"Oh! curse me not," she cried, as wild he tostHis desperate hand towards Heav'n—"tho' I am lost,"Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me fall,"No, no—'twas grief, 'twas madness did it all!"Nay, doubt me not—tho' all thy love hath ceased—"I know it hath—yet, yet believe, at least,"That every spark of reason's light must be"Quenched in this brain ere I could stray from thee."They told me thou wert dead—why, AZIM, why"Did we not, both of us, that instant die"When we were parted? oh! couldst thou but know"With what a deep devotedness of woe"I wept thy absence—o'er and o'er again"Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain,"And memory like a drop that night and day"Falls cold and ceaseless wore my heart away."Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home,"My eyes still turned the way thou wert to come,"And, all the long, long night of hope and fear,"Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear—"Oh God! thou wouldst not wonder that at last,"When every hope was all at once o'ercast,"When I heard frightful voices round me say"Azim is dead!—this wretched brain gave way,"And I became a wreck, at random driven,"Without one glimpse of reason or of Heaven—"All wild—and even this quenchless love within"Turned to foul fires to light me into sin!—"Thou pitiest me—I knew thou wouldst—that sky"Hath naught beneath it half so lorn as I."The fiend, who lured me hither—hist! come near."Or thou too,thouart lost, if he should hear—"Told me such things—oh! with such devilish art."As would have ruined even a holier heart—"Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere,"Where blest at length, if I but served him here,"I should for ever live in thy dear sight."And drink from those pure eyes eternal light."Think, think how lost, how maddened I must be,"To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee!"Thou weep'st for me—do weep—oh, that I durst"Kiss off that tear! but, no—these lips are curst,"They must not touch thee;—one divine caress,"One blessed moment of forgetfulness"I've had within those arms andthatshall lie"Shrined in my soul's deep memory till I die;"The last of joy's last relics here below,"The one sweet drop, in all this waste of woe,"My heart has treasured from affection's spring,"To soothe and cool its deadly withering!"But thou—yes, thou must go—for ever go;"This place is not for thee—for thee! oh no,"Did I but tell thee half, thy tortured brain"Would burn like mine, and mine go wild again!"Enough that Guilt reigns here—that hearts once good"Now tainted, chilled and broken are his food.—"Enough that we are parted—that there rolls"A flood of headlong fate between our souls,"Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee"As hell from heaven to all eternity!"
"ZELICA, ZELICA!" the youth exclaimed.In all the tortures of a mind inflamedAlmost to madness—"by that sacred Heaven,"Where yet, if prayers can move, thou'lt be forgiven,"As thou art here—here, in this writhing heart,"All sinful, wild, and ruined as thou art!"By the remembrance of our once pure love,"Which like a church-yard light still burns above"The grave of our lost souls—which guilt in thee"Cannot extinguish nor despair in me!"I do conjure, implore thee to fly hence—"If thou hast yet one spark of innocence,"Fly with me from this place"—"With thee! oh bliss!"'Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this."What! take the lost one with thee?—let her rove"By thy dear side, as in those days of love,"When we were both so happy, both so pure—"Too heavenly dream! if there's on earth a cure"For the sunk heart, 'tis this—day after day"To be the blest companion of thy way;"To hear thy angel eloquence—to see"Those virtuous eyes for ever turned on me;"And in their light re-chastened silently,"Like the stained web that whitens in the sun,"Grow pure by being purely shone upon!"And thou wilt pray for me—I know thou wilt—"At the dim vesper hour when thoughts of guilt"Come heaviest o'er the heart thou'lt lift thine eyes"Full of sweet tears unto the darkening skies"And plead for me with Heaven till I can dare"To fix my own weak, sinful glances there;"Till the good angels when they see me cling"For ever near thee, pale and sorrowing,"Shall for thy sake pronounce my soul forgiven,"And bid thee take thy weeping slave to Heaven!"Oh yes, I'll fly with thee"—Scarce had she saidThese breathless words when a voice deep and dreadAs that of MONKER waking up the deadFrom their first sleep—so startling 'twas to both—Rang thro' the casement near, "Thy oath! thy oath!"Oh Heaven, the ghastliness of that Maid's look!—"'Tis he," faintly she cried, while terror shookHer inmost core, nor durst she lift her eyes,Tho' thro' the casement, now naught but the skiesAnd moonlight fields were seen, calm as before—"'Tis he, and I am his—all, all is o'er—"Go—fly this instant, or thou'rt ruin'd too—"My oath, my oath, oh God! 'tis all too true,"True as the worm in this cold heart it is—"I am MOKANNA'S bride—his, AZIM, his—"The Dead stood round us while I spoke that vow,"Their blue lips echoed it—I hear them now!"Their eyes glared on me, while I pledged that bowl,"'Twas burning blood—I feel it in my soul!"And the Veiled Bridegroom—hist! I've seen to-night"What angels know not of—so foul a sight."So horrible—oh! never may'st thou see"Whattherelies hid from all but hell and me!"But I must hence—off, off—I am not thine,"Nor Heaven's, nor Love's, nor aught that is divine—"Hold me not—ha! think'st thou the fiends that sever"Hearts cannot sunder hands?—thus, then—for ever!"
With all that strength which madness lends the weakShe flung away his arm; and with a shriekWhose sound tho' be should linger out more yearsThan wretch e'er told can never leave his ears—Flew up thro' that long avenue of light,Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night,Across the sun; and soon was out of sight!
LALLA ROOKH could think of nothing all day but the misery of those two young lovers. Her gayety was gone, and she looked pensively even upon FADLAPEEN. She felt, too, without knowing why, a sort of uneasy pleasure in imagining that AZIM must have been just such a youth as FERAMORZ; just as worthy to enjoy all the blessings, without any of the pangs, of that illusive passion, which too often like the sunny apples of Istkahar[88] is all sweetness on one side and all bitterness on the other.
As they passed along a sequestered river after sunset they saw a young Hindoo girl upon the bank, whose employment seemed to them so strange that they stopped their palankeens to observe her. She had lighted a small lamp filled with oil of cocoa, and placing it in an earthen dish adorned with a wreath of flowers, had committed it with a trembling hand to the stream; and was now anxiously watching its progress down the current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which had drawn up beside her. LALLA ROOKH was all curiosity;—when one of her attendants, who had lived upon the banks of the Ganges, (where this ceremony is so frequent that often in the dusk of the evening the river is seen glittering all over with lights, like the Oton-tala or Sea of Stars,)[89] informed the princess that it was the usual way in which the friends of those who had gone on dangerous voyages offered up vows for their safe return. If the lamp sunk immediately the omen was disastrous; but if it went shining down the stream and continued to burn till entirely out of sight, the return of the beloved object was considered as certain.
LALLA ROOKH as they moved on more than once looked back to observe how the young Hindoo's lamp proceeded; and while she saw with pleasure that it was still unextinguished she could not help fearing that all the hopes of this life were no better than that feeble light upon the river. The remainder of the journey was passed in silence. She now for the first time felt that shade of melancholy which comes over the youthful maiden's heart as sweet and transient as her own breath upon a mirror; nor was it till she heard the lute of FERAMOKZ, touched lightly at the door of her pavilion that she waked from the revery in which she had been wandering. Instantly her eyes were lighted up with pleasure; and after a few unheard remarks from FADLADEEN upon the indecorum of a poet seating himself in presence of a Princess everything was arranged as on the preceding evening and all listened with eagerness while the story was thus continued:—
Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the way,Where all was waste and silent yesterday?This City of War which, in a few short hours,Hath sprung up here, as if the magic powers[90]Of Him who, in the twinkling of a star,Built the high pillared halls of CHILMINAR,[91]Had conjur'd up, far as the eye can see,This world of tents and domes and sunbright armory:—Princely pavilions screened by many a foldOf crimson cloth and topt with balls of gold:—Steeds with their housings of rich silver spun,Their chains and poitrels glittering in the sun;And camels tufted o'er with Yemen's shells[92]Shaking in every breeze their light-toned bells!
But yester-eve, so motionless around,So mute was this wide plain that not a soundBut the far torrent or the locust bird[93]Hunting among thickets could be heard;—Yet hark! what discords now of every kind,Shouts, laughs, and screams are revelling in the wind;The neigh of cavalry;—the tinkling throngsOf laden camels and their drivers' songs;—Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breezeOf streamers from ten thousand canopies;—[94]War-music bursting out from time to timeWith gong and tymbalon's tremendous chime;—Or in the pause when harsher sounds are mute,The mellow breathings of some horn or flute,That far off, broken by the eagle noteOf the Abyssinian trumpet, swell and float.[95]
Who leads this mighty army?—ask ye "who?"And mark ye not those banners of dark hue,The Night and Shadow, over yonder tent?—[96]It is the CALIPH'S glorious armament.Roused in his Palace by the dread alarms,That hourly came, of the false Prophet's arms,And of his host of infidels who hurledDefiance fierce at Islam and the world,[97]Tho' worn with Grecian warfare, and behindThe veils of his bright Palace calm reclined,Yet brooked he not such blasphemy should stain,Thus unrevenged, the evening of his reign;But having sworn upon the Holy Grave[98]To conquer or to perish, once more gaveHis shadowy banners proudly to the breeze,And with an army nurst in victories,Here stands to crush the rebels that o'errunHis blest and beauteous Province of the Sun.
Ne'er did the march of MAHADI displaySuch pomp before;—not even when on his wayTo MECCA'S Temple, when both land and seaWere spoiled to feed the Pilgrim's luxury;[99]When round him mid the burning sands he sawFruits of the North in icy freshness thaw,And cooled his thirsty lip beneath the glowOf MECCA'S sun with urns of Persian snow:—Nor e'er did armament more grand than thatPour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat.First, in the van, the People of the Rock[100]On their light mountain steeds of royal stock:[101]Then chieftains of DAMASCUS proud to seeThe flashing of their swords' rich marquetry;—[102]Men from the regions near the VOLGA'S mouthMixt with the rude, black archers of the South;And Indian lancers in white-turbaned ranksFrom the far SINDE or ATTOCK'S sacred banks,With dusky legions from the Land of Myrrh,[103]And many a mace-armed Moor and Midsea islander.
Nor less in number tho' more new and rudeIn warfare's school was the vast multitudeThat, fired by zeal or by oppression wronged,Round the white standard of the impostor thronged.Beside his thousands of Believers—blind,Burning and headlong as the Samiel wind—Many who felt and more who feared to feelThe bloody Islamite's converting steel,Flockt to his banner;—Chiefs of the UZBEK race,Waving their heron crests with martial grace;[104]TURKOMANS, countless as their flocks, led forthFrom the aromatic pastures of the North;Wild warriors of the turquoise hills,—and those[105]Who dwell beyond the everlasting snowsOf HINDOO KOSH, in stormy freedom bred,Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent's bed.But none of all who owned the Chief's commandRushed to that battle-field with bolder handOr sterner hate than IRAN'S outlawed men,Her Worshippers of Fire—all panting then[106]For vengeance on the accursed Saracen;Vengeance at last for their dear country spurned,Her throne usurpt, and her bright shrines o'erturned.
From YEZD'S eternal Mansion of the Fire[107]Where aged saints in dreams of Heaven expire:From BADKU and those fountains of blue flameThat burn into the CASPIAN, fierce they came,[108]Careless for what or whom the blow was sped,So vengeance triumpht and their tyrants bled.
Such was the wild and miscellaneous hostThat high in air their motley banners tostAround the Prophet-Chief—all eyes still bentUpon that glittering Veil, where'er it went,That beacon thro' the battle's stormy flood,That rainbow of the field whose showers were blood!
Twice hath the sun upon their conflict setAnd risen again and found them grappling yet;While streams of carnage in his noontide blaze,Smoke up to Heaven—hot as that crimson hazeBy which the prostrate Caravan is awed[109]In the red Desert when the wind's abroad."Oh, Swords of God!" the panting CALIPH calls,—"Thrones for the living—Heaven for him who falls!"—"On, brave avengers, on," MOKANNA cries,"And EBLIS blast the recreant slave that flies!"Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day—They clash—they strive—the CALIPH'S troops give way!MOKANNA'S self plucks the black Banner down,And now the Orient World's Imperial crownIs just within his grasp—when, hark, that shout!Some hand hath checkt the flying Moslem's rout;And now they turn, they rally—at their headA warrior, (like those angel youths who led,In glorious panoply of Heaven's own mail,The Champions of the Faith thro BEDER'S vale,)[110]Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives,Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and drivesAt once the multitudinous torrent back—While hope and courage kindle in his track;And at each step his bloody falchion makesTerrible vistas thro' which victory breaks!In vain MOKANNA, midst the general flight,Stands like the red moon on some stormy nightAmong the fugitive clouds that hurrying byLeave only her unshaken in the sky—In vain he yells his desperate curses out,Deals death promiscuously to all about,To foes that charge and coward friends that fly,And seems ofallthe Great Archenemy.The panic spreads—"A miracle!" throughoutThe Moslem ranks, "a miracle!" they shout,All gazing on that youth whose coming seemsA light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams;And every sword, true as o'er billows dimThe needle tracks the lode-star, following him!
Right towards MOKANNA now he cleaves his path,Impatient cleaves as tho' the bolt of wrathHe bears from Heaven withheld its awful burstFrom weaker heads and souls but half way curst,To break o'er Him, the mightiest and the worst!But vain his speed—tho', in that hour of blood,Had all God's seraphs round MOKANNA stoodWith swords o'fire ready like fate to fall,MOKANNA'S soul would have defied them all;Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strongFor human force, hurries evenhimalong;In vain he struggles mid the wedged arrayOf flying thousands—he is borne away;And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows,In this forced flight, is—murdering as he goes!As a grim tiger whom the torrent's mightSurprises in some parched ravine at night,Turns even in drowning on the wretched flocksSwept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks,And, to the last, devouring on his way,Bloodies the stream lie hath not power to stay.
"Alla illa Alla!"—the glad shout renew—"Alla Akbar"—the Caliph's in MEROU.[111]Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets,And light your shrines and chant your ziraleets.[112]The swords of God have triumpht—on his throneYour Caliph sits and the veiled Chief hath flown.Who does not envy that young warrior nowTo whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow,In all the graceful gratitude of power,For his throne's safety in that perilous hour?Who doth not wonder, when, amidst the acclaimOf thousands heralding to heaven his name—Mid all those holier harmonies of fameWhich sound along the path of virtuous souls,Like music round a planet as it rolls,—He turns away—coldly, as if some gloomHung o'er his heart no triumphs can illume;—Some sightless grief upon whose blasted gazeTho' glory's light may play, in vain it plays.Yes, wretched AZIM! thine is such a grief,Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief!A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break.Or warm or brighten,—Like that Syrian Lake[113]Upon whose surface morn and summer shedTheir smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead!—Hearts there have been o'er which this weight of woeCame by long use of suffering, tame and slow;But thine, lost youth! was sudden—over theeIt broke at once, when all seemed ecstasy;When Hope lookt up and saw the gloomy PastMelt into splendor and Bliss dawn at last—'Twas then, even then, o'er joys so freshly blownThis mortal blight of misery came down;Even then, the full, warm gushings of thy heartWere checkt—like fount-drops, frozen as they start—And there like them cold, sunless relics hang,Each fixt and chilled into a lasting pang.
One sole desire, one passion now remainsTo keep life's fever still within his veins,Vengeance!—dire vengeance on the wretch who castO'er him and all he loved that ruinous blast.For this, when rumors reached him in his flightFar, far away, after that fatal night,—Rumors of armies thronging to the attackOf the Veiled Chief,—for this he winged him back,Fleet as the Vulture speeds to flags unfurled,And when all hope seemed desperate, wildly hurledHimself into the scale and saved a world.For this he still lives on, careless of allThe wreaths that Glory on his path lets fall;For this alone exists—like lightning-fire,To speed one bolt of vengeance and expire!
But safe as yet that Spirit of Evil lives;With a small band of desperate fugitives,The last sole stubborn fragment left unrivenOf the proud host that late stood fronting Heaven,He gained MEROU—breathed a short curse of bloodO'er his lost throne—then past the JIHON'S flood,[114]And gathering all whose madness of beliefStill saw a Saviour in their down-fallen Chief,Raised the white banner within NEKSHEB'S gates,[115]And there, untamed, the approaching conqueror waits.
Of all his Haram, all that busy hive,With music and with sweets sparkling alive,He took but one, the partner of his flight,One—not for love—not for her beauty's light—No, ZELICA stood withering midst the gay.Wan as the blossom that fell yesterdayFrom the Alma tree and dies, while overheadTo-day's young flower is springing in its stead.[116]Oh, not for love—the deepest Damned must beTouched with Heaven's glory ere such fiends as heCan feel one glimpse of Love's divinity.But no, she is his victim;therelie allHer charms for him-charms that can never pall,As long as hell within his heart can stir,Or one faint trace of Heaven is left in her.To work an angel's ruin,—to beholdAs white a page as Virtue e'er unrolledBlacken beneath his touch into a scrollOf damning sins, sealed with a burning soul—This is his triumph; this the joy accurst,That ranks him among demons all but first:This gives the victim that before him liesBlighted and lost, a glory in his eyes,A light like that with which hellfire illumesThe ghastly, writhing wretch whom it consumes!
But other tasks now wait him—tasks that needAll the deep daringness of thought and deedWith which the Divs have gifted him—for mark,[117]Over yon plains which night had else made dark,Those lanterns countless as the winged lightsThat spangle INDIA'S field on showery nights,—[118]Far as their formidable gleams they shed,The mighty tents of the beleaguerer spread,Glimmering along the horizon's dusky lineAnd thence in nearer circles till they shineAmong the founts and groves o'er which the townIn all its armed magnificence looks down.Yet, fearless, from his lofty battlementsMOKANNA views that multitude of tents;Nay, smiles to think that, tho' entoiled, beset,Not less than myriads dare to front him yet;—That friendless, throneless, he thus stands at bay,Even thus a match for myriads such as they."Oh, for a sweep of that dark Angel's wing,"Who brushed the thousands of the Assyrian King[119]"To darkness in a moment that I might"People Hell's chambers with yon host to-night!"But come what may, let who will grasp the throne,"Caliph or Prophet, Man alike shall groan;"Let who will torture him, Priest—Caliph—King—"Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring"With victims' shrieks and howlings of the slave,—"Sounds that shall glad me even within my grave!"Thus, to himself—but to the scanty trainStill left around him, a far different strain:—"Glorious Defenders of the sacred Crown"I bear from Heaven whose light nor blood shall drown"Nor shadow of earth eclipse;—before whose gems"The paly pomp of this world's diadems,"The crown of GERASHID. the pillared throne"Of PARVIZ[120] and the heron crest that shone[121]"Magnificent o'er ALI'S beauteous eyes.[122]"Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies:"Warriors, rejoice—the port to which we've past"O'er Destiny's dark wave beams out at last!"Victory's our own—'tis written in that Book"Upon whose leaves none but the angels look,"That ISLAM'S sceptre shall beneath the power"Of her great foe fall broken in that hour"When the moon's mighty orb before all eyes"From NEKSHEB'S Holy Well portentously shall rise!"Now turn and see!"—They turned, and, as he spoke,A sudden splendor all around them broke,And they beheld an orb, ample and bright,Rise from the Holy Well and cast its light[123]Round the rich city and the plain for miles,—Flinging such radiance o'er the gilded tilesOf many a dome and fair-roofed imaretAs autumn suns shed round them when they set.Instant from all who saw the illusive signA murmur broke—"Miraculous! divine!"The Gheber bowed, thinking his idol starHad waked, and burst impatient thro' the barOf midnight to inflame him to the war;While he of MOUSSA'S creed saw in that rayThe glorious Light which in his freedom's dayHad rested on the Ark, and now again[124]Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain.
"To victory!" is at once the cry of all—Nor stands MOKANNA loitering at that call;But instant the huge gates are flung aside,And forth like a diminutive mountain-tideInto the boundless sea they speed their courseRight on into the MOSLEM'S mighty force.The watchmen of the camp,—who in their roundsHad paused and even forgot the punctual soundsOf the small drum with which they count the night,[125]To gaze upon that supernatural light,—Now sink beneath an unexpected arm,And in a death-groan give their last alarm."On for the lamps that light yon lofty screen[126]"Nor blunt your blades with massacre so mean;"Thererests the CALIPH—speed—one lucky lance"May now achieve mankind's deliverance."Desperate the die—such as they only castWho venture for a world and stake their last.But Fate's no longer with him—blade for bladeSprings up to meet them thro' the glimmering shade,And as the clash is heard new legions soonPour to the spot, like bees of KAUZEROON[127]To the shrill timbrel's summons,—till at lengthThe mighty camp swarms out in all its strength.And back to NEKSHEB'S gates covering the plainWith random slaughter drives the adventurous train;Among the last of whom the Silver VeilIs seen glittering at times, like the white sailOf some tost vessel on a stormy nightCatching the tempest's momentary light!
And hath not this brought the proud spirit low!Nor dashed his brow nor checkt his daring? No.Tho' half the wretches whom at night he ledTo thrones and victory lie disgraced and dead,Yet morning hears him with unshrinking crest.Still vaunt of thrones and victory to the rest;—And they believe him!—oh, the lover mayDistrust that look which steals his soul away;—The babe may cease to think that it can playWith Heaven's rainbow;—alchymists may doubtThe shining gold their crucible gives out;But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fastTo some dear falsehood hugs it to the last.
And well the Impostor knew all lures and arts,That LUCIFER e'er taught to tangle hearts;Nor, mid these last bold workings of his plotAgainst men's souls, is ZELICA forgot.Ill-fated ZELICA! had reason beenAwake, thro' half the horrors thou hast seen,Thou never couldst have borne it—Death had comeAt once and taken thy wrung spirit home.But 'twas not so—a torpor, a suspenseOf thought, almost of life, came o'er the intenseAnd passionate struggles of that fearful night,When her last hope of peace and heaven took flight:And tho' at times a gleam of frenzy broke,—As thro' some dull volcano's veil of smokeOminous flashings now and then will start,Which show the fire's still busy at its heart;Yet was she mostly wrapt in solemn gloom,—Not such as AZIM'S, brooding o'er its doomAnd calm without as is the brow of deathWhile busy worms are gnawing underneath—But in a blank and pulseless torpor freeFrom thought or pain, a sealed-up apathyWhich left her oft with scarce one living thrillThe cold, pale victim of her torturer's will.
Again, as in MEROU, he had her decktGorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect;And led her glittering forth before the eyesOf his rude train as to a sacrifice,—Pallid as she, the young, devoted BrideOf the fierce NILE, when, deckt in all the prideOf nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide.[128]And while the wretched maid hung down her head,And stood as one just risen from the deadAmid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tellHis credulous slaves it was some charm or spellPossest her now,—and from that darkened tranceShould dawn ere long their Faith's deliverance.Or if at times goaded by guilty shame,Her soul was roused and words of wildness came,Instant the bold blasphemer would translateHer ravings into oracles of fate,Would hail Heaven's signals in her flashing eyesAnd call her shrieks the language of the skies!
But vain at length his arts—despair is seenGathering around; and famine comes to gleanAll that the sword had left unreaped;—in vainAt morn and eve across the northern plainHe looks impatient for the promised spearsOf the wild Hordes and TARTAR mountaineers;They come not—while his fierce beleaguerers pourEngines of havoc in, unknown before,[129]And horrible as new;—javelins, that fly[130]Enwreathed with smoky flames thro' the dark sky,And red-hot globes that opening as they mountDischarge as from a kindled Naphtha fount[131]Showers of consuming fire o'er all below;Looking as thro' the illumined night they goLike those wild birds that by the Magians oft[132]At festivals of fire were sent aloftInto the air with blazing fagots tiedTo their huge wings, scattering combustion wide.All night the groans of wretches who expireIn agony beneath these darts of fireRing thro' the city—while descending o'erIts shrines and domes and streets of sycamore,—Its lone bazars, with their bright cloths of gold,Since the last peaceful pageant left unrolled,—Its beauteous marble baths whose idle jets.Now gush with blood,—and its tall minaretsThat late have stood up in the evening glareOf the red sun, unhallowed by a prayer;—O'er each in turn the dreadful flame-bolts fall,And death and conflagration throughout allThe desolate city hold high festival!
MOKANNA sees the world is his no more;—One sting at parting and his grasp is o'er,"What! drooping now?"—thus, with unblushing cheek,He hails the few who yet can hear him speak,Of all those famished slaves around him lying,And by the light of blazing temples dying;"What!—drooping now!—now, when at length we press"Home o'er the very threshold of success;"When ALLA from our ranks hath thinned away"Those grosser branches that kept out his ray"Of favor from us and we stand at length"Heirs of his light and children of his strength,"The chosen few who shall survive the fall"Of Kings and Thrones, triumphant over all!"Have you then lost, weak murmurers as you are,"All faith in him who was your Light, your Star?"Have you forgot the eye of glory hid"Beneath this Veil, the flashing of whose lid"Could like a sun-stroke of the desert wither"Millions of such as yonder Chief brings hither?"Long have its lightnings slept—too long—but now"All earth shall feel the unveiling of this brow!"To-night—yes, sainted men! this very night,"I bid you all to a fair festal rite,"Where—having deep refreshed each weary limb"With viands such as feast Heaven's cherubim"And kindled up your souls now sunk and dim"With that pure wine the Dark-eyed Maids above"Keep, sealed with precious musk, for those they love,—[133]"I will myself uncurtain in your sight"The wonders of this brow's ineffable light;"Then lead you forth and with a wink disperse"Yon myriads howling thro' the universe!"
Eager they listen—while each accent dartsNew life into their chilled and hope-sick hearts;Such treacherous life as the cool draught suppliesTo him upon the stake who drinks and dies!Wildly they point their lances to the lightOf the fast sinking sun, and shout "To-night!"—"To-night," their Chief re-echoes in a voiceOf fiend-like mockery that bids hell rejoice.Deluded victims!—never hath this earthSeen mourning half so mournful as their mirth.Here, to the few whose iron frames had stoodThis racking waste of famine and of blood,Faint, dying wretches clung, from whom the shoutOf triumph like a maniac's laugh broke out:—There, others, lighted by the smouldering fire,Danced like wan ghosts about a funeral pyreAmong the dead and dying strewed around;—While some pale wretch lookt on and from his woundPlucking the fiery dart by which he bled,In ghastly transport waved it o'er his head!
'Twas more than midnight now—a fearful pauseHad followed the long shouts, the wild applause,That lately from those Royal Gardens burst,Where the veiled demon held his feast accurst,When ZELICA, alas, poor ruined heart,In every horror doomed to bear its part!—Was bidden to the banquet by a slave,Who, while his quivering lip the summons gave,Grew black, as tho' the shadows of the graveCompast him round and ere he could repeatHis message thro', fell lifeless at her feet!Shuddering she went—a soul-felt pang of fearA presage that her own dark doom was near,Roused every feeling and brought Reason backOnce more to writhe her last upon the rack.All round seemed tranquil even the foe had ceasedAs if aware of that demoniac feastHis fiery bolts; and tho' the heavens looked red,'Twas but some distant conflagration's spread.But hark—she stops—she listens—dreadful tone!'Tis her Tormentor's laugh—and now, a groan,A long death-groan comes with it—can this beThe place of mirth, the bower of revelry?
She enters—Holy ALLA, what a sightWas there before her! By the glimmering lightOf the pale dawn, mixt with the flare of brandsThat round lay burning dropt from lifeless hands,She saw the board in splendid mockery spread,Rich censers breathing—garlands overhead—The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaftAll gold and gems, but—what had been the draught?Oh! who need ask that saw those livid guests,With their swollen heads sunk blackening on their breasts,Or looking pale to Heaven with glassy glare,As if they sought but saw no mercy there;As if they felt, tho' poison racked them thro',Remorse the deadlier torment of the two!While some, the bravest, hardiest in the trainOf their false Chief, who on the battle-plainWould have met death with transport by his side,Here mute and helpless gasped;—but as they diedLookt horrible vengeance with their eyes' last strain,And clenched the slackening hand at him in vain.
Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare,The stony look of horror and despair,Which some of these expiring victims castUpon their souls' tormentor to the last;Upon that mocking Fiend whose Veil now raised,Showed them as in death's agony they gazed,Not the long promised light, the brow whose beamingWas to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming,But features horribler than Hell e'er tracedOn its own brood;—no Demon of the Waste,[134]No church-yard Ghoul caught lingering in the lightOf the blest sun, e'er blasted human sightWith lineaments so foul, so fierce as thoseThe Impostor now in grinning mockery shows:—"There, ye wise Saints, behold your Light, your Star—"Yewouldbe dupes and victims and yeare."Is it enough? or must I, while a thrill"Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still?"Swear that the burning death ye feel within"Is but the trance with which Heaven's joys begin:"That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgraced"Even monstrous men, is—after God's own taste;"And that—but see!—ere I have half-way said"My greetings thro', the uncourteous souls are fled."Farewell, sweet spirits! not in vain ye die,"If EBLIS loves you half so well as I.—"Ha, my young bride!—'tis well—take thou thy seat;"Nay come—no shuddering—didst thou never meet"The Dead before?—they graced our wedding, sweet;"And these, my guests to-night, have brimmed so true"Their parting cups, thatthoushalt pledge one too."But—how is this?—all empty? all drunk up?"Hot lips have been before thee in the cup,"Young bride,—yet stay—one precious drop remains,"Enough to warm a gentle Priestess' veins;—"Here, drink—and should thy lover's conquering arms"Speed hither ere thy lip lose all its charms,"Give him but half this venom in thy kiss,"And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss!
"For,me—I too must die—but not like these"Vile rankling things to fester in the breeze;"To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown,"With all death's grimness added to its own,"And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes"Of slaves, exclaiming, 'There his Godship lies!'"No—cursed race—since first my soul drew breath,"They've been my dupes andshallbe even in death."Thou seest yon cistern in the shade—'tis filled"With burning drugs for this last hour distilled;"There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame—"Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet's frame!—"There perish, all—ere pulse of thine shall fail—"Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale."So shall my votaries, wheresoe'er they rave,"Proclaim that Heaven took back the Saint it gave;—"That I've but vanished from this earth awhile,"To come again with bright, unshrouded smile!"So shall they build me altars in their zeal,"Where knaves shall minister and fools shall kneel;"Where Faith may mutter o'er her mystic spell,"Written in blood—and Bigotry may swell"The sail he spreads for Heaven with blasts from hell!"So shall my banner thro' long ages be"The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy;—"Kings yet unborn shall rue MOKANNA'S name,"And tho' I die my spirit still the same"Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife,"And guilt and blood that were its bliss in life."But hark! their battering engine shakes the wall—"Why,letit shake—thus I can brave them all."No trace of me shall greet them when they come,"And I can trust thy faith, for—thou'lt be dumb."Now mark how readily a wretch like me"In one bold plunge commences Deity!"
He sprung and sunk as the last words were said—Quick closed the burning waters o'er his head,And ZELICA was left—within the ringOf those wide walls the only living thing;The only wretched one still curst with breathIn all that frightful wilderness of death!More like some bloodless ghost—such as they tell,In the Lone Cities of the Silent dwell,[135]And there unseen of all but ALLA sitEach by its own pale carcass watching it.But morn is up and a fresh warfare stirsThroughout the camp of the beleaguerers.Their globes of fire (the dread artillery lentBy GREECE to conquering MAHADI) are spent;And now the scorpion's shaft, the quarry sentFrom high balistas and the shielded throngOf soldiers swinging the huge ram along,All speak the impatient Islamite's intentTo try, at length, if tower and battlementAnd bastioned wall be not less hard to win,Less tough to break down than the hearts within.First he, in impatience and in toil isThe burning AZIM—oh! could he but seeThe impostor once alive within his grasp,Not the gaunt lion's hug nor boa's claspCould match thy gripe of vengeance or keep paceWith the fell heartiness of Hate's embrace!
Loud rings the ponderous ram against the walls;Now shake the ramparts, now a buttress falls,But, still no breach—"Once more one mighty swing"Of all your beams, together thundering!"There—the wall shakes—the shouting troops exult,"Quick, quick discharge your weightiest catapult"Right on that spot and NEKSHEB is our own!"'Tis done—the battlements come crashing down,And the huge wall by that stroke riven in twoYawning like some old crater rent anew,Shows the dim, desolate city smoking thro'.But strange! no sign of life—naught living seenAbove, below—what can this stillness mean?A minute's pause suspends all hearts and eyes—"In thro' the breach," impetuous AZIM cries;But the cool CALIPH fearful of some wileIn this blank stillness checks the troops awhile.—Just then a figure with slow step advancedForth from the ruined walls and as there glancedA sunbeam over it all eyes could seeThe well-known Silver Veil!—"'Tis He, 'tis He,"MOKANNA and alone!" they shout around;Young AZIM from his steed springs to the ground—"Mine, Holy Caliph! mine," he cries, "the task"To crush yon daring wretch—'tis all I ask."Eager he darts to meet the demon foeWho still across wide heaps of ruin slowAnd falteringly comes, till they are near;Then with a bound rushes on AZIM'S spear,And casting off the Veil in falling shows—Oh!—'tis his ZELICA'S life-blood that flows!
"I meant not, AZIM," soothingly she said,As on his trembling arm she leaned her head,And looking in his face saw anguish thereBeyond all wounds the quivering flesh can bear—"I meant notthoushouldst have the pain of this:—"Tho' death with thee thus tasted is a bliss"Thou wouldst not rob me of, didst thou but know"How oft I've prayed to God I might die so!"But the Fiend's venom was too scant and slow;—"To linger on were maddening—and I thought"If once that Veil—nay, look not on it—caught"The eyes of your fierce soldiery, I should be"Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly."But this is sweeter—oh! believe me, yes—"I would not change this sad, but dear caress."This death within thy arms I would not give"For the most smiling life the happiest live!"All that stood dark and drear before the eye"Of my strayed soul is passing swiftly by;"A light comes o'er me from those looks of love,"Like the first dawn of mercy from above;"And if thy lips but tell me I'm forgiven,"Angels will echo the blest words in Heaven!"But live, my AZIM;—oh! to call thee mine"Thus once again!myAZIM—dream divine!"Live, if thou ever lovedst me, if to meet"Thy ZELICA hereafter would be sweet,"Oh, live to pray for her—to bend the knee"Morning and night before that Deity"To whom pure lips and hearts without a stain,"As thine are, AZIM, never breathed in vain,—"And pray that He may pardon her,—may take"Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake,"And naught remembering but her love to thee,"Make her all thine, all His, eternally!"Go to those happy fields where first we twined"Our youthful hearts together—every wind"That meets thee there fresh from the well-known flowers"Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours"Back to thy soul and thou mayst feel again"For thy poor ZELICA as thou didst then."So shall thy orisons like dew that flies"To Heaven upon the morning's sunshine rise"With all love's earliest ardor to the skies!"And should they—but, alas, my senses fail—"Oh for one minute!—should thy prayers prevail—"If pardoned souls may from that World of Bliss"Reveal their joy to those they love in this—"I'll come to thee—in some sweet dream—and tell—"Oh Heaven—I die—dear love! farewell, farewell."
Time fleeted—years on years had past away,And few of those who on that mournful dayHad stood with pity in their eyes to seeThe maiden's death and the youth's agony,Were living still—when, by a rustic grave,Beside the swift Amoo's transparent wave,An aged man who had grown aged thereBy that lone grave, morning and night in prayer,For the last time knelt down—and tho' the shadeOf death hung darkening over him there playedA gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek,That brightened even Death—like the last streakOf intense glory on the horizon's brim,When night o'er all the rest hangs chill and dim.His soul had seen a Vision while he slept;She for whose spirit he had prayed and weptSo many years had come to him all drestIn angel smiles and told him she was blest!For this the old man breathed his thanks and died.—And there upon the banks of that loved tide,He and his ZELICA sleep side by side.
The story of the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan being ended, they were now doomed to hear FADLADEEN'S criticisms upon it. A series of disappointments and accidents had occurred to this learned Chamberlain during the journey. In the first place, those couriers stationed, as in the reign of Shah Jehan, between Delhi and the Western coast of India, to secure a constant supply of mangoes for the Royal Table, had by some cruel irregularity failed in their duty; and to eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was of course impossible.[136] In the next place, the elephant laden with his fine antique porcelain,[137] had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, shattered the whole set to pieces:—an irreparable loss, as many of the vessels were so exquisitely old, as to have been used under the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran too, supposed to be the identical copy between the leaves of which Mahomet's favorite pigeon used to nestle, had been mislaid by his Koran-bearer three whole days; not without much spiritual alarm to FADLADEEN who though professing to hold with other loyal and orthodox Mussulmans that salvation could only be found in the Koran was strongly suspected of believing in his heart that it could only be found in his own particular copy of it. When to all these grievances is added the obstinacy of the cooks in putting the pepper of Canara into his dishes instead of the cinnamon of Serendib, we may easily suppose that he came to the task of criticism with at least a sufficient degree of irritability for the purpose.
"In order," said he, importantly swinging about his chaplet of pearls, "to convey with clearness my opinion of the story this young man has related, it is necessary to take a review of all the stories that have ever"—-"My good FADLADEEN!" exclaimed the Princess, interrupting him, "we really do not deserve that you should give yourself so much trouble. Your opinion of the poem we have just heard, will I have no doubt be abundantly edifying without any further waste of your valuable erudition."—"If that be all," replied the critic,—evidently mortified at not being allowed to show how much he knew about everything but the subject immediately before him—"if that be all that is required the matter is easily despatched." He then proceeded to analyze the poem, in that strain (so well known to the unfortunate bards of Delhi), whose censures were an infliction from which few recovered and whose very praises were like the honey extracted from the bitter flowers of the aloe. The chief personages of the story were, if he rightly understood them, an ill-favored gentleman with a veil over his face;—a young lady whose reason went and came according as it suited the poet's convenience to be sensible or otherwise;—and a youth in one of those hideous Bokharian bonnets, who took the aforesaid gentleman in a veil for a Divinity. "From such materials," said he, "what can be expected?—after rivalling each other in long speeches and absurdities through some thousands of lines as indigestible as the filberts of Berdaa, our friend in the veil jumps into a tub of aquafortis; the young lady dies in a set speech whose only recommendation is that it is her last; and the lover lives on to a good old age for the laudable purpose of seeing her ghost which he at last happily accomplishes, and expires. This you will allow is a fair summary of the story; and if Nasser, the Arabian merchant, told no better, our Holy Prophet (to whom be all honor and glory!) had no need to be jealous of his abilities for story-telling."
With respect to the style, it was worthy of the matter;—it had not even those politic contrivances of structure which make up for the commonness of the thoughts by the peculiarity of the manner nor that stately poetical phraseology by which sentiments mean in themselves, like the blacksmith's [138] apron converted into a banner, are so easily gilt and embroidered into consequence. Then as to the versification it was, to say no worse of it, execrable: it had neither the copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness of Hafez, nor the sententious march of Sadi; but appeared to him in the uneasy heaviness of its movements to have been modelled upon the gait of a very tired dromedary. The licenses too in which it indulged were unpardonable;—for instance this line, and the poem abounded with such;—
Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.
"What critic that can count," said FADLADEEN, "and has his full complement of fingers to count withal, would tolerate for an instant such syllabic superfluities?"—He here looked round, and discovered that most of his audience were asleep; while the glimmering lamps seemed inclined to follow their example. It became necessary therefore, however painful to himself, to put an end to his valuable animadversions for the present and he accordingly concluded with an air of dignified candor, thus:—
"Notwithstanding the observations which I have thought it my duty to make, it is by no means my wish to discourage the young man:—so far from it indeed that if he will but totally alter his style of writing and thinking I have very little doubt that I shall be vastly pleased with him."
Some days elapsed after this harangue of the Great Chamberlain before LALLA ROOKH could venture to ask for another story. The youth was still a welcome guest in the pavilion—tooneheart perhaps too dangerously welcome;—but all mention of poetry was as if by common consent avoided. Though none of the party had much respect for FADLADEEN, yet his censures thus magisterially delivered evidently made an impression on them all. The Poet himself to whom criticism was quite a new operation, (being wholly unknown in that Paradise of the Indies, Cashmere,) felt the shock as it is generally felt at first, till use has made it more tolerable to the patient;—the Ladies began to suspect that they ought not to be pleased and seemed to conclude that there must have been much good sense in what FADLADEEN said from its having set them all so soundly to sleep;—while the self-complacent Chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea of having for the hundred and fiftieth time in his life extinguished a Poet. LALLA ROOKH alone—and Love knew why—persisted in being delighted with all she had heard and in resolving to hear more as speedily as possible. Her manner however of first returning to the subject was unlucky. It was while they rested during the heat of noon near a fountain on which some hand had rudely traced those well-known words from the Garden of Sadi.—"Many like me have viewed this fountain, but they are gone and their eyes are closed for ever!"—that she took occasion from the melancholy beauty of this passage to dwell upon the charms of poetry in general. "It is true," she said, "few poets can imitate that sublime bird which flies always in the air and never touches the earth:[139]—it is only once in many ages a Genius appears whose words, like those on the Written Mountain last for ever:[140]—but still there are some as delightful perhaps, though not so wonderful, who if not stars over our head are at least flowers along our path and whose sweetness of the moment we ought gratefully to inhale without calling upon them for a brightness and a durability beyond their nature. In short," continued she, blushing as if conscious of being caught in an oration, "it is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his regions of enchantment without having a critic for ever, like the old Man of the Sea, upon his back!"[141]—FADLADEEN, it was plain took this last luckless allusion to himself and would treasure it up in his mind as a whetstone for his next criticism. A sudden silence ensued; and the Princess, glancing a look at FERAMORZ, saw plainly she must wait for a more courageous moment.
But the glories of Nature and her wild, fragrant airs playing freshly over the current of youthful spirits will soon heal even deeper wounds than the dull Fadladeens of this world can inflict. In an evening or two after, they came to the small Valley of Gardens which had been planted by order of the Emperor for his favorite sister Rochinara during their progress to Cashmere some years before; and never was there a more sparkling assemblage of sweets since the Gulzar-e-Irem or Rose-bower of Irem. Every precious flower was there to be found that poetry or love or religion has ever consecrated; from the dark hyacinth to which Hafez compares his mistress's hair to beCámalatáby whose rosy blossoms the heaven of Indra is scented.[142] As they sat in the cool fragrance of this delicious spot and LALLA ROOKH remarked that she could fancy it the abode of that flower-loving Nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay, [143] or of one of those Peris, those beautiful creatures of the air who live upon perfumes and to whom a place like this might make some amends for the Paradise they have lost,—the young Poet in whose eyes she appeared while she spoke to be one of the bright spiritual creatures she was describing said hesitatingly that he remembered a Story of a Peri, which if the Princess had no objection he would venture to relate. "It is," said he, with an appealing look to FADLADEEN, "in a lighter and humbler strain than the other:" then, striking a few careless but melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus began:—
One morn a Peri at the gateOf Eden stood disconsolate;And as she listened to the SpringsOf Life within like music flowingAnd caught the light upon her wingsThro' the half-open portal glowing,She wept to think her recreant raceShould e'er have lost that glorious place!
"How happy," exclaimed this child of air,"Are the holy Spirits who wander there"Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall;"Tho' mine are the gardens of earth and sea"And the stars themselves have flowers for me,"One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all!
"Tho' sunny the Lake of cool CASHMERE"With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,[144]"And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall;"Tho' bright are the waters of SING-SU-HAYAnd the golden floods that thitherward stray,[145]Yet—oh, 'tis only the Blest can sayHow the waters of Heaven outshine them all!
"Go, wing thy flight from star to star,From world to luminous world as farAs the universe spreads its flaming wall:Take all the pleasures of all the spheresAnd multiply each thro' endless yearsOne minute of Heaven is worth them all!"
The glorious Angel who was keepingThe gates of Light beheld her weeping,And as he nearer drew and listenedTo her sad song, a tear-drop glistenedWithin his eyelids, like the sprayFrom Eden's fountain when it liesOn the blue flower which—Bramins say—Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.[146]
"Nymph of a fair but erring line!"Gently he said—"One hope is thine.'Tis written in the Book of Fate,The Peri yet may be forgivenWho brings to this Eternal gateThe Gift that is most dear to Heaven!Go seek it and redeem thy sin—'Tis sweet to let the Pardoned in."
Rapidly as comets runTo the embraces of the Sun;—Fleeter than the starry brandsFlung at night from angel hands[147]At those dark and daring spritesWho would climb the empyreal heights,Down the blue vault the PERI flies,And lighted earthward by a glanceThat just then broke from morning's eyes,Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse.
But whither shall the Spirit goTo find this gift for Heaven;—"I knowThe wealth," she cries, "of every urnIn which unnumbered rubies burnBeneath the pillars of CHILMINAR:[148]I know where the Isles of Perfume are[149]Many a fathom down in the sea,To the south of sun-bright ARABY;[150]I know too where the Genii hidThe jewelled cup of their King JAMSHID,[151]"With Life's elixir sparkling high—"But gifts like these are not for the sky."Where was there ever a gem that shone"Like the steps of ALLA'S wonderful Throne?"And the Drops of Life—oh! what would they be"In the boundless Deep of Eternity?"
While thus she mused her pinions fannedThe air of that sweet Indian landWhose air is balm, whose ocean spreadsO'er coral rocks and amber beds,[152]Whose mountains pregnant by the beamOf the warm sun with diamonds teem,Whose rivulets are like rich brides,Lovely, with gold beneath their tides,Whose sandal groves and bowers of spiceMight be a Peri's Paradise!But crimson now her rivers ranWith human blood—the smell of deathCame reeking from those spicy bowers,And man the sacrifice of manMingled his taint with every breathUpwafted from the innocent flowers.Land of the Sun! what foot invadesThy Pagods and thy pillared shades—Thy cavern shrines and Idol stones,Thy Monarch and their thousand Thrones?[153]
'Tis He of GAZNA[154], fierce in wrathHe comes and INDIA'S diademsLie scattered in his ruinous path.-His bloodhounds he adorns with gems,Torn from the violated necksOf many a young and loved Sultana;[155]Maidens within their pure Zenana,Priests in the very fane he slaughters,And chokes up with the glittering wrecksOf golden shrines the sacred waters!Downward the PERI turns her gaze,And thro' the war-field's bloody hazeBeholds a youthful warrior standAlone beside his native river,—The red blade broken in his handAnd the last arrow in his quiver."Live," said the Conqueror, "live to share"The trophies and the crowns I bear!"Silent that youthful warrior stood—Silent he pointed to the floodAll crimson with his country's blood,Then sent his last remaining dart,For answer, to the Invader's heart.
False flew the shaft tho' pointed well;The Tyrant lived, the Hero fell!—Yet marked the PERI where he lay,And when the rush of war was pastSwiftly descending on a rayOf morning light she caught the last—Last glorious drop his heart had shedBefore its free-born spirit fled!
"Be this," she cried, as she winged her flight,"My welcome gift at the Gates of Light."Tho' foul are the drops that oft distil"On the field of warfare, blood like this"For Liberty shed so holy is,"It would not stain the purest rill"That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss!"Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere"A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,"'Tis the last libation Liberty draws"From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!""Sweet," said the Angel, as she gaveThe gift into his radiant hand,"Sweet is our welcome of the Brave"Who die thus for their native Land.—"But see—alas! the crystal bar"Of Eden moves not—holier far"Than even this drop the boon must be"That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!"
Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,Now among AFRIC'S lunar Mountains[156]Far to the South the PERI lightedAnd sleeked her plumage at the fountainsOf that Egyptian tide whose birthIs hidden from the sons of earthDeep in those solitary woodsWhere oft the Genii of the FloodsDance round the cradle of their NileAnd hail the new-born Giant's smile.[157]Thence over EGYPT'S palmy grovesHer grots, and sepulchres of Kings,[158]The exiled Spirit sighing rovesAnd now hangs listening to the dovesIn warm ROSETTA'S vale;[159] now lovesTo watch the moonlight on the wingsOf the white pelicans that breakThe azure calm of MOERIS' Lake.[160]'Twas a fair scene: a Land more brightNever did mortal eye behold!Who could have thought that saw this nightThose valleys and their fruits of goldBasking in Heaven's serenest light,Those groups of lovely date-trees bendingLanguidly their leaf-crowned heads,Like youthful maids, when sleep descendingWarns them to their silken beds,[161]Those virgin lilies all the nightBathing their beauties in the lakeThat they may rise more fresh and bright,When their beloved Sun's awake,Those ruined shrines and towers that seemThe relics of a splendid dream,Amid whose fairy lonelinessNaught but the lapwing's cry is heard,—Naught seen but (when the shadows flitting,Fast from the moon unsheath its gleam,)Some purple-winged Sultana sitting[162]Upon a column motionlessAnd glittering like an Idol bird!—Who could have thought that there, even there,Amid those scenes so still and fair,The Demon of the Plague hath castFrom his hot wing a deadlier blast,More mortal far than ever cameFrom the red Desert's sands of flame!So quick that every living thingOf human shape touched by his wing,Like plants, where the Simoom hath pastAt once falls black and withering!The sun went down on many a browWhich, full of bloom and freshness then,Is rankling in the pest-house nowAnd ne'er will feel that sun again,And, oh! to see the unburied heapsOn which the lonely moonlight sleeps—The very vultures turn away,And sicken at so foul a prey!Only the fierce hyaena stalks[163]Throughout the city's desolate walks[164]At midnight and his carnage plies:—Woe to the half-dead wretch who meetsThe glaring of those large blue eyesAmid the darkness of the streets!
"Poor race of men!" said the pitying Spirit,"Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall—"Some flowerets of Eden ye still inherit,"But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!"She wept—the air grew pure and clearAround her as the bright drops ran,For there's a magic in each tearSuch kindly Spirits weep for man!
Just then beneath some orange treesWhose fruit and blossoms in the breezeWere wantoning together, free,Like age at play with infancy—Beneath that fresh and springing bowerClose by the Lake she heard the moanOf one who at this silent hour,Had thither stolen to die alone.One who in life where'er he moved,Drew after him the hearts of many;Yet now, as tho' he ne'er were loved,Dies here unseen, unwept by any!None to watch near him—none to slakeThe fire that in his bosom lies,With even a sprinkle from that lakeWhich shines so cool before his eyes.No voice well known thro' many a dayTo speak the last, the parting wordWhich when all other sounds decayIs still like distant music heard;—That tender farewell on the shoreOf this rude world when all is o'er,Which cheers the spirit ere its barkPuts off into the unknown Dark.
Deserted youth! one thought aloneShed joy around his soul in deathThat she whom he for years had known,And loved and might have called his ownWas safe from this foul midnight's breath,—Safe in her father's princely hallsWhere the cool airs from fountain falls,Freshly perfumed by many a brandOf the sweet wood from India's land,Were pure as she whose brow they fanned.
But see—who yonder comes by stealth,This melancholy bower to seek,Like a young envoy sent by HealthWith rosy gifts upon her cheek?'Tis she—far off, thro' moonlight dimHe knew his own betrothed bride,She who would rather die with himThan live to gain the world beside!—Her arms are round her lover now,His livid cheek to hers she pressesAnd dips to bind his burning browIn the cool lake her loosened tresses.Ah! once, how little did he thinkAn hour would come when he should shrinkWith horror from that dear embrace,Those gentle arms that were to himHoly as is the cradling placeOf Eden's infant cherubim!And now he yields—now turns away,Shuddering as if the venom layAll in those proffered lips alone—Those lips that then so fearless grownNever until that instant cameNear his unasked or without shame."Oh! let me only breathe the air."The blessed air, that's breathed by thee,"And whether on its wings it bear"Healing or death 'tis sweet to me!"There—drink my tears while yet they fall—"Would that my bosom's blood were balm,"And, well thou knowst, I'd shed it all"To give thy brow one minute's calm."Nay, turn not from me that dear face—"Am I not thine—thy own loved bride—"The one, the chosen one, whose place"In life or death is by thy side?"Thinkst thou that she whose only light,"In this dim world from thee hath shone"Could bear the long, the cheerless night"That must be hers when thou art gone?"That I can live and let thee go,"Who art my life itself?—No, no—"When the stem dies the leaf that grew"Out of its heart must perish too!"Then turn to me, my own love, turn,"Before, like thee, I fade and burn;"Cling to these yet cool lips and share"The last pure life that lingers there!"She fails—she sinks—as dies the lampIn charnel airs or cavern-damp,So quickly do his baleful sighsQuench all the sweet light of her eyes,One struggle—and his pain is past—Her lover is no longer living!One kiss the maiden gives, one last,Long kiss, which she expires in giving!
"Sleep," said the PERI, as softly she stoleThe farewell sigh of that vanishing soul,As true as e'er warmed a woman's breast—"Sleep on, in visions of odor rest"In balmier airs than ever yet stirred"The enchanted pile of that lonely bird"Who sings at the last his own death-lay[165]"And in music and perfume dies away!"Thus saying, from her lips she spreadUnearthly breathings thro' the placeAnd shook her sparkling wreath and shedSuch lustre o'er each paly faceThat like two lovely saints they seemed,Upon the eve of doomsday takenFrom their dim graves in ordor sleeping;While that benevolent PERI beamedLike their good angel calmly keepingWatch o'er them till their souls would waken.
But morn is blushing in the sky;Again the PERI soars above,Bearing to Heaven that precious sighOf pure, self-sacrificing love.High throbbed her heart with hope elateThe Elysian palm she soon shall win.For the bright Spirit at the gateSmiled as she gave that offering in;And she already hears the treesOf Eden with their crystal bellsRinging in that ambrosial breezeThat from the throne of ALLA swells;And she can see the starry bowlsThat lie around that lucid lakeUpon whose banks admitted SoulsTheir first sweet draught of glory take![166]
But, ah! even PERIS' hopes are vain—Again the Fates forbade, againThe immortal barrier closed—"Not yet,"The Angel said as with regretHe shut from her that glimpse of glory—"True was the maiden, and her story"Written in light o'er ALLA'S head"By seraph eyes shall long be read."But, PERI, see—the crystal bar"Of Eden moves not—holier far"Than even this sigh the boon must be"That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee."
Now upon SYRIA'S land of roses[167]Softly the light of Eve reposes,And like a glory the broad sunHangs over sainted LEBANON,Whose head in wintry grandeur towersAnd whitens with eternal sleet,While summer in a vale of flowersIs sleeping rosy at his feet.
To one who looked from upper airO'er all the enchanted regions there,How beauteous must have been the glow,The life, the sparkling from below!Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranksOf golden melons on their banks,More golden where the sunlight falls;—Gay lizards, glittering on the walls[168]Of ruined shrines, busy and brightAs they were all alive with light;And yet more splendid numerous flocksOf pigeons settling on the rocksWith their rich restless wings that gleamVariously in the crimson beamOf the warm West,—as if inlaidWith brilliants from the mine or madeOf tearless rainbows such as spanThe unclouded skies of PERISTAN.And then the mingling sounds that come,Of shepherd's ancient reed,[169] with humOf the wild bees of PALESTINE,[170]Banqueting thro' the flowery vales;And, JORDAN, those sweet banks of thineAnd woods so full of nightingales.[171]But naught can charm the luckless PERI;Her soul is sad—her wings are weary—Joyless she sees the Sun look downOn that great Temple once his own,[172]Whose lonely columns stand sublime,Flinging their shadows from on highLike dials which the Wizard TimeHad raised to count his ages by!
Yet haply there may lie concealedBeneath those Chambers of the SunSome amulet of gems, annealedIn upper fires, some tablet sealedWith the great name of SOLOMON,Which spelled by her illumined eyes,May teach her where beneath the moon,In earth or ocean, lies the boon,The charm, that can restore so soonAn erring Spirit to the skies.
Cheered by this hope she bends her thither;—Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,Nor have the golden bowers of EvenIn the rich West begun to wither;—When o'er the vale of BALBEC wingingSlowly she sees a child at play,Among the rosy wild flowers singing,As rosy and as wild as they;Chasing with eager hands and eyesThe beautiful blue damsel-flies,[173]That fluttered round the jasmine stemsLike winged flowers or flying gems:—And near the boy, who tired with playNow nestling mid the roses lay.She saw a wearied man dismountFrom his hot steed and on the brinkOf a small imaret's rustic fountImpatient fling him down to drink.Then swift his haggard brow he turnedTo the fair child who fearless sat,Tho' never yet hath day-beam burnedUpon a brow more fierce than that,—Sullenly fierce—a mixture direLike thunder-clouds of gloom and fire;In which the PERI'S eye could readDark tales of many a ruthless deed;The ruined maid—the shrine profaned—Oaths broken—and the threshold stainedWith blood of guests!—therewritten, all,Black as the damning drops that fallFrom the denouncing Angel's pen,Ere Mercy weeps them out again.Yet tranquil now that man of crime(As if the balmy evening timeSoftened his spirit) looked and lay,Watching the rosy infant's play:—Tho' still whene'er his eye by chanceFell on the boy's, its lucid glanceMet that unclouded, joyous gaze,As torches that have burnt all nightTho' some impure and godless rite,Encounter morning's glorious rays.
But, hark! the vesper call to prayer,As slow the orb of daylight sets,Is rising sweetly on the air.From SYRIA'S thousand minarets!The boy has started from the bedOf flowers where he had laid his head.And down upon the fragrant sodKneels[174] with his forehead to the southLisping the eternal name of GodFrom Purity's own cherub mouth,And looking while his hands and eyesAre lifted to the glowing skiesLike a stray babe of ParadiseJust lighted on that flowery plainAnd seeking for its home again.Oh! 'twas a sight—that Heaven—that child—A scene, which might have well beguiledEven haughty EBLIS of a sighFor glories lost and peace gone by!And how felthe, the wretched ManReclining there—while memory ranO'er many a year of guilt and strife,Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,Nor found one sunny resting-place.Nor brought him back one branch of grace."Therewasa time," he said, in mild,Heart-humbled tones—"thou blessed child!"When young and haply pure as thou"I looked and prayed like thee—but now"—He hung his head—each nobler aimAnd hope and feeling which had sleptFrom boyhood's hour that instant cameFresh o'er him and he wept—he wept!
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!In whose benign, redeeming flowIs felt the first, the only senseOf guiltless joy that guilt can know."There's a drop," said the PERI, "that down from the moon"Falls thro' the withering airs of June"Upon EGYPT'S land,[175] of so healing a power,"So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour"That drop descends contagion dies"And health reanimates earth and skies!—"Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin,"The precious tears of repentance fall?"Tho' foul thy fiery plagues within"One heavenly drop hath dispelled them all!"And now—behold him kneeling thereBy the child's side, in humble prayer,While the same sunbeam shines uponThe guilty and the guiltless one.And hymns of joy proclaim thro' HeavenThe triumph of a Soul Forgiven!