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VERSES WRITTEN IN INDIA. 
 
VERSES WRITTEN IN 
 INDIA. 
 
 BY 
 
 SIR ALFRED LYALL. 
 
 
 LONDON 
 KEG AN PAUL, TRENCH & CO. 
 
 MDCCCLXXXIX 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. The Old Pindaree i 
 
 II. Theology in Extremis 9 
 
 III. Somnia 18 
 
 IV. After the Skirmish 21 
 
 V. Rajpoot Rebels 24 
 
 VI. Meditations of a Hindu Prince ... 29 
 
 VII. A Rajpoot Chief of the Old School . 35 
 
 VIII. Studies at Delhi, 1876 44 
 
 IX. Retrospection 48 
 
 X. The Amir's Soliloquy ...... 56 
 
 XI. The Amir's Message 62 
 
 XII. A Sermon in Lower Bengal (1864) . 67 
 
 XIII. JoabSpeaketh 75 
 
 XIV. Pilate's Wife's Dream 83 
 
 XV. Ex Occidente Vox 89 
 
 XVI. Siva 98 
 
 XVII. Lines from the German . . . . . 104 
 
 XVIII. Amor in Extremis 105 
 
 128 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XIX. The Land of Regrets . . . . . . in 
 
 XX. Sequel to " My Queen " ..... 116 
 
 XXI. A Night in the Red Sea . < . . . . 119 
 
 XXII. Charles's Wain , . 122 
 
 XXIII. The Monk and the Bird ..... 125 
 
 XXIV. Translations from Horace . . . . 131 
 
I. 
 
 THE OLD PINDAREE. 
 On the Nerbada, 1866. 
 
 ALLAH is great, my children, and kind to a 
 slave like me ; 
 
 The great man's tent is gone from under the 
 peepul tree ; 
 
 With his horde of hungry retainers, and oil- 
 fed sons of the quill ; 
 
 I paid them the bribes they wanted, and 
 Satan may settle my bill. 
 
 It's not that I care for the money, or expect 
 
 a dog to be clean, 
 If I were lord of the ryots, they'd starve ere 
 
 I grew lean ; 
 
 B 
 
2 THE OLD PINDAREE. 
 
 But I'd sooner be robbed by a tall man who 
 
 showed me a yard of steel, 
 Than be fleeced by a sneaking Baboo, with 
 
 a belted knave at his heel. 
 
 There goes my lord the Feringhee, who talks 
 
 so civil and bland, 
 Till he raves like a soul in Jehannum if I 
 
 don't quite understand ; 
 He begins by calling me Sdhib, and ends by 
 
 calling me Fool ; 
 He has taken my old sword from me, and 
 
 tells me to set up a school ; 
 
 . 
 Set up a school in the village ! " And my 
 
 wishes are," says he, 
 "That you make the boys learn reg'lar, or 
 
 you'll get a lesson from me;" 
 Well, Ramlal the oilman spites me, and 
 
 pounded my cow last rains ; 
 
THE OLD PINDAREE. 3 
 
 He's got three greasy young urchins ; I'll see 
 that they take pains. 
 
 Then comes a Settlement Haldm, to teach 
 
 us to plough and to weed, 
 (I sowed the cotton he gave me, but first I 
 
 boiled the seed) 
 He likes us humble farmers, and speaks so 
 
 gracious and wise 
 As he asks of our manners and customs ; I 
 
 tell him a parcel of lies. 
 
 " Look," says the school Feringhee, " what a 
 
 silly old man you be, 
 " You can't read, write, nor cypher, and your 
 
 grandsons do all three ; 
 "They'll total the shopman's figures, and 
 
 reckon the tenant's corn, 
 "And read good books about London and 
 
 the world before you were born." 
 
4 THE OLD FIND A REE. 
 
 Well. I may be old and foolish, for I've 
 
 seventy years well told, 
 And the Franks have ruled me forty, so my 
 
 heart and my hand's got cold ; 
 Good boys they are, my grandsons, I know, 
 
 but they'll never be men, 
 Such as I was at twenty-five when the sword 
 
 was king of the pen ; 
 
 When I rode a Dekhani charger, with the 
 
 saddle-cloth gold-laced, 
 And a Persian sword, and a twelve foot 
 
 spear, and a pistol at my waist ; 
 My son ! He keeps a pony, and I grin to see 
 
 him astride, 
 Jogging away to the market, and swaying 
 
 from side to side. 
 
 My father was an Afghan, and came from 
 Kandahar : 
 
THE OLD PINDAREE. 5 
 
 He rode with Nawdb Amir Khan in the old 
 
 Maratha war : 
 From the Dekhan to the Himalay, five 
 
 hundred of one clan, 
 They asked no leave of prince or chief as 
 
 they swept thro' Hindusthan ; 
 
 My mother was a Brahminee, but she clave 
 to my father well ; 
 
 She was saved from the sack of Juleysur, 
 when a thousand Hindus fell ; 
 
 Her kinsmen died in the sally; so she fol- 
 lowed where he went, 
 
 And lived like a bold Pathdni in the shade of 
 a rider's tent. 
 
 It's many a year gone by now; and yet I 
 
 often dream 
 Of a long dark march to the Jumna, of 
 
 splashing across the stream, 
 
6 THE OLD PINDAREE. 
 
 Of the waning moon on the water, and the 
 spears in the dim star-light, 
 
 As I rode in front of my mother, and 
 wondered at all the sight. 
 
 Then, the streak of the pearly dawn the 
 
 flash of a sentinel's gun, 
 The gallop and glint of horsemen who 
 
 wheeled in the level sun, 
 The shots in the clear still morning, the white 
 
 smoke's eddying wreath, 
 Is this the same land that I live in, the dull 
 
 dank air that I breathe ? 
 
 But the British chased Amir Khan, and the 
 
 roving times must cease, 
 My father got this village, and he sowed his 
 
 crops in peace ; 
 And I, so young and hot of blood, I had no 
 
 land or wife, 
 
THE OLD FIND A REE. 7 
 
 So I took to the hills of Malwa, and the free 
 Pindciree life. 
 
 Praise to the name Almighty ! there is no 
 
 God but one ! 
 Mahomed is his prophet, and his will shall 
 
 ever be done ; 
 Ye shall take no use for your money, nor 
 
 your faith for a ransom sell ; 
 Ye shall make no terms with the infidel, but 
 
 smite his soul to hell. 
 
 Tell me, ye men of Islam, who are rotting in 
 
 shameful ease, 
 Who wrangle before the Feringhee for a 
 
 poor man's last rupees, 
 Are ye better than were your fathers, who 
 
 plundered with old Cheetoo, 
 And who fleeced the greedy traders, as the 
 
 traders now fleece you ? 
 
8 THE OLD FIND A REE. 
 
 Yes, and here's one of them coming, my. 
 
 father gave him a bill ; 
 I have paid the man twice over, and here I'm 
 
 paying him still ; 
 He shows me a long stamp-paper, and must 
 
 have my land, must he ? 
 If I were twenty year younger he'd get six 
 
 feet by three. 
 
 And if I were forty years younger, with my 
 
 life before me to choose, 
 I wouldn't be lectured by Kdfirs, or bullied 
 
 by fat Hindoos ; 
 But I'd go to some far-off country where 
 
 Musalmans still are men, 
 Or take to the jungle, like Cheetoo, and die 
 
 in the tiger's den. 
 
II. 
 
 THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS: 
 
 Or a soliloquy that may have been delivered 
 in India, June, 1857. 
 
 ' ' They would have spared life to any of their Eng- 
 lish prisoners who should consent to profess Mahome- 
 tanism, by repeating the usual short formula ; but only 
 one half-caste cared to save himself in that way." 
 Extract from an Indian newspaper. 
 
 MORITURUS LOQUITUR. 
 
 OFT in the pleasant summer years, 
 Reading the tales of days bygone, 
 
 I have mused on the story of human tears, 
 All that man unto man has done, 
 
 Massacre, torture, and black despair ; 
 
 Reading it all in my easy-chair. 
 
io THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS. 
 
 Passionate prayer for a minute's life ; 
 
 Tortured crying for death as rest ; 
 Husband pleading for child or wife, 
 
 Pitiless stroke upon tender breast. 
 Was it all real as that I lay there 
 Lazily stretched on my easy-chair ? 
 
 Could I believe in those hard old times, 
 Here in this safe luxurious age ? 
 
 Were the horrors invented to season rhymes, 
 Or truly is man so fierce in his rage ? 
 
 What could I suffer, and what could I dare ? 
 
 I who was bred to that easy-chair. 
 
 They were my fathers, the men of yore, 
 Little they recked of a cruel death ; 
 
 They would dip their hands in a heretic's 
 
 gore, 
 They stood and burnt for a rule of faith. 
 
 What would I burn for, and whom not spare ? 
 
 I, who had faith in an easy-chair. 
 
THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS. n 
 
 Now do I see old tales are true, 
 Here in the clutch of a savage foe ; 
 
 Now shall I know what my fathers knew, 
 Bodily anguish and bitter woe, 
 
 Naked and bound in the strong sun's glare, 
 
 Far from my civilized easy-chair. 
 
 Now have I tasted and understood 
 That old world feeling of mortal hate ; 
 
 For the eyes all round us are hot with blood ; 
 They will kill us coolly they do but wait ; 
 
 While I, I would sell ten lives, at least, 
 
 For one fair stroke at that devilish priest 
 
 Just in return for the kick he gave, 
 
 Bidding me call on the prophet's name ; 
 
 Even a dog by this may save 
 
 Skin from the knife, and soul from the 
 flame; 
 
i2 THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS. 
 
 My soul \ if he can let the prophet burn it, 
 But life is sweet if a word may earn it. 
 
 A bullock's death, and at thirty years ! 
 
 Just one phrase, and a man gets off it ; 
 Look at that mongrel clerk in his tears 
 
 Whining aloud the name of the prophet ; 
 Only a formula easy to patter, 
 And, God Almighty, what can it matter ? 
 
 " Matter enough," will my comrade say 
 Praying aloud here close at my side, 
 
 " Whether you mourn in despair alway, 
 Cursed for ever by Christ denied ; 
 
 Or whether you suffer a minute's pain 
 
 All the reward of Heaven to gain." 
 
 Not for a moment faltereth he, 
 
 Sure of the promise and pardon of sin; 
 
 Thus did the martyrs die, I see, 
 Little to lose and muckle to win ; 
 
THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS. 13 
 
 Death means Heaven, he longs to receive it, 
 But what shall I do if I don't believe it ? 
 
 Life is pleasant, and friends may be nigh, 
 Fain would I speak one word and be 
 spared ; 
 
 Yet I could be silent and cheerfully die, 
 If I were only sure God cared ; 
 
 If I had faith, and were only certain 
 
 That light is behind that terrible curtain. 
 
 But what if He listeth nothing at all 
 Of words a poor wretch in his terror may 
 say? 
 
 That mighty God who created all 
 
 To labour and live their appointed day ; 
 
 Who stoops not either to bless or ban, 
 
 Weaving the woof of an endless plan. 
 
 He is the Reaper, and binds the sheaf, 
 Shall not the season its order keep ? 
 
i 4 THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS 
 
 Can it be changed by a man's belief? 
 
 Millions of harvests still to reap ; 
 Will God reward, if I die for a creed, 
 Or will He but pity, and sow more seed ? 
 
 Surely He pities who made the brain, 
 When breaks that mirror of memories 
 sweet, 
 
 When the hard blow falleth, and never again 
 Nerve shall quiver nor pulse shall beat ; 
 
 Bitter the vision of vanishing joys ; 
 
 Surely He pities when man destroys. 
 
 Here stand I on the ocean's brink, 
 Who hath brought news of the further 
 shore ? 
 
 How shall I cross it? Sail or sink, 
 One thing is sure, I return no more ; 
 
 Shall I find haven, or aye shall I be 
 
 Tossed in the depths of a shoreless sea ? 
 
THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS. 15 
 
 They tell fair tales of a far-off land, 
 Of love rekindled, of forms renewed ; 
 
 There may I only touch one hand 
 Here life's ruin will little be rued ; 
 
 But the hand I have pressed and the voice I 
 have heard, 
 
 To lose them for ever, and all for a word ! 
 
 Now do I feel that my heart must break 
 All for one glimpse of a woman's face ; 
 
 Swiftly the slumbering memories wake 
 Odour and shadow of hour and place ; 
 
 One bright ray through the darkening past 
 
 Leaps from the lamp as it brightens last, 
 
 Showing me summer in western land 
 Now, as the cool breeze murmureth 
 
 In leaf and flower And here I stand 
 
 In this plain all bare save the shadow of 
 death ; 
 
16 THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS. 
 
 Leaving my life in its full noonday, 
 And no one to know why I flung it away. 
 
 Why ? Am I bidding for glory's roll ? 
 
 I shall be murdered and clean forgot ; 
 Is it a bargain to save my soul ? 
 
 God, whom I trust in, bargains not ; 
 Yet for the honour of English race, 
 May I not live or endure disgrace. 
 
 Ay, but the word, if I could have said it, 
 
 I by no terrors of hell perplext ; 
 Hard to be silent and have no credit 
 
 From man in this world, or reward in the 
 
 next; 
 
 None to bear witness and reckon the cost 
 Of the name that is saved by the life that is 
 lost. 
 
THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS. 17 
 
 I must be gone to the crowd untold 
 Of men by the cause which they served 
 unknown, 
 
 Who moulder in myriad graves of old ; 
 Never a story and never a stone 
 
 Tells of the martyrs who die like me, 
 
 Just for the pride of the old countree. 
 
i8 
 
 III. 
 
 SOMNIA. 
 India, 1857. 
 
 A LATE moon that sinks o'er a river 
 Flowing luminous, languid, and still ; 
 
 Long white tents that shroud men, and shiver 
 In the cold morning breeze from the hill; 
 
 Just a thin veil of darkness above you, 
 While the cool quiet hour is your own ; 
 
 Then farewell to the faces that love you, 
 With the fast fading night they'll be gone. 
 
 Look up, see above you the star-land 
 Wanes dim with the flush of the dawn, 
 
SOMNIA. 19 
 
 You are called from your flight to the far 
 
 land, 
 
 And your visions must break with the 
 morn. 
 
 But your soul, by sweet memories haunted, 
 Still wanders, forgetful and free, 
 
 To the West, and in echoes enchanted 
 Hears the long winding plash of the sea. 
 
 Ah, sleep, though the falling dews wet you ; 
 
 Ah, rest in that home while you may ; 
 Other scenes, other sounds, shall beset you 
 
 When you wake, and your dreams pass 
 away. 
 
 When the sun beats aflame on your faces, 
 What the old fighters felt, ye shall feel, 
 
 When the pitiless strife of the races 
 Flashes out in the smoke and the steel ; 
 
20 S OMNI A. 
 
 For the plain, bare and burning, lies yonder, 
 And perchance, when the war-cloud has 
 passed, 
 
 Never more, day or night, shalt thou wander 
 And thy sleep shall be dreamless at last. 
 
IV. 
 
 AFTER THE SKIRMISH. 
 Rohilcund, 1858. 
 
 5 MiD the broken grass of a trampled glade, 
 Where the bayonets met and the fight was 
 
 sorest, 
 
 We had found him lying ; and there we laid 
 Our friend in the depth of an Indian 
 forest ; 
 
 Just as the evening shadow's pall 
 
 Over his grave from the hills came stream- 
 ing, 
 By the rippled fret and the eddying fall 
 
 Of a snow-fed river, cool and creaming. 
 
22 AFTER THE SKIRMISH. 
 
 With the funeral march still echoing round, 
 We had spread the mould o'er his tartan 
 gory; 
 
 But as we turned from the shapeless mound 
 Sweet rose the music of " Annie Laurie ; " 
 
 Full and clear from the pacing band, 
 Passionate strain of a love-lorn story, 
 
 How can they breathe it in strangers' land, 
 Air of our northern "Annie Laurie ?" 
 
 For he whom we leave in the lonely brake, 
 Watched by the Himalay mountains hoary, 
 
 Will not his brain from the death-sleep wake, 
 Touched by the magic of "Annie Laurie?" 
 
 Heaven forfend ! May the earth lie dense 
 O'er the heart that beat and the eyes that 
 glistened ; 
 
 What if a motionless nerve has sense ? 
 What if an upturned face had listened ? 
 
AFTER THE SKIRMISH. 23 
 
 Listened ! as over his prison close 
 Floated that rich, voluptuous cadence, 
 
 Faint with the scent, like an autumn rose, 
 Of youth, and beauty, and soft-hued 
 maidens ; 
 
 Of a long late eve, and the falling dew ; 
 
 Never again shall the dew-drop wet him ; 
 Of a woman's hand, and a promise true 
 
 Will not the kindliest now forget him ? 
 
 Chaining his spirit's upward flight, 
 Staying his soul, though at heaven's own 
 portal, 
 
 With the soft refrain of a lost delight, 
 
 With the shadowy charm of a fairy mortal. 
 
 Lured by the sensuous melody's spell, 
 Little he recks of the angel's glory ; 
 
 Piercing sad is the earth's farewell 
 
 Sighed in the music of " Annie Laurie." 
 
V. 
 
 RAJPOOT REBELS. 
 On the Sardah, 1858. 
 
 WHERE the mighty cliffs are frowning 
 
 Far o'er the torrents fall, 
 And the pine and the oak stand crowning 
 
 The ridges of high Nepaul, 
 
 Sat twenty Rajpoot rebels, 
 
 Haggard and pale and thin, 
 Lazily chucking the pebbles 
 
 Into the foaming lynn. 
 
 Their eyes were sunken and weary, 
 
 With a sort of listless woe 
 They looked from their desolate eyrie 
 
 Over the plains below. 
 
RAJPOOT REBELS. 
 
 They turned from the mountain breezes 
 And shivered with cold and damp, 
 
 They were faint with the fierce diseases 
 Of the deadly jungle swamp. 
 
 Two had wounds from a sabre 
 And one from an Enfield ball, 
 
 But no one cared for his neighbour, 
 There was sickness or wounds on all. 
 
 The Rajpoot leader rose then 
 Stiffly and slow from the ground, 
 
 He looked at the camp of his foes then, 
 And he looked at his brethren round ; 
 
 And he said : * From my country driven 
 ' With the last of my haunted band, 
 
 ( My home to another given, 
 1 On a foreign soil I stand. 
 
26 RAJPOOT REBELS. 
 
 ' They have burnt every roof in the village, 
 
 ( They have slain the best of my kin, 
 ' They have ruined and burnt and pillaged, 
 And yet we had done no sin ; 
 
 ' Our clans were heady and rude, 
 
 1 Our robbers many and tall, 
 ' But our fighting never shed English blood, 
 
 ' Nor harried an English hall. 
 
 * The king took tithe if he might ; 
 
 ' He was paid by a knave or a fool ; 
 
 * For we held our lands on a firmer right 
 
 ' Than is given by parchment rule ; 
 
 f Our fathers of old had cleared it 
 
 1 From the jungle with axe and sword, 
 
 * Our ancient rights had endeared it 
 
 1 To him who was chief and lord. 
 
RAJPOOT REBELS. 27 
 
 ' Our father's curse with our father's land, 
 ' Like the wrath of a great god's blow 
 
 * May it fall on the head and the iron hand 
 ' And the heart of our English foe. 
 
 ( As our fathers fought, we fight ; 
 
 1 But a sword and a matchlock gun, 
 ' 'Gainst the serried line of bayonets bright 
 
 1 A thousand moving like one ! 
 
 ' From the banks of Ganges holy, 
 1 From the towers of fair Lucknow, 
 
 1 They have driven us surely and slowly, 
 4 They have crushed us blow on blow. 
 
 ##'"'*' '1 
 * * * # 
 
 ' When the army has slain its fill, 
 * When they bid the hangman cease ; 
 
23 RAJPOOT REBELS. 
 
 * They will beckon us down from the desert 
 
 hill 
 
 * To go to our homes in peace. 
 
 * To plough with a heavy heart, 
 
 * And, of half our fields bereft, 
 
 ' ; Gainst the usurer's oath, and the lawyer's 
 art 
 
 * To battle that some be left. 
 
 4 At the sight of an English face 
 
 * Loyally bow the head, 
 
 ' And cringe like slaves to the surly race 
 i For pay and a morsel of bread ; 
 
 ' Toil like an ox or a mule 
 
 * To earn the stranger his fee 
 
 1 Our sons may brook the Feringhee's rule, 
 
 * There is no more life for me ! ' 
 
VI. 
 
 MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU 
 PRINCE. 
 
 ALL the world over, I wonder, in lands that 
 
 I never have trod, 
 Are the people eternally seeking for the signs 
 
 and steps of a God ? 
 Westward across the ocean, and Northward 
 
 ayont the snow, 
 Do they all stand gazing, as ever, and what 
 
 do the wisest know ? 
 
 Here, in this mystical India, the deities hover 
 and swarm 
 
 Like the wild bees heard in the tree-tops, or 
 the gusts of a gathering storm ; 
 
30 MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU PRINCE. 
 
 In the air men hear their voices, their feet on 
 
 the rocks are seen, 
 Yet we all say, " Whence is the message, and 
 
 what may the wonders mean?" 
 
 A million shrines stand open, and ever the 
 
 censer swings, 
 As they bow to a mystic symbol, or the 
 
 figures of ancient kings ; 
 And the incense rises ever, and rises the 
 
 endless cry 
 Of those who are heavy laden, and of cowards 
 
 loth to die. 
 
 For the Destiny drives us together, like deer 
 
 in a pass of the hills, 
 Above is the sky, and around us the sound of 
 
 the shot that kills ; 
 Pushed by a Power we see not, and struck 
 
 by a hand unknown, 
 
MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU PRINCE. 31 
 
 We pray to the trees for shelter, and press 
 our lips to a stone. 
 
 The trees wave a shadowy answer, and the 
 
 rock frowns hollow and grim, 
 And the form and the nod of the demon are 
 
 caught in the twilight dim ; 
 And we look to the sunlight falling afar on 
 
 the mountain crest, 
 Is there never a path runs upward to a refuge 
 
 there and a rest ? 
 
 The path, ah ! who has shown it, and which 
 
 is the faithful guide ? 
 The haven, ah ! who has known it ? for steep 
 
 is the mountain side, 
 Forever the shot strikes surely, and ever the 
 
 wasted breath 
 Of the praying multitude rises, whose answer 
 
 is only death. 
 
32 MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU PRINCE. 
 
 Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the fruit 
 
 of an ancient name, 
 Chiefs who were slain on the war-field, and 
 
 women who died in flame ; 
 They are gods, these kings of the foretime, 
 
 they are spirits who guard our race, 
 Ever I watch and worship ; they sit with a 
 
 marble face. 
 
 And the myriad idols around me, and the 
 legion of muttering priests, 
 
 The revels and rites unholy, the dark un- 
 speakable feasts ! 
 
 What have they wrung from the Silence? 
 Hath even a whisper come 
 
 Of the secret, Whence and Whither ? Alas ! 
 for the gods are dumb. 
 
 Shall I list to the word of the English, who 
 come from the uttermost sea ? 
 
MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU PRINCE. 33 
 
 " The Secret, hath it been told you, and what 
 
 is your message to me ? " 
 It is nought but the wide-world story how 
 
 the earth and the heavens began, 
 How the gods are glad and angry, and a 
 
 Deity once was man. 
 
 I had thought, "Perchance in the cities 
 
 where the rulers of India dwell, 
 Whose orders flash from the far land, who 
 
 girdle the earth with a spell, 
 They have fathomed the depths we float on, 
 
 or measured the unknown main " 
 Sadly they turn from the venture, and say 
 
 that the quest is vain. 
 
 Is life, then, a dream and delusion, and 
 where shall the dreamer awake ? 
 
 Is the world seen like shadows on water, and 
 what if the mirror break ? 
 D 
 
34 MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU PRINCE. 
 
 Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a 
 tent that is gathered and gone 
 
 From the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, 
 and at morning are level and lone ? 
 
 Is there nought in the heaven above, whence 
 
 the hail and the levin are hurled, 
 But the wind that is swept around us by the 
 
 rush of the rolling world ? 
 The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and 
 
 bear me to silence and sleep 
 With the dirge, and the sounds of lamenting, 
 
 and voices of women who weep. 
 
35 
 
 VII. 
 A RAJPOOT CHIEF OF THE OLD 
 
 SCHOOL. 
 Moribundus Loquitur. 
 
 AND why say ye that I must leave 
 
 This pleasure-garden, where the sun 
 Is baffled by the boughs that weave 
 
 Their shade o'er my pavilion ? 
 The trees I planted with my hands, 
 This house I built among the sands, 
 Within a lofty wall which rounds 
 
 This green oasis, kept with care ; 
 With room for my horses, hawks, and 
 
 hounds, 
 And the cool arcade for my ladies fair. 
 
3 6 A RAJPOOT CHIEF OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 How often, while the landscape flames 
 
 With heat, within the marble court 
 I lie, and laugh to see my dames 
 
 About the shimmering fountain sport : 
 Or after the long scorching days, 
 When the hot wind hushes, and falling stays 
 
 The clouds of dust, and stars are bright, 
 I've spread my carpets in the grove, 
 
 And talked and loitered the live-long night 
 With some foreign leman light o' love. 
 
 My wives I married, as was fit, 
 
 Some thirteen of the purest blood 
 And two or three have germs of wit, 
 
 And almost all are chaste and good ; 
 But all their womanhood has been 
 Hencooped behind a marble screen ; 
 They count their pearls and doze while 
 
 she, 
 The courtezan, had travelled far, 
 
A RAJPOOT CHIEF OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 37 
 
 Her songs were fresh, her talk was free 
 Of the Delhi Court, or the Kdbul War. 
 
 Those days are gone, I am old and ill, 
 
 Why should I move ? I love the place ; 
 The dawn is fresh, the nights are still ; 
 
 Ah yes ! I see it in your face, 
 My latest dawn and night are nigh, 
 And of my clan a chief must die 
 
 Within the ancestral rampart's fold 
 Paced by the listening sentinel, 
 
 Where ancient cannon, and beldames old 
 As the guns, peer down from the citadel. 
 
 Once more, once only, they shall bear 
 
 My litter up the steep ascent 
 That pierces, mounting stair on stair, 
 
 The inmost ring of battlement. 
 Oft-times that frowning gate I've past 
 (This time, but one, shall be the last) 
 
38 A RAJPOOT CHIEF OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 Where the tribal daemon's image stands 
 Crowning the arch, and on the side 
 
 Are scarlet prints of woman's hands 
 Farewell ! and forth must the lady ride, 
 
 Her face unveiled, in rich attire, 
 
 She strikes the stone with fingers red, 
 " Farewell the palace, to the pyre 
 
 We follow, widows of the dead ! " 
 And I, whose life has reached its verge, 
 Bethink me of the wailing dirge 
 
 That day my father forth was borne 
 High seated, swathed in many a shawl, 
 
 By priests who scatter flowers, and mourn ; 
 And the eddying smoke of the funeral. 
 
 Thus did he vanish ; With him went 
 Seven women, by the flames set free ; 
 
 I built a stately monument 
 To shrine their graven effigy : 
 
A RAJPOOT CHIEF OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 39 
 
 In front my father, godlike, stands, 
 The widows kneel with folded hands ; 
 All yearly rites are duly paid, 
 
 All round are planted sacred trees, 
 And the ghosts are soothed by the spread- 
 ing shade, 
 
 And lulled by the strain of their obse- 
 quies. 
 
 His days were troubled: his curse I earned 
 
 Full often, ere he passed that arch, 
 My father, by his farms we burned, 
 
 By raiding on the English march ; 
 And then that summer I rebelled, 
 One fort we seized, and there we held 
 Until my father's guns grew hot; 
 
 But the floods and darkness veiled our 
 
 flight, 
 
 We rode their lines with never a shot, 
 For the matches were moist in the rainy 
 night. 
 
40 A RAJPOOT CHIEF OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 That's forty years ago ; and since, 
 
 With all these wild unruly clans, 
 In this salt wilderness, a prince 
 
 Of camel-riding caterans, 
 I've sought religiously, Heaven knows, 
 A life of worship and repose, 
 
 Vext by the stiff ungrateful league 
 Of all my folk in fretful stir, 
 
 By priests and gods in dark intrigue, 
 And the wasting curse of the sorcerer. 
 
 They say I seized their broad estates, 
 Upbraid me with a kinsman's blood ; 
 
 He led his bands before my gates, 
 And then it was an ancient feud ; 
 
 But I must offer gifts, and pray 
 
 The Brahmin's stain be washed away. 
 Saint and poisoner, fed with bribes, 
 Deep versed in every traitorous plan 
 
A RAJPOOT CHIEF OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 41 
 
 I told them only to kill the scribes, 
 But my Afghans hated the holy man. 
 
 Yes, peace is blessed, and prayer is good ; 
 
 My eldest son defied my power ; 
 I lost his mother in the wood 
 
 That hides my lonely hunting tower : 
 She was a proud unbroken dame : 
 Like son, like mother, hard to tame 
 Or tire And so he took the bent, 
 
 His mother's kinsfolk at his heel, 
 With many a restless malcontent ; 
 
 There were some had ease, ere I sheathed 
 my steel. 
 
 The English say I govern ill, 
 
 That laws must silence spear and gun, 
 So may my peaceful subjects till ; 
 
 But peaceful subjects have I none. 
 I can but follow my fathers' rule, 
 
42 A RAJPOOT CHIEF OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 I cannot learn in an English school ; 
 Yet the hard world softens, and change is 
 
 best, 
 
 My sons must leave the ancient ways, 
 The folk are weary, the land shall rest, 
 And the gods are kind, for I end my days. 
 
 Then carry me to my castle steep, 
 
 Whose time is ending with its lord's : 
 Eight months my grandsire held the keep 
 
 Against the fierce Maratha hordes ; 
 It would not stand three winter suns 
 Before the shattering English guns ; 
 
 And so these rude old faithful stones, 
 My fathers' haven in high war-tide, 
 
 Must rive and moulder, as soon my bones 
 Shall bleach on the holy river side. 
 
 Years hence, when all the earth is calm, 
 And forts are level, and foes agree 
 
A RAJPOOT CHIEF OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 43 
 
 Since feuds must end, to trade and farm, 
 
 And toil, like oxen, patiently ; 
 When this my garden palace stands 
 A desert ruin, choked with sands, 
 A broken well 'mid trees that fade, 
 
 Some traveller still my name may bless, 
 The chief long syne that left him shade 
 And a water spring in the wilderness. 
 
VIII. 
 
 STUDIES AT DELHI, 1876. 
 I. THE HINDU ASCETIC. 
 
 HERE as I sit by the Jumna bank, 
 Watching the flow of the sacred stream, 
 
 Pass me the legions, rank on rank, 
 And the cannon roar, and the bayonets 
 gleam. 
 
 Is it a god or a king that comes ? 
 
 Both are evil, and both are strong ; 
 With women and worshipping, dancing and 
 drums, 
 
 Carry your gods and your kings along. 
 
 Fanciful shapes of a plastic earth, 
 These are the visions that weary the eye ; 
 
STUDIES AT DELHI, 1876. 45 
 
 These I may 'scape by a luckier birth, 
 Musing, and fasting, and hoping to die. 
 
 When shall these phantoms flicker away ? 
 
 Like the smoke of the 'guns on the wind- 
 swept hill, 
 Like the sounds and colours of yesterday : 
 
 And the soul have rest, and the air be still. 
 
 \The same done into Greek elegiacs y\ 
 
 'O rTMNOSO^ISTHI. 
 
 (PUNJAB, B.C. 327.) 
 
 Ti fie /3o?7, T'I Okafia KaOrjfievov tv9ad' i/cava, 
 
 tpov Trap Trora/iolo poai ; 
 avdpwv Sri irvKival OTI'X atT, aiyX?/ TS KLOVTUV 
 
 K\a/X7Tcl, KCLl KTV7TOQ l7 
 
 1 By Sir Frederick Pollock, who has very kindly 
 allowed them to be published. 
 
46 STUDIES AT DELHI, 1876. 
 
 T&V QfOQ fi (3aai\tv) TravTWQ KO.KOV, 
 
 v{3pi d' fide flirj (7%lrXiO a 
 a deiXoiy /3a<nXi/a TTjOOTrs/iTrerf daijjiovd 0' ovrti* 
 
 avv dovwy TViravujv avv re Kop&v Oiaa^' 
 jiivpia. yap TOICLVT treicev $vai%oo aia, 
 
 Qdafiara KOI vtQeXrjv, rolg icridovai TTOVOV' 
 atv O.TTO KOLV yeverJ 7ri \yovo 
 
 vi]GTiGi cruvvoiaiQ isfievog QCLVCLTOV. 
 a\Xa yevoiO' ore ravr tppoi TraXiv, wan KOV' 
 
 avdputv juapvafievcjv taicedaat ^'0vp 
 
 0<w?7 fjLop<f)rj <j)9oyytiv r 
 iavvot vfjypETOQ rjffvxirjv. 
 
 II. BADMINTON. 
 
 Hardly a shot from the gate we stormed, 
 Under the Moree battlement's shade ; 
 
 Close to the glacis our game was formed, 
 There had the fight been, and there we 
 played. 
 
STUDIES AT DELHI, 1876. 47 
 
 Lightly the demoiselles tittered and leapt, 
 Merrily capered the players all ; 
 
 North, was the garden where Nicholson 
 
 slept, 
 South, was the sweep of a battered wall. 
 
 Near me a Musalmdn, civil and mild, 
 
 Watched as the shuttlecocks rose and fell ; 
 And he said, as he counted his beads and 
 
 smiled, 
 
 " God smite their souls to the depths of 
 hell." 
 
IX. 
 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 18571882. 
 
 WELL; I've walked the jail, and the Courts 
 
 I've seen, 
 The school is in order, the streets are clean, 
 
 And the roads are swept and mended ; 
 The treasury's right, you've got the keys ? 
 So now, at the spring of the evening breeze, 
 Just leave me to linger among those trees, 
 
 I'll come when the twilight's ended. 
 
 Yes, the garden now looks spruce and trim, 
 Yet the old trees still, though decayed and 
 
 grim, 
 Stand waving as if they knew me ; 
 
RETROSPECTION. 49 
 
 All else is changed since I saw the ground, 
 (How the roses bloom on that sloping 
 
 mound !) 
 
 And the long lean branches swaying around 
 With their shadowy arms pursue me. 
 
 As I cross the flower-bed, laid with taste 
 Where the old grove sheltered a sandy waste, 
 
 How soft the geraniums gleam in 
 The light of a dusty crimson sky ! 
 Yes, only the trees remember, and I, 
 Things once spoken, and done, hard by 
 
 The spot where we now stand dreaming. 
 
 That year when the tempest of mutiny broke, 
 And the empire swayed like a storm-bent 
 
 oak, 
 
 When the sepoys gave no quarter ; 
 When Islam had risen and Delhi fell, 
 And this plain was a furnace hot as hell , 
 E 
 
50 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 We were camped, three English, beside that 
 
 well: 
 We had nothing but shade and water. 
 
 Hour after hour, till the day was spent, 
 We had watched our restless regiment, 
 
 And the soldiers whispering round us 
 In the glaring noon-tide heat; and yet 
 Our hearts sank low when the red orb set, 
 And the soft dark night like a falling net 
 
 In its unseen meshes bound us. 
 
 He was my Colonel and she was his wife ; 
 We had little comfort or hope in life ; 
 
 And he said " Is it worth complaining, 
 As you look at the sullen sepoys' line, 
 That they bide but the hour and await the 
 
 sign 
 
 That shall end our cares in the fierce sun- 
 shine 
 And the ills of a rough campaigning ? 
 
RETROSPECTION. 51 
 
 "It shall never be heard in the English host 
 That I lost my colours and left my post 
 
 From a treacherous band to hide me ; 
 We are trapped and -hemmed in this cursed 
 
 wood, 
 
 Yet stand I ready " ('twas there he stood) 
 " To die as a Christian soldier should, 
 
 With my wife and my friend beside me." 
 
 Then he clasped her close in a warm 
 
 embrace, 
 And he took my hand ; but I marked her 
 
 face 
 
 And the flashing glance she gave me : 
 For the mutinous eyes said, " Life is sweet 
 While nerves have courage and hearts can 
 
 beat; 
 Will you crouch like a hare at the hunter's 
 
 feet, 
 Will you die like a fool, or save me ?" 
 
52 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 So I saddled in silence our horses three, 
 And I brought them there, to that tamarind 
 tree, 
 
 And the night, as now, was falling, 
 And the air was heavy, as now, with scent, 
 And just outside at the sepoy tent 
 The armed sentry came and went, 
 
 We could hear his comrades calling ; 
 
 And I whispered " Up ; 'twill be lighter soon, 
 See the faint foreglow of the rising moon, 
 
 Let your wife mount quick God speed 
 
 her, 
 
 Her Arab can gallop, he needs no lash, 
 We can break their line with a sudden dash ; 
 But a man may fall when the volleys flash, 
 
 So will you ride last, or lead her ?" 
 
 Lightly the lady to saddle sprung ; 
 But the other's hand to the bridle clung, 
 
RETROSPECTION. 53 
 
 And he said " Do ye all betray me ? 
 I serve the Queen, and I trust the Lord ; 
 Shall I stain mine honour and break my word ? 
 I move not hence while I wear this sword, 
 
 And I charge you both, obey me." 
 
 Then none for a moment spoke or moved ; 
 One look she gave me, the woman I loved, 
 
 And said but one word, " Listen ;" 
 As there came one tap of the sepoy's drum, 
 And the light air shook with the tramp and 
 
 the hum 
 Of a moving crowd, and I said " They come, 
 
 I can see their bayonets glisten ; 
 
 " They come ; You boast of a soldier's faith, 
 Will it screen your wife from a cruel death ? 
 
 Remember the troth you plighted, 
 And your home in the far-off summer days, 
 And a young life lost for an empty phrase ;" 
 
54 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 But he said " Wherever I stay, she stays : 
 We shall meet our end united." 
 
 Then I cried, " 'Tis the craze of a fevered 
 
 brain, 
 
 Will you take your hand from her bridle rein, 
 Will you mount and ride ? " " No, never," 
 He said, And she bent from her saddle low, 
 And she touched my cheek and whispered 
 
 " Go," 
 
 With her eyes all full of despair and woe ; 
 " Good-bye sweetheart, for ever !" 
 
 And then ? One shot, and her rein was free, 
 And fast and furious I and she 
 
 Out of the grove were flying ; 
 The white smoke rose, and the leaves were 
 
 stirred, 
 
 But only the solemn branches heard 
 Or sound or motion, of sign or word, 
 
 As he lay beneath them dying. 
 
RETROSPECTION. 55 
 
 A shout, a volley, a rushing ride : 
 The low moon led us, and side by side 
 
 We followed from dark to dawning 
 Over the streams and the silent plain ; 
 All sights and shadows and sounds again 
 And figures are flitting across my brain ; 
 
 And the meeting of eyes at morning. 
 
 Yes; this was the hour, and that was the 
 
 spot, 
 And the mute trees know who fired that shot, 
 
 But the secret well they're keeping ; 
 How they beckon and bend in the gathering 
 
 gloom 
 O'er the sloping mound where the roses 
 
 bloom ! 
 
 Can that be an old forgotten tomb, 
 Is it there that the Colonel's sleeping? 
 
X. 
 
 THE AMIR'S SOLILOQUY. 
 1881. 
 
 "Latest news from Afghanistan promises ill for 
 future tranquillity. The Amir has failed in conciliating 
 the Duranis, there is jealousy at Herat .... the 
 Kohistanis are discontented .... the Ghilzais are 
 restless, Lughman tribes are showing uneasiness 
 .... No doubt the situation is far from reassuring, 
 and calls for great tact and administrative ability on 
 the Amir's part." Times telegram , \$th December, 
 1881. 
 
 SCENE. The Bala Hissar at Kdbul. The 
 A mir soliloquises : 
 
 THUS is my banishment ended ; it's twelve 
 
 long years, well nigh, 
 Since I fought the last of my lost fights, and 
 
 saw my best men die ; 
 
THE AMIR'S SOLILOQUY. 57 
 
 They hunted me over the passes, and up to 
 
 the Oxus stream, 
 We had just touched land on the far side as 
 
 we saw their spearheads gleam. 
 
 Then came the dolorous exile, the life in a 
 
 conquered land 
 Where the Frank had trodden on Islam; the 
 
 alms at a stranger's hand ; 
 While here in the fort of my fathers my 
 
 bitterest foe held sway ; 
 He was ten years building his kingdom, it 
 
 all fell down in a day. 
 
 May he rest, the Amir Sher Ali, in his tomb 
 
 by the holy shrine ; 
 The virtues of God are pardon and pity, they 
 
 never were mine ; 
 They have never been ours, in a kingdom all 
 
 stained with the blood of our kin, 
 
58 THE AMIR'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 Where the brothers embrace in the war-field, 
 and the reddest sword must win. 
 
 And yet when I think of Sher Ali, as he lies 
 
 in his sepulchre low, 
 How he Idied betrayed, heartbroken, 'twixt 
 
 infidel friend and foe, 
 Driven from his throne by the English, and 
 
 scorned by the Russian, his guest, 
 I am well content with the vengeance, and I 
 
 see God works for the best. 
 
 But all His ways are warnings ; and I, God's 
 
 slave, must heed 
 How I bargain for help with the Kdfir, or 
 
 lean on a venomous reed ; 
 For never did chief more sorely need Heaven 
 
 for his aid and stay 
 Than the man who would reign in this 
 
 country, and tame Afghans for a day. 
 
THE AMIR'S SOLILOQUY. 59 
 
 I look from a fort half-ruined on Kdbul 
 
 spreading below, 
 On the near hills crowned with cannon, and 
 
 the far hills piled with snow ; 
 Fair are the vales well watered, and the vines 
 
 on the upland swell, 
 You might think you were reigning in 
 
 Heaven I know I am ruling Hell. 
 
 For there's hardly a room in my palace but 
 
 a kinsman there was killed, 
 And never a street in the city but with false 
 
 fierce curs is filled ; 
 With a mob of priests, and fanatics, and all 
 
 my mutinous host ; 
 They follow my steps, as the wolves do, for a 
 
 prince who slips is lost. 
 
 And they eye me askance, the Mollahs, the 
 bigots who preach and pray, 
 
60 THE AMIR'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 Who followed my march with curses till I 
 
 scattered Ayub that day ; 
 They trusted in texts and forgot that the 
 
 chooser of kings is a sword ; 
 There are twenty now silent and stark, for I 
 
 showed them the ways of the Lord. 
 
 And far from the Suleiman heights come the 
 
 sounds of the stirring of tribes, 
 Afreedi, Haza*ra, and Ghilzi, they clamour for 
 
 plunder or bribes ; 
 And Hera"t is but held by a thread ; and the 
 
 Usbeg has raised Baduksha"n ; 
 And the chief may sleep sound, in his grave, 
 
 who would rule the unruly Afghan. 
 
 Shall I stretch my right hand to the Indus, 
 that England may fill it with gold ? 
 
 Shall my left beckon aid from the Oxus ? the 
 Russian blows hot and blows cold ; 
 
THE AMIR'S SOLILOQUY. 61 
 
 The Afghdn is but grist in their mill, and the 
 
 waters are moving it fast, 
 Let the stone be the upper or nether, it 
 
 grinds him to powder at last. 
 
 And the lord of the English writes, " Order, 
 and justice, and govern with laws," 
 
 And the Russian he sneers and says, 
 " Patience, and velvet to cover your 
 claws ;" 
 
 And the kingdoms of Islam are crumbling 
 Around me a voice ever rings 
 
 Of death, and the doom of my country- 
 Shall I be the last of its kings. 
 
62 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE AMIR'S MESSAGE. 
 
 1882. 
 
 I. 
 
 ABDURRAHMAN, the Durdni Khn, to the 
 
 Ghilzaie Chief wrote he : 
 " God has made me Amir of the Afghans, 
 
 but thou on thy hills art free. 
 " I rule by the sword and signet, I care not 
 
 to flatter or bribe ; 
 " I take nor fee nor tribute of the noble 
 
 Ghilzaie tribe ; 
 " Nor pledge nor promise I ask of thee ; I 
 
 pardon, if all men know 
 " That thy heart has been hard against me, 
 
 and thy friend has been my foe. 
 
THE AMIR'S MESSAGE. 63 
 
 " For the sons of Sher All are exiles, their 
 
 best men broken or fled, 
 " And those who escaped are homeless, and 
 
 all whom I found are dead. 
 " Such is the work of the Merciful, whose 
 
 will is to smite or to save ; 
 "It is He gives wealth and vengeance, or 
 
 tears o'er a bloodstained grave. 
 " Now, while the swords are a moment still, 
 
 ere ever fresh blood shall run, 
 " I look for a wise man's counsel, and I would 
 
 that Afghdns were one. 
 " From Mery, last home of the free-lance, the 
 
 clansmen are scattering far, 
 " And the Turkman horses are harnessed to 
 
 the guns of the Russian Czar. 
 " So choose thou of all my liegemen, or 
 
 choose thou of all my host, 
 "One true man, loyal-hearted, whomever 
 
 thou trustest most, 
 
64 THE AMIR'S MESSAGE. 
 
 " Whom thy tribe has known and honoured, 
 to bring thee in safety and peace ; 
 
 "Thou shalt ride unscathed to Kdbul, and 
 the feud of our lives shall cease." 
 
 n. 
 The Ghilzaie Chief wrote answer " Our 
 
 paths are narrow and steep, 
 " The sun burns fierce in the valleys, and the 
 
 snow-fed streams run deep ; 
 " The fords of the Kdbul river are watched 
 
 by the Afreedee ; 
 " We harried his folk last springtide, and he 
 
 keeps good memory. 
 " High stands thy Kclbul citadel, where many 
 
 have room and rest ; 
 "The Amirs give welcome entry, but they 
 
 speed not a parting guest ; 
 " So a stranger needs safe escort, and the 
 
 oath- of a valiant friend ; 
 
THE AMIR'S MESSAGE. 65 
 
 "Whom shall I choose of those I know? 
 
 whom ask the Amir to send ? 
 "Wilt thou send the Vazir, Noor Ahmed, 
 
 the man whom the Ghilzaies trust ? 
 " He has long lain lost in a dungeon, his true 
 
 bold heart is dust. 
 " Wilt thou send the Jamsheedee Aga, who 
 
 was called from the western plain ? 
 " He left the black tents of his horsemen, and 
 
 he led them never again. 
 " Shall I ask for the Moollah, in Ghuzni to 
 
 whom all Afghans rise ? 
 " He was bid last year to thy banqueting 
 
 his soul is in Paradise. 
 " Where is the chief Faizulla, to pledge me 
 
 the word of his clan ? 
 " He is far from his pine-clad highlands, and 
 
 the vineyards of Kohistdn : 
 " He is gone with the rest all vanished ; he 
 
 passed through thy citadel gate ; 
 F 
 
66 THE AMIR'S MESSAGE. 
 
 " Will they come now, these I have chosen ? 
 
 I watch for their faces and wait ; 
 " For the night-shade falls over Kdbul, and 
 
 dark is the downward track, 
 "And the guardian hills ring an echo of 
 
 voices that warn me back ; 
 " Let the Ghilzaie bide on his mountain, and 
 
 depart, as thy message has said, 
 " When but one sure friend the Amir shall 
 
 send, when the tombs give up their 
 
 dead." 
 
XII. 
 A SERMON IN LOWER BENGAL 
 
 (1864.) 
 
 Hajee Mahomed Ghazee oorf Moojahid-ood-deen 
 Wahabee, preacher from Arabia via Kabul and Swat, 
 addresses the secret assembly. 
 
 MEN of the Indian cities who call on the 
 Prophet's name, 
 
 By our brotherhood in Islam ye besought me 
 and I came, 
 
 From a country hard and barren to a softly 
 watered land, 
 
 To a round sky line of harvest from a wilder- 
 ness of sand ; 
 
68 A SERMON IN LOWER BENGAL. 
 
 From our bare and barren homesteads, from 
 
 our feast of dates and milk 
 To your palaces, your flesh pots, and your 
 
 raiment of the silk ; 
 From a land of fenced citadels, where blood 
 
 is lightly shed 
 Where a clan must hold its borders, and a 
 
 man must keep his head ; 
 Where the wayfarer benighted, as he nears a 
 
 village late 
 Spies the red spark from the matches of the 
 
 guard about the gate, 
 Where the faithful watch in vain, except the 
 
 Lord their city keep 
 Here the infidels protect you, and with open 
 
 door ye sleep. 
 
 You have sought my aid and counsel, I must 
 lead you, I must pray 
 
A SERMON IN LOWER BENGAL. 69 
 
 That the God of Islam may restore your old 
 
 imperial sway, 
 In the towns your fathers founded, in the 
 
 provinces they named 
 May revive a faith forgotten, and the rites 
 
 that ye have maimed ; 
 That he prosper your conspiracy and send 
 
 his spirit forth 
 On the Arab of the Dekhan and the Afghan 
 
 of the North ; 
 So the bayonet be dashed aside with the 
 
 swing of a curved sword 
 And ye reap a bloody harvest with the sickle 
 
 of the Lord. 
 Can I bid you hope and prosper? Verily 
 
 such things may be 
 Men have conquered (nothing doubting) 
 
 greater odds than you shall see ; 
 Yea, you Musalmdns are many; and their 
 
 fighting men are few. 
 
70 A SERMON IN LOWER BENGAL. 
 
 Prayer is good but practice better What 
 
 is it that ye can do ? 
 Will ye fight for this fair heritage, this 
 
 empire that ye lost? 
 Yea, our God is God of battles, and the 
 
 martyrs are his host, 
 Will ye join that noble army? Will ye rather 
 
 death than shame ? 
 Will ye play for all ye pray for when your 
 
 heads are on the game ? 
 
 No your brains are dull with eating, and 
 your hearts are choked with lust, 
 
 And your seat is loose in saddle, and your 
 scimitars are rust. 
 
 Ye are cankered by the luxury that keeps 
 you rich and weak, 
 
 Ye trade in wine and usury Nay hear, for I 
 must speak 
 
A SERMON IN LOWER BENGAL. 71 
 
 Shall I care for noisy menace, or the weight 
 
 of an Indian blow? 
 I who stormed the English picket on the 
 
 skirt of Siah Koh, 
 When the wild Bajour mountain men lay 
 
 choking with their blood 
 And the Kafirs held their footing, for I slew 
 
 one where he stood. 
 They are cursed, but so are cowards; and 
 
 when ye can fight as they did 
 God succours all such Musalmdns ; and then 
 
 shall ye be aided 
 
 When ye gird your loins to harness, and re- 
 nounce your gainful ease, 
 When ye quit your painted Tdzeahs and 
 
 pagan heresies 
 Ye who bow to graven sepulchres, and adore 
 
 a martyr's stone, 
 Who pray to a dead hermit, that should pray 
 
 to God alone 
 
72 A SERMON IN LOWER BENGAL. 
 
 When ye shun the Hindu festivals, the tink- 
 ling of the bell, 
 The dancing, the idolatries, the harlotry of 
 
 hell; 
 When ye kneel to God in penitence, and 
 
 cringe no more to men, 
 Ye shall smite the stiff-necked infidel, and 
 
 rule, but not till then. 
 Then be of courage, oh men; yea though 
 
 here in the darkness is burning 
 Faintly the light of our faith, by your sins 
 
 and your ignorance dimmed, 
 Once it was lit by the Lord, and he knoweth 
 
 no shadow of turning, 
 He shall pour oil at his time, and in season 
 
 the lamp shall be trimmed. 
 Then shall ye hark to his voice, and start 
 
 from your sleep at the warning 
 Pealing afar through the land, that spent is 
 
 the last watch of night, 
 
A SERMON IN LOWER BENGAL. 73 
 
 Sound as of bugle in camp, how it rings 
 
 through the chill air of morning 
 Bidding the soldier arise, he must wake and 
 
 be armed ere the light. 
 Strong must your heart and your hand be, no 
 
 time for soft dreams is before you, 
 Woe to the coward who sleeps, when the 
 
 darkness that bound him has flown, 
 Firm be your faith and your feet, when the 
 
 sun's burning rays shall be o'er you, 
 When the rifles are ranging in line, and the 
 
 clear note of battle is blown. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 * * * * 
 
 So ye are stirred by my words, ye pardon my 
 
 scorn and upbraiding, 
 Eagerly circle me round and ask, will I lead 
 
 an attack? 
 
74 A SERMON IN LOWER BENGAL. 
 
 Nay, though your spirits be willing, your 
 flesh is but weak for crusading, 
 
 When I face Englishmen's cannon I want 
 better stuff at my back. 
 
75 
 
 XIII. 
 JOAB SPEAKETH. 
 
 And Benaiah came to the tabernacle of the Lord, and 
 said unto Joab, " Come forth." And he said, " Nay; 
 but I will die here." i Kings t ii. 30. 
 
 I. 
 HAIL to the Lion of Judah's tribe, 
 
 Praise ye him ever in temple and tent, 
 Mercy and grace to his name ascribe : 
 
 What is the message my King hath sent ? 
 
 2. 
 
 Mighty without is the people's din, 
 Solomon, reigneth, they clamour and cry ; 
 
 Here it is quiet the temple within, 
 This is the hour and the place to die. 
 
76 JOAB SPRAKETH. 
 
 3- 
 
 For David, ancient King, is dead 
 
 And, dying, left his latest word 
 To Solomon, who rules instead, 
 
 That he should slay me by the sword. 
 Why stands Benaiah at the gate ? 
 
 For, though I clasp the altar's horn, 
 Yet little reck I of my fate, 
 
 The twinge of death I hold in scorn ; 
 For I am stricken deep in years 
 
 And I have drunk the lees of life ; 
 Of smiting steel have I no fears, 
 
 My days were passed in deadly strife ; 
 
 4- 
 And when he gave his son bequest 
 
 (For conscience sake and kingdom's good) 
 " Give Joab's age no peaceful rest 
 
 But bring his grey hairs down in blood." 
 Small need had David to be told 
 
JOAB SPEAKETH. 
 
 That Joab like a chief would fall ; 
 For he and I are comrades old, 
 
 And whether in the days of Saul 
 At bay upon the rugged heights 
 
 By all the army's strength assailed, 
 Or in the fierce Philistian fights, 
 
 He knew my heart had never quailed. 
 
 5- 
 
 For Solomon it suits him well 
 To slay a man who dared rebel ; 
 But thou ! it seems a cruel thing, 
 
 I was the Captain of thy host, 
 O valiant friend and warrior King 
 
 I served thee best, I loved thee most ; 
 That thou wast careful to bequeath 
 A legacy of bloody death, 
 In tardy vengeance for the stain 
 Of Abner and Amasa slain. 
 Thyself did dead Uriah's wife 
 
7 8 JOAB SPEAKETH. 
 
 Remind thee of my sinful life ? 
 
 Well ! times are changed, by God his will, 
 And Kings alone are free to kill ; 
 Yet when he spake the words of doom 
 That echoed round his opening tomb, 
 
 Remembering all the by-gone feud 
 * 
 And fierce revenge of soldiers rude, 
 
 Might David with some touch of ruth 
 Recall our stormy days of youth ? 
 Of all the hardy outlaw train 
 That kept the hill and swept the plain, 
 His boldest men-at-arms were three, 
 His sister's sons. And ever we 
 (For that he was a comrade true 
 And better swordsman never drew 
 His blade against a champion foe) 
 Followed and saw his fortunes grow, 
 Until the tribes their monarch hailed, 
 So mightily his name prevailed. 
 
JOAB SPEAKETH. 79 
 
 6. 
 
 Did he remember the time, when down on 
 
 his heritage l fair 
 Ziklag, gift of a King, came Amalek, infidel 
 
 thief? 
 Harried and ravished and spoilt we found 
 
 all burning and bare, 
 
 Loud was the cry of the people and sore 
 against David the Chief. 
 
 Far o'er the sand we pursued, and sharp was 
 
 the fight and the slaughter, 
 Many fell off by the track, but we three 
 
 were all to the fore. 
 Or when a host was defied for a draught of 
 
 Bethlehem's water, 2 
 
 One was my brother, he went, and Benaiah 
 who stands at the door. 
 
 1 i Samuel, xxx. 
 
 2 2 Samuel, xxiii. 15 
 
8o JOAB SPEAKETH. 
 
 Those were the wild old days of war, and 
 
 raids, and disorder, 
 Who was to reckon his blows, or stickle at 
 
 stabbing a man ? 
 Fighting for freedom and lands, and the city 
 
 of God in our borders, 
 Judah the Chief of the tribes, and David 
 the lord of our clan. 
 
 Enemies oft have I killed, but two, I think, 
 
 were the greatest, 
 Absalom, rebel indeed, and Abner, Captain 
 
 of Saul ; 
 Why should I spare such a prince? Why 
 
 stab not a man whom thou hatest ? 
 David may punish their death, but David 
 was raised by their fall. 
 
 Yet is my end to be thus but it stands to all 
 ages a token, 
 
JOAB SPEAKETH. 81 
 
 Rough is the path of war, and bloody the 
 
 steps to a throne, 
 Sharpest the struggle of all when the bonds 
 
 of a nation are broken, 
 When house is set against house, and each 
 man fights for his own. 
 
 Then as they wrestle for rule, and strive in 
 
 the hot death labour, 
 When the leader who fails is lost, and the 
 
 flames of rebellion spread, 
 A monarch laughs in his heart as he watches 
 
 the swing of a sabre, 
 
 Hears of a traitor slain, nor asks for the 
 names of the dead. 
 
 But when the throne is firm, and cold are 
 
 the hands that would shake it, 
 Soft for the killing of men is the heart of 
 the rulers that win ; 
 G 
 
82 JOAB SPEAKETH. 
 
 Tender for Justice and Law, and hard upon 
 
 him who would break it, 
 Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord let the 
 
 murderer die in his sin. 
 Woe to the soldier then, for thus shall his 
 
 zeal be requited. 
 Trapped by the meshes of law, stabbed by 
 
 the slaves of the quill ; 
 While citizens timid and sleek, whom the 
 
 tale of his deeds affrighted, 
 Cry that the man of wrath may perish 
 and have their will. 
 
 # * * * 
 
 Benaiah, brother in arms, I am pleased it is 
 
 thou that shalt end me ; 
 Warily dost thou approach, knowing my 
 
 cunning at fence ? 
 Nay, but our blood is cold, and I have not 
 
 the heart to defend me, 
 David has called, and I follow, so slay me 
 that I may go hence. 
 
83 
 
 XIV. 
 PILATE'S WIFE'S DREAM. 
 
 11 When he was set down on the judgment seat, his 
 wife sent unto him, saying, Have thou nothing to do 
 with that just man : for I have suffered many things 
 this day in a dream because of him. " St. Matthew, 
 xxvii. 19. 
 
 Pilate's wife speaketh (at first to a messenger}. 
 
 So you went and you told him my word, as 
 
 he sat on the ivory throne ; 
 He was troubled and pale as he heard, but 
 
 he gave you an answer ? None ! 
 He is dazed and daunted, the Roman, by 
 
 Jews, and the venomous gleam 
 Of their eyes can he list to a woman or 
 
 hearken the tale of a dream ? 
 
 Can he argue of mercy or ruth, while they 
 cry for the cross and the rods ? 
 
84 PILATE'S WIFE'S DREAM. 
 
 He smiles, and he asks "What is truth?" 
 
 when they show him the signs of the 
 
 gods; 
 By the washing and wiping of hands he is 
 
 cleansed from the blood of the just ; 
 As the water is dried upon sands, so a life 
 
 flieth back to the dust. 
 
 His gods ! they are strong and are bright, he 
 
 believeth in steel and in gold, 
 And in one that is fair, Aphrodite, the rest 
 
 are asleep or grown old ; 
 And the world is the conqueror's prize; so 
 
 feasting and ease are the best ; 
 And a soul is divine, but it dies that a Roman 
 
 may revel and rest. 
 
 For the murderous multitude foam, and the 
 
 palace is pale with alarm ; 
 He looks, and the pitiless dome of the 
 
 heavens is empty and calm, 
 
PILATE'S WIFE'S DREAM. 85 
 
 He heard not the hurrying sound as of ghosts 
 
 that arose from the deep ; 
 He saw not the gathering round me of 
 
 terrors that torture sleep. 
 
 But they clouded the glass of my brain, the 
 
 Powers of the Air, while I slept, 
 Infinite ominous train, out of void into void 
 
 as they swept. 
 Are the myriad Manes warning that evil 
 
 shall come as a flood ? 
 Or the kindly divinities mourning for the 
 
 sorrow of innocent blood ? 
 
 For above came a crowd and a sighing ; as 
 
 late in the last watch of night, 
 When in cities besieged is a crying of people 
 
 run wild with affright ; 
 When the streets are all thronged in the 
 
 gloom, for with day comes slaughter 
 
 and storm, 
 
86 PILATE'S WIFE'S DREAM. 
 
 So my ear rang with voices of doom, and 
 mine eye saw a vanishing form. 
 
 Then I woke, and the vision was o'er ; and a 
 
 breath in the cypresses played, 
 And their boughs on the tesselate floor shed 
 
 a moonlit wandering shade ; 
 The town lay aswoon at my feet, like a 
 
 sepulchre, white and still, 
 Faint with the midnight heat from the rocks 
 
 of the sunbeaten hill. 
 
 Who is He for whom spectres are risen to 
 
 threaten, and spirits to weep ? 
 Who is this whom ye bear from your prison, 
 
 the face which I saw in my sleep ? 
 The hours seem to hover and wait is a 
 
 Nemesis loading their wings ? 
 I am stirred by forebodings of fate, and the 
 
 sense of unspeakable things. 
 
PILATE'S WIFE'S DREAM. 87 
 
 Our gods, we adore them with flowers, and 
 
 virginal chanting of lays ; 
 They are kind as the sunshine and showers, 
 
 they bless us with fortunate days ; 
 Can I kneel to this Lord of a stranger, whose 
 
 face I have seen not or known, 
 Who surrounds me with omens of danger; 
 
 invisible, stern, and alone ? 
 
 Ah! let me hence, let me go from this 
 
 shadowy mystical East, 
 From phantoms that prophesy woe, from the 
 
 wild-eyed Syrian priest ; 
 From the Spirit around me that dwells not 
 
 on earth nor is fashioned by hand, 
 From the maze of enchantment and spell 
 
 that is spread o'er this desolate land. 
 
 When shall my forehead be wet with the 
 spray of the Western sea ? 
 
88 PILATE'S WIFE'S DREAM. 
 
 When shall my face be set, O Italy, mother, 
 
 to thee ? 
 Flying the augury tragic that whispers of 
 
 ruin to Rome, 
 Save me from madness and magic, O gods 
 
 of my hearth and my home ! 
 
8 9 
 
 XV. 
 I. EX OCCIDENTE VOX. 
 
 MANY a year have my sons gone forth ; 
 Their bones are bleaching in field and 
 
 flood; 
 They have carried my name from the ancient 
 
 North, 
 
 They have borne it high through water 
 and blood. 
 
 While the mariner's strength, and his ship, 
 
 might last 
 
 Steering straight for the Orient lands, 
 Nor sweeping billow nor tearing blast 
 Could wrench the helm from his straining 
 hands ; 
 
90 EX OCCIDENTE VOX. 
 
 And the onward march of my soldier's line, 
 Where was it broken by sword or sun ? 
 
 The toil was theirs, and the prize was mine 
 Thus was an empire lost and won. 
 
 Now my frontiers march on the Himalay 
 
 snow, 
 And my landmarks stand on its loftiest 
 
 crest ; 
 Where the winds blow soft on the pines 
 
 below, 
 There shall my legions halt and rest ; 
 
 And the men of the cities in all the plain 
 From the silent hills to the sounding sea, 
 
 And a thousand tribes in the vast champaign, 
 They follow no leader or lord but me. 
 
EX OCCIDENTE VOX. gi 
 
 II. WEST TO EAST. 
 
 Your life is sad in the dust and the sun, 
 You dream and gaze at the brazen sky ; 
 
 Let the gods be many, or God be none, 
 One Fate stands ever, that all shall die. 
 
 Let sorrow or sleep in the shadow lurk, 
 We are yet in the range of the broad sun 
 
 rays; 
 And the night fast cometh when none shall 
 
 work, 
 
 So strive and be glad in the long light 
 days. 
 
 * Fast and Pray,' said the sages of Ind; 
 We know not what penance and prayer 
 may give, 
 
92 EX OCCIDENTE VOX. 
 
 For visions are fading, and words are wind ; 
 The Faith we bring you is Labour and Live. 
 
 Let the hard earth soften, and toil bring ease, 
 Let the king be just and the laws be 
 
 strong ; 
 Ye shall flourish and spread like the sheltered 
 
 trees, 
 
 And the storms shall end, and the ancient 
 wrong. 
 
 Some arms deep rusted, an old world rhyme, 
 
 A broken idol, a ruined fane, 
 May linger as waifs of the wild foretime, 
 
 When the gods were cruel and men were 
 slain. 
 
 The lightning that shivers, the storms that 
 
 sweep, 
 
 The wide full flood, and the drowning 
 waves, 
 
EX OCCIDENTE VOX. 93 
 
 Still do ye fear them, and worship and weep ? 
 They are still your gods ? They shall be 
 your slaves. 
 
 Ye have courted them vainly with passion 
 
 and prayer ; 
 
 Their gifts are but silence and infinite rest ; 
 If the heavens are empty the earth may be 
 
 fair, 
 There is one life only, so labour is best. 
 
 As the rivers wander and currents change 
 Till the quickening stream is a barren 
 bed, 
 
 So the thoughts of men like the waters range 
 From ways forgotten and worships dead. 
 
 Let the temples moulder in gathering sand, 
 Let the stones lie strewn in the cedar 
 grove ; 
 
94 EX OCCIDENTE VOX. 
 
 Ye shall rule like gods in a glorious land ; 
 Ye shall live by knowledge, and peace, 
 and love. 
 
 III. EAST TO WEST. 
 
 O men of the wandering sea-borne race, 
 Your venture was high, but your wars are 
 done, 
 
 Ye have rent my veil, ye behold my face ; 
 What is the land that your arms have won ? 
 
 Scored with the brand of the blinding heat 
 And the wrath divine, and the sins of man, 
 
 And the fateful tramp of the conqueror's feet, 
 It has suffered all, since the world began. 
 
 The forces that fashion, the hands that mould 
 
 Are the winds fire-laden, the sky, the rain ; 
 
 Will the storms abate or the sun grow cold ? 
 
EX OCCIDENTE VOX. 95 
 
 They are gods no more, but their spells 
 remain. 
 
 For the sun shall scorch and the fierce winds 
 
 blow, 
 And the pest strike sudden, and hunger 
 
 slay; 
 
 And if eyes see all that a man shall know, 
 What is evil or ease for a passing day ? 
 
 If the lords of our life be pleasure and pain, 
 And the earth is their kingdom, and none 
 
 may flee, 
 Ye may take their wages who wear their 
 
 chain ; 
 I may serve them never ; and sleep is free. 
 
 Ye shall float and fade in the world of sense 
 As the clouds that hover, the rays that 
 gleam : 
 
96 EX OCCIDENTE VOX. 
 
 No hand shows whither, no tongue says 
 
 whence 
 Let me rest nor be troubled, if all is dream. 
 
 Let the deeps flow round and the darkness 
 fall 
 
 Over the scenes of your glory and strife ; 
 Let the shadows pass from the prison wall 
 
 For a moment lit by the lamp of life ; 
 
 For the stories of men and of days that are 
 
 gone, 
 
 Of towns now dust, of a vanished race, 
 Are but old names carved on the dungeon 
 
 stone ; 
 
 They lived, and laboured, and left their 
 trace. 
 
 And the burden of thought and the travail of 
 care 
 
EX OCCIDENTS VOX. 97 
 
 Weigh down the soul in its wandering 
 
 flight ; 
 
 The sun burns ever, the plains lie bare ; 
 It is death brings shade, and the dreamless 
 
 night. 
 
 H 
 
XVI. 
 
 SIVA. 
 
 " Morsjanua Vita? 
 
 i. 
 
 I AM the God of the sensuous fire 
 
 That moulds all Nature in forms divine ; 
 The symbols of death and of man's desire, 
 The springs of change in the world, are 
 
 mine ; 
 
 The organs of birth and the circlet of bones, 
 And the light loves carved on the temple 
 stones. 
 
 2. 
 
 I am the lord of delights and pain, 
 
 Of the pest that killeth, of fruitful joys ; 
 
SIVA. 99 
 
 I rule the currents of heart and vein ; 
 
 A touch gives passion, a look destroys ; 
 In the heat and cold of my lightest breath 
 Is the might incarnate of Lust and Death. 
 
 3- 
 If a thousand altars stream with blood 
 
 Of the victims slain by the chanting priest, 
 Is a great God lured by the savoury food ? 
 
 I reck not of worship, or song, or feast ; 
 But that millions perish, each hour that flies, 
 Is the mystic sign of my sacrifice. 
 
 * 
 
 Ye may plead and pray for the millions born ; 
 
 They come like dew on the morning grass ; 
 Your vows and vigils I hold in scorn, 
 
 The soul stays never, the stages pass ; 
 All life is the play of the power that stirs 
 In the dance of my wanton worshippers. 
 
ioo SIVA. 
 
 5- 
 And the strong swift river my shrine below 
 
 It runs, like man, its unending course 
 To the boundless sea from eternal snow ; 
 
 Mine is the Fountain and mine the Force 
 That spurs all nature to ceaseless strife ; 
 And my image is Death at the gates of Life. 
 
 6. 
 In many a legend and many a shape, 
 
 In the solemn grove and the crowded street, 
 I am the Slayer, whom none escape ; 
 
 I am Death trod under a fair girl's feet ; 
 I govern the tides of the sentient sea 
 That ebbs and flows to eternity. 
 
 7- 
 
 And the sum of the thought and the know- 
 ledge of man 
 Is the secret tale that my emblems tell ; 
 
SIVA. 101 
 
 Do ye seek God's purpose, or trace his plan ? 
 
 Ye may read your doom in my parable : 
 For the circle of life in its flower and its fall 
 Is the writing that runs on my temple wall. 
 
 8. 
 
 O Race that labours, and seeks, and strives, 
 With thy Faith, thy wisdom, thy hopes and 
 
 fears, 
 
 Where now is the Future of myriad lives ? 
 Where now is the Creed of a thousand 
 
 years ? 
 
 Far as the Western spirit may range, 
 It finds but the travail of endless change ; 
 
 9- 
 For the earth is fashioned by countless suns, 
 
 And planets wander, and stars are lost, 
 As the rolling flood of existence runs 
 
 From light to shadow, from fire to frost. 
 
io2 SIVA. 
 
 Your search is ended, ye hold the keys 
 Of my inmost ancient mysteries. 
 
 10. 
 
 Now that your hands have lifted the veil, 
 And the crowd may know what my symbols 
 
 mean, 
 Will not the faces of men turn pale 
 
 At the sentence heard, and the vision seen 
 Of strife and sleep, of the soul's brief hour, 
 And the careless tread of unyielding* Power? 
 
 ii. 
 
 Though the world repent of its cruel youth, 
 And in age grow soft, and its hard law 
 
 bend, 
 Ye may spare or slaughter ; by rage or ruth 
 
 All forms speed on to the far still end ; 
 For the gods who have mercy, who save or 
 
 bless, 
 Are the visions of man in his hopelessness. 
 
SIVA. 103 
 
 12. 
 
 Let my temples fall, they are dark with age, 
 Let my idols break, they have stood their 
 
 day; 
 
 On their deep hewn stones the primeval sage 
 
 Has figured the spells that endure alway ; 
 
 My presence may vanish from river and 
 
 grove, 
 But I rule for ever in Death and Love. 
 
. 
 
 XVII. 
 LINES FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 MUTE sleeps the singer ; he whose ear 
 
 At gates of other worlds had listened oft, 
 His song rolled forth like mountain torrent 
 
 near; 
 
 Or lulled, like far-off fountain murmuring 
 soft. 
 
 Thou sleepest still, thou sleepest calm, 
 Though over thee the storm and zephyr 
 
 blow; 
 The storm that swelled thy strain to war's 
 
 alarm, 
 
 The breath, that in thy lay of love sighed 
 low. 
 
XVIII. 
 
 AMOR IN EXTREMIS. 
 A garrison story of a hundred years ago. 
 
 A LAUGH when I wanted a smile, a sting in 
 
 the honey of play, 
 A flout at my fustian jacket and I left my 
 
 home that day ; 
 Left all to go a-soldiering, and 'listed for the 
 
 war, 
 
 To sail to the far East Indies, and to see my 
 love no more. 
 
 But the frigates lay at anchor, and our time 
 
 was drawing nigh, 
 Her face was always haunting me, I'd never 
 
 said good-bye ; 
 
io6 AMOR IN EXTREMIS. 
 
 So I swam ashore one summer night, a mile 
 from ship to sand ; 
 
 the silvery play of the moonlit spray, and 
 
 the scent of the silent land ! 
 
 1 watched her cottage window till at dawn 
 
 the roses stirred ; 
 I saw the casement open, I caught a whisper'd 
 
 word; 
 But who comes from the door below? I 
 
 started from my place, 
 And the captain of our company I met him 
 
 face to face. 
 
 I strode full front across his path ; he bade 
 
 me stand aside, 
 Said he knew me a deserter ; so I told him 
 
 that he lied ; 
 Our fight was fair and open, for I struck 
 
 when he struck me, 
 
AMOR IN EXTREMIS. 107 
 
 And at last I left him lying with his head on 
 Lucy's knee. 
 
 Little care have I to pity him, who in the 
 
 cool grey light 
 In her arms lay there a-dying that had 
 
 clasped him all the night 
 While to me the end comes wearily in prison 
 
 here alone, 
 For the dark hours pass me vainly, and at 
 
 sunrise I'll be gone. 
 
 Farewell to you, my comrades, and to- 
 morrow, when I'm shot, 
 
 To Lucy take this kerchief with her own true- 
 lover's-knot ; 
 
 She'll be luring other sweethearts soon ; she 
 knows the scarlet streak 
 
 Of two men's blood on her winsome head 
 will only flush her cheek. 
 
io8 AMOR IN EXTREMIS. 
 
 She may weep for a space, and think of my 
 
 face (she seemed now and then to 
 
 love it) 
 All splintered through with a bullet or two, 
 
 and a barrow of earth above it ; 
 And perhaps I may sigh if I think, as I lie 
 
 with a coffin for bed and room, 
 Of her chamber sweet, and the rustle of feet, 
 
 and Lucy in all her bloom. 
 
 Yet I'd rather stay six feet in clay, where the 
 
 weeds and brambles grow, 
 Than be sitting aloft in cloudland, with the 
 
 goods folks all in a row ; 
 For I don't take a pride in my singing, nor 
 
 parades with the heavenly host, 
 I'd sooner be left in the village to wander 
 
 about like a ghost. 
 
 Like a ghost ! But my love whom I died for 
 O years of my life that are shorn, 
 
AMOR IN EXTREMIS. 109 
 
 O the odour of far-off summers, the glory of 
 
 days unborn ! 
 Shall I still see the earth and its beauty, and 
 
 meet her by meadow or fell ? 
 Alas ! for the living know not, and the dead 
 
 men cannot tell. 
 
 The parson he says, ' To the Lord give praise, 
 
 you're ready and fit to depart ; 
 Your repentance is sore, be troubled no more, 
 
 nor think of your frail sweetheart ; 
 You'll soon be on high with the cherubs, so 
 
 get that girl from your head ; 
 Talk no more about Lucy, her sins are as 
 
 scarlet red.' 
 
 Ah, but I want my darling, and her soul with 
 
 my own to deliver ; 
 God must not be hard on my sweetheart, but 
 
 pardon, as I forgive her. 
 
no AMOR IN EXTREMIS. 
 
 He gave her the face like an angel to drive 
 
 men to fury and woe, 
 And I can't lose her here and hereafter, so 
 
 whither she's sent I must go. 
 
 Let me go, with the Dead March beforehand, 
 
 to settle the score of our guilt ; 
 No use looking back on a lost life, or crying 
 
 o'er blood that is spilt. 
 But will she live on to forget me? She's 
 
 fickle and soft as the wind ; 
 I wish I had killed her also, for now I must 
 
 leave her behind. 
 
XIX. 
 THE LAND OF REGRETS. 
 
 "Yea, they thought scorn of that pleasant land." 
 
 Psalms. 
 
 WHAT far-reaching Nemesis steered him 
 
 From his home by the cool of the sea ? 
 When he left the fair country that reared him, 
 
 When he left her, his mother, for thee, 
 That restless, disconsolate worker 
 
 Who strains now in vain at thy nets, 
 O sultry and sombre Noverca ! 
 
 O Land of Regrets ! 
 
 What lured him to life in the tropic ? 
 
 Did he venture for fame or for pelf? 
 Did he seek a career philanthropic ? 
 
 Or simply to better himself? 
 
ii2 THE LAND OF REGRETS. 
 
 But whate'er the temptation that brought him, 
 Whether piety, dulness, or debts, 
 
 He is thine for a price, thou hast bought him, 
 O Land of Regrets ! 
 
 He did list to the voice of a siren, 
 
 He was caught by the clinking of gold, 
 And the slow toil of Europe seemed tiring, 
 
 And the grey of his fatherland cold ; 
 He must haste to the gardens of Circe ; 
 
 What ails him, the slave, that he frets 
 In thy service? O Lady sans merci! 
 
 O Land of Regrets ! 
 
 From the East came the breath of its odours 
 And its heat melted soft in the haze, 
 
 While he dimly descried thy pagodas, 
 O Cybele, ancient of days ; 
 
 Heard the hum of thy mystic processions 
 The echo of myriads who cry, 
 
THE LAND OF REGRETS. 113 
 
 And the wail of their vain intercessions, 
 Through the bare empty vault of the sky. 
 
 Did he read of the lore of thy sages ? 
 
 Of thy worship by mountain and flood ? 
 Did he muse o'er thy annals ? the pages 
 
 All blotted with treason and blood ; 
 Thy chiefs and thy dynasties reckon ? 
 
 Thy armies he saw them come forth 
 O'er the wide stony wolds of the Dekhan, 
 
 O'er the cities and plains of the North. 
 
 He was touched with the tales of our glory 
 
 He was stirred by the clash and the jar 
 Of the nations who kill con amore 
 
 The fury of races at war ; 
 'Mid the crumbling of royalties rotting 
 
 Each cursed by a knave or a fool, 
 Where kings and fanatics are plotting 
 
 He dreamt of a power and a rule ; 
 I 
 
ii 4 THE LAND OF REGRETS. 
 
 Hath he come now, in season, to know thee ; 
 
 Hath he seen, what a stranger forgets, 
 All the graveyards of exiles below thee, 
 
 O Land of Regrets ? 
 
 Has he learnt how thy honours are rated? 
 
 Has he cast his accounts in thy school ? 
 With the sweets of authority sated, 
 
 Would he give up his throne to be cool, 
 Doth he curse Oriental romancing, 
 
 And wish he had toiled all his day, 
 At the Bar, or the Banks, or financing, 
 
 And got damned in a common-place way ? 
 
 Thou has tracked him with duns and diseases, 
 And he lies, as thy scorching winds blow, 
 
 Recollecting old England's sea breezes 
 On his back in a lone bungalow ; 
 
 At the slow coming darkness repining 
 How he girds at the sun till it sets, 
 
THE LAND OF REGRETS. 115 
 
 As he marks the long shadows declining 
 O'er the Land of Regrets. 
 
 Let him cry, as thy blue devils seize him, 
 
 O step-mother, careless as Fate, 
 He may strive from thy bonds to release him, 
 
 Thou hast passed him his sentence Too 
 
 Late; 
 He has found what a blunder his youth is, 
 
 His prime what a struggle, and yet 
 Has to learn of old age what the truth is 
 
 In the Land of Regret. 
 
n6 
 
 XX. 
 SEQUEL TO "MY QUEEN." 
 
 " When and where shall I earliest 
 meet her, frc., &>c." 
 
 YES, but the years run circling fleeter, 
 Ever they pass me I watch, I wait 
 
 Ever I dream, and awake to meet her ; 
 She cometh never, or comes too late. 
 
 Should I press on? for the day grows 
 
 shorter 
 
 Ought I to linger ? the far end nears ; 
 Ever ahead have I looked, and sought her 
 On the bright sky line of the gathering 
 years. 
 
SEQUEL TO "MY QUEEN." 117 
 
 Now that the shadows are eastward sloping, 
 As I screen mine eyes from the slanting 
 sun, 
 
 Cometh a thought It is past all hoping, 
 Look not ahead, she is missed and gone. 
 
 Here on the ridge of my upward travel 
 Ere the life line dips to the darkening vales, 
 
 Sadly I turn, and would fain unravel 
 The entangled maze of a search that fails. 
 
 When and where have I seen and passed her ? 
 
 What are the words I forgot to say ? 
 Should we have met had a boat rowed faster ? 
 
 Should we have loved, had I stayed that 
 day? 
 
 Was it her face that I saw, and started, 
 Gliding away in a train that crossed ? 
 
 Was it her form that I once, faint-hearted, 
 Followed awhile in a crowd, and lost ? 
 
n8 SEQUEL TO "MY QUEEN." 
 
 Was it there she lived, when the train went 
 
 sweeping 
 Under the moon through the landscape 
 
 hushed ? 
 
 Somebody called me, I woke from sleeping, 
 Saw but a hamlet and on we rushed. 
 
 Listen and linger She yet may find me 
 In the last faint flush of the waning light 
 
 Never a step on the path behind me ; 
 I must journey alone, to the lonely night. 
 
 But is there somewhere on earth, I wonder, 
 A fading figure, with eyes that wait, 
 
 Who says, as she stands in the distance 
 
 yonder, 
 1 He cometh never, or comes too late?' 
 
XXI. 
 A NIGHT IN THE RED SEA. 
 
 THE strong hot breath of the land is lashing 
 The wild sea-horses, they rear and race ; 
 
 The plunging bows of our ship are dashing 
 Full in the fiery south wind's face. 
 
 She rends the water, it foams and follows, 
 And the silvery jet of the towering spray, 
 
 And the phosphor sparks in the deep wave 
 
 hollows, 
 Lighten the line of our midnight way. 
 
 The moon above, with its full-orbed lustre, 
 Lifting the veil of the slumberous land, 
 
 Gleams o'er a desolate island cluster, 
 And the breakers white on the lonely sand. 
 
720 A NIGHT IN THE RED SEA. 
 
 And a bare hill-range in the distance frowning 
 Dim wrapt in haze like a shrouded ghost, 
 
 With its jagged peaks the horizon crowning, 
 Broods o'er the stark Arabian coast. 
 
 See, on the edge of the waters leaping, 
 The lamp, far flashing, of Perim's strait 
 
 Glitters and grows, as the ship goes sweeping 
 Fast on its course for the Exile's Gate. 1 
 
 And onward still to the broadening ocean 
 Out of the narrow and perilous seas, 
 
 Till we rock with a large and listless motion 
 In the moist soft air of the Indian breeze. 
 
 And the Southern Cross, like a standard 
 
 flying, 
 
 Hangs in the front of the tropic night, 
 But the Great Bear sinks, like a hero dying, 
 And the Pole-star lowers its signal light ; 
 1 Bdb el Mandeb. 
 
A NIGHT IN THE RED SEA. 121 
 
 And the round earth rushes toward the 
 
 morning, 
 And the waves grow paler and wan the 
 
 foam, 
 
 Misty and dim, with a glance of warning, 
 Vanish the stars of my northern home. 
 
 Let the wide waste sea for a space divide me, 
 
 Till the close-coiled circles of time unfold, 
 
 Till the stars rise westward to greet and 
 
 guide me, 
 
 When the exile ends, and the years are 
 told. 
 
XXII. 
 
 CHARLES'S WAIN. 
 To a Child. 
 
 ' ' By this the Nort kerne wagoner had set 
 His sevenfold teme behind the stedfast starre 
 
 That was in Ocean waves yet never wet, 
 Butfirme isfixt, and sendeth light from farre 
 To all who in the wide deepe wandering arre " 
 Faerie Queene. 
 
 IN the early spring, as the nights grow 
 
 shorter, 
 Some clear cold eve when the clouds are 
 
 high, 
 
 Just as you're going to bed, my daughter, 
 Linger, and look at the northern sky ; 
 
 There you will see, if the stars you're wise in, 
 Over the edge of the darkened plain 
 
CHARLES'S WAIN. 123 
 
 One by one in the heavens uprising 
 The seven bright beacons of Charles's 
 Wain. 
 
 All the night long you may watch them 
 turning, 
 
 Round in their course by the polar star ; 
 Slowly they sink and at dawn are burning 
 
 Low on the line of the world afar. 
 
 Often they guide me, by dim tracks wending, 
 In the evenings late, to an Indian tent, 
 
 Or the stars, as I wake, are to earth de- 
 scending ; 
 Just as they touch it, the night is spent. 
 
 Then, as they dip, I may take their warning, 
 Saddle and ride in the silent air ; 
 
 Swiftly they vanish, and cometh the morning, 
 Cometh the day with its noise and glare. 
 
124 CHARLES'S W 'A IN. 
 
 But the Wain's last lustre fitfully glances 
 O'er shadowy camels, who softly pace, 
 
 On the watchman's fire, and the horsemen's 
 
 lances, 
 Or a wayside mere with a still wan face. 
 
 Thus, when you look at the seven stars 
 yonder 
 
 Think, nor in years that will come, forget, 
 Here in the dark how often I wander, 
 
 Sleep when they rise, and start as they set. 
 
 In the West there is clanging of clocks from 
 the steeple, 
 
 Ringing of bells and rushing of train ; 
 In the East the journeys of simple people 
 
 Are timed and lighted by Charles's Wain. 
 
XXIII. 
 THE MONK AND THE BIRD. 
 
 IN a valley encircled by endless wood 
 Silent and sombre a convent stood ; 
 In front a garden ; beyond the pale 
 The forest spread over hill and dale, 
 And its paths were seldom trod. 
 
 One summer evening of ages gone 
 
 A grey monk worked in the garden alone 
 
 Heavily turning the deep clay soil ; 
 
 And his breath came hard with the straining 
 
 toil 
 As he prayed aloud to God ; 
 
 " Alas," cried he, " for the path is steep 
 "And the goal is far and the slow hours 
 creep; 
 
126 THE MONK AND THE BIRD. 
 
 " When shall I finish the tale of my years 
 " Of days in silence and nights in tears 
 "And come to my promised rest?" 
 
 He lifted his face to the comforting sky 
 And he saw where sat in a tree hard by 
 A bird whose plumes like the rainbow shone, 
 It sang three notes with a silvery tone ; 
 And as if to a new-built nest. 
 
 Over the garden he saw it flit 
 Into the forest; and there it lit; 
 Again in the leaves its song he heard ; 
 He was fain to follow the beautiful bird, 
 And he entered the woodland maze 
 
 The bird flew slowly from bough to bough 
 Up the valley side to the low hill's brow ; 
 From the spreading beech on the mossy 
 bank 
 
THE MONK AND THE BIRD. 127 
 
 To the willow weeping o'er marsh pools 
 
 dank 
 He could but follow and gaze. 
 
 Ever it fluttered above his head, 
 Ever he looked and was lingering led 
 Through grassy glades and tangled woods 
 Deep into shady solitudes 
 Of many a fern clad hollow. 
 
 For he thought that a bird so rich and rare 
 Never had floated on summer air, 
 He could not lose it, he needs must roam 
 It seemed to beckon and bid him come, 
 He could not choose but follow. 
 
 At last on a wych elm, gnarled and grey, 
 As the monk drew nearer, it seemed to stay, 
 Then spread its wings for a sudden flight 
 Over the tree-tops, out of his sight ; 
 And he turned back drearily. 
 
i 2 8 THE MONK AND THE BIRD. 
 
 He reached his garden in twilight dim, 
 The trees looked gaunt and the convent 
 
 grim, 
 
 He rang at the gate as vesper tolled 
 And the pdrter opened it, blind and old. 
 And he entered wearily. 
 
 But the hall had suffered a secret change ; 
 With unknown faces and accent strange 
 The monks rose up as they heard his name, 
 They asked his errand and whence he came ; 
 And he told them his tale forlorn. 
 
 Some counted their beads, one muttered a 
 
 prayer, 
 He knew not why they should gather and 
 
 stare, 
 
 He stood in the midst like one distraught, 
 And the friendly voices in vain he sought 
 Of the freres he had left that morn. 
 
THE MONK AND THE BIRD. 129 
 
 At last came the Abbot, aged and bent ; 
 He scanned his features with eyes intent ; 
 And he cried, " Be it he or his wandering 
 
 ghost 
 
 " 5 Tis the face of the monk in the forest lost 
 " Some forty summers agone ! 
 
 "Is he roaming still, though the mass was 
 
 said 
 
 " And the requiem sung for a brother dead ? 
 " Does he dream he has rambled this livelong 
 
 day? 
 "Tis two score years since he vanished 
 
 away " 
 But the monk gave answer none, 
 
 Save only he said, "Have I journeyed so 
 
 long? 
 
 " Welcome at last is the evensong ; 
 "Let me take the sleep I have earned so 
 
 well" 
 
 K 
 
1 30 THE MONK AND THE BIRD. 
 
 And he died that night in his ancient cell, 
 And the brethren closed his eyes. 
 
 So his prayer was granted ; from youth to age 
 God shortened the term of his pilgrimage ; 
 The sad years passed like a day's sunlight, 
 And the sweet-voiced bird with the plumage 
 
 bright 
 Was a Bird of Paradise. 
 
XXIV. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 
 
 I. AEQUAM MEMENTO REBUS IN ARDUIS 
 
 Lib. //., Ode IIL 
 
 KEEP up your spirits in grief, my friend, 
 
 And an equal temper, if luck runs low : 
 When times grow better and fortunes mend, 
 
 Don't be too ready to chuckle and crow ; 
 For whether you swelter the live-long day 
 
 Toiling under an Indian sun, 
 Or whether you lie amid English hay 
 Drinking the summer hours away 
 
 What will it matter ? when life is done. 
 
 When the spreading beech, and the poplar 
 
 tall 
 Join their boughs o'er a shady nook, 
 
132 TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 
 
 Just when the slanting waterfall 
 
 Hurries the flow of the gliding brook, 
 
 Carry my wine to that cool green bower, 
 Light me a leaf of choice Manille, 
 
 Cull me the rose which blooms for an hour, 
 
 While lasts our money, and life's young 
 
 flower, 
 While the Fates still pity and spare us still. 
 
 Soon you must leave your favourite wold, 
 
 And the pleasant villa by I sis laved, 
 And the heir will reckon your piles of gold, 
 
 Hardly won, and thriftily saved. 
 Be you a wretched labouring kerne 
 
 Or a Baron rich with a blazoned coat, 
 Soon as your lot is drawn from the urn 
 Go you must there is no return, 
 
 When you have stepped into Charon's boat. 
 
TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 133 
 
 II. SEPTIMI GADES ADITURE MECUM. 
 
 Hor., Lib. //., Ode VL 
 
 The Return from Furlough. 
 
 CHARLEY it's time that we were away, 
 Well I know you will come with me, 
 
 We must be tossing in Biscay's Bay, 
 
 Cross the desert, and steam away 
 Down the Gulf to the Indian Sea. 
 
 Ah ! that hamlet in Saxon Kent 
 Shall I find it when I come home, 
 
 With toil and travelling well nigh spent, 
 
 Tired with life in jungle and tent, 
 Eastward never again to roam ? 
 
 Pleasantest corner the world can show, 
 
 In a vale which slopes to the English sea; 
 Where strawberries wild in the woodland 
 grow, 
 
134 TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 
 
 And the cherry-tree branches are bending 
 
 low, 
 No such fruit in the South countree. 
 
 Winter melting in spring sunshine, 
 Flowering hops in the autumn vale ; 
 
 Little care we for the trailing vine, 
 
 Mightier drink than Gascon wine 
 Foams in the tankard of Kentish ale. 
 
 Shelter for me, and for you, my friend, 
 There let us settle when both are old, 
 And whenever I come to my journey's end 
 There you shall see me laid, and blend 
 Just one tear with the falling mould. 
 
TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 135 
 
 III. O SAEPE MECUM TEMPUS IN ULTIMUM. 
 
 Lib. //., Ode VII. 
 
 Furlough, 1 86 1. 
 
 AH Frank, with whom often reclining 
 Under canvas at close of the day, 
 
 In a very loose uniform dining, 
 I have drank the short twilight away. 
 
 With whom through those perilous shindies 
 I rode in the days of old Clyde 
 
 What has brought you at last from the 
 
 Indies, 
 To your country and own fire-side ? 
 
 Twas with you that I bolted from Delhi, 
 When our soldiers joined arms with the foe, 
 
 And, basely shot down in the metie, 
 The best of our mess were laid low : 
 
136 TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 
 
 But saved by kind Fate from the shooting, I 
 Was sent from the battle-field far, 
 
 While you the high flood tide of mutiny 
 Swept off down the torrent of war. 
 
 Then a banquet in honour preparing, 
 'Tis meet that we gratefully dine ; 
 
 Come, rest your worn limbs this armchair in, 
 And try just a glass of this wine. 
 
 We'll drown all our sorrows in claret, 
 
 In balmy care-soothing Lafitte, 
 (I have broached it for you, so don't spare it,) 
 
 And a thimble of eau-de-vie neat. 
 
 Let propriety go to the devil, 
 Be Anonyma queen of the feast 
 
 I can't see the harm of a revel, 
 With a friend who is home from the East. 
 
TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 137 
 
 IV. EHEU ! FUGACES, POSTHUME, POSTHUME \ 
 Hor., Lib. //., Ode XIV. 
 
 ALAS, old friend, that each year 
 
 Of our life is rapidly flying ! 
 No charity softens the sentence drear 
 
 Of wrinkles, and age, and dying. 
 
 You may fill with gold the church plate 
 Each Sabbath-day morn in the portal, 
 
 You can never appease remorseless Fate, 
 Who laughs at the tears of mortal. 
 
 Monarchs and warriors stout, 
 She holds them all in her tether, 
 
 So whether you now be a lord or a lout, 
 We must travel that road together. 
 
 A prince of lofty birth, 
 Or a half- starved labouring slave, 
 I, 
 
138 TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 
 
 You've had your share of the bountiful earth, 
 You'll both be one in the grave. 
 
 In vain you keep clear of your foes, 
 Are cautious in crossing the Channel, 
 
 Stay at home when the piercing east wind 
 
 blows, 
 And wrap up your chest in flannel. 
 
 You must go from your hall and estate, 
 Of your loving wife they'll bereave you ; 
 
 They may plant some yew at the sepulchre 
 
 gate, 
 But that will be all they'll leave you. 
 
 The heir will inherit your keys, 
 
 And deep from the bins he'll fish up 
 
 The Madeira you thought to drink at youi 
 
 ease, 
 And port laid down for the Bishop, 
 
CHISWICK PRESS : C. WH1TTINGHAM AND CO., 
 TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE. 
 
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