Part 4

“Ha, my fair Priestess!”—thus, with ready wile, The’ impostor turn’d to greet her—“thou, whose smile “Hath inspiration in its rosy beam “Beyond the’ Enthusiast’s hope or Prophet’s dream! “Light of the faith! who twin’st religion’s zeal “So close with love’s, men know not which they feel, “Nor which to sigh for, in their trance of heart, “The heaven thou preachest or the heaven thou art! “What should I be without thee? without thee “How dull were power, how joyless victory! “Though borne by angels, if that smile of thine “Bless’d not my banner, ’twere but half divine. “But—why so mournful, child? those eyes, that shone “All life last night—what!—is their glory gone? “Come, come—this morn’s fatigue hath made them pale, “They want rekindling—suns themselves would fail, “Did not their comets bring, as I to thee, “From light’s own fount supplies of brilliancy. “Thou seest this cup—no juice of earth is here, “But the pure waters of that upper sphere, “Whose rills o’er ruby beds and topaz flow, “Catching the gem’s bright colour as they go. “Nightly my Genii come and fill these urns— “Nay, drink—in every drop life’s essence burns; “’Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all light— “Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to-night:— “There is a youth—why start?—thou saw’st him then; “Look’d he not nobly? such the godlike men “Thou’lt have to woo thee in the bowers above;— “Though _he_, I fear, hath thoughts too stern for love, “Too rul’d by that cold enemy of bliss “The world calls virtue—we must conquer this;— “Nay, shrink not, pretty sage! ’tis not for thee “To scan the mazes of Heaven’s mystery: “The steel must pass through fire, ere it can yield “Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield. “This very night I mean to try the art “Of powerful beauty on that warrior’s heart. “All that my Haram boasts of bloom and wit, “Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite, “Shall tempt the boy;—young MIRZALA’S blue eyes, “Whose sleepy lid like snow on violets lies; “AROUYA’S cheeks, warm as a spring-day sun, “And lips that, like the seal of SOLOMON, “Have magic in their pressure; ZEBA’S lute, “And LILLA’S dancing feet, that gleam and shoot “Rapid and white as sea-birds o’er the deep— “All shall combine their witching powers to steep “My convert’s spirit in that soft’ning trance, “From which to heaven is but the next advance; “That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast, “On which Religion stamps her image best. “But hear me, Priestess!—though each nymph of these “Hath some peculiar, practis’d power to please, “Some glance or step which, at the mirror tried, “First charms herself, then all the world beside; “There still wants _one_, to make the victory sure, “One who in every look joins every lure; “Through whom all beauty’s beams concentred pass, “Dazzling and warm, as through love’s burning glass; “Whose gentle lips persuade without a word, “Whose words, ev’n when unmeaning, are ador’d, “Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine, “Which our faith takes for granted are divine! “Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and light, “To crown the rich temptations of to-night; “Such the refin’d enchantress that must be “This hero’s vanquisher,—and thou art she!”

With her hands clasp’d, her lips apart and pale, The maid had stood, gazing upon the Veil From which these words, like south winds through a fence Of Kerzrah flowers, came fill’d with pestilence;[55] So boldly utter’d too! as if all dread Of frowns from her, of virtuous frowns, were fled, And the wretch felt assur’d that, once plung’d in, Her woman’s soul would know no pause in sin!

At first, though mute she listen’d, like a dream Seem’d all he said: nor could her mind, whose beam As yet was weak, penetrate half his scheme. But when, at length, he utter’d, “Thou art she!” All flash’d at once, and shrieking piteously, “Oh not for worlds!” she cried—“Great God! to whom “I once knelt innocent, is this my doom? “Are all my dreams, my hopes of heavenly bliss, “My purity, my pride, then come to this,— “To live, the wanton of a fiend! to be “The pander of his guilt—oh infamy! “And sunk, myself, as low as hell can steep “In its hot flood, drag others down as deep! “Others—ha! yes—that youth who came to-day— “_Not_ him I lov’d—not him—oh! do but say, “But swear to me this moment ’tis not he, “And I will serve, dark fiend, will worship even thee!”

“Beware, young raving thing!—in time beware, “Nor utter what I cannot, must not bear, “Even from _thy_ lips. Go—try thy lute, thy voice, “The boy must feel their magic;—I rejoice “To see those fires, no matter whence they rise, “Once more illuming my fair Priestess’ eyes; “And should the youth, whom soon those eyes shall warm, “_Indeed_ resemble thy dead lover’s form, “So much the happier wilt thou find thy doom, “As one warm lover, full of life and bloom, “Excels ten thousand cold ones in the tomb. “Nay, nay, no frowning, sweet!—those eyes were made “For love, not anger—I must be obey’d.”

“Obey’d!—’tis well—yes, I deserve it all— “On me, on me Heaven’s vengeance cannot fall “Too heavily—but AZIM, brave and true “And beautiful—must _he_ be ruin’d too? “Must _he_ too, glorious as he is, be driven “A renegade like me from Love and Heaven? “Like me?—weak wretch, I wrong him—not like me; “No—he’s all truth and strength and purity! “Fill up your madd’ning hell-cup to the brim, “Its witch’ry, fiends, will have no charm for him. “Let loose your glowing wantons from their bowers, “He loves, he loves, and can defy their powers! “Wretch as I am, in _his_ heart still I reign “Pure as when first we met, without a stain! “Though ruin’d—lost—my memory, like a charm “Left by the dead, still keeps his soul from harm. “Oh! never let him know how deep the brow “He kiss’d at parting is dishonour’d now;— “Ne’er tell him how debas’d, how sunk is she, “Whom once he lov’d—once!—_still_ loves dotingly. “Thou laugh’st, tormentor,—what!—thou’lt brand my name? “Do, do—in vain—he’ll not believe my shame— “He thinks me true, that nought beneath God’s sky “Could tempt or change me, and—so once thought I. “But this is past—though worse than death my lot, “Than hell—’tis nothing while _he_ knows it not. “Far off to some benighted land I’ll fly, “Where sunbeam ne’er shall enter till I die; “Where none will ask the lost one whence she came, “But I may fade and fall without a name. “And thou—curst man or fiend, whate’er thou art, “Who found’st this burning plague-spot in my heart, “And spread’st it—oh, so quick!—through soul and frame, “With more than demon’s art, till I became “A loathsome thing, all pestilence, all flame!— “If when I’m gone⸺”

“Hold, fearless maniac, hold, “Nor tempt my rage—by Heaven, not half so bold “The puny bird, that dares with teasing hum “Within the crocodile’s stretch’d jaws to come![56] “And so thou’lt fly, forsooth?—what!—give up all “Thy chaste dominion in the Haram Hall, “Where now to Love and now to ALLA given, “Half mistress and half saint, thou hang’st as even “As doth MEDINA’S tomb, ’twixt hell and heaven! “Thou’lt fly!—as easily may reptiles run, “The gaunt snake once hath fix’d his eyes upon; “As easily, when caught, the prey may be “Pluck’d from his loving folds, as thou from me. “No, no, ’tis fix’d—let good or ill betide, “Thou’rt mine till death, till death MOKANNA’S bride! “Hast thou forgot thy oath?”

At this dread word, The Maid, whose spirit his rude taunts had stirr’d Through all its depth, and rous’d an anger there, That burst and lighten’d ev’n through her despair— Shrunk back, as if a blight were in the breath That spoke that word, and stagger’d, pale as death.

“Yes, my sworn bride, let others seek in bowers “Their bridal place—the charnel vault was ours! “Instead of scents and balms, for thee and me “Rose the rich steams of sweet mortality; “Gay, flickering death-lights shone while we were wed, “And, for our guests, a row of goodly Dead. “(Immortal spirits in their time, no doubt,) “From reeking shrouds upon the rite look’d out! “That oath thou heard’st more lips than thine repeat— “That cup—thou shudd’rest, Lady,—was it sweet? “That cup we pledg’d, the charnel’s choicest wine, “Hath bound thee—ay—body and soul all mine; “Bound thee by chains that, whether blest or curst “No matter now, not hell itself shall burst! “Hence, woman, to the Haram, and look gay, “Look wild, look—any thing but sad; yet stay— “One moment more—from what this night hath pass’d, “I see thou know’st me, know’st me _well_ at last. “Ha! ha! and so, fond thing, thou thought’st all true, “And that I love mankind?—I do, I do— “As victims, love them; as the sea-dog doats “Upon the small, sweet fry that round him floats; “Or, as the Nile-bird loves the slime that gives “That rank and venomous food on which she lives![57]—

“And, now thou seest my _soul’s_ angelic hue, “’Tis time these _features_ were uncurtain’d too;— “This brow, whose light—oh rare celestial light! “Hath been reserv’d to bless thy favour’d sight; “These dazzling eyes, before whose shrouded might “Thou’st seen immortal Man kneel down and quake— “Would that they _were_ heaven’s lightnings for his sake! “But turn and look—then wonder, if thou wilt, “That I should hate, should take revenge, by guilt, “Upon the hand, whose mischief or whose mirth “Sent me thus maim’d and monstrous upon earth; “And on that race who, though more vile they be “Than mowing apes, are demi-gods to me! “Here—judge if hell, with all its power to damn, “Can add one curse to the foul thing I am!”

He raised his veil—the Maid turn’d slowly round, Look’d at him—shriek’d—and sunk upon the ground!

On their arrival, next night, at the place of encampment, they were surprised and delighted to find the groves all around illuminated; some artists of Yamtcheou[58] having been sent on previously for the purpose. On each side of the green alley, which led to the Royal Pavilion, artificial sceneries of bamboo-work[59] were erected, representing arches, minarets, and towers, from which hung thousands of silken lanterns, painted by the most delicate pencils of Canton.—Nothing could be more beautiful than the leaves of the mango-trees and acacias, shining in the light of the bamboo-scenery, which shed a lustre round as soft as that of the nights of Peristan.

LALLA ROOKH, however, who was too much occupied by the sad story of ZELICA and her lover, to give a thought to anything else, except, perhaps, him who related it, hurried on through this scene of splendour to her pavilion,—greatly to the mortification of the poor artists of Yamtcheou,—and was followed with equal rapidity by the Great Chamberlain, cursing, as he went, that ancient Mandarin, whose parental anxiety in lighting up the shores of the lake, where his beloved daughter had wandered and been lost, was the origin of these fantastic Chinese illuminations.[60]

Without a moment’s delay, young FERAMORZ was introduced, and FADLADEEN, who could never make up his mind as to the merits of a poet till he knew the religious sect to which he belonged, was about to ask him whether he was a Shia or a Sooni, when LALLA ROOKH impatiently clapped her hands for silence, and the youth, being seated upon the musnud near her, proceeded:—

Prepare thy soul, young AZIM!—thou hast brav’d The bands of GREECE, still mighty though enslav’d; Hast fac’d her phalanx, arm’d with all its fame, Her Macedonian pikes and globes of flame; All this hast fronted, with firm heart and brow, But a more perilous trial waits thee now,— Woman’s bright eyes, a dazzling host of eyes From every land where woman smiles or sighs; Of every hue, as Love may chance to raise His black or azure banner in their blaze; And each sweet mode of warfare, from the flash That lightens boldly through the shadowy lash, To the sly, stealing splendours, almost hid, Like swords half-sheath’d, beneath the downcast lid:— Such, AZIM, is the lovely, luminous host Now led against thee; and, let conquerors boast Their fields of fame, he who in virtue arms A young, warm spirit against beauty’s charms, Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall, Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all.

Now, through the Haram chambers, moving lights And busy shapes proclaim the toilet’s rites;— From room to room the ready handmaids hie, Some skill’d to wreath the turban tastefully, Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade, O’er the warm blushes of the youthful maid, Who, if between the folds but _one_ eye shone, Like SEBA’S Queen could vanquish with that one:—[61] While some bring leaves of Henna, to imbue The fingers’ ends with a bright roseate hue,[62] So bright, that in the mirror’s depth they seem Like tips of coral branches in the stream; And others mix the Kohol’s jetty dye, To give that long, dark languish to the eye,[63] Which makes the maids, whom kings are proud to cull From fair Circassia’s vales, so beautiful. All is in motion; rings and plumes and pearls Are shining every where:—some younger girls Are gone by moonlight to the garden beds, To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads;— Gay creatures! sweet, though mournful, ’tis to see How each prefers a garland from that tree Which brings to mind her childhood’s innocent day, And the dear fields and friendships far away. The maid of INDIA, blest again to hold In her full lap the Champac’s leaves of gold,[64] Thinks of the time when, by the GANGES’ flood, Her little playmates scatter’d many a bud Upon her long black hair, with glossy gleam Just dripping from the consecrated stream; While the young Arab, haunted by the smell Of her own mountain flowers, as by a spell,— The sweet Elcaya,[65] and that courteous tree Which bows to all who seek its canopy,[66] Sees, call’d up round her by these magic scents, The well, the camels, and her father’s tents; Sighs for the home she left with little pain, And wishes even its sorrows back again!

Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls, Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound From many a jasper fount, is heard around, Young AZIM roams bewilder’d,—nor can guess What means this maze of light and loneliness. Here, the way leads, o’er tessellated floors Or mats of CAIRO, through long corridors, Where, rang’d in cassolets and silver urns, Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns; And spicy rods, such as illume at night The bowers of TIBET,[67] send forth odorous light, Like Peris’ wands, when pointing out the road For some pure Spirit to its blest abode:— And here, at once, the glittering saloon Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon; Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays High as the’ enamell’d cupola, which towers All rich with Arabesques of gold and flowers: And the mosaic floor beneath shines through The sprinkling of that fountain’s silv’ry dew, Like the wet, glistening shells, of every dye, That on the margin of the Red Sea lie.

Here too he traces the kind visitings Of woman’s love in those fair, living things Of land and wave, whose fate—in bondage thrown For their weak loveliness—is like her own! On one side gleaming with a sudden grace Through water, brilliant as the crystal vase In which it undulates, small fishes shine, Like golden ingots from a fairy mine;— While, on the other, latticed lightly in With odoriferous woods of COMORIN,[68] Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen;— Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleam between The crimson blossoms of the coral tree[69] In the warm Isles of India’s sunny sea: Mecca’s blue sacred pigeon,[70] and the thrush Of Hindostan,[71] whose holy warblings gush, At evening, from the tall pagoda’s top;— Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food[72] Whose scent hath lur’d them o’er the summer flood;[73] And those that under Araby’s soft sun Build their high nests of budding cinnamon:[74] In short, all rare and beauteous things, that fly Through the pure element, here calmly lie Sleeping in light, like the green birds[75] that dwell In Eden’s radiant fields of asphodel!

So on, through scenes past all imagining, More like the luxuries of that impious King,[76] Whom Death’s dark angel, with his lightning torch, Struck down and blasted even in Pleasure’s porch, Than the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent, Arm’d with Heaven’s sword, for man’s enfranchisement— Young AZIM wander’d, looking sternly round, His simple garb and war-boots’ clanking sound But ill according with the pomp and grace And silent lull of that voluptuous place.

“Is this, then,” thought the youth, “is this the way “To free man’s spirit from the dead’ning sway “Of worldly sloth,—to teach him while he lives, “To know no bliss but that which virtue gives, “And when he dies, to leave his lofty name “A light, a landmark on the cliffs of fame? “It was not so, Land of the generous thought “And daring deed, thy godlike sages taught; “It was not thus, in bowers of wanton ease, “Thy Freedom nurs’d her sacred energies; “Oh! not beneath the’ enfeebling, withering glow “Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow, “With which she wreath’d her sword, when she would dare “Immortal deeds; but in the bracing air “Of toil,—of temperance,—of that high, rare, “Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe “Life, health, and lustre into Freedom’s wreath. “Who, that surveys this span of earth we press,— “This speck of life in time’s great wilderness, “This narrow isthmus ’twixt two boundless seas, “The past, the future, two eternities!— “Would sully the bright spot, or leave it bare, “When he might build him a proud temple there, “A name, that long shall hallow all its space, “And be each purer soul’s high resting-place? “But no—it cannot be, that one, whom God “Hath sent to break the wizard Falsehood’s rod,— “A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws “Its rights from Heaven, should thus profane its cause “With the world’s vulgar pomps;—no, no,—I see— “He thinks me weak—this glare of luxury “Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze “Of my young soul—shine on, ’twill stand the blaze!”

So thought the youth;—but, ev’n while he defied This witching scene, he felt its witchery glide Through ev’ry sense. The perfume breathing round, Like a pervading spirit;—the still sound Of falling waters, lulling as the song Of Indian bees at sunset, when they throng Around the fragrant NILICA, and deep In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep;[77] And music, too—dear music! that can touch Beyond all else the soul that loves it much— Now heard far off, so far as but to seem Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream; All was too much for him, too full of bliss, The heart could nothing feel, that felt not this; Soften’d he sunk upon a couch, and gave His soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on wave Succeeding to smooth seas, when storms are laid; He thought of ZELICA, his own dear maid, And of the time, when, full of blissful sighs, They sat and look’d into each other’s eyes, Silent and happy—as if God had given Nought else worth looking at on this side heaven.

“Oh, my lov’d mistress, thou, whose spirit still “Is with me, round me, wander where I will— “It is for thee, for thee alone I seek “The paths of glory; to light up thy cheek “With warm approval—in that gentle look “To read my praise, as in an angel’s book, “And think all toils rewarded, when from thee “I gain a smile worth immortality! “How shall I bear the moment when restor’d “To that young heart where I alone am Lord, “Though of such bliss unworthy,—since the best “Alone deserve to be the happiest;— “When from those lips, unbreath’d upon for years, “I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears, “And find those tears warm as when last they started, “Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted? “O my own life!—why should a single day, “A moment keep me from those arms away?”

While thus he thinks, still nearer on the breeze Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies, Each note of which but adds new, downy links To the soft chain in which his spirit sinks. He turns him tow’rd the sound, and far away Through a long vista, sparkling with the play Of countless lamps,—like the rich track which Day Leaves on the waters, when he sinks from us, So long the path, its light so tremulous;— He sees a group of female forms advance, Some chain’d together in the mazy dance By fetters, forg’d in the green sunny bowers, As they were captives to the King of Flowers;[78] And some disporting round, unlink’d and free, Who seem’d to mock their sisters’ slavery; And round and round them still, in wheeling flight, Went, like gay moths about a lamp at night; While others walk’d, as gracefully along Their feet kept time, the very soul of song, From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly thrill, Or their own youthful voices, heavenlier still. And now they come, now pass before his eye, Forms such as Nature moulds, when she would vie With Fancy’s pencil, and give birth to things Lovely beyond its fairest picturings. Awhile they dance before him, then divide, Breaking, like rosy clouds at even-tide Around the rich pavilion of the sun,— Till silently dispersing, one by one Through many a path, that from the chamber leads To gardens, terraces, and moonlight meads, Their distant laughter comes upon the wind, And but one trembling nymph remains behind,— Beck’ning them back in vain, for they are gone, And she is left in all that light alone; No veil to curtain o’er her beauteous brow, In its young bashfulness more beauteous now; But a light golden chain-work round her hair,[79] Such as the maids of YEZD[80] and SHIRAS wear, From which, on either side, gracefully hung A golden amulet, in the Arab tongue, Engraven o’er with some immortal line From Holy Writ, or bard scarce less divine; While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood, Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood, Which, once or twice, she touch’d with hurried strain, Then took her trembling fingers off again. But when at length a timid glance she stole At AZIM, the sweet gravity of soul She saw through all his features calm’d her fear, And, like a half-tam’d antelope, more near, Though shrinking still, she came;—then sat her down Upon a musnud’s[81] edge, and, bolder grown, In the pathetic mode of ISFAHAN[82] Touch’d a preluding strain, and thus began:—

There’s a bower of roses by BENDEMEER’S[83] stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song.

That bower and its music I never forget, But oft when alone in the bloom of the year, I think—is the nightingale singing there yet? Are the roses still bright by the calm BENDEMEER?

No, the roses soon wither’d that hung o’er the wave, But some blossoms were gather’d, while freshly they shone, And a dew was distill’d from their flowers, that gave All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone.