Part 9

For many days after their departure from Lahore, a considerable degree of gloom hung over the whole party. LALLA ROOKH, who had intended to make illness her excuse for not admitting the young minstrel, as usual, to the pavilion, soon found that to feign indisposition was unnecessary;—FADLADEEN felt the loss of the good road they had hitherto travelled, and was very near cursing Jehan-Guire (of blessed memory!) for not having continued his delectable alley of trees,[207] at least as far as the mountains of Cashmere;—while the Ladies, who had nothing now to do all day but to be fanned by peacocks’ feathers and listen to FADLADEEN, seemed heartily weary of the life they led, and, in spite of all the Great Chamberlain’s criticisms, were so tasteless as to wish for the poet again. One evening, as they were proceeding to their place of rest for the night, the Princess, who, for the freer enjoyment of the air, had mounted her favourite Arabian palfrey, in passing by a small grove, heard the notes of a lute from within its leaves, and a voice, which she but too well knew, singing the following words:—

Tell me not of joys above, If that world can give no bliss, Truer, happier than the Love Which enslaves our souls in this.

Tell me not of Houris’ eyes;— Far from me their dangerous glow, If those looks that light the skies Wound like some that burn below.

Who, that feels what Love is here, All its falsehood—all its pain— Would, for even Elysium’s sphere, Risk the fatal dream again?

Who, that midst a desert’s heat Sees the waters fade away, Would not rather die than meet Streams again as false as they?

The tone of melancholy defiance in which these words were uttered, went to LALLA ROOKH’S heart;—and, as she reluctantly rode on, she could not help feeling it to be a sad but still sweet certainty, that FERAMORZ was to the full as enamoured and miserable as herself.

The place where they encamped that evening was the first delightful spot they had come to since they left Lahore. On one side of them was a grove full of small Hindoo temples, and planted with the most graceful trees of the East; where the tamarind, the cassia, and the silken plantains of Ceylon were mingled in rich contrast with the high fanlike foliage of the Palmyra,—that favourite tree of the luxurious bird that lights up the chambers of its nest with fire-flies.[208] In the middle of the lawn where the pavilion stood there was a tank surrounded by small mangoe-trees, on the clear cold waters of which floated multitudes of the beautiful red lotus;[209] while at a distance stood the ruins of a strange and awful-looking tower, which seemed old enough to have been the temple of some religion no longer known, and which spoke the voice of desolation in the midst of all that bloom and loveliness. This singular ruin excited the wonder and conjectures of all. LALLA ROOKH guessed in vain, and the all-pretending FADLADEEN, who had never till this journey been beyond the precincts of Delhi, was proceeding most learnedly to show that he knew nothing whatever about the matter, when one of the Ladies suggested that perhaps FERAMORZ could satisfy their curiosity. They were now approaching his native mountains, and this tower might perhaps be a relic of some of those dark superstitions, which had prevailed in that country before the light of Islam dawned upon it. The Chamberlain, who usually preferred his own ignorance to the best knowledge that any one else could give him, was by no means pleased with this officious reference; and the Princess, too, was about to interpose a faint word of objection, but, before either of them could speak, a slave was despatched for FERAMORZ, who, in a very few minutes, made his appearance before them—looking so pale and unhappy in LALLA ROOKH’S eyes, that she repented already of her cruelty in having so long excluded him.

That venerable tower, he told them, was the remains of an ancient Fire-temple, built by those Ghebers or Persians of the old religion, who, many hundred years since, had fled hither from their Arab conquerors,[210] preferring liberty and their altars in a foreign land to the alternative of apostasy or persecution in their own. It was impossible, he added, not to feel interested in the many glorious but unsuccessful struggles, which had been made by these original natives of Persia to cast off the yoke of their bigoted conquerors. Like their own Fire in the Burning Field at Bakou,[211] when suppressed in one place, they had but broken out with fresh flame in another; and, as a native of Cashmere, of that fair and Holy Valley, which had in the same manner become the prey of strangers,[212] and seen her ancient shrines and native princes swept away before the march of her intolerant invaders, he felt a sympathy, he owned, with the sufferings of the persecuted Ghebers, which every monument like this before them but tended more powerfully to awaken.

It was the first time that FERAMORZ had ever ventured upon so much _prose_ before FADLADEEN, and it may easily be conceived what effect such prose as this must have produced upon that most orthodox and most pagan-hating personage. He sat for some minutes aghast, ejaculating only at intervals, “Bigoted conquerors!—sympathy with Fire-worshippers!”[213]—while FERAMORZ, happy to take advantage of this almost speechless horror of the Chamberlain, proceeded to say that he knew a melancholy story, connected with the events of one of those struggles of the brave Fire-worshippers against their Arab masters, which, if the evening was not too far advanced, he should have much pleasure in being allowed to relate to the Princess. It was impossible for LALLA ROOKH to refuse;—he had never before looked half so animated; and when he spoke of the Holy Valley his eyes had sparkled, she thought, like the talismanic characters on the scimitar of Solomon. Her consent was therefore most readily granted; and while FADLADEEN sat in unspeakable dismay, expecting treason and abomination in every line, the poet thus began his story of the Fire-worshippers:—

The Fire Worshippers

’Tis moonlight over OMAN’S SEA;[214] Her banks of pearl and palmy isles Bask in the night-beam beauteously, And her blue waters sleep in smiles. ’Tis moonlight in HARMOZIA’S[215] walls, And through her EMIR’S porphyry halls, Where, some hours since, was heard the swell Of trumpet and the clash of zel,[216] Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell;— The peaceful sun, whom better suits The music of the bulbul’s nest, Or the light touch of lovers’ lutes, To sing him to his golden rest. All hush’d—there’s not a breeze in motion; The shore is silent as the ocean. If zephyrs come, so light they come, Nor leaf is stirr’d nor wave is driven;— The wind-tower on the EMIR’S dome[217] Can hardly win a breath from heaven.

Even he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps Calm, while a nation round him weeps; While curses load the air he breathes, And falchions from unnumbered sheaths Are starting to avenge the shame His race hath brought on IRAN’S[218] name. Hard, heartless Chief, unmov’d alike Mid eyes that weep, and swords that strike;— One of that saintly, murderous brood, To carnage and the Koran given, Who think through unbelievers’ blood Lies their directest path to heaven;— One, who will pause and kneel unshod In the warm blood his hand hath pour’d, To mutter o’er some text of God Engraven on his reeking sword;[219]— Nay, who can coolly note the line, The letter of those words divine, To which his blade, with searching art, Had sunk into its victim’s heart!

Just ALLA! what must be thy look, When such a wretch before thee stands Unblushing, with thy Sacred Book,— Turning the leaves with blood-stain’d hands, And wresting from its page sublime His creed of lust, and hate, and crime;— Even as those bees of TREBIZOND, Which, from the sunniest flowers that glad With their pure smile the gardens round, Draw venom forth that drives men mad.[220]

Never did fierce ARABIA send A satrap forth more direly great; Never was IRAN doom’d to bend Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight. Her throne had fallen—her pride was crush’d— Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush’d, In their own land,—no more their own,— To crouch beneath a stranger’s throne. Her towers, where MITHRA once had burn’d, To Moslem shrines—oh shame!—were turn’d, Where slaves, converted by the sword, Their mean, apostate worship pour’d, And curs’d the faith their sires ador’d. Yet has she hearts, mid all this ill, O’er all this wreck high buoyant still With hope and vengeance;—hearts that yet— Like gems, in darkness, issuing rays They’ve treasur’d from the sun that’s set,— Beam all the light of long-lost days! And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow To second all such hearts can dare; As he shall know, well, dearly know, Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there, Tranquil as if his spirit lay Becalm’d in Heaven’s approving ray. Sleep on—for purer eyes than thine Those waves are hush’d, those planets shine; Sleep on, and be thy rest unmov’d By the white moonbeam’s dazzling power;— None but the loving and the lov’d Should be awake at this sweet hour.

And see—where, high above those rocks That o’er the deep their shadows fling, Yon turret stands;—where ebon locks, As glossy as a heron’s wing Upon the turban of a king,[221] Hang from the lattice, long and wild— ’Tis she, that EMIR’S blooming child, All truth and tenderness and grace, Though born of such ungentle race;— An image of Youth’s radiant Fountain Springing in a desolate mountain![222]

Oh what a pure and sacred thing Is Beauty, curtain’d from the sight Of the gross world, illumining One only mansion with her light! Unseen by man’s disturbing eye,— The flower that blooms beneath the sea, Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie Hid in more chaste obscurity. So, HINDA, have thy face and mind, Like holy mysteries, lain enshrin’d. And oh, what transport for a lover To lift the veil that shades them o’er!— Like those who, all at once, discover In the lone deep some fairy shore, Where mortal never trod before, And sleep and wake in scented airs No lip had ever breath’d but theirs.

Beautiful are the maids that glide, On summer-eves, through YEMEN’S[223] dales, And bright the glancing looks they hide Behind their litters’ roseate veils;— And brides, as delicate and fair As the white jasmine flowers they wear, Hath YEMEN in her blissful clime, Who, lull’d in cool kiosk or bower,[224] Before their mirrors count the time,[225] And grow still lovelier every hour. But never yet hath bride or maid In ARABY’S gay Haram smil’d, Whose boasted brightness would not fade Before AL HASSAN’S blooming child.

Light as the angel shapes that bless An infant’s dream, yet not the less Rich in all woman’s loveliness;— With eyes so pure, that from their ray Dark Vice would turn abash’d away, Blinded like serpents, when they gaze Upon the emerald’s virgin blaze;[226]— Yet fill’d with all youth’s sweet desires, Mingling the meek and vestal fires Of other worlds with all the bliss, The fond, weak tenderness of this: A soul, too, more than half divine, Where, through some shades of earthly feeling. Religion’s soften’d glories shine, Like light through summer foliage stealing, Shedding a glow of such mild hue, So warm, and yet so shadowy too, As makes the very darkness there More beautiful than light elsewhere.

Such is the maid who, at this hour, Hath risen from her restless sleep, And sits alone in that high bower, Watching the still and shining deep. Ah! ’twas not thus,—with tearful eyes And beating heart,—she used to gaze On the magnificent earth and skies, In her own land, in happier days. Why looks she now so anxious down Among those rocks, whose rugged frown Blackens the mirror of the deep? Whom waits she all this lonely night? Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep, For man to scale that turret’s height!—

So deem’d at least her thoughtful sire, When high, to catch the cool night-air, After the day-beam’s withering fire,[227] He built her bower of freshness there, And had it deck’d with costliest skill, And fondly thought it safe as fair:— Think, reverend dreamer! think so still, Nor wake to learn what Love can dare;— Love, all-defying Love, who sees No charm in trophies won with ease;— Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss Are pluck’d on Danger’s precipice! Bolder than they who dare not dive For pearls, but when the sea’s at rest, Love, in the tempest most alive, Hath ever held that pearl the best He finds beneath the stormiest water. Yes—ARABY’S unrivall’d daughter, Though high that tower, that rock-way rude, There’s one who, but to kiss thy cheek, Would climb the’ untrodden solitude Of ARARAT’S tremendous peak,[228] And think its steeps, though dark and dread, Heaven’s pathways, if to thee they led! Even now thou seest the flashing spray, That lights his oar’s impatient way;— Even now thou hear’st the sudden shock Of his swift bark against the rock, And stretchest down thy arms of snow, As if to lift him from below! Like her to whom, at dead of night, The bridegroom, with his locks of light,[229] Came, in the flush of love and pride, And scal’d the terrace of his bride;— When, as she saw him rashly spring, And midway up in danger cling, She flung him down her long black hair, Exclaiming, breathless, “There, love, there!” And scarce did manlier nerve uphold The hero ZAL in that fond hour, Than wings the youth who, fleet and bold, Now climbs the rocks to HINDA’S bower. See—light as up their granite steeps The rock-goats of ARABIA clamber,[230] Fearless from crag to crag he leaps, And now is in the maiden’s chamber.

She loves—but knows not whom she loves, Nor what his race, nor whence he came;— Like one who meets, in Indian groves, Some beauteous bird without a name, Brought by the last ambrosial breeze, From isles in the’ undiscover’d seas, To show his plumage for a day To wondering eyes, and wing away! Will _he_ thus fly—her nameless lover? ALLA forbid! ’twas by a moon As fair as this, while singing over Some ditty to her soft Kanoon,[231] Alone, at this same witching hour, She first beheld his radiant eyes Gleam through the lattice of the bower, Where nightly now they mix their sighs; And thought some spirit of the air (For what could waft a mortal there?) Was pausing on his moonlight way To listen to her lonely lay! This fancy ne’er hath left her mind: And—though, when terror’s swoon had past, She saw a youth, of mortal kind, Before her in obeisance cast,— Yet often since, when he hath spoken Strange, awful words,—and gleams have broken From his dark eyes, too bright to bear, Oh! she hath fear’d her soul was given To some unhallow’d child of air, Some erring Spirit cast from heaven, Like those angelic youths of old, Who burn’d for maids of mortal mould, Bewilder’d left the glorious skies, And lost their heaven for woman’s eyes. Fond girl! nor fiend nor angel he Who woos thy young simplicity; But one of earth’s impassion’d sons, As warm in love, as fierce in ire, As the best heart whose current runs Full of the Day-God’s living fire. But quench’d to-night that ardour seems, And pale his cheek, and sunk his brow;— Never before, but in her dreams, Had she beheld him pale as now: And those were dreams of troubled sleep, From which ’twas joy to wake and weep; Visions, that will not be forgot, But sadden every waking scene, Like warning ghosts, that leave the spot All wither’d where they once have been.

“How sweetly,” said the trembling maid, Of her own gentle voice afraid, So long had they in silence stood, Looking upon that tranquil flood— “How sweetly does the moon-beam smile “To-night upon yon leafy isle! “Oft, in my fancy’s wanderings, “I’ve wish’d that little isle had wings, “And we, within its fairy bowers, “Were wafted off to seas unknown, “Where not a pulse should beat but ours, “And we might live, love, die alone! “Far from the cruel and the cold,— “Where the bright eyes of angels only “Should come around us, to behold “A paradise so pure and lonely. “Would this be world enough for thee?”— Playful she turn’d, that he might see The passing smile her cheek put on; But when she mark’d how mournfully His eyes met hers, that smile was gone; And, bursting into heart-felt tears, “Yes, yes,” she cried, “my hourly fears, “My dreams have boded all too right— “We part—for ever part—to-night! “I knew, I knew it _could_ not last— “’Twas bright, ’twas heavenly, but ’tis past “Oh! ever thus, from childhood’s hour, “I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay; “I never lov’d a tree or flower, “But ’twas the first to fade away. “I never nurs’d a dear gazelle, “To glad me with its soft black eye, “But when it came to know me well, “And love me, it was sure to die! “Now too—the joy most like divine “Of all I ever dreamt or knew, “To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,— “Oh misery! must I lose _that_ too? Yet go—on peril’s brink we meet;— “Those frightful rocks—that treacherous sea— “No, never come again—though sweet, “Though heaven, it may be death to thee. “Farewell—and blessings on thy way, “Where’er thou goest, beloved stranger! “Better to sit and watch that ray, “And think thee safe, though far away, “Than have thee near me, and in danger!”

“Danger!—oh, tempt me not to boast—” The youth exclaim’d—“thou little know’st “What he can brave, who, born and nurst “In Danger’s paths, has dar’d her worst; “Upon whose ear the signal word “Of strife and death is hourly breaking; “Who sleeps with head upon the sword “His fever’d hand must grasp in waking. “Danger!—” “Say on—thou fear’st not then, “And we may meet—oft meet again?”

“Oh! look not so—beneath the skies “I now fear nothing but those eyes. “If aught on earth could charm or force “My spirit from its destin’d course,— “If aught could make this soul forget “The bond to which its seal is set, “’Twould be those eyes;—they, only they, “Could melt that sacred seal away! “But no—’tis fix’d—_my_ awful doom “Is fix’d—on this side of the tomb “We meet no more;—why, why did Heaven “Mingle two souls that earth has riven, “Has rent asunder wide as ours? “Oh, Arab maid, as soon the Powers “Of Light and Darkness may combine, “As I be link’d with thee or thine! “Thy Father⸺” “Holy ALLA save “Thou know’st him not—he loves the brave; “Nor lives there under heaven’s expanse “One who would prize, would worship thee “And thy bold spirit, more than he. “Oft when, in childhood, I have play’d “With the bright falchion by his side, “I’ve heard him swear his lisping maid “In time should be a warrior’s bride. “And still, whene’er at Haram hours “I take him cool sherbets and flowers, “He tells me, when in playful mood, “A hero shall my bridegroom be, “Since maids are best in battle woo’d, “And won with shouts of victory! “Nay, turn not from me—thou alone “Art form’d to make both hearts thy own. “Go—join his sacred ranks—thou know’st “The’ unholy strife these Persians wage:— “Good Heaven, that frown!—even now thou glow’st “With more than mortal warrior’s rage. “Haste to the camp by morning’s light, “And, when that sword is raised in fight, “Oh still remember, Love and I “Beneath its shadow trembling lie! “One victory o’er those Slaves of Fire, “Those impious Ghebers, whom my sire “Abhors⸺” “Hold, hold—thy words are death—” The stranger cried, as wild he flung His mantle back, and show’d beneath The Gheber belt that round him clung.—[232] “Here, maiden, look—weep—blush to see “All that thy sire abhors in me! “Yes—_I_ am of that impious race, “Those Slaves of Fire, who, morn and even, “Hail their Creator’s dwelling-place “Among the living lights of heaven:[233] “Yes—_I_ am of that outcast few, “To IRAN and to vengeance true, “Who curse the hour your Arabs came “To desolate our shrines of flame, “And swear, before God’s burning eye, “To break our country’s chains, or die! “Thy bigot sire,—nay, tremble not,— “He, who gave birth to those dear eyes, “With me is sacred as the spot “From which our fires of worship rise! “But know—’twas he I sought that night, “When, from my watch-boat on the sea, “I caught this turret’s glimmering light, “And up the rude rocks desperately “Rush’d to my prey—thou know’st the rest— “I climb’d the gory vulture’s nest, “And found a trembling dove within;— “Thine, thine the victory—thine the sin— “If Love hath made one thought his own, “That Vengeance claims first—last—alone! “Oh! had we never, never met, “Or could this heart e’en now forget “How link’d, how bless’d we might have been, “Had fate not frown’d so dark between! “Hadst thou been born a Persian maid, “In neighbouring valleys had we dwelt, “Through the same fields in childhood play’d, “At the same kindling altar knelt,— “Then, then, while all those nameless ties, “In which the charm of Country lies, “Had round our hearts been hourly spun, “Till IRAN’S cause and thine were one; “While in thy lute’s awakening sigh “I heard the voice of days gone by, “And saw, in every smile of thine, “Returning hours of glory shine;— “While the wrong’d Spirit of our Land “Liv’d, look’d, and spoke her wrongs through thee,— “God! who could then this sword withstand? “Its very flash were victory! “But now—estrang’d, divorc’d for ever, “Far as the grasp of Fate can sever; “Our only ties what love has wove,— “In faith, friends, country, sunder’d wide; “And then, then only, true to love, “When false to all that’s dear beside! “Thy father IRAN’S deadliest foe— “Thyself perhaps, even now—but no— “Hate never look’d so lovely yet! “No—sacred to thy soul will be “The land of him who could forget “All but that bleeding land for thee. “When other eyes shall see, unmov’d, “Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, “Thou’lt think how well one Gheber lov’d, “And for _his_ sake thou’lt weep for all! “But look⸺” With sudden start he turn’d And pointed to the distant wave, Where lights, like charnel meteors, burn’d Bluely, as o’er some seaman’s grave; And fiery darts, at intervals,[234] Flew up all sparkling from the main, As if each star that nightly falls, Were shooting back to heaven again. “My signal lights!—I must away— “Both, both are ruin’d, if I stay. “Farewell—sweet life! thou cling’st in vain— “Now, Vengeance, I am thine again!”