Fringilla: Some Tales in Verse, Richard Doddridge Blackmore [best feel good books .TXT] 📗

And, alas, my dear one, thee!

"But shall my poor life throw shame on
Royal lineage of Amor?
Tis of Egypt's oldest strains;
Kingly blood flows in my veins.


XV

"Thou hast seen; my faith is plighted,
That I will not fly my doom.
Honour is a flower unblighted,
Though the fates cut off its bloom.

"I have sent my last sun sleeping,
And I am ashamed of weeping.
God, my new God, give me grace
To be worthy of my race.

"Though this death our bodies sever,
Thou shalt find me there above;
Where I shall be learning ever,
To be worthy of thy love."


XVI

From his gaze she turned, to borrow
Pride's assistance against sorrow--
God vouchsafes that scanty loan,
When He taketh all our own.

Sudden thought of heaven's inspiring
Flashed through bold Duke Iram's heart;
Angels more than stand admiring,
When a man takes his own part.

'Tis the law the Lord hath taught us,
To undo what Satan wrought us;
To confound the foul fiend's plan,
With the manliness of man.


XVII

"Thou art right," he answered lowly,
As a youth should sneak a maid;
"Like thyself, thy word is holy;
Love is hate, if it degrade.

"But when thou hast well surrendered,
And thy sacrifice is tendered--
God do so, and more to me,
If I slay not, who slay thee!

"Abraham's God hath ne'er forsaken
Them who trust in Him alway.
Thy sweet life shall not be taken.
Rest, and calm thee, while I pray."


XVIII

Like a little child, that kneeleth
To tell God whate'er he feeleth,
Bent the tall young warrior there,
And the palm-trees whispered prayer.

She, outworn with woe and weeping,
Shared that influence from above;
And the fear of death went sleeping
In the maiden faith and love.

Less the stormy water waileth,
E'en the human tumult faileth;
Stars their silent torches light,
To conduct the car of night

PART III

I

Lo, how bright-eyed morn awaketh
Tower and temple, nook and Nile;
How the sun exultant maketh
All the world return his smile!

O'er the dry sand, vapour twinkleth,
Like an eye when old age wrinkleth;
While, along the watered shore
Runs a river of gold ore.

Temple-front and court resemble
Mirrors swung in wavering light;
While the tapering columns tremble
At the view of their own height.

II

Marble shaft, and granite portal,
Statues of the Gods immortal
Quiver, with their figures bent,
In a liquid pediment

Thence the flood-leat followeth swiftly,
Where the peasant, spade in hand,
Guideth many a runnel deftly
Through his fruit and pasture-land;

Oft, the irriguous bank cross-slicing,
Plaited trickles he keeps enticing;
Till their gravelly gush he feels,
Overtaking his brown heels.

III

Life--that long hath born the test of
More than ours could bear, and live,
Springs anew, to make the best of
Every chance the Gods may give,

Doum-tree stiffeneth flagging feather;
Pate-leaves cease to cling together;
Citrons clear their welted rind;
Vines their mildewed sprays unwind.

Gourds, and melons, spread new lustre
On their veiny dull shagreen;
While the starred pomegranates cluster
Golden balls, with pink between.

IV

Yea, but heaven hath ordered duly,
Lest mankind should wax unruly,
Egypt, garner of all lore,
Narrow as a threshing-floor.

East, and West, lies desolation,
Infinite, untracked, untold
Shroud for all of God's creation,
When the wild blast lifts its fold;

There eternal melancholy
Maketh all delight unholy;
As a stricken widow glides
Past a group of laughing brides.

Who is this, that so disdaineth
Dome and desert, fear and fate;
While his jewell'd 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