Chapter III: Part 3

As they passed along a sequestered river after sunset, they saw a young Hindoo girl upon the bank,[97] whose employment seemed to them so strange, that they stopped their palankeens to observe her. She had lighted a small lamp, filled with oil of cocoa, and placing it in an earthen dish, adorned with a wreath of flowers, had committed it with a trembling hand to the stream; and was now anxiously watching its progress down the current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which had drawn up beside her. LALLA ROOKH was all curiosity;—when one of her attendants, who had lived upon the banks of the Ganges (where this ceremony is so frequent, that often, in the dusk of the evening, the river is seen glittering all over with lights, like the Oton-tala, or Sea of Stars),[98] informed the Princess that it was the usual way, in which the friends of those who had gone on dangerous voyages offered up vows for their safe return. If the lamp sunk immediately, the omen was disastrous; but if it went shining down the stream, and continued to burn until entirely out of sight, the return of the beloved object was considered as certain.

LALLA ROOKH, as they moved on, more than once looked back, to observe how the young Hindoo’s lamp proceeded; and, while she saw with pleasure that it was still unextinguished, she could not help fearing that all the hopes of this life were no better than that feeble light upon the river. The remainder of the journey was passed in silence. She now, for the first time, felt that shade of melancholy, which comes over the youthful maiden’s heart, as sweet and transient as her own breath upon a mirror; nor was it till she heard the lute of FERAMORZ, touched lightly at the door of her pavilion, that she waked from the reverie in which she had been wandering. Instantly her eyes were lighted up with pleasure; and after a few unheard remarks from FADLADEEN, upon the indecorum of a poet seating himself in presence of a Princess, every thing was arranged as on the preceding evening and all listened with eagerness, while the story was thus continued:—

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Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the way,
Where all was waste and silent yesterday?
This City of War, which, in a few short hours,
Hath sprung up here,[99] as if the magic powers
Of Him who, in the twinkling of a star,
Built the high pillar’d halls of CHILMINAR,[100]
Had conjur’d up, far as the eye can see,
This world of tents, and domes, and sun-bright armory:—
Princely pavilions, screen’d by many a fold
Of crimson cloth, and topp’d with balls of gold:—
Steeds, with their housings of rich silver spun,
Their chains and poitrels, glittering in the sun;
And camels, tufted o’er with Yemen’s shells,[101]
Shaking in every breeze their light-ton’d bells!

But yester-eve, so motionless around,
So mute was this wide plain, that not a sound
But the far torrent, or the locust bird[102]
Hunting among the thickets, could be heard;—
Yet hark! what discords now, of every kind,
Shouts, laughs, and screams are revelling in the wind;
The neigh of cavalry;—the tinkling throngs
Of laden camels and their drivers’ songs;—[103]
Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze
Of streamers from ten thousand canopies;—
War-music, bursting out from time to time,
With gong and tymbalon’s tremendous chime;—
Or, in the pause, when harsher sounds are mute,
The mellow breathings of some horn or flute,
That far off, broken by the eagle note
Of the’ Abyssinian trumpet,[104] swell and float.

Who leads this mighty army?—ask ye “who?”
And mark ye not those banners of dark hue,
The Night and Shadow,[105] over yonder tent?—
It is the CALIPH’S glorious armament.
Roused in his Palace by the dread alarms,
That hourly came, of the false Prophet’s arms,
And of his host of infidels, who hurl’d
Defiance fierce at Islam[106] and the world,—
Though worn with Grecian warfare, and behind
The veils of his bright Palace calm reclin’d,
Yet brook’d he not such blasphemy should stain,
Thus unreveng’d, the evening of his reign;
But, having sworn upon the Holy Grave[107]
To conquer or to perish, once more gave
His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze,
And with an army, nurs’d in victories,
Here stands to crush the rebels that o’er-run
His blest and beauteous Province of the Sun.

Ne’er did the march of MAHADI display
Such pomp before;—not even when on his way
To MECCA’S Temple, when both land and sea
Were spoil’d to feed the Pilgrim’s luxury;[108]
When round him, ’mid the burning sands, he saw
Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw,
And cool’d his thirsty lip, beneath the glow
Of MECCA’S sun, with urns of Persian snow:[109]—
Nor e’er did armament more grand than that
Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat.
First, in the van, the People of the Rock,[110]
On their light mountain steeds, of royal stock:[111]
Then, chieftains of DAMASCUS, proud to see
The flashing of their swords’ rich marquetry;[112]—
Men, from the regions near the VOLGA’S mouth,
Mix’d with the rude, black archers of the South;
And Indian lancers, in white turban’d ranks,
From the far SINDE, or ATTOCK’S sacred banks,
With dusky legions from the land of Myrrh,[113]
And many a mace-arm’d Moor and Mid-sea islander.

Nor less in number, though more new and rude
In warfare’s school, was the vast multitude
That, fir’d by zeal, or by oppression wrong’d,
Round the white standard of the’ impostor throng’d.
Beside his thousands of Believers—blind,
Burning and headlong as the Samiel wind—
Many who felt, and more who fear’d to feel
The bloody Islamite’s converting steel,
Flock’d to his banner;—Chiefs of the’ UZBEK race,
Waving their heron crests with martial grace;[114]
TURKOMANS, countless as their flocks, led forth
From the’ aromatic pastures of the North;
Wild warriors of the turquoise hills,[115]—and those
Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows
Of HINDOO KOSH,[116] in stormy freedom bred,
Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent’s bed.
But none, of all who own’d the Chief’s command,
Rush’d to that battle-field with bolder hand,
Or sterner hate, than IRAN’S outlaw’d men,
Her Worshippers of Fire[117]—all panting then
For vengeance on the’ accursed Saracen;
Vengeance at last for their dear country spurn’d,
Her throne usurp’d, and her bright shrines o’erturned.
From YEZD’S[118] eternal Mansion of the Fire,
Where aged saints in dreams of Heaven expire:
From BADKU, and those fountains of blue flame
That burn into the CASPIAN,[119] fierce they came,
Careless for what or whom the blow was sped,
So vengeance triumph’d, and their tyrants bled.

Such was the wild and miscellaneous host,
That high in air their motley banners tost
Around the Prophet-Chief—all eyes still bent
Upon that glittering Veil, where’er it went,
That beacon through the battle’s stormy flood,
That rainbow of the field, whose showers were blood!

Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set,
And risen again, and found them grappling yet;
While streams of carnage, in his noontide blaze,
Smoke up to Heaven—hot as that crimson haze,
By which the prostrate Caravan is aw’d,[120]
In the red Desert, when the wind’s abroad.
“On, Swords of God!” the panting CALIPH calls,—
“Thrones for the living—Heaven for him who falls!”
“On, brave avengers, on,” MOKANNA cries,
“And EBLIS blast the recreant slave that flies!”
Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day—
They clash—they strive—the CALIPH’S troops give way!
MOKANNA’S self plucks the black Banner down,
And now the Orient World’s Imperial crown
Is just within his grasp—when, hark, that shout!
Some hand hath check’d the flying Moslem’s rout;
And now they turn, they rally—at their head
A warrior, (like those angel youths who led,
In glorious panoply of Heaven’s own mail,
The Champions of the Faith through BEDER’S vale,[121])
Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives,
Turns on the fierce pursuers’ blades, and drives
At once the multitudinous torrent back—
While hope and courage kindle in his track;
And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes
Terrible vistas through which victory breaks!
In vain MOKANNA, midst the general flight,
Stands, like the red moon, on some stormy night,
Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by,
Leave only her unshaken in the sky—
In vain he yells his desperate curses out,
Deals death promiscuously to all about,
To foes that charge and coward friends that fly,
And seems of _all_ the Great Arch-enemy.
The panic spreads—“A miracle!” throughout
The Moslem ranks, “a miracle!” they shout,
All gazing on that youth, whose coming seems
A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams;
And every sword, true as o’er billows dim
The needle tracks the load-star, following him!

Right tow’rds MOKANNA now he cleaves his path,
Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath
He bears from Heaven withheld its awful burst
From weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst,
To break o’er Him, the mightiest and the worst!
But vain his speed—though, in that hour of blood,
Had all God’s seraphs round MOKANNA stood,
With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall,
MOKANNA’S soul would have defied them all;
Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong
For human force, hurries even _him_ along;
In vain he struggles ’mid the wedg’d array
Of flying thousands—he is borne away;
And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows,
In this forc’d flight, is—murdering as he goes!
As a grim tiger, whom the torrent’s might
Surprises in some parch’d ravine at night,
Turns, even in drowning, on the wretched flocks,
Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks,
And, to the last, devouring on his way,
Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay.

“Alla illa Alla!”—the glad shout renew—
“Alla Akbar!”[122]—the Caliph’s in MEROU.
Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets,
And light your shrines and chaunt your ziraleets.[123]
The Swords of God have triumph’d—on his throne
Your Caliph sits, and the veil’d Chief hath flown.
Who does not envy that young warrior now,
To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow,
In all the graceful gratitude of power,
For his throne’s safety in that perilous hour?
Who doth not wonder, when, amidst the’ acclaim
Of thousands, heralding to heaven his name—
Mid all those holier harmonies of fame,
Which sound along the path of virtuous souls,
Like music round a planet as it rolls,—
He turns away—coldly, as if some gloom
Hung o’er his heart no triumphs can illume;—
Some sightless grief, upon whose blasted gaze
Though glory’s light may play, in vain it plays?
Yes, wretched AZIM! thine is such a grief,
Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief;
A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break,
Or warm or brighten,—like that Syrian Lake,[124]
Upon whose surface morn and summer shed
Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead!—
Hearts there have been, o’er which this weight of woe
Came by long use of suffering, tame and slow;
But thine, lost youth! was sudden—over thee
It broke at once, when all seemed ecstacy;
When Hope look’d up, and saw the gloomy Past
Melt into splendour, and Bliss dawn at last—
’Twas then, even then, o’er joys so freshly blown,
This mortal blight of misery came down;
Even then, the full, warm gushings of thy heart
Were check’d—like fount-drops, frozen as they start—
And there, like them, cold, sunless relics hang,
Each fix’d and chill’d into a lasting pang.

* * * * *

One sole desire, one passion now remains
To keep life’s fever still within his veins,
Vengeance!—dire vengeance on the wretch who cast
O’er him and all he lov’d that ruinous blast.
For this, when rumours reach’d him in his flight
Far, far away, after that fatal night,—
Rumours of armies, thronging to the’ attack
Of the Veil’d Chief,—for this he wing’d him back,
Fleet as the vulture speeds to flags unfurl’d,
And, when all hope seem’d desperate, wildly hurl’d
Himself into the scale, and sav’d a world.
For this he still lives on, careless of all
The wreaths that Glory on his path lets fall;
For this alone exists—like lightning-fire,
To speed one bolt of vengeance, and expire!

But safe as yet that Spirit of Evil lives;
With a small band of desperate fugitives,
The last sole stubborn fragment, left unriven,
Of the proud host that late stood fronting Heaven,
He gain’d MEROU—breath’d a short curse of blood
O’er his lost throne—then pass’d the JIHON’S flood,[125]
And gathering all, whose madness of belief
Still saw a Saviour in their down-fall’n Chief,
Rais’d the white banner within NEKSHEB’S gates,[126]
And there, untam’d, the’ approaching conqu’ror waits.

Of all his Haram, all that busy hive,
With music and with sweets sparkling alive,
He took but one, the partner of his flight,
One—not for love—not for her beauty’s light—
No, ZELICA stood withering midst the gay,
Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday
From the’ Alma tree and dies, while overhead
To-day’s young flower is springing in its stead.[127]
Oh, not for love—the deepest Damn’d must be
Touch’d with Heaven’s glory, ere such fiends as he
Can feel one glimpse of Love’s divinity.
But no, she is his victim; _there_ lie all
Her charms for him—charms that can never pall,
As long as hell within his heart can stir,
Or one faint trace of Heaven is left in her.
To work an angel’s ruin,—to behold
As white a page as Virtue e’er unroll’d
Blacken, beneath his touch, into a scroll
Of damning sins, seal’d with a burning soul—
This is his triumph; this the joy accurst,
That ranks him among demons all but first:
This gives the victim, that before him lies
Blighted and lost, a glory in his eyes,
A light like that with which hell-fire illumes
The ghastly, writhing wretch whom it consumes!

But other tasks now wait him—tasks that need
All the deep daringness of thought and deed
With which the Dives[128] have gifted him—for mark,
Over yon plains, which night had else made dark,
Those lanterns, countless as the winged lights
That spangle INDIA’S fields on showery nights,[129]—
Far as their formidable gleams they shed,
The mighty tents of the beleaguerer spread,
Glimmering along the’ horizon’s dusky line,
And thence in nearer circles, till they shine
Among the founts and groves, o’er which the town
In all its arm’d magnificence looks down.
Yet, fearless, from his lofty battlements
MOKANNA views that multitude of tents;
Nay, smiles to think that, though entoil’d, beset,
Not less than myriads dare to front him yet;—
That friendless, throneless, he thus stands at bay,
Even thus a match for myriads such as they.
“Oh, for a sweep of that dark Angel’s wing,
“Who brush’d the thousands of the’ Assyrian King[130]
“To darkness in a moment, that I might
“People Hell’s chambers with yon host to-night!
“But, come what may, let who will grasp the throne,
“Caliph or Prophet, Man alike shall groan
“Let who will torture him, Priest—Caliph—King—
“Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring
“With victims’ shrieks, and howlings of the slave,—
“Sounds, that shall glad me even within my grave!”
Thus, to himself—but to the scanty train
Still left around him, a far different strain:—
“Glorious Defenders of the sacred Crown
“I bear from Heaven, whose light nor blood shall drown,
“Nor shadow of earth eclipse;—before whose gems
“The paly pomp of this world’s diadems,
“The crown of GERASHID, the pillar’d throne
“Of PARVIZ,[131] and the heron crest that shone,[132]
“Magnificent, o’er ALI’S beauteous eyes,[133]
“Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies:
“Warriors, rejoice—the port to which we’ve pass’d
“O’er Destiny’s dark wave, beams out at last!
“Victory’s our own—’tis written in that Book
“Upon whose leaves none but the angels look,
“That ISLAM’S sceptre shall beneath the power
“Of her great foe fall broken in that hour,
“When the moon’s mighty orb, before all eyes,
“From NEKSHEB’S Holy Well portentously shall rise!
“Now turn and see!”⸺
They turn’d, and, as he spoke,
A sudden splendour all around them broke,
And they beheld an orb, ample and bright,
Rise from the Holy Well,[134] and cast its light
Round the rich city and the plain for miles,[135]—
Flinging such radiance o’er the gilded tiles
Of many a dome and fair-roof’d minaret
As autumn suns shed round them when they set.
Instant from all who saw the’ illusive sign
A murmur broke—“Miraculous! divine!”
The Gheber bow’d, thinking his idol star
Had wak’d, and burst impatient through the bar
Of midnight, to inflame him to the war;
While he of MOUSSA’S creed saw, in that ray,
The glorious Light which, in his freedom’s day,
Had rested on the Ark,[136] and now again
Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain.

“To victory!” is at once the cry of all—
Nor stands MOKANNA loitering at that call;
But instant the huge gates are flung aside,
And forth, like a diminutive mountain-tide
Into the boundless sea, they speed their course
Right on into the MOSLEM’S mighty force.
The watchmen of the camp,—who, in their rounds,
Had paus’d, and even forgot the punctual sounds
Of the small drum with which they count the night,[137]
To gaze upon that supernatural light,—
Now sink beneath an unexpected arm,
And in a death-groan give their last alarm.
“On for the lamps, that light yon lofty screen,[138]
“Nor blunt your blades with massacre so mean;
“_There_ rests the CALIPH—speed—one lucky lance
“May now achieve mankind’s deliverance.”
Desperate the die—such as they only cast,
Who venture for a world, and stake their last.
But Fate’s no longer with him—blade for blade
Springs up to meet them through the glimmering shade,
And, as the clash is heard, new legions soon
Pour to the spot, like bees of KAUZEROON[139]
To the shrill timbrel’s summons,—till, at length,
The mighty camp swarms out in all its strength,
And back to NEKSHEB’S gates, covering the plain
With random slaughter, drives the adventurous train;
Among the last of whom the Silver Veil
Is seen glittering at times, like the white sail
Of some toss’d vessel, on a stormy night,
Catching the tempest’s momentary light!

And hath not _this_ brought the proud spirit low?
Nor dash’d his brow, nor check’d his daring? No.
Though half the wretches, whom at night he led
To thrones and victory, lie disgrac’d and dead,
Yet morning hears him, with unshrinking crest,
Still vaunt of thrones, and victory to the rest;—
And they believe him!—oh, the lover may
Distrust that look which steals his soul away;—
The babe may cease to think that it can play
With Heaven’s rainbow;—alchymists may doubt
The shining gold their crucible gives out;
But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast
To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last.

And well the’ Impostor knew all lures and arts,
That LUCIFER e’er taught to tangle hearts;
Nor, ’mid these last bold workings of his plot
Against men’s souls, is ZELICA forgot.
Ill-fated ZELICA! had reason been
Awake, through half the horrors thou hast seen,
Thou never couldst have borne it—Death had come
At once, and taken thy wrung spirit home.
But ’twas not so—a torpor, a suspense
Of thought, almost of life, came o’er the’ intense
And passionate struggles of that fearful night,
When her last hope of peace and heaven took flight:
And though, at times, a gleam of frenzy broke,—
As through some dull volcano’s veil of smoke
Ominous flashings now and then will start,
Which show the fire’s still busy at its heart;
Yet was she mostly wrapp’d in solemn gloom,—
Not such as AZIM’S, brooding o’er its doom,
And calm without, as is the brow of death,
While busy worms are gnawing underneath,—
But in a blank and pulseless torpor, free
From thought or pain, a seal’d-up apathy,
Which left her oft, with scarce one living thrill,
The cold, pale victim of her torturer’s will.

Again, as in MEROU, he had her deck’d
Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect;
And led her glittering forth before the eyes
Of his rude train, as to a sacrifice,—
Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride
Of the fierce NILE, when, deck’d in all the pride
Of nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide.[140]
And while the wretched maid hung down her head,
And stood, as one just risen from the dead,
Amid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tell
His credulous slaves it was some charm or spell
Possess’d her now,—and from that darken’d trance
Should dawn ere long their Faith’s deliverance.
Or if, at times, goaded by guilty shame,
Her soul was rous’d, and words of wildness came,
Instant the bold blasphemer would translate
Her ravings into oracles of fate,
Would hail heaven’s signals in her flashing eyes,
And call her shrieks the language of the skies!

But vain at length his arts—despair is seen
Gathering around; and famine comes to glean
All that the sword had left unreap’d:—in vain
At morn and eve across the northern plain
He looks impatient for the promis’d spears
Of the wild Hordes and TARTAR mountaineers;
They come not—while his fierce beleaguerers pour
Engines of havoc in, unknown before,[141]
And horrible as new;[142]—javelins, that fly
Enwreath’d with smoky flames through the dark sky,
And red-hot globes, that, opening as they mount,
Discharge, as from a kindled Naphtha fount,[143]
Showers of consuming fire o’er all below;
Looking, as through the’ illumin’d night they go,
Like those wild birds[144] that by the Magians oft,
At festivals of fire, were sent aloft
Into the air, with blazing faggots tied
To their huge wings, scattering combustion wide.
All night the groans of wretches who expire
In agony, beneath these darts of fire,
Ring through the city—while, descending o’er
Its shrines and domes and streets of sycamore,—
Its lone bazaars, with their bright cloths of gold,
Since the last peaceful pageant left unroll’d,—
Its beauteous marble baths, whose idle jets
Now gush with blood,—and its tall minarets,
That late have stood up in the evening glare
Of the red sun, unhallow’d by a prayer;—
O’er each, in turn, the dreadful flame-bolts fall,
And death and conflagration throughout all
The desolate city hold high festival!

MOKANNA sees the world is his no more;—
One sting at parting, and his grasp is o’er.
“What! drooping now?”—thus, with unblushing cheek,
He hails the few, who yet can hear him speak,
Of all those famish’d slaves around him lying,
And by the light of blazing temples dying;—
“What!—drooping now?—now, when at length we press
“Home o’er the very threshold of success;
“When ALLA from our ranks hath thinn’d away
“Those grosser branches, that kept out his ray
“Of favour from us, and we stand at length
“Heirs of his light and children of his strength,
“The chosen few, who shall survive the fall
“Of Kings and Thrones, triumphant over all!
“Have you then lost, weak murmurers as you are,
“All faith in him, who was your Light, your Star?
“Have you forgot the eye of glory, hid
“Beneath this Veil, the flashing of whose lid
“Could, like a sun-stroke of the desert, wither
“Millions of such as yonder Chief brings hither?
“Long have its lightnings slept—too long—but now
“All earth shall feel the’ unveiling of this brow!
“To-night—yes, sainted men! this very night,
“I bid you all to a fair festal rite,
“Where—having deep refresh’d each weary limb
“With viands, such as feast Heaven’s cherubim,
“And kindled up your souls, now sunk and dim,
“With that pure wine the Dark-ey’d Maids above
“Keep, seal’d with precious musk, for those they love,[145]—
“I will myself uncurtain in your sight
“The wonders of this brow’s ineffable light;
“Then lead you forth, and with a wink disperse
“Yon myriads, howling through the universe!”

Eager they listen—while each accent darts
New life into their chill’d and hope-sick hearts;
Such treacherous life as the cool draught supplies
To him upon the stake, who drinks and dies!
Wildly they point their lances to the light
Of the fast sinking sun, and shout “To-night!”—
“To-night,” their Chief re-echoes in a voice
Of fiend-like mockery that bids hell rejoice.
Deluded victims!—never hath this earth
Seen mourning half so mournful as their mirth.
_Here_, to the few, whose iron frames had stood
This racking waste of famine and of blood,
Faint, dying wretches clung, from whom the shout
Of triumph like a maniac’s laugh broke out:—
_There_, others, lighted by the smould’ring fire,
Danc’d like wan ghosts about a funeral pyre,
Among the dead and dying, strew’d around;—
While some pale wretch look’d on, and from his wound
Plucking the fiery dart by which he bled,
In ghastly transport wav’d it o’er his head!

’Twas more than midnight now—a fearful pause
Had follow’d the long shouts, the wild applause,
That lately from those Royal Gardens burst,
Where the Veil’d demon held his feast accurst,
When ZELICA—alas, poor ruin’d heart,
In every horror doom’d to bear its part!—
Was bidden to the banquet by a slave,
Who, while his quivering lip the summons gave,
Grew black, as though the shadows of the grave
Compass’d him round, and, ere he could repeat
His message through, fell lifeless at her feet!
Shuddering she went—a soul-felt pang of fear,
A presage that her own dark doom was near,
Rous’d every feeling, and brought Reason back
Once more, to writhe her last upon the rack.
All round seem’d tranquil—even the foe had ceas’d,
As if aware of that demoniac feast,
His fiery bolts; and though the heavens look’d red,
’Twas but some distant conflagration’s spread.
But hark—she stops—she listens—dreadful tone,
’Tis her Tormentor’s laugh—and now, a groan,
A long death-groan comes with it:—can this be
The place of mirth, the bower of revelry?
She enters—Holy ALLA, what a sight
Was there before her! By the glimmering light
Of the pale dawn, mix’d with the flare of brands
That round lay burning, dropp’d from lifeless hands,
She saw the board, in splendid mockery spread,
Rich censers breathing—garlands overhead—
The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaff’d,
All gold and gems, but—what had been the draught?
Oh! who need ask, that saw those livid guests,
With their swoll’n heads sunk black’ning on their breasts,
Or looking pale to Heaven with glassy glare,
As if they sought but saw no mercy there;
As if they felt, though poison rack’d them through,
Remorse the deadlier torment of the two!
While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train
Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain
Would have met death with transport by his side,
Here mute and helpless gasp’d;—but, as they died,
Look’d horrible vengeance with their eyes’ last strain,
And clench’d the slack’ning hand at him in vain.

Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare,
The stony look of horror and despair,
Which some of these expiring victims cast
Upon their souls’ tormentor to the last;—
Upon that mocking Fiend, whose Veil, now rais’d,
Show’d them, as in death’s agony they gazed,
Not the long promis’d light, the brow, whose beaming
Was to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming,
But features horribler than Hell e’er trac’d
On its own brood;—no Demon of the Waste,[146]
No church-yard Ghole, caught lingering in the light
Of the blest sun, e’er blasted human sight
With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those
The’ Impostor, now in grinning mockery, shows:—
“There, ye wise Saints, behold your Light, your Star—
“Ye _would_ be dupes and victims, and ye _are_.
“Is it enough? or must I, while a thrill
“Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still?
“Swear that the burning death ye feel within
“Is but the trance with which Heaven’s joys begin;
“That this foul visage, foul as e’er disgrac’d
“Even monstrous man, is—after God’s own taste;
“And that—but see!—ere I have half-way said
“My greetings through, the’ uncourteous souls are fled.
“Farewell, sweet spirits! not in vain ye die,
“If EBLIS loves you half so well as I.—
“Ha, my young bride!—’tis well—take thou thy seat;
“Nay come—no shuddering—didst thou never meet
“The dead before?—they grac’d our wedding, sweet;
“And these, my guests to-night, have brimm’d so true
“Their parting cups, that _thou_ shalt pledge one too.
“But—how is this?—all empty? all drunk up?
“Hot lips have been before thee in the cup,
“Young bride,—yet stay—one precious drop remains,
“Enough to warm a gentle Priestess’ veins;—
“Here, drink—and should thy lover’s conquering arms
“Speed hither, ere thy lip lose all its charms,
“Give him but half this venom in thy kiss,
“And I’ll forgive my haughty rival’s bliss!

“For _me_—I too must die—but not like these
“Vile, rankling things, to fester in the breeze;
“To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown,
“With all death’s grimness added to its own,
“And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes
“Of slaves, exclaiming, ‘There his Godship lies!
“No—cursed race—since first my soul drew breath,
“They’ve been my dupes, and _shall_ be even in death.
“Thou see’st yon cistern in the shade—’tis fill’d
“With burning drugs, for this last hour distill’d:[147]—
“There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame—
“Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet’s frame!—
“There perish, all—ere pulse of thine shall fail—
“Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale.
“So shall my votaries, wheresoe’er they rave,
“Proclaim that Heaven took back the Saint it gave;—
“That I’ve but vanish’d from this earth awhile,
“To come again, with bright, unshrouded smile!
“So shall they build me altars in their zeal,
“Where knaves shall minister, and fools shall kneel;
“Where Faith may mutter o’er her mystic spell,
“Written in blood—and Bigotry may swell
“The sail he spreads for Heaven with blasts from hell!
“So shall my banner, through long ages, be
“The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy:—
“Kings yet unborn shall rue MOKANNA’S name,
“And, though I die, my spirit, still the same,
“Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife,
“And guilt, and blood, that were its bliss in life.
“But, hark! their battering engine shakes the wall—
“Why, _let_ it shake—thus I can brave them all.
“No trace of me shall greet them, when they come,
“And I can trust thy faith, for—thou’lt be dumb.
“Now mark how readily a wretch like me,
“In one bold plunge, commences Deity!”

He sprung and sunk, as the last words were said—
Quick clos’d the burning waters o’er his head,
And ZELICA was left—within the ring
Of those wide walls the only living thing;
The only wretched one, still curs’d with breath,
In all that frightful wilderness of death!
More like some bloodless ghost—such as, they tell,
In the lone Cities of the Silent[148] dwell,
And there, unseen of all but ALLA, sit
Each by its own pale carcass, watching it.

But morn is up, and a fresh warfare stirs
Throughout the camp of the beleaguerers.
Their globes of fire (the dread artillery lent
By GREECE to conquering MAHADI) are spent;
And now the scorpion’s shaft, the quarry sent
From high balistas, and the shielding throng
Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along,
All speak the’ impatient Islamite’s intent
To try, at length, if tower and battlement
And bastion’d wall be not less hard to win,
Less tough to break down than the hearts within.
First in impatience and in toil is he,
The burning AZIM—oh! could he but see
The’ Impostor once alive within his grasp,
Not the gaunt lion’s hug, nor boa’s clasp,
Could match that gripe of vengeance, or keep pace
With the fell heartiness of Hate’s embrace!

Loud rings the ponderous ram against the walls;
Now shake the ramparts, now a buttress falls,
But still no breach—“Once more, one mighty swing
“Of all your beams, together thundering!”
There—the wall shakes—the shouting troops exult,
“Quick, quick discharge your weightiest catapult
“Right on that spot, and NEKSHEB is our own!”
’Tis done—the battlements come crashing down,
And the huge wall, by that stroke riven in two,
Yawning, like some old crater, rent anew,
Shows the dim, desolate city smoking through.
But strange! no signs of life—nought living seen
Above, below—what can this stillness mean?
A minute’s pause suspends all hearts and eyes—
“In through the breach,” impetuous AZIM cries;
But the cool CALIPH, fearful of some wile
In this blank stillness, checks the troops awhile.—
Just then, a figure, with slow step, advanc’d
Forth from the ruin’d walls, and, as there glanc’d
A sunbeam over it, all eyes could see
The well-known Silver Veil!—“’Tis He, ’tis He,
“MOKANNA, and alone!” they shout around;
Young AZIM from his steed springs to the ground—
“Mine, Holy Caliph! mine,” he cries, “the task
“To crush yon daring wretch—’tis all I ask.”
Eager he darts to meet the demon foe,
Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow
And falteringly comes, till they are near;
Then, with a bound, rushes on AZIM’S spear,
And, casting off the Veil in falling, shows—
Oh!—’tis his ZELICA’S life-blood that flows!

“I meant not, AZIM,” soothingly she said,
As on his trembling arm she lean’d her head,
And, looking in his face, saw anguish there
Beyond all wounds the quivering flesh can bear—
“I meant not _thou_ shouldst have the pain of this:—
“Though death, with thee thus tasted, is a bliss
“Thou wouldst not rob me of, didst thou but know
“How oft I’ve pray’d to God I might die so!
“But the Fiend’s venom was too scant and slow;—
“To linger on were maddening—and I thought
“If once that Veil—nay, look not on it—caught
“The eyes of your fierce soldiery, I should be
“Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly.
“But this is sweeter—oh! believe me, yes—
“I would not change this sad, but dear caress,
“This death within thy arms I would not give
“For the most smiling life the happiest live!
“All, that stood dark and drear before the eye
“Of my stray’d soul, is passing swiftly by;
“A light comes o’er me from those looks of love,
“Like the first dawn of mercy from above;
“And if thy lips but tell me I’m forgiven,
“Angels will echo the blest words in Heaven!
“But live, my AZIM;—oh! to call thee mine
“Thus once again! _my_ AZIM—dream divine!
“Live, if thou ever lov’dst me, if to meet
“Thy ZELICA hereafter would be sweet,
“Oh, live to pray for her—to bend the knee
“Morning and night before that Deity,
“To whom pure lips and hearts without a stain,
“As thine are, AZIM, never breath’d in vain,—
“And pray that He may pardon her,—may take
“Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake,
“And, nought remembering but her love to thee,
“Make her all thine, all His, eternally!
“Go to those happy fields where first we twin’d
“Our youthful hearts together—every wind
“That meets thee there, fresh from the well-known flowers,
“Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours
“Back to thy soul, and mayst thou feel again
“For thy poor ZELICA as thou didst then.
“So shall thy orisons, like dew that flies
“To Heaven upon the morning’s sunshine, rise
“With all love’s earliest ardour to the skies!
“And should they—but, alas, my senses fail—
“Oh for one minute!—should thy prayers prevail—
“If pardon’d souls may, from that World of Bliss,
“Reveal their joy to those they love in this—
“I’ll come to thee—in some sweet dream—and tell—
“Oh Heaven—I die—dear love! farewell, farewell.”

Time fleeted—years on years had pass’d away,
And few of those who, on that mournful day,
Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see
The maiden’s death and the youth’s agony,
Were living still—when, by a rustic grave,
Beside the swift Amoo’s transparent wave,
An aged man, who had grown aged there
By that lone grave, morning and night in prayer,
For the last time knelt down—and, though the shade
Of death hung darkening over him, there play’d
A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek,
That brighten’d even Death—like the last streak
Of intense glory on the’ horizon’s brim,
When night o’er all the rest hangs chill and dim.
His soul had seen a Vision, while he slept;
She, for whose spirit he had pray’d and wept
So many years, had come to him, all drest
In angel smiles, and told him she was blest!
For this the old man breath’d his thanks and died.—
And there, upon the banks of that lov’d tide,
He and his ZELICA sleep side by side.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The story of the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan being ended, they were now doomed to hear FADLADEEN’S criticisms upon it. A series of disappointments and accidents had occurred to this learned Chamberlain during the journey. In the first place, those couriers stationed, as in the reign of Shah Jehan, between Delhi and the Western coast of India, to secure a constant supply of mangoes for the Royal Table, had, by some cruel irregularity, failed in their duty, and to eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was, of course, impossible.[149] In the next place, the elephant, laden with his fine antique porcelain,[150] had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, shattered the whole set to pieces:—an irreparable loss, as many of the vessels were so exquisitely old, as to have been used under the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran, too, supposed to be the identical copy between the leaves of which Mahomet’s favourite pigeon used to nestle, had been mislaid by his Koran-bearer three whole days; not without much spiritual alarm to FADLADEEN, who, though professing to hold with other loyal and orthodox Mussulmans, that salvation could only be found in the Koran, was strongly suspected of believing in his heart, that it could only be found in his own particular copy of it. When to all these grievances is added the obstinacy of the cooks, in putting the pepper of Canara into his dishes instead of the cinnamon of Serendib, we may easily suppose that he came to the task of criticism with, at least, a sufficient degree of irritability for the purpose.

“In order,” said he, importantly swinging about his chaplet of pearls, “to convey with clearness my opinion of the story this young man has related, it is necessary to take a review of all the stories that have ever⸺”—“My good FADLADEEN!” exclaimed the Princess, interrupting him, “we really do not deserve that you should give yourself so much trouble. Your opinion of the poem we have just heard will, I have no doubt, be abundantly edifying, without any further waste of your valuable erudition.”—“If that be all,” replied the critic,—evidently mortified at not being allowed to show how much he knew about every thing but the subject immediately before him—“if that be all that is required, the matter is easily despatched.” He then proceeded to analyse the poem, in that strain (so well known to the unfortunate bards of Delhi), whose censures were an infliction from which few recovered, and whose very praises were like the honey extracted from the bitter flowers of the aloe. The chief personages of the story were, if he rightly understood them, an ill-favoured gentleman, with a veil over his face;—a young lady, whose reason went and came, according as it suited the poet’s convenience to be sensible or otherwise;—and a youth in one of those hideous Bucharian bonnets, who took the aforesaid gentleman in a veil for a Divinity. “From such materials,” said he, “what can be expected?—after rivalling each other in long speeches and absurdities, through some thousands of lines as indigestible as the filberts of Berdaa, our friend in the veil jumps into a tub of aquafortis; the young lady dies in a set speech, whose only recommendation is that it is her last; and the lover lives on to a good old age for the laudable purpose of seeing her ghost, which he at last happily accomplishes, and expires. This, you will allow, is a fair summary of the story; and if Nasser, the Arabian merchant, told no better,[151] our Holy Prophet (to whom be all honour and glory!) had no need to be jealous of his abilities for story-telling.”

With respect to the style, it was worthy of the matter;—it had not even those politic contrivances of structure, which make up for the commonness of the thoughts by the peculiarity of the manner, nor that stately poetical phraseology by which sentiments mean in themselves, like the blacksmith’s[152] apron converted into a banner, are so easily gilt and embroidered into consequence. Then, as to the versification, it was, to say no worse of it, execrable: it had neither the copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness of Hafez, nor the sententious march of Sadi; but appeared to him, in the uneasy heaviness of its movements, to have been modelled upon the gait of a very tired dromedary. The licences, too, in which it indulged, were unpardonable;—for instance, this line, and the poem abounded with such:—

Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.

“What critic that can count,” said FADLADEEN, “and has his full complement of fingers to count withal, would tolerate for an instant such syllabic superfluities?” He here looked round, and discovered that most of his audience were asleep; while the glimmering lamps seemed inclined to follow their example. It became necessary, therefore, however painful to himself, to put an end to his valuable animadversions for the present, and he accordingly concluded, with an air of dignified candour, thus:—“Notwithstanding the observations which I have thought it my duty to make, it is by no means my wish to discourage the young man:—so far from it, indeed, that if he will but totally alter his style of writing and thinking, I have very little doubt that I shall be vastly pleased with him.”

Some days elapsed, after this harangue of the Great Chamberlain, before LALLA ROOKH could venture to ask for another story. The youth was still a welcome guest in the pavilion—to _one_ heart, perhaps, too dangerously welcome:—but all mention of poetry was, as if by common consent, avoided. Though none of the party had much respect for FADLADEEN, yet his censures, thus magisterially delivered, evidently made an impression on them all. The Poet himself, to whom criticism was quite a new operation, (being wholly unknown in that Paradise of the Indies, Cashmere,) felt the shock as it is generally felt at first, till use has made it more tolerable to the patient;—the Ladies began to suspect that they ought not to be pleased, and seemed to conclude that there must have been much good sense in what FADLADEEN said, from its having sent them all so soundly to sleep;—while the self-complacent Chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea of having, for the hundred and fiftieth time in his life, extinguished a Poet. LALLA ROOKH alone—and Love knew why—persisted in being delighted with all she had heard, and in resolving to hear more as speedily as possible. Her manner, however, of first returning to the subject was unlucky. It was while they rested during the heat of noon near a fountain, on which some hand had rudely traced those well-known words from the Garden of Sadi,—“Many, like me, have viewed this fountain, but they are gone, and their eyes are closed for ever!”—that she took occasion, from the melancholy beauty of this passage, to dwell upon the charms of poetry in general. “It is true,” she said, “few poets can imitate that sublime bird, which flies always in the air, and never touches the earth:[153]—it is only once in many ages a Genius appears, whose words, like those on the Written Mountain, last for ever:[154] but still there are some, as delightful, perhaps, though not so wonderful, who, if not stars over our head, are at least flowers along our path, and whose sweetness of the moment we ought gratefully to inhale, without calling upon them for a brightness and a durability beyond their nature. In short,” continued she, blushing, as if conscious of being caught in an oration, “it is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his regions of enchantment, without having a critic for ever, like the old Man of the Sea, upon his back!”[155]—FADLADEEN, it was plain, took this last luckless allusion to himself, and would treasure it up in his mind as a whetstone for his next criticism. A sudden silence ensued; and the Princess, glancing a look at FERAMORZ, saw plainly she must wait for a more courageous moment.

But the glories of Nature, and her wild fragrant airs, playing freshly over the current of youthful spirits, will soon heal even deeper wounds than the dull Fadladeens of this world can inflict. In an evening or two after, they came to the small Valley of Gardens, which had been planted by order of the Emperor, for his favourite sister Rochinara, during their progress to Cashmere, some years before; and never was there a more sparkling assemblage of sweets, since the Gulzar-e-Irem, or Rose-bower of Irem. Every precious flower was there to be found, that poetry, or love, or religion has ever consecrated; from the dark hyacinth, to which Hafez compares his mistress’s hair,[156] to the _Cámalatá_, by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of Indra is scented.[157] As they sat in the cool fragrance of this delicious spot, and LALLA ROOKH remarked that she could fancy it the abode of that Flower-loving Nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay,[158] or of one of those Peris, those beautiful creatures of the air, who live upon perfumes, and to whom a place like this might make some amends for the Paradise they have lost,—the young Poet, in whose eyes she appeared, while she spoke, to be one of the bright spiritual creatures she was describing, said hesitatingly that he remembered a Story of a Peri, which, if the Princess had no objection, he would venture to relate. “It is,” said he, with an appealing look to FADLADEEN, “in a lighter and humbler strain than the other:” then, striking a few careless but melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus began:—

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Paradise & the Peri

------------------------------------------------------------------------

One morn a Peri at the gate
Of Eden stood, disconsolate;
And as she listen’d to the Springs
Of Life within, like music flowing,
And caught the light upon her wings
Through the half-open portal glowing,
She wept to think her recreant race
Should e’er have lost that glorious place!

“How happy,” exclaim’d this child of air,
“Are the holy Spirits who wander there,
“Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall;
“Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea,
“And the stars themselves have flowers for me,
“One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all!

“Though sunny the Lake of cool CASHMERE,
“With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,[159]
“And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall;
“Though bright are the waters of SING-SU-HAY,
“And the golden floods that thitherward stray,[160]
“Yet—oh, ’tis only the Blest can say
“How the waters of Heaven outshine them all!

“Go, wing thy flight from star to star,
“From world to luminous world, as far
“As the universe spreads its flaming wall:
“Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,
“And multiply each through endless years,
“One minute of Heaven is worth them all!”

The glorious Angel, who was keeping
The gates of Light, beheld her weeping;
And, as he nearer drew and listen’d
To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten’d
Within his eyelids, like the spray
From Eden’s fountain, when it lies
On the blue flower, which—Bramins say—
Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.[161]

“Nymph of a fair but erring line!”
Gently he said—“One hope is thine.
“’Tis written in the Book of Fate,
“_The Peri yet may be forgiven_
“_Who brings to this Eternal gate_
“_The Gift that is most dear to Heaven!_
“Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin—
“’Tis sweet to let the Pardon’d in.”

Rapidly as comets run
To the’ embraces of the Sun;—
Fleeter than the starry brands
Flung at night from angel hands,[162]
At those dark and daring sprites
Who would climb the’ empyreal heights,
Down the blue vault the PERI flies,
And, lighted earthward by a glance
That just then broke from morning’s eyes,
Hung hovering o’er our world’s expanse.

But whither shall the Spirit go
To find this gift for Heaven?—“I know
“The wealth,” she cries, “of every urn,
“In which unnumber’d rubies burn,
“Beneath the pillars of CHILMINAR;[163]
“I know where the Isles of Perfume are,
“Many a fathom down in the sea,
“To the south of sun-bright ARABY;[164]
“I know, too, where the Genii hid
“The jewell’d cup of their King JAMSHID,[165]
“With Life’s elixir sparkling high—
“But gifts like these are not for the sky.
“Where was there ever a gem that shone
“Like the steps of ALLA’S wonderful Throne?
“And the Drops of Life—oh! what would they be
“In the boundless Deep of Eternity?”

While thus she mus’d, her pinions fann’d
The air of that sweet Indian land,
Whose air is balm; whose ocean spreads
O’er coral rocks, and amber beds:[166]
Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam
Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem;
Whose rivulets are like rich brides,
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides;
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice
Might be a Peri’s Paradise!
But crimson now her rivers ran
With human blood—the smell of death
Came reeking from those spicy bowers,
And man, the sacrifice of man,
Mingled his taint with every breath
Up wafted from the innocent flowers.
Land of the Sun! what foot invades
Thy Pagods and thy pillar’d shades[167]—
Thy cavern shrines, and Idol stones,
Thy Monarchs and their thousand Thrones?[168]
’Tis He of GAZNA[169]—fierce in wrath
He comes, and INDIA’S diadems
Lie scatter’d in his ruinous path.—
His bloodhounds he adorns with gems,
Torn from the violated necks
Of many a young and lov’d Sultana;[170]
Maidens, within their pure Zenana,
Priests in the very fane he slaughters,
And choaks up with the glittering wrecks
Of golden shrines the sacred waters!
Downward the PERI turns her gaze,
And, through the war-field’s bloody haze
Beholds a youthful warrior stand,
Alone, beside his native river,—
The red blade broken in his hand,
And the last arrow in his quiver.
“Live,” said the Conqueror, “live to share
“The trophies and the crowns I bear!”
Silent that youthful warrior stood—
Silent he pointed to the flood
All crimson with his country’s blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For answer, to the’ Invader’s heart.

False flew the shaft, though pointed well;
The Tyrant liv’d, the Hero fell!—
Yet mark’d the PERI where he lay,
And, when the rush of war was past,
Swiftly descending on a ray
Of morning light, she caught the last—
Last glorious drop his heart had shed,
Before its free-born spirit fled!

“Be this,” she cried, as she wing’d her flight,
“My welcome gift at the Gates of Light.
“Though foul are the drops that oft distil
“On the field of warfare, blood like this,
“For Liberty shed, so holy is,[171]
“It would not stain the purest rill,
“That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss!
“Oh, if there be, on this earthly sphere,
“A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,
“’Tis the last libation Liberty draws
“From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!”

“Sweet,” said the Angel, as she gave
The gift into his radiant hand,
“Sweet is our welcome of the Brave
“Who die thus for their native Land.—
“But see—alas!—the crystal bar
“Of Eden moves not—holier far
“Than even this drop the boon must be,
“That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!”