PART I_Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse

Produced by David Widger

FRINGILLA: SOME TALES IN VERSE

By Richard Doddridge Blackmore

Illustrated by Louis Fairfax-Muckley and James W. R. Linton

CONTENTS:

TO MY PEN

LITA OF THE NILE

KADISHA; OR, THE FIRST JEALOUSY

MOUNT ARAFA

THE WELL OF SAINT JOHN

PAUSIAS AND GLYCERA; OR, THE FIRST FLOWER-PAINTER

BUSCOMBE; OR, A MICHAELMAS GOOSE

FAME

[Illustration: 013]

[_Fringilla loquitur_]

"What means your finch?"

"Being well aware that he cannot sing like a Nightingale,

He flits about from tree to tree, and twitters a little tale."

Albeit he is an ancient bird, who tried

his pipe in better days, and then was

scared by random shots, he is fain to

lift the migrant wing once more towards the

humble perch, among the trees he loves. All

gardeners own that he does no harm, unless

he flits into a thicket of young buds, or a very

choice ladies' seed-bed. And he hopes that he is

now too wise to commit such indiscretions.

Perhaps it would have been wiser still to

have shut up his little mandible, or employed it

only upon grub. But the long gnaw of last

winter's frost, which set mankind a-shivering,

even in their most downy nest, has made them

kindly to the race that has no roof for shelter

and no hearth for warmth.

Anyhow, this little finch can do no harm,

if he does no good; and if he pleases nobody,

he will not be surprised, because he has never

satisfied himself.

May-day, 1895.

NOTE

With kind consent of Messrs. Harper, "Buscombe" returns in altered form

from the other side of the ocean. Two other little tales appeared of

old, but nobody would look at them, and now they are offered after

careful trimming.

Standing afar. I gaze with doubt at other trimmings which are not mine.

They have conquered the taste of the day perhaps, and high art announces

them as her last transfiguration. Moreover they are highly recommended--

as the purest art not always is--by the modesty of the artist.

The cover design, borders, initial letters and the whole of the

full-page illustrations--with the exception of the three to 'Pausias

and Glycera' by James W. R. Linton--are by Louis Fairfax-Muckley.

[Illustration: 017.]

Thou feeble implement of mind,

Wherewith she strove to scrawl her

name;

But, like a mitcher, left behind

No signature, no stroke, no claim,

No hint that she hath pined--

Shall ever come a stronger time,

When thou shalt be a tool of skill,

And steadfast purpose, to fulfil

A higher task than rhyme?

Thou puny instrument of soul,

Wherewith she labours to impart

Her efforts at some arduous goal;

But fails to bring thy coarser art

Beneath a fine control--

Shall ever come a fairer day,

When thou shalt be a buoyant plume,

To soar, where clearer suns illume,

And fresher breezes play?

[Illustration: 020.]

[Illustration: 023.]

III

Thou weak interpreter of heart,

So impotent to tell the tale

Of love's delight, of envy's smart,

Of passion, and ambition's bale,

Of pride that dwells apart--

Shall I, in length of time, attain

(By walking in the human ways,

With love of Him, who made and sways)

To ply thee, less in vain?

If so, thou shalt be more to me

Than sword, or sceptre, flag, or crown;

With mind, and soul, and heart in thee,

Despising gold, and sham renown;

But truthful, kind, and free--

Then come; though now a pithless quill,

Uncouth, unfledged, indefinite,--

In time, thou shalt be taught to write,

By patience, and good-will.

LITA OF THE NILE

A TALE IN THREE PARTS

PART I

"KING, and Father, gift and giver,

God revealed in form of river,

Issuing perfect, and sublime,

From the fountain-head of time;

"Whom eternal mystery shroudeth,

Unapproached, untracked, unknown;

Whom the Lord of heaven encloudeth

With the curtains of His throne;

"From the throne of heaven descending,

Glory, power, and goodness blending,

Grant us, ere the daylight dies,

Token of thy rapid rise,"

Ha, it cometh! Furrowing, flashing,

Red blood rushing o'er brown breast;

Peaks, and ridges, and domes, dashing

Foam on foam, and crest on crest!

'Tis the signal Thebes hath waited,

Libyan Thebes, the hundred-gated:

Rouse, and robe thee, River-priest

For thy dedication feast!

Follows him the loveliest maiden,

Afric's thousand hills can show;

White apparel'd, flower-laden,

With the lotus on her brow.

III

Votive maid, who hath espousal

Of the river's high carousal;

Twenty cubits if he rise,

This shall be his bridal prize.

Calm, and meek of face and carriage,

Deigning scarce a quicker breath,

Comes she to the funeral marriage,

The betrothal of black death.

Rosy hands, and hennaed fingers,

Nails whereon the onyx lingers,

Clasped, as at a lover's tale,

In the bosom's marble vale.

Silvery scarf, her waist enwreathing,

Wafts a soft Sabaean balm;

Like a cloud of incense, breathing

Round the column of a palm:

Snood of lilies interweaveth

(Giving less than it receiveth)

Beauty of her clustered brow,

Calmly bent upon us now.

Through her dark hair, spread before

See the western glory wane,

As in groves of dim Cytorus,

Or the bowers of Taprobane!

See, the large eyes, lit by heaven,

Brighter than the Sisters Seven,

(Like a star the storm hath cowed)

Sink their flash in sorrow's cloud.

There the crystal tear refraineth,

And the founts of grief are dry;

"Father, Mother--none remaineth;

All are dead; and why not I?"

Yet, by God's will, heavenly beauty

Owes to Heaven alone its duty;

Off ye priests, who dare adjudge

Bride, like this, to slime and sludge!

When they tread the river's margent,

All their mitred heads are bowed--

What hath browned the ripples argent,

Like the plume of thunder-cloud?

Where yestreen the water slumbered,

With a sickly crust encumbered,

Leapeth now a roaring flood,

Wild as war, and red as blood.

Every billow hurries quicker,

Every surge runs up the strand;

While the brindled eddies flicker,

Scourged as with a levin brand.

VII

Every bulrush, parched and welted,

Lifts his long joints yellow-belted;

Every lotus, faint and sick,

Hangs her fragrant tongue to lick.

Countless creatures, lone unthought of,

Swarm from every hole and nook;

What is man, that he make nought of

Other entries in God's book?

Scorpions, rats, and lizards flabby,

Centipedes, and hydras scabby,

Asp, and slug, and toad, whose gem

Outlasts human diadem.

VIII

Therefore hath the priest-procession

Causeway clean of sandal-wood;

That no foul thing make transgression

On the votive maiden's blood.

Pure of blood and soul, she standeth

Where the marble gauge demandeth,

Marble pillar, with black style,

Record of the rising Nile,

White-robed priests around her kneeling,

Ibis-banner floating high,

Conchs, and drums, and sistrals pealing,

And Sesostris standing nigh.

He, whose kingdom-city stretches

Further than our eyesight fetches;

Every street it wanders down

Larger than a regal town;

Built, when each man was a giant,

When the rocks were mason's stones,

When the oaks were osiers pliant,

And the mountains scarcely thrones;

City, whose Titanic portals

Scorn the puny modern mortals,

In thy desert winding-sheet,

Sacred from our insect feet.

Thebes No-Amon, hundred-gated,

Every gate could then unfold

Cavalry ten thousand, plated,

Man and horse, in solid gold.

Glancing back through serried ranges,

Vivid as his own phalanges,

Every captain might espy

Equal host in sculpture vie;

Down Piromid vista gazing,

Ten miles back from every gate,

He can see that temple blazing,

Which the world shall never mate.

But the Nile-flood, when it swelleth,

Recks not man, nor where he dwelleth;

And--e'en while Sesostris reigns--

Scarce five cubits man attains.

Lo, the darkening river quaileth,

Like a swamp by giant trod,

And the broad commotion waileth,

Stricken with the hand of God I

When the rushing deluge raging

Flung its flanks, and shook the staging,

Priesthood, cowering from the brim,

Chanted thus its faltering hymn.

XII

"Ocean sire, the earth enclasping,

Like a babe upon thy knee,

In thy cosmic cycle grasping

All that hath been, or shall be;

"Thou, that art around and over

All we labour to discover;

Thou, to whom our world no more

Than a shell is on thy shore;

"God, that wast Supreme, or ever

Orus, or Osiris, saw;

God, with whom is no endeavour,

But thy will eternal law:

XIII

"We, who keep thy feasts and fastings,

We, who live on thy off-castings,

Here in low obeisance crave

Rich abundance of thy wave.

"Seven years now, for some transgression,

Some neglect, or outrage vile,

Vainly hath our poor procession

Offered life, and soul to Nile.

"Seven years now of promise fickle,

Niggard ooze, and paltry trickle,

Freshet sprinkling scanty dole,

Where the roaring flood should roll.

XIV

"Therefore are thy children dwindled,

Therefore is thine altar bare;

Wheat, and rye, and millet spindled,

And the fruits of earth despair.

"Men with haggard bellies languish,

Bridal beds are strewn with anguish,

Mothers sell their babes for bread,

Half the holy kine are dead.

"Is thy wrath at last relaxing?

Art thou merciful, once more?

Yea, behold the torrent waxing!

Yea, behold the flooded shore!

"Nile, that now with life-blood tidest,

And in gorgeous cold subsidest,

Richer than our victor tread

Stirred in far Hydaspes' bed;

"When thy swelling crest o'er-waveth

Yonder twenty cubit mark,

And thy tongue of white foam laveth

Borders of the desert dark,

"This, the fairest Theban maiden,

Shall be thine, with jewels laden;

Lift thy furrowed brow, and see

_Lita_, dedicate to thee!"

[Illustration: 032.]

XVI

Thus he spake, and lowly stooping

O'er the Calasiris hem,

Took the holy water, scooping

With a bowl of lucid gem;

Chanting from the Bybline psalter

Touched he then her forehead altar;

Sleeking back the trickled jet,

There the marriage-seal he set.

"None of mortals dare pursue thee,

None come near thy hallowed side:

Nile's thou art, and he shall woo thee,--

Nile, who swalloweth his bride."

XVII

With despair's mute self-reliance,

She accepted death's affiance;

She, who hath no home or rest,

Shrank not from the river's breast.

Haply there she shall discover

Father, lost in wilds unknown,

Mother slain, and youthful lover,

Seen as yet in dreams alone.

Ha! sweet maid, what sudden vision

Hath dispelled thy cold derision?

What new picture hast thou seen,

Of a world that might have been?

XVIII

From Mount Seir, Duke Iram roveth,

Three renewals of the moon:

To see Egypt him behoveth,

Ere his life be past its noon.

Soul, and mind, at first fell under

Flat discomfiture of wonder,

With the Nile before him spread,

Temple-crowned, and tempest-fed!

Yet a nobler creed he owneth,

Than to worship things of space:

One true God his heart enthroneth

Heart that throbs with Esau's race.

XIX

Thus he stood, with calm eyes scorning

Idols, priests, and their adorning;

Seeing, e'en in nature's show,

Him alone, who made it so.

"God of Abraham, our Father,

Earth, and heaven, and all we see,

Are but gifts of thine, to gather

Us, thy children, back to Thee.

"All the grandeur spread before us,

All the miracles shed o'er us,

Echoes of the voice above,

Tokens of a Father's love."

While of heaven his heart indited,

And his dark eyes swept the crowd,

Sudden on the maid they lighted,

Mild and haughty, meek and proud.

Rapid as the flash of sabre,

Strong as giant's toss of caber,

Sure as victor's grasp of goal,

Came the love-stroke through his soul

Gently she, her eyes recalling,

Felt that Heaven had touched their flight,

Peeped again, through lashes falling,

Blushed, and shrank, and shunned the light

XXI

Ah, what booteth sweet illusion,

Fluttering glance, and soft suffusion,

Bliss unknown, but felt in sighs,

Breast, that shrinks at its own rise?

She, who is the Nile's devoted,

Courted with a watery smile;

Her betrothal duly noted

By the bridesmaid Crocodile!

So she bowed her forehead lowly,

Tightened her tiara holy;

And, with every sigh suppressed,

Clasped her hands on passion's breast.