LALLA ROOKH (continued 3)

"His blood!" she faintly screamed—her mind Still singling one from all mankind— "Yes—spite of his ravines and towers, "HAFED, my child, this night is ours. "Thanks to all-conquering treachery, "Without whose aid the links accurst, "That bind these impious slaves, would be "Too strong for ALLA'S self to burst! "That rebel fiend whose blade has spread "My path with piles of Moslem dead, "Whose baffling spells had almost driven "Back from their course the Swords of Heaven, "This night with all his band shall know "How deep an Arab's steel can go, "When God and Vengeance speed the blow. "And—Prophet! by that holy wreath "Thou worest on OHOD'S field of death,[237] "I swear, for every sob that parts "In anguish from these heathen hearts, "A gem from PERSIA'S plundered mines "Shall glitter on thy shrine of Shrines. "But, ha!—she sinks—that look so wild— "Those livid lips—my child, my child, "This life of blood befits not thee, "And thou must back to ARABY. "Ne'er had I riskt thy timid sex "In scenes that man himself might dread, "Had I not hoped our every tread "Would be on prostrate Persian necks— "Curst race, they offer swords instead! "But cheer thee, maid,—the wind that now "Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow "To-day shall waft thee from the shore; "And ere a drop of this night's gore "Have time to chill in yonder towers, "Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers!"

His bloody boast was all too true; There lurkt one wretch among the few Whom HAFED'S eagle eye could count Around him on that Fiery Mount,— One miscreant who for gold betrayed The pathway thro' the valley's shade To those high towers where Freedom stood In her last hold of flame and blood. Left on the field last dreadful night, When sallying from their sacred height The Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight, He lay—but died not with the brave; That sun which should have gilt his grave Saw him a traitor and a slave;— And while the few who thence returned To their high rocky fortress mourned For him among the matchless dead They left behind on glory's bed, He lived, and in the face of morn Laught them and Faith and Heaven to scorn.

Oh for a tongue to curse the slave Whose treason like a deadly blight Comes o'er the councils of the brave And blasts them in their hour of might! May Life's unblessed cup for him Be drugged with treacheries to the brim.— With hopes that but allure to fly, With joys that vanish while he sips, Like Dead-Sea fruits that tempt the eye, But turn to ashes on the lips![238] His country's curse, his children's shame, Outcast of virtue, peace and fame, May he at last with lips of flame On the parched desert thirsting die,— While lakes that shone in mockery nigh,[239] Are fading off, untouched, untasted, Like the once glorious hopes he blasted! And when from earth his spirit flies, Just Prophet, let the damned-one dwell Full in the sight of Paradise Beholding heaven and feeling hell!

LALLA ROOKH had the night before been visited by a dream which in spite of the impending fate of poor HAFED made her heart more than usually cheerful during the morning and gave her cheeks all the freshened animation of a flower that the Bidmusk had just passed over.[240] She fancied that she was sailing on that Eastern Ocean where the sea-gypsies who live for ever on the water[241] enjoy a perpetual summer in wandering from isle to isle when she saw a small gilded bark approaching her. It was like one of those boats which the Maldivian islanders send adrift, at the mercy of winds and waves, loaded with perfumes, flowers, and odoriferous wood, as an offering to the Spirit whom they call King of the Sea. At first, this little bark appeared to be empty but on coming nearer—

She had proceeded thus far in relating the dream to her Ladies, when FERAMORZ appeared at the door of the pavilion. In his presence of course everything else was forgotten and the continuance of the story was instantly requested by all. Fresh wood of aloes was set to burn in the cassolets;—the violet sherbets[242] were hastily handed round, and after a short prelude on his lute in the pathetic measure of Nava,[243] which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers, the Poet thus continued:—

The day is lowering—stilly black Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack, Disperst and wild, 'twixt earth and sky Hangs like a shattered canopy. There's not a cloud in that blue plain But tells of storm to come or past;— Here flying loosely as the mane Of a young war-horse in the blast;— There rolled in masses dark and swelling, As proud to be the thunder's dwelling! While some already burst and riven Seen melting down the verge of heaven; As tho' the infant storm had rent The mighty womb that gave him birth, And having swept the firmament Was now in fierce career for earth.

On earth 'twas yet all calm around, A pulseless silence, dread, profound, More awful than the tempest's sound. The diver steered for ORMUS' bowers, And moored his skiff till calmer hours; The sea-birds with portentous screech Flew fast to land;—upon the beach The pilot oft had paused, with glance Turned upward to that wild expanse;— And all was boding, drear and dark As her own soul when HINDA'S bark Went slowly from the Persian shore.— No music timed her parting oar,[244] Nor friends upon the lessening strand Lingering to wave the unseen hand Or speak the farewell, heard no more;— But lone, unheeded, from the bay The vessel takes its mournful way, Like some ill-destined bark that steers In silence thro' the Gate of Tears.[245] And where was stern AL HASSAN then? Could not that saintly scourge of men From bloodshed and devotion spare One minute for a farewell there? No—close within in changeful fits Of cursing and of prayer he sits In savage loneliness to brood Upon the coming night of blood,— With that keen, second-scent of death, By which the vulture snuffs his food In the still warm and living breath![246] While o'er the wave his weeping daughter Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter,— As a young bird of BABYLON,[247] Let loose to tell of victory won, Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstained By the red hands that held her chained.

And does the long-left home she seeks Light up no gladness on her cheeks? The flowers she nurst—the well-known groves, Where oft in dreams her spirit roves— Once more to see her dear gazelles Come bounding with their silver bells; Her birds' new plumage to behold And the gay, gleaming fishes count, She left all filleted with gold Shooting around their jasper fount;[248] Her little garden mosque to see, And once again, at evening hour, To tell her ruby rosary In her own sweet acacia bower.— Can these delights that wait her now Call up no sunshine on her brow? No,—silent, from her train apart,— As if even now she felt at heart The chill of her approaching doom,— She sits, all lovely in her gloom As a pale Angel of the Grave; And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave Looks with a shudder to those towers Where in a few short awful hours Blood, blood, in streaming tides shall run, Foul incense for to-morrow's sun! "Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou, "So loved, so lost, where art thou now? "Foe—Gheber—infidel—whate'er "The unhallowed name thou'rt doomed to bear, "Still glorious—still to this fond heart "Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art! "Yes—ALLA, dreadful ALLA! yes— "If there be wrong, be crime in this, "Let the black waves that round us roll, "Whelm me this instant ere my soul "Forgetting faith—home—father—all "Before its earthly idol fall, "Nor worship even Thyself above him— "For, oh, so wildly do I love him, "Thy Paradise itself were dim "And joyless, if not shared with him!" Her hands were claspt—her eyes upturned, Dropping their tears like moonlight rain; And, tho' her lip, fond raver! burned With words of passion, bold, profane. Yet was there light around her brow, A holiness in those dark eyes, Which showed,—tho' wandering earthward now,— Her spirit's home was in the skies. Yes—for a spirit pure as hers Is always pure, even while it errs; As sunshine broken in the rill Tho' turned astray is sunshine still!

So wholly had her mind forgot All thoughts but one she heeded not The rising storm—the wave that cast A moment's midnight as it past— Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread Of gathering tumult o'er her head— Clasht swords and tongues that seemed to vie With the rude riot of the sky.— But, hark!—that war-whoop on the deck— That crash as if each engine there, Mast, sails and all, were gone to wreck, Mid yells and stampings of despair! Merciful Heaven! what can it be? 'Tis not the storm, tho' fearfully The ship has shuddered as she rode O'er mountain-waves—"Forgive me, God! "Forgive me"—shrieked the maid and knelt, Trembling all over—for she felt As if her judgment hour was near; While crouching round half dead with fear, Her handmaids clung, nor breathed nor stirred— When, hark!—a second crash—a third— And now as if a bolt of thunder Had riven the laboring planks asunder, The deck falls in—what horrors then! Blood, waves and tackle, swords and men Come mixt together thro' the chasm,— Some wretches in their dying spasm Still fighting on—and some that call "For GOD and IRAN!" as they fall! Whose was the hand that turned away The perils of the infuriate fray, And snatcht her breathless from beneath This wilderment of wreck and death? She knew not—for a faintness came Chill o'er her and her sinking frame Amid the ruins of that hour Lay like a pale and scorched flower Beneath the red volcano's shower. But, oh! the sights and sounds of dread That shockt her ere her senses fled! The yawning deck—the crowd that strove Upon the tottering planks above— The sail whose fragments, shivering o'er The stragglers' heads all dasht with gore Fluttered like bloody flags—the clash Of sabres and the lightning's flash Upon their blades, high tost about Like meteor brands[249]—as if throughout The elements one fury ran, One general rage that left a doubt Which was the fiercer, Heaven or Man! Once too—but no—it could not be— 'Twas fancy all—yet once she thought, While yet her fading eyes could see High on the ruined deck she caught A glimpse of that unearthly form, That glory of her soul,—even then, Amid the whirl of wreck and storm, Shining above his fellow-men, As on some black and troublous night The Star of EGYPT,[250] whose proud light Never hath beamed on those who rest In the White Islands of the West, Burns thro' the storm with looks of flame That put Heaven's cloudier eyes to shame. But no—'twas but the minute's dream— A fantasy—and ere the scream Had half-way past her pallid lips, A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse Of soul and sense its darkness spread Around her and she sunk as dead. How calm, how beautiful comes on The stilly hour when storms are gone, When warring winds have died away, And clouds beneath the glancing ray Melt off and leave the land and sea Sleeping in bright tranquillity,— Fresh as if Day again were born, Again upon the lap of Morn!— When the light blossoms rudely torn And scattered at the whirlwind's will, Hang floating in the pure air still, Filling it all with precious balm, In gratitude for this sweet calm;— And every drop the thundershowers Have left upon the grass and flowers Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem[251] Whose liquid flame is born of them! When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze, There blow a thousand gentle airs And each a different perfume bears,— As if the loveliest plants and trees Had vassal breezes of their own To watch and wait on them alone, And waft no other breath than theirs: When the blue waters rise and fall, In sleepy sunshine mantling all; And even that swell the tempest leaves Is like the full and silent heaves Of lovers' hearts when newly blest, Too newly to be quite at rest.

Such was the golden hour that broke Upon the world when HINDA woke From her long trance and heard around No motion but the water's sound Rippling against the vessel's side, As slow it mounted o'er the tide.— But where is she?—her eyes are dark, Are wilder still—is this the bark, The same, that from HARMOZIA'S bay Bore her at morn—whose bloody way The sea-dog trackt?—no—strange and new Is all that meets her wondering view. Upon a galliot's deck she lies, Beneath no rich pavilion's shade,— No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes, Nor jasmine on her pillow laid. But the rude litter roughly spread With war-cloaks is her homely bed, And shawl and sash on javelins hung For awning o'er her head are flung. Shuddering she lookt around—there lay A group of warriors in the sun, Resting their limbs, as for that day Their ministry of death were done. Some gazing on the drowsy sea Lost in unconscious revery; And some who seemed but ill to brook That sluggish calm with many a look To the slack sail impatient cast, As loose it bagged around the mast.

Blest ALLA! who shall save her now? There's not in all that warrior band One Arab sword, one turbaned brow From her own Faithful Moslem land. Their garb—the leathern belt that wraps Each yellow vest[252]—that rebel hue— The Tartar fleece upon their caps[253]— Yes—yes—her fears are all too true, And Heaven hath in this dreadful hour Abandoned her to HAFED'S power;— HAFED, the Gheber!—at the thought Her very heart's blood chills within; He whom her soul was hourly taught To loathe as some foul fiend of sin, Some minister whom Hell had sent To spread its blast where'er he went And fling as o'er our earth he trod His shadow betwixt man and God! And she is now his captive,—thrown In his fierce hands, alive, alone; His the infuriate band she sees, All infidels—all enemies! What was the daring hope that then Crost her like lightning, as again With boldness that despair had lent She darted tho' that armed crowd A look so searching, so intent, That even the sternest warrior bowed Abasht, when he her glances caught, As if he guessed whose form they sought. But no—she sees him not—'tis gone, The vision that before her shone Thro' all the maze of blood and storm, Is fled—'twas but a phantom form— One of those passing, rainbow dreams, Half light, half shade, which Fancy's beams Paint on the fleeting mists that roll In trance or slumber round the soul.

But now the bark with livelier bound Scales the blue wave—the crew's in motion. The oars are out and with light sound Break the bright mirror of the ocean, Scattering its brilliant fragments round. And now she sees—with horror sees, Their course is toward that mountain-hold,— Those towers that make her life-blood freeze, Where MECCA'S godless enemies Lie like beleaguered scorpions rolled In their last deadly, venomous fold! Amid the illumined land and flood Sunless that mighty mountain stood; Save where above its awful head, There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red, As 'twere the flag of destiny Hung out to mark where death would be!

Had her bewildered mind the power Of thought in this terrific hour, She well might marvel where or how Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow, Since ne'er had Arab heard or known Of path but thro' the glen alone.— But every thought was lost in fear, When, as their bounding bark drew near The craggy base, she felt the waves Hurry them toward those dismal caves That from the Deep in windings pass Beneath that Mount's volcanic mass;— And loud a voice on deck commands To lower the mast and light the brands!— Instantly o'er the dashing tide Within a cavern's mouth they glide, Gloomy as that eternal Porch Thro' which departed spirits go:— Not even the flare of brand and torch Its flickering light could further throw Than the thick flood that boiled below. Silent they floated—as if each Sat breathless, and too awed for speech In that dark chasm where even sound Seemed dark,—so sullenly around The goblin echoes of the cave Muttered it o'er the long black wave As 'twere some secret of the grave!

But soft—they pause—the current turns Beneath them from its onward track;— Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns The vexed tide all foaming back, And scarce the oar's redoubled force Can stem the eddy's whirling course; When, hark!—some desperate foot has sprung Among the rocks—the chain is flung— The oars are up—the grapple clings, And the tost bark in moorings swings. Just then, a day-beam thro' the shade Broke tremulous—but ere the maid Can see from whence the brightness steals, Upon her brow she shuddering feels A viewless hand that promptly ties A bandage round her burning eyes; While the rude litter where she lies, Uplifted by the warrior throng, O'er the steep rocks is borne along.

Blest power of sunshine!—genial Day, What balm, what life is in thy ray! To feel thee is such real bliss, That had the world no joy but this To sit in sunshine calm and sweet.— It were a world too exquisite For man to leave it for the gloom, The deep, cold shadow of the tomb. Even HINDA, tho' she saw not where Or whither wound the perilous road, Yet knew by that awakening air, Which suddenly around her glowed, That they had risen from the darkness there, And breathed the sunny world again!

But soon this balmy freshness fled— For now the steepy labyrinth led Thro' damp and gloom—mid crash of boughs, And fall of loosened crags that rouse The leopard from his hungry sleep, Who starting thinks each crag a prey, And long is heard from steep to steep Chasing them down their thundering way! The jackal's cry—the distant moan Of the hyena, fierce and lone— And that eternal saddening sound Of torrents in the glen beneath, As 'twere the ever-dark Profound That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death! All, all is fearful—even to see, To gaze on those terrific things She now but blindly hears, would be Relief to her imaginings; Since never yet was shape so dread, But Fancy thus in darkness thrown And by such sounds of horror fed Could frame more dreadful of her own.

But does she dream? has Fear again Perplext the workings of her brain, Or did a voice, all music, then Come from the gloom, low whispering near— "Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here?" She does not dream—all sense, all ear, She drinks the words, "Thy Gheber's here." 'Twas his own voice—she could not err— Throughout the breathing world's extent There was but one such voice for her, So kind, so soft, so eloquent! Oh, sooner shall the rose of May Mistake her own sweet nightingale, And to some meaner minstrel's lay Open her bosom's glowing veil,[254] Than Love shall ever doubt a tone, A breath of the beloved one!

Though blest mid all her ills to think She has that one beloved near, Whose smile tho' met on ruin's brink Hath power to make even ruin dear,— Yet soon this gleam of rapture crost By fears for him is chilled and lost. How shall the ruthless HAFED brook That one of Gheber blood should look, With aught but curses in his eye, On her—a maid of ARABY— A Moslem maid—the child of him, Whose bloody banners' dire success Hath left their altars cold and dim, And their fair land a wilderness! And worse than all that night of blood Which comes so fast—Oh! who shall stay The sword, that once hath tasted food Of Persian hearts or turn its way? What arm shall then the victim cover, Or from her father shield her lover?

"Save him, my God!" she inly cries— "Save him this night—and if thine eyes "Have ever welcomed with delight "The sinner's tears, the sacrifice "Of sinners' hearts—guard him this night, "And here before thy throne I swear "From my heart's inmost core to tear "Love, hope, remembrance, tho' they be "Linkt with each quivering life-string there, "And give it bleeding all to Thee! "Let him but live,—the burning tear, "The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear, "Which have been all too much his own, "Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone. "Youth past in penitence and age "In long and painful pilgrimage "Shall leave no traces of the flame "That wastes me now—nor shall his name "E'er bless my lips but when I pray "For his dear spirit, that away "Casting from its angelic ray "The eclipse of earth, he too may shine "Redeemed, all glorious and all Thine! "Think—think what victory to win "One radiant soul like his from sin, "One wandering star of virtue back "To its own native, heavenward track! "Let him but live, and both are Thine, "Together Thine—for blest or crost, "Living or dead, his doom is mine, "And if he perish, both are lost!"

The next evening LALLA ROOKH was entreated by her Ladies to continue the relation of her wonderful dream; but the fearful interest that hung round the fate of HINDA and her lover had completely removed every trace of it from her mind;—much to the disappointment of a fair seer or two in her train, who prided themselves on their skill in interpreting visions, and who had already remarked, as an unlucky omen, that the Princess, on the very morning after the dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blossoms of the sorrowful tree, Nilica.[255]

FADLADEEN, whose indignation had more than once broken out during the recital of some parts of this heterodox poem, seemed at length to have made up his mind to the infliction; and took his seat this evening with all the patience of a martyr while the Poet resumed his profane and seditious story as follows:—

To tearless eyes and hearts at ease The leafy shores and sun-bright seas That lay beneath that mountain's height Had been a fair enchanting sight. 'Twas one of those ambrosial eyes A day of storm so often leaves At its calm setting—when the West Opens her golden bowers of rest, And a moist radiance from the skies Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes Of some meek penitent whose last Bright hours atone for dark ones past, And whose sweet tears o'er wrong forgiven Shine as they fall with light from heaven!

'Twas stillness all—the winds that late Had rushed through KERMAN'S almond groves, And shaken from her bowers of date That cooling feast the traveller loves.[256] Now lulled to languor scarcely curl The Green Sea wave whose waters gleam Limpid as if her mines of pearl Were melted all to form the stream: And her fair islets small and bright With their green shores reflected there Look like those PERI isles of light That hang by spell-work in the air

But vainly did those glories burst On HINDA'S dazzled eyes, when first The bandage from her brow was taken, And, pale and awed as those who waken In their dark tombs—when, scowling near, The Searchers of the Grave[257] appear.— She shuddering turned to read her fate In the fierce eyes that flasht around; And saw those towers all desolate, That o'er her head terrific frowned, As if defying even the smile Of that soft heaven to gild their pile. In vain with mingled hope and fear, She looks for him whose voice so dear Had come, like music, to her ear,— Strange, mocking dream! again 'tis fled. And oh, the shoots, the pangs of dread That thro' her inmost bosom run, When voices from without proclaim "HAFED, the Chief"—and, one by one, The warriors shout that fearful name! He comes—the rock resounds his tread— How shall she dare to lift her head Or meet those eyes whose scorching glare Not YEMEN'S boldest sons can bear? In whose red beam, the Moslem tells, Such rank and deadly lustre dwells As in those hellish fires that light The mandrake's charnel leaves at night.[258] How shall she bear that voice's tone, At whose loud battle-cry alone Whole squadrons oft in panic ran, Scattered like some vast caravan, When stretched at evening round the well They hear the thirsting tiger's yell.

Breathless she stands with eyes cast down Shrinking beneath the fiery frown Which, fancy tells her, from that brow Is flashing o'er her fiercely now: And shuddering as she hears the tread Of his retiring warrior band.— Never was pause full of dread; Till HAFED with a trembling hand Took hers and leaning o'er her said, "HINDA;"—that word was all he spoke. And 'twas enough—the shriek that broke From her full bosom told the rest.— Panting with terror, joy, surprise, The maid but lifts her wandering eyes, To hide them on her Gheber's breast! 'Tis he, 'tis he—the man of blood, The fellest of the Fire-fiend's brood, HAFED, the demon of the fight, Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,— Is her own loved Gheber, mild And glorious as when first he smiled In her lone tower and left such beams Of his pure eye to light her dreams, That she believed her bower had given Rest to some wanderer from heaven!

Moments there are, and this was one, Snatched like a minute's gleam of sun Amid the black Simoom's eclipse— Or like those verdant spots that bloom Around the crater's burning lips. Sweetening the very edge of doom! The past, the future—all that Fate Can bring of dark or desperate Around such hours but makes them cast Intenser radiance while they last! Even he, this youth—tho' dimmed and gone Each Star of Hope that cheered him on— His glories lost—his cause betrayed— IRAN, his dear-loved country, made A land of carcasses and slaves, One dreary waste of chains and graves! Himself but lingering, dead at heart, To see the last, long struggling breath Of Liberty's great soul depart, Then lay him down and share her death— Even he so sunk in wretchedness With doom still darker gathering o'er him, Yet, in this moment's pure caress, In the mild eyes that shone before him, Beaming that blest assurance worth All other transports known on earth. That he was loved-well, warmly loved— Oh! in this precious hour he proved How deep, how thorough-felt the glow Of rapture kindling out of woe;— How exquisite one single drop Of bliss thus sparkling to the top Of misery's cup—how keenly quaft, Tho' death must follow on the draught!

She too while gazing on those eyes That sink into her soul so deep, Forgets all fears, all miseries, Or feels them like the wretch in sleep, Whom fancy cheats into a smile. Who dreams of joy and sobs the while! The mighty Ruins where they stood Upon the mount's high, rocky verge Lay open towards the ocean flood, Where lightly o'er the illumined surge Many a fair bark that, all the day, Had lurkt in sheltering creek or bay Now bounded on and gave their sails, Yet dripping to the evening gales; Like eagles when the storm is done, Spreading their wet wings in the sun. The beauteous clouds, tho' daylight's Star Had sunk behind the hills of LAR, Were still with lingering glories bright.— As if to grace the gorgeous West The Spirit of departing Light That eve had left his sunny vest Behind him ere he winged his flight. Never was scene so formed for love! Beneath them waves of crystal move In silent swell—Heaven glows above And their pure hearts, to transport given, Swell like the wave and glow like heaven.

But ah! too soon that dream is past— Again, again her fear returns;— Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast, More faintly the horizon burns, And every rosy tint that lay On the smooth sea hath died away Hastily to the darkening skies A glance she casts—then wildly cries "At night, he said—and look, 'tis near— "Fly, fly—if yet thou lovest me, fly— "Soon will his murderous band be here. "And I shall see thee bleed and die.— "Hush! heardest thou not the tramp of men "Sounding from yonder fearful glen?— "Perhaps, even now they climb the wood— "Fly, fly—tho' still the West is bright, "He'll come—oh! yes—he wants thy blood— "I know him—he'll not wait for night!"

In terrors even to agony She clings around the wondering Chief;— "Alas, poor wildered maid! to me "Thou owest this raving trance of grief. "Lost as I am, naught ever grew "Beneath my shade but perisht too— "My doom is like the Dead Sea air, "And nothing lives that enters there! "Why were our barks together driven "Beneath this morning's furious heaven? "Why when I saw the prize that chance "Had thrown into my desperate arms,— "When casting but a single glance "Upon thy pale and prostrate charms, "I vowed (tho' watching viewless o'er "Thy safety thro' that hour's alarms) "To meet the unmanning sight no more— "Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow? "Why weakly, madly met thee now? "Start not—that noise is but the shock "Of torrents thro' yon valley hurled— "Dread nothing here—upon this rock "We stand above the jarring world, "Alike beyond its hope—its dread— "In gloomy safety like the Dead! "Or could even earth and hell unite "In league to storm this Sacred Height, "Fear nothing thou—myself, tonight, "And each o'erlooking star that dwells "Near God will be thy sentinels;— "And ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow, "Back to thy sire"— "To-morrow!—no"— The maiden screamed—"Thou'lt never see "To-morrow's sun—death, death will be "The night-cry thro' each reeking tower, "Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour! "Thou art betrayed—some wretch who knew "That dreadful glen's mysterious clew- "Nay, doubt not—by yon stars, 'tis true— "Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire; "This morning, with that smile so dire "He wears in joy he told me all "And stampt in triumph thro' our hall, "As tho' thy heart already beat "Its last life-throb beneath his feet! "Good Heaven, how little dreamed I then "His victim was my own loved youth!— "Fly—send—let some one watch the glen— "By all my hopes of heaven 'tis truth!"

Oh! colder than the wind that freezes Founts that but now in sunshine played, Is that congealing pang which seizes The trusting bosom, when betrayed. He felt it—deeply felt—and stood, As if the tale had frozen his blood, So mazed and motionless was he;— Like one whom sudden spells enchant, Or some mute, marble habitant Of the still Halls of ISHMONIE![259] But soon the painful chill was o'er, And his great soul herself once more Lookt from his brow in all the rays Of her best, happiest, grandest days. Never in moment most elate Did that high spirit loftier rise:— While bright, serene, determinate, His looks are lifted to the skies, As if the signal lights of Fate Were shining in those awful eyes! 'Tis come—his hour of martyrdom In IRAN'S sacred cause is come; And tho' his life hath past away Like lightning on a stormy day, Yet shall his death-hour leave a track Of glory permanent and bright To which the brave of after-times, The suffering brave, shall long look back With proud regret,—and by its light Watch thro' the hours of slavery's night For vengeance on the oppressor's crimes. This rock, his monument aloft, Shall speak the tale to many an age; And hither bards and heroes oft Shall come in secret pilgrimage, And bring their warrior sons and tell The wondering boys where HAFED fell; And swear them on those lone remains Of their lost country's ancient fanes, Never—while breath of life shall live Within them—never to forgive The accursed race whose ruthless chain Hath left on IRAN'S neck a stain Blood, blood alone can cleanse again!

Such are the swelling thoughts that now Enthrone themselves on HAFED'S brow; And ne'er did Saint of ISSA [260] gaze On the red wreath for martyrs twined. More proudly than the youth surveys That pile which thro' the gloom behind, Half lighted by the altar's fire, Glimmers—his destined funeral pyre! Heaped by his own, his comrades hands, Of every wood of odorous breath. There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands, Ready to fold in radiant death The few still left of those who swore To perish there when hope was o'er— The few to whom that couch of flame, Which rescues them from bonds and shame, Is sweet and welcome as the bed For their own infant Prophet spread, When pitying Heaven to roses turned The death-flames that beneath him burned![261]

With watchfulness the maid attends His rapid glance where'er it bends— Why shoot his eyes such awful beams? What plans he now? what thinks or dreams? Alas! why stands he musing here, When every moment teems with fear? "HAFED, my own beloved Lord," She kneeling cries—"first, last adored! "If in that soul thou'st ever felt "Half what thy lips impassioned swore, "Here on my knees that never knelt "To any but their God before, "I pray thee, as thou lovest me, fly— "Now, now—ere yet their blades are nigh. "Oh haste—the bark that bore me hither "Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea "East—west—alas, I care not whither, "So thou art safe, and I with thee! "Go where we will, this hand in thine, "Those eyes before me smiling thus, "Thro' good and ill, thro' storm and shine, "The world's a world of love for us! "On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell, "Where 'tis no crime to love too well; "Where thus to worship tenderly "An erring child of light like thee "Will not be sin—or if it be "Where we may weep our faults away, "Together kneeling, night and day, "Thou, for my sake, at ALLA'S shrine, "And I—at any God's, for thine!"

Wildly these passionate words she spoke— Then hung her head and wept for shame; Sobbing as if a heart-string broke With every deep-heaved sob that came, While he, young, warm—oh! wonder not If, for a moment, pride and fame; His oath—his cause—that shrine of flame, And IRAN'S self are all forgot For her, whom at his feet he sees Kneeling in speechless agonies. No, blame him not if Hope awhile Dawned in his soul and threw her smile O'er hours to come—o'er days and nights, Winged with those precious, pure delights Which she who bends all beauteous there Was born to kindle and to share. A tear or two which as he bowed To raise the suppliant, trembling stole, First warned him of this dangerous cloud Of softness passing o'er his soul. Starting he brusht the drops away Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray;— Like one who on the morn of fight Shakes from his sword the dews of night, That had but dimmed not stained its light.

Yet tho' subdued the unnerving thrill, Its warmth, its weakness lingered still So touching in each look and tone, That the fond, fearing, hoping maid Half counted on the flight she prayed, Half thought the hero's soul was grown As soft, as yielding as her own, And smiled and blest him while he said,— "Yes—if there be some happier sphere "Where fadeless truth like ours is dear.— "If there be any land of rest "For those who love and ne'er forget, "Oh! comfort thee—for safe and blest "We'll meet in that calm region yet!"

Scarce had she time to ask her heart If good or ill these words impart, When the roused youth impatient flew To the tower-wall, where high in view A ponderous sea-horn[262] hung, and blew A signal deep and dread as those The storm-fiend at his rising blows.— Full well his Chieftains, sworn and true Thro' life and death, that signal knew; For 'twas the appointed warning-blast, The alarm to tell when hope was past And the tremendous death-die cast! And there upon the mouldering tower Hath hung this sea-horn many an hour, Ready to sound o'er land and sea That dirge-note of the brave and free.

They came—his Chieftains at the call Came slowly round and with them all— Alas, how few!—the worn remains Of those who late o'er KERMAN'S plains When gayly prancing to the clash Of Moorish zel and tymbalon Catching new hope from every flash Of their long lances in the sun, And as their coursers charged the wind And the white ox-tails streamed behind,[263] Looking as if the steeds they rode Were winged and every Chief a God! How fallen, how altered now! how wan Each scarred and faded visage shone, As round the burning shrine they came;— How deadly was the glare it cast, As mute they paused before the flame To light their torches as they past! 'Twas silence all—the youth hath planned The duties of his soldier-band; And each determined brow declares His faithful Chieftains well know theirs. But minutes speed—night gems the skies— And oh, how soon, ye blessed eyes That look from heaven ye may behold Sights that will turn your star-fires cold! Breathless with awe, impatience, hope, The maiden sees the veteran group Her litter silently prepare, And lay it at her trembling feet;— And now the youth with gentle care, Hath placed her in the sheltered seat And prest her hand—that lingering press Of hands that for the last time sever; Of hearts whose pulse of happiness When that hold breaks is dead for ever. And yet to her this sad caress Gives hope—so fondly hope can err! 'Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess— Their happy flight's dear harbinger; 'Twas warmth—assurance—tenderness— 'Twas any thing but leaving her.

"Haste, haste!" she cried, "the clouds grow dark, "But still, ere night, we'll reach the bark; "And by to-morrow's dawn—oh bliss! "With thee upon the sun-bright deep, "Far off, I'll but remember this, "As some dark vanisht dream of sleep; "And thou"—but ah!—he answers not— Good Heaven!—and does she go alone? She now has reached that dismal spot, Where some hours since his voice's tone Had come to soothe her fears and ills, Sweet as the angel ISRAFIL'S,[264] When every leaf on Eden's tree Is trembling to his minstrelsy— Yet now—oh, now, he is not nigh.— "HAFED! my HAFED!—if it be "Thy will, thy doom this night to die "Let me but stay to die with thee "And I will bless thy loved name, "Till the last life-breath leave this frame. "Oh! let our lips, our cheeks be laid "But near each other while they fade; "Let us but mix our parting breaths, "And I can die ten thousand deaths! "You too, who hurry me away "So cruelly, one moment stay— "Oh! stay—one moment is not much— "He yet may come—for him I pray— "HAFED! dear HAFED!"—all the way In wild lamentings that would touch A heart of stone she shrieked his name To the dark woods—no HAFED came:— No—hapless pair—you've lookt your last:— Your hearts should both have broken then:— The dream is o'er—your doom is cast— You'll never meet on earth again!

Alas for him who hears her cries! Still half-way down the steep he stands, Watching with fixt and feverish eyes The glimmer of those burning brands That down the rocks with mournful ray, Light all he loves on earth away! Hopeless as they who far at sea By the cold moon have just consigned The corse of one loved tenderly To the bleak flood they leave behind, And on the deck still lingering stay, And long look back with sad delay To watch the moonlight on the wave That ripples o'er that cheerless grave.

But see—he starts—what heard he then? That dreadful shout!—across the glen From the land-side it comes and loud Rings thro' the chasm, as if the crowd Of fearful things that haunt that dell Its Ghouls and Divs and shapes of hell, And all in one dread howl broke out, So loud, so terrible that shout! "They come—the Moslems come!"—he cries, His proud soul mounting to his eyes,— "Now, Spirits of the Brave, who roam "Enfranchised thro' yon starry dome, "Rejoice—for souls of kindred fire "Are on the wing to join your choir!" He said—and, light as bridegrooms bound To their young loves, reclined the steep And gained the Shrine—his Chiefs stood round— Their swords, as with instinctive leap, Together at that cry accurst Had from their sheaths like sunbeams burst. And hark!—again—again it rings; Near and more near its echoings Peal thro' the chasm—oh! who that then Had seen those listening warrior-men, With their swords graspt, their eyes of flame Turned on their Chief—could doubt the shame, The indignant shame with which they thrill To hear those shouts and yet stand still?

He read their thoughts—they were his own— "What! while our arms can wield these blades, "Shall we die tamely? die alone? "Without one victim to our shades, "One Moslem heart, where buried deep "The sabre from its toil may sleep? "No—God of IRAN'S burning skies! "Thou scornest the inglorious sacrifice. "No—tho' of all earth's hope bereft, "Life, swords, and vengeance still are left. "We'll make yon valley's reeking caves "Live in the awe-struck minds of men "Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves "Tell of the Gheber's bloody glen, "Follow, brave hearts!—this pile remains "Our refuge still from life and chains; "But his the best, the holiest bed, "Who sinks entombed in Moslem dead!"

Down the precipitous rocks they sprung, While vigor more than human strung Each arm and heart.—The exulting foe Still thro' the dark defiles below, Trackt by his torches' lurid fire, Wound slow, as thro' GOLCONDA'S vale The mighty serpent in his ire Glides on with glittering, deadly trail. No torch the Ghebers need—so well They know each mystery of the dell, So oft have in their wanderings Crost the wild race that round them dwell, The very tigers from their delves Look out and let them pass as things Untamed and fearless like themselves!

There was a deep ravine that lay Yet darkling in the Moslem's way; Fit spot to make invaders rue The many fallen before the few. The torrents from that morning's sky Had filled the narrow chasm breast-high, And on each side aloft and wild Huge cliffs and toppling crags were piled,— The guards with which young Freedom lines The pathways to her mountain-shrines, Here at this pass the scanty band; Of IRAN'S last avengers stand; Here wait in silence like the dead And listen for the Moslem's tread So anxiously the carrion-bird Above them flaps his wing unheard!

They come—that plunge into the water Gives signal for the work of slaughter. Now, Ghebers, now—if e'er your blades Had point or prowess prove them now— Woe to the file that foremost wades! They come—a falchion greets each brow, And as they tumble trunk on trunk Beneath the gory waters sunk, Still o'er their drowning bodies press New victims quick and numberless; Till scarce an arm in HAFED'S band, So fierce their toil, hath power to stir, But listless from each crimson hand The sword hangs clogged with massacre. Never was horde of tyrants met With bloodier welcome—never yet To patriot vengeance hath the sword More terrible libations poured!

All up the dreary, long ravine, By the red, murky glimmer seen Of half-quenched brands, that o'er the flood Lie scattered round and burn in blood, What ruin glares! what carnage swims! Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs, Lost swords that dropt from many a hand, In that thick pool of slaughter stand;— Wretches who wading, half on fire From the tost brands that round them fly, 'Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire;— And some who grasp by those that die Sink woundless with them, smothered o'er In their dead brethren's gushing gore!

But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed, Still hundreds, thousands more succeed; Countless as toward some flame at night The North's dark insects wing their flight And quench or perish in its light, To this terrific spot they pour— Till, bridged with Moslem bodies o'er, It bears aloft their slippery tread, And o'er the dying and the dead, Tremendous causeway! on they pass. Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas, What hope was left for you? for you, Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice Is smoking in their vengeful eyes;— Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew. And burned with shame to find how few.

Crusht down by that vast multitude Some found their graves where first they stood; While some with hardier struggle died, And still fought on by HAFED'S side, Who fronting to the foe trod back Towards the high towers his gory track; And as a lion swept away By sudden swell of JORDAN'S pride From the wild covert where he lay,[265] Long battles with the o'erwhelming tide, So fought he back with fierce delay And kept both foes and fate at bay.

But whither now? their track is lost, Their prey escaped—guide, torches gone— By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost, The scattered crowd rush blindly on— "Curse on those tardy lights that wind," They panting cry, "so far behind; "Oh, for a bloodhound's precious scent, "To track the way the Ghebers went!" Vain wish—confusedly along They rush more desperate as more wrong: Till wildered by the far-off lights, Yet glittering up those gloomy heights, Their footing mazed and lost they miss, And down the darkling precipice Are dasht into the deep abyss; Or midway hang impaled on rocks, A banquet yet alive for flocks Of ravening vultures,—while the dell Re-echoes with each horrible yell. Those sounds—the last, to vengeance dear. That e'er shall ring in HAFED'S ear,— Now reached him as aloft alone Upon the steep way breathless thrown, He lay beside his reeking blade, Resigned, as if life's task were o'er, Its last blood-offering amply paid, And IRAN'S self could claim no more. One only thought, one lingering beam Now broke across his dizzy dream Of pain and weariness—'twas she, His heart's pure planet shining yet Above the waste of memory When all life's other lights were set. And never to his mind before Her image such enchantment wore. It seemed as if each thought that stained, Each fear that chilled their loves was past, And not one cloud of earth remained Between him and her radiance cast;— As if to charms, before so bright, New grace from other worlds was given. And his soul saw her by the light Now breaking o'er itself from heaven!

A voice spoke near him—'twas the tone Of a loved friend, the only one Of all his warriors left with life From that short night's tremendous strife.— "And must we then, my chief, die here? "Foes round us and the Shrine so near!" These words have roused the last remains Of life within him:—"What! not yet "Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!"

The thought could make even Death forget His icy bondage:—with a bound He springs all bleeding from the ground And grasps his comrade's arm now grown Even feebler, heavier than his own. And up the painful pathway leads, Death gaining on each step he treads. Speed them, thou God, who heardest their vow! They mount—they bleed—oh save them now— The crags are red they've clambered o'er, The rock-weed's dripping with their gore;— Thy blade too, HAFED, false at length, How breaks beneath thy tottering strength! Haste, haste—the voices of the Foe Come near and nearer from below— One effort more—thank Heaven! 'tis past, They've gained the topmost steep at last. And now they touch the temple's walls. Now HAFED sees the Fire divine— When, lo!—his weak, worn comrade falls Dead on the threshold of the shrine. "Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled! "And must I leave thee withering here, "The sport of every ruffian's tread, "The mark for every coward's spear? "No, by yon altar's sacred beams!" He cries and with a strength that seems Not of this world uplifts the frame Of the fallen Chief and toward the flame Bears him along; with death-damp hand The corpse upon the pyre he lays, Then lights the consecrated brand And fires the pile whose sudden blaze Like lightning bursts o'er OMAN'S Sea.— "Now, Freedom's God! I come to Thee," The youth exclaims and with a smile Of triumph vaulting on the pile, In that last effort ere the fires Have harmed one glorious limb expires!

What shriek was that on OMAN'S tide? It came from yonder drifting bark, That just hath caught upon her side The death-light—and again is dark. It is the boat—ah! why delayed?— That bears the wretched Moslem maid; Confided to the watchful care Of a small veteran band with whom Their generous Chieftain would not share The secret of his final doom, But hoped when HINDA safe and free Was rendered to her father's eyes, Their pardon full and prompt would be The ransom of so dear a prize.— Unconscious thus of HAFED'S fate, And proud to guard their beauteous freight, Scarce had they cleared the surfy waves That foam around those frightful caves When the curst war-whoops known so well Came echoing from the distant dell— Sudden each oar, upheld and still, Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side, And driving at the current's will, They rockt along the whispering tide; While every eye in mute dismay Was toward that fatal mountain turned. Where the dim altar's quivering ray As yet all lone and tranquil burned.

Oh! 'tis not, HINDA, in the power Of Fancy's most terrific touch To paint thy pangs in that dread hour— Thy silent agony—'twas such As those who feel could paint too well, But none e'er felt and lived to tell! 'Twas not alone the dreary state Of a lorn spirit crusht by fate, When tho' no more remains to dread The panic chill will not depart;— When tho' the inmate Hope be dead, Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart; No—pleasures, hopes, affections gone, The wretch may bear and yet live on Like things within the cold rock found Alive when all's congealed around. But there's a blank repose in this, A calm stagnation, that were bliss To the keen, burning, harrowing pain, Now felt thro' all thy breast and brain;— That spasm of terror, mute, intense, That breathless, agonized suspense From whose hot throb whose deadly aching, The heart hath no relief but breaking!

Calm is the wave—heaven's brilliant lights Reflected dance beneath the prow;— Time was when on such lovely nights She who is there so desolate now Could sit all cheerful tho' alone And ask no happier joy than seeing That starlight o'er the waters thrown— No joy but that to make her blest, And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being Which bounds in youth's yet careless breast,— Itself a star not borrowing light But in its own glad essence bright. How different now!—but, hark! again The yell of havoc rings—brave men! In vain with beating hearts ye stand On the bark's edge—in vain each hand Half draws the falchion from its sheath; All's o'er—in rust your blades may lie:— He at whose word they've scattered death Even now this night himself must die! Well may ye look to yon dim tower, And ask and wondering guess what means The battle-cry at this dead hour— Ah! she could tell you—she who leans Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast, With brow against the dew-cold mast;— Too well she knows—her more than life, Her soul's first idol and its last Lies bleeding in that murderous strife. But see—what moves upon the height? Some signal!—'tis a torch's light What bodes its solitary glare? In gasping silence toward the Shrine All eyes are turned—thine, HINDA, thine Fix their last fading life-beams there. 'Twas but a moment—fierce and high The death-pile blazed into the sky And far-away o'er rock and flood Its melancholy radiance sent: While HAFED like a vision stood Revealed before the burning pyre. Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of fire Shrined in its own grand element! "'Tis he!"—the shuddering maid exclaims,— But while she speaks he's seen no more; High burst in air the funeral flames, And IRAN'S hopes and hers are o'er!

One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave; Then sprung as if to reach that blaze Where still she fixt her dying gaze, And gazing sunk into the wave.— Deep, deep,—where never care or pain Shall reach her innocent heart again!

* * * * *

Farewell—farewell to thee. ARABY'S daughter! (Thus warbled a PERI beneath the dark sea,) No pearl ever lay under OMAN'S green water More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee.

Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till Love's witchery came, Like the wind of the south[266] o'er a summer lute blowing, And husht all its music and withered its frame!

But long upon ARABY'S green sunny highlands Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands With naught but the sea-star[267] to light up her tomb.

And still when the merry date-season is burning And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, The happiest there from their pastime returning At sunset will weep when thy story is told.

The young village-maid when with flowers she dresses Her dark flowing hair for some festival day Will think of thy fate till neglecting her tresses She mournfully turns from the mirror away.

Nor shall IRAN, beloved of her Hero! forget thee— Tho' tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee, Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell—be it ours to embellish thy pillow With everything beauteous that grows in the deep; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept;[268] With many a shell in whose hollow-wreathed chamber We Peris of Ocean by moonlight have slept.

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian[269] are sparkling And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

Farewell—farewell!—Until Pity's sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain, They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.

The singular placidity with which FADLADEEN had listened during the latter part of this obnoxious story surprised the Princess and FERAMORZ exceedingly; and even inclined towards him the hearts of these unsuspicious young persons who little knew the source of a complacency so marvellous. The truth was he had been organizing for the last few days a most notable plan of persecution against the poet in consequence of some passages that had fallen from him on the second evening of recital,—which appeared to this worthy Chamberlain to contain language and principles for which nothing short of the summary criticism of the Chabuk[270] would be advisable. It was his intention therefore immediately on their arrival at Cashmere to give information to the King of Bucharia of the very dangerous sentiments of his minstrel; and if unfortunately that monarch did not act with suitable vigor on the occasion, (that is, if he did not give the Chabuk to FERAMORZ and a place to FADLADEEN.) there would be an end, he feared, of all legitimate government in Bucharia. He could not help however auguring better both for himself and the cause of potentates in general; and it was the pleasure arising from these mingled anticipations that diffused such unusual satisfaction through his features and made his eyes shine out like poppies of the desert over the wide and lifeless wilderness of that countenance.

Having decided upon the Poet's chastisement in this manner he thought it but humanity to spare him the minor tortures of criticism. Accordingly when they assembled the following evening in the pavilion and LALLA ROOKH was expecting to see all the beauties of her bard melt away one by one in the acidity of criticism, like pearls in the cup of the Egyptian queen.— he agreeably disappointed her by merely saying with an ironical smile that the merits of such a poem deserved to be tried at a much higher tribunal; and then suddenly passed off into a panegyric upon all Mussulman sovereigns, more particularly his august and Imperial master, Aurungzebe, —the wisest and best of the descendants of Timur,—who among other great things he had done for mankind had given to him, FADLADEEN, the very profitable posts of Betel-carrier and Taster of Sherbets to the Emperor, Chief Holder of the Girdle of Beautiful Forms,[271] and Grand Nazir or Chamberlain of the Haram.

They were now not far from that Forbidden River[272] beyond which no pure Hindoo can pass, and were reposing for a time in the rich valley of Hussun Abdaul, which had always been a favorite resting-place of the Emperors in their annual migrations to Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the Faith, Jehan-Guire, been known to wander with his beloved and beautiful Nourmahal, and here would LALLA ROOKH have been happy to remain for ever, giving up the throne of Bucharia and the world for FERAMORZ and love in this sweet, lonely valley. But the time was now fast approaching when she must see him no longer,—or, what was still worse, behold him with eyes whose every look belonged to another, and there was a melancholy preciousness in these last moments, which made her heart cling to them as it would to life. During the latter part of the journey, indeed, she had sunk into a deep sadness from which nothing but the presence of the young minstrel could awake her. Like those lamps in tombs which only light up when the air is admitted, it was only at his approach that her eyes became smiling and animated. But here in this dear valley every moment appeared an age of pleasure; she saw him all day and was therefore all day happy,— resembling, she often thought, that people of Zinge[273] who attribute the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly over their heads.[274]

The whole party indeed seemed in their liveliest mood during the few days they passed in this delightful solitude. The young attendants of the Princess who were here allowed a much freer range than they could safely be indulged with in a less sequestered place ran wild among the gardens and bounded through the meadows lightly as young roes over the aromatic plains of Tibet. While FADLADEEN, in addition to the spiritual comfort derived by him from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Saint from whom the valley is named, had also opportunities of indulging in a small way his taste for victims by putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate little lizards,[275] which all pious Mussulmans make it a point to kill;— taking for granted that the manner in which the creature hangs its head is meant as a mimicry of the attitude in which the Faithful say their prayers.

About two miles from Hussun Abdaul were those Royal Gardens which had grown beautiful under the care of so many lovely eyes, and were beautiful still though those eyes could see them no longer. This place, with its flowers and its holy silence interrupted only by the dipping of the wings of birds in its marble basins filled with the pure water of those hills, was to LALLA ROOKH all that her heart could fancy of fragrance, coolness, and almost heavenly tranquillity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, "it was too delicious;"[276]—and here in listening to the sweet voice of FERAMORZ or reading in his eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the most exquisite moments of her whole life were passed. One evening when they had been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal, the Light of the Haram, [277] who had so often wandered among these flowers, and fed with her own hands in those marble basins the small shining fishes of which she was so fond,—the youth in order to delay the moment of separation proposed to recite a short story or rather rhapsody of which this adored Sultana was the heroine. It related, he said, to the reconcilement of a sort of lovers' quarrel which took place between her and the Emperor during a Feast of Roses at Cashmere; and would remind the Princess of that difference between Haroun-al-Raschid and his fair mistress Marida, which was so happily made up by the soft strains of the musician Moussali. As the story was chiefly to be told in song and FERAMORZ had unluckily forgotten his own lute in the valley, he borrowed the vina of LALLA ROOKH'S little Persian slave, and thus began:—

THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM.

Who has not heard of the Vale of CASHMERE, With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,[278] Its temples and grottos and fountains as clear As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?

Oh! to see it at sunset,—when warm o'er the Lake Its splendor 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 thro' the foliage are gleaming half shown, And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells, Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging, And here at the altar a zone of sweet bells Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.[279] 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, called 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 wooes like a lover The young aspen-trees,[280] till they tremble all over. When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes, And day with his banner of radiance unfurled Shines in thro' the mountainous portal[281] that opes, Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world!

But never yet by night or day, In dew of spring or summer's ray, Did the sweet Valley shine so 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;[282] The joyous Time when pleasures pour Profusely round and in their shower Hearts open like the Season's Rose,— The Floweret of a hundred leaves[283] 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, When maids began to lift their heads. Refresht from their embroidered beds Where they had slept the sun away, And waked to moonlight and to play. All were abroad:—the busiest hive On BELA'S[284] hills is less alive When saffron-beds are full in flower, Than lookt the Valley in that hour. A thousand restless torches played Thro' 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 exclaimed 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 blest them there; The roses ne'er shone half so bright, Nor they themselves lookt half so fair.

And what a wilderness of flowers! It seemed as tho' from all the bowers And fairest fields of all the year, The mingled spoil were scattered 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 fallen upon it from the sky! And then the sounds of joy,—the beat Of tabors and of dancing feet;— The minaret-crier's chant of glee Sung from his lighted gallery,[285] And answered by a ziraleet From neighboring Haram, wild and sweet;— The merry laughter echoing From gardens where the silken swing[286] Wafts some delighted girl above The top leaves of the orange-grove; Or from those infant groups at play Among the tents[287] that line the way, Flinging, unawed by slave or mother, Handfuls of roses at each other.— Then the sounds from the Lake,—the low whispering in boats, As they shoot thro' the moonlight,—the dipping of oars And the wild, airy warbling that everywhere floats Thro' the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores Like those of KATHAY uttered music and gave An answer in song to the kiss on each wave.[288] 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 everywhere is To be near the loved 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, 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 uncrowned as the Conqueror roved By the banks of that Lake with his only beloved He saw in the wreaths she would playfully snatch From the hedges a glory his crown could not match, And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curled 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 splendor. 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 Heaven in his dreams. When pensive it seemed as if that very grace, That charm of all others, was born with her face! And when angry,—for even in the tranquillest climes Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes— The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken New beauty like flowers that are sweetest when shaken. If tenderness touched 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; Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages, Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages.[289] While her laugh full of life, without any 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 brightened 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 tho' bright was his Haram,—a living parterre Of the flowers[290] of this planet—tho' treasures were there, For which SOLIMAN'S self might have given all the store That the navy from OPHIR e'er winged 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[291] In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers Are made of gems and light and flowers! Where is the loved Sultana? where, When mirth brings out the young and fair, Does she, the fairest, hide her 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 tho' its waters ne'er could sever, Yet ere it reach the plain below, Breaks into floods that part for ever.

Oh, you that have the charge of Love, Keep him in rosy bondage bound, As in the Fields of Bliss above He sits with flowerets fettered round;— Loose not a tie that round him clings. Nor ever let him use his wings; For even an hour, a minute's flight Will rob the plumes of half their light. Like that celestial bird whose nest Is found beneath far Eastern skies, Whose wings tho' radiant when at rest Lose all their glory when he flies![292]

Some difference of this dangerous kind,— By which, tho' light, the links that bind The fondest hearts may soon be riven; Some shadow in Love's summer heaven, Which, tho' 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 banisht from his sight His NOURMAHAL, his Haram's Light! Hence is it on this happy night When Pleasure thro' 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.[293]

In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes This Eden of the Earth supplies Come crowding round—the cheeks are pale, The eyes are dim:—tho' rich the spot With every flower this earth has got What is it to the nightingale If there his darling rose is not?[294] 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 Heaven 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 sequestered bower, With no one near to soothe or aid, But that inspired and wondrous maid, NAMOUNA, the Enchantress;—one O'er whom his race the golden sun For unremembered 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 seemed 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 believed nor man nor earth Were conscious of NAMOUNA'S birth! All spells and talismans she knew, From the great Mantra,[295] which around The Air's sublimer Spirits drew, To the gold gems[296] of AFRIC, bound Upon the wandering Arab's arm To keep him from the Siltim's[297] harm. And she had pledged her powerful art,— Pledged it with all the zeal and heart Of one who knew tho' high her sphere, What 'twas to lose a love so dear,— To find some spell that should recall Her Selim's[298] smile to NOURMAHAL!

'Twas midnight—thro' the lattice wreathed With woodbine many a perfume breathed From plants that wake when others sleep. From timid jasmine buds that keep Their odor to themselves all day But when the sunlight 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 gathered now, "That twined around the sleeper's brow "Would make him dream of such delights, "Such miracles and dazzling sights "As Genii of the Sun behold "At evening from their tents of gold "Upon the horizon—where they play "Till twilight comes and ray by ray "Their sunny mansions melt away. "Now too a chaplet might be wreathed "Of buds o'er which the moon has breathed, "Which worn by her whose love has strayed "Might bring some Peri from the skies, "Some sprite, whose very soul is made "Of flowerets' breaths and lovers' sighs, "And who might tell"— "For me, for me," Cried NOURMAHAL impatiently,— "Oh! twine that wreath for me to-night." Then rapidly with foot as 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,[299] And new-blown lilies of the river, And those sweet flowerets that unfold Their buds on CAMADEVA'S quiver;[300]— The tuberose, with her silvery light, That in the Gardens of Malay Is called the Mistress of the Night,[301] So like a bride, scented and bright, She comes out when the sun's away:— Amaranths such as crown the maids That wander thro' ZAMARA'S shades;[302]— 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 flowerets and all plants, From the divine Amrita tree[303] That blesses heaven's habitants With fruits of immortality, Down to the basil tuft[304] that waves Its fragrant blossom over graves, And to the humble rosemary Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed To scent the desert[305]and the dead:— All in that garden bloom and all Are gathered 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 bathed with the dews And beams of that blest 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 mixt her soul with theirs. And 'twas indeed the perfume shed From flowers and scented flame that fed Her charmed 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. Filled 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 floweret's bell, Where they hide their wings by day. Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The image of love that nightly 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.[306] 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[307] 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 pluckt at night! Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The dream of the injured, patient mind That smiles at the wrongs of men Is found in the bruised 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 Placed 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[308] 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;[309] And now a Spirit formed, 'twould seem, Of music and of light,—so fair, So brilliantly his features beam, And such a sound is in the air Of sweetness when he waves his wings,— Hovers around her and thus sings:

From CHINDARA'S[310] warbling fount I come, Called by that moonlight garland's spell; From CHINDARA'S fount, my fairy home, Wherein music, morn and night, I dwell. Where lutes in the air are heard about And voices are singing the whole day long, And every sigh the heart breathes out Is turned, 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 thro' 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 thro' genial airs The cinnamon-seed from grove to grove.[311]

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure The past, the present and future of pleasure; 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 touched by me, Can as downy soft and as yielding be As his own white plume that high amid death Thro' the field has shone—yet moves with a breath! And oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten. When Music has reached her inward soul, Like the silent stars that wink and 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,[312] As if the morn had waked, 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 released By mirth, by music and the bowl,) The Imperial SELIM held a feast In his magnificent Shalimar:[313]— 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 thro' its foliage and drink beams Of beauty from its founts and streams;[314] 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[315] 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;[316]— Daughters of Love from CYPRUS rocks, With Paphian diamonds in their locks;[317]— Light PERI forms such as there are On the gold Meads of CANDAHAR;[318] 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.[319]

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 seemed 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 veiled by such a mask as shades The features of young Arab maids,[320]— A mask that leaves but one eye free, To do its best in witchery,— She roved with beating heart around And waited trembling for the minute When she might try if still the sound Of her loved lute had magic in it.

The board was spread with fruits and wine, With grapes of gold, like those that shine On CASBIN hills;[321]—pomegranates full Of melting sweetness, and the pears, And sunniest apples[322] that CAUBUL In all its thousand gardens[323] bears;— Plantains, the golden and the green, MALAYA'S nectared mangusteen;[324] Prunes of BOCKHARA, and sweet nuts From the far groves of SAMARCAND, And BASRA dates, and apricots, Seed of the Sun,[325] from IRAN'S land;— With rich conserve of Visna cherries,[326] Of orange flowers, and of those berries That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles Feed on in ERAC's rocky dells.[327] All these in richest vases smile, In baskets of pure santal-wood, And urns of porcelain from that isle[328] Sunk underneath the Indian flood, Whence oft the lucky diver brings Vases to grace the halls of kings. Wines too of every clime and hue Around their liquid lustre threw; Amber Rosolli,[329]—the bright dew From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing;[330] And SHIRAZ wine that richly ran As if that jewel large and rare, The ruby for which KUBLAI-KHAN Offered a city's wealth,[331] was blushing Melted within the goblets there!

And amply SELIM quaffs of each, And seems resolved the flood shall reach His inward heart,—shedding around A genial deluge, as they run, That soon shall leave no spot undrowned 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,[332] 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 freshened glow Of her own country maidens' looks, When warm they rise from Teflis' brooks;[333] 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[334] and thus sings:—

Come hither, come hither—by night and by day, We linger in pleasures that never are gone; Like the waves of the summer as one dies 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 unequalled in bliss; And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.[335]

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh As the flower of the Amra just oped by a bee;[336] And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,[337] Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be 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 hallowed by love Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere, Who for wine of this earth[338] left the fountains above, And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have here. And, blest with the odor our goblet gives forth, What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss? For, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.

The Georgian's song was scarcely mute, When the same measure, sound for sound, Was caught up by another lute And so divinely breathed around That all stood husht and wondering, And turned and lookt into the air, As if they thought to see the wing Of ISRAFIL[339] the Angel there;— So powerfully on every soul That new, enchanted measure stole. While now a voice sweet as the note Of the charmed 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 linkt in one heavenly tie, With heart never changing and brow never cold, Love on thro' all ills and love on till they die! One hour of a passion so sacred is 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 maskt 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 motioned with his hand for more:—

Fly to the desert, fly with me, Our Arab's tents are rude for thee; But oh! the choice what heart can doubt, Of tents with love or thrones without? Our rocks are rough, but smiling there The acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet nor loved the less For flowering in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope As gracefully and gayly springs As o'er the marble courts of kings.

Then come—thy Arab maid will be The loved 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 thro' the heart,— As if the soul that minute caught Some treasure it thro' life had sought;

As if the very lips and eyes, Predestined 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 breathed 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.[340]

But if for me thou dost forsake Some other maid and rudely break Her worshipt image from its base, To give to me the ruined 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, even without enchantment's art, Would instantly have found its way Deep in to 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 dasht away the cup,— Which all the time of this sweet air His hand had held, untasted, up, As if 'twere fixt by magic there— And naming her, so long unnamed, So long unseen, wildly exclaimed, "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 vanisht 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, viewed in the most favorable light it resembled one of those Maldivian boats, to which the Princess had alluded in the relation of her dream,— 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, etc.—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 honored 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,[341] 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,[342] 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 any thing 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 called the Unequalled.[343] But neither the coolness of its atmosphere, so luxurious after toiling up those bare and burning mountains,—neither the splendor of the minarets and pagodas, that shone put from the depth of its woods, nor the grottoes, hermitages, and miraculous fountains,[344] 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,[345] 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.