'Twas when the golden orb had set,While on their knees they lingered yet,There fell a light more lovely farThan ever came from sun or star,Upon the tear that, warm and meek,Dewed that repentant sinner's cheek.To mortal eye this light might seemA northern flash or meteor beam—But well the enraptured PERI knew'Twas a bright smile the Angel threwFrom Heaven's gate to hail that tearHer harbinger of glory near!
"Joy, joy for ever! my task is done—"The Gates are past and Heaven is won!"Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am—"To thee, sweet Eden! how dark and sad"Are the diamond turrets of SHADUKIAM,[176]"And the fragrant bowers of AMBERABAD!
"Farewell ye odors of Earth that die"Passing away like a lover's sigh;—"My feast is now of the Tooba Tree[177]"Whose scent is the breath of Eternity!
"Farewell, ye vanishing flowers that shone"In my fairy wreath so bright an' brief;—"Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown"To the lote-tree springing by ALLA'S throne[178]"Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf."Joy, joy for ever.—my task is done—"The Gates are past and Heaven is won!"
"And this," said the Great Chamberlain, "is poetry! this flimsy manufacture of the brain, which in comparison with the lofty and durable monuments of genius is as the gold filigree-work of Zamara beside the eternal architecture of Egypt!" After this gorgeous sentence, which, with a few more of the same kind, FADLADEEN kept by him for rare and important occasions, he proceeded to the anatomy of the short poem just recited. The lax and easy kind of metre in which it was written ought to be denounced, he said, as one of the leading causes of the alarming growth of poetry in our times. If some check were not given to this lawless facility we should soon be overrun by a race of bards as numerous and as shallow as the hundred and twenty thousand Streams of Basra.[179] They who succeeded in this style deserved chastisement for their very success;—as warriors have been punished even after gaining a victory because they had taken the liberty of gaining it in an irregular or unestablished manner. What then was to be said to those who failed? to those who presumed as in the present lamentable instance to imitate the licence and ease of the bolder sons of song without any of that grace or vigor which gave a dignity even to negligence;—who like them flung the jereed[180] carelessly, but not, like them, to the mark;—"and who," said he, raising his voice to excite a proper degree of wakefulness in his hearers, "contrive to appear heavy and constrained in the midst of all the latitude they allow themselves, like one of those young pagans that dance before the Princess, who is ingenious enough to move as if her limbs were fettered, in a pair of the lightest and loosest drawers of Masulipatam!"
It was but little suitable, he continued, to the grave march of criticism to follow this fantastical Peri of whom they had just heard, through all her flights and adventures between earth and heaven, but he could not help adverting to the puerile conceitedness of the Three Gifts which she is supposed to carry to the skies,—a drop of blood, forsooth, a sigh, and a tear! How the first of these articles was delivered into the Angel's "radiant hand" he professed himself at a loss to discover; and as to the safe carriage of the sigh and the tear, such Peris and such poets were beings by far too incomprehensible for him even to guess how they managed such matters. "But, in short," said he, "it is a waste of time and patience to dwell longer upon a thing so incurably frivolous,—puny even among its own puny race, and such as only the Banyan Hospital[181] for Sick Insects should undertake."
In vain did LALLA ROOKH try to soften this inexorable critic; in vain did she resort to her most eloquent commonplaces, reminding him that poets were a timid and sensitive race whose sweetness was not to be drawn forth like that of the fragrant grass near the Ganges by crushing and trampling upon them,[182] that severity often extinguished every chance of the perfection which it demanded, and that after all perfection was like the Mountain of the Talisman,—no one had ever yet reached its summit.[183] Neither these gentle axioms nor the still gentler looks with which they were inculcated could lower for one instant the elevation of FADLADEEN'S eyebrows or charm him into anything like encouragement or even toleration of her poet. Toleration, indeed, was not among the weaknesses of FADLADEEN:—he carried the same spirit into matters of poetry and of religion, and though little versed in the beauties or sublimities of either was a perfect master of the art of persecution in both. His zeal was the same too in either pursuit, whether the game before him was pagans or poetasters, worshippers of cows, or writers of epics.
They had now arrived at the splendid city of Lahore whose mausoleums and shrines, magnificent and numberless where Death appeared to share equal honors with Heaven would have powerfully affected the heart and imagination of LALLA ROOKH, if feelings more of this earth had not taken entire possession of her already. She was here met by messengers despatched from Cashmere who informed her that the King had arrived in the Valley and was himself superintending the sumptuous preparations that were then making in the Saloons of the Shalimar for her reception. The chill she felt on receiving this intelligence,—which to a bride whose heart was free and light would have brought only images of affection and pleasure,—convinced her that her peace was gone for ever and that she was in love, irretrievably in love, with young FERAMORZ. The veil had fallen off in which this passion at first disguises itself, and to know that she loved was now as painful as to love without knowing it had been delicious. FERAMORZ, too,—what misery would be his, if the sweet hours of intercourse so imprudently allowed them should have stolen into his heart the same fatal fascination as into hers;—if, notwithstanding her rank and the modest homage he always paid to it, evenheshould have yielded to the influence of those long and happy interviews where music, poetry, the delightful scenes of nature,—all had tended to bring their hearts close together and to waken by every means that too ready passion which often like the young of the desert-bird is warmed into life by the eyes alone! [184] She saw but one way to preserve herself from being culpable as well as unhappy, and this however painful she was resolved to adopt. FERAMORZ must no more be admitted to her presence. To have strayed so far into the dangerous labyrinth was wrong, but to linger in it while the clew was yet in her hand would be criminal. Though the heart she had to offer to the King of Bucharia might be cold and broken, it should at least be pure, and she must only endeavor to forget the short dream of happiness she had enjoyed,—like that Arabian shepherd who in wandering into the wilderness caught a glimpse of the Gardens of Irim and then lost them again for ever!
The arrival of the young Bride at Lahore was celebrated in the most enthusiastic manner. The Rajas and Omras in her train, who had kept at a certain distance during the journey and never encamped nearer to the Princess than was strictly necessary for her safeguard here rode in splendid cavalcade through the city and distributed the most costly presents to the crowd. Engines were erected in all the squares which cast forth showers of confectionery among the people, while the artisans in chariots[185] adorned with tinsel and flying streamers exhibited the badges of their respective trades through the streets. Such brilliant displays of life and pageantry among the palaces and domes and gilded minarets of Lahore made the city altogether like a place of enchantment;—particularly on the day when LALLA ROOKH set out again upon her journey, when she was accompanied to the gate by all the fairest and richest of the nobility and rode along between ranks of beautiful boys and girls who kept waving over their heads plates of gold and silver flowers,[186] and then threw them around to be gathered by the populace.
For many days after their departure from Lahore a considerable degree of gloom hung over the whole party. LALLA ROOKH, who had intended to make illness her excuse for not admitting the young minstrel, as usual, to the pavilion, soon found that to feign indisposition was unnecessary;— FADLADEEN felt the loss of the good road they had hitherto travelled and was very near cursing Jehan-Guire (of blessed memory!) for not having continued his delectable alley of trees[187] a least as far as the mountains of Cashmere;—while the Ladies who had nothing now to do all day but to be fanned by peacocks' feathers and listen to FADLADEEN seemed heartily weary of the life they led and in spite of all the Great Chamberlain's criticisms were so tasteless as to wish for the poet again. One evening as they were proceeding to their place of rest for the night the Princess who for the freer enjoyment of the air had mounted her favorite Arabian palfrey, in passing by a small grove heard the notes of a lute from within its leaves and a voice which she but too well knew singing the following words:—
Tell me not of joys above,If that world can give no bliss,Truer, happier than the LoveWhich enslaves our souls in this.
Tell me not of Houris' eyes;—Far from me their dangerous glow.If those looks that light the skiesWound like some that burn below.
Who that feels what Love is here,All its falsehood—all its pain—Would, for even Elysium's sphere,Risk the fatal dream again?
Who that midst a desert's heatSees the waters fade awayWould not rather die than meetStreams again as false as they?
The tone of melancholy defiance in which these words were uttered went to LALLA ROOKH'S heart;—and as she reluctantly rode on she could not help feeling it to be a sad but still sweet certainty that FERAMORZ was to the full as enamored and miserable as herself.
The place where they encamped that evening was the first delightful spot they had come to since they left Lahore. On one side of them was a grove full of small Hindoo temples and planted with the most graceful trees of the East, where the tamarind, the cassia, and the silken plantains of Ceylon were mingled in rich contrast with the high fan-like foliage of the Palmyra,—that favorite tree of the luxurious bird that lights up the chambers of its nest with fire-flies.[188]. In the middle of the lawn where the pavilion stood there was a tank surrounded by small mango-trees on the clear cold waters of which floated multitudes of the beautiful red lotus,[189] while at a distance stood the ruins of a strange and awful- looking tower which seemed old enough to have been the temple of some religion no longer known and which spoke the voice of desolation in the midst of all that bloom and loveliness. This singular ruin excited the wonder and conjectures of all. LALLA ROOKH guessed in vain, and the all- pretending FADLADEEN who had never till this journey been beyond the precincts of Delhi was proceeding most learnedly to show that he knew nothing whatever about the matter, when one of the Ladies suggested that perhaps FERAMORZ could satisfy their curiosity. They were now approaching his native mountains and this tower might perhaps be a relic of some of those dark superstitions which had prevailed in that country before the light of Islam dawned upon it. The Chamberlain who usually preferred his own ignorance to the best knowledge that any one else could give him was by no means pleased with this officious reference, and the Princess too was about to interpose a faint word of objection, but before either of them could speak a slave was despatched for FERAMORZ, who in a very few minutes made his appearance before them—looking so pale and unhappy in LALLA ROOKH'S eyes that she repented already of her cruelty in having so long excluded him.
That venerable tower he told them was the remains of an ancient Fire- Temple, built by those Ghebers or Persians of the old religion, who many hundred years since had fled hither from the Arab conquerors, preferring liberty and their altars in a foreign land to the alternative of apostasy or persecution in their own. It was impossible, he added, not to feel interested in the many glorious but unsuccessful struggles which had been made by these original natives of Persia to cast off the yoke of their bigoted conquerors. Like their own Fire in the Burning Field at Bakou when suppressed in one place they had but broken out with fresh flame in another; and as a native of Cashmere, of that fair and Holy Valley which had in the same manner become the prey of strangers[190] and seen her ancient shrines and native princes swept away before the march of her intolerant invaders he felt a sympathy, he owned, with the sufferings of the persecuted Ghebers which every monument like this before them but tended more powerfully to awaken.
It was the first time that FERAMORZ had ever ventured upon so muchprosebefore FADLADEEN and it may easily be conceived what effect such prose as this must have produced upon that most orthodox and most pagan- hating personage. He sat for some minutes aghast, ejaculating only at intervals, "Bigoted conquerors!—sympathy with Fire-worshippers!"[191]— while FERAMORZ happy to take advantage of this almost speechless horror of the Chamberlain proceeded to say that he knew a melancholy story connected with the events of one of those struggles of the brave Fire-worshippers against their Arab masters, which if the evening was not too far advanced he should have much pleasure in being allowed to relate to the Princess. It was impossible for LALLA ROOKH to refuse;—he had never before looked half so animated, and when he spoke of the Holy Valley his eyes had sparkled she thought like the talismanic characters on the scimitar of Solomon. Her consent was therefore most readily granted; and while FADLADEEN sat in unspeakable dismay, expecting treason and abomination in every line, the poet thus began his story of the Fire-worshippers:
'Tis moonlight over OMAN'S SEA;[192]Her banks of pearl and palmy islesBask in the night-beam beauteouslyAnd her blue waters sleep in smiles.'Tis moonlight in HARMOZIA'S[193] walls,And through her EMIR'S porphyry hallsWhere some hours since was heard the swellOf trumpets and the clash of zel[194]Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell;—The peaceful sun whom better suitsThe music of the bulbul's nestOr the light touch of lovers' lutesTo sing him to his golden rest.All husht—there's not a breeze in motion;The shore is silent as the ocean.If zephyrs come, so light they come.Nor leaf is stirred nor wave is driven;—The wind-tower on the EMIR'S dome[195]Can hardly win a breath from heaven.
Even he, that tyrant Arab, sleepsCalm, while a nation round him weeps,While curses load the air he breathesAnd falchions from unnumbered sheathsAre starting to avenge the shameHis race hath brought on IRAN'S[196]name.Hard, heartless Chief, unmoved alikeMid eyes that weep and swords that strike;One of that saintly, murderous brood,To carnage and the Koran given,Who think thro' unbelievers' bloodLies their directest path to heaven,—One who will pause and kneel unshodIn the warm blood his hand hath poured,To mutter o'er some text of GodEngraven on his reeking sword;[197]Nay, who can coolly note the line,The letter of those words divine,To which his blade with searching artHad sunk into its victim's heart!
Just ALLA! what must be thy lookWhen such a wretch before thee standsUnblushing, with thy Sacred Book,—Turning the leaves with bloodstained hands,And wresting from its page sublimeHis creed of lust and hate and crime;—Even as those bees of TREBIZOND,Which from the sunniest flowers that gladWith their pure smile the gardens round,Draw venom forth that drives men mad.[198]Never did fierce Arabia sendA satrap forth more direly great;Never was IRAN doomed to bendBeneath a yoke of deadlier weight.Her throne had fallen—her pride was crusht—Her sons were willing slaves, nor blusht,In their own land,—no more their own,—To crouch beneath a stranger's throne.Her towers where MITHRA once had burned.To Moslem shrines—oh shame!—were turned,Where slaves converted by the sword,Their mean, apostate worship poured,And curst the faith their sires adored.Yet has she hearts, mid all this ill,O'er all this wreck high buoyant stillWith hope and vengeance;—hearts that yet—Like gems, in darkness, issuing raysThey've treasured from the sun that's set,—Beam all the light of long-lost days!And swords she hath, nor weak nor slowTo second all such hearts can dare:As he shall know, well, dearly know.Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there,Tranquil as if his spirit layBecalmed in Heaven's approving ray.Sleep on—for purer eyes than thineThose waves are husht, those planets shine;Sleep on and be thy rest unmovedBy the white moonbeam's dazzling power;—None but the loving and the lovedShould be awake at this sweet hour.
And see—where high above those rocksThat o'er the deep their shadows fling.Yon turret stands;—where ebon locks,As glossy as the heron's wingUpon the turban of a king,[199]Hang from the lattice, long and wild,—'Tis she, that EMIR'S blooming child,All truth and tenderness and grace,Tho' born of such ungentle race;—An image of Youth's radiant FountainSpringing in a desolate mountain![200]
Oh what a pure and sacred thingIs Beauty curtained from the sightOf the gross world, illuminingOne only mansion with her light!Unseen by man's disturbing eye,—The flower that blooms beneath the sea,Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lieHid in more chaste obscurity.So, HINDA. have thy face and mind,Like holy mysteries, lain enshrined.And oh! what transport for a loverTo lift the veil that shades them o'er!—Like those who all at once discoverIn the lone deep some fairy shoreWhere mortal never trod before,And sleep and wake in scented airsNo lip had ever breathed but theirs.
Beautiful are the maids that glideOn summer-eves thro' YEMEN'S[201] dales,And bright the glancing looks they hideBehind their litters' roseate veils;—And brides as delicate and fairAs the white jasmine flowers they wear,Hath YEMEN in her blissful clime,Who lulled in cool kiosk or bower,[202]Before their mirrors count the time[203]And grow still lovelier every hour.But never yet hath bride or maidIn ARABY'S gay Haram smiled.Whose boasted brightness would not fadeBefore AL HASSAN'S blooming child.
Light as the angel shapes that blessAn infant's dream, yet not the lessRich in all woman's loveliness;—With eyes so pure that from their rayDark Vice would turn abasht away,Blinded like serpents when they gazeUpon the emerald's virgin blaze;[204]—Yet filled with all youth's sweet desires,Mingling the meek and vestal firesOf other worlds with all the bliss,The fond, weak tenderness of this:A soul too more than half divine,Where, thro' some shades of earthly feeling,Religion's softened glories shine,Like light thro' summer foliage stealing,Shedding a glow of such mild hue,So warm and yet so shadowy too,As makes the very darkness thereMore beautiful than light elsewhere.
Such is the maid who at this hourHath risen from her restless sleepAnd sits alone in that high bower,Watching the still and shining deep.Ah! 'twas not thus,—with tearful eyesAnd beating heart,—she used to gazeOn the magnificent earth and skies,In her own land, in happier days.Why looks she now so anxious downAmong those rocks whose rugged frownBlackens the mirror of the deep?Whom waits she all this lonely night?Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep,For man to scale that turret's height!—
So deemed at least her thoughtful sire,When high, to catch the cool night-airAfter the day-beam's withering fire,[205]He built her bower of freshness there,And had it deckt with costliest skillAnd fondly thought it safe as fair:—Think, reverend dreamer! think so still,Nor wake to learn what Love can dare;—Love, all defying Love, who seesNo charm in trophies won with ease;—Whose rarest, dearest fruits of blissAre plucked on Danger's precipice!Bolder than they who dare not diveFor pearls but when the sea's at rest,Love, in the tempest most alive,Hath ever held that pearl the bestHe finds beneath the stormiest water.Yes, ARABY'S unrivalled daughter,Tho' high that tower, that rock-way rude,There's one who but to kiss thy cheekWould climb the untrodden solitudeOf ARARAT'S tremendous peak,[206]And think its steeps, tho' dark and dread,Heaven's pathways, if to thee they led!Even now thou seest the flashing spray,That lights his oar's impatient way;—Even now thou hearest the sudden shockOf his swift bark against the rock,And stretchest down thy arms of snowAs if to lift him from below!Like her to whom at dead of nightThe bridegroom with his locks of light[207]Came in the flush of love and prideAnd scaled the terrace of his bride;—When as she saw him rashly spring,And midway up in danger cling,She flung him down her long black hair,Exclaiming breathless, "There, love, there!"And scarce did manlier nerve upholdThe hero ZAL in that fond hour,Than wings the youth who, fleet and bold,Now climbs the rocks to HINDA'S bower.See-light as up their granite steepsThe rock-goats of ARABIA clamber,[208]Fearless from crag to crag he leaps,And now is in the maiden's chamber.She loves—but knows not whom she loves,Nor what his race, nor whence he came;—Like one who meets in Indian grovesSome beauteous bird without a name;Brought by the last ambrosial breezeFrom isles in the undiscovered seas,To show his plumage for a dayTo wondering eyes and wing away!Will he thus fly—her nameless lover?ALLA forbid! 'twas by a moonAs fair as this, while singing overSome ditty to her soft Kanoon,Alone, at this same witching hour,She first beheld his radiant eyesGleam thro' the lattice of the bower,Where nightly now they mix their sighs;And thought some spirit of the air(For what could waft a mortal there?)Was pausing on his moonlight wayTo listen to her lonely lay!This fancy ne'er hath left her mind:And—tho', when terror's swoon had past,She saw a youth of mortal kindBefore her in obeisance cast,—Yet often since, when he hath spokenStrange, awful words,—and gleams have brokenFrom his dark eyes, too bright to bear,Oh! she hath feared her soul was givenTo some unhallowed child of air,Some erring spirit cast from heaven,Like those angelic youths of oldWho burned for maids of mortal mould,Bewildered left the glorious skiesAnd lost their heaven for woman's eyes.Fond girl! nor fiend nor angel heWho woos thy young simplicity;But one of earth's impassioned sons,As warm in love, as fierce in ireAs the best heart whose current runsFull of the Day-God's living fire.
But quenched to-night that ardor seems,And pale his cheek and sunk his brow;—Never before but in her dreamsHad she beheld him pale as now:And those were dreams of troubled sleepFrom which 'twas joy to wake and weep;Visions that will not be forgot,But sadden every waking sceneLike warning ghosts that leave the spotAll withered where they once have been.
"How sweetly," said the trembling maid,Of her own gentle voice afraid,So long had they in silence stoodLooking upon that tranquil flood—"How sweetly does the moonbeam smile"To-night upon yon leafy isle!"Oft, in my fancy's wanderings,"I've wisht that little isle had wings,"And we within its fairy bowers"Were wafted off to seas unknown,"Where not a pulse should beat but ours,"And we might live, love, die, alone!"Far from the cruel and the cold,—"Where the bright eyes of angels only"Should come around us to behold"A paradise so pure and lonely."Would this be world enough for thee?"—Playful she turned that he might seeThe passing smile her cheek put on;But when she markt how mournfullyHis eye met hers, that smile was gone;And bursting into heart-felt tears,"Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears,"My dreams have boded all too right—"We part—for ever part—tonight!"I knew, I knew itcouldnot last—"'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past!"Oh! ever thus from childhood's hour"I've seen my fondest hopes decay;"I never loved a tree or flower,"But 'twas the first to fade away."I never nurst a dear gazelle"To glad me with its soft black eye"But when it came to know me well"And love me it was sure to die I"Now too—the joy most like divine"Of all I ever dreamt or knew,"To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,—"Oh misery! must I losethattoo?"Yet go—on peril's brink we meet;—"Those frightful rocks—that treacherous sea—"No, never come again—tho' sweet,"Tho' heaven, it may be death to thee."Farewell—and blessings on thy way,"Where'er thou goest, beloved stranger!"Better to sit and watch that ray"And think thee safe, tho' far away,"Than have thee near me and in danger!"
"Danger!—oh, tempt me not to boast"—The youth exclaimed—"thou little know'st"What he can brave, who, born and nurst"In Danger's paths, has dared her worst;"Upon whose ear the signal-word"Of strife and death is hourly breaking;"Who sleeps with head upon the sword"His fevered hand must grasp in waking."Danger!"—"Say on—thou fearest not then,"And we may meet—oft meet again?"
"Oh! look not so—beneath the skies"I now fear nothing but those eyes."If aught on earth could charm or force"My spirit from its destined course,—"If aught could make this soul forget"The bond to which its seal is set,"'Twould be those eyes;—they, only they,"Could melt that sacred seal away!"But no—'tis fixt—myawful doom"Is fixt—on this side of the tomb"We meet no more;—why, why did Heaven"Mingle two souls that earth has riven,"Has rent asunder wide as ours?"Oh, Arab maid, as soon the Powers"Of Light and Darkness may combine."As I be linkt with thee or thine!"Thy Father"—"Holy ALLA save"His gray head from that lightning glance!"Thou knowest him not—he loves the brave;"Nor lives there under heaven's expanse"One who would prize, would worship thee"And thy bold spirit more than he."Oft when in childhood I have played"With the bright falchion by his side,"I've heard him swear his lisping maid"In time should be a warrior's bride."And still whene'er at Haram hours"I take him cool sherbets and flowers,"He tells me when in playful mood"A hero shall my bridegroom be,"Since maids are best in battle wooed,"And won with shouts of victory!"Nay, turn not from me—thou alone"Art formed to make both hearts thy own."Go—join his sacred ranks—thou knowest"The unholy strife these Persians wage:—"Good Heaven, that frown!—even now thou glowest"With more than mortal warrior's rage."Haste to the camp by morning's light,"And when that sword is raised in fight,"Oh still remember, Love and I"Beneath its shadow trembling lie!"One victory o'er those Slaves of Fire,"Those impious Ghebers whom my sire"Abhors"—"Hold, hold—thy words are death"—The stranger cried as wild he flungHis mantle back and showed beneathThe Gheber belt that round him clung.[209]—"Here, maiden, look—weep—blush to see"All that thy sire abhors in me!"Yes—Iam of that impious race,"Those Slaves of Fire who, morn and even,"Hail their Creator's dwelling-place"Among the living lights of heaven:[210]"Yes—Iam of that outcast few,"To IRAN and to vengeance true,"Who curse the hour your Arabs came"To desolate our shrines of flame,"And swear before God's burning eye"To break our country's chains or die!"Thy bigot sire,—nay, tremble not,—"He who gave birth to those dear eyes"With me is sacred as the spot"From which our fires of worship rise!"But know—'twas he I sought that night,"When from my watch-boat on the sea"I caught this turret's glimmering light,"And up the rude rocks desperately"Rusht to my prey—thou knowest the rest—"I climbed the gory vulture's nest,"And found a trembling dove within;—"Thine, thine the victory—thine the sin—"If Love hath made one thought his own,"That Vengeance claims first—last—alone!"Oh? had we never, never met,"Or could this heart even now forget"How linkt, how blest we might have been,"Had fate not frowned so dark between!"Hadst thou been born a Persian maid,"In neighboring valleys had we dwelt,"Thro' the same fields in childhood played,"At the same kindling altar knelt,—"Then, then, while all those nameless ties"In which the charm of Country lies"Had round our hearts been hourly spun,"Till IRAN'S cause and thine were one;"While in thy lute's awakening sigh"I heard the voice of days gone by,"And saw in every smile of thine"Returning hours of glory shine;—"While the wronged Spirit of our Land"Lived, lookt, and spoke her wrongs thro' thee,—"God! who could then this sword withstand?"Its very flash were victory!"But now—estranged, divorced for ever,"Far as the grasp of Fate can sever;"Our only ties what love has wove,—"In faith, friends, country, sundered wide;"And then, then only, true to love,"When false to all that's dear beside!"Thy father IKAN'S deadliest foe—"Thyself, perhaps, even now—but no—"Hate never looked so lovely yet!No—sacred to thy soul will be"The land of him who could forget"All but that bleeding land for thee."When other eyes shall see, unmoved,"Her widows mourn, her warriors fall,"Thou'lt think how well one Gheber loved."And forhissake thou'lt weep for all!"But look"—With sudden start he turnedAnd pointed to the distant waveWhere lights like charnel meteors burnedBluely as o'er some seaman's grave;And fiery darts at intervals[211]Flew up all sparkling from the mainAs if each star that nightly fallsWere shooting back to heaven again."My signal lights!—I must away—"Both, both are ruined, if I stay."Farewell—sweet life! thou clingest in vain—"Now, Vengeance, I am thine again!"Fiercely he broke away, nor stopt,Nor lookt—but from the lattice droptDown mid the pointed crags beneathAs if he fled from love to death.While pale and mute young HINDA stood,Nor moved till in the silent floodA momentary plunge belowStartled her from her trance of woe;—Shrieking she to the lattice flew,"I come—I come—if in that tide"Thou sleepest to-night, I'll sleep there too"In death's cold wedlock by thy side."Oh! I would ask no happier bed"Than the chill wave my love lies under:—"Sweeter to rest together dead,"Far sweeter than to live asunder!"But no—their hour is not yet come—Again she sees his pinnace fly,Wafting him fleetly to his home,Where'er that ill-starred home may lie;And calm and smooth it seemed to winIts moonlight way before the windAs if it bore all peace withinNor left one breaking heart behind!
The Princess whose heart was sad enough already could have wished that FERAMORZ had chosen a less melancholy story; as it is only to the happy that tears are a luxury. Her Ladies however were by no means sorry that love was once more the Poet's theme; for, whenever he spoke of love, they said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree, which grows over the tomb of the musician, Tan-Sein.[212]
Their road all the morning had lain through a very dreary country;— through valleys, covered with a low bushy jungle, where in more than one place the awful signal of the bamboo staff[213] with the white flag at its top reminded the traveller that in that very spot the tiger had made some human creature his victim. It was therefore with much pleasure that they arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen and encamped under one of those holy trees whose smooth columns and spreading roofs seem to destine them for natural temples of religion. Beneath this spacious shade some pious hands had erected a row of pillars ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain[214] which now supplied the use of mirrors to the young maidens as they adjusted their hair in descending from the palankeens. Here while as usual the Princess sat listening anxiously with FADLADEEN in one of his loftiest moods of criticism by her side the young Poet leaning against a branch of the tree thus continued his story:—
The morn hath risen clear and calmAnd o'er the Green Sea[215] palely shines,Revealing BAHREIN'S groves of palmAnd lighting KISHMA'S amber vines.Fresh smell the shores of ARABY,While breezes from the Indian seaBlow round SELAMA'S[216] sainted capeAnd curl the shining flood beneath,—Whose waves are rich with many a grapeAnd cocoa-nut and flowery wreathWhich pious seamen as they pastHad toward that holy headland cast—Oblations to the Genii thereFor gentle skies and breezes fair!The nightingale now bends her flight[217]From the high trees where all the nightShe sung so sweet with none to listen;And hides her from the morning starWhere thickets of pomegranate glistenIn the clear dawn,—bespangled o'erWith dew whose night-drops would not stainThe best and brightest scimitar[218]That ever youthful Sultan woreOn the first morning of his reign.
And see—the Sun himself!—on wingsOf glory up the East he springs.Angel of Light! who from the timeThose heavens began their march sublime,Hath first of all the starry choirTrod in his Maker's steps of fire!Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere,When IRAN, like a sun-flower, turnedTo meet that eye where'er it burned?—When from the banks of BENDEMEERTo the nut-groves of SAMARCANDThy temples flamed o'er all the land?Where are they? ask the shades of themWho, on CADESSIA'S[219] bloody plains,Saw fierce invaders pluck the gemFrom IRAN'S broken diadem,And bind her ancient faith in chains:—Ask the poor exile cast aloneOn foreign shores, unloved, unknown,Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates,Or on the snowy Mossian mountains,Far from his beauteous land of dates,Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains:Yet happier so than if he trodHis own beloved but blighted sodBeneath a despot stranger's nod!—Oh, he would rather houseless roamWhere Freedom and his God may lead,Than be the sleekest slave at homeThat crouches to the conqueror's creed!
Is IRAN'S pride then gone for ever,Quenched with the flame in MITHRA'S caves?No—she has sons that never—never—Will stoop to be the Moslem's slavesWhile heaven has light or earth has graves;—Spirits of fire that brood not longBut flash resentment back for wrong;And hearts where, slow but deep, the seedsOf vengeance ripen into deeds,Till in some treacherous hour of calmThey burst like ZEILAN'S giant palm[220]Whose buds fly open with a soundThat shakes the pigmy forests round!Yes, EMIR! he, who scaled that tower,And had he reached thy slumbering breastHad taught thee in a Gheber's powerHow safe even tyrant heads may rest—Is one of many, brave as he,Who loathe thy haughty race and thee;Who tho' they knew the strife is vain,Who tho' they know the riven chainSnaps but to enter in the heartOf him who rends its links apart,Yet dare the issue,—blest to beEven for one bleeding moment freeAnd die in pangs of liberty!Thou knowest them well—'tis some moons sinceThy turbaned troops and blood-red flags,Thou satrap of a bigot Prince,Have swarmed among these Green Sea crags;Yet here, even here, a sacred bandAy, in the portal of that landThou, Arab, darest to call thy own,Their spears across thy path have thrown;Here—ere the winds half winged thee o'er—Rebellion braved thee from the shore.
Rebellion! foul, dishonoring word,Whose wrongful blight so oft has stainedThe holiest cause that tongue or swordOf mortal ever lost or gained.How many a spirit born to blessHath sunk beneath that withering name,Whom but a day's, an hour's successHad wafted to eternal fame!As exhalations when they burstFrom the warm earth if chilled at first,If checkt in soaring from the plainDarken to fogs and sink again;—But if they once triumphant spreadTheir wings above the mountain-head,Become enthroned in upper air,And turn to sun-bright glories there!
And who is he that wields the mightOf Freedom on the Green Sea brink,Before whose sabre's dazzling light[221]The eyes of YEMEN'S warriors wink?Who comes embowered in the spearsOf KERMAN'S hardy mountaineers?Those mountaineers that truest, last,Cling to their country's ancient rites,As if that God whose eyelids castTheir closing gleam on IRAN'S heights,Among her snowy mountains threwThe last light of his worship too!'Tis HAFED—name of fear, whose soundChills like the muttering of a charm!—Shout but that awful name around,And palsy shakes the manliest arm.
'Tis HAFED, most accurst and dire(So rankt by Moslem hate and ire)Of all the rebel Sons of Fire;Of whose malign, tremendous powerThe Arabs at their mid-watch hourSuch tales of fearful wonder tellThat each affrighted sentinelPulls down his cowl upon his eyes,Lest HAFED in the midst should rise!A man, they say, of monstrous birth,A mingled race of flame and earth,Sprung from those old, enchanted kings[222]Who in their fairy helms of yoreA feather from the mystic wingsOf the Simoorgh resistless wore;And gifted by the Fiends of Fire,Who groaned to see their shrines expireWith charms that all in vain withstoodWould drown the Koran's light in blood!
Such were the tales that won belief,And such the coloring Fancy gaveTo a young, warm, and dauntless Chief,—One who, no more than mortal brave,Fought for the land his soul adored,For happy homes and altars free,—His only talisman, the sword,His only spell-word, Liberty!One of that ancient hero line,Along whose glorious current shineNames that have sanctified their blood:As LEBANON'S small mountain-floodIs rendered holy by the ranksOf sainted cedars on its banks.[223]'Twas not for him to crouch the kneeTamely to Moslem tyranny;'Twas not for him whose soul was castIn the bright mould of ages past,Whose melancholy spirit fedWith all the glories of the deadTho' framed for IRAN'S happiest years.Was born among her chains and tears!—'Twas not for him to swell the crowdOf slavish heads, that shrinking bowedBefore the Moslem as he pastLike shrubs beneath the poison-blast—No—far he fled—indignant fledThe pageant of his country's shame;While every tear her children shedFell on his soul like drops of flame;And as a lover hails the dawnOf a first smile, so welcomed heThe sparkle of the first sword drawnFor vengeance and for liberty!But vain was valor—vain the flowerOf KERMAN, in that deathful hour,Against AL HASSAN'S whelming power.—In vain they met him helm to helmUpon the threshold of that realmHe came in bigot pomp to sway,And with their corpses blockt his way—In vain—for every lance they raisedThousands around the conqueror blazed;For every arm that lined their shoreMyriads of slaves were wafted o'er,—A bloody, bold, and countless crowd,Before whose swarm as fast they bowedAs dates beneath the locust cloud.
There stood—but one short league awayFrom old HARMOZIA'S sultry bay—A rocky mountain o'er the Sea—Of OMAN beetling awfully;[224]A last and solitary linkOf those stupendous chains that reachFrom the broad Caspian's reedy brinkDown winding to the Green Sea beach.Around its base the bare rocks stoodLike naked giants, in the floodAs if to guard the Gulf across;While on its peak that braved the skyA ruined Temple towered so highThat oft the sleeping albatross[225]Struck the wild ruins with her wing,And from her cloud-rockt slumberingStarted—to find man's dwelling thereIn her own silent fields of air!Beneath, terrific caverns gaveDark welcome to each stormy waveThat dasht like midnight revellers in;—And such the strange, mysterious dinAt times throughout those caverns rolled,—And such the fearful wonders toldOf restless sprites imprisoned there,That bold were Moslem who would dareAt twilight hour to steer his skiffBeneath the Gheber's lonely cliff.[226]On the land side those towers sublime,That seemed above the grasp of Time,Were severed from the haunts of menBy a wide, deep, and wizard glen,So fathomless, so full of gloom,No eye could pierce the void between:It seemed a place where Ghouls might comeWith their foul banquets from the tombAnd in its caverns feed unseen.Like distant thunder, from belowThe sound of many torrents came,Too deep for eye or ear to knowIf 'twere the sea's imprisoned flow,Or floods of ever-restless flame.For each ravine, each rocky spireOf that vast mountain stood on fire;[227]And tho' for ever past the daysWhen God was worshipt in the blaze—That from its lofty altar shone,—Tho' fled the priests, the votaries gone,Still did the mighty flame burn on,[228]Thro' chance and change, thro' good and ill,Like its own God's eternal will,Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable!
Thither the vanquisht HAFED ledHis little army's last remains;—"Welcome, terrific glen!" he said,"Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread,"Is Heaven to him who flies from chains!"O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way knownTo him and to his Chiefs aloneThey crost the chasm and gained the towers;—"This home," he cried, "at least is ours;"Here we may bleed, unmockt by hymns"Of Moslem triumph o'er our head;"Here we may fall nor leave our limbs"To quiver to the Moslem's tread."Stretched on this rock while vultures' beaks"Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks,"Here—happy that no tyrant's eye"Gloats on our torments—we may die!"—
'Twas night when to those towers they came,And gloomily the fitful flameThat from the ruined altar brokeGlared on his features as he spoke:—"'Tis o'er—what men could do, we've done—"If IRANwilllook tamely on"And see her priests, her warriors driven"Before a sensual bigot's nod,"A wretch who shrines his lusts in heaven"And makes a pander of his God;"If her proud sons, her high-born souls,"Men in whose veins—oh last disgrace!"The blood of ZAL and RUSTAM[229] rolls.—"If theywillcourt this upstart race"And turn from MITHRA'S ancient ray"To kneel at shrines of yesterday;"If theywillcrouch to IRAN'S foes,"Why, let them—till the land's despair"Cries out to Heaven, and bondage grows"Too vile for even the vile to bear!"Till shame at last, long hidden, burns"Their inmost core, and conscience turns"Each coward tear the slave lets fall"Back on his heart in drops of gall."But here at least are arms unchained"And souls that thraldom never stained;—"This spot at least no foot of slave"Or satrap ever yet profaned,"And tho' but few—tho' fast the wave"Of life is ebbing from our veins,"Enough for vengeance still remains."As panthers after set of sun"Rush from the roots of LEBANON"Across the dark sea-robber's way,[230]"We'll bound upon our startled prey."And when some hearts that proudest swell"Have felt our falchion's last farewell,"When Hope's expiring throb is o'er"And even Despair can prompt no more,"This spot shall be the sacred grave"Of the last few who vainly brave"Die for the land they cannot save!"
His Chiefs stood round—each shining bladeUpon the broken altar laid—And tho' so wild and desolateThose courts where once the Mighty sate:Nor longer on those mouldering towersWas seen the feast of fruits and flowersWith which of old the Magi fedThe wandering Spirits of their Dead;[231]Tho' neither priest nor rites were there,Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate,[232]Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air,Nor symbol of their worshipt planet;[233]Yet the same God that heard their siresHeardthemwhile on that altar's firesThey swore the latest, holiest deedOf the few hearts, still left to bleed,Should be in IRAN'S injured nameTo die upon that Mount of Flame—The last of all her patriot line,Before her last untrampled Shrine!
Brave, suffering souls! they little knewHow many a tear their injuries drewFrom one meek maid, one gentle foe,Whom love first touched with others' woe—Whose life, as free from thought as sin,Slept like a lake till Love threw inHis talisman and woke the tideAnd spread its trembling circles wide.Once, EMIR! thy unheeding childMid all this havoc bloomed and smiled,—Tranquil as on some battle plainThe Persian lily shines and towers[234]Before the combat's reddening stainHath fallen upon her golden flowers.Light-hearted maid, unawed, unmoved,While Heaven but spared the sire she loved,Once at thy evening tales of bloodUnlistening and aloof she stood—And oft when thou hast paced alongThy Haram halls with furious heat,Hast thou not curst her cheerful song,That came across thee, calm and sweet,Like lutes of angels touched so nearHell's confines that the damned can hear!
Far other feelings Love hath brought—Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness,She now has but the one dear thought,And thinks that o'er, almost to madness!Oft doth her sinking heart recallHis words—"formysake weep for all;"And bitterly as day on dayOf rebel carnage fast succeeds,She weeps a lover snatched awayIn every Gheber wretch that bleeds.There's not a sabre meets her eyeBut with his life-blood seems to swim;There's not an arrow wings the skyBut fancy turns its point to him.No more she brings with footsteps lightAL HASSAN's falchion for the fight;And—had he lookt with clearer sight,Had not the mists that ever riseFrom a foul spirit dimmed his eyes—He would have markt her shuddering frame,When from the field of blood he came,The faltering speech—the look estranged—Voice, step and life and beauty changed—He would have markt all this, and knownSuch change is wrought by Love alone!Ah! not the Love that should have blestSo young, so innocent a breast;Not the pure, open, prosperous Love,That, pledged on earth and sealed above,Grows in the world's approving eyes,In friendship's smile and home's caress,Collecting all the heart's sweet tiesInto one knot of happiness!No, HINDA, no,—thy fatal flameIs nurst in silence, sorrow, shame;—A passion without hope or pleasure,In thy soul's darkness buried deep,It lies like some ill-gotten treasure,—Some idol without shrine or name,O'er which its pale-eyed votaries keepUnholy watch while others sleep.
Seven nights have darkened OMAN'S sea,Since last beneath the moonlight rayShe saw his light oar rapidlyHurry her Gheber's bark away,—And still she goes at midnight hourTo weep alone in that high bowerAnd watch and look along the deepFor him whose smiles first made her weep;—But watching, weeping, all was vain,She never saw his bark again.The owlet's solitary cry,The night-hawk flitting darkly by,And oft the hateful carrion bird,Heavily flapping his clogged wing,Which reeked with that day's banqueting—Was all she saw, was all she heard.
'Tis the eighth morn—AL HASSAN'S browIs brightened with unusual joy—What mighty mischief glads him now,Who never smiles but to destroy?The sparkle upon HERKEND'S Sea,When tost at midnight furiously,[235]Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh,More surely than that smiling eye!"Up, daughter, up—the KERNA'S[236] breath"Has blown a blast would waken death,"And yet thou sleepest—up, child, and see"This blessed day for heaven and me,"A day more rich in Pagan blood"Than ever flasht o'er OMAN'S flood."Before another dawn shall shine,"His head—heart—limbs—will all be mine;"This very night his blood shall steep"These hands all over ere I sleep!"—
"Hisblood!" she faintly screamed—her mindStill singlingonefrom all mankind—"Yes—spite of his ravines and towers,"HAFED, my child, this night is ours."Thanks to all-conquering treachery,"Without whose aid the links accurst,"That bind these impious slaves, would be"Too strong for ALLA'S self to burst!"That rebel fiend whose blade has spread"My path with piles of Moslem dead,"Whose baffling spells had almost driven"Back from their course the Swords of Heaven,"This night with all his band shall know"How deep an Arab's steel can go,"When God and Vengeance speed the blow."And—Prophet! by that holy wreath"Thou worest on OHOD'S field of death,[237]"I swear, for every sob that parts"In anguish from these heathen hearts,"A gem from PERSIA'S plundered mines"Shall glitter on thy shrine of Shrines."But, ha!—she sinks—that look so wild—"Those livid lips—my child, my child,"This life of blood befits not thee,"And thou must back to ARABY."Ne'er had I riskt thy timid sex"In scenes that man himself might dread,"Had I not hoped our every tread"Would be on prostrate Persian necks—"Curst race, they offer swords instead!"But cheer thee, maid,—the wind that now"Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow"To-day shall waft thee from the shore;"And ere a drop of this night's gore"Have time to chill in yonder towers,"Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers!"
His bloody boast was all too true;There lurkt one wretch among the fewWhom HAFED'S eagle eye could countAround him on that Fiery Mount,—One miscreant who for gold betrayedThe pathway thro' the valley's shadeTo those high towers where Freedom stoodIn her last hold of flame and blood.Left on the field last dreadful night,When sallying from their sacred heightThe Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight,He lay—but died not with the brave;That sun which should have gilt his graveSaw him a traitor and a slave;—And while the few who thence returnedTo their high rocky fortress mournedFor him among the matchless deadThey left behind on glory's bed,He lived, and in the face of mornLaught them and Faith andHeaven to scorn.
Oh for a tongue to curse the slaveWhose treason like a deadly blightComes o'er the councils of the braveAnd blasts them in their hour of might!May Life's unblessed cup for himBe drugged with treacheries to the brim.—With hopes that but allure to fly,With joys that vanish while he sips,Like Dead-Sea fruits that tempt the eye,But turn to ashes on the lips![238]His country's curse, his children's shame,Outcast of virtue, peace and fame,May he at last with lips of flameOn the parched desert thirsting die,—While lakes that shone in mockery nigh,[239]Are fading off, untouched, untasted,Like the once glorious hopes he blasted!And when from earth his spirit flies,Just Prophet, let the damned-one dwellFull in the sight of ParadiseBeholding heaven and feeling hell!
LALLA ROOKH had the night before been visited by a dream which in spite of the impending fate of poor HAFED made her heart more than usually cheerful during the morning and gave her cheeks all the freshened animation of a flower that the Bidmusk had just passed over.[240] She fancied that she was sailing on that Eastern Ocean where the sea-gypsies who live for ever on the water[241] enjoy a perpetual summer in wandering from isle to isle when she saw a small gilded bark approaching her. It was like one of those boats which the Maldivian islanders send adrift, at the mercy of winds and waves, loaded with perfumes, flowers, and odoriferous wood, as an offering to the Spirit whom they call King of the Sea. At first, this little bark appeared to be empty but on coming nearer—
She had proceeded thus far in relating the dream to her Ladies, when FERAMORZ appeared at the door of the pavilion. In his presence of course everything else was forgotten and the continuance of the story was instantly requested by all. Fresh wood of aloes was set to burn in the cassolets;—the violet sherbets[242] were hastily handed round, and after a short prelude on his lute in the pathetic measure of Nava,[243] which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers, the Poet thus continued:—
The day is lowering—stilly blackSleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack,Disperst and wild, 'twixt earth and skyHangs like a shattered canopy.There's not a cloud in that blue plainBut tells of storm to come or past;—Here flying loosely as the maneOf a young war-horse in the blast;—There rolled in masses dark and swelling,As proud to be the thunder's dwelling!While some already burst and rivenSeen melting down the verge of heaven;As tho' the infant storm had rentThe mighty womb that gave him birth,And having swept the firmamentWas now in fierce career for earth.
On earth 'twas yet all calm around,A pulseless silence, dread, profound,More awful than the tempest's sound.The diver steered for ORMUS' bowers,And moored his skiff till calmer hours;The sea-birds with portentous screechFlew fast to land;—upon the beachThe pilot oft had paused, with glanceTurned upward to that wild expanse;—And all was boding, drear and darkAs her own soul when HINDA'S barkWent slowly from the Persian shore.—No music timed her parting oar,[244]Nor friends upon the lessening strandLingering to wave the unseen handOr speak the farewell, heard no more;—But lone, unheeded, from the bayThe vessel takes its mournful way,Like some ill-destined bark that steersIn silence thro' the Gate of Tears.[245]And where was stern AL HASSAN then?Could not that saintly scourge of menFrom bloodshed and devotion spareOne minute for a farewell there?No—close within in changeful fitsOf cursing and of prayer he sitsIn savage loneliness to broodUpon the coming night of blood,—With that keen, second-scent of death,By which the vulture snuffs his foodIn the still warm and living breath![246]While o'er the wave his weeping daughterIs wafted from these scenes of slaughter,—As a young bird of BABYLON,[247]Let loose to tell of victory won,Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstainedBy the red hands that held her chained.
And does the long-left home she seeksLight up no gladness on her cheeks?The flowers she nurst—the well-known groves,Where oft in dreams her spirit roves—Once more to see her dear gazellesCome bounding with their silver bells;Her birds' new plumage to beholdAnd the gay, gleaming fishes count,She left all filleted with goldShooting around their jasper fount;[248]Her little garden mosque to see,And once again, at evening hour,To tell her ruby rosaryIn her own sweet acacia bower.—Can these delights that wait her nowCall up no sunshine on her brow?No,—silent, from her train apart,—As if even now she felt at heartThe chill of her approaching doom,—She sits, all lovely in her gloomAs a pale Angel of the Grave;And o'er the wide, tempestuous waveLooks with a shudder to those towersWhere in a few short awful hoursBlood, blood, in streaming tides shall run,Foul incense for to-morrow's sun!"Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou,"So loved, so lost, where art thou now?"Foe—Gheber—infidel—whate'er"The unhallowed name thou'rt doomed to bear,"Still glorious—still to this fond heart"Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art!"Yes—ALLA, dreadful ALLA! yes—"If there be wrong, be crime in this,"Let the black waves that round us roll,"Whelm me this instant ere my soul"Forgetting faith—home—father—all"Before its earthly idol fall,"Nor worship even Thyself above him—"For, oh, so wildly do I love him,"Thy Paradise itself were dim"And joyless, if not shared with him!"Her hands were claspt—her eyes upturned,Dropping their tears like moonlight rain;And, tho' her lip, fond raver! burnedWith words of passion, bold, profane.Yet was there light around her brow,A holiness in those dark eyes,Which showed,—tho' wandering earthward now,—Her spirit's home was in the skies.Yes—for a spirit pure as hersIs always pure, even while it errs;As sunshine broken in the rillTho' turned astray is sunshine still!
So wholly had her mind forgotAll thoughts but one she heeded notThe rising storm—the wave that castA moment's midnight as it past—Nor heard the frequent shout, the treadOf gathering tumult o'er her head—Clasht swords and tongues that seemed to vieWith the rude riot of the sky.—But, hark!—that war-whoop on the deck—That crash as if each engine there,Mast, sails and all, were gone to wreck,Mid yells and stampings of despair!Merciful Heaven! whatcanit be?'Tis not the storm, tho' fearfullyThe ship has shuddered as she rodeO'er mountain-waves—"Forgive me, God!"Forgive me"—shrieked the maid and knelt,Trembling all over—for she feltAs if her judgment hour was near;While crouching round half dead with fear,Her handmaids clung, nor breathed nor stirred—When, hark!—a second crash—a third—And now as if a bolt of thunderHad riven the laboring planks asunder,The deck falls in—what horrors then!Blood, waves and tackle, swords and menCome mixt together thro' the chasm,—Some wretches in their dying spasmStill fighting on—and some that call"For GOD and IRAN!" as they fall!Whose was the hand that turned awayThe perils of the infuriate fray,And snatcht her breathless from beneathThis wilderment of wreck and death?She knew not—for a faintness cameChill o'er her and her sinking frameAmid the ruins of that hourLay like a pale and scorched flowerBeneath the red volcano's shower.But, oh! the sights and sounds of dreadThat shockt her ere her senses fled!The yawning deck—the crowd that stroveUpon the tottering planks above—The sail whose fragments, shivering o'erThe stragglers' heads all dasht with goreFluttered like bloody flags—the clashOf sabres and the lightning's flashUpon their blades, high tost aboutLike meteor brands[249]—as if throughoutThe elements one fury ran,One general rage that left a doubtWhich was the fiercer, Heaven or Man!Once too—but no—it could not be—'Twas fancy all—yet once she thought,While yet her fading eyes could seeHigh on the ruined deck she caughtA glimpse of that unearthly form,That glory of her soul,—even then,Amid the whirl of wreck and storm,Shining above his fellow-men,As on some black and troublous nightThe Star of EGYPT,[250] whose proud lightNever hath beamed on those who restIn the White Islands of the West,Burns thro' the storm with looks of flameThat put Heaven's cloudier eyes to shame.But no—'twas but the minute's dream—A fantasy—and ere the screamHad half-way past her pallid lips,A death-like swoon, a chill eclipseOf soul and sense its darkness spreadAround her and she sunk as dead.How calm, how beautiful comes onThe stilly hour when storms are gone,When warring winds have died away,And clouds beneath the glancing rayMelt off and leave the land and seaSleeping in bright tranquillity,—Fresh as if Day again were born,Again upon the lap of Morn!—When the light blossoms rudely tornAnd scattered at the whirlwind's will,Hang floating in the pure air still,Filling it all with precious balm,In gratitude for this sweet calm;—And every drop the thundershowersHave left upon the grass and flowersSparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem[251]Whose liquid flame is born of them!When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze,There blow a thousand gentle airsAnd each a different perfume bears,—As if the loveliest plants and treesHad vassal breezes of their ownTo watch and wait on them alone,And waft no other breath than theirs:When the blue waters rise and fall,In sleepy sunshine mantling all;And even that swell the tempest leavesIs like the full and silent heavesOf lovers' hearts when newly blest,Too newly to be quite at rest.
Such was the golden hour that brokeUpon the world when HINDA wokeFrom her long trance and heard aroundNo motion but the water's soundRippling against the vessel's side,As slow it mounted o'er the tide.—But where is she?—her eyes are dark,Are wilder still—is this the bark,The same, that from HARMOZIA'S bayBore her at morn—whose bloody wayThe sea-dog trackt?—no—strange and newIs all that meets her wondering view.Upon a galliot's deck she lies,Beneath no rich pavilion's shade,—No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes,Nor jasmine on her pillow laid.But the rude litter roughly spreadWith war-cloaks is her homely bed,And shawl and sash on javelins hungFor awning o'er her head are flung.Shuddering she lookt around—there layA group of warriors in the sun,Resting their limbs, as for that dayTheir ministry of death were done.Some gazing on the drowsy seaLost in unconscious revery;And some who seemed but ill to brookThat sluggish calm with many a lookTo the slack sail impatient cast,As loose it bagged around the mast.
Blest ALLA! who shall save her now?There's not in all that warrior bandOne Arab sword, one turbaned browFrom her own Faithful Moslem land.Their garb—the leathern belt that wrapsEach yellow vest[252]—that rebel hue—The Tartar fleece upon their caps[253]—Yes—yes—her fears are all too true,And Heaven hath in this dreadful hourAbandoned her to HAFED'S power;—HAFED, the Gheber!—at the thoughtHer very heart's blood chills within;He whom her soul was hourly taughtTo loathe as some foul fiend of sin,Some minister whom Hell had sentTo spread its blast where'er he wentAnd fling as o'er our earth he trodHis shadow betwixt man and God!And she is now his captive,—thrownIn his fierce hands, alive, alone;His the infuriate band she sees,All infidels—all enemies!What was the daring hope that thenCrost her like lightning, as againWith boldness that despair had lentShe darted tho' that armed crowdA look so searching, so intent,That even the sternest warrior bowedAbasht, when he her glances caught,As if he guessed whose form they sought.But no—she sees him not—'tis gone,The vision that before her shoneThro' all the maze of blood and storm,Is fled—'twas but a phantom form—One of those passing, rainbow dreams,Half light, half shade, which Fancy's beamsPaint on the fleeting mists that rollIn trance or slumber round the soul.
But now the bark with livelier boundScales the blue wave—the crew's in motion.The oars are out and with light soundBreak the bright mirror of the ocean,Scattering its brilliant fragments round.And now she sees—with horror sees,Their course is toward that mountain-hold,—Those towers that make her life-blood freeze,Where MECCA'S godless enemiesLie like beleaguered scorpions rolledIn their last deadly, venomous fold!Amid the illumined land and floodSunless that mighty mountain stood;Save where above its awful head,There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red,As 'twere the flag of destinyHung out to mark where death would be!
Had her bewildered mind the powerOf thought in this terrific hour,She well might marvel where or howMan's foot could scale that mountain's brow,Since ne'er had Arab heard or knownOf path but thro' the glen alone.—But every thought was lost in fear,When, as their bounding bark drew nearThe craggy base, she felt the wavesHurry them toward those dismal cavesThat from the Deep in windings passBeneath that Mount's volcanic mass;—And loud a voice on deck commandsTo lower the mast and light the brands!—Instantly o'er the dashing tideWithin a cavern's mouth they glide,Gloomy as that eternal PorchThro' which departed spirits go:—Not even the flare of brand and torchIts flickering light could further throwThan the thick flood that boiled below.Silent they floated—as if eachSat breathless, and too awed for speechIn that dark chasm where even soundSeemed dark,—so sullenly aroundThe goblin echoes of the caveMuttered it o'er the long black waveAs 'twere some secret of the grave!
But soft—they pause—the current turnsBeneath them from its onward track;—Some mighty, unseen barrier spurnsThe vexed tide all foaming back,And scarce the oar's redoubled forceCan stem the eddy's whirling course;When, hark!—some desperate foot has sprungAmong the rocks—the chain is flung—The oars are up—the grapple clings,And the tost bark in moorings swings.Just then, a day-beam thro' the shadeBroke tremulous—but ere the maidCan see from whence the brightness steals,Upon her brow she shuddering feelsA viewless hand that promptly tiesA bandage round her burning eyes;While the rude litter where she lies,Uplifted by the warrior throng,O'er the steep rocks is borne along.
Blest power of sunshine!—genial Day,What balm, what life is in thy ray!To feel thee is such real bliss,That had the world no joy but thisTo sit in sunshine calm and sweet.—It were a world too exquisiteFor man to leave it for the gloom,The deep, cold shadow of the tomb.Even HINDA, tho' she saw not whereOr whither wound the perilous road,Yet knew by that awakening air,Which suddenly around her glowed,That they had risen from the darkness there,And breathed the sunny world again!
But soon this balmy freshness fled—For now the steepy labyrinth ledThro' damp and gloom—mid crash of boughs,And fall of loosened crags that rouseThe leopard from his hungry sleep,Who starting thinks each crag a prey,And long is heard from steep to steepChasing them down their thundering way!The jackal's cry—the distant moanOf the hyena, fierce and lone—And that eternal saddening soundOf torrents in the glen beneath,As 'twere the ever-dark ProfoundThat rolls beneath the Bridge of Death!All, all is fearful—even to see,To gaze on those terrific thingsShe now but blindly hears, would beRelief to her imaginings;Since never yet was shape so dread,But Fancy thus in darkness thrownAnd by such sounds of horror fedCould frame more dreadful of her own.
But does she dream? has Fear againPerplext the workings of her brain,Or did a voice, all music, thenCome from the gloom, low whispering near—"Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here?"Shedoesnot dream—all sense, all ear,She drinks the words, "Thy Gheber's here."'Twas his own voice—she could not err—Throughout the breathing world's extentThere was butonesuch voice for her,So kind, so soft, so eloquent!Oh, sooner shall the rose of MayMistake her own sweet nightingale,And to some meaner minstrel's layOpen her bosom's glowing veil,[254]Than Love shall ever doubt a tone,A breath of the beloved one!
Though blest mid all her ills to thinkShe has that one beloved near,Whose smile tho' met on ruin's brinkHath power to make even ruin dear,—Yet soon this gleam of rapture crostBy fears for him is chilled and lost.How shall the ruthless HAFED brookThat one of Gheber blood should look,With aught but curses in his eye,On her—a maid of ARABY—A Moslem maid—the child of him,Whose bloody banners' dire successHath left their altars cold and dim,And their fair land a wilderness!And worse than all that night of bloodWhich comes so fast—Oh! who shall stayThe sword, that once hath tasted foodOf Persian hearts or turn its way?What arm shall then the victim cover,Or from her father shield her lover?
"Save him, my God!" she inly cries—"Save him this night—and if thine eyes"Have ever welcomed with delight"The sinner's tears, the sacrifice"Of sinners' hearts—guard him this night,"And here before thy throne I swear"From my heart's inmost core to tear"Love, hope, remembrance, tho' they be"Linkt with each quivering life-string there,"And give it bleeding all to Thee!"Let him but live,—the burning tear,"The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear,"Which have been all too much his own,"Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone."Youth past in penitence and age"In long and painful pilgrimage"Shall leave no traces of the flame"That wastes me now—nor shall his name"E'er bless my lips but when I pray"For his dear spirit, that away"Casting from its angelic ray"The eclipse of earth, he too may shine"Redeemed, all glorious and all Thine!"Think—think what victory to win"One radiant soul like his from sin,"One wandering star of virtue back"To its own native, heavenward track!"Let him but live, and both are Thine,"Together Thine—for blest or crost,"Living or dead, his doom is mine,"And ifheperish, both are lost!"