Fringilla. Richard Doddridge Blackmore
wonder,
Is when ruddy sun goes under;
And the dusk throws, half afraid,
Silver shuttles of long shade.
Opens then a scene, the fairest
Ever burst on human view;
Once behold, and thou comparest
Nothing in the world thereto.
While the broad flood murmurs glistening
To the moon that hangeth listening—
Moon that looketh down the sky,
Like an aloe-bloom on high—
Sudden conch o'er the wave ringeth!
Ere the date-leaves cease to snake,
All, that hath existence, springeth
Into broad light, wide-awake.
As at a window of heaven thrown up,
All in a dazzling blaze are shown up,
Mellowing, ere our eyes avail,
To some soft enchanter's tale.
Every skiff a big ship seemeth,
Every bush with tall wings clad;
Every man his good brain deemeth
The only brain that is not mad.
Hark! The pulse of measured rowing,
And the silver clarions blowing,
From the distant darkness, break
Into this illumined lake.
Tis Sesostris, lord of nations,
Victor of three continents,
Visiting the celebrations,
Priests, and pomps, and regiments.
Kings, from Indus, and Araxes,
Ister, and the Boreal axes,
Horsed his chariot to the waves,
Then embarked, his galley-slaves.
Glittering stands the giant royal,
Four tall sons are at his back;
Twain, with their own corpses loyal,
Bridged the flames Pelusiac.
As he passeth, myriads bless him,
Glorious Monarch all confess him,
Sternly upright, to condone
No injustice, save his own.
He, well-pleased, his sceptre swingeth,
While his four sons strike the gong;
Till the sparkling water ringeth
Joy and laughter, joke and song.
Ah, but while loud merry-making
Sets the lights and shadows shaking,
While the mad world casts away
Every thought that is not gay,
Hath not earth, our sweet step-mother,
Very different scene hard by,
Tossing one, and trampling other,
Some to laugh, and some to sigh?
Where the fane of Hathor Iowereth,
And the black Myrike embowereth,
Weepeth one her life gone by;
Over young, oh death, to die!
Nay, but lately she was yearning
To be quit of life's turmoil,
In the land of no returning,
Where all travel ends, and toil.
What temptations now entice her?
What hath made the world seem nicer?
Whence the charm, that strives anew
To prolong this last adieu?
Ah, her heart can understand it,
Though her tongue can ne'er explain:
Let yon granite Sphinx demand it—
Riddle, ever solved in vain.
No constraint of hands hath bound her,
Not a chain hath e'er been round her;
Silver star hath sealed her brow,
Holy as an Isis cow.
Free to wander where she listeth;
No immurement must defile
(So the ancient law insisteth)
This, the hallowed bride of Nile.
What recks Abraham's descendant
Idols, priests, and pomps attendant?
And how long shall nature heed
What the stocks and stones decreed?
"Fiendish superstitions hold thee
To a vile and hideous death.
Break their bonds; let love enfold thee;
Off, and fly with me;"—he saith.
"Off! while priests are cutting capers—
Priests of beetles, cats, and tapirs,
Brutes, who would thy beauty truck,
For an inch of yellow muck.
"Lo, my horse, Pyropus, yearneth
For the touch of thy light form;
Like the lightning, his eye burneth;
And his nostril, like the storm.
"What are those unholy pagans?
Can they ride? No more than Dagons.
Fishtails ne'er could sit a steed;
That belongs to Esau's seed.
"I will make thee Queen of far lands,
Flocks, and herds, and camel-trains,
Milk and honey, fruit and garlands,
Vines and venison, woods