King-te-tching.
CHINA WARE.
'ER desert sands, o'er gulf and bay,
O'er Ganges and o'er Himalay,
Bird-like I fly, and flying sing,
To flowery kingdoms of Cathay,
And bird-like poise on balanced wing
Above the town of King-te-tching,
A burning town, or seeming so,
Three thousand furnaces that glow
Incessantly, and fill the air
With smoke uprising, gyre on gyre,
And painted by the lurid glare,
Of jets and flashes of red fire.
As leaves that in the autumn fall,
Spotted and veined with various hues,
Are swept along the avenues,
And lie in heaps by hedge and wall
So from this grove of chimneys whirled
To all the markets of the world,
These porcelain leaves are wafted on,
Light yellow leaves with spots and stains
Of violet and of crimson dye,
Or tender azure of a sky
Just washed by gentle April rains,
And beautiful with celadon.
Nor less the coarser household wares,
The willow pattern, that we knew
In childhood, with its bridge of blue
Leading to unknown thoroughfares;
The solitary man who stares
At the white river flowing through
Its arches, the fantastic trees
And wild perspective of the view;
And intermingled among these
The tiles that in our nurseries
Filled us with wonder and delight,
Or haunted us in dreams at night.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
IGH-FAVORED grot! that on the jutting verge Of Old Cathay, in shades sequestered, placed, Saw with the poet's form thy pavement graced, Studious his lyre to epic heights to urge.
This be thy fame, — not that the wreath which age
Weaves for thy region with mysterious hands;
Nor yet the achievements of the daring bands,
Whose glory blazed, unrivalled, on the stage.
Veiled is her pride! their sun is set in shame!
But oft the pilgrim to his cell shall stray,
Still find the poet living in his lay,
While taste and genius glow at Camoens' name.
Still, with thy votary, strew the sill with flowers,
Their lot far happier own, but ah! less blest their powers!
Eyles Irwin.
Mecon, the River.
THE RIVER MECON.
DON CONSTANTINE DE BRAGANZA was now viceroy of India, and Camoens, desirous to return to Goa, resigned his charge. In a ship freighted by himself he set sail, but was shipwrecked in the gulf near the mouth of the river Mecon, in Cochin-China. All he had acquired was lost in the waves his poems, which he held in one hand, while he saved himself with the other, were all he found himself possessed of when he stood friendless on the unknown shore.
YAMBOYA there the blue-tinged Mecon laves,
Mecon the eastern Nile, whose swelling waves,
Captain of rivers named, o'er many a clime
In annual period pour their fattening slime.
The simple natives of these lawns believe
That other worlds the souls of beasts receive;
Where the fierce murderer wolf, to pains decreed,
Sces the mild lamb enjoy the heavenly mead.
O gentle Mecon, on thy friendly shore,
Long shall the Muse her sweetest offerings pour!
When tyrants ire-chafed by the blended lust
Of pride outrageous, and revenge unjust,
Shall on the guiltless exile burst their rage,
And maddening tempests on their side engage,
Preserved by heaven the song of Lusian fame,
The song, O Vasco, sacred to thy name,
Wet from the whelming surge shall triumph o'er
The fate of shipwreck on the Mecon's shore,
Here rest secure as on the Muse's breast!
Happy the deathless song, the bard, alas, unblest!
Luis de Camoens.
And yonder by Nankin, behold!
The Tower of Porcelain, strange and old,
Uplifting to the astonished skies
Its ninefold painted balconies,
With balustrades of twining leaves,
And roofs of tile, beneath whose eaves
Hang porcelain bells that all the time
Ring with a soft, melodious chime;
While the whole fabric is ablaze
With varied tints, all fused in one
Great mass of color, like a maze
Of flowers illumined by the sun.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
NTO the city of Kambalu,
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan,
At the head of his dusty caravan,
Laden with treasure from realms afar,
Baldacca and Kelat and Kandahar,
Rode the great captain Alau.
The Khan from his palace-window gazed,
And saw in the thronging street beneath,
In the light of the setting sun, that blazed
Through the clouds of dust by the caravan raised,
The flash of harness and jewelled sheath,
And the shining scimitars of the guard,
And the weary camels that bared their teeth,
As they passed and passed through the gates unbarred
Into the shade of the palace-yard.
Thus into the city of Kambalu
Rode the great captain Alau;
And he stood before the Khan, and said:
"The enemies of my lord are dead;
All the Kalifs of all the West
Bow and obey thy least behest;
The plains are dark with the mulberry-trees,
The weavers are busy in Samarcand,
The miners are sifting the golden sand,
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