Chapter V: Part 5

Such were the tales, that won belief,
And such the colouring Fancy gave
To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief,—
One who, no more than mortal brave,
Fought for the land his soul ador’d,
For happy homes and altars free,—
His only talisman, the sword,
His only spell-word, Liberty!
One of that ancient hero line,
Along whose glorious current shine
Names, that have sanctified their blood;
As LEBANON’S small mountain-flood
Is render’d holy by the ranks
Of sainted cedars on its banks.[248]
’Twas not for him to crouch the knee
Tamely to Moslem tyranny;
’Twas not for him, whose soul was cast
In the bright mould of ages past,
Whose melancholy spirit, fed
With all the glories of the dead,
Though fram’d for IRAN’S happiest years,
Was born among her chains and tears!—
’Twas not for him to swell the crowd
Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow’d
Before the Moslem, as he pass’d,
Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast—
No—far he fled—indignant fled
The pageant of his country’s shame;
While every tear her children shed
Fell on his soul like drops of flame;
And, as a lover hails the dawn
Of a first smile, so welcom’d he
The sparkle of the first sword drawn
For vengeance and for liberty!

But vain was valour—vain the flower
Of KERMAN, in that deathful hour,
Against AL HASSAN’S whelming power.—
In vain they met him, helm to helm,
Upon the threshold of that realm
He came in bigot pomp to sway,
And with their corpses block’d his way—
In vain—for every lance they rais’d,
Thousands around the conqueror blaz’d;
For every arm that lin’d their shore,
Myriads of slaves were wafted o’er,—
A bloody, bold, and countless crowd,
Before whose swarm as fast they bow’d
As dates beneath the locust cloud.

There stood—but one short league away
From old HARMOZIA’S sultry bay—
A rocky mountain, o’er the Sea
Of OMAN beetling awfully:[249]
A last and solitary link
Of those stupendous chains that reach
From the broad Caspian’s reedy brink
Down winding to the Green Sea beach.
Around its base the bare rocks stood,
Like naked giants, in the flood,
As if to guard the Gulf across;
While, on its peak, that brav’d the sky,
A ruin’d Temple tower’d, so high
That oft the sleeping albatross[250]
Struck the wild ruins with her wing,
And from her cloud-rock’d slumbering
Started—to find man’s dwelling there
In her own silent fields of air!
Beneath, terrific caverns gave
Dark welcome to each stormy wave
That dash’d, like midnight revellers, in;—
And such the strange, mysterious din
At times throughout those caverns roll’d,—
And such the fearful wonders told
Of restless sprites imprison’d there,
That bold were Moslem, who would dare,
At twilight hour, to steer his skiff
Beneath the Gheber’s lonely cliff.[251]

On the land side, those towers sublime,
That seem’d above the grasp of Time,
Were sever’d from the haunts of men
By a wide, deep, and wizard glen,
So fathomless, so full of gloom,
No eye could pierce the void between:
It seem’d a place where Gholes might come
With their foul banquets from the tomb,
And in its caverns feed unseen.
Like distant thunder, from below,
The sound of many torrents came,
Too deep for eye or ear to know
If ’twere the sea’s imprison’d flow,
Or floods of ever-restless flame.
For, each ravine, each rocky spire
Of that vast mountain stood on fire;[252]
And, though for ever past the days
When God was worshipp’d in the blaze
That from its lofty altar shone,—
Though fled the priests, the votaries gone,
Still did the mighty flame burn on,[253]
Through chance and change, through good and ill,
Like its own God’s eternal will,
Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable!

Thither the vanquish’d HAFED led
His little army’s last remains;—
“Welcome, terrific glen!” he said,
“Thy gloom, that EBLIS’ self might dread,
“Is Heaven to him who flies from chains!”
O’er a dark, narrow bridge-way, known
To him and to his Chiefs alone,
They cross’d the chasm and gain’d the towers,—
“This home,” he cried, “at least is ours;—
“Here we may bleed, unmock’d by hymns
“Of Moslem triumph o’er our head;
“Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs
“To quiver to the Moslem’s tread.
“Stretch’d on this rock, while vultures’ beaks
“Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks,
“Here—happy that no tyrant’s eye
“Gloats on our torments—we may die!”—

’Twas night when to those towers they came,
And gloomily the fitful flame,
That from the ruin’d altar broke,
Glar’d on his features, as he spoke:—
“’Tis o’er—what men could do, we’ve done—
“If IRAN _will_ look tamely on,
“And see her priests, her warriors driven
“Before a sensual bigot’s nod,
“A wretch, who shrines his lusts in heaven,
“And makes a pander of his God;
“If her proud sons, her high-born souls,
“Men, in whose veins—oh last disgrace!
“The blood of ZAL and RUSTAM[254] rolls,—
“If they _will_ court this upstart race,
“And turn from MITHRA’S ancient ray,
“To kneel at shrines of yesterday;
“If they _will_ crouch to IRAN’S foes,
“Why, let them—till the land’s despair
“Cries out to Heaven, and bondage grows
“Too vile for e’en the vile to bear!
“Till shame at last, long hidden, burns
“Their inmost core, and conscience turns
“Each coward tear the slave lets fall
“Back on his heart in drops of gall.
“But _here_, at least, are arms unchain’d,
“And souls that thraldom never stain’d;—
“This spot, at least, no foot of slave
“Or satrap ever yet profan’d;
“And though but few—though fast the wave
“Of life is ebbing from our veins,
“Enough for vengeance still remains.
“As panthers, after set of sun,
“Rush from the roots of LEBANON
“Across the dark sea-robber’s way,[255]
“We’ll bound upon our startled prey;
“And when some hearts that proudest swell
“Have felt our falchion’s last farewell;
“When Hope’s expiring throb is o’er,
“And e’en despair can prompt no more,
“This spot shall be the sacred grave
“Of the last few who, vainly brave,
“Die for the land they cannot save!”

His Chiefs stood round—each shining blade
Upon the broken altar laid—
And though so wild and desolate
Those courts, where once the Mighty sate;
No longer on those mouldering towers
Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers,
With which of old the Magi fed
The wandering Spirits of their Dead;[256]
Though neither priest nor rites were there,
Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate;[257]
Nor hymn, nor censer’s fragrant air,
Nor symbol of their worshipp’d planet;[258]
Yet the same God that heard their sires
Heard _them_, while on that altar’s fires
They swore[259] the latest, holiest deed
Of the few hearts, still left to bleed,
Should be, in IRAN’S injur’d name,
To die upon that Mount of Flame—
The last of all her patriot line,
Before her last untrampled Shrine!

Brave, suffering souls! they little knew
How many a tear their injuries drew
From one meek maid, one gentle foe,
Whom love first touch’d with others’ woe—
Whose life, as free from thought as sin,
Slept like a lake, till Love threw in
His talisman, and woke the tide,
And spread its trembling circles wide.
Once, EMIR! thy unheeding child,
’Mid all this havoc, bloom’d and smil’d,—
Tranquil as on some battle plain
The Persian lily shines and towers,[260]
Before the combat’s reddening stain
Hath fall’n upon her golden flowers.
Light-hearted maid, unaw’d, unmov’d,
While Heaven but spar’d the sire she lov’d,
Once at thy evening tales of blood
Unlistening and aloof she stood—
And oft, when thou hast pac’d along
Thy Haram halls with furious heat,
Hast thou not curs’d her cheerful song,
That came across thee, calm and sweet,
Like lutes of angels, touch’d so near
Hell’s confines, that the damn’d can hear!

Far other feelings Love hath brought—
Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness,
She now has but the one dear thought,
And thinks that o’er, almost to madness!
Oft doth her sinking heart recall
His words—“For _my_ sake weep for all;”
And bitterly, as day on day
Of rebel carnage fast succeeds,
She weeps a lover snatch’d away
In every Gheber wretch that bleeds.
There’s not a sabre meets her eye,
But with his life-blood seems to swim;
There’s not an arrow wings the sky,
But fancy turns its point to him.
No more she brings with footstep light
AL HASSAN’S falchion for the fight;
And—had he look’d with clearer sight,
Had not the mists, that ever rise
From a foul spirit, dimm’d his eyes—
He would have mark’d her shuddering frame,
When from the field of blood he came,
The faltering speech—the look estrang’d—
Voice, step, and life, and beauty chang’d—
He would have mark’d all this, and known
Such change is wrought by Love alone!

Ah! not the Love, that should have bless’d
So young, so innocent a breast;
Not the pure, open, prosperous Love,
That, pledg’d on earth and seal’d above,
Grows in the world’s approving eyes,
In friendship’s smile and home’s caress,
Collecting all the heart’s sweet ties
Into one knot of happiness!
No, HINDA, no,—thy fatal flame
Is nurs’d in silence, sorrow, shame;—
A passion, without hope or pleasure,
In thy soul’s darkness buried deep,
It lies, like some ill-gotten treasure,—
Some idol, without shrine or name,
O’er which its pale-eyed votaries keep
Unholy watch, while others sleep.

Seven nights have darken’d OMAN’S sea,
Since last, beneath the moonlight ray,
She saw his light oar rapidly
Hurry her Gheber’s bark away,—
And still she goes, at midnight hour,
To weep alone in that high bower,
And watch, and look along the deep
For him whose smiles first made her weep;—
But watching, weeping, all was vain,
She never saw his bark again.
The owlet’s solitary cry,
The night-hawk, flitting darkly by,
And oft the hateful carrion bird,
Heavily flapping his clogg’d wing,
Which reek’d with that day’s banqueting—
Was all she saw, was all she heard.

’Tis the eighth morn—AL HASSAN’S brow
Is brighten’d with unusual joy—
What mighty mischief glads him now,
Who never smiles but to destroy?
The sparkle upon HERKEND’S Sea,
When toss’d at midnight furiously,[261]
Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh,
More surely than that smiling eye!
“Up, daughter, up—the KERNA’S[262] breath
“Has blown a blast would waken death,
“And yet thou sleep’st—up, child, and see
“This blessed day for Heaven and me,
“A day more rich in Pagan blood
“Than ever flash’d o’er OMAN’S flood.
“Before another dawn shall shine,
“His head—heart—limbs—will all be mine;
“This very night his blood shall steep
“These hands all over ere I sleep!”—
“_His_ blood!” she faintly scream’d—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 wor’st on OHOD’S field of death,[263]
“I swear, for every sob that parts
“In anguish from these heathen hearts,
“A gem from PERSIA’S plunder’d 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 risk’d thy timid sex
“In scenes that man himself might dread,
“Had I not hop’d 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 lurk’d one wretch among the few
Whom HAFED’S eagle eye could count
Around him on that Fiery Mount,—
One miscreant, who for gold betray’d
The pathway through 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 return’d
To their high rocky fortress mourn’d
For him among the matchless dead
They left behind on glory’s bed,
He liv’d, and, in the face of morn,
Laugh’d 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 drugg’d 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![264]
His country’s curse, his children’s shame,
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame,
May he, at last, with lips of flame
On the parch’d desert thirsting die,—
While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh,[265]
Are fading off, untouch’d, untasted,
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted!
And, when from earth his spirit flies,
Just Prophet, let the damn’d one dwell
Full in the sight of Paradise,
Beholding heaven, and feeling hell!

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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 Bid-musk had just passed over.[266] She fancied that she was sailing on that Eastern Ocean, where the sea-gipsies, who live for ever on the water,[267] 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, every thing 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[268] were hastily handed round, and after a short prelude on his lute, in the pathetic measure of Nava,[269] which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers, the Poet thus continued:—

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The day is lowering—stilly black
Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven’s rack,
Dispers’d and wild, ’twixt earth and sky
Hangs like a shatter’d 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, roll’d in masses dark and swelling,
As proud to be the thunder’s dwelling!
While some, already burst and riven,
Seem melting down the verge of heaven;
As though 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 steer’d for ORMUS’ bowers,
And moor’d his skiff till calmer hours;
The sea-birds, with portentous screech,
Flew fast to land;—upon the beach
The pilot oft had paus’d, with glance
Turn’d 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 tim’d her parting oar,[270]
Nor friends upon the lessening strand
Linger’d, 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-destin’d bark that steers
In silence through the Gate of Tears.[271]

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![272]
While o’er the wave his weeping daughter
Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter,—
As a young bird of BABYLON,[273]
Let loose to tell of victory won,
Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstain’d
By the red hands that held her chain’d.

And does the long-left home she seeks
Light up no gladness on her cheeks?
The flowers she nurs’d—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;[274]
Her little garden mosque to see,
And once again, at evening hour,
To tell her ruby rosary[275]
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 e’en 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’ unhallow’d name thou’rt doom’d 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 e’en 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 clasp’d—her eyes upturn’d,
Dropping their tears like moonlight rain;
And, though her lip, fond raver! burn’d
With words of passion, bold, profane,
Yet was there light around her brow,
A holiness in those dark eyes,
Which show’d, though wandering earthward now,
Her spirit’s home was in the skies.
Yes—for a spirit pure as hers
Is always pure, e’en while it errs;
As sunshine, broken in the rill,
Though turn’d 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 pass’d—
Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread
Of gathering tumult o’er her head—
Clash’d swords, and tongues that seem’d to vie
With the rude riot of the sky.—
But, hark!—that war-whoop on the deck—
That crash, as if each engine there,
Masts, sails, and all, were gone to wreck,
Mid yells and stampings of despair!
Merciful Heaven! what _can_ it be?
’Tis not the storm, though fearfully
The ship has shudder’d 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 breath’d, nor stirr’d—
When, hark!—a second crash—a third—
And now, as if a bolt of thunder
Had riv’n the labouring planks asunder,
The deck falls in—what horrors then!
Blood, waves, and tackle, swords and men
Come mix’d together through 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 turn’d away
The perils of the’ infuriate fray,
And snatch’d 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 shock’d 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 strugglers’ heads, all dash’d with gore,
Flutter’d like bloody flags—the clash
Of sabres, and the lightning’s flash
Upon their blades, high toss’d about
Like meteor brands[276]—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 ruin’d deck she caught
A glimpse of that unearthly form,
That glory of her soul,—e’en then,
Amid the whirl of wreck and storm,
Shining above his fellow-men,
As, on some black and troublous night,
The Star of EGYPT,[277] whose proud light
Never hath beam’d on those who rest
In the White Islands of the West,[278]
Burns through 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 pass’d 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 scatter’d 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 thunder-showers
Have left upon the grass and flowers
Sparkles, as ’twere that lightning-gem[279]
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 e’en 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’d still—is this the bark,
The same, that from HARMOZIA’S bay
Bore her at morn—whose bloody way
The sea-dog track’d?—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 look’d 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 reverie;
And some, who seem’d but ill to brook
That sluggish calm, with many a look
To the slack sail impatient cast,
As loose it flagg’d around the mast.

Blest ALLA! who shall save her now?
There’s not in all that warrior band
One Arab sword, one turban’d brow
From her own Faithful Moslem land.
Their garb—the leathern belt[280] that wraps
Each yellow vest[281]—that rebel hue—
The Tartar fleece upon their caps[282]—
Yes—yes—her fears are all too true,
And Heaven hath, in this dreadful hour,
Abandon’d 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
Cross’d her like lightning, as again,
With boldness that despair had lent,
She darted through that armed crowd
A look so searching, so intent,
That e’en the sternest warrior bow’d
Abash’d, when he her glances caught,
As if he guess’d whose form they sought.
But no—she sees him not—’tis gone,
The vision that before her shone
Through 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 tow’rd that mountain-hold,—
Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze,
Where MECCA’S godless enemies
Lie, like beleaguer’d scorpions, roll’d
In their last deadly, venomous fold!
Amid the’ illumin’d 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 bewilder’d 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 through 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 tow’rd 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
Through which departed spirits go:—
Not e’en the flare of brand and torch
Its flickering light could further throw
Than the thick flood that boil’d below.
Silent they floated—as if each
Sat breathless, and too aw’d for speech
In that dark chasm, where even sound
Seem’d dark,—so sullenly around
The goblin echoes of the cave
Mutter’d 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 oars’ redoubled force
Can stem the eddy’s whirling force;
When, hark!—some desperate foot has sprung
Among the rocks—the chain is flung—
The oars are up—the grapple clings,
And the toss’d bark in moorings swings.
Just then, a day-beam through 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.
E’en HINDA, though she saw not where
Or whither wound the perilous road,
Yet knew by that awakening air,
Which suddenly around her glow’d,
That they had risen from darkness then,
And breath’d the sunny world again!

But soon this balmy freshness fled—
For now the steepy labyrinth led
Through damp and gloom—’mid crash of boughs,
And fall of loosen’d 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 hyæna, 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—e’en 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
Perplex’d 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,[283]
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, though met on ruin’s brink,
Hath power to make e’en ruin dear,—
Yet soon this gleam of rapture, crost
By fears for him, is chill’d 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 banner’s 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 welcom’d 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, though they be
“Link’d 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 pass’d 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
“Redeem’d, 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, heaven-ward 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.[284]

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 eves
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 rush’d through KERMAN’S almond groves,
And shaken from her bowers of date
That cooling feast the traveller loves,[285]
Now, lull’d 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 aw’d as those who waken
In their dark tombs—when, scowling near,
The Searchers of the Grave[286] appear,—
She shuddering turn’d to read her fate
In the fierce eyes that flash’d around;
And saw those towers all desolate,
That o’er her head terrific frown’d,
As if defying e’en 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 through 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.[287]
How shall she bear that voice’s tone,
At whose loud battle-cry alone
Whole squadrons oft in panic ran,
Scatter’d like some vast caravan,
When, stretch’d 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 so 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 wondering 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 smil’d
In her lone tower, and left such beams
Of his pure eye to light her dreams,
That she believ’d her bower had given
Rest to some wanderer from heaven!

Moments there are, and this was one,
Snatch’d 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—though dimm’d and gone
Each star of Hope that cheer’d him on—
His glories lost—his cause betray’d—
IRAN, his dear-lov’d 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 lov’d—well, warmly lov’d—
Oh! in this precious hour he prov’d
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 quaff’d,
Though 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 a 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 tow’rds the ocean flood,
Where lightly o’er the illumin’d surge
Many a fair bark that, all the day,
Had lurk’d 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, though 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 wing’d his flight.
Never was scene so form’d 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 last,
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 lov’st me, fly—
“Soon will his murderous band be here,
“And I shall see thee bleed and die.—
“Hush! heard’st thou not the tramp of men
“Sounding from yonder fearful glen?—
“Perhaps e’en now they climb the wood—
“Fly, fly—though 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 e’en to agony
She clings around the wondering Chief;—
“Alas, poor wilder’d maid! to me
“Thou ow’st this raving trance of grief.
“Lost as I am, nought ever grew
“Beneath my shade but perish’d 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 vow’d (though watching viewless o’er
“Thy safety through 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 through yon valley hurl’d—
“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 e’en earth and hell unite
“In league to storm this Sacred Height,
“Fear nothing thou—myself, to-night,
“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 scream’d—“thou’lt never see
“To-morrow’s sun—death, death will be
“The night-cry through each reeking tower,
“Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour!
“Thou art betray’d—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 stamp’d in triumph through our hall,
“As though thy heart already beat
“Its last life-throb beneath his feet!
“Good Heaven, how little dream’d I then
“His victim was my own lov’d 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 play’d,
Is that congealing pang which seizes
The trusting bosom, when betray’d.
He felt it—deeply felt—and stood,
As if the tale had frozen his blood,
So maz’d and motionless was he;—
Like one whom sudden spells enchant,
Or some mute, marble habitant
Of the still Halls of ISHMONIE![288]

But soon the painful chill was o’er,
And his great soul, herself once more,
Look’d 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, though his life hath pass’d 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 through 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[289] gaze
On the red wreath, for martyrs twin’d,
More proudly than the youth surveys
That pile, which through the gloom behind,
Half lighted by the altar’s fire,
Glimmers—his destin’d funeral pyre!
Heap’d 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 turn’d
The death-flames that beneath him burn’d![290]

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 ador’d!
“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 lov’st 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 is thine,
“Those eyes before me smiling thus,
“Through good and ill, through 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 her heart-string broke
With every deep-heav’d 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
Dawn’d in his soul, and threw her smile
O’er hours to come—o’er days and nights,
Wing’d 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 bow’d
To raise the suppliant, trembling stole,
First warn’d him of this dangerous cloud
Of softness passing o’er his soul.
Starting, he brush’d 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 dimm’d, not stain’d its light.
Yet, though subdued the’ unnerving thrill,
Its warmth, its weakness linger’d still
So touching in each look and tone,
That the fond, fearing, hoping maid
Half counted on the flight she pray’d,
Half thought the hero’s soul was grown
As soft, as yielding as her own,
And smil’d and bless’d 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 rous’d youth impatient flew
To the tower-wall, where, high in view,
A ponderous sea-horn[291] hung, and blew
A signal, deep and dread as those
The storm-fiend at his rising blows.—
Full well his Chieftains, sworn and true
Through life and death, that signal knew;
For ’twas the’ appointed warring-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
Went gaily 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 charg’d the wind,
And the white ox-tails stream’d behind,[292]
Looking, as if the steeds they rode
Were wing’d, and every Chief a God!
How fallen, how alter’d now! how wan
Each scarr’d and faded visage shone,
As round the burning shrine they came!—
How deadly was the glare it cast,
As mute they pass’d before the flame
To light their torches as they pass’d!
’Twas silence all—the youth had plann’d
The duties of his soldier-band;
And each determin’d 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 shelter’d seat,
And press’d 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 vanish’d dream of sleep;
“And thou⸺” but ah!—he answers not—
Good Heaven!—and does she go alone?
She now has reach’d 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,[293]
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 lovèd 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 shriek’d his name
To the dark woods—no HAFED came:—
No—hapless pair—you’ve look’d 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 fix’d 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 consign’d
The corse of one, lov’d 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 through the chasm; as if the crowd
Of fearful things, that haunt that dell,
Its Gholes and Dives and shapes of hell,
Had 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
“Enfranchis’d through 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, reclimb’d the steep
And gain’d 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 through the chasm—oh! who that then
Had seen those listening warrior-men,
With their swords grasp’d, their eyes of flame
Turn’d 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 scorn’st the’ inglorious sacrifice.
“No—though 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 Ghebers’ bloody glen.
“Follow, brave hearts!—this pile remains
“Our refuge still from life and chains;
“But his the best, the holiest bed,
“Who sinks entomb’d in Moslem dead!”

Down the precipitous rocks they sprung,
While vigour, more than human, strung
Each arm and heart.—The’ exulting foe
Still through the dark defiles below,
Track’d by his torches’ lurid fire,
Wound slow, as through GOLCONDA’S vale[294]
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,
Cross’d the wild race that round them dwell,
The very tigers from their delves
Look out, and let them pass, as things
Untam’d 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 fill’d the narrow chasm breast high,
And, on each side, aloft and wild,
Huge cliffs and toppling crags were pil’d,—
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!