Part 14

Hence is it, too, that NOURMAHAL, Amid the luxuries of this hour, Far from the joyous festival, Sits in her own sequester’d bower, With no one near, to soothe or aid, But that inspir’d and wondrous maid, NAMOUNA, the Enchantress;—one, O’er whom his race the golden sun For unremember’d years has run, Yet never saw her blooming brow Younger or fairer than ’tis now. Nay, rather,—as the west wind’s sigh Freshens the flower it passes by,— Time’s wing but seem’d, in stealing o’er, To leave her lovelier than before. Yet on her smiles a sadness hung, And when, as oft, she spoke or sung Of other worlds, there came a light From her dark eyes so strangely bright, That all believ’d nor man nor earth Were conscious of NAMOUNA’S birth! All spells and talismans she knew, From the great Mantra,[331] which around The Air’s sublimer Spirits drew, To the gold gems[332] of AFRIC, bound Upon the wandering Arab’s arm, To keep him from the Siltim’s[333] harm. And she had pledg’d her powerful art,— Pledg’d it with all the zeal and heart Of one who knew, though high her sphere, What ’twas to lose a love so dear,— To find some spell that should recall Her Selim’s[334] smile to NOURMAHAL!

’Twas midnight—through the lattice, wreath’d With woodbine, many a perfume breath’d From plants that wake when others sleep, From timid jasmine buds, that keep Their odour to themselves all day, But, when the sun-light dies away, Let the delicious secret out To every breeze that roams about;— When thus NAMOUNA:—“’Tis the hour “That scatters spells on herb and flower, “And garlands might be gather’d now, “That, twin’d around the sleeper’s brow, “Would make him dream of such delights, “Such miracles and dazzling sights, “As Genii of the Sun behold, “At evening, from their tents of gold “Upon the’ horizon—where they play “Till twilight comes, and, ray by ray, “Their sunny mansions melt away. “Now, too, a chaplet might be wreath’d “Of buds o’er which the moon has breath’d, “Which worn by her, whose love has stray’d, “Might bring some Peri from the skies, “Some sprite, whose very soul is made “Of flow’rets’ breaths and lovers’ sighs, “And who might tell⸺” “For me, for me,” Cried NOURMAHAL impatiently,— “Oh! twine that wreath for me to-night.” Then, rapidly, with foot as light As the young musk-roe’s, out she flew, To cull each shining leaf that grew Beneath the moonlight’s hallowing beams, For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams. Anemones and Seas of Gold,[335] And new-blown lilies of the river, And those sweet flow’rets, that unfold Their buds on CAMADEVA’S quiver;[336] The tube-rose, with her silvery light, That in the Gardens of Malay Is call’d the Mistress of the Night,[337] So like a bride, scented and bright, She comes out when the sun’s away;— Amaranths, such as crown the maids That wander through ZAMARA’S shades;[338]— And the white moon-flower, as it shows, On SERENDIB’S high crags, to those Who near the isle at evening sail, Scenting her clove-trees in the gale; In short, all flow’rets and all plants, From the divine Amrita tree,[339] That blesses heaven’s inhabitants With fruits of immortality, Down to the basil tuft,[340] that waves Its fragrant blossom over graves, And to the humble rosemary, Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed To scent the desert[341] and the dead:— All in that garden bloom, and all Are gather’d by young NOURMAHAL, Who heaps her baskets with the flowers And leaves, till they can hold no more; Then to NAMOUNA flies, and showers Upon her lap the shining store.

With what delight the’ Enchantress views So many buds, bath’d with the dews And beams of that bless’d hour!—her glance Spoke something, past all mortal pleasures, As, in a kind of holy trance, She hung above those fragrant treasures, Bending to drink their balmy airs, As if she mix’d her soul with theirs. And ’twas, indeed, the perfume shed From flow’rs and scented flame, that fed Her charmèd life—for none had e’er Beheld her taste of mortal fare, Nor ever in aught earthly dip, But the morn’s dew, her roseate lip. Fill’d with the cool, inspiring smell, The’ Enchantress now begins her spell, Thus singing as she winds and weaves In mystic form the glittering leaves:—

I know where the winged visions dwell That around the night-bed play; I know each herb and flow’ret’s bell, Where they hide their wings by day. Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The image of love, that nightly flies To visit the bashful maid, Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs Its soul, like her, in the shade. The dream of a future, happier hour, That alights on misery’s brow, Springs out of the silvery almond-flower, That blooms on a leafless bough.[342] Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The visions, that oft to worldly eyes The glitter of mines unfold, Inhabit the mountain-herb,[343] that dyes The tooth of the fawn like gold. The phantom shapes—oh touch not them— That appal the murderer’s sight, Lurk in the fleshly mandrake’s stem, That shrieks, when pluck’d at night! Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The dream of the injur’d, patient mind, That smiles at the wrongs of men, Is found in the bruis’d and wounded rind Of the cinnamon, sweetest then. Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

No sooner was the flowery crown Plac’d on her head, than sleep came down, Gently as nights of summer fall, Upon the lids of NOURMAHAL;— And, suddenly, a tuneful breeze, As full of small, rich harmonies As ever wind, that o’er the tents Of AZAB[344] blew, was full of scents, Steals on her ear, and floats and swells. Like the first air of morning creeping Into those wreathy, Red-Sea shells, Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping;[345] And now a Spirit form’d, ’twould seem, Of music and of light,—so fair, So brilliantly his features beam, And such a sound is in the air Of sweetness when he waves his wings,— Hovers around her, and thus sings:—

From CHINDARA’S[346] warbling fount I come, Call’d by that moonlight garland’s spell; From CHINDARA’S fount, my fairy home, Where in music, morn and night, I dwell: Where lutes in the air are heard about, And voices are singing the whole day long, And every sigh the heart breathes out Is turn’d, as it leaves the lips, to song! Hither I come From my fairy home, And if there’s a magic in Music’s strain, I swear by the breath Of that moonlight wreath, Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

For mine is the lay that lightly floats, And mine are the murmuring, dying notes, That fall as soft as snow on the sea, And melt in the heart as instantly:— And the passionate strain that, deeply going, Refines the bosom it trembles through, As the musk-wind, over the water blowing, Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too.

Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway The Spirits of past Delight obey;— Let but the tuneful talisman sound, And they come, like Genii, hovering round. And mine is the gentle song that bears From soul to soul, the wishes of love, As a bird, that wafts through genial airs The cinnamon-seed from grove to grove.[347]

’Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure The past, the present, and future of pleasure;[348] When Memory links the tone that is gone With the blissful tone that’s still in the ear; And Hope from a heavenly note flies on To a note more heavenly still that is near.

The warrior’s heart, when touch’d by me, Can as downy soft and as yielding be As his own white plume, that high amid death Through the field has shone—yet moves with a breath! And oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten, When Music has reach’d her inward soul, Like the silent stars, that wink and listen While Heaven’s eternal melodies roll. So, hither I come From my fairy home, And if there’s a magic in Music’s strain, I swear by the breath Of that moonlight wreath, Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

’Tis dawn—at least that earlier dawn, Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,[349] As if the morn had wak’d, and then Shut close her lids of light again. And NOURMAHAL is up, and trying The wonders of her lute, whose strings— Oh, bliss!—now murmur like the sighing From that ambrosial Spirit’s wings. And then, her voice—’tis more than human— Never, till now, had it been given To lips of any mortal woman To utter notes so fresh from heaven; Sweet as the breath of angel sighs, When angel sighs are most divine.— “Oh! let it last till night,” she cries, “And he is more than ever mine.” And hourly she renews the lay, So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness Should, ere the evening, fade away,— For things so heavenly have such fleetness! But, far from fading, it but grows Richer, diviner as it flows; Till rapt she dwells on every string, And pours again each sound along, Like echo, lost and languishing, In love with her own wondrous song.

That evening, (trusting that his soul Might be from haunting love releas’d By mirth, by music, and the bowl,) The’ Imperial SELIM held a feast In his magnificent Shalimar:[350]— In whose Saloons, when the first star Of evening o’er the waters trembled, The Valley’s loveliest all assembled; All the bright creatures that, like dreams, Glide through its foliage, and drink beams Of beauty from its founts and streams;[351] And all those wandering minstrel-maids, Who leave—how _can_ they leave?—the shades Of that dear Valley, and are found Singing in gardens of the South[352] Those songs, that ne’er so sweetly sound As from a young Cashmerian’s mouth. There, too, the Haram’s inmates smile;— Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair, And from the Garden of the NILE, Delicate as the roses there;[353]— Daughters of Love from CYPRUS’ rocks, With Paphian diamonds in their locks;[354]— Light PERI forms, such as there are On the gold meads of CANDAHAR;[355] And they, before whose sleepy eyes, In their own bright Kathaian bowers, Sparkle such rainbow butterflies, That they might fancy the rich flowers, That round them in the sun lay sighing, Had been by magic all set flying.[356]

Every thing young, every thing fair From East and West is blushing there, Except—except—oh, NOURMAHAL! Thou loveliest, dearest of them all, The one, whose smile shone out alone, Amidst a world the only one; Whose light, among so many lights, Was like that star on starry nights, The seaman singles from the sky, To steer his bark for ever by! Thou wert not there—so SELIM thought, And every thing seem’d drear without thee; But, ah! thou wert, thou wert,—and brought Thy charm of song all fresh about thee. Mingling unnoticed with a band Of lutanists from many a land, And veil’d by such a mask as shades The features of young Arab maids,[357]— A mask that leaves but one eye free, To do its best in witchery,— She rov’d, with beating heart, around, And waited, trembling, for the minute, When she might try if still the sound Of her lov’d lute had magic in it.

The board was spread with fruits and wine; With grapes of gold, like those that shine On CASBIN’S hills;[358]—pomegranates full Of melting sweetness, and the pears, And sunniest apples[359] that CAUBUL In all its thousand gardens[360]bears;— Plantains, the golden and the green, MALAYA’S nectar’d mangusteen;[361] Prunes of BOKARA, and sweet nuts From the far groves of SAMARCAND, And BASRA dates, and apricots, Seed of the Sun,[362] from IRAN’S land;— With rich conserve of Visna cherries,[363] Of orange flowers, and of those berries That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles Feed on in ERAC’S rocky dells.[364] All these in richest vases smile, In baskets of pure santal-wood, And urns of porcelain from that isle[365] Sunk underneath the Indian flood, Whence oft the lucky diver brings Vases to grace the halls of kings. Wines, too, of every clime and hue, Around their liquid lustre threw; Amber Rosolli,[366]—the bright dew From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing;[367] And SHIRAZ wine, that richly ran As if that jewel, large and rare, The ruby for which KUBLAI-KHAN Offer’d a city’s wealth,[368] was blushing Melted within the goblets there!

And amply SELIM quaffs of each, And seems resolv’d the flood shall reach His inward heart,—shedding around A genial deluge, as they run, That soon shall leave no spot undrown’d, For Love to rest his wings upon. He little knew how well the boy Can float upon a goblet’s streams, Lighting them with his smile of joy;— As bards have seen him in their dreams, Down the blue GANGES laughing glide Upon a rosy lotus wreath,[369] Catching new lustre from the tide That with his image shone beneath.

But what are cups, without the aid Of song to speed them as they flow? And see—a lovely Georgian maid, With all the bloom, the freshen’d glow Of her own country maidens’ looks, When warm they rise from TEFLIS’ brooks;[370] And with an eye, whose restless ray, Full, floating, dark—oh, he, who knows His heart is weak, of heaven should pray To guard him from such eyes as those!— With a voluptuous wildness flings Her snowy hand across the strings Of a syrinda,[371] and thus sings:—

Come hither, come hither—by night and by day, We linger in pleasures that never are gone; Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away, Another as sweet and as shining comes on. And the love that is o’er, in expiring, gives birth To a new one as warm, as unequall’d in bliss; And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.[372]

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh As the flower of the Amra just op’d by a bee;[373] And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,[374] Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss, And own if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.

Here sparkles the nectar, that, hallow’d by love, Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere, Who for wine of this earth[375] left the fountains above, And forgot heaven’s stars for the eyes we have here. And, bless’d with the odour our goblet gives forth, What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss? For, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.

The Georgian’s song was scarcely mute, When the same measure, sound for sound, Was caught up by another lute, And so divinely breathed around, That all stood hush’d and wondering, And turn’d and look’d into the air, As if they thought to see the wing Of ISRAFIL,[376] the Angel, there;— So powerfully on every soul That new, enchanted measure stole. While now a voice, sweet as the note Of the charm’d lute, was heard to float Along its chords, and so entwine Its sounds with theirs, that none knew whether The voice or lute was most divine, So wondrously they went together:—

There’s a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, When two, that are link’d in one heavenly tie, With heart never changing, and brow never cold, Love on through all ills, and love on till they die! One hour of a passion so sacred is worth Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss; And, oh! if there _be_ an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.

Twas not the air, ’twas not the words, But that deep magic in the chords And in the lips, that gave such power As music knew not till that hour. At once a hundred voices said, “It is the mask’d Arabian maid!” While SELIM, who had felt the strain Deepest of any, and had lain Some minutes rapt, as in a trance, After the fairy sounds were o’er, Too inly touched for utterance, Now motion’d with his hand for more:—

Fly to the desert, fly with me, Our Arab tents are rude for thee; But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt, Of tents with love, or thrones without?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there The’ acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet, nor lov’d the less For flowering in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope As gracefully and gaily springs As o’er the marble courts of kings.

Then come—thy Arab maid will be The lov’d and lone acacia-tree, The antelope, whose feet shall bless With their light sound thy loneliness.

Oh! there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine through the heart,— As if the soul that minute caught Some treasure it through life had sought;

As if the very lips and eyes, Predestin’d to have all our sighs, And never be forgot again, Sparkled and spoke before us then!

So came thy every glance and tone, When first on me they breath’d and shone; New, as if brought from other spheres, Yet welcome as if loved for years.

Then fly with me,—if thou hast known No other flame, nor falsely thrown A gem away, that thou hadst sworn Should ever in thy heart be worn.

Come, if the love thou hast for me Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,— Fresh as the fountain under ground, When first ’tis by the lapwing found.[377]

But if for me thou dost forsake Some other maid, and rudely break Her worshipp’d image from its base, To give to me the ruin’d place;—

Then, fare thee well—I’d rather make My bower upon some icy lake When thawing suns begin to shine, Than trust to love so false as thine!

There was a pathos in this lay, That, e’en without enchantment’s art, Would instantly have found its way Deep into SELIM’S burning heart; But, breathing, as it did, a tone To earthly lutes and lips unknown; With every chord fresh from the touch Of Music’s Spirit,—’twas too much! Starting, he dash’d away the cup,— Which, all the time of this sweet air, His hand had held, untasted, up, As if ’twere fix’d by magic there,— And naming her, so long unnam’d, So long unseen, wildly exclaim’d, “Oh NOURMAHAL! oh NOURMAHAL! “Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, “I could forget—forgive thee all, “And never leave those eyes again.”

The mask is off—the charm is wrought— And SELIM to his heart has caught, In blushes, more than ever bright, His NOURMAHAL, his Haram’s Light! And well do vanish’d frowns enhance The charm of every brightened glance; And dearer seems each dawning smile For having lost its light awhile: And, happier now for all her sighs, As on his arm her head reposes, She whispers him with laughing eyes, “Remember, love, the Feast of Roses!”

FADLADEEN, at the conclusion of this light rhapsody, took occasion to sum up his opinion of the young Cashmerian’s poetry,—of which, he trusted, they had that evening heard the last. Having recapitulated the epithets, “frivolous”—“inharmonious”—“nonsensical,” he proceeded to say that, viewing it in the most favourable light, it resembled one of those Maldivian boats, to which the Princess had alluded in the relation of her dream,[378]—a slight, gilded thing, sent adrift without rudder or ballast, and with nothing but vapid sweets and faded flowers on board. The profusion, indeed, of flowers and birds, which this poet had ready on all occasions,—not to mention dews, gems, &c.—was a most oppressive kind of opulence to his hearers; and had the unlucky effect of giving to his style all the glitter of the flower-garden without its method, and all the flutter of the aviary without its song. In addition to this, he chose his subjects badly, and was always most inspired by the worst parts of them. The charms of paganism, the merits of rebellion,—these were the themes honoured with his particular enthusiasm; and, in the poem just recited, one of his most palatable passages was in praise of that beverage of the Unfaithful, wine;—“being, perhaps,” said he, relaxing into a smile, as conscious of his own character in the Haram on this point, “one of those bards, whose fancy owes all its illumination to the grape, like that painted porcelain,[379] so curious and so rare, whose images are only visible when liquor is poured into it.” Upon the whole, it was his opinion, from the specimens which they had heard, and which, he begged to say, were the most tiresome part of the journey, that—whatever other merits this well-dressed young gentleman might possess—poetry was by no means his proper avocation: “and indeed,” concluded the critic, “from his fondness for flowers and for birds, I would venture to suggest that a florist or a bird-catcher is a much more suitable calling for him than a poet.”