The Sleep of the Hyacinth. An Egyptian Poem

POEM DETAILS

The Sleep of the Hyacinth.

An Egyptian Poem.

By the Late Dr. George Wilson, of Edinburgh.

The following poem, written by its
lamented author at intervals of leisure,
had its origin, as his papers inform us,
in the fact that a bulbous root, found in
the hand of the mummy of an Egyptian
princess, grew again when planted.
Pondering this fact, interesting to him
as a man of science, and permitting it to
develop itself in his imaginative mind
in all the range of its suggestions, he
constructed the poem. “ I call the
thyme,” he says in one of his letters,
“ The Sleep of the Hyacinth : it is a mosaic
on life, death, and resurrection, natural
and spiritual.” Had it been finished
according to the author’s plan, it was to
have consisted of six portions, entitled
respectively as follows :—

I. The Garden.

II. The Queen and the Flowers.

III. The Death of the Queen.

IV. The Entombment of the Queen
and the Flower.

V. The Sleep.

VI. The Awakening

Of those intended portions the sixth is
totally wanting ; of the second all that
exists is a few lines, suggesting the sub-
ject which the author meant to expand ;
and both the fourth and fifth portions
are incomplete, so far that here and there
is a gap where the author purposed
to insert stanzas of connexion. Allow-
ing for this incompleteness, and for the
absence of corrections for which there
are suggestions in the MS., the Poem
will be welcomed as a characteristic pro-
duction of the writer’s mind. We pre-
sent it in two divisions—the first division
(containing the first three portions) now ;
the rest to follow in a future number.

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I. The Garden.

The ancient Egyptian garden wherein the
Hyacinth grew.

Three thousand years !  three
                                 thousand 
years !
Three thousand long and weary years
Have ceased to be oppressed with fears ;
Have wept their latest, bitter tears ;
Have drowned the echo of the cheers
That stirred their life awhile ;
Have hushed to stillest rest their noise ;
Have left to other years their toys ;
Have lost the memory of their joys,
And long forgot to smile
                                 ;
Have cast away their wings and fled
To join the ghosts of centuries dead,
That track the steps of Time,
Since, watered by the abounding Nile
In Egypt’s favoured clime,
A Garden stretched where now the sand
Has ruined that delightful land—
A Garden such as mortal eye
Has never seen on Northern shore ;
So plenteous were the flowers it bore,
So proudly did its trees on high
Lift their crowned foreheads to the 
sky,
And dare the burning sun
To blast them with his fiery eye,
To bid them his caresses shun,
Or make them wither, droop, or die.
Their glorious beauty could defy
The fervour of his ardent gaze ;
Their tints were borrowed from his rays ;
They loved to meet his noontide blaze ;
He could not do them ill
                                 ;
For round about their feet were swathed
Thick, mossy, verdant carpets, bathed
In moisture spread by many a rill
Which, winding from the teeming river,
Flowed in refreshing streams for ever.
The palm was there with fluttering leaves
The warm air fanning ;
The sycamore with outspread boughs,
Like arches overspanning
                                 ;
And all between,
Enrobed in green,
Myrtles and fragrant shrubs adorned the 
scene.
Among their leaves was many a nest,
From which, as from its night of rest
Each happy bird awoke,
A hymn of gladness broke,
And midst the sound of rustling wings,
Rose their Hosannah
To the King of kings.
High over these the tall banana
Lifted its head, like some Sultana
With glory crowned :
And through its leafy screen,
Tinting the light of green,
Spread a refreshing coolness all around,
And with its grateful shadow curtained 
o’er the ground.

The pomegranate upon the grass
Showered down its blood-red petals,
Like fluttering chips of burnished 
metals.
With armour bright of glowing brass,
And wings of gauze in colours shining,
Like ores which have through much 
refining,
And many a process come,
Hovered around the citron tree,
Filling the air with drowsy hum,
The broad-winged butterfly, the busy 
bee,
And mailèd beetles many a one,
Idling the hours,
Among the flowers,
From dawn of day, till set the evening sun.
Round the thick boughs and gnarlèd 
stems,
Where’er its clasping tendrils could 
entwine,
Laden with clusters like dark ruby gems,
Wound like a serpent the embracing vine,
And climbing to the topmost spray,
Out of the cunning fox’s way,
Let its ripe bunches peep, out from 
among the leaves,
Like birds nestled in nooks of shady 
cottage-eaves.
The golden spheres of the orange-trees
Were tossed about by the playful breeze,
And bowled along the lawn
                                 :
The blossoms pale of the almond shed
Their hoary honours around the head
Of the parent stem when all else was dead,
And like flakes of snow on the ground 
were strawn.
The lemon flowers grew dim of sight,
And closed their drowsy eyes at night,
But opened them wide at the dawn.
The burly gourd, and the melon round,
Lazily rolled upon the ground ;
And beneath their leaves the cucumber 
wound,
Like a snake about on a bird to bound.
The plum-trees laden with many years,
Mourned their old age in trickling tears
Of balsam and of gum ;
And noisy chatter and happy hum
Showed how the busy birds made merry
On the nectarine’s cheek, and each juicy 
berry,
And drank the blood of the crimson 
cherry.

And many another tree was there :
The acacia with its yellow hair,
The fig-tree and the lime ;
The fairest things appeared more fair
In that delightful clime,
Where piercing north-blasts never 
blow,
Nor chills the bleak east wind,
Where falleth never hail or snow
To leave its blight behind,
But an eternal summer breathes
And from a horn of plenty fills,
And with a crown of beauty
                                 wreathes
The Everlasting Hills.
From every clime and every shore,
Whatever choicest plant it bore,
By tributary nation sent,
Gave to that Garden ornament.1
A thousand stately flowers stood up,
With chiselled stem and carvèd cup,
With sculptured urns ;  with
                                 hanging 
bells ;
With trumped-tubes ;  with honey-cells
Wherein the bee found endless wells
Of nectar to be sipped
                                 ;
And even the wasp forgot his malice,
When quaffing at each brimming chalice,
1 Wilkinson’s Ancient Egyptians (two
vol. ed.), p. 57 ;  also, vol.
                              ii. p. 36.
And sheathed his sword, with poison 
tipped.
Some bore their heads like butterflies,
With plumes and fluttering wings,
And others wore rare ornaments,
Like crowns of queens and kings.
And some spread out like banners
Hung o’er a dungeon-keep,
And others were all hollowed out
And chased like goblets deep ;
In which the drunken gnat could sleep
His day’s debauch away,
And many a stealthy worm would creep
And make the buds his prey.
The bulrush grew at the water’s edge,
With the paper-reed and the sword-
leaved sedge,
Each with its root stuck down like a 
wedge
In the bed of the marshy pool ;
And wherever the waters were clear 
and cool,
They were fringed by the oleander,
Whose rosy petals love to be
Where they can their own beauty see,
And blow where rills meander :
Or at the side of some still lake,
Where sea and sky
Gaze eye to eye,
And of each other’s charms partake.
The rainbow-tinted iris,
And the slender asphodels,
Nodded gaily to each other
With a graceful, easy motion ;
And pouted out their lips
Like those curious Eastern shells,
That have palaces to dwell in
At the bottom of the ocean.
The narcissus gazed with wonder
On his beauty in the stream ;
And between his leaves and under
Glowed the crocus’ golden gleam :
And the tulip’s deep-mouthed pitcher
Stood erect upon her stem,
For she knew her flowers were richer,
Though no fragrance rose from them,
Than the petals of the wild thyme
That nestled at her feet,
And the marjoram or lavender,
Though their breath is very sweet.
The poppy with his scarlet plumes
Was like a soldier tall,
But the tallest was the hollyhock,
For he rose above them all,
And with trumpets stood the columbine
As if to sound a call,
At which the flowers should wake from 
rest,
And into ranks should fall,
As the bugle makes the soldier start,
And the steed neigh in his stall.
The floating white cups of the lotus lilies
With all their bravery of leaves, were 
there ;
The yellow petals of the daffodillies
Breathed forth their perfume to the 
passing
                                 air ;
And clustered chalices of amaryllis,
Some delicately fair,
Stood robed in white,
And others rosy bright,
Crowned on the summit of their 
stately stems
With crimson flowers like queenly 
diadems.
The dark-eyed violet sending
Forth its fragrance, when the wind 
blows,
The lowly lily of the valley bending
At the feet of the rose.
The rose herself, stately and tall
Over them all
As a queen reigning,
Lowlier things and their homage dis-
daining ;
The heliotrope for ever turning
With eager eye to meet the burning
Glances of the god of day :
The towering forms, the long array
Of sunflowers with their starry faces ;
The cistus with its fleeting graces ;
And other bright flowers
Fanned by the winds, and unharmed 
by the showers,
Filled with their beauty the far-spread-
ing bowers.

II. The Queen and the Flowers.

A young Egyptian princess, daughter of
some Pharaoh, the Queen of the Garden, walks
in it, in the fulness of life. The vision is but
a glimpse ; for this part of the poem is un-
finished.

Within the garden lived a maid,
Of noble figure as became a Queen ;
A gentle, graceful and majestic creature
With beauty written on each noble 
feature,
And wearing such a regal mien,
That they who watched it, said,
This is no queen whom man has 
crowned,
But one whom God has made.

*****

III. The Death of the Queen.

Death visits the Egyptian Eden ; the Princess
feels his approach, shrinks despairingly, invokes
help from gods and men ; and dies.

Within the earliest Eden
The tempter sought his prey :
From every later scene of bliss
He tries to steal the bliss away,
And oftentimes prevails.
For doubt, and woe, and want, and 
fear,
And grief, and guilt, and sin,
Are ever ready, standing near
To tempt the tempter in.
And neither youth, nor love, nor hope,
Nor beauty’s fading flower,
Nor childhood’s joy, nor
                                 manhood’s 
strength,
Its purpose or its power,
Can keep away
The evil day,
Or long avert the hour
When grief must come.
The smiter striketh home :
The cup of sorrow circleth round,
And though we quail and shrink,
To pass it by
No one may try,
But all must bend and drink.
For Christ’s dear flock
There doth remain,
A place of rest
From toil and pain,
And God himself on high,
Away from every eye,
Shall wipe off every tear ;
But we have no abiding city here.

A morning came :  all looked serenely 
bright,
As the queen walked forth in the 
early air ;
The sun unrisen to his mid-day height,
Showed but the forelocks of his 
golden hair.
Unearthly beauty spread on all around
A glory she had never seen before ;
Death, who keeps treading an impartial 
round,
Seemed to have passed the happy 
garden o’er.
All was so full of life, of love,
                                 of 
God,
All sang so joyously his kindly care,
From the small mosses nestling in the 
sod,
To the great eagles winging through 
the air.
“ Oh God !  they praise thee,” sang her 
happy voice,
“ I cannot hear them, thou dost hear 
them all,
“ We all are thine ;  in thee we all 
rejoice,
“ Giver of good gifts, on thy name 
we call.”
So prayed the Queen, and countless 
happy days
Their long perspective spread before 
her gaze,
Like sculptured sphinxes, daughters of 
one mother,
With sister-faces, each one like the 
other,
Serenely stretched, with sweet looks 
glancing o’er
The long space leading to the temple-
door,
Who seem unending, and who only 
cease
Where the gate opens, and the soul 
finds peace :
So gazed the queen. But lo !  a little 
cloud
Rose from the sea, shaped like a 
mummy shroud.

The mid-day came :  the sun was red as 
blood :
A dreary horror filled the air :
The birds sought covert in the thickest 
wood,
And the fierce lion crouched within 
his lair.
Death had bethought him of the 
happy spot,
That smiled so sweetly to the morn-
ing sun ;
“ It mocketh me : its beauty I
                                 will blot,
Its crown of glory
                                 shall be all un-
done.”
He spared the flowers ; he spared the 
leafy trees ;
His mark was on them pointing to 
their prime ;
The merry birds, the murmuring bees,
They could be his at any time.
He left a footmark here and there,
But knowing all was his, he could afford 
to spare.

With shadowless and soundless tread
He sought the bower where sat the 
queen ;
Her heart oppressed with nameless 
dread,
And wond’ring at the changèd scene :
“ I come for thee. Doff all thy pride,
“ I have no time for
                                 seeking or for 
suing ;
“ Thy place is ready, thou must be my 
bride ;
“ This is my way of winning and of 
wooing ;
“ The sun bends downwards ;  when the 
stars arise
“ Prepare to meet me ;  thou must be 
my prize.”

“ Oh ! thou that sleep’st in
                                 Philæ’s 
Holy Isle,
“ Oh ! great Osiris
                                 with the gentle 
heart,
May I behold thy gracious smile !
“ Oh ! give me with thyself a part,
“ In those delightful regions of the 
blest,
“ Where thou to sinless spirits 
grantest rest.

“ Ah me !  but who shall sinless say,
“ I come to claim the meed of good 
works done ?
“ Search me and try me ;  in the balance 
weigh ;
“ Blot of transgression on my soul 
is none :
“ Or who shall disembodied throw,
“ Himself on certain bliss where all 
perhaps is woe ?
“ Oh, God of gods !  if such there be,
“ And that there is my conscience 
tells,
“ How shall I justify myself to thee,
“ Being in whom perfection dwells ?
“ I see the stern, relentless judges 
seated,
“ In solemn circle in the halls below ;
“ The summons dread the herald has 
repeated,
“ And my distracted spirit fears to go
“ Where in my utmost need,
“ No one for me will plead,
“ Or intercessor use prevailing prayer ;
“ Where altars do not stand,
“ Or victims bleed,
“ Or smoke of incense fill the
                                 grateful 
air ;
“ But in the gloomy land
“ Is kept the record of each sinful 
deed.

“ The impartial balance on its
                                 axis 
moving ;
“ The needle
                                 quivering on the sway-
ing beam ;
“ The scale, swift rising, and as
                                 swift 
descending ;
“ All as if here before me seem :
The avengers, waiting for the
                                 heart’s 
last proving,
“ The awful guardian
                                 with his eye 
of hate,
“ The observing God his body bending
“ To watch the action of the shifting 
weight,
And the despairing spirit’s cry  “ Too 
late !”
“ As the great judge, his voice extend-
ing,
Speaks till the vaults reverberate the 
sound,—
“ ‘ Heaven on thee closes her unwil-
ling gate,’
“ ‘ Thou hast been weighed, and wanting 
found,’ 1

“ Oh, God of gods !  if such there be,
“ And that there is my conscience 
tells,
“ How shall I justify myself to thee,
“ Being in whom perfection dwells ?

1 Wilkinson, vol. ii. p. 381.

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“ Each long-forgotten crime,343

“ That seemed344

“ Like something dreamed,345

“ All blotted out by time ;346

“ So that I deemed347

“ It was no part of me ;348

“ Like hieroglyphic flashing in the sun349

“ Proclaims, ‘ From evil thou hast done350

“ Thou never canst be free.’351

“ Legions of sins around my bed,
“ In fierce, vindictive, terrible array,
“ Gnash with their teeth, and scoff, 
and say,
“ Sin hath its hour
“ ‘ Of might and power
                                 :
“ ‘ Long have we waited :  now is no 
delay.
“ ‘ They call for thee !  the impatient 
dead,
“ ‘ And we shall guide thee on the 
way :
“ ‘ Not one shall fail when God 
will call,
“ ‘ Thou shalt be marshalled by 
us all,
“ ‘ And we will win thee on the 
Judgment Day.’ ”

She started up, and half arose,
As if to battle with her foes,
And wildly round the air she struck
Like one who fights when sore beset,
Then gazed with an imploring look,
Which they who saw could ne’er for-
get,
So plainly seemed that glance to say,
“ In this, my hour of dark dismay,
“ Can ye not render other help than, 
only weep and pray ?”

“ Oh, God of gods !  if such there be,
“ And that there is my conscience 
tells,
“ How shall I justify myself to thee,
“ Being in whom perfection dwells ?

“ No Past rolls back behind thy throne,
“ No Future spreads before,
“ A Present, like a boundless sea,
“ On no side finds a shore,
“ The universe would rock and reel,
“ If change should pass on thee,
“ What thou hast been in eldest time,
“ Thou must through endless ages be.
“ The holiness that once was thine
“ Cannot in Eons pass away
                                 ;
“ With guilt it never can combine ;
“ As yesterday thou art to-day.
“ But is there not some wond’rous way,
“ Some all unthought of, glorious 
plan,
“ By which, though holy, thou may’st 
say
“ ‘ I can be just, yet pardon man ’  ?

“ Have I not heard a legend wild1
“ Of one who, when the years roll on,
“ Shall come to earth—a woman’s 
child—
“ And yet thine only Son
                                 ;
“ Who shall to thee a ransom pay,
“ And wash the guilt of man away ?’ ”

She glanced around, and, as she ceased,
Quick beckoned to a thoughtful priest ;
“ Tell me,” she said,  “ this
                                 wondrous 
tale,
“ Tell me, ye priests, if it ye knew,
“ My strength and courage faint and 
fail,—
“ I swear you, speak me true
“ As ye are priests of Him on high,
“ And as ye shall on death beds lie,—
“ Be done with secret things ;
“ The daughter of a race of kings
“ Lays her commands on you.”

The priests looked grave, but nothing 
said ;
They deemed it a delirious dream,
Where strangest thoughts together wed,
And phantasies and things that are
No longer with each other war,
But all as real seem.

She read their looks, and bowed
                                 her 
head ;
She crossed her hands, and lowly said,—
“ I kneel before thee in the dust,
“ Dread God of gods, and King of 
kings ;
“ Slay me, if Justice say thou must,
“ But I will hide beneath thy wings,
“ And thou shalt be my only trust.”

All hushed she then, as if to hear422

Some message whispered in her ear,423

1 See Wilkinson’s Ancient Egyptians,
p. 331.

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All still she lay, as if to see424

Some vision of Divinity.425

But Death was fiercely beating
At life’s shattered gate,
And scoffed at all entreating
That he awhile should wait.
And senselessness was stealing
O’er the wearied, aching brain,
And every pulse and feeling
Were numbed by cruel pain.
The ear was dull, and dim the eye,
Nor message seemed from Him on high.

Then rose upon the startled air
An awful cry of wild despair,
Which made the trembling hearers start,
And chilled the life-blood in each heart.
But whilst they stood with tortured ear,
Prepared again that sound to hear,
Lo !  on the queenly face a change
Had passed, unutterably strange :
The look of pain and woe was gone,
The brow like polished marble shone,
The gleaming eyes were fixed above,
With a fond look of awe and love.
The hands were raised as if to clasp
Something beloved in their grasp ;
The quivering lips essayed awhile
To speak, but only reached a smile ;
Then all was still :  upon the breast
The folded arms sank down to rest ;
The dark eyelashes, like portcullis spears,
Closed fast for ever o’er the gate of tears.
And by their looks the watchers knew
That each the same conclusion drew ;
But no one spake, for all amazed
Upon the wondrous vision gazed.

Silence came down on Pharaoh’s pile,
Save in that chamber you might hear
Low stifled sobbing and the dropping 
tear
And far-off ripple of the murmuring 
Nile.

(To be continued.)

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