  SONGS OF FANCY: ISONGS OF FANCY: IISING of enchanted palaces In Tripoli, in Tripoli, Above the sighing and the surge Of the moaning sea, of the slothful sea; Of palaces upon the verge Of the sleepy sea, of the sleepy sea. Sing of enchanted palaces In Venice by the broad lagoons Of long ago, of long ago, Where cupolas like cuspÈd moons In waters dim reflected glow, And ghosts of stately frigatoons In dusky waters come and go. Sing of enchanted palaces In cities set by gilded seas, Slenderly mimicked in the waves The lace of spires and balconies, The oriels and the architraves, SONGS OF FANCY: IIIWAS it but a random bird, Harlequin on breast and wing? Or through aspens whispering Was it some rare flute you heard, That you followed, wandering? Followed all that onward fled, Hares and squirrels, bounding roes, All that through the woodland goes, Wind that murmurs overhead, Leaves that scamper, stream that flows. Straight the pathway you forsook Tempted by the beckoning Of the winded poplar’s swing, Tempted by the onward brook, In pursuit adventuring, By the bluebell’s fleeting drift, By the splash of light and shade Down the ride in patterns laid, By the distant sunshine rift, Promise of the open glade. There, where they had seen you go, Those who loved you called your name, Searching, seeking, to and fro. True, to answer them you came, But your eyes were not the same. SWEET TIMESWEET Thyme, that underfoot so meekly grows In humble company Of splendid rose, Is all content to be The acolyte, as each man knows, Of lavender, of rue, and rosemary. Sweet Time, that pilfers all my precious years, Will no wise blandishment Or threat of tears Bring you to pause, content? —Hard-hearted greybeard, as he went, He winked at me, and clicked his wicked shears. A CYPRESS AVENUELIKE hooded monks they go, Two by two, Pointed and black and slow, Chanting for you, Chanting without a tear, A final song, Chanting above your bier Passing along, Far from the living sun, Far from the day, —My lover, let us run Away, away! MIRAGETHERE travelled north from Kurdistan along the lone Siberian trails A merchant with his caravan and Eastern barter in his bales. He rode ahead, he rode apart, the city of Irkutsk his goal, Upon his lean Circassian foal, and after came the lumbering cart With creaking wheel, deliberate spoke, and water-bullocks in the yoke; And after these in single string the boorish camels following, Slouching with high unwieldy packs like howdahs piled upon their backs; With slaver hanging from their lips and hatred worming in their brain They slouched beneath their drivers’ whips across the white and mournful plain. The merchant riding on alone saw not the white incessant snow, He only saw the metal’s glow, the colour of the precious stone; He lingered on the merchandise that he had brought from Kurdistan, And turned, and swept his caravan with doting and voluptuous eyes, For there were choice Bokhara rugs, and daggers with Damascus blade And hafts of turquoise-studded jade, and phials rich with scented drugs, KorÀns inscribed on ass’s skin, and bales of silk from TemesvÀr, And silver ear-rings beaten thin, and bargains from the cool bazaar. He felt the gold already pouched, he crooned to it with horrid love, As still the camels onward slouched with hatred of the men that drove. For thirty days the caravan trailed on behind the merchant’s foal, Through Persia and through Turkestan, the city of Irkutsk their goal; They passed the fruitful hill-girt lands where dwelt the fair-skinned Grecian race, And came into the wilder place, and sighted vagrant Cossack bands That wandered with their flocks and herds, and trafficked with the train of Kurds; They stirred the ghost of Tamerlane, who swept that way with Tartar hordes, The ghosts of dead barbarian lords, the Asiatic hurricane; They crossed the mighty road that runs from Moscow through to China’s wall, And trod the path of nomad Huns and knew Siberia’s white pall When fields of Persian asphodel were visions of a distant day And boundless snow around them lay, and noiseless snow for ever fell, Where soon the fleeting day was done, and on the hard horizon low They saw the scarlet ball of sun divided by the ridge of snow Sink down in skies incarnadine; and still with their disjointed gait And nursing their malignant hate, the camels kept unbroken line. When yet a hundred miles or more stretched out between them and their goal The merchant riding on before drew rein on his Circassian foal And called a halt with lifted hand as he had done unfailingly Each night since the monotony began with that unvaried land. The dusk was suddenly alive as shouting voices passed the word, And all the drowsy train was stirred with movement like a shaken hive. The master merchant stiff from cramp was calling for his saddle flask, As each to his accustomed task ran swiftly in the growing camp. A tent like an inverted bell, all scarlet with the dyes of Tyre, Was lifted rapidly and well, and like a torch the kindled fire Destroyed the night with leaping tongue, and in a circle round the glow Men shovelled back the melting snow, and skins and Khelim rugs were flung— And unforgotten were the needs of water-bullocks standing by Whose brows are stained with orange dye, whose horns are looped with turquoise beads. The pariah dogs that slink and prowl secured their meat with furtive growl, And one by one the camels bent complaining to their warty knees And grumbled at the men that went to loose their girths and give them ease. The merchant brooded silently on avaricious visions bright And listened to the revelry his men were making in the night. For one, a young and favourite Kurd, a mongrel child of the bazaar, Whose voice was like a singing bird, was striking on a harsh guitar I know a Room where tulips tall And almond-blossom pale Are coloured on the frescoed wall. I know a River where the ships Drift by with ghostly sail And dead men chant with merry lips. I know the Garden by the sea Where birds with painted wings Mottle the dark magnolia Tree. I know the never-failing Source, I know the Bush that sings, The Vale of Gems, the flying Horse. I know the Dog that was a Prince, The talking Nightingale, The Hill of glass, the magic Quince. I know the lovely Lake of Van; Yet, knowing all these things, I wander with a Caravan, I wander with a Caravan! The cold moon rose remotely higher, insensibly the voices hushed, And men with wine and laughter flushed were sleeping all around the fire, Till one alone sat on erect, his ready gun across his knees, The sentry of the night elect, guardian of sleeping destinies. The water-bullocks lay as dead; the dogs drew near with noiseless tread, And huddled in a loose-limbed heap beside the fire, and through their sleep They twitched at some remembered hunt; the merchant in his sheepskin rolled Within the tent saw dreams of gold; the camels with uneasy grunt And quake of their distorted backs slept on with loathing by their packs. At dawn the weary sentry rose to throw some brushwood on the flames, Called on his comrades by their names, and turned to greet the endless snows, But then from his astonished lips a cry of unbelieving rang And all the men towards him sprang, the camel drivers with their whips, The bullock driver with his yoke, and gazed in loud bewilderment Till slowly in his fur-lined cloak the merchant issued from his tent. Then he too started at the sight and clamoured with his clamorous men, And swore he could not see aright, and rubbed his eyes and stared again; The camels came with lurching tread and stood in loose fantastic ring With necks outstretched and swaying head and mouths all slackly slobbering, And drew from some unclean recess within their body’s secret lair A bladder smeared with filthiness that bubbled on the morning air. For there upon the shining plain a city radiantly lay, All coloured in the rising day, amid the snow a jewelled stain, And in her walls a spacious gate gave entrance to a varied stream Of folk that went incorporate like figures in a silent dream, And high above the roofs arose, more coloured for the hueless snows, The domes of churches, bronze and green, like peacocks in their painted sheen. The merchant, with a trembling hand extended far, extended wide Against illusion’s fairyland, at length articulately cried: “Irkutsk! but twice a hundred miles remained of weary pilgrimage Before we hoped with happy smiles to reach our final anchorage. But look again. That rosy tower that rises like a tulip straight Within the walls beside the gate, a balanced plume, a springing flower, And pointed with a lance-like spire of bronze, was fifty years ago —A boy, I saw it standing so,—demolished and destroyed by fire.” And one, a venerable Kurd, took up again the fallen word: “I travelled both as boy and man between Irkutsk and Kurdistan, But never since my beard was grown saw I that inn beside the way Wherewith the Council made away, full fifty counted years aflown.” They gazed upon the marvel long, the spectre city wonderful, Until the youth who made the song cried out, “We grow too fanciful. Irkutsk with roofs of coloured tiles lies distant twice a hundred miles, And this, a city of the shades, a rainbow of the echoing air, As fair as false, and false as fair, already into nothing fades.” And like a bubble, like the mist that in the valley faintly swirls, Like orient sheen on sulky pearls, like hills remotely amethyst, Like colours on Phoenician glass, like plumage on the ‘fisher’s wing, Like music on the breath of spring, they saw the vision lift and pass, Till only white unbroken snow stretched out before the caravan, And the bewildered heart of man truth from delusion could not know. But all the long laborious train moved slowly on its course again Across the snow unbroken, white, and nursing each his private creed, The merchant his illusive greed, the camels their illusive spite. CHINOISERIE(Villanelle). For B. M. LOTUS flowers clustering Round your feet in storeys laid, Splendid daughter of a King. In a graven vase of Ming Peaches, apricots of jade, Lotus flowers clustering, All their scentless riches bring, All around your throne displayed, Costly daughter of a King. What young prince astonishing Rides along the inky glade, Lotus flowers clustering Round his camel travelling? See the leopards unafraid, Slender daughter of a King! Coromandel picturing, Strangely, marvellously made. Lotus flowers clustering, Nightingales that cannot sing, What celestial escapade Are they nightly witnessing, Through lotus flowers clustering, O subtle daughter of a King? COLOURIN the last orgy of Creation’s hour, —That fabled day, when all to sudden birth Sprang,—as the toy of his redundant mirth God tossed in bounty Colour to the earth. He held the exquisite and pallid flower, Spoke new strange words, and in his hands there blushed The great white rose to crimson slowly flushed. |
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