Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse | Page 5

horse he reineth.
At Amen-Ra's temple-gate?
He, who crushed the kings of Asia,
Like a pod of colocasia;
Whom
the sons of Anak fled,
Puling infants at his tread.
Who, with his own shoulders, lifted
Thrones of many a conquered
land;
Who the rocks of Scythia rifted--
King Sesostris waves his
hand
VI
Blare of trumpet fills the valley;
Slowly, and majestically,
Swingeth
wide, in solemn state,
Lord Amen-Ra's temple-gate.
Thence the warrior-host emeigeth,
Casque, and corselet, spear, and
shield;
As the tide of red ore suigeth
From the furnace-door
revealed.
After them, tumultuous rushing,
Mob, and medley, crowd, and
crushing;
And the hungry file of priests,
Loosely zoned for larger
feasts.
VII
"Look!" The whispered awe enhances
With a thrill their merry treat;

As one readeth grim romances,
In a sunny window-seat

"Look! It is the maid selected
For the sacrifice expected:
By the
Gods, how proud and brave
Steps she to her watery grave!"
Strike up cymbals, gongs, and tabours,
Clarions, double-flutes, and
drums;
All that bellows, or belabours,
In a surging discord comes.
VIII
Scarce Duke Iram can keep under
His wild steed's disdain and
wonder,
While his large eyes ask alway--
"Dareth man attempt to
neigh?"
He hath snuffed the great Sahara,
And the mute parade of stars;

Shall he brook this shrill fanfara,
Ramshorns, pigskins, screechy jars?
What hath he to do with rabble?
Froth is better than their babble;

Let him toss them flakes of froth,
To pronounce his scorn and wrath.
IX
With his nostrils fierce dilating,
With his crest a curling sea,
All his
volumed power is waiting
For the will, to set it free.
"Peace, my friend!" The touch he knoweth
Calms his heart, howe'er it
gloweth:
Horse can shame a man, to quell
Passion, where he loveth
well.
"Nay, endure we," saith the rider,
"Till her plighted word be paid;

Then, though Satan stand beside her,
God shall help me swing this
blade."
X
Lo, upon the deep-piled dais,
Wrought in hallowed looms of Sais,

O'er the impetuous torrent's swoop,
Stands the sacrificial group!

Tall High-priest, with zealot fires
Blazing in those eyeballs old,

Swathes him, as his rank requires,
Head to foot, in linen fold.
Seven attendants round him vying,
In a lighter vesture plying,
Four
with skirts, and other three
Tunic'd short from waist to knee.
XI
Free among them stands the maiden,
Clad in white for her long rest;

Crowned with gold, and jewel-laden,
With a lily on her breast
Lily is the mark that showeth
Where that pure and sweet heart
gloweth;
Here must come, to shed her life,
Point of sacrificial knife.
Here the knife is, cold and gleaming,
Here the colder butcher band.

Was the true love nought but dreaming,
Feeble heart, and coward
hand?
XII
Strength unto the weak is given,
When their earthly bonds are riven;

Ere the spirit is called away,
Heaven begins its tranquil sway.
Life hath been unstained, and therefore
Pleasant to look back upon;

But there is not much to care for,
When the light of love is gone.
Still, though love were twice as fleeting,
Longeth she for one last
greeting;
If her eyes might only dwell
Once on his, to say farewell
XIII
"Glorious Hapi," spake Piromis,
Lifting high his weapon'd hand;

"Earth thy footstool, heaven thy dome is,
We the pebbles on thy
strand.
"Thou hast leaped the cubits twenty,
Dowering us with peace and

plenty;
Mutha shows thee her retreat,
And the desert licks thy feet,
"We have passed through our purgation,
Once again we are thy kin;

God, accept our expiation,
Maiden pure of mortal sin."
XIV
"Ha!" the king cried, smiling blandly;
"Ha!" the trumpets answered
grandly.
Proudly priest whirled, knife on high,
While the maiden
bowed--to die.
Sudden, through the ranks beside her,
Scattering men, like sparks of
flint,
Burst a snow-white horse and rider,
Rapid as the lightning's
glint.
One blow hurls Arch-priest to quiver
Headless, in his beloved river,

In the twinkling of an eye,
All the rest are dead, or fly.
XV
Iram, from _Pyropus_ sweeping,
As a mower swathes the rye,

Caught his love, in terror sleeping,
And her light form swings on
high.
"Soul of Khons!" Sesostris shouted,
Striding down the planks
blood-grouted--
Into his beard fell something light,
And he spat,
and swooned with fright.
What hath made this great king stagger,
Reel, and shriek--"unclean,
unclean!"
Thunderbolt, or flash of dagger?
Nay, 'twas but a garden
bean.
XVI
Brave _Pyropus_, blood-bespattered,
Snorts at men and corpses
scattered,
Throws his noble chest more wide,
Leaps into the leaping

tide.
Vainly hiss a thousand arrows,
Launched at random through the foam;

Every stroke the distance narrows
Twixt him and his desert home.
Sorely tried, and passion-shaken,
Long amid her foes forsaken,

Now, in tumult of surprise,
Lita knows not where she lies.
[Illustration: 056.]
XVII
Till a bright wave breaks upon her,
And her clear perceptions wake--

All his valour, prowess, honour,
Scorn of life, for her poor sake!
Gently then her eyes she raises,
(Eyes, whence all the pure soul gazes)

Softly brings her lips to his--
Lips, wherein the whole heart is.
Let the furious waters welter,
Let the rough winds roar above;

Waves are warmth, and storms are shelter,
In the upper heaven of
love.
XVIII
Fierce the flood, and wild the danger;
Yet the noble desert-ranger

Flinches not, nor flags, before
He hath brought them safe ashore.
Lives there man, who would have striven,
Reckless thus of storm and
sword;
Leaped into the gulf, and given
Heart and