Classic Poem

FROM A PICTURE BY STEWARDSON .

The bower is of the Indian drapery
That weaves its living woof of flowers and fruits,
Red with the kisses of the amorous sun;
The roof is canopied crimson of the rose,
Vaulting a couch of violet, here and there
Tinged with some bud fresh weeping from the roof;
And tissued with rich leaves, that force their way
Veining the blue, like gold in lazuli.
A form is in that bower, that might be thought
Placed there for man to worship, or of those
That sit on thrones o' the cloud, and wreathe their wings
With pearls still wet from dews of Paradise.
Yet she is human, and the silvery shawl,
That, like a holy circle o'er a saint,
Crowns her pale beauty, binds a weary brow,
Besieged with memories that make it pale.

*****

She sits upon the ground; and one hand lifts
A flute, that from her lip draws melodies,
Like the wind's wooing of the rose; and one
Holds a bright serpent in a silken band.
Her eye is on him, and his eye on her,
As if she found in him one thing to love;
As if he felt her beauty, not her chain,
And lived upon her melancholy smile.
Her song has stirr'd him; it has stirr'd herself;
For on her eyelash hangs a glistening tear,
The heart's quick tribute to times past and gone;
And such wild sportings as he can he tries
Before her powerful eye, and suits his dance,
Swifter or slower, to her wandering song.
He shoots along the violet floor, and lies
Straight as a prostrate column, and as still
As its pale marble; then sweeps up his coil,
Surge upon surge, and lays his gorgeous head
With its fix'd, sleepless eye i' the centre ring,
The watcher of his living citadel;
Then rolls away as loose as the sea-wave;
Anon, he stoops like the wild swan, and shows
A neck as arch'd and silvery; then the vine
Must be outdone, and he 's as lithe, and curl'd,
And glistens through the leaves as proud a green.
But now the song grows loftier, and his pomp
Must all be worn to please his Indian queen.
He rises from his train, that on the ground
Floats in gold circles, and his glittering head
Towers in the sunset, like a rising flame;
And he has put on colours that make dim
The stones o' the Indian mine: his length is sheathed
In mail, that has for plates the mother-pearl,
And for its studs the diamond: there 's no ray
That strikes his neck from that broad setting sun,
But rings it with a collar of rich gems,
Or sheets it in one emerald, or the flame
Of rubies. From beneath his burning crest
Flashes the eye, a living chrysolite,
Yet fix'd in all its shootings on one form,
That thanks its duty with a faint fond smile.
So stands and shines he till the charm is done,
And that sweet sound and sweeter smile have sunk
In silence and in shade.