Chapter IV

Atmâ loved to wander apart. One day he penetrated to a secluded court, whose beauty and silence charmed him more than anything he had hitherto seen. It was Moti's garden.

"High in air the fountain flung
Its living gems, on sunbeams strung
They wreathed and shook the mists among;
A thousand roses audience held,
For floral state the place was meet,
With blissful light and joy replete,
And depths of sweetness unrevealed.

Glittered and sparkled the revelling spray,
Swelled and receded its silvery lay,
Rustled the roses in fervid array,
In fragrance declaring their costly acclaim,
Wafting on soft winds the redolent fame
Of fantasy, fountain, and tuneful refrain.

Joy, Happiness, and Bliss had here
Alighted when from Eden driven,
Poor wanderers of far other sphere
They languished for their native heaven;
And lingering they glamoured all the place,
The flowers bloomed in airs of Paradise,
That lulled the days to dreams of changeless peace.
No marvel were it if to mortal eyes
This garden seemed the threshold of the skies.

But fountain and roses and glittering spray,
Ambrosial converse and redolent lay
Saddened and dimmed in the radiant day,
Unbroken the yellow sunbeams streamed,
As ever the flashing jewels gleamed.
But a shadow fell
And a silent spell
In homage of one who was fairer than they.

And who was the despot whose wondrous array
Of tyrant charms thus over-wrought
With hues of soft humility
The joys of this enchanting spot?
There stood she, envied of the closing day,
Loved by the evening star,
Moti, than costliest jewel of Cathay
More rare and lovelier far.

* * * * *

Weep balmy tears,
O dear white Rose, and tell to am'rous airs
They waste their sweetness on thy charms, and chide
Their ling'ring dalliance, o'er the whole world wide
Bid them on buoyant morning wings to move,
And whisper "Love;"
Fair winds, be tender of her blissful name,
On soft Æolian strings weave dainty dream,
Let but the dove
Hear a faint echo of her happy name;
But tell her worth,
Say that at sight of her the evening dies
Upon the earth,
And bees and little flower bells still their mirth
And jasmines whisp'ring of her starry eyes.

* * * * *

And Atmâ spoke, with love and wonder bold,
"Tread I the valley where the fadeless vine
Drops dew immortal and sweet spices grow
From fragrant roots which in that blessed mould,
Watered by tears of penitential woe,
Drank deep of primal peace and balm divine,
When in the morn of time the tale was told
Of forfeit happiness and ruined shrine?
Tell me, O beauteous Spirit of the bower,
Is it thy gentle task when others sleep,
To guard all that a fallen world may keep
Of pristine bliss and lost felicities,
The fragrant memory of a purer hour,
The healing aroma of Paradise?"

Sweet then the blushing maid replied,
"Among the roses I abide,
I wake the bird, I watch the bee,
No greater toil is set for me;
But tell me, pray thee, with what charge indued
You wander in this quiet solitude."

And Atmâ spoke with joyful fervency,
"I hither came on embassy unguessed,
Most blissful vision of my raptured view,
The dusk delights of quietness and rest
Desired I, nor thought to bid adieu
To all content my fond heart ever knew.

Descending angels of my wisest dreams,
Ye kindly genii, bending from above,
Say, in th'allotment of my life's high themes,
Were hours left for love?
A great design and just my soul employs,
Can high resolve and trancéd rest agree?
Or is there aught than loss in changeful joys
Of mortal love, most mortal in its wane
Which I shall see
And call aloud, 'O Love,' in vain, in vain."

"Bloomy roses die,
Sunbeams have no morrow,
Sweetest songs give place to sigh,
Ah, the speechless sorrow,
Pain of by-and-bye.

I too well have known
Gladness lives a-dying,
Joys are often prized when flown,
Loved when past replying,
Sought when left alone.

Sad when roses pine,
Ah, but love is dearer,
Who would dare to quaff this wine
Knowing Fate the bearer,
Guileful fate of mine?

Moti, peerless flower,
Queen of love and gladness,
Tell me in this happy hour,
Will Joy turn to sadness,
And Love's death-night lower?"

Moti, wise as lovely, pondered,
"'Mong the sunbeams I have wandered,
With the flowers friendship made;
Sweetest blossoms wither,

But alike they fade,
Roses die together,
Beauteous death is made.

Comrades e'en in death are flowers,
Always sweet are friendship's bowers.

Lightly sorrow touches twain,
Only solitude is pain."

* * * * *

Mild were the utterings of the cooing dove,
Who did approve
In myrtle ambuscade this tender lore;
The constant plashing of the fountain spray
Melted in easy numbers, dying away
A quiet cadence, while for evermore
Faded the eve in richest livery wove
Of Tyrian dyes and amber woof t'allure
The soft salaam of slowly sinking day.

Stars shone, and Atmâ said, "'Tis well to be,
The things of earth are painted pleasantly."

But pleasantness is light and versatile,
And moods must change and tranquil breezes veer,
And o'er this blissful hour there came a chill
And sullen shadows slowly creeping near
In lengthening lines, and murkier dusk took form
Of all things ominous, disastrous, ill,
And as a mid-day gloom portending storm,
A lowering fate made prophecy of fear,
And Atmâ knew the menace in the air,
As ghostly shudderings of our fearful life
Foretell the advent of th' assassin's knife.
Low sank his heart before the augury
(For life was dearer on this eventide
Than e'er before), and all dismayed, he cried,
"These are the heralds of calamity
That bid me hence, for all too well I know
The pensive pageantry of mortal woe;
O Love, my Love, this sweetest love may flee
But ever grief has cruel constancy,
Late I bode me with dull-shrouded sorrow,
And well I know her doleful voice again.
Hark! the breezes from the nightshade borrow
A heavy burden of lament and pain,
And where Delight held lately sweet hey-day,
Now like spectres pallid moonbeams play,
Very still the little rosebud sleeps,
Heavily the drooping myrrh tree weeps
Sluggish tears upon the darksome mould."

Quick then did Moti speak, by love made bold,
"No cause is there, O Love, for sad affright,
For I have read the portents of the night;
Of envy dies the glowworm when the moon
Is worshipped in the welkin, and the boon
Of costly tears
Dropped by the bleeding tree, to mortal cares
Is healing balm;
The rosebuds dream, Love, and the soft wind's sigh
Is lullaby.
And yet I know that sorry things befal
Sometimes, withal,
For once it was my grievous task to mourn
A turtle-dove sore wounded by a thorn."

"O sweetest Dove,
May grief be far from thee,
Who lovest sorrow when thou lovest me;
But changeful love
May yet be fixed by grief no more to rove,
And we by woe be bound in constancy.
O Roses, bear me witness of my truth,
Death with my love were life a thousand-fold,
Dear death were fairer than immortal youth
Could it life's weal in friendly arms enfold.
Dark Angel of the River's brink, draw near,
In stable grasp this sovereign hour assure,
Cast icy glamour o'er my love's sweet cheer,
Forever then shall that dear love endure,
An end of sweets fair Chance may hold in store
Were death of all the changeful moods of time,
And boundless being of my love's sweet prime.

Ah, thorny Roses, prate ye still of ruth
And would me my brief hour of bliss deny?
And yet all happy things to love are sooth,
But I, ah me, this destiny so high
Weighs on my spirit like a drowsy spell,
I cannot joy like those, nor stay, I fail
Before the greatness of my high behest,
Ah, high is holiness, but love is rest,
Yes, love is rest, is rest; then blow, sweet gale
Of soft forgetfulness about me still,
And O, ye Roses, balmy breath exhale
And all my consciousness with slumber fill.

And, O sweet Love, I pray you yield me now
One little pearl from the fair coronal
That crowns the loveliness of that calm brow,
And I, where'er I be, will own its thrall,
And gaze on it and dream until I see
A phantom love, before whom I shall fall
And pray, adoring white-robed purity."