Volume 19 / Part 3 — Part III.

He Sang.

I.

Beside the well she stood, and water drew:

The bowl, high held in both her hands, I drained;

She smiled, and sparkles showered of gelid dew

On my hot hair, and brows with travel stained.

“O maiden! by thy lambs, and by thy kids,

And by that holy, hospitable hand,

Know'st thou her name whom Love to name forbids,

That fairest fair one of the far-off land?”

Her eyes grew large; in wonder half, half ruth

She spake, like one who sorrowed, yet forgave

“Our land a land of beauty is, O youth!

Her maids are fair and good; her sons are brave.”

“O maiden! by those eyes, and quivering lids,

Forgive! From thee Love hides not his sweet lore:

Breathe it to none—not even thy lambs and kids—”

Then whispered I thy name, but told no more.

II.

How base the soldier's revel o'er his wine!

The tale around the encampment fire; the song!

Would I might hear, O maid! no voice but thine,

Or clash of swords that meet to right the wrong!

[pg 522]

Why must his earthlier nature taint, or vex

Man's race? His heart is brave; his thoughts are large;

Benigner angels guard thy happier sex,

The angels that have innocence in charge.

The brightest of that band I saw in dream

To thee make way: a lily stem she bore:

She vanished, lost in thee, as gleam in gleam

Is lost: thou glittered'st brighter than before.

III.

Who shall ascend into thy realm, O Love?

It is a garden on a mountain steep:

From heaven it hangs, the woods, the clouds above;

Sees many rivers into ocean creep.

Round it are icy spires; that vale they guard;

But who can breathe the airs that o'er it blow?

Within it blooms the rose, and drops the nard;

But who can clasp the roses of the snow?

The bird that sings there sings as sings a bride;

But who her mystic chaunt can understand?

O maid, I saw thee ere we met, and cried,

“The land she treads on is a virgin land!”

IV.

Gladdening, as if in founts of Eden dipped,

Thy beauty cheers and strengthens hearts forlorn,

Not like the shafts of Islam, venom-tipt;—

Dove's eyes thou hast, the glances of the morn.

Thy father's joy art thou, thy mother's boast;

Upon the dusty track by pilgrims trod

Laugheth the cripple; and the warlike host

Divides before thee, giving thanks to God.

The merchants praise thee, and the wandering guest—

“Her veil down streams with such a humble pride,

Fairer is that alone than all the West

Irreverent boasts of charms that scorn to hide!”

[pg 523]

V.

“Is thy love fairer than each other maiden?”

The young maids ask me. Answer find I none:

I know but this;—she shines on hearts grief-laden

Like visitant from star more near the sun.

Above her vesture's hem a lustre hovers:

Whiter her veil than earliest white of dawn,

Now lifted as on sighs of happy lovers,

Around her now, like mist o'er Hesper, drawn.

Sweet is her voice, as though with saint and angel

Her converse had been ever, and were still:

With her she seems to waft some high evangel,

So light her step, so frank with all good-will.

Let her be child, or girl, or maid, or woman—

I know not what she is. Alone I know

She moves o'er earth like creature more than human,

Missioned from God to spread his peace below.

VI.

When, travel-worn, on thee I chance to muse,

Breeze-like the fragrance comes across my heart

Of spring-flowers breathing sweetness through their dews;

So blissful and so bountiful thou art.

That hour I sing no song; but all my soul

Inly with laughter loud of music rings:

The anthems of a spirit o'er me roll;

Of virtue, loveliness, and love he sings.

All light, the fields of duty round me spread;

Beyond them honor sits, with thee beside:

A heaven all glory flashes overhead;

An earth all rapture trembles like a bride.

VII.

Changed is my love from what it was when first

Forth from my heart that dream of fair and good,

Like Eve from side of sleeping Adam, burst,

And by me, when I woke, in glory stood.

[pg 524]

That dream wert thou! A dream, and yet how true!

Still, still I see thee oft beside that brook,

Standing 'mid lilies in the evening dew,

And in thy hand a little open book.

Dear are such memories; dearer far than these

Art thou—now known; a lovely human soul

Running on levels of some spirit-breeze

With wingèd feet to virtue's glittering goal.

The songs and sufferings of our native land,

The faith that lifts her high all griefs above,

These, and thy daily tasks of heart and hand,

Thee too have raised, and with thee raised my love.

VIII.

My hand, made strong by years of manly strife,

Has taught my heart to love in manly sort;

I know thee now—a maid—one day a wife;

No more a phantom from the fairy court.

Mine Arab sires their towers cross-crowned had raised

Like thine, on crag and peak, and dwelt therein,

Hundreds of years ere first in scorn they gazed

Far down on crescent flags of Saladin.

Seldom for us the unequal strife hath ceased:

Age after age that martyr-crown we bear,

Here in our old untamed, inviolate East,

The Church for three short centuries bore elsewhere.

Wife of our race must share the heroic mould:

A mother 'mid our mothers with calm eye

Must look on death: like that great heart of old

Must give her own—if God so wills—to die!

IX.

From things that be around thee stand apart,

For I thy lover am, and fight afar:

A sword I send thee, that betwixt thy heart

And alien things henceforth there may be war.

[pg 525]

I send thee not the trophies I have won,

Tokens of town redeemed, or rescued shrine:

I send a sword; thy life is now begun:

Look up! In heaven, too, hangs the sword, a Sign!

With this commandment have I bound thine eyes,

That, fixed and set, henceforth no more they swerve:

Mine are they. She my life who glorifies

On me must gaze not, but that cause I serve!

X.

In single fight we met: the invader fell;

Two hosts stood mute, one gloomy, both amazed;

His eyes, the eyes of one that hears his knell,

On me, and not my lifted sword, were raised.

Forth from that shivered helm outstreamed afar

His locks dust-stained. Forth from those eyes there shone,

Baleful in death, hate's never-setting star:

He hoped no mercy, and he asked for none.

Then cried my heart, “A sister's hands have twined,

How oft! those locks; a mother's lips have pressed:

Perhaps this morn the cassia-shaking wind

Waved them, rich-scented, o'er his true love's breast.”

“Foe of my race,” I said, “arise; live free;

But lift no more against the Faith thy sword!”

Was it thy prayer, or but the thought of thee,

That sentenced chieftain rescued and restored?

[pg 526]