A Legend of Old Persia and Other Poems | Page 6

sweet to mortal ear

Uprose (had one been there to hear)....
It was the tramp who
snored.
The Black Dwarf.
Certain it is that of those qualities
We are enamoured which we most
do lack.
So he, fantastic out of human guise,
Bent, broken, bowed,
small, apish, humped of back,
Marred in the mint, perfection's
contrary,
To sweet perfection found his marred life thrall,
And--the
great artist without jealousy--
Knew beauty more than all.
Much he loved flowers and their frail loveliness,
But if they pined
thro' blight or thirsty want,
Or spiteful wind had made his blossoms
less,
Or mouse or mole had gnawed some tender plant,
Then
seemed the edge of life all dull and blunt,
And passion thwarted tore
his twisted frame,
And, 'neath the penthouse of the shaggy front,

The yellow eyes flashed flame.
But most he joyed whenever country maid,
Prizing his taste, or
damsel highly born
To judgment came, and anxiously displayed
For
him submission as for others scorn.
Then, peering keenly from his
peat-roofed home,
Calm in his power he scanned her as he chose,


And, if she pleased, the swart and twisted gnome
Gave her a white,
white rose.
To an Elephant.
Lord of the trunk and fan-like ears,
Wisest and mightiest next to man,

I see thee hence a million years
Ruling the earth with milder plan.

Dwellers above, beneath the ground,
Shall live contented in that
time;
No subtle growths shall e'er confound
Their natural joy and
instinct prime.
Not such as those who planned to nought
And groped (wise fools!)
beyond their ken
Scarce knowing what they loved or sought--

Those subtle growths, those weary men--
Shall dwell earth's
inexperienced brood
In natural joy and instinct prime;
But without
evil, without good,
Be each new moment, not all time.
Jungles shall grow where cities stood,
The mighty rivers roar
unbridged
The hungry tiger seek his food,
Save for thy bidding,
privileged,
Where (weary subtle growths) we bore
Our burden of
humanity;
For conscious mind shall work no more
And man
himself have ceased to be.
SONGS.
The Palmer's Song.
I will fling ambition away
Like a vain and glittering toy;
With
tristful weeping will I pray
And wash my sin's alloy.
I will wear the
palmer's weed
And walk in the sandal shoon.
I will walk in the sun
by day
And sleep beneath the moon.
I will set forth as the bells toll

And travel to the East,
Because of a sin upon my soul
And the
chiding of a priest.
The Song of the Old Men.

We are the old, old men,
Once fierce and high-hearted in frolics,

But now we are three score and ten
Or upwards--mere relics
Of the
fine strong pageant of youth,
Which time in his spite and unruth

Has taken.
We are dim and palsied and shaken,
Ah! me--forsaken.
Where are the fair white maids
With flower faces and carriage

Straight as new-smithied blades,
Ripe, ready for marriage?
Now all
are withered and grey,
Their beauty has passed away,
Ah!
madness--
They are bent like hoops with sadness
And the world's
badness.
Our voices are hoarse and drear,
As we sit and mumble together,

We have no good tidings to hear
We had sooner have never
(So we
grumble together) been born,
That are so sick and forlorn;
Just
shadows--
But once bright fishers of shallows,
Swift hunters of
meadows.
We are the old, old men,
We have seen and endured much trouble;

It has turned us children again,
And bent us double.
Now we sit like
a circle of stones,
And hear in each others' moans
Ill token.
For
our sweetest thoughts were broken
Or else unspoken.
The Song of Snorro.
"Oh! who can drink at the world's brink,
Or reach the twilight star?

It's a long sail where the winds wail,
And the great waters are.
"Or who can say at the parting day
That he will see once more
His
children's faces in happy places,
His true wife at the door?"
Snorro the Viking, his thigh striking,
Laughed in his big red beard.

"Some are bound by sight and sound.
While some have wished and
feared.
"Their days dream as a droning stream
Or moonlight in a wood.


Now who can sate his love or hate,
And the tumult of his blood?
"Then cast the die for the open sky
When the great sun beats abroad,

For the foam-fleck and the narrow deck,
The life of oar and sword.
"Life and limb for the wind's hymn,
And all the fears that be,
The
ghost-races with ghastly faces,
The phantoms of the sea.
"Mine is the morrow," shouted Snorro,
"I longed and have not
feared."
And his great laughter followed after
And rumbled in his
beard.
The Island.
Once (was it long ago, dear?
Oh! hark to the sighing seas.)
We
sailed to a wonderful Island
In the golden Antipodes,
Where the
waves wore an azure mantle,
The winds were ever at rest,
For we'd
left the Old World behind us
A thousand leagues to the West.
We came to that wonderful Island;
Girt by a ring of foam
It lay in
the sea like a jewel
Under an azure dome.
The cliffs were all gold in
the sunlight,
The strand was a floor of gold,
So we knew we'd come
to the Island
We'd read of in tales of old.
Was it long we stayed in our Island?
(Dear, I can never say)
I know
we walked on the mountains
Which looked far over the