Excerpt
TO MY PEN IThou feeble implement of mind,Wherewith she strove to scrawl hername;But, like a mitcher, left behindNo signature, no stroke, no claim,No hint that she hath pined—Shall ever come a stronger time,When thou shalt be a tool of skill,And steadfast purpose, to fulfilA higher task than rhyme?IIThou puny instrument of soul,Wherewith she labours to impartHer efforts at some arduous goal;But fails to bring thy coarser artBeneath a fine control—Shall ever come a fairer day,When thou shalt be a buoyant plume,To soar, where clearer suns illume,And fresher breezes play? Thou weak interpreter of heart,So impotent to tell the taleOf love's delight, of envy's smart,Of passion, and ambition's bale,Of pride that dwells apart—Shall I, in length of time, attain(By walking in the human ways,With love of Him, who made and sways)To ply thee, less in vain?If so, thou shalt be more to meThan sword, or sceptre, flag, or crown;With mind, and soul, and heart in thee,Despising gold, and sham renown;But truthful, kind, and free—Then come; though now a pithless quill,Uncouth, unfledged, indefinite,—In time, thou shalt be taught to write,By patience, and good-will.
LITA OF THE NILE A TALE IN THREE PARTS PART II"KING, and Father, gift and giver,God revealed in form of river,Issuing perfect, and sublime,From the fountain-head of time;"Whom eternal mystery shroudeth,Unapproached, untracked, unknown;Whom the Lord of heaven encloudethWith the curtains of His throne;"From the throne of heaven descending,Glory, power, and goodness blending,Grant us, ere the daylight dies,Token of thy rapid rise,"IIHa, it cometh! Furrowing, flashing,Red blood rushing o'er brown breast;Peaks, and ridges, and domes, dashingFoam on foam, and crest on crest!'Tis the signal Thebes hath waited,Libyan Thebes, the hundred-gated:Rouse, and robe thee, River-priestFor thy dedication feast!Follows him the loveliest maiden,Afric's thousand hills can show;White apparel'd, flower-laden,With the lotus on her brow.IIIVotive maid, who hath espousalOf the river's high carousal;Twenty cubits if he rise,This shall be his bridal prize.Calm, and meek of face and carriage,Deigning scarce a quicker breath,Comes she to the funeral marriage,The betrothal of black death.Rosy hands, and hennaed fingers,Nails whereon the onyx lingers,Clasped, as at a lover's tale,In the bosom's marble vale. IVSilvery scarf, her waist enwreathing,Wafts a soft Sabaean balm;Like a cloud of incense, breathingRound the column of a palm:Snood of lilies interweaveth(Giving less than it receiveth)Beauty of her clustered brow,Calmly bent upon us now.Through her dark hair, spread beforeSee the western glory wane,As in groves of dim Cytorus,Or the bowers of Taprobane! VSee, the large eyes, lit by heaven,Brighter than the Sisters Seven,(Like a star the storm hath cowed)Sink their flash in sorrow's cloud.There the crystal tear refraineth,And the founts of grief are dry;"Father, Mother—none remaineth;All are dead; and why not I?"Yet, by God's will, heavenly beautyOwes to Heaven alone its duty;Off ye priests, who dare adjudgeBride, like this, to slime and sludge!...