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 't was joy to wake and weep, Visions that will not be forgot,
But sadden every waken 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 moonbeam 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- 'T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 'tis past! Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour, I've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never loved a tree or flower, But 't was the first to fade away.
I never nursed 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 dared 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 destined course,- If aught could make this soul forget The bond to which its seal is set, 'T would 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"
His gray-head from that lightning glance! 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! Nav, 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!-e'en 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. "Here, maiden look-weep-blush to see All that thy sire abhors in me! Yes-1 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! 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-'t was 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
Lived, look'd, and spoke her wrongs through
God! who could then this sword withstand?
Its very flash were victory!
But now-estranged, divorced for ever,
Far as the grasp of fate can sever;
Our only ties what love has wove,
Faith, friends, and country, sunder'd wide;
And then, then only, true to love,
When false to all that's dear beside! Thy father Iran's deadliest foeThyself, perhaps, e'en now-but noHate 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, unmoved, Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, Thou'lt think how well one Gheber loved, 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,
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." Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp'd Nor look'd-but from the lattice dropp'd Down mid the pointed crags beneath, As if he fled from love to death. While pale and mute young Hinda stood, Nor moved, till in the silent flood A momentary plunge below Startled her from her trance of wo; Shrieking she to the lattice flew, - "I come-I come if in that tide Thou sleep'st to-night-I'll sleep there too, In death's cold wedlock by thy side. Oh! I would ask no happier bed
Than the chill wave my love lies under;Sweeter to rest together dead,
Far sweeter, than to live asunder!" But no their hour is not yet come- Again she sees his pinnace fly, Wafting him fleetly to his home, Where'er that ill-starr'd home may lie; And calm and smooth it seem'd to win
Its moonlight way before the wind, As if it bore all peace within, Nor left one breaking heart behind.
THE princess, whose heart was sad enough already, could have wished that Feramorz had chosen a less melancholy story; as it is only to the happy that tears are a luxury. Her ladies, however, were by no means sorry that love was once more the poet's theme; for, when he spoke of love, they said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree, which grows over the tomb of the musician, Tan-Sein.
Their road all the morning had lain through a very dreary country; -through valleys, covered with a low bushy jungle, where, in more than one place, the awful signal of the bamboo staff, with the white flag at its top, reminded the traveller that in that very spot the tiger had made some human creature his victim. It was therefore with much pleasure that they arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen, and encamped under one of those
holy trees, whose smooth columns and spreading roofs seem to destine them for natural temples of religion. Beneath the shade, some pious hands had erected pillars ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain, which now supplied the use of mirrors to the young maidens, as they adjusted their hair in descending from the palankeens. Here while, as usual, the princess sat listening anxiously, with Fadladeen in one of his loftiest moods of criticism by her side, the young poet, leaning against a branch of the tree, thus continued his story:
THE morn had risen clear and calm, And o'er the Green Sea palely shines, Revealing Bahrein's groves of palm, And lighting Kisma's amber vines. Fresh smell the shores of Araby, While breezes from the Indian sea Blow round Selama's sainted cape,
And curl the shining flood beneath,- Whose waves are rich with many a grape,
And cocoa-nut and flowery wreath, Which pious seamen, as they pass'd, Had toward that holy headland cast- Oblations to the genii there For gentle skies and breezes fair! The nightingale now bends her flight From the high trees, where all the night She sung so sweet, with none to listen, And hides her from the morning star Where thickets of pomegranate glisten In the clear dawn,-bespangled o'er
With dew, whose night-drops would not stain The best and brightest scimetar That ever youthful sultan wore
On the first morning of his reign!
And see the sun himself!-on wings Of glory up the east he springs. Angel of light! who, from the time Those heavens began their march sublime, Hath first of all the starry choir Trod in his Maker's steps of fire!
Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere, When Iran, like a sun-flower, turn'd To meet that eve where'er it burn'd!-
When, from the banks of Bendemeer
To the nut-groves of Samarcand Thy temples flamed o'er all the land? Where are they? ask the shades of them Who, on Cadessia's bloody plains,
Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem From Iran's broken diadem,
And bind her ancient faith in chains:- Ask the poor exile, cast alone On foreign shores, unloved, unknown, Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates,
Or on the snowy Mossian mountains, Far from his beauteous land of dates,
Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains! Yet happier so than if he trod His own beloved but blighted sod, Beneath a despot stranger's nod!- Oh! he would rather houseless roam
Where freedom and his God may lead, Than be the sleekest slave at home That crouches to the conqueror's creed! Is Iran's pride then gone for ever,
Quench'd with the flame in Mithra's caves?- No-she has sons that never-never- Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves, While heaven has light or earth has graves. Spirits of fire, that brood not long, But flash resentment back for wrong; And hearts, where, slow but deep, the seeds Of vengeance ripen into deeds; Till, in some treacherous hour of calm, They burst, like Zeilan's giant palm, Whose buds fly open with a sound That shakes the pigny forests round! Yes. Emir! he, who scaled that tower, And, had he reach'd thy slumbering breast, Had taught thee, in a Gheber's power,
How safe e'en tyrants' heads may rest- Is one of many, brave as he, Who loathe thy haughty race and thee; Who, though they know the strife is vain- Who, though they know the riven chain Snaps but to enter in the heart Of him who rends its links apart, Yet dare the issue-blest to be E'en for one bleeding moment free, And die in pangs of liberty!
Thou know'st them well-'tis some moon since
Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags,
Thou satrap of a bigot prince!
Have swarm'd among these Green Sea crags; Yet here, e'en here, a sacred band, Ay, in the portal of that land
Thou, Arab, darest to call thy own, Their spears across thy path have thrown; Here-ere the winds half wing'd thee o'er- Rebellion braved thee from the shore.
Rebellion! foul, dishonouring word,
Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd The holiest cause that tongue or sword Of mortal ever lost or gain'd. How many a spirit, born to bless,
Hath sunk beneath that withering name, Whom but a day's, an hour's, success
Had wafted to eternal fame! As exhalations when they burst From the warm earth, if chill'd at first, If check'd in soaring from the plain, Darken to fogs and sink again;- But if they once triumphant spread Their wings above the mountain-head, Become enthroned in upper air, And turn to sun-bright glories there!
And who is he, that wields the might Of freedom on the Green Sea brink, Before whose sabre's dazzling light
The eyes of Yemen's warriors wink? Who comes embower'd in the spears Of Kerman's hardy mountaineers?- Those mountaineers, that, truest, last, Cling to their country's ancient rites, As if that god whose eyelids cast Their closing gleam on Iran's heights, Among her snowy mountains threw The last light of his worship too!
'Tis Hafed-name of fear, whose sound Chills like the muttering of a charm ;- Shout but that awful name around, And palsy shakes the manliest arm. 'Tis Hafed, most accurst and dire (So rank'd by Moslem hate and ire) Of all the rebel Sons of Fire! Of whose malign, tremendous power The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour Such tales of fearful wonder tell, That each affrighted sentinel Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes, Lest Hafed in the midst should rise ! A man, they say, of monstrous birth, A mingled race of flame and earth, Sprung from those old, enchanted kings, Who in their fairy helms, of yore, A feather from the mystic wings
Of the Simoorgh resistless wore; And gifted by the Fiends of Fire, Who groan to see their shrines expire, With charms that, all in vain withstood, Would drown the Koran's light in blood!
Such were the tales that won belief,
And such the colouring fancy gave To a young, warm, and dauntless chief,One who, no more than mortal brave, Fought for the land his soul adored,
For happy homes, and altars free,- His only talisman, the sword,
His only spell-word, liberty! One of that ancient hero line, Along whose glorious current shine Names that have sanctified their blood; As Lebanon's small mountain flood Is render'd holy by the ranks Of sainted cedars on its banks!
'T was not for him to crouch the knee Tamely to Moslem tyranny ;- 'T was not for him, whose soul was cast In the bright mould of ages past, Whose melancholy spirit, fed With all the glories of the dead, Though framed for Iran's happiest years, Was born among her chains and tears! 'T was not for him to swell the crowd Of slavish heads, that, shrinking, bow'd Before the Moslem, as he pass'd, Like shrubs beneath the poison blast- No-far he fled, indignant fled
The pageant of his country's shame; While every tear her children shed Fell on his soul like drops of flame; And as a lover hails the dawn
Of a first smile, so welcomed he The sparkle of the first sword drawn For vengeance and for liberty!
But vain was valour-vain the flower Of Kerman, in that deathful hour, Against Al Hassan's whelming power. In vain they met him, helm to helm, Upon the threshold of that realm He came in bigot pomp to sway,
And with their corpses block'd his way
In vain for every lance they raised, Thousands around the conqueror blazed; For every arm that lined their shore, Myriads of slaves were wafted o'er- A bloody, bold, and countless crowd, Before whose swarms as fast they bow'd As dates beneath the locust cloud!
There stood-but one short league away From old Harmozia's sultry bay- A rocky mountain, o'er the sea Of Oman beetling awfully : A last and solitary link
Of those stupendous chains that reach From the broad Caspian's reedy brink Down winding to the Green Sea beach. Around its base the bare rocks stood, Like naked giants, in the flood,
As if to guard the gulf across : While, on its peak, that braved the sky, A ruin'd temple tower'd, so high
That oft the sleeping albatross Struck the wild ruins with her wing, And from her cloud-rock'd slumbering Started to find man's dwelling there In her own silent fields of air! Beneath, terrific caverns gave Dark welcome to each stormy wave That dash'd, like midnight revellers, in;- And such the strange, mysterious din At times throughout those caverns roll'd;- And such the fearful wonders told Of restless sprites imprison'd there, That bold were Moslem, who would dare, At twilight hour, to steer his skiff Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff.
On the land side, those towers sublime, That seem'd above the grasp of time, Were sever'd from the haunts of men By a wide, deep, and wizard glen, So fathomless, so full of gloom,
No eye could pierce the void between; It seem'd a place where Gholes might come With their foul banquets from the tomb,
And in its caverns feed unseen. Like distant thunder, from below,
The sound of many torrents came; Too deep for eye or ear to know If 't were the sea's imprison'd flow,
Or floods of ever-restless flame. For each ravine, each rocky spire Of that vast mountain stood on fire; And, though for ever past the days When God was worshipp'd in the blaze That from its lofty altar shone,- Though fled the priests, the votaries gone, Still did the mighty flame burn on Through chance and change, through good and ill Like its own God's eternal will, Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable!
Thither the vanquish'd Hafed led
His little army's last remains ;"Welcome, terrific glen!" he said, "Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread, Is heaven to him who flies from chains!"
O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way, known To him and to his chiefs alone, They cross'd the chasm and gain'd the towers;- "This home," he cried, " at least is ours- Here we may bleed, unmock'd by hymns
Of Moslem triumph o'er our head; Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs To quiver to the Moslem's tread; Stretch'd on this rock, while vulture's beaks Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks, Here, happy that no tyrant's eye Gloats on our torments-we may die!
'Twas night when to those towers they came; And gloomily the fitful flame, That from the ruin'd altar broke,
Glared on his features, as he spoke :
"'Tis o'er-what men could do, we've done: If Iran will look tamely on, And see her priests, her warriors driven Before a sensual bigot's nod,
A wretch, who takes his lusts to heaven, And makes a pander of his God! If her proud sons, her high-born souls, Men, in whose veins-oh last disgrace! The blood of Zal, and Rustam, rolls,-
If they will court this upstart race, And turn from Mithra's ancient ray, To kneel at shrines of yesterday! If they will crouch to Iran's foes,
Why, let them till the land's despair Cries out to heav'n, and bondage grows Too vile for e'en the vile to bear! Till shame at last, long hidden, burns Their inmost core, and conscience turns Each coward tear the slave lets fall Back on his heart in drops of gall! But here, at least, are arms unchain'd, And souls that thraldom never stain'd ;-
This spot, at least, no foot of slave
Or satrap ever yet profaned;
And, though but few-though fast the wave Of life is ebbing from our veins, Enough for vengeance still remains. As panthers, after set of sun, Rush from the roots of Lebanon Across the dark sea-robber's way, We'll bound upon our startled prey ;- And when some hearts that proudest swell Have felt our falchion's last farewell; When hope's expiring throb is o'er, And e'en despair can prompt no more, This spot shall be the sacred grave Of the last few who, vainly brave, Die for the land they cannot save!" His chiefs stood round-each shining blade Upon the broken altar laid-
And though so wild and desolate Those courts, where once the mighty sate; No longer on those mouldering towers Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers, With which of old the Magi fed The wandering spirits of their dead; Though neither priests nor rites were there, Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate,
Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air, Nor symbol of their worshipp'd planet; Yet the same God that heard their sires Heard them, while on that altar's fires They swore the latest, holiest deed Of the few hearts, still left to bleed, Should be, in Iran's injured name, To die upon that mount of flame- The last of all her patriot line, Before her last untrampled shrine!
Brave, suffering souls! they little knew How many a tear their injuries drew From one meek maid, one gentle foe, Whom love first touch'd with others' wo- Whose life, as free from thought as sin, Slept like a lake, till love threw in His talisman, and woke the tide, And spread its trembling circles wide. Once, Emir! thy unheeding child, Mid all this havoc, bloom'd and smiled,- Tranquil as on some battle-plain
The Persian lily shines and towers, Before the combat's reddening stain
Hath fall'n upon her golden flowers. Light-hearted maid, unawed, unmoved, While Heaven but spared the sire she loved, Once at thy evening tales of blood Unlistening and aloof she stood- And oft, when thou hast paced along,
Thy haram halls with furious heat, Hast thou not cursed her cheerful song, That came across thee, calm and sweet, Like lutes of angels, touch'd so near Hell's confines, that the damn'd can hear. Far other feelings love hath brought- Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness, She now has but the one dear thought,
And thinks that o'er, almost to madness. Oft doth her sinking heart recall His words" for my sake weep for all;" And bitterly, as day on day
Of rebel carnage fast succeeds, She weeps a lover snatch'd away In every Gheber wretch that bleeds. There's not a sabre meets her eye, But with his life-blood seems to swim; There's not an arrow wings the sky,
But fancy turns its point to him. No more she brings with footstep light Al Hassan's falchion for the fight; And-had he look'd with clearer sight- Had not the mists, that ever rise From a foul spirit, dimm'd his eyes- He would have mark'd her shuddering frame, When from the field of blood he came; The faltering speech-the look estranged- Voice, step, and life, and beauty changed- He would have mark'd all this, and known Such change is wrought by love alone!
Ah! not the love, that should have bless'd So young, so innocent a breast; Not the pure, open, prosperous love, That, pledged on earth and seal'd above, Grows in the world's approving eyes,
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