One morn a Peri at the gate
Of Eden stood disconsolate;
And as she listened to the Springs
Of Life within like music flowing
And caught the light upon her wings
Thro' the half-open portal glowing,
She wept to think her recreant race
Should e'er have lost that glorious place!
"How happy," exclaimed this child of air,
"Are the holy Spirits who wander there
"Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall;
"Tho' mine are the gardens of earth and sea
"And the stars themselves have flowers for me,
"One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all!
"Tho' sunny the Lake of cool CASHMERE
"With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,[144]
"And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall;
"Tho' bright are the waters of SING-SU-HAY
And the golden floods that thitherward stray,[145]
Yet--oh, 'tis only the Blest can say
How the waters of Heaven outshine them all!
"Go, wing thy flight from star to star,
From world to luminous world as far
As the universe spreads its flaming wall:
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres
And multiply each thro' endless years
One minute of Heaven is worth them all!"
The glorious Angel who was keeping
The gates of Light beheld her weeping,
And as he nearer drew and listened
To her sad song, a tear-drop glistened
Within his eyelids, like the spray
From Eden's fountain when it lies
On the blue flower which--Bramins say--
Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.[146]
"Nymph of a fair but erring line!"
Gently he said--"One hope is thine.
'Tis written in the Book of Fate,
_The Peri yet may be forgiven
Who brings to this Eternal gate
The Gift that is most dear to Heaven_!
Go seek it and redeem thy sin--
'Tis sweet to let the Pardoned in."
Rapidly as comets run
To the embraces of the Sun;--
Fleeter than the starry brands
Flung at night from angel hands[147]
At those dark and daring sprites
Who would climb the empyreal heights,
Down the blue vault the PERI flies,
And lighted earthward by a glance
That just then broke from morning's eyes,
Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse.
But whither shall the Spirit go
To find this gift for Heaven;--"I know
The wealth," she cries, "of every urn
In which unnumbered rubies burn
Beneath the pillars of CHILMINAR:[148]
I know where the Isles of Perfume are[149]
Many a fathom down in the sea,
To the south of sun-bright ARABY;[150]
I know too where the Genii hid
The jewelled cup of their King JAMSHID,[151]
"With Life's elixir sparkling high--
"But gifts like these are not for the sky.
"Where was there ever a gem that shone
"Like the steps of ALLA'S wonderful Throne?
"And the Drops of Life--oh! what would they be
"In the boundless Deep of Eternity?"
While thus she mused her pinions fanned
The air of that sweet Indian land
Whose air is balm, whose ocean spreads
O'er coral rocks and amber beds,[152]
Whose mountains pregnant by the beam
Of the warm sun with diamonds teem,
Whose rivulets are like rich brides,
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides,
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice
Might be a Peri's Paradise!
But crimson now her rivers ran
With human blood--the smell of death
Came reeking from those spicy bowers,
And man the sacrifice of man
Mingled his taint with every breath
Upwafted from the innocent flowers.
Land of the Sun! what foot invades
Thy Pagods and thy pillared shades--
Thy cavern shrines and Idol stones,
Thy Monarch and their thousand Thrones?[153]
'Tis He of GAZNA[154], fierce in wrath
He comes and INDIA'S diadems
Lie scattered in his ruinous path.-
His bloodhounds he adorns with gems,
Torn from the violated necks
Of many a young and loved Sultana;[155]
Maidens within their pure Zenana,
Priests in the very fane he slaughters,
And chokes up with the glittering wrecks
Of golden shrines the sacred waters!
Downward the PERI turns her gaze,
And thro' the war-field's bloody haze
Beholds a youthful warrior stand
Alone beside his native river,--
The red blade broken in his hand
And the last arrow in his quiver.
"Live," said the Conqueror, "live to share
"The trophies and the crowns I bear!"
Silent that youthful warrior stood--
Silent he pointed to the flood
All crimson with his country's blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For answer, to the Invader's heart.
False flew the shaft tho' pointed well;
The Tyrant lived, the Hero fell!--
Yet marked the PERI where he lay,
And when the rush of war was past
Swiftly descending on a ray
Of morning light she caught the last--
Last glorious drop his heart had shed
Before its free-born spirit fled!
"Be this," she cried, as she winged her flight,
"My welcome gift at the Gates of Light.
"Tho' foul are the drops that oft distil
"On the field of warfare, blood like this
"For Liberty shed so holy is,
"It would not stain the purest rill
"That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss!
"Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere
"A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,
"'Tis the last libation Liberty draws
"From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!"
"Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave
The gift into his radiant hand,
"Sweet is our welcome of the Brave
"Who die thus for their native Land.--
"But see--alas! the crystal bar
"Of Eden moves not--holier far
"Than even this drop the boon must be
"That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!"
Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,
Now among AFRIC'S lunar Mountains[156]
Far to the South the PERI lighted
And sleeked her plumage at the fountains
Of that Egyptian tide whose birth
Is hidden from the sons of earth
Deep in those solitary woods
Where oft the Genii of the Floods
Dance round the cradle of their Nile
And hail the new-born Giant's smile.[157]
Thence over EGYPT'S palmy groves
Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings,[158]
The exiled Spirit sighing roves
And now hangs listening to the doves
In warm ROSETTA'S vale;[159] now loves
To watch the moonlight on the wings
Of the white pelicans that break
The azure calm of MOERIS' Lake.[160]
'Twas a fair scene: a Land more bright
Never did mortal eye behold!
Who could have thought that saw this night
Those valleys and their fruits of gold
Basking in Heaven's serenest light,
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending
Languidly their leaf-crowned heads,
Like youthful maids, when sleep descending
Warns them to their silken beds,[161]
Those virgin lilies all the night
Bathing their beauties in the lake
That they may rise more fresh and bright,
When their beloved Sun's awake,
Those ruined shrines and towers that seem
The relics of a splendid dream,
Amid whose fairy loneliness
Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard,--
Naught seen but (when the shadows flitting,
Fast from the moon unsheath its gleam,)
Some purple-winged Sultana sitting[162]
Upon a column motionless
And glittering like an Idol bird!--
Who could have thought that there, even there,
Amid those scenes so still and fair,
The Demon of the Plague hath cast
From his hot wing a deadlier blast,
More mortal far than ever came
From the red Desert's sands of flame!
So quick that every living thing
Of human shape touched by his wing,
Like plants, where the Simoom hath past
At once falls black and withering!
The sun went down on many a brow
Which, full of bloom and freshness then,
Is rankling in the pest-house now
And ne'er will feel that sun again,
And, oh! to see the unburied heaps
On which the lonely moonlight sleeps--
The very vultures turn away,
And sicken at so foul a prey!
Only the fierce hyaena stalks[163]
Throughout the city's desolate walks[164]
At midnight and his carnage plies:--
Woe to the half-dead wretch who meets
The glaring of those large blue eyes
Amid the darkness of the streets!
"Poor race of men!" said the pitying Spirit,
"Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall--
"Some flowerets of Eden ye still inherit,
"But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!"
She wept--the air grew pure and clear
Around her as the bright drops ran,
For there's a magic in each tear
Such kindly Spirits weep for man!
Just then beneath some orange trees
Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze
Were wantoning together, free,
Like age at play with infancy--
Beneath that fresh and springing bower
Close by the Lake she heard the moan
Of one who at this silent hour,
Had thither stolen to die alone.
One who in life where'er he moved,
Drew after him the hearts of many;
Yet now, as tho' he ne'er were loved,
Dies here unseen, unwept by any!
None to watch near him--none to slake
The fire that in his bosom lies,
With even a sprinkle from that lake
Which shines so cool before his eyes.
No voice well known thro' many a day
To speak the last, the parting word
Which when all other sounds decay
Is still like distant music heard;--
That tender farewell on the shore
Of this rude world when all is o'er,
Which cheers the spirit ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown Dark.
Deserted youth! one thought alone
Shed joy around his soul in death
That she whom he for years had known,
And loved and might have called his own
Was safe from this foul midnight's breath,--
Safe in her father's princely halls
Where the cool airs from fountain falls,
Freshly perfumed by many a brand
Of the sweet wood from India's land,
Were pure as she whose brow they fanned.
But see--who yonder comes by stealth,
This melancholy bower to seek,
Like a young envoy sent by Health
With rosy gifts upon her cheek?
'Tis she--far off, thro' moonlight dim
He knew his own betrothed bride,
She who would rather die with him
Than live to gain the world beside!--
Her arms are round her lover now,
His livid cheek to hers she presses
And dips to bind his burning brow
In the cool lake her loosened tresses.
Ah! once, how little did he think
An hour would come when he should shrink
With horror from that dear embrace,
Those gentle arms that were to him
Holy as is the cradling place
Of Eden's infant cherubim!
And now he yields--now turns away,
Shuddering as if the venom lay
All in those proffered lips alone--
Those lips that then so fearless grown
Never until that instant came
Near his unasked or without shame.
"Oh! let me only breathe the air.
"The blessed air, that's breathed by thee,
"And whether on its wings it bear
"Healing or death 'tis sweet to me!
"There--drink my tears while yet they fall--
"Would that my bosom's blood were balm,
"And, well thou knowst, I'd shed it all
"To give thy brow one minute's calm.
"Nay, turn not from me that dear face--
"Am I not thine--thy own loved bride--
"The one, the chosen one, whose place
"In life or death is by thy side?
"Thinkst thou that she whose only light,
"In this dim world from thee hath shone
"Could bear the long, the cheerless night
"That must be hers when thou art gone?
"That I can live and let thee go,
"Who art my life itself?--No, no--
"When the stem dies the leaf that grew
"Out of its heart must perish too!
"Then turn to me, my own love, turn,
"Before, like thee, I fade and burn;
"Cling to these yet cool lips and share
"The last pure life that lingers there!"
She fails--she sinks--as dies the lamp
In charnel airs or cavern-damp,
So quickly do his baleful sighs
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes,
One struggle--and his pain is past--
Her lover is no longer living!
One kiss the maiden gives, one last,
Long kiss, which she expires in giving!
"Sleep," said the PERI, as softly she stole
The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul,
As true as e'er warmed a woman's breast--
"Sleep on, in visions of odor rest
"In balmier airs than ever yet stirred
"The enchanted pile of that lonely bird
"Who sings at the last his own death-lay[165]
"And in music and perfume dies away!"
Thus saying, from her lips she spread
Unearthly breathings thro' the place
And shook her sparkling wreath and shed
Such lustre o'er each paly face
That like two lovely saints they seemed,
Upon the eve of doomsday taken
From their dim graves in ordor sleeping;
While that benevolent PERI beamed
Like their good angel calmly keeping
Watch o'er them till their souls would waken.
But morn is blushing in the sky;
Again the PERI soars above,
Bearing to Heaven that precious sigh
Of pure, self-sacrificing love.
High throbbed her heart with hope elate
The Elysian palm she soon shall win.
For the bright Spirit at the gate
Smiled as she gave that offering in;
And she already hears the trees
Of Eden with their crystal bells
Ringing in that ambrosial breeze
That from the throne of ALLA swells;
And she can see the starry bowls
That lie around that lucid lake
Upon whose banks admitted Souls
Their first sweet draught of glory take![166]
But, ah! even PERIS' hopes are vain--
Again the Fates forbade, again
The immortal barrier closed--"Not yet,"
The Angel said as with regret
He shut from her that glimpse of glory--
"True was the maiden, and her story
"Written in light o'er ALLA'S head
"By seraph eyes shall long be read.
"But, PERI, see--the crystal bar
"Of Eden moves not--holier far
"Than even this sigh the boon must be
"That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee."
Now upon SYRIA'S land of roses[167]
Softly the light of Eve reposes,
And like a glory the broad sun
Hangs over sainted LEBANON,
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers
And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer in a vale of flowers
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.
To one who looked from upper air
O'er all the enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow,
The life, the sparkling from below!
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks
Of golden melons on their banks,
More golden where the sunlight falls;--
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls[168]
Of ruined shrines, busy and bright
As they were all alive with light;
And yet more splendid numerous flocks
Of pigeons settling on the rocks
With their rich restless wings that gleam
Variously in the crimson beam
Of the warm West,--as if inlaid
With brilliants from the mine or made
Of tearless rainbows such as span
The unclouded skies of PERISTAN.
And then the mingling sounds that come,
Of shepherd's ancient reed,[169] with hum
Of the wild bees of PALESTINE,[170]
Banqueting thro' the flowery vales;
And, JORDAN, those sweet banks of thine
And woods so full of nightingales.[171]
But naught can charm the luckless PERI;
Her soul is sad--her wings are weary--
Joyless she sees the Sun look down
On that great Temple once his own,[172]
Whose lonely columns stand sublime,
Flinging their shadows from on high
Like dials which the Wizard Time
Had raised to count his ages by!
Yet haply there may lie concealed
Beneath those Chambers of the Sun
Some amulet of gems, annealed
In upper fires, some tablet sealed
With the great name of SOLOMON,
Which spelled by her illumined eyes,
May teach her where beneath the moon,
In earth or ocean, lies the boon,
The charm, that can restore so soon
An erring Spirit to the skies.
Cheered by this hope she bends her thither;--
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of Even
In the rich West begun to wither;--
When o'er the vale of BALBEC winging
Slowly she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they;
Chasing with eager hands and eyes
The beautiful blue damsel-flies,[173]
That fluttered round the jasmine stems
Like winged flowers or flying gems:--
And near the boy, who tired with play
Now nestling mid the roses lay.
She saw a wearied man dismount
From his hot steed and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount
Impatient fling him down to drink.
Then swift his haggard brow he turned
To the fair child who fearless sat,
Tho' never yet hath day-beam burned
Upon a brow more fierce than that,--
Sullenly fierce--a mixture dire
Like thunder-clouds of gloom and fire;
In which the PERI'S eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;
The ruined maid--the shrine profaned--
Oaths broken--and the threshold stained
With blood of guests!--_there_ written, all,
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing Angel's pen,
Ere Mercy weeps them out again.
Yet tranquil now that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Softened his spirit) looked and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play:--
Tho' still whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lucid glance
Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches that have burnt all night
Tho' some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.
But, hark! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air.
From SYRIA'S thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers where he had laid his head.
And down upon the fragrant sod
Kneels[174] with his forehead to the south
Lisping the eternal name of God
From Purity's own cherub mouth,
And looking while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies
Like a stray babe of Paradise
Just lighted on that flowery plain
And seeking for its home again.
Oh! 'twas a sight--that Heaven--that child--
A scene, which might have well beguiled
Even haughty EBLIS of a sigh
For glories lost and peace gone by!
And how felt _he_, the wretched Man
Reclining there--while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place.
Nor brought him back one branch of grace.
"There _was_ a time," he said, in mild,
Heart-humbled tones--"thou blessed child!
"When young and haply pure as thou
"I looked and prayed like thee--but now"--
He hung his head--each nobler aim
And hope and feeling which had slept
From boyhood's hour that instant came
Fresh o'er him and he wept--he wept!
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!
In whose benign, redeeming flow
Is felt the first, the only sense
Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.
"There's a drop," said the PERI, "that down from the moon
"Falls thro' the withering airs of June
"Upon EGYPT'S land,[175] of so healing a power,
"So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour
"That drop descends contagion dies
"And health reanimates earth and skies!--
"Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin,
"The precious tears of repentance fall?
"Tho' foul thy fiery plagues within
"One heavenly drop hath dispelled them all!"
And now--behold him kneeling there
By the child's side, in humble prayer,
While the same sunbeam shines upon
The guilty and the guiltless one.
And hymns of joy proclaim thro' Heaven
The triumph of a Soul Forgiven!
'Twas when the golden orb had set,
While on their knees they lingered yet,
There fell a light more lovely far
Than 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 seem
A northern flash or meteor beam--
But well the enraptured PERI knew
'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw
From Heaven's gate to hail that tear
Her 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, even _he_ should 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 Love
Which enslaves our souls in this.
Tell me not of Houris' eyes;--
Far from me their dangerous glow.
If those looks that light the skies
Wound 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 heat
Sees the waters fade away
Would not rather die than meet
Streams 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 much
_prose_ before 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: