POEMS FROM EASTERN SOURCES:
THE STEADFAST PRINCE;
AND OTHER POEMS.

BY
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.
LONDON:
EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET.
MDCCCXLII.

LONDON:
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.

CONTENTS.

ERRATA.

Page [39], line 9, for one read our.

— [191], — 11, dele comma.

— [215], — 2, for light read slight.

POEMS
FROM
EASTERN SOURCES.

NOTE.

The following Poems bear somewhat a vague title, because such only would describe the nature of Poems which have been derived in very different degrees from the sources thus indicated. Some are mere translations; others have been modelled anew, and only such portions used of the originals as were adapted to my purpose: of others it is only the imagery and thought which are Eastern, and these have been put together in new combinations; while of others it is the story, and nothing more, which has been borrowed, it may be from some prose source. On this subject, however, more information will be given in the Notes.

ALEXANDER AT THE GATES OF PARADISE.
A Legend from the Talmud.

Fierce was the glare of Cashmere’s middle day,

When Alexander for Hydaspes bent,

Through trackless wilds urged his impetuous way

Yet in that vast and sandy continent

A little vale he found, so calm, so sweet,

He there awhile to tarry was content.

A crystal stream was murmuring at his feet,

Whereof the Monarch, when his meal was done,

Took a long draught, to slake his fever heat.

Again he drank, and yet again, as one

Who would have drained that river crystalline

Of all its waves, and left it dry anon:

For in his veins, ofttimes a-fire with wine,

And in his bosom, throne of sleepless pride,

The while he drank, went circling peace divine.

It seemed as though all evil passions died

Within him, slaked was every fire accurst;

So that in rapturous joy aloud he cried:

“Oh! might I find where these pure waters first

Shoot sparkling from their living fountain-head,

Oh! there to quench my spirit’s inmost thirst.

“Sure, if we followed where these waters led,

We should at last some fairer region gain

Than yet has quaked beneath our iron tread,—

“Some land that should in very truth contain

Whate’er we dream of beautiful and bright,

And idly dreaming of, pursue in vain;

“That land must stoop beneath our conquering might.

Companions dear, this toil remains alone,

To win that region of unmatched delight.

“Oh faithful in a thousand labours known,

One toil remains, the noblest and the last;

Let us arise—and make that land our own.”

—Through realms of darkness, wildernesses vast,

All populous with sights and sounds of fear,

In heat and cold, by day and night, he past,

With trumpet clang, with banner and with spear,

Yearning to drink that river, where it sent

Its first pure waters forth, serene and clear;

Till boldest captains sank, their courage spent,

And dying cried—“This stream all search defies,”—

But never would he tarry nor repent,

Nor pitched his banners, till before his eyes

Rose high as heaven in its secluded state

The mighty verdant wall of Paradise.

And lo! that stream, which early still and late

He had tracked upward, issued bright and clear

From underneath the angel-guarded gate:

—“And who art thou that hast adventured here,

Daring to startle this serene abode

With flash of mortal weapons, sword and spear?”

So the angelic sentinel of God,

Fire flashing, to the bold invader cried,

Whose feet profane those holy precincts trod.

The Son of Philip without dread replied,

“Is Alexander’s fame unknown to thee,

Which the world knows—mine, who have victory tied

“To my sword’s hilt, and who, while stoop to me

All other lands, would win what rich or fair

This land contains, and have it mine in fee?”

—“Thou dost thyself proclaim that part or share

Thou hast not here.—O man of blood and sin,

Go back—with those blood-stainèd hands despair

“This place of love and holy peace to win:

This is the gate of righteousness, and they,

The righteous, only here may enter in.”

Around, before him, lightnings dart and play:

He undismayed—“Of travail long and hard

At least some trophy let me bear away.”

—“Lo! then this skull—which if thou wilt regard,

And to my question seek for fit reply,

All thy long labours shall have full reward.

“Once in that hollow circle lodged an eye,

That was, like thine, for ever coveting,

Which worlds on worlds had failed to satisfy.

“Now while thou gazest on that ghastly ring,

From whence of old a greedy eye outspied,

Say thou what was it,—for there was a thing,—

“Which filled at last and throughly satisfied

The eye that in that hollow circle dwelt,

So that, ‘Enough, I have enough,’ it cried.”

—Blank disappointment at the gift he felt,

And hardly taking, turned in scorn away,

Nor he the riddle of the Angel spelt,

But cried unto his captains, “We delay,

And at these portals lose our time in vain,

By more than mortal terrors kept at bay:

“Come—other lands as goodly spoils contain,

Come—all too long untouched the Indian gold,

The pearls and spice of Araby remain.

“Come, and who will this riddle may unfold.”

Then stood before him, careless of his ire,

An Indian sage, and rendered answer bold—

“Lord of the world, commanded to enquire

What was it that could satisfy an eye,

That organ of man’s wandering vast desire,—

“By deed and word thou plainly dost reply,

That its desire can nothing tame or quell,

That it can never know sufficiency.

“While thou enlargest thy desire as hell,

Filling thine hand, but filling not thy lust,

Thou dost proclaim man’s eye insatiable:

“Such answer from thy lips were only just;

Yet ’twas not so. One came at last, who threw

Into yon face an heap of vilest dust,

“Whereof a few small grains did fall into

And filled the orb and hollow of that eye,

When that which suffisance not ever knew,

Was fain, ‘Enough, I have enough,’ to cry.”

CHIDHER’S WELL.

I.

Thee have thousands sought in vain

Over land and barren main,

II.

Chidher’s well,—of which they say

That it maketh young again;

III.

Fountain of eternal youth,

Washing free from every stain.

IV.

To its waves the aged moons

Aye betake them, when they wane;

V.

And the suns their golden light,

While they bathe therein, retain.

VI.

From that fountain drops are flung,

Mingling with the vernal rain,

VII.

And the old Earth clothes itself

In its young attire again.

VIII.

Thitherward the freckled trout

Up the water-courses strain,

IX.

And the timid wild gazelles

Seek it through the desert plain.

X.

Great Iskander[^A], mighty Lord,

Sought that fountain, but in vain;

XI.

Through the land of darkness went

In its quest with fruitless pain,

XII.

While through wealth of conquered worlds

Did his thirst unslaked remain.

XIII.

Many more with parchèd lip

Must lie down, and dizzy brain,

XIV.

And of that, a fountain sealed

Unto them, in death complain.

XV.

If its springs to thee are known,

Weary wanderer, tell me plain.

XVI.

From beneath the throne of God

It must well, a lucid vein.

XVII.

To its sources lead me, Lord,

That I do not thirst again,

XVIII.

And my lips not any more

Shall the earth’s dark waters stain.

[A] Alexander.

THE BANISHED KINGS.

On a fair ship, borne swiftly o’er the deep,

A man was lying, wrapt in dreamless sleep;

When unawares upon a sunken rock

That vessel struck, and shattered with the shock.

But strange! the plank where lay the sleeper bore

Him wrapt in deep sleep ever, to the shore:

It bore him safely through the foam and spray,

High up on land, where couched ’mid flowers he lay.

Sweet tones first woke him from his sleep, when round

His couch observant multitudes he found:

All hailed him then, and did before him bow,

And with one voice exclaimed,—“Our King art thou.”

With jubilant applause they bore him on,

And set him wondering on a royal throne:

And some his limbs with royal robes arrayed,

And some before him duteous homage paid,

And some brought gifts, all rare and costly things,

Nature’s and Art’s profusest offerings.

Around him counsellors and servants prest,

All eager to accomplish his behest.

Wish unaccomplished of his soul was none;

The thing that he commanded, it was done.

Much he rejoiced, and he had well nigh now

Forgotten whence he hither came, and how;

Until at eve, of homage weary grown,

He craved a season to be left alone.

Alone in hall magnificent he sate,

And mused upon the wonder of his fate,

When lo! an aged counsellor, a seer

Before unnoticed, to the King drew near,

—“And thee would I too gratulate, my son,

Who hast thy reign in happy hour begun:

Seen hast thou the beginning, yet attend,

While I shall also shew to thee the end.

That this new fortune do not blind thee quite,

Both sides observe, its shadowy as its bright:

Heed what so many who have ruled before,

Failing to heed, must rue for evermore.

Though sure thy state and firm thy throne appear,

King only art thou for the Present here.

A time is fixed, albeit unknown to thee,

Which when it comes, thou banished hence shalt be.

Round this fair isle, though hidden from the eye

By mist and vapour, many islands lie:

Bare are their coasts, and dreary and forlorn,

And unto them the banished kings are borne;

On each of these an exiled king doth mourn.

For when a new king comes, they bear away

The old, whom now no vassals more obey;

Unhonoured and unwilling he is sent

Unto his dreary island banishment,

While all who girt his throne with service true

Now fall away from him, to serve the new.

“What I have told thee lay betimes to heart,

And ere thy rule is ended, take thy part,

That thou hereafter on thine isle forlorn

Do not thy vanished kingdom vainly mourn,

When nothing of its pomp to thee remains,

On that bare shore, save only memory’s pains.

“Much, O my Prince! my words have thee distrest,

Thy head has sunk in sorrow on thy breast;

Yet idle sorrow helps not—I will show

A nobler way, which shall true help bestow.

This counsel take—to others given in vain,

While no belief from them my words might gain.—

Know then whilst thou art Monarch here, there stand

Helps for the future many at command.

Then, while thou canst, employ them to adorn

That island, whither thou must once be borne.

Unbuilt and waste and barren now that strand,

There gush no fountains from the thirsty sand,

No groves of palm-trees have been planted there,

Nor plants of odorous scent embalm that air,

While all alike have shunned to contemplate

That they should ever change their flattering state.

But make thou there provision of delight,

Till that which now so threatens, may invite;

Bid there thy servants build up royal towers,

And change its barren sands to leafy bowers;

Bid fountains there be hewn, and cause to bloom

Immortal amaranths, shedding rich perfume.

So when the world, which speaks thee now so fair,

And flatters so, again shall strip thee bare,

And sends thee naked forth in harshest wise,

Thou joyfully wilt seek thy Paradise.

There will not vex thee memories of the past,

While hope will heighten here the joys thou hast.

This do, while yet the power is in thine hand,

While thou hast helps so many at command.”

Then raised the Prince his head with courage new,

And what the sage advised, prepared to do.

He ruled his realm with meekness, and meanwhile

He marvellously decked the chosen isle;

Bade there his servants build up royal towers,

And change its barren sands to leafy bowers;

Bade fountains there be hewn, and caused to bloom

Immortal amaranths, shedding rich perfume.

And when he long enough had kept his throne,

To him sweet odours from that isle were blown:

Then knew he that its gardens blooming were,

And all the yearnings of his soul were there.

Grief was it not to him, but joy, when they

His crown and sceptre bade him quit one day;

When him his servants rudely did dismiss,

’Twas not the sentence of his ended bliss,