Chapter XXVIII: Letter IV (3)

"To victory!" is at once the cry of all-- Nor stands MOKANNA loitering at that call; But instant the huge gates are flung aside, And forth like a diminutive mountain-tide Into the boundless sea they speed their course Right on into the MOSLEM'S mighty force. The watchmen of the camp,--who in their rounds Had paused and even forgot the punctual sounds Of the small drum with which they count the night,[125] To gaze upon that supernatural light,-- Now sink beneath an unexpected arm, And in a death-groan give their last alarm. "On for the lamps that light yon lofty screen[126] "Nor blunt your blades with massacre so mean; "_There_ rests the CALIPH--speed--one lucky lance "May now achieve mankind's deliverance." Desperate the die--such as they only cast Who venture for a world and stake their last. But Fate's no longer with him--blade for blade Springs up to meet them thro' the glimmering shade, And as the clash is heard new legions soon Pour to the spot, like bees of KAUZEROON[127] To the shrill timbrel's summons,--till at length The mighty camp swarms out in all its strength. And back to NEKSHEB'S gates covering the plain With random slaughter drives the adventurous train; Among the last of whom the Silver Veil Is seen glittering at times, like the white sail Of some tost vessel on a stormy night Catching the tempest's momentary light!

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

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

Again, as in MEROU, he had her deckt Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect; And led her glittering forth before the eyes Of his rude train as to a sacrifice,-- Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride Of the fierce NILE, when, deckt in all the pride Of nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide.[128] And while the wretched maid hung down her head, And stood as one just risen from the dead Amid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tell His credulous slaves it was some charm or spell Possest her now,--and from that darkened trance Should dawn ere long their Faith's deliverance. Or if at times goaded by guilty shame, Her soul was roused and words of wildness came, Instant the bold blasphemer would translate Her ravings into oracles of fate, Would hail Heaven's signals in her flashing eyes And call her shrieks the language of the skies!

But vain at length his arts--despair is seen Gathering around; and famine comes to glean All that the sword had left unreaped;--in vain At morn and eve across the northern plain He looks impatient for the promised spears Of the wild Hordes and TARTAR mountaineers; They come not--while his fierce beleaguerers pour Engines of havoc in, unknown before,[129] And horrible as new;--javelins, that fly[130] Enwreathed with smoky flames thro' the dark sky, And red-hot globes that opening as they mount Discharge as from a kindled Naphtha fount[131] Showers of consuming fire o'er all below; Looking as thro' the illumined night they go Like those wild birds that by the Magians oft[132] At festivals of fire were sent aloft Into the air with blazing fagots tied To their huge wings, scattering combustion wide. All night the groans of wretches who expire In agony beneath these darts of fire Ring thro' the city--while descending o'er Its shrines and domes and streets of sycamore,-- Its lone bazars, with their bright cloths of gold, Since the last peaceful pageant left unrolled,-- Its beauteous marble baths whose idle jets. Now gush with blood,--and its tall minarets That late have stood up in the evening glare Of the red sun, unhallowed by a prayer;-- O'er each in turn the dreadful flame-bolts fall, And death and conflagration throughout all The desolate city hold high festival!

MOKANNA sees the world is his no more;-- One sting at parting and his grasp is o'er, "What! drooping now?"--thus, with unblushing cheek, He hails the few who yet can hear him speak, Of all those famished slaves around him lying, And by the light of blazing temples dying; "What!--drooping now!--now, when at length we press "Home o'er the very threshold of success; "When ALLA from our ranks hath thinned away "Those grosser branches that kept out his ray "Of favor from us and we stand at length "Heirs of his light and children of his strength, "The chosen few who shall survive the fall "Of Kings and Thrones, triumphant over all! "Have you then lost, weak murmurers as you are, "All faith in him who was your Light, your Star? "Have you forgot the eye of glory hid "Beneath this Veil, the flashing of whose lid "Could like a sun-stroke of the desert wither "Millions of such as yonder Chief brings hither? "Long have its lightnings slept--too long--but now "All earth shall feel the unveiling of this brow! "To-night--yes, sainted men! this very night, "I bid you all to a fair festal rite, "Where--having deep refreshed each weary limb "With viands such as feast Heaven's cherubim "And kindled up your souls now sunk and dim "With that pure wine the Dark-eyed Maids above "Keep, sealed with precious musk, for those they love,--[133] "I will myself uncurtain in your sight "The wonders of this brow's ineffable light; "Then lead you forth and with a wink disperse "Yon myriads howling thro' the universe!"

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

'Twas more than midnight now--a fearful pause Had followed the long shouts, the wild applause, That lately from those Royal Gardens burst, Where the veiled demon held his feast accurst, When ZELICA, alas, poor ruined heart, In every horror doomed to bear its part!-- Was bidden to the banquet by a slave, Who, while his quivering lip the summons gave, Grew black, as tho' the shadows of the grave Compast him round and ere he could repeat His message thro', fell lifeless at her feet! Shuddering she went--a soul-felt pang of fear A presage that her own dark doom was near, Roused every feeling and brought Reason back Once more to writhe her last upon the rack. All round seemed tranquil even the foe had ceased As if aware of that demoniac feast His fiery bolts; and tho' the heavens looked red, 'Twas but some distant conflagration's spread. But hark--she stops--she listens--dreadful tone! 'Tis her Tormentor's laugh--and now, a groan, A long death-groan comes with it--can this be The place of mirth, the bower of revelry?

She enters--Holy ALLA, what a sight Was there before her! By the glimmering light Of the pale dawn, mixt with the flare of brands That round lay burning dropt from lifeless hands, She saw the board in splendid mockery spread, Rich censers breathing--garlands overhead-- The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaft All gold and gems, but--what had been the draught? Oh! who need ask that saw those livid guests, With their swollen heads sunk blackening on their breasts, Or looking pale to Heaven with glassy glare, As if they sought but saw no mercy there; As if they felt, tho' poison racked them thro', Remorse the deadlier torment of the two! While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain Would have met death with transport by his side, Here mute and helpless gasped;--but as they died Lookt horrible vengeance with their eyes' last strain, And clenched the slackening hand at him in vain.

Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare, The stony look of horror and despair, Which some of these expiring victims cast Upon their souls' tormentor to the last; Upon that mocking Fiend whose Veil now raised, Showed them as in death's agony they gazed, Not the long promised light, the brow whose beaming Was to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming, But features horribler than Hell e'er traced On its own brood;--no Demon of the Waste,[134] No church-yard Ghoul caught lingering in the light Of the blest sun, e'er blasted human sight With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those The Impostor now in grinning mockery shows:-- "There, ye wise Saints, behold your Light, your Star-- "Ye _would_ be dupes and victims and ye _are_. "Is it enough? or must I, while a thrill "Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still? "Swear that the burning death ye feel within "Is but the trance with which Heaven's joys begin: "That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgraced "Even monstrous men, is--after God's own taste; "And that--but see!--ere I have half-way said "My greetings thro', the uncourteous souls are fled. "Farewell, sweet spirits! not in vain ye die, "If EBLIS loves you half so well as I.-- "Ha, my young bride!--'tis well--take thou thy seat; "Nay come--no shuddering--didst thou never meet "The Dead before?--they graced our wedding, sweet; "And these, my guests to-night, have brimmed so true "Their parting cups, that _thou_ shalt pledge one too. "But--how is this?--all empty? all drunk up? "Hot lips have been before thee in the cup, "Young bride,--yet stay--one precious drop remains, "Enough to warm a gentle Priestess' veins;-- "Here, drink--and should thy lover's conquering arms "Speed hither ere thy lip lose all its charms, "Give him but half this venom in thy kiss, "And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss!

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

He sprung and sunk as the last words were said-- Quick closed the burning waters o'er his head, And ZELICA was left--within the ring Of those wide walls the only living thing; The only wretched one still curst with breath In all that frightful wilderness of death! More like some bloodless ghost--such as they tell, In the Lone Cities of the Silent dwell,[135] And there unseen of all but ALLA sit Each by its own pale carcass watching it. But morn is up and a fresh warfare stirs Throughout the camp of the beleaguerers. Their globes of fire (the dread artillery lent By GREECE to conquering MAHADI) are spent; And now the scorpion's shaft, the quarry sent From high balistas and the shielded throng Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along, All speak the impatient Islamite's intent To try, at length, if tower and battlement And bastioned wall be not less hard to win, Less tough to break down than the hearts within. First he, in impatience and in toil is The burning AZIM--oh! could he but see The impostor once alive within his grasp, Not the gaunt lion's hug nor boa's clasp Could match thy gripe of vengeance or keep pace With the fell heartiness of Hate's embrace!

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

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

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

The story of the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan being ended, they were now doomed to hear FADLADEEN'S criticisms upon it. A series of disappointments and accidents had occurred to this learned Chamberlain during the journey. In the first place, those couriers stationed, as in the reign of Shah Jehan, between Delhi and the Western coast of India, to secure a constant supply of mangoes for the Royal Table, had by some cruel irregularity failed in their duty; and to eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was of course impossible.[136] In the next place, the elephant laden with his fine antique porcelain,[137] had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, shattered the whole set to pieces:--an irreparable loss, as many of the vessels were so exquisitely old, as to have been used under the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran too, supposed to be the identical copy between the leaves of which Mahomet's favorite pigeon used to nestle, had been mislaid by his Koran-bearer three whole days; not without much spiritual alarm to FADLADEEN who though professing to hold with other loyal and orthodox Mussulmans that salvation could only be found in the Koran was strongly suspected of believing in his heart that it could only be found in his own particular copy of it. When to all these grievances is added the obstinacy of the cooks in putting the pepper of Canara into his dishes instead of the cinnamon of Serendib, we may easily suppose that he came to the task of criticism with at least a sufficient degree of irritability for the purpose.

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

With respect to the style, it was worthy of the matter;--it had not even those politic contrivances of structure which make up for the commonness of the thoughts by the peculiarity of the manner nor that stately poetical phraseology by which sentiments mean in themselves, like the blacksmith's [138] apron converted into a banner, are so easily gilt and embroidered into consequence. Then as to the versification it was, to say no worse of it, execrable: it had neither the copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness of Hafez, nor the sententious march of Sadi; but appeared to him in the uneasy heaviness of its movements to have been modelled upon the gait of a very tired dromedary. The licenses too in which it indulged were unpardonable;--for instance this line, and the poem abounded with such;--

Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.

"What critic that can count," said FADLADEEN, "and has his full complement of fingers to count withal, would tolerate for an instant such syllabic superfluities?"--He here looked round, and discovered that most of his audience were asleep; while the glimmering lamps seemed inclined to follow their example. It became necessary therefore, however painful to himself, to put an end to his valuable animadversions for the present and he accordingly concluded with an air of dignified candor, thus:--

"Notwithstanding the observations which I have thought it my duty to make, it is by no means my wish to discourage the young man:--so far from it indeed that if he will but totally alter his style of writing and thinking I have very little doubt that I shall be vastly pleased with him."

Some days elapsed after this harangue of the Great Chamberlain before LALLA ROOKH could venture to ask for another story. The youth was still a welcome guest in the pavilion--to _one_ heart perhaps too dangerously welcome;--but all mention of poetry was as if by common consent avoided. Though none of the party had much respect for FADLADEEN, yet his censures thus magisterially delivered evidently made an impression on them all. The Poet himself to whom criticism was quite a new operation, (being wholly unknown in that Paradise of the Indies, Cashmere,) felt the shock as it is generally felt at first, till use has made it more tolerable to the patient;--the Ladies began to suspect that they ought not to be pleased and seemed to conclude that there must have been much good sense in what FADLADEEN said from its having set them all so soundly to sleep;--while the self-complacent Chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea of having for the hundred and fiftieth time in his life extinguished a Poet. LALLA ROOKH alone--and Love knew why--persisted in being delighted with all she had heard and in resolving to hear more as speedily as possible. Her manner however of first returning to the subject was unlucky. It was while they rested during the heat of noon near a fountain on which some hand had rudely traced those well-known words from the Garden of Sadi.--"Many like me have viewed this fountain, but they are gone and their eyes are closed for ever!"--that she took occasion from the melancholy beauty of this passage to dwell upon the charms of poetry in general. "It is true," she said, "few poets can imitate that sublime bird which flies always in the air and never touches the earth:[139]--it is only once in many ages a Genius appears whose words, like those on the Written Mountain last for ever:[140]--but still there are some as delightful perhaps, though not so wonderful, who if not stars over our head are at least flowers along our path and whose sweetness of the moment we ought gratefully to inhale without calling upon them for a brightness and a durability beyond their nature. In short," continued she, blushing as if conscious of being caught in an oration, "it is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his regions of enchantment without having a critic for ever, like the old Man of the Sea, upon his back!"[141]--FADLADEEN, it was plain took this last luckless allusion to himself and would treasure it up in his mind as a whetstone for his next criticism. A sudden silence ensued; and the Princess, glancing a look at FERAMORZ, saw plainly she must wait for a more courageous moment.

But the glories of Nature and her wild, fragrant airs playing freshly over the current of youthful spirits will soon heal even deeper wounds than the dull Fadladeens of this world can inflict. In an evening or two after, they came to the small Valley of Gardens which had been planted by order of the Emperor for his favorite sister Rochinara during their progress to Cashmere some years before; and never was there a more sparkling assemblage of sweets since the Gulzar-e-Irem or Rose-bower of Irem. Every precious flower was there to be found that poetry or love or religion has ever consecrated; from the dark hyacinth to which Hafez compares his mistress's hair to be _Cámalatá_ by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of Indra is scented.[142] As they sat in the cool fragrance of this delicious spot and LALLA ROOKH remarked that she could fancy it the abode of that flower-loving Nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay, [143] or of one of those Peris, those beautiful creatures of the air who live upon perfumes and to whom a place like this might make some amends for the Paradise they have lost,--the young Poet in whose eyes she appeared while she spoke to be one of the bright spiritual creatures she was describing said hesitatingly that he remembered a Story of a Peri, which if the Princess had no objection he would venture to relate. "It is," said he, with an appealing look to FADLADEEN, "in a lighter and humbler strain than the other:" then, striking a few careless but melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus began:--

PARADISE AND THE PERI.

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

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

"Tho' sunny the Lake of cool CASHMERE "With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,[144] "And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall; "Tho' bright are the waters of SING-SU-HAY And the golden floods that thitherward stray,[145] Yet--oh, 'tis only the Blest can say How the waters of Heaven outshine them all!

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

The glorious Angel who was keeping The gates of Light beheld her weeping, And as he nearer drew and listened To her sad song, a tear-drop glistened Within his eyelids, like the spray From Eden's fountain when it lies On the blue flower which--Bramins say-- Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.[146]

"Nymph of a fair but erring line!" Gently he said--"One hope is thine. 'Tis written in the Book of Fate, _The Peri yet may be forgiven Who brings to this Eternal gate The Gift that is most dear to Heaven_! Go seek it and redeem thy sin-- 'Tis sweet to let the Pardoned in."

Rapidly as comets run To the embraces of the Sun;-- Fleeter than the starry brands Flung at night from angel hands[147] At those dark and daring sprites Who would climb the empyreal heights, Down the blue vault the PERI flies, And lighted earthward by a glance That just then broke from morning's eyes, Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse.

But whither shall the Spirit go To find this gift for Heaven;--"I know The wealth," she cries, "of every urn In which unnumbered rubies burn Beneath the pillars of CHILMINAR:[148] I know where the Isles of Perfume are[149] Many a fathom down in the sea, To the south of sun-bright ARABY;[150] I know too where the Genii hid The jewelled cup of their King JAMSHID,[151] "With Life's elixir sparkling high-- "But gifts like these are not for the sky. "Where was there ever a gem that shone "Like the steps of ALLA'S wonderful Throne? "And the Drops of Life--oh! what would they be "In the boundless Deep of Eternity?"

While thus she mused her pinions fanned The air of that sweet Indian land Whose air is balm, whose ocean spreads O'er coral rocks and amber beds,[152] Whose mountains pregnant by the beam Of the warm sun with diamonds teem, Whose rivulets are like rich brides, Lovely, with gold beneath their tides, Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice Might be a Peri's Paradise! But crimson now her rivers ran With human blood--the smell of death Came reeking from those spicy bowers, And man the sacrifice of man Mingled his taint with every breath Upwafted from the innocent flowers. Land of the Sun! what foot invades Thy Pagods and thy pillared shades-- Thy cavern shrines and Idol stones, Thy Monarch and their thousand Thrones?[153]

'Tis He of GAZNA[154], fierce in wrath He comes and INDIA'S diadems Lie scattered in his ruinous path.- His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, Torn from the violated necks Of many a young and loved Sultana;[155] Maidens within their pure Zenana, Priests in the very fane he slaughters, And chokes up with the glittering wrecks Of golden shrines the sacred waters! Downward the PERI turns her gaze, And thro' the war-field's bloody haze Beholds a youthful warrior stand Alone beside his native river,-- The red blade broken in his hand And the last arrow in his quiver. "Live," said the Conqueror, "live to share "The trophies and the crowns I bear!" Silent that youthful warrior stood-- Silent he pointed to the flood All crimson with his country's blood, Then sent his last remaining dart, For answer, to the Invader's heart.

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

"Be this," she cried, as she winged her flight, "My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. "Tho' foul are the drops that oft distil "On the field of warfare, blood like this "For Liberty shed so holy is, "It would not stain the purest rill "That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss! "Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere "A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, "'Tis the last libation Liberty draws "From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!" "Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave The gift into his radiant hand, "Sweet is our welcome of the Brave "Who die thus for their native Land.-- "But see--alas! the crystal bar "Of Eden moves not--holier far "Than even this drop the boon must be "That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!"

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, Now among AFRIC'S lunar Mountains[156] Far to the South the PERI lighted And sleeked her plumage at the fountains Of that Egyptian tide whose birth Is hidden from the sons of earth Deep in those solitary woods Where oft the Genii of the Floods Dance round the cradle of their Nile And hail the new-born Giant's smile.[157] Thence over EGYPT'S palmy groves Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings,[158] The exiled Spirit sighing roves And now hangs listening to the doves In warm ROSETTA'S vale;[159] now loves To watch the moonlight on the wings Of the white pelicans that break The azure calm of MOERIS' Lake.[160] 'Twas a fair scene: a Land more bright Never did mortal eye behold! Who could have thought that saw this night Those valleys and their fruits of gold Basking in Heaven's serenest light, Those groups of lovely date-trees bending Languidly their leaf-crowned heads, Like youthful maids, when sleep descending Warns them to their silken beds,[161] Those virgin lilies all the night Bathing their beauties in the lake That they may rise more fresh and bright, When their beloved Sun's awake, Those ruined shrines and towers that seem The relics of a splendid dream, Amid whose fairy loneliness Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard,-- Naught seen but (when the shadows flitting, Fast from the moon unsheath its gleam,) Some purple-winged Sultana sitting[162] Upon a column motionless And glittering like an Idol bird!-- Who could have thought that there, even there, Amid those scenes so still and fair, The Demon of the Plague hath cast From his hot wing a deadlier blast, More mortal far than ever came From the red Desert's sands of flame! So quick that every living thing Of human shape touched by his wing, Like plants, where the Simoom hath past At once falls black and withering! The sun went down on many a brow Which, full of bloom and freshness then, Is rankling in the pest-house now And ne'er will feel that sun again, And, oh! to see the unburied heaps On which the lonely moonlight sleeps-- The very vultures turn away, And sicken at so foul a prey! Only the fierce hyaena stalks[163] Throughout the city's desolate walks[164] At midnight and his carnage plies:-- Woe to the half-dead wretch who meets The glaring of those large blue eyes Amid the darkness of the streets!

"Poor race of men!" said the pitying Spirit,
"Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall--
"Some flowerets of Eden ye still inherit,
"But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!"
She wept--the air grew pure and clear
Around her as the bright drops ran,
For there's a magic in each tear
Such kindly Spirits weep for man!

Just then beneath some orange trees Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze Were wantoning together, free, Like age at play with infancy-- Beneath that fresh and springing bower Close by the Lake she heard the moan Of one who at this silent hour, Had thither stolen to die alone. One who in life where'er he moved, Drew after him the hearts of many; Yet now, as tho' he ne'er were loved, Dies here unseen, unwept by any! None to watch near him--none to slake The fire that in his bosom lies, With even a sprinkle from that lake Which shines so cool before his eyes. No voice well known thro' many a day To speak the last, the parting word Which when all other sounds decay Is still like distant music heard;-- That tender farewell on the shore Of this rude world when all is o'er, Which cheers the spirit ere its bark Puts off into the unknown Dark.

Deserted youth! one thought alone Shed joy around his soul in death That she whom he for years had known, And loved and might have called his own Was safe from this foul midnight's breath,-- Safe in her father's princely halls Where the cool airs from fountain falls, Freshly perfumed by many a brand Of the sweet wood from India's land, Were pure as she whose brow they fanned.

But see--who yonder comes by stealth, This melancholy bower to seek, Like a young envoy sent by Health With rosy gifts upon her cheek? 'Tis she--far off, thro' moonlight dim He knew his own betrothed bride, She who would rather die with him Than live to gain the world beside!-- Her arms are round her lover now, His livid cheek to hers she presses And dips to bind his burning brow In the cool lake her loosened tresses. Ah! once, how little did he think An hour would come when he should shrink With horror from that dear embrace, Those gentle arms that were to him Holy as is the cradling place Of Eden's infant cherubim! And now he yields--now turns away, Shuddering as if the venom lay All in those proffered lips alone-- Those lips that then so fearless grown Never until that instant came Near his unasked or without shame. "Oh! let me only breathe the air. "The blessed air, that's breathed by thee, "And whether on its wings it bear "Healing or death 'tis sweet to me! "There--drink my tears while yet they fall-- "Would that my bosom's blood were balm, "And, well thou knowst, I'd shed it all "To give thy brow one minute's calm. "Nay, turn not from me that dear face-- "Am I not thine--thy own loved bride-- "The one, the chosen one, whose place "In life or death is by thy side? "Thinkst thou that she whose only light, "In this dim world from thee hath shone "Could bear the long, the cheerless night "That must be hers when thou art gone? "That I can live and let thee go, "Who art my life itself?--No, no-- "When the stem dies the leaf that grew "Out of its heart must perish too! "Then turn to me, my own love, turn, "Before, like thee, I fade and burn; "Cling to these yet cool lips and share "The last pure life that lingers there!" She fails--she sinks--as dies the lamp In charnel airs or cavern-damp, So quickly do his baleful sighs Quench all the sweet light of her eyes, One struggle--and his pain is past-- Her lover is no longer living! One kiss the maiden gives, one last, Long kiss, which she expires in giving!

"Sleep," said the PERI, as softly she stole The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, As true as e'er warmed a woman's breast-- "Sleep on, in visions of odor rest "In balmier airs than ever yet stirred "The enchanted pile of that lonely bird "Who sings at the last his own death-lay[165] "And in music and perfume dies away!" Thus saying, from her lips she spread Unearthly breathings thro' the place And shook her sparkling wreath and shed Such lustre o'er each paly face That like two lovely saints they seemed, Upon the eve of doomsday taken From their dim graves in ordor sleeping; While that benevolent PERI beamed Like their good angel calmly keeping Watch o'er them till their souls would waken.

But morn is blushing in the sky;
Again the PERI soars above,
Bearing to Heaven that precious sigh
Of pure, self-sacrificing love.
High throbbed her heart with hope elate
The Elysian palm she soon shall win.
For the bright Spirit at the gate
Smiled as she gave that offering in;
And she already hears the trees
Of Eden with their crystal bells
Ringing in that ambrosial breeze
That from the throne of ALLA swells;
And she can see the starry bowls
That lie around that lucid lake
Upon whose banks admitted Souls
Their first sweet draught of glory take![166]

But, ah! even PERIS' hopes are vain-- Again the Fates forbade, again The immortal barrier closed--"Not yet," The Angel said as with regret He shut from her that glimpse of glory-- "True was the maiden, and her story "Written in light o'er ALLA'S head "By seraph eyes shall long be read. "But, PERI, see--the crystal bar "Of Eden moves not--holier far "Than even this sigh the boon must be "That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee."

Now upon SYRIA'S land of roses[167] Softly the light of Eve reposes, And like a glory the broad sun Hangs over sainted LEBANON, Whose head in wintry grandeur towers And whitens with eternal sleet, While summer in a vale of flowers Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

To one who looked from upper air O'er all the enchanted regions there, How beauteous must have been the glow, The life, the sparkling from below! Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks Of golden melons on their banks, More golden where the sunlight falls;-- Gay lizards, glittering on the walls[168] Of ruined shrines, busy and bright As they were all alive with light; And yet more splendid numerous flocks Of pigeons settling on the rocks With their rich restless wings that gleam Variously in the crimson beam Of the warm West,--as if inlaid With brilliants from the mine or made Of tearless rainbows such as span The unclouded skies of PERISTAN. And then the mingling sounds that come, Of shepherd's ancient reed,[169] with hum Of the wild bees of PALESTINE,[170] Banqueting thro' the flowery vales; And, JORDAN, those sweet banks of thine And woods so full of nightingales.[171] But naught can charm the luckless PERI; Her soul is sad--her wings are weary-- Joyless she sees the Sun look down On that great Temple once his own,[172] Whose lonely columns stand sublime, Flinging their shadows from on high Like dials which the Wizard Time Had raised to count his ages by!

Yet haply there may lie concealed Beneath those Chambers of the Sun Some amulet of gems, annealed In upper fires, some tablet sealed With the great name of SOLOMON, Which spelled by her illumined eyes, May teach her where beneath the moon, In earth or ocean, lies the boon, The charm, that can restore so soon An erring Spirit to the skies.

Cheered by this hope she bends her thither;-- Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven, Nor have the golden bowers of Even In the rich West begun to wither;-- When o'er the vale of BALBEC winging Slowly she sees a child at play, Among the rosy wild flowers singing, As rosy and as wild as they; Chasing with eager hands and eyes The beautiful blue damsel-flies,[173] That fluttered round the jasmine stems Like winged flowers or flying gems:-- And near the boy, who tired with play Now nestling mid the roses lay. She saw a wearied man dismount From his hot steed and on the brink Of a small imaret's rustic fount Impatient fling him down to drink. Then swift his haggard brow he turned To the fair child who fearless sat, Tho' never yet hath day-beam burned Upon a brow more fierce than that,-- Sullenly fierce--a mixture dire Like thunder-clouds of gloom and fire; In which the PERI'S eye could read Dark tales of many a ruthless deed; The ruined maid--the shrine profaned-- Oaths broken--and the threshold stained With blood of guests!--_there_ written, all, Black as the damning drops that fall From the denouncing Angel's pen, Ere Mercy weeps them out again. Yet tranquil now that man of crime (As if the balmy evening time Softened his spirit) looked and lay, Watching the rosy infant's play:-- Tho' still whene'er his eye by chance Fell on the boy's, its lucid glance Met that unclouded, joyous gaze, As torches that have burnt all night Tho' some impure and godless rite, Encounter morning's glorious rays.

But, hark! the vesper call to prayer, As slow the orb of daylight sets, Is rising sweetly on the air. From SYRIA'S thousand minarets! The boy has started from the bed Of flowers where he had laid his head. And down upon the fragrant sod Kneels[174] with his forehead to the south Lisping the eternal name of God From Purity's own cherub mouth, And looking while his hands and eyes Are lifted to the glowing skies Like a stray babe of Paradise Just lighted on that flowery plain And seeking for its home again. Oh! 'twas a sight--that Heaven--that child-- A scene, which might have well beguiled Even haughty EBLIS of a sigh For glories lost and peace gone by! And how felt _he_, the wretched Man Reclining there--while memory ran O'er many a year of guilt and strife, Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, Nor found one sunny resting-place. Nor brought him back one branch of grace. "There _was_ a time," he said, in mild, Heart-humbled tones--"thou blessed child! "When young and haply pure as thou "I looked and prayed like thee--but now"-- He hung his head--each nobler aim And hope and feeling which had slept From boyhood's hour that instant came Fresh o'er him and he wept--he wept!

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence! In whose benign, redeeming flow Is felt the first, the only sense Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. "There's a drop," said the PERI, "that down from the moon "Falls thro' the withering airs of June "Upon EGYPT'S land,[175] of so healing a power, "So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour "That drop descends contagion dies "And health reanimates earth and skies!-- "Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin, "The precious tears of repentance fall? "Tho' foul thy fiery plagues within "One heavenly drop hath dispelled them all!" And now--behold him kneeling there By the child's side, in humble prayer, While the same sunbeam shines upon The guilty and the guiltless one. And hymns of joy proclaim thro' Heaven The triumph of a Soul Forgiven!

'Twas when the golden orb had set, While on their knees they lingered yet, There fell a light more lovely far Than ever came from sun or star, Upon the tear that, warm and meek, Dewed that repentant sinner's cheek. To mortal eye this light might seem A northern flash or meteor beam-- But well the enraptured PERI knew 'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw From Heaven's gate to hail that tear Her harbinger of glory near!

"Joy, joy for ever! my task is done-- "The Gates are past and Heaven is won! "Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am-- "To thee, sweet Eden! how dark and sad "Are the diamond turrets of SHADUKIAM,[176] "And the fragrant bowers of AMBERABAD!

"Farewell ye odors of Earth that die "Passing away like a lover's sigh;-- "My feast is now of the Tooba Tree[177] "Whose scent is the breath of Eternity!

"Farewell, ye vanishing flowers that shone "In my fairy wreath so bright an' brief;-- "Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown "To the lote-tree springing by ALLA'S throne[178] "Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf. "Joy, joy for ever.--my task is done-- "The Gates are past and Heaven is won!"

"And this," said the Great Chamberlain, "is poetry! this flimsy manufacture of the brain, which in comparison with the lofty and durable monuments of genius is as the gold filigree-work of Zamara beside the eternal architecture of Egypt!" After this gorgeous sentence, which, with a few more of the same kind, FADLADEEN kept by him for rare and important occasions, he proceeded to the anatomy of the short poem just recited. The lax and easy kind of metre in which it was written ought to be denounced, he said, as one of the leading causes of the alarming growth of poetry in our times. If some check were not given to this lawless facility we should soon be overrun by a race of bards as numerous and as shallow as the hundred and twenty thousand Streams of Basra.[179] They who succeeded in this style deserved chastisement for their very success;--as warriors have been punished even after gaining a victory because they had taken the liberty of gaining it in an irregular or unestablished manner. What then was to be said to those who failed? to those who presumed as in the present lamentable instance to imitate the licence and ease of the bolder sons of song without any of that grace or vigor which gave a dignity even to negligence;--who like them flung the jereed[180] carelessly, but not, like them, to the mark;--"and who," said he, raising his voice to excite a proper degree of wakefulness in his hearers, "contrive to appear heavy and constrained in the midst of all the latitude they allow themselves, like one of those young pagans that dance before the Princess, who is ingenious enough to move as if her limbs were fettered, in a pair of the lightest and loosest drawers of Masulipatam!"

It was but little suitable, he continued, to the grave march of criticism to follow this fantastical Peri of whom they had just heard, through all her flights and adventures between earth and heaven, but he could not help adverting to the puerile conceitedness of the Three Gifts which she is supposed to carry to the skies,--a drop of blood, forsooth, a sigh, and a tear! How the first of these articles was delivered into the Angel's "radiant hand" he professed himself at a loss to discover; and as to the safe carriage of the sigh and the tear, such Peris and such poets were beings by far too incomprehensible for him even to guess how they managed such matters. "But, in short," said he, "it is a waste of time and patience to dwell longer upon a thing so incurably frivolous,--puny even among its own puny race, and such as only the Banyan Hospital[181] for Sick Insects should undertake."

In vain did LALLA ROOKH try to soften this inexorable critic; in vain did she resort to her most eloquent commonplaces, reminding him that poets were a timid and sensitive race whose sweetness was not to be drawn forth like that of the fragrant grass near the Ganges by crushing and trampling upon them,[182] that severity often extinguished every chance of the perfection which it demanded, and that after all perfection was like the Mountain of the Talisman,--no one had ever yet reached its summit.[183] Neither these gentle axioms nor the still gentler looks with which they were inculcated could lower for one instant the elevation of FADLADEEN'S eyebrows or charm him into anything like encouragement or even toleration of her poet. Toleration, indeed, was not among the weaknesses of FADLADEEN:--he carried the same spirit into matters of poetry and of religion, and though little versed in the beauties or sublimities of either was a perfect master of the art of persecution in both. His zeal was the same too in either pursuit, whether the game before him was pagans or poetasters, worshippers of cows, or writers of epics.