Part 10

Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp’d, Nor look’d—but from the lattice dropp’d Down ’mid the pointed crags beneath, As if he fled from love to death. While pale and mute young HINDA stood Nor mov’d, till in the silent flood A momentary plunge below Startled her from her trance of woe;— Shrieking she to the lattice flew, “I come—I come—if in that tide “Thou sleep’st to-night, I’ll sleep there too, “In death’s cold wedlock, by thy side. “Oh! I would ask no happier bed “Than the chill wave my love lies under:— “Sweeter to rest together dead, “Far sweeter, than to live asunder!” But no—their hour is not yet come— Again she sees his pinnace fly, Wafting him fleetly to his home, Where’er that ill-starr’d home may lie; And calm and smooth it seem’d to win Its moonlight way before the wind, As if it bore all peace within, Nor left one breaking heart behind!

The Princess, whose heart was sad enough already, could have wished that FERAMORZ had chosen a less melancholy story; as it is only to the happy that tears are a luxury. Her Ladies, however, were by no means sorry that love was once more the Poet’s theme; for, whenever he spoke of love, they said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree, which grows over the tomb of the musician, Tan-Sein.[235]

Their road all the morning had lain through a very dreary country;—through valleys, covered with a low bushy jungle, where, in more than one place, the awful signal of the bamboo staff,[236] with the white flag at its top, reminded the traveller that, in that very spot, the tiger had made some human creature his victim. It was, therefore, with much pleasure that they arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen, and encamped under one of those holy trees, whose smooth columns and spreading roofs seem to destine them for natural temples of religion. Beneath this spacious shade, some pious hands had erected a row of pillars ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain,[237] which now supplied the use of mirrors to the young maidens, as they adjusted their hair in descending from the palankeens. Here, while, as usual, the Princess sat listening anxiously, with FADLADEEN in one of his loftiest moods of criticism by her side, the young Poet, leaning against a branch of the tree, thus continued his story:—

The morn hath risen clear and calm, And o’er the Green Sea[238] palely shines, Revealing BAHREIN’S[239] groves of palm, And lighting KISHMA’S[239] amber vines. Fresh smell the shores of ARABY, While breezes from the Indian sea Blow round SELAMA’S[240] sainted cape, And curl the shining flood beneath,— Whose waves are rich with many a grape, And cocoa-nut and flowery wreath, Which pious seamen, as they pass’d, Had tow’rd that holy headland cast— Oblations to the Genii there For gentle skies and breezes fair! The nightingale now bends her flight[241] From the high trees, where all the night She sung so sweet, with none to listen; And hides her from the morning star Where thickets of pomegranate glisten In the clear dawn,—bespangled o’er With dew, whose night drops would not stain The best and brightest scimitar[242] That ever youthful Sultan wore On the first morning of his reign.

And see—the Sun himself!—on wings Of glory up the East he springs. Angel of Light! who from the time Those heavens began their march sublime, Hath first of all the starry choir Trod in his Maker’s steps of fire! Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere, When IRAN, like a sun-flower, turn’d To meet that eye where’er it burn’d?— When, from the banks of BENDEMEER To the nut-groves of SAMARCAND, Thy temples flam’d o’er all the land? Where are they? ask the shades of them Who, on CADESSIA’S[243] bloody plains, Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem From IRAN’S broken diadem, And bind her ancient faith in chains:— Ask the poor exile, cast alone On foreign shores, unlov’d, unknown, Beyond the Caspian’s Iron Gates,[244] Or on the snowy Mossian mountains, Far from his beauteous land of dates, Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains: Yet happier so than if he trod His own belov’d, but blighted, sod, Beneath a despot stranger’s nod!— Oh, he would rather houseless roam Where Freedom and his God may lead, Than be the sleekest slave at home That crouches to the conqueror’s creed! Is IRAN’S pride then gone for ever, Quench’d with the flame in MITHRA’S caves?— No—she has sons, that never—never— Will stoop to be the Moslem’s slaves, While heaven has light or earth has graves;— Spirits of fire, that brood not long, But flash resentment back for wrong; And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds Of vengeance ripen into deeds, Till, in some treacherous hour of calm, They burst, like ZEILAN’S giant palm,[245] Whose buds fly open with a sound That shakes the pigmy forests round!

Yes, EMIR! he, who scal’d that tower, And, had he reach’d thy slumbering breast, Had taught thee, in a Gheber’s power How safe e’en tyrant heads may rest— Is one of many, brave as he, Who loathe thy haughty race and thee; Who, though they know the strife is vain, Who, though they know the riven chain Snaps but to enter in the heart Of him who rends its links apart, Yet dare the issue,—blest to be E’en for one bleeding moment free, And die in pangs of liberty! Thou know’st them well—’tis some moons since Thy turban’d troops and blood-red flags, Thou satrap of a bigot Prince, Have swarm’d among these Green Sea crags; Yet here, e’en here, a sacred band, Ay, in the portal of that land Thou, Arab, dar’st to call thy own, Their spears across thy path have thrown; Here—ere the winds half wing’d thee o’er— Rebellion brav’d thee from the shore.

Rebellion! foul, dishonouring word, Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain’d The holiest cause that tongue or sword Of mortal ever lost or gain’d. How many a spirit, born to bless, Hath sunk beneath that withering name, Whom but a day’s, an hour’s success Had wafted to eternal fame! As exhalations, when they burst From the warm earth, if chill’d at first, If check’d in soaring from the plain, Darken to fogs and sink again;— But, if they once triumphant spread Their wings above the mountain-head, Become enthroned in upper air, And turn to sun-bright glories there!

And who is he, that wields the might Of Freedom on the Green Sea brink, Before whose sabre’s dazzling light[246] The eyes of YEMEN’S warriors wink? Who comes, embower’d in the spears Of KERMAN’S hardy mountaineers?— Those mountaineers that truest, last, Cling to their country’s ancient rites, As if that God, whose eyelids cast Their closing gleam on IRAN’S heights, Among her snowy mountains threw The last light of his worship too!

’Tis HAFED—name of fear, whose sound Chills like the muttering of a charm!— Shout but that awful name around, And palsy shakes the manliest arm. ’Tis HAFED, most accurs’d and dire (So rank’d by Moslem hate and ire) Of all the rebel Sons of Fire; Of whose malign, tremendous power The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour, Such tales of fearful wonder tell, That each affrighted sentinel Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes, Lest HAFED in the midst should rise! A man, they say, of monstrous birth, A mingled race of flame and earth, Sprung from those old, enchanted kings,[247] Who in their fairy helms, of yore, A feather from the mystic wings Of the Simoorgh resistless wore; And gifted by the Fiends of Fire, Who groan’d to see their shrines expire, With charms that, all in vain withstood, Would drown the Koran’s light in blood!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

’Tis the eighth morn—AL HASSAN’S brow Is brighten’d with unusual joy— What mighty mischief glads him now, Who never smiles but to destroy? The sparkle upon HERKEND’S Sea, When toss’d at midnight furiously,[261] Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh, More surely than that smiling eye! “Up, daughter, up—the KERNA’S[262] breath “Has blown a blast would waken death, “And yet thou sleep’st—up, child, and see “This blessed day for Heaven and me, “A day more rich in Pagan blood “Than ever flash’d o’er OMAN’S flood. “Before another dawn shall shine, “His head—heart—limbs—will all be mine; “This very night his blood shall steep “These hands all over ere I sleep!”— “_His_ blood!” she faintly scream’d—her mind Still singling _one_ from all mankind— “Yes—spite of his ravines and towers, “HAFED, my child, this night is ours. “Thanks to all-conquering treachery, “Without whose aid the links accurst, “That bind these impious slaves, would be “Too strong for ALLA’S self to burst! “That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread “My path with piles of Moslem dead, “Whose baffling spells had almost driven “Back from their course the Swords of Heaven, “This night, with all his band, shall know “How deep an Arab’s steel can go, “When God and Vengeance speed the blow. “And—Prophet! by that holy wreath “Thou wor’st on OHOD’S field of death,[263] “I swear, for every sob that parts “In anguish from these heathen hearts, “A gem from PERSIA’S plunder’d mines “Shall glitter on thy Shrine of Shrines. “But, ha!—she sinks—that look so wild— “Those livid lips—my child, my child, “This life of blood befits not thee, “And thou must back to ARABY. “Ne’er had I risk’d thy timid sex “In scenes that man himself might dread, “Had I not hop’d our every tread “Would be on prostrate Persian necks— “Curst race, they offer swords instead! “But cheer thee, maid,—the wind that now “Is blowing o’er thy feverish brow, “To-day shall waft thee from the shore; “And, ere a drop of this night’s gore “Have time to chill in yonder towers, “Thou’lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers!”

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

Oh for a tongue to curse the slave, Whose treason, like a deadly blight, Comes o’er the councils of the brave, And blasts them in their hour of might! May Life’s unblessed cup for him Be drugg’d with treacheries to the brim,— With hopes, that but allure to fly, With joys, that vanish while he sips, Like Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye, But turn to ashes on the lips![264] His country’s curse, his children’s shame, Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame, May he, at last, with lips of flame On the parch’d desert thirsting die,— While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh,[265] Are fading off, untouch’d, untasted, Like the once glorious hopes he blasted! And, when from earth his spirit flies, Just Prophet, let the damn’d one dwell Full in the sight of Paradise, Beholding heaven, and feeling hell!

LALLA ROOKH had, the night before, been visited by a dream which, in spite of the impending fate of poor HAFED, made her heart more than usually cheerful during the morning, and gave her cheeks all the freshened animation of a flower that the Bid-musk had just passed over.[266] She fancied that she was sailing on that Eastern Ocean, where the sea-gipsies, who live for ever on the water,[267] enjoy a perpetual summer in wandering from isle to isle, when she saw a small gilded bark approaching her. It was like one of those boats which the Maldivian islanders send adrift, at the mercy of winds and waves, loaded with perfumes, flowers, and odoriferous wood, as an offering to the Spirit whom they call King of the Sea. At first, this little bark appeared to be empty, but, on coming nearer⸺

She had proceeded thus far in relating the dream to her Ladies, when FERAMORZ appeared at the door of the pavilion. In his presence, of course, every thing else was forgotten, and the continuance of the story was instantly requested by all. Fresh wood of aloes was set to burn in the cassolets;—the violet sherbets[268] were hastily handed round, and after a short prelude on his lute, in the pathetic measure of Nava,[269] which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers, the Poet thus continued:—