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Автор Ричард Блэкмор

R. D. Blackmore

Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse

TO MY PEN

I Thou feeble implement of mind, Wherewith she strove to scrawl her name; But, like a mitcher, left behind No signature, no stroke, no claim, No hint that she hath pined— Shall ever come a stronger time, When thou shalt be a tool of skill, And steadfast purpose, to fulfil A higher task than rhyme? II Thou puny instrument of soul, Wherewith she labours to impart Her efforts at some arduous goal; But fails to bring thy coarser art Beneath a fine control— Shall ever come a fairer day, When thou shalt be a buoyant plume, To soar, where clearer suns illume, And fresher breezes play? Thou weak interpreter of heart, So impotent to tell the tale Of love's delight, of envy's smart, Of passion, and ambition's bale, Of pride that dwells apart— Shall I, in length of time, attain (By walking in the human ways, With love of Him, who made and sways) To ply thee, less in vain? If so, thou shalt be more to me Than sword, or sceptre, flag, or crown; With mind, and soul, and heart in thee, Despising gold, and sham renown; But truthful, kind, and free— Then come; though now a pithless quill, Uncouth, unfledged, indefinite,— In time, thou shalt be taught to write, By patience, and good-will.

LITA OF THE NILE

A TALE IN THREE PARTS

PART I

I "KING, and Father, gift and giver, God revealed in form of river, Issuing perfect, and sublime, From the fountain-head of time; "Whom eternal mystery shroudeth, Unapproached, untracked, unknown; Whom the Lord of heaven encloudeth With the curtains of His throne; "From the throne of heaven descending, Glory, power, and goodness blending, Grant us, ere the daylight dies, Token of thy rapid rise," II Ha, it cometh! Furrowing, flashing, Red blood rushing o'er brown breast; Peaks, and ridges, and domes, dashing Foam on foam, and crest on crest! 'Tis the signal Thebes hath waited, Libyan Thebes, the hundred-gated: Rouse, and robe thee, River-priest For thy dedication feast! Follows him the loveliest maiden, Afric's thousand hills can show; White apparel'd, flower-laden, With the lotus on her brow. III Votive maid, who hath espousal Of the river's high carousal; Twenty cubits if he rise, This shall be his bridal prize.

Calm, and meek of face and carriage, Deigning scarce a quicker breath, Comes she to the funeral marriage, The betrothal of black death. Rosy hands, and hennaed fingers, Nails whereon the onyx lingers, Clasped, as at a lover's tale, In the bosom's marble vale. IV Silvery scarf, her waist enwreathing, Wafts a soft Sabaean balm; Like a cloud of incense, breathing Round the column of a palm: Snood of lilies interweaveth (Giving less than it receiveth) Beauty of her clustered brow, Calmly bent upon us now. Through her dark hair, spread before See the western glory wane, As in groves of dim Cytorus, Or the bowers of Taprobane!