8 FR6027 r26L3 1916 • •'•• I •'. ...aA r'i llin>..:iii""""iiii !!i!!!!lltllinilll!|l!|llllll!|lllil||!l|l!! ili.UM IjN MIIIHii l . lAURENeiffiMDKffii ii Mil i II I ii "'"" .1!^^' ill fe'' '""' 111 I I LAUREXCE HOPE, LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE ^Mmjl l^h^L (}MdM(^ Last Poems INDIA'S LOVE LYRICS Collected and arranged in verse by Laurence Hope. STARS OF THE DESERT By Laurence Hope. Uniform with "India's Love Lyrics." SONGS FROM THE GARDEN OF KAMA By Laurence Hope. Illustrated from photographs by Mrs. Eardley Wilmot. M.r «s\» Atavism Deep in the jungle vast and dim, That knew not a white man's feet, I smelt the odour of sun-warmed fur. Musky, savage, and sweet. Far it was from the huts of men And the grass where Sambur feed ; I threw a stone at a Kadapu tree That bled as a man might bleed. Scent of fur and colour of blood : — And the long dead instincts rose, I followed the lure of my season's mate,- And flew, bare-fanged, at my foes. Pale days : and a league of laws Made by the whims of men. Would I were back with my furry cubs In the dusk of a jungle den. 44 Middle-a The sins of Youth are hardly sins, So frank they are and free. ' T is but when Middle-age begins We need morality. Ah, pause and weigh this bitter truth : That Middle-age, grown cold, No comprehension has of Youth, No pity for the Old. Youth, with his half-divine mistakes. She never can forgive. So much she hates his charm which makes Worth while the life we live. She scorns Old Age, whose tolerance And calm, well-balanced mind (Knowing how crime is born of chance) Can pardon all mankind. Yet she, alas ! has all the power Of strength and place and gold, Man's every act, through every hour, Is by her laws controlled. 45 All things she grasps with sordid hands And weighs in tarnished scales. She neither feels, nor understands, And yet her will prevails ! Cold-blooded vice and careful sin, Gold-lust, blind selfishness, — The shortest, cheapest way to win Some, worse than cheap, success. Such are her attributes and aims. Yet meekly we obey. While she to guide and order claims All issues of the day. You seek for honour, friendship, truth? Let Middle-age be banned ! Go, for warm-hearted acts, to Youth; To Age, — to understand ! 46 The Jungle Flower Ah, the cool silence of the shaded hours, The scent and colour of the jungle flowers ! Thou art one of the jungle flowers, strange and fierce and fair. Palest amber, perfect lines, and scented with champa flower. Lie back and frame thy face in the gloom of thy loosened hairj Sweet thou art and loved — ay, loved — for an hour. But thought flies far, ah, far, to another breast. Whose whiteness breaks to the rose of a twin pink flower. Where wind the azure veins that my lips caressed When Fate was gentle to me for a too-brief hour. There is my spirit's home and my soul's abode, The rest are only inns on the traveller's road. 47 From Behind the Lattice I SEE your red-gold hair and know How white the hidden skin must be. Though sun-kissed face and lingers show The fervour of the noon-day glow, The keenness of the sea. My longing fancies ebb and flow, Still circling constant unto this; My great desire (ah, whisper low) To plant on thy forbidden snow The rosebud of a kiss. The scarlet flower would spread and grow, Your whiteness change and flush, Be still, my reckless heart, beat slow, 'T is but a dream that stirs thee so ! ) To one transparent blush. 48 Wings Was it worth while to forego our wings To gain these dextrous hands ? Truly they fashion us wonderful things As the fancy of man demands. But — to fly ! to sail through the lucid air From crest to violet crest Of these great grey mountains, quartz-veined and bare,' Where the white clouds gather and rest. Even to flutter from flower to flower, — To skim the tops of the trees, — In the rQseate light of a sun-setting hour To drift on a sea-going breeze. Ay, the hands have marvellous skill To create us curious things, — Baubles, playthings, weapons to kill, — But — I would we had chosen wings ! 49 Song of the Parao (Camping-ground) Heart, my heart, thou hast found thy home ! From gloom and sorrow thou hast come forth, Thou who wast foolish, and sought to roam 'Neath the cruel stars of the frozen North. Thou hast returned to thy dear delights ; The golden glow of the quivering days. The silver silence of tropical nights. No more to wander in alien ways. Here, each star is a well-loved friend ; To me and my heart at the journey's end. These are my people, and this my land, I hear the pulse of her secret soul. This is the hfe that I understand, Savage and simple and sane and whole. Washed in the light of a clear fierce sun, — Heart, my heart, the journey is done. See ! the painted piece of the skies. Where the rose-hued opal of sunset lies. Hear the passionate Koel calling From coral trees, where the dusk is falling. SO See my people, slight limbed and tall. The maiden's bosom they scorn to cover: The breasts that shall call and enthral her lover. Things of beauty, are free to all. Free to the eyes, that think no shame That a girl should bloom like a forest flower. Who hold that Love is a sacred flame, — Outward beauty a God-like dower. Who further regard it as no disgrace If loveliness lessen to serve the race. Nor point the finger of jesting scorn At her who carries the child unborn. Ah, my heart, but we wandered far From the light of the slanting fourfold Stari Oh, palm-leaf thatch, where the melon thrives Beneath the shade of the tamarind tree, Thou coverest tranquil, graceful lives. That want so little, that knew no haste. Nor the bitter goad of a too-full hour ; Whose soft-eyed women are lithe and tall. And wear no garment below the knee, Nor veil or raiment above the waist. But the beautiful hair, that dowers them all. And falls to the ground in a scented shower. The youths return from their swift-flowing bath, With the swinging grace that their height allows, 51 Lightly climbing the river-side path, Their soft hair knotted above their brows. Elephants wade the darkening river, Their bells, which tinkle in minor thirds, Faintly sweet, like passionate birds Whose warbling wakens a sense of pain, — Thrill through the nerves and make them quiver, — Heart, my heart, art thou happy again ? Here is beauty to feast thine eyes. Here is the land of thy long desire. See how the delicate spirals rise Azure and faint from the wood-fed fire. Where the cartmen wearily share their food, Ere they, by their bullocks, lie down to rest. Heart of mine, dost thou find it good This wide red road by the winds caressed ? This lone Parao, where the fireflies light ? These tom-toms, fretting the peace of night ? Heart, thou hast wandered and suffered much. Death has robbed thee, and Life betrayed. But there is ever a solace for such In that they are not lightly afraid. The strength that found them the fire to love Finds them also the force to forget. Thy joy in thy dreaming lives to prove Thou art not mortally wounded yet. 52 Here, 'neath the arch of the vast, clear sky. Where range upon range the remote grey hills Far in the distance recede and die. There is no space for thy trivial ills. On the low horizon towards the sea. Faint yet vivid, the lightnings play, The lucid air is kind as a kiss, The falling twilight is cool and grey. What has sorrow to do with thee ? Love was cruel ? thou now art free. Life unkind ? it has given thee this ! 53 The Tom-toms Dost thou hear the tom-toms throbbing, Like a lonely lover sobbing For the beauty that is robbing him of all his life's delight ? Plaintive sounds, restrained, enthralling. Seeking through the twilight falling Something lost beyond recalling, in the darkness of the night. Oh, my little, loved Firoza, Come and nestle to me closer. Where the golden-balled Mimosa makes a canopy above, For the day, so hot and burning, Dies avi^ay, and night, returning, Sets thy lover's spirit yearning for thy beauty and thy love. Soon vi^ill come the rosy warning Of the bright relentless morning. When, thy soft caresses scorning, I shall leave thee in the shade. All the day my work must chain me. And its weary bonds restrain me. For I may not re-attain thee till the light begins to fade. But at length the long day endeth, As the cool of night descendeth His last strength thy lover spendeth in returning to thy breast, 54 Where beneath the Babul nightly, While the planets shimmer whitely, And the fire-flies glimmer brightly, thou shalt give him love and rest. Far away, across the distance, The quick-throbbing drums' persistence Shall resound, with soft insistence, in the pauses of delight. Through the sequence of the hours, While the starlight and the flowers Consecrate this love of ours, in the Temple of the Night. 55 Written in Cananore I Who was it held that Love was soothing or sweet ? Mine is a painful fire, at its whitest heat. Who said that Beauty was ever a gentle joy ? Thine is a sword that flashes but to destroy. Though mine eyes rose up from thy Beauty's banquet, calm and refreshed. My lips, that were granted naught, can find no rest. My soul was linked with thine, through speech and silent hours, As the sound of two soft flutes combined, or the scent of sister flowers. But the body, that wretched slave of the Sultan, Mind, Who follows his master ever, but far behind, Nothing was granted him, and every rebellious cell Rises up with angry protest, " It is not well ! Night is falling ; thou hast departed ; I am alone ; And the Last Sweetness of Love thou hast not given — I have not known ! " 56 II Somewhere, Oh, My Beloved One, the house Is standing, Waiting for thee and me ; for our first caresses. It may be a river-boat, or a wave-washed landing, The shade of a tree in the jungle's dim recesses. Some far-oft" mountain tent, ill-pitched and lonely. Or the naked vault of the purple heavens only. But the Place is waiting there ; till the Hour shall show it. And our footsteps, following Fate, find it and know it. Where we shall worship the greatest of all the Gods in his pomp and power, — I sometimes think that I shall not care to survive that hour ! 57 Feroke The rice-birds fly so white, so silver white, The velvet rice-flats lie so emerald green. My heart inhales, with sorrowful delight. The sweet and poignant sadness of the scene. The swollen tawny river seeks the sea. Its hungry waters, never satisfied, Beflecked with fallen log and torn-up tree, Engulph the fisher-huts on either side. The current brought a stranger yesterday. And laid him on the sand beneath a palm, His worn young face was partly torn away. His eyes, that saw the world no more, were calm We could not close his eyelids, stiff with blood, — But, oh, my brother, I had changed with thee ! For I am still tormented in the flood. Whilst thou hast done thy work, and reached the sea. 5? My Desire Fate has given me many a gift To which men most aspire, Lovely, precious and costly things, But not my heart's desire. Many a man has a secret dream Of where his soul would be, Mine is a low verandah'd house In a tope beside the sea. Over the roof tall palms should wave. Swaying from side to side. Every night we should fall asleep To the rhythm of the tide. The dawn should be gay with song of birds, And the stir of fluttering wings. Surely the joy of life is hid In simple and tender things ! At eve the waves would shimmer with gold In the rosy sunset rays, Emerald velvet flats of rice Would rest the landward gaze. 59 A boat must rock at the laterite steps In a reef-protected pool, For we should sail through the starlit night When the winds were calm and cool. I am so tired of all this world, Its folly and fret and care. Find me a little scented home Amongst thy loosened hair. Give me a soft and secret place Against thine amber breast, Where, hidden away from all mankind, My soul may come to rest. Many a man has a secret dream Of where his life might be; Mine is a lovely, lonely place With sunshine and the sea. 60 Sher Afzul This was the tale Sher Afzul told to me, While the spent camels bubbled on their knees, And ruddy camp-fires twinkled through the gloom Sweet with the fragrance from the Sinjib trees. I had a friend who lay, condemned to death In gaol for murder, wholly innocent. Yet caught in webs of luckless circumstance ; — Thou know'st how lies, of good and ill intent, Cluster like flies around a justice-court. Wheel within wheel, revolving screw on screw ; But from his prison he escaped and fled. Keeping his liberty a night or two Among the lonely hills, where, shackled still, He braved a village, seeking for a file To loose his irons ; alas ! he lost his life Through the base sweetness of a woman's smile. Lovely she was, and young, who gave the youth Kind words, and promised succor and repose, Till on the quilt of false security He found exhausted sleep ; but, ere he rose, 6i Entered the guards, brought by her messenger. Thus was he captured, slain, and on her breast Soon shone the guerdon of her treachery, The price of blood ; in gold made manifest. I might have killed her ? Brave men have died thus. Revenge demanded keener punishment. So I walked softly on those lilac hills. Touching my rhibah lightly as I went. I found her fair: 'twas no unpleasant task In the young spring-time when the fruit-trees flower. To pass her door, and pause, and pass again. Shading mine eyes against her beauty's power. Warmly I wooed her, while the almond trees Broke into fragile clouds of rosy snow. Her dawning passion feared her lord's return, Ever she pleaded softly, " Let us go." But I spoke tenderly, and said, " Beloved, Shall not thy lips give orders to my heart? Yet there is one small matter in these hills Claiming attention ere I can depart. " Let us not waste these days ; thine absent lord Cannot return, thou know'st, before the snow Has melted, and the almond fruits appear." This time she answered, " Naught but thee I know ! " I too was young ; I could have loved her well When her soft eyes across the twilight burned ; 62 But suddenly, around her amber neck, The golden beads would sparkle as she turned. And I remembered ; swift mine eyelids fell To hide the hate that festered in my soul. Ever more deeply, with the rising fear That Love might wrench Revenge from my control. But when at last she, acquiescent, lay In the sweet-scented shadow of the firs. Lovely and broken, granting — asking — all, It was hh eyes I met : not hers — not hers ! Three months I waited : all the village talked, And ever anxiously she urged our flight. Vet still I lingered, till her beauty paled. And wearily she came to me at night. Then, seeing Love, subservient to Revenge, Had well achieved his own creative end, And in his work must soon be manifest. Compassing thus my duty to my friend. One tranquil, sultry night I rode away Till far behind the purple hills were dim. Exulting in my spirit, " Thus I leave Her to her fate, and my revenge to him ! " Swiftly he struck, her lord ; the body lay With hacked-off breasts, dishonoured, in the Pass. 03 Months later, riding lonely through the gorge, I saw it still, among the long-grown grass. It was well done ; my soul is satisfied. Friendship is sweet, and Love is sweeter still, But Vengeance has a savour all its own — A strange delight — well known to those who kill. Such was the story Afzul told to me, While wood-fires crackled in the evening breeze. And blows on hammered tent-pegs stirred the air Sweet with the fragrance from the Sinjib trees. Tent-like, above, up-held by jagged peaks, The heavy purple of the tranquil sky Shed its oft-broken promises of peace. While twinkling stars bemocked the worn-out He ! 64 Nay, not To-night Nay, not to-night ; — the slow, sad rain is falling Sorrowful tears, beneath a grieving sky, Far off a famished jackal, faintly calling. Renders the dusk more lonely with its cry. The mighty river rushes, sobbing, seawards. The shadows shelter faint mysterious fears, I turn mine eyes for consolation theewards. And find thy lashes tremulous with tears. If some new soul, asearch for Incarnation, Should, through our kisses, enter Life again, It would inherit all our desolation. All the soft sorrow of the slanting rain. When thou desirest Love's supreme surrender. Come while the morning revels in the light, Bulbuls around us, passionately tender. Singing among the roses red and white. Thus, if it be my sweet and sacred duty. Subservient to the Gods' divine decree. To give the world again thy vivid beauty, I should transmit it with my joy in thee. 5 65 I could not if I would, Beloved, deceive thee. Wouldst thou not feel at once a feigned caress ? Yet, do not rise, I vi^ould not have thee leave me, My soul needs thine to share its loneliness. Let the dim starlight, when the low clouds sunder, Silver the perfect outline of thy face. Such faces had the saints ; I only wonder That thine has sought my heart for resting-place. 66 The Dying Prince There are no days for me any more, for the dawn is dark with tears, There is no rest for me any more, for the night is thick with fears. There are no flowers nor any fruit, for the sorrowful locusts came, And the garden is but a memory, the vineyard only a name. There is no light in the empty sky, no sail upon the sea. Birds are yet on their nests perchance, but they sing no more to me. Past — vanished — faded away — all the joys that were. My youth died down in a swift decline when they married her to despair. " My lord, the crowd in the Audience Hall ; how long wilt thou have them wait ? " I have given my father's younger son the guidance of the State. " The steeds are saddled, the Captains call for the orders of the day." Tell them that I shall ride no more to the hunting or the fray. 67 *' Sweet the scent of the Moghra flowers ; " Brother, it may be so. " The young, flushed spring is with us again." Is it ? I did not know. " The Zamorin's daughter draweth near, on slender golden feet ; " Oh, a curse upon all sweet things say I, to whom they are no more sweet ! Dost think that a man as sick as I can compass a woman's ease ? That the sons of a man who is like to me could ever find rest or peace ? Tell them to marry them where they will, if their longing be so sore. Such are the things that all men seek, but I shall seek no more. All my muscles are fallen in, and the blood deserts my veins, Every fibre and bone of me is waxen full of pains. The iron feet of mine enemy's curse are heavy upon my head, Look at me and judge for thyself, thou seest I am but dead. " Then, who is it. Prince, who has done this thing, has sown such a bitter seed. That we hale him forth to the Market-place, bind him and let him bleed. That the flesh may shudder and wince and writhe, reddening 'neath the rod." Love is the evil-doer, alas ! and how shalt thou scourge a God ? 68 The Hut Dear little Hut by the rice-fields circled. That cocoa-nuts shade above. I hear the voices of children singing, And that means love. When shall the traveller's march be over, When shall his wandering cease ? This little homestead is bare and simple. And that means peace. Nay ! to the road I am not unfaithful ; In tents let my dwelling be ! I am not longing for Peace or Passion From any one else but'thee, My Krishna, Any one else but thee ! 69 My Paramour was Loneliness My paramour was loneliness And lying by the sea, Soft songs of sorrow and distress He did beget in me. Later another lover came More meet for my desire, "Radiant Beauty" was his name; His sons had wings of fire ! 70 The Rice was under Water The Rice was under water, and the land was scourged with rain, The nights were desolation, and the day was born in pain. Ah, the famine and the fever and the cruel, swollen streams, I had died, except for Krishna, who consoled me — in my dreams ! The Burning-Ghats were smoking, and the jewels melted down. The Temples lay deserted, for the people left the town. Yet I was more than happy, though passing strange it seems, For I spent my nights with Krishna, who loved me — in my dreams ! 71 "Surface Rights" Drifting, drifting down the River, Tawny current and foam-flecked tide, Sorrowful songs of lonely boatmen, Mournful forests on either side. Thine are the outcrops' glittering blocks. The quartz where the rich pyrites gleam, The golden treasure of unhewn rocks And the loose gold in the stream. But, — the dim vast forests along the shore, That whisper wonderful things o' nights, - These are things that I value more. My beautiful " surface rights." Drifting, drifting down the River, — Stars a-tremble about the sky — Ah, my lover, my heart is breaking. Breaking, breaking, I know not why. Why is Love such a sorrowful thing ? This I never could understand ; Pain and passion are linked together. Ever I find them hand in hand. 72 Loose thy hair in its soft profusion, Let thy lashes caress thy cheek, — These are the things that express thy spirit, What is the need to explain or speak ? Drifting, drifting along the River, Under the light of a wan low moon. Steady, the paddles ; Boatmen, steady, — Why should we reach the sea so soon ? See where the low spit cuts the water, What is that misty wavering light? Only the pale datura flowers Blossoming through the silent night. What is the fragrance in thy tresses ? 'T is the scent of the champa's breath; The meaning of champa bloom is passion — And of datura — death ! Sweet are thy ways and thy strange caresses. That sear as flame, and exult as wine. But I care only for that wild moment When my soul arises and reaches thine. Wistful voices of wild birds calling — Far, faint lightning towards the West, — Twinkling lights of a Tyah homestead, — Ruddy glow on a girl's bare breast — 73 Drifting boats on a mournful River, Shifting thoughts in a dreaming mind, — We two, seeking the Sea, together, — When we reach it, — what shall we find ? 74 Shivratri (the Night of Shiva) (While the procession passed at Ramesram) Nearer and nearer cometh the car Where the Golden Goddess towers, Sweeter and sweeter grows the air From a thousand trampled flowers. We two rest in the Temple shade Safe from the pilgrim flood, This path of the Gods in olden days Ran royally red with blood. Louder and louder and louder yet Throbs the sorrowful drum — That Is the tortured world's despair, Never a moment dumb. Shriller and shriller shriek the flutes. Nature's passionate need — Paler and paler grow my lips. And still thou bid'st them bleed. Deeper and deeper and deeper still. Never a pause for pain — Darker and darker falls the night That golden torches stain, "5 Closer, ah ! closer, and still more close, Till thy soul reach my soul — P'urther, further, out on the tide From the shores of self-control. Glowing, glowing, to whitest heat. Thy feverish passions burn, Fiercer and fiercer, cruelly fierce. To thee my senses yearn. Fainter and fainter runs my blood With desperate fight for breath — This, my Beloved, thou sayest is Love, Or I should have deemed it Death ! The First Wife Ah, my lord, are the tidings true, That thy mother's jewels are shapen anew ? I hear that a bride has chosen been, The stars consulted, the parents seen. Had I been childless, had never there smiled The brilliant eyes from the face of a child. Then at least I had understood This thing they tell me thou findest good. But I have been down to the River of Death, With painful footsteps and shuddering breath, Seven times ; thou hast daughters three, And four young sons who are fair as thee. I am not unlovely, over my head Not twenty summers as yet have sped. 'T is eleven years since my opening life Was given to thee by my father's wife. 77 Ah, those days — they were lovely to me, When little and shy I waited for thee. Till I locked my arms round my lover above, A child in form but a woman in love. And I bore thy sons, as a woman should, Year by year, as is meet and good. Thy mother was ever content with me — And Oh, Beloved, I worshipped thee ! And now it's over; alas, my lord, Better I felt thy sharpest sword. I hear she is youthful and fair as I When I came to thee in the days gone by. Her breasts are firmer; this bosom slips Somewhat, weighted by children's lips. But they were thy children. Oh, lord my king, Ah, why hast thy heart devised this thing ? I am not as the women of this thy land. Meek and timid, broken to hand. From the distant North I was given to thee. Whose daughters are passionate, fierce and free. 78 I could not dwell by a rival's side, I seek a bridegroom, as thou a bride. The night she yieldeth her youth to thee. Death shall take his pleasure in me. 79 I Arise and go Down to the River I ARISE and go down to the River, and currents that come from the sea, Still fx-esh with the salt of the ocean, are lovely and precious to me. The waters are silver and silent, except where the kingfisher dips, Or the ripples wash off from my shoulder the reddening stain of thy lips. Two things make my joy at this moment : thy gold-coloured beauty by night. And the delicate charm of the River, all pale in the day-breaking light. So cool are the waters' caresses. Ah, which is the lovelier, — this ? Or the fire that it kindles at midnight, beneath the soft glow of thy kiss ? Ah, Love has a mighty dominion, he forges with passionate breath The links which stretch out to the Future, with forces of life and of death. So But great is the charm of the River, so soft is the sigh of the reeds, They give me, long sleepless from passion, the peace that my weariness needs. I float on the breast of my River, and startle the birds on the edge. To land on a newly found island, a boat that is caught in the sedge. The rays of the sun are still level, not yet has the heat of the day Deflowered the mists of the morning, that linger in delicate grey. What land was his dwelling whose fancy first gave unto Paradise birth ? He never had swum in my River, or else he had fixed it on earth I Oh, grace of the palm-tree reflections. Oh, sense of the wind from the sea ! Oh, divine and serene exultation of one who is lonely and free ! Ah, delicate breezes of daybreak, so scentless, refreshing and free! And yet — had my midnight been lonely you had been less lovely to me. This coolness comes laden with solace, because I am hot from the fire. As often devotion to virtue arises from sated desire. Gautama came forth from his Palace; he felt the night wind on his face^ He loathed^ as he left^ the embraces^ the softness and scent of the place,, But^y ah,, if his night had been loveless,, ivith no one to solace his need,, He never had written that sermon which men so devotedly read. 6 8i Ah, River, thy gentle persuasion ! I doubt if I seek any more The beauty that hurts me and holds me beneath the low roof on the shore. I loved thee, ay, loved — for a season, but thou, was it love or desire. The glow of the Sun in his glory, or only the heat of a fire ? I think not that thou wilt regret me, for thou art too joyous and fair. So many are keen to caress thee, thy passionate midnights to share. Thou wilt not have time to remember, before a new love-knot is tied. The stranger who loved thee and left thee, who drifted awav on the tide. Two things I have found that are lovely, though most things are sullen and grey ; One: Peace — but what mortal has found him; and Passion — but when would he stay ? So I shall return to my River, and floating at ease on its breast, Shall find, what Love never has given — a sense of most infinite rest. When the years have gone by and departed, what thought shall I keep of this land ? A curl of thy waist-reaching-tresses ? a flower received from thy hand ? Nay, if I can fathom the future, I fancy my relic will be Some shell, my beloved one, the River, has stol'n from the store of the sea. 82 Listen, Beloved Listen, Beloved, the Casurinas quiver, Each tassel prays the wind to set it free. Hark to the frantic sobbing of the river. Wild to attain extinction in the sea. All Nature blindly struggles to dissolve In other forms and forces, thus to solve The painful riddle of identity. Ah, that my soul might lose itself in thee ! Yet, my Beloved One, wherefore seek I union, Since there is no such thing in all the world,- Are not our spirits linked in close communion, — And on my lips thy clinging lips are curled ? Thy tender arms are round my shoulders thrown, I hear thy heart more loudly than my own. And yet, to my despair, I know thee far. As in the stellar darkness, star from star. Even in times when love with bounteous measure A simultaneous joy on us has shed. In the last moment of delirious pleasure, Ere the sense fail, or any force be fled, My rapture has been even as a wall. Shutting out any thought of thee at all ! 83 My being, by its own delight possessed. Forgot that it was sleeping on thy breast. Ay, from his birth each man is vowed and given To a vast loneliness, ungauged, unspanned, Whether by pain and woe his soul be riven, Or all fair pleasures clustered 'neath his hand. His gain by day, his ecstasy by night, — His force, his folly, fierce or faint delight, — Suffering or sorrow, fortune, feud, or care, — Whate'er he find or feel, — he may not share. Lonely we join the world, and we depart Even as lonely, having lived alone. The breast that feeds us, the beloved one's heart. The lips we kiss, — or curse — alike unknown. Ay, even these lips of thine, so often kissed, What certitude have I that they exist? Alas, it is the truth, though harsh it seems, I have been loved as sweetly in my dreams. Therefore if I should seem too fiercely fond, Too swift to love, too eager to attain. Forgive the fervour that would forge beyond The limits set to mortal joy and pain. Knowing the soul's unmeasured loneliness, My passion must be mingled with distress. As I, despairing, struggle to draw near What is as unattainable as dear. 84 Thirst may be quenched at any kindly river. Rest may be found 'neath any arching tree. No sleep allures, no draughts of love deliver My spirit from its aching need of thee. Thy sweet assentiveness to my demands, All the caressive touches of thy hands, — These soft cool hands, with lingers tipped with fire, - They can do nothing to assuage desire. Sometimes I think my longing soul remembers A previous love to which it aims and strives, As if this fire of ours were but the embers Of some wild flame burnt out in former lives. Perchance in earlier days I did attain That which I seek for now so all in vain, Maybe my soul with thine was fused and wed In some great night, long since dissolved and dead. We may progress ; but who shall answer clearly The riddle of the endless change of things. Perchance in other days men loved more dearly. Or Love himself had wider ways and wings. Maybe we gave ourselves with less control, Or simpler living left more free the soul. So that with ease the flesh aside was flung, — Or was it merely that Alankind was young f Or has my spirit a divine prevision Of vast vague passions stored in days to be. When some strong souls shall conquer their division And two shall be as one, eternally ? Finding at last upon each other's breast, Unutterable calm and infinite rest, While love shall burn with such intense a glow That both shall die, and neither heed or know. Why do I question thus, and wake confusion In the soft thought that lights thy perfect face, Ah, shed once more thy perfumed hair's profusion. Open thine arms and make my resting place. Lay thy red lips on mine as heretofore, Grant me the treasure of thy beauty's store. Stifle all thought in one imperious kiss, — What shall I ask for more than this, — and this ? S6 oh, Unforgotten and Only Lover Oh, unforgotten and only lover, Many years have swept us apart. But none of the long dividing seasons Slay your memory in my heart. In the clash and clamour of things unlovely My thoughts drift back to the times that were. When I, possessing thy pale perfection, Kissed the eyes and caressed the hair. Other passions and loves have drifted Over this wandering, restless soul. Rudderless, chartless, floating always With some new current of chance control. But thine image is clear in the whirling waters — ^ Ah, forgive — that I drag it there. For it is so part of my very being That where I wander it too must fare. Ah, I have given thee strange companions. To thee — so slender and chaste and cool — But a white star loses no glimmer of beauty In all the mud of a miry pool 87 That holds the grace of its white reflection ; Nothing could fleck thee, nothing could stain, Thou hast made a home for thy delicate beauty Where all things peaceful and lovely reign. Doubtless the night that my soul remembers Was a sin to thee, and thine only one. Thou thinkest of it, if thou thinkest ever. As a crime committed, a deed ill done. But for me, the broken, the desert-dweller. Following Life through its underways, — I know if those midnights thou hadst not granted 1 had not lived through these after days. And that had been well for me ; all would say so, What have I done since I parted from thee ? But things that are wasted, and full of ruin. All unworthy, even of me. Yet, it was to me that the gift was given. No greater joy have the Gods above, — That night of nights when my only lover, Though all reluctant, granted me love. For thy beauty was mine, and my spirit knows it, Never, ah, never my heart forgets. One thing fixed, in the torrent of changing. Faults and follies and fierce regrets. Thine eyes and thy hair, that were lovely symbols Of that white soul that their grace enshrined. They are part of me and my life for ever. In every fibre and cell entwined. 88 Men might argue that having known thee I had grown faithful and pure as thee, Had turned at the touch of thy grace and glory From the average pathways trodden by me. Hadst thou been kinder or I been stronger It may be even these things had been — But one thing is clear to my soul for ever, I owe my owning of thee to sin. Had I been colder I had not reached thee, Besmirched the ermine, beflecked the snow — It was only sheer and desperate passion That won thy beauty in years ago. And not for the highest virtues in Heaven, The utmost grace that the soul can name. Would I resign what the sin has brought me. Which I hold glory, and thou — thy shame. I talk of sin in the usual fashion, But God knows what is a sin to me — We love more fiercely or love more faintly — But I doubt if it matters how these things be. The best and the worst of us all sink under — What I held passion and thou held'st lust — What name will it find in a few more seasons. When we both dissolve in an equal dust ? If a God there be, and a God seems needed To make the beauty of things like thee, He doubtless also, some careless moment. Mixed the forces that fashioned me. 89 Also He, for His own good reason — Though I care little how these things are — "Gave me thee, in those few brief midnights. And that one solace He never can mar. \ Ah me, the stars of such varying heavens Have watched me, under such alien skies, Lay thy beauty naked before me To soothe and solace my world-worn eyes. For one good gift to me has been given — A memory accurate, clear and keen, That holds the vision, perfect for ever In charm and glory, of things once seen. So I hold thee there, and my fancy wanders To each known beauty and blue-veined place, I know how each separate eyelash trembles. And every shadow that sweeps thy face. And this is a joy of which none can rob me, This is a pleasure that none can mar — As sweet as thou wert, in that long past midnight, Even as lovely my memories are. Ah, unforgotten and only lover. If ever I drift across thy thought. As even a vision unloved, unlovely. May cross the fancy, uncalled, unsought, When the years that pass thee have shown, in passing. That my love, in its strength at least^ was rare — Wilt thou not think — ah, hope of the hopeless — E'en as thou wouldst not, thou wilt not — care ! 90 Early Love Who says I wrong thee, my half-opened rose ? Little he knows of thee or me, or love. — I am so tender of thy fragile youth. Yea, in my hours of wildest ecstasy. Keeping close-bitted each careering sense. Only I give mine eyes unmeasured law To feed them where they will, and their delight Was curbed at first, until thy tender shame Died in the bearing of thy first born joy. I am not cruel, my half-opened rose. Though in the sunshine of my own desire I have uncurled thy petals to the light And fed the tendrils of thy dawning sense With delicate caresses, till they leave Thee tremulous with the newness of thy joy. Sharing thy lover's fire with innocent flame. Others will wrong thee, that I well foresee, Being a man, knowing my fellow men, And they who, knowing, would blame my love of thee Contentedly will see thy beauty given. When the world judges thou art ripe to wed, — 91 To the rough rites of marriage, to the pain And grievous weariness of child-getting, — This shall be right and licit in their eyes — But it would break my heart, were I alive. Yea, this will be ; many will doubtless share The rose whose bud has been my one delight, And I shall not be there to shield my flower. Yet, I have taught thee of the ways of men. Much I have learnt in cities and in courts, Winnowed to suit thy tender brain, — is thine, Thus Life shall find thee, not all unprepared To face its callous, subtle cruelties. Still, — it will profit little ; I discern Thou art of those whose love will prove their curse, — Thou sayest thou lovest me, to thy delight ? Nay, little one, it is not love as yet. Dear as thou art, and lovely, thou canst not love, Thy later loves shall show the truth of this. Ay, by sorne subtle signs I know full well That thou art capable of that great love Whose glory has the light of unknown heavens, And makes hot Hell for those who harbour it. Naught I can say could save thee from thyself, Ah, were I half my age ! Yet even that. Had been too old for thy sweet thirteenth year. 92 Still, thou art happy now, and glad thine eyes, When, as the lilac evening gains the sky, I lay thee, 'twixt thine own soft hair and me, Kissing thy senses into soft delight. Ruffling the petals of my half-closed rose With tender touches, and perpetual care That no wild moment of mine own delight Deep in the flower's heart, — should set the fruit. Ah, in the days to come, it well may be. When thou shalt see thy beauty stained and torn By the harsh sequel of some future love. Thy thoughts shall stray to thy first lover's grave. And thou shalt murmur, " Ay, but that was love. They were most wrong who said he did me wrong. Only I was too young to understand." 93 Vayu the Wind Ah, Wind, I have always loved thee Since those far off nights When I lay beneath the vines A prey to strange delights, For among my tresses Thy soft caresses Were sweet as a lover's to me. Later thou grewest more wanton, or I more shy, And after the bath I drew my garments close, Fearing thy soft persuasion amongst my hair When thou earnest fresh with the scent of some ruffled rose. Ah, Wind, thou hast lain with the Desert, I know her savour well. And the spices wherewith she scents her breasts — She who has known such countless lovers Yet rarely borne a city among her sands — Thou comest as one from a night of love. Thy breath is broken and hard, — Bringing echoes of lonely things. Vast and cruel, that the soft and golden sands Buried beneath thin ripples so long ago. 94 Ah, Wind, thou hast given me lovely things, The scent of a thousand flowers, And the heavy perfume of pollen-laden fields. Strange snatches of u^ild song from the heart of the dark Bazaat That thrilled to my very core, Till I threw the sheet aside and rose to follow, — But whither, or what ? Also, Wind, thou broughtest the breath of the sea. The sound of its myriad waves. And in nights when I lay on the lonely sands Stretching mine arms to thee, Thou gavest me something — faint and vast and sweet, Something ineffable, wistful, from far away. Elsewhere — Beyond — And thou wast kind to me in my times of love, Cooling my lips That my lover wore away. While, wafting the scent from his divided hair. Thou show'dst the stars between Far away, and eclipsed by his burning eyes Even the stars. And now I almost foresee the place and the hour When I shall open my dying lips to thee And receive a last cool kiss. Afterwards, Wind, since I have always loved thee, — Whirl my dust to the scented heart of a moghra flower. His flower, but, ah, thou knowest, — So often thy kisses have mingled with his and mine. 95 "By all odds the most beautiful periodical printed." — New York Tribune. The International Studio Subscription fi^ls^^^tf Three Months'* 50 cents per copy wW^^^W^^i^ Trial Subscription $5.00 per year '^ffll^ljil^ $1.00 EVERY number of tbe International Studio contains authoritative articles on the work of artists of estab- lished, aswellasof rising, fame. The reader is kept informed of exhibitions, museums, galleries and studios in all the important art centres of the world. The illustra- tions, both in color and halftone, are unequalled in quan- tity and quality by any other periodical. The subjects discussed each month are: paintings, etchings, drawmgs, photography, sculpture, architecture, decorations, tapes- tries, rugs, textiles, furniture, embroideries, landscape architecture, stained glass, pottery and the numerous other handicrafts, etc. The International Studio has maintained its place as the leading art magazine in the English language ever since its first issue in March, 1897. "It is a treasure house of everything of value ia the way of art." — Indianapolis Star. "An art gallery in itself." — Brooklyn Eagle. JOHN LANE COMPANY ^^i^'V^^l Lyrics & Dramas By Stephen Phillips Author of "Paolo and Francesca," etc. "Mr. Phillips has made the poetic drama again a living thing upon the stage. His tragedy, 'The King,' is the most vital piece of work he has given us for some time. All lovers of Mr. Phillips' fame will rejoice in this new volume." — New York Times. "A new volume from Stephen Phillips is always of prime interest to lovers of the poetic drama." — New York Sun. "Early in 1901 Edmund Gosse referred to Stephen Phillips as 'by far the most interesting figure that has become prominent in English poetry within the last four years.' That eminence has not been dimmed with the passage of fourteen years." — SpringHeld Republican. "That Stephen Phillips is still the greatest living exponent of the poetic drama, and the superior of his British contemporaries in the lyrical form, is amply attested in 'Lyrics and Dramas.' " — San Francisco Chronicle. 12mo Cloth $1,25 net John Lane Company, New York INDIA'S LOVE LYRICS By Laurence Hope The Neiv York Commercial : Its colors are elemental, silver and gold and red. It is heavy with the breath of citron groves, cool with the tinkling of temple bells, and the air of night, and the cries of wild peacocks and parrots. ... In many ways this volume of translation is the most important contribution to poetry that the season has as yet brought forth. The Baltimore Sun: There is nothing stale or hackneyed In this book ; newness, freshness, and variety are found on every page. These poems are true lyrics, for they give us true glimpses into the hearts of men. The Chicago Tribune: A volume of passionate love poems written by a true poet. The Chicago Inter-Ocean : They are in several metres, handled always with graceful ease, and often with intensity. The coloring is vivid and the music subtle. The book is redolent with the atmosphere of the Arabian Nights. The Boston E'vening Transcript : Mr. Hope is a thorough artist to his fingertips, and his choice of words and images is as keen and exact as his ability to adapt Indian literature to the more prosaic mood and tongue of the Anglo-Saxon. The Athenaum : Mr. Hope has caught admirably the dominant notes of this Indian love poetry, its delirious absorption In the instant, Its out-of-door air, its melancholy. STARS OF THE DESERT By Laurence Hope The Washington Mirror: The author has so completely infused the charm of the Orient into this volume that one is transported for the time and lost in the poetic beauty of his surroundings, finds no jarring chord nor Is disposed to shrink from the frankness of this translation of oriental verse. The Chicago Tribune: It is still a question whether these are direct translations or whether they '.are written in the Hindu style by Laurence Hope. Perhaps she ha« done for the Hindu poets what FitzGerald did for Omar. The Conser-Tjator : He seems to exhale an oriental atmosphere. He sings musically. I can follow the delicate strain by which Hope saves himself from stepping beyond the bounds of a vital reserve. The Nenv York Star : The author Is imbued with the glowing passion of Eastern romance. The Neav York Globe : The theme, in almost every instance love, is treated with feverish abandon. AMERICA AND OTHER POEMS BY W. J. DAWSON "The poem which gives title bids fair to become a patri- otic classic." — Newark Evening Star. "There are many moods in these poems, dramatic, ten- der, grave, idealistic." — The Continent. "Charm of description allied with rh>i;hm and a free fancy characterize 'America and Other Poems.' " — Detroit Free Press. "The simplicity of sincerity, viath musical metres and fitness of word choice, make 'America and Other Poems, noteworthy among the new books of verse." — New York Sun. "Dr. Dawson has force and grace and a fine command of the narrative manner. With the simplest words he can paint an unforgettable picture and make the reader lit' erally feel the suffering which has inspired some of his finest efforts." — San Francisco Chronicle. "There is poetry in every page dependent not so much on graceful and potent phrase and rhythm — though of these there is no lack — as in a vigor of thought and ex- pression direct enough to enlist ready and confident belief. The lines ring true; they sink deep into the spirit and the understanding." — Hartford Courant. Cloth. i2mo. $1.25 net JOHN LANE COMPANY .'. NEW YORK DATE DUE SAYLORD miNTKOlNU S.A. UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 652 805 3 NIVERSITY OF CA, RIVERSIDE LIBRARY 3 1210 01256 0262 Unive So L