The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 28

E. d.i.c.kINSON.

When the Sultan Goes to Ispahan.

_When the Sultan Shah-Zaman_ _Goes to the city Ispahan_, Even before he gets so far As the place where the cl.u.s.tered palm-trees are, At the last of the thirty palace-gates, The flower of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom, Orders a feast in his favorite room-- Glittering squares of colored ice, Sweetened with syrop, tinctured with spice, Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates, Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces, Limes, and citrons, and apricots, And wines that are known to Eastern princes; And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots Of spiced meats and costliest fish And all that the curious palate could wish, Pa.s.s in and out of the cedarn doors; Scattered over mosaic floors Are anemones, myrtles, and violets, And a musical fountain throws its jets Of a hundred colors into the air.

The dusk Sultana loosens her hair, And stains with the henna-plant the tips Of her pointed nails, and bites her lips Till they bloom again; but, alas, _that_ rose Not for the Sultan buds and blows!

_Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman_ _When he goes to the city Ispahan_.

Then at a wave of her sunny hand The dancing-girls of Samarcand Glide in like shapes from fairy-land, Making a sudden mist in air Of fleecy veils and floating hair And white arms lifted. Orient blood Runs in their veins, s.h.i.+nes in their eyes.

And there, in this Eastern Paradise, Filled with the breath of sandal-wood, And Khoten musk, and aloes and myrrh, Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan, Sipping the wines of Astrakhan; And her Arab lover sits with her.

_That's when the Sultan Shah-Zaman_ _Goes to the city Ispahan_.

Now, when I see an extra light, Flaming, flickering on the night From my neighbor's cas.e.m.e.nt opposite, I know as well as I know to pray, I know as well as a tongue can say, _That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman_ _Has gone to the city Isfahan_.

T.B. ALDRICH.

Night.

Chaos, of old, was G.o.d's dominion; 'Twas His beloved child, His own first-born; And He was aged ere the thought of morn Shook the sheer steeps of black Oblivion.

Then all the works of darkness being done Through countless aeons hopelessly forlorn, Out to the very utmost verge and bourn, G.o.d at the last, reluctant, made the sun.

He loved His darkness still, for it was old: He grieved to see His eldest child take flight; And when His _Fiat lux_ the death-knell tolled, As the doomed Darkness backward by Him rolled, He s.n.a.t.c.hed a remnant flying into light And strewed it with the stars, and called it Night.

L. MIFFLIN.

He Made the Stars Also.

Vast hollow voids, beyond the utmost reach Of suns, their legions withering at His nod, Died into day hearing the voice of G.o.d; And seas new made, immense and furious, each Plunged and rolled forward, feeling for a beach; He walked the waters with effulgence shod.

This being made, He yearned for worlds to make From other chaos out beyond our night-- For to create is still G.o.d's prime delight.

The large moon, all alone, sailed her dark lake, And the first tides were moving to her might; Then Darkness trembled, and began to quake Big with the birth of stars, and when He spake A million worlds leapt into radiant light!

L. MIFFLIN.

The Sour Winds.

Wind of the North, Wind of the Norland snows, Wind of the winnowed skies and sharp, clear stars-- Blow cold and keen across the naked hills, And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films, And blur the cas.e.m.e.nt-squares with glittering ice, But go not near my love.

Wind of the West, Wind of the few, far clouds, Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands-- Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains, And broaden the blue s.p.a.ces of the heavens, And sway the gra.s.ses and the mountain pines, But let my dear one rest.

Wind of the East, Wind of the sunrise seas, Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains-- Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine, And shut the sun out, and the moon and stars, And lash the boughs against the dripping eaves, Yet keep thou from my love.

But thou, sweet wind!

Wind of the fragrant South, Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose-- Over magnolia glooms and lilied lakes And flowering forests come with dewy wings, And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss The low mound where she lies.

C.H. LuDERS.

The Return.

Now at last I am at home-- Wind abeam and flooding tide, And the offing white with foam, And an old friend by my side Glad the long, green waves to ride.

Strange how we've been wandering Through the crowded towns for gain, You and I who loved the sting Of the salt spray and the rain And the gale across the main!

What world honors could avail Loss of this--the slanted mast, And the roaring round the rail, And the sheeted spray we cast Round us as we seaward pa.s.sed?

As the sad land sinks apace, With it sinks each thought of care; Think not now of aging face; Question not the whitening hair: Youth still beckons everywhere.

And the light we thought had fled From the sky-line glows there now; Bends the same blue overhead; And the waves we used to plow Part in beryl at the bow.

Hours like this we two have known In the old days, when we sailed Seaward ere the night had flown, Or the morning star had paled Like the shy eyes love has veiled.

Round our bow the ripples purled, As the swift tide outward streamed Through a hushed and ghostly world, Where our harbor reaches seemed Like a river that we dreamed.

Then we saw the black hills sway In the waters' crinkled gla.s.s, And the village wan and gray, And the startled cattle pa.s.s Through the tangled meadow-gra.s.s.

Through the glooming we have run Straight into the gates of day, Seen the crimson-edged sun Burn the sea's gray bound away-- Leap to universal sway.

Little cared we where we drove So the wind was strong and keen.

Oh, what sun-crowned waves we clove!

What cool shadows lurked between Those long combers pale and green!

Graybeard pleasures are but toys; Sorrow shatters them at last: For this brief hour we are boys; Trim the sheet and face the blast; Sail into the happy past!

L.F. TOOKER.

Bereaved.

Let me come in where you sit weeping,--aye, Let me, who have not any child to die, Weep with you for the little one whose love I have known nothing of.