The Sleep of the Hyacinth. An Egyptian Poem. (Concluded from No. 6)

POEM DETAILS

The Sleep of the Hyacinth.

An Egyptian Poem.

By the Late Dr. George Wilson, of Edinburgh.

(Concluded from No. 6.)

Page image: macmillans_002_008_120_sleepofthehyacinthpart2.jpg

IV. The Entombment of the Queen and
the Flower.

There is mourning in the land of Pharaoh
over the dead Princess, whose swathing and
entombment, Egyptian-wise, with the hya-
einth-bulb in her hand, are described—the
description leading to a glimpse of the Royal
Necropolis, or Burying-place, with its rows of
the dead who had preceded her, and, then, by
transition, to an address of the Mummy to its
departed soul.

Woe was in the land of Egypt,
Grief was on the monarch’s throne ;
Aged Pharaoh, sad and childless,
Uttered sob and uttered groan ;
Death had won his dearest treasure,
Desolate he stood alone.
From his hand he thrust the sceptre,
From his brow he plucked the crown ;
Royal robe and priestly vesture,
Warrior sword, he flung them down ;
Sackcloth round his loins was girt,
Ashes on his head were strown.

Woe was in the land of Egypt,
On the loftiest and the least ;
Woe on king and woe on people,
Bond and freeman, prince and priest ;
Day and night they uttered wailings,
Lamentations never ceased.

At length the king rose, and he lifted 
his head,
And he spake but three words,  “ Bury 
my dead.”
Her delicate body with water they 
bathed,
And they combed the long locks
                                 of 
her hair,
And her marble-like limbs with linen 
they swathed,
Imbued with rich spices, and unguents 
rare
To keep off the breath of the envious 
air.

They folded her hands for their age-
long prayer ;
They laid on her breast,
For its age-long rest,
The bulb of the hyacinth root ;
And, with pious intent and reverend 
care,
They wound from the head to the 
foot
The long linen bandages, crossing them 
round,
Till each motionless limb in its vestment 
was bound,
And she lay folded up,
Like a flower in its cup
Which has never awakened, and knows 
but repose,
Like the bud never blown of the sleeping 
white rose.
So they embalmed that lovely form,
And made that queenly face immortal,
Shutting from his prey the worm,
And barring close the
                                 admitting 
portal ;
And Decay could not enter.

The sycamore tree in the garden fell,
She would love it they thought in 
the tomb ;
They hollowed it out, a gloomy deep cell,
A dark, dreary lodge where no queen 
would dwell ;
But she made no complaint, it suited 
her well ;
There was small enough space, and 
yet wide enough room ;
The dead are content with a narrow 
freehold,
And they are not afraid of the gloom.

****

There were no tossing arms
And no aching heads ;
All their pillows were soft
And downy their beds.
None weary and wakeful lay
Counting each hour,
Missing the drowsy juice
Wrung from the poppy flower.
None looked for the light ;
None longed for the day,
Grew tired of their couches,
Or wished them away.

The babe lay hushed to a calmer rest
Than ever mother’s loving breast
Or fondling arms in life had given,
Or lullaby that rose to heaven
And brought the angels down to guard 
the cradle-nest.
The husband and the wife,
As once in life,
Slept side by side,
Undreaming of the cares the morning 
might betide.
The bridegroom and the bride
Their fill of love might take ;
None kept the lovers now apart ;
Yet neither to the other spake,
And heart leapt not to heart :
Death had wooed both,
And come in room
To him of loving bride,
To her of fond bridegroom ;
Yet they slept sweetly
With closéd eyes,
And knew not Death had
                                 cheated 
both,
And won the prize.

None knelt to the king, yet none were 
ashamed ;
None prayed unto God, yet no one 
blamed ;
None weighed out silver or counted 
gold ;
Nothing was bought, and nothing sold ;
None would give, and none would take,
No one answered, and no one spake.
There were crowds on crowds, and yet 
no din,
Sinner on sinner, and yet no sin ;
Poverty was not, nor any wealth,
None knew sickness, and none knew 
health ;
None felt blindness, and none saw light,
There were millions of eyes and yet no 
sight ;
Millions of ears and yet no hearing,
Millions of hearts, and yet no fearing ;
None knew joy, and none knew sorrow ;
Yesterday was the same as to-day and 
to-morrow.
None felt hunger, none felt thirst,
No one blessed, and no one cursed,
None wasted the hours, and none saved 
time,
None did any good, or committed crime ;
Grief and woe, and guilt and care,
Fiery passion and sullen despair,
Were all unknown and unthought of 
there :
Joy and love, and peace and bliss,
Holy affection and kindly kiss,
Were strangers there to all, I wiss.
The soldier laid aside his spear,
And was a man of peace ;
The slave forgot to fear,
And sighed not for release ;
The widow dried her tear
And thought not of her lord’s decease.
The subtle brain
Of the curious priest,
To strive and strain
With thought had ceased.
Lips that like angels’ sung
Moved not the air,
And the eloquent tongue
Lay dumb in its lair,
Behind the closed gate of the teeth :
The flute-like throat
Uttered no note,
And the bosom swelled not with the 
breath.
No mourning nor crying,
No sobbing nor sighing,
None weeping over the dead or the 
dying,
Were heard on the way
                                 :
No singing, no laughing,
No joying, no dafting,
No reveller’s glee when carousing and 
quaffing,
Nor children at play
                                 :
None shouted, none whispered ;  there 
rose not a hum
In that great city of the deaf and dumb.
They left her there among the rows
Of royal dead to find repose,
Where Silence with her soundless wings
Hovers o’er sleeping queens and kings,
And each in dumbness steeps :
And Darkness with her sightless eye,
Gazes down through a starless sky,
And all from waking keeps.

****

Soul, I loved thee ;
Thou wert beautiful :
Soul, I served thee ;
I was dutiful :
We had been so long together,
In the fair and the foul weather ;
We had known such joys and tears
That my love grew with the years.

I was not an enemy
Unto thy salvation ;
If I sinned, I sinned with thee,
Yielding to temptation ;
Thou wert
                                 wiser,
Thou wert
                                 stronger ;
I was never thy despiser ;
Wilfully I was no wronger—
Wronging thee I wronged myself.

I am but a broken cage,
And the eagle’s fled
                                 ;
Think you he will quell his rage,
Bend his high and haughty head,
Leave the air at one fell swoop,
And with folded pinions stoop
Underneath these bars ;  to droop
Once again, with sullen eye
Gazing at the far-off sky ?
He has gone his way, and I
Grudge him not his liberty.

Does the wanton butterfly
Long for her aurelia sleep,
Sicken of the sunlit sky,
Shrivel up her wings and creep
From the untasted rose’s chalice,
Back into her chrysalis ?
Does she on the wing deplore
She can be a worm no more ?

The melodious, happy bee,
Will she backward ring her bell,
Grieving for a life so free,
Wishing back the narrow cell
Where a cloistered nun she lay,
Knowing not the night from day ?

Lithe and subtle serpents turning
Wheresoe’er they will,
Are they full of sad repining
That they cannot now be still,
Coiled in the maternal prison
Out of which they have arisen ?

Earth to earth, and dust to dust,
Ashes unto ashes must ;
Death precedeth birth.
Infant gladness
Ends in madness,
And from blackest roots of sadness
Rise the brightest flowers of mirth.

I am but the quiver, useless
When the bolts are shot ;
But the dangling mocking scabbard
Where the sword is not.
I am like a shattered bark
Flung high up upon the shore ;
Gone are streamers, sails, and mast,
Steering helm and labouring oar.
River-joys, ye all are past ;
I shall breast the Nile no more.

I was once a lamp of life,
Shining in upon the soul ;
But I was a lamp of clay :
Death and I had bitter strife ;
He hath pierced the golden bowl,
And he sent my soul astray.
It is an immortal thing,
Far beyond his venomed sting,
But my life was his to win,
And I must the forfeit pay ;
So he poured the precious oil
Of my very life away.

If my soul should seek for me,
It would find me dark ;
In my leaking cup would see
Death the quencher’s mark :
Angels could not light in me
Now the feeblest spark :
I am broken, empty, cold ;
Oil of life I could not hold.

Soul and body cannot mate,
Unless Life doth join their hands ;
And the fell divorcer sweareth
By the royal crown he weareth
And the awful sword he beareth,
That a king’s are his commands.
“ Soul and body, Life shall never,
“ When my smiting sword doth sever,
“ Join again in wedlock’s bands.”

I was once the trusted casket
Of a priceless, wondrous gem :
With a closed lid
I kept it hid,
Till God wanted
It for his own diadem.
Unto Death He gave the key,
But he stayed not to unlock it ;
If the jewel were but free,
He, the fierce one, what cared he
For the casket, though he broke it ?

Mortal throes and cruel pangs
Tore me open with their fangs,
And God took the gem to set :
But to put his mark on me
Death did not forget.
With his crushing, cruel heel,
He impressed on me his seal,
And on it these words were cut,
“ When I open, none may shut
“ Save the King, whose key I bear.ˮ

If that gem again from heaven
Were entrusted to my care,
I could not enfold and keep it
From the chill, corrupting air ;
Could not hide it out of sight
Of the peering prying light :—
Crushed and shattered, mean and vile,
I am fit only for the funeral pile.

I am not a harp whose strings
Wait but for the quivering wings
Of the breathing Spirit-wind
Over them its way to find,
Thrilling them with its fond greeting
Till they answer back . . . . repeating
Tone for tone ;
Adding others of their own.
All my chords are tangled, broken,
And their breaking is a token
That, if now the wind-like spirit
Should come longing back to me,
It would vainly try to elicit
Note or any melody.

Life once by me stood and wound
Each string to its sweetest sound,
But Death stole the winding key,
And it would be woe to me
If my soul from heaven should come
But to find me hushed and mute,
Soundless as a shattered drum,
Voiceless as an unblown flute,
Speechless as a tongueless bell,
Silent as an unstrung lute,
Dumber than a dead sea shell :
I could not even as a lisper
Utter back the faintest whisper,
Were it but to say farewell.

Archangelic trumpet sounding,
Thou shalt wake us all ;
On the startled universe
Shall thy summons fall ;
And the sympathising planets
Shall obey thy call,
Weeping o’er their sinful sister,
Stretched beneath her funeral pall.
Earth, thou wert baptized in light,
When the Spirit brooded o’er thee ;
Fair thou wert in God’s own sight,
And a life of joy before thee ;
But thy day was turned to night,
And an awful change came o’er thee.
Then thou wert baptized again ;
In the avenging, cleansing flood,
Afterward for guilty men
Christ baptized thee with wae blood ;
Yet to efface the stain of crime
God shall light thy funeral pyre,
And the fourth and final time
Thou shalt be baptized with fire.

V. The Sleep.

Over the Necropolis and the land of Egypt,
the seasons and the centuries pass, producing
their changes in Nature, celestial and terres-
trial, and in all human history ; everywhere
there is the same unvarying alternation of Life
and Death ; and through all this monotony of
change the Dead sleep, awaiting with irrepres-
sible yearnings their Resurrection.

The shadow of the pyramids
Fled round before the sun :
By day it fled,
It onward sped ;
And when its daily task was done
The moon arose, and round the plain
The weary shadow fled again.

The sphinx looked east,
The sphinx looked west,
And north and south her shadow fell ;
How many times she sought for rest
And found it not, no tongue may tell.

But much it vexed the heart of greedy 
Time
That neither rain nor snow, nor frost 
nor hail,
Trouble the calm of the Egyptian clime ;
For these for him, like heavy iron 
flail,
And wedge and saw, and biting tooth 
and file,
Against the palaces of kings prevail,
And crumble down the loftiest pile,
And eat the ancient hills away,
And make the very mountains
                                 know 
decay.

And sorely he would grudge, and much 
would carp,
That he could never keep his polished 
blade,
His mowing sickle keen and sharp,
For all the din and all the dust he 
made.
He cursed the mummies that they would 
not rot,
He cursed the paintings that they faded 
not,
And swore to tumble Memnon from his 
seat ;
But, foiled awhile, to hide his great 
defeat,
With his wide wings he blew the Libyan 
sand
And hid from mortal eyes the glories of 
the land.

Then he would hie away
With many a frown,
And whet his scythe
By grinding Babylons down ;
And chuckle blithe,
As, with his hands
Sifting the sands,
He meted in his glass
How centuries pass,
And say,  “ I think this dust doth tell
Whoever faileth, I work well.”

****

Round the great dial of the year
The seasons went and struck the quarters,
Whilst the swift months, like circling 
hours,
Told the twelve changes by their chang-
ing flowers ;
And the great glaciers from the moun-
tain tops,
Where the bold chamois dare not climb,
Silently sliding down the slopes,
Marked the slow years upon the clock 
of Time.

The burst of revelry was heard no more
Along the Nile ;  nor near its reedy shore
The pleasant plashing of the dipping oar :
Nor cry of sailor unto sailor calling,
Nor music of the hammer on the anvil 
falling,
Nor song of women singing in the sun,
Nor craftsmen merry when their work 
is done :
The trumpet all was hushed, the harp 
was still,
And ceased the hum of the revolving 
mill :
The sound of solitude alone was there,
And solemn silence reigning everywhere.

The sun, the mighty alchymist,381

With burning ardour daily kissed382

1 Similar reference in Hood’s poems.

Page image: macmillans_002_008_125_sleepofthehyacinthpart2.jpg

Earth’s dusky bosom into gold :383

And when at eve384

He took his leave,385

Again his eager lips grew bold,386

And on her dark’ning brow and breast387

His strange transmuting kiss impressed.388

The moon !  she hath hermetic skill,
As nightly every shadow told ;
She cannot change all things to gold,
But she hath skill, and she hath will,
To turn to silver blackest hill
And deepest shade and darkest pile ;
And night by night,
The gloomy Nile,
A sea of light,
Smiled to her smile.

A million times, by days of men,
The earth her silver robes put off,
Only her golden train to doff
In shortest time again.

Link by link, and ring by ring,
Each day and night a link would bring :
The sun !  a ring, all golden-bright,
The moon !  a link, all silver white ;
And so the twain
Wove at the chain
Which they have woven all the way,
Since first was night and first was day.
It girdleth round the earth, and then,
Swift passing from the abodes of men,
It all transcendeth human ken
To trace it back, it goes so far,
Up to the dawn of time,
Beyond the farthest star.
In the lost past
It hangeth fast,
Held by the hand of God ;
And angels, when they wish to know
How time is moving here below,
Come floating down on half-spread wings,
And see the steps our earth has trod,
By counting the alternate rings
That mark the day
And mark the night,
Since God said  “ Be”
And there was light.
The azure sky a garden lay,
In which at mid-day seed was sown ;
It peeped at eve, at twilight budded,
And, when the day had passed away,
The buds were burst, the leaves were 
blown,
And starry flowers the midnight 
studded :
Quick bloomed they there,
Too bright and fair
Not to be taken soon away :
Thick through the air
Rained they,
In blazing showers,
Their meteor-flowers,
And withered at the dawn of day.
They were not blotted from the sky !
They faded, but they did not die :
Each in its azure-curtained bed
In stillest slumber slept ;
Whilst, glancing far,
The evening star
A wakeful vigil kept,
Till, when the setting sun withdrew,
The appointed sign was given,
And each grew up and bloomed anew,
And glorified the face of heaven.

Swift comets fled across the sky,
Like murderers from the wrath of God,
With frenzied look, and fiery eye
(For swift behind the avenger trod),
And long, dishevelled, trailing hair,
Seeking in vain to find a lair,
Where they could hide their great de-
spair.
They sought the very bounds of space,
But dared not for a moment stay ;
The dread Avenger’s awful face
Waited before them on the way :
They turned, their footsteps to retrace
                                 ;
They thought they flagged not in the race,
But shuddered as a mighty force,
Which none could see, but all could 
feel,
Checking their wild eccentric course,
Bade them in lesser circles wheel :
The judgment had gone forth that they
Should feed the burning sun :
They felt that vengeance had begun
Which, though it suffered long delay,
Would sternly smite and surely slay
When their appointed race was run.
And some there were of gentler sort,
With slower step, of lowlier port,
With smoother locks and calmer eye,
Who, shooting by the startled sky,
Or gleaming through the midday blue,
On errands sent which no one knew,
Came—none knew whence ;  went—none 
knew where,
The gipsies of the upper air.

So whirled those stars, whilst worlds of 
men
Died ere the time of their returning ;
Yet they failed not to come again,
With unquenched tresses fiercely burn-
ing,
And, round a smaller area turning,
Flew like doomed things to meet 
the ire
That gave them to eternal fire.

And, as they left the sleeping pair,
They found them still at each return-
ing
Down in the darkness, keeping there
An everlasting mourning.

They would have thought the baleful 
light
Of comets a delightful sight,
And joyed to gaze up at their hair,
Waving malignant in the air.
But not the faintest flickering gleam
Of all their blinding glare,
Not one adventurous errant beam,
Could grope its way adown the stair
That led to their sepulchral room,
Or find a chink within their tomb,
By which to show to spell-bound eyes
The terrors of the midnight skies.

The ibis gravely stalking
As a self-appointed warden,
Through every valley walking,
Went through and through the gar-
den ;
And with his curvèd bill,
Like a reaper’s sickle hook,
On every noxious thing
A speedy vengeance took.
White pelicans came sailing
Like galleys down the stream ;
And the peacock raised the wailing
Of his melancholy scream,
From the lofty temple-summits
Where he loved to take his stand,
As if to catch a glimpse
Of his far-distant land.
And the sober matron geese,
Now swimming and
                                 now
                                 wading,
Now paddling in the mud,
And now on shore parading,
Moved, discoursing to each other
With their mellow trumpet-voices,
Each with native music telling
Of a creature that rejoices ;
Till some leader’s shrillest signal,
As of sudden foe invading,
Stopped the babble of their tongues,
And their careless promenading,
And they rose in steady phalanx
Unfurling in the air,
Like the banners of an army
When they hear the trumpet’s blare ;
And now they kept together
Like a fleet of ships at sea,
When they fear not stormy weather
Or foe from whom to flee ;
And then they scattered far and wide,
Like ships before a gale,
When naked masts stand up on deck
With scarce a single sail ;
And now their phalanx like a wedge
Went cleaving through the air,
And then it was a hollow ring,
And then a hollow square.
So !  free through sea, and earth, and 
sky,
With web, and foot, and wing,
They lowly walked, or soared on, high,
And none disturbed their travelling.

They wandered at their own wild will
Till daylight died and all was still,
And then a summons clear and shrill
Led them all back with weary wing,
To rest in peace :
Till night should cease,
Lulled by the Nile’s low murmuring ;
And in the garden’s ample ground
They each a welcome haven found.

The garden was all full of life,
All filled with living things ;
Life in the earth and air,
On bird and insect wings ;
Life swimming in the river,
Life walking on the land,
The life of eye and ear,
And heart, and brain, and hand.

Page image: macmillans_002_008_127_sleepofthehyacinthpart2.jpg

Life !  in the lichen sleeping,
Life !  in the moss half-waking,
A drowsy vigil keeping ;
Life !  in the green tree taking
Its course as a river ;
Life, making each nerve quiver
In the eagle upward soaring :
Life, flowing on for ever,
Into waters ever pouring
Into that grave of death, which we
Count as an all-devouring sea ;

Dark are its depths, but they cannot retain
Aught that was living ;  it will not re-
main :
Down in the darkness it hateth to stay ;
Upward it riseth, and cleaveth its way
Out of Death’s midnight into Life’s day.
Fire from God’s altar rekindleth its 
flame,
Effaceth Death’s mark and removeth 
his stain,
Clothes it afresh and changeth its name,
Nerves it anew to pleasure and pain,
And sendeth it back to the place whence 
it came :—
Tither it speeds and returneth again,
Like the wave of the lake
And the foam of the river,
Which as clouds from the sea
The sun doth dissever.
He bathes them in glory,
He clothes them in light,
He weaves for them garments of every 
hue :
They tire of the glory,
They steal from his sight,
They drop on the earth as invisible dew.
They return to the lake,
They revisit the river,
Like arrows shot up
Which come back to their quiver.
As the cloud was the sea,
And the sea was the cloud,
So the cradle of Life
Is wrapped in Death’s shroud.
The Life cometh down
As the rain comes from heaven ;
To flow is its law ;
To Death it is given.
The life riseth up
As a cloud from Death’ sea ;
It changeth its robe,
From decay it is free
                                 ;

It mocketh at Death,
It breaketh his chain ;
And the clouds in the sky
Come after the rain.
Life’s a spender,
Death’s a
                                 keeper ;
Life’s a watcher,
Death’s a
                                 sleeper ;
Life’s a sower,
Death’s a
                                 reaper ;
Life’s a laugher,
Death’s a
                                 weeper ;
Life’s an ever-flowing river,
Death’s an ever-filling sea ;
Death is shackled,
Life is
                                 free ;
Death is
                                 darkness,
Life is
                                 light ;
Death is
                                 blindness,
Life is
                                 sight ;
Life is fragrant,
Death is
                                 noisome ;
Death is woeful,
Life is
                                 joysome ;
Life is music,
Death is
                                 soundless ;
Death is bounded,
Life is
                                 boundless ;
Death is lowly,
Life hath pride ;
Death’s a bridegroom,
Life’s the bride ;
Death’s the winter,
Life’s the spring ;
Life’s a queen,
But Death’s a
                                 king ;
Life’s a blossom,
Death’s its root ;
Death’s a seed,
And life’s its fruit ;
Death is sown,
And life upsprings ;
Death hath fetters,
Life hath wings.

So in endless iteration,
Through the long protracted ages,
Rose their wailing alternation ;
Like the murmur that presages
Rising tempests, ere their fullest 
fury rages,
Rose and fell
Its plaintive swell,
Like the mourning one doth hear,
Listening with attentive ear
To the sighing of a shell,
Orphaned from its mother sea,
Where it longs again to dwell,
Weary of its liberty.

So they panted for the light ;
Yearnèd for the living day,
Sick of silence, tired of darkness,
Chafing at the long delay ;
Till, when thrice a thousand years
Drearily had passed away,
Hope and faith fled with them too,
And they ceased to pray.
No one seemed to love or heed them,
And in dull despair they waited,
To a hopeless bondage fated,
Till the Archangel’s voice should bid 
them
Rise upon the Judgment Day.

[Here the Author’s MS. ends—the intended
final part, to be called the “ Awaking,” never
having been written.]

METADATA

Metadata