The spaces of the universe; And then, as is my wont, I told - in The mirror of its cork-grown hills of drouth A fancy, with slight hint of truth, But shadows down the valley swept, And vales of vine, at Lisbon's harbormouth. The date-palms rustled not; the peepul laid Its topmost boughs against the balus. trade, Then to the woman at his feet he said: "Tell me, O Miriam, something thou hast read In childhood of the Master of thy faith, Whom Islam also owns. Our Prophet saith: 'He was a true apostle, yea, -a Word And Spirit sent before me from the Lord.' Thus the Book witnesseth; and well I know By what thou art, O dearest, it is so. As the lute's tone the maker's hand betrays, The sweet disciple speaks her Master's praise." Then Miriam, glad of heart, (for in some sort She cherished in the Moslem's liberal And, through her life of sense, the undefiled And chaste ideal of the sinless One Gazed on her with an eye she might not shun, The sad, reproachful look of pity, born Of love that hath no part in wrath or scorn,) Began, with low voice and moist eyes, to tell Of the all-loving Christ, and what befell When the fierce zealots, thirsting for her blood, Dragged to his feet a shame of womanhood. How, when his searching answer pierced within Each heart, and touched the secret of its sin, And her accusers fled his face before, more. And Akbar said, after a moment's thought, "Wise is the lesson by thy prophet taught; Woe unto him who judges and forgets Those yellow Lamas who at Meerut pray By wind and water power, and love to say: 'He who forgiveth not shall, unforgiven, Fail of the rest of Buddha,' and who court The sweet traditions of a Christian child; MIRIAM. 345 He knew thee not, he did but seek his own; Who, in the very shadow of thy throne, Sharing thy bounty, knowing all thou art, Greatest and best of men, and in her heart Grateful to tears for favor undeserved, Turned ever homeward, nor one moment swerved From her young love. He looked into my eyes, He heard my voice, and could not otherwise Than he hath done; yet, save one wild embrace When first we stood together face to face, And all that fate had done since last we met Seemed but a dream that left us children yet, He hath not wronged thee nor thy royal bed; Spare him, O king! and slay me in his stead!" Well spake thy prophet, Miriam, — he alone Who hath not sinned is meet to cast a forgives "He who all things Conquers himself and all things else, and lives Above the reach of wrong or hate or fear, Calm as the gods, to whom he is most dear." Two leagues from Agra still the traveller sees The tomb of Akbar through its cypresstrees; And, near at hand, the marble walls that hide The Christian Begum sleeping at his side. And o'er her vault of burial (who shall tell If it be chance alone or miracle ?) The unrolls words of Jesus on its lettered scrolls, Tells, in all tongues, the tale of mercy o'er, And bids the guilty, "Go and sin no more !" It now was dew-fall; very still The night lay on the lonely hill, Down which our homeward steps we bent, And, silent, through great silence went, Save that the tireless crickets played And, momently, the beacon's star, see ! Like Islam's symbol-moon it gives dark Of ocean shines the lighthouse spark, [Norembega, or Norimbegue, is the name given by early French fishermen and explorers to a fabulous country south of Cape Breton, first discovered by Verrazzani in 1524. It was supposed to have a magnificent city of the same name on a great river, probably the Penobscot. The site of this barbaric city is laid down on a map published at Antwerp in 1570. In 1604 Champlain sailed in search of the Northern Eldorado, twenty-two leagues up the Penobscot from the Isle Haute. He supposed the river to be that of Norembega, but wisely came to the conclusion that those travellers who told of the great city had never seen it. He saw no evidences of anything like civilization, but mentions the finding of a cross, very old and mossy, in the woods.] THE winding way the serpent takes From where, to count its beaded lakes, A narrow space 'twixt shore and shore, The dim wood hiding underneath Wan flowers without a name; Life tangled with decay and death, League after league the same. Unbroken over swamp and hill The rounding shadow lay, Save where the river cut at will A pathway to the day. Beside that track of air and light, Weak as a child unweaned, The embers of the sunset's fires Along the clouds burned down; "I see," he said, "the domes and spires Of Norembega town." "Alack! the domes, O master mine, Are golden clouds on high; Yon spire is but the branchless pine "O hush and hark! What sounds are these But chants and holy hymns?" "Thou hear'st the breeze that stirs the trees Through all their leafy limbs." "Is it a chapel bell that fills The air with its low tone?" "Thou hear'st the tinkle of the rills, The insect's vesper drone." "The Christ be praised!- He sets for me "Be it wind so sad or tree so stark, "My life is sped; I shall not see "Yet onward still to ear and eye I fain would look before I die "So, haply, it shall be thy part thou The henchman climbed the nearest hill, He saw nor tower nor town, |