Part 5

Protest: By Zahir-u-Din

Alas! alas! this wasted Night With all its Jasmin-scented air, Its thousand stars, serenely bright! I lie alone, and long for you, Long for your Champa-scented hair, Your tranquil eyes of twilight hue;

Long for the close-curved, delicate lips —Their sinuous sweetness laid on mine— Here, where the slender fountain drips, Here, where the yellow roses glow, Pale in the tender silver shine The stars across the garden throw.

Alas! alas! poor passionate Youth! Why must we spend these lonely nights? The poets hardly speak the truth,— Despite their praiseful litany, His season is not all delights Nor every night an ecstasy!

The very power and passion that make— Might make—his days one golden dream, How he must suffer for their sake! Till, in their fierce and futile rage, The baffled senses almost deem They might be happier in old age.

Age that can find red roses sweet, And yet not crave a rose-red mouth; Hear Bulbuls, with no wish that feet Of sweeter singers went his way; Inhale warm breezes from the South, Yet never fed his fancy stray.

From some near Village I can hear The cadenced throbbing of a drum, Now softly distant, now more near; And in an almost human fashion, It, plaintive, wistful, seems to come Laden with sighs of fitful passion,

To mock me, lying here alone Among the thousand useless flowers Upon the fountain's border-stone— Cold stone, that chills me as I lie Counting the slowly passing hours By the white spangles in the sky.

Some feast the Tom-toms celebrate, Where, close together, side by side, Gay in their gauze and tinsel state With lips serene and downcast eyes, Sit the young bridegroom and his bride, While round them songs and laughter rise.

They are together; Why are we So hopelessly, so far apart? Oh, I implore you, come to me! Come to me, Solace of mine eyes! Come Consolation of my heart! Light of my senses! What replies?

A little, languid, mocking breeze That rustles through the Jasmin flowers And stirs among the Tamarind trees; A little gurgle of the spray That drips, unheard, though silent hours, Then breaks in sudden bubbling play.

Wind, have you never loved a rose? And water, seek you not the Sea? Why, therefore, mock at my repose? Is it my fault I am alone Beneath the feathery Tamarind tree Whose shadows over me are thrown?

Nay, I am mad indeed, with thirst For all to me this night denied And drunk with longing, and accurst Beyond all chance of sleep or rest, With love, unslaked, unsatisfied, And dreams of beauty unpossessed.

Hating the hour that brings you not, Mad at the space betwixt us twain, Sad for my empty arms, so hot And fevered, even the chilly stone Can scarcely cool their burning pain,— And oh, this sense of being alone!

Take hence, O Night, your wasted hours, You bring me not my Life's Delight, My Star of Stars, my Flower of Flowers! You leave me loveless and forlorn, Pass on, most false and futile night, Pass on, and perish in the Dawn!

Famine Song

Death and Famine on every side And never a sign of rain, The bones of those who have starved and died Unburied upon the plain. What care have I that the bones bleach white? To-morrow they may be mine, But I shall sleep in your arms to-night And drink your lips like wine!

Cholera, Riot, and Sudden Death, And the brave red blood set free, The glazing eye and the failing breath,— But what are these things to me? Your breath is quick and your eyes are bright And your blood is red like wine, And I shall sleep in your arms to-night And hold your lips with mine!

I hear the sound of a thousand tears, Like softly pattering rain, I see the fever, folly, and fears Fulfilling man's tale of pain. But for the moment your star is bright, I revel beneath its shine, For I shall sleep in your arms to-night And feel your lips on mine!

And you need not deem me over cold, That I do not stop to think For all the pleasure this Life may hold Is on the Precipice brink. Thought could but lessen my soul's delight, And to-day she may not pine. For I shall lie in your arms to-night And close your lips with mine!

I trust what sorrow the Fates may send I may carry quietly through, And pray for grace when I reach the end, To die as a man should do. To-day, at least, must be clear and bright, Without a sorrowful sign, Because I sleep in your arms to-night And feel your lips on mine!

So on I work, in the blazing sun, To bury what dead we may, But glad, oh, glad, when the day is done And the night falls round us grey. Would those we covered away from sight Had a rest as sweet as mine! For I shall sleep in your arms to-night And drink your lips like wine!

The Window Overlooking the Harbour

Sad is the Evening: all the level sand Lies left and lonely, while the restless sea, Tired of the green caresses of the land, Withdraws into its own infinity.

But still more sad this white and chilly Dawn Filling the vacant spaces of the sky, While little winds blow here and there forlorn And all the stars, weary of shining, die.

And more than desolate, to wake, to rise, Leaving the couch, where softly sleeping still, What through the past night made my heaven, lies; And looking out across the window sill

See, from the upper window's vantage ground, Mankind slip into harness once again, And wearily resume his daily round Of love and labour, toil and strife and pain.

How the sad thoughts slip back across the night: The whole thing seems so aimless and so vain. What use the raptures, passion and delight, Burnt out; as though they could not wake again.

The worn-out nerves and weary brain repeat The question: Whither all these passions tend;— This curious thirst, so painful and so sweet, So fierce, so very short-lived, to what end?

Even, if seeking for ourselves, the Race, The only immortality we know,— Even if from the flower of our embrace Some spark should kindle, or some fruit should grow,

What were the use? the gain, to us or it, That we should cause another You or Me,— Another life, from our light passion lit, To suffer like ourselves awhile and die.

What aim, what end indeed? Our being runs In a closed circle. All we know or see Tends to assure us that a thousand Suns, Teeming perchance with life, have ceased to be.

Ah, the grey Dawn seems more than desolate, And the past night of passion worse than waste, Love but a useless flower, that soon or late, Turns to a fruit with bitter aftertaste.

Youth, even Youth, seems futile and forlorn While the new day grows slowly white above. Pale and reproachful comes the chilly Dawn After the fervour of a night of love.

Back to the Border

The tremulous morning is breaking Against the white waste of the sky, And hundreds of birds are awaking In tamarisk bushes hard by. I, waiting alone in the station, Can hear in the distance, grey-blue, The sound of that iron desolation, The train that will bear me from you.

'T will carry me under your casement, You'll feel in your dreams as you lie The quiver, from gable to basement, The rush of my train sweeping by. And I shall look out as I pass it,— Your dear, unforgettable door, 'T was ours till last night, but alas! it Will never be mine any more.

Through twilight blue-grey and uncertain, Where frost leaves the window-pane free, I'll look at the tinsel-edged curtain That hid so much pleasure for me. I go to my long undone duty Alone in the chill and the gloom, My eyes are still full of the beauty I leave in your rose-scented room.

Lie still in your dreams; for your tresses Are free of my lingering kiss. I keep you awake with caresses No longer; be happy in this! From passion you told me you hated You're now and for ever set free, I pass in my train, sorrow-weighted, Your house that was Heaven to me.

You won't find a trace, when you waken, Of me or my love of the past, Rise up and rejoice! I have taken My longed-for departure at last. My fervent and useless persistence You never need suffer again, Nor even perceive in the distance The smoke of my vanishing train!

Reverie: Zahir-u-Din

Alone, I wait, till her twilight gate The Night slips quietly through, With shadow and gloom, and purple bloom, Flung over the Zenith blue.

Her stars that tremble, would fain dissemble Light over lovers thrown,— Her hush and mystery know no history Such as day may own. Day has record of pleasure and pain, But things that are done by Night remain For ever and ever unknown.

For a thousand years, 'neath a thousand skies, Night has brought men love; Therefore the old, old longings rise As the light grows dim above.

Therefore, now that the shadows close, And the mists weird and white, While Time is scented with musk and rose; Magic with silver light.

I long for love; will you grant me some? Day is over at last. Come! as lovers have always come, Through the evenings of the Past. Swiftly, as lovers have always come, Softly, as lovers have always come Through the long-forgotten Past.

Sea Song

Against the planks of the cabin side, (So slight a thing between them and me,) The great waves thundered and throbbed and sighed, The great green waves of the Indian sea!

Your face was white as the foam is white, Your hair was curled as the waves are curled, I would we had steamed and reached that night The sea's last edge, the end of the world.

The wind blew in through the open port, So freshly joyous and salt and free, Your hair it lifted, your lips it sought, And then swept back to the open sea.

The engines throbbed with their constant beat; Your heart was nearer, and all I heard; Your lips were salt, but I found them sweet, While, acquiescent, you spoke no word.

So straight you lay in your narrow berth, Rocked by the waves; and you seemed to be Essence of all that is sweet on earth, Of all that is sad and strange at sea.

And you were white as the foam is white, Your hair was curled as the waves are curled. Ah! had we but sailed and reached that night, The sea's last edge, the end of the world!

To the Hills!

'T is eight miles out and eight miles in, Just at the break of morn. 'T is ice without and flame within, To gain a kiss at dawn!

Far, where the Lilac Hills arise Soft from the misty plain, A lone enchanted hollow lies Where I at last drew rein.

Midwinter grips this lonely land, This stony, treeless waste, Where East, due East, across the sand, We fly in fevered haste.

Pull up! the East will soon be red, The wild duck westward fly, And make above my anxious head, Triangles in the sky.

Like wind we go; we both are still So young; all thanks to Fate! (It cuts like knives, this air so chill,) Dear God! if I am late!

Behind us, wrapped in mist and sleep The Ruined City lies, (Although we race, we seem to creep!) While lighter grow the skies.

Eight miles out only, eight miles in, Good going all the way; But more and more the clouds begin To redden into day.

And every snow-tipped peak grows pink An iridescent gem! My heart beats quick, with joy, to think How I am nearing them!

As mile on mile behind us falls, Till, Oh, delight! I see My Heart's Desire, who softly calls Across the gloom to me.

The utter joy of that First Love No later love has given, When, while the skies grew light above, We entered into Heaven.

Till I Wake

When I am dying, lean over me tenderly, softly, Stoop, as the yellow roses droop in the wind from the South. So I may, when I wake, if there be an Awakening, Keep, what lulled me to sleep, the touch of your lips on my mouth.

His Rubies: Told by Valgovind

Along the hot and endless road, Calm and erect, with haggard eyes, The prisoner bore his fetters' load Beneath the scorching, azure skies.

Serene and tall, with brows unbent, Without a hope, without a friend, He, under escort, onward went, With death to meet him at the end.

The Poppy fields were pink and gay On either side, and in the heat Their drowsy scent exhaled all day A dream-like fragrance almost sweet.

And when the cool of evening fell And tender colours touched the sky, He still felt youth within him dwell And half forgot he had to die.

Sometimes at night, the Camp-fires lit And casting fitful light around, His guard would, friend-like, let him sit And talk awhile with them, unbound.

Thus they, the night before the last, Were resting, when a group of girls Across the small encampment passed, With laughing lips and scented curls.

Then in the Prisoner's weary eyes A sudden light lit up once more, The women saw him with surprise, And pity for the chains he bore.

For little women reck of Crime If young and fair the criminal be Here in this tropic, amorous clime Where love is still untamed and free.

And one there was, she walked less fast, Behind the rest, perhaps beguiled By his lithe form, who, as she passed, Waited a little while, and smiled.

The guard, in kindly Eastern fashion, Smiled to themselves, and let her stay. So tolerant of human passion, "To love he has but one more day."

Yet when (the soft and scented gloom Scarce lighted by the dying fire) His arms caressed her youth and bloom, With him it was not all desire.

"For me," he whispered, as he lay, "But little life remains to live. One thing I crave to take away: You have the gift; but will you give?

"If I could know some child of mine Would live his life, and see the sun Across these fields of poppies shine, What should I care that mine is done?

"To die would not be dying quite, Leaving a little life behind, You, were you kind to me to-night, Could grant me this; but—are you kind?

"See, I have something here for you For you and It, if It there be." Soft in the gloom her glances grew, With gentle tears he could not see.

He took the chain from off his neck, Hid in the silver chain there lay Three rubies, without flaw or fleck. She answered softly "I will stay."

He drew her close; the moonless skies Shed little light; the fire was dead. Soft pity filled her youthful eyes, And many tender things she said.

Throughout the hot and silent night All that he asked of her she gave. And, left alone ere morning light, He went serenely to the grave,

Happy; for even when the rope Confined his neck, his thoughts were free, And centered round his Secret Hope The little life that was to be.

When Poppies bloomed again, she bore His child who gaily laughed and crowed, While round his tiny neck he wore The rubies given on the road.

For his small sake she wished to wait, But vainly to forget she tried, And grieving for the Prisoner's fate, She broke her gentle heart and died.

Song of Taj Mahomed

Dear is my inlaid sword; across the Border It brought me much reward; dear is my Mistress, The jewelled treasure of an amorous hour. Dear beyond measure are my dreams and Fancies.

These I adore; for these I live and labour, Holding them more than sword or jewelled Mistress, For this indeed may rust, and that prove faithless, But, till my limbs are dust, I have my Fancies.

The Garden of Kama:

Kama the Indian Eros

The daylight is dying, The Flying fox flying, Amber and amethyst burn in the sky. See, the sun throws a late, Lingering, roseate Kiss to the landscape to bid it good-bye.

The time of our Trysting! Oh, come, unresisting, Lovely, expectant, on tentative feet. Shadow shall cover us, Roses bend over us, Making a bride chamber, sacred and sweet.

We know not life's reason, The length of its season, Know not if they know, the great Ones above. We none of us sought it, And few could support it, Were it not gilt with the glamour of love.

But much is forgiven To Gods who have given, If but for an hour, the Rapture of Youth. You do not yet know it, But Kama shall show it, Changing your dreams to his Exquisite Truth.

The Fireflies shall light you, And naught shall afright you, Nothing shall trouble the Flight of the Hours. Come, for I wait for you, Night is too late for you, Come, while the twilight is closing the flowers.

Every breeze still is, And, scented with lilies, Cooled by the twilight, refreshed by the dew, The garden lies breathless, Where Kama, the Deathless, In the hushed starlight, is waiting for you.

Camp Follower's Song, Gomal River

We have left Gul Kach behind us, Are marching on Apozai,— Where pleasure and rest are waiting To welcome us by and by.

We're falling back from the Gomal, Across the Gir-dao plain, The camping ground is deserted, We'll never come back again.

Along the rocks and the defiles, The mules and the camels wind. Good-bye to Rahimut-Ullah, The man who is left behind.

For some we lost in the skirmish, And some were killed in the fight, But he was captured by fever, In the sentry pit, at night.

A rifle shot had been swifter, Less trouble a sabre thrust, But his Fate decided fever, And each man dies as he must.

Behind us, red in the distance. The wavering flames rise high, The flames of our burning grass-huts, Against the black of the sky.

We hear the sound of the river, An ever-lessening moan, The hearts of us all turn backwards To where he is left alone.

We sing up a little louder, We know that we feel bereft, We're leaving the camp together, And only one of us left.

The only one, out of many, And each must come to his end, I wish I could stop this singing, He happened to be my friend.

We're falling back from the Gomal We're marching on Apozai, And pleasure and rest are waiting To welcome us by and by.

Perhaps the feast will taste bitter, The lips of the girls less kind,— Because of Rahimut-Ullah, The man who is left behind!

Song of the Colours: by Taj Mahomed

Rose-colour Rose Pink am I, the colour gleams and glows In many a flower; her lips, those tender doors By which, in time of love, love's essence flows From him to her, are dyed in delicate Rose. Mine is the earliest Ruby light that pours Out of the East, when day's white gates unclose.

On downy peach, and maiden's downier cheek I, in a flush of radiant bloom, alight, Clinging, at sunset, to the shimmering peak I veil its snow in floods of Roseate light.

Azure Mine is the heavenly hue of Azure skies, Where the white clouds lie soft as seraphs' wings, Mine the sweet, shadowed light in innocent eyes, Whose lovely looks light only on lovely things.

Mine the Blue Distance, delicate and clear, Mine the Blue Glory of the morning sea, All that the soul so longs for, finds not here, Fond eyes deceive themselves, and find in me.

Scarlet Hail! to the Royal Red of living Blood, Let loose by steel in spirit-freeing flood, Forced from faint forms, by toil or torture torn Staining the patient gates of life new born.

Colour of War and Rage, of Pomp and Show, Banners that flash, red flags that flaunt and glow, Colour of Carnage, Glory, also Shame, Raiment of women women may not name.

I hide in mines, where unborn Rubies dwell, Flicker and flare in fitful fire in Hell, The outpressed life-blood of the grape is mine, Hail! to the Royal Purple Red of Wine.

Strong am I, over strong, to eyes that tire, In the hot hue of Rapine, Riot, Flame. Death and Despair are black, War and Desire, The two red cards in Life's unequal game.

Green I am the Life of Forests, and Wandering Streams, Green as the feathery reeds the Florican love, Young as a maiden, who of her marriage dreams, Still sweetly inexperienced in ways of Love.