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My steps are nightly driven
By the fever in my breast
To hear from thy lattice breathed
The word that shall give me rest.
Open the door of thy heart!

And open thy chamber door!
And my kisses shall teach thy lips
The love that shall fade no more
Till the sun grows cold

And the stars are old

And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold.

THE ARAB TO THE PALM.

Next to thee, O fair Gazelle !

O Beddowee Girl, beloved so well!

Next to the fearless Nedjidee,

Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee,

Next to ye both I love the Palm,

With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm :

Next to ye both I love the Tree

Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three

With love and silence and mystery.

Our tribe is many, our poets vie

With any under the Arab sky:

Yet none can sing of the Palm but I.

The marble minarets that begem
Cairo's citadel-diadem

Are not so light as his slender stem.

He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's glance,
As the Almehs lift their arms in dance :

A slumbrous motion, a passionate sign,
That works in the cells of the blood like wine.

Full of passion and sorrow is he,
Dreaming where the Beloved may be.
And when the warm South-Winds arise,
He breathes his longing in fervid sighs,
Quickening odours, kisses of balm,
That drop in the lap of his chosen Palm.

The sun may flame and the sands may stir,
But the breath of his passion reaches her.

O Tree of Love! by that love of thine,
Teach me how I shall soften mine!

Give me the secret of the Sun,
Whereby the woo'd is ever won!

If I were a king, O stately Tree!
A likeness, glorious as might be,

In the court of my palace I'd build for thee :

With a shaft of silver burnish'd bright,
And leaves of beryl and malachite,

With spikes of golden bloom ablaze,
And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase.

And there the poets in thy praise
Should night and morning frame new lays,—
New measures sung to tunes divine :
But none, O Palm! should equal mine.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

1825

BRAHMA'S ANSWER.
Once, when the days were ages,

And the old Earth was young,
The high Gods and the sages
From Nature's golden pages

Her open secrets wrung.

Each question'd each to know

Whence came the Heavens above, and whence the Earth

below.

Indra, the endless giver

Of every gracious thing

The Gods to him deliver,
Whose bounty is the river

Of which they are the spring,-
Indra, with anxious heart,

Ventures with Vivochunu where Brahma is apart.

66

'Brahma! Supremest Being!

By whom the worlds are made,—
Where we are blind, all-seeing,-
Stable, where we are fleeing,

Of Life and Death afraid,

Instruct us, for mankind,

What is the body, Brahma? O Brahma! what the mind?"

Hearing us though he heard not,

So perfect was his rest,

So vast the Soul that err'd not,

So wise the lips that stirr'd not, —

His hand upon his breast

He laid, whereat his face

Was mirror'd in the river that girt that holy place.

They question'd each the other

What Brahina's answer meant.

Said Vivochunu-" Brother!
Through Brahma the Great Mother
Hath spoken her intent:

Man ends as he began,

The shadow on the water is all there is of Man."

"The Earth with woe is cumber'd,
And no man understands;

They see their days are number'd
By One that never slumber'd

Nor stay'd his dreadful hands.

I see with Brahma's eyes:

The body is the shadow that on the water lies."

Thus Indra, looking deeper,

With Brahma's self possessed.
So dry thine eyes, thou weeper!
And rise again, thou sleeper!

The hand on Brahma's breast
Is his divine assent

Covering the soul that dies not.

This is what Brahma meant.

A FAR OF WINE.

Day and night my thoughts incline
To the blandishments of wine :
Jars were made to drain, I think;
Wine, I know, was made to drink.

When I die (the day be far !)
Should the potters make a jar
Out of this poor clay of mine,
Let the jar be fill'd with wine!

UNDER The rose.

She wears a rose in her hair,

At the twilight's dreamy close :
Her face is fair,-how fair

Under the rose !

I steal like a shadow there,

As she sits in rapt repose,
And whisper my loving prayer
Under the rose.

260

ELIZABETH DREW BARSTOW STODDARD.

She takes the rose from her hair,
And her colour comes and goes,
And I,-a lover will dare

Under the rose.

ELIZABETH DREW BARSTOW STODDARD.

1823

MERCEDES.

Under a sultry yellow sky

On the yellow sand I lie :

The crinkled vapours smite my brain,
I smoulder in a fiery pain.

Above the crags the condor flies,—
He knows where the red gold lies,
He knows where the diamonds shine:
If I knew, would she be mine?

Mercedes in her hammock swings,-
In her court a palm tree flings
Its slender shadow on the ground,
The fountain falls with silver sound.

Her lips are like this cactus-cup,—
With my hand I crush it up,

I tear its flaming leaves apart :
Would that I could tear her heart!

Last night a man was at her gate :
In the hedge I lay in wait :
I saw Mercedes meet him there,
By the fire-flies in her hair.

I waited till the break of day,
Then I rose and stole away;
But left my dagger in her gate :
Now she knows her lover's fate.

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