HE intolerant sun sinks down with glaring eye
Behind the horizontal desert-line,
And upwards casts his robes to float on high, Suffusing all the clouds with his decline; Till their intense gold doth incarnadine,
And melt in angry hues, which darken as they die.
Slow rose the naked beauty of the moon In broad relief against the gloomy vault; Each smouldering field in azure melted soon, Before the tenderness of that assault;
And the pure image that men's soul's exalt, Stood high aloof from earth, as in some visioned swoon.
But now she seemed, from that clear altitude, To gaze below, with a far-sheening smile, On Arab tents, gay groups, and gambols rude, As in maternal sympathy the while;
And now, like swarming bees, o'er many a mile Forth rush the swarthy forms o' the gilded multitude!
Hark to the cymbals singing!
Hark to their hollow quot!
The gong sonorous swinging At each sharp pistol-shot! Bells of sweet tone are ringing! The Fair begins
With countless dins,
And many a grave-faced plot!
Trumpets and tympans sound, 'Neath the moon's brilliant round, Which doth entrance
Each passionate dance, And glows or flashes Midst jewelled sashes, Cap, turban, and tiara In a tossing sea
At the Fair of Almachara!
First came a troop of dervishes, Who sang a solemn song,
And at each chorus one leapt forth And spun himself so long
That silver coins, and much applause,
Were showered down by the throng.
Then passed a long and sad-linked chain Of foreign slaves for sale:
Some clasped. their hands and wept like rain, Some with resolve were pale;
By death or fortitude, they vowed, Deliverance should not fail.
And neighing steeds with bloodshot eyes, And tails as black as wind That sweeps the storm-expectant seas, Bare-backed careered behind; Yet, docile to their master's call, Their steep-arched necks inclined.
Trumpets and tympans sound 'Neath the moon's brilliant round, Which doth entrance
Each passionate dance, And glows or flashes Mid cymbal-clashes, Rich jewelled sashes, Cap, turban, and tiara,
In a tossing sea
Of ecstasy,
At the Fair of Almachara!
There sit the serpent-charmers, Enwound with maze on maze Of orby folds, which, working fast, Puzzle the moonlit gaze.
Boas and amphisbœnæ gray
Flash like currents in their play, Hissing and kissing, till the crowd Shriek with delight, or pray aloud!
Now rose a crook-backed juggler, Who clean cut off both legs; Astride on his shoulders set them, And danced on wooden pegs: And presently his head dropped off, When another juggler came, Who gathered his frisky fragments up, And stuck them in a frame, From which he issued as at first, Continuing thus the game.
Trumpets and tympans sound 'Neath the moon's brilliant round,
Which doth entrance
Each passionate dance, And glows or flashes Mid cymbal clashes, Rich jewelled sashes, Cap, turban, and tiara, In a tossing sea
At the fair of Almachara!
There do we see the merchants Smoking with grave pretence: There, too, the humble dealers In cassia and frankincense; And many a Red-Sea mariner, Swept from its weedy waves,
Who comes to sell his coral rough, Torn from its rocks and caves, With red clay for the potteries, Which careful baking craves.
There, too, the Bedouin tumblers Roll round like rapid wheels, Or tie their bodies into knots, Hiding both head and heels: Now standing on each other's heads, They race about the Fair, Or with strange energies inspired Leap high into the air,
And wanton thus above the sand In graceful circles rare.
There sit the opium-eaters,
Chanting their gorgeous dreams; While some, with hollow faces, Seem lit by ghastly gleams, Dumb - and with fixed grimaces!
There dance the Arab maidens, With burnished limbs all bare, Caught by the moon's keen silver Through frantic jets of hair!
O naked moon! O wondrous face! Eternal sadness, beauty, grace, Smile on the passing human race!
Trumpets and tympans sound 'Neath the moon's brilliant round,
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