The next evening LALLA ROOKH was entreated by her Ladies to continue the relation of her wonderful dream; but the fearful interest that hung round the fate of HINDA and her lover had completely removed every trace of it from her mind;—much to the disappointment of a fair seer or two in her train, who prided themselves on their skill in interpreting visions, and who had already remarked, as an unlucky omen, that the Princess, on the very morning after the dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blossoms of the sorrowful tree, Nilica.[255]
FADLADEEN, whose indignation had more than once broken out during the recital of some parts of this heterodox poem, seemed at length to have made up his mind to the infliction; and took his seat this evening with all the patience of a martyr while the Poet resumed his profane and seditious story as follows:—
To tearless eyes and hearts at easeThe leafy shores and sun-bright seasThat lay beneath that mountain's heightHad been a fair enchanting sight.'Twas one of those ambrosial eyesA day of storm so often leavesAt its calm setting—when the WestOpens her golden bowers of rest,And a moist radiance from the skiesShoots trembling down, as from the eyesOf some meek penitent whose lastBright hours atone for dark ones past,And whose sweet tears o'er wrong forgivenShine as they fall with light from heaven!
'Twas stillness all—the winds that lateHad rushed through KERMAN'S almond groves,And shaken from her bowers of dateThat cooling feast the traveller loves.[256]Now lulled to languor scarcely curlThe Green Sea wave whose waters gleamLimpid as if her mines of pearlWere melted all to form the stream:And her fair islets small and brightWith their green shores reflected thereLook like those PERI isles of lightThat hang by spell-work in the air
But vainly did those glories burstOn HINDA'S dazzled eyes, when firstThe bandage from her brow was taken,And, pale and awed as those who wakenIn their dark tombs—when, scowling near,The Searchers of the Grave[257] appear.—She shuddering turned to read her fateIn the fierce eyes that flasht around;And saw those towers all desolate,That o'er her head terrific frowned,As if defying even the smileOf that soft heaven to gild their pile.In vain with mingled hope and fear,She looks for him whose voice so dearHad come, like music, to her ear,—Strange, mocking dream! again 'tis fled.And oh, the shoots, the pangs of dreadThat thro' her inmost bosom run,When voices from without proclaim"HAFED, the Chief"—and, one by one,The warriors shout that fearful name!He comes—the rock resounds his tread—How shall she dare to lift her headOr meet those eyes whose scorching glareNot YEMEN'S boldest sons can bear?In whose red beam, the Moslem tells,Such rank and deadly lustre dwellsAs in those hellish fires that lightThe mandrake's charnel leaves at night.[258]How shall she bear that voice's tone,At whose loud battle-cry aloneWhole squadrons oft in panic ran,Scattered like some vast caravan,When stretched at evening round the wellThey hear the thirsting tiger's yell.
Breathless she stands with eyes cast downShrinking beneath the fiery frownWhich, fancy tells her, from that browIs flashing o'er her fiercely now:And shuddering as she hears the treadOf his retiring warrior band.—Never was pause full of dread;Till HAFED with a trembling handTook hers and leaning o'er her said,"HINDA;"—that word was all he spoke.And 'twas enough—the shriek that brokeFrom her full bosom told the rest.—Panting with terror, joy, surprise,The maid but lifts her wandering eyes,To hide them on her Gheber's breast!'Tis he, 'tis he—the man of blood,The fellest of the Fire-fiend's brood,HAFED, the demon of the fight,Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,—Is her own loved Gheber, mildAnd glorious as when first he smiledIn her lone tower and left such beamsOf his pure eye to light her dreams,That she believed her bower had givenRest to some wanderer from heaven!
Moments there are, and this was one,Snatched like a minute's gleam of sunAmid the black Simoom's eclipse—Or like those verdant spots that bloomAround the crater's burning lips.Sweetening the very edge of doom!The past, the future—all that FateCan bring of dark or desperateAround such hours but makes them castIntenser radiance while they last!Even he, this youth—tho' dimmed and goneEach Star of Hope that cheered him on—His glories lost—his cause betrayed—IRAN, his dear-loved country, madeA land of carcasses and slaves,One dreary waste of chains and graves!Himself but lingering, dead at heart,To see the last, long struggling breathOf Liberty's great soul depart,Then lay him down and share her death—Even he so sunk in wretchednessWith doom still darker gathering o'er him,Yet, in this moment's pure caress,In the mild eyes that shone before him,Beaming that blest assurance worthAll other transports known on earth.That he was loved-well, warmly loved—Oh! in this precious hour he provedHow deep, how thorough-felt the glowOf rapture kindling out of woe;—How exquisite one single dropOf bliss thus sparkling to the topOf misery's cup—how keenly quaft,Tho' death must follow on the draught!
She too while gazing on those eyesThat sink into her soul so deep,Forgets all fears, all miseries,Or feels them like the wretch in sleep,Whom fancy cheats into a smile.Who dreams of joy and sobs the while!The mighty Ruins where they stoodUpon the mount's high, rocky vergeLay open towards the ocean flood,Where lightly o'er the illumined surgeMany a fair bark that, all the day,Had lurkt in sheltering creek or bayNow bounded on and gave their sails,Yet dripping to the evening gales;Like eagles when the storm is done,Spreading their wet wings in the sun.The beauteous clouds, tho' daylight's StarHad sunk behind the hills of LAR,Were still with lingering glories bright.—As if to grace the gorgeous WestThe Spirit of departing LightThat eve had left his sunny vestBehind him ere he winged his flight.Never was scene so formed for love!Beneath them waves of crystal moveIn silent swell—Heaven glows aboveAnd their pure hearts, to transport given,Swell like the wave and glow like heaven.
But ah! too soon that dream is past—Again, again her fear returns;—Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast,More faintly the horizon burns,And every rosy tint that layOn the smooth sea hath died awayHastily to the darkening skiesA glance she casts—then wildly cries"At night, he said—and look, 'tis near—"Fly, fly—if yet thou lovest me, fly—"Soon will his murderous band be here."And I shall see thee bleed and die.—"Hush! heardest thou not the tramp of men"Sounding from yonder fearful glen?—"Perhaps, even now they climb the wood—"Fly, fly—tho' still the West is bright,"He'll come—oh! yes—he wants thy blood—"I know him—he'll not wait for night!"
In terrors even to agonyShe clings around the wondering Chief;—"Alas, poor wildered maid! to me"Thou owest this raving trance of grief."Lost as I am, naught ever grew"Beneath my shade but perisht too—"My doom is like the Dead Sea air,"And nothing lives that enters there!"Why were our barks together driven"Beneath this morning's furious heaven?"Why when I saw the prize that chance"Had thrown into my desperate arms,—"When casting but a single glance"Upon thy pale and prostrate charms,"I vowed (tho' watching viewless o'er"Thy safety thro' that hour's alarms)"To meet the unmanning sight no more—"Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow?"Why weakly, madly met thee now?"Start not—that noise is but the shock"Of torrents thro' yon valley hurled—"Dread nothing here—upon this rock"We stand above the jarring world,"Alike beyond its hope—its dread—"In gloomy safety like the Dead!"Or could even earth and hell unite"In league to storm this Sacred Height,"Fear nothing thou—myself, tonight,"And each o'erlooking star that dwells"Near God will be thy sentinels;—"And ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow,"Back to thy sire"—"To-morrow!—no"—The maiden screamed—"Thou'lt never see"To-morrow's sun—death, death will be"The night-cry thro' each reeking tower,"Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour!"Thou art betrayed—some wretch who knew"That dreadful glen's mysterious clew-"Nay, doubt not—by yon stars, 'tis true—"Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire;"This morning, with that smile so dire"He wears in joy he told me all"And stampt in triumph thro' our hall,"As tho' thy heart already beat"Its last life-throb beneath his feet!"Good Heaven, how little dreamed I then"His victim was my own loved youth!—"Fly—send—let some one watch the glen—"By all my hopes of heaven 'tis truth!"
Oh! colder than the wind that freezesFounts that but now in sunshine played,Is that congealing pang which seizesThe trusting bosom, when betrayed.He felt it—deeply felt—and stood,As if the tale had frozen his blood,So mazed and motionless was he;—Like one whom sudden spells enchant,Or some mute, marble habitantOf the still Halls of ISHMONIE![259]But soon the painful chill was o'er,And his great soul herself once moreLookt from his brow in all the raysOf her best, happiest, grandest days.Never in moment most elateDid that high spirit loftier rise:—While bright, serene, determinate,His looks are lifted to the skies,As if the signal lights of FateWere shining in those awful eyes!'Tis come—his hour of martyrdomIn IRAN'S sacred cause is come;And tho' his life hath past awayLike lightning on a stormy day,Yet shall his death-hour leave a trackOf glory permanent and brightTo which the brave of after-times,The suffering brave, shall long look backWith proud regret,—and by its lightWatch thro' the hours of slavery's nightFor vengeance on the oppressor's crimes.This rock, his monument aloft,Shall speak the tale to many an age;And hither bards and heroes oftShall come in secret pilgrimage,And bring their warrior sons and tellThe wondering boys where HAFED fell;And swear them on those lone remainsOf their lost country's ancient fanes,Never—while breath of life shall liveWithin them—never to forgiveThe accursed race whose ruthless chainHath left on IRAN'S neck a stainBlood, blood alone can cleanse again!
Such are the swelling thoughts that nowEnthrone themselves on HAFED'S brow;And ne'er did Saint of ISSA [260] gazeOn the red wreath for martyrs twined.More proudly than the youth surveysThat pile which thro' the gloom behind,Half lighted by the altar's fire,Glimmers—his destined funeral pyre!Heaped by his own, his comrades hands,Of every wood of odorous breath.There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands,Ready to fold in radiant deathThe few still left of those who sworeTo perish there when hope was o'er—The few to whom that couch of flame,Which rescues them from bonds and shame,Is sweet and welcome as the bedFor their own infant Prophet spread,When pitying Heaven to roses turnedThe death-flames that beneath him burned![261]
With watchfulness the maid attendsHis rapid glance where'er it bends—Why shoot his eyes such awful beams?What plans he now? what thinks or dreams?Alas! why stands he musing here,When every moment teems with fear?"HAFED, my own beloved Lord,"She kneeling cries—"first, last adored!"If in that soul thou'st ever felt"Half what thy lips impassioned swore,"Here on my knees that never knelt"To any but their God before,"I pray thee, as thou lovest me, fly—"Now, now—ere yet their blades are nigh."Oh haste—the bark that bore me hither"Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea"East—west—alas, I care not whither,"So thou art safe, and I with thee!"Go where we will, this hand in thine,"Those eyes before me smiling thus,"Thro' good and ill, thro' storm and shine,"The world's a world of love for us!"On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell,"Where 'tis no crime to love too well;"Where thus to worship tenderly"An erring child of light like thee"Will not be sin—or if it be"Where we may weep our faults away,"Together kneeling, night and day,"Thou, formysake, at ALLA'S shrine,"And I—atanyGod's, for thine!"
Wildly these passionate words she spoke—Then hung her head and wept for shame;Sobbing as if a heart-string brokeWith every deep-heaved sob that came,While he, young, warm—oh! wonder notIf, for a moment, pride and fame;His oath—his cause—that shrine of flame,And IRAN'S self are all forgotFor her, whom at his feet he seesKneeling in speechless agonies.No, blame him not if Hope awhileDawned in his soul and threw her smileO'er hours to come—o'er days and nights,Winged with those precious, pure delightsWhich she who bends all beauteous thereWas born to kindle and to share.A tear or two which as he bowedTo raise the suppliant, trembling stole,First warned him of this dangerous cloudOf softness passing o'er his soul.Starting he brusht the drops awayUnworthy o'er that cheek to stray;—Like one who on the morn of fightShakes from his sword the dews of night,That had but dimmed not stained its light.
Yet tho' subdued the unnerving thrill,Its warmth, its weakness lingered stillSo touching in each look and tone,That the fond, fearing, hoping maidHalf counted on the flight she prayed,Half thought the hero's soul was grownAs soft, as yielding as her own,And smiled and blest him while he said,—"Yes—if there be some happier sphere"Where fadeless truth like ours is dear.—"If there be any land of rest"For those who love and ne'er forget,"Oh! comfort thee—for safe and blest"We'll meet in that calm region yet!"
Scarce had she time to ask her heartIf good or ill these words impart,When the roused youth impatient flewTo the tower-wall, where high in viewA ponderous sea-horn[262] hung, and blewA signal deep and dread as thoseThe storm-fiend at his rising blows.—Full well his Chieftains, sworn and trueThro' life and death, that signal knew;For 'twas the appointed warning-blast,The alarm to tell when hope was pastAnd the tremendous death-die cast!And there upon the mouldering towerHath hung this sea-horn many an hour,Ready to sound o'er land and seaThat dirge-note of the brave and free.
They came—his Chieftains at the callCame slowly round and with them all—Alas, how few!—the worn remainsOf those who late o'er KERMAN'S plainsWhen gayly prancing to the clashOf Moorish zel and tymbalonCatching new hope from every flashOf their long lances in the sun,And as their coursers charged the windAnd the white ox-tails streamed behind,[263]Looking as if the steeds they rodeWere winged and every Chief a God!How fallen, how altered now! how wanEach scarred and faded visage shone,As round the burning shrine they came;—How deadly was the glare it cast,As mute they paused before the flameTo light their torches as they past!'Twas silence all—the youth hath plannedThe duties of his soldier-band;And each determined brow declaresHis faithful Chieftains well know theirs.But minutes speed—night gems the skies—And oh, how soon, ye blessed eyesThat look from heaven ye may beholdSights that will turn your star-fires cold!Breathless with awe, impatience, hope,The maiden sees the veteran groupHer litter silently prepare,And lay it at her trembling feet;—And now the youth with gentle care,Hath placed her in the sheltered seatAnd prest her hand—that lingering pressOf hands that for the last time sever;Of hearts whose pulse of happinessWhen that hold breaks is dead for ever.And yet toherthis sad caressGives hope—so fondly hope can err!'Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess—Their happy flight's dear harbinger;'Twas warmth—assurance—tenderness—'Twas any thing but leaving her.
"Haste, haste!" she cried, "the clouds grow dark,"But still, ere night, we'll reach the bark;"And by to-morrow's dawn—oh bliss!"With thee upon the sun-bright deep,"Far off, I'll but remember this,"As some dark vanisht dream of sleep;"And thou"—but ah!—he answers not—Good Heaven!—and does she go alone?She now has reached that dismal spot,Where some hours since his voice's toneHad come to soothe her fears and ills,Sweet as the angel ISRAFIL'S,[264]When every leaf on Eden's treeIs trembling to his minstrelsy—Yet now—oh, now, he is not nigh.—"HAFED! my HAFED!—if it be"Thy will, thy doom this night to die"Let me but stay to die with thee"And I will bless thy loved name,"Till the last life-breath leave this frame."Oh! let our lips, our cheeks be laid"But near each other while they fade;"Let us but mix our parting breaths,"And I can die ten thousand deaths!"You too, who hurry me away"So cruelly, one moment stay—"Oh! stay—one moment is not much—"He yet may come—forhimI pray—"HAFED! dear HAFED!"—all the wayIn wild lamentings that would touchA heart of stone she shrieked his nameTo the dark woods—no HAFED came:—No—hapless pair—you've lookt your last:—Your hearts should both have broken then:—The dream is o'er—your doom is cast—You'll never meet on earth again!
Alas for him who hears her cries!Still half-way down the steep he stands,Watching with fixt and feverish eyesThe glimmer of those burning brandsThat down the rocks with mournful ray,Light all he loves on earth away!Hopeless as they who far at seaBy the cold moon have just consignedThe corse of one loved tenderlyTo the bleak flood they leave behind,And on the deck still lingering stay,And long look back with sad delayTo watch the moonlight on the waveThat ripples o'er that cheerless grave.
But see—he starts—what heard he then?That dreadful shout!—across the glenFrom the land-side it comes and loudRings thro' the chasm, as if the crowdOf fearful things that haunt that dellIts Ghouls and Divs and shapes of hell,And all in one dread howl broke out,So loud, so terrible that shout!"They come—the Moslems come!"—he cries,His proud soul mounting to his eyes,—"Now, Spirits of the Brave, who roam"Enfranchised thro' yon starry dome,"Rejoice—for souls of kindred fire"Are on the wing to join your choir!"He said—and, light as bridegrooms boundTo their young loves, reclined the steepAnd gained the Shrine—his Chiefs stood round—Their swords, as with instinctive leap,Together at that cry accurstHad from their sheaths like sunbeams burst.And hark!—again—again it rings;Near and more near its echoingsPeal thro' the chasm—oh! who that thenHad seen those listening warrior-men,With their swords graspt, their eyes of flameTurned on their Chief—could doubt the shame,The indignant shame with which they thrillTo hear those shouts and yet stand still?
He read their thoughts—they were his own—"What! while our arms can wield these blades,"Shall we die tamely? die alone?"Without one victim to our shades,"One Moslem heart, where buried deep"The sabre from its toil may sleep?"No—God of IRAN'S burning skies!"Thou scornest the inglorious sacrifice."No—tho' of all earth's hope bereft,"Life, swords, and vengeance still are left."We'll make yon valley's reeking caves"Live in the awe-struck minds of men"Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves"Tell of the Gheber's bloody glen,"Follow, brave hearts!—this pile remains"Our refuge still from life and chains;"But his the best, the holiest bed,"Who sinks entombed in Moslem dead!"
Down the precipitous rocks they sprung,While vigor more than human strungEach arm and heart.—The exulting foeStill thro' the dark defiles below,Trackt by his torches' lurid fire,Wound slow, as thro' GOLCONDA'S valeThe mighty serpent in his ireGlides on with glittering, deadly trail.No torch the Ghebers need—so wellThey know each mystery of the dell,So oft have in their wanderingsCrost the wild race that round them dwell,The very tigers from their delvesLook out and let them pass as thingsUntamed and fearless like themselves!
There was a deep ravine that layYet darkling in the Moslem's way;Fit spot to make invaders rueThe many fallen before the few.The torrents from that morning's skyHad filled the narrow chasm breast-high,And on each side aloft and wildHuge cliffs and toppling crags were piled,—The guards with which young Freedom linesThe pathways to her mountain-shrines,Here at this pass the scanty band;Of IRAN'S last avengers stand;Here wait in silence like the deadAnd listen for the Moslem's treadSo anxiously the carrion-birdAbove them flaps his wing unheard!
They come—that plunge into the waterGives signal for the work of slaughter.Now, Ghebers, now—if e'er your bladesHad point or prowess prove them now—Woe to the file that foremost wades!They come—a falchion greets each brow,And as they tumble trunk on trunkBeneath the gory waters sunk,Still o'er their drowning bodies pressNew victims quick and numberless;Till scarce an arm in HAFED'S band,So fierce their toil, hath power to stir,But listless from each crimson handThe sword hangs clogged with massacre.Never was horde of tyrants metWith bloodier welcome—never yetTo patriot vengeance hath the swordMore terrible libations poured!
All up the dreary, long ravine,By the red, murky glimmer seenOf half-quenched brands, that o'er the floodLie scattered round and burn in blood,What ruin glares! what carnage swims!Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs,Lost swords that dropt from many a hand,In that thick pool of slaughter stand;—Wretches who wading, half on fireFrom the tost brands that round them fly,'Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire;—And some who grasp by those that dieSink woundless with them, smothered o'erIn their dead brethren's gushing gore!
But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed,Still hundreds, thousands more succeed;Countless as toward some flame at nightThe North's dark insects wing their flightAnd quench or perish in its light,To this terrific spot they pour—Till, bridged with Moslem bodies o'er,It bears aloft their slippery tread,And o'er the dying and the dead,Tremendous causeway! on they pass.Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas,What hope was left for you? for you,Whose yet warm pile of sacrificeIs smoking in their vengeful eyes;—Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew.And burned with shame to find how few.
Crusht down by that vast multitudeSome found their graves where first they stood;While some with hardier struggle died,And still fought on by HAFED'S side,Who fronting to the foe trod backTowards the high towers his gory track;And as a lion swept awayBy sudden swell of JORDAN'S prideFrom the wild covert where he lay,[265]Long battles with the o'erwhelming tide,So fought he back with fierce delayAnd kept both foes and fate at bay.
But whither now? their track is lost,Their prey escaped—guide, torches gone—By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost,The scattered crowd rush blindly on—"Curse on those tardy lights that wind,"They panting cry, "so far behind;"Oh, for a bloodhound's precious scent,"To track the way the Ghebers went!"Vain wish—confusedly alongThey rush more desperate as more wrong:Till wildered by the far-off lights,Yet glittering up those gloomy heights,Their footing mazed and lost they miss,And down the darkling precipiceAre dasht into the deep abyss;Or midway hang impaled on rocks,A banquet yet alive for flocksOf ravening vultures,—while the dellRe-echoes with each horrible yell.Those sounds—the last, to vengeance dear.That e'er shall ring in HAFED'S ear,—Now reached him as aloft aloneUpon the steep way breathless thrown,He lay beside his reeking blade,Resigned, as if life's task were o'er,Its last blood-offering amply paid,And IRAN'S self could claim no more.One only thought, one lingering beamNow broke across his dizzy dreamOf pain and weariness—'twas she,His heart's pure planet shining yetAbove the waste of memoryWhen all life's other lights were set.And never to his mind beforeHer image such enchantment wore.It seemed as if each thought that stained,Each fear that chilled their loves was past,And not one cloud of earth remainedBetween him and her radiance cast;—As if to charms, before so bright,New grace from other worlds was given.And his soul saw her by the lightNow breaking o'er itself from heaven!
A voice spoke near him—'twas the toneOf a loved friend, the only oneOf all his warriors left with lifeFrom that short night's tremendous strife.—"And must we then, my chief, die here?"Foes round us and the Shrine so near!"These words have roused the last remainsOf life within him:—"What! not yet"Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!"
The thought could make even Death forgetHis icy bondage:—with a boundHe springs all bleeding from the groundAnd grasps his comrade's arm now grownEven feebler, heavier than his own.And up the painful pathway leads,Death gaining on each step he treads.Speed them, thou God, who heardest their vow!They mount—they bleed—oh save them now—The crags are red they've clambered o'er,The rock-weed's dripping with their gore;—Thy blade too, HAFED, false at length,How breaks beneath thy tottering strength!Haste, haste—the voices of the FoeCome near and nearer from below—One effort more—thank Heaven! 'tis past,They've gained the topmost steep at last.And now they touch the temple's walls.Now HAFED sees the Fire divine—When, lo!—his weak, worn comrade fallsDead on the threshold of the shrine."Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled!"And must I leave thee withering here,"The sport of every ruffian's tread,"The mark for every coward's spear?"No, by yon altar's sacred beams!"He cries and with a strength that seemsNot of this world uplifts the frameOf the fallen Chief and toward the flameBears him along; with death-damp handThe corpse upon the pyre he lays,Then lights the consecrated brandAnd fires the pile whose sudden blazeLike lightning bursts o'er OMAN'S Sea.—"Now, Freedom's God! I come to Thee,"The youth exclaims and with a smileOf triumph vaulting on the pile,In that last effort ere the firesHave harmed one glorious limb expires!
What shriek was that on OMAN'S tide?It came from yonder drifting bark,That just hath caught upon her sideThe death-light—and again is dark.It is the boat—ah! why delayed?—That bears the wretched Moslem maid;Confided to the watchful careOf a small veteran band with whomTheir generous Chieftain would not shareThe secret of his final doom,But hoped when HINDA safe and freeWas rendered to her father's eyes,Their pardon full and prompt would beThe ransom of so dear a prize.—Unconscious thus of HAFED'S fate,And proud to guard their beauteous freight,Scarce had they cleared the surfy wavesThat foam around those frightful cavesWhen the curst war-whoops known so wellCame echoing from the distant dell—Sudden each oar, upheld and still,Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side,And driving at the current's will,They rockt along the whispering tide;While every eye in mute dismayWas toward that fatal mountain turned.Where the dim altar's quivering rayAs yet all lone and tranquil burned.
Oh! 'tis not, HINDA, in the powerOf Fancy's most terrific touchTo paint thy pangs in that dread hour—Thy silent agony—'twas suchAs those who feel could paint too well,But none e'er felt and lived to tell!'Twas not alone the dreary stateOf a lorn spirit crusht by fate,When tho' no more remains to dreadThe panic chill will not depart;—When tho' the inmate Hope be dead,Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart;No—pleasures, hopes, affections gone,The wretch may bear and yet live onLike things within the cold rock foundAlive when all's congealed around.But there's a blank repose in this,A calm stagnation, that were blissTo the keen, burning, harrowing pain,Now felt thro' all thy breast and brain;—That spasm of terror, mute, intense,That breathless, agonized suspenseFrom whose hot throb whose deadly aching,The heart hath no relief but breaking!
Calm is the wave—heaven's brilliant lightsReflected dance beneath the prow;—Time was when on such lovely nightsShe who is there so desolate nowCould sit all cheerful tho' aloneAnd ask no happier joy than seeingThat starlight o'er the waters thrown—No joy but that to make her blest,And the fresh, buoyant sense of BeingWhich bounds in youth's yet careless breast,—Itself a star not borrowing lightBut in its own glad essence bright.How different now!—but, hark! againThe yell of havoc rings—brave men!In vain with beating hearts ye standOn the bark's edge—in vain each handHalf draws the falchion from its sheath;All's o'er—in rust your blades may lie:—He at whose word they've scattered deathEven now this night himself must die!Well may ye look to yon dim tower,And ask and wondering guess what meansThe battle-cry at this dead hour—Ah! she could tell you—she who leansUnheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast,With brow against the dew-cold mast;—Too well she knows—her more than life,Her soul's first idol and its lastLies bleeding in that murderous strife.But see—what moves upon the height?Some signal!—'tis a torch's lightWhat bodes its solitary glare?In gasping silence toward the ShrineAll eyes are turned—thine, HINDA, thineFix their last fading life-beams there.'Twas but a moment—fierce and highThe death-pile blazed into the skyAnd far-away o'er rock and floodIts melancholy radiance sent:While HAFED like a vision stoodRevealed before the burning pyre.Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of fireShrined in its own grand element!"'Tis he!"—the shuddering maid exclaims,—But while she speaks he's seen no more;High burst in air the funeral flames,And IRAN'S hopes and hers are o'er!
One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave;Then sprung as if to reach that blazeWhere still she fixt her dying gaze,And gazing sunk into the wave.—Deep, deep,—where never care or painShall reach her innocent heart again!
* * * * *
Farewell—farewell to thee. ARABY'S daughter!(Thus warbled a PERI beneath the dark sea,)No pearl ever lay under OMAN'S green waterMore pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee.
Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,How light was thy heart till Love's witchery came,Like the wind of the south[266] o'er a summer lute blowing,And husht all its music and withered its frame!
But long upon ARABY'S green sunny highlandsShall maids and their lovers remember the doomOf her who lies sleeping among the Pearl IslandsWith naught but the sea-star[267] to light up her tomb.
And still when the merry date-season is burningAnd calls to the palm-groves the young and the old,The happiest there from their pastime returningAt sunset will weep when thy story is told.
The young village-maid when with flowers she dressesHer dark flowing hair for some festival dayWill think of thy fate till neglecting her tressesShe mournfully turns from the mirror away.
Nor shall IRAN, beloved of her Hero! forget thee—Tho' tyrants watch over her tears as they start,Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee,Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Farewell—be it ours to embellish thy pillowWith everything beauteous that grows in the deep;Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billowShall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.
Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amberThat ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept;[268]With many a shell in whose hollow-wreathed chamberWe Peris of Ocean by moonlight have slept.
We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darklingAnd plant all the rosiest stems at thy head;We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian[269] are sparklingAnd gather their gold to strew over thy bed.
Farewell—farewell!—Until Pity's sweet fountainIs lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain,They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.
The singular placidity with which FADLADEEN had listened during the latter part of this obnoxious story surprised the Princess and FERAMORZ exceedingly; and even inclined towards him the hearts of these unsuspicious young persons who little knew the source of a complacency so marvellous. The truth was he had been organizing for the last few days a most notable plan of persecution against the poet in consequence of some passages that had fallen from him on the second evening of recital,—which appeared to this worthy Chamberlain to contain language and principles for which nothing short of the summary criticism of the Chabuk[270] would be advisable. It was his intention therefore immediately on their arrival at Cashmere to give information to the King of Bucharia of the very dangerous sentiments of his minstrel; and if unfortunately that monarch did not act with suitable vigor on the occasion, (that is, if he did not give the Chabuk to FERAMORZ and a place to FADLADEEN.) there would be an end, he feared, of all legitimate government in Bucharia. He could not help however auguring better both for himself and the cause of potentates in general; and it was the pleasure arising from these mingled anticipations that diffused such unusual satisfaction through his features and made his eyes shine out like poppies of the desert over the wide and lifeless wilderness of that countenance.
Having decided upon the Poet's chastisement in this manner he thought it but humanity to spare him the minor tortures of criticism. Accordingly when they assembled the following evening in the pavilion and LALLA ROOKH was expecting to see all the beauties of her bard melt away one by one in the acidity of criticism, like pearls in the cup of the Egyptian queen.— he agreeably disappointed her by merely saying with an ironical smile that the merits of such a poem deserved to be tried at a much higher tribunal; and then suddenly passed off into a panegyric upon all Mussulman sovereigns, more particularly his august and Imperial master, Aurungzebe, —the wisest and best of the descendants of Timur,—who among other great things he had done for mankind had given to him, FADLADEEN, the very profitable posts of Betel-carrier and Taster of Sherbets to the Emperor, Chief Holder of the Girdle of Beautiful Forms,[271] and Grand Nazir or Chamberlain of the Haram.
They were now not far from that Forbidden River[272] beyond which no pure Hindoo can pass, and were reposing for a time in the rich valley of Hussun Abdaul, which had always been a favorite resting-place of the Emperors in their annual migrations to Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the Faith, Jehan-Guire, been known to wander with his beloved and beautiful Nourmahal, and here would LALLA ROOKH have been happy to remain for ever, giving up the throne of Bucharia and the world for FERAMORZ and love in this sweet, lonely valley. But the time was now fast approaching when she must see him no longer,—or, what was still worse, behold him with eyes whose every look belonged to another, and there was a melancholy preciousness in these last moments, which made her heart cling to them as it would to life. During the latter part of the journey, indeed, she had sunk into a deep sadness from which nothing but the presence of the young minstrel could awake her. Like those lamps in tombs which only light up when the air is admitted, it was only at his approach that her eyes became smiling and animated. But here in this dear valley every moment appeared an age of pleasure; she saw him all day and was therefore all day happy,— resembling, she often thought, that people of Zinge[273] who attribute the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly over their heads.[274]
The whole party indeed seemed in their liveliest mood during the few days they passed in this delightful solitude. The young attendants of the Princess who were here allowed a much freer range than they could safely be indulged with in a less sequestered place ran wild among the gardens and bounded through the meadows lightly as young roes over the aromatic plains of Tibet. While FADLADEEN, in addition to the spiritual comfort derived by him from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Saint from whom the valley is named, had also opportunities of indulging in a small way his taste for victims by putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate little lizards,[275] which all pious Mussulmans make it a point to kill;— taking for granted that the manner in which the creature hangs its head is meant as a mimicry of the attitude in which the Faithful say their prayers.
About two miles from Hussun Abdaul were those Royal Gardens which had grown beautiful under the care of so many lovely eyes, and were beautiful still though those eyes could see them no longer. This place, with its flowers and its holy silence interrupted only by the dipping of the wings of birds in its marble basins filled with the pure water of those hills, was to LALLA ROOKH all that her heart could fancy of fragrance, coolness, and almost heavenly tranquillity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, "it was too delicious;"[276]—and here in listening to the sweet voice of FERAMORZ or reading in his eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the most exquisite moments of her whole life were passed. One evening when they had been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal, the Light of the Haram, [277] who had so often wandered among these flowers, and fed with her own hands in those marble basins the small shining fishes of which she was so fond,—the youth in order to delay the moment of separation proposed to recite a short story or rather rhapsody of which this adored Sultana was the heroine. It related, he said, to the reconcilement of a sort of lovers' quarrel which took place between her and the Emperor during a Feast of Roses at Cashmere; and would remind the Princess of that difference between Haroun-al-Raschid and his fair mistress Marida, which was so happily made up by the soft strains of the musician Moussali. As the story was chiefly to be told in song and FERAMORZ had unluckily forgotten his own lute in the valley, he borrowed the vina of LALLA ROOKH'S little Persian slave, and thus began:—
Who has not heard of the Vale of CASHMERE,With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,[278]Its temples and grottos and fountains as clearAs the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?
Oh! to see it at sunset,—when warm o'er the LakeIts splendor at parting a summer eve throws,Like a bride full of blushes when lingering to takeA last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!—When the shrines thro' the foliage are gleaming half shown,And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own.Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells,Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging,And here at the altar a zone of sweet bellsRound the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.[279]Or to see it by moonlight when mellowly shinesThe light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines,When the water-falls gleam like a quick fall of starsAnd the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of ChenarsIs broken by laughs and light echoes of feetFrom the cool, shining walks where the young people meet.—Or at morn when the magic of daylight awakesA new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks,Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every oneOut of darkness as if but just born of the Sun.When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the dayFrom his Haram of night-flowers stealing away;And the wind full of wantonness wooes like a loverThe young aspen-trees,[280]till they tremble all over.When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes,And day with his banner of radiance unfurledShines in thro' the mountainous portal[281] that opes,Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world!
But never yet by night or day,In dew of spring or summer's ray,Did the sweet Valley shine so gayAs now it shines—all love and light,Visions by day and feasts by night!A happier smile illumes each brow;With quicker spread each heart uncloses,And all is ecstasy—for nowThe Valley holds its Feast of Roses;[282]The joyous Time when pleasures pourProfusely round and in their showerHearts open like the Season's Rose,—The Floweret of a hundred leaves[283]Expanding while the dew-fall flowsAnd every leaf its balm receives.
'Twas when the hour of evening cameUpon the Lake, serene and cool,When day had hid his sultry flameBehind the palms of BARAMOULE,When maids began to lift their heads.Refresht from their embroidered bedsWhere they had slept the sun away,And waked to moonlight and to play.All were abroad:—the busiest hiveOn BELA'S[284] hills is less aliveWhen saffron-beds are full in flower,Than lookt the Valley in that hour.A thousand restless torches playedThro' every grove and island shade;A thousand sparkling lamps were setOn every dome and minaret;And fields and pathways far and nearWere lighted by a blaze so clearThat you could see in wandering roundThe smallest rose-leaf on the ground,Yet did the maids and matrons leaveTheir veils at home, that brilliant eve;And there were glancing eyes aboutAnd cheeks that would not dare shine outIn open day but thought they mightLook lovely then, because 'twas night.And all were free and wanderingAnd all exclaimed to all they met,That never did the summer bringSo gay a Feast of Roses yet;—The moon had never shed a lightSo clear as that which blest them there;The roses ne'er shone half so bright,Nor they themselves lookt half so fair.
And what a wilderness of flowers!It seemed as tho' from all the bowersAnd fairest fields of all the year,The mingled spoil were scattered here.The lake too like a garden breathesWith the rich buds that o'er it lie,—As if a shower of fairy wreathsHad fallen upon it from the sky!And then the sounds of joy,—the beatOf tabors and of dancing feet;—The minaret-crier's chant of gleeSung from his lighted gallery,[285]And answered by a ziraleetFrom neighboring Haram, wild and sweet;—The merry laughter echoingFrom gardens where the silken swing[286]Wafts some delighted girl aboveThe top leaves of the orange-grove;Or from those infant groups at playAmong the tents[287] that line the way,Flinging, unawed by slave or mother,Handfuls of roses at each other.—Then the sounds from the Lake,—the low whispering in boats,As they shoot thro' the moonlight,—the dipping of oarsAnd the wild, airy warbling that everywhere floatsThro' the groves, round the islands, as if all the shoresLike those of KATHAY uttered music and gaveAn answer in song to the kiss on each wave.[288]But the gentlest of all are those sounds full of feelingThat soft from the lute of some lover are stealing,—Some lover who knows all the heart-touching powerOf a lute and a sigh in this magical hour.Oh! best of delights as it everywhere isTo be near the lovedOne,—what a rapture is hisWho in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glideO'er the Lake of CASHMERE with thatOneby his side!
If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,Think, think what a Heaven she must make of CASHMERE!
So felt the magnificent Son of ACBAR,When from power and pomp and the trophies of warHe flew to that Valley forgetting them allWith the Light of the HARAM, his young NOURMAHAL.When free and uncrowned as the Conqueror rovedBy the banks of that Lake with his only belovedHe saw in the wreaths she would playfully snatchFrom the hedges a glory his crown could not match,And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curledDown her exquisite neck to the throne of the world.
There's a beauty for ever unchangingly bright,Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day's light,Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tenderTill Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor.Thiswasnot the beauty—oh, nothing like thisThat to young NOURMAHAL gave such magic of bliss!But that loveliness ever in motion which playsLike the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days,Now here and now there, giving warmth as it fliesFrom the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes;Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams,Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heaven in his dreams.When pensive it seemed as if that very grace,That charm of all others, was born with her face!And when angry,—for even in the tranquillest climesLight breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes—The short, passing anger but seemed to awakenNew beauty like flowers that are sweetest when shaken.If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eyeAt once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,From the depth of whose shadow like holy revealingsFrom innermost shrines came the light of her feelings.Then her mirth—oh! 'twas sportive as ever took wingFrom the heart with a burst like the wild-bird in spring;Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages,Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages.[289]While her laugh full of life, without any controlBut the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul;And where it most sparkled no glance could discover,In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brightened all over,—Like any fair lake that the breeze is uponWhen it breaks into dimples and, laughs in the sun.Such, such were the peerless enchantments that gaveNOURMAHAL the proud Lord of the East for her slave:And tho' bright was his Haram,—a living parterreOf the flowers[290] of this planet—tho' treasures were there,For which SOLIMAN'S self might have given all the storeThat the navy from OPHIR e'er winged to his shore,Yet dim beforeherwere the smiles of them allAnd the Light of his Haram was young NOURMAHAL!
But where is she now, this night of joy,When bliss is every heart's employ?—When all around her is so bright,So like the visions of a trance,That one might think, who came by chanceInto the vale this happy night,He saw that City of Delight[291]In Fairy-land, whose streets and towersAre made of gems and light and flowers!Where is the loved Sultana? where,When mirth brings out the young and fair,Does she, the fairest, hide her browIn melancholy stillness now?
Alas!—how light a cause may moveDissension between hearts that love!Hearts that the world in vain had triedAnd sorrow but more closely tied;That stood the storm when waves were roughYet in a sunny hour fall off,Like ships that have gone down at seaWhen heaven was all tranquillity!A something light as air—a look,A word unkind or wrongly taken—Oh! love that tempests never shook,A breath, a touch like this hath shaken.
And ruder words will soon rush inTo spread the breach that words begin;And eyes forget the gentle rayThey wore in courtship's smiling day;And voices lose the tone that shedA tenderness round all they said;Till fast declining one by oneThe sweetnesses of love are gone,And hearts so lately mingled seemLike broken clouds,—or like the streamThat smiling left the mountain's browAs tho' its waters ne'er could sever,Yet ere it reach the plain below,Breaks into floods that part for ever.
Oh, you that have the charge of Love,Keep him in rosy bondage bound,As in the Fields of Bliss aboveHe sits with flowerets fettered round;—Loose not a tie that round him clings.Nor ever let him use his wings;For even an hour, a minute's flightWill rob the plumes of half their light.Like that celestial bird whose nestIs found beneath far Eastern skies,Whose wings tho' radiant when at restLose all their glory when he flies![292]
Some difference of this dangerous kind,—By which, tho' light, the links that bindThe fondest hearts may soon be riven;Some shadow in Love's summer heaven,Which, tho' a fleecy speck at firstMay yet in awful thunder burst;—Such cloud it is that now hangs overThe heart of the Imperial Lover,And far hath banisht from his sightHis NOURMAHAL, his Haram's Light!Hence is it on this happy nightWhen Pleasure thro' the fields and grovesHas let loose all her world of lovesAnd every heart has found its ownHe wanders joyless and aloneAnd weary as that bird of ThraceWhose pinion knows no resting place.[293]
In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyesThis Eden of the Earth suppliesCome crowding round—the cheeks are pale,The eyes are dim:—tho' rich the spotWith every flower this earth has gotWhat is it to the nightingaleIf there his darling rose is not?[294]In vain the Valley's smiling throngWorship him as he moves along;He heeds them not—one smile of hersIs worth a world of worshippers.They but the Star's adorers are,She is the Heaven that lights the Star!
Hence is it too that NOURMAHAL,Amid the luxuries of this hour,Far from the joyous festivalSits in her own sequestered bower,With no one near to soothe or aid,But that inspired and wondrous maid,NAMOUNA, the Enchantress;—oneO'er whom his race the golden sunFor unremembered years has run,Yet never saw her blooming browYounger or fairer than 'tis now.Nay, rather,—as the west wind's sighFreshens the flower it passes by,—Time's wing but seemed in stealing o'erTo leave her lovelier than before.Yet on her smiles a sadness hung,And when as oft she spoke or sungOf other worlds there came a lightFrom her dark eyes so strangely brightThat all believed nor man nor earthWere conscious of NAMOUNA'S birth!All spells and talismans she knew,From the great Mantra,[295] which aroundThe Air's sublimer Spirits drew,To the gold gems[296] of AFRIC, boundUpon the wandering Arab's armTo keep him from the Siltim's[297] harm.And she had pledged her powerful art,—Pledged it with all the zeal and heartOf one who knew tho' high her sphere,What 'twas to lose a love so dear,—To find some spell that should recallHer Selim's[298] smile to NOURMAHAL!
'Twas midnight—thro' the lattice wreathedWith woodbine many a perfume breathedFrom plants that wake when others sleep.From timid jasmine buds that keepTheir odor to themselves all dayBut when the sunlight dies awayLet the delicious secret outTo every breeze that roams about;—When thus NAMOUNA:—"'Tis the hour"That scatters spells on herb and flower,"And garlands might be gathered now,"That twined around the sleeper's brow"Would make him dream of such delights,"Such miracles and dazzling sights"As Genii of the Sun behold"At evening from their tents of gold"Upon the horizon—where they play"Till twilight comes and ray by ray"Their sunny mansions melt away."Now too a chaplet might be wreathed"Of buds o'er which the moon has breathed,"Which worn by her whose love has strayed"Might bring some Peri from the skies,"Some sprite, whose very soul is made"Of flowerets' breaths and lovers' sighs,"And who might tell"—"For me, for me,"Cried NOURMAHAL impatiently,—"Oh! twine that wreath for me to-night."Then rapidly with foot as lightAs the young musk-roe's out she flewTo cull each shining leaf that grewBeneath the moonlight's hallowing beamsFor this enchanted Wreath of Dreams.Anemones and Seas of Gold,[299]And new-blown lilies of the river,And those sweet flowerets that unfoldTheir buds on CAMADEVA'S quiver;[300]—The tuberose, with her silvery light,That in the Gardens of MalayIs called the Mistress of the Night,[301]So like a bride, scented and bright,She comes out when the sun's away:—Amaranths such as crown the maidsThat wander thro' ZAMARA'S shades;[302]—And the white moon-flower as it shows,On SERENDIB'S high crags to thoseWho near the isle at evening sail,Scenting her clove-trees in the gale;In short all flowerets and all plants,From the divine Amrita tree[303]That blesses heaven's habitantsWith fruits of immortality,Down to the basil tuft[304] that wavesIts fragrant blossom over graves,And to the humble rosemaryWhose sweets so thanklessly are shedTo scent the desert[305]and the dead:—All in that garden bloom and allAre gathered by young NOURMAHAL,Who heaps her baskets with the flowersAnd leaves till they can hold no more;Then to NAMOUNA flies and showersUpon her lap the shining store.With what delight the Enchantress viewsSo many buds bathed with the dewsAnd beams of that blest hour!—her glanceSpoke something past all mortal pleasures,As in a kind of holy tranceShe hung above those fragrant treasures,Bending to drink their balmy airs,As if she mixt her soul with theirs.And 'twas indeed the perfume shedFrom flowers and scented flame that fedHer charmed life—for none had e'erBeheld her taste of mortal fare,Nor ever in aught earthly dip,But the morn's dew, her roseate lip.Filled with the cool, inspiring smell,The Enchantress now begins her spell,Thus singing as she winds and weavesIn mystic form the glittering leaves:—
I know where the winged visions dwellThat around the night-bed play;I know each herb and floweret's bell,Where they hide their wings by day.Then hasten we, maid,To twine our braid,To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The image of love that nightly fliesTo visit the bashful maid,Steals from the jasmine flower that sighsIts soul like her in the shade.The dream of a future, happier hourThat alights on misery's brow,Springs out of the silvery almond-flowerThat blooms on a leafless bough.[306]Then hasten we, maid,To twine our braid,To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The visions that oft to worldly eyesThe glitter of mines unfoldInhabit the mountain-herb[307] that dyesThe tooth of the fawn like gold.The phantom shapes—oh touch not them—That appal the murderer's sight,Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem,That shrieks when pluckt at night!Then hasten we, maid,To twine our braid,To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The dream of the injured, patient mindThat smiles at the wrongs of menIs found in the bruised and wounded rindOf the cinnamon, sweetest then.Then hasten we, maid,To twine our braid,To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
No sooner was the flowery crownPlaced on her head than sleep came down,Gently as nights of summer fall,Upon the lids of NOURMAHAL;—And suddenly a tuneful breezeAs full of small, rich harmoniesAs ever wind that o'er the tentsOf AZAB[308] blew was full of scents,Steals on her ear and floats and swellsLike the first air of morning creepingInto those wreathy, Red-Sea shellsWhere Love himself of old lay sleeping;[309]And now a Spirit formed, 'twould seem,Of music and of light,—so fair,So brilliantly his features beam,And such a sound is in the airOf sweetness when he waves his wings,—Hovers around her and thus sings:
From CHINDARA'S[310] warbling fount I come,Called by that moonlight garland's spell;From CHINDARA'S fount, my fairy home,Wherein music, morn and night, I dwell.Where lutes in the air are heard aboutAnd voices are singing the whole day long,And every sigh the heart breathes outIs turned, as it leaves the lips, to song!Hither I comeFrom my fairy home,And if there's a magic in Music's strainI swear by the breathOf that moonlight wreathThy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.
For mine is the lay that lightly floatsAnd mine are the murmuring, dying notesThat fall as soft as snow on the seaAnd melt in the heart as instantly:—And the passionate strain that, deeply going,Refines the bosom it trembles thro'As the musk-wind over the water blowingRuffles the wave but sweetens it too.
Mine is the charm whose mystic swayThe Spirits of past Delight obey;—Let but the tuneful talisman sound,And they come like Genii hovering round.And mine is the gentle song that bearsFrom soul to soul the wishes of love,As a bird that wafts thro' genial airsThe cinnamon-seed from grove to grove.[311]
'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measureThe past, the present and future of pleasure;When Memory links the tone that is goneWith the blissful tone that's still in the ear;And Hope from a heavenly note flies onTo a note more heavenly still that is near.
The warrior's heart when touched by me,Can as downy soft and as yielding beAs his own white plume that high amid deathThro' the field has shone—yet moves with a breath!And oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten.When Music has reached her inward soul,Like the silent stars that wink and listenWhile Heaven's eternal melodies roll.So hither I comeFrom my fairy home,And if there's a magic in Music's strain,I swear by the breathOf that moonlight wreathThy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.
'Tis dawn—at least that earlier dawnWhose glimpses are again withdrawn,[312]As if the morn had waked, and thenShut close her lids of light again.And NOURMAHAL is up and tryingThe wonders of her lute whose strings—Oh, bliss!—now murmur like the sighingFrom that ambrosial Spirit's wings.And then her voice—'tis more than human—Never till now had it been givenTo lips of any mortal womanTo utter notes so fresh from heaven;Sweet as the breath of angel sighsWhen angel sighs are most divine.—"Oh! let it last till night," she cries,"And he is more than ever mine."
And hourly she renews the lay,So fearful lest its heavenly sweetnessShould ere the evening fade away,—For things so heavenly have such fleetness!But far from fading it but growsRicher, diviner as it flows;Till rapt she dwells on every stringAnd pours again each sound along,Like echo, lost and languishing,In love with her own wondrous song.
That evening, (trusting that his soulMight be from haunting love releasedBy mirth, by music and the bowl,)The Imperial SELIM held a feastIn his magnificent Shalimar:[313]—In whose Saloons, when the first starOf evening o'er the waters trembled,The Valley's loveliest all assembled;All the bright creatures that like dreamsGlide thro' its foliage and drink beamsOf beauty from its founts and streams;[314]And all those wandering minstrel-maids,Who leave—howcanthey leave?—the shadesOf that dear Valley and are foundSinging in gardens of the South[315]Those songs that ne'er so sweetly soundAs from a young Cashmerian's mouth.
There too the Haram's inmates smile;—Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair,And from the Garden of the NILE,Delicate as the roses there;[316]—Daughters of Love from CYPRUS rocks,With Paphian diamonds in their locks;[317]—Light PERI forms such as there areOn the gold Meads of CANDAHAR;[318]And they before whose sleepy eyesIn their own bright Kathaian bowersSparkle such rainbow butterfliesThat they might fancy the rich flowersThat round them in the sun lay sighingHad been by magic all set flying.[319]
Every thing young, every thing fairFrom East and West is blushing there,Except—except—oh, NOURMAHAL!Thou loveliest, dearest of them all,The one whose smile shone out alone,Amidst a world the only one;Whose light among so many lightsWas like that star on starry nights,The seaman singles from the sky,To steer his bark for ever by!Thou wert not there—so SELIM thought,And every thing seemed drear without thee;But, ah! thou wert, thou wert,—and broughtThy charm of song all fresh about thee,Mingling unnoticed with a bandOf lutanists from many a land,And veiled by such a mask as shadesThe features of young Arab maids,[320]—A mask that leaves but one eye free,To do its best in witchery,—She roved with beating heart aroundAnd waited trembling for the minuteWhen she might try if still the soundOf her loved lute had magic in it.
The board was spread with fruits and wine,With grapes of gold, like those that shineOn CASBIN hills;[321]—pomegranates fullOf melting sweetness, and the pears,And sunniest apples[322] that CAUBULIn all its thousand gardens[323] bears;—Plantains, the golden and the green,MALAYA'S nectared mangusteen;[324]Prunes of BOCKHARA, and sweet nutsFrom the far groves of SAMARCAND,And BASRA dates, and apricots,Seed of the Sun,[325] from IRAN'S land;—With rich conserve of Visna cherries,[326]Of orange flowers, and of those berriesThat, wild and fresh, the young gazellesFeed on in ERAC's rocky dells.[327]All these in richest vases smile,In baskets of pure santal-wood,And urns of porcelain from that isle[328]Sunk underneath the Indian flood,Whence oft the lucky diver bringsVases to grace the halls of kings.Wines too of every clime and hueAround their liquid lustre threw;Amber Rosolli,[329]—the bright dewFrom vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing;[330]And SHIRAZ wine that richly ranAs if that jewel large and rare,The ruby for which KUBLAI-KHANOffered a city's wealth,[331] was blushingMelted within the goblets there!
And amply SELIM quaffs of each,And seems resolved the flood shall reachHis inward heart,—shedding aroundA genial deluge, as they run,That soon shall leave no spot undrownedFor Love to rest his wings upon.He little knew how well the boyCan float upon a goblet's streams,Lighting them with his smile of joy;—As bards have seen him in their dreams,Down the blue GANGES laughing glideUpon a rosy lotus wreath,[332]Catching new lustre from the tideThat with his image shone beneath.
But what are cups without the aidOf song to speed them as they flow?And see—a lovely Georgian maidWith all the bloom, the freshened glowOf her own country maidens' looks,When warm they rise from Teflis' brooks;[333]And with an eye whose restless rayFull, floating, dark—oh, he, who knowsHis heart is weak, of Heaven should prayTo guard him from such eyes as those!—With a voluptuous wildness flingsHer snowy hand across the stringsOf a syrinda[334] and thus sings:—
Come hither, come hither—by night and by day,We linger in pleasures that never are gone;Like the waves of the summer as one dies awayAnother as sweet and as shining comes on.And the love that is o'er, in expiring gives birthTo a new one as warm, as unequalled in bliss;And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,It is this, it is this.[335]
Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sighAs the flower of the Amra just oped by a bee;[336]And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,[337]Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea.Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worthWhen the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss,And own if there be an Elysium on earth,It is this, it is this.
Here sparkles the nectar that hallowed by loveCould draw down those angels of old from their sphere,Who for wine of this earth[338] left the fountains above,And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have here.And, blest with the odor our goblet gives forth,What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss?For, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,It is this, it is this.
The Georgian's song was scarcely mute,When the same measure, sound for sound,Was caught up by another luteAnd so divinely breathed aroundThat all stood husht and wondering,And turned and lookt into the air,As if they thought to see the wingOf ISRAFIL[339] the Angel there;—So powerfully on every soulThat new, enchanted measure stole.While now a voice sweet as the noteOf the charmed lute was heard to floatAlong its chords and so entwineIts sounds with theirs that none knew whetherThe voice or lute was most divine,So wondrously they went together:—
There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,When two that are linkt in one heavenly tie,With heart never changing and brow never cold,Love on thro' all ills and love on till they die!One hour of a passion so sacred is worthWhole ages of heartless and wandering bliss;And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,It is this, it is this.
'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words,But that deep magic in the chordsAnd in the lips that gave such powerAs music knew not till that hour.At once a hundred voices said,"It is the maskt Arabian maid!"While SELIM who had felt the strainDeepest of any and had lainSome minutes rapt as in a tranceAfter the fairy sounds were o'er.Too inly touched for utterance,Now motioned with his hand for more:—
Fly to the desert, fly with me,Our Arab's tents are rude for thee;But oh! the choice what heart can doubt,Of tents with love or thrones without?Our rocks are rough, but smiling thereThe acacia waves her yellow hair,Lonely and sweet nor loved the lessFor flowering in a wilderness.
Our sands are bare, but down their slopeThe silvery-footed antelopeAs gracefully and gayly springsAs o'er the marble courts of kings.
Then come—thy Arab maid will beThe loved and lone acacia-tree.The antelope whose feet shall blessWith their light sound thy loneliness.
Oh! there are looks and tones that dartAn instant sunshine thro' the heart,—As if the soul that minute caughtSome treasure it thro' life had sought;
As if the very lips and eyes,Predestined to have all our sighsAnd never be forgot again,Sparkled and spoke before us then!
So came thy every glance and tone,When first on me they breathed and shone,New as if brought from other spheresYet welcome as if loved for years.