Volume Ii Part 102 (1/2)

Out I came from the dancing-place, The night-wind met me face to face,--

A wind off the harbor, cold and keen, ”I know,” it whistled, ”where thou hast been.”

A faint voice fell from the stars above-- ”Thou? whom we lighted to shrines of Love!”

I found when I reached my lonely room A faint sweet scent in the unlit gloom.

And this was the worst of all to bear, For some one had left white lilac there.

The flower you loved, in times that were.

Laurence Hope [1865-1904]

KHRISTNA AND HIS FLUTE

Be still, my heart, and listen, For sweet and yet acute I hear the wistful music Of Khristna and his flute.

Across the cool, blue evenings, Throughout the burning days, Persuasive and beguiling, He plays and plays and plays.

Ah, none may hear such music Resistant to its charms, The household work grows weary, And cold the husband's arms.

I must arise and follow, To seek, in vain pursuit, The blueness and the distance, The sweetness of that flute!

In linked and liquid sequence, The plaintive notes dissolve Divinely tender secrets That none but he can solve.

O Khristna, I am coming, I can no more delay.

”My heart has flown to join thee,”

How shall my footsteps stay?

Beloved, such thoughts have peril; The wish is in my mind That I had fired the jungle, And left no leaf behind,-- Burnt all bamboos to ashes, And made their music mute,-- To save thee from the magic Of Khristna and his flute.

Laurence Hope [1865-1904]

IMPENITENTIA ULTIMA

Before my light goes out forever, if G.o.d should give me choice of graces, I would not reck of length of days, nor crave for things to be; But cry: ”One day of the great lost days, one face of all the faces, Grant me to see and touch once more and nothing more to see!

”For, Lord, I was free of all Thy flowers, but I chose the world's sad roses, And that is why my feet are torn and mine eyes are blind with sweat, But at Thy terrible judgment seat, when this my tired life closes, I am ready to reap whereof I sowed, and pay my righteous debt.

”But once, before the sand is run and the silver thread is broken, Give me a grace and cast aside the veil of dolorous years, Grant me one hour of all mine hours, and let me see for a token Her pure and pitiful eyes s.h.i.+ne out, and bathe her feet with tears.”

Her pitiful hands should calm and her hair stream down and blind me, Out of the sight of night, and out of the reach of fear, And her eyes should be my light whilst the sun went out behind me, And the viols in her voice be the last sound in mine ear.