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In that delightful Province of the Sun,
The first of Persian lands he shines upon,
Where all the loveliest children of his beam,
Flow’rets and fruits, blush over every stream,[26]
And, fairest of all streams, the MURGA roves
Among MEROU’S[27] bright palaces and groves;—
There on that throne, to which the blind belief
Of millions rais’d him, sat the Prophet-Chief,
The Great MOKANNA. O’er his features hung
The Veil, the Silver Veil, which he had flung
In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight
His dazzling brow, till man could bear its light.
For, far less luminous, his votaries said,
Were ev’n the gleams, miraculously shed
O’er MOUSSA’S[28] cheek,[29] when down the Mount he trod,
All glowing from the presence of his God!
On either side, with ready hearts and hands,
His chosen guard of bold Believers stands;
Young fire-eyed disputants, who deem their swords,
On points of faith, more eloquent than words;
And such their zeal, there’s not a youth with brand
Uplifted there, but, at the Chief’s command,
Would make his own devoted heart its sheath,
And bless the lips that doom’d so dear a death!
In hatred to the Caliph’s hue of night,[30]
Their vesture, helms and all, is snowy white;
Their weapons various—some equipp’d for speed,
With javelins of the light Kathaian reed;[31]
Or bows of buffalo horn and shining quivers
Fill’d with the stems[32] that bloom on IRAN’S rivers;[33]
While some, for war’s more terrible attacks,
Wield the huge mace and ponderous battle-axe;
And as they wave aloft in morning’s beam
The milk-white plumage of their helms, they seem
Like a chenar-tree grove,[34] when winter throws
O’er all its tufted heads his feathering snows.
Between the porphyry pillars, that uphold
The rich moresque-work of the roof of gold,
Aloft the Haram’s curtain’d galleries rise,
Where, through the silken net-work, glancing eyes,
From time to time, like sudden gleams that glow
Through autumn clouds, shine o’er the pomp below.—
What impious tongue, ye blushing saints, would dare
To hint that aught but Heaven hath plac’d you there?
Or that the loves of this light world could bind,
In their gross chain, your Prophet’s soaring mind?
No—wrongful thought!—commission’d from above
To people Eden’s bowers with shapes of love,
(Creatures so bright, that the same lips and eyes
They wear on earth will serve in Paradise,)
There to recline among Heaven’s native maids,
And crown the’ Elect with bliss that never fades—
Well hath the Prophet-Chief his bidding done;
And every beauteous race beneath the sun,
From those who kneel at BRAHMA’S burning founts,[35]
To the fresh nymphs bounding o’er YEMEN’S mounts;
From PERSIA’S eyes of full and fawn-like ray
To the small, half-shut glances of KATHAY;[36]
And GEORGIA’S bloom, and AZAB’S darker smiles,
And the gold ringlets of the Western Isles;
All, all are there;—each Land its flower hath given,
To form that fair young Nursery for Heaven!
But why this pageant now? this arm’d array?
What triumph crowds the rich Divan to-day
With turban’d heads, of every hue and race,
Bowing before that veil’d and awful face,
Like tulip-beds,[37] of different shape and dyes,
Bending beneath the’ invisible West-wind’s sighs!
What new-made mystery now, for Faith to sign,
And blood to seal, as genuine and divine,
What dazzling mimickry of God’s own power
Hath the bold Prophet plann’d to grace this hour?
Not such the pageant now, though not less proud;
Yon warrior youth, advancing from the crowd,
With silver bow, with belt of broider’d crape,
And fur-bound bonnet of Bucharian shape,[38]
So fiercely beautiful in form and eye,
Like war’s wild planet in a summer sky;
That youth to-day,—a proselyte, worth hordes
Of cooler spirits and less practis’d swords,—
Is come to join, all bravery and belief,
The creed and standard of the heaven-sent Chief.
Though few his years, the West already knows
Young AZIM’S fame;—beyond the’ Olympian snows,
Ere manhood darken’d o’er his downy cheek,
O’erwhelm’d in fight and captive to the Greek,[39]
He linger’d there, till peace dissolv’d his chains;—
Oh, who could, even in bondage, tread the plains
Of glorious GREECE, nor feel his spirit rise
Kindling within him? who, with heart and eyes,
Could walk where Liberty had been, nor see
The shining foot-prints of her Deity,
Nor feel those godlike breathings in the air,
Which mutely told her spirit had been there?
Not he, that youthful warrior,—no, too well
For his soul’s quiet work’d the’ awakening spell;
And now, returning to his own dear land,
Full of those dreams of good that, vainly grand,
Haunt the young heart,—proud views of human-kind,
Of men to Gods exalted and refin’d,—
False views, like that horizon’s fair deceit,
Where earth and heaven but _seem_, alas, to meet!—
Soon as he heard an Arm Divine was rais’d
To right the nations, and beheld, emblaz’d
On the white flag MOKANNA’S host unfurl’d,
Those words of sunshine, “Freedom to the World,”
At once his faith, his sword, his soul obey’d
The’ inspiring summons; every chosen blade
That fought beneath that banner’s sacred text
Seem’d doubly edg’d, for this world and the next;
And ne’er did Faith with her smooth bandage bind
Eyes more devoutly willing to be blind,
In virtue’s cause;—never was soul inspir’d
With livelier trust in what it most desir’d,
Than his, the’ enthusiast there, who kneeling, pale
With pious awe, before that Silver Veil,
Believes the form, to which he bends his knee,
Some pure, redeeming angel, sent to free
This fetter’d world from every bond and stain,
And bring its primal glories back again!
Low as young AZIM knelt, that motley crowd
Of all earth’s nations sunk the knee and bow’d,
With shouts of “ALLA!” echoing long and loud;
While high in air, above the Prophet’s head,
Hundreds of banners, to the sunbeam spread,
Wav’d, like the wings of the white birds that fan
The flying throne of star-taught SOLIMAN.[40]
Then thus he spoke:—“Stranger, though new the frame
“Thy soul inhabits now, I’ve track’d its flame
“For many an age,[41] in every chance and change
“Of that existence, through whose varied range,—
“As through a torch-race, where, from hand to hand,
“The flying youths transmit their shining brand,—
“From frame to frame the unextinguish’d soul
“Rapidly passes, till it reach the goal!
“Nor think ’tis only the gross Spirits, warm’d
“With duskier fire and for earth’s medium form’d,
“That run this course;—Beings, the most divine,
“Thus deign through dark mortality to shine.
“Such was the Essence that in ADAM dwelt,
“To which all Heaven, except the Proud One, knelt:[42]
“Such the refin’d Intelligence that glow’d
“In MOUSSA’S[43] frame,—and, thence descending, flow’d
“Through many a Prophet’s breast;[44]—in ISSA[45] shone,
“And in MOHAMMED burn’d; till, hastening on,
“(As a bright river that, from fall to fall
“In many a maze descending, bright through all,
“Finds some fair region where, each labyrinth past,
“In one full lake of light it rests at last!)
“That Holy Spirit, settling calm and free
“From lapse or shadow, centres all in me!”
Again, throughout the’ assembly, at these words,
Thousands of voices rung: the warriors’ swords
Were pointed up to heaven; a sudden wind
In the’ open banners played, and from behind
Those Persian hangings, that but ill could screen
The Haram’s loveliness, white hands were seen
Waving embroider’d scarves, whose motion gave
A perfume forth;—like those the Houris wave
When beck’ning to their bowers the’ immortal Brave.
“But these,” pursued the Chief, “are truths sublime,
“That claim a holier mood and calmer time
“Than earth allows us now;—this sword must first
“The darkling prison-house of Mankind burst
“Ere Peace can visit them, or Truth let in
“Her wakening daylight on a world of sin.
“But then, celestial warriors, then, when all
“Earth’s shrines and thrones before our banner fall;
“When the glad Slave shall at these feet lay down
“His broken chain, the tyrant Lord his crown,
“The Priest his book, the Conqueror his wreath,
“And from the lips of Truth one mighty breath
“Shall, like a whirlwind, scatter in its breeze
“That whole dark pile of human mockeries;—
“Then shall the reign of mind commence on earth,
“And starting fresh, as from a second birth,
“Man, in the sunshine of the world’s new spring,
“Shall walk transparent, like some holy thing!
“Then, too, your Prophet from his angel brow
“Shall cast the Veil that hides its splendours now,
“And gladden’d Earth shall, through her wide expanse,
“Bask in the glories of this countenance!—
“For thee, young warrior, welcome!—thou hast yet
“Some tasks to learn, some frailties to forget,
“Ere the white war-plume o’er thy brow can wave;—
“But, once my own, mine all till in the grave!”
The pomp is at an end—the crowds are gone—
Each ear and heart still haunted by the tone
Of that deep voice, which thrilled like ALLA’S own!
The Young all dazzled by the plumes and lances,
The glittering throne, and Haram’s half-caught glances;
The Old deep pondering on the promis’d reign
Of peace and truth; and all the female train
Ready to risk their eyes, could they but gaze
A moment on that brow’s miraculous blaze!
But there was one, among the chosen maids,
Who blush’d behind the gallery’s silken shades,
One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day
Has been like death:—you saw her pale dismay,
Ye wondering sisterhood, and heard the burst
Of exclamation from her lips, when first
She saw that youth, too well, too dearly known,
Silently kneeling at the Prophet’s throne.
Ah ZELICA! there _was_ a time, when bliss
Shone o’er thy heart from every look of his;
When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air
In which he dwelt, was thy soul’s fondest prayer;
When round him hung such a perpetual spell
Whate’er he did, none ever did so well.
Too happy days! when, if he touch’d a flower
Or gem of thine, ’twas sacred from that hour;
When thou didst study him till every tone
And gesture and dear look became thy own,—
Thy voice like his, the changes of his face
In thine reflected with still lovelier grace.
Like echo, sending back sweet music, fraught
With twice the’ aërial sweetness it had brought!
Yet now he comes,—brighter than even he
E’er beam’d before,—but, ah! not bright for thee;
No—dread, unlook’d for, like a visitant
From the’ other world, he comes as if to haunt
Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight,
Long lost to all but memory’s aching sight:—
Sad dreams! as when the Spirit of our Youth
Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth
And innocence once ours, and leads us back,
In mournful mockery, o’er the shining track
Of our young life, and points out every ray
Of hope and peace we’ve lost upon the way!
Once happy pair!—In proud BOKHARA’S groves,
Who had not heard of their first youthful loves?
Born by that ancient flood,[46] which from its spring
In the dark Mountains swiftly wandering,
Enrich’d by every pilgrim brook that shines
With relics from BUCHARIA’S ruby mines,
And, lending to the CASPIAN half its strength,
In the cold Lake of Eagles sinks at length;—
There, on the banks of that bright river born,
The flowers, that hung above its wave at morn,
Bless’d not the waters, as they murmur’d by,
With holier scent and lustre, than the sigh
And virgin-glance of first affection cast
Upon their youth’s smooth current, as it pass’d!
But war disturb’d this vision,—far away
From her fond eyes summon’d to join the’ array
Of PERSIA’S warriors on the hills of THRACE,
The youth exchang’d his sylvan dwelling-place
For the rude tent and war-field’s deathful clash;
His ZELICA’S sweet glances for the flash
Of Grecian wild-fire, and Love’s gentle chains
For bleeding bondage on BYZANTIUM’S plains.
Month after month, in widowhood of soul
Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll
Their suns away—but ah! how cold and dim
Even summer suns, when not beheld with him!
From time to time ill-omen’d rumours came,
Like spirit-tongues mutt’ring the sick man’s name,
Just ere he dies:—at length those sounds of dread
Fell with’ring on her soul, “AZIM is dead!”
Oh Grief, beyond all other griefs, when fate
First leaves the young heart lone and desolate
In the wide world, without that only tie
For which it lov’d to live or fear’d to die;—
Lorn as the hung-up lute, that ne’er hath spoken
Since the sad day its master-chord was broken!
Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was such,
Even reason sunk,—blighted beneath its touch:
And though, ere long, her sanguine spirit rose
Above the first dead pressure of its woes,
Though health and bloom return’d, the delicate chain
Of thought, once tangled, never clear’d again.
Warm, lively, soft as in youth’s happiest day,
The mind was still all there, but turned astray;—
A wand’ring bark, upon whose pathway shone
All stars of heaven, except the guiding one!
Again she smil’d, nay, much and brightly smil’d,
But ’twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild;
And when she sung to her lute’s touching strain,
’Twas like the notes, half ecstasy, half pain,
The bulbul[47] utters, ere her soul depart,
When, vanquish’d by some minstrel’s powerful art,
She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke her heart!
Such was the mood in which that mission found
Young ZELICA,—that mission, which around
The Eastern world, in every region blest
With woman’s smile, sought out its loveliest,
To grace that galaxy of lips and eyes
Which the Veil’d Prophet destined for the skies:—
And such quick welcome as a spark receives
Dropp’d on a bed of Autumn’s withered leaves,
Did every tale of these enthusiasts find
In the wild maiden’s sorrow-blighted mind.
All fire at once the madd’ning zeal she caught;—
Elect of Paradise! blest, rapturous thought!
Predestin’d bride, in heaven’s eternal dome,
Of some brave youth—ha! durst they say “of _some_?”
No—of the one, one only object trac’d
In her heart’s core too deep to be effac’d;
The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twin’d
With every broken link of her lost mind;
Whose image lives, though Reason’s self be wreck’d,
Safe ’mid the ruins of her intellect!
Alas, poor ZELICA! it needed all
The fantasy, which held thy mind in thrall,
To see in that gay Haram’s glowing maids
A sainted colony for Eden’s shades;
Or dream that he,—of whose unholy flame
Thou wert too soon the victim,—shining came
From Paradise, to people its pure sphere
With souls like thine, which he hath ruin’d here!
No—had not Reason’s light totally set,
And left thee dark, thou hadst an amulet
In the lov’d image, graven on thy heart,
Which would have sav’d thee from the tempter’s art,
And kept alive, in all its bloom of breath,
That purity, whose fading is love’s death!—
But lost, inflamed,—a restless zeal took place
Of the mild virgin’s still and feminine grace;
First of the Prophet’s favourites, proudly first
In zeal and charms,—too well the’ Impostor nurs’d
Her soul’s delirium, in whose active flame,
Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant frame,
He saw more potent sorceries to bind
To his dark yoke the spirits of mankind,
More subtle chains than hell itself e’er twin’d.
No art was spar’d, no witchery;—all the skill
His demons taught him was employ’d to fill
Her mind with gloom and ecstasy by turns—
That gloom, through which Frenzy but fiercer burns;
That ecstasy, which from the depth of sadness
Glares like the maniac’s moon, whose light is madness.
’Twas from a brilliant banquet, where the sound
Of poesy and music breath’d around,
Together picturing to her mind and ear
The glories of that heaven, her destin’d sphere,
Where all was pure, where every stain that lay
Upon the spirit’s light should pass away,
And, realizing more than youthful love
E’er wish’d or dream’d, she should for ever rove
Through fields of fragrance by her AZIM’S side,
His own bless’d, purified, eternal bride!—
’Twas from a scene, a witching trance like this,
He hurried her away, yet breathing bliss,
To the dim charnel-house;—through all its steams
Of damp and death, led only by those gleams
Which foul Corruption lights, as with design
To show the gay and proud _she_ too can shine!—
And, passing on through upright ranks of Dead,
Which to the maiden, doubly craz’d by dread,
Seem’d, through the bluish death-light round them cast,
To move their lips in mutterings as she pass’d—
There, in that awful place, when each had quaff’d
And pledg’d in silence such a fearful draught,
Such—oh! the look and taste of that red bowl
Will haunt her till she dies—he bound her soul
By a dark oath, in hell’s own language fram’d,
Never, while earth his mystic presence claim’d,
While the blue arch of day hung o’er them both,
Never, by that all-imprecating oath,
In joy or sorrow from his side to sever.—
She swore, and the wide charnel echoed, “Never, never!”
From that dread hour, entirely, wildly given
To him and—she believ’d, lost maid!—to Heaven;
Her brain, her heart, her passions all inflam’d,
How proud she stood, when in full Haram nam’d
The Priestess of the Faith!—how flash’d her eyes
With light, alas! that was not of the skies,
When round, in trances, only less than hers,
She saw the Haram kneel, her prostrate worshippers!
Well might MOKANNA think that form alone
Had spells enough to make the world his own:—
Light, lovely limbs, to which the spirit’s play
Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray,
When from its stem the small bird wings away:
Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smil’d,
The soul was lost; and blushes, swift and wild
As are the momentary meteors sent
Across the’ uncalm, but beauteous firmament.
And then her look—oh! where’s the heart so wise
Could unbewilder’d meet those matchless eyes?
Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal,
Like those of angels, just before their fall;
Now shadow’d with the shames of earth—now crost
By glimpses of the Heaven her heart had lost;
In ev’ry glance there broke, without control,
The flashes of a bright, but troubled soul,
Where sensibility still wildly play’d,
Like lightning, round the ruins it had made!
And such was now young ZELICA—so chang’d
From her who, some years since, delighted rang’d
The almond groves that shade BOKHARA’S tide,
All life and bliss, with AZIM by her side!
So alter’d was she now, this festal day,
When, ’mid the proud Divan’s dazzling array,
The vision of that Youth whom she had lov’d,
Had wept as dead, before her breath’d and mov’d;—
When—bright, she thought, as if from Eden’s track
But half-way trodden, he had wander’d back
Again to earth, glistening with Eden’s light—
Her beauteous AZIM shone before her sight.
O Reason! who shall say what spells renew,
When least we look for it, thy broken clew!
Through what small vistas o’er the darken’d brain
Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again;
And how, like forts, to which beleaguerers win
Unhop’d-for entrance through some friend within,
One clear idea, waken’d in the breast
By memory’s magic, lets in all the rest!
Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with thee!
But though light came, it came but partially;
Enough to show the maze, in which thy sense
Wander’d about,—but not to guide it thence;
Enough to glimmer o’er the yawning wave,
But not to point the harbour which might save.
Hours of delight and peace, long left behind,
With that dear form came rushing o’er her mind;
But, oh! to think how deep her soul had gone
In shame and falsehood since those moments shone;
And, then, her oath—_there_ madness lay again,
And, shuddering, back she sunk into her chain
Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee
From light, whose every glimpse was agony!
Yet, _one_ relief this glance of former years
Brought, mingled with its pain,—tears, floods of tears,
Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills
Let loose in spring-time from the snowy hills,
And gushing warm, after a sleep of frost,
Through valleys where their flow had long been lost.
Sad and subdued, for the first time her frame
Trembled with horror, when the summons came
(A summons proud and rare, which all but she,
And she, till now, had heard with ecstasy,)
To meet MOKANNA at his place of prayer,
A garden oratory, cool and fair,
By the stream’s side, where still at close of day
The Prophet of the Veil retir’d to pray;
Sometimes alone—but, oftener far, with one,
One chosen nymph to share his orison.
Of late none found such favour in his sight
As the young Priestess; and though, since that night
When the death-caverns echoed every tone
Of the dire oath that made her all his own,
The’ Impostor, sure of his infatuate prize,
Had, more than once, thrown off his soul’s disguise,
And utter’d such unheavenly, monstrous things,
As even across the desp’rate wanderings
Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out,
Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt;—
Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow,
The thought, still haunting her, of that bright brow,
Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye conceal’d,
Would soon, proud triumph! be to her reveal’d,
To her alone;—and then the hope, most dear,
Most wild of all, that her transgression here
Was but a passage through earth’s grosser fire,
From which the spirit would at last aspire,
Even purer than before,—as perfumes rise
Through flame and smoke, most welcome to the skies—
And that when AZIM’S fond, divine embrace
Should circle her in heaven, no dark’ning trace
Would on that bosom he once lov’d remain,
But all be bright, be pure, be _his_ again!—
These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit
Had chain’d her soul beneath the tempter’s feet,
And made her think even damning falsehood sweet.
But now that Shape, which had appall’d her view,
That Semblance—oh, how terrible, if true!—
Which came across her frenzy’s full career
With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe,
As when, in northern seas, at midnight dark,
An isle of ice encounters some swift bark,
And, startling all its wretches from their sleep,
By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep;—
So came that shock not frenzy’s self could bear,
And waking up each long-lull’d image there,
But check’d her headlong soul, to sink it in despair!
Wan and dejected, through the evening dusk,
She now went slowly to that small kiosk,
Where, pond’ring alone his impious schemes,
MOKANNA waited her—too wrapt in dreams
Of the fair-rip’ning future’s rich success,
To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless,
That sat upon his victim’s downcast brow,
Or mark how slow her step, how alter’d now
From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound
Came like a spirit’s o’er the’ unechoing ground,—
From that wild ZELICA, whose every glance
Was thrilling fire, whose every thought a trance!
Upon his couch the Veil’d MOKANNA lay,
While lamps around—not such as lend their ray,
Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray
In holy KOOM,[48] or MECCA’S dim arcades,—
But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids
Look loveliest in, shed their luxurious glow
Upon his mystic Veil’s white glittering flow.
Beside him, ’stead of beads and books of prayer,
Which the world fondly thought he mus’d on there,
Stood vases, fill’d with KISHMEE’S[49] golden wine,
And the red weepings of the SHIRAZ vine;
Of which his curtain’d lips full many a draught
Took zealously, as if each drop they quaff’d,
Like ZEMZEM’S Spring of Holiness,[50] had power
To freshen the soul’s virtues into flower!
And still he drank and ponder’d—nor could see
The’ approaching maid, so deep his reverie;
At length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke
From EBLIS at the Fall of Man, he spoke:—
“Yes, ye vile race, for hell’s amusement given,
“Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with heaven;
“God’s images, forsooth!—such gods as he
“Whom INDIA serves, the monkey deity;—[51]
“Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay,
“To whom if LUCIFER, as grandams say,
“Refus’d, though at the forfeit of heaven’s light,
“To bend in worship, LUCIFER was right!—[52]
“Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck
“Of your foul race, and without fear or check,
“Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame,
“My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man’s name!
“Soon at the head of myriads, blind and fierce
“As hooded falcons, through the universe
“I’ll sweep my dark’ning, desolating way,
“Weak man my instrument, curst man my prey!
“Ye wise, ye learn’d, who grope your dull way on
“By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone,
“Like superstitious thieves, who think the light
“From dead men’s marrow guides them best at night—[53]
“Ye shall have honours—wealth,—yes, Sages, yes—
“I know, grave fools, your wisdom’s nothingness;
“Undazzled it can track yon starry sphere,
“But a gilt stick, a bawble blinds it here.
“How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along,
“In lying speech, and still more lying song,
“By these learn’d slaves, the meanest of the throng;
“Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk so small,
“A sceptre’s puny point can wield it all!
“Ye too, believers of incredible creeds,
“Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it breeds;
“Who, bolder even than NEMROD, think to rise,
“By nonsense heap’d on nonsense, to the skies;
“Ye shall have miracles, ay, sound ones too,
“Seen, heard, attested, ev’ry thing—but true.
“Your preaching zealots, too inspir’d to seek
“One grace of meaning for the things they speak;
“Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood,
“For truths too heavenly to be understood;
“And your State Priests, sole vendors of the lore
“That works salvation;—as, on AVA’S shore,
“Where none _but_ priests are privileg’d to trade
“In that best marble of which Gods are made;[54]
“They shall have mysteries—ay, precious stuff
“For knaves to thrive by—mysteries enough;
“Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave,
“Which simple votaries shall on trust receive,
“While craftier feign belief, till they believe.
“A Heaven too ye must have, ye lords of dust,—
“A splendid Paradise,—pure souls, ye must:
“That Prophet ill sustains his holy call,
“Who finds not heavens to suit the tastes of all;
“Houris for boys, omniscience for sages,
“And wings and glories for all ranks and ages.
“Vain things!—as lust or vanity inspires,
“The Heaven of each is but what each desires,
“And, soul or sense, whate’er the object be,
“Man would be man to all eternity!
“So let him—EBLIS! grant this crowning curse,
“But keep him what he is, no Hell were worse.”
“Oh my lost soul!” exclaim’d the shuddering maid,
Whose ears had drunk like poison all he said:—
MOKANNA started—not abash’d, afraid,—
He knew no more of fear than one who dwells
Beneath the tropics knows of icicles!
But, in those dismal words that reach’d his ear,
“Oh my lost soul!” there was a sound so drear,
So like that voice, among the sinful dead,
In which the legend o’er Hell’s Gate is read,
That, new as ’twas from her, whom nought could dim
Or sink till now, it startled even him.
“Ha, my fair Priestess!”—thus, with ready wile,
The’ impostor turn’d to greet her—“thou, whose smile
“Hath inspiration in its rosy beam
“Beyond the’ Enthusiast’s hope or Prophet’s dream!
“Light of the faith! who twin’st religion’s zeal
“So close with love’s, men know not which they feel,
“Nor which to sigh for, in their trance of heart,
“The heaven thou preachest or the heaven thou art!
“What should I be without thee? without thee
“How dull were power, how joyless victory!
“Though borne by angels, if that smile of thine
“Bless’d not my banner, ’twere but half divine.
“But—why so mournful, child? those eyes, that shone
“All life last night—what!—is their glory gone?
“Come, come—this morn’s fatigue hath made them pale,
“They want rekindling—suns themselves would fail,
“Did not their comets bring, as I to thee,
“From light’s own fount supplies of brilliancy.
“Thou seest this cup—no juice of earth is here,
“But the pure waters of that upper sphere,
“Whose rills o’er ruby beds and topaz flow,
“Catching the gem’s bright colour as they go.
“Nightly my Genii come and fill these urns—
“Nay, drink—in every drop life’s essence burns;
“’Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all light—
“Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to-night:—
“There is a youth—why start?—thou saw’st him then;
“Look’d he not nobly? such the godlike men
“Thou’lt have to woo thee in the bowers above;—
“Though _he_, I fear, hath thoughts too stern for love,
“Too rul’d by that cold enemy of bliss
“The world calls virtue—we must conquer this;—
“Nay, shrink not, pretty sage! ’tis not for thee
“To scan the mazes of Heaven’s mystery:
“The steel must pass through fire, ere it can yield
“Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield.
“This very night I mean to try the art
“Of powerful beauty on that warrior’s heart.
“All that my Haram boasts of bloom and wit,
“Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite,
“Shall tempt the boy;—young MIRZALA’S blue eyes,
“Whose sleepy lid like snow on violets lies;
“AROUYA’S cheeks, warm as a spring-day sun,
“And lips that, like the seal of SOLOMON,
“Have magic in their pressure; ZEBA’S lute,
“And LILLA’S dancing feet, that gleam and shoot
“Rapid and white as sea-birds o’er the deep—
“All shall combine their witching powers to steep
“My convert’s spirit in that soft’ning trance,
“From which to heaven is but the next advance;
“That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast,
“On which Religion stamps her image best.
“But hear me, Priestess!—though each nymph of these
“Hath some peculiar, practis’d power to please,
“Some glance or step which, at the mirror tried,
“First charms herself, then all the world beside;
“There still wants _one_, to make the victory sure,
“One who in every look joins every lure;
“Through whom all beauty’s beams concentred pass,
“Dazzling and warm, as through love’s burning glass;
“Whose gentle lips persuade without a word,
“Whose words, ev’n when unmeaning, are ador’d,
“Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine,
“Which our faith takes for granted are divine!
“Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and light,
“To crown the rich temptations of to-night;
“Such the refin’d enchantress that must be
“This hero’s vanquisher,—and thou art she!”
With her hands clasp’d, her lips apart and pale,
The maid had stood, gazing upon the Veil
From which these words, like south winds through a fence
Of Kerzrah flowers, came fill’d with pestilence;[55]
So boldly utter’d too! as if all dread
Of frowns from her, of virtuous frowns, were fled,
And the wretch felt assur’d that, once plung’d in,
Her woman’s soul would know no pause in sin!
At first, though mute she listen’d, like a dream
Seem’d all he said: nor could her mind, whose beam
As yet was weak, penetrate half his scheme.
But when, at length, he utter’d, “Thou art she!”
All flash’d at once, and shrieking piteously,
“Oh not for worlds!” she cried—“Great God! to whom
“I once knelt innocent, is this my doom?
“Are all my dreams, my hopes of heavenly bliss,
“My purity, my pride, then come to this,—
“To live, the wanton of a fiend! to be
“The pander of his guilt—oh infamy!
“And sunk, myself, as low as hell can steep
“In its hot flood, drag others down as deep!
“Others—ha! yes—that youth who came to-day—
“_Not_ him I lov’d—not him—oh! do but say,
“But swear to me this moment ’tis not he,
“And I will serve, dark fiend, will worship even thee!”
“Beware, young raving thing!—in time beware,
“Nor utter what I cannot, must not bear,
“Even from _thy_ lips. Go—try thy lute, thy voice,
“The boy must feel their magic;—I rejoice
“To see those fires, no matter whence they rise,
“Once more illuming my fair Priestess’ eyes;
“And should the youth, whom soon those eyes shall warm,
“_Indeed_ resemble thy dead lover’s form,
“So much the happier wilt thou find thy doom,
“As one warm lover, full of life and bloom,
“Excels ten thousand cold ones in the tomb.
“Nay, nay, no frowning, sweet!—those eyes were made
“For love, not anger—I must be obey’d.”
“Obey’d!—’tis well—yes, I deserve it all—
“On me, on me Heaven’s vengeance cannot fall
“Too heavily—but AZIM, brave and true
“And beautiful—must _he_ be ruin’d too?
“Must _he_ too, glorious as he is, be driven
“A renegade like me from Love and Heaven?
“Like me?—weak wretch, I wrong him—not like me;
“No—he’s all truth and strength and purity!
“Fill up your madd’ning hell-cup to the brim,
“Its witch’ry, fiends, will have no charm for him.
“Let loose your glowing wantons from their bowers,
“He loves, he loves, and can defy their powers!
“Wretch as I am, in _his_ heart still I reign
“Pure as when first we met, without a stain!
“Though ruin’d—lost—my memory, like a charm
“Left by the dead, still keeps his soul from harm.
“Oh! never let him know how deep the brow
“He kiss’d at parting is dishonour’d now;—
“Ne’er tell him how debas’d, how sunk is she,
“Whom once he lov’d—once!—_still_ loves dotingly.
“Thou laugh’st, tormentor,—what!—thou’lt brand my name?
“Do, do—in vain—he’ll not believe my shame—
“He thinks me true, that nought beneath God’s sky
“Could tempt or change me, and—so once thought I.
“But this is past—though worse than death my lot,
“Than hell—’tis nothing while _he_ knows it not.
“Far off to some benighted land I’ll fly,
“Where sunbeam ne’er shall enter till I die;
“Where none will ask the lost one whence she came,
“But I may fade and fall without a name.
“And thou—curst man or fiend, whate’er thou art,
“Who found’st this burning plague-spot in my heart,
“And spread’st it—oh, so quick!—through soul and frame,
“With more than demon’s art, till I became
“A loathsome thing, all pestilence, all flame!—
“If when I’m gone⸺”
“Hold, fearless maniac, hold,
“Nor tempt my rage—by Heaven, not half so bold
“The puny bird, that dares with teasing hum
“Within the crocodile’s stretch’d jaws to come![56]
“And so thou’lt fly, forsooth?—what!—give up all
“Thy chaste dominion in the Haram Hall,
“Where now to Love and now to ALLA given,
“Half mistress and half saint, thou hang’st as even
“As doth MEDINA’S tomb, ’twixt hell and heaven!
“Thou’lt fly!—as easily may reptiles run,
“The gaunt snake once hath fix’d his eyes upon;
“As easily, when caught, the prey may be
“Pluck’d from his loving folds, as thou from me.
“No, no, ’tis fix’d—let good or ill betide,
“Thou’rt mine till death, till death MOKANNA’S bride!
“Hast thou forgot thy oath?”
At this dread word,
The Maid, whose spirit his rude taunts had stirr’d
Through all its depth, and rous’d an anger there,
That burst and lighten’d ev’n through her despair—
Shrunk back, as if a blight were in the breath
That spoke that word, and stagger’d, pale as death.
“Yes, my sworn bride, let others seek in bowers
“Their bridal place—the charnel vault was ours!
“Instead of scents and balms, for thee and me
“Rose the rich steams of sweet mortality;
“Gay, flickering death-lights shone while we were wed,
“And, for our guests, a row of goodly Dead.
“(Immortal spirits in their time, no doubt,)
“From reeking shrouds upon the rite look’d out!
“That oath thou heard’st more lips than thine repeat—
“That cup—thou shudd’rest, Lady,—was it sweet?
“That cup we pledg’d, the charnel’s choicest wine,
“Hath bound thee—ay—body and soul all mine;
“Bound thee by chains that, whether blest or curst
“No matter now, not hell itself shall burst!
“Hence, woman, to the Haram, and look gay,
“Look wild, look—any thing but sad; yet stay—
“One moment more—from what this night hath pass’d,
“I see thou know’st me, know’st me _well_ at last.
“Ha! ha! and so, fond thing, thou thought’st all true,
“And that I love mankind?—I do, I do—
“As victims, love them; as the sea-dog doats
“Upon the small, sweet fry that round him floats;
“Or, as the Nile-bird loves the slime that gives
“That rank and venomous food on which she lives![57]—
“And, now thou seest my _soul’s_ angelic hue,
“’Tis time these _features_ were uncurtain’d too;—
“This brow, whose light—oh rare celestial light!
“Hath been reserv’d to bless thy favour’d sight;
“These dazzling eyes, before whose shrouded might
“Thou’st seen immortal Man kneel down and quake—
“Would that they _were_ heaven’s lightnings for his sake!
“But turn and look—then wonder, if thou wilt,
“That I should hate, should take revenge, by guilt,
“Upon the hand, whose mischief or whose mirth
“Sent me thus maim’d and monstrous upon earth;
“And on that race who, though more vile they be
“Than mowing apes, are demi-gods to me!
“Here—judge if hell, with all its power to damn,
“Can add one curse to the foul thing I am!”
He raised his veil—the Maid turn’d slowly round,
Look’d at him—shriek’d—and sunk upon the ground!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
On their arrival, next night, at the place of encampment, they were
surprised and delighted to find the groves all around illuminated; some
artists of Yamtcheou[58] having been sent on previously for the purpose.
On each side of the green alley, which led to the Royal Pavilion,
artificial sceneries of bamboo-work[59] were erected, representing
arches, minarets, and towers, from which hung thousands of silken
lanterns, painted by the most delicate pencils of Canton.—Nothing could
be more beautiful than the leaves of the mango-trees and acacias,
shining in the light of the bamboo-scenery, which shed a lustre round as
soft as that of the nights of Peristan.
LALLA ROOKH, however, who was too much occupied by the sad story of
ZELICA and her lover, to give a thought to anything else, except,
perhaps, him who related it, hurried on through this scene of splendour
to her pavilion,—greatly to the mortification of the poor artists of
Yamtcheou,—and was followed with equal rapidity by the Great
Chamberlain, cursing, as he went, that ancient Mandarin, whose parental
anxiety in lighting up the shores of the lake, where his beloved
daughter had wandered and been lost, was the origin of these fantastic
Chinese illuminations.[60]
Without a moment’s delay, young FERAMORZ was introduced, and FADLADEEN,
who could never make up his mind as to the merits of a poet till he knew
the religious sect to which he belonged, was about to ask him whether he
was a Shia or a Sooni, when LALLA ROOKH impatiently clapped her hands
for silence, and the youth, being seated upon the musnud near her,
proceeded:—
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Prepare thy soul, young AZIM!—thou hast brav’d
The bands of GREECE, still mighty though enslav’d;
Hast fac’d her phalanx, arm’d with all its fame,
Her Macedonian pikes and globes of flame;
All this hast fronted, with firm heart and brow,
But a more perilous trial waits thee now,—
Woman’s bright eyes, a dazzling host of eyes
From every land where woman smiles or sighs;
Of every hue, as Love may chance to raise
His black or azure banner in their blaze;
And each sweet mode of warfare, from the flash
That lightens boldly through the shadowy lash,
To the sly, stealing splendours, almost hid,
Like swords half-sheath’d, beneath the downcast lid:—
Such, AZIM, is the lovely, luminous host
Now led against thee; and, let conquerors boast
Their fields of fame, he who in virtue arms
A young, warm spirit against beauty’s charms,
Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall,
Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all.
Now, through the Haram chambers, moving lights
And busy shapes proclaim the toilet’s rites;—
From room to room the ready handmaids hie,
Some skill’d to wreath the turban tastefully,
Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade,
O’er the warm blushes of the youthful maid,
Who, if between the folds but _one_ eye shone,
Like SEBA’S Queen could vanquish with that one:—[61]
While some bring leaves of Henna, to imbue
The fingers’ ends with a bright roseate hue,[62]
So bright, that in the mirror’s depth they seem
Like tips of coral branches in the stream;
And others mix the Kohol’s jetty dye,
To give that long, dark languish to the eye,[63]
Which makes the maids, whom kings are proud to cull
From fair Circassia’s vales, so beautiful.
All is in motion; rings and plumes and pearls
Are shining every where:—some younger girls
Are gone by moonlight to the garden beds,
To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads;—
Gay creatures! sweet, though mournful, ’tis to see
How each prefers a garland from that tree
Which brings to mind her childhood’s innocent day,
And the dear fields and friendships far away.
The maid of INDIA, blest again to hold
In her full lap the Champac’s leaves of gold,[64]
Thinks of the time when, by the GANGES’ flood,
Her little playmates scatter’d many a bud
Upon her long black hair, with glossy gleam
Just dripping from the consecrated stream;
While the young Arab, haunted by the smell
Of her own mountain flowers, as by a spell,—
The sweet Elcaya,[65] and that courteous tree
Which bows to all who seek its canopy,[66]
Sees, call’d up round her by these magic scents,
The well, the camels, and her father’s tents;
Sighs for the home she left with little pain,
And wishes even its sorrows back again!
Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls,
Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls
Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound
From many a jasper fount, is heard around,
Young AZIM roams bewilder’d,—nor can guess
What means this maze of light and loneliness.
Here, the way leads, o’er tessellated floors
Or mats of CAIRO, through long corridors,
Where, rang’d in cassolets and silver urns,
Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns;
And spicy rods, such as illume at night
The bowers of TIBET,[67] send forth odorous light,
Like Peris’ wands, when pointing out the road
For some pure Spirit to its blest abode:—
And here, at once, the glittering saloon
Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon;
Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays
In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays
High as the’ enamell’d cupola, which towers
All rich with Arabesques of gold and flowers:
And the mosaic floor beneath shines through
The sprinkling of that fountain’s silv’ry dew,
Like the wet, glistening shells, of every dye,
That on the margin of the Red Sea lie.
Here too he traces the kind visitings
Of woman’s love in those fair, living things
Of land and wave, whose fate—in bondage thrown
For their weak loveliness—is like her own!
On one side gleaming with a sudden grace
Through water, brilliant as the crystal vase
In which it undulates, small fishes shine,
Like golden ingots from a fairy mine;—
While, on the other, latticed lightly in
With odoriferous woods of COMORIN,[68]
Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen;—
Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleam between
The crimson blossoms of the coral tree[69]
In the warm Isles of India’s sunny sea:
Mecca’s blue sacred pigeon,[70] and the thrush
Of Hindostan,[71] whose holy warblings gush,
At evening, from the tall pagoda’s top;—
Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop
About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food[72]
Whose scent hath lur’d them o’er the summer flood;[73]
And those that under Araby’s soft sun
Build their high nests of budding cinnamon:[74]
In short, all rare and beauteous things, that fly
Through the pure element, here calmly lie
Sleeping in light, like the green birds[75] that dwell
In Eden’s radiant fields of asphodel!
So on, through scenes past all imagining,
More like the luxuries of that impious King,[76]
Whom Death’s dark angel, with his lightning torch,
Struck down and blasted even in Pleasure’s porch,
Than the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent,
Arm’d with Heaven’s sword, for man’s enfranchisement—
Young AZIM wander’d, looking sternly round,
His simple garb and war-boots’ clanking sound
But ill according with the pomp and grace
And silent lull of that voluptuous place.
“Is this, then,” thought the youth, “is this the way
“To free man’s spirit from the dead’ning sway
“Of worldly sloth,—to teach him while he lives,
“To know no bliss but that which virtue gives,
“And when he dies, to leave his lofty name
“A light, a landmark on the cliffs of fame?
“It was not so, Land of the generous thought
“And daring deed, thy godlike sages taught;
“It was not thus, in bowers of wanton ease,
“Thy Freedom nurs’d her sacred energies;
“Oh! not beneath the’ enfeebling, withering glow
“Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow,
“With which she wreath’d her sword, when she would dare
“Immortal deeds; but in the bracing air
“Of toil,—of temperance,—of that high, rare,
“Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe
“Life, health, and lustre into Freedom’s wreath.
“Who, that surveys this span of earth we press,—
“This speck of life in time’s great wilderness,
“This narrow isthmus ’twixt two boundless seas,
“The past, the future, two eternities!—
“Would sully the bright spot, or leave it bare,
“When he might build him a proud temple there,
“A name, that long shall hallow all its space,
“And be each purer soul’s high resting-place?
“But no—it cannot be, that one, whom God
“Hath sent to break the wizard Falsehood’s rod,—
“A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws
“Its rights from Heaven, should thus profane its cause
“With the world’s vulgar pomps;—no, no,—I see—
“He thinks me weak—this glare of luxury
“Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze
“Of my young soul—shine on, ’twill stand the blaze!”
So thought the youth;—but, ev’n while he defied
This witching scene, he felt its witchery glide
Through ev’ry sense. The perfume breathing round,
Like a pervading spirit;—the still sound
Of falling waters, lulling as the song
Of Indian bees at sunset, when they throng
Around the fragrant NILICA, and deep
In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep;[77]
And music, too—dear music! that can touch
Beyond all else the soul that loves it much—
Now heard far off, so far as but to seem
Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream;
All was too much for him, too full of bliss,
The heart could nothing feel, that felt not this;
Soften’d he sunk upon a couch, and gave
His soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on wave
Succeeding to smooth seas, when storms are laid;
He thought of ZELICA, his own dear maid,
And of the time, when, full of blissful sighs,
They sat and look’d into each other’s eyes,
Silent and happy—as if God had given
Nought else worth looking at on this side heaven.
“Oh, my lov’d mistress, thou, whose spirit still
“Is with me, round me, wander where I will—
“It is for thee, for thee alone I seek
“The paths of glory; to light up thy cheek
“With warm approval—in that gentle look
“To read my praise, as in an angel’s book,
“And think all toils rewarded, when from thee
“I gain a smile worth immortality!
“How shall I bear the moment when restor’d
“To that young heart where I alone am Lord,
“Though of such bliss unworthy,—since the best
“Alone deserve to be the happiest;—
“When from those lips, unbreath’d upon for years,
“I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears,
“And find those tears warm as when last they started,
“Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted?
“O my own life!—why should a single day,
“A moment keep me from those arms away?”
While thus he thinks, still nearer on the breeze
Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies,
Each note of which but adds new, downy links
To the soft chain in which his spirit sinks.
He turns him tow’rd the sound, and far away
Through a long vista, sparkling with the play
Of countless lamps,—like the rich track which Day
Leaves on the waters, when he sinks from us,
So long the path, its light so tremulous;—
He sees a group of female forms advance,
Some chain’d together in the mazy dance
By fetters, forg’d in the green sunny bowers,
As they were captives to the King of Flowers;[78]
And some disporting round, unlink’d and free,
Who seem’d to mock their sisters’ slavery;
And round and round them still, in wheeling flight,
Went, like gay moths about a lamp at night;
While others walk’d, as gracefully along
Their feet kept time, the very soul of song,
From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly thrill,
Or their own youthful voices, heavenlier still.
And now they come, now pass before his eye,
Forms such as Nature moulds, when she would vie
With Fancy’s pencil, and give birth to things
Lovely beyond its fairest picturings.
Awhile they dance before him, then divide,
Breaking, like rosy clouds at even-tide
Around the rich pavilion of the sun,—
Till silently dispersing, one by one
Through many a path, that from the chamber leads
To gardens, terraces, and moonlight meads,
Their distant laughter comes upon the wind,
And but one trembling nymph remains behind,—
Beck’ning them back in vain, for they are gone,
And she is left in all that light alone;
No veil to curtain o’er her beauteous brow,
In its young bashfulness more beauteous now;
But a light golden chain-work round her hair,[79]
Such as the maids of YEZD[80] and SHIRAS wear,
From which, on either side, gracefully hung
A golden amulet, in the Arab tongue,
Engraven o’er with some immortal line
From Holy Writ, or bard scarce less divine;
While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood,
Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood,
Which, once or twice, she touch’d with hurried strain,
Then took her trembling fingers off again.
But when at length a timid glance she stole
At AZIM, the sweet gravity of soul
She saw through all his features calm’d her fear,
And, like a half-tam’d antelope, more near,
Though shrinking still, she came;—then sat her down
Upon a musnud’s[81] edge, and, bolder grown,
In the pathetic mode of ISFAHAN[82]
Touch’d a preluding strain, and thus began:—
--------------
There’s a bower of roses by BENDEMEER’S[83] stream,
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;
In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream,
To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song.
That bower and its music I never forget,
But oft when alone in the bloom of the year,
I think—is the nightingale singing there yet?
Are the roses still bright by the calm BENDEMEER?
No, the roses soon wither’d that hung o’er the wave,
But some blossoms were gather’d, while freshly they shone,
And a dew was distill’d from their flowers, that gave
All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone.
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it many a year;
Thus bright to my soul, as ’twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower on the banks of the calm BENDEMEER.
--------------
“Poor maiden!” thought the youth, “if thou wert sent,
“With thy soft lute and beauty’s blandishment,
“To wake unholy wishes in this heart,
“Or tempt its truth, thou little know’st the art.
“For though thy lip should sweetly counsel wrong,
“Those vestal eyes would disavow its song.
“But thou hast breath’d such purity, thy lay
“Returns so fondly to youth’s virtuous day,
“And leads thy soul—if e’er it wander’d thence—
“So gently back to its first innocence,
“That I would sooner stop the unchained dove,
“When swift returning to its home of love,
“And round its snowy wing new fetters twine,
“Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine!”
Scarce had this feeling pass’d, when, sparkling through
The gently open’d curtains of light blue
That veil’d the breezy casement, countless eyes,
Peeping like stars through the blue evening skies,
Look’d laughing in, as if to mock the pair
That sat so still and melancholy there:—
And now the curtains fly apart, and in
From the cool air, ’mid showers of jessamine
Which those without fling after them in play,
Two lightsome maidens spring,—lightsome as they
Who live in the’ air on odours,—and around
The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground,
Chase one another, in a varying dance
Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance,
Too eloquently like love’s warm pursuit:—
While she, who sung so gently to the lute
Her dream of home, steals timidly away,
Shrinking as violets do in summer’s ray,—
But takes with her from AZIM’S heart that sigh
We sometimes give to forms that pass us by
In the world’s crowd, too lovely to remain,
Creatures of light we never see again!
Around the white necks of the nymphs who danc’d
Hung carcanets of orient gems, that glanc’d
More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering o’er
The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore;[84]
While from their long, dark tresses, in a fall
Of curls descending, bells as musical
As those that, on the golden-shafted trees
Of EDEN, shake in the eternal breeze,[85]
Rung round their steps, at every bound more sweet,
As ’twere the’ extatic language of their feet.
At length the chase was o’er, and they stood wreath’d
Within each other’s arms; while soft there breath’d
Through the cool casement, mingled with the sighs
Of moonlight flowers, music that seem’d to rise
From some still lake, so liquidly it rose;
And, as it swell’d again at each faint close,
The ear could track, through all that maze of chords
And young sweet voices, these impassion’d words;—
--------------
A SPIRIT there is, whose fragrant sigh
Is burning now through earth and air:
Where cheeks are blushing, the Spirit is nigh;
Where lips are meeting, the Spirit is there!
His breath is the soul of flowers like these,
And his floating eyes—oh! _they_ resemble[86]
Blue water-lilies,[87] when the breeze
Is making the stream around them tremble.
Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power!
Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss!
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,
And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.
By the fair and brave
Who blushing unite,
Like the sun and wave,
When they meet at night;
By the tear that shows
When passion is nigh,
As the rain-drop flows
From the heat of the sky;
By the first love-beat
Of the youthful heart,
By the bliss to meet,
And the pain to part;
By all that thou hast
To mortals given,
Which—oh, could it last,
This earth were heaven!
We call thee hither, entrancing Power!
Spirit of Love! Spirit of Bliss!
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,
And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.
--------------
Impatient of a scene, whose luxuries stole,
Spite of himself, too deep into his soul,
And where, midst all that the young heart loves most,
Flowers, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost,
The youth had started up, and turn’d away
From the light nymphs, and their luxurious lay,
To muse upon the pictures that hung round,—[88]
Bright images, that spoke without a sound,
And views, like vistas into fairy ground.
But here again new spells came o’er his sense:—
All that the pencil’s mute omnipotence
Could call up into life, of soft and fair,
Of fond and passionate, was glowing there;
Nor yet too warm, but touched with that fine art
Which paints of pleasure but the purer part;
Which knows even Beauty when half-veil’d is best,—
Like her own radiant planet of the west,
Whose orb when half retir’d looks loveliest.[89]
_There_ hung the history of the Genii-King,
Traced through each gay, voluptuous wandering
With her from SABA’S bowers, in whose bright eyes
He read that to be blest is to be wise;—[90]
_Here_ fond ZULEIKA[91] woos with open arms
The Hebrew boy, who flies from her young charms,
Yet, flying, turns to gaze, and, half undone,
Wishes that Heaven and she could _both_ be won;
And here MOHAMMED, born for love and guile,
Forgets the Koran in his MARY’S smile;—
Then beckons some kind angel from above
With a new text to consecrate their love.[92]
With rapid step, yet pleas’d and ling’ring eye,
Did the youth pass these pictur’d stories by,
And hasten’d to a casement, where the light
Of the calm moon came in, and freshly bright
The fields without were seen, sleeping as still
As if no life remain’d in breeze or rill.
Here paus’d he, while the music, now less near,
Breath’d with a holier language on his ear,
As though the distance, and that heavenly ray
Through which the sounds came floating, took away
All that had been too earthly in the lay.
Oh! could he listen to such sounds unmov’d,
And by that light—nor dream of her he lov’d?
Dream on, unconscious boy! while yet thou may’st;
’Tis the last bliss thy soul shall ever taste.
Clasp yet awhile her image to thy heart,
Ere all the light, that made it dear, depart.
Think of her smiles as when thou saw’st them last,
Clear, beautiful, by nought of earth o’ercast;
Recall her tears, to thee at parting given,
Pure as they weep, _if_ angels weep, in Heaven.
Think, in her own still bower she waits thee now,
With the same glow of heart and bloom of brow,
Yet shrin’d in solitude—thine all, thine only,
Like the one star above thee, bright and lonely.
Oh! that a dream so sweet, so long enjoy’d,
Should be so sadly, cruelly destroy’d!
The song is hush’d, the laughing nymphs are flown,
And he is left, musing of bliss, alone;—
Alone?—no, not alone—that heavy sigh,
That sob of grief, which broke from some one nigh—
Whose could it be?—alas! is misery found
Here, even here, on this enchanted ground?
He turns, and sees a female form, close veil’d,
Leaning, as if both heart and strength had fail’d,
Against a pillar near;—not glittering o’er
With gems and wreaths, such as the others wore,
But in that deep-blue, melancholy dress,[93]
BOKHARA’S maidens wear in mindfulness
Of friends or kindred, dead or far away;—
And such as ZELICA had on that day
He left her—when, with heart too full to speak,
He took away her last warm tears upon his cheek.
A strange emotion stirs within him,—more
Than mere compassion ever wak’d before;
Unconsciously he opes his arms, while she
Springs forward, as with life’s last energy,
But, swooning in that one convulsive bound,
Sinks, ere she reach his arms, upon the ground;—
Her veil falls off—her faint hands clasp his knees—
’Tis she herself!—’tis ZELICA he sees!
But, ah, so pale, so chang’d—none but a lover
Could in that wreck of beauty’s shrine discover
The once ador’d divinity—even he
Stood for some moments mute, and doubtingly
Put back the ringlets from her brow, and gaz’d
Upon those lids, where once such lustre blaz’d,
Ere he could think she was _indeed_ his own,
Own darling maid, whom he so long had known
In joy and sorrow, beautiful in both;
Who, even when grief was heaviest—when loth
He left her for the wars—in that worst hour
Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower,[94]
When darkness brings its weeping glories out,
And spreads its sighs like frankincense about.
“Look up, my ZELICA—one moment show
“Those gentle eyes to me, that I may know
“Thy life, thy loveliness is not all gone,
“But _there_, at least, shines as it ever shone.
“Come, look upon thy AZIM—one dear glance,
“Like those of old, were heaven! whatever chance
“Hath brought thee here, oh, ’twas a blessed one!
“There—my lov’d lips—they move—that kiss hath run
“Like the first shoot of life through every vein,
“And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again.
“Oh the delight—now, in this very hour,
“When had the whole rich world been in my power,
“I should have singled out thee, only thee,
“From the whole world’s collected treasury—
“To have thee here—to hang thus fondly o’er
“My own, best, purest ZELICA once more!”
It was indeed the touch of those fond lips
Upon her eyes that chas’d their short eclipse,
And, gradual as the snow, at Heaven’s breath,
Melts off and shows the azure flowers beneath,
Her lids unclos’d, and the bright eyes were seen
Gazing on his—not, as they late had been,
Quick, restless, wild, but mournfully serene;
As if to lie, even for that tranced minute,
So near his heart, had consolation in it;
And thus to wake in his belov’d caress
Took from her soul one half its wretchedness.
But, when she heard him call her good and pure,
Oh, ’twas too much—too dreadful to endure!
Shudd’ring she broke away from his embrace,
And, hiding with both hands her guilty face,
Said, in a tone whose anguish would have riven
A heart of very marble, “Pure!—oh Heaven!”—
That tone—those looks so chang’d—the withering blight,
That sin and sorrow leave where’er they light;
The dead despondency of those sunk eyes,
Where once, had he thus met her by surprise,
He would have seen himself, too happy boy,
Reflected in a thousand lights of joy;
And then the place,—that bright, unholy place,
Where vice lay hid beneath each winning grace
And charm of luxury, as the viper weaves
Its wily covering of sweet balsam leaves,—[95]
All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold
As death itself;—it needs not to be told—
No, no—he sees it all, plain as the brand
Of burning shame can mark—whate’er the hand,
That could from Heaven and him such brightness sever,
’Tis done—to Heaven and him she’s lost for ever!
It was a dreadful moment; not the tears,
The lingering, lasting misery of years
Could match that minute’s anguish—all the worst
Of sorrow’s elements in that dark burst
Broke o’er his soul, and, with one crash of fate,
Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate.
“Oh! curse me not,” she cried, as wild he toss’d
His desperate hand tow’rds Heaven—“though I am lost,
“Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me fall,
“No, no—’twas grief, ’twas madness did it all!
“Nay, doubt me not—though all thy love hath ceas’d—
“I know it hath—yet, yet believe, at least,
“That every spark of reason’s light must be
“Quench’d in this brain, ere I could stray from thee.
“They told me thou wert dead—why, AZIM, why
“Did we not, both of us, that instant die
“When we were parted? oh! could’st thou but know
“With what a deep devotedness of woe
“I wept thy absence—o’er and o’er again
“Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain,
“And memory, like a drop that, night and day,
“Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away.
“Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home,
“My eyes still turn’d the way thou wert to come,
“And, all the long, long night of hope and fear,
“Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear—
“Oh God! thou would’st not wonder that, at last,
“When every hope was all at once o’ercast,
“When I heard frightful voices round me say
“_Azim is dead!_—this wretched brain gave way,
“And I became a wreck, at random driven,
“Without one glimpse of reason or of Heaven—
“All wild—and even this quenchless love within
“Turn’d to foul fires to light me into sin!—
“Thou pitiest me—I knew thou would’st—that sky
“Hath nought beneath it half so lorn as I.
“The fiend, who lur’d me hither—hist! come near,
“Or thou too, _thou_ art lost, if he should hear—
“Told me such things—oh! with such devilish art
“As would have ruin’d even a holier heart—
“Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere,
“Where bless’d at length, if I but serv’d _him_ here,
“I should for ever live in thy dear sight,—
“And drink from those pure eyes eternal light.
“Think, think how lost, how madden’d I must be,
“To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee!
“Thou weep’st for me—do weep—oh, that I durst
“Kiss off that tear! but, no—these lips are curst,
“They must not touch thee;—one divine caress,
“One blessed moment of forgetfulness
“I’ve had within those arms, and _that_ shall lie,
“Shrin’d in my soul’s deep memory till I die;
“The last of joy’s last relics here below,
“The one sweet drop, in all this waste of woe,
“My heart has treasur’d from affection’s spring,
“To soothe and cool its deadly withering!
“But thou—yes, thou must go—for ever go;
“This place is not for thee—for thee! oh no,
“Did I but tell thee half, thy tortur’d brain
“Would burn like mine, and mine grow wild again!
“Enough, that Guilt reigns here—that hearts, once good,
“Now tainted, chill’d, and broken, are his food.—
“Enough, that we are parted—that there rolls
“A flood of headlong fate between our souls,
“Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee
“As hell from heaven, to all eternity!”
“ZELICA, ZELICA!” the youth exclaim’d,
In all the tortures of a mind inflam’d
Almost to madness—“by that sacred Heaven,
“Where yet, if prayers can move, thou’lt be forgiven,
“As thou art here—here, in this writhing heart,
“All sinful, wild, and ruin’d as thou art!
“By the remembrance of our once pure love,
“Which, like a church-yard light, still burns above
“The grave of our lost souls—which guilt in thee
“Cannot extinguish, nor despair in me!
“I do conjure, implore thee to fly hence—
“If thou hast yet one spark of innocence,
“Fly with me from this place⸺”
“With thee! oh bliss!
“’Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this.
“What! take the lost one with thee?—let her rove
“By thy dear side, as in those days of love,
“When we were both so happy, both so pure—
“Too heavenly dream! if there’s on earth a cure
“For the sunk heart, ’tis this—day after day
“To be the blest companion of thy way;
“To hear thy angel eloquence—to see
“Those virtuous eyes for ever turn’d on me;
“And, in their light re-chasten’d silently,
“Like the stain’d web that whitens in the sun,
“Grow pure by being purely shone upon!
“And thou wilt pray for me—I know thou wilt—
“At the dim vesper hour, when thoughts of guilt
“Come heaviest o’er the heart, thou’lt lift thine eyes,
“Full of sweet tears, unto the dark’ning skies,
“And plead for me with Heaven, till I can dare
“To fix my own weak, sinful glances there;
“Till the good angels, when they see me cling
“For ever near thee, pale and sorrowing,
“Shall for thy sake pronounce my soul forgiven,
“And bid thee take thy weeping slave to Heaven!
“Oh yes, I’ll fly with thee⸺”
Scarce had she said
These breathless words, when a voice deep and dread
As that of MONKER, waking up the dead
From their first sleep—so startling ’twas to both—
Rung through the casement near, “Thy oath! thy oath!”
Oh Heaven, the ghastliness of that Maid’s look!—
“’Tis he,” faintly she cried, while terror shook
Her inmost core, nor durst she lift her eyes,
Though through the casement, now, nought but the skies
And moonlight fields were seen, calm as before—
“’Tis he, and I am his—all, all is o’er—
“Go—fly this instant, or thou’rt ruin’d too—
“My oath, my oath, oh God! ’tis all too true,
“True as the worm in this cold heart it is—
“I am MOKANNA’S bride—his, AZIM, his—
“The Dead stood round us, while I spoke that vow,
“Their blue lips echo’d it—I hear them now!
“Their eyes glar’d on me, while I pledg’d that bowl,
“’Twas burning blood—I feel it in my soul!
“And the Veil’d Bridegroom—hist! I’ve seen to-night
“What angels know not of—so foul a sight,
“So horrible—oh! never may’st thou see
“What _there_ lies hid from all but hell and me!
“But I must hence—off, off—I am not thine,
“Nor Heaven’s, nor Love’s, nor aught that is divine—
“Hold me not—ha! think’st thou the fiends that sever
“Hearts, cannot sunder hands?—thus, then—for ever!”
With all that strength, which madness lends the weak,
She flung away his arm; and, with a shriek,
Whose sound, though he should linger out more years
Than wretch e’er told, can never leave his ears—
Flew up through that long avenue of light,
Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night
Across the sun, and soon was out of sight!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LALLA ROOKH could think of nothing all day but the misery of these two
young lovers. Her gaiety was gone, and she looked pensively even upon
FADLADEEN. She felt, too, without knowing why, a sort of uneasy pleasure
in imagining that AZIM must have been just such a youth as FERAMORZ;
just as worthy to enjoy all the blessings, without any of the pangs, of
that illusive passion which too often, like the sunny apples of
Istkahar,[96] is all sweetness on one side, and all bitterness on the
other.
As they passed along a sequestered river after sunset, they saw a young
Hindoo girl upon the bank,[97] whose employment seemed to them so
strange, that they stopped their palankeens to observe her. She had
lighted a small lamp, filled with oil of cocoa, and placing it in an
earthen dish, adorned with a wreath of flowers, had committed it with a
trembling hand to the stream; and was now anxiously watching its
progress down the current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which had drawn
up beside her. LALLA ROOKH was all curiosity;—when one of her
attendants, who had lived upon the banks of the Ganges (where this
ceremony is so frequent, that often, in the dusk of the evening, the
river is seen glittering all over with lights, like the Oton-tala, or
Sea of Stars),[98] informed the Princess that it was the usual way, in
which the friends of those who had gone on dangerous voyages offered up
vows for their safe return. If the lamp sunk immediately, the omen was
disastrous; but if it went shining down the stream, and continued to
burn until entirely out of sight, the return of the beloved object was
considered as certain.
LALLA ROOKH, as they moved on, more than once looked back, to observe
how the young Hindoo’s lamp proceeded; and, while she saw with pleasure
that it was still unextinguished, she could not help fearing that all
the hopes of this life were no better than that feeble light upon the
river. The remainder of the journey was passed in silence. She now, for
the first time, felt that shade of melancholy, which comes over the
youthful maiden’s heart, as sweet and transient as her own breath upon a
mirror; nor was it till she heard the lute of FERAMORZ, touched lightly
at the door of her pavilion, that she waked from the reverie in which
she had been wandering. Instantly her eyes were lighted up with
pleasure; and after a few unheard remarks from FADLADEEN, upon the
indecorum of a poet seating himself in presence of a Princess, every
thing was arranged as on the preceding evening and all listened with
eagerness, while the story was thus continued:—
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the way,
Where all was waste and silent yesterday?
This City of War, which, in a few short hours,
Hath sprung up here,[99] as if the magic powers
Of Him who, in the twinkling of a star,
Built the high pillar’d halls of CHILMINAR,[100]
Had conjur’d up, far as the eye can see,
This world of tents, and domes, and sun-bright armory:—
Princely pavilions, screen’d by many a fold
Of crimson cloth, and topp’d with balls of gold:—
Steeds, with their housings of rich silver spun,
Their chains and poitrels, glittering in the sun;
And camels, tufted o’er with Yemen’s shells,[101]
Shaking in every breeze their light-ton’d bells!
But yester-eve, so motionless around,
So mute was this wide plain, that not a sound
But the far torrent, or the locust bird[102]
Hunting among the thickets, could be heard;—
Yet hark! what discords now, of every kind,
Shouts, laughs, and screams are revelling in the wind;
The neigh of cavalry;—the tinkling throngs
Of laden camels and their drivers’ songs;—[103]
Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze
Of streamers from ten thousand canopies;—
War-music, bursting out from time to time,
With gong and tymbalon’s tremendous chime;—
Or, in the pause, when harsher sounds are mute,
The mellow breathings of some horn or flute,
That far off, broken by the eagle note
Of the’ Abyssinian trumpet,[104] swell and float.
Who leads this mighty army?—ask ye “who?”
And mark ye not those banners of dark hue,
The Night and Shadow,[105] over yonder tent?—
It is the CALIPH’S glorious armament.
Roused in his Palace by the dread alarms,
That hourly came, of the false Prophet’s arms,
And of his host of infidels, who hurl’d
Defiance fierce at Islam[106] and the world,—
Though worn with Grecian warfare, and behind
The veils of his bright Palace calm reclin’d,
Yet brook’d he not such blasphemy should stain,
Thus unreveng’d, the evening of his reign;
But, having sworn upon the Holy Grave[107]
To conquer or to perish, once more gave
His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze,
And with an army, nurs’d in victories,
Here stands to crush the rebels that o’er-run
His blest and beauteous Province of the Sun.
Ne’er did the march of MAHADI display
Such pomp before;—not even when on his way
To MECCA’S Temple, when both land and sea
Were spoil’d to feed the Pilgrim’s luxury;[108]
When round him, ’mid the burning sands, he saw
Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw,
And cool’d his thirsty lip, beneath the glow
Of MECCA’S sun, with urns of Persian snow:[109]—
Nor e’er did armament more grand than that
Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat.
First, in the van, the People of the Rock,[110]
On their light mountain steeds, of royal stock:[111]
Then, chieftains of DAMASCUS, proud to see
The flashing of their swords’ rich marquetry;[112]—
Men, from the regions near the VOLGA’S mouth,
Mix’d with the rude, black archers of the South;
And Indian lancers, in white turban’d ranks,
From the far SINDE, or ATTOCK’S sacred banks,
With dusky legions from the land of Myrrh,[113]
And many a mace-arm’d Moor and Mid-sea islander.
Nor less in number, though more new and rude
In warfare’s school, was the vast multitude
That, fir’d by zeal, or by oppression wrong’d,
Round the white standard of the’ impostor throng’d.
Beside his thousands of Believers—blind,
Burning and headlong as the Samiel wind—
Many who felt, and more who fear’d to feel
The bloody Islamite’s converting steel,
Flock’d to his banner;—Chiefs of the’ UZBEK race,
Waving their heron crests with martial grace;[114]
TURKOMANS, countless as their flocks, led forth
From the’ aromatic pastures of the North;
Wild warriors of the turquoise hills,[115]—and those
Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows
Of HINDOO KOSH,[116] in stormy freedom bred,
Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent’s bed.
But none, of all who own’d the Chief’s command,
Rush’d to that battle-field with bolder hand,
Or sterner hate, than IRAN’S outlaw’d men,
Her Worshippers of Fire[117]—all panting then
For vengeance on the’ accursed Saracen;
Vengeance at last for their dear country spurn’d,
Her throne usurp’d, and her bright shrines o’erturned.
From YEZD’S[118] eternal Mansion of the Fire,
Where aged saints in dreams of Heaven expire:
From BADKU, and those fountains of blue flame
That burn into the CASPIAN,[119] fierce they came,
Careless for what or whom the blow was sped,
So vengeance triumph’d, and their tyrants bled.
Such was the wild and miscellaneous host,
That high in air their motley banners tost
Around the Prophet-Chief—all eyes still bent
Upon that glittering Veil, where’er it went,
That beacon through the battle’s stormy flood,
That rainbow of the field, whose showers were blood!
Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set,
And risen again, and found them grappling yet;
While streams of carnage, in his noontide blaze,
Smoke up to Heaven—hot as that crimson haze,
By which the prostrate Caravan is aw’d,[120]
In the red Desert, when the wind’s abroad.
“On, Swords of God!” the panting CALIPH calls,—
“Thrones for the living—Heaven for him who falls!”
“On, brave avengers, on,” MOKANNA cries,
“And EBLIS blast the recreant slave that flies!”
Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day—
They clash—they strive—the CALIPH’S troops give way!
MOKANNA’S self plucks the black Banner down,
And now the Orient World’s Imperial crown
Is just within his grasp—when, hark, that shout!
Some hand hath check’d the flying Moslem’s rout;
And now they turn, they rally—at their head
A warrior, (like those angel youths who led,
In glorious panoply of Heaven’s own mail,
The Champions of the Faith through BEDER’S vale,[121])
Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives,
Turns on the fierce pursuers’ blades, and drives
At once the multitudinous torrent back—
While hope and courage kindle in his track;
And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes
Terrible vistas through which victory breaks!
In vain MOKANNA, midst the general flight,
Stands, like the red moon, on some stormy night,
Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by,
Leave only her unshaken in the sky—
In vain he yells his desperate curses out,
Deals death promiscuously to all about,
To foes that charge and coward friends that fly,
And seems of _all_ the Great Arch-enemy.
The panic spreads—“A miracle!” throughout
The Moslem ranks, “a miracle!” they shout,
All gazing on that youth, whose coming seems
A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams;
And every sword, true as o’er billows dim
The needle tracks the load-star, following him!
Right tow’rds MOKANNA now he cleaves his path,
Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath
He bears from Heaven withheld its awful burst
From weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst,
To break o’er Him, the mightiest and the worst!
But vain his speed—though, in that hour of blood,
Had all God’s seraphs round MOKANNA stood,
With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall,
MOKANNA’S soul would have defied them all;
Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong
For human force, hurries even _him_ along;
In vain he struggles ’mid the wedg’d array
Of flying thousands—he is borne away;
And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows,
In this forc’d flight, is—murdering as he goes!
As a grim tiger, whom the torrent’s might
Surprises in some parch’d ravine at night,
Turns, even in drowning, on the wretched flocks,
Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks,
And, to the last, devouring on his way,
Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay.
“Alla illa Alla!”—the glad shout renew—
“Alla Akbar!”[122]—the Caliph’s in MEROU.
Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets,
And light your shrines and chaunt your ziraleets.[123]
The Swords of God have triumph’d—on his throne
Your Caliph sits, and the veil’d Chief hath flown.
Who does not envy that young warrior now,
To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow,
In all the graceful gratitude of power,
For his throne’s safety in that perilous hour?
Who doth not wonder, when, amidst the’ acclaim
Of thousands, heralding to heaven his name—
Mid all those holier harmonies of fame,
Which sound along the path of virtuous souls,
Like music round a planet as it rolls,—
He turns away—coldly, as if some gloom
Hung o’er his heart no triumphs can illume;—
Some sightless grief, upon whose blasted gaze
Though glory’s light may play, in vain it plays?
Yes, wretched AZIM! thine is such a grief,
Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief;
A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break,
Or warm or brighten,—like that Syrian Lake,[124]
Upon whose surface morn and summer shed
Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead!—
Hearts there have been, o’er which this weight of woe
Came by long use of suffering, tame and slow;
But thine, lost youth! was sudden—over thee
It broke at once, when all seemed ecstacy;
When Hope look’d up, and saw the gloomy Past
Melt into splendour, and Bliss dawn at last—
’Twas then, even then, o’er joys so freshly blown,
This mortal blight of misery came down;
Even then, the full, warm gushings of thy heart
Were check’d—like fount-drops, frozen as they start—
And there, like them, cold, sunless relics hang,
Each fix’d and chill’d into a lasting pang.
* * * * *
One sole desire, one passion now remains
To keep life’s fever still within his veins,
Vengeance!—dire vengeance on the wretch who cast
O’er him and all he lov’d that ruinous blast.
For this, when rumours reach’d him in his flight
Far, far away, after that fatal night,—
Rumours of armies, thronging to the’ attack
Of the Veil’d Chief,—for this he wing’d him back,
Fleet as the vulture speeds to flags unfurl’d,
And, when all hope seem’d desperate, wildly hurl’d
Himself into the scale, and sav’d a world.
For this he still lives on, careless of all
The wreaths that Glory on his path lets fall;
For this alone exists—like lightning-fire,
To speed one bolt of vengeance, and expire!
But safe as yet that Spirit of Evil lives;
With a small band of desperate fugitives,
The last sole stubborn fragment, left unriven,
Of the proud host that late stood fronting Heaven,
He gain’d MEROU—breath’d a short curse of blood
O’er his lost throne—then pass’d the JIHON’S flood,[125]
And gathering all, whose madness of belief
Still saw a Saviour in their down-fall’n Chief,
Rais’d the white banner within NEKSHEB’S gates,[126]
And there, untam’d, the’ approaching conqu’ror waits.
Of all his Haram, all that busy hive,
With music and with sweets sparkling alive,
He took but one, the partner of his flight,
One—not for love—not for her beauty’s light—
No, ZELICA stood withering midst the gay,
Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday
From the’ Alma tree and dies, while overhead
To-day’s young flower is springing in its stead.[127]
Oh, not for love—the deepest Damn’d must be
Touch’d with Heaven’s glory, ere such fiends as he
Can feel one glimpse of Love’s divinity.
But no, she is his victim; _there_ lie all
Her charms for him—charms that can never pall,
As long as hell within his heart can stir,
Or one faint trace of Heaven is left in her.
To work an angel’s ruin,—to behold
As white a page as Virtue e’er unroll’d
Blacken, beneath his touch, into a scroll
Of damning sins, seal’d with a burning soul—
This is his triumph; this the joy accurst,
That ranks him among demons all but first:
This gives the victim, that before him lies
Blighted and lost, a glory in his eyes,
A light like that with which hell-fire illumes
The ghastly, writhing wretch whom it consumes!
But other tasks now wait him—tasks that need
All the deep daringness of thought and deed
With which the Dives[128] have gifted him—for mark,
Over yon plains, which night had else made dark,
Those lanterns, countless as the winged lights
That spangle INDIA’S fields on showery nights,[129]—
Far as their formidable gleams they shed,
The mighty tents of the beleaguerer spread,
Glimmering along the’ horizon’s dusky line,
And thence in nearer circles, till they shine
Among the founts and groves, o’er which the town
In all its arm’d magnificence looks down.
Yet, fearless, from his lofty battlements
MOKANNA views that multitude of tents;
Nay, smiles to think that, though entoil’d, beset,
Not less than myriads dare to front him yet;—
That friendless, throneless, he thus stands at bay,
Even thus a match for myriads such as they.
“Oh, for a sweep of that dark Angel’s wing,
“Who brush’d the thousands of the’ Assyrian King[130]
“To darkness in a moment, that I might
“People Hell’s chambers with yon host to-night!
“But, come what may, let who will grasp the throne,
“Caliph or Prophet, Man alike shall groan
“Let who will torture him, Priest—Caliph—King—
“Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring
“With victims’ shrieks, and howlings of the slave,—
“Sounds, that shall glad me even within my grave!”
Thus, to himself—but to the scanty train
Still left around him, a far different strain:—
“Glorious Defenders of the sacred Crown
“I bear from Heaven, whose light nor blood shall drown,
“Nor shadow of earth eclipse;—before whose gems
“The paly pomp of this world’s diadems,
“The crown of GERASHID, the pillar’d throne
“Of PARVIZ,[131] and the heron crest that shone,[132]
“Magnificent, o’er ALI’S beauteous eyes,[133]
“Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies:
“Warriors, rejoice—the port to which we’ve pass’d
“O’er Destiny’s dark wave, beams out at last!
“Victory’s our own—’tis written in that Book
“Upon whose leaves none but the angels look,
“That ISLAM’S sceptre shall beneath the power
“Of her great foe fall broken in that hour,
“When the moon’s mighty orb, before all eyes,
“From NEKSHEB’S Holy Well portentously shall rise!
“Now turn and see!”⸺
They turn’d, and, as he spoke,
A sudden splendour all around them broke,
And they beheld an orb, ample and bright,
Rise from the Holy Well,[134] and cast its light
Round the rich city and the plain for miles,[135]—
Flinging such radiance o’er the gilded tiles
Of many a dome and fair-roof’d minaret
As autumn suns shed round them when they set.
Instant from all who saw the’ illusive sign
A murmur broke—“Miraculous! divine!”
The Gheber bow’d, thinking his idol star
Had wak’d, and burst impatient through the bar
Of midnight, to inflame him to the war;
While he of MOUSSA’S creed saw, in that ray,
The glorious Light which, in his freedom’s day,
Had rested on the Ark,[136] and now again
Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain.
“To victory!” is at once the cry of all—
Nor stands MOKANNA loitering at that call;
But instant the huge gates are flung aside,
And forth, like a diminutive mountain-tide
Into the boundless sea, they speed their course
Right on into the MOSLEM’S mighty force.
The watchmen of the camp,—who, in their rounds,
Had paus’d, and even forgot the punctual sounds
Of the small drum with which they count the night,[137]
To gaze upon that supernatural light,—
Now sink beneath an unexpected arm,
And in a death-groan give their last alarm.
“On for the lamps, that light yon lofty screen,[138]
“Nor blunt your blades with massacre so mean;
“_There_ rests the CALIPH—speed—one lucky lance
“May now achieve mankind’s deliverance.”
Desperate the die—such as they only cast,
Who venture for a world, and stake their last.
But Fate’s no longer with him—blade for blade
Springs up to meet them through the glimmering shade,
And, as the clash is heard, new legions soon
Pour to the spot, like bees of KAUZEROON[139]
To the shrill timbrel’s summons,—till, at length,
The mighty camp swarms out in all its strength,
And back to NEKSHEB’S gates, covering the plain
With random slaughter, drives the adventurous train;
Among the last of whom the Silver Veil
Is seen glittering at times, like the white sail
Of some toss’d vessel, on a stormy night,
Catching the tempest’s momentary light!
And hath not _this_ brought the proud spirit low?
Nor dash’d his brow, nor check’d his daring? No.
Though half the wretches, whom at night he led
To thrones and victory, lie disgrac’d and dead,
Yet morning hears him, with unshrinking crest,
Still vaunt of thrones, and victory to the rest;—
And they believe him!—oh, the lover may
Distrust that look which steals his soul away;—
The babe may cease to think that it can play
With Heaven’s rainbow;—alchymists may doubt
The shining gold their crucible gives out;
But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast
To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last.
And well the’ Impostor knew all lures and arts,
That LUCIFER e’er taught to tangle hearts;
Nor, ’mid these last bold workings of his plot
Against men’s souls, is ZELICA forgot.
Ill-fated ZELICA! had reason been
Awake, through half the horrors thou hast seen,
Thou never couldst have borne it—Death had come
At once, and taken thy wrung spirit home.
But ’twas not so—a torpor, a suspense
Of thought, almost of life, came o’er the’ intense
And passionate struggles of that fearful night,
When her last hope of peace and heaven took flight:
And though, at times, a gleam of frenzy broke,—
As through some dull volcano’s veil of smoke
Ominous flashings now and then will start,
Which show the fire’s still busy at its heart;
Yet was she mostly wrapp’d in solemn gloom,—
Not such as AZIM’S, brooding o’er its doom,
And calm without, as is the brow of death,
While busy worms are gnawing underneath,—
But in a blank and pulseless torpor, free
From thought or pain, a seal’d-up apathy,
Which left her oft, with scarce one living thrill,
The cold, pale victim of her torturer’s will.
Again, as in MEROU, he had her deck’d
Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect;
And led her glittering forth before the eyes
Of his rude train, as to a sacrifice,—
Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride
Of the fierce NILE, when, deck’d in all the pride
Of nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide.[140]
And while the wretched maid hung down her head,
And stood, as one just risen from the dead,
Amid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tell
His credulous slaves it was some charm or spell
Possess’d her now,—and from that darken’d trance
Should dawn ere long their Faith’s deliverance.
Or if, at times, goaded by guilty shame,
Her soul was rous’d, and words of wildness came,
Instant the bold blasphemer would translate
Her ravings into oracles of fate,
Would hail heaven’s signals in her flashing eyes,
And call her shrieks the language of the skies!
But vain at length his arts—despair is seen
Gathering around; and famine comes to glean
All that the sword had left unreap’d:—in vain
At morn and eve across the northern plain
He looks impatient for the promis’d spears
Of the wild Hordes and TARTAR mountaineers;
They come not—while his fierce beleaguerers pour
Engines of havoc in, unknown before,[141]
And horrible as new;[142]—javelins, that fly
Enwreath’d with smoky flames through the dark sky,
And red-hot globes, that, opening as they mount,
Discharge, as from a kindled Naphtha fount,[143]
Showers of consuming fire o’er all below;
Looking, as through the’ illumin’d night they go,
Like those wild birds[144] that by the Magians oft,
At festivals of fire, were sent aloft
Into the air, with blazing faggots tied
To their huge wings, scattering combustion wide.
All night the groans of wretches who expire
In agony, beneath these darts of fire,
Ring through the city—while, descending o’er
Its shrines and domes and streets of sycamore,—
Its lone bazaars, with their bright cloths of gold,
Since the last peaceful pageant left unroll’d,—
Its beauteous marble baths, whose idle jets
Now gush with blood,—and its tall minarets,
That late have stood up in the evening glare
Of the red sun, unhallow’d by a prayer;—
O’er each, in turn, the dreadful flame-bolts fall,
And death and conflagration throughout all
The desolate city hold high festival!
MOKANNA sees the world is his no more;—
One sting at parting, and his grasp is o’er.
“What! drooping now?”—thus, with unblushing cheek,
He hails the few, who yet can hear him speak,
Of all those famish’d slaves around him lying,
And by the light of blazing temples dying;—
“What!—drooping now?—now, when at length we press
“Home o’er the very threshold of success;
“When ALLA from our ranks hath thinn’d away
“Those grosser branches, that kept out his ray
“Of favour from us, and we stand at length
“Heirs of his light and children of his strength,
“The chosen few, who shall survive the fall
“Of Kings and Thrones, triumphant over all!
“Have you then lost, weak murmurers as you are,
“All faith in him, who was your Light, your Star?
“Have you forgot the eye of glory, hid
“Beneath this Veil, the flashing of whose lid
“Could, like a sun-stroke of the desert, wither
“Millions of such as yonder Chief brings hither?
“Long have its lightnings slept—too long—but now
“All earth shall feel the’ unveiling of this brow!
“To-night—yes, sainted men! this very night,
“I bid you all to a fair festal rite,
“Where—having deep refresh’d each weary limb
“With viands, such as feast Heaven’s cherubim,
“And kindled up your souls, now sunk and dim,
“With that pure wine the Dark-ey’d Maids above
“Keep, seal’d with precious musk, for those they love,[145]—
“I will myself uncurtain in your sight
“The wonders of this brow’s ineffable light;
“Then lead you forth, and with a wink disperse
“Yon myriads, howling through the universe!”
Eager they listen—while each accent darts
New life into their chill’d and hope-sick hearts;
Such treacherous life as the cool draught supplies
To him upon the stake, who drinks and dies!
Wildly they point their lances to the light
Of the fast sinking sun, and shout “To-night!”—
“To-night,” their Chief re-echoes in a voice
Of fiend-like mockery that bids hell rejoice.
Deluded victims!—never hath this earth
Seen mourning half so mournful as their mirth.
_Here_, to the few, whose iron frames had stood
This racking waste of famine and of blood,
Faint, dying wretches clung, from whom the shout
Of triumph like a maniac’s laugh broke out:—
_There_, others, lighted by the smould’ring fire,
Danc’d like wan ghosts about a funeral pyre,
Among the dead and dying, strew’d around;—
While some pale wretch look’d on, and from his wound
Plucking the fiery dart by which he bled,
In ghastly transport wav’d it o’er his head!
’Twas more than midnight now—a fearful pause
Had follow’d the long shouts, the wild applause,
That lately from those Royal Gardens burst,
Where the Veil’d demon held his feast accurst,
When ZELICA—alas, poor ruin’d heart,
In every horror doom’d to bear its part!—
Was bidden to the banquet by a slave,
Who, while his quivering lip the summons gave,
Grew black, as though the shadows of the grave
Compass’d him round, and, ere he could repeat
His message through, fell lifeless at her feet!
Shuddering she went—a soul-felt pang of fear,
A presage that her own dark doom was near,
Rous’d every feeling, and brought Reason back
Once more, to writhe her last upon the rack.
All round seem’d tranquil—even the foe had ceas’d,
As if aware of that demoniac feast,
His fiery bolts; and though the heavens look’d red,
’Twas but some distant conflagration’s spread.
But hark—she stops—she listens—dreadful tone,
’Tis her Tormentor’s laugh—and now, a groan,
A long death-groan comes with it:—can this be
The place of mirth, the bower of revelry?
She enters—Holy ALLA, what a sight
Was there before her! By the glimmering light
Of the pale dawn, mix’d with the flare of brands
That round lay burning, dropp’d from lifeless hands,
She saw the board, in splendid mockery spread,
Rich censers breathing—garlands overhead—
The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaff’d,
All gold and gems, but—what had been the draught?
Oh! who need ask, that saw those livid guests,
With their swoll’n heads sunk black’ning on their breasts,
Or looking pale to Heaven with glassy glare,
As if they sought but saw no mercy there;
As if they felt, though poison rack’d them through,
Remorse the deadlier torment of the two!
While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train
Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain
Would have met death with transport by his side,
Here mute and helpless gasp’d;—but, as they died,
Look’d horrible vengeance with their eyes’ last strain,
And clench’d the slack’ning hand at him in vain.
Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare,
The stony look of horror and despair,
Which some of these expiring victims cast
Upon their souls’ tormentor to the last;—
Upon that mocking Fiend, whose Veil, now rais’d,
Show’d them, as in death’s agony they gazed,
Not the long promis’d light, the brow, whose beaming
Was to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming,
But features horribler than Hell e’er trac’d
On its own brood;—no Demon of the Waste,[146]
No church-yard Ghole, caught lingering in the light
Of the blest sun, e’er blasted human sight
With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those
The’ Impostor, now in grinning mockery, shows:—
“There, ye wise Saints, behold your Light, your Star—
“Ye _would_ be dupes and victims, and ye _are_.
“Is it enough? or must I, while a thrill
“Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still?
“Swear that the burning death ye feel within
“Is but the trance with which Heaven’s joys begin;
“That this foul visage, foul as e’er disgrac’d
“Even monstrous man, is—after God’s own taste;
“And that—but see!—ere I have half-way said
“My greetings through, the’ uncourteous souls are fled.
“Farewell, sweet spirits! not in vain ye die,
“If EBLIS loves you half so well as I.—
“Ha, my young bride!—’tis well—take thou thy seat;
“Nay come—no shuddering—didst thou never meet
“The dead before?—they grac’d our wedding, sweet;
“And these, my guests to-night, have brimm’d so true
“Their parting cups, that _thou_ shalt pledge one too.
“But—how is this?—all empty? all drunk up?
“Hot lips have been before thee in the cup,
“Young bride,—yet stay—one precious drop remains,
“Enough to warm a gentle Priestess’ veins;—
“Here, drink—and should thy lover’s conquering arms
“Speed hither, ere thy lip lose all its charms,
“Give him but half this venom in thy kiss,
“And I’ll forgive my haughty rival’s bliss!
“For _me_—I too must die—but not like these
“Vile, rankling things, to fester in the breeze;
“To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown,
“With all death’s grimness added to its own,
“And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes
“Of slaves, exclaiming, ‘There his Godship lies!
“No—cursed race—since first my soul drew breath,
“They’ve been my dupes, and _shall_ be even in death.
“Thou see’st yon cistern in the shade—’tis fill’d
“With burning drugs, for this last hour distill’d:[147]—
“There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame—
“Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet’s frame!—
“There perish, all—ere pulse of thine shall fail—
“Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale.
“So shall my votaries, wheresoe’er they rave,
“Proclaim that Heaven took back the Saint it gave;—
“That I’ve but vanish’d from this earth awhile,
“To come again, with bright, unshrouded smile!
“So shall they build me altars in their zeal,
“Where knaves shall minister, and fools shall kneel;
“Where Faith may mutter o’er her mystic spell,
“Written in blood—and Bigotry may swell
“The sail he spreads for Heaven with blasts from hell!
“So shall my banner, through long ages, be
“The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy:—
“Kings yet unborn shall rue MOKANNA’S name,
“And, though I die, my spirit, still the same,
“Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife,
“And guilt, and blood, that were its bliss in life.
“But, hark! their battering engine shakes the wall—
“Why, _let_ it shake—thus I can brave them all.
“No trace of me shall greet them, when they come,
“And I can trust thy faith, for—thou’lt be dumb.
“Now mark how readily a wretch like me,
“In one bold plunge, commences Deity!”
He sprung and sunk, as the last words were said—
Quick clos’d the burning waters o’er his head,
And ZELICA was left—within the ring
Of those wide walls the only living thing;
The only wretched one, still curs’d with breath,
In all that frightful wilderness of death!
More like some bloodless ghost—such as, they tell,
In the lone Cities of the Silent[148] dwell,
And there, unseen of all but ALLA, sit
Each by its own pale carcass, watching it.
But morn is up, and a fresh warfare stirs
Throughout the camp of the beleaguerers.
Their globes of fire (the dread artillery lent
By GREECE to conquering MAHADI) are spent;
And now the scorpion’s shaft, the quarry sent
From high balistas, and the shielding throng
Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along,
All speak the’ impatient Islamite’s intent
To try, at length, if tower and battlement
And bastion’d wall be not less hard to win,
Less tough to break down than the hearts within.
First in impatience and in toil is he,
The burning AZIM—oh! could he but see
The’ Impostor once alive within his grasp,
Not the gaunt lion’s hug, nor boa’s clasp,
Could match that gripe of vengeance, or keep pace
With the fell heartiness of Hate’s embrace!
Loud rings the ponderous ram against the walls;
Now shake the ramparts, now a buttress falls,
But still no breach—“Once more, one mighty swing
“Of all your beams, together thundering!”
There—the wall shakes—the shouting troops exult,
“Quick, quick discharge your weightiest catapult
“Right on that spot, and NEKSHEB is our own!”
’Tis done—the battlements come crashing down,
And the huge wall, by that stroke riven in two,
Yawning, like some old crater, rent anew,
Shows the dim, desolate city smoking through.
But strange! no signs of life—nought living seen
Above, below—what can this stillness mean?
A minute’s pause suspends all hearts and eyes—
“In through the breach,” impetuous AZIM cries;
But the cool CALIPH, fearful of some wile
In this blank stillness, checks the troops awhile.—
Just then, a figure, with slow step, advanc’d
Forth from the ruin’d walls, and, as there glanc’d
A sunbeam over it, all eyes could see
The well-known Silver Veil!—“’Tis He, ’tis He,
“MOKANNA, and alone!” they shout around;
Young AZIM from his steed springs to the ground—
“Mine, Holy Caliph! mine,” he cries, “the task
“To crush yon daring wretch—’tis all I ask.”
Eager he darts to meet the demon foe,
Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow
And falteringly comes, till they are near;
Then, with a bound, rushes on AZIM’S spear,
And, casting off the Veil in falling, shows—
Oh!—’tis his ZELICA’S life-blood that flows!
“I meant not, AZIM,” soothingly she said,
As on his trembling arm she lean’d her head,
And, looking in his face, saw anguish there
Beyond all wounds the quivering flesh can bear—
“I meant not _thou_ shouldst have the pain of this:—
“Though death, with thee thus tasted, is a bliss
“Thou wouldst not rob me of, didst thou but know
“How oft I’ve pray’d to God I might die so!
“But the Fiend’s venom was too scant and slow;—
“To linger on were maddening—and I thought
“If once that Veil—nay, look not on it—caught
“The eyes of your fierce soldiery, I should be
“Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly.
“But this is sweeter—oh! believe me, yes—
“I would not change this sad, but dear caress,
“This death within thy arms I would not give
“For the most smiling life the happiest live!
“All, that stood dark and drear before the eye
“Of my stray’d soul, is passing swiftly by;
“A light comes o’er me from those looks of love,
“Like the first dawn of mercy from above;
“And if thy lips but tell me I’m forgiven,
“Angels will echo the blest words in Heaven!
“But live, my AZIM;—oh! to call thee mine
“Thus once again! _my_ AZIM—dream divine!
“Live, if thou ever lov’dst me, if to meet
“Thy ZELICA hereafter would be sweet,
“Oh, live to pray for her—to bend the knee
“Morning and night before that Deity,
“To whom pure lips and hearts without a stain,
“As thine are, AZIM, never breath’d in vain,—
“And pray that He may pardon her,—may take
“Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake,
“And, nought remembering but her love to thee,
“Make her all thine, all His, eternally!
“Go to those happy fields where first we twin’d
“Our youthful hearts together—every wind
“That meets thee there, fresh from the well-known flowers,
“Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours
“Back to thy soul, and mayst thou feel again
“For thy poor ZELICA as thou didst then.
“So shall thy orisons, like dew that flies
“To Heaven upon the morning’s sunshine, rise
“With all love’s earliest ardour to the skies!
“And should they—but, alas, my senses fail—
“Oh for one minute!—should thy prayers prevail—
“If pardon’d souls may, from that World of Bliss,
“Reveal their joy to those they love in this—
“I’ll come to thee—in some sweet dream—and tell—
“Oh Heaven—I die—dear love! farewell, farewell.”
Time fleeted—years on years had pass’d away,
And few of those who, on that mournful day,
Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see
The maiden’s death and the youth’s agony,
Were living still—when, by a rustic grave,
Beside the swift Amoo’s transparent wave,
An aged man, who had grown aged there
By that lone grave, morning and night in prayer,
For the last time knelt down—and, though the shade
Of death hung darkening over him, there play’d
A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek,
That brighten’d even Death—like the last streak
Of intense glory on the’ horizon’s brim,
When night o’er all the rest hangs chill and dim.
His soul had seen a Vision, while he slept;
She, for whose spirit he had pray’d and wept
So many years, had come to him, all drest
In angel smiles, and told him she was blest!
For this the old man breath’d his thanks and died.—
And there, upon the banks of that lov’d tide,
He and his ZELICA sleep side by side.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The story of the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan being ended, they were now
doomed to hear FADLADEEN’S criticisms upon it. A series of
disappointments and accidents had occurred to this learned Chamberlain
during the journey. In the first place, those couriers stationed, as in
the reign of Shah Jehan, between Delhi and the Western coast of India,
to secure a constant supply of mangoes for the Royal Table, had, by some
cruel irregularity, failed in their duty, and to eat any mangoes but
those of Mazagong was, of course, impossible.[149] In the next place,
the elephant, laden with his fine antique porcelain,[150] had, in an
unusual fit of liveliness, shattered the whole set to pieces:—an
irreparable loss, as many of the vessels were so exquisitely old, as to
have been used under the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages
before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran, too, supposed to be the identical
copy between the leaves of which Mahomet’s favourite pigeon used to
nestle, had been mislaid by his Koran-bearer three whole days; not
without much spiritual alarm to FADLADEEN, who, though professing to
hold with other loyal and orthodox Mussulmans, that salvation could only
be found in the Koran, was strongly suspected of believing in his heart,
that it could only be found in his own particular copy of it. When to
all these grievances is added the obstinacy of the cooks, in putting the
pepper of Canara into his dishes instead of the cinnamon of Serendib, we
may easily suppose that he came to the task of criticism with, at least,
a sufficient degree of irritability for the purpose.
“In order,” said he, importantly swinging about his chaplet of pearls,
“to convey with clearness my opinion of the story this young man has
related, it is necessary to take a review of all the stories that have
ever⸺”—“My good FADLADEEN!” exclaimed the Princess, interrupting him,
“we really do not deserve that you should give yourself so much trouble.
Your opinion of the poem we have just heard will, I have no doubt, be
abundantly edifying, without any further waste of your valuable
erudition.”—“If that be all,” replied the critic,—evidently mortified at
not being allowed to show how much he knew about every thing but the
subject immediately before him—“if that be all that is required, the
matter is easily despatched.” He then proceeded to analyse the poem, in
that strain (so well known to the unfortunate bards of Delhi), whose
censures were an infliction from which few recovered, and whose very
praises were like the honey extracted from the bitter flowers of the
aloe. The chief personages of the story were, if he rightly understood
them, an ill-favoured gentleman, with a veil over his face;—a young
lady, whose reason went and came, according as it suited the poet’s
convenience to be sensible or otherwise;—and a youth in one of those
hideous Bucharian bonnets, who took the aforesaid gentleman in a veil
for a Divinity. “From such materials,” said he, “what can be
expected?—after rivalling each other in long speeches and absurdities,
through some thousands of lines as indigestible as the filberts of
Berdaa, our friend in the veil jumps into a tub of aquafortis; the young
lady dies in a set speech, whose only recommendation is that it is her
last; and the lover lives on to a good old age for the laudable purpose
of seeing her ghost, which he at last happily accomplishes, and expires.
This, you will allow, is a fair summary of the story; and if Nasser, the
Arabian merchant, told no better,[151] our Holy Prophet (to whom be all
honour and glory!) had no need to be jealous of his abilities for
story-telling.”
With respect to the style, it was worthy of the matter;—it had not even
those politic contrivances of structure, which make up for the
commonness of the thoughts by the peculiarity of the manner, nor that
stately poetical phraseology by which sentiments mean in themselves,
like the blacksmith’s[152] apron converted into a banner, are so easily
gilt and embroidered into consequence. Then, as to the versification, it
was, to say no worse of it, execrable: it had neither the copious flow
of Ferdosi, the sweetness of Hafez, nor the sententious march of Sadi;
but appeared to him, in the uneasy heaviness of its movements, to have
been modelled upon the gait of a very tired dromedary. The licences,
too, in which it indulged, were unpardonable;—for instance, this line,
and the poem abounded with such:—
Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.
“What critic that can count,” said FADLADEEN, “and has his full
complement of fingers to count withal, would tolerate for an instant
such syllabic superfluities?” He here looked round, and discovered that
most of his audience were asleep; while the glimmering lamps seemed
inclined to follow their example. It became necessary, therefore,
however painful to himself, to put an end to his valuable animadversions
for the present, and he accordingly concluded, with an air of dignified
candour, thus:—“Notwithstanding the observations which I have thought it
my duty to make, it is by no means my wish to discourage the young
man:—so far from it, indeed, that if he will but totally alter his style
of writing and thinking, I have very little doubt that I shall be vastly
pleased with him.”
Some days elapsed, after this harangue of the Great Chamberlain,
before LALLA ROOKH could venture to ask for another story. The youth
was still a welcome guest in the pavilion—to _one_ heart, perhaps, too
dangerously welcome:—but all mention of poetry was, as if by common
consent, avoided. Though none of the party had much respect for
FADLADEEN, yet his censures, thus magisterially delivered, evidently
made an impression on them all. The Poet himself, to whom criticism
was quite a new operation, (being wholly unknown in that Paradise of
the Indies, Cashmere,) felt the shock as it is generally felt at
first, till use has made it more tolerable to the patient;—the Ladies
began to suspect that they ought not to be pleased, and seemed to
conclude that there must have been much good sense in what FADLADEEN
said, from its having sent them all so soundly to sleep;—while the
self-complacent Chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea of having,
for the hundred and fiftieth time in his life, extinguished a Poet.
LALLA ROOKH alone—and Love knew why—persisted in being delighted with
all she had heard, and in resolving to hear more as speedily as
possible. Her manner, however, of first returning to the subject was
unlucky. It was while they rested during the heat of noon near a
fountain, on which some hand had rudely traced those well-known words
from the Garden of Sadi,—“Many, like me, have viewed this fountain,
but they are gone, and their eyes are closed for ever!”—that she took
occasion, from the melancholy beauty of this passage, to dwell upon
the charms of poetry in general. “It is true,” she said, “few poets
can imitate that sublime bird, which flies always in the air, and
never touches the earth:[153]—it is only once in many ages a Genius
appears, whose words, like those on the Written Mountain, last for
ever:[154] but still there are some, as delightful, perhaps, though
not so wonderful, who, if not stars over our head, are at least
flowers along our path, and whose sweetness of the moment we ought
gratefully to inhale, without calling upon them for a brightness and a
durability beyond their nature. In short,” continued she, blushing, as
if conscious of being caught in an oration, “it is quite cruel that a
poet cannot wander through his regions of enchantment, without having
a critic for ever, like the old Man of the Sea, upon his
back!”[155]—FADLADEEN, it was plain, took this last luckless allusion
to himself, and would treasure it up in his mind as a whetstone for
his next criticism. A sudden silence ensued; and the Princess,
glancing a look at FERAMORZ, saw plainly she must wait for a more
courageous moment.
But the glories of Nature, and her wild fragrant airs, playing freshly
over the current of youthful spirits, will soon heal even deeper wounds
than the dull Fadladeens of this world can inflict. In an evening or two
after, they came to the small Valley of Gardens, which had been planted
by order of the Emperor, for his favourite sister Rochinara, during
their progress to Cashmere, some years before; and never was there a
more sparkling assemblage of sweets, since the Gulzar-e-Irem, or
Rose-bower of Irem. Every precious flower was there to be found, that
poetry, or love, or religion has ever consecrated; from the dark
hyacinth, to which Hafez compares his mistress’s hair,[156] to the
_Cámalatá_, by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of Indra is scented.[157]
As they sat in the cool fragrance of this delicious spot, and LALLA
ROOKH remarked that she could fancy it the abode of that Flower-loving
Nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay,[158] or of one of
those Peris, those beautiful creatures of the air, who live upon
perfumes, and to whom a place like this might make some amends for the
Paradise they have lost,—the young Poet, in whose eyes she appeared,
while she spoke, to be one of the bright spiritual creatures she was
describing, said hesitatingly that he remembered a Story of a Peri,
which, if the Princess had no objection, he would venture to relate. “It
is,” said he, with an appealing look to FADLADEEN, “in a lighter and
humbler strain than the other:” then, striking a few careless but
melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus began:—
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