Mild were the utterings of the cooing dove,

In myrtle ambuscade this tender lore;

The constant plashing of the fountain spray

Melted in easy numbers, dying away

A quiet cadence, while for evermore

Faded the eve in richest livery wove

Of Tyrian dyes and amber woof t'allure

The soft salaam of slowly sinking day.

Stars shone, and Atmâ said, "'Tis well to be,

The things of earth are painted pleasantly."

But pleasantness is light and versatile,

And moods must change and tranquil breezes veer,

And o'er this blissful hour there came a chill

And sullen shadows slowly creeping near

In lengthening lines, and murkier dusk took form[Pg 31]

Of all things ominous, disastrous, ill,

And as a mid-day gloom portending storm,

A lowering fate made prophecy of fear,

And Atmâ knew the menace in the air,

As ghostly shudderings of our fearful life

Foretell the advent of th' assassin's knife.

Low sank his heart before the augury

(For life was dearer on this eventide

Than e'er before), and all dismayed, he cried,

"These are the heralds of calamity

That bid me hence, for all too well I know

The pensive pageantry of mortal woe;

O Love, my Love, this sweetest love may flee

But ever grief has cruel constancy,

Late I bode me with dull-shrouded sorrow,

And well I know her doleful voice again.

Hark! the breezes from the nightshade borrow

A heavy burden of lament and pain,

And where Delight held lately sweet hey-day,

Now like spectres pallid moonbeams play,

Very still the little rosebud sleeps,

Heavily the drooping myrrh tree weeps

Sluggish tears upon the darksome mould."

Quick then did Moti speak, by love made bold,

"No cause is there, O Love, for sad affright,

For I have read the portents of the night;

Of envy dies the glowworm when the moon[Pg 32]

Is worshipped in the welkin, and the boon

Dropped by the bleeding tree, to mortal cares

The rosebuds dream, Love, and the soft wind's sigh

And yet I know that sorry things befal

For once it was my grievous task to mourn

A turtle-dove sore wounded by a thorn."

May grief be far from thee,

Who lovest sorrow when thou lovest me;

May yet be fixed by grief no more to rove,

And we by woe be bound in constancy.

O Roses, bear me witness of my truth,

Death with my love were life a thousand-fold,

Dear death were fairer than immortal youth

Could it life's weal in friendly arms enfold.

Dark Angel of the River's brink, draw near,

In stable grasp this sovereign hour assure,

Cast icy glamour o'er my love's sweet cheer,

Forever then shall that dear love endure,

An end of sweets fair Chance may hold in store

Were death of all the changeful moods of time,[Pg 33]

And boundless being of my love's sweet prime.

Ah, thorny Roses, prate ye still of ruth

And would me my brief hour of bliss deny?

And yet all happy things to love are sooth,

But I, ah me, this destiny so high

Weighs on my spirit like a drowsy spell,

I cannot joy like those, nor stay, I fail

Before the greatness of my high behest,

Ah, high is holiness, but love is rest,

Yes, love is rest, is rest; then blow, sweet gale

Of soft forgetfulness about me still,

And O, ye Roses, balmy breath exhale

And all my consciousness with slumber fill.

And, O sweet Love, I pray you yield me now

One little pearl from the fair coronal

That crowns the loveliness of that calm brow,

And I, where'er I be, will own its thrall,

And gaze on it and dream until I see

A phantom love, before whom I shall fall

And pray, adoring white-robed purity."