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Cornell University Library 
 PR 4063.B2S4 
 
 Selections from Songs of a Bayadere and 
 
 3 1924 013 210 814 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013210814 
 
SELECTIONS FROM 
 Jlnit 
 
 jSflitgs nf a ©rnubairnur* 
 
 EVELYN DOUGLASt^,^,, 
 
 DUNDEE: 
 
 PKINTED BY JAME8i P. MATHEW & CO., 17 COWGATE. 
 
 1893. 
 
l\.\5olflVo 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Priest of Beauty. 
 The Priestess of Athoe. 
 The Lily and Lotus. 
 The Ruins of Nineveh. 
 In Egyptian Thebes. 
 The Mummy's Love Story. 
 Death. 
 
 ^ram J^ongs of a Jplrowbairour. 
 
 The Priest of Love. 
 
 The Broken Lute. 
 
 The Troubadour Monk. 
 
 The Serenade. 
 
 The Gift. 
 
 The Death of Garth. 
 
 The Lady's Secret. 
 
 The Little Page. 
 
 Lute and Sword. 
 
 The Last Serenade. 
 
 The Ballad op the Loyal Traitor. 
 
 The Black Troubadour. 
 
FROM 
 
 (1890.) 
 
fbi! fmat of %tavd^. 
 
 Looms in the perfumed Indian night 
 
 A mystic dome with towers 
 Of fretted ivory, and marble white, 
 
 And scarlet jewel flowers. 
 
 An amorous king, long' dead, I ween, 
 
 In that hot and heavy clime. 
 Built it to bury his fairest queen, 
 
 A marvel to all time. 
 
 And the aloes breathe in the orient air 
 
 That tale of love and pride ; 
 And the flowering shrubs send up like prayer 
 
 Sweet incense to his bride. 
 
For she was the loveliest woman bom, 
 
 With music in her breath ; 
 And he loved her with love that was half forlorn. 
 
 Because he had heard of death. 
 
 And out of the west and out of the east 
 
 The people came to pray, 
 And he built her a temple and was her priest, 
 
 And served her night and day. 
 
 For 'twixt the earth and the stars above 
 
 He was the wisest man; 
 And beauty he loved with a madman's love, 
 
 As only madmen can. 
 
 So aU her life he built her a tomb 
 
 Of marbles costly and rare. 
 Full of odour, and sumptuous gloom, 
 
 And colour, and love's despair ; 
 
 10 
 
With amber silks and jewels of light; 
 
 With fountains and courts and bowers; 
 With alabaster piUars as white 
 
 And waxen as lotus-flowers. 
 
 For she was the loveliest woman bom, 
 
 And he was the noblest sage; 
 And he loved her with love that was partly scorn, 
 
 Because he had seen old age. 
 
 For he said, " If I tarry for Death's own time 
 
 Her beauty will melt like foam ; 
 'Twere best she should die in her beauty's prime 
 
 And sleep in her beautiful home." 
 
 So he slew her, and laid her in costly spice 
 
 And frankincense and myrrh, 
 And wrapped her in raiment of fabulous price. 
 
 And shed no tear for her. 
 
 n 
 
^tft ^msJUaa of %thot. 
 
 Where Egypt's holy river 
 
 Flows through the haunted nights, 
 Stood once the city of Memphis, 
 
 Pull of lutes and lights. 
 
 And there the child of Athor — 
 
 A priestess pure and fair. 
 Lost in the temple garden, 
 
 In the aloe-scented air — 
 
 Found love in the moonlit roses, 
 Whose perfume told her this — 
 
 That the gods would all leave heaven 
 For one warm human kiss ; 
 
 12 
 
Found love in the wandering breezes, 
 Whose music told her this — 
 
 That the gods are dying in heaven 
 For the want of a human kiss ; 
 
 Found love in the hallowed waters, 
 And love in the stars above ; 
 
 And learnt that the gods are lonely, 
 And jealous of human love. 
 
 13 
 
^ht tils atiit tottia. 
 
 Therk grew a flower in Babylon 
 
 "Whose perfume makes young lovers weep; 
 On it Assyrian moonlight shone ; 
 
 Euphrates murmured it to sleep. 
 It brings back old forgotten dreams ; 
 
 Its petals breathe a dead love's kiss; 
 Astarte bathed it in her beams 
 
 In the gardens of Semiramis. 
 
 But Egypt has a sweeter bloom — 
 
 The lotus of forgetful breath : 
 Swathed and embalmed in spiced gloom, 
 
 The sad Nile sobbed its dreams to death. 
 It soothes remembered loves to rest 
 
 As quiet as death's waxen lid ; 
 They laid it on Nitocris' breast 
 
 Beneath her silent pyramid. 
 
 14 
 
®1tb fUiina of ^mbtlj. 
 
 Where Nineveh in ruin sleeps, 
 
 Two ruined lives lie low, 
 Whose hearts leapt as your heart now leaps 
 
 Thousands of years ago. 
 
 They loved, they struggled but to fail. 
 And then they sank and died ; 
 
 How shall I tell you all the tale 
 So many ages hide? 
 
 I know her heart in silence broke, 
 
 His pain was cruel and slow, 
 And then they slept and never woke. 
 
 And that is all I know. 
 
 15 
 
I guess the world then, as to-day, 
 
 Scorned love and loveliness, 
 And that the world stood in their way, 
 
 And that is all I guess. 
 
 I feel they must have moved apart. 
 
 And both kept under seal 
 Of smiling face a broken heart, 
 
 And that is all I feel. 
 
 I fear that they were slowly crushed. 
 And prayed, and none would hear, 
 
 And then their beating hearts were hushed, 
 And that was all, I fear. 
 
 Perhaps the desert wind that blows 
 
 O'er ruined Nineveh 
 More of that old-world story knows. 
 
 And if it cared, could say. 
 
 16 
 
Still to eternity time creeps; 
 
 And there still crumbling slow 
 The ruined centuries lie in heaps, 
 
 Two ruined hearts below. 
 
 I hope their secret was well kept, 
 
 As that of me and you, 
 And slept safe with them when they slept. 
 
 And that they both died true. 
 
 I trust their troth was truly kept, 
 
 As we have kept our trust, 
 And that there was some friend who wept 
 
 Upon their bitter dust. 
 
 I pray they had some hours of joy. 
 
 As you and I to-day. 
 Some hope the world could not destroy — 
 
 And that is all I pray. 
 
 17 
 
But, gentle lady, do not weep; 
 
 It does not matter now. 
 Beneath the ruined walls they sleep 
 
 With placid lips and brow. 
 
 Two heaps of dust there side by side, 
 What can they feel or know? 
 
 These lovers suffered, failed, and died 
 Thousands of years ago. 
 
 18 
 
In dg^ian ©Ijebra. 
 
 You are not strange to me, I know; 
 Somewhere I saw you long ago, 
 When I was not so forlorn, 
 In a dream ere I was born. 
 
 'Twas in a garden by the Nile, 
 Where the aloe-flowers did smile ; 
 And basking by the yellow deep, 
 Thebes lay with giant walls asleep. 
 
 I know you gave me once a kiss ; 
 'Twas underneath a precipice, 
 Monstrous marble masonry 
 Towering black into the sky. 
 
 19 
 
Walls on walls, a dizzy pile, 
 
 O'er a garden by the Nile, 
 
 Where Thebes lay by the sacred stream, 
 
 Wrapped in her hundred gates, to dream. 
 
fire ilummg'a %abt ^torg. 
 
 Where in a stone sarcophagus 
 
 Lay in embalmed repose 
 A shape with robes luxurious, 
 
 They found a faded rose. 
 
 Perhaps it was an amorous boy 
 
 That to a princess gave 
 Some token of their secret joy, 
 
 That she wore to the grave. 
 
 Perhaps it was a murdered youth 
 Sent on the eve of doom 
 
 An emblem of forgiving truth. 
 His queen wore to the tomb. 
 
 21 
 
Who knows? But there it speaks for her 
 
 Of sorrows long past now, 
 When neither joy nor pain can stir 
 
 The arch of her calm brow. 
 
 And so, when you have let me die. 
 
 And you too are at rest, 
 Some trinket of my gift may lie 
 
 On your repentant breast. 
 
 And when our language is forgot. 
 
 Some lover of old scenes 
 May find it in a haunted spot, 
 
 And wonder what it means. 
 
 22 
 
A Greek girl came to Pharaoh's bed, 
 Who died upon her bridal night. 
 
 At mom he saw her lying dead, 
 
 And deemed she lived, she was so white. 
 
 And when on snowy linen strown 
 She lay embalmed as if she dreamed. 
 
 He could not feel himself alone, 
 So beautiful the body seemed. 
 
 He sat and stroked her golden hair, 
 
 And looked and looked in her dead eyes ; 
 
 He said, "She is forever fair; 
 
 How like a statue there she lies ! " 
 
 23 
 
He kissed her lips though they were cold, 
 And never missed the mortal breath; 
 
 He said, "She never -will be old. 
 
 Or die, for she has done with death." 
 
 Till fire into his palace crept, 
 
 And burned his dead, his lovely bride. 
 Then Pharaoh rent his robes, and wept, 
 
 And fell upon his sword, and died. 
 
 24 
 
FROM 
 
 jSon0S 0f a (Sronbatiotir, 
 
 (1890.) 
 
fill! f rwat of toiK. 
 
 Ik Sicily in the days of art 
 
 A painter prince held sway, 
 Who loved one lady with all his heart 
 
 And dreamed of her night and day. 
 
 She was a girl of scarce thirteen, 
 
 And he was but a youth ; 
 Yet he sware none other should be his queen, 
 
 And kept his oath with truth. 
 
 And still as she grew he buUt her a home, 
 That the years less long might seem. 
 
 Out on an island, girt with the foam, 
 Beautiful as a dream. 
 
 27 
 
And he called the masters from every part, 
 
 Of temper, and tint, and tone, 
 Who moulded in metal miraculous art, 
 
 Or wrought it in colour or stone, 
 
 All carvers of wood and silver and gold, 
 All weavers that loved the loom. 
 
 To make her a palace of perfect mould, 
 And fiU it with tender bloom. 
 
 And he sent for marbles out of the isles, 
 
 Rose-red and white as snow. 
 And made a dome that shone for miles 
 
 In the ruddy evening glow. 
 
 And the palace grew, and the maiden grew 
 In stature and beauty and grace 
 
 Year by year — for shape and for hue, 
 A wonderful woman's face. 
 
And ever of marbles from far-off isles, 
 
 Like music soft and slow, 
 Rose fluted pillars and fretted piles. 
 
 And hung in the wave below, 
 
 With many a cupola poised above, 
 
 And many a sculptured frieze. 
 That filled with anguish of hopeless love 
 
 The amorous ocean breeze. 
 
 And he hung rich arras about the place, 
 
 Wrought in a distant clime, 
 With love, and passion, and war, and the chase, 
 
 And gods of the olden time ; 
 
 And he steeped his brush in the hues of love, 
 
 His soul in the poet's themes. 
 And filled the walls and the ceilings above 
 
 With forms as fair as dreams ; 
 
 29 
 
And he melted his heart to heavenly hues, 
 
 And bathed the grainM glass 
 In bummg reds and beautiful blues, 
 
 And greens as soft as grass ; 
 
 And he fetched rare marbles from far-off isles 
 For the sculptors, as white as snow, 
 
 Who made them smile immortal smiles, 
 With love immortal glow. 
 
 And the palace grew and the maiden grew 
 
 In beauty side by side; 
 And when both were perfect in form and hue, 
 
 And ready — the maiden died. 
 
 Then he shut himself up in the palace alone, 
 With the statues and his despair. 
 
 And his young dead bride as cold as stone, 
 And fired it, and perished there. 
 
 30 
 
And the red flame shone to the far-off isles 
 
 Over the ocean-flow, 
 And the sky was red for miles and miles, 
 
 And the sea lay red below. 
 
 31 
 
There was a gallant troubadour 
 Who loved his lady and his lute; 
 
 But she was false, and then he tore 
 
 The strings, and struck his darling mute. 
 
 It nevermore shall sound her praise; 
 
 Par from his breast it sleeps apart : 
 And when they ask, the poet says — 
 
 "I broke it when she broke my heart." 
 
 32 
 
^ht Wxanhahom iltonk. 
 
 When the thin bell to vespers calls, 
 
 And shines the evening star, 
 He looks out from the convent walls 
 
 Across the window-bar; 
 He hears the organ's muttered growl 
 
 Through the open chapel door — 
 The gloomy monk in the ebon cowl. 
 
 That was a troubadour. 
 
 Then will he take down with a sigh 
 
 The lute that oft hath played 
 A prelude 'neath a balcony 
 
 Unto a serenade ; 
 A moment on the mute strings brood, 
 
 And pass his fingers o'er — 
 The phantom in the night-black hood. 
 
 That was a troubadour. 
 
"Ah shadows from the cloister flung, 
 
 To song and love denied ! 
 Hard narrow hearts to live among, 
 
 With the great warm world outside ! 
 Ah tuneless throats, dull eyes that scowl ! 
 
 Ah hjonns of saintly lore, 
 That I must mutter in my cowl. 
 
 Who was a troubadour! 
 
 "The moon shines fair, the sky is bright; 
 
 On such a night as this. 
 When all the windows were alight, 
 
 I saw young lovers kissj 
 White hands, where latticed panes lay ope, 
 
 Drew curtaijss by the score. 
 To hear this dumb thing in a cope. 
 
 That was a troubadour. 
 
 34 
 
"The moon shines fair, the deep skies dream; 
 
 On such a night as this 
 I heard steel clash and women scream 
 
 And jealous curses hiss ; 
 I heard the nightingale, the owl, 
 
 Heard love, and hate, and more — 
 All life's loud tide, till death's dumb cowl 
 
 Stifled the troubadour. 
 
 "Ah to sing now the songs I sung, 
 
 To walk the warm world wide, 
 The lute across my shoulder slung, 
 
 A sharp sword at my side ! 
 The zither-string, the rapier-stroke ! 
 
 To sing, to love once more — 
 Love ? No ; forever 'neath the cloak 
 
 Must hide the troubadour. 
 
 35 
 
"Palse hope of peace to which I clung, 
 
 Love left, song laid aside ! 
 Poor darkened mind, poor lute unstrung. 
 
 And thou, my poor false bride ! 
 Mad monks that chant, mad dogs that howl, 
 
 Mad moonlight on the floor ! 
 Mad grinning death's-head in a cowl, 
 
 That was a troubadour." 
 
 36 
 
SDIjc ^£«na5«. 
 
 O lady, in your dim sweet dreams, 
 Like far-off woods my singing seems, 
 Like woods, and winds, and far-off streams, 
 Sea-murmurs mingled with moonbeams. 
 
 lady mine, the cold stars shine; 
 
 My heart is heavy ; I cannot weep. 
 For mercy's sake, for love's, awake ! 
 
 Or else forever I must sleep. 
 
 O lady love, in slumber laid. 
 Listen to my serenade. 
 
 37 
 
II. 
 
 You cannot hear what my lute saith, 
 But I can hear your soft, calm breath. 
 Sweet sleep is yours that lingereth, 
 But I must sleep in lasting death. 
 
 lady mine, the chill stars shine, 
 
 My heart is heavy, and I must weep; 
 
 For mercy's sake, for love's, awake! 
 I fain would kiss thee ere I sleep. 
 
 O lady love, in slumber laid, 
 Listen to my serenade. 
 
mt (Sift. 
 
 What shall I send my lady fair 
 To mind her of my love? 
 
 A ribbon-string, a lock of hair, 
 A garter, fan, or glove? 
 
 A falcon, keen-eyed as the day, 
 
 To sit upon her wrist, 
 And flap his wings and fly away 
 
 When she may cry, " Hist ! hist ! " 
 
 A Spanish steed as white as milk, 
 True to her least command. 
 
 All in a net of golden silk. 
 To feed out of her hand ? 
 
 39 
 
A strong sleuth-hound of kingly breed 
 
 To come unto her call, 
 Deep-jowled, of matchless strength and speed, 
 
 To see her safe through all? 
 
 A soft, a tender cooing dove 
 
 To nestle in her breast, 
 And mind her of my absent love 
 
 When she is in her nest! 
 
 A lute of deep and tender tone 
 
 Her fingers fair can play, 
 That she may not be quite alone 
 
 When I am far away? 
 
 A mirror fair of silver sheen 
 
 Encased in mother-o'-pearl, 
 To let her beauty ■well be seen 
 
 When she would set a curl? 
 
 40 
 
A missal with a clasp of gold 
 And plates like coloured glass, 
 
 For her dainty little hand to hold 
 When she would go to mass? 
 
 A silken veil of silver hue 
 Which she can drop or lift, 
 
 To hide her blushing face from view 
 When she would go to shrift? 
 
 A string of amber beads to count 
 
 Her pretty sins, ywis. 
 And reckon up the long amount 
 
 Of her infidelities? 
 
 A coil of pearls to clasp her neck, 
 That mocks their dusky hues. 
 
 To hide each little purple speck 
 Where a kiss has left a bruise? 
 
 41 
 
A fan, -when lovers round her swarm, 
 O'er which to dart her glance. 
 
 Or to hide her blushing cheek when warm 
 In the pauses of the dance ? 
 
 A cushion, where at feet of her 
 
 Some lute-player may kneel? 
 A pen to write a love letter? 
 
 A Cupid on a seal? 
 
 A withered rose that should be fair. 
 Heart-cankered in the bud ? — 
 
 Ah, no, a tress of my dead hair 
 Dabbled in my heart's blood. 
 
 42 
 
®lji i^atlr of (Sartlr. 
 
 King Sigmund sailed forth in the foam 
 
 Unto a far-off strand, 
 And brought a strange king's daughter home, 
 
 A wonder to the land. 
 
 "Now, call ye Garth, my minstrel fair, 
 
 To play before my queen ; 
 For well I wot, though white his hair, 
 
 Such eyes he hath not seen." 
 
 White was the poet's hair; the shade 
 
 Deep on his brows had grown ; 
 And many a love-song he had made, 
 
 But love he had not known. 
 
 43 
 
For he had sung and he had fought 
 
 Until his hair was white; 
 But never seen the eyes he sought, 
 
 Save in the dreams of night. 
 
 The harp was brought, the bard obeyed, 
 And bowed besfore the throne; 
 
 And many a love-song he had made. 
 But love he had not known. 
 
 But when he raised his voice to sing. 
 
 His eyes to hers, with pain 
 His hand was numbed upon the string, 
 
 The song within his brain. 
 
 Then cried the king : " Is song divine ? 
 
 Can age prevail o'er art ? 
 Go, fetch a bowl of royal wine 
 
 To cheer the poet's heart." 
 
 44 
 
"It is not age," the poet said, 
 " Not age," he cried, — " despair ! 
 
 For I shall soon be with the dead. 
 And, ah ! she is too fair.'' 
 
 They brought the wine ; the minstrel quaffed^ 
 
 But ere he lipped the bowl, 
 He cast a poison in the draught 
 
 That freed his tortured soul. 
 
 And now he treads the deathless plain 
 
 And drinks the deathless air. 
 Chanting his lonely last refrain — 
 
 " For, ah ! she is too fair." 
 
 45 
 
®IjB tabu's ^tttet. 
 
 There lived a lady long ago, 
 
 Whose beauty dazzled many lands ; 
 
 Her bosom was as white as snow, 
 But whiter were her lovely hands. 
 
 Not till her death it reached men's ears 
 
 Why those white hands made all hearts ache. 
 
 She washed them in love's hopeless tears 
 And blood of men slain for her sake. 
 
 46 
 
Up in the morning rose the queen, 
 And the morning of her age, 
 
 And forth into the forest green 
 Rode with her little page. 
 
 He was a lonely orphan boy, 
 
 Son of a gentle sire. 
 And she had taken pride and joy 
 
 To rear him for her squire. 
 
 And often in his childish way — 
 
 He was not yet fourteen — 
 "How can I thank you?" he would say, 
 
 "So kind to me you've been.'' 
 
 47 
 
And he was generous and brave 
 
 And true as tempered steel; 
 He loved to sing her a gentle stave, 
 
 And at her feet to kneeL 
 
 Up in the morning rose the queen, 
 
 And took her little page, 
 A gentle child of scarce fourteen. 
 
 From noble parentage. 
 
 And forth she fared with merry cheer 
 
 To ply the royal art; 
 And aiming at a fallow deer 
 
 She pierced the poor boy's heart. 
 
 Then from the ground with smile so sweet 
 
 He struggled to her side. 
 And lay down bleeding at her feet, 
 
 And kissed her hand, and died. 
 
And dying, in his childish way — 
 
 He was not yet fourteen — 
 "How shall I thank you?" he did say, 
 
 "So kind to me you've been. 
 
 "And many a kind act you have done, 
 
 And loyal I have been ; 
 But this of all the kindest one. 
 
 The best for me, my queen." 
 
 49 
 
No knight, no lord 
 
 With titles varnished, 
 My lute, my sword 
 I keep untarnished. 
 Poet and soldier, thy fair hand 
 I kiss, and wait for thy command. 
 
 My humble suit 
 
 Can ne'er deserve thee ; 
 My sword, my lute 
 May haply serve thee. 
 Lady, I lay them at thy feet; 
 Dispose of them as is but meet. 
 
 50 
 
Lady, a word, 
 
 A lifted finger ! 
 Hand, lute, sword 
 Shall never linger. 
 Lady, I am not mine, but thine ; 
 My spirit kneels at thy pure shrine. 
 
 Trembling and mute. 
 
 Thy name unnamM ; 
 With sword and lute, 
 Abashed, ashamM 
 I wait. Nor think nor plead can I ; 
 Speak for me ; bid me live or die. 
 
 Beloved, adored, 
 
 I dare not woo thee. 
 Life, lute, soul, sword 
 I offer to thee. 
 Lady, I lay them at thy feet. 
 Dispose of them as is but meet. 
 
 (1888.) 
 
 51 
 
The moonlight sleeps upon the lake, 
 
 And music on my heart. 
 O lady mine, awake, awake, 
 
 Per love is where thou art. 
 The ripple sobs below the boat. 
 The swan sleeps on the castle moat, 
 The water-lilies round me float, 
 
 And yet we are apart. 
 
 The stars are out, the love-bird calls, 
 
 Men sleep, the hour is latej 
 The shadow of the castle falls 
 
 Across my heart like fate. 
 The wind awakes among the woods, 
 And murmurs from the solitudes. 
 The heart-sick owl i' the ivy broods. 
 
 And I am here and wait. 
 
 (1888.) 
 
 52 
 
^ht ?8aUab of t\jt lojal traitor. 
 
 In Britain dwelt an ancient king 
 
 Who had a lovely wife 
 And one fair squire who wore his ring 
 
 And loved him as his life. 
 
 Now, so it happed, a treason loath 
 To that his squire fell known, 
 
 Of twenty knights who sware an oath 
 To slay him on his throne. 
 
 And when to hall those traitors came 
 
 To do their evil part, 
 The squire came twixt the king and them 
 
 Who stabbed him to the heart. 
 
 53 
 
The king bowed low his hoary head, 
 
 And tore his beard so white; 
 " Ah, would," he cried, " that I were dead, 
 
 Not thou, my brave boy-knight!" 
 
 The queen sat pale upon her throne; 
 
 " And he so young ! " she cried, 
 "And woman's love he hath not known, 
 
 And now death is his bride." 
 
 The young maids combed his rich black hair, 
 
 And wept for very love. 
 The good leech laid the heart-wound bare 
 
 And found — the young queen's glove. 
 
 Then to his feet the king did start. 
 
 His silver beard gan rend : 
 "Would that the knife had pierced my heart, 
 
 Not the treachery of my friend ! " 
 
 54 
 
Then, fell the king upon his face, 
 
 Hid in his purple weeds : 
 "Better the wound that kills disgrace 
 
 Than love that lives and bleeds." 
 
 55 
 
'Neath trellised window and porch in bloom, 
 
 White roses clamber o'er, 
 In Jetty mantle and sable plume 
 
 Carols the troubadour. 
 
 He sings to her of love and art. 
 
 The joy to sin and roam; 
 He steals away her virgin heart 
 
 From her father's quiet home. 
 
 'Neath trellised window and porch in bloom. 
 
 Red roses ramble o'er, 
 In sable feather and cloak of gloom 
 
 Stands Sin, the troubadour. 
 
 S6 
 
He wheedles her with honeyed lies, 
 
 Till at heaven's last low verge 
 The sun sets blushing, the stars arise ; 
 
 And then he chants a dirge. 
 
 Under the window and porch in bloom 
 
 Life's roses riot o'er. 
 In black hearse-feather and pall from the tomb 
 
 Sings Death, the troubadour. 
 
 57