The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 87

My vineyards are the richest Falernian slopes bestow; Has the vineherd lost his cunning?

Has the summer lost its glow?

Oh, never on Falernium The Care-Dispeller trod, Its vine-leaves wreathe no thyrsus, Its fruits allure no G.o.d.

For ever young, Lyaeus; For ever young his priest; The Boy-G.o.d of the Morning, The conqueror of the East,

His wine is Nature's life-blood; His vineyards bloom upon The hilltops of Parna.s.sus, The banks of Helicon.

But the hilltops of Parna.s.sus Are free to every age; I have trod them with the Poet, I have mapp'd them with the Sage;

And I'll take my pert disciple To see, with humble eyes, How the Gladness-bringer honours The wors.h.i.+p of the wise.

Lo, the arching of the vine-leaves; Lo, the sparkle of the fount; Hark, the carol of the Maenads; Lo, the car is on the Mount!

"Ho, room, ye thyrsus-bearers, Your playmate I have been!"

"Go, madman," laughs Lyaeus, "Thy thyrsus then was green."

And adown the gleaming alleys The gladness-givers glide; And the wood-nymph murmurs "Follow,"

To the young man by my side.

BELIEF; THE UNKNOWN LANGUAGE.

AN IDYLL.

By summer-reeds a music murmur'd low, And straight the Shepherd-age came back to me; When idylls breathed where Himera's waters flow, Or on the Hoemus hill, or Rhodope;[A]

As when the swans, by Moschus heard at noon, Mourn'd their lost Bion on the Thracian streams;[B]

Or when Simaethea murmur'd to the moon Of Myndian Delphis,[C]--old Sicilian themes.

Then softly turning, on the margent-slope Which back as clear translucent waters gave, Behold, a Shape as beautiful as Hope, And calm as Grief, bent, singing o'er the wave.

To the sweet lips, sweet music seem'd a thing Natural as perfume to the violet.

All else was silent; not a zephyr's wing Stirr'd from the magic of the charmer's net.

What was the sense beneath the silver tone?

What the fine chain that link'd the floating measure?

Not mine, to say,--the language was unknown, And sense was lost in undistinguish'd pleasure.

Pleasure, dim-shadow'd with a gentle pain As twilight Hesper with a twilight shroud; Or like the balm of a delicious rain Press'd from the fleeces of a summer cloud.

When the song ceased, I knelt before the singer And raised my looks to soft and childlike eyes, Sighing? "What fountain, O thou nectar-bringer Feeds thy full urn with golden melodies?

"Interpret sounds, O Hebe of the soul, Oft heard, methinks, in Ida's starry grove, When to thy feet the charmed eagle stole, And the dark thunder left the brows of Jove!"

Smiling, the Beautiful replied to me, And still the language flow'd in words unknown; Only in those pure eyes my sense could see How calm the soul that so perplex'd my own.

And while she spoke, symphonious murmurs rose; Dryads from trees, Nymphs murmur'd from the rills; Murmur'd Maenalian Pan from dim repose In the lush coverts of Pelasgic hills;

Murmur'd the voice of Chloris in the flower; Bent, murmuring from his car, Hyperion; Each thing regain'd the old Presiding Power, And spoke,--and still the language was unknown.

Dull listener, placed amidst the harmonious Whole, Hear'st thou no voice to sense divinely dark?

The sweetest sounds that wander to the soul Are in the Unknown Language.--Pause, and hark!

[A] Theocrit. Id. 7.

[B] Mosch, Id. 3; Epitaph on Bion.

[C] Theocrit. Id. 2.

THE PILGRIM OF THE DESERT.

Wearily flaggeth my Soul in the Desert; Wearily, wearily.

Sand, ever sand, not a gleam of the fountain; Sun, ever sun, not a shade from the mountain; Wave after wave flows the sea of the Desert, Drearily, drearily.

Life dwelt with life in my far native valleys, Nightly and daily; Labour had brothers to aid and beguile; A tear for my tear, and a smile for my smile; And the sweet human voices rang out; and the valleys Echoed them gaily.

Under the almond-tree, once in the spring-time, Careless reclining; The sigh of my Leila was hush'd on my breast, As the note of the last bird had died in its nest; Calm look'd the stars on the buds of the spring-time, Calm--but how s.h.i.+ning!

Below on the herbage there darken'd a shadow; Stirr'd the boughs o'er me; Dropp'd from the almond-tree, sighing, the blossom; Trembling the maiden sprang up from my bosom; Then the step of a stranger came mute through the shadow, Pausing before me.

He stood grey with age in the robe of a Dervise, As a king awe-compelling; And the cold of his eye like the diamond was bright, As if years from the hardness had fas.h.i.+on'd the light, "A draught from thy spring for the way-weary Dervise, And rest in thy dwelling."

And my herds gave the milk, and my tent gave the shelter; And the stranger spell-bound me With his tales, all the night, of the far world of wonder, Of the ocean of Oman with pearls gleaming under; And I thought, "O, how mean are the tents' simple shelter And the valleys around me!"

I seized as I listen'd, in fancy, the treasures By Afrites conceal'd; Scared the serpents that watch in the ruins afar O'er the h.o.a.rds of the Persian in lost Chil-Menar;-- Alas! ill that night happy youth had more treasures Than Ormus can yield.

Morn came, and I went with my guest through the gorges In the rock hollow'd; The flocks bleated low as I pa.s.s'd them ungrieving, The almond-buds strew'd the sweet earth I was leaving; Slowly went Age through the gloom of the gorges, Lightly Youth follow'd.

We won through the Pa.s.s--the Unknown lay before me, Sun-lighted and wide; Then I turn'd to my guest, but how languid his tread, And the awe I had felt in his presence was fled, And I cried, "Can thy age in the journey before me Still keep by my side?"

"Hope and Wisdom soon part; be it so," said the Dervise, "My mission is done."

As he spoke, came the gleam of the crescent and spear, Chimed the bells of the camel more sweet and more near;-- "Go, and march with the Caravan, youth," sigh'd the Dervise, "Fare thee well!"--he was gone.

What profits to speak of the wastes I have traversed Since that early time?

One by one the procession, replacing the guide, Have dropp'd on the sands, or have stray'd from my side; And I hear never more in the solitudes traversed The camel-bell's chime.

How oft I have yearn'd for the old happy valley, But the sands have no track; He who scorn'd what was near must advance to the far, Who forsaketh the landmark must march by the star, And the steps that once part from the peace of the valley Can never come back.

So on, ever on, spreads the path of the Desert, Wearily, wearily; Sand, ever sand--not a gleam of the fountain; Sun, ever sun--not a shade from the mountain; As a sea on a sea, flows the width of the Desert, Drearily, drearily.

How narrow content, and how infinite knowledge!