Alciphron: A Fragment. Letter III.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.     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.