Part 12

She, too, while gazing on those eyes That sink into her soul so deep, Forgets all fears, all miseries, Or feels them like a wretch in sleep, Whom fancy cheats into a smile, Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while! The mighty Ruins where they stood, Upon the mount’s high, rocky verge, Lay open tow’rds the ocean flood, Where lightly o’er the illumin’d surge Many a fair bark that, all the day, Had lurk’d in sheltering creek or bay, Now bounded on, and gave their sails, Yet dripping, to the evening gales; Like eagles, when the storm is done, Spreading their wet wings in the sun. The beauteous clouds, though daylight’s Star Had sunk behind the hills of LAR, Were still with lingering glories bright,— As if, to grace the gorgeous West, The Spirit of departing Light That eve had left his sunny vest Behind him, ere he wing’d his flight. Never was scene so form’d for love! Beneath them waves of crystal move In silent swell—Heaven glows above, And their pure hearts, to transport given, Swell like the wave, and glow like Heaven.

But, ah! too soon that dream is past— Again, again her fear returns;— Night, dreadful night, is gathering last, More faintly the horizon burns, And every rosy tint that lay On the smooth sea hath died away. Hastily to the darkening skies A glance she casts—then wildly cries “_At night_, he said—and, look, ’tis near— “Fly, fly—if yet thou lov’st me, fly— “Soon will his murderous band be here, “And I shall see thee bleed and die.— “Hush! heard’st thou not the tramp of men “Sounding from yonder fearful glen?— “Perhaps e’en now they climb the wood— “Fly, fly—though still the West is bright, “He’ll come—oh! yes—he wants thy blood— “I know him—he’ll not wait for night!”

In terrors e’en to agony She clings around the wondering Chief;— “Alas, poor wilder’d maid! to me “Thou ow’st this raving trance of grief. “Lost as I am, nought ever grew “Beneath my shade but perish’d too— “My doom is like the Dead Sea air, “And nothing lives that enters there! “Why were our barks together driven “Beneath this morning’s furious heaven? “Why, when I saw the prize that chance “Had thrown into my desperate arms,— “When, casting but a single glance “Upon thy pale and prostrate charms, “I vow’d (though watching viewless o’er “Thy safety through that hour’s alarms) “To meet the’ unmanning sight no more— “Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow? “Why weakly, madly met thee now?— “Start not—that noise is but the shock “Of torrents through yon valley hurl’d— “Dread nothing here—upon this rock “We stand above the jarring world, “Alike beyond its hope—its dread— “In gloomy safety, like the Dead! “Or, could e’en earth and hell unite “In league to storm this Sacred Height, “Fear nothing thou—myself, to-night, “And each o’erlooking star that dwells “Near God will be thy sentinels;— “And, ere to-morrow’s dawn shall glow, “Back to thy sire⸺” “To-morrow!—no—” The maiden scream’d—“thou’lt never see “To-morrow’s sun—death, death will be “The night-cry through each reeking tower, “Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour! “Thou art betray’d—some wretch who knew “That dreadful glen’s mysterious clew— “Nay, doubt not—by yon stars, ’tis true— “Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire; “This morning, with that smile so dire “He wears in joy, he told me all, “And stamp’d in triumph through our hall, “As though thy heart already beat “Its last life-throb beneath his feet! “Good Heaven, how little dream’d I then “His victim was my own lov’d youth!— “Fly—send—let some one watch the glen— “By all my hopes of heaven ’tis truth!”

Oh! colder than the wind that freezes Founts, that but now in sunshine play’d, Is that congealing pang which seizes The trusting bosom, when betray’d. He felt it—deeply felt—and stood, As if the tale had frozen his blood, So maz’d and motionless was he;— Like one whom sudden spells enchant, Or some mute, marble habitant Of the still Halls of ISHMONIE![288]

But soon the painful chill was o’er, And his great soul, herself once more, Look’d from his brow in all the rays Of her best, happiest, grandest days. Never, in moment most elate, Did that high spirit loftier rise;— While bright, serene, determinate, His looks are lifted to the skies, As if the signal lights of Fate Were shining in those awful eyes! ’Tis come—his hour of martyrdom In IRAN’S sacred cause is come; And, though his life hath pass’d away Like lightning on a stormy day, Yet shall his death-hour leave a track Of glory, permanent and bright, To which the brave of after-times, The suffering brave, shall long look back With proud regret,—and by its light Watch through the hours of slavery’s night For vengeance on the’ oppressor’s crimes. This rock, his monument aloft, Shall speak the tale to many an age; And hither bards and heroes oft Shall come in secret pilgrimage, And bring their warrior sons, and tell The wondering boys where HAFED fell; And swear them on those lone remains Of their lost country’s ancient fanes, Never—while breath of life shall live Within them—never to forgive The’ accursed race, whose ruthless chain Hath left on IRAN’S neck a stain Blood, blood alone can cleanse again!

Such are the swelling thoughts that now Enthrone themselves on HAFED’S brow; And ne’er did saint of ISSA[289] gaze On the red wreath, for martyrs twin’d, More proudly than the youth surveys That pile, which through the gloom behind, Half lighted by the altar’s fire, Glimmers—his destin’d funeral pyre! Heap’d by his own, his comrades’ hands, Of every wood of odorous breath, There, by the Fire-God’s shrine it stands, Ready to fold in radiant death The few still left of those who swore To perish there, when hope was o’er— The few, to whom that couch of flame, Which rescues them from bonds and shame, Is sweet and welcome as the bed For their own infant Prophet spread, When pitying Heaven to roses turn’d The death-flames that beneath him burn’d![290]

With watchfulness the maid attends His rapid glance, where’er it bends— Why shoot his eyes such awful beams? What plans he now? what thinks or dreams? Alas! why stands he musing here, When every moment teems with fear? “HAFED, my own beloved Lord,” She kneeling cries—“first, last ador’d! “If in that soul thou’st ever felt “Half what thy lips impassioned swore, “Here, on my knees that never knelt “To any but their God before, “I pray thee, as thou lov’st me, fly— “Now, now—ere yet their blades are nigh. “Oh haste—the bark that bore me hither “Can waft us o’er yon darkening sea “East—west—alas, I care not whither, “So thou art safe, and I with thee! “Go where we will, this hand is thine, “Those eyes before me smiling thus, “Through good and ill, through storm and shine, “The world’s a world of love for us! “On some calm, blessed shore we’ll dwell, “Where ’tis no crime to love too well;— “Where thus to worship tenderly “An erring child of light like thee “Will not be sin—or, if it be, “Where we may weep our faults away, “Together kneeling, night and day, “Thou, for _my_ sake, at ALLA’S shrine, “And I—at _any_ God’s, for thine!”

Wildly these passionate words she spoke— Then hung her head, and wept for shame; Sobbing, as if her heart-string broke With every deep-heav’d sob that came. While he, young, warm—oh! wonder not If, for a moment, pride and fame, His oath—his cause—that shrine of flame, And IRAN’S self are all forgot For her whom at his feet he sees Kneeling in speechless agonies. No, blame him not, if Hope awhile Dawn’d in his soul, and threw her smile O’er hours to come—o’er days and nights, Wing’d with those precious, pure delights Which she, who bends all beauteous there, Was born to kindle and to share. A tear or two, which, as he bow’d To raise the suppliant, trembling stole, First warn’d him of this dangerous cloud Of softness passing o’er his soul. Starting, he brush’d the drops away, Unworthy o’er that cheek to stray;— Like one who, on the morn of fight, Shakes from his sword the dews of night, That had but dimm’d, not stain’d its light. Yet, though subdued the’ unnerving thrill, Its warmth, its weakness linger’d still So touching in each look and tone, That the fond, fearing, hoping maid Half counted on the flight she pray’d, Half thought the hero’s soul was grown As soft, as yielding as her own, And smil’d and bless’d him, while he said,— “Yes—if there be some happier sphere, “Where fadeless truth like ours is dear,— “If there be any land of rest “For those who love and ne’er forget, “Oh! comfort thee—for safe and blest “We’ll meet in that calm region yet!”

Scarce had she time to ask her heart If good or ill these words impart, When the rous’d youth impatient flew To the tower-wall, where, high in view, A ponderous sea-horn[291] hung, and blew A signal, deep and dread as those The storm-fiend at his rising blows.— Full well his Chieftains, sworn and true Through life and death, that signal knew; For ’twas the’ appointed warring-blast, The’ alarm, to tell when hope was past, And the tremendous death-die cast! And there, upon the mouldering tower, Hath hung this sea-horn many an hour, Ready to sound o’er land and sea That dirge-note of the brave and free. They came—his Chieftains at the call Came slowly round, and with them all— Alas, how few!—the worn remains Of those who late o’er KERMAN’S plains Went gaily prancing to the clash Of Moorish zel and tymbalon, Catching new hope from every flash Of their long lances in the sun, And, as their coursers charg’d the wind, And the white ox-tails stream’d behind,[292] Looking, as if the steeds they rode Were wing’d, and every Chief a God! How fallen, how alter’d now! how wan Each scarr’d and faded visage shone, As round the burning shrine they came!— How deadly was the glare it cast, As mute they pass’d before the flame To light their torches as they pass’d! ’Twas silence all—the youth had plann’d The duties of his soldier-band; And each determin’d brow declares His faithful Chieftains well know theirs.

But minutes speed—night gems the skies— And oh, how soon, ye blessed eyes, That look from heaven, ye may behold Sights that will turn your star-fires cold! Breathless with awe, impatience, hope, The maiden sees the veteran group Her litter silently prepare, And lay it at her trembling feet;— And now the youth, with gentle care, Hath placed her in the shelter’d seat, And press’d her hand—that lingering press Of hands, that for the last time sever; Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness, When that hold breaks, is dead for ever. And yet to _her_ this sad caress Gives hope—so fondly hope can err! ’Twas joy, she thought, joy’s mute excess— Their happy flight’s dear harbinger; ’Twas warmth—assurance—tenderness— ’Twas any thing but leaving her.

“Haste, haste!” she cried, “the clouds grow dark, “But still, ere night, we’ll reach the bark; “And by to-morrow’s dawn—oh bliss! “With thee upon the sun-bright deep, “Far off, I’ll but remember this, “As some dark vanish’d dream of sleep; “And thou⸺” but ah!—he answers not— Good Heaven!—and does she go alone? She now has reach’d that dismal spot, Where, some hours since, his voice’s tone Had come to soothe her fears and ills, Sweet as the angel ISRAFIL’S,[293] When every leaf on Eden’s tree Is trembling to his minstrelsy— Yet now—oh, now, he is not nigh.— “HAFED! my HAFED!—if it be “Thy will, thy doom this night to die, “Let me but stay to die with thee, “And I will bless thy lovèd name, “Till the last life-breath leave this frame. “Oh! let our lips, our cheeks be laid “But near each other while they fade; “Let us but mix our parting breaths, “And I can die ten thousand deaths! “You too, who hurry me away “So cruelly, one moment stay— “Oh! stay—one moment is not much— “He yet may come—for _him_ I pray— “HAFED! dear HAFED!—” all the way In wild lamentings, that would touch A heart of stone, she shriek’d his name To the dark woods—no HAFED came:— No—hapless pair—you’ve look’d your last:— Your hearts should both have broken then: The dream is o’er—your doom is cast— You’ll never meet on earth again!

Alas for him, who hears her cries! Still half-way down the steep he stands, Watching with fix’d and feverish eyes The glimmer of those burning brands, That down the rocks, with mournful ray, Light all he loves on earth away! Hopeless as they who, far at sea, By the cold moon have just consign’d The corse of one, lov’d tenderly, To the bleak flood they leave behind; And on the deck still lingering stay, And long look back, with sad delay, To watch the moonlight on the wave, That ripples o’er that cheerless grave.

But see—he starts—what heard he then? That dreadful shout!—across the glen From the land-side it comes, and loud Rings through the chasm; as if the crowd Of fearful things, that haunt that dell, Its Gholes and Dives and shapes of hell, Had all in one dread howl broke out, So loud, so terrible that shout! “They come—the Moslems come!” he cries, His proud soul mounting to his eyes,— “Now, Spirits of the Brave, who roam “Enfranchis’d through yon starry dome, “Rejoice—for souls of kindred fire “Are on the wing to join your choir!” He said—and, light as bridegrooms bound To their young loves, reclimb’d the steep And gain’d the Shrine—his Chiefs stood round— Their swords, as with instinctive leap, Together, at that cry accurst, Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst. And hark!—again—again it rings; Near and more near its echoings Peal through the chasm—oh! who that then Had seen those listening warrior-men, With their swords grasp’d, their eyes of flame Turn’d on their Chief—could doubt the shame, The’ indignant shame with which they thrill To hear those shouts and yet stand still?

He read their thoughts—they were his own— “What! while our arms can wield these blades, “Shall we die tamely? die alone? “Without one victim to our shades, “One Moslem heart, where, buried deep, “The sabre from its toil may sleep? “No—God of IRAN’S burning skies! “Thou scorn’st the’ inglorious sacrifice. “No—though of all earth’s hope bereft, “Life, swords, and vengeance still are left. “We’ll make yon valley’s reeking caves “Live in the awe-struck minds of men, “Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves “Tell of the Ghebers’ bloody glen. “Follow, brave hearts!—this pile remains “Our refuge still from life and chains; “But his the best, the holiest bed, “Who sinks entomb’d in Moslem dead!”

Down the precipitous rocks they sprung, While vigour, more than human, strung Each arm and heart.—The’ exulting foe Still through the dark defiles below, Track’d by his torches’ lurid fire, Wound slow, as through GOLCONDA’S vale[294] The mighty serpent, in his ire, Glides on with glittering, deadly trail. No torch the Ghebers need—so well They know each mystery of the dell, So oft have, in their wanderings, Cross’d the wild race that round them dwell, The very tigers from their delves Look out, and let them pass, as things Untam’d and fearless like themselves!

There was a deep ravine, that lay Yet darkling in the Moslem’s way; Fit spot to make invaders rue The many fallen before the few. The torrents from that morning’s sky Had fill’d the narrow chasm breast high, And, on each side, aloft and wild, Huge cliffs and toppling crags were pil’d,— The guards with which young Freedom lines The pathways to her mountain-shrines. Here, at this pass, the scanty band Of IRAN’S last avengers stand; Here wait, in silence like the dead, And listen for the Moslem’s tread So anxiously, the carrion-bird Above them flaps his wing unheard!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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