Part 13
Oh! ’tis not, HINDA, in the power Of Fancy’s most terrific touch To paint thy pangs in that dread hour— Thy silent agony—’twas such As those who feel could paint too well, But none e’er felt and lived to tell! ’Twas not alone the dreary state Of a lorn spirit crush’d by fate, When, though no more remains to dread, The panic chill will not depart;— When, though the inmate Hope be dead, Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart. No—pleasures, hopes, affections gone, The wretch may bear, and yet live on, Like things, within the cold rock found Alive, when all’s congeal’d around. But there’s a blank repose in this, A calm stagnation, that were bliss To the keen, burning, harrowing pain, Now felt through all thy breast and brain;— That spasm of terror, mute, intense, That breathless, agonis’d suspense, From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching, The heart hath no relief but breaking!
Calm is the wave—heaven’s brilliant lights Reflected dance beneath the prow;— Time was when, on such lovely nights, She who is there, so desolate now, Could sit all cheerful, though alone, And ask no happier joy than seeing That starlight o’er the waters thrown— No joy but that, to make her blest, And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being, Which bounds in youth’s yet careless breast,— Itself a star, not borrowing light, But in its own glad essence bright. How different now!—but, hark, again The yell of havoc rings—brave men! In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand On the bark’s edge—in vain each hand Half draws the falchion from its sheath; All’s o’er—in rust your blades may lie:— He, at whose word they’ve scatter’d death, E’en now, this night, himself must die! Well may ye look to yon dim tower, And ask, and wondering guess what means The battle-cry at this dead hour— Ah! she could tell you—she, who leans Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast, With brow against the dew-cold mast;— Too well she knows—her more than life, Her soul’s first idol and its last, Lies bleeding in that murderous strife.
But see—what moves upon the height? Some signal!—’tis a torch’s light. What bodes its solitary glare? In gasping silence tow’rd the Shrine All eyes are turn’d—thine, HINDA, thine Fix their last fading life-beams there. ’Twas but a moment—fierce and high The death-pile blaz’d into the sky, And far away, o’er rock and flood Its melancholy radiance sent; While HAFED, like a vision, stood Reveal’d before the burning pyre, Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire Shrin’d in its own grand element! “’Tis he!”—the shuddering maid exclaims,— But, while she speaks, he’s seen no more; High burst in air the funeral flames, And IRAN’S hopes and hers are o’er!
One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave; Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze, Where still she fix’d her dying gaze,— And, gazing, sunk into the wave, Deep, deep,—where never care or pain Shall reach her innocent heart again!
Farewell—farewell to thee, ARABY’S daughter! (Thus warbled a PERI beneath the dark sea,) No pearl ever lay, under OMAN’S green water, More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee.
Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till Love’s witchery came, Like the wind of the south[296] o’er a summer lute blowing, And hush’d all its music, and withered its frame!
But long, upon ARABY’S green sunny highlands, Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With nought but the sea-star[297] to light up her tomb.
And still, when the merry date-season is burning,[298] And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, The happiest there, from their pastime returning At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.
The young village-maid, when with flowers she dresses Her dark flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away.
Nor shall IRAN, belov’d of her Hero! forget thee— Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that Hero she’ll set thee, Embalm’d in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Farewell—be it ours to embellish thy pillow With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.
Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept;[299] With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath’d chamber We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept.
We’ll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We’ll seek where the sands of the Caspian[300] are sparkling, And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.
Farewell—farewell—until Pity’s sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They’ll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain, They’ll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.
The singular placidity with which FADLADEEN had listened, during the latter part of this obnoxious story, surprised the Princess and FERAMORZ exceedingly; and even inclined towards him the hearts of these unsuspicious young persons, who little knew the source of a complacency so marvellous. The truth was, he had been organising, for the last few days, a most notable plan of persecution against the poet, in consequence of some passages that had fallen from him on the second evening of recital,—which appeared to this worthy Chamberlain to contain language and principles, for which nothing short of the summary criticism of the Chabuk[301] would be advisable. It was his intention, therefore, immediately on their arrival at Cashmere, to give information to the King of Bucharia of the very dangerous sentiments of his minstrel; and if, unfortunately, that monarch did not act with suitable vigour on the occasion, (that is, if he did not give the Chabuk to FERAMORZ, and a place to FADLADEEN,) there would be an end, he feared, of all legitimate government in Bucharia. He could not help, however, auguring better both for himself and the cause of potentates in general; and it was the pleasure arising from these mingled anticipations that diffused such unusual satisfaction through his features, and made his eyes shine out, like poppies of the desert, over the wide and lifeless wilderness of that countenance.
Having decided upon the Poet’s chastisement in this manner, he thought it but humanity to spare him the minor tortures of criticism. Accordingly, when they assembled the following evening in the pavilion, and LALLA ROOKH was expecting to see all the beauties of her bard melt away, one by one, in the acidity of criticism, like pearls in the cup of the Egyptian queen,—he agreeably disappointed her, by merely saying, with an ironical smile, that the merits of such a poem deserved to be tried at a much higher tribunal; and then suddenly passed off into a panegyric upon all Mussulman sovereigns, more particularly his august and Imperial master, Aurungzebe,—the wisest and best of the descendants of Timur,—who, among other great things he had done for mankind, had given to him, FADLADEEN, the very profitable posts of Betel-carrier, and Taster of Sherbets to the Emperor, Chief Holder of the Girdle of Beautiful Forms,[302] and Grand Nazir, or Chamberlain of the Haram.
They were now not far from that Forbidden River,[303] beyond which no pure Hindoo can pass; and were reposing for a time in the rich valley of Hussun Abdaul, which had always been a favourite resting-place of the Emperors in their annual migrations to Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the Faith, Jehan-Guire, been known to wander with his beloved and beautiful Nourmahal: and here would LALLA ROOKH have been happy to remain for ever, giving up the throne of Bucharia and the world, for FERAMORZ and love in this sweet, lonely valley. But the time was now fast approaching when she must see him no longer,—or, what was still worse, behold him with eyes whose every look belonged to another; and there was a melancholy preciousness in these last moments, which made her heart cling to them as it would to life. During the latter paid of the journey, indeed, she had sunk into a deep sadness, from which nothing but the presence of the young minstrel could awake her. Like those lamps in tombs, which only light up when the air is admitted, it was only at his approach that her eyes became smiling and animated. But here, in this dear valley, every moment appeared an age of pleasure; she saw him all day, and was, therefore, all day happy,—resembling, she often thought, that people of Zinge, who attribute the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly over their heads.[304]
The whole party, indeed, seemed in their liveliest mood during the few days they passed in this delightful solitude. The young attendants of the Princess, who were here allowed a much freer range than they could safely be indulged with in a less sequestered place, ran wild among the gardens and bounded through the meadows, lightly as young roes over the aromatic plains of Tibet. While FADLADEEN, in addition to the spiritual comfort derived by him from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Saint from whom the valley is named, had also opportunities of indulging, in a small way, his taste for victims, by putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate little lizards,[305] which all pious Mussulmans make it a point to kill;—taking for granted, that the manner in which the creature hangs its head is meant as a mimicry of the attitude in which the Faithful say their prayers.
About two miles from Hussun Abdaul were those Royal Gardens,[306] which had grown beautiful under the care of so many lovely eyes, and were beautiful still, though those eyes could see them no longer. This place, with its flowers, and its holy silence, interrupted only by the dipping of the wings of birds in its marble basins filled with the pure water of those hills, was to LALLA ROOKH all that her heart could fancy of fragrance, coolness, and almost heavenly tranquillity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, “it was too delicious;”[307]—and here, in listening to the sweet voice of FERAMORZ, or reading in his eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the most exquisite moments of her whole life were passed. One evening, when they had been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal, the Light of the Haram,[308] who had so often wandered among these flowers, and fed with her own hands, in those marble basins, the small shining fishes of which she was so fond,[309]—the youth, in order to delay the moment of separation, proposed to recite a short story, or rather rhapsody, of which this adored Sultana was the heroine. It related, he said, to the reconcilement of a sort of lovers’ quarrel which took place between her and the Emperor during a Feast of Roses at Cashmere; and would remind the Princess of that difference between Haroun-al-Raschid and his fair mistress Marida,[310] which was so happily made up by the soft strains of the musician, Moussali. As the story was chiefly to be told in song, and FERAMORZ had unluckily forgotten his own lute in the valley, he borrowed the vina of LALLA ROOKH’S little Persian slave, and thus began:—
The Light of the Haram
Who has not heard of the vale of CASHMERE, With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,[311] Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?
Oh! to see it at sunset,—when warm o’er the Lake Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws, Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!— When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown, And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. Here the music of pray’r from a minaret swells, Here the Magian his urn, full of perfume, is swinging, And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.[312] Or to see it by moonlight,—when mellowly shines The light o’er its palaces, gardens, and shrines; When the water-falls gleam, like a quick fall of stars, And the nightingale’s hymn from the Isle of Chenars Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet.— Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks, Hills, cupolas, fountains, call’d forth every one Out of darkness, as if but just born of the Sun. When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day, From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away; And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover The young aspen-trees,[313] till they tremble all over. When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes, And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl’d, Shines in through the mountainous portal[314] that opes, Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world!
But never yet, by night or day, In dew of spring or summer’s ray, Did the sweet Valley shine so gay As now it shines—all love and light, Visions by day and feasts by night! A happier smile illumes each brow, With quicker spread each heart uncloses, And all is ecstasy—for now The Valley holds its Feast of Roses;[315] The joyous Time, when pleasures pour Profusely round, and, in their shower, Hearts open, like the Season’s Rose,— The Flow’ret of a hundred leaves,[316] Expanding while the dew-fall flows, And every leaf its balm receives.
’Twas when the hour of evening came Upon the Lake, serene and cool, When Day had hid his sultry flame Behind the palms of BARAMOULE,[317] When maids began to lift their heads, Refresh’d from their embroider’d beds, Where they had slept the sun away, And wak’d to moonlight and to play. All were abroad—the busiest hive On BELA’S[318] hills is less alive, When saffron-beds are full in flower, Than look’d the Valley in that hour. A thousand restless torches play’d Through every grove and island shade; A thousand sparkling lamps were set On every dome and minaret; And fields and pathways, far and near, Were lighted by a blaze so clear, That you could see, in wandering round, The smallest rose-leaf on the ground. Yet did the maids and matrons leave Their veils at home, that brilliant eve; And there were glancing eyes about, And cheeks, that would not dare shine out In open day, but thought they might Look lovely then, because ’twas night. And all were free, and wandering, And all exclaim’d to all they met, That never did the summer bring So gay a Feast of Roses yet;— The moon had never shed a light So clear as that which bless’d them there; The roses ne’er shone half so bright, Nor they themselves look’d half so fair.
And what a wilderness of flowers! It seem’d as though from all the bowers And fairest fields of all the year, The mingled spoil were scatter’d here. The Lake, too, like a garden breathes, With the rich buds that o’er it lie,— As if a shower of fairy wreaths Had fall’n upon it from the sky! And then the sounds of joy,—the beat Of tabors and of dancing feet;— The minaret-crier’s chaunt of glee Sung from his lighted gallery,[319] And answered by a ziraleet From neighbouring Haram, wild and sweet;— The merry laughter, echoing From gardens, where the silken swing[320] Wafts some delighted girl above The top leaves of the orange grove; Or, from those infant groups at play Among the tents[321] that line the way, Flinging, unaw’d by slave or mother, Handfuls of roses at each other.— Then, the sounds from the Lake, the low whispering in boats, As they shoot through the moonlight;—the dipping of oars. And the wild, airy warbling that every where floats, Through the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores, Like those of KATHAY, utter’d music, and gave An answer in song to the kiss of each wave.[322] But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of feeling, That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing,— Some lover, who knows all the heart-touching power Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour. Oh! best of delights as it every where is To be near the lov’d _One_,—what a rapture is his Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide O’er the Lake of CASHMERE, with that _One_ by his side! If woman can make the worst wilderness dear, Think, think what a Heaven she must make of CASHMERE!
So felt the magnificent Son of ACBAR,[323] When from power and pomp and the trophies of war He flew to that Valley, forgetting them all With the Light of the HARAM, his young NOURMAHAL. When free and uncrown’d as the Conqueror rov’d By the banks of that Lake, with his only belov’d, He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match, And preferr’d in his heart the least ringlet that curl’d Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world.
There’s a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright, Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day’s light, Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour. This _was_ not the beauty—oh, nothing like this, That to young NOURMAHAL gave such magic of bliss! But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays Like the light upon autumn’s soft shadowy days, Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes; Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heav’n in his dreams. When pensive, it seem’d as if that very grace, That charm of all others, was born with her face! And when angry,—for ev’n in the tranquillest climes Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes— The short, passing anger but seem’d to awaken New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken. If tenderness touch’d her, the dark of her eye At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings. Then her mirth—oh! ’twas sportive as ever took wing From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring; Illum’d by a wit that would fascinate sages, Yet playful as Peris just loos’d from their cages.[324] While her laugh, full of life, without any control But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul; And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten’d all over,— Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun. Such, such were the peerless enchantments that gave NOURMAHAL the proud Lord of the East for her slave: And though bright was his Haram,—a living parterre Of the flowers[325] of this planet—though treasures were there, For which SOLIMAN’S self might have giv’n all the store That the navy from OPHIR e’er wing’d to his shore, Yet dim before _her_ were the smiles of them all, And the Light of his Haram was young NOURMAHAL!
But where is she now, this night of joy, When bliss is every heart’s employ?— When all around her is so bright, So like the visions of a trance, That one might think, who came by chance Into the vale this happy night, He saw that City of Delight[326] In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers Are made of gems and light and flowers!— Where is the lov’d Sultana? where, When mirth brings out the young and fair, Does she, the fairest, hide her brow, In melancholy stillness now?
Alas!—how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love! Hearts that the world in vain had tried, And sorrow but more closely tied; That stood the storm, when waves were rough, Yet in a sunny hour fall off, Like ships that have gone down at sea, When heaven was all tranquillity! A something, light as air—a look, A word unkind or wrongly taken— Oh! love, that tempests never shook, A breath, a touch like this hath shaken. And ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words begin; And eyes forget the gentle ray They wore in courtship’s smiling day; And voices lose the tone that shed A tenderness round all they said; Till fast declining, one by one, The sweetnesses of love are gone, And hearts, so lately mingled, seem Like broken clouds,—or like the stream, That smiling left the mountain’s brow As though its waters ne’er could sever, Yet, ere it reach the plain below, Breaks into floods, that part for ever.
Oh, you, that have the charge of Love, Keep him in rosy bondage bound, As in the Fields of Bliss above He sits, with flow’rets fetter’d round;[327]— Loose not a tie that round him clings, Nor ever let him use his wings; For e’en an hour, a minute’s flight Will rob the plumes of half their light. Like that celestial bird,—whose nest Is found beneath far Eastern skies,— Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, Lose all their glory when he flies![328]
Some difference, of this dangerous kind,— By which, though light, the links that bind The fondest hearts may soon be riven; Some shadow in Love’s summer heaven, Which, though a fleecy speck at first, May yet in awful thunder burst;— Such cloud it is that now hangs over The heart of the Imperial Lover, And far hath banish’d from his sight His NOURMAHAL, his Haram’s Light! Hence is it, on this happy night, When Pleasure through the fields and groves Has let loose all her world of loves, And every heart has found its own, He wanders, joyless and alone, And weary as that bird of Thrace, Whose pinion knows no resting place.[329] In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes This Eden of the Earth supplies Come crowding round—the cheeks are pale, The eyes are dim:—though rich the spot With every flow’r this earth has got, What is it to the nightingale, If there his darling rose is not?[330] In vain the Valley’s smiling throng Worship him, as he moves along; He heeds them not—one smile of hers Is worth a world of worshippers. They but the Star’s adorers are, She is the Heav’n that lights the Star!