Chapter VI: Part 6

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

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

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

Crush’d down by that vast multitude,
Some found their graves where first they stood;
While some with hardier struggle died,
And still fought on by HAFED’S side,
Who, fronting to the foe, trod back
Tow’rds the high towers his gory track;
And, as a lion swept away
By sudden swell of JORDAN’S pride
From the wild covert where he lay,[295]
Long battles with the o’erwhelming tide,
So fought he back with fierce delay,
And kept both foes and fate at bay.

But whither now? their track is lost,
Their prey escap’d—guide, torches gone—
By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost,
The scatter’d crowd rush blindly on—
“Curse on those tardy lights that wind,”
They panting cry, “so far behind;
“Oh for a bloodhound’s precious scent,
“To track the way the Gheber went!”
Vain wish—confusedly along
They rush, more desperate as more wrong:
Till, wilder’d by the far-off lights,
Yet glittering up those gloomy heights,
Their footing, maz’d and lost, they miss,
And down the darkling precipice
Are dash’d into the deep abyss;
Or midway hang, impal’d on rocks,
A banquet, yet alive, for flocks
Of ravening vultures,—while the dell
Re-echoes with each horrible yell.

Those sounds—the last to vengeance dear,
That e’er shall ring in HAFED’S ear,—
Now reached him, as aloft, alone,
Upon the steep way breathless thrown,
He lay beside his reeking blade,
Resign’d, as if life’s task were o’er,
Its last blood-offering amply paid,
And IRAN’S self could claim no more.
One only thought, one lingering beam
Now broke across his dizzy dream
Of pain and weariness—’twas she,
His heart’s pure planet, shining yet
Above the waste of memory,
When all life’s other lights were set.
And never to his mind before
Her image such enchantment wore.
It seem’d as if each thought that stain’d,
Each fear that chill’d their loves was past,
And not one cloud of earth remain’d
Between him and her radiance cast;—
As if to charms, before so bright,
New grace from other worlds was given,
And his soul saw her by the light
Now breaking o’er itself from heaven!

A voice spoke near him—’twas the tone
Of a lov’d friend, the only one
Of all his warriors, left with life
From that short night’s tremendous strife.—
“And must we then, my Chief, die here?
“Foes round us, and the Shrine so near!”
These words have rous’d the last remains
Of life within him—“what! not yet
“Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!”
The thought could make e’en Death forget
His icy bondage—with a bound
He springs, all bleeding, from the ground,
And grasps his comrade’s arm, now grown
E’en feebler, heavier than his own,
And up the painful pathway leads,
Death gaining on each step he treads.
Speed them, thou God, who heard’st their vow!
They mount—they bleed—oh, save them now!—
The crags are red they’ve clamber’d o’er,
The rock-weeds dripping with their gore;—
Thy blade too, HAFED, false at length,
Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength!
Haste, haste—the voices of the Foe
Come near and nearer from below—
One effort more—thank Heaven! ’tis past,
They’ve gain’d the topmost steep at last.
And now they touch the temple’s walls,
Now HAFED sees the Fire divine—
When, lo!—his weak, worn comrade falls
Dead on the threshold of the Shrine.
“Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled!
“And must I leave thee withering here,
“The sport of every ruffian’s tread,
“The mark for every coward’s spear?
“No, by yon altar’s sacred beams!”
He cries, and, with a strength that seems
Not of this world, uplifts the frame
Of the fallen Chief, and tow’rds the flame
Bears him along;—with death-damp hand
The corpse upon the pyre he lays,
Then lights the consecrated brand,
And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze
Like lightning bursts o’er OMAN’S Sea.—
“Now, Freedom’s God! I come to Thee,”
The youth exclaims, and with a smile
Of triumph vaulting on the pile
In that last effort, ere the fires
Have harm’d one glorious limb, expires!

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

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

Calm is the wave—heaven’s brilliant lights
Reflected dance beneath the prow;—
Time was when, on such lovely nights,
She who is there, so desolate now,
Could sit all cheerful, though alone,
And ask no happier joy than seeing
That starlight o’er the waters thrown—
No joy but that, to make her blest,
And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being,
Which bounds in youth’s yet careless breast,—
Itself a star, not borrowing light,
But in its own glad essence bright.
How different now!—but, hark, again
The yell of havoc rings—brave men!
In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand
On the bark’s edge—in vain each hand
Half draws the falchion from its sheath;
All’s o’er—in rust your blades may lie:—
He, at whose word they’ve scatter’d death,
E’en now, this night, himself must die!
Well may ye look to yon dim tower,
And ask, and wondering guess what means
The battle-cry at this dead hour—
Ah! she could tell you—she, who leans
Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast,
With brow against the dew-cold mast;—
Too well she knows—her more than life,
Her soul’s first idol and its last,
Lies bleeding in that murderous strife.

But see—what moves upon the height?
Some signal!—’tis a torch’s light.
What bodes its solitary glare?
In gasping silence tow’rd the Shrine
All eyes are turn’d—thine, HINDA, thine
Fix their last fading life-beams there.
’Twas but a moment—fierce and high
The death-pile blaz’d into the sky,
And far away, o’er rock and flood
Its melancholy radiance sent;
While HAFED, like a vision, stood
Reveal’d before the burning pyre,
Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire
Shrin’d in its own grand element!
“’Tis he!”—the shuddering maid exclaims,—
But, while she speaks, he’s seen no more;
High burst in air the funeral flames,
And IRAN’S hopes and hers are o’er!

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

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

Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,
How light was thy heart till Love’s witchery came,
Like the wind of the south[296] o’er a summer lute blowing,
And hush’d all its music, and withered its frame!

But long, upon ARABY’S green sunny highlands,
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom
Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands,
With nought but the sea-star[297] to light up her tomb.

And still, when the merry date-season is burning,[298]
And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old,
The happiest there, from their pastime returning
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.

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

Nor shall IRAN, belov’d of her Hero! forget thee—
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start,
Close, close by the side of that Hero she’ll set thee,
Embalm’d in the innermost shrine of her heart.

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

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept;[299]
With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath’d chamber
We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept.

We’ll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head;
We’ll seek where the sands of the Caspian[300] are sparkling,
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

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

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The singular placidity with which FADLADEEN had listened, during the latter part of this obnoxious story, surprised the Princess and FERAMORZ exceedingly; and even inclined towards him the hearts of these unsuspicious young persons, who little knew the source of a complacency so marvellous. The truth was, he had been organising, for the last few days, a most notable plan of persecution against the poet, in consequence of some passages that had fallen from him on the second evening of recital,—which appeared to this worthy Chamberlain to contain language and principles, for which nothing short of the summary criticism of the Chabuk[301] would be advisable. It was his intention, therefore, immediately on their arrival at Cashmere, to give information to the King of Bucharia of the very dangerous sentiments of his minstrel; and if, unfortunately, that monarch did not act with suitable vigour on the occasion, (that is, if he did not give the Chabuk to FERAMORZ, and a place to FADLADEEN,) there would be an end, he feared, of all legitimate government in Bucharia. He could not help, however, auguring better both for himself and the cause of potentates in general; and it was the pleasure arising from these mingled anticipations that diffused such unusual satisfaction through his features, and made his eyes shine out, like poppies of the desert, over the wide and lifeless wilderness of that countenance.

Having decided upon the Poet’s chastisement in this manner, he thought it but humanity to spare him the minor tortures of criticism. Accordingly, when they assembled the following evening in the pavilion, and LALLA ROOKH was expecting to see all the beauties of her bard melt away, one by one, in the acidity of criticism, like pearls in the cup of the Egyptian queen,—he agreeably disappointed her, by merely saying, with an ironical smile, that the merits of such a poem deserved to be tried at a much higher tribunal; and then suddenly passed off into a panegyric upon all Mussulman sovereigns, more particularly his august and Imperial master, Aurungzebe,—the wisest and best of the descendants of Timur,—who, among other great things he had done for mankind, had given to him, FADLADEEN, the very profitable posts of Betel-carrier, and Taster of Sherbets to the Emperor, Chief Holder of the Girdle of Beautiful Forms,[302] and Grand Nazir, or Chamberlain of the Haram.

They were now not far from that Forbidden River,[303] beyond which no pure Hindoo can pass; and were reposing for a time in the rich valley of Hussun Abdaul, which had always been a favourite resting-place of the Emperors in their annual migrations to Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the Faith, Jehan-Guire, been known to wander with his beloved and beautiful Nourmahal: and here would LALLA ROOKH have been happy to remain for ever, giving up the throne of Bucharia and the world, for FERAMORZ and love in this sweet, lonely valley. But the time was now fast approaching when she must see him no longer,—or, what was still worse, behold him with eyes whose every look belonged to another; and there was a melancholy preciousness in these last moments, which made her heart cling to them as it would to life. During the latter paid of the journey, indeed, she had sunk into a deep sadness, from which nothing but the presence of the young minstrel could awake her. Like those lamps in tombs, which only light up when the air is admitted, it was only at his approach that her eyes became smiling and animated. But here, in this dear valley, every moment appeared an age of pleasure; she saw him all day, and was, therefore, all day happy,—resembling, she often thought, that people of Zinge, who attribute the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly over their heads.[304]

The whole party, indeed, seemed in their liveliest mood during the few days they passed in this delightful solitude. The young attendants of the Princess, who were here allowed a much freer range than they could safely be indulged with in a less sequestered place, ran wild among the gardens and bounded through the meadows, lightly as young roes over the aromatic plains of Tibet. While FADLADEEN, in addition to the spiritual comfort derived by him from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Saint from whom the valley is named, had also opportunities of indulging, in a small way, his taste for victims, by putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate little lizards,[305] which all pious Mussulmans make it a point to kill;—taking for granted, that the manner in which the creature hangs its head is meant as a mimicry of the attitude in which the Faithful say their prayers.

About two miles from Hussun Abdaul were those Royal Gardens,[306] which had grown beautiful under the care of so many lovely eyes, and were beautiful still, though those eyes could see them no longer. This place, with its flowers, and its holy silence, interrupted only by the dipping of the wings of birds in its marble basins filled with the pure water of those hills, was to LALLA ROOKH all that her heart could fancy of fragrance, coolness, and almost heavenly tranquillity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, “it was too delicious;”[307]—and here, in listening to the sweet voice of FERAMORZ, or reading in his eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the most exquisite moments of her whole life were passed. One evening, when they had been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal, the Light of the Haram,[308] who had so often wandered among these flowers, and fed with her own hands, in those marble basins, the small shining fishes of which she was so fond,[309]—the youth, in order to delay the moment of separation, proposed to recite a short story, or rather rhapsody, of which this adored Sultana was the heroine. It related, he said, to the reconcilement of a sort of lovers’ quarrel which took place between her and the Emperor during a Feast of Roses at Cashmere; and would remind the Princess of that difference between Haroun-al-Raschid and his fair mistress Marida,[310] which was so happily made up by the soft strains of the musician, Moussali. As the story was chiefly to be told in song, and FERAMORZ had unluckily forgotten his own lute in the valley, he borrowed the vina of LALLA ROOKH’S little Persian slave, and thus began:—

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The Light of the Haram

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Who has not heard of the vale of CASHMERE,
With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,[311]
Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear
As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?

Oh! to see it at sunset,—when warm o’er the Lake
Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws,
Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take
A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!—
When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown,
And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own.
Here the music of pray’r from a minaret swells,
Here the Magian his urn, full of perfume, is swinging,
And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells
Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.[312]
Or to see it by moonlight,—when mellowly shines
The light o’er its palaces, gardens, and shrines;
When the water-falls gleam, like a quick fall of stars,
And the nightingale’s hymn from the Isle of Chenars
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet
From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet.—
Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks,
Hills, cupolas, fountains, call’d forth every one
Out of darkness, as if but just born of the Sun.
When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day,
From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away;
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover
The young aspen-trees,[313] till they tremble all over.
When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes,
And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl’d,
Shines in through the mountainous portal[314] that opes,
Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world!

But never yet, by night or day,
In dew of spring or summer’s ray,
Did the sweet Valley shine so gay
As now it shines—all love and light,
Visions by day and feasts by night!
A happier smile illumes each brow,
With quicker spread each heart uncloses,
And all is ecstasy—for now
The Valley holds its Feast of Roses;[315]
The joyous Time, when pleasures pour
Profusely round, and, in their shower,
Hearts open, like the Season’s Rose,—
The Flow’ret of a hundred leaves,[316]
Expanding while the dew-fall flows,
And every leaf its balm receives.

’Twas when the hour of evening came
Upon the Lake, serene and cool,
When Day had hid his sultry flame
Behind the palms of BARAMOULE,[317]
When maids began to lift their heads,
Refresh’d from their embroider’d beds,
Where they had slept the sun away,
And wak’d to moonlight and to play.
All were abroad—the busiest hive
On BELA’S[318] hills is less alive,
When saffron-beds are full in flower,
Than look’d the Valley in that hour.
A thousand restless torches play’d
Through every grove and island shade;
A thousand sparkling lamps were set
On every dome and minaret;
And fields and pathways, far and near,
Were lighted by a blaze so clear,
That you could see, in wandering round,
The smallest rose-leaf on the ground.
Yet did the maids and matrons leave
Their veils at home, that brilliant eve;
And there were glancing eyes about,
And cheeks, that would not dare shine out
In open day, but thought they might
Look lovely then, because ’twas night.
And all were free, and wandering,
And all exclaim’d to all they met,
That never did the summer bring
So gay a Feast of Roses yet;—
The moon had never shed a light
So clear as that which bless’d them there;
The roses ne’er shone half so bright,
Nor they themselves look’d half so fair.

And what a wilderness of flowers!
It seem’d as though from all the bowers
And fairest fields of all the year,
The mingled spoil were scatter’d here.
The Lake, too, like a garden breathes,
With the rich buds that o’er it lie,—
As if a shower of fairy wreaths
Had fall’n upon it from the sky!
And then the sounds of joy,—the beat
Of tabors and of dancing feet;—
The minaret-crier’s chaunt of glee
Sung from his lighted gallery,[319]
And answered by a ziraleet
From neighbouring Haram, wild and sweet;—
The merry laughter, echoing
From gardens, where the silken swing[320]
Wafts some delighted girl above
The top leaves of the orange grove;
Or, from those infant groups at play
Among the tents[321] that line the way,
Flinging, unaw’d by slave or mother,
Handfuls of roses at each other.—
Then, the sounds from the Lake, the low whispering in boats,
As they shoot through the moonlight;—the dipping of oars.
And the wild, airy warbling that every where floats,
Through the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores,
Like those of KATHAY, utter’d music, and gave
An answer in song to the kiss of each wave.[322]
But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of feeling,
That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing,—
Some lover, who knows all the heart-touching power
Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour.
Oh! best of delights as it every where is
To be near the lov’d _One_,—what a rapture is his
Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide
O’er the Lake of CASHMERE, with that _One_ by his side!
If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,
Think, think what a Heaven she must make of CASHMERE!

So felt the magnificent Son of ACBAR,[323]
When from power and pomp and the trophies of war
He flew to that Valley, forgetting them all
With the Light of the HARAM, his young NOURMAHAL.
When free and uncrown’d as the Conqueror rov’d
By the banks of that Lake, with his only belov’d,
He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch
From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match,
And preferr’d in his heart the least ringlet that curl’d
Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world.

There’s a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright,
Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day’s light,
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender,
Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour.
This _was_ not the beauty—oh, nothing like this,
That to young NOURMAHAL gave such magic of bliss!
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays
Like the light upon autumn’s soft shadowy days,
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies
From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes;
Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams,
Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heav’n in his dreams.
When pensive, it seem’d as if that very grace,
That charm of all others, was born with her face!
And when angry,—for ev’n in the tranquillest climes
Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes—
The short, passing anger but seem’d to awaken
New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken.
If tenderness touch’d her, the dark of her eye
At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,
From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings
From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings.
Then her mirth—oh! ’twas sportive as ever took wing
From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring;
Illum’d by a wit that would fascinate sages,
Yet playful as Peris just loos’d from their cages.[324]
While her laugh, full of life, without any control
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul;
And where it most sparkled no glance could discover,
In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten’d all over,—
Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon,
When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun.
Such, such were the peerless enchantments that gave
NOURMAHAL the proud Lord of the East for her slave:
And though bright was his Haram,—a living parterre
Of the flowers[325] of this planet—though treasures were there,
For which SOLIMAN’S self might have giv’n all the store
That the navy from OPHIR e’er wing’d to his shore,
Yet dim before _her_ were the smiles of them all,
And the Light of his Haram was young NOURMAHAL!

But where is she now, this night of joy,
When bliss is every heart’s employ?—
When all around her is so bright,
So like the visions of a trance,
That one might think, who came by chance
Into the vale this happy night,
He saw that City of Delight[326]
In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers
Are made of gems and light and flowers!—
Where is the lov’d Sultana? where,
When mirth brings out the young and fair,
Does she, the fairest, hide her brow,
In melancholy stillness now?

Alas!—how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied;
That stood the storm, when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,
Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity!
A something, light as air—a look,
A word unkind or wrongly taken—
Oh! love, that tempests never shook,
A breath, a touch like this hath shaken.
And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship’s smiling day;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds,—or like the stream,
That smiling left the mountain’s brow
As though its waters ne’er could sever,
Yet, ere it reach the plain below,
Breaks into floods, that part for ever.

Oh, you, that have the charge of Love,
Keep him in rosy bondage bound,
As in the Fields of Bliss above
He sits, with flow’rets fetter’d round;[327]—
Loose not a tie that round him clings,
Nor ever let him use his wings;
For e’en an hour, a minute’s flight
Will rob the plumes of half their light.
Like that celestial bird,—whose nest
Is found beneath far Eastern skies,—
Whose wings, though radiant when at rest,
Lose all their glory when he flies![328]

Some difference, of this dangerous kind,—
By which, though light, the links that bind
The fondest hearts may soon be riven;
Some shadow in Love’s summer heaven,
Which, though a fleecy speck at first,
May yet in awful thunder burst;—
Such cloud it is that now hangs over
The heart of the Imperial Lover,
And far hath banish’d from his sight
His NOURMAHAL, his Haram’s Light!
Hence is it, on this happy night,
When Pleasure through the fields and groves
Has let loose all her world of loves,
And every heart has found its own,
He wanders, joyless and alone,
And weary as that bird of Thrace,
Whose pinion knows no resting place.[329]
In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes
This Eden of the Earth supplies
Come crowding round—the cheeks are pale,
The eyes are dim:—though rich the spot
With every flow’r this earth has got,
What is it to the nightingale,
If there his darling rose is not?[330]
In vain the Valley’s smiling throng
Worship him, as he moves along;
He heeds them not—one smile of hers
Is worth a world of worshippers.
They but the Star’s adorers are,
She is the Heav’n that lights the Star!

Hence is it, too, that NOURMAHAL,
Amid the luxuries of this hour,
Far from the joyous festival,
Sits in her own sequester’d bower,
With no one near, to soothe or aid,
But that inspir’d and wondrous maid,
NAMOUNA, the Enchantress;—one,
O’er whom his race the golden sun
For unremember’d years has run,
Yet never saw her blooming brow
Younger or fairer than ’tis now.
Nay, rather,—as the west wind’s sigh
Freshens the flower it passes by,—
Time’s wing but seem’d, in stealing o’er,
To leave her lovelier than before.
Yet on her smiles a sadness hung,
And when, as oft, she spoke or sung
Of other worlds, there came a light
From her dark eyes so strangely bright,
That all believ’d nor man nor earth
Were conscious of NAMOUNA’S birth!
All spells and talismans she knew,
From the great Mantra,[331] which around
The Air’s sublimer Spirits drew,
To the gold gems[332] of AFRIC, bound
Upon the wandering Arab’s arm,
To keep him from the Siltim’s[333] harm.
And she had pledg’d her powerful art,—
Pledg’d it with all the zeal and heart
Of one who knew, though high her sphere,
What ’twas to lose a love so dear,—
To find some spell that should recall
Her Selim’s[334] smile to NOURMAHAL!

’Twas midnight—through the lattice, wreath’d
With woodbine, many a perfume breath’d
From plants that wake when others sleep,
From timid jasmine buds, that keep
Their odour to themselves all day,
But, when the sun-light dies away,
Let the delicious secret out
To every breeze that roams about;—
When thus NAMOUNA:—“’Tis the hour
“That scatters spells on herb and flower,
“And garlands might be gather’d now,
“That, twin’d around the sleeper’s brow,
“Would make him dream of such delights,
“Such miracles and dazzling sights,
“As Genii of the Sun behold,
“At evening, from their tents of gold
“Upon the’ horizon—where they play
“Till twilight comes, and, ray by ray,
“Their sunny mansions melt away.
“Now, too, a chaplet might be wreath’d
“Of buds o’er which the moon has breath’d,
“Which worn by her, whose love has stray’d,
“Might bring some Peri from the skies,
“Some sprite, whose very soul is made
“Of flow’rets’ breaths and lovers’ sighs,
“And who might tell⸺”
“For me, for me,”
Cried NOURMAHAL impatiently,—
“Oh! twine that wreath for me to-night.”
Then, rapidly, with foot as light
As the young musk-roe’s, out she flew,
To cull each shining leaf that grew
Beneath the moonlight’s hallowing beams,
For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams.
Anemones and Seas of Gold,[335]
And new-blown lilies of the river,
And those sweet flow’rets, that unfold
Their buds on CAMADEVA’S quiver;[336]
The tube-rose, with her silvery light,
That in the Gardens of Malay
Is call’d the Mistress of the Night,[337]
So like a bride, scented and bright,
She comes out when the sun’s away;—
Amaranths, such as crown the maids
That wander through ZAMARA’S shades;[338]—
And the white moon-flower, as it shows,
On SERENDIB’S high crags, to those
Who near the isle at evening sail,
Scenting her clove-trees in the gale;
In short, all flow’rets and all plants,
From the divine Amrita tree,[339]
That blesses heaven’s inhabitants
With fruits of immortality,
Down to the basil tuft,[340] that waves
Its fragrant blossom over graves,
And to the humble rosemary,
Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed
To scent the desert[341] and the dead:—
All in that garden bloom, and all
Are gather’d by young NOURMAHAL,
Who heaps her baskets with the flowers
And leaves, till they can hold no more;
Then to NAMOUNA flies, and showers
Upon her lap the shining store.

With what delight the’ Enchantress views
So many buds, bath’d with the dews
And beams of that bless’d hour!—her glance
Spoke something, past all mortal pleasures,
As, in a kind of holy trance,
She hung above those fragrant treasures,
Bending to drink their balmy airs,
As if she mix’d her soul with theirs.
And ’twas, indeed, the perfume shed
From flow’rs and scented flame, that fed
Her charmèd life—for none had e’er
Beheld her taste of mortal fare,
Nor ever in aught earthly dip,
But the morn’s dew, her roseate lip.
Fill’d with the cool, inspiring smell,
The’ Enchantress now begins her spell,
Thus singing as she winds and weaves
In mystic form the glittering leaves:—

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

I know where the winged visions dwell
That around the night-bed play;
I know each herb and flow’ret’s bell,
Where they hide their wings by day.
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The image of love, that nightly flies
To visit the bashful maid,
Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs
Its soul, like her, in the shade.
The dream of a future, happier hour,
That alights on misery’s brow,
Springs out of the silvery almond-flower,
That blooms on a leafless bough.[342]
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The visions, that oft to worldly eyes
The glitter of mines unfold,
Inhabit the mountain-herb,[343] that dyes
The tooth of the fawn like gold.
The phantom shapes—oh touch not them—
That appal the murderer’s sight,
Lurk in the fleshly mandrake’s stem,
That shrieks, when pluck’d at night!
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The dream of the injur’d, patient mind,
That smiles at the wrongs of men,
Is found in the bruis’d and wounded rind
Of the cinnamon, sweetest then.
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

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

No sooner was the flowery crown
Plac’d on her head, than sleep came down,
Gently as nights of summer fall,
Upon the lids of NOURMAHAL;—
And, suddenly, a tuneful breeze,
As full of small, rich harmonies
As ever wind, that o’er the tents
Of AZAB[344] blew, was full of scents,
Steals on her ear, and floats and swells.
Like the first air of morning creeping
Into those wreathy, Red-Sea shells,
Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping;[345]
And now a Spirit form’d, ’twould seem,
Of music and of light,—so fair,
So brilliantly his features beam,
And such a sound is in the air
Of sweetness when he waves his wings,—
Hovers around her, and thus sings:—

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

From CHINDARA’S[346] warbling fount I come,
Call’d by that moonlight garland’s spell;
From CHINDARA’S fount, my fairy home,
Where in music, morn and night, I dwell:
Where lutes in the air are heard about,
And voices are singing the whole day long,
And every sigh the heart breathes out
Is turn’d, as it leaves the lips, to song!
Hither I come
From my fairy home,
And if there’s a magic in Music’s strain,
I swear by the breath
Of that moonlight wreath,
Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

For mine is the lay that lightly floats,
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea,
And melt in the heart as instantly:—
And the passionate strain that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through,
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too.

Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway
The Spirits of past Delight obey;—
Let but the tuneful talisman sound,
And they come, like Genii, hovering round.
And mine is the gentle song that bears
From soul to soul, the wishes of love,
As a bird, that wafts through genial airs
The cinnamon-seed from grove to grove.[347]

’Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure
The past, the present, and future of pleasure;[348]
When Memory links the tone that is gone
With the blissful tone that’s still in the ear;
And Hope from a heavenly note flies on
To a note more heavenly still that is near.

The warrior’s heart, when touch’d by me,
Can as downy soft and as yielding be
As his own white plume, that high amid death
Through the field has shone—yet moves with a breath!
And oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten,
When Music has reach’d her inward soul,
Like the silent stars, that wink and listen
While Heaven’s eternal melodies roll.
So, hither I come
From my fairy home,
And if there’s a magic in Music’s strain,
I swear by the breath
Of that moonlight wreath,
Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

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

’Tis dawn—at least that earlier dawn,
Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,[349]
As if the morn had wak’d, and then
Shut close her lids of light again.
And NOURMAHAL is up, and trying
The wonders of her lute, whose strings—
Oh, bliss!—now murmur like the sighing
From that ambrosial Spirit’s wings.
And then, her voice—’tis more than human—
Never, till now, had it been given
To lips of any mortal woman
To utter notes so fresh from heaven;
Sweet as the breath of angel sighs,
When angel sighs are most divine.—
“Oh! let it last till night,” she cries,
“And he is more than ever mine.”
And hourly she renews the lay,
So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness
Should, ere the evening, fade away,—
For things so heavenly have such fleetness!
But, far from fading, it but grows
Richer, diviner as it flows;
Till rapt she dwells on every string,
And pours again each sound along,
Like echo, lost and languishing,
In love with her own wondrous song.

That evening, (trusting that his soul
Might be from haunting love releas’d
By mirth, by music, and the bowl,)
The’ Imperial SELIM held a feast
In his magnificent Shalimar:[350]—
In whose Saloons, when the first star
Of evening o’er the waters trembled,
The Valley’s loveliest all assembled;
All the bright creatures that, like dreams,
Glide through its foliage, and drink beams
Of beauty from its founts and streams;[351]
And all those wandering minstrel-maids,
Who leave—how _can_ they leave?—the shades
Of that dear Valley, and are found
Singing in gardens of the South[352]
Those songs, that ne’er so sweetly sound
As from a young Cashmerian’s mouth.
There, too, the Haram’s inmates smile;—
Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair,
And from the Garden of the NILE,
Delicate as the roses there;[353]—
Daughters of Love from CYPRUS’ rocks,
With Paphian diamonds in their locks;[354]—
Light PERI forms, such as there are
On the gold meads of CANDAHAR;[355]
And they, before whose sleepy eyes,
In their own bright Kathaian bowers,
Sparkle such rainbow butterflies,
That they might fancy the rich flowers,
That round them in the sun lay sighing,
Had been by magic all set flying.[356]

Every thing young, every thing fair
From East and West is blushing there,
Except—except—oh, NOURMAHAL!
Thou loveliest, dearest of them all,
The one, whose smile shone out alone,
Amidst a world the only one;
Whose light, among so many lights,
Was like that star on starry nights,
The seaman singles from the sky,
To steer his bark for ever by!
Thou wert not there—so SELIM thought,
And every thing seem’d drear without thee;
But, ah! thou wert, thou wert,—and brought
Thy charm of song all fresh about thee.
Mingling unnoticed with a band
Of lutanists from many a land,
And veil’d by such a mask as shades
The features of young Arab maids,[357]—
A mask that leaves but one eye free,
To do its best in witchery,—
She rov’d, with beating heart, around,
And waited, trembling, for the minute,
When she might try if still the sound
Of her lov’d lute had magic in it.

The board was spread with fruits and wine;
With grapes of gold, like those that shine
On CASBIN’S hills;[358]—pomegranates full
Of melting sweetness, and the pears,
And sunniest apples[359] that CAUBUL
In all its thousand gardens[360]bears;—
Plantains, the golden and the green,
MALAYA’S nectar’d mangusteen;[361]
Prunes of BOKARA, and sweet nuts
From the far groves of SAMARCAND,
And BASRA dates, and apricots,
Seed of the Sun,[362] from IRAN’S land;—
With rich conserve of Visna cherries,[363]
Of orange flowers, and of those berries
That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles
Feed on in ERAC’S rocky dells.[364]
All these in richest vases smile,
In baskets of pure santal-wood,
And urns of porcelain from that isle[365]
Sunk underneath the Indian flood,
Whence oft the lucky diver brings
Vases to grace the halls of kings.
Wines, too, of every clime and hue,
Around their liquid lustre threw;
Amber Rosolli,[366]—the bright dew
From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing;[367]
And SHIRAZ wine, that richly ran
As if that jewel, large and rare,
The ruby for which KUBLAI-KHAN
Offer’d a city’s wealth,[368] was blushing
Melted within the goblets there!

And amply SELIM quaffs of each,
And seems resolv’d the flood shall reach
His inward heart,—shedding around
A genial deluge, as they run,
That soon shall leave no spot undrown’d,
For Love to rest his wings upon.
He little knew how well the boy
Can float upon a goblet’s streams,
Lighting them with his smile of joy;—
As bards have seen him in their dreams,
Down the blue GANGES laughing glide
Upon a rosy lotus wreath,[369]
Catching new lustre from the tide
That with his image shone beneath.

But what are cups, without the aid
Of song to speed them as they flow?
And see—a lovely Georgian maid,
With all the bloom, the freshen’d glow
Of her own country maidens’ looks,
When warm they rise from TEFLIS’ brooks;[370]
And with an eye, whose restless ray,
Full, floating, dark—oh, he, who knows
His heart is weak, of heaven should pray
To guard him from such eyes as those!—
With a voluptuous wildness flings
Her snowy hand across the strings
Of a syrinda,[371] and thus sings:—

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

Come hither, come hither—by night and by day,
We linger in pleasures that never are gone;
Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away,
Another as sweet and as shining comes on.
And the love that is o’er, in expiring, gives birth
To a new one as warm, as unequall’d in bliss;
And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.[372]

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh
As the flower of the Amra just op’d by a bee;[373]
And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,[374]
Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea.
Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth
When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss,
And own if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.

Here sparkles the nectar, that, hallow’d by love,
Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere,
Who for wine of this earth[375] left the fountains above,
And forgot heaven’s stars for the eyes we have here.
And, bless’d with the odour our goblet gives forth,
What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss?
For, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.

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

The Georgian’s song was scarcely mute,
When the same measure, sound for sound,
Was caught up by another lute,
And so divinely breathed around,
That all stood hush’d and wondering,
And turn’d and look’d into the air,
As if they thought to see the wing
Of ISRAFIL,[376] the Angel, there;—
So powerfully on every soul
That new, enchanted measure stole.
While now a voice, sweet as the note
Of the charm’d lute, was heard to float
Along its chords, and so entwine
Its sounds with theirs, that none knew whether
The voice or lute was most divine,
So wondrously they went together:—

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

There’s a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,
When two, that are link’d in one heavenly tie,
With heart never changing, and brow never cold,
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die!
One hour of a passion so sacred is worth
Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss;
And, oh! if there _be_ an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.

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

Twas not the air, ’twas not the words,
But that deep magic in the chords
And in the lips, that gave such power
As music knew not till that hour.
At once a hundred voices said,
“It is the mask’d Arabian maid!”
While SELIM, who had felt the strain
Deepest of any, and had lain
Some minutes rapt, as in a trance,
After the fairy sounds were o’er,
Too inly touched for utterance,
Now motion’d with his hand for more:—

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

Fly to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt,
Of tents with love, or thrones without?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The’ acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor lov’d the less
For flowering in a wilderness.

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

Then come—thy Arab maid will be
The lov’d and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.

Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,—
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;

As if the very lips and eyes,
Predestin’d to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then!

So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breath’d and shone;
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if loved for years.

Then fly with me,—if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.

Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,—
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first ’tis by the lapwing found.[377]

But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp’d image from its base,
To give to me the ruin’d place;—

Then, fare thee well—I’d rather make
My bower upon some icy lake
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine!

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

There was a pathos in this lay,
That, e’en without enchantment’s art,
Would instantly have found its way
Deep into SELIM’S burning heart;
But, breathing, as it did, a tone
To earthly lutes and lips unknown;
With every chord fresh from the touch
Of Music’s Spirit,—’twas too much!
Starting, he dash’d away the cup,—
Which, all the time of this sweet air,
His hand had held, untasted, up,
As if ’twere fix’d by magic there,—
And naming her, so long unnam’d,
So long unseen, wildly exclaim’d,
“Oh NOURMAHAL! oh NOURMAHAL!
“Hadst thou but sung this witching strain,
“I could forget—forgive thee all,
“And never leave those eyes again.”

The mask is off—the charm is wrought—
And SELIM to his heart has caught,
In blushes, more than ever bright,
His NOURMAHAL, his Haram’s Light!
And well do vanish’d frowns enhance
The charm of every brightened glance;
And dearer seems each dawning smile
For having lost its light awhile:
And, happier now for all her sighs,
As on his arm her head reposes,
She whispers him with laughing eyes,
“Remember, love, the Feast of Roses!”

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

FADLADEEN, at the conclusion of this light rhapsody, took occasion to sum up his opinion of the young Cashmerian’s poetry,—of which, he trusted, they had that evening heard the last. Having recapitulated the epithets, “frivolous”—“inharmonious”—“nonsensical,” he proceeded to say that, viewing it in the most favourable light, it resembled one of those Maldivian boats, to which the Princess had alluded in the relation of her dream,[378]—a slight, gilded thing, sent adrift without rudder or ballast, and with nothing but vapid sweets and faded flowers on board. The profusion, indeed, of flowers and birds, which this poet had ready on all occasions,—not to mention dews, gems, &c.—was a most oppressive kind of opulence to his hearers; and had the unlucky effect of giving to his style all the glitter of the flower-garden without its method, and all the flutter of the aviary without its song. In addition to this, he chose his subjects badly, and was always most inspired by the worst parts of them. The charms of paganism, the merits of rebellion,—these were the themes honoured with his particular enthusiasm; and, in the poem just recited, one of his most palatable passages was in praise of that beverage of the Unfaithful, wine;—“being, perhaps,” said he, relaxing into a smile, as conscious of his own character in the Haram on this point, “one of those bards, whose fancy owes all its illumination to the grape, like that painted porcelain,[379] so curious and so rare, whose images are only visible when liquor is poured into it.” Upon the whole, it was his opinion, from the specimens which they had heard, and which, he begged to say, were the most tiresome part of the journey, that—whatever other merits this well-dressed young gentleman might possess—poetry was by no means his proper avocation: “and indeed,” concluded the critic, “from his fondness for flowers and for birds, I would venture to suggest that a florist or a bird-catcher is a much more suitable calling for him than a poet.”

They had now begun to ascend those barren mountains, which separate Cashmere from the rest of India; and, as the heats were intolerable, and the time of their encampments limited to the few hours necessary for refreshment and repose, there was an end to all their delightful evenings, and LALLA ROOKH saw no more of FERAMORZ. She now felt that her short dream of happiness was over, and that she had nothing but the recollection of its few blissful hours, like the one draught of sweet water that serves the camel across the wilderness, to be her heart’s refreshment during the dreary waste of life that was before her. The blight that had fallen upon her spirits soon found its way to her cheek, and her ladies saw with regret—though not without some suspicion of the cause—that the beauty of their mistress, of which they were almost as proud as of their own, was fast vanishing away at the very moment of all when she had most need of it. What must the King of Bucharia feel, when, instead of the lively and beautiful LALLA ROOKH, whom the poets of Delhi had described as more perfect than the divinest images in the house of Azor,[380] he should receive a pale and inanimate victim, upon whose cheek neither health nor pleasure bloomed, and from whose eyes Love had fled,—to hide himself in her heart?

If anything could have charmed away the melancholy of her spirits, it would have been the fresh airs and enchanting scenery of that Valley, which the Persians so justly call the Unequalled.[381] But neither the coolness of its atmosphere, so luxurious after toiling up those bare and burning mountains,—neither the splendour of the minarets and pagodas, that shone out from the depth of its woods, nor the grottos, hermitages, and miraculous fountains,[382] which make every spot of that region holy ground,—neither the countless waterfalls, that rush into the Valley from all those high and romantic mountains that encircle it, nor the fair city on the Lake, whose houses, roofed with flowers,[383] appeared at a distance like one vast and variegated parterre;—not all these wonders and glories of the most lovely country under the sun could steal her heart for a minute from those sad thoughts, which but darkened, and grew bitterer every step she advanced.