EARLY POEMS

 MOSES ON THE NILE. 
 
 ("Mes soeurs, l'onde est plus fraiche.") 
 
 {TO THE FLORAL GAMES, Toulouse, Feb. 10, 1820.} 


 "Sisters! the wave is freshest in the ray 
 Of the young morning; the reapers are asleep; 
 The river bank is lonely: come away! 
 The early murmurs of old Memphis creep 
 Faint on my ear; and here unseen we stray,— 
 Deep in the covert of the grove withdrawn, 
 Save by the dewy eye-glance of the dawn. 
 
 "Within my father's palace, fair to see, 
 Shine all the Arts, but oh! this river side, 
 Pranked with gay flowers, is dearer far to me 
 Than gold and porphyry vases bright and wide; 
 How glad in heaven the song-bird carols free! 
 Sweeter these zephyrs float than all the showers 
 Of costly odors in our royal bowers. 
 
 "The sky is pure, the sparkling stream is clear: 
 Unloose your zones, my maidens! and fling down 
 To float awhile upon these bushes near 
 Your blue transparent robes: take off my crown, 
 And take away my jealous veil; for here 
 To-day we shall be joyous while we lave 
 Our limbs amid the murmur of the wave. 
 
 "Hasten; but through the fleecy mists of morn, 
 What do I see? Look ye along the stream! 
 Nay, timid maidens—we must not return! 
 Coursing along the current, it would seem 
 An ancient palm-tree to the deep sea borne, 
 That from the distant wilderness proceeds, 
 Downwards, to view our wondrous Pyramids. 
 
 "But stay! if I may surely trust mine eye,— 
 It is the bark of Hermes, or the shell 
 Of Iris, wafted gently to the sighs 
 Of the light breeze along the rippling swell; 
 But no: it is a skiff where sweetly lies 
 An infant slumbering, and his peaceful rest 
 Looks as if pillowed on his mother's breast. 
 
 "He sleeps—oh, see! his little floating bed 
 Swims on the mighty river's fickle flow, 
 A white dove's nest; and there at hazard led 
 By the faint winds, and wandering to and fro, 
 The cot comes down; beneath his quiet head 
 The gulfs are moving, and each threatening wave 
 Appears to rock the child upon a grave. 
 
 "He wakes—ah, maids of Memphis! haste, oh, haste! 
 He cries! alas!—What mother could confide 
 Her offspring to the wild and watery waste? 
 He stretches out his arms, the rippling tide 
 Murmurs around him, where all rudely placed, 
 He rests but with a few frail reeds beneath, 
 Between such helpless innocence and death. 
 
 "Oh! take him up! Perchance he is of those 
 Dark sons of Israel whom my sire proscribes; 
 Ah! cruel was the mandate that arose 
 Against most guiltless of the stranger tribes! 
 Poor child! my heart is yearning for his woes, 
 I would I were his mother; but I'll give 
 If not his birth, at least the claim to live." 
 
 Thus Iphis spoke; the royal hope and pride 
 Of a great monarch; while her damsels nigh, 
 Wandered along the Nile's meandering side; 
 And these diminished beauties, standing by 
 The trembling mother; watching with eyes wide 
 Their graceful mistress, admired her as stood, 
 More lovely than the genius of the flood! 
 
 The waters broken by her delicate feet 
 Receive the eager wader, as alone 
 By gentlest pity led, she strives to meet 
 The wakened babe; and, see, the prize is won! 
 She holds the weeping burden with a sweet 
 And virgin glow of pride upon her brow, 
 That knew no flush save modesty's till now. 
 
 Opening with cautious hands the reedy couch, 
 She brought the rescued infant slowly out 
 Beyond the humid sands; at her approach 
 Her curious maidens hurried round about 
 To kiss the new-born brow with gentlest touch; 
 Greeting the child with smiles, and bending nigh 
 Their faces o'er his large, astonished eye! 
 
 Haste thou who, from afar, in doubt and fear, 
 Dost watch, with straining eyes, the fated boy— 
 The loved of heaven! come like a stranger near, 
 And clasp young Moses with maternal joy; 
 Nor fear the speechless transport and the tear 
 Will e'er betray thy fond and hidden claim, 
 For Iphis knows not yet a mother's name! 
 
 With a glad heart, and a triumphal face, 
 The princess to the haughty Pharaoh led 
 The humble infant of a hated race, 
 Bathed with the bitter tears a parent shed; 
 While loudly pealing round the holy place 
 Of Heaven's white Throne, the voice of angel choirs 
 Intoned the theme of their undying lyres! 
 
 "No longer mourn thy pilgrimage below— 
 O Jacob! let thy tears no longer swell 
 The torrent of the Egyptian river: Lo! 
 Soon on the Jordan's banks thy tents shall dwell; 
 And Goshen shall behold thy people go 
 Despite the power of Egypt's law and brand, 
 From their sad thrall to Canaan's promised land. 
 
 "The King of Plagues, the Chosen of Sinai, 
 Is he that, o'er the rushing waters driven, 
 A vigorous hand hath rescued for the sky; 
 Ye whose proud hearts disown the ways of heaven! 
 Attend, be humble! for its power is nigh 
 Israel! a cradle shall redeem thy worth— 
 A Cradle yet shall save the widespread earth!" 
 
 Dublin University Magazine, 1839 


 

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