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Read Ebook: Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse by Blackmore R D Richard Doddridge
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Ebook has 655 lines and 33578 words, and 14 pages
: TO MY PEN
LITA OF THE NILE
KADISHA; OR, THE FIRST JEALOUSY
MOUNT ARAFA
THE WELL OF SAINT JOHN
PAUSIAS AND GLYCERA; OR, THE FIRST FLOWER-PAINTER
BUSCOMBE; OR, A MICHAELMAS GOOSE
FAME
"What means your finch?"
"Being well aware that he cannot sing like a Nightingale, He flits about from tree to tree, and twitters a little tale."
Albeit he is an ancient bird, who tried his pipe in better days, and then was scared by random shots, he is fain to lift the migrant wing once more towards the humble perch, among the trees he loves. All gardeners own that he does no harm, unless he flits into a thicket of young buds, or a very choice ladies' seed-bed. And he hopes that he is now too wise to commit such indiscretions.
Perhaps it would have been wiser still to have shut up his little mandible, or employed it
only upon grub. But the long gnaw of last winter's frost, which set mankind a-shivering, even in their most downy nest, has made them kindly to the race that has no roof for shelter and no hearth for warmth.
Anyhow, this little finch can do no harm, if he does no good; and if he pleases nobody, he will not be surprised, because he has never satisfied himself.
May-day, 1895.
NOTE
With kind consent of Messrs. Harper, "Buscombe" returns in altered form from the other side of the ocean. Two other little tales appeared of old, but nobody would look at them, and now they are offered after careful trimming.
Standing afar. I gaze with doubt at other trimmings which are not mine. They have conquered the taste of the day perhaps, and high art announces them as her last transfiguration. Moreover they are highly recommended-- as the purest art not always is--by the modesty of the artist.
Thou feeble implement of mind, Wherewith she strove to scrawl her name; But, like a mitcher, left behind No 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 fulfil A higher task than rhyme?
Thou puny instrument of soul, Wherewith she labours to impart Her efforts at some arduous goal; But fails to bring thy coarser art Beneath 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 tale Of 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 To ply thee, less in vain?
If so, thou shalt be more to me Than sword, or sceptre, flag, or crown; With mind, and soul, and heart in thee, Despising gold, and sham renown;
LITA OF THE NILE
A TALE IN THREE PARTS
PART I
"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 encloudeth With 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,"
Ha, it cometh! Furrowing, flashing, Red blood rushing o'er brown breast; Peaks, and ridges, and domes, dashing Foam on foam, and crest on crest!
'Tis the signal Thebes hath waited, Libyan Thebes, the hundred-gated: Rouse, and robe thee, River-priest For 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.
Votive maid, who hath espousal Of 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.
Silvery scarf, her waist enwreathing, Wafts a soft Sabaean balm; Like a cloud of incense, breathing Round the column of a palm:
Snood of lilies interweaveth Beauty of her clustered brow, Calmly bent upon us now.
Through her dark hair, spread before See the western glory wane, As in groves of dim Cytorus, Or the bowers of Taprobane!
See, the large eyes, lit by heaven, Brighter than the Sisters Seven, 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 beauty Owes to Heaven alone its duty; Off ye priests, who dare adjudge Bride, like this, to slime and sludge!
When they tread the river's margent, All their mitred heads are bowed-- What hath browned the ripples argent, Like the plume of thunder-cloud?
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