Memphis.

There is some star—or may it be

  That moon we saw so near last night—

Which comes athwart my destiny

  For ever with misleading light.

If for a moment pure and wise

  And calm I feel there quick doth fall

A spark from some disturbing eyes,

That thro' my heart, soul, being flies,

  And makes a wildfire of it all.

I've seen—oh, Cleon, that this earth

Should e'er have given such beauty birth!—

That man—but, hold—hear all that past

Since yester-night from first to last.

The rising of the Moon, calm, slow,

  And beautiful, as if she came

Fresh from the Elysian bowers below,

  Was with a loud and sweet acclaim

Welcomed from every breezy height,

Where crowds stood waiting for her light.

And well might they who viewed the scene

  Then lit up all around them, say

That never yet had Nature been

  Caught sleeping in a lovelier ray

Or rivalled her own noontide face

With purer show of moonlight grace.

Memphis—still grand, tho' not the same

  Unrivalled Memphis that could seize

From ancient Thebes the crown of Fame,

  And wear it bright thro' centuries—

Now, in the moonshine, that came down

Like a last smile upon that crown.

Memphis, still grand among her lakes,

  Her pyramids and shrines of fire,

Rose like a vision that half breaks

On one who dreaming still awakes

  To music from some midnight choir:

While to the west—where gradual sinks

  In the red sands from Libya rolled.

Some mighty column or fair sphynx,

  That stood in kingly courts of old—

It seemed as, mid the pomps that shone

Thus gayly round him Time looked on,

Waiting till all now bright and blest,

Should sink beneath him like the rest.

No sooner had the setting sun

Proclaimed the festal rite begun,

And mid their idol's fullest beams

  The Egyptian world was all afloat,

Than I who live upon these streams

Like a young Nile-bird turned my boat

To the fair island on whose shores

Thro' leafy palms and sycamores

Already shone the moving lights

Of pilgrims hastening to the rites.

While, far around like ruby sparks

Upon the water, lighted barks,

Of every form and kind—from those

  That down Syene's cataract shoots,

To the grand, gilded barge that rows

  To tambour's beat and breath of flutes,

And wears at night in words of flame

On the rich prow its master's name;—

All were alive and made this sea

  Of cities busy as a hill

Of summer ants caught suddenly

  In the overflowing of a rill.

Landed upon the isle, I soon

  Thro' marble alleys and small groves

  Of that mysterious palm she loves,

Reached the fair Temple of the Moon;

And there—as slowly thro' the last

Dim-lighted vestibule I past—

Between the porphyry pillars twined

  With palm and ivy, I could see

A band of youthful maidens wind

  In measured walk half dancingly,

Round a small shrine on which was placed

  That bird[1] whose plumes of black and white

Wear in their hue by Nature traced

  A type of the moon's shadowed light.

In drapery like woven snow

These nymphs were clad; and each below

The rounded bosom loosely wore

  A dark blue zone or bandelet,

With little silver stars all o'er

  As are the skies at midnight set.

While in their tresses, braided thro',

  Sparkled that flower of Egypt's lakes,

The silvery lotus in whose hue

  As much delight the young Moon takes

As doth the Day-God to behold

The lofty bean-flower's buds of gold.

And, as they gracefully went round

  The worshipt bird, some to the beat

Of castanets, some to the sound

  Of the shrill sistrum timed their feet;

While others at each step they took

A tinkling chain of silver shook.

They seemed all fair—but there was one

On whom the light had not yet shone,

Or shone but partly—so downcast

She held her brow, as slow she past.

And yet to me there seemed to dwell

  A charm about that unseen face—

A something in the shade that fell

  Over that brow's imagined grace

Which won me more than all the best

Outshining beauties of the rest.

And her alone my eyes could see

Enchained by this sweet mystery;

And her alone I watched as round

She glided o'er that marble ground,

Stirring not more the unconscious air

Than if a Spirit were moving there.

Till suddenly, wide open flew

The Temple's folding gates and threw

A splendor from within, a flood

Of glory where these maidens stood.

While with that light—as if the same

Rich source gave birth to both—there came

A swell of harmony as grand

As e'er was born of voice and band,

Filling the gorgeous aisles around

With luxury of light and sound.

Then was it, by the flash that blazed

  Full o'er her features—oh 'twas then,

As startingly her eyes she raised,

  But quick let fall their lids again,

I saw—not Psyche's self when first

  Upon the threshold of the skies

She paused, while heaven's glory burst

  Newly upon her downcast eyes,

Could look more beautiful or blush

  With holier shame than did this maid,

Whom now I saw in all that gush

  Of splendor from the aisles, displayed.

Never—tho' well thou know'st how much

  I've felt the sway of Beauty's star—

Never did her bright influence touch

  My soul into its depths so far;

And had that vision lingered there

  One minute more I should have flown,

Forgetful who I was and where.

  And at her feet in worship thrown

  Proffered my soul thro' life her own.

But scarcely had that burst of light

And music broke on ear and sight,

Than up the aisle the bird took wing

  As if on heavenly mission sent,

While after him with graceful spring

  Like some unearthly creatures, meant

  To live in that mixt element

  Of light and song the young maids went;

And she who in my heart had thrown

A spark to burn for life was flown.

In vain I tried to follow;—bands

  Of reverend chanters filled the aisle:

Where'er I sought to pass, their wands

  Motioned me back, while many a file

Of sacred nymphs—but ah, not they

Whom my eyes looked for thronged the way.

Perplext, impatient, mid this crowd

Of faces, lights—the o'erwhelming cloud

Of incense round me, and my blood

Full of its new-born fire—I stood,

Nor moved, nor breathed, but when I caught

  A glimpse of some blue, spangled zone,

Or wreath of lotus, which I thought

  Like those she wore at distance shone.

But no, 'twas vain—hour after hour,

  Till my heart's throbbing turned to pain,

And my strained eyesight lost its power,

  I sought her thus, but all in vain.

At length, hot—wildered—in despair,

I rushed into the cool night-air,

And hurrying (tho' with many a look

Back to the busy Temple) took

My way along the moonlight shore,

And sprung into my boat once more.

There is a Lake that to the north

Of Memphis stretches grandly forth,

Upon whose silent shore the Dead

  Have a proud city of their own,[2]

With shrines and pyramids o'erspread—

Where many an ancient kingly head

  Slumbers, immortalized in stone;

And where thro' marble grots beneath

  The lifeless, ranged like sacred things,

Nor wanting aught of life but breath,

  Lie in their painted coverings,

And on each new successive race

  That visit their dim haunts below

Look with the same unwithering face

  They wore three thousand years ago.

There. Silence, thoughtful God, who loves

The neighborhood of death in groves

Of asphodel lies hid and weaves

His hushing spell among the leaves—

Nor ever noise disturbs the air

  Save the low, humming, mournful sound

Of priests within their shrines at prayer

  For the fresh Dead entombed around.

'Twas toward this place of death—in mood

  Made up of thoughts, half bright, half dark—

I now across the shining flood

  Unconscious turned my light-winged bark.

The form of that young maid in all

  Its beauty was before me still;

And oft I thought, if thus to call

  Her image to my mind at will,

If but the memory of that one

Bright look of hers for ever gone,

Was to my heart worth all the rest

Of woman-kind, beheld, possest—

What would it be if wholly mine,

Within these arms as in a shrine,

Hallowed by Love, I saw her shine—

An idol, worshipt by the light

Of her own beauties, day and night—

If 'twas a blessing but to see

And lose again, what would this be?

In thoughts like these—but often crost

By darker threads—my mind was lost,

Till near that City of the Dead,

Waked from my trance, I saw o'erhead—

As if by some enchanter bid

  Suddenly from the wave to rise—

Pyramid over pyramid

  Tower in succession to the skies;

While one, aspiring, as if soon,

  'Twould touch the heavens, rose over all;

And, on its summit, the white moon

  Rested as on a pedestal!

The silence of the lonely tombs

  And temples round where naught was heard

But the high palm-tree's tufted plumes,

  Shaken at times by breeze or bird,

Formed a deep contrast to the scene

Of revel where I late had been;

To those gay sounds that still came o'er,

Faintly from many a distant shore,

And the unnumbered lights that shone

Far o'er the flood from Memphis on

To the Moon's Isle and Babylon.

My oars were lifted and my boat

  Lay rocked upon the rippling stream;

While my vague thoughts alike afloat,

  Drifted thro' many an idle dream.

With all of which, wild and unfixt

As was their aim, that vision mixt,

That bright nymph of the Temple—now,

With the same innocence of brow

She wore within the lighted fane—

Now kindling thro' each pulse and vein

With passion of such deep-felt fire

As Gods might glory to inspire;—

And now—oh Darkness of the tomb,

  That must eclipse even light like hers!

Cold, dead, and blackening mid the gloom

  Of those eternal sepulchres.

Scarce had I turned my eyes away

  From that dark death-place, at the thought,

When by the sound of dashing spray

  From a light oar my ear was caught,

While past me, thro' the moonlight, sailed.

  A little gilded bark that bore

Two female figures closely veiled

  And mantled towards that funeral shore.

They landed—and the boat again

Put off across the watery plain.

Shall I confess—to thee I may—

  That never yet hath come the chance

Of a new music, a new ray

  From woman's voice, from woman's glance,

Which—let it find me how it might,

  In joy or grief—I did not bless,

And wander after as a light

  Leading to undreamt, happiness.

And chiefly now when hopes so vain

Were stirring in my heart and brain,

When Fancy had allured my soul

  Into a chase as vague and far

As would be his who fixt his goal

  In the horizon or some star—

Any bewilderment that brought

More near to earth my high-flown thought—

The faintest glimpse of joy, less pure,

Less high and heavenly, but more sure,

Came welcome—and was then to me

What the first flowery isle must be

To vagrant birds blown out to sea.

Quick to the shore I urged my bark,

  And by the bursts of moonlight shed

Between the lofty tombs could mark

  Those figures as with hasty tread

They glided on—till in the shade

  Of a small pyramid, which thro'

Some boughs of palm its peak displayed,

  They vanisht instant from my view.

I hurried to the spot—no trace

Of life was in that lonely place;

And had the creed I hold by taught

Of other worlds I might have thought

Some mocking spirits had from thence

Come in this guise to cheat my sense.

At length, exploring darkly round

The Pyramid's smooth sides, I found

An iron portal—opening high

  'Twixt peak and base—and, with a prayer

To the bliss-loving Moon whose eye

  Alone beheld me sprung in there.

Downward the narrow stairway led

Thro' many a duct obscure and dread,

  A labyrinth for mystery made,

With wanderings onward, backward, round,

And gathering still, where'er it wound.

  But deeper density of shade.

Scarce had I asked myself, "Can aught

  "That man delights in sojourn here?"—

When, suddenly, far off, I caught

  A glimpse of light, remote, but clear—

Whose welcome glimmer seemed to pour

  From some alcove or cell that ended

The long, steep, marble corridor,

  Thro' which I now, all hope, descended.

Never did Spartan to his bride

With warier foot at midnight glide.

It seemed as echo's self were dead

In this dark place, so mute my tread.

Reaching at length that light, I saw—

  Oh! listen to the scene now raised

Before my eyes—then guess the awe,

  The still, rapt awe with which I gazed.

'Twas a small chapel, lined around

With the fair, spangling marble found

In many a ruined shrine that stands

Half seen above the Libyan sands.

The walls were richly sculptured o'er,

And charactered with that dark lore

Of times before the Flood, whose key

Was lost in the "Universal Sea."—

While on the roof was pictured bright

  The Theban beetle as he shines,

  When the Nile's mighty flow declines

And forth the creature springs to light,

With life regenerate in his wings:—

Emblem of vain imaginings!

Of a new world, when this is gone,

In which the spirit still lives on!

Direct beneath this type, reclined

  On a black granite altar, lay

A female form, in crystal shrined,

  And looking fresh as if the ray

  Of soul had fled but yesterday,

While in relief of silvery hue

  Graved on the altar's front were seen

A branch of lotus, broken in two,

  As that fair creature's life had been,

And a small bird that from its spray

Was winging like her soul away.

But brief the glimpse I now could spare

  To the wild, mystic wonders round;

For there was yet one wonder there

  That held me as by witchery bound.

The lamp that thro' the chamber shed

Its vivid beam was at the head

Of her who on that altar slept;

  And near it stood when first I came—

Bending her brow, as if she kept

  Sad watch upon its silent flame—

A female form as yet so placed

  Between the lamp's strong glow and me,

That I but saw, in outline traced,

  The shadow of her symmetry.

Yet did my heart—I scarce knew why—

Even at that shadowed shape beat high.

Nor was it long ere full in sight

The figure turned; and by the light

That touched her features as she bent

Over the crystal monument,

I saw 'twas she—the same—the same—

  That lately stood before me, brightening

The holy spot where she but came

  And went again like summer lightning!

Upon the crystal o'er the breast

Of her who took that silent rest,

There was a cross of silver lying—

  Another type of that blest home,

Which hope and pride and fear of dying

  Build for us in a world to come:—

This silver cross the maiden raised

To her pure lips:—then, having gazed

Some minutes on that tranquil face,

Sleeping in all death's mournful grace,

Upward she turned her brow serene,

  As if intent on heaven those eyes

Saw them nor roof nor cloud between

  Their own pure orbits and the skies,

And, tho' her lips no motion made,

  And that fixt look was all her speech,

I saw that the rapt spirit prayed

  Deeper within than words could reach.

Strange power of Innocence, to turn

  To its own hue whate'er comes near,

And make even vagrant Passion burn

  With purer warmth within its sphere!

She who but one short hour before

Had come like sudden wild-fire o'er

My heart and brain—whom gladly even

  From that bright Temple in the face

Of those proud ministers of heaven,

  I would have borne in wild embrace,

And risked all punishment, divine

And human, but to make her mine;—

She, she was now before me, thrown

  By fate itself into my arms—

There standing, beautiful, alone,

  With naught to guard her but her charms.

Yet did I, then—did even a breath

  From my parched lips, too parched to move,

Disturb a scene where thus, beneath

  Earth's silent covering, Youth and Death

  Held converse thro' undying love?

No—smile and taunt me as thou wilt—

  Tho' but to gaze thus was delight,

Yet seemed it like a wrong, a guilt,

  To win by stealth so pure a sight:

And rather than a look profane

  Should then have met those thoughtful eyes,

Or voice or whisper broke the chain

That linked her spirit with the skies,

I would have gladly in that place

From which I watched her heavenward face,

Let my heart break, without one beat

That could disturb a prayer so sweet.

Gently, as if on every tread.

  My life, my more than life depended,

Back thro' the corridor that led

  To this blest scene I now ascended,

And with slow seeking and some pain

And many a winding tried in vain

Emerged to upper earth again.

The sun had freshly risen, and down

  The marble hills of Araby,

Scattered as from a conqueror's crown

  His beams into that living sea.

There seemed a glory in his light,

  Newly put on—as if for pride.

Of the high homage paid this night

  To his own Isis, his young bride.,

Now fading feminine away

In her proud Lord's superior ray.

My mind's first impulse was to fly

  At once from this entangling net—

New scenes to range, new loves to try,

Or in mirth, wine and luxury

Of every sense that might forget.

But vain the effort—spell-bound still,

I lingered, without power or will

  To turn my eyes from that dark door,

Which now enclosed her 'mong the dead;

 Oft fancying, thro' the boughs that o'er

The sunny pile their flickering shed.

'Twas her light form again I saw

  Starting to earth—still pure and bright,

But wakening, as I hoped, less awe,

  Thus seen by morning's natural light,

  Than in that strange, dim cell at night.

But no, alas—she ne'er returned:

  Nor yet—tho' still I watch—nor yet,

Tho' the red sun for hours hath burned,

  And now in his mid course hath met

The peak of that eternal pile

  He pauses still at noon to bless,

Standing beneath his downward smile,

  Like a great Spirit shadowless!—

Nor yet she comes—while here, alone,

  Sauntering thro' this death-peopled place,

Where no heart beats except my own,

Or 'neath a palm-tree's shelter thrown,

  By turns I watch and rest and trace

These lines that are to waft to thee

My last night's wondrous history.

Dost thou remember, in that Isle

  Of our own Sea where thou and I

Lingered so long, so happy a while,

  Till all the summer flowers went by—

How gay it was when sunset brought

  To the cool Well our favorite maids—

Some we had won, and some we sought—

  To dance within the fragrant shades,

And till the stars went down attune

Their Fountain Hymns[3] to the young moon?

That time, too—oh, 'tis like a dream—

  When from Scamander's holy tide

I sprung as Genius of the Stream,

  And bore away that blooming bride,

Who thither came, to yield her charms

  (As Phrygian maids are wont ere wed)

Into the cold Scamander's arms,

  But met and welcomed mine, instead—

Wondering as on my neck she fell,

How river-gods could love so well!

Who would have thought that he who roved

  Like the first bees of summer then,

Rifling each sweet nor ever loved

  But the free hearts that loved again,

Readily as the reed replies

To the least breath that round it sighs—

Is the same dreamer who last night

Stood awed and breathless at the sight

Of one Egyptian girl; and now

Wanders among these tombs with brow

Pale, watchful, sad, as tho' he just,

Himself, had risen from out their dust!

Yet so it is—and the same thirst

  For something high and pure, above

This withering world, which from the first

  Made me drink deep of woman's love—

As the one joy, to heaven most near

Of all our hearts can meet with here—

Still burns me up, still keeps awake

A fever naught but death can slake.

Farewell; whatever may befall—

Or bright, or dark—thou'lt know it all.

[1] The Ibis.

[2] Necropolis, or the City of the Dead, to the south of Memphis.

[3] These Songs of the Well, as they were called by the ancients, are still common in the Greek isles.