Classic Poem

Draped in light robes, with tarbouked noul,
I love, half dreaming, to admire
My chibouque's round and polished bowl,
And watch the glow of opium's fire.
Nacarat, golden, from my soul
Its sensuous crackling can inspire —
Rare fancies, which my mind console,
When fading in each smoky gyre.

An Indian temple, massive, grand,
Looms 'fore my sight, and towers in air —
Erected by a sorcerer's hand,
Of architecture strangely rare.
While near its sculptured portals stand
Cohorts of slaves, and almees fair,
Dancing their quaint-tuned saraband,
With bronze-tanned skin, and floating hair.

I rove within the Shiraz vale,
Where onyx fountains jut and play,
Where budding roses, pink and frail,
Bend rorid 'neath their floods of spray;
I slumber midst the lilies pale —
I listen to the linnet's lay,
The subtle powers I quaff, unveil
Sweet dreams of everlasting day.

Far in a mosque I can discern,
Vischnou's and Siva's altars high;
I see the sacred fires that burn
With quivering flamelets to the sky.
I see the dolmaned Guebers stern,
Worship their igneous god, and try
With contrite hearts to win and earn,
The honor by his hand to die.

I soar in dreams, and ravished hear,
Sung by some bard of Gulistan:
A moallak soothing to the ear,
An echo of the caravan
Which passes by, morose and drear,
Out from the town; while, mute, I scan
The kandjared guards, with uncouth gear,
Pacing the streets of Ispahan.

On fair Corea's shelled stream,
My fancy floats without restraint;
Pagodas, wrought in porcelain, teem
On every side, of fabric quaint.

While genii pleased my sense to queme,
The blue-foamed Yang-ste-Kiang, faint
Before my gaze depict in dream,
Ebbing its ripples with my plaint.

Traversing spheres, I undismayed,
Revel my view in Stamboul's sheen;
Mahomet's chosen, pomp arrayed —
Laden with glittering damascene,
Passes with haughty cavalcade,
Armed to the teeth with scimitars keen,
While o'er the turrets of Belgrade
I see the argent min'rets gleen!

In Norway's fields, each frozen fjiord,
Recalls the old chivalric time:
The noble Saga of the Sword,
The Eddas told in Runic rhyme.
Olaf and Frithiof, with their horde
Of stalwart warriors, chapped by rime,
For me still battle on that sward,
And chant their anthems in Drontheim.

Upsala's rugose steeples dart
Their granite splendor through the air;
Odd marvel of old Northern art,
Is this sad, solemn site of prayer.
And 'fore the shrines, so chill and swart —
Kneel suff'ring sinners, bent by care,
As on the rough-hewn steps, the mart
Begins its bustle, and its blare.

The opium's Spirit, ah my quest,
Changes the scene to fair Seville:
Where alamedas, sun-love blessed,
The atmosphere with perfumes fill,
While jet-eyed damsels err or rest
Beneath the shade of trellised vill,
Taunting their gallants to a test,
And time with cigarillos kill.

Along the Chiaja, as I stroll,
Vesuvius belches forth its fire:
But I can free, untrammeled troul
Deep in its jaws, and brave its ire.
With winged feet from pole to pole,
The spirits lead and never tire.
The depth of depths is then my goal,
The inner world is mine entire!

Th' embattled turrets of the Rhine,
Sombre and breme, now greet my sight:
O'erhead the lucent asters shine,
Shedding their calm opaline light.
I see within, elate with wine,
The earnest face of dame and knight,
Quaffing the nectar of the vine —
Narrating tales of love and fight.

Without, I see the mystic dells,
The frisky, fire-haired gnomes at play:
I hear the dorf-kirk's mellow bells —
I hear the wand'ring minstrel's lay.
The Elfen-King his host expels,
To gambol till the dawn of day —
While ouphs and fairies brew their spells,
And toothless witches seek their prey.

On Egypt's arid wastes, the Sphinx
Startles my mind, now opium-drunk:
My chain of thought, ungyved by links,
Deep on the dreggy Nile is sunk.
I here the snorting of the lynx,
The egret's shriek, the crane's dull crunk,
The mammoth eye of Memnon winks —
Chilling my ken, smoke-worn and shrunk.

I see huge Cheops' tortuous crypt,
Its labyrinths so chilly dark:
I see its antique vaults time-nipped,
Its shriveled mummies stiff and stark —
The ibex and the sacred script,
The Copt's odd hierarchic mark,
The iron urnlets jewel-tipped —
And cinerous wealth of dust and chark.

Fleeing cloud-wrapped, refreshed, I pass
From out the sod of colcothar:
To view the giant Kremlin's mass —
Novgorod's domes, and Kazan's star.
Here hirsute moujiks rough and crass,
Swear by their saints, and by their Czar
O'er ev'ry mug of creamy Kvas,
They tipple with their Kaviar.

My balmful drug lends power to sate
The novel yearns for which I ache:
Its genii, as I meditate
My thirst for airy whims can slake.
And with their skill, by gods innate,
O'er worlds and spheres my spirit take,
Until my sleep-cloyed eyes nictate,
And I from my mad wandering wake.