ARTHUR SYMONS.
PALANQUIN BEARERS
Lightly, O lightly we bear her along, She sways like a flower in the wind of our song; She skims like a bird on the foam of a stream, She floats like a laugh from the lips of a dream.Gaily, O gaily we glide and we sing, We bear her along like a pearl on a string.
Softly, O softly we bear her along, She hangs like a star in the dew of our song; She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide, She falls like a tear from the eyes of a bride.Lightly, O lightly we glide and we sing, We bear her along like a pearl on a string.
WANDERING SINGERS (Written to one of their Tunes)Where the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet, Through echoing forest and echoing street, With lutes in our hands ever-singing we roam, All men are our kindred, the world is our home.
Our lays are of cities whose lustre is shed, The laughter and beauty of women long dead; The sword of old battles, the crown of old kings, And happy and simple and sorrowful things.
What hope shall we gather, what dreams shall we sow? Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps we go.No love bids us tarry, no joy bids us wait: The voice of the wind is the voice of our fate.
INDIAN WEAVERS
Weavers, weaving at break of day, Why do you weave a garment so gay?...Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild, We weave the robes of a new-born child.
Weavers, weaving at fall of night, Why do you weave a garment so bright?...Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green, We weave themarriage-veils of a queen.
Weavers, weaving solemn and still, What do you weave in the moonlight chill?...White as a feather and white as a cloud, We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.
COROMANDEL FISHERS
Rise, brothers, rise, the wakening skies pray to the morning light, The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn like a child that has cried all night.Come, let us gather our nets from the shore, and set our catamarans free, To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, for we are the sons of the sea.
No longer delay, let us hasten away in the track of the sea-gull's call, The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother, the waves are our comrades all.What though we toss at the fall of the sun where the hand of the sea-god drives? He who holds the storm by the hair, will hide in his breast our lives.
Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade, and the scent of the mango grove, And sweet are the sands at the full o' the moon with the sound of the voices we love.But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray and the dance of the wild foam's glee: Row, brothers, row to the blue of the verge, where the low sky mates with the sea.
THE SNAKE-CHARMER
Whither dost thou hide from the magic of my flute-call? In what moonlight-tangled meshes of perfume, Where the clustering keovas guard the squirrel's slumber, Where the deep woods glimmer with the jasmine's bloom?
I'll feed thee, O beloved, on milk and wild red honey, I'll bear thee in a basket of rushes, green and white, To a palace-bower where golden-vested maidens Thread with mellow laughter the petals of delight.
Whitherdostthouloiter,bywhatmurmuringhollows,Whereoleanders scatter their ambrosial fire? Come, thou subtle bride of my mellifluous wooing, Come, thou silver-breasted moonbeam of desire!
CORN-GRINDERS
O LITTLE MOUSE, WHY DOST THOU CRY WHILE MERRY STARS LAUGH IN THE SKY?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead! Ah, who will ease my bitter pain? He went to seek a millet-grain In the rich farmer's granary shed; They caught him in a baited snare, And slew my lover unaware: Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O LITTLE DEER, WHY DOST THOU MOAN, HID IN THY FOREST-BOWER ALONE?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead! Ah! who will quiet my lament?
At fall of eventide he went To drink beside the river-head; A waiting hunter threw his dart, And struck my lover through the heart.Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O LITTLE BRIDE, WHY DOST THOU WEEP WITH ALL THE HAPPY WORLD ASLEEP?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead! Ah, who will stay these hungry tears, Or still the want of famished years, And crown with love my marriage-bed? My soul burns with the quenchless fire That lit my lover's funeral pyre: Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
VILLAGE-SONG
Honey, child, honey, child, whither are you going? Would you cast your jewels all to the breezes blowing? Would you leave the mother who on golden grain has fed you? Would you grieve the lover who is riding forth to wed you?
Mother mine, to the wild forest I am going, Where upon the champa boughs the champa buds are blowing; To the koil-haunted river-isles where lotus lilies glisten, The voices of the fairy folk are calling me: O listen!
Honey, child, honey, child, the world is full of pleasure, Of bridal- songs and cradle-songs and sandal- scented leisure.Your bridal robes are in the loom, silver and saffron glowing, Your bridal cakes are on the hearth: O whither are you going?
The bridal-songs and cradle-songs have cadences of sorrow, The laughter of the sun to-day, the wind of death to-morrow.Far sweeter sound the forest-notes where forest-streams are falling; O mother mine, I cannot stay, the fairy-folk are calling.
IN PRAISE OF HENNA
A kokila called from a henna-spray: LIRA! LIREE! LIRA! LIREE! Hasten, maidens, hasten away To gather the leaves of the henna-tree.Send your pitchers afloat on the tide, Gather the leaves ere the dawn be old, Grind them in mortars of amber and gold, The fresh green leaves of the henna-tree.
A kokila called from a henna-spray: LIRA! LIREE! LIRA! LIREE! Hasten maidens, hasten away To gather the leaves of the henna-tree.The tilka's red for the brow of a bride, And betel-nut's red for lips that are sweet; But, for lily-like fingers and feet, The red, the red of the henna-tree.
HARVEST HYMN
Men's Voices
Lord of the lotus, lord of the harvest, Bright and munificent lord of the morn! Thine is the bounty that prospered our sowing, Thine is the bounty that nurtured our corn.We bring thee our songs and our garlands for tribute, The gold of our fields and the gold of our fruit; O giver of mellowing radiance, we hail thee, We praise thee, O Surya, with cymbal and flute.
