The Khan from his palace-window gazed,
And saw in the thronging street beneath,
In the light of the setting sun that blazed
Through the clouds of dust by the caravan raised,
The flash of harness and jewelled sheath,

And the shining scimitars of the guard,

And the weary camels that bared their teeth,

As they passed and passed through the gates unbarred Into the shade of the palace-yard.

Thus into the city of Kambalu

Rode the great captain Aläu;

And he stood before the Khan, and said: "The enemies of my lord are dead;

All the Kalifs of all the West

Bow and obey thy least behest;

The plains are dark with the mulberry-trees,

The weavers are busy in Samarcand,

The miners are sifting the golden sand,

The divers plunging for pearls in the seas,
And peace and plenty are in the land.

"Baldacca's Kalif, and he alone,

Rose in revolt against thy throne:

His treasures are at thy palace-door,

With the swords and the shawls and the jewels he wore;

His body is dust o'er the desert blown.

A mile outside of Baldacca's gate

I left my forces to lie in wait,

Concealed by forests and hillocks of sand,
And forward dashed with a handful of men
To lure the old tiger from his den

Into the ambush I had planned.

Ere we reached the town the alarm was spread,
For we heard the sound of gongs from within;
And with clash of cymbals and warlike din
The gates swung wide; and we turned and fled,
And the garrison sallied forth and pursued,
With the gray old Kalif at their head,

And above them the banner of Mohammed:

So we snared them all, and the town was subdued.

"As in at the gate we rode, behold,

A tower that was called the Tower of Gold!
For there the Kalif had hidden his wealth,
Heaped and hoarded and piled on high,
Like sacks of wheat in a granary;

And thither the miser crept by stealth
To feel of the gold that gave him health,
And to gaze and gloat with his hungry eye

On jewels that gleamed like a glow-worm's spark,

Or the eyes of a panther in the dark.

"I said to the Kalif: Thou art old,

From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted,
Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn!

Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight,
O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn!
The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland,
Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn !
Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward
Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn!

The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal
Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn!
And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges,
And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn!
Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations,
Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn!
And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor,
Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn !

KILLED AT THE FORD.

HE is dead, the beautiful youth,

The heart of honour, the tongue of truth,
He, the life and light of us all,

Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,

Whom all eyes followed with one consent,

The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word,
Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along

Down the dark of the mountain gap,

To visit the picket-guard at the ford,

Little dreaming of any mishap,

He was humming the words of some old song:

"Two red roses he had on his cap,

And another he bore at the point of his sword."

Sudden and swift a whistling ball

Came out of a wood, and the voice was still;
Something I heard in the darkness fall,
And for a moment my blood grew chill;
I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks
In a room where some one is lying dead;
But he made no answer to what I said.

We lifted him up to his saddle again,

And through the mire and the mist and the zain
Carried him back to the silent camp,

And laid him as if asleep on his bed;

And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp

Two white roses upon his cheeks,

And one, just over his heart blood-red!

Thou hast no need of so much gold.

Thou shouldst not have heaped and hidden it here, 'Till the breath of battle was hot and near,

But have sown through the land these useless hoards To spring into shining blades of swords,

And keep thine honour sweet and clear.

These grains of gold are not grains of wheat;
These bars of silver thou canst not eat;
These jewels and pearls and precious stones
Cannot cure the aches in thy bones,
Nor keep the feet of Death one hour
From climbing the stairways of thy tower!'

"Then into his dungeon I locked the drone,
And left him to feed there all alone
In the honey-cells of his golden hive:
Never a prayer nor a cry nor a groan
Was heard from those massive walls of stone,
Nor again was the Kalif seen alive!
"When at last we unlocked the door,
We found him dead upon the floor;

The rings had dropped from his withered hands,
His teeth were like bones in the desert sands;
Still clutching his treasure he had died;

And as he lay there, he appeared

A statue of gold with a silver beard,
His arms outstretched as if crucified."
This is the story, strange and true,
That the great captain Aläu
Told to his brother the Tartar Khan,
When he rode that day into Kambalu
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan.

THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY.

SEE, the fire is sinking low,

Dusky red the embers glow,

While above them still I cower,

While a moment more I linger,

Though the clock, with lifted finger,
Points beyond the midnight hour.

Sings the blackened log a tune
Learned in some forgotten June
From a schoolboy at his play,
When they both were young together,
Heart of youth and summer weather
Making all their holiday.

And the night-wind rising, hark!
How above there in the dark,

In the midnight and the snow,
Ever wilder, fiercer, grander,

Like the trumpets of Iskander,
All the noisy chimneys blow!
Every quivering tongue of flame
Seems to murmur some great name,
Seems to say to me, Aspire!"
But the night-wind answers, "Hollow
Are the visions that you follow,

66

Into darkness sinks your fire!"
Then the flicker of the blaze
Gleams on volumes of old days,
Written by masters of the art,
Loud through whose majestic pages
Rolls the melody of ages,

Throb the harp-strings of the heart.
And again the tongues of flame

Start exulting and exclaim:

"These are prophets, bards, and seers;

In the horoscope of nations,

Like ascendant constellations,

They control the coming years."

But the night-wind cries:

66

Despair!
Those who walk with feet of air
Leave no long-enduring marks;
At God's forges incandescent
Mighty hammers beat incessant,
These are but the flying sparks.

"Dust are all the hands that wrought;
Books are sepulchres of thought;

The dead laurels of the dead
Rustle for a moment only,

Like the withered leaves in lonely
Churchyards at some passing tread.”
Suddenly the flame sinks down;
Sink the rumours of renown;

And alone the night-wind drear
Clamours louder, wilder, vaguer,-
"Tis the brand of Meleager

Dying on the hearth-stone here!"
And I answer,-"Though it be,
Why should that discomfort me?
No endeavour is in vain;
Its reward is in the doing,

And the rapture of pursuing

Is the prize the vanquished gain."

THE BELLS OF LYNN.

HEARD AT NAHANT.

CURFEW of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn! O requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn!