Rhymes of the East and Re-collected Verses | Page 7

'in suspension'?As a kind of fourth dimension
Bogie man.
And to such as mourn an Indian Solar Crime
At its prime,?'Twere a stratagem so luminously fit,
That tho' doctrinaires deny it,?And Academicians guy it,?I, for one, would like to try it
For a bit.
Just to leave one's earthly tenement asleep
In a heap,?And detachedly to watch it as it lies,
With an epidermis pickled?Where the prickly heat has prickled,?And a sense of being tickled
By the flies.
And to sit and loaf and idle till the day
Dies away,?In a duplicate ethereally cool,
Or around the place to potter,?(Tho' the flesh could hardly totter,)?As contented as an otter
In a pool!
'Let the pestilent mosquito do his worst
Till he burst,?Let him bore and burrow, morning, noon, and night,
If he finds the diet sweet, oh,?Who am _I_ to place a veto?On the pestilent mosquito?--
_Let_ him bite!'
O my cumbersome misfit of bone and skin,
Could I win?To the wisdom that would render me exempt
From the grosser bonds that tether?You and Astral Me together,?I should simply treat the weather
With contempt;
I should contemplate its horrors with entire
Lack of ire,?And pursuant to my comfortable aim,
With a snap at every shackle?I should quit my tabernacle,?And serenely sit and cackle
At the game!
But, alas! the 'mystic glory swims away,'
And the clay?Is as vulgarly persistent as of yore,
And the cuticle is pickled?Where the prickly heat has prickled,?And the nose and ears are tickled
As before;
And until the Buddhi-theosophic Schools
Print the rules?That will bring our tale of sorrows to a close,
Body mine, though others chide thee,?And consistently deride thee,?I shall have to stay inside thee,
I suppose!
SUMMER PORTENTS
Come, let us quaff the brimming cup?Of sorrow, bitterness, and pain;?For clearly, things are warming up
Again.
Observe with what awakened powers?The vulgar Sun resumes the right?Of rising in the hallowed hours
Of night.
Bound to the village water-wheel,?The motive bullock bows his crest,?And signals forth a mute appeal
For rest.
His neck is galled beneath the yoke:?His patient eyes are very dim:?Life is a dismal sort of joke
To _him_.
Yet one there is, to whom the ox?Is kin; who knows, as habitat,?The cold, unsympathetic box,
Or mat;
Who urges on, with wearied arms,?The punkah's rhythmic, laboured sweep,?Nor dares to contemplate the charms
Of sleep.
Now 'mid a host of lesser things?That pasture through the heaving nights,?The sharp mosquito flaps his wings,
And bites;
With other Anthropophagi,?Such as that microscopic brand?The common Sand-fly (or the fly
Of sand),
Who, with a hideous lust uncurbed?By clappings of the frequent palm,?Devours one's ankles, undisturbed,
And calm.
The scorpion nips one unaware:?The lizard flops upon the head:?And cobras, uninvited, share
One's bed.
Oh, if I only had the luck?To feel the grand Olympic fire?That thrilled the Greater when they struck
The lyre!
When Homer wrote of this and that:?When Dante sang like one possessed:?When Milton groaned and laboured at
His Best!
Had I the swelling rise and fall,?Whereof the Bo'sun's quivering moan?Derives a breezy fragrance all
Its own:
Oh, I would pour such passion out--?Good gracious me!--I would so sing?That you should know the _facts_ about
This thing!
Then w-w-wake, my Lyre! O halting lilt!?O miserable, broken lay!?It may not be: I am not built
That way.
Yet other gifts the gods bestow.?I do not weep, I do not grieve.?Far from it. I shall simply go
On leave.
ELYSIUM
From the dust, and the drought, and the heat,?I am borne on the pinions of leave,?From the things that are bad to repeat?To the things that are good to receive.
From the glare of the day at its height?On a land that was blinding to see,?From the wearisome hiss of the night,?By a turn of the wheel I am free.
I have passed to the heart of the Hills,?For a season of halcyon hours,?'Mid the music of murmurous rills,?And the delicate odours of flowers;
And I walk in an exquisite shade,?Where the fern-tasselled boughs interlace;?And the verdurous fringe of the glade?Is a marvel of fairylike grace;
And with never an aim or a plan?I can wander in uttermost ease,?Where the only reminders of Man?Are the monkeys aloft in the trees;
Or, perchance, on the 'silvery mere,'?In a 'shallop' I lazily float,?With--it's possible--some one to steer,?Or with no one (which lightens the boat).
O the glorious gift of release?From the chains that encircle the thrall,?To be quiet, and cool, and at peace,?And to loaf, and do nothing at all!
I am clear of that infamous lark;?I am far from the blare of the Band;?And the bugles are silent, the bark?Of the Colonel is hushed in the land.
And--I say it again--I am free,?In the valleys of wandering bliss;?And most gratefully 'own, if there _be_?An Elysium on earth, it is this!'
TO MY LADY OF THE HILLS
'... O she,?To me myself, for some three careless moons,?The summer pilot of an empty heart?Unto the shores of Nothing.'--_Tennyson_.
'Tis the hour when golden slumbers
Through th' Hesperian portals creep,?And the youth who lisps in numbers
Dreams of novel rhymes to 'sleep';?_I_ shall merely note, at starting,
That responsive Nature thrills?To the _twilight_ hour of parting
From my Lady of the Hills.
Lady, 'neath the deepening umbrage
We have wandered near and far,?To the ludicrously dumb