Lalla Rookh/Paradise and the Peri

by Thomas Moore (1779-1852)

The story of the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan being ended, they were now doomed to hear Fadladeen's criticisms upon it. A series of disappointments and accidents had occurred to this learned Chamberlain during the journey. In the first place, those couriers stationed, as in the reign of Shah Jehan, between Delhi and the Western coast of India, to secure a constant supply of mangoes for the Royal Table, had, by some cruel irregularity, failed in their duty; and to eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was, of course, impossible. In the next place the elephant, laden with his fine antique porcelain, had in an unusual fit of liveliness shattered the whole set to pieces:—an irreparable loss, as many of the vessels were so exquisitely old as to have been used under the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran too, supposed to be the identical copy between the leaves of which Mahomet's favourite pigeon used to nestle, had been mislaid by his Koran-bearer three whole days; not without much spiritual alarm to Fadladeen, who, though professing to hold with other loyal and orthodox Mussulmans, that salvation could only be found in the Koran, was strongly suspected of believing in his heart, that it could only be found in his own particular copy of it. When to all these grievances is added the obstinacy of the cooks, in putting the pepper of Canara into his dishes instead of the cinnamon of Serendib, we may easily suppose that he came to the task of criticism with, at least, a sufficient degree of irritability for the purpose.

"In order," said he, importantly swinging about his chaplet of pearls, "to convey with clearness my opinion of the story this young man has related, it is necessary to take a review of all the stories that have ever———"My good Fadladeen!" exclaimed the Princess, interrupting him, "we really do not deserve that you should give yourself so much trouble. Your opinion of the poem we have just heard, will, I have no doubt, be abundantly edifying, without any further waste of your valuable erudition." "If that be all," replied the critic,—evidently mortified at not being allowed to shew how much he knew about every thing, but the subject immediately before him;—"if that be all that is required, the matter is easily dispatched." He then proceeded to analyze the poem, in that strain, so well known to the unfortunate bards of Delhi, whose censures were an infliction from which few recovered, and whose very praises were like the honey extracted from the bitter flowers of the aloe. The chief personages of the story were, if he rightly understood them, an ill-favoured gentleman, with a veil over his face;—a young lady, whose reason went and came according as it suited the poet's convenience to be sensible or otherwise;—and a youth in one of those hideous Bucharian bonnets, who took the aforesaid gentleman in a veil for a Divinity. "From such materials," said he "what can be expected?—after rivalling each other in long speeches and absurdities, through some thousands of lines as indigestible as the filberds of Berdaa, our friend in the veil jumps into a tub of aqua-fortis; the young lady dies in a set speech, whose only recommendation is that it is her last; and the lover lives on to a good old age, for the laudable purpose of seeing her ghost, which he at last happily accomplishes and expires. This, you will allow, is a fair summary of the story; and if Nasser, the Arabian merchant, told no better, our Holy Prophet (to whom be all honour and glory!) had no need to be jealous of his abilities for story-telling."^[1]

With respect to the style, it was worthy of the matter;—it had not even those politic contrivances of structure, which make up for the commonness of the thoughts by the peculiarity of the manner, nor that stately poetical phraseology by which sentiments mean in themselves, like the blacksmith's^[2] apron converted into a banner, are so easily gilt and embroidered into consequence. Then, as to the versification, it was, to say no worse of it, execrable: it had neither the copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness of Hafez, nor the sententious march of Sadi; but appeared to him, in the uneasy heaviness of its movements, to have been modelled upon the gait of a very tired dromedary. The licences too in which it indulged were unpardonable;—for instance this line, and the poem abounded with such;—

Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.

"What critic that can count," said Fadladeen, "and has his full complement of fingers to count withal, would tolerate for an instant such syllabic superfluities?"—He here looked round and discovered that most of his audience were asleep; while the glimmering lamps seemed inclined to follow their example. It became necessary, therefore, however painful to himself, to put an end to his valuable animadversions for the present, and he accordingly concluded, with an air of dignified candour, thus;—notwithstanding the observations which I have thought it my duty to make, it is by no means my wish to discourage the young man:—so far from it, indeed, that if he will but totally alter his style of writing and thinking, I have very little doubt that I shall be vastly pleased with him."

Some days elapsed, after this harangue of the Great Chamberlain, before Lalla Rookh could venture to ask for another story. The youth was still a welcome guest in the pavilion;—to one heart, perhaps, too dangerously welcome—but all mention of poetry was, as if by common consent, avoided. Though none of the party had much respect for Fadladeen, yet his censures, thus magisterially delivered, evidently made an impression on them all. The Poet himself, to whom criticism was quite a new operation, (being wholly unknown in that Paradise of the Indies, Cashmere,) felt the shock as it is generally felt at first, till use has made it more tolerable to the patient;—the Ladies began to suspect that they ought not to be pleased, and seemed to conclude that there must have been much good sense in what Fadladeen said, from its having set them all so soundly to sleep;—while the self-complacent Chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea of having, for the hundred and fiftieth time in his life, extinguished a Poet. Lalla Rookh alone—and Love knew why—persisted in being delighted with all she had heard, and in resolving to hear more as speedily as possible. Her manner, however, of first returning to the subject was unlucky. It was while they rested during the heat of noon near a fountain, on which some hand had rudely traced those well-known words from the Garden of Sadi,—"Many, like me, have viewed this fountain, but they are gone, and their eyes are closed for ever!"—that she took occasion, from the melancholy beauty of this passage, to dwell upon the charms of poetry in general. "It is true," she said, "few poets can imitate that sublime bird, which flies always in the air, and never touches the earth:^[3]—it is only once in many ages a Genius appears, whose words, like those on the Written Mountain, last for ever:—but still there are some, as delightful perhaps though not so wonderful, who, if not stars over our head, are at least flowers along our path, and whose sweetness of the moment we ought gratefully to inhale, without calling upon them for a brightness and a durability beyond their nature. In short," continued she, blushing, as if conscious of being caught in an oration, "it is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his regions of enchantment, without having a critic for ever, like the old Man of the Sea, upon his back!"^[4]—Fadladeen, it was plain, took this last luckless allusion to himself, and would treasure it up in his mind as a whetstone for his next criticism. A sudden silence ensued; and the Princess, glancing a look at Feramorz, saw plainly she must wait for a more courageous moment.

But the glories of Nature and her wild, fragrant airs, playing freshly over the current of youthful spirits, will soon heal even deeper wounds than the dull Fadladeens of this world can inflict. In an evening or two after, they came to the small Valley of Gardens, which had been planted by order of the Emperor for his favourite sister Rochinara, during their progress to Cashmere some years before; and never was there a more sparkling assemblage of sweets, since the Gulzar-e-Irem, or Rose-bower of Irem. Every precious flower was there to be found, that poetry, or love, or religion has ever consecrated; from the dark hyacinth, to which Hafez compares his mistress's hair, to the Cámalatá, by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of Indra is scented. As they sat in the cool fragrance of this delicious spot, and Lalla Rookh remarked that she could fancy it the abode of that Flower-loving Nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay, or of one of those Peris, those beautiful creatures of the air, who live upon perfumes, and to whom a place like this might make some amends for the Paradise they have lost,—the young Poet, in whose eyes she appeared, while she spoke, to be one of the bright spiritual creatures she was describing, said hesitatingly that he remembered a Story of a Peri, which, if the Princess had no objection, he would venture to relate. "It is," said he, with an appealing look to Fadladeen, "in a lighter and humbler strain than the other;" then, striking a few careless but melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus began:—

PARADISE AND THE PERI.

One morn a Peri at the gateOf Eden stood disconsolate;And as she listen'd to the SpringsOf Life within, like music flowing;And caught the light upon her wingsThrough the half-open portal glowing,She wept to think her recreant raceShould e'er have lost that glorious place!

"How happy," exclaim'd this child of air,"Are the holy Spirits who wander there,"Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall;"Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea,"And the stars themselves have flowers for me,"One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all! "Though sunny the Lake of cool Cashmere,"With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,^[5]"And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall;"Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-Hay,"And the golden floods, that thitherward stray,^[6]"Yet—oh 'tis only the Blest can say"How the waters of Heaven outshine them all!

"Go, wing thy flight from star to star,"From world to luminous world, as far"As the universe spreads its flaming wall;"Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,"And multiply each through endless years,"One minute of Heaven is worth them all!"

The glorious Angel, who was keepingThe gates of Light, beheld her weeping, And, as he nearer drew and listen'dTo her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'dWithin his eyelids, like the sprayFrom Eden's fountain, when it liesOn the blue flow'r, which—Bramins say—Blooms no where but in Paradise!"Nymph of a fair, but erring line!"Gently he said—"One hope is thine."'Tis written in the Book of Fate,"The Peri yet may be forgiven"Who brings to this Eternal Gate"The Gift that is most dear to Heaven!"Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin;"'Tis sweet to let the Pardon'd in!"

Rapidly as comets runTo th' embraces of the Sun:—Fleeter than the starry brands,Flung at night from angel hands^[7]At those dark and daring sprites,Who would climb th' empyreal heights, Down the blue vault the Peri flies,And, lighted earthward by a glanceThat just then broke from morning's eyes,Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse.

But whither shall the Spirit goTo find this gift for heav'n?—"I know"The wealth" she cries "of every urn,"In which unnumber'd rubies burn,"Beneath the pillars of Chilminar;^[8]—"I know where the Isles of Perfume are"Many a fathom down in the sea,"To the south of sun-bright Araby;^[9]—"I know too where the Genii hid"The jewell'd cup of their King Jamshid,^[10]"With Life's elixir sparkling high—"But gifts like these are not for the sky. "Where was there ever a gem that shone"Like the steps of Alla's wonderful Throne?"And the Drops of Life—oh! what would they be"In the boundless Deep of Eternity?"

While thus she mus'd, her pinions fann'dThe air of that sweet Indian land,Whose air is balm; whose ocean spreadsO'er coral banks and amber beds;Whose mountains, pregnant by the beamOf the warm sun, with diamonds teem;Whose rivulets are like rich brides,Lovely, with gold beneath their tides;Whose sandal groves and bowers of spiceMight be a Peri's Paradise!But crimson now her rivers ranWith human blood—the smell of deathCame reeking from those spicy bowers,And man, the sacrifice of man,Mingled his taint with every breathUpwafted from the innocent flowers!Land of the Sun! what foot invadesThy Pagods and thy pillar'd shades— Thy cavern shrines, and Idol stones,Thy Monarchs and their thousand Thrones?'Tis He of Gazna^[11]—fierce in wrathHe comes, and India's diademsLie scatter'd in his ruinous path.—His blood-hounds he adorns with gems,Torn from the violated necksOf many a young and lov'd Sultana;^[12]—Maidens, within their pure Zenana,Priests in the very fane he slaughters,And choaks up with the glittering wrecksOf golden shrines the sacred waters!

Downward the Peri turns her gaze,And, through the war-field's bloody haze

Beholds a youthful warrior stand,Alone, beside his native river,—The red blade broken in his handAnd the last arrow in his quiver."Live," said the Conqueror, "live to shareThe trophies and the crowns I bear!"Silent that youthful warrior stood—Silent he pointed to the floodAll crimson with his country's blood,Then sent his last remaining dart,For answer, to the' Invader's heart.

False flew the shaft, though pointed well—The Tyrant liv'd, the Hero fell!Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay,And when the rush of war was past,Swiftly descending on a rayOf morning light, she caught the last—Last glorious drop his heart had shed,Before its free-born spirit fled!

"Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight,"My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. "Though foul are the drops that oft distil"On the field of warfare, blood like this,"For Liberty shed, so holy is,"It would not stain the purest rill,"That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss!"Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere,"A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,"'Tis the last libation Liberty draws"From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!"

"Sweet," said the Angel, as she gaveThe gift into his radiant hand,"Sweet is our welcome of the Brave"Who die thus for their native Land.—"But see—alas!—the crystal bar"Of Eden moves not—holier far"Than ev'n this drop the boon must be,"That opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee!"

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,Now among Afric's Lunar Mountains,^[13]Far to the South, the Peri lighted;And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains Of that Egyptian tide,—whose birthIs hidden from the sons of earth,Deep in those solitary woods,Where of the Genii of the FloodsDance round the cradle of their Nile,And hail the new-born Giant's smile!^[14]Thence, over Egypt's palmy groves,Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings^[15]The exil'd Spirit sighing roves,And now hangs listening to the dovesIn warm Rosetta's vale^[16]—now lovesTo watch the moonlight on the wingsOf the white pelicans that breakThe azure calm of Mœris' Lake.^[17]'Twas a fair scene—a Land more brightNever did mortal eye behold!Who could have thought, that saw this nightThose valleys and their fruits of goldBasking in heav'n's serenest light;— Those groupes of lovely date trees bendingLanguidly their leaf-crown'd heads,Like youthful maids, when sleep descendingWarns them to their silken beds;^[18]—Those virgin lilies, all the nightBathing their beauties in the lake,That they may rise more fresh and bright,When their beloved Sun's awake;—Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seemThe relics of a splendid dream;Amid whose fairy lonelinessNought but the lap-wing's cry is heard,Nought seen but (when the shadows, flittingFast from the moon, unsheath its gleam)Some purple-wing'd Sultana^[19] sittingUpon a column, motionlessAnd glittering, like an idol bird!— Who could have thought, that there, ev'n there,Amid those scenes so still and fair,The Demon of the Plague hath castFrom his hot wing a deadlier blast,More mortal far than ever cameFrom the red Desert's sands of flame!So quick, that every living thingOf human shape, touch'd by his wing,Like plants, where the Simoom hath past,At once falls black and withering!The sun went down on many a brow,Which, full of bloom and freshness then,Is rankling in the pest-house now,And ne'er will feel that sun again!And oh! to see the' unburied heapsOn which the lonely moonlight sleeps—The very vultures turn away,And sicken at so foul a prey!Only the fierce hyæna stalks^[20]Throughout the city's desolate walks At midnight, and his carnage plies—Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meetsThe glaring of those large blue eyes^[21]Amid the darkness of the streets!

"Poor race of Men!" said the pitying Spirit,"Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall—"Some flow'rets of Eden ye still inherit,"But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!"She wept—the air grew pure and clearAround her, as the bright drops ran;For there's a magic in each tearSuch kindly spirits weep for man!

Just then beneath some orange trees,Whose fruit and blossoms in the breezeWere wantoning together, free,Like age at play with infancy—Beneath that fresh and springing bower,Close by the Lake, she heard the moanOf one who, at this silent hour,Had thither stol'n to die alone. One who in life, where'er he mov'd,Drew after him the hearts of many;Yet now, as though he ne'er were lov'd,Dies here, unseen, unwept by any!None to watch near him—none to slakeThe fire that in his bosom lies,With ev'n a sprinkle from that lake,Which shines so cool before his eyes.No voice, well-known through many a day,To speak the last, the parting word,Which, when all other sounds decay,Is still like distant music heard.That tender farewel on the shoreOf this rude world, when all is o'er,Which cheers the spirit, ere its barkPuts off into the unknown Dark.

Deserted youth! one thought aloneShed joy around his soul in death—That she, whom he for years had knownAnd lov'd, and might have call'd his own,Was safe from this foul midnight's breath;— Safe in her father's princely halls,Where the cool airs from fountain falls,Freshly perfum'd by many a brandOf the sweet wood from India's land,Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd.

But see,—who yonder comes by stealth,This melancholy bower to seek,Like a young envoy, sent by Health,With rosy gifts upon her cheek?'Tis she—far off, through moonlight dim,He knew his own betrothed bride,She, who would rather die with him,Than live to gain the world beside!—Her arms are round her lover now,His livid cheek to hers she presses,And dips, to bind his burning brow,In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses.Ah! once, how little did he thinkAn hour would come, when he should shrinkWith horror from that dear embrace,Those gentle arms, that were to himHoly as is the cradling placeOf Eden's infant cherubim! And now he yields—now turns away,Shuddering as if the venom layAll in those proffer'd lips alone—Those lips that, then so fearless grown,Never until that instant cameNear his unask'd or without shame."Oh! let me only breathe the air,"The blessed air, that's breath'd by thee,"And, whether on its wings it bear"Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me!"There, drink my tears, while yet they fall,—"Would that my bosom's blood were balm,"And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all,"To give thy brow one minute's calm."Nay, turn not from me that dear face—"Am I not thine—thy own lov'd bride—"The one, the chosen one, whose place,"In life or death is by thy side!"Think'st thou that she, whose only light,"In this dim world, from thee hath shone,"Could bear the long, the cheerless night,"That must be hers, when thou art gone? "That I can live, and let thee go,"Who art my life itself?—No, no—"When the stem dies, the leaf that grew"Out of its heart must perish too!"Then turn to me, my own love, turn,"Before like thee I fade and burn;"Cling to these yet cool lips, and share"The last pure life that lingers there!"She fails—she sinks—as dies the lampIn charnel airs or cavern-damp,So quickly do his baleful sighsQuench all the sweet light of her eyes!One struggle—and his pain is past—Her lover is no longer living!One kiss the maiden gives, one last,Long kiss, which she expires in giving!

"Sleep," said the Peri, as softly she stoleThe farewel sigh of that vanishing soul,As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast—"Sleep on, in visions of odour rest,"In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd"Th' enchanted pile of that holy bird, "Who sings at the last his own death lay,^[22]"And in music and perfume dies away!"

Thus saying, from her lips she spreadUnearthly breathings through the place,And shook her sparkling wreath, and shedSuch lustre o'er each paly face,That like two lovely saints they seem'dUpon the eve of dooms-day takenFrom their dim graves, in odour sleeping;—While that benevolent PERI beam'dLike their good angel, calmly keepingWatch o'er them, till their souls would waken!

But morn is blushing in the sky;Again the Peri soars above,Bearing to heav'n that precious sighOf pure, self-sacrificing love. High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate,The Elysian palm she soon will win,For the bright Spirit at the gateSmil'd as she gave that offering in;And she already hears the treesOf Eden, with their crystal bellsRinging in that ambrosial breezeThat from the Throne of Alla swells;And she can see the starry bowlsThat lie around that lucid lake,Upon whose banks admitted SoulsTheir first sweet draught of glory take!^[23]

But ah ev'n Peris' hopes are vain—Again the Fates forbade, againThe immortal barrier clos'd—"not yet"The Angel said as, with regret,He shut from her that glimpse of glory—"True was the maiden, and her story, "Written in light o'er Alla's head,"By seraph eyes shall long be read."But, Peri, see—the crystal bar"Of Eden moves not—holier far"Than ev'n this sigh the boon must be"That opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee."Now, upon Syria's land of roses^[24]Softly the light of Eve reposes,And, like a glory, the broad sunHangs over sainted Lebanon;Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,And whitens with eternal sleet,While summer, in a vale of flowersIs sleeping rosy at his feet.

To one, who look'd from upper airO'er all the enchanted regions there,How beauteous must have been the glow,The life, the sparkling from below! Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranksOf golden melons on their banks,More golden where the sun-light falls;—Gay lizards, glittering on the walls^[25]Of ruin'd shrines, busy and brightAs they were all alive with light;—And, yet more splendid, numerous flocksOf pigeons, settling on the rocks,With their rich restless wings, that gleamVariously in the crimson beamOf the warm west, as if inlaidWith brilliants from the mine, or madeOf tearless rainbows, such as spanThe unclouded skies of Peristan!And then,―the mingling sounds that come,Of shepherds' ancient reed,^[26] with hum Of the wild bees of Palestine,Banquetting through the flowery vales;—And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine,And woods, so full of nightingales!

But nought can charm the luckless Peri;Her soul is sad—her wings are weary—Joyless she sees the sun look downOn that great Temple, once his own,^[27]Whose lonely columns stand sublime,Flinging their shadows from on high,Like dials, which the wizard, Time,Had rais'd to count his ages by!

Yet haply there may lie conceal'dBeneath those Chambers of the Sun,Some amulet of gems, anneal'dIn upper fires, some tablet seal'dWith the Great Name of Solomon,Which, spell'd by her illumin'd eyes, May teach her where, beneath the moon,In earth or ocean lies the boon,The charm, that can restore so soon,An erring Spirit to the skies!

Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither;—Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,Nor have the golden bowers of EvenIn the rich West begun to wither;—When, o'er the vale of Balbec wingingSlowly, she sees a child at play,Among the rosy wild-flowers singing,As rosy and as wild as they;Chacing, with eager hands and eyes,The beautiful blue damsel-flies,^[28]That flutter'd round the jasmine stems,Like winged flowers or flying gems:—And, near the boy, who tir'd with playNow nestling 'mid the roses lay, She saw a wearied man dismountFrom his hot steed, and on the brinkOf a small imaret's rustic fountImpatient fling him down to drink.Then swift his haggard brow he turn'dTo the fair child, who fearless sat,Though never yet hath day-beam burn'dUpon a brow more fierce than that,―Sullenly fierce—a mixture dire,Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire!In which the Peri's eye could readDark tales of many a ruthless deed;The ruin'd maid—the shrine profan'd—Oaths broken—and the threshold stain'dWith blood of guests!—there written, all,Black as the damning drops that fallFrom the denouncing Angel's pen,Ere Mercy weeps them out again!

Yet tranquil now that man of crime,(As if the balmy evening timeSoften'd his spirit,) look'd and lay,Watching the rosy infant's play:— Though still, whene'er his eye by chanceFell on the boy's, its lurid glanceMet that unclouded, joyous gaze,As torches, that have burnt all nightThrough some impure and godless rite,Encounter morning's glorious rays.

But hark! the vesper call to prayer,As slow the orb of day-light sets,Is rising sweetly on the air,From Syria's thousand minarets!The boy has started from the bedOf flowers, where he had laid his head,And down upon the fragrant sodKneels, with his forehead to the south,Lisping th' eternal name of GodFrom purity's own cherub mouth,And looking, while his hands and eyesAre lifted to the glowing skies,Like a stray babe of Paradise,Just lighted on that flowery plain,And seeking for its home again! Oh 'twas a sight—that Heav'n—that Child—A scene, which might have well beguil'dEv'n haughty Eblis of a sighFor glories lost and peace gone by!

And how felt he, the wretched ManReclining there—while memory ranO'er many a year of guilt and strife,Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,Nor found one sunny resting-place,Nor brought him back one branch of grace!"There was a time," he said, in mild,Heart-humbled tones—"thou blessed child!"When young and haply pure as thou,"I look'd and pray'd like thee—but now—"He hung his head—each nobler aimAnd hope and feeling, which had sleptFrom boyhood's hour, that instant cameFresh o'er him, and he wept—he wept!

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!In whose benign, redeeming flowIs felt the first, the only senseOf guiltless joy that guilt can know. "There's a drop," said the Peri, "that down from the moon"Falls through the withering airs of June"Upon Egypt's land,^[29] of so healing a power,"So balmy a virtue, that ev'n in the hour"That drop descends, contagion dies,"And health reanimates earth and skies!"Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin,"The precious tears of repentance fall?"Though foul thy fiery plagues within,"One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all!And now—behold him kneeling thereBy the child's side, in humble prayer,While the same sun-beam shines uponThe guilty and the guiltless one,And hymns of joy proclaim through HeavenThe triumph of a Soul Forgiven !

'Twas when the golden orb had set,While on their knees they linger'd yet, There fell a light, more lovely farThan ever came from sun or star,Upon the tear that, warm and meek,Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek:To mortal eye this light might seemA northern flash or meteor beam—But well the' enraptur'd Peri knew"Twas a bright smile the Angel threwFrom Heaven's gate, to hail that tearHer harbinger of glory near!

"Joy, joy for ever! my task is done—"The Gates are pass'd, and Heaven is won!"Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am—" To thee, sweet Eden! how dark and sad"Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam,^[30]"And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad!

"Farewel, ye odours of Earth, that die,"Passing away like a lover's sigh;— "My feast is now of the Tooba Tree,^[31]"Whose scent is the breath of Eternity!

"Farewel ye vanishing flowers, that shone"In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief,—"Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown,"To the lote-tree, springing by Alla's Throne,^[32]"Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf!Joy, joy for ever!—my task is done—"The Gates are pass'd, and Heav'n is won!"

---

1. La lecture de ces Fables plaisoit si fort aux Arabes, que, quand Mahomet les entretenoit de l'Histoire de l'Ancien Testament, ils les méprisoient, lui disant que celles que Nasser leur racontoient étoient beaucoup plus belles. Cette préference attira à Nasser la malediction de Mahomet et de tous ses disciples.—D'Herbelot.
2. The blacksmith Gao, who successfully resisted the tyrant Zohak, and whose apron became the Royal Standard of Persia.
3. The Huma.
4. The Story of Sinbad.
5. Numerous small islands emerge from the Lake of Cashmere. One is called Char Chenaur, from the plane trees upon it."—Forster.
6. "The Altan Kol, or Golden River of Tibet, which runs into the Lakes of Sing-su-hay, has abundance of gold in its sands, which employs the inhabitants all the summer in gathering it."—Description of Tibet in Pinkerton.
7. "The Mahometans suppose that falling stars are the firebrands wherewith the good angels drive away the bad, when they approach too near the empyreum or verge of the Heavens."—Fryer.
8. The Forty Pillars; so the Persians call the ruins of Persepolis. It is imagined by them that this palace and the edifices at Balbec, were built by Genii, for the purpose of hiding in their subterraneous caverns, immense treasures, which still remain there.—D'Herbelot, Volney.
9. The Isles of Panchaia.
10. "The cup of Jamshid, discovered, they say, when digging for the foundations of Persepolis."—Richardson.
11. Mahmood of Gazna, or Ghizni, who conquered India in the beginning of the 11th century.—v. his History in Dow and Sir J. Malcolm.
12. "It is reported that the hunting equipage of the Sultan Mahmoud was so magnificent, that he kept 400 grey-hounds and blood-hounds, each of which wore a collar set with jewels, and a covering edged with gold and pearls."—Universal History, vol. iii.
13. "The Mountains of the Moon, or the Montes Lunæ of antiquity, at the foot of which the Nile is supposed to arise."—Bruce.
14. "The Nile, which the Abyssinians know by the names of Abey and Alawy or the Giant."—Asiat. Research. vol. i. p. 387.
15. V. Perry's View of the Levant for an account of the sepulchres in Upper Thebes, and the numberless grots, covered all over with hieroglyphics in the mountains of Upper Egypt.
16. "The orchards of Rosetta are filled with turtle-doves."—Sonnini.
17. Savary mentions the pelicans upon Lake Mœris.
18. "The superb date-tree, whose head languidly reclines, like that of a handsome woman overcome with sleep."—Dafard el Hadad.
19. "That beautiful bird, with plumage of the finest shining blue, with purple beak and legs, the natural and living ornament of the temples and palaces of the Greeks and Romans, which from the stateliness of its port, as well as the brilliancy of its colours, has obtained the title of Sultana."—Sonnini.
20. Jackson, speaking of the plague that occurred in West Barbary, when he was there, says, "The birds of the air fled away from the abodes of men. The hyænas, on the contrary, visited the cemeteries," &c.
21. Bruce.
22. "In the East, they suppose the Phoenix to have fifty orifices in his bill, which are continued to his tail; and that, after living one thousand years, he builds himself a funeral pile, sings a melodious air of different harmonies through his fifty organ pipes, flaps his wings with a velocity which sets fire to the wood, and consumes himself."—Richardson.
23. "On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thousand goblets, made of stars, out of which souls predestined to enjoy felicity drink the crystal wave."—From Chateaubriand's Description of the Mahometan Paradise, in his Beauties of Christianity.
24. Richardson thinks that Syria had its name from Suri, a beautiful and delicate species of rose, for which that country has been always famous;—hence, Suristan, the Land of Roses.
25. "The number of lizards I saw one day in the great court of the Temple of the Sun at Baalbec, amounted to many thousands; the ground, the walls, and stones of the ruined buildings, were covered with them."—Bruce.
26. The Syrinx or Pan's pipe is still a pastoral instrument in Syria.—Russel.
27. The Temple of the Sun at Balbec.
28. "You behold there a considerable number of a remarkable species of beautiful insects, the elegance of whose appearance and their attire procured for them the name of Damsels."―Sonnini.
29. The Nucta, or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt precisely on St. John's day, in June, and is supposed to have the effect of stopping the plague.
30. The Country of Delight,—the name of a Province in the kingdom of Jinnistan, or Fairy Land, the capital of which is called the city of Jewels. Amberabad is another of the cities of Jinnistan.
31. The tree Tooba, that stands in Paradise, in the palace of Mahomet. v. Sale's Prelim. Disc.—Touba, says D'Herbelot, signifies beatitude, or eternal happiness.
32. Mahomet is described, in the 53d Chapter of the Koran, as having seen the angel Gabriel "by the lote-tree, beyond which there is no passing near it is the Garden of Eternal Abode." This tree, say the commentators, stands in the seventh Heaven, on the right hand of the Throne of God.