Classic Poem

1

'Tis night, and o'er the homes of men
The moon shines from a cloudless sky,
Like daimio indolent I lie,
And list the lute-like samisen.

Near by, in strangely-figured gown,
A treasure of Kioto's mart,
Ayame-san, with gentle art,
Plays, her dark eyes demurely down.

Child of Japan, sing once again
That ballad old I love so much,
Lift up thy tender voice, and touch,
With fingers deft, the samisen

Lift up thy voice and let me hear,
In thy monotonous, low strains,
The story of Gompachi's pains,
Komurasaki's loving tear.

2

Ayame-san, Ayame-san,
Far from my boyhood's home I lie,
Above me bends the Nippon sky,
I hear the rustle of the fan.

This is the East: no restless brain,
No Saxon hand, must enter in:
Mikado, sultan, mandarin,
Rule here: for ever may they reign.

As, on the land of lotus cast,
Once were the wandering Grecians charmed,
Who, by that magic fruit disarmed,
Hellas forgot, and warlike past;

So, in this land of old Japan,
Encircled by the summer sea,
Am I charmed, with no wish to flee
Thy lotus-realm, Ayame-san.

3

Canst tell me, O enchantress bright,
What nymphs antipodal are they
Who now appear, and now display
Their graceful forms before my sight?

In postures fair, like her who danced
Before King Herod's throne, they stand;
Or sisters of a houri band
Such as Mohammed's heart entranced.

What spell, Ayame, do they weave
With lifted foot, and waving hand,
To hold me in this magic land,
To bind me that I cannot leave?

Dance on — dance on — till morn doth break,
Ye daughters of the summer night!
A spell ye weave about my sight,
But from that spell I would not wake.

4

Ayame-san, look forth again
Upon the swiftly-gliding river:
See'st thou the myriad lamps that quiver?
Hear'st thou the tinkling samisen?

High o'er the Kamo's pebbly bed,
See'st thou the bright pavilions set?
To-night, methinks, no troubles fret
Hearts, like our own, to pleasure wed.

Daughter of Nippon, life for thee
Is bounded by Kioto's groves;
And as the moon the ocean moves,
So hath thy spirit mastered me.

Come what come may I rise not up,
But here, a wanderer from the West,
Like daimio indolent will I rest,
Within my hand the sake cup.