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

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!

The Net of Memory

I cast the Net of Memory, Man's torment and delight, Over the level Sands of Youth That lay serenely bright, Their tranquil gold at times submerged In the Spring Tides of Love's Delight.

The Net brought up, in silver gleams, Forgotten truth and fancies fair: Like opal shells, small happy facts Within the Net entangled were With the red coral of his lips, The waving seaweed of his hair.

We were so young; he was so fair.

The Cactus Thicket

"The Atlas summits were veiled in purple gloom, But a golden moon above rose clear and free. The cactus thicket was ruddy with scarlet bloom Where, through the silent shadow, he came to me."

"All my sixteen summers were but for this, That He should pass, and, pausing, find me fair. You Stars! bear golden witness! My lips were his; I would not live till others have fastened there."

"Oh take me, Death, ere ever the charm shall fade, Ah, close these eyes, ere ever the dream grow dim. I welcome thee with rapture, and unafraid, Even as yesternight I welcomed Him."

"Not now, Impatient one; it well may be That ten moons hence I shall return for thee."

Song of the Peri

Beauty, the Gift of Gifts, I give to thee. Pleasure and love shall spring around thy feet As through the lake the lotuses arise Pinkly transparent and divinely sweet.

I give thee eyes aglow like morning stars, Delicate brows, a mist of sable tresses, That all the journey of thy lie may be Lit up by love and softened by caresses.

For those who once were proud and softly bred Shall, kneeling, wait thee as thou passest by, They who were pure shall stretch forth eager hands Crying, "Thy pity, Lord, before we die!"

And one shall murmur, "If the sun at dawn Shall open and caress a happy flower, What blame to him, although the blossom fade In the full splendour of his noontide power?"

And one, "If aloes close together grow It well may chance a plant shall wounded be, Pierced by the thorntips of another's leaves, Thus am I hurt unconsciously by thee."

For some shall die and many more shall sin, Suffering for thy sake till seven times seven, Because of those most perfect lips of thine Which held the power to make or mar their heaven.

And though thou givest back but cruelty, Their love, persistent, shall not heed nor care, All those whose ears are fed with blame of thee Shall say, "It may be so, but he was fair."

Ay, those who lost the whole of youth for thee, Made early and for ever, shamed and sad, Shall sigh, re-living some sweet memory, "Ah, once it was his will to make me glad."

Thy nights shall be as bright as summer days, The sequence of thy sins shall seem as duty, Since I have given thee, Oh, Gift of Gifts!-- The pale perfection of unrivalled beauty.

Though in my Firmament thou wilt not shine

Talk not, my Lord, of unrequited love, Since love requites itself most royally. Do we not live but by the sun above, And takes he any heed of thee or me?

Though in my firmament thou wilt not shine, Thy glory, as a Star, is none the less. Oh, Rose, though all unplucked by hand of mine, Still am I debtor to thy loveliness.

The Convert

The sun was hot on the tamarind trees, Their shadows shrivelled and shrank. No coolness came on the off-shore breeze That rattled the scrub on the bank. She stretched her appealing arms to me, Uplifting the Flagon of Love to me, Till--great indeed was my unslaked thirst-- I paused, I stooped, and I drank!

I went with my foe to the edge of the crater,-- But no one to return, we knew,-- The lava's heat had never been greater Than the ire between us two. He flung back his head and he mocked at me, He spat unspeakable words at me, Our eyes met, and our knives met, I saw red, and I slew!

Such were my deeds when my youth was hot, And force was new to my hand, With many more that I tell thee not, Well known in my native land. These show thy Christ when thou prayest to Him, He too was a man thou sayest of Him, Therefore He, when I reach His feet, Will remember, and understand.

Ashore

Out I came from the dancing-place: The night-wind met me face to face--

A wind off the harbour, cold and keen, "I know," it whistled, "where thou hast been."

A faint voice fell from the stars above-- "Thou? whom we lighted to shrines of Love!"

I found when I reached my lonely room A faint sweet scent in the unlit gloom.

And this was the worst of all to bear, For someone had left while lilac there.

The flower you loved, in times that were.

Yasin Khan

Ay, thou has found thy kingdom, Yasin Khan, Thy fathers' pomp and power are thine, at last. No more the rugged roads of Khorasan, The scanty food and tentage of the past!

Wouldst thou make war? thy followers know no fear. Where shouldst thou lead them but to victory? Wouldst thou have love? thy soft-eyed slaves draw near, Eager to drain thy strength away from thee.

My thoughts drag backwards to forgotten days, To scenes etched deeply on my heart by pain; The thirsty marches, ambuscades, and frays, The hostile hills, the burnt and barren plain.

Hast thou forgotten how one night was spent, Crouched in a camel's carcase by the road, Along which Akbar's soldiers, scouting, went, And he himself, all unsuspecting, rode?

Did we not waken one despairing dawn, Attacked in front, cut off in rear, by snow, Till, like a tiger leaping on a fawn, Half of the hill crashed down upon the foe?

Once, as thou mournd'st thy lifeless brother's fate, The red tears falling from thy shattered wrist, A spent Waziri, forceful still, in hate, Covered they heart, ten paces off,--and missed!

Ah, to exchange this wealth of idle days For one cold reckless night of Khorasan! To crouch once more before the camp-fire blaze That lit the lonely eyes of Yasin Khan.

To watch the starlight glitter on the snows, The plain stretched round us like a waveless sea, Waiting until thy weary lids should close To slip my furs and spread them over thee.

How the wind howled about the lonely pass, While the faint snow-shine of that plateaued space Lit, where it lay upon the frozen grass, The mournful, tragic beauty of thy face.

Thou hast enough caressed the scented hair Of these soft-breasted girls who waste thee so. Hast thou not sons for every adult year? Let us arise, O Yasin Khan, and go!

Let us escape from these prison bars To gain the freedom of an open sky, Thy soul and mine, alone beneath the stars, Intriguing danger, as in days gone by.

Nay; there is no returning, Yasin Khan. The white peaks ward the passes, as of yore, The wind sweeps o'er the wastes of Khorasan;-- But thou and I go thitherward no more.

Khristna and His Flute

Be still, my heart, and listen, For sweet and yet acute I hear the wistful music Of Khristna and his flute. Across the cool, blue evenings, Throughout the burning days, Persuasive and beguiling, He plays and plays and plays.

Ah, none may hear such music Resistant to its charms, The household work grows weary, And cold the husband's arms. I must arise and follow, To seek, in vain pursuit, The blueness and the distance, The sweetness of that flute!

In linked and liquid sequence, The plaintive notes dissolve Divinely tender secrets That none but he can solve. Oh, Khristna, I am coming, I can no more delay. "My heart has flown to join thee," How can my footsteps stay?

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