Part 3

“Nor think ’tis only the gross Spirits, warm’d “With duskier fire and for earth’s medium form’d, “That run this course;—Beings, the most divine, “Thus deign through dark mortality to shine. “Such was the Essence that in ADAM dwelt, “To which all Heaven, except the Proud One, knelt:[42] “Such the refin’d Intelligence that glow’d “In MOUSSA’S[43] frame,—and, thence descending, flow’d “Through many a Prophet’s breast;[44]—in ISSA[45] shone, “And in MOHAMMED burn’d; till, hastening on, “(As a bright river that, from fall to fall “In many a maze descending, bright through all, “Finds some fair region where, each labyrinth past, “In one full lake of light it rests at last!) “That Holy Spirit, settling calm and free “From lapse or shadow, centres all in me!”

Again, throughout the’ assembly, at these words, Thousands of voices rung: the warriors’ swords Were pointed up to heaven; a sudden wind In the’ open banners played, and from behind Those Persian hangings, that but ill could screen The Haram’s loveliness, white hands were seen Waving embroider’d scarves, whose motion gave A perfume forth;—like those the Houris wave When beck’ning to their bowers the’ immortal Brave.

“But these,” pursued the Chief, “are truths sublime, “That claim a holier mood and calmer time “Than earth allows us now;—this sword must first “The darkling prison-house of Mankind burst “Ere Peace can visit them, or Truth let in “Her wakening daylight on a world of sin. “But then, celestial warriors, then, when all “Earth’s shrines and thrones before our banner fall; “When the glad Slave shall at these feet lay down “His broken chain, the tyrant Lord his crown, “The Priest his book, the Conqueror his wreath, “And from the lips of Truth one mighty breath “Shall, like a whirlwind, scatter in its breeze “That whole dark pile of human mockeries;— “Then shall the reign of mind commence on earth, “And starting fresh, as from a second birth, “Man, in the sunshine of the world’s new spring, “Shall walk transparent, like some holy thing! “Then, too, your Prophet from his angel brow “Shall cast the Veil that hides its splendours now, “And gladden’d Earth shall, through her wide expanse, “Bask in the glories of this countenance!— “For thee, young warrior, welcome!—thou hast yet “Some tasks to learn, some frailties to forget, “Ere the white war-plume o’er thy brow can wave;— “But, once my own, mine all till in the grave!”

The pomp is at an end—the crowds are gone— Each ear and heart still haunted by the tone Of that deep voice, which thrilled like ALLA’S own! The Young all dazzled by the plumes and lances, The glittering throne, and Haram’s half-caught glances; The Old deep pondering on the promis’d reign Of peace and truth; and all the female train Ready to risk their eyes, could they but gaze A moment on that brow’s miraculous blaze!

But there was one, among the chosen maids, Who blush’d behind the gallery’s silken shades, One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day Has been like death:—you saw her pale dismay, Ye wondering sisterhood, and heard the burst Of exclamation from her lips, when first She saw that youth, too well, too dearly known, Silently kneeling at the Prophet’s throne.

Ah ZELICA! there _was_ a time, when bliss Shone o’er thy heart from every look of his; When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air In which he dwelt, was thy soul’s fondest prayer; When round him hung such a perpetual spell Whate’er he did, none ever did so well. Too happy days! when, if he touch’d a flower Or gem of thine, ’twas sacred from that hour; When thou didst study him till every tone And gesture and dear look became thy own,— Thy voice like his, the changes of his face In thine reflected with still lovelier grace. Like echo, sending back sweet music, fraught With twice the’ aërial sweetness it had brought! Yet now he comes,—brighter than even he E’er beam’d before,—but, ah! not bright for thee; No—dread, unlook’d for, like a visitant From the’ other world, he comes as if to haunt Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight, Long lost to all but memory’s aching sight:— Sad dreams! as when the Spirit of our Youth Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth And innocence once ours, and leads us back, In mournful mockery, o’er the shining track Of our young life, and points out every ray Of hope and peace we’ve lost upon the way!

Once happy pair!—In proud BOKHARA’S groves, Who had not heard of their first youthful loves? Born by that ancient flood,[46] which from its spring In the dark Mountains swiftly wandering, Enrich’d by every pilgrim brook that shines With relics from BUCHARIA’S ruby mines, And, lending to the CASPIAN half its strength, In the cold Lake of Eagles sinks at length;— There, on the banks of that bright river born, The flowers, that hung above its wave at morn, Bless’d not the waters, as they murmur’d by, With holier scent and lustre, than the sigh And virgin-glance of first affection cast Upon their youth’s smooth current, as it pass’d! But war disturb’d this vision,—far away From her fond eyes summon’d to join the’ array Of PERSIA’S warriors on the hills of THRACE, The youth exchang’d his sylvan dwelling-place For the rude tent and war-field’s deathful clash; His ZELICA’S sweet glances for the flash Of Grecian wild-fire, and Love’s gentle chains For bleeding bondage on BYZANTIUM’S plains.

Month after month, in widowhood of soul Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll Their suns away—but ah! how cold and dim Even summer suns, when not beheld with him! From time to time ill-omen’d rumours came, Like spirit-tongues mutt’ring the sick man’s name, Just ere he dies:—at length those sounds of dread Fell with’ring on her soul, “AZIM is dead!” Oh Grief, beyond all other griefs, when fate First leaves the young heart lone and desolate In the wide world, without that only tie For which it lov’d to live or fear’d to die;— Lorn as the hung-up lute, that ne’er hath spoken Since the sad day its master-chord was broken! Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was such, Even reason sunk,—blighted beneath its touch: And though, ere long, her sanguine spirit rose Above the first dead pressure of its woes, Though health and bloom return’d, the delicate chain Of thought, once tangled, never clear’d again. Warm, lively, soft as in youth’s happiest day, The mind was still all there, but turned astray;— A wand’ring bark, upon whose pathway shone All stars of heaven, except the guiding one! Again she smil’d, nay, much and brightly smil’d, But ’twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild; And when she sung to her lute’s touching strain, ’Twas like the notes, half ecstasy, half pain, The bulbul[47] utters, ere her soul depart, When, vanquish’d by some minstrel’s powerful art, She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke her heart!

Such was the mood in which that mission found Young ZELICA,—that mission, which around The Eastern world, in every region blest With woman’s smile, sought out its loveliest, To grace that galaxy of lips and eyes Which the Veil’d Prophet destined for the skies:— And such quick welcome as a spark receives Dropp’d on a bed of Autumn’s withered leaves, Did every tale of these enthusiasts find In the wild maiden’s sorrow-blighted mind. All fire at once the madd’ning zeal she caught;— Elect of Paradise! blest, rapturous thought! Predestin’d bride, in heaven’s eternal dome, Of some brave youth—ha! durst they say “of _some_?” No—of the one, one only object trac’d In her heart’s core too deep to be effac’d; The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twin’d With every broken link of her lost mind; Whose image lives, though Reason’s self be wreck’d, Safe ’mid the ruins of her intellect!

Alas, poor ZELICA! it needed all The fantasy, which held thy mind in thrall, To see in that gay Haram’s glowing maids A sainted colony for Eden’s shades; Or dream that he,—of whose unholy flame Thou wert too soon the victim,—shining came From Paradise, to people its pure sphere With souls like thine, which he hath ruin’d here! No—had not Reason’s light totally set, And left thee dark, thou hadst an amulet In the lov’d image, graven on thy heart, Which would have sav’d thee from the tempter’s art, And kept alive, in all its bloom of breath, That purity, whose fading is love’s death!— But lost, inflamed,—a restless zeal took place Of the mild virgin’s still and feminine grace; First of the Prophet’s favourites, proudly first In zeal and charms,—too well the’ Impostor nurs’d Her soul’s delirium, in whose active flame, Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant frame, He saw more potent sorceries to bind To his dark yoke the spirits of mankind, More subtle chains than hell itself e’er twin’d. No art was spar’d, no witchery;—all the skill His demons taught him was employ’d to fill Her mind with gloom and ecstasy by turns— That gloom, through which Frenzy but fiercer burns; That ecstasy, which from the depth of sadness Glares like the maniac’s moon, whose light is madness.

’Twas from a brilliant banquet, where the sound Of poesy and music breath’d around, Together picturing to her mind and ear The glories of that heaven, her destin’d sphere, Where all was pure, where every stain that lay Upon the spirit’s light should pass away, And, realizing more than youthful love E’er wish’d or dream’d, she should for ever rove Through fields of fragrance by her AZIM’S side, His own bless’d, purified, eternal bride!— ’Twas from a scene, a witching trance like this, He hurried her away, yet breathing bliss, To the dim charnel-house;—through all its steams Of damp and death, led only by those gleams Which foul Corruption lights, as with design To show the gay and proud _she_ too can shine!— And, passing on through upright ranks of Dead, Which to the maiden, doubly craz’d by dread, Seem’d, through the bluish death-light round them cast, To move their lips in mutterings as she pass’d— There, in that awful place, when each had quaff’d And pledg’d in silence such a fearful draught, Such—oh! the look and taste of that red bowl Will haunt her till she dies—he bound her soul By a dark oath, in hell’s own language fram’d, Never, while earth his mystic presence claim’d, While the blue arch of day hung o’er them both, Never, by that all-imprecating oath, In joy or sorrow from his side to sever.— She swore, and the wide charnel echoed, “Never, never!”

From that dread hour, entirely, wildly given To him and—she believ’d, lost maid!—to Heaven; Her brain, her heart, her passions all inflam’d, How proud she stood, when in full Haram nam’d The Priestess of the Faith!—how flash’d her eyes With light, alas! that was not of the skies, When round, in trances, only less than hers, She saw the Haram kneel, her prostrate worshippers! Well might MOKANNA think that form alone Had spells enough to make the world his own:— Light, lovely limbs, to which the spirit’s play Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray, When from its stem the small bird wings away: Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smil’d, The soul was lost; and blushes, swift and wild As are the momentary meteors sent Across the’ uncalm, but beauteous firmament. And then her look—oh! where’s the heart so wise Could unbewilder’d meet those matchless eyes? Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal, Like those of angels, just before their fall; Now shadow’d with the shames of earth—now crost By glimpses of the Heaven her heart had lost; In ev’ry glance there broke, without control, The flashes of a bright, but troubled soul, Where sensibility still wildly play’d, Like lightning, round the ruins it had made!

And such was now young ZELICA—so chang’d From her who, some years since, delighted rang’d The almond groves that shade BOKHARA’S tide, All life and bliss, with AZIM by her side! So alter’d was she now, this festal day, When, ’mid the proud Divan’s dazzling array, The vision of that Youth whom she had lov’d, Had wept as dead, before her breath’d and mov’d;— When—bright, she thought, as if from Eden’s track But half-way trodden, he had wander’d back Again to earth, glistening with Eden’s light— Her beauteous AZIM shone before her sight.

O Reason! who shall say what spells renew, When least we look for it, thy broken clew! Through what small vistas o’er the darken’d brain Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again; And how, like forts, to which beleaguerers win Unhop’d-for entrance through some friend within, One clear idea, waken’d in the breast By memory’s magic, lets in all the rest! Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with thee! But though light came, it came but partially; Enough to show the maze, in which thy sense Wander’d about,—but not to guide it thence; Enough to glimmer o’er the yawning wave, But not to point the harbour which might save. Hours of delight and peace, long left behind, With that dear form came rushing o’er her mind; But, oh! to think how deep her soul had gone In shame and falsehood since those moments shone; And, then, her oath—_there_ madness lay again, And, shuddering, back she sunk into her chain Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee From light, whose every glimpse was agony! Yet, _one_ relief this glance of former years Brought, mingled with its pain,—tears, floods of tears, Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills Let loose in spring-time from the snowy hills, And gushing warm, after a sleep of frost, Through valleys where their flow had long been lost.

Sad and subdued, for the first time her frame Trembled with horror, when the summons came (A summons proud and rare, which all but she, And she, till now, had heard with ecstasy,) To meet MOKANNA at his place of prayer, A garden oratory, cool and fair, By the stream’s side, where still at close of day The Prophet of the Veil retir’d to pray; Sometimes alone—but, oftener far, with one, One chosen nymph to share his orison.

Of late none found such favour in his sight As the young Priestess; and though, since that night When the death-caverns echoed every tone Of the dire oath that made her all his own, The’ Impostor, sure of his infatuate prize, Had, more than once, thrown off his soul’s disguise, And utter’d such unheavenly, monstrous things, As even across the desp’rate wanderings Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out, Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt;— Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow, The thought, still haunting her, of that bright brow, Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye conceal’d, Would soon, proud triumph! be to her reveal’d, To her alone;—and then the hope, most dear, Most wild of all, that her transgression here Was but a passage through earth’s grosser fire, From which the spirit would at last aspire, Even purer than before,—as perfumes rise Through flame and smoke, most welcome to the skies— And that when AZIM’S fond, divine embrace Should circle her in heaven, no dark’ning trace Would on that bosom he once lov’d remain, But all be bright, be pure, be _his_ again!— These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit Had chain’d her soul beneath the tempter’s feet, And made her think even damning falsehood sweet. But now that Shape, which had appall’d her view, That Semblance—oh, how terrible, if true!— Which came across her frenzy’s full career With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe, As when, in northern seas, at midnight dark, An isle of ice encounters some swift bark, And, startling all its wretches from their sleep, By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep;— So came that shock not frenzy’s self could bear, And waking up each long-lull’d image there, But check’d her headlong soul, to sink it in despair!

Wan and dejected, through the evening dusk, She now went slowly to that small kiosk, Where, pond’ring alone his impious schemes, MOKANNA waited her—too wrapt in dreams Of the fair-rip’ning future’s rich success, To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless, That sat upon his victim’s downcast brow, Or mark how slow her step, how alter’d now From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound Came like a spirit’s o’er the’ unechoing ground,— From that wild ZELICA, whose every glance Was thrilling fire, whose every thought a trance!

Upon his couch the Veil’d MOKANNA lay, While lamps around—not such as lend their ray, Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray In holy KOOM,[48] or MECCA’S dim arcades,— But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids Look loveliest in, shed their luxurious glow Upon his mystic Veil’s white glittering flow. Beside him, ’stead of beads and books of prayer, Which the world fondly thought he mus’d on there, Stood vases, fill’d with KISHMEE’S[49] golden wine, And the red weepings of the SHIRAZ vine; Of which his curtain’d lips full many a draught Took zealously, as if each drop they quaff’d, Like ZEMZEM’S Spring of Holiness,[50] had power To freshen the soul’s virtues into flower! And still he drank and ponder’d—nor could see The’ approaching maid, so deep his reverie; At length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke From EBLIS at the Fall of Man, he spoke:— “Yes, ye vile race, for hell’s amusement given, “Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with heaven; “God’s images, forsooth!—such gods as he “Whom INDIA serves, the monkey deity;—[51] “Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay, “To whom if LUCIFER, as grandams say, “Refus’d, though at the forfeit of heaven’s light, “To bend in worship, LUCIFER was right!—[52] “Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck “Of your foul race, and without fear or check, “Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame, “My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man’s name! “Soon at the head of myriads, blind and fierce “As hooded falcons, through the universe “I’ll sweep my dark’ning, desolating way, “Weak man my instrument, curst man my prey!

“Ye wise, ye learn’d, who grope your dull way on “By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone, “Like superstitious thieves, who think the light “From dead men’s marrow guides them best at night—[53] “Ye shall have honours—wealth,—yes, Sages, yes— “I know, grave fools, your wisdom’s nothingness; “Undazzled it can track yon starry sphere, “But a gilt stick, a bawble blinds it here. “How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along, “In lying speech, and still more lying song, “By these learn’d slaves, the meanest of the throng; “Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk so small, “A sceptre’s puny point can wield it all!

“Ye too, believers of incredible creeds, “Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it breeds; “Who, bolder even than NEMROD, think to rise, “By nonsense heap’d on nonsense, to the skies; “Ye shall have miracles, ay, sound ones too, “Seen, heard, attested, ev’ry thing—but true. “Your preaching zealots, too inspir’d to seek “One grace of meaning for the things they speak; “Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood, “For truths too heavenly to be understood; “And your State Priests, sole vendors of the lore “That works salvation;—as, on AVA’S shore, “Where none _but_ priests are privileg’d to trade “In that best marble of which Gods are made;[54] “They shall have mysteries—ay, precious stuff “For knaves to thrive by—mysteries enough; “Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave, “Which simple votaries shall on trust receive, “While craftier feign belief, till they believe. “A Heaven too ye must have, ye lords of dust,— “A splendid Paradise,—pure souls, ye must: “That Prophet ill sustains his holy call, “Who finds not heavens to suit the tastes of all; “Houris for boys, omniscience for sages, “And wings and glories for all ranks and ages. “Vain things!—as lust or vanity inspires, “The Heaven of each is but what each desires, “And, soul or sense, whate’er the object be, “Man would be man to all eternity! “So let him—EBLIS! grant this crowning curse, “But keep him what he is, no Hell were worse.”

“Oh my lost soul!” exclaim’d the shuddering maid, Whose ears had drunk like poison all he said:— MOKANNA started—not abash’d, afraid,— He knew no more of fear than one who dwells Beneath the tropics knows of icicles! But, in those dismal words that reach’d his ear, “Oh my lost soul!” there was a sound so drear, So like that voice, among the sinful dead, In which the legend o’er Hell’s Gate is read, That, new as ’twas from her, whom nought could dim Or sink till now, it startled even him.