Fringilla - Richard Doddridge Blackmore

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wonder,

           Is when ruddy sun goes under;

           And the dusk throws, half afraid,

           Silver shuttles of long shade.

           Opens then a scene, the fairest

             Ever burst on human view;

           Once behold, and thou comparest

             Nothing in the world thereto.

           While the broad flood murmurs glistening

           To the moon that hangeth listening—

           Moon that looketh down the sky,

           Like an aloe-bloom on high—

V

           Sudden conch o'er the wave ringeth!

             Ere the date-leaves cease to snake,

           All, that hath existence, springeth

             Into broad light, wide-awake.

           As at a window of heaven thrown up,

           All in a dazzling blaze are shown up,

           Mellowing, ere our eyes avail,

           To some soft enchanter's tale.

           Every skiff a big ship seemeth,

             Every bush with tall wings clad;

           Every man his good brain deemeth

             The only brain that is not mad.

VI

           Hark!  The pulse of measured rowing,

           And the silver clarions blowing,

           From the distant darkness, break

           Into this illumined lake.

           Tis Sesostris, lord of nations,

             Victor of three continents,

           Visiting the celebrations,

             Priests, and pomps, and regiments.

           Kings, from Indus, and Araxes,

           Ister, and the Boreal axes,

           Horsed his chariot to the waves,

           Then embarked, his galley-slaves.

VII

           Glittering stands the giant royal,

             Four tall sons are at his back;

           Twain, with their own corpses loyal,

             Bridged the flames Pelusiac.

           As he passeth, myriads bless him,

           Glorious Monarch all confess him,

           Sternly upright, to condone

           No injustice, save his own.

           He, well-pleased, his sceptre swingeth,

             While his four sons strike the gong;

           Till the sparkling water ringeth

             Joy and laughter, joke and song.

VIII

           Ah, but while loud merry-making

           Sets the lights and shadows shaking,

           While the mad world casts away

           Every thought that is not gay,

           Hath not earth, our sweet step-mother,

             Very different scene hard by,

           Tossing one, and trampling other,

             Some to laugh, and some to sigh?

           Where the fane of Hathor Iowereth,

           And the black Myrike embowereth,

           Weepeth one her life gone by;

           Over young, oh death, to die!

IX

           Nay, but lately she was yearning

             To be quit of life's turmoil,

           In the land of no returning,

             Where all travel ends, and toil.

           What temptations now entice her?

           What hath made the world seem nicer?

           Whence the charm, that strives anew

           To prolong this last adieu?

           Ah, her heart can understand it,

             Though her tongue can ne'er explain:

           Let yon granite Sphinx demand it—

             Riddle, ever solved in vain.

X

           No constraint of hands hath bound her,

           Not a chain hath e'er been round her;

           Silver star hath sealed her brow,

           Holy as an Isis cow.

           Free to wander where she listeth;

             No immurement must defile

           (So the ancient law insisteth)

             This, the hallowed bride of Nile.

           What recks Abraham's descendant

           Idols, priests, and pomps attendant?

           And how long shall nature heed

           What the stocks and stones decreed?

XI

           "Fiendish superstitions hold thee

             To a vile and hideous death.

           Break their bonds; let love enfold thee;

             Off, and fly with me;"—he saith.

           "Off! while priests are cutting capers—

           Priests of beetles, cats, and tapirs,

           Brutes, who would thy beauty truck,

           For an inch of yellow muck.

           "Lo, my horse, Pyropus, yearneth

             For the touch of thy light form;

           Like the lightning, his eye burneth;

             And his nostril, like the storm.

XII

           "What are those unholy pagans?

           Can they ride?   No more than Dagons.

           Fishtails ne'er could sit a steed;

           That belongs to Esau's seed.

           "I will make thee Queen of far lands,

             Flocks, and herds, and camel-trains,

           Milk and honey, fruit and garlands,

             Vines and venison, woods

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