ORIENTAL ROMANCE

I

Beyond lost seas of summer she Dwelt on an island of the sea, Last scion of that dynasty, Queen of a race forgotten long.-- With eyes of light and lips of song, From seaward groves of blowing lemon, She called me in her native tongue, Low-leaned on some rich robe of Yemen.

II

I was a king. Three moons we drove Across green gulfs, the crimson clove And ca.s.sia spiced, to claim her love.

Packed was my barque with gums and gold; Rich fabrics; sandalwood, grown old With odor; gems; and pearls of Oman,-- Than her white b.r.e.a.s.t.s less white and cold;-- And myrrh, less fragrant than this woman.

III

From Ba.s.sora I came. We saw Her eagle castle on a claw Of soaring precipice, o'erawe The surge and thunder of the spray.

Like some great opal, far away It shone, with battlement and spire, Wherefrom, with wild aroma, day Blew splintered lights of sapphirine fire.

IV

Lamenting caverns dark, that keep Sonorous echoes of the deep, Led upward to her castle steep....

Fair as the moon, whose light is shed In Ramadan, was she, who led My love unto her island bowers, To find her.... lying young and dead Among her maidens and her flowers.

THE MAMELUKE

I

She was a queen. 'Midst mutes and slaves, A mameluke, he loved her.----Waves Dashed not more hopelessly the paves Of her high marble palace-stair Than lashed his love his heart's despair.-- As souls in h.e.l.l dream Paradise, He suffered yet forgot it there Beneath Rommaneh's houri eyes.

II

With pa.s.sion eating at his heart He served her beauty, but dared dart No amorous glance, nor word impart.-- Tafi leather's perfumed tan Beneath her, on a low divan She lay 'mid cushions stuffed with down: A slave-girl with an ostrich fan Sat by her in a golden gown.

III

She bade him sing. Fair lutanist, She loved his voice. With one white wrist, Hooped with a blaze of amethyst, She raised her ruby-crusted lute: Gold-welted stuff, like some rich fruit, Her raiment, diamond-showered, rolled Folds pigeon-purple, whence one foot Drooped in an anklet-twist of gold.

IV

He stood and sang with all the fire That boiled within his blood's desire, That made him all her slave yet higher: And at the end his pa.s.sion durst Quench with one burning kiss its thirst.-- O eunuchs, did her face show scorn When through his heart your daggers burst?

And dare ye say he died forlorn?

THE SLAVE

He waited till within her tower Her taper signalled him the hour.

He was a prince both fair and brave.-- What hope that he would love _her_ slave!

He of the Persian dynasty; And she a Queen of Araby!--

No Peri singing to a star Upon the sea were lovelier....

I helped her drop the silken rope.

He clomb, aflame with love and hope.

I drew the dagger from my gown And cut the ladder, leaning down.

Oh, wild his face, and wild the fall: Her cry was wilder than them all.

I heard her cry; I heard him moan; And stood as merciless as stone.

The eunuchs came: fierce scimitars Stirred in the torch-lit corridors.

She spoke like one who speaks in sleep, And bade me strike or she would leap.

I bade her leap: the time was short: And kept the dagger for my heart.

She leapt.... I put their blades aside, And smiling in their faces--died.

THE PORTRAIT

In some quaint Nurnberg _maler-atelier_ Uprummaged. When and where was never clear Nor yet how he obtained it. When, by whom 'Twas painted--who shall say? itself a gloom Resisting inquisition. I opine It is a Durer. Mark that touch, this line; Are they deniable?--Distinguished grace Of the pure oval of the n.o.ble face Tarnished in color badly. Half in light Extend it so. Incline. The exquisite Expression leaps abruptly: piercing scorn; Imperial beauty; each, an icy thorn Of light, disdainful eyes and ... well! no use!

Effaced and but beheld! a sad abuse Of patience.--Often, vaguely visible, The portrait fills each feature, making swell The heart with hope: avoiding face and hair Start out in living hues; astonished, "There!-- The picture lives!" your soul exults, when, lo!

You hold a blur; an undetermined glow Dislimns a daub.--"Restore?"--Ah, I have tried Our best restorers, and it has defied.

Storied, mysterious, say, perhaps a ghost Lives in the canvas; hers, some artist lost; A d.u.c.h.ess', haply. Her he worshiped; dared Not tell he worshiped. From his window stared Of Nuremberg one sunny morn when she Pa.s.sed paged to court. Her cold n.o.bility Loved, lived for like a purpose. Seized and plied A feverish brush--her face!--Despaired and died.

The narrow Judenga.s.se: gables frown Around a humpbacked usurer's, where brown, Neglected in a corner, long it lay, Heaped in a pile of riff-raff, such as--say, Retables done in tempera and old Panels by Wohlgemuth; stiff paintings cold Of martyrs and apostles,--names forgot,-- Holbeins and Durers, say; a haloed lot Of praying saints, madonnas: these, perchance, 'Mid wine-stained purples, mothed; an old romance; A crucifix and rosary; inlaid Arms, Saracen-elaborate; a strayed Niello of Byzantium; rich work, In bronze, of Florence: here a murderous dirk, There holy patens.

So.--My ancestor, The first De Herancour, esteemed by far This piece most precious, most desirable;

Purchased and brought to Paris. It looked well In the dark paneling above the old Hearth of the room. The head's religious gold, The soft severity of the nun face, Made of the room an apostolic place Revered and feared.-- Like some lived scene I see That Gothic room: its Flemish tapestry; Embossed within the marble hearth a shield, Carved 'round with thistles; in its argent field Three sable mallets--arms of Herancour-- Topped with the crest, a helm and hands that bore, Outstretched, two mallets. On a lectern laid,-- Between two cas.e.m.e.nts, lozenge-paned, embayed,-- A vellum volume of black-lettered text.

Near by a taper, winking as if vexed With silken gusts a nervous curtain sends, Behind which, haply, daggered Murder bends.

And then I seem to see again the hall; The stairway leading to that room.--Then all The terror of that night of blood and crime Pa.s.ses before me.-- It is Catherine's time: The house De Herancour's. On floors, splashed red, Torchlight of Medicean wrath is shed.

Down carven corridors and rooms,--where couch And chairs lie shattered and black shadows crouch Torch-pierced with fear,--a sound of swords draws near-- The stir of searching steel.

What find they here, Torch-bearer, swordsman, and fierce halberdier, On St. Bartholomew's?--A Huguenot!

Dead in his chair! Eyes, violently shot With horror, glaring at the portrait there: Coiling his neck a blood line, like a hair Of finest fire. The portrait, like a fiend,-- Looking exalted visitation,--leaned From its black panel; in its eyes a hate Satanic; hair--a glowing auburn; late A dull, enduring golden.

"Just one thread Of the fierce hair around his throat," they said, "Twisting a burning ray; he--staring dead."

THE BLACK KNIGHT