
And the Singer stood amid the throng, A God in every feature!
When Love was free, and free as air
The utterance of Passion,
And the heart in every fold lay bare,
Nor shamed its true expression.
Then perfect limb and perfect face
Surpassed our best ideal;
Unconscious Nature's law was grace,
The Beautiful was real.
For men acknowledged true desires,
And light as garlands wore them;
They were begot by vigorous sires,
And noble mothers bore them.
O, when the shapes of Art they planned
Were living forms of passion,
Impulse and Deed went hand in hand,
And Life was more than Fashion!
The seeds of Song they scattered first
Flower in all later pages;
Their forms have woke the Artist's thirst
Through the succeeding ages:
But I will seek the fountain-head
Whence flowed their inspiration,
And lead the unshackled life they led,
Accordant with Creation.
The World's false life, that follows still,
Has ceased its chain to tighten,
And over the blue Ionian hill
I see the sunrise brighten !
HE Poet came to the Land of the East,
When Spring was in the air:
The Earth was dressed for a wedding
feast,
So young she seemed, and fair;
And the Poet knew the Land of the East, —
His soul was native there.
All things to him were the visible forms
Of early and precious dreams,
Familiar visions that mocked his quest
Beside the Western streams,
Or gleamed in the gold of the clouds, unrolled In the sunset's dying beams.
He looked above in the cloudless calm,
And the Sun sat on his throne;
The breath of gardens, deep in balm,
Was all about him blown,
And a brother to him was the princely Palm,
For he cannot live alone.
His feet went forth on the myrtled hills,
And the flowers their welcome shed;
The meads of milk-white asphodel
They knew the Poet's tread,
And far and wide, in a scarlet tide,
The poppy's bonfire spread.
And, half in shade and half in sun,
The Rose sat in her bower,
With a passionate thrill in her crimson heart
She had waited for the hour!
And, like a bride's, the Poet kissed
The lips of the glorious flower.
Then the Nightingale, who sat above
In the boughs of the citron-tree,
Sang: We are no rivals, brother mine,
Except in minstrelsy;
For the rose you kissed with the kiss of love,
She is faithful still to me.
And further sang the Nightingale :
Your bower not distant lies.
I heard the sound of a Persian lute
From the jasmined window rise,
And, twin-bright stars, through the lattice-bars, I saw the Sultana's eyes.
The Poet said: I will here abide,
In the Sun's unclouded door;
Here are the wells of all delight
On the lost Arcadian shore :
Here is the light on sea and land,
And the dream deceives no more.
THE TEMPTATION OF HASSAN BEN KHALED.
ASSAN BEN KHALED, singing in the streets
Of Cairo, sang these verses at my door:
Blessed is he, who God and Prophet
greets
Each morn with prayer; but he is blest much more
Whose conduct is his prayer's interpreter.
Sweeter than musk, and pleasanter than myrrh,
Richer than rubies, shall his portion be,
When God bids Azrael, Bring him unto me!'
But woe to him whose life casts dirt upon
The Prophet's word! When all his days are done,
Him shall the Evil Angel trample down
Out of the sight of God."
Thus, with a frown
Of the severest virtue, Hassan sang
Unto the people, till the markets rang.
But two days after this, he came again
And sang, and I remarked an altered strain.
Before my shop he stood, with forehead bent
Like one whose sin hath made him penitent, -
In whom the pride, that like a stately reed
Lifted his head, is broken. "Blest, indeed,"
(These were his words,) "is he who never fell,
But blest much more, who from the verge of Hell
Climbs up to Paradise: for Sin is sweet;
Strong is Temptation; willing are the feet
That follow Pleasure, manifold her snares,
And pitfalls lurk beneath our very prayers:
Yet God, the Clement, the Compassionate,
In pity of our weakness keeps the gate
Of Pardon open, scorning not to wait
Till the last moment, when His mercy flings
A splendor from the shade of Azrael's wings."
"Wherefore, O Poet!" I to Hassan said,
"This altered measure? Wherefore hang your
O Hassan! whom the pride of virtue gives
The right to face the holiest man that lives?
Enter, I pray thee: this poor house will be
Honored henceforth, if it may shelter thee."
Hassan Ben Khaled lifted up his eyes
To mine, a moment: then, in cheerful guise,
He passed my threshold with unslippered feet.
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