The Golden Violet with its Tales of Romance and Chivalry and Other Poems/The Eastern King
Sudden and harsh the harp-strings rung,
As rough the hand now over them flung;
Loud as a warning, omen-like, drear,
Sank the deep tones on each listener's ear,
'T was a Palmer, that seem'd from the Holy Land,
That now sway'd the harp with his stern right hand;
None around could discover his name,
Nor tell whence that pilgrim minstrel came.
THE PILGRIM'S TALE.
I have gone east, I have gone west,
To seek for what I cannot find;
A heart at peace with its own thoughts,
A quiet and contented mind.
I have sought high, I have sought low,
Alike my search has been in vain;
The same lip mix'd the smile and sigh,
The same hour mingled joy and pain.
And first I sought mid sceptred kings;
Power was, so peace might be with them:
They cast a look of weariness
Upon the care-lined diadem.
I ask'd the soldier; and he spoke
Of a dear quiet home afar,
And whisper'd of the vanity,
The ruin, and the wrong of war.
I saw the merchant mid his wealth;
Peace surely would with plenty be:
But no! his thoughts were all abroad
With their frail ventures on the sea.
I heard a lute’s soft music float
In summer sweetness on the air;
But the poet's brow was worn and wan,—
I saw peace was not written there.
And then I number'd o'er the ills,
That wait upon our mortal scene;
No marvel peace was not with them,
The marvel were if it had been.
First, childhood comes with all to learn,
And, even more than all, to bear
Restraint, reproof, and punishment,
And pleasures seen but not to share.
Youth, like the Scripture's madman, next,
Scattering around the burning coal;
With hasty deeds and misused gifts,
That leave their ashes on the soul.
Then manhood wearied, wasted, worn,
With hopes destroy'd and feelings dead;
And worldly caution, worldly wants,
Coldness, and carelessness instead.
Then age at last, dark, sullen, drear,
The breaking of a worn-out wave;
Letting us know that life has been
But the rough passage to the grave.
Thus we go on; hopes change to fears
Like fairy gold that turns to clay,
And pleasure darkens into pain,
And time is measured by decay.
First our fresh feelings are our wealth,
They pass and leave a void behind;
Then comes ambition, with its wars,
That stir but to pollute the mind.
We loathe the present, and we dread
To think on what to come may be;
We look back on the past, and trace
A thousand wrecks, a troubled sea.
I have been over many lands,
And each and all I found the same;
Hope in its borrow'd plumes, and care
Madden'd and mask'd in pleasure's name.
I have no tale of knightly deed:
Why should I tell of guilt and death,
Of plains deep dyed in human blood,
Of fame which lies in mortal breath.
I have no tale of lady love,
Begun and ended in a sigh,
The wilful folly nursed in smiles
Though born in bitterness to die.
I have a tale from Eastern lands,
The same shall be my song to-day;
It tells the vanity of life,—
Apply its lesson as ye may.
THE EASTERN KING:
THE PILGRIM'S TALE.
He flung back the chaplet, he threw down the wine
"Young Monarch, what sorrow or care can be thine?
There are gems in thy palace, each one like a star
That shines in the bosom of twilight afar;
Thy goblets are mantling in purple and light,
The maidens around thee like morning are bright,
Ten kingdoms bow down at the sound of thy name,
The lands of far countries have heard of thy fame,
The wealth of the earth, and the spoils of the seas,
Are thine; oh young Monarch, what ail'st thou, with these?"
"I'm weary, I'm weary. Oh! pleasure is pain
When its spell has been broken again and again.
I am weary of smiles that are bought and are sold,
I am weary of beauty whose fetters are gold,
I am weary of wealth—what makes it of me
But that which the basest and lowest might be?
I have drain'd the red wine-cup, and what found I there?
A beginning of madness, no ending of care!
I am weary of each, I am weary of all,
Listless my revel, and lonely my hall.
Breathe not the song, for its sweetness is flown;
Fling not these flowers at the foot of my throne;
Veil, maidens, veil your warm cheeks of the rose,
Ye are slaves of my sceptre, I reck not of those!"
The Monarch rose up with the reddening of morn,
He rose to the music of trumpet and horn;
His banner is spread to the sun and the wind,
In thousands the plain by his warriors is lined.
The foot ranks go first, their bows in their hand,
In multitudes gathering like waves on the strand;
Behind ride his horsemen, as onwards they come,
Each proud steed is covering his bridle with foam.
In the midst is the king: there is pride on his brow,
As he looks on the myriads that follow him now,
His eye and his sabre are flashing alike,
Woe, woe for the warrior that dares him to strike!
Thousands and thousands are strewn on the ground,
Ahmed comes back a conqueror, but what hath he found?
The cry of the orphan is loud on his ear,
And his eye hath beheld the young bride's bitter tear,
And the friend of his youth is left dead on the plain,
And the flower of his nobles return not again.
There are crowds that are filling the air with his name;
Do ye marvel the monarch is loathing his fame?
Again to the sunshine the banners are spread;
Again rings the earth with the warriors' tread;
And loud on the wings of the morning are borne
The voice of the trumpet, the blast of the horn;
And eager to gaze on the royal array,
The people in crowds gather forth on its way.
Who would deem they were gazing on death and on doom,
That yon purple and gold strew'd the way to the tomb?
The canopy glitters; oh, vainest deceit!
There the king's robe of state is his cold winding-sheet.
And he at whose beck waited life, waited death,
He hath not command on a poor moment's breath.
A whole people trembled when that he but frown'd,
And his smile was the summer of nations around.
Now who is there watches for smile or for frown:
For the head of another is girt with his crown;
And he lieth a heap of powerless clay,
Where the meanest earth-worm at his pleasure may prey.
They bore the monarch on to his tomb,
Black marble suiting such dwelling of gloom:
But on it was graven a lesson sublime,
A voice from the grave appealing to time;
Were not voice from the living or dead alike
On the heart in its foolish pride to strike.
"Millions bow'd down at the foot of my throne;
The strength of the north and the south were my own;
I had treasures pour'd forth like the waves of the sea;
Success seem'd the slave of my sceptre to be.
And pleasures in crowds at my least bidding came,
Every wish that the will in its wildness could frame:
And yet amid all that fell to my share,
How much was weariness, how much was care!
I numbered years of pain and distress,
And but fourteen days of happiness.
Mortal, nor pleasure, nor wealth, nor power,
Are more than the toys of a passing hour;
Earth's flowers bear the foul taint of earth,
Lassitude, sorrow, are theirs by their birth.
One only pleasure will last, to fulfil,
With some shadow of good, the Holy One's will.
The only steadfast hope to us given,
Is the one which looks in its trust to heaven."