Читать книгу Fringilla - R. D. Blackmore, Richard Doddridge Blackmore - Страница 4

     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.

     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.

     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.

     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

     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.

     "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.

     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.

     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."

     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 old,

     Swathes him, as his rank requires,

       Head to foot, in linen fold.

     Seven attendants round him vying,

     In a lighter vesture plying,

     Four with skirts, and other three

     Tunic'd short from waist to knee.

     Free among them stands the maiden,

       Clad in white for her long rest;

     Crowned with gold, and jewel-laden,

       With a lily on her breast

     Lily is the mark that showeth

     Where that pure and sweet heart gloweth;

     Here must come, to shed her life,

     Point of sacrificial knife.

     Here the knife is, cold and gleaming,

       Here the colder butcher band.

     Was the true love nought but dreaming,

       Feeble heart, and coward hand?

     Strength unto the weak is given,

     When their earthly bonds are riven;

     Ere the spirit is called away,

     Heaven begins its tranquil sway.

     Life hath been unstained, and therefore

       Pleasant to look back upon;

     But there is not much to care for,

       When the light of love is gone.

     Still, though love were twice as fleeting,

     Longeth she for one last greeting;

     If her eyes might only dwell

     Once on his, to say farewell

     "Glorious Hapi," spake Piromis,

       Lifting high his weapon'd hand;

     "Earth thy footstool, heaven thy dome is,

       We the pebbles on thy strand.

     "Thou hast leaped the cubits twenty,

     Dowering us with peace and plenty;

     Mutha shows thee her retreat,

     And the desert licks thy feet,

     "We have passed through our purgation,

       Once again we are thy kin;

     God, accept our expiation,

       Maiden pure of mortal sin."

     "Ha!" the king cried, smiling blandly;

     "Ha!" the trumpets answered grandly.

     Proudly priest whirled, knife on high,

     While the maiden bowed—to die.

     Sudden, through the ranks beside her,

       Scattering men, like sparks of flint,

     Burst a snow-white horse and rider,

       Rapid as the lightning's glint.

     One blow hurls Arch-priest to quiver

     Headless, in his beloved river,

     In the twinkling of an eye,

     All the rest are dead, or fly.

     Iram, from Pyropus sweeping,

     As a mower swathes the rye,

     Caught his love, in terror sleeping,

     And her light form swings on high.