Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Asia: Vols. XXI–XXIII. 1876–79.

Arabia: Almachara

The Fair of Almachara

By Richard Hengist Horne (1802–1884)

THE 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

Of ecstasy,

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

Of ecstasy,

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,

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, too, the story-tellers,

With long beards and bald pates,

Right earnestly romancing

Grave follies of the Fates,

For which their circling auditors

Throw coins and bags of dates.

Some of the youths and maidens shed

Sweet tears, or turn quite pale;

But silence, and the clouded pipe,

O’er all the rest prevail.

Mark yon Egyptian sorcerer,

In black and yellow robes,

His ragged raven locks he twines

Around two golden globes!

And now he lashes a brazen gong,

Whirling about with shriek and song;

Till the globes burst in fire,

Which, in a violet spire,

Shoots o’er the loftiest tent-tops there,

Then fades away in perfume rare;

With music somewhere in the sky,

Whereat the sorcerer seems to die!

Broad cymbals are clashing,

And flying and flashing!

And spinning and pushing!

The silver bells ringing!

All tingling and dinging!

Gongs booming and swinging!

The Fair ’s at its height

In the cool brilliant night!

While streams the moon’s glory

On javelins and sabres,

And long beards all hoary,

Midst trumpets and tabors,

Wild strugglings and trammels

Of leaders and camels

And horsemen, in masses,

Midst droves of wild asses,—

The clear beams entrancing,

The passionate dancing,

Glaring fixt, or in flashes,

From jewels in sashes,

Cap, turban, tiara;

’T is a tossing sea

Of ecstasy,

At the Fair of Almachara!