Various - Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 56, Number 348

In the outskirts of the city,
Where the straggling huts are piled,
At a casement stood a pretty
Painted thing, almost a child.

“Greet thee, maiden!” “Thanks—art weary?
Wait, and quickly I’ll appear!”
“What art thou?”—“A Bayaderé,
And the home of love is here.”
She rises; the cymbals she strikes as she dances,
And whirling, and bending with grace, she advances,
And offers him flowers as she undulates near.

O’er the threshold gliding lightly
In she leads him to her room.
“Fear not, gentle stranger; brightly
Shall my lamp dispel the gloom.
Art thou weary? I’ll relieve thee—
Bathe thy feet, and soothe their smart;
All thou askest I can give thee—
Rest, or song, or joy impart.”
She labours to soothe him, she labours to please;
The Deity smiles; for with pleasure he sees
Through deep degradation a right-loving heart.

And he asks for service menial,
And she only strives the more,
Nature’s impulse now is genial
Where but art prevail’d before.
As the fruit succeeds the blossom,
Swells and ripens day by day,
So, where kindness fills the bosom,
Love is never far away.
But he, whose vast motive was deeper and higher,
Selected, more keenly and clearly to try her,
Love, follow’d by anguish, and death, and dismay.

And her rosy cheeks he presses,
And she feels love’s torment sore,
And, thrill’d through by his caresses,
Weeps, that never wept before.
Droops beside him, not dissembling,
Or for passion or for gain,
But her limbs grow faint and trembling,
And no more their strength retain.
Meanwhile the still hours of the night stealing by,
Spread their shadowy woof o’er the face of the sky,
Bringing love and its festival joys in their train.

Lately roused, her arms around him,
Waking up from broken rest,
Dead upon her breast she found him,
Dead—that dearly-cherish’d guest!
Shrieking loud, she flings her o’er him,
But he answers not her cry;
And unto the pile they bore him,
Stark of limb and cold of eye.
She hears the priests chanting—she hears the death-song,
And frantic she rises, and bursts through the throng.
“Who is she? what seeks she? why comes she so nigh?”

But the bier she falleth over,
And her shrieks are loud and shrill—
“I will have my lord, my lover!
In the grave I seek him still.
Shall that godlike frame be wasted
By the fire’s consuming blight?
Mine it was—yea mine! though tasted
Only one delicious night!”
But the priests, they chant ever—“We carry the old,
When their watching is over, their journeys are told;
We carry the young, when they pass from the light!

“Hear us, woman! Him we carry
Was not, could not be, thy spouse.
Art thou not a Bayaderé?
So hast thou no nuptial vows.
Only to death’s silent hollow
With the body goes the shade;
Only wives their husbands follow:
Thus alone is duty paid.
Strike loud the wild turmoil of drum and of gong!
Receive him, ye gods, in your glorious throng—
Receive him in garments of burning array’d!”

Harsh their words, and unavailing,
Swift she threaded through the quire,
And with arms outstretch’d, unquailing
Leap’d into the crackling fire.
But the deed alone sufficeth—
Robed in might and majesty,
From the pile the god ariseth
With the ransom’d one on high.
Divinity joys in a sinner repenting,
And the lost ones of earth, by immortals relenting,
Are borne upon pinions of fire to the sky!

Many weary days I suffer’d,
Sick of heart and poor of purse;
Riches are the greatest blessing—
Poverty the deepest curse!

Till at last to dig a treasure
Forth I went into the wood—
“Fiend! my soul is thine for ever!”
And I sign’d the scroll with blood.

Then I drew the magic circles,
Kindled the mysterious fire,
Placed the herbs and bones in order,
Spoke the incantation dire.
And I sought the buried metal
With a spell of mickle might—
Sought it as my master taught me;
Black and stormy was the night.

And I saw a light appearing
In the distance, like a star;
When the midnight hour was tolling,
Came it waxing from afar:
Came it flashing, swift and sudden;
As if fiery wine it were,
Flowing from an open chalice,
Which a beauteous boy did bear.

And he wore a lustrous chaplet,
And his eyes were full of thought,
As he stepp’d into the circle
With the radiance that he brought.
And he bade me taste the goblet;
And I thought—“It cannot be,
That this boy should be the bearer
Of the Demon’s gifts to me!”

“Taste the draught of pure existence
Sparkling in this golden urn,
And no more with baneful magic
Shalt thou hitherward return.
Do not dig for treasures longer;
Let thy future spellwords be
Days of labour, nights of resting;
So shall peace return to thee!”

There stands an ancient castle
On yonder mountain height,
Where, fenced with door and portal,
Once tarried steed and knight.

But gone are door and portal,
And all is hush’d and still;
O’er ruin’d wall and rafter
I clamber as I will.

A cellar with many a vintage
Once lay in yonder nook;
Where now are the cellarer’s flagons,
And where is his jovial look?

No more he sets the beakers
For the guests at the wassail feast;
Nor fills a flask from the oldest cask
For the duties of the priest.

No more he gives on the staircase
The stoup to the thirsty squires,
And a hurried thanks for the hurried gift
Receives, nor more requires.