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Who has not heard of the vale of CASHMERE,
With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,[311]
Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear
As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?
Oh! to see it at sunset,—when warm o’er the Lake
Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws,
Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take
A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!—
When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown,
And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own.
Here the music of pray’r from a minaret swells,
Here the Magian his urn, full of perfume, is swinging,
And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells
Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.[312]
Or to see it by moonlight,—when mellowly shines
The light o’er its palaces, gardens, and shrines;
When the water-falls gleam, like a quick fall of stars,
And the nightingale’s hymn from the Isle of Chenars
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet
From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet.—
Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks,
Hills, cupolas, fountains, call’d forth every one
Out of darkness, as if but just born of the Sun.
When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day,
From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away;
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover
The young aspen-trees,[313] till they tremble all over.
When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes,
And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl’d,
Shines in through the mountainous portal[314] that opes,
Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world!
But never yet, by night or day,
In dew of spring or summer’s ray,
Did the sweet Valley shine so gay
As now it shines—all love and light,
Visions by day and feasts by night!
A happier smile illumes each brow,
With quicker spread each heart uncloses,
And all is ecstasy—for now
The Valley holds its Feast of Roses;[315]
The joyous Time, when pleasures pour
Profusely round, and, in their shower,
Hearts open, like the Season’s Rose,—
The Flow’ret of a hundred leaves,[316]
Expanding while the dew-fall flows,
And every leaf its balm receives.
’Twas when the hour of evening came
Upon the Lake, serene and cool,
When Day had hid his sultry flame
Behind the palms of BARAMOULE,[317]
When maids began to lift their heads,
Refresh’d from their embroider’d beds,
Where they had slept the sun away,
And wak’d to moonlight and to play.
All were abroad—the busiest hive
On BELA’S[318] hills is less alive,
When saffron-beds are full in flower,
Than look’d the Valley in that hour.
A thousand restless torches play’d
Through every grove and island shade;
A thousand sparkling lamps were set
On every dome and minaret;
And fields and pathways, far and near,
Were lighted by a blaze so clear,
That you could see, in wandering round,
The smallest rose-leaf on the ground.
Yet did the maids and matrons leave
Their veils at home, that brilliant eve;
And there were glancing eyes about,
And cheeks, that would not dare shine out
In open day, but thought they might
Look lovely then, because ’twas night.
And all were free, and wandering,
And all exclaim’d to all they met,
That never did the summer bring
So gay a Feast of Roses yet;—
The moon had never shed a light
So clear as that which bless’d them there;
The roses ne’er shone half so bright,
Nor they themselves look’d half so fair.
And what a wilderness of flowers!
It seem’d as though from all the bowers
And fairest fields of all the year,
The mingled spoil were scatter’d here.
The Lake, too, like a garden breathes,
With the rich buds that o’er it lie,—
As if a shower of fairy wreaths
Had fall’n upon it from the sky!
And then the sounds of joy,—the beat
Of tabors and of dancing feet;—
The minaret-crier’s chaunt of glee
Sung from his lighted gallery,[319]
And answered by a ziraleet
From neighbouring Haram, wild and sweet;—
The merry laughter, echoing
From gardens, where the silken swing[320]
Wafts some delighted girl above
The top leaves of the orange grove;
Or, from those infant groups at play
Among the tents[321] that line the way,
Flinging, unaw’d by slave or mother,
Handfuls of roses at each other.—
Then, the sounds from the Lake, the low whispering in boats,
As they shoot through the moonlight;—the dipping of oars.
And the wild, airy warbling that every where floats,
Through the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores,
Like those of KATHAY, utter’d music, and gave
An answer in song to the kiss of each wave.[322]
But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of feeling,
That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing,—
Some lover, who knows all the heart-touching power
Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour.
Oh! best of delights as it every where is
To be near the lov’d _One_,—what a rapture is his
Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide
O’er the Lake of CASHMERE, with that _One_ by his side!
If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,
Think, think what a Heaven she must make of CASHMERE!
So felt the magnificent Son of ACBAR,[323]
When from power and pomp and the trophies of war
He flew to that Valley, forgetting them all
With the Light of the HARAM, his young NOURMAHAL.
When free and uncrown’d as the Conqueror rov’d
By the banks of that Lake, with his only belov’d,
He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch
From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match,
And preferr’d in his heart the least ringlet that curl’d
Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world.
There’s a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright,
Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day’s light,
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender,
Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour.
This _was_ not the beauty—oh, nothing like this,
That to young NOURMAHAL gave such magic of bliss!
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays
Like the light upon autumn’s soft shadowy days,
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies
From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes;
Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams,
Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heav’n in his dreams.
When pensive, it seem’d as if that very grace,
That charm of all others, was born with her face!
And when angry,—for ev’n in the tranquillest climes
Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes—
The short, passing anger but seem’d to awaken
New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken.
If tenderness touch’d her, the dark of her eye
At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,
From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings
From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings.
Then her mirth—oh! ’twas sportive as ever took wing
From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring;
Illum’d by a wit that would fascinate sages,
Yet playful as Peris just loos’d from their cages.[324]
While her laugh, full of life, without any control
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul;
And where it most sparkled no glance could discover,
In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten’d all over,—
Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon,
When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun.
Such, such were the peerless enchantments that gave
NOURMAHAL the proud Lord of the East for her slave:
And though bright was his Haram,—a living parterre
Of the flowers[325] of this planet—though treasures were there,
For which SOLIMAN’S self might have giv’n all the store
That the navy from OPHIR e’er wing’d to his shore,
Yet dim before _her_ were the smiles of them all,
And the Light of his Haram was young NOURMAHAL!
But where is she now, this night of joy,
When bliss is every heart’s employ?—
When all around her is so bright,
So like the visions of a trance,
That one might think, who came by chance
Into the vale this happy night,
He saw that City of Delight[326]
In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers
Are made of gems and light and flowers!—
Where is the lov’d Sultana? where,
When mirth brings out the young and fair,
Does she, the fairest, hide her brow,
In melancholy stillness now?
Alas!—how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied;
That stood the storm, when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,
Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity!
A something, light as air—a look,
A word unkind or wrongly taken—
Oh! love, that tempests never shook,
A breath, a touch like this hath shaken.
And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship’s smiling day;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds,—or like the stream,
That smiling left the mountain’s brow
As though its waters ne’er could sever,
Yet, ere it reach the plain below,
Breaks into floods, that part for ever.
Oh, you, that have the charge of Love,
Keep him in rosy bondage bound,
As in the Fields of Bliss above
He sits, with flow’rets fetter’d round;[327]—
Loose not a tie that round him clings,
Nor ever let him use his wings;
For e’en an hour, a minute’s flight
Will rob the plumes of half their light.
Like that celestial bird,—whose nest
Is found beneath far Eastern skies,—
Whose wings, though radiant when at rest,
Lose all their glory when he flies![328]
Some difference, of this dangerous kind,—
By which, though light, the links that bind
The fondest hearts may soon be riven;
Some shadow in Love’s summer heaven,
Which, though a fleecy speck at first,
May yet in awful thunder burst;—
Such cloud it is that now hangs over
The heart of the Imperial Lover,
And far hath banish’d from his sight
His NOURMAHAL, his Haram’s Light!
Hence is it, on this happy night,
When Pleasure through the fields and groves
Has let loose all her world of loves,
And every heart has found its own,
He wanders, joyless and alone,
And weary as that bird of Thrace,
Whose pinion knows no resting place.[329]
In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes
This Eden of the Earth supplies
Come crowding round—the cheeks are pale,
The eyes are dim:—though rich the spot
With every flow’r this earth has got,
What is it to the nightingale,
If there his darling rose is not?[330]
In vain the Valley’s smiling throng
Worship him, as he moves along;
He heeds them not—one smile of hers
Is worth a world of worshippers.
They but the Star’s adorers are,
She is the Heav’n that lights the Star!
Hence is it, too, that NOURMAHAL,
Amid the luxuries of this hour,
Far from the joyous festival,
Sits in her own sequester’d bower,
With no one near, to soothe or aid,
But that inspir’d and wondrous maid,
NAMOUNA, the Enchantress;—one,
O’er whom his race the golden sun
For unremember’d years has run,
Yet never saw her blooming brow
Younger or fairer than ’tis now.
Nay, rather,—as the west wind’s sigh
Freshens the flower it passes by,—
Time’s wing but seem’d, in stealing o’er,
To leave her lovelier than before.
Yet on her smiles a sadness hung,
And when, as oft, she spoke or sung
Of other worlds, there came a light
From her dark eyes so strangely bright,
That all believ’d nor man nor earth
Were conscious of NAMOUNA’S birth!
All spells and talismans she knew,
From the great Mantra,[331] which around
The Air’s sublimer Spirits drew,
To the gold gems[332] of AFRIC, bound
Upon the wandering Arab’s arm,
To keep him from the Siltim’s[333] harm.
And she had pledg’d her powerful art,—
Pledg’d it with all the zeal and heart
Of one who knew, though high her sphere,
What ’twas to lose a love so dear,—
To find some spell that should recall
Her Selim’s[334] smile to NOURMAHAL!
’Twas midnight—through the lattice, wreath’d
With woodbine, many a perfume breath’d
From plants that wake when others sleep,
From timid jasmine buds, that keep
Their odour to themselves all day,
But, when the sun-light dies away,
Let the delicious secret out
To every breeze that roams about;—
When thus NAMOUNA:—“’Tis the hour
“That scatters spells on herb and flower,
“And garlands might be gather’d now,
“That, twin’d around the sleeper’s brow,
“Would make him dream of such delights,
“Such miracles and dazzling sights,
“As Genii of the Sun behold,
“At evening, from their tents of gold
“Upon the’ horizon—where they play
“Till twilight comes, and, ray by ray,
“Their sunny mansions melt away.
“Now, too, a chaplet might be wreath’d
“Of buds o’er which the moon has breath’d,
“Which worn by her, whose love has stray’d,
“Might bring some Peri from the skies,
“Some sprite, whose very soul is made
“Of flow’rets’ breaths and lovers’ sighs,
“And who might tell⸺”
“For me, for me,”
Cried NOURMAHAL impatiently,—
“Oh! twine that wreath for me to-night.”
Then, rapidly, with foot as light
As the young musk-roe’s, out she flew,
To cull each shining leaf that grew
Beneath the moonlight’s hallowing beams,
For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams.
Anemones and Seas of Gold,[335]
And new-blown lilies of the river,
And those sweet flow’rets, that unfold
Their buds on CAMADEVA’S quiver;[336]
The tube-rose, with her silvery light,
That in the Gardens of Malay
Is call’d the Mistress of the Night,[337]
So like a bride, scented and bright,
She comes out when the sun’s away;—
Amaranths, such as crown the maids
That wander through ZAMARA’S shades;[338]—
And the white moon-flower, as it shows,
On SERENDIB’S high crags, to those
Who near the isle at evening sail,
Scenting her clove-trees in the gale;
In short, all flow’rets and all plants,
From the divine Amrita tree,[339]
That blesses heaven’s inhabitants
With fruits of immortality,
Down to the basil tuft,[340] that waves
Its fragrant blossom over graves,
And to the humble rosemary,
Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed
To scent the desert[341] and the dead:—
All in that garden bloom, and all
Are gather’d by young NOURMAHAL,
Who heaps her baskets with the flowers
And leaves, till they can hold no more;
Then to NAMOUNA flies, and showers
Upon her lap the shining store.
With what delight the’ Enchantress views
So many buds, bath’d with the dews
And beams of that bless’d hour!—her glance
Spoke something, past all mortal pleasures,
As, in a kind of holy trance,
She hung above those fragrant treasures,
Bending to drink their balmy airs,
As if she mix’d her soul with theirs.
And ’twas, indeed, the perfume shed
From flow’rs and scented flame, that fed
Her charmèd life—for none had e’er
Beheld her taste of mortal fare,
Nor ever in aught earthly dip,
But the morn’s dew, her roseate lip.
Fill’d with the cool, inspiring smell,
The’ Enchantress now begins her spell,
Thus singing as she winds and weaves
In mystic form the glittering leaves:—
--------------
I know where the winged visions dwell
That around the night-bed play;
I know each herb and flow’ret’s bell,
Where they hide their wings by day.
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The image of love, that nightly flies
To visit the bashful maid,
Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs
Its soul, like her, in the shade.
The dream of a future, happier hour,
That alights on misery’s brow,
Springs out of the silvery almond-flower,
That blooms on a leafless bough.[342]
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The visions, that oft to worldly eyes
The glitter of mines unfold,
Inhabit the mountain-herb,[343] that dyes
The tooth of the fawn like gold.
The phantom shapes—oh touch not them—
That appal the murderer’s sight,
Lurk in the fleshly mandrake’s stem,
That shrieks, when pluck’d at night!
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The dream of the injur’d, patient mind,
That smiles at the wrongs of men,
Is found in the bruis’d and wounded rind
Of the cinnamon, sweetest then.
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
--------------
No sooner was the flowery crown
Plac’d on her head, than sleep came down,
Gently as nights of summer fall,
Upon the lids of NOURMAHAL;—
And, suddenly, a tuneful breeze,
As full of small, rich harmonies
As ever wind, that o’er the tents
Of AZAB[344] blew, was full of scents,
Steals on her ear, and floats and swells.
Like the first air of morning creeping
Into those wreathy, Red-Sea shells,
Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping;[345]
And now a Spirit form’d, ’twould seem,
Of music and of light,—so fair,
So brilliantly his features beam,
And such a sound is in the air
Of sweetness when he waves his wings,—
Hovers around her, and thus sings:—
--------------
From CHINDARA’S[346] warbling fount I come,
Call’d by that moonlight garland’s spell;
From CHINDARA’S fount, my fairy home,
Where in music, morn and night, I dwell:
Where lutes in the air are heard about,
And voices are singing the whole day long,
And every sigh the heart breathes out
Is turn’d, as it leaves the lips, to song!
Hither I come
From my fairy home,
And if there’s a magic in Music’s strain,
I swear by the breath
Of that moonlight wreath,
Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.
For mine is the lay that lightly floats,
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea,
And melt in the heart as instantly:—
And the passionate strain that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through,
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too.
Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway
The Spirits of past Delight obey;—
Let but the tuneful talisman sound,
And they come, like Genii, hovering round.
And mine is the gentle song that bears
From soul to soul, the wishes of love,
As a bird, that wafts through genial airs
The cinnamon-seed from grove to grove.[347]
’Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure
The past, the present, and future of pleasure;[348]
When Memory links the tone that is gone
With the blissful tone that’s still in the ear;
And Hope from a heavenly note flies on
To a note more heavenly still that is near.
The warrior’s heart, when touch’d by me,
Can as downy soft and as yielding be
As his own white plume, that high amid death
Through the field has shone—yet moves with a breath!
And oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten,
When Music has reach’d her inward soul,
Like the silent stars, that wink and listen
While Heaven’s eternal melodies roll.
So, hither I come
From my fairy home,
And if there’s a magic in Music’s strain,
I swear by the breath
Of that moonlight wreath,
Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.
--------------
’Tis dawn—at least that earlier dawn,
Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,[349]
As if the morn had wak’d, and then
Shut close her lids of light again.
And NOURMAHAL is up, and trying
The wonders of her lute, whose strings—
Oh, bliss!—now murmur like the sighing
From that ambrosial Spirit’s wings.
And then, her voice—’tis more than human—
Never, till now, had it been given
To lips of any mortal woman
To utter notes so fresh from heaven;
Sweet as the breath of angel sighs,
When angel sighs are most divine.—
“Oh! let it last till night,” she cries,
“And he is more than ever mine.”
And hourly she renews the lay,
So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness
Should, ere the evening, fade away,—
For things so heavenly have such fleetness!
But, far from fading, it but grows
Richer, diviner as it flows;
Till rapt she dwells on every string,
And pours again each sound along,
Like echo, lost and languishing,
In love with her own wondrous song.
That evening, (trusting that his soul
Might be from haunting love releas’d
By mirth, by music, and the bowl,)
The’ Imperial SELIM held a feast
In his magnificent Shalimar:[350]—
In whose Saloons, when the first star
Of evening o’er the waters trembled,
The Valley’s loveliest all assembled;
All the bright creatures that, like dreams,
Glide through its foliage, and drink beams
Of beauty from its founts and streams;[351]
And all those wandering minstrel-maids,
Who leave—how _can_ they leave?—the shades
Of that dear Valley, and are found
Singing in gardens of the South[352]
Those songs, that ne’er so sweetly sound
As from a young Cashmerian’s mouth.
There, too, the Haram’s inmates smile;—
Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair,
And from the Garden of the NILE,
Delicate as the roses there;[353]—
Daughters of Love from CYPRUS’ rocks,
With Paphian diamonds in their locks;[354]—
Light PERI forms, such as there are
On the gold meads of CANDAHAR;[355]
And they, before whose sleepy eyes,
In their own bright Kathaian bowers,
Sparkle such rainbow butterflies,
That they might fancy the rich flowers,
That round them in the sun lay sighing,
Had been by magic all set flying.[356]
Every thing young, every thing fair
From East and West is blushing there,
Except—except—oh, NOURMAHAL!
Thou loveliest, dearest of them all,
The one, whose smile shone out alone,
Amidst a world the only one;
Whose light, among so many lights,
Was like that star on starry nights,
The seaman singles from the sky,
To steer his bark for ever by!
Thou wert not there—so SELIM thought,
And every thing seem’d drear without thee;
But, ah! thou wert, thou wert,—and brought
Thy charm of song all fresh about thee.
Mingling unnoticed with a band
Of lutanists from many a land,
And veil’d by such a mask as shades
The features of young Arab maids,[357]—
A mask that leaves but one eye free,
To do its best in witchery,—
She rov’d, with beating heart, around,
And waited, trembling, for the minute,
When she might try if still the sound
Of her lov’d lute had magic in it.
The board was spread with fruits and wine;
With grapes of gold, like those that shine
On CASBIN’S hills;[358]—pomegranates full
Of melting sweetness, and the pears,
And sunniest apples[359] that CAUBUL
In all its thousand gardens[360]bears;—
Plantains, the golden and the green,
MALAYA’S nectar’d mangusteen;[361]
Prunes of BOKARA, and sweet nuts
From the far groves of SAMARCAND,
And BASRA dates, and apricots,
Seed of the Sun,[362] from IRAN’S land;—
With rich conserve of Visna cherries,[363]
Of orange flowers, and of those berries
That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles
Feed on in ERAC’S rocky dells.[364]
All these in richest vases smile,
In baskets of pure santal-wood,
And urns of porcelain from that isle[365]
Sunk underneath the Indian flood,
Whence oft the lucky diver brings
Vases to grace the halls of kings.
Wines, too, of every clime and hue,
Around their liquid lustre threw;
Amber Rosolli,[366]—the bright dew
From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing;[367]
And SHIRAZ wine, that richly ran
As if that jewel, large and rare,
The ruby for which KUBLAI-KHAN
Offer’d a city’s wealth,[368] was blushing
Melted within the goblets there!
And amply SELIM quaffs of each,
And seems resolv’d the flood shall reach
His inward heart,—shedding around
A genial deluge, as they run,
That soon shall leave no spot undrown’d,
For Love to rest his wings upon.
He little knew how well the boy
Can float upon a goblet’s streams,
Lighting them with his smile of joy;—
As bards have seen him in their dreams,
Down the blue GANGES laughing glide
Upon a rosy lotus wreath,[369]
Catching new lustre from the tide
That with his image shone beneath.
But what are cups, without the aid
Of song to speed them as they flow?
And see—a lovely Georgian maid,
With all the bloom, the freshen’d glow
Of her own country maidens’ looks,
When warm they rise from TEFLIS’ brooks;[370]
And with an eye, whose restless ray,
Full, floating, dark—oh, he, who knows
His heart is weak, of heaven should pray
To guard him from such eyes as those!—
With a voluptuous wildness flings
Her snowy hand across the strings
Of a syrinda,[371] and thus sings:—
--------------
Come hither, come hither—by night and by day,
We linger in pleasures that never are gone;
Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away,
Another as sweet and as shining comes on.
And the love that is o’er, in expiring, gives birth
To a new one as warm, as unequall’d in bliss;
And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.[372]
Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh
As the flower of the Amra just op’d by a bee;[373]
And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,[374]
Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea.
Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth
When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss,
And own if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.
Here sparkles the nectar, that, hallow’d by love,
Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere,
Who for wine of this earth[375] left the fountains above,
And forgot heaven’s stars for the eyes we have here.
And, bless’d with the odour our goblet gives forth,
What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss?
For, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.
--------------
The Georgian’s song was scarcely mute,
When the same measure, sound for sound,
Was caught up by another lute,
And so divinely breathed around,
That all stood hush’d and wondering,
And turn’d and look’d into the air,
As if they thought to see the wing
Of ISRAFIL,[376] the Angel, there;—
So powerfully on every soul
That new, enchanted measure stole.
While now a voice, sweet as the note
Of the charm’d lute, was heard to float
Along its chords, and so entwine
Its sounds with theirs, that none knew whether
The voice or lute was most divine,
So wondrously they went together:—
--------------
There’s a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,
When two, that are link’d in one heavenly tie,
With heart never changing, and brow never cold,
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die!
One hour of a passion so sacred is worth
Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss;
And, oh! if there _be_ an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.
--------------
Twas not the air, ’twas not the words,
But that deep magic in the chords
And in the lips, that gave such power
As music knew not till that hour.
At once a hundred voices said,
“It is the mask’d Arabian maid!”
While SELIM, who had felt the strain
Deepest of any, and had lain
Some minutes rapt, as in a trance,
After the fairy sounds were o’er,
Too inly touched for utterance,
Now motion’d with his hand for more:—
--------------
Fly to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt,
Of tents with love, or thrones without?
Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The’ acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor lov’d the less
For flowering in a wilderness.
Our sands are bare, but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs
As o’er the marble courts of kings.
Then come—thy Arab maid will be
The lov’d and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.
Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,—
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;
As if the very lips and eyes,
Predestin’d to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then!
So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breath’d and shone;
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if loved for years.
Then fly with me,—if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.
Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,—
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first ’tis by the lapwing found.[377]
But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp’d image from its base,
To give to me the ruin’d place;—
Then, fare thee well—I’d rather make
My bower upon some icy lake
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine!
--------------
There was a pathos in this lay,
That, e’en without enchantment’s art,
Would instantly have found its way
Deep into SELIM’S burning heart;
But, breathing, as it did, a tone
To earthly lutes and lips unknown;
With every chord fresh from the touch
Of Music’s Spirit,—’twas too much!
Starting, he dash’d away the cup,—
Which, all the time of this sweet air,
His hand had held, untasted, up,
As if ’twere fix’d by magic there,—
And naming her, so long unnam’d,
So long unseen, wildly exclaim’d,
“Oh NOURMAHAL! oh NOURMAHAL!
“Hadst thou but sung this witching strain,
“I could forget—forgive thee all,
“And never leave those eyes again.”
The mask is off—the charm is wrought—
And SELIM to his heart has caught,
In blushes, more than ever bright,
His NOURMAHAL, his Haram’s Light!
And well do vanish’d frowns enhance
The charm of every brightened glance;
And dearer seems each dawning smile
For having lost its light awhile:
And, happier now for all her sighs,
As on his arm her head reposes,
She whispers him with laughing eyes,
“Remember, love, the Feast of Roses!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FADLADEEN, at the conclusion of this light rhapsody, took occasion to
sum up his opinion of the young Cashmerian’s poetry,—of which, he
trusted, they had that evening heard the last. Having recapitulated the
epithets, “frivolous”—“inharmonious”—“nonsensical,” he proceeded to say
that, viewing it in the most favourable light, it resembled one of those
Maldivian boats, to which the Princess had alluded in the relation of
her dream,[378]—a slight, gilded thing, sent adrift without rudder or
ballast, and with nothing but vapid sweets and faded flowers on board.
The profusion, indeed, of flowers and birds, which this poet had ready
on all occasions,—not to mention dews, gems, &c.—was a most oppressive
kind of opulence to his hearers; and had the unlucky effect of giving to
his style all the glitter of the flower-garden without its method, and
all the flutter of the aviary without its song. In addition to this, he
chose his subjects badly, and was always most inspired by the worst
parts of them. The charms of paganism, the merits of rebellion,—these
were the themes honoured with his particular enthusiasm; and, in the
poem just recited, one of his most palatable passages was in praise of
that beverage of the Unfaithful, wine;—“being, perhaps,” said he,
relaxing into a smile, as conscious of his own character in the Haram on
this point, “one of those bards, whose fancy owes all its illumination
to the grape, like that painted porcelain,[379] so curious and so rare,
whose images are only visible when liquor is poured into it.” Upon the
whole, it was his opinion, from the specimens which they had heard, and
which, he begged to say, were the most tiresome part of the journey,
that—whatever other merits this well-dressed young gentleman might
possess—poetry was by no means his proper avocation: “and indeed,”
concluded the critic, “from his fondness for flowers and for birds, I
would venture to suggest that a florist or a bird-catcher is a much more
suitable calling for him than a poet.”
They had now begun to ascend those barren mountains, which separate
Cashmere from the rest of India; and, as the heats were intolerable, and
the time of their encampments limited to the few hours necessary for
refreshment and repose, there was an end to all their delightful
evenings, and LALLA ROOKH saw no more of FERAMORZ. She now felt that her
short dream of happiness was over, and that she had nothing but the
recollection of its few blissful hours, like the one draught of sweet
water that serves the camel across the wilderness, to be her heart’s
refreshment during the dreary waste of life that was before her. The
blight that had fallen upon her spirits soon found its way to her cheek,
and her ladies saw with regret—though not without some suspicion of the
cause—that the beauty of their mistress, of which they were almost as
proud as of their own, was fast vanishing away at the very moment of all
when she had most need of it. What must the King of Bucharia feel, when,
instead of the lively and beautiful LALLA ROOKH, whom the poets of Delhi
had described as more perfect than the divinest images in the house of
Azor,[380] he should receive a pale and inanimate victim, upon whose
cheek neither health nor pleasure bloomed, and from whose eyes Love had
fled,—to hide himself in her heart?
If anything could have charmed away the melancholy of her spirits, it
would have been the fresh airs and enchanting scenery of that Valley,
which the Persians so justly call the Unequalled.[381] But neither the
coolness of its atmosphere, so luxurious after toiling up those bare and
burning mountains,—neither the splendour of the minarets and pagodas,
that shone out from the depth of its woods, nor the grottos, hermitages,
and miraculous fountains,[382] which make every spot of that region holy
ground,—neither the countless waterfalls, that rush into the Valley from
all those high and romantic mountains that encircle it, nor the fair
city on the Lake, whose houses, roofed with flowers,[383] appeared at a
distance like one vast and variegated parterre;—not all these wonders
and glories of the most lovely country under the sun could steal her
heart for a minute from those sad thoughts, which but darkened, and grew
bitterer every step she advanced.
The gay pomps and processions that met her upon her entrance into the
Valley, and the magnificence with which the roads all along were
decorated, did honour to the taste and gallantry of the young King. It
was night when they approached the city, and, for the last two miles,
they had passed under arches, thrown from hedge to hedge, festooned with
only those rarest roses from which the Attar Gul, more precious than
gold, is distilled, and illuminated in rich and fanciful forms with
lanterns of the triple-coloured tortoise-shell of Pegu.[384] Sometimes,
from a dark wood by the side of the road, a display of fire-works would
break out, so sudden and so brilliant, that a Brahmin might fancy he
beheld that grove, in whose purple shade the God of Battles was born,
bursting into a flame at the moment of his birth;—while, at other times,
a quick and playful irradiation continued to brighten all the fields and
gardens by which they passed, forming a line of dancing lights along the
horizon; like the meteors of the north as they are seen by those
hunters,[385] who pursue the white and blue foxes on the confines of the
Icy Sea.
These arches and fire-works delighted the Ladies of the Princess
exceedingly; and, with their usual good logic, they deduced from his
taste for illuminations, that the King of Bucharia would make the most
exemplary husband imaginable. Nor, indeed, could LALLA ROOKH herself
help feeling the kindness and splendour with which the young bridegroom
welcomed her;—but she also felt how painful is the gratitude, which
kindness from those we cannot love excites; and that their best
blandishments come over the heart with all that chilling and deadly
sweetness, which we can fancy in the cold, odoriferous wind[386] that is
to blow over this earth in the last days.
The marriage was fixed for the morning after her arrival, when she was,
for the first time, to be presented to the monarch in that Imperial
Palace beyond the lake, called the Shalimar. Though never before had a
night of more wakeful and anxious thought been passed in the Happy
Valley, yet, when she rose in the morning, and her Ladies came around
her, to assist in the adjustment of the bridal ornaments, they thought
they had never seen her look half so beautiful. What she had lost of the
bloom and radiancy of her charms was more than made up by that
intellectual expression, that soul beaming forth from the eyes, which is
worth all the rest of loveliness. When they had tinged her fingers with
the Henna leaf, and placed upon her brow a small coronet of jewels, of
the shape worn by the ancient Queens of Bucharia, they flung over her
head the rose-coloured bridal veil, and she proceeded to the barge that
was to convey her across the lake;—first kissing, with a mournful look,
the little amulet of cornelian, which her father at parting had hung
about her neck.
The morning was as fresh and fair as the maid on whose nuptials it rose,
and the shining lake, all covered with boats, the minstrels playing upon
the shores of the islands, and the crowded summer-houses on the green
hills around, with shawls and banners waving from their roofs, presented
such a picture of animated rejoicing, as only she, who was the object of
it all, did not feel with transport. To LALLA ROOKH alone it was a
melancholy pageant; nor could she have even borne to look upon the
scene, were it not for a hope that, among the crowds around, she might
once more perhaps catch a glimpse of FERAMORZ. So much was her
imagination haunted by this thought, that there was scarcely an islet or
boat she passed on the way, at which her heart did not flutter with the
momentary fancy that he was there. Happy, in her eyes, the humblest
slave upon whom the light of his dear looks fell!—In the barge
immediately after the Princess sat FADLADEEN, with his silken curtains
thrown widely apart, that all might have the benefit of his august
presence, and with his head full of the speech he was to deliver to the
King, “concerning FERAMORZ, and literature, and the Chabuk, as connected
therewith.”
They now had entered the canal which leads from the Lake to the splendid
domes and saloons of the Shalimar, and went gliding on through the
gardens that ascended from each bank, full of flowering shrubs that made
the air all perfume; while from the middle of the canal rose jets of
water, smooth and unbroken, to such a dazzling height, that they stood
like tall pillars of diamond in the sunshine. After sailing under the
arches of various saloons, they at length arrived at the last and most
magnificent, where the monarch awaited the coming of his bride; and such
was the agitation of her heart and frame, that it was with difficulty
she could walk up the marble steps, which were covered with cloth of
gold for her ascent from the barge. At the end of the hall stood two
thrones, as precious as the Cerulean Throne of Coolburga,[387] on one of
which sat ALIRIS, the youthful King of Bucharia, and on the other was,
in a few minutes, to be placed the most beautiful Princess in the world.
Immediately upon the entrance of LALLA ROOKH into the saloon, the
monarch descended from his throne to meet her; but scarcely had he time
to take her hand in his, when she screamed with surprise, and fainted at
his feet. It was FERAMORZ himself that stood before her!—FERAMORZ was,
himself, the Sovereign of Bucharia, who in this disguise had accompanied
his young bride from Delhi, and, having won her love as an humble
minstrel, now amply deserved to enjoy it as a King.
The consternation of FADLADEEN at this discovery was, for the moment,
almost pitiable. But change of opinion is a resource too convenient in
courts for this experienced courtier not to have learned to avail
himself of it. His criticisms were all, of course, recanted instantly:
he was seized with an admiration of the King’s verses, as unbounded as,
he begged him to believe, it was disinterested; and the following week
saw him in possession of an additional place, swearing by all the Saints
of Islam that never had there existed so great a poet as the Monarch
ALIRIS, and, moreover, ready to prescribe his favourite regimen of the
Chabuk for every man, woman, and child that dared to think otherwise.
Of the happiness of the King and Queen of Bucharia, after such a
beginning, there can be but little doubt; and, among the lesser
symptoms, it is recorded of LALLA ROOKH, that, to the day of her death,
in memory of their delightful journey, she never called the King by any
other name than FERAMORZ.
------------------------------------------------------------------------