Sonnets | Page 4

and produce a whole which goes to the heart like a beautiful piece of music, and satisfies the mind--like one of those ancient Greek gems which, in a small space, presents engraved images symbolic of sublime ideas vast as the universe.
The Nawab Nizamat Jung has written in English several sonnets which we should admire even if English were his native language. But if any of us would like to form some estimate of the difficulties he has surmounted, let us sit down and try to express in a sonnet in _any_ foreign language our own thoughts and beliefs. We shall then the better appreciate what he has achieved.
As, however, while the Great War lasts, few of us have leisure for literary experiments, it will perhaps be best to read these Sonnets primarily for their soul and spirit. In melody and expression they are of varying degrees of merit and completeness, but in the inspiring ideal they consistently embody they rise to heights which have been scaled only by the noblest. In tone and temper--as already said--they are akin to the Sonnets to Vittoria Colonna by Michelangelo,--of whom it was written by one who knew him well, "_Though I have held such long intercourse with him I have never heard from his mouth a word, that was not most honourable.... In him there are no base thoughts.... He loves not only human beauty, but everything that is beautiful and exquisite in its own kind,--marvelling at it with a wonderful admiration_."
Here we see defined the temperament of the heroic poet, that inner nobility and exaltation without which mere technical skill can avail little in moving and holding the hearts of men.
This note on the structure of the Sonnet would fail in its purpose if it distracted the reader from the spirit behind the form;--for the spirit is the life,--and few who read these Sonnets will deny that the spirit of Nizamat Jung is that of the true poet, ever striving to look beyond ephemeral sorrows up to the Eternal Beauty--now hidden behind a veil, but some day to be revealed in all its splendour and completeness.
R.C.F.
_October 6, 1917_.
SONNETS
PROLOGUE
As one who wanders lone and wearily?Through desert tracts of Silence and of Night,?Pining for Lovers keen utterance and for light,?And chasing shadowy forms that mock and flee,?My soul was wandering through Eternity,?Seeking, within the depth and on the height?Of Being, one with whom it might unite?In life and love and immortality;
When lo! she stood before me, whom I'd sought,?With dying hope, through life's decaying years--?A form, a spirit, human yet divine.?Love gave her eyes the light of heav'n, and taught?Her lips the mystic music of the spheres.?Our beings met,--I felt her soul in mine;
I
REBIRTH
To me no mortal but a spirit blest,?A Light-girt messenger of Love art thou--?The radiant star of Hope upon thy brow.?The thrice-pure fire of Love within thy breast!?Thou comest to me as a heavenly guest,?As God's fulfilment of the purest vow?Love's heart e'er made--thou com'st to show e'en _now_?The Infinite, th' Eternal and the Best!
I clasp thy feet,--O fold me in thy wings,?And place thy pure white hands upon my head,?And breathe, O breathe, thy love-breath o'er mine eyes?Till, like the flame that from dark ashes springs,?My chastened spirit, from a self that's dead,?Upon the wings of Love shall heav'nward rise.
II
THE CROWN OF LIFE
I know not what Love is,--a memory?Of Heav'n once known,--a yearning for some goal?That shines afar,--a dream that doth control?The spirit, shadowing forth what is to be.?But this I know, my heart hath found in thee?The crown of life, the glory of the soul,?The healing of all strife, the making whole?Of my imperfect being,--yea, of me!
For to mine eyes thine eyes, through Love, reveal?The smile of God; to me God's healing breath?Comes through thy hallowed lips whose pray'r is Love.?Thy touch gives life! And oh, let me but feel?Thy hovering hand my closing eyes above,--?Then, then, my soul will triumph over Death.
III
BEFORE THE THRONE
When on thy brow I gaze and in thine eyes--?Eyes heavy-laden with the soul's desire,?Not passion-lit, but lit with Heav'n's own fire--?I have a vision of Love's Paradise.?Gazing, my tranc��d spirit straightway flies?Beyond the zone to which the stars aspire;?I hear the blent notes of the white-wing'd quire?Around Immortal Love triumphant rise.
And there I kneel before th' eternal throne?Of Love, whose light conceals him,--there I see,?Veiled in his sacred light, a face well known?To me on earth, now, yearning, bend o'er me.?Heaven's mystic veil, inwove of light and tone,?Conceals thee not, Belov��d,--I know thee!
IV
WORSHIP
How poor is all my love, how great thy claim!?How weak the breath, the voice which would reveal?All that thy soul hath taught my soul to feel--?Longings profound,--deep thoughts without a name.?If God's self might be worshipped, without blame,?In His best works, then would I silent kneel?Watching thine eyes,--until my soul should