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Read Ebook: Last Poems: Translations from the Book of Indian Love by Hope Laurence
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Ebook has 391 lines and 18952 words, and 8 pages
Edition: 10
Last Poems Translations from the Book of Indian Love
Laurence Hope
Dedication to Malcolm Nicolson
I, who of lighter love wrote many a verse, Made public never words inspired by thee, Lest strangers' lips should carelessly rehearse Things that were sacred and too dear to me.
Thy soul was noble; through these fifteen years Mine eyes familiar, found no fleck nor flaw, Stern to thyself, thy comrades' faults and fears Proved generously thine only law.
Small joy was I to thee; before we met Sorrow had left thee all too sad to save. Useless my love--as vain as this regret That pours my hopeless life across thy grave.
L. H.
The Masters
Oh, Masters, you who rule the world, Will you not wait with me awhile, When swords are sheathed and sails are furled, And all the fields with harvest smile? I would not waste your time for long, I ask you but, when you are tired, To read how by the weak, the strong Are weighed and worshipped and desired.
We shared your lonely watch by night, We knew you faithful at the helm, Our thoughts went with you through the fight, That saved a soul,--or wrecked a realm Ah, how our hearts leapt forth to you, In pride and joy, when you prevailed, And when you died, serene and true: --We wept in silence when you failed!
Oh, brain that did not gain the gold! Oh, arm, that could not wield the sword, Here is the love, that is not sold, Here are the hearts to hail you Lord!
You played and lost the game? What then? The rules are harsh and hard we know, You, still, Oh, brothers, are the men Whom we in secret reverence so. Your work was waste? Maybe your share Lay in the hour you laughed and kissed; Who knows but what your son shall wear The laurels that his father missed?
Ay, you who win, and you who lose, Whether you triumph,--or despair,-- When your returning footsteps choose The homeward track, our love is there. For, since the world is ordered thus, To you the fame, the stress, the sword, We can but wait, until to us You give yourselves, for our reward.
To Whaler's deck and Coral beach, To lonely Ranch and Frontier-Fort, Beyond the narrow bounds of speech I lay the cable of my thought. I fain would send my thanks to you, Since what you are, and work you do, Are lessons for our easier ways.
'Neath alien stars your camp-fires glow, I know you not,--your tents are far. My hope is but in song to show, How honoured and dear you are.
I Shall Forget
Although my life, which thou hast scarred and shaken, Retains awhile some influence of thee, As shells, by faithless waves long since forsaken, Still murmur with the music of the Sea,
I shall forget. Not thine the haunting beauty, Which, once beheld, for ever holds the heart, Or, if resigned from stress of Fate or Duty, Takes part of life away:--the dearer part.
I gave thee love; thou gavest but Desire. Ah, the delusion of that summer night! Thy soul vibrated at the rate of Fire; Mine, with the rhythm of the waves of Light.
It is my love for thee that I regret, Not thee, thyself, and hence,--I shall forget!
The Lament of Yasmini, the Dancing-Girl
Ah, what hast thou done with that Lover of mine? The Lover who only cared for thee? Mine for a handful of nights, and thine For the Nights that Are and the Days to Be, The scent of the Champa lost its sweet-- So sweet is was in the Times that Were!-- Since His alone, of the numerous feet That climb my steps, have returned not there. Ahi, Yasmini, return not there!
Art thou yet athrill at the touch of His hand, Art thou still athirst for His waving hair? Nay, passion thou never couldst understand, Life's heights and depths thou wouldst never dare. The Great Things left thee untouched, unmoved, The Lesser Things had thy constant care. Ah, what hast thou done with the Lover I loved, Who found me wanting, and thee so fair? Ahi, Yasmini, He found her fair!
Nay, nay, the greatest of all was thine; The love of the One whom I craved for so, But much I doubt if thou couldst divine The Grace and Glory of Love, or know The worth of the One whom thine arms embraced. I may misjudge thee, but who can tell? So hard it is, for the one displaced, To weigh the worth of a rival's spell. Ahi, Yasmini, thy rival's spell!
And Thou, whom I loved: have the seasons brought That fair content, which allured Thee so? Is it all that Thy delicate fancy wrought? Yasmini wonders; she may not know. Yet never the Stars desert the sky, To fade away in the desolate Dawn, But Yasmini watches their glory die, And mourns for her own Bright Star withdrawn. Ahi, Yasmini, the lonely dawn!
Ah, never the lingering gold dies down In a sunset flare of resplendent light, And never the palm-tree's feathery crown Uprears itself to the shadowy night, But Yasmini thinks of those evenings past, When she prayed the glow of the glimmering West To vanish quickly, that night, at last, Might bring Thee back to her waiting breast. Ahi, Yasmini, how sweet that rest!
Yet I would not say that I always weep; The force, that made such a desperate thing Of my love for Thee, has not fallen asleep, The blood still leaps, and the senses sing, While other passion has oft availed. To aid, when Churus and Opium failed;-- I could not suffer so much and live. Ahi, Yasmini, who had to live!
The youthful widow, with shaven hair, Whose senses ache for the love of a man, The young Priest, knowing that women are fair, Who stems his longing as best he can, These suffer not as I suffer for Thee; For the Soul desires what the senses crave, There will never be pleasure or peace for me, Since He who wounded, alone could save. Ahi, Yasmini, He will not save!
The torchlight flares, and the lovers lean Towards Yasmini, with yearning eyes, Who dances, wondering what they mean, And gives cold kisses, and scant replies. They talk of Love, she withholds the name,-- From things that are only a weary shame; Trivial Vanity;--light Desire. Ahi, Yasmini, the light Desire!
Yasmini bends to the praise of men, And looks in the mirror, upon her hand, To curse the beauty that failed her then-- Ah, none of her lovers can understand! How her whole life hung on that beauty's power, The spell that waned at the final test, The charm that paled in the vital hour,-- Which won so many,--yet lost the best! Ahi, Yasmini, who lost the best!
She leaves the dancing to reach the roof, With the lover who claims the passing hour, Her lips are his, but her eyes aloof While the starlight falls in a silver shower. Let him take what pleasure, what love, he may, He, too, will suffer e'er life be spent,-- But Yasmini's soul has wandered away To join the Lover, who came,--and went! Ahi, Yasmini, He came,--and went!
Indian women wear a small mirror in a ring on their thumbs.
Among the Rice Fields
She was fair as a Passion-flower, Her lucent eyes were like amber wine, And her eyelids stained with blue.
He called them the Gates of Fair Desire, And the Lakes where Beauty lay, But I looked into them once, and saw The eyes of Beasts of Prey.
He praised her teeth, that were small and white As lilies upon his lawn, While I remembered a tiger's fangs That met in a speckled fawn.
She had her way; a lover the more, And I had a friend the less. For long there was nothing to do but wait And suffer his happiness.
But now I shall choose the sharpest Kriss And nestle it in her breast, For dead, he is drifting down to sea, And his own hand wrought his rest
The Bride
Beat on the Tom-toms, and scatter the flowers, Jasmin, Hibiscus, vermillion and white, This is the day, and the Hour of Hours, Bring forth the Bride for her Lover's delight. Maidens no more, as a maiden shall claim her, Near, in his Mystery, draweth Desire. Who, if she waver a moment, shall blame her? She is a flower, and love is a fire. Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!
Bring forth the silks and the veil that shall cover Beauty, till yesterday, careless and wild, Red are her lips for the kiss of a lover, Ripe are her breasts for the lips of a child. Centre and Shrine of Mysterious Power, Chalice of Pleasure and Rose of Delight, Shyly aware of the swift-coming hour, Waiting the shade and the silence of night, Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!
Still must the Bridegroom his longing dissemble, Longing to loosen the silk-woven cord, Ah, how his fingers will flutter and tremble, Fingers well skilled with the bridle and sword. Thine is his valor oh, Bride, and his beauty, Thine to possess and re-issue again, Such is thy tender and passionate duty, Licit thy pleasure and honoured thy pain. Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!
Choti Tinchaurya, lovely and tender, Still all unbroken to sorrow and strife. Come to the Bridegroom who, silk-clad and slender, Brings thee the Honour and Burden of Life. Bidding farewell to thy light-hearted playtime, Worship thy Lover with fear and delight, Art thou not ever, though slave of his daytime, Choti Tinchaurya, queen of his night? Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!
Unanswered
Something compels me, somewhere. Yet I see No clear command in Life's long mystery.
Oft have I flung myself beside my horse, To drink the water from the roadside mire, And felt the liquid through my being course, Stilling the anguish of my thirst's desire.
A simple want; so easily allayed; After the burning march; water and shade.
Also I lay against the loved one's heart Finding fulfilment in that resting-place, Feeling my longing, quenched, was but a part Of nature's ceaseless striving for the race.
But now, I know not what they would with me; Matter or Force or God, if Gods there be.
I wait; I question; Nature heeds me not. She does but urge in answer to my prayer, "Arise and do!" Alas, she adds not what; "Arise and go!" Alas, she says not where!
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