THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 . 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 V
 
 PHAETHON : 
 A SUPPLEMENTED OVIDIAN MYTH.
 
 Wtttti 
 
 lit 
 
 a 
 
 STYLES & KIERSTED.
 
 COPYRIGHT, A. D. 1900, BY HENRY ABBEY. 
 
 THE FIRST EDITION. 
 SEVEN HUNDRED COPIES PRINTED FROM TYPE. 
 
 RONDOUT, NEW YORK.
 
 PS 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 DEDICATION, 5 
 
 A CONTENTION, 7 
 
 PHAETHON, 15 
 
 VEERA, . . . ; 47 
 
 THE TRAITOR, 81 
 
 MORO, 119
 
 A CONTENTION. 
 
 FUNDAMENTAL principles, in these days of veneer 
 and gloss, are apt to be overlaid and lost sight of. 
 Almost every decade requires the new enunciation 
 of old truths, else they become buried in the mass 
 of opinions, inferences, sophistical deductions. 
 
 Much has been heard about the ' ' moral indif 
 ference of art," that "the poet must be free from 
 all moral prepossessions" and that " he must aim 
 at a purely artistic effect. ' ' The result of this kind 
 of criticism is that we have poetry to a great extent 
 void of feeling, invention, human interest, and as 
 a natural consequence, the general public indiffer 
 ent to the bulk of contemporary verse. Novels, 
 filled with what this poetry lacks, have all the sale ; 
 for it goes without saying that "poetry is a drug 
 in the market." It is doubtful whether one, out of 
 a hundred volumes of poems that are published,
 
 10 A CONTENTION. 
 
 poetry and the fine arts ? Hogarth found that the 
 art about him had fallen into much the same state 
 of inanity as, to a great extent, now exists. He 
 saw the error into which the disciples of art had 
 been led, and gave his pictures a moral purpose. 
 For, moral purpose it was, coarse and unrefined 
 as his pictures may seem to us. The refinement 
 of the present stands on a higher plane than that 
 of the Eighteenth Century. But the success of 
 Hogarth was the dawn of a new day for art in 
 England. And, as history repeats itself, it is pos 
 sible that not until a figure-painter of great orig 
 inality and power, an American Hogarth, appears, 
 shall our art be lifted out of the quicksands of 
 moral obliviousness and overweening devotion to 
 technicalities. 
 
 We have come to this pass because very many 
 people, besides artists, poets and critics, do not 
 seem to distinguish between expression and the 
 thing expressed. Falling into the mistake that art 
 means both, they have nearly succeeded in driving
 
 A CONTENTION. 1 1 
 
 all manliness out of poetry. At any rate, the best 
 that can be said of much contemporary verse is 
 that it is only a meaningless sort of art. It is writ 
 ten under the dictum that ' ' the poet must aim at 
 a purely artistic effect," and it frequently concerns 
 itself with itself, whereas true poetry is thoughtless 
 of itself. Art is, indeed, unmoral ; but this fact, 
 like all other, has strict limitations and must not 
 be carried beyond them. Art is expression ; but 
 not the thing expressed. It may express emotion, 
 or moral truth ; but it is not the emotion, nor the 
 moral truth. It is the clothes and not the man. 
 Shall the wisdom of Herr Teufelsdrockh be 
 ignored ? What folly, to say that the clothes are 
 the man ! , - 
 
 The human voice may be so cultivated that a 
 hymn shall be sung with the most exquisite art. 
 But shall we say that there is no art because it 
 expresses the moral truth embodied in the hymn ? 
 Painting is expression in lines and colors, and all 
 that relates to it as an art, the blending of hues,
 
 12 A CONTENTION. 
 
 light and shade, perspective and the like, is un 
 moral, is not related to morals ; but if the tech- 
 nic of the finished picture be good, and the pic 
 ture express some moral truth, it is, none the 
 less, a work of art. We should not say, that, 
 because the pictures of Hogarth and the more 
 modern and refined works of Cole express morals, 
 they are not true art. Poetry is an art so far as 
 it is dependent on style and meter, and just so 
 far it is unmoral ; but, if style and meter be good, 
 it is an artistic poem, whether the sentiment ex 
 pressed be moral or not. But bad or immoral 
 sentiment is not to be tolerated in any art, and 
 will soon drag into oblivion whatever of art is 
 used to express it. The Stream of Good, that 
 flows down the centuries, is divine, and soon 
 runs itself clear of the evil thrown into it. Mo 
 hammed said that he had not been taught the 
 art of poetry, and that it was not expedient for 
 him to be a poet, tho' the Meccans called him 
 one. Yet, in writing the Kora"n, "he used a
 
 A CONTENTION. 13 
 
 semi-poetic form ' ' that goes limping and clink 
 ing through the most prosaic subjects, setting 
 the teeth of good taste on edge with "incon 
 gruity between style and matter. ' ' He did not 
 make artistic poetry ; but he did write a ' ' per 
 spicuous book." 
 
 Let us cease to confuse form with spirit, ex 
 pression with the thing expressed. It is the 
 soul of the poem, not the prosody of it, that 
 gives it life. The latter is mechanical, material, 
 and, like a piece of machinery, neither moral 
 nor immoral ; but if it be a true poem, the soul 
 of it, like human life, "must be moral to the 
 core. ' ' 
 
 When again this fundamental principle, this 
 difference between expression and the thing 
 expressed, comes to be fully recognized, we shall 
 hear less about the * ' moral indifference of art, ' ' 
 and shall all see clearly that art is great only as it 
 is the imaginative expression of moral truth.
 
 PHAETHON : 
 
 A Supplemented Ovidian Myth. 
 I. 
 
 THE OATH OF CLYMENE. 
 
 ALL glittering shone the Palace of the Sun, 
 Set high on stately columns, bright with gold 
 And carbuncle that rivals living flames. 
 Its oval roof was polish'd ivory. 
 And paramount, for workmanship most rare, 
 Its massive, double, silver-seeming doors. 
 Thereon was carved the circle of the sea, 
 Set with a mighty emerald, the earth, 
 Enhanced with men and cities, woods and beasts, 
 And, bent above, the sky with its twelve signs. 
 Six signs from either portal gleam'd and spoke. 
 And there, in sea, were azure deities 
 Shell-sounding Triton Proteus mutable 
 ^Egaeon clinging to a hundred whales 
 Gray Doris with her daughters, part of whom
 
 1 6 PHAETHON. 
 
 Were swimming, while the rest, upon the shore, 
 Shook out their hair to dry it in the sun. 
 
 This, at a distance, Phaethon beheld 
 As he approach'd along th' ascending path 
 That led from his contiguous domain. 
 Now in his breast the taunt of Ep'aphus, 
 That he was not the offspring of the Sun, 
 Seem'd idle as a mist that fades away. 
 His father's palace, with imposing truth, 
 Dispersed the lowering falsehood of the taunt. 
 Long had he been assured by lofty thoughts 
 And forceful impulses to mighty deeds, 
 That his was more than mortal parentage. 
 Had not his mother sworn it, standing forth 
 In sacred beauty and innate modesty 
 And looking dayward with uplifted arms? 
 Her words devout reechoed in his ears : 
 
 "By this clear beam, with calm, far-shining rays, 
 That hears and sees, I swear that thou, that thou 
 Of this bright Sun above us, wast begot. 
 And if I falsely speak, let him by me
 
 PHAETHON. 1 7 
 
 Be seen no more and this light be the last 
 
 That I shall look upon ! ' ' His mother seem'd 
 
 A fountain of ambition tossing him. 
 
 She and her new, hereditary self, 
 
 Existent in her son, impell'd him on. 
 
 He loved her as the image of a star, 
 
 Reflected in the water, loves the star, 
 
 And deem'd her wise in that she bade him go 
 
 And/ in the Red-Gold Palace Glorious, 
 
 Hear his own father's voice confirm her oath. 
 
 The lofty mind begets the lofty deed. 
 It was some taint of weakness in the blood 
 Of dull mortality that forged the doubt. 
 It is the doubt that ever makes us fail. 
 Yet Phaethon was brave to seek the sun, 
 And had good faith that he would greet his sire 
 And learn of him the fix'd unchanging truth. 
 If this should be hope's substance, foothold, field, 
 Upon it his ambition should have rein, 
 And speed him on to deeds unparallel'd 
 Save by the gods, and prove himself a god !
 
 1 8 PHAETHON. 
 
 What time this son of Clymene arrived, 
 He enter'd straightway his paternal house 
 And, in the Sun-god's presence, stood at gaze ; 
 But distantly, for he could not yet bear 
 The dazzling radiance of the charioteer. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE RED-GOLD PALACE GLORIOUS. 
 
 In purple robes sat Phoebus, high enthroned 
 On sparkling emeralds. He held the lyre, 
 The speedy arrows and the golden bow. 
 Behind, from ivory pillars crown'd with globes, 
 The velvet hangings seem'd like molten gold. 
 To right and left, the Hours, the Days, the Months, 
 The Years and hoary Ages were arranged 
 At corresponding distances apart. 
 There stood blithe Spring with blossoms chapleted, 
 There naked Summer garlanded with corn, 
 There luscious Autumn smear'd with trodden 
 
 grapes, 
 And icy Winter rough with crisp white hair.
 
 PHAETHON. 1 9 
 
 Then from the midst of these look'd forth the Sire 
 With his all-seeing eyes, and there beheld 
 The young man standing overcome with awe. 
 
 ' ' What dost thou seek, O Phaethon, my son ! 
 In this my palace ? Far, oh ! far away, 
 I saw thee tracking the unwonted slope, 
 Thy body, from thy knees up, visible 
 Above the forest that conceals the path. 
 I saw thee and I gave it thee to breathe 
 The sea that music swims in from my lyre 
 Swims in, with joyful, palpitating arms." 
 
 Straight answer'd Phaethon, now all aflame 
 To do a deed becoming to a god : 
 ' ' O Thou ! divine and universal Light, 
 That daily wheelest from the east to west, 
 Phoebus, my father ! if so be I thus 
 May use thy name, which is to me most dear, 
 And if my mother, Clymene, say true 
 Give me, my parent, some assurance strong, 
 Some potent token worthy instant fame, 
 By which all gods and men henceforth shall know
 
 2O PHAETHOX. 
 
 That I am sprung immortally from thee ! " 
 
 Then fervid Phoebus, taking from his head 
 The crown of rays that all around it shone, 
 Commanded Phaethon to come to him, 
 And, with a close embrace, he fondly said : 
 "Thou dost indeed deserve to be my son. 
 Thy mother truly spake thine origin. 
 And, that all doubt be driven from thy mind, 
 Ask thou for any gift that I can give, 
 And I will grant it thee ; and let the stream 
 By which all gods confirm their solemn oaths, 
 Be sponsor to the promise I have made ! ' ' 
 
 Scarce had the hot assurance of his words 
 Dropp'd from his lips, when Phaethon announced 
 The gift that he desired : "Just for one day. 
 Lend me, my father, thy bright chariot 
 And those wing-footed horses that are thine, 
 That I may speed them on their heavenly course 
 Just for one day ! ' '
 
 PHAETHON. 2 1 
 
 III. 
 PHCEBUS PLEADS WITH PHAETHON. 
 
 How Phoebus did repent 
 How bitterly ! his oath to Phaethon ! 
 His radiant head thrice shook with adverse thought, 
 And when he spoke, a tone of deep regret 
 Recall'd great Agamemnon as he chid 
 Ulysses on the shore of Erebus : 
 "Alas ! my son, thy words have made mine rash. 
 Would that I now my promise might revoke ! 
 Too hasty words are serpents venomous. 
 Let me dissuade thee from thy wild emprise ; 
 For thou hast reason and a noble mind. 
 Oh ! listen to the warm, parental love 
 That would withhold thee from thine injury ! 
 To be a mortal, fate hath fix'd thy lot. 
 That which in ignorance thou dost desire, 
 Belongeth not to mortals, but to gods. 
 Nay, even the gods themselves may not secure 
 The riskful privilege thou hastso besought. 
 Myself alone excepted, none would dare,
 
 22 PHAETHON. 
 
 For none is able, here to take his stand 
 Upon my swift, fire-flinging axle-tree. 
 Nay, even the Sovereign Lord Olympian 
 Hath not the skill to guide my chariot. 
 Yet who is mightier than Jupiter? 
 
 " Besides, the first part of the road is steep. 
 Tho' in the morning they are fresh, my steeds 
 Are loth to climb it and would turn aside. 
 In middle heaven the road is high aloft. 
 Even to myself comes fitfully white fear 
 To look far down upon the earth and sea. 
 Abrupt and dreadful is the last descent, 
 And he who drives there must have sure command, 
 Strong-sinew'd arms, cool nerves, to hold the reins 
 And guide the horses safely to the deep. 
 There Tethys, who receives me in her waves 
 Outspread below, hath often spell-bound stood 
 Lest /plunge headlong down, and ancient Night 
 Resume her sway and no to-morrow dawn. 
 
 "Besides, with unseen forces I contend, 
 Along the hazardous, o'erarching way.
 
 PHAETHON. 23 
 
 With dizzy revolutions whirl the stars ; 
 
 The very heavens' rondure whirls around 
 
 Some dim, Herculean center far remote ; 
 
 And that, which overcomes all other things, 
 
 Me does not overcome ; for I compel 
 
 The blinding brilliance of my vivid team 
 
 In an oblique direction, opposite 
 
 To that one follow'd by the rapid earth. 
 
 Could'st thou proceed, and stem this monstrous 
 
 whirl ? 
 
 Nay, rather, it would carry thee away 
 And fling thee down the measureless abyss. 
 
 ' ' Perchance thou fanciest that on the road 
 Are springs, and pleasant groves to loiter in, 
 And welcome-gated cities of the gods 
 With temples lavishly enrich'd with gifts. 
 It is not so ; the way is dangerous 
 And guarded every where by creatures fierce. 
 Altho' thou heldest steadily thy course 
 And be not turn'd aside in wanderings, 
 Yet must thou pass between the Bull's wide horns,
 
 24 PHAETHON. 
 
 And through the Centaur's drawn, Haemonian bow, 
 
 And face the Lion's visage ponderous, 
 
 And see the Scorpion's extended claws, 
 
 And brave the dreadful Serpent and the Crab 
 
 All these immeasurably vast, enlarged 
 
 To infinite beyond their natural growth, 
 
 And set forever in the firmament. 
 
 "Nor are my horses pliant to control ; 
 But wild and furious with those fierce flames 
 That, from their mouths and nostrils, widening rush. 
 Hardly by me the horses are restrained, 
 When all their fiery spirit is awake, 
 And their maned necks, against the ringing reins, 
 Wrestle and toss impatient of the bit. 
 
 " Forsooth ! thou askest for undoubted proof 
 That thou may'st know thyself sprung from my 
 
 blood. 
 
 And what proof surer can I offer thee 
 Than that I for thy welfare am alarm 'd ? 
 Behold my countenance ! Would thou could'st 
 gaze
 
 PHAKTHON. 2 5 
 
 Deeply and clear into my very heart, 
 And see therein the ocean of my love 
 Distraught and tempest-toss'd with fear for thee ! 
 
 "Bethink thee now of what the world contains 
 Of rich, or fair, of blessings manifold 
 Abounding in the earth, or air, or sea. 
 Choose thou from these that I may gladly give. 
 Undo thy rash desire, the daring fruit 
 Of thy sheer youth and inexperience. 
 It brings no honor, but a penalty ; 
 It brings a punishment and not a gift. ' ' 
 
 Thus Phoebus spoke, and Phaethon 
 Embraced his neck with his endearing arms, 
 His disappointment rising to his eyes 
 And pleading with a look of wounded love. 
 Straightway his speech the wounded look en 
 forced : 
 
 ' ' O honored father ! kind, beneficent ! 
 Who scatterest abroad thy precious rays 
 On wholesome and on noxious things alike, 
 I thought thee always great and generous,
 
 26 PHAETHON. 
 
 And never willing to withhold thy gifts. 
 Deny me not ; for all that thou hast said 
 Incites me but the more to do the deed 
 On which my heart is set unchangeably. 
 For I would prove I am thy very son, 
 By doing, if but once, thy daily task 
 Myself Time's signal for a day of fame ; 
 And if I fail, I fail. No son is he 
 Who dreads to follow in his father's steps 
 And take the cares and burdens on himself. 
 
 " Nor lay my wish to youth and thoughtlessness. 
 Not all rash deeds are done in early years. 
 Success has justified imprudent means ; 
 For courses jeopardous not always fail. 
 And there are minds so wondrously endow'd 
 That they are broader than experience, 
 And, like Minerva, stand full grown in youth ! 
 Am not I too the offspring of a god ? 
 Dissuasion to ambition is a spur. 
 Or won, or lost, the race must needs be run 
 When that within us calls us to the deed ! ' '
 
 PHAETHON. 27 
 
 To Phaethon made answer Phoebus thus : 
 "Then doubt not that, whatever be thy wish, 
 It shall be granted thee and stinted not ; 
 For I have sworn it by the Stygian waves ! ' ' 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE HORSES AND THE CHARIOT. 
 
 Thus spake he, seeing that his earth-born son 
 Was flush'd with eagerness to mount the sky. 
 And as he now no longer could delay, 
 He led him thence to where the chariot stood, 
 The lofty chariot that Vulcan gave. 
 The axle-tree and poles were all of gold 
 And all the outer roundness of the wheels. 
 Of silver was the range of widening spokes. 
 Along the yoke, in graceful order set, 
 Great chrysolites and gems flash'd brilliantly 
 Their infinite reflections of the Sun. 
 But while aspiring Phaethon admired 
 The dazzling splendor and its workmanship, 
 Behold ! Aurora, watchful, open'd wide
 
 28 PHAETHON. 
 
 Her purple portals in the ruddy east, 
 Her cool halls fill'd with roses glittering. 
 Flush'd yet with sleep she stood, draped round 
 
 with mist 
 
 Through which the warm tints of her body glow'cl. 
 Then, one by one, the wan stars disappear'cl, 
 The flocks whereof effulgent Lucifer 
 Collects, and, from its station in the sky, 
 "When he had driven the last, himself withdrew. 
 Now father Titan, when he saw the earth, 
 And all the bent sky over it, grow red, 
 And saw the distant moon's white horns wax wan, 
 As if they soon would vanish from his sight, 
 Gave orders to the swift, obedient Hours 
 To yoke the shining coursers of the day. 
 All speedily the silent goddesses 
 Complied, and from the lofty stalls led out, 
 Rampant and furious and snorting fire, 
 The mighty horses, on ambrosia fed ; 
 And in their mouths they put the sounding bits. 
 Then Phoebus with a hallow 'd drug o'erspread
 
 PHAETHON. 29 
 
 The face of Phaethon, that it unharm'd 
 Might bear the red intensity of flames. 
 Upon his locks he set the crown of rays 
 And, sighing doom and sorrow, thus he spoke : 
 " If thou can'st here at least, my son, obey 
 The prudent dictates of a father's care, 
 Be sparing of the lash ; for of themselves 
 The steeds are wont to gallop madly on. 
 
 "And let not other than the track oblique 
 Allure thee ; lo ! its curvature is broad 
 And in it glimmer traces of the wheels. 
 That heaven and earth may equal heat enjoy, 
 Drive not too low, nor yet thy equipage 
 Urge to the chilly summit of the sky. 
 The middle course is Safety's ; there she treads 
 At all times with her mild-eyed followers. 
 So shall the right wheel bear thee not away 
 Against the twisted Serpent, nor the left 
 To the low Altar draw thee ruinously. 
 
 "Of this I may not tell thee more ; for thou 
 Hast won thy knowledge but from semblances,
 
 3O PHAETHON. 
 
 Those doubtful guides that live in masquerade. 
 And he who gives new knowledge, who beyond 
 The pale of things accepted dares to step, 
 Is even more apt to fall on ridicule, 
 Than one who babbles only ignorance. 
 But be, my son, assured of this one truth : 
 The road is other than thou thinkest it. 
 
 ' ' The rest I leave to Fortune, who, I pray, 
 Will aid thee, taking wiser care of thee 
 Than of thyself thou dost. But whil'st I speak, 
 Moist Night has touch'd the goal of western shores. 
 The darkness is dispersed, and Morn is here ! 
 Delay is not allow'd and I am call'd. 
 Seize firmly now the will-conducting reins, 
 Or, if thy mind is capable of change, 
 Take mine advice and not my chariot ! ' ' 
 
 V. 
 
 THE WAY IS LOST. 
 
 Ambition heeds not prudence if it go 
 Not arm in arm, or by another road.
 
 PHAETHON. 3 1 
 
 And Phaethon, distracted by his wish, 
 
 Was deaf to all that cross'd it. Thrill'd with joy, 
 
 He lightly sprang into the chariot 
 
 And stood aloft, and clutch'd the golden reins, 
 
 Which in his hands were put reluctantly. 
 
 What Pegasi these are, that he would drive 
 Of daylight and imagination born, 
 And rather of the mind than of the sky ! 
 And were his training and ambition match'd, 
 What opportunity for hard-earn'd skill 
 To give effect to genius, and to win 
 The herald heights and very goal of hope ! 
 
 But now the four swift horses of the Sun 
 With neighings fill'd the air, sent forth red breath 
 And, with impatience, paw'd the barriers. 
 When these, upon the instant, were withdrawn, 
 And all the universe's boundless scope 
 Was given the mighty beasts, they took the road 
 And, moving through the air their rapid feet, 
 Dispersed the silent, gliding ghosts of clouds. 
 Then spreading wings, with manes astream, they 
 rose, 
 
 5
 
 32 PHAETHON. 
 
 With magical progression and uplift, 
 And pass'd by newly-risen eastern winds. 
 
 But light the yoke and light the vehicle, 
 And so far lack'd they now their wonted weight, 
 That soon the flying horses seem'd to feel 
 They scarce were drawing aught, but were set free. 
 For as a ship unballasted is toss'd, 
 Unsteadily careening o'er the surge, 
 So did the chariot leap, or swerve and sway, 
 And, like an empty one, was flung about. 
 Aroused thereat, the steeds rush'd fiercely on ; 
 But not in order as they did before. 
 They turn'd aside and left the beaten track. 
 And Phaethon himself is sore alarm'd ; 
 For, now the way is lost, and were it found, 
 He could not manage the gigantic steeds. 
 He does not know their names ; oh, that he did ! 
 For names, if kindly spoken, pacify. 
 And now the cold Triones, for the first, 
 Grow warm with erring sunbeams and in vain 
 Attempt to bathe in the forbidden sea.
 
 PHAETHON. 33 
 
 Now was the Serpent, near the icy pole, 
 Long torpid with the cold and hence not fear'd, 
 Warm'd into life and terrifying rage. 
 Thou too, Bootes, it is said, took flight, 
 Altho' thou \vert impeded by thy wain. 
 
 But when th' unhappy Phaethon look'd down 
 From a great height of illimitable sky, 
 And saw the small earth lying far beneath, 
 He paled, and abject terror shook his knees. 
 Then, for a time, so blinding was the light, 
 Thick darkness overcame his painful eyes. 
 Just as a ship without a helm is driven 
 By noisy gusts of sweeping Boreas, 
 Was too ambitious Phaethon borne on. 
 
 Too late he wish'd that he had never touch'd 
 The horses of his father, never known 
 His parentage divine, and never gain'd 
 The right to guide the dizzy chariot. 
 One moment look'd he forward to the west, 
 Which he, by fate, was not allow'd to reach, 
 And then, a moment, turn'd to see the east.
 
 34 PHAETHON. 
 
 For much of silent heaven was left behind, 
 But more arose before his straining eyes. 
 Now in his mind he measured either space 
 And stood appall'd by awful distances ; 
 Nay, stupefied, he let not go the reins, 
 Nor did he hold them firmly in his hands. 
 
 He saw strange objects scatter'd every where 
 About him in the broad'ning heavens, and fright 
 To them gave weird and most abhorrent shapes. 
 He saw withal the forms of huge, wild beasts, 
 To which his fancy added attributes ; 
 For, near that spot wherein the Scorpion 
 Throws into vast twin curves its stellar arms, 
 And bending tail and claws on either side, 
 Extends along two Zodiacal signs, 
 This aspirant to things beyond his reach, 
 This earthy son of failure and despair, 
 With chill of rigid horror dropp'd the reins, 
 Beholding, as it seem'd, the Scorpion, 
 With sweat of fatal venom dripping wet, 
 And, with its barb'd tail, threat'ning wounds and 
 death.
 
 PHAETHON. 3 5 
 
 When on their backs the horses felt the reins, 
 They plunged, they roved at large without restraint 
 And, in an unknown region, cleft the dark 
 That trail'd behind some planet like long hair. 
 Uncheck'd they dash'd along, surpassing winds 
 And strange, etherial forces of the void, 
 And rush'd upon the fix'd, remoter stars. 
 
 But fright not always lasts, and Phaethon 
 Arose and, in the chariot, upright stood. 
 He look'd abroad upon immensity 
 And saw that yet inordinately far 
 The fix'd stars shone, each star a blazing sun 
 Surrounded wide by planetary isles. 
 Expanding rapidly at his approach, 
 And parted fearfully by chasms of space 
 Where dwelt Eternity alone with God, 
 These gleaming archipelagoes inform 'd 
 The silent sea of gray infinitude. 
 Along the universe he look'd its length 
 And met the light of that astounding ring, 
 The Milky Way's thick myriads of stars.
 
 36 PHAETHON. 
 
 Then, sweet and clear, he heard angelic strains, 
 And saw long troops of glad, ascending spirits 
 Far journeying through space to other worlds. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE DAY OF FIRE. 
 
 Now was the sky, in which the horses ranged, 
 Most sharply cold ; but they abruptly wheel'd 
 And through steep places furiously dash'd 
 Down headlong paths and nearer to the earth. 
 
 The moon, surprised to see her brother's steeds 
 Run lower than her own, sent forth hot clouds 
 And drew into her bosom all her seas. 
 
 And now the earth was parch'd by cruel heat, 
 Which bore away her moisture ; grass grew pale 
 And trees and foliage leap'd up into flame. 
 But why should we complain of lesser ills 
 When vaster ruin surrounds us every where ? 
 Strong cities perish'd with their walls and towers. 
 The flames whole nations into ashes turn'd. 
 And now high woods and mountains are on fire.
 
 PHAETHON. 37 
 
 The firm ground bursts asunder and the light, 
 Down-streaming into deepest Tartarus, 
 Startles the King Infernal and his spouse. 
 The lovely nymphs, with hair dishevel'd, stand 
 In ruin'd dells and on the sometime shores, 
 Lamenting the decease of springs and lakes. 
 Thrice, wrinkled Neptune ventured angrily, 
 To thrust up from the sea his scaly arms, 
 And thrice did he withdraw them from the air, 
 Unable to endure or gaze upon 
 Its wavering glow and furnace breathlessness. 
 
 And Phaethon with shame beheld the world 
 In agonies of fire by his rash act, 
 Nor could himself abide the rageful heat. 
 He saw that even his chariot was scorch 'd. 
 As with a whirlwind, he was wrapp'd about 
 With flying embers and with burning gusts. 
 On every side he was involved in smoke. 
 A pitchy darkness cover'd him like night, 
 And whither he was going, he knew not, 
 Nor where he was, at madding pleasure borne
 
 38 PHAETHON. 
 
 By Pegasi dread-wing'd and errorful. 
 
 His wretched father hid away his face 
 With unavailing sorrow overcast, 
 And on that day, 'tis said, there was no Sun, 
 Or that he went not down ; but at the word 
 Of Joshua, stood still on Gibeon. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE EARTH'S PRAYER TO JUPITER. 
 At last, the genial Earth, in sore distress, 
 Upturn'd her kindly, in any- featured face, 
 And to her forehead placed her helpless hands. 
 Then, shaking all things with a tremor vast, 
 She pray'd with bitterness to Jupiter : 
 
 " O Sovereign of the Gods ! if thou of this 
 Approvest, and if this I have deserved, 
 Why do thy lightnings linger? Send them forth ! 
 Let me, if doom'd to die by heat intense, 
 Be rather by thy sudden flames destroy'd ! 
 My mouth is parch'd ; the vapor chokes my speech. 
 Behold my singed hair and me miserable,
 
 PHAETHON. 39 
 
 With ashes cov'ring all my face and eyes ! 
 
 And dost thou give this as my recompense ? 
 
 Is this reward for my fertility 
 
 And for my pains, in that I must endure, 
 
 From crooked plow and sharp-tooth'd harrow, 
 
 wounds, 
 
 And serve bronzed Agriculture all the year, 
 Supplying for the cattle pleasant leaves, 
 For human kind the corn, a wholesome food, 
 And for the gods frankincense? The deep 
 
 seas 
 
 No more obey the trident, but recede. 
 Do these deserve destruction ? Do the skies ? 
 Atlas himself is struggling and in pain. 
 Hardly upon his shoulders and bent back 
 Can he his fiery burden now endure. 
 If earth and sea and thy starr'd palace burn, 
 Then into ancient chaos we are thrown 
 And all the labor of the gods is vain. 
 O Sovereign of Olympus ! grant my prayer ! 
 O Sovereign of Olympus ! quench the flames ! ' '
 
 4O PHAETHON. 
 
 The suppliant words upflew, like white-wing'd 
 
 doves, 
 And nestled in the breast of Jupiter. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A SYNOD OF THE GODS. 
 
 Amidst the synod of the gods, he sat, 
 
 He of the far-borne voice, the Scepter'd God, 
 
 Enthroned upon the heights where he was wont 
 
 To spread the clouds above the spacious earth, 
 
 To roll his deep-voiced thunders, and to hurl 
 
 His brandish'd lightnings crinkling down the sky. 
 
 Loud thunder'd now the Sire Omnipotent, 
 
 And call'd the gods to witness, and him too, 
 
 Who lent his equipage to Phaethon, 
 
 That they must heed the fruitful Earth's appeal, 
 
 Preserve the House Celestial, and prevent 
 
 Another chaos from usurping all. 
 
 "And if," he said, "ambitious Phaethon 
 
 Can manage not his father's chariot, 
 
 Yet in a great attempt he finds his fate.
 
 PHAETHON. 4 1 
 
 It is the attempt, the bravery to face 
 Defeat and death, that shows the noble soul. 
 And tho' ambition often overleaps 
 The saddle where it fain would sit renown'd 
 And in the dust lies fall'n, it yet deserves 
 Less pain than its own disappointment gives 
 Surely not scorn. For proud and lofty deeds, 
 Which, but for high ambition, had not been, 
 Are stars that fight against oblivion. ' ' 
 
 Meanwhile sat Phcebus, spotted-faced, long 
 
 hair'd, 
 
 In squalid garb, and destitute of light 
 Beyond his wont when he endures eclipse. 
 He all abhorr'd, himself, the light, the day, 
 And from the world withheld his needed gifts. 
 His mind was canopied with dismal grief 
 And full of anger at the Olympian Sire 
 For threat of doom implied. ' ' Since time began, 
 My lot," said Phoebus, "hath been ever one 
 Of thankless effort and of little rest. 
 Of hardships I am tired of labors long
 
 42 PHAETHON. 
 
 That bring no honors and that have no end. 
 And when my brave son craved it as a boon, 
 To give me respite for a single day, 
 In secret I was glad, tho' much I fear'd 
 The issue. Yet what father is not pleased 
 To have his son step proudly in his place 
 And take the burden he has borne for years ? 
 But my regret is deepen'd by the thought 
 That I, who prated prudence, needed it 
 In that I did not go with Phaethon, 
 And going, show him how and where to drive. 
 "But as the youth has fail'd, let one of you 
 Attempt the chariot that bears the light ! 
 If no one will, and all of you confess 
 That you can not, let Jupiter himself 
 Drive it, that while he holds the reins at least, 
 His angry lightnings may be laid aside. 
 Then will he know, when he has tried the strength 
 Of my flame-footed horses, that my son, 
 If in a natural ambition balk'd, 
 Deserves not death nor further punishment
 
 PHAtTHON. 43 
 
 Repent thee, Sire, and harm not Phaethon ! 
 Repentance is the Angel Beautiful. 
 When gods repent, she proves them truly gods ; 
 When men repent, she makes them nobler men. 
 She gives the soul a rose that never fades." 
 
 So Phoebus spoke in synod with the gods, 
 Who, startled at his words, around him press'd, 
 While they entreated him submissively 
 That he would not bring darkness on the world. 
 
 But Jupiter imperiously arose, 
 High as an Alp, as frigidly supreme, 
 And, with a voice like thunder in the hills 
 Reverberating far, he thus ordain'd : 
 "This day thou shalt recall thy frenzied steeds, 
 O Phcebus ! and to-morrow drive them forth 
 To gild the world and give new beauty life. 
 And Vulcan, thou shalt mend the chariot 
 Refix the silvery, electric spokes 
 In their coronal tires ; and I, myself, 
 Revisiting the earth and all the heavens, 
 Shall, as I may, restore what is destroy'd.
 
 44 PHAETHON. 
 
 " I know the past and future, seeing all. 
 Repentance with strict justice should not clash. 
 Better, indeed, that with the shades below 
 Brave Phaethon should bide, than on the earth, 
 Or on our cloud-capp'd heights Olympian ; 
 For he is not a god, nor yet mere man, 
 But is partly both. And spirits such as his, 
 Their hopes all cloud and fire, their strength but 
 
 tow, 
 
 Their bolder efforts drossy with the faults 
 That negative perfection, needs must drink 
 The cup of disappointment and regret. ' ' 
 
 Again the Sire Olympian thunder'd loud 
 And, poising in his hand the lifted bolt, 
 He darted it against dazed Phaethon. 
 Him it deprived of life and of his seat 
 In the bright vehicle of golden day. 
 
 The afrighted horses quickly turn'd aside 
 And wildly bounded in a course diverse. 
 They shook the jewel'dyoke from off their necks, 
 And, from the tangled harness, set them free.
 
 PHAETHON. 45 
 
 In one place lay the reins ; another held 
 The golden axle-tree wrench'd from the poles ; 
 Another held the spokes of broken wheels. 
 The shining bravery of the chariot, 
 In fragments torn, was scatter' d far and wide. 
 
 But Phaethon, his yellow locks oh fire, 
 Was headlong hurl'd, down, down the vast abyss, 
 And, like a sudden meteor, cross'd the sky 
 Above the earth, and vanished in the night 
 That, for a moment, he had lighted up 
 With the trail'd brightness of his blazing hair.
 
 VEERA. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE KING'S SEAL. 
 
 A prince was I, of warlike, ancient line ; 
 And when my father, the indulgent King, 
 Lay near to death, my younger brothers twain, 
 To end my life and share the crown agreed. 
 I did not tell the King, because I fear'd 
 To shorten by one breath his waning day. 
 Beside his couch I knelt and bow'd with tears. 
 He laid his thin, hot hand upon my head, 
 Invoking Allah's blessing, then said on : 
 " Thou hast beheld the green and tender blade 
 Thrust upward through the all-begetting soil ; 
 In time, the sure day crowns it with a flower. 
 So thou, when I am not, shalt wear a crown, 
 The people's flower and symbol, and be King. 
 But take thee now this lesson to thy heart 
 And from the grass learn wisdom : Wear thy 
 crown
 
 48 VEERA. 
 
 As meekly, and as passionless of pride, 
 
 As doth the green herb hiding under leaves ; 
 
 For pride becomes a passion in small minds 
 
 Who, when in mighty seats, degrade their power 
 
 By masking it in pomp and arrogance." 
 
 Then bent he down with pain and kiss'd my 
 
 cheek, 
 
 As if, in confirmation of a law, 
 He set his seal upon it the King's Seal. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE KING'S FRIEND. 
 
 I cared not for the crown, save as a means 
 To reach a wider outlook over life, 
 And show men two things unaccountable. 
 Of these my tutor taught me. He was weird 
 My father's friend, adviser, menial gnome 
 A probing critic, not well liked at court, 
 Nay, fear'd and hated by the eunuch group, 
 Who boldly said that he should be vizier.' 
 His will was strong. His heavy, hairy brows
 
 VEERA. 49 
 
 Bridged over eyes that shone like furnace fire. 
 
 For all his usual careless gait and wear, 
 
 Derision ceased to sneer when he approach'd, 
 
 And straightway fell to cringing servitude. 
 
 My will was lost in his, as smoke in air, 
 
 As waters of a river in the sea. 
 
 To be like him I daily long'd and strove. 
 
 I only cared to study and to dream. 
 
 And it was he who, standing in the night 
 
 Beside a pillar of the palace porch, 
 
 Saw my two brothers, where they met below, 
 
 And overheard their dark, cold-blooded plot 
 
 To slay me and to seize upon the crown. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE YOUNGER BROTHERS. 
 
 The night before the murder was to be, 
 I drew my keen, slim dagger from its sheath 
 And stole forth, down the long, wide, marble stairs 
 And past the throne-room, through the curtain'd 
 arch,
 
 5O VEERA. 
 
 Beyond which, in a cool, high-vaulted place, 
 
 My brothers had their bed. A wick, afloat 
 
 In aromatic oil in cut glass vased, 
 
 Dependent from the ceiling's middle star, 
 
 Diffused a drowsy twilight. Like two boats 
 
 Rising and falling with a long sea-swell, 
 
 My brothers on their broad couch lay asleep. 
 
 I saw their faces, and the one was fair. 
 
 Light, golden locks back from his forehead waved 
 
 And, on the silken pillow, spread like spray. 
 
 The other's face was shadowy and dark. 
 
 I felt no pity in my angry breast 
 
 For this, the elder brother of the two, 
 
 For he had more deceived me. When we met, 
 
 He ever honor'd me with words of praise. 
 
 My slightest act had merit, on his lips. 
 
 Praise is a dust of perfume, which, if thrown 
 
 Into the eyes of even noble men, 
 
 Will blind them to the thrower's plainest faults. 
 
 But now my will vaned round, I know not why. 
 
 The moon was at its full and glimpsed forth pale,
 
 VEERA. 5 1 
 
 From blue between two fringed and tassel'd 
 
 clouds, 
 
 Like some fair princess from her curtain'd bed. 
 The vagrant wind came through an open blind 
 And whisper'd of the desert. The same breath 
 Fann'd the small flame that, in the crystal urn, 
 Mimick'd a star. Beneath its rays I wrote : 
 I thought to slay you both; for you have plarid 
 To take my life. I spare you and I go, 
 Between them there I laid the paper down 
 And thrust my dagger, to the jewel'd hilt, 
 Through it, into the couch. Then, passing 
 
 forth, 
 
 I came to that high room wherein a life, 
 The King's, lay drifting near the reefs of death. 
 My tutor at his bedside, on the floor 
 And overcome by sleep, lay like a dog. 
 I fain would see the King's face once again 
 Ere, like a maiden who in her lover trusts 
 Some outland youth whom she has scarcely 
 
 known
 
 52 VEERA. 
 
 I gave myself up, even body and soul, 
 To the wide desert and the world beyond. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE DEAD KING. 
 
 How sweetly slept the King ! His long, white 
 
 hair 
 
 And venerable beard were undisturb'd 
 By scarce the stated motion of his breath. 
 Surely, I thought, the fever must have pass'd ! 
 I bent down tenderly to kiss the cheek. 
 How cold ! My heart sank gave a choking 
 
 bound, 
 
 And drove a weltering wild wave of grief 
 Far up the sad, unmitigated sands 
 Of utter desolation. The wave broke 
 And fell in blinding mists of bitter tears. 
 I moan'd in dark despair ; but hush'd my woe 
 And kiss'd again the cold, insentient face 
 The face august that I should see no more.
 
 VEERA. 53 
 
 V. 
 
 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 I left the sad room, parting with slow care 
 
 The heavy, silken curtains, fearful then 
 
 Their rustle might alarm some wakeful ear. 
 
 I found the jewels of the crown, and these 
 
 With all my own, I in a bag secured, 
 
 Or hid about my person as I might. 
 
 As noiseless as a ghost, then, through the hall 
 
 And down the stairway wrought of sandal-wood, 
 
 I made light footsteps. Yet not quite so light 
 
 But love could hear ; for as I tip-toe went 
 
 Along the alcoves where the women slept 
 
 In deep recesses hidden from the view, 
 
 A maiden stood before me. She outstretch'd 
 
 Her soft, white, naked arms to bar my way, 
 
 Then clasp'd them round my neck, and laid her 
 
 cheek 
 
 Against my cloak, with odors and a sigh. 
 This was the lady, Veera. She, of late, 
 For heavy ransom had been captive held
 
 54 VEERA. 
 
 From a large tribe of warlike Bedouins ; 
 
 But, when the gold was brought, she would not 
 
 go- 
 
 The King was pleased thereat, for thus she made 
 A lasting peace between him and her kin. 
 No maiden in the city could be found 
 To rival her for beauty. All her words 
 Were apt and good and all her ways were sweet. 
 I, in the lovely prison, ivory barr'd 
 By her warm arms, was fretful for release ; 
 For Heaven, if gateless, would a prison be. 
 But Veera would not free me till I told 
 The meaning of my vigil. This I did ; 
 For here she made a pledge of secrecy. 
 I named the city that I meant to reach. 
 I did not wait to pay her back her kiss. 
 I hurried to the stables, where I found 
 My jet-black horse, that neigh'd and paw'd the 
 
 floor. 
 
 I bound the saddle firmly, grasp'd the reins 
 And, in a moment, through the Eastern gate,
 
 VEERA. 55 
 
 Shot out upon the desert, where the wind 
 Made race with us, but lagg'd behind at last. 
 
 VI. 
 
 TWO PROBLEMS. 
 
 Vienna reach'd, I gave myself to books. 
 Here, I had promised Veera, I should be. 
 In eager study pass'd abstracted days. 
 Far-reaching paths were open'd to my view. 
 All that my tutor knew seem'd small and poor 
 Beside these wider ways of thought and truth. 
 Better, I said, to know than be a king. 
 There is no royal, gem-encrusted crown 
 That so becomes a man as knowledge does. 
 
 To solve two problems now fulfill'd my days. 
 On them my tutor spent absorbing years. 
 But ever- groping vainly in the dark, 
 On me he set the purpose of his soul, 
 Determined, at the last, that he, through me, 
 Would wrench the secrets out of Nature's grasp, 
 Tho' Life, long since, had given him back to 
 Death.
 
 56 VEERA. 
 
 The subtle problems were : How make fine gold? 
 And, How exist forever on the earth? 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE DOOR. 
 
 There lay, among the books that I had bought, 
 
 The Book that is the greatest of all books, 
 
 The angel to our spiritual needs, 
 
 The indestructible sure Word of God. 
 
 The prized Koran' takes from it, but ignores 
 
 The inspirational, prophetic gold 
 
 Relating to the Christ. Mohammed made 
 
 No suras to belittle his own claims. 
 
 To read the Bible I at once began ; 
 
 But, ere I had read far, I found the door 
 
 Behind which lay conceal'd the consequent 
 
 Solution of my problems ! Firmly lock'd 
 
 The strong door stood the Door to Life and 
 
 Gold! 
 
 I read of Eden that, in the east of it, 
 And in the center of the Garden there,
 
 VEERA. 57 
 
 The unforbidden Tree of Life bore fruit. 
 Then of the gold : Out of the Garden ran 
 A river, which was parted, and became 
 Into four heads. Euphrates was the fourth. 
 And one was Gihon, the Ethiop flood, 
 And one was Pison, the great crystal stream 
 About Havil'ah, where fine gold is found, 
 Magnetic bdellium and the onyx stone. 
 My tutor said that, tho' the problems seem'd 
 In no wise like, nor either kith or kin, 
 Yet one within the other was enclosed, 
 And he who solved one, would have solved them 
 
 both. 
 
 Of many things he tried to make the gold, 
 Or to distill from them the Elixir true. 
 But, unlike him, I had no choice of means. 
 Whether I made or found, it matter'd not, 
 And it is easier to find than make. 
 Over the text I pored, and kiss'd the page 
 With thankful lips, my blood revivified 
 By the strong impulse of the mystic words.
 
 58 VEERA. 
 
 VIII. 
 THE KEY. 
 
 As one, in some deserted street at night, 
 Who spurns by chance an old and rusty key 
 And holds it to the light and sees, with joy, - 
 The long-lost sesame of one closed door, 
 Behind which, wish'd-for wealth has lain unused, 
 So I, when first I chanced on Mesmer's Works, 
 Felt I had found the Key which would unlock 
 That batten'd, fast-shut, Pentateuchal Door, 
 Behind which lay, I thought, those unstring'd 
 
 pearls, 
 
 The answers to my problems. Day by day, 
 Of Mesmer I made study and delight 
 Like his, my will was potent, dominant, 
 And seem'd to wield an all-compelling force ; 
 But I was not clairvoyant, and few are. 
 I mourn'd the lonely death that Mesmer died. 
 Nor had he gain'd the portals of success 
 When voted an impostor by the learn'd.
 
 VEERA. 5Q 
 
 The learn'd are often slow to see new truth. 
 The pioneer, who builds beyond the pale, 
 Is thought, at first, foolhardy and absurd ; 
 But when thick population marks his site, 
 And every where the pale has been advanced, 
 All call him great and make his name a star. 
 And Mesmer's land was so indefinite, 
 So hard to get a foothold in, that men 
 Cried ' ' Witchcraft ! ' ' and to follow him refused. 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE TUTOR EXECUTED. 
 
 Down the long street, astride my proud, black 
 
 horse, 
 
 I rode and ponder'd, scarcely heeding aught : 
 ''Where shall I seek to find a blameless soul, 
 Pure as the radiance of the gleam-wing'd stars, 
 Who, to my will, shall be angelic clay 
 To mould and fashion as my purpose guides 
 A soul clairvoyant, who can lightly soar, 
 Swifter than any lofty cloud could do,
 
 60 VEERA. 
 
 Around the earth, or, at a word, go back 
 Into the past's ghost-peopled corridors, 
 And bring therefrom the thing that I would 
 know ? ' ' 
 
 While thus I mused, lo ! up a garden walk, 
 'Twixt house and street, a maiden chased a bird. 
 An empty cage stood in the vine-clad porch. 
 The bird seem'd like some rare, elusive thought, 
 The maiden, Greek Sappho in pursuit of it. 
 She shyly glanced my way to see me pass, 
 Then quickly turn'd and gayly toward me ran, 
 Her large, dark eyes with gladness scintillant. 
 She was my friendly, sweet-faced Bedouin. 
 Her hand upon my shoulder, up the walk 
 We went, my horse beside me ; and her bird, 
 Tired of his liberty, soon found his cage. 
 
 I sat with Veera by her cottage door 
 And heard ill news. Here she abode in peace ; 
 But through the city she had sought me long. 
 What time my traitorous two brothers read 
 The paper I had written, their wrath burn'd
 
 VEERA. 6 1 
 
 Against my tutor, whom they deem'd the spy. 
 He, being found asleep by the King's bed, 
 And the King lifeless, to the tutor's door 
 They brought the charge of murder. Through 
 
 the streets 
 
 They sent the criers to proclaim the deed. 
 Then, clamorous for his life, the people rose 
 And dragg'd him forth and led him to the block 
 And slew him. On a spear they set his head 
 And placed it high above the Eastern gate. 
 The vagrant birds peck'd at the staring eyes 
 And wove the hair into their rounded homes ; 
 The rain beat on it, and the active wind 
 Dash'd it with desert dust. Always the sun 
 Made salutation to it, flushing it 
 Until it seem'd more ghastly than before. 
 And after this mad crime, the older grew 
 Jealous of him, the younger, till one morn 
 They found the last-born lifeless in the street, 
 Stabb'd in the back, the poniard in the wound. 
 Misrule got new misrule, and Justice fled,
 
 62 VEERA. 
 
 Follow'd by blushing Shame with downcast eyes. 
 Laws were annull'd that were as bonds to sin, 
 And spur was given to uncurb'd desires, 
 The headstrong horses of all violence. 
 
 Her story done, the maiden begg'd of me 
 To set out for my kingdom, with the dawn. 
 "Not yet," said I, "not yet," and then I made 
 The passes with my hands and fix'd my will 
 To sway her will, till, with a questioning glance, 
 She fell into a calm, Mesmeric sleep. 
 I saw that I had found the very soul 
 My purpose needed, and I bade her wake. 
 
 X. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR. 
 
 I sat and ponder'd in my room that night 
 Until the erstwhile silent towers and spires, 
 The shadowy sentinels of peaceful sky, 
 From near and far announced the midnight hour. 
 With waving hands I roused magnetic force . 
 And set my will that Veera should approach
 
 VEERA. 63 
 
 Should leave her house and enter at my door ; 
 But none must even see her on the way. 
 I set my will and, when the will believes, 
 It is an act of faith, and I had faith. 
 At last I heard her footfall on the stairs 
 The patter of her feet like drops of rain. 
 My door was open'd and she silent stood 
 Upon the threshold, rosy as new day. 
 Her large eyes, wide and staring, took no heed 
 Of anything before them. Thus she slept. 
 A long white wrapper, made of satin, edged 
 With lace and fine embroidery of gold, 
 And with two diamonds button'd at the throat, 
 Loosely enfolded and reveal'd her form. 
 A string of opals hung around her neck, 
 A hundred lambent worlds with central fires. 
 Her feet were naked and her hair was down. 
 I bade her sit beside me, and I laid 
 The Bible on her knee and her forefinger 
 Upon the verse that names the Tree of Life. 
 "Tell me," I said, "where can this tree be 
 found?"
 
 64 VEERA. 
 
 She answer'd me at last, "The way is long 
 And I am worn and weary ; mile on mile 
 The course of one long river I have track'd. 
 The fierce sun burns and dazes and I thirst. 
 I can not find the Tree ! My search is done." 
 "Look down the past, and see if any knew 
 Where grew this Tree, and if it may be found.'' 
 Her eyes were closed, and for a while she paused. 
 As if her soul were wandering afar. 
 At last her lips moved, answering : "One I see, 
 Long dead, who bends above a written scroll 
 And thereon makes strange characters, which hold 
 Some hidden sense pertaining to this Tree. 
 In fair Milano, in the library 
 Ambrosian, waits this quaint, time-yellow'd 
 
 scroll." 
 "Now to thy home go back, sweet spirit,'' I 
 
 said, 
 
 "Thou art as meek and pure as that great man, 
 The first who wrote God's words. ' ' At once she 
 
 rose,
 
 VEERA. 65 
 
 Moved down the flight and out beneath the stars. 
 I follow'd closely, musing, all the way, 
 Upon sub-consciousness, that deeper self, 
 That stream of wisdom flowing, pure and clear, 
 Beneath the conscious surface of the soul. 
 Great minds have wells in it and draw from them, 
 To give new art and science to the world. 
 And in the soul that walk'd before me now, 
 In sleep and innocence, the stream serene, 
 So near the surface ran, it bubbled up 
 And glorified her speech and countenance. 
 I followed her through dim, deserted streets 
 And saw her enter at her cottage door ; 
 Then hasten'd homeward ; but, as in a dream, 
 She seem'd my Quest that enter'd at a Door. 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE PALIMPSEST. 
 
 In Milan, in the Ambrosian library, 
 Among Pinellian writings blurr'd with age, 
 I sought and found a prophet's palimpsest,
 
 66 VEERA. 
 
 A scroll that Angelo Maie brought to light 
 And on the margin, half way down the scroll, 
 Were signs particular, which baffled me. 
 In my perplexity, a bookworm named 
 The mongrel dialect of which they were. 
 I thus translated : Gihon is the Nile. 
 A sinless soul may find long life and gold. 
 
 Veera, I thought, is stainless and most pure. 
 Her soul's blue sky has not one cloud of sin. 
 If her feet seek the soil where Eve first trod, 
 I, at no great way off, may follow them. 
 Back to Vienna then I straightway sped 
 And, finding Veera, made my purpose plain. 
 I begg'd of her to join me in my quest. 
 She smiled assent : to be near me, she said, 
 Had brought her to Vienna ; to be near me 
 Detain'd her from her kinsmen. Her heart's book 
 She frankly open'd and I read her love. 
 So we were wed, and thenceforth our young lives 
 Were like those double stars that shine as one.
 
 VEERA. 67 
 
 XII. 
 
 GIHON. 
 
 Now up the Nile we journey'd far, and reach'd 
 The place call'd Gondokoro, where the stream 
 Of Bahr-el-Abiad, or White Nile, flows. 
 Thence on we pass'd and with the savage folk 
 Made friends and rested in their shady huts. 
 We met the tribe of dwarfs, and verified 
 That doubted chronicler, Herodotus. 
 
 We came upon the sources of the Nile, 
 The long-mysterious Nyanzan lakes. 
 Men seldom value what they have not sought. 
 If to Vienna I had now gone back 
 And given my discovery to the world, 
 My name, withheld here, had been loved by 
 
 fame. 
 
 Allured by hope, we slowly journey'd on 
 And enter'd soon into a fervid land 
 Where nothing grew and all was sand and sky. 
 Here the cherubic sun, with flaming sword
 
 68 VEERA. 
 
 Every way turning, threaten'd our advance. 
 And pale and worn was Veera. For my sake, 
 With generous patience she endured fatigue. 
 Our feet were swollen and with the hot sand 
 
 scorch'd. 
 
 Our garments hung in tatters beggars we, 
 And in a land where there was none to give. 
 At night we slept beside a sluggish stream 
 Whose lukewarm moisture scarcely slaked our 
 
 thirst. 
 My beard was grown, and thick my hair hung 
 
 down 
 
 Neglected round my shoulders. I was weak 
 And thin and feverish, and Veera too, 
 I saw, was ill, and languish'd hour by hour. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 GOLD. 
 
 Beside the stream and, hiding in the sand, 
 Was an unusual something, which all day 
 Replied with yellow luster to the sun.
 
 VEERA. 69 
 
 I brush'd away the sand and found it gold ! 
 A nugget of pure gold that was so large 
 I had not strength to stir it in its place. 
 I would have given then the lump of gold 
 To buy our hunger respite on a crust. 
 
 We came to where four rivers went their ways. 
 Which should we follow ? One, I thought, 
 Led surely to the long lost Tree of Life. 
 A dead bird here, slain by its kind, we found 
 And, tearing off its gaudy plumage, ate. 
 Upon occasional trees grew bread-fruit, dates, 
 And these sustain'd us as we wander'd on. 
 For many miles along the banks we walk'd 
 By each of these four rivers and came back. 
 Then hope's star sank below the horizon's rim 
 And clouds of disappointment settled down. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 Heartsick and weary, we were laid, by Sleep, 
 Beneath a palm, and Veera, in the dawn,
 
 70 VEERA. 
 
 Woke and me awakening, told her dream : 
 "While I have slept three men have talk'd with 
 
 me 
 Three plain, good men who said the kindest 
 
 words. 
 
 They said that Eden was a land well known 
 Before the Deluge that the Tree of Life 
 Prefigured him who rose from Olivet. 
 They said that those who were set free of sin 
 Would surely find the Garden of the Lord 
 And eat the Tree of Life's abundant fruit. 
 "Then I beheld," said Veera, "as when you 
 Have will'd my soul away to other scenes, 
 A forest wild and dense and, Eastward there, 
 A garden fill'd with many trees I knew 
 And, in the midst, a Tree most bountiful, 
 Which I knew not, but it surpass'd them all. 
 Above the Tree, upon a cloud, there stood 
 One Godlike, radiant, a Man Divine, 
 Who said, 'Believe in me, The Tree of Life 
 
 am I !'
 
 VEERA. 71 
 
 Then pointing downward to the unknown Tree, 
 ' Believe in me/ he said, ' and to this Tree - 
 Go forward ; but thou shalt not tat of it!' ' 
 
 Obedient to the vision, Veera cried, 
 " I do believe ! " And I abased my soul 
 Tearing my mad ambition from my heart. 
 Then in his name, who is The One Foretold, 
 I pray'd and laid on him my load of sin 
 And took upon myself his easy yoke. 
 
 XV. 
 
 THE GARDEN. 
 
 With happy hearts we went upon our way 
 And found the forest seen in Veera's dream. 
 Its wild luxuriance made our progress slow. 
 At mid-day here the sun could scarcely pierce. 
 So thick the foliage was, he only let 
 Into the gloom thin pencils of ru's rays. 
 The animals seem'd tame ; they harm'd us not, 
 And many insects humm'd but never stung. 
 Of berries and of fruits there were enough,
 
 72 VEERA. 
 
 On every side, to satisfy our needs, 
 
 And plants medicinal to soothe and heal. 
 
 We drank of limpid brooks that cross'd our path. 
 
 We made our way like children, laugh'd and sang 
 
 And felt sweet youth and vigor stir our blood. 
 
 At last we came out in an open place 
 Where, in the midst, a tree remarkable 
 Snow'd its incessant blossoms to the ground 
 The Tree that Veera in her dream had seen. 
 This, and the other trees, were housed with nests, 
 And every one was like a city of song 
 Where only joyful, kindly minstrels dwelt, 
 And never work was done except for love. 
 The sparkling stream, that through the Garden 
 
 flow'd, 
 
 Fondled by mint and cresses all the way, 
 Was fed by many rills of spring water 
 Almost as volubJe as were the birds. 
 The grass that hid the soil and climb'd the rocks, 
 Was softer, thicker than a Persian rug, 
 And most exquisitely inwrought with flowers.
 
 VEERA. 73 
 
 Nature, inviting sleep, spread couches 'round 
 
 In green-roof d, lulling dells of perfect peace. 
 
 A sense of rest and joy was in the air. 
 
 The sky was always blue ; for, set with stars, 
 
 The blue was only of a deeper shade. 
 
 The roses were abundant in all kinds 
 
 And, like an army, stood with nodding plumes. 
 
 The lilies too, were like an army there, 
 
 And every night they struck their snowy tents 
 
 To please their great commander, the white moon, 
 
 Night's lily in the garden of the sky. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 CAST OUT. 
 
 Too often to my mind came searching thoughts 
 Relating to existence or surcease 
 To the forbidden tree whose fruit gave death, 
 And to that other Tree, which I had sought. 
 At times I question'd mine auspicious star 
 Whether the place, indeed, wherein we were, 
 Was the true Garden planted by the Lord ?
 
 74 VEERA. 
 
 Or if the Garden lay, as some believe, 
 In northern Asia, from the Equator far ? 
 Of if that other theory were true, 
 That, at the Deluge, this huge ball of earth, 
 Changing its axis, buried Eden deep 
 Beneath relentless, Arctic ice and snow? 
 
 We kept no record of the flight of time. 
 As to the rose, or heliotrope, floats down 
 Some golden butterfly that 'lights and flies, 
 Leaving no vestige of its poised sojourn, 
 So each glad, gold-wing'd day came softly down 
 And rested for a while, then flew away. 
 
 Now in an evil hour I lusted for some food 
 Other than that which I was wont to use ; 
 For servant trees extended food to us 
 With their long arms, and ever waiting stood. 
 I, seeing the Tree that we had left untouch'd, 
 And the rich fruit that nestled 'mid its bloom, 
 Deem'd it unwise never to know its taste. 
 "A dream is but a dream," I said in thought. 
 "To Adam this Tree was not at first denied,
 
 VEERA. 75 
 
 And it was but forbidden us in dream. 
 There is no surety that this is the Tree, 
 And, if it be, what harm is it to live ? ' ' 
 Then I reach'd up, and took the fruit, and ate, 
 And all the sky grew dark, and from the place 
 Malignant terrors drove me shrieking forth. 
 And as I fled, sight dimm'd, my hair turn'd 
 
 gray; 
 
 My youthful body aged at every step. 
 A sad, old man, I wander'd in the wastes. 
 
 Once, looking back to where the Garden lay, 
 I saw, or thought I saw, and knew it so, 
 The sky above the Garden, blue and clear, 
 And, in the air, an angel mounting up 
 With shining presence and vast sweep of wing, 
 Who in his arms bore Veera, now a gift, 
 An alabaster urn of precious nard, 
 That he was taking joyfully to God.
 
 76 VEERA. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 LONG LIVE THE KING ! 
 
 I came to my own city. It was night. 
 The moon, forih-gazing from a silver'd cloud, 
 Trail'd its white robe, thin and impalpable, 
 Over the tower above the Eastern gate, 
 And there reveal'd the outlines of a skull 
 Set on a spear. The portal was unbarr'd. 
 Keeping in shadow, I pass'd through the arch 
 And spoke the sentinel, who gave me food. 
 It chanced that there remain'd to me one coin, 
 A piece of gold, and this I paid him with 
 And made a friend. He said the late King died, 
 The moon before, and left two eldest born, 
 Twin brothers, both desirous of the crown. 
 Neither would yield his claim, nor would consent 
 To govern with the other, both in power. 
 The city was dividing, and even now 
 There rose low mutterings of violence. 
 On the next day, I to the palace went
 
 VEERA. 77 
 
 And ask'd for audience with the old vizier/ 
 I told him all my story, kept naught back, 
 And bared my arm and show'd an old-time scar, 
 And bared my breast and show'd the birth-mark 
 
 there. 
 
 Embracing me with joy, he kiss'd the mark 
 And knelt and did me homage, hail'd me King ! 
 That day they crown'd me with rich pomp and 
 
 show, 
 
 And all the city with delight was fill'd. 
 Even my nephews oflfer'd me their swords 
 In token of obedience and trust. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 THE PROPHECY. 
 
 Now, for ten years, have I borne mildest sway, 
 And hear and see that I am not misliked. 
 They know not I am Christian to the core, 
 Nor that my mildness is reflected light. 
 Some day, ere long, I shall give up the crown 
 And let the one twin brother, who survived
 
 78 VEERA. 
 
 The plague, which, sometime since, swept through 
 
 the land, 
 
 Assume the robes and burdens of the State. 
 I tire of power and fain would put it by ; 
 For all my life and even abiding hope 
 Seem dust and ashes, knowing that I dared 
 To thrust aside the mandate of the dream, 
 And eat the mystical, life-giving fruit. 
 The pendulum of emigration now 
 Swings westward to the New World over sea. 
 It yet will reach the limit of its arc 
 And, oscillating to'ard its eastern bourn, 
 Populate Africa from coast to coast. 
 There, nations greater than perhaps we know, 
 Enlighten'd and progressive, will enlarge 
 To wider bounds the arts and sciences, 
 And lead the world to heights scarce dream'd of 
 
 now. 
 
 With such a people I should like to dwell 
 And learn their manners, customs, modes of 
 
 thought,
 
 VEERA. 79 
 
 Inventions, aspirations and desires. 
 
 Then, on all knowledge having feasted much, 
 
 I would arise at last and seek again 
 
 That Garden, equatorial, wonderful, 
 
 Where I with Veera dwelt in happy years. 
 
 And, if I might, I should abide therein, 
 
 With meditation on eternal things, 
 
 Till Heaven repented doom on my misdeed 
 
 And granted me the kindly gift of death.
 
 THE TRAITOR. 
 I. 
 
 THE ANCIENT CINTRAN CITY. 
 
 HIGH upon the rocky summit of a cliff in red 
 
 Algiers, 
 Raised against the sky of sunset, like a beaker 
 
 fill'd with wine, 
 While each dome is like a bubble that above the 
 
 brim appears, 
 
 Stands the city I was born in, my loved mother, 
 Constantine. 
 
 Rank on rank, the brick-roof d houses, with their 
 
 heavy, gray stone walls, 
 And among them, far above them, rises mosque 
 
 and minaret; 
 Like the voice of an enchanter, sounds the loud 
 
 muezzin's calls, 
 
 And the rustle of the cypress has a murmur of 
 regret.
 
 82 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Round the ancient, Cintran city runs a sturdy 
 
 wall and strong, 
 Like the girdle of a soldier, and a gate the 
 
 buckle seems ; 
 While a tower on the rampart is a dagger hilted 
 
 long, 
 
 Whose blade is sheath'd in foldings of a circling 
 sash of streams. 
 
 Far away the Atlas mountains lift primeval heads 
 
 of snow, 
 And appear like old men seated in some quiet 
 
 sylvan place, 
 Where they bathe their feet like children in the 
 
 brooks that run below, 
 
 Or smoke their pipes of comfort till the clouds 
 obscure each face. 
 
 I was poor ; a beggar found me lying naked in 
 
 the street, 
 
 And he selfishly befriended me and took me 
 to his door,
 
 THE TRAITOR. 83 
 
 Where he cared for me and tended me, until my 
 
 growing feet 
 
 Could patter along the thoroughfares and yield 
 him alms the more. 
 
 A stranger to the tenderness of father or of 
 
 mother, 
 My tatters scarcely cover'd me and privation 
 
 made me thin. 
 I had grown cold to sympathy, or kindness, from 
 
 another. 
 
 I drank the cups of bitterness that are known 
 as want and sin. 
 
 II. 
 
 IN THE BLUE KIOSK AND GOLDEN. 
 
 In the days when I, a beggar, idly roam'd from 
 
 street to street, 
 By the palace, in the garden where the scented 
 
 fountains play, 
 Near the blue kiosk and golden, it was given me 
 
 to meet
 
 84 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 One to whom my wild heart bounded, and I 
 could not turn away. 
 
 For my eyes fed on the banquet of her beauty 
 
 and her grace. 
 How could I choose but love her whom the 
 
 angels might adore ? 
 Soon she wearied of my staring and averted her 
 
 dear face ; 
 
 But I saw the opals tremble, which about her 
 neck she wore. 
 
 Either cheek was sea-shell tinted and, upon her 
 
 crimson lips, 
 Danced a smile that linger'd fondly, as the 
 
 starlight on the sea. 
 Growing bolder, on my knees I fell and kiss'd 
 
 her finger-tips, 
 
 And begg'd of her, and pray'd to her, that her 
 slave I now might be.
 
 THE TRAITOR. 85 
 
 I was swarthy, handsome featured, comely, both 
 
 in form and face, 
 And my sable hair flow'd glossily about my 
 
 neck and head. 
 My large, dark eyes were luminous, and I had 
 
 an inborn grace 
 
 That almost changed to royal robes my ill- 
 fashion'd, faded red. 
 
 With my arm I bound the maiden and I would 
 
 not let her go, 
 Tho' she said she was Eudocia and that Yorghi 
 
 was her sire. 
 
 I said I was Demetrius and, if but a beggar low, 
 By my love I was ennobled as with purifying 
 fire. 
 
 Heavily her long, jet lashes hung above her 
 
 dreamy eyes, 
 
 Like twin clouds of stormy portent drooping 
 near two crystal lakes ;
 
 86 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Or they were as wings of ravens seen against the 
 
 twilight skies, 
 
 Or as fern-sprays hanging over glossy water in 
 the brakes. 
 
 Her rich vesture was embroider'd with the lace 
 
 of finest gold, 
 And a diamond in her fillet with a star-like 
 
 twinkle shone. 
 Her clinging silk, in outline, of the form within 
 
 it, told, 
 
 And her slender waist was circled by a jewel- 
 fasten'd zone. 
 
 To my eyes she gave her dear eyes, down to gaze 
 
 into and dream, 
 And I was as one who, musing, leans upon a 
 
 bridge's rail, 
 And, of all else heedless, gazes into the pellucid 
 
 stream, 
 
 While the twilight comes and passes and the 
 starry hosts prevail.
 
 THE TRAITOR. 87 
 
 After this, I met her daily in the palace-garden's 
 
 ways, 
 And she gladly came to meet me, often at the 
 
 very gate, 
 Sometimes chiding, sometimes smiling at my 
 
 minute-long delays ; 
 
 And she brought me dainty viands on a bur- 
 nish'd silver plate. 
 
 I, her lover, was a beggar ; but she also, felt the 
 
 flame. 
 Had I been Harun-al-Rashid, she could not 
 
 have loved me more. 
 This she fondly whisper'd, kissing on my lips and 
 
 eyes my name, 
 
 And vined her arms about my neck. Could I 
 other than adore ? 
 
 Yet all pleasure cloys or ends soon ; if the cup 
 
 is stricken down, 
 
 Then the content is like acid, leaving scars 
 of deep regret ;
 
 00 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 If it cloys, we calmly quit it, with perhaps a 
 
 careless frown. 
 
 As with pain, it is with pleasure, both are easy 
 to forget. 
 
 In the blue kiosk and golden, with the maiden's 
 
 hand in mine, 
 Sat I when appear'd proud Yorghi with a storm 
 
 upon his face. 
 Dared Eudocia so disgrace him ? Would she 
 
 soil his noble line? 
 
 He stamp'd his fierce invective and he drove 
 me from the place. 
 
 Ere I went, I turn'd upon him, and I boldly 
 
 claim'd her hand, 
 And vow'd that I would have her, tho' the city 
 
 barr'd my way ; 
 But he scoffd at me, a beggar, and repeated his 
 
 command, 
 
 Never more to meet his daughter, for my life's 
 sake, from that day.
 
 THE TRAITOR. 89 
 
 III. 
 GOOD FORTUNE. 
 
 Thus two rivers, nigh united, were abruptly turn'd 
 
 apart ; 
 One to glide through palace gardens, sweet 
 
 and clear, but never free ; 
 One to move by towns and bridges, bearing 
 
 cargoes to the mart, 
 
 But assured it was our kismet that a confluence 
 should be. 
 
 I would cease to beg, and straightway ; for there 
 
 came across my thought 
 A passionate intolerance of the course my life 
 
 had run ; 
 And I went out to the venders, where some petty 
 
 wares I bought ; 
 
 But in selling and in buying, my vocation was 
 begun.
 
 90 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Soon I found myself the owner of warehouses, 
 
 camels, sails 
 A commended prince of traffic, with my slaves 
 
 beyond the line, 
 Where they sold my costly merchandise of cloth 
 
 and woolen bales, 
 
 Color'd leathers, ostrich feathers, figs and olives, 
 dates and wine. 
 
 Hard I labor 'd and my gains accrued and doubled 
 
 in my hands ; 
 For Dame Fortune, having given once, will 
 
 often give us more. 
 
 Mine the golden touch of Midas, mine the fore 
 sight that commands 
 
 And receives a lavish tribute from the desert 
 and the shore. 
 
 And I studied, learn'd the meanings that the 
 
 wisest books can teach 
 Gain'd the Greek verb-roots irregular, by prying 
 
 long and hard
 
 THE TRAITOR. 9! 
 
 Woke a mystical foreknowledge of some rules 
 
 that govern speech, 
 
 And drank deeply at the fountain of the verse 
 of Scio's bard. 
 
 All my ships had winds of favor ; not one sank 
 
 or went ashore. 
 They were laden low each voyage and had 
 
 faithful planks and seams. 
 Sometimes blocks of massive buildings would 
 
 not hold my ample store, 
 
 And my thrifty, daring bargains dimm'd all 
 other merchants' dreams. 
 
 I yet wore my beggar garments, liking things that 
 
 mark'd luck's birth. 
 And I donn'd my old-time turban with its folds 
 
 of faded red. 
 I had worn no better garb then, had I own'd the 
 
 peopled earth. 
 
 Better, rich, to wear clean rags, than, being 
 poor, wear silk, I said.
 
 92 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Daily, from my cottage window, flew a pigeon 
 
 high in air, 
 And beneath its wing lay folded, words for her 
 
 whom I loved best. 
 Daily, from her palace lattice, one came back 
 
 with greetings fair, 
 
 Set in idyls full of heart-speech, faithful ardors 
 of her breast. 
 
 Dearest love ! she waited patiently, with longing, 
 
 mournful eyes. 
 Like the moon, she waited nightly for the 
 
 clouds to leave her brow. 
 Like a bird, she waited daily for the coming in 
 
 the skies 
 
 Of another bringing gladness and a mating on 
 the bough. 
 
 Naught of wealth won recognition ; for she had, 
 
 to look upon, 
 
 Art's own pictures, color-raptures of the Spring's 
 or Autumn's land.
 
 THE TRAITOR. 93 
 
 And she dined on sweets and spices, coffee, bread 
 
 and cinnamon, 
 
 While they shook light perfumes over and the 
 air about her fann'd. 
 
 Down her back, her hair, escaping from its pearl - 
 
 set comb of gold, 
 Utter'd fragrance, seem'd a cascade plunging 
 
 into a ravine 
 Seem'd the plumage of a raven that adventured, 
 
 proudly bold, 
 
 And, upon her forehead perching, was a dark 
 ness and a sheen. 
 
 Every day in milk they bathed her, till she grew 
 
 to be as white 
 Dyed her nails with crimson henna round 
 
 her eyes touch'd almond kohl 
 Fed her cakes of cream and honey ; but she 
 
 tasted no delight, 
 
 And her bed of golden curtains gave no quiet 
 to her soul.
 
 94 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 IV. 
 
 DEMETRIUS AND HIS TEN FRIENDS 
 CALL ON YORGHI. 
 
 But at length the proper day came that my hopes 
 
 had long'd to greet, 
 When I cast aside the tatters I had worn for 
 
 many years, 
 And array'd my comely person faultlessly from 
 
 head to feet, 
 
 In apparel that was seemly, in the velvet of 
 my peers. 
 
 I had bought me restless horses, Arab steeds, five 
 
 white, six black. 
 The eleventh was the noblest and the gentlest 
 
 of them all. 
 And a friend I had who loved me, to bestride each 
 
 horse's back 
 
 Ten good friends of smooth demeanor, hand 
 some features, strong and tall.
 
 THE TRAITOR. 95 
 
 Every friend I gave a cloak to, purple velvet 
 
 ermine-bound. 
 All the horses were caparison'd, their bridles 
 
 jingling gold. 
 
 At high noon we started gayly and the palace- 
 entrance found, 
 
 Where, dismounting, we sought Yorghi, and 
 to him my purpose told : 
 
 I had come to wed his daughter, for her heart 
 
 had long been mine. 
 I had won her when a beggar ; but I loved her 
 
 yet the more, 
 Now that my wealth was famous and ennobled 
 
 my design. 
 
 For Eudocia I would give him half my for 
 tune, store on store. 
 
 In my face he laugh'd, me scorning, and despised 
 me and my part 
 
 '3
 
 96 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Call'd me but a beggar wealthy, as he waived 
 
 me thence away ; 
 
 For to him belong'd his daughter ; he knew noth 
 ing of her heart ; 
 
 He had pledged her hand in marriage to my 
 ruler, Ahmed Bey. 
 
 There are times when our resentment centers 
 
 solely in a glance, 
 
 When our feelings burn too fiercely for effec 
 tiveness in speech ; 
 Such a look I gave to Yorghi, as I led out in 
 
 advance 
 
 Of my ten good friends, who follow'd with 
 brave consolation each. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE CITY BELEAGUERED. 
 
 War, like distant thunder, mutter'd in the terror- 
 
 darken'd air. 
 
 In the sky were signs and omens giving presage 
 of new graves.
 
 THE TRAITOR. 97 
 
 Huddled families of shepherds hurried town ward 
 
 in despair ; 
 
 They had heard the tramp of armies like the 
 beat of ocean waves. 
 
 War a pestilent disease is, on the body of the 
 
 world, 
 A disease that sometimes purges, tho' it leaves 
 
 the patient sore, 
 And there is no drug will cure it until Freedom 
 
 shall have hurl'd 
 
 From its pedestals Oppression, and abides on 
 every shore. 
 
 What avail'd my rows of buildings and my bar 
 tering for gold ? 
 All my gains seem'd vainly gotten, for Eudocia 
 
 was not mine. 
 With my goods turn'd into money, I my lands 
 
 and houses sold, 
 
 And sent out the thankless product from the 
 risks of Constantine.
 
 9 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Like a war-hawk swooping on us, came Damre'- 
 
 mont with his men. 
 We had seen his wing-like colors, and had 
 
 closed and barr'd the gates. 
 All the women urged to battle; every man a 
 
 soldier then, 
 
 And the fierce Kabyles were certain of the 
 friendship of the Fates. 
 
 I had held that love of country was a higher love 
 
 of self; 
 For the pride in it is selfish, whatsoever may 
 
 be proved. 
 Wearing lightly my allegiance, save for love's 
 
 sake and for pelf, 
 
 I had now no other country than to wed with 
 her I loved. 
 
 Thus it is with men of one aim, in their swerve- 
 less, headstrong race ; 
 
 They will neither heed entreaty, nor the warn 
 ings of the soul.
 
 THE TRAITOR. 99 
 
 For nothing will they turn aside, or scarcely 
 
 slacken pace, 
 
 And they often miss some blessing that is 
 greater than their goal. 
 
 All was plain ; if I should falter, then to me my 
 
 pearl were lost ; 
 But, if steadfast in my purpose, I could claim 
 
 her as my right. 
 Baffled love is half resentment that will seldom 
 
 count the cost, 
 
 And I stole out from the city to the alien camp 
 that night. 
 
 There was yet a higher motive that had urged me 
 
 to the deed : 
 If the French should be the victors, they would 
 
 give to Constantine 
 Their far better civilization, and sow every where 
 
 the seed 
 
 Of the Masterful religion that should make 
 the world divine.
 
 ICO THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Honor? Honor? What is honor, if it be not to 
 
 uphold 
 That which heart and soul espouses and seems 
 
 ever for the best? 
 Shall a man defend his rulers with his life and 
 
 with his gold, 
 
 When he knows that, in their downfall, all the 
 people would be bless'd ? 
 
 From the cliff I slipp'd in silence, and I reach'd 
 
 the foreign camp 
 Where, to see its brave commander, I was 
 
 taken, it befell. 
 Like sheaves were stack'd the muskets, and he 
 
 sat behind a lamp, 
 
 Where he planned a crimson harvest for the 
 French and Azrael. 
 
 "I have come to sell assistance, if you take my 
 
 terms," I said ; 
 
 "For I know the weakest portion of the city's 
 scowling wall.
 
 THE TRAITOR. IOI 
 
 With Eudocia, Yorghi's daughter, I have wish'd 
 
 for years to wed. 
 
 Promise her to me in marriage, and I frankly 
 tell you all." 
 
 Then across his table smiling, me he granted my 
 
 desire. 
 Perhaps the smile was memory's, bringing back 
 
 some crown'd delight. 
 But he listen'd to my story and, he said, he would 
 
 require 
 
 That I go into the city as a spy the coming 
 night. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE MASKED SPY IN THE PALACE. 
 
 Years before, a secret entrance underneath the 
 
 wall was made ; 
 But the three were dead who built it, and none 
 
 knew the place but me. 
 When the next night came, I reach'd it and, 
 
 soon after, in the shade,
 
 IO2 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Pass'd through lonely urban precincts where the 
 battle was to be. 
 
 Soon a purse, with gold well freighted, bought 
 
 the whisper'd countersign, 
 And as round I went, I noted place and num 
 ber of the troops. 
 I chalk'd boldly on a building: Lot the doom 
 
 of Cons /an fine ! 
 
 Death and Folly urge resistance, and the 
 people are their dupes ! 
 
 In the street I met a masker hasting onward 
 
 through the night. 
 There was something in his bearing that be- 
 
 token'd him a friend. 
 "Sir," I said, when by his shoulders I had turn'd 
 
 him to the light, 
 
 "Tell me why you hide your visage and what 
 conquest you intend ? ' '
 
 THE TRAITOR. 1 03 
 
 By my voice he straightway knew me, and took 
 
 off the mask to say : 
 "I am going to the palace. Have you heard 
 
 not of the fete ? 
 In three days great Yorghi's daughter is to wed 
 
 with Ahmed Bey, 
 
 And to-night the plighting party. Do not 
 keep me ; it is late." 
 
 "Hold !" I cried, "you care but little for the 
 
 pleasure that you seek. 
 Lend to me your mask and raiment ; let me 
 
 take to-night your place. 
 I shall prize the favor highly, and will pay you 
 
 in a week 
 
 With a gem for every minute, and they shall 
 not see my face. ' ' 
 
 Entering his cool apartments, he took off the 
 garb he wore,
 
 IO4 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 And I donn'd the half fantastic silken garments 
 
 and the mask ; 
 Then I hasten'd down the stairway and was in 
 
 the street once more, 
 Thinking only of Eudocia, in whose presence 
 
 I should bask. 
 
 From foundation to entablature, the palace 
 
 beam'd with light, 
 And I fancied it a genie / every window was 
 
 an eye ; 
 His mouth the yawning doorway, and a cloud, 
 
 across the night, 
 
 Scem'd like hair about his forehead, toss'd and 
 streaming in the sky. 
 
 Then he gorged me ; for I enter'd and I heard 
 
 th' entrancing moan 
 Of the music heard the dancing girls with 
 
 bells upon their feet. 
 There ten thousand flowers most fragrantly their 
 
 presences made known,
 
 THE TRAITOR. 105 
 
 And the least, in its apparel, was a miracle 
 complete. 
 
 To a splendid hall, an eunuch led me down a 
 
 damask floor, 
 And the guests were there assembled in their 
 
 beauty and their pride. 
 Rare the gonfalons and pictures ; but all eyes 
 
 could only pore 
 
 On the Bey and on the lily he was leading by 
 his side. 
 
 Round a fountain, in the center of the golden 
 
 burnish 'd room, 
 Danced the dancers, play'd the players, to the 
 
 cadence of its fall ; 
 While without, upon the balcony, amid the sylvan 
 
 gloom, 
 
 One lone nightingale was singing, and with 
 sadness mock'd us all.
 
 IO6 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE MEETING IN THE GARDEN AND FLIGHT 
 OF THE SPY. 
 
 When the Bey pass'd by me graciously, I whis- 
 
 per'd in the ear 
 Of the maiden he was leading, (Should I fail to 
 
 win her yet !) 
 " Lo ! our day is at its dawning ; I, Demetrius, 
 
 am here ! 
 
 Meet me, dearest, in the garden where we have 
 so often met." 
 
 Thither me she follow'd quickly, and I clasp'd 
 
 her to my heart, 
 And bestow'd perfervid kisses on her lips and 
 
 cheeks and chin. 
 Here she long'd to dwell forever, so that we 
 
 might never part, 
 
 And be fed with many kisses, mine enfolding 
 arms within.
 
 THE TRAITOR. IO7 
 
 There the rhythmic stars out-twinkled and a sordid 
 
 little lake, 
 
 Like a miser, hugg'd the coinage of their glim 
 mer to its breast, 
 Nor would venture from the closet of the trees 
 
 and tangled brake, 
 
 Lest some fortunate bold robber should it of 
 its hoard divest. 
 
 Now the years had changed Eudocia from the 
 
 rosebud to the rose, 
 Had perfected every feature, added gentle grace 
 
 to grace, 
 And she made my heart her garden, where to 
 
 dwell and find repose. 
 
 Neither time, nor change, nor absence, could 
 her love for me efface. 
 
 She was fain to be a lakelet in the starlight of 
 
 mine eyes, 
 
 And as my lips gave kisses, she would catch 
 their spicy dew.
 
 IO8 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 When my face was bending over, it was like 
 
 affection's skies, 
 
 And mine arms were as the verdure that around 
 the margin grew. 
 
 But I dared not risk to tell her of the spy that she 
 
 was near. 
 The Bey, I said, would tremble when I came 
 
 to claim her hand ; 
 And I told her to despair not, but to wait with 
 
 patient cheer ; 
 
 For my triumph would be bruited in the cor 
 ners of the land. 
 
 Suddenly arose commotion in the palace down 
 
 the hill. 
 Many lights swung in the distance, like red 
 
 fire-flies in a glen. 
 
 Call by call was heard and answer'd, as of wing 
 ing birds and shrill. 
 
 We had seen a hundred torches with the com 
 ing forth of men.
 
 THE TRAITOR. 1 09 
 
 ' ' Love, they seek you ! ' ' cried Eudocia, ' ' You 
 
 must go, or else be slain. ' ' 
 But sad, oh, sad the sundering of the cherish'd, 
 
 heart from heart ! 
 
 Cloven is the oak's tough fiber by the vivid light 
 ning chain ; 
 
 But the lovers cling the closer that they strive 
 to rend apart. 
 
 On a seat I laid her swooning, then sped lightly 
 
 through the gloom, 
 Tho' a torchman so approach'd me that I 
 
 fancied I was seen ; 
 But, down-crouching for a moment by a shrub 
 
 of densest bloom, 
 
 I fled onward to my entrance through the streets 
 that intervene. 
 
 Overhead a sudden meteor made a pallid day of 
 
 night, 
 
 And, tho' burning with a bluish glow, was 
 trail'd with ruby shine.
 
 110 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 It seem'd like a lifted torch to me, borne swiftly 
 
 in the flight 
 
 Of a spirit that, with warning, brought defeat 
 to Constantine. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE BATTLE. 
 
 To the town outspoke the cannons, as the dawn 
 
 charged on the night, 
 And they told of wounds for mercy and of 
 
 death to old despair ; 
 But the sullen town was ready to defend itself 
 
 with might, 
 
 And replied with scornful missiles that came 
 hissing down the air. 
 
 When the sun rose hot and bloody, all the fight 
 
 had well begun. 
 The artillery was pounding at the weak place 
 
 in the wall. 
 Soon the smoke from vale and city hung between 
 
 us and the sun,
 
 THE TRAITOR. I I I 
 
 And, for many, was the only sign or semblance 
 of a pall. 
 
 Like a strong, Numidian lion, on her rock the 
 
 city lay, 
 Nothing daunted, tho' surrounded, and with 
 
 scanty store of bread. 
 O'er two gates, in calm defiance, stared through 
 
 battle, day by day, 
 
 Her proud eyes, two flaming standards, both 
 of bright, unvaried red. 
 
 At these gates they set their swordsmen, thinking 
 
 thence to drive us back, 
 If their sallies should deceive us and we to the 
 
 gates should come ; 
 But in vain, we would not follow, tho' we long'd 
 
 for the attack, 
 
 And, to make it, chafed and listen'd for the 
 signal guns and drum.
 
 112 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Stone by stone, a breach was open'd at the weak 
 
 place in the wall. 
 Then we sent a truce-flag bearer and he to the 
 
 city said : 
 " Fight no more ; at once surrender! Constan- 
 
 tine shall surely fall. 
 
 If you wait, no man remaining shall you have 
 to count your dead." 
 
 Like a sword-thrust came the answer : "There is 
 
 plenty in the place 
 Of both food and ammunition. Is it these the 
 
 French desire ? 
 We can give, and with abundance ; but surrender 
 
 means disgrace, 
 
 And our homes shall be defended while a shot 
 is left to fire ! " 
 
 If this town should not be taken, every man must 
 
 share the fault, 
 
 And many there bethought them of their own 
 in sunny France.
 
 THE TRAITOR. 113 
 
 Down our line there ran the whisper, "Now, to 
 
 take it by assault ! ' ' 
 
 And, at last, we heard the cannons for the 
 stormers to advance. 
 
 Like great billows, never breaking, were the rocks 
 
 of Constantine, 
 And a cargo'd ship the city, with her keel in 
 
 every one. 
 She was sailing for the future, with the barter of 
 
 the line, 
 
 And her mast-like towers were gaudy with the 
 pennons of the sun. 
 
 But a roaring storm had struck her and a hole 
 
 was in her side, 
 
 Where the waters rush'd in wildly, overwhelm 
 ing all before ; 
 For in vain each brave endeavor, tho' all on 
 
 board her tried 
 
 To reduce the leak and stanch it with their fury 
 and their gore.
 
 114 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 The Frenchmen were the waters that could not 
 
 be stay'd nor check'd ; 
 But the ship was little damaged by the storm 
 
 it had endured ; 
 And, re-officer'd and garnish'd, was so far from 
 
 being wreck'd, 
 
 That it seem'd to sail more proudly for the 
 change we had secured. 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE WEDDING AND THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 It was night. The conquer'd palace bloom'd 
 
 with many lights again. 
 In a hall of mingled standards and of heavy 
 
 rugs and mats, 
 There were women fair as houris, there were brave 
 
 and handsome men, 
 
 And the fish leap'd up to see them from the 
 fountains' marble vats. 
 
 Never quite so fair Eudocia, and she won exalted 
 praise
 
 THE TRAITOR. 115 
 
 From the aliens there assembled to observe our 
 
 marriage rite. 
 Not alone her magic beauty, but the grace of all 
 
 her ways 
 
 Drew all eyes and thoughts upon her, fill'd 
 with undisguised delight. 
 
 While the service yet was saying and, before I 
 
 placed the ring 
 On her tapering heart-finger, some one push'd 
 
 the guests aside, 
 And I saw my friend, the masker, his resentful 
 
 presence bring 
 
 To the center of the wedding wild of gesture, 
 angry eyed. 
 
 "Thus should die the thankless traitor, whether 
 
 lord or beggar he ! " 
 And a dagger rose above us with a glitter in 
 
 the light, 
 Then was struck upon my bosom, with a fierce 
 
 fanatic glee,
 
 I I 6 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 And my false friend, from the service, hasten'd 
 wildly in his flight. 
 
 But the mad bee had not stung me in his hurry 
 
 to depart, 
 And even in deeds of wickedness, haste is 
 
 harbinger of loss ; 
 For I wore a faithful secret close upon my waken'd 
 
 heart, 
 
 The symbol irresistible, an expressive silver 
 Cross. 
 
 This had turn'd aside the weapon, and had spared 
 
 me many a year 
 For one whose heart has been to me a more 
 
 than Meccan shrine 
 For one for whom I paid a town, and believed 
 
 the price not dear, 
 
 The citadel of Jugurtha and once Christian 
 Constantine.
 
 THE TRAITOR. 117 
 
 We are living in a palace near a sparkling, azure 
 
 bay; 
 
 But, at times, alone on horseback, in the twi 
 light, dim and late, 
 I find me near my city, and the muezzin, in the 
 
 gray, 
 
 Shouts. "To prayer! To prayer, ye people! 
 Only God is good and great ! ' '
 
 MORO. 
 
 Now, through the crowded amphitheater, 
 Sounded a herald flourish loud and clear. 
 
 A breeze of expectation seem'd to stir. 
 The unkempt sunnyside sent up a cheer. 
 
 With wicked-looking horns and sullen mien, 
 
 The black bull, Moro, enter'd on the scene. 
 
 This was the bull of which the placards said, k 
 A maiden would subdue his utmost rage, 
 
 Unless, in th' attempt, her blood should be shed. 
 Did not all Cadiz know the formal page? 
 
 And Moro greeted, with a thundrous roar, 
 
 The ruthless, living hill he lower'd before. 
 
 At once by his tormentors he was met : 
 
 Capas before him shook their teasing cloth ; 
 
 Banderilleros in his shoulders set 
 
 Their cruel darts ; and when he rush'd, right 
 
 wroth, 
 16
 
 1 2O MORO. 
 
 Upon a yellow challenge waved with jeers, 
 The picadores prick'd him with their spears. 
 
 Against the nearest picador he turn'd 
 
 And lifted horse and rider from the ground. 
 
 Thus three good horses had he gored, and spurn'd 
 Infuriate, when quietly around 
 
 Withdrew the fighters, proud of courage shown, 
 
 And left the bull, in his fierce rage, alone. 
 
 Then fell a rill of music, pearl on pearl, 
 And straightway into the arena sprang 
 
 A tawny, Andalusian peasant-girl, 
 
 Pretty and breathing charm ; she sweetly sang, 
 
 Advancing to'ard the bull with fearless joy, 
 
 Then, pausing, ceased and cried, " Moro ! 
 Ya voy ! ' ' 
 
 Of glad Espara she, and she had fed, 
 
 Petted and cared for Moro happy years. 
 But when of late she heard it lightly said
 
 MORO. 121 
 
 That he must grace th' arena, full of tears 
 She sought authority and gain'd the right 
 To save his life, if in this wise she might. 
 
 Amidst the wide, hush'd amphitheater, 
 At the first piping of the bird-like voice, 
 
 Moro had quell'd his fury, and seeing her, 
 
 The girl, his friend, he seem'd quite to rejoice. 
 
 And when beside him she had come to stand, 
 
 With his mute tongue he lick'd her loving hand. 
 
 Her voice and presence soothing every smart, 
 He knelt before her as she stroked his head. 
 
 She, bending over, soon removed each dart, 
 With tears of pity ; then, joy-garlanded, 
 
 Her arm around his neck, and all elate, 
 
 She, smiling, led him to'ard the torril's gate. 
 
 FINIS.
 
 THIRD EDITION, ENLARGED. 
 of 
 
 ONE VOLUME, 16 MO, CLOTH ; V AND 289 PAGES. SENT POST 
 
 PAID ON RECEIPT OF PRICE, $1.25. ADDRESS 
 
 STYLES & KIERSTED, OR THE AUTHOR, 
 
 KINGSTON, NEW YORK. 
 
 Extracts from some Press Notices. 
 
 Mr. Abbey seems equally at home in all depart 
 ments. The intellectual quality of his verse predomi 
 nates everywhere. He constantly sets noble images 
 before us, and is to be commended for his healthy 
 outlook on life. THE PUBLIC LEDGER, Philadelphia. 
 
 Peculiarly fitted for recital, many of Mr. Abbey's 
 poems will be learned by heart and stir the blood and 
 quicken the pulses of coming generations. THE OB 
 SERVER, New York. 
 
 Mr. Abbey's book is a contribution to the literature 
 of our country, and all the more welcome does it come 
 to a place of honor, because of its hearty tone of 
 American feeling. . . . We recommend to those who 
 are making selections to be read by the youth of our 
 land that they look into this volume. EVENING 
 TRANSCRIPT, Boston.
 
 1 24 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 It does not take long to .discover that one of the 
 chief charms of Mr. Abbey's poems is their gentle, 
 kindly, homely philosophy. It is of a kind that 
 makes a strong appeal to the plain men and women 
 of a busy world. THE TIMES, New York. 
 
 A loyal American, Mr. Abbey finds ample oppor 
 tunity for metrical narrative in the episodes of his 
 country's history. There are few poems in our litera 
 ture of the length of " Dandelion and Tiger Lily," so 
 notable for melody and subtle perfection of phrase. 
 THE CHAUTAUQUAN. 
 
 Mr. Abbey, tho' not so well known as he ought to 
 be, is a poet of fine attainments, and excels especially 
 in weaving a good story in verse. BUFFALO COM 
 MERCIAL. 
 
 The present collection of Mr. Abbey's poems will be 
 valued by all who appreciate what is really lofty in 
 purpose and expression. THE BULLETIN, Philadel 
 phia. 
 
 It does not take a deep search in the contents of Mr. 
 Abbey's volume to show that the author is an original 
 thinker. . . . The verse is pliant, and the imagery 
 bold and undaunted. SUNDAY TIMES, Memphis. 
 
 The swing and music of many of Mr. Abbey's 
 poems show an exceptional power of melodious com 
 position. THE SPECTATOR, London, Eng.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 125 
 
 The poems are mostly narrative, but Mr. Abbey's 
 lips have been touched with the sacred fire. THE 
 WEEK, Toronto. 
 
 There is something of the unusual and picturesque 
 in the poems of Mr. Abbey. ... A book of this kind 
 is an intellectual treat. THE LITERARY WORLD, 
 London, Eng. 
 
 Mr. Abbey has always an idea or incident worth 
 writing about, and he always has things to say about 
 it worth reading and repeating. We have found, 
 wherever we opened the book, that our attention was 
 arrested by the vividness and clearness of the style. 
 THE INTELLIGENCER, New York. 
 
 The admirable manner in which Mr. Abbey pre 
 serves the color harmonies of his work finds a fine il 
 lustration in " Azoar," which is saturated with heroic 
 energy. ..." To Baffle Time," is also evidence of 
 the increasing brilliancy of Abbey's work. THE 
 DAILY TIMES, Brooklyn. 
 
 These poems are full of the " direct revealings " for 
 which the Anglo-Saxon speech has been praised by 
 one of the greatest writers. Mr. Abbey is at all times 
 intelligible to the average reader, while at the same 
 time charming the most fastidious by the noble sim 
 plicity of his verse. COLLIER'S WEEKLY, New 
 York.
 
 126 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Thoughtful reflection and moral meaning are prom 
 inent in most of Mr. Abbey's verses, but he writes 
 many lines which are worth reading for their musical 
 effect alone. THE REVIEW OF REVIEWS, New York. 
 
 Mr. Abbey deals with men, with nature, with 
 events. Always his style is simple, his motive the 
 highest, his work of that kind which benefits while it 
 pleases. THE TRIBUNE, Altoona, Penn. 
 
 There was no more than one American writer, be 
 fore Bryant, who could have conceived or expressed 
 in a dozen pages such thoughts, for instance, as 
 Henry Abbey puts into two lines. . . . Nor could the 
 combined talent of the whole company of our imagin 
 ative writers before Drake (always excepting Freneau) 
 have produced a poem so good as the same author's 
 " Irak ;" yet Abbey is a comparatively obscure poet. 
 -RICHARDSON'S AMERICAN LITERATURE, Put- 
 nams, vol. ii, p. 245. 
 
 Mr. Abbey's writings have the quality, not a very 
 common one, of bearing repeated readings. ... It is in 
 the longer poems that Mr. Abbey's strain becomes 
 most musical, and the volume altogether may be ac 
 cepted as one more welcome evidence of the good use 
 to which our kin beyond the sea can put the English 
 language. THE HERALD, Brighton, England.
 
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