Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Asia: Vols. XXI–XXIII. 1876–79.
A Legend of the Red Sea
By Walter Thornbury (18281876)H
Upon the Red Sea’s burning sands,
Beating his breast with bleeding hands.
The deep dark wave he tries to scan,
Vainly, as but the hopeless can.
That all the night in vain was set,
His flimsy boat was leaky wet.
His hooks the night-dews blunt and rust,—
In God the Arab has no trust.
With eyes that deepest pity fills
For human griefs and human ills.
He curses the poor locust-tree,
That sheds its fruit so lavishly.
From where the black-eyed houris dwell
(What men think heaven is often hell).
It broke to diamond-dust; with mirth
Of mocking voices came the birth.
Half fire (but fire that ’s hid in cloud),
Arose, and Abib shrieked aloud.
“We Genii mourn not for the dead.
I am your god where’er I tread!
He from his throne has long been hurled,
His sun-cloud banner long since furled.
Of mad fool’s trances,—a dream-king,
A God without a brain or wing.
More than thy crazy bark can hold,
In this dark sea—if thou art bold.
The world beneath thee tramp and beat;
Dominion to the wise is sweet.
His useless circle hath outrun.
Thy insect life is but begun.”
“My Simoom horse has come for me,”
The Genii cried: “be rich and free.”
And demons, an exulting band,
Rode with it to the desert land.
Abib awakes from out his trance;
The moonbeams on the waters dance,
The quick waves meeting, flash and glance.
The ropes in a wide circle flew,
And slowly settled sure and true.
A burden ponderous and great,
Then glimmers of a golden freight.
A golden robe that laps and clings,
A blazing crown with emerald rings.
A massy golden targe that rung,
Still to the Pharaoh’s body hung.
His lips are pressed in stern grimace,
One hand is on his quiver-case.
“Pharaoh, the son of Isis,—he
Who rules both Egypts,—kneel to me.”
The signet on his turban burns,
“Yes! this is what God’s chosen earns.”
Drives pilgrims from the holy East,
And slays the Christians at their feast.
His mandates fly on tireless wing,
And make the desert echoes ring.
The desert, wheresoe’er he tread,
With human blood is crimson red.
And Abib, with his head hung down,
Upon a cross now wears the crown.