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No poet, no artist of any sort, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. - T.S.Eliot

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           XI

 And most gently he
Did touch his burning lips to hers;
Full of seduction were the words
In which he soothed her soft repining;
His mighty gaze held fast her eyes
And burnt her.- In the cloistered shade
He glinted poised above her, shining.
Inevitable as a blade.
The evil spirit overcomes her.
His kiss, like deadly poison, numbs her
And stills the heart within her breast.
One terrified and anguished cry
Aroused the silent night from rest.
It was a last, a desperate plea
Yet full of love, live agony,
Hopeless farewell, finality...
To her young life a last good-bye.

               XII

 The midnight watchman on his rounds
His hand upon his iron gong
Beneath the high wall passed along
His path appointed, paused and found
His mind in turmoil. What was this?
From the high windows of her cell
It seemed he heard a willing kiss,
A sudden cry, a groan suppressed....
Impious doubts rose in his breast
And the old man stood listening, ready
To sound the alarm. But silence fell
All round him. He could hear the steady
Rustling of leaves borne by the wind
And, from the shingle, clear but faint,
The mountain rivers' soft complaint.
He hastened to recall to mind
The prayers prescribed against illusions
And diabolical delusions;
Then crossed himself with trembling fingers
The last, luxurious dreams to lay
And, fearing longer there to linger,
With quickened pace strode on his way.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

               XIII

 As lovely as a Peri-sprite,
Tamara on her death bed rested.
Her brow was purer and more white
Than the chaste veil in which they vested
Their novice, so untimely dead.
The lashes were forever lowered
Yet who, oh God, would not have said
The eyes beneath them did but sleep,
Awaiting but the kiss empowered
To wake them from enchanted rest
Or but to feel the day-star peep?
Yet all in vain the sun caressed
Them with its golden, glowing beams;
Her fathers' kiss, his silent sorrow,
Could not awake her from her dreams....
No. none can break the seal of death
Nor give eternal night a morrow!

               XIV

 Never, in days of happiness
Was the poor maid so richly clad,
So festive and so bright her dress....
Such was the custom of her land.
Flowers from her native vallev breathed
Their scent around her and she had
Clasped them so tight in her dead hand
As though yet to this earth she cleaved!..
No hint was there in her still face
Of how she met her end - in ardent
Intoxication, fatal passion,
But rather seemed she of a race
Apart, the lovely features carven
Of marble, void of mind or feeling,
Expressionless, all fire concealing,
Mysterious as death itself.
About her lips there frozen dwelt
A strange smile, fixed even as it passed.
To those who looked in careful fashion
Unhappy was the tale it told:
A smile contemptuous and cold
As of a soul prepared to wither
And silentiv to bid a last
Farewell to all things of this hither
World, the last reflection
Of her last thought, vain recollection
Of all her life before, more dead
Than those eternally closed eyes;
To those who stood about her bed
Still more conducive to despair.
So, at the solemn sunset hour
When, melting in the golden air,
Day's chariot already flies
Into the Western seas to plummet,
For a brief instant yet his power
Dwells on the mountain tops, whose snow
Reflects a rosy, living glow
That gleams on through the distant dark.
Yet weak and fading is that ray,
And from its distant, ice-bound summit
To guide the traveller on his way
It can awake no answering spark!...


                XV

 The mourning kinsfolk and the crowd
Of neighbours are foregathered now.
Tearing the gray locks on his brow
Old Gudaal scorns to weep aloud
But silently mounts his great horse
And the procession takes the road.
Three days, three nights they hold their course
And then at last set down their load
Amidst her ancestors' remains.
Old GudaaFs forefather, they say,
A brigand whose ill-gotten gains
Disturbed his conscience, when one day
He was struck down by dread disease,
Had thought the memory to ease
Of his past sins by doing penance;
So he had promised in the presence
Of witnesses to build a church
Upon a lofty, granite perch
High in the hills where no sound came
Except the singing of the storm,
A fitting nest for kites and crows.
And soon amidst the Kazbek snows
A solitary temple rose,
And there the villain with his bones
Did finally inter his shame.
So was this cloud-capped rock transformed
Into a graveyard for his kin.
As though the nearer to the sky.
The warmer after death we lie?
As though the further from the din
Of life the sounder we should sleep...?
Vain hope! For dead men may not keep,
Even in dreams, the memory
Of joy or tears in days gone by....

                XVI

 Winging through heaven's spaces blue,
A holy angel golden-pinioned
Bearing her sinful spirit flew
Towards the Father's high dominions.
And, cradling her in mighty arms,
With words of hope dispelled her doubt
And washed the traces of alarm
And all transgression with his weeping.
The music of the spheres rang out
From Heaven to meet them as they rose
When, from the nether regions sweeping,
Came the infernal spirit hurtling
Between them and their goal divine....
And mighty was he as the whirlwind
Shot through with lightnings. Insolence
Consumed him and mad arrogance
With certainty he claimed her. "Mine!"

 Circled by the strong arms which bore her,
Tamara's sinful soul shrank close
To the protecting angel's side
Seeking in prayer her fear to hide.
Now, once again, he stood before her
But - Heavens! Who would know him now?
His gaze so brooding and morose
So venomous with hate eternal...
It seemed a death-like cold infernal
Lay on that frozen face and brow.
"Spirit of darkness, get thee gone!"
Heaven's messenger then made reply:
"The victory has been yours for long
Enough, and now the end is nigh.
Just is the judgement of the Lord!
The days of trial are over, past:
With the frail flesh, know. she has cast
Off all the claims of evil too!
For long now we have waited for her:
Her soul was of those very few
Who at the price of martyr's pain
Endured one moment long attain
To tasting joy beyond compare.
The Maker span its living thread
Out of the finest, purest air
Not for the dull world was she made
No more that it was made for her.
She has redeemed at cruel price
Her wavering faith in powers above.
She suffered, loved, laid down her life -
And Heaven opened to her love!"

 The angel bent his gaze severe
Upon the Tempter, eye to eye,
Then joyful soared ... to disappear
Into the boundless, shining sky.
The Demon watched the heating wings
Fading triumphantly from sight
And cursed his dreams of better things,
Doomed to defeat, venting his spite
And arrogance in that great curse....
Alone in all the universe,
Abandoned, without love or hope!...

             ---------------

 Now, on the rocky mountain slope
Above the valley of Koyshaur
An ancient ruin's standing still
A broken-fanged, stony tower.
Tales hang thereby to send a chill
Down childish spines. A glimpse half-seen
Of bygone, legendary times,
Amongst the trees the silent pile
Shows black and menacing. Meanwhile
The aul, the mountain village, straggles
Beneath it and the earth is green,
The passing merchant loudly haggles,
The voices mingle with the chimes
Of camel-bells from caravans
That journey on from distant lands;
And through the mists the waterfall
Foams glittering down the rocky wall,
And nature glories laughingly,
As sportive as a carefree child,
In life renewed eternally,
In sun and shade and springtime wild.

 Only the castle has outlasted
Its count of years and sadly ends
Its lonely days - a patriarchal
Old man who has outlived his friends
And family. Its inmates wait
In hiding for the moon to rise:
Then they hold feast, do as they will:
They run and buzz from gate to gate....
Then the grey spider, with slow skill,
Spins out her silken hermitage.
The lizards green beneath the skies
Play on the slates right merrily
And, cautiously, the serpent sage
Creeps from his cranny dark to crawl
Along the ancient porch's wall.
Now suddenly he twirls and twists
His body into three bright rings,
And now his supple brilliance slings
Into a straight, a steely rod
A lance left lying by the lists,
A dead man's sword - unmarked, unmissed
Unwanted now and quite forgot.
All has run wild, no trace is left
Of bygone years; the hand of time
Cautiously, carefully has swept
Them all away: The glorious prime
Of Gudaal - vanished without token.
His daughter's name no longer spoken!

 Only the Church on its sheer height
Where the scant earth once took their bones
Preserved by some sacred might
Is guarded by black standing stones
Of granite, sentinels unarmoured
Save for th'eternal ice which glows
Like mail upon their fronts, their shoulders
Draped in heavy cloaks of snows.
And frowning avalanches brood
On the steep slopes, each frozen flood
Like some vast, frosted waterfall.
The howling wind keeps sentry-go
Blowing the snow-dust from the wall,
Now checks the watch, calling the roll,
Now singing songs sad, long and low;
And far and wide the church is known
In all the lands - a holy wonder:
And yet the orient clouds alone
Flock round to worship at the shrine
And yet upon the stones, whereunder
Tamara and her kin still sleep,
No weeping pilgrims sit and pine
Only the sullen mountain bent
Above them vigilance does keep:
That man's eternal discontent
Might not break in upon their slumber.


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