Part 11

The day is lowering—stilly black Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven’s rack, Dispers’d and wild, ’twixt earth and sky Hangs like a shatter’d canopy. There’s not a cloud in that blue plain But tells of storm to come or past;— Here, flying loosely as the mane Of a young war-horse in the blast;— There, roll’d in masses dark and swelling, As proud to be the thunder’s dwelling! While some, already burst and riven, Seem melting down the verge of heaven; As though the infant storm had rent The mighty womb that gave him birth, And, having swept the firmament, Was now in fierce career for earth. On earth ’twas yet all calm around, A pulseless silence, dread, profound, More awful than the tempest’s sound. The diver steer’d for ORMUS’ bowers, And moor’d his skiff till calmer hours; The sea-birds, with portentous screech, Flew fast to land;—upon the beach The pilot oft had paus’d, with glance Turn’d upward to that wild expanse;— And all was boding, drear, and dark As her own soul, when HINDA’S bark Went slowly from the Persian shore.— No music tim’d her parting oar,[270] Nor friends upon the lessening strand Linger’d, to wave the unseen hand, Or speak the farewell, heard no more;— But lone, unheeded, from the bay The vessel takes its mournful way, Like some ill-destin’d bark that steers In silence through the Gate of Tears.[271]

And where was stern AL HASSAN then? Could not that saintly scourge of men From bloodshed and devotion spare One minute for a farewell there? No—close within, in changeful fits Of cursing and of prayer, he sits In savage loneliness to brood Upon the coming night of blood,— With that keen second-scent of death, By which the vulture snuffs his food In the still warm and living breath![272] While o’er the wave his weeping daughter Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter,— As a young bird of BABYLON,[273] Let loose to tell of victory won, Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstain’d By the red hands that held her chain’d.

And does the long-left home she seeks Light up no gladness on her cheeks? The flowers she nurs’d—the well-known groves, Where oft in dreams her spirit roves— Once more to see her dear gazelles Come bounding with their silver bells; Her birds’ new plumage to behold, And the gay, gleaming fishes count, She left, all filleted with gold, Shooting around their jasper fount;[274] Her little garden mosque to see, And once again, at evening hour, To tell her ruby rosary[275] In her own sweet acacia bower.— Can these delights, that wait her now, Call up no sunshine on her brow? No,—silent, from her train apart,— As if e’en now she felt at heart The chill of her approaching doom,— She sits, all lovely in her gloom As a pale Angel of the Grave; And o’er the wide, tempestuous wave, Looks, with a shudder, to those towers, Where, in a few short awful hours, Blood, blood, in streaming tides shall run. Foul incense for to-morrow’s sun! “Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou, “So loved, so lost, where art thou now? “Foe—Gheber—infidel—whate’er “The’ unhallow’d name thou’rt doom’d to bear, “Still glorious—still to this fond heart “Dear as its blood, whate’er thou art! “Yes—ALLA, dreadful ALLA! yes— “If there be wrong, be crime in this, “Let the black waves that round us roll, “Whelm me this instant, ere my soul, “Forgetting faith—home—father—all— “Before its earthly idol fall, “Nor worship e’en Thyself above him— “For, oh, so wildly do I love him, “Thy Paradise itself were dim “And joyless, if not shared with him!”

Her hands were clasp’d—her eyes upturn’d, Dropping their tears like moonlight rain; And, though her lip, fond raver! burn’d With words of passion, bold, profane, Yet was there light around her brow, A holiness in those dark eyes, Which show’d, though wandering earthward now, Her spirit’s home was in the skies. Yes—for a spirit pure as hers Is always pure, e’en while it errs; As sunshine, broken in the rill, Though turn’d astray, is sunshine still!

So wholly had her mind forgot All thoughts but one, she heeded not The rising storm—the wave that cast A moment’s midnight, as it pass’d— Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread Of gathering tumult o’er her head— Clash’d swords, and tongues that seem’d to vie With the rude riot of the sky.— But, hark!—that war-whoop on the deck— That crash, as if each engine there, Masts, sails, and all, were gone to wreck, Mid yells and stampings of despair! Merciful Heaven! what _can_ it be? ’Tis not the storm, though fearfully The ship has shudder’d as she rode O’er mountain-waves—“Forgive me, God! “Forgive me”—shrieked the maid, and knelt, Trembling all over—for she felt As if her judgment-hour was near While crouching round, half dead with fear, Her handmaids clung, nor breath’d, nor stirr’d— When, hark!—a second crash—a third— And now, as if a bolt of thunder Had riv’n the labouring planks asunder, The deck falls in—what horrors then! Blood, waves, and tackle, swords and men Come mix’d together through the chasm,— Some wretches in their dying spasm Still fighting on—and some that call “For GOD and IRAN!” as they fall!

Whose was the hand that turn’d away The perils of the’ infuriate fray, And snatch’d her breathless from beneath This wilderment of wreck and death? She knew not—for a faintness came Chill o’er her, and her sinking frame Amid the ruins of that hour Lay, like a pale and scorched flower, Beneath the red volcano’s shower. But, oh! the sights and sounds of dread That shock’d her ere her senses fled! The yawning deck—the crowd that strove Upon the tottering planks above— The sail, whose fragments, shivering o’er The strugglers’ heads, all dash’d with gore, Flutter’d like bloody flags—the clash Of sabres, and the lightning’s flash Upon their blades, high toss’d about Like meteor brands[276]—as if throughout The elements one fury ran, One general rage, that left a doubt Which was the fiercer, Heaven or Man!

Once too—but no—it could not be— ’Twas fancy all—yet once she thought, While yet her fading eyes could see, High on the ruin’d deck she caught A glimpse of that unearthly form, That glory of her soul,—e’en then, Amid the whirl of wreck and storm, Shining above his fellow-men, As, on some black and troublous night, The Star of EGYPT,[277] whose proud light Never hath beam’d on those who rest In the White Islands of the West,[278] Burns through the storm with looks of flame That put Heaven’s cloudier eyes to shame. But no—’twas but the minute’s dream— A fantasy—and ere the scream Had half-way pass’d her pallid lips, A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse Of soul and sense its darkness spread Around her, and she sunk, as dead.

How calm, how beautiful comes on The stilly hour, when storms are gone; When warring winds have died away, And clouds, beneath the glancing ray, Melt off, and leave the land and sea Sleeping in bright tranquillity,— Fresh as if Day again were born, Again upon the lap of Morn!— When the light blossoms, rudely torn And scatter’d at the whirlwind’s will, Hang floating in the pure air still, Filling it all with precious balm, In gratitude for this sweet calm;— And every drop the thunder-showers Have left upon the grass and flowers Sparkles, as ’twere that lightning-gem[279] Whose liquid flame is born of them! When, ’stead of one unchanging breeze, There blow a thousand gentle airs, And each a different perfume bears,— As if the loveliest plants and trees Had vassal breezes of their own To watch and wait on them alone, And waft no other breath than theirs: When the blue waters rise and fall, In sleepy sunshine mantling all; And e’en that swell the tempest leaves Is like the full and silent heaves Of lovers’ hearts, when newly blest, Too newly to be quite at rest.

Such was the golden hour that broke Upon the world, when HINDA woke From her long trance, and heard around No motion but the water’s sound Rippling against the vessel’s side, As slow it mounted o’er the tide.— But where is she?—her eyes are dark, Are wilder’d still—is this the bark, The same, that from HARMOZIA’S bay Bore her at morn—whose bloody way The sea-dog track’d?—no—strange and new Is all that meets her wondering view. Upon a galliot’s deck she lies, Beneath no rich pavilion’s shade,— No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes, Nor jasmine on her pillow laid. But the rude litter, roughly spread With war-cloaks, is her homely bed, And shawl and sash, on javelins hung, For awning o’er her head are flung. Shuddering she look’d around—there lay A group of warriors in the sun, Resting their limbs, as for that day Their ministry of death were done. Some gazing on the drowsy sea, Lost in unconscious reverie; And some, who seem’d but ill to brook That sluggish calm, with many a look To the slack sail impatient cast, As loose it flagg’d around the mast.

Blest ALLA! who shall save her now? There’s not in all that warrior band One Arab sword, one turban’d brow From her own Faithful Moslem land. Their garb—the leathern belt[280] that wraps Each yellow vest[281]—that rebel hue— The Tartar fleece upon their caps[282]— Yes—yes—her fears are all too true, And Heaven hath, in this dreadful hour, Abandon’d her to HAFED’S power;— HAFED, the Gheber!—at the thought Her very heart’s blood chills within; He, whom her soul was hourly taught To loathe, as some foul fiend of sin, Some minister, whom Hell had sent To spread its blast, where’er he went, And fling, as o’er our earth he trod, His shadow betwixt man and God! And she is now his captive,—thrown In his fierce hands, alive, alone; His the infuriate band she sees, All infidels—all enemies! What was the daring hope that then Cross’d her like lightning, as again, With boldness that despair had lent, She darted through that armed crowd A look so searching, so intent, That e’en the sternest warrior bow’d Abash’d, when he her glances caught, As if he guess’d whose form they sought. But no—she sees him not—’tis gone, The vision that before her shone Through all the maze of blood and storm, Is fled—’twas but a phantom form— One of those passing, rainbow dreams, Half light, half shade, which Fancy’s beams Paint on the fleeting mists that roll In trance or slumber round the soul.

But now the bark, with livelier bound, Scales the blue wave—the crew’s in motion, The oars are out, and with light sound Break the bright mirror of the ocean, Scattering its brilliant fragments round. And now she sees—with horror sees, Their course is tow’rd that mountain-hold,— Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze, Where MECCA’S godless enemies Lie, like beleaguer’d scorpions, roll’d In their last deadly, venomous fold! Amid the’ illumin’d land and flood Sunless that mighty mountain stood; Save where, above its awful head, There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red, As ’twere the flag of destiny Hung out to mark where death would be!

Had her bewilder’d mind the power Of thought in this terrific hour, She well might marvel where or how Man’s foot could scale that mountain’s brow, Since ne’er had Arab heard or known Of path but through the glen alone.— But every thought was lost in fear, When, as their bounding bark drew near The craggy base, she felt the waves Hurry them tow’rd those dismal caves, That from the Deep in windings pass Beneath that Mount’s volcanic mass;— And loud a voice on deck commands To lower the mast and light the brands!— Instantly o’er the dashing tide Within a cavern’s mouth they glide, Gloomy as that eternal Porch Through which departed spirits go:— Not e’en the flare of brand and torch Its flickering light could further throw Than the thick flood that boil’d below. Silent they floated—as if each Sat breathless, and too aw’d for speech In that dark chasm, where even sound Seem’d dark,—so sullenly around The goblin echoes of the cave Mutter’d it o’er the long black wave, As ’twere some secret of the grave!

But soft—they pause—the current turns Beneath them from its onward track;— Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns The vexed tide, all foaming, back, And scarce the oars’ redoubled force Can stem the eddy’s whirling force; When, hark!—some desperate foot has sprung Among the rocks—the chain is flung— The oars are up—the grapple clings, And the toss’d bark in moorings swings. Just then, a day-beam through the shade Broke tremulous—but, ere the maid Can see from whence the brightness steals, Upon her brow she shuddering feels A viewless hand, that promptly ties A bandage round her burning eyes; While the rude litter where she lies, Uplifted by the warrior throng, O’er the steep rocks is borne along.

Blest power of sunshine!—genial Day, What balm, what life is in thy ray! To feel thee is such real bliss, That had the world no joy but this, To sit in sunshine calm and sweet,— It were a world too exquisite For man to leave it for the gloom, The deep, cold shadow of the tomb. E’en HINDA, though she saw not where Or whither wound the perilous road, Yet knew by that awakening air, Which suddenly around her glow’d, That they had risen from darkness then, And breath’d the sunny world again!

But soon this balmy freshness fled— For now the steepy labyrinth led Through damp and gloom—’mid crash of boughs, And fall of loosen’d crags that rouse The leopard from his hungry sleep, Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey, And long is heard, from steep to steep, Chasing them down their thundering way! The jackal’s cry—the distant moan Of the hyæna, fierce and lone— And that eternal saddening sound Of torrents in the glen beneath, As ’twere the ever-dark Profound That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death! All, all is fearful—e’en to see, To gaze on those terrific things She now but blindly hears, would be Relief to her imaginings; Since never yet was shape so dread, But Fancy, thus in darkness thrown And by such sounds of horror fed, Could frame more dreadful of her own.

But does she dream? has Fear again Perplex’d the workings of her brain, Or did a voice, all music, then Come from the gloom, low whispering near— “Tremble not, love, thy Gheber’s here!” She _does_ not dream—all sense, all ear, She drinks the words, “Thy Gheber’s here.” ’Twas his own voice—she could not err— Throughout the breathing world’s extent There was but _one_ such voice for her, So kind, so soft, so eloquent! Oh, sooner shall the rose of May Mistake her own sweet nightingale, And to some meaner minstrel’s lay Open her bosom’s glowing veil,[283] Than Love shall ever doubt a tone, A breath of the beloved one!

Though blest, ’mid all her ills, to think She has that one beloved near, Whose smile, though met on ruin’s brink, Hath power to make e’en ruin dear,— Yet soon this gleam of rapture, crost By fears for him, is chill’d and lost. How shall the ruthless HAFED brook That one of Gheber blood should look, With aught but curses in his eye, On her—a maid of ARABY— A Moslem maid—the child of him, Whose bloody banner’s dire success Hath left their altars cold and dim, And their fair land a wilderness! And, worse than all, that night of blood Which comes so fast—oh! who shall stay The sword, that once hath tasted food Of Persian hearts, or turn its way? What arm shall then the victim cover, Or from her father shield her lover?

“Save him, my God!” she inly cries— “Save him this night—and if thine eyes “Have ever welcom’d with delight “The sinner’s tears, the sacrifice “Of sinners’ hearts—guard him this night, “And here, before thy throne, I swear “From my heart’s inmost core to tear “Love, hope, remembrance, though they be “Link’d with each quivering life-string there, “And give it bleeding all to Thee! “Let him but live,—the burning tear, “The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear, “Which have been all too much his own, “Shall from this hour be Heaven’s alone. “Youth pass’d in penitence, and age “In long and painful pilgrimage, “Shall leave no traces of the flame “That wastes me now—nor shall his name “E’er bless my lips, but when I pray “For his dear spirit, that away “Casting from its angelic ray “The’ eclipse of earth, he, too, may shine “Redeem’d, all glorious and all Thine! “Think—think what victory to win “One radiant soul like his from sin,— “One wandering star of virtue back “To its own native, heaven-ward track! “Let him but live, and both are Thine, “Together Thine—for, blest or crost, “Living or dead, his doom is mine, “And, if _he_ perish, both are lost!”

The next evening LALLA ROOKH was entreated by her Ladies to continue the relation of her wonderful dream; but the fearful interest that hung round the fate of HINDA and her lover had completely removed every trace of it from her mind;—much to the disappointment of a fair seer or two in her train, who prided themselves on their skill in interpreting visions, and who had already remarked, as an unlucky omen, that the Princess, on the very morning after the dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blossoms of the sorrowful tree, Nilica.[284]

FADLADEEN, whose indignation had more than once broken out during the recital of some parts of this heterodox poem, seemed at length to have made up his mind to the infliction; and took his seat this evening with all the patience of a martyr, while the Poet resumed his profane and seditious story as follows:—

To tearless eyes and hearts at ease The leafy shores and sun-bright seas, That lay beneath that mountain’s height, Had been a fair enchanting sight. ’Twas one of those ambrosial eves A day of storm so often leaves At its calm setting—when the West Opens her golden bowers of rest, And a moist radiance from the skies Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes Of some meek penitent, whose last Bright hours atone for dark ones past, And whose sweet tears, o’er wrong forgiven, Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven!

’Twas stillness all—the winds that late Had rush’d through KERMAN’S almond groves, And shaken from her bowers of date That cooling feast the traveller loves,[285] Now, lull’d to languor, scarcely curl The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam Limpid, as if her mines of pearl Were melted all to form the stream: And her fair islets, small and bright, With their green shores reflected there, Look like those PERI isles of light, That hang by spell-work in the air.

But vainly did those glories burst On HINDA’S dazzled eyes, when first The bandage from her brow was taken, And, pale and aw’d as those who waken In their dark tombs—when, scowling near, The Searchers of the Grave[286] appear,— She shuddering turn’d to read her fate In the fierce eyes that flash’d around; And saw those towers all desolate, That o’er her head terrific frown’d, As if defying e’en the smile Of that soft heaven to gild their pile. In vain, with mingled hope and fear, She looks for him whose voice so dear Had come, like music, to her ear— Strange, mocking dream! again ’tis fled. And oh, the shoots, the pangs of dread That through her inmost bosom run, When voices from without proclaim “HAFED, the Chief”—and, one by one, The warriors shout that fearful name! He comes—the rock resounds his tread— How shall she dare to lift her head, Or meet those eyes whose scorching glare Not YEMEN’S boldest sons can bear? In whose red beam, the Moslem tells, Such rank and deadly lustre dwells, As in those hellish fires that light The mandrake’s charnel leaves at night.[287] How shall she bear that voice’s tone, At whose loud battle-cry alone Whole squadrons oft in panic ran, Scatter’d like some vast caravan, When, stretch’d at evening round the well, They hear the thirsting tiger’s yell! Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down, Shrinking beneath the fiery frown, Which, fancy tells her, from that brow Is flashing o’er her fiercely now: And shuddering as she hears the tread Of his retiring warrior band.— Never was pause so full of dread; Till HAFED with a trembling hand Took hers, and, leaning o’er her, said, “HINDA;”—that word was all he spoke, And ’twas enough—the shriek that broke From her full bosom, told the rest.— Panting with terror, joy, surprise, The maid but lifts her wondering eyes, To hide them on her Gheber’s breast! ’Tis he, ’tis he—the man of blood, The fellest of the Fire-fiend’s brood, HAFED, the demon of the fight, Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,— Is her own loved Gheber, mild And glorious as when first he smil’d In her lone tower, and left such beams Of his pure eye to light her dreams, That she believ’d her bower had given Rest to some wanderer from heaven!

Moments there are, and this was one, Snatch’d like a minute’s gleam of sun Amid the black Simoom’s eclipse— Or, like those verdant spots that bloom Around the crater’s burning lips, Sweetening the very edge of doom! The past—the future—all that Fate Can bring of dark or desperate Around such hours, but makes them cast Intenser radiance while they last!

Even he, this youth—though dimm’d and gone Each star of Hope that cheer’d him on— His glories lost—his cause betray’d— IRAN, his dear-lov’d country made A land of carcasses and slaves, One dreary waste of chains and graves!— Himself but lingering, dead at heart, To see the last, long struggling breath Of Liberty’s great soul depart, Then lay him down and share her death— Even he, so sunk in wretchedness, With doom still darker gathering o’er him, Yet, in this moment’s pure caress, In the mild eyes that shone before him, Beaming that blest assurance, worth All other transports known on earth, That he was lov’d—well, warmly lov’d— Oh! in this precious hour he prov’d How deep, how thorough-felt the glow Of rapture, kindling out of woe;— How exquisite one single drop Of bliss, thus sparkling to the top Of misery’s cup—how keenly quaff’d, Though death must follow on the draught!