Lalla Rookh/The Fire-Worshippers
"And this," said the Great Chamberlain, "is poetry! this flimsy manufacture of the brain, which in comparison with the lofty and durable monuments of genius is as the gold filigree-work of Zamara beside the eternal architecture of Egypt!" After this gorgeous sentence, which, with a few more of the same kind, Fadladeen kept by him for rare and important occasions, he proceeded to the anatomy of the short poem just recited. The lax and easy kind of metre in which it was written ought to be denounced, he said, as one of the leading causes of the alarming growth of poetry in our times. If some check were not given to this lawless facility we should soon be overrun by a race of bards as numerous and as shallow as the hundred and twenty thousand Streams of Basra.[1] They who succeeded in this style deserved chastisement for their very success;—as warriors have been punished, even after gaining a victory, because they had taken the liberty of gaining it in an irregular or unestablished manner. What then was to be said to those who failed? to those who presumed, as in the present lamentable instance, to imitate the license and ease of the bolder sons of song, without any of that grace or vigour which gave a dignity even to negligence;—who, like them, flung the jereed[2] carelessly, but not, like them, to the mark;—"and who," said he, raising his voice to excite a proper degree of wakefulness in his hearers, "contrive to appear heavy and constrained in the midst of all the latitude they have allowed themselves, like one of those young pagans that dance before the Princess, who has the ingenuity to move as if her limbs were fettered, in a pair of the lightest and loosest drawers of Masulipatam!"
It was but little suitable, he continued, to the grave march of criticism to follow this fantastical Peri, of whom they had just heard, through all her flights and adventures between earth and heaven, but he could not help adverting to the puerile conceitedness of the Three Gifts which she is supposed to carry to the skies,—a drop of blood, forsooth, a sigh, and a tear! How the first of these articles was delivered into the Angel's "radiant hand" he professed himself at a loss to discover; and as to the safe carriage of the sigh and the tear, such Peris and such Poets were beings by far too incomprehensible for him even to guess how they managed such matters. "But, in short," said he, "it is a waste of time and patience to dwell longer upon a thing so incurably frivolous,—puny even among its own puny race, and such as only the Banyan Hospital for Sick Insects[3] should undertake."
In vain did Lalla Rookh try to soften this inexorable critic; in vain did she resort to her most eloquent common-places,—reminding him that poets were a timid and sensitive race, whose sweetness was not to be drawn forth, like that of the fragrant grass near the Ganges, by crushing and trampling upon them;—that severity often destroyed every chance of the perfection which it demanded; and that, after all, perfection was like the Mountain of the Talisman,—no one had ever yet reached its summit.[4] Neither these gentle axioms, nor the still gentler looks with which they were inculcated, could lower for one instant the elevation of Fadladeen's eyebrows, or charm him into any thing like encouragement or even toleration of her poet. Toleration, indeed, was not among the weaknesses of Fadladeen;—he carried the same spirit into matters of poetry and of religion, and, though little versed in the beauties or sublimities of either, was a perfect master of the art of persecution in both. His zeal too was the same in either pursuit; whether the game before him was pagans or poetasters,—worshippers of cows, or writers of epics.
They had now arrived at the splendid city of Lahore, whose mausoleums and shrines, magnificent and numberless, where Death seemed to share equal honours with Heaven, would have powerfully affected the heart and imagination of Lalla Rookh, if feelings more of this earth had not taken entire possession of them already. She was here met by messengers, dispatched from Cashmere, who informed her that the King had arrived in the Valley, and was himself superintending the sumptuous preparations that were making in the Saloons of the Shalimar for her reception. The chill she felt on receiving this intelligence,—which to a bride whose heart was free and light would have brought only images of affection and pleasure,—convinced her that her peace was gone for ever, and that she was in love, irretrievably in love, with young Feramorz. The veil, which this passion wears at first, had fallen off, and to know that she loved was now as painful as to love without knowing it had been delicious. Feramorz too,—what misery would be his, if the sweet hours of intercourse so imprudently allowed them should have stolen into his heart the same fatal fascination as into hers;—if, notwithstanding her rank, and the modest homage he always paid to it, even he should have yielded to the influence of those long and happy interviews, where music, poetry, the delightful scenes of nature,―all tended to bring their hearts close together, and to waken by every means that too ready passion, which often, like the young of the desert-bird, is warmed into life by the eyes alone![5] She saw but one way to preserve herself from being culpable as well as unhappy, and this, however painful, she was resolved to adopt. Feramorz must no more be admitted to her presence. To have strayed so far into the dangerous labyrinth was wrong, but to linger in it, while the clew was yet in her hand, would be criminal. Though the heart she had to offer to the King of Bucharia might be cold and broken, it should at least be pure; and she must only try to forget the short vision of happiness she had enjoyed,—like that Arabian shepherd, who, in wandering into the wilderness, caught a glimpse of the Gardens of Irim, and then lost them again for ever![6]
The arrival of the young Bride at Lahore was celebrated in the most enthusiastic manner. The Rajas and Omras in her train, who had kept at a certain distance during the journey, and never encamped nearer to the Princess than was strictly necessary for her safeguard, here rode in splendid cavalcade through the city, and distributed the most costly presents to the crowd. Engines were erected in all the squares, which cast forth showers of confectionary among the people; while the artisans, in chariots adorned with tinsel and flying streamers, exhibited the badges of their respective trades through the streets. Such brilliant displays of life and pageantry among the palaces, and domes, and gilded minarets of Lahore, made the city altogether like a place of enchantment;—particularly on the day when Lalla Rookh set out again upon her journey, when she was accompanied to the gate by all the fairest and richest of the nobility, and rode along between ranks of beautiful boys and girls, who waved plates of gold and silver flowers over their heads[7] as they went, and then threw them to be gathered by the populace.
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,[8] 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 tasteless enough 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 LoveWhich enslaves our souls in this!
Tell me not of Houris' eyes;—Far from me their dangerous glow,If those looks that light the skiesWound like some that burn below!
Who, that feels what Love is here,All its falsehood—all its pain—Would, for ev'n Elysium's sphere,Risk the fatal dream again?
Who, that midst a desert's heatSees the waters fade away,Would not rather die than meetStreams 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 as a sad but 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 fan-like foliage of the Palmyra,—that favourite tree of the luxurious bird that lights up the chambers of its nest with fire-flies.[9] 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, 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 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 dispatched for Feramorz, who, in a very few minutes, appeared before them,—looking so pale and unhappy in Lalla Rookh's eyes, that she already repented 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, preferring liberty and their altars in a foreign land to the alternative of apostacy 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,[10] 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, 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!"—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 brave struggles of the Fireworshippers of Persia 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:—
'Tis moonlight over Oman's Sea;[11]Her banks of pearl and palmy islesBask in the night-beam beauteously,And her blue waters sleep in smiles.'Tis moonlight in Harmozia's[12] walls,And through her Emir's porphyry halls,Where, some hours since, was heard the swellOf trumpet and the clash of zel,[13]Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell;—The peaceful sun, whom better suitsThe 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[14]Can hardly win a breath from heaven.
Ev'n he, that tyrant Arab, sleepsCalm, while a nation round him weeps;While curses load the air he breathes,And falchions from unnumber'd sheathsAre starting to avenge the shameHis race hath brought on Iran's[15] name.Hard, heartless Chief, unmov'd alikeMid eyes that weep and swords that strike;—One of that saintly, murderous brood,To carnage and the Koran given,Who think through unbelievers' bloodLies their directest path to heaven.One, who will pause and kneel unshodIn the warm blood his hand hath pour'd,To mutter o'er some text of GodEngraven on his reeking sword;—[16] 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 standsUnblushing, with thy Sacred Book,—Turning the leaves with blood-stain'd hands,And wresting from its page sublimeHis creed of lust and hate and crime!Ev'n as those bees of Trebizond,—Which from the sunniest flowers that gladWith their pure smile the gardens round,Draw venom forth that drives men mad![17]
Never did fierce Arabia sendA satrap forth more direly great;Never was Iran doomed to bendBeneath a yoke of deadlier weight.Her throne had fall'n—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 stillWith hope and vengeance;—hearts that yet,—Like gems, in darkness issuing raysThey've treasur'd from the sun that's set,—Beam all the light of long-lost days!And swords she hath, nor weak nor slowTo second all such hearts can dare;As he shall know, well, dearly know,Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there,Tranquil as if his spirit layBecalm'd in Heav'n's approving ray!Sleep on—for purer eyes than thineThose waves are hush'd, those planets shine.Sleep on, and be thy rest unmov'dBy the white moonlight's dazzling power;— None but the loving and the lov'dShould be awake at this sweet hour.
And see—where, high above those rocksThat o'er the deep their shadows fling,Yon turret stands;—where ebon locks,As glossy as the heron's wingUpon the turban of a king,[18]Hang from the lattice, long and wild,—'Tis she, that Emir's blooming child,All truth and tenderness and grace,Tho' born of such ungentle race;—An image of Youth's radiant FountainSpringing in a desolate mountain![19]
Oh what a pure and sacred thingIs Beauty, curtain'd from the sightOf the gross world, illuminingOne only mansion with her light! Unseen by man's disturbing eye,—The flower, that blooms beneath the sea,Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lieHid in more chaste obscurity.So, Hinda, have thy face and mind,Like holy mysteries, lain enshrined.And oh what transport for a loverTo lift the veil that shades them o'er!—Like those who, all at once, discoverIn the lone deep some fairy shore,Where mortal never trod before,And sleep and wake in scented airsNo lip had ever breathed but theirs!
Beautiful are the maids that glideOn summer-eves through Yemen's[20] dales,And bright the glancing looks they hideBehind their litters' roseate veils;—And brides as delicate and fairAs the white jasmine flowers they wear,Hath Yemen in her blissful clime,Who lull'd in cool kiosk or bower, Before their mirrors count the time,And grow still lovelier every hour.But never yet hath bride or maidIn Araby's gay Haram smil'd.Whose boasted brightness would not fadeBefore Al Hassan's blooming child.
Light as the angel shapes that blessAn infant's dream, yet not the lessRich in all woman's loveliness;—With eyes so pure, that from their rayDark Vice would turn abash'd away,Blinded like serpents, when they gazeUpon the emerald's virgin blaze!—[21]Yet fill'd with all youth's sweet desires,Mingling the meek and vestal firesOf 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 thereMore 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 eyesAnd beating heart,—she us'd to gazeOn the magnificent earth and skies,In her own land, in happier days.Why looks she now so anxious downAmong those rocks, whose rugged frownBlackens 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,[22]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 seesNo charm in trophies won with ease;—Whose rarest, dearest fruits of blissAre pluck'd on Danger's precipice!Bolder than they, who dare not diveFor pearls, but when the sea's at rest,Love, in the tempest most alive,Hath ever held that pearl the bestHe 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 th' untrodden solitudeOf Ararat's tremendous peak,[23] And think its steeps, though dark and dread,Heav'n's path-ways, if to thee they led!Ev'n now thou seest the flashing spray,That lights his oar's impatient way;—Ev'n now thou hear'st the sudden shockOf 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,[24]Came, in the flush of love and pride,And scal'd the terrace of his bride;—When, as she saw him rashly spring,And mid-way up in danger cling,She flung him down her long black hair,Exclaiming breathless, "There, love, there!"And scarce did manlier nerve upholdThe hero Zal in that fond hour, Than wings the youth who fleet and boldNow climbs the rocks to Hinda's bower.See-light as up their granite steepsThe rock-goats of Arabia clamber,[25]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 breezeFrom isles in the' undiscover'd seas,To show his plumage for a dayTo wondering eyes, and wing away!Will he thus fly—her nameless lover?Alla forbid! 'twas by a moonAs fair as this, while singing overSome ditty to her soft Kanoon,[26] Alone, at this same witching hour,She first beheld his radiant eyesGleam 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 wayTo 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 has spokenStrange, awful words,—and gleams have brokenFrom his dark eyes, too bright to bear,Oh! she hath fear'd her soul was givenTo 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 ireAs the best heart whose current runsFull 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 moonlight 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 seeThe passing smile her cheek put on;But when she mark'd how mournfullyHis 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 go'st, 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"His grey 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 mid 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"Th' unholy strife these Persians wage:—"Good Heav'n, 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 rais'd 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 flungHis mantle back, and show'd beneathThe Gheber belt that round him clung—.[27]"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![28]"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 ev'n 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, divorced forever,"Far as the grasp of Fate can sever; "Our only ties what love has wove,—"In 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 foe—"Thyself, perhaps, ev'n 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'dAnd pointed to the distant wave,Where lights, like charnel meteors, burn'dBluely as o'er some seaman's grave;And fiery darts at intervals[29]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'dDown mid the pointed crags beneath,As if he fled from love to death.While pale and mute young Hinda stood,Nor mov'd, till in the silent floodA momentary plunge belowStartled her from her trance of woe;—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-starred home may lie;And calm and smooth it seemed to winIts moonlight way before the wind,As if it bore all peace within,Nor left one breaking heart behind!
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 hath risen clear and calm,And o'er the Green Sea[30] palely shines,Revealing Bahrein's groves of palm,And lighting Kishma's[31] amber vines.Fresh smell the shores of Araby,While breezes from the Indian seaBlow round Selama's[32] 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 tow'rd that holy head-land cast—Oblations to the Genii thereFor gentle skies and breezes fair! The nightingale now bends her flightFrom the high trees, where all the nightShe sung so sweet, with none to listen;And hides her from the morning starWhere thickets of pomegranate glistenIn the clear dawn,—bespangled o'erWith dew, whose night-drops would not stainThe best and brightest scimitar[33]That ever youthful Sultan woreOn the first morning of his reign.
And see—the Sun himself!—on wingsOf glory up the East he springs.Angel of Light! who from the timeThose heavens began their march sublime,Has first of all the starry choirTrod in his Maker's steps of fire!Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere,When Iran, like a sun-flower, turn'dTo meet that eye where'er it burned?—When, from the banks of Bendemeer To the nut-groves of SamarcandThy temples flam'd o'er all the land?Where are they? ask the shades of themWho, on Cadessia's[34] bloody plains,Saw fierce invaders pluck the gemFrom Iran's broken diadem,And bind her ancient faith in chains:—Ask the poor exile, cast aloneOn foreign shores, unlov'd, unknown,Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates,[35]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 trodHis own beloved but blighted sod,Beneath a despot stranger's nod;—Oh, he would rather houseless roamWhere Freedom and his God may lead,Than be the sleekest slave at homeThat 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 heav'n 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 seedsOf vengeance ripen into deeds,Till, in some treacherous hour of calm,They burst like Zeilan's giant palm,[36]Whose buds fly open with a soundThat shakes the pigmy forests round!
Yes, Emir! he, who scal'd that tower,And, could he reach thy slumbering breast,Would teach thee, in a Gheber's powerHow safe ev'n tyrant heads may rest— Is one of many, brave as he,Who loathe thy haughty race and thee;Who, though they knew the strife is vain,Who, though they know the riven chainSnaps but to enter in the heartOf him who rends its links apart,Yet dare the issue,—blest to beEven for one bleeding moment free,And die in pangs of liberty!Thou know'st them well—'tis some moons sinceThy turban'd troops and blood-red flags,Thou satrap of a bigot Prince!Have swarm'd among these Green-Sea crags;Yet here, ev'n here, a sacred band,Ay, in the portal of that landThou, Arab, dar'st to call thy own,Their spears across thy path have thrown.Here—ere the winds half wing'd thee o'er—Rebellion brav'd thee from the shore.
Rebellion! foul, dishonouring word,Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'dThe holiest cause that tongue or swordOf 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 successHad wafted to eternal fame!As exhalations, when they burstFrom 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 spreadTheir wings above the mountain-head,Become enthron'd in upper air,And turn to sun-bright glories there!
And who is he, that wields the mightOf Freedom on the Green-Sea brink,Before whose sabre's dazzling lightThe eyes of Yemen's warriors wink?Who comes embower'd in the spearsOf Kerman's hardy mountaineers?—Those mountaineers that truest, last,Cling to their country's ancient rites,As if that God, whose eyelids castTheir closing gleam on Iran's heights, Among her snowy mountains threwThe last light of his worship too!
'Tis Hafed—name of fear, whose soundChills 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 powerThe Arabs, at their mid-watch hour,Such tales of fearful wonder tell,That each affrighted centinelPulls 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,[37]Who in their fairy helms, of yore, A feather from the mystic wingsOf the Simoorgh resistless wore;And gifted by the Fiends of Fire,Who groan'd 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 gaveTo a young, warm and dauntless Chief,—One who, no more than mortal brave,Fought for the land his soul ador'd,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 shineNames, that have sanctified their blood;As Lebanon's small mountain-floodIs render'd holy by the ranksOf sainted cedars on its banks![38] 'Twas not for him to crouch the kneeTamely to Moslem tyranny;—'Twas not for him, whose soul was castIn the bright mould of ages past,Whose melancholy spirit, fedWith all the glories of the dead,Though fram'd for Iran's happiest years,Was born among her chains and tears!—'Twas not for him to swell the crowdOf slavish heads, that shrinking bowedBefore the Moslem, as he pass'd,Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast—No—far he fled—indignant fledThe pageant of his country's shame;While every tear her children shedFell on his soul, like drops of flame;And, as a lover hails the dawnOf a first smile, so welcom'd heThe sparkle of the first sword drawnFor vengeance and for liberty!
But vain was valour—vain the flowerOf Kerman, in that deathful hour,Against Al Hassan's whelming power.— In vain they met him, helm to helm,Upon the threshold of that realmHe came in bigot pomp to sway,And with their corpses block'd his way—In vain—for every lance they rais'dThousands around the conqueror blaz'd;For every arm that lin'd their shore,Myriads of slaves were wafted o'er,—A bloody, bold and countless crowd,Before whose swarm as fast they bow'dAs dates beneath the locust-cloud!
There stood but one short league awayFrom old Harmozia's sultry bay—A rocky mountain, o'er the SeaOf Oman beetling awfully.A last and solitary linkOf those stupendous chains that reachFrom the broad Caspian's reedy brinkDown 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 brav'd the sky,A ruin'd Temple tower'd, so highThat oft the sleeping albatross[39]Struck the wild ruins with her wing,And from her cloud-rock'd slumberingStarted—to find man's dwelling thereIn her own silent fields of air!Beneath, terrific caverns gaveDark welcome to each stormy waveThat dash'd, like midnight revellers, in;—And such the strange, mysterious dinAt times throughout those caverns roll'd,—And such the fearful wonders toldOf restless sprites imprison'd there,That bold were Moslem, who would dare,At twilight hour, to steer his skiffBeneath 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 menBy 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 comeWith 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 knowIf 'twere the sea's imprison'd flow,Or floods of ever-restless flame.For each ravine, each rocky spireOf that vast mountain stood on fire;[40]And, though for ever past the days,When God was worshipp'd in the blazeThat from its lofty altar shone,—Though fled the priests, the votaries gone,Still did the mighty flame burn onThrough chance and change, through good and ill,Like its own God's eternal will,Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable!
Thither the vanquish'd Hafed ledHis little army's last remains;— "Welcome, terrific glen!" he said,"Thy gloom, that Elbis' self might dread,"Is heav'n to him who flies from chains!"O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way, knownTo 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 vultures' 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,Glar'd 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[41] 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 ev'n 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 profan'd;"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,[42]"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 ev'n 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 bladeUpon the broken altar laid—And though so wild and desolateThose courts, where once the Mighty sate;Nor longer on those mouldering towersWas seen the feast of fruits and flowers,With which of old the Magi fedThe wandering Spirits of their Dead;[43] Though neither priest nor rites were there,Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate;[44]Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air,Nor symbol of their worshipp'd planet;[45]Yet the same God that heard their siresHeard them, while on that altar's firesThey swore the latest, holiest deedOf the few hearts, still left to bleed,Should be, in Iran's injur'd 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 knewHow many a tear their injuries drewFrom one meek heart, one gentle foe,Whom Love first touch'd with others' woe—Whose life, as free from thought as sin,Slept like a lake, till Love threw inHis talisman, and woke the tide,And spread its trembling circles wide.Once, Emir! thy unheeding child,Mid all this havoc, bloom'd and smil'd,—Tranquil as on some battle-plainThe Persian lily shines and towers,Before the combat's reddening stainHas fall'n upon her golden flowers.Light-hearted maid, unaw'd, unmov'd,While heav'n but spar'd the sire she lov'd,Once at thy evening tales of bloodUnlistening and aloof she stood—And oft, when thou hast pac'd alongThy Haram halls with furious heat,Hast thou not curs'd her cheerful song,That came across thee, calm and sweet,Like lutes of angels, touch'd so nearHell's confines, that the damn'd can hear! Far other feelings Love has 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 recalHis words—"for my sake weep for all;"And bitterly, as day on dayOf rebel carnage fast succeeds,She weeps a lover snatch'd awayIn 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 lightAl Hassan's falchion for the fight;And,—had he look'd with clearer sight,Had not the mists, that ever riseFrom 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 estrang'd—Voice, step, and life, and beauty chang'd— He would have mark'd all this, and knownSuch change is wrought by Love alone!
Ah! not the Love, that should have bless'dSo young, so innocent a breast;Not the pure, open, prosperous Love,That, pledg'd on earth and seal'd above,Grows in the world's approving eyes,In friendship's smile and home's caress,Collecting all the heart's sweet tiesInto one knot of happiness!No, Hinda, no—thy fatal flameIs nurs'd in silence, sorrow, shame.—A passion, without hope or pleasure,In thy soul's darkness buried deep,It lies, like some ill-gotten treasure,—Some idol, without shrine or name,O'er which its pale-ey'd votaries keepUnholy watch, while others sleep!
Seven nights have darken'd Oman's Sea,Since last, beneath the moonlight ray,She saw his light oar rapidlyHurry her Gheber's bark away,— And still she goes, at midnight hour,To weep alone in that high bower,And watch, and look along the deepFor him whose smiles first made her weep,—But watching, weeping, all was vain,She never saw that bark again.The owlet's solitary cry,The night-hawk, flitting darkly by,And oft the hateful carrion-bird,Heavily flapping his clogg'd wing,Which reek'd with that day's banquetting—Was all she saw, was all she heard.
'Tis the eighth morn—Al Hassan's browIs brighten'd with unusual joy—What mighty mischief glads him now,Who never smiles but to destroy?The sparkle upon Herkend's Sea,When tost at midnight furiously,[46]Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh,More surely than that smiling eye! "Up, daughter, up—the Kerna's[47] breath"Has blown a blast would waken death,"And yet thou sleep'st—up, child, and see"This blessed day for heaven and me,"A day more rich in Pagan blood"Than ever flash'd o'er Oman's flood."Before another dawn shall shine,"His head—heart—limbs—will all be mine;"This very night his blood shall steep"These hands all over ere I sleep!"—"His blood!" she faintly scream'd—her mindStill singling one from all mankind—"Yes—spite of his ravines and towers,"Hafed, my child, this night is ours."Thanks to all-conquering treachery,"Without whose aid the links accurst,"That bind these impious slaves, would be"Too strong for Alla's self to burst!"That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread"My path with piles of Moslem dead, "Whose baffling spells had almost driven"Back from their course the Swords of Heaven,"This night, with all his band, shall know"How deep an Arab's steel can go,"When God and Vengeance speed the blow."And—Prophet!—by that holy wreath"Thou wor'st on Ohod's field of death,[48]"I swear, for every sob that parts"In anguish from these heathen hearts,"A gem from Persia's plunder'd mines"Shall glitter on thy Shrine of Shrines."But ha!—she sinks—that look so wild—"Those livid lips—my child, my child,"This life of blood befits not thee,"And thou must back to Araby."Ne'er had I risk'd thy timid sexIn scenes that man himself might dread,"Had I not hop'd our every tread"Would be on prostrate Persian necks—"Curst race, they offer swords instead! "But cheer thee, maid,—the wind, that now"Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow,"To-day shall waft thee from the shore;"And, ere a drop of this night's gore"Have time to chill in yonder towers,"Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers!"
His bloody boast was all too true—There lurk'd one wretch among the fewWhom Hafed's eagle eye could countAround him on that Fiery Mount,—One miscreant, who for gold betray'dThe path-way through the valley's shadeTo those high towers, where Freedom stoodIn her last hold of flame and blood.Left on the field last dreadful night,When, sallying from their Sacred Height,The Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight,He lay—but died not with the brave;That sun, which should have gilt his grave,Saw him a traitor and a slave;—And, while the few, who thence return'dTo their high rocky fortress, mourn'dFor him among the matchless deadThey left behind on glory's bed, He liv'd, and, in the face of morn,Laugh'd them and Faith and Heaven to scorn!
Oh for a tongue to curse the slave,Whose treason, like a deadly blight,Comes o'er the councils of the brave,And blasts them in their hour of might!May Life's unblessed cup for himBe drugg'd with treacheries to the brim,—With hopes, that but allure to fly,With joys, that vanish while he sips,Like Dead-Sea fruits, that tempt the eye,But turn to ashes on the lips!His country's curse, his children's shame,Outcast of virtue, peace and fame,May he, at last, with lips of flameOn the parch'd desert thirsting die,—While lakes that shone in mockery nighAre fading off, untouch'd, untasted,Like the once glorious hopes he blasted!And, when from earth his spirit flies,Just Prophet, let the damn'd-one dwellFull in the sight of Paradise,Beholding heaven, and feeling hell!
She had proceeded thus far in relating the dream to her Ladies, when Feramorz appeared at the door of the pavilion. In his presence, of course, every thing else was forgotten, and the continuance of the story was instantly requested by all. Fresh wood of aloes was set to burn in the cassolets;—the violet sherbets were hastily handed round, and, after a short prelude on his lute, in the pathetic measure of Nava, which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers, the Poet thus continued:—
The day is lowering—stilly blackSleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack,Dispers'd and wild, 'twixt earth and skyHangs like a shatter'd canopy!There's not a cloud in that blue plainBut tells of storm to come or past;—Here, flying loosely as the maneOf a young war-horse in the blast;—There, roll'd in masses dark and swelling,As proud to be the thunder's dwelling!While some, already burst and riven,Seem melting down the verge of heaven;As though the infant storm had rentThe mighty womb that gave him birth,And, having swept the firmament,Was now in fierce career for earth.On earth 'twas yet all calm around,A pulseless silence, dread, profound,More awful than the tempest's sound.The diver steer'd for Ormus' bowers,And moor'd his skiff till calmer hours; The sea-birds, with portentous screech,Flew fast to land;—upon the beachThe pilot oft had paus'd, with glanceTurn'd upward to that wild expanse;And all was boding, drear and darkAs her own soul, when Hinda's barkWent slowly from the Persian shore—No music timed her parting oar,[49]Nor friends upon the lessening strandLinger'd, to wave the unseen hand,Or speak the farewell, heard no more;—But lone, unheeded, from the bayThe vessel takes its mournful way,Like some ill-destin'd bark that steersIn silence through the Gate of Tears.[50]
And where was stern Al Hassan then?Could not that saintly scourge of men From blood-shed and devotion spareOne minute for a farewell there?No—close within, in changeful fitsOf cursing and of prayer, he sitsIn savage loneliness to broodUpon the coming night of blood,With that keen, second-scent of death,By which the vulture snuffs his foodIn the still warm and living breath![51]While o’er the wave his weeping daughterIs wafted from these scenes of slaughter,—As a young bird of Babylon,[52]Let loose to tell of victory won,Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstain'dBy the red hands that held her chain'd.
And does the long-left home she seeksLight up no gladness on her cheeks?The flowers she nurs'd—the well-known groves,Where oft in dreams her spirit roves— Once more to see her dear gazellesCome bounding with their silver bells;Her birds' new plumage to behold,And the gay, gleaming fishes count,She left, all filleted with gold,Shooting around their jasper fount.—[53]Her little garden mosque to see,And once again, at evening hour,To tell her ruby rosary,In her own sweet acacia bower.—Can these delights, that wait her now,Call up no sunshine on her brow?No—silent, from her train apart,—As if ev'n now she felt at heartThe chill of her approaching doom,—She sits, all lovely in her gloomAs a pale Angel of the Grave;And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave,Looks, with a shudder, to those towers,Where, in a few short awful hours, Blood, blood, in steaming tides shall run,Foul incense for to-morrow's sun!"Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou,"So lov'd, so lost, where art thou now?"Foe—Gheber—infidel—whate'er"Th' unhallow'd name thou'rt doom'd to bear,"Still glorious—still to this fond heart"Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art!"Yes—Alla, dreadful Alla! yes—"If there be wrong, be crime in this,"Let the black waves, that round us roll,"Whelm me this instant, ere my soul,"Forgetting faith,—home,—father,—all—"Before its earthly idol fall,"Nor worship ev'n Thyself above him.—"For oh! so wildly do I love him,"Thy Paradise itself were dim,"And joyless, if not shar'd with him!"
Her hands were clasp'd-her eyes upturn'd,Dropping their tears like moonlight rain:And, though her lip, fond raver! burn'dWith words of passion, bold, profane, Yet was there light around her brow,A holiness in those dark eyes,Which show'd—though wandering earthward now,—Her spirit's home was in the skies.Yes—for a spirit, pure as hers,Is always pure, ev'n while it errs;As sunshine, broken in the rill,Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still!
So wholly had her mind forgotAll thoughts but one, she heeded notThe rising storm—the wave that castA moment's midnight, as it pass'd—Nor heard the frequent shout, the treadOf gathering tumult o'er her head—Clash'd swords, and tongues that seem'd to vieWith the rude riot of the sky.—But hark!—that war-whoop on the deck—That crash, as if each engine there,Mast, sails and all were gone to wreck,Mid yells and stampings of despair!Merciful heaven! what can it be?"Tis not the storm, though fearfully The ship has shuddered as she rodeO'er mountain waves—"Forgive me, God!"Forgive me"—shriek'd the maid, and knelt,Trembling all over,—for she feltAs if her judgment-hour was near;While crouching round, half dead with fear,Her hand-maids clung, nor breath'd, nor stirr'd—When, hark!—a second crash—a third—And now, as if a bolt of thunderHad riv'n the labouring planks asunder,The deck falls in—what horrors then!Blood, waves and tackle, swords and menCome mix'd together through the chasm;—Some wretches in—their dying spasmStill fighting on—and some that call"For God and Iran!" as they fall!
Whose was the hand that turn'd awayThe perils of th' infuriate fray,And snatch'd her breathless from beneathThis wilderment of wreck and death?She knew not—for a faintness cameChill o'er her, and her sinking frame Amid the ruins of that hourLay, like a pale and scorched flower,Beneath the red volcano's shower!But oh! the sights and sounds of dreadThat shock'd her, ere her senses fled!The yawning deck—the crowd that stroveUpon the tottering planks above—The sail, whose fragments, shivering o'erThe strugglers' heads, all dash'd with gore,Flutter'd like bloody flags—the clashOf sabres, and the lightning's flashUpon their blades, high toss'd aboutLike meteor brands[54]—as if throughoutThe elements one fury ran,One general rage, that left a doubtWhich was the fiercer, Heav'n or Man!
Once too—but no—it could not be—'Twas fancy all—yet once she thought,While yet her fading eyes could see,High on the ruin'd deck she caughtA glimpse of that unearthly form,That glory of her soul,—ev'n then, Amid the whirl of wreck and storm,Shining above his fellow men,As, on some black and troublous night,The Star of Egypt,[55] whose proud lightNever has beam'd on those who restIn the White Islands of the West,[56]Burns through the storm with looks of flameThat put heav'n's cloudier eyes to shame!But no—'twas but the minute's dream—A fantasy—and ere the screamHad half-way pass'd her pallid lips,A death-like swoon, a chill eclipseOf soul and sense its darkness spreadAround her, and she sunk, as dead!
How calm, how beautiful comes onThe stilly hour, when storms are gone;When warring winds have died away,And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,Melt off, and leave the land and seaSleeping in bright tranquillity,— Fresh as if Day again were born,Again upon the lap of Morn!When the light blossoms, rudely tornAnd scatter'd at the whirlwind's will,Hang floating in the pure air still,Filling it all with precious balm,In gratitude for this sweet calm;—And every drop the thunder-showersHave left upon the grass and flowersSparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem[57]Whose liquid flame is born of them!When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze,There blow a thousand gentle airs,And each a different perfume bears,—As if the loveliest plants and treesHad vassal breezes of their ownTo watch and wait on them alone,And waft no other breath than theirs! When the blue waters rise and fall,In sleepy sunshine mantling all;And ev'n that swell the tempest leavesIs like the full and silent heavesOf lovers' hearts, when newly blest,Too newly to be quite at rest!
Such was the golden hour, that brokeUpon the world, when Hinda wokeFrom her long trance, and heard aroundNo motion but the water's soundRippling against the vessel's side,As slow it mounted o'er the tide.—But where is she?—her eyes are dark.Are wilder'd still—is this the bark,The same, that from Harmozia's bayBore her at morn—whose bloody wayThe sea-dog tracks?—no—strange and newIs all that meets her wondering view.Upon a galliot's deck she lies,Beneath no rich pavilion's shade,No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes,Nor jasmin on her pillow laid. But the rude litter, roughly spreadWith war-cloaks, is her homely bed,And shawl and sash, on javelins hung,For awning o'er her head are flung.Shuddering she look'd around—there layA group of warriors in the sunResting their limbs, as for that dayTheir ministry of death were done.Some gazing on the drowsy sea,Lost in unconscious reverie;And some, who seem'd but ill to brookThat sluggish calm, with many a lookTo the slack sail impatient cast,As loose it flagg'd around the mast.
Blest Alla! who shall save her now?There's not in all that warrior-bandOne Arab sword, one turban'd browFrom her own Faithful Moslem land.Their garb―the leathern belt[58] that wrapsEach yellow vest[59]—that rebel hue— The Tartar fleece upon their caps—[60]Yes—yes—her fears are all too true,And Heav'n hath, in this dreadful hour,Abandon'd her to Hafed's power;—Hafed, the Gheber!—at the thoughtHer very heart's blood chills within;He, whom her soul was hourly taughtTo loathe, as some foul fiend of sin,Some minister, whom Hell had sentTo spread her blast, where'er he went,And fling, as o'er our earth he trod,His shadow betwixt man and God!And she is now his captive,—thrownIn his fierce hands, alive, alone;His the infuriate band she sees,All infidels—all enemies!What was the daring hope that thenCross'd her like lightning, as again,With boldness, that despair had lent,She darted through that armed crowdA look so searching, so intent,That ev'n the sternest warrior bow'd Abash'd, when he her glances caught,As if he guess'd whose form they sought.But no—she sees him not—'tis gone,—The vision, that before her shoneThrough all the maze of blood and storm,Is fled—'twas but a phantom form—One of those passing, rainbow dreams,Half light, half shade, which Fancy's beamsPaint on the fleeting mists that rollIn trance or slumber round the soul!
But now the bark, with livelier bound,Scales the blue wave—the crew's in motion—The oars are out, and with light soundBreak the bright mirror of the ocean,Scattering its brilliant fragments round.And now she sees-with horror seesTheir course is tow'rd that mountain hold,—Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze,Where Mecca's godless enemiesLie, like beleaguer'd scorpions, roll'dIn their last deadly, venomous fold! Amid the' illumin'd land and floodSunless that mighty mountain stood;Save where, above its awful head,There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red,As 'twere the flag of destinyHung out to mark where death would be!
Had her bewilder'd mind the powerOf thought in this terrific hour,She well might marvel where or howMan's foot could scale that mountain's brow;Since ne'er had Arab heard or knownOf path but through the glen alone.—But every thought is lost in fear,When, as their bounding bark drew nearThe craggy base, she felt the wavesHurry them tow'rd those dismal cavesThat from the Deep in windings passBeneath that Mount's volcanic mass—And loud a voice on deck commandsTo lower the mast and light the brands!—Instantly o'er the dashing tideWithin a cavern's mouth they glide, Gloomy as that eternal Porch,Through which departed spirits go;—Not ev'n the flare of brand and torchIts flickering light could further throwThan the thick flood that boil'd below.Silent they floated—as if eachSat breathless, and too aw'd for speechIn that dark chasm, where even soundSeem'd dark,—so sullenly aroundThe goblin echoes of the caveMutter'd it o'er the long black wave,As 'twere some secrets of the grave!But, soft—they pause—the current turnsBeneath them from its onward track;—Some mighty, unseen barrier spurnsThe vexed tide, all foaming, back,And scarce the oar's redoubled forceCan stem the eddy's whirling force;—When, hark!—some desperate foot has sprungAmong the rocks—the chain is flung—The oars are up—the grapple clings,And the toss'd bark in moorings swings. Just then, a day-beam through the shadeBroke tremulous—but, ere the maidCan see from whence the brightness steals,Upon her brow she shuddering feelsA viewless hand, that promptly tiesA bandage round her burning eyes;While the rude litter where she lies,Uplifted by the warrior throng,O'er the steep rocks is borne along.
Blest power of sunshine! genial Day,What balm, what life are in thy ray!To feel thee is such real bliss,That had the world no joy but this,To sit in sunshine calm and sweet,—It were a world too exquisiteFor man to leave it for the gloom,The deep, cold shadow of the tomb!Ev'n Hinda, though she saw not whereOr whither wound the perilous road,Yet knew by that awakening air,Which suddenly around her glow'd, That they had ris'n from darkness then,And breath'd the sunny world again!
But soon this balmy freshness fled—For now the steepy labyrinth ledThrough damp and gloom—'mid crash of boughs,And fall of loosen'd crags that rouseThe leopard from his hungry sleep,Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey,And long is heard from steep to steep,Chasing them down their thundering way!The jackal's cry—the distant moanOf the hyæna, fierce and lone;—And that eternal, saddening soundOf torrents in the glen beneath,As 'twere the ever-dark ProfoundThat rolls beneath the Bridge of Death!All, all is fearful—ev'n to seeTo gaze on those terrific thingsShe now but blindly hears, would beRelief to her imaginings!Since never yet was shape so dread,But Fancy, thus in darkness thrown, And by such sounds of horror fed,Could frame more dreadful of her own.
But does she dream? has Fear againPerplex'd the workings of her brain,Or did a voice, all music, thenCome from the gloom, low whispering near—"Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here?"She does not dream—all sense, all ear,She drinks the words, "thy Gheber's here."'Twas his own voice—she could not err—Throughout the breathing world's extentThere was but one such voice for her,So kind, so soft, so eloquent!Oh! sooner shall the rose of MayMistake her own sweet nightingale,And to some meaner minstrel's layOpen her bosom's glowing veil,[61]Than Love shall ever doubt a tone,A breath of the beloved one! Though blest, 'mid all her ills, to thinkShe has that one beloved near,Whose smile, though met on ruin's brink,Has power to make ev'n ruin dear,—Yet soon this gleam of rapture, crostBy fears for him, is chill'd and lost.How shall the ruthless Hafed brookThat one of Gheber blood should look,With aught but curses in his eye,On her—a maid of Araby—A Moslem maid—the child of him,Whose bloody banner's dire successHas left their altars cold and dim,And their fair land a wilderness!And, worse than all, that night of bloodWhich comes so fast—oh! who shall stayThe sword, that once has tasted foodOf Persian hearts, or turn its way?What arm shall then the victim cover,Or from her father shield her lover?
"Save him, my God!" she inly cries—"Save him this night—and if thine eyes "Have ever welcom'd with delightThe sinner's tears, the sacrifice"Of sinners' hearts—guard him this night,And here, before thy throne, I swearFrom my heart's inmost core to tear"Love, hope, remembrance, though they beLink'd with each quivering life-string there,"And give it bleeding all to Thee!"Let him but live, the burning tear,"The sighs, so sinful yet so dear,Which have been all too much his own,Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone."Youth pass'd in penitence, and age"In long and painful pilgrimage,"Shall leave no traces of the flame"That wastes me now—nor shall his name"E'er bless my lips, but when I pray"For his dear spirit, that away"Casting from its angelic ray"Th' eclipse of earth, he too may shine"Redeem'd, all glorious and all Thine!"Think—think what victory to win"One radiant soul like his from sin;— "One wandering star of virtue back"To its own native, heaven-ward track!"Let him but live, and both are Thine,"Together Thine—for, blest or crost,"Living or dead, his doom is mine,"And if he perish, both are lost!"
Fadladeen, whose wrath had more than once broken out during the recital of some parts of this most heterodox poem, seemed at length to have made up his mind to the infliction; and took his seat this evening with all the patience of a martyr, while the Poet continued his profane and seditious story thus:—
To tearless eyes and hearts at easeThe leafy shores and sun-bright seas,That lay beneath that mountain's height,Had been a fair, enchanting sight.'Twas one of those ambrosial evesA day of storm so often leavesAt its calm setting—when the WestOpens her golden bowers of rest,And a moist radiance from the skiesShoots trembling down, as from the eyesOf some meek penitent, whose last,Bright hours atone for dark ones past,And whose sweet tears, o'er wrong forgiven,Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven!
'Twas stillness all—the winds that lateHad rush'd through Kerman's almond groves,And shaken from her bowers of dateThat cooling feast the traveller loves,[62] Now, lull'd to languor, scarcely curlThe Green-Sea wave, whose waters gleamLimpid, as if her mines of pearlWere melted all to form the stream.And her fair islets, small and bright,With their green shores reflected there,Look like those Peri isles of light,That hang by spell-work in the air.
But vainly did those glories burstOn Hinda's dazzled eyes, when firstThe bandage from her brow was taken,And pale and aw'd as those who wakenIn their dark tombs—when, scowling near,The Searchers of the Grave[63] appear,—She shuddering turn'd to read her fateIn the fierce eyes that flash'd around;And saw those towers all desolate,That o'er her head terrific frown'd,As if defying ev'n the smileOf that soft heaven to gild their pile. In vain, with mingled hope and fear,She looks for him whose voice so dearHad come, like music, to her ear—Strange, mocking dream! again 'tis fled.And oh! the shoots, the pangs of dreadThat through her inmost bosoni run,When voices from without proclaim"Hafed, the Chief"—and, one by one,The warriors shout that fearful name!He comes—the rock resounds his tread—How shall she dare to lift her head,Or meet those eyes, whose scorching glareNot Yemen's boldest sons can bear?In whose red beam, the Moslem tells,Such rank and deadly lustre dwells,As in those hellish fires that lightThe mandrake's charnel leaves at night![64]How shall she bear that voice's tone,At whose loud battle-cry aloneWhole squadrons oft in panic ran,Scatter'd, like some vast caravan, When, stretch'd at evening round the well,They hear the thirsting tiger's yell!
Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down,Shrinking beneath the fiery frown,Which, fancy tells her, from that browIs flashing o'er her fiercely now;And shuddering, as she hears the treadOf his retiring warrior band.—Never was pause so full of dread;Till Hafed with a trembling handTook hers, and, leaning o'er her, said,"Hinda!"—that word was all he spoke,And 'twas enough—the shriek that brokeFrom her full bosom told the rest—Breathless with terror, joy, surprise,The maid but lifts her wondering eyes,To hide them on her Gheber's breast!'Tis he, 'tis he—the man of blood,The fellest of the Fire-fiend's brood,Hafed, the demon of the fight,Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,—Is her own loved Gheber, mildAnd glorious as when first he smil'd In her lone tower, and left such beamsOf his pure eye to light her dreams,That she believed her bower had givenRest to some habitant of heaven!
Moments there are, and this was one,Snatch'd like a minute's gleam of sunAmid the black Simoom's eclipse—Or like those verdant spots that bloomAround the crater's burning lips,Sweetening the very edge of doom!The past—the future—all that FateCan bring of dark or desperateAround such hours, but makes them castIntenser radiance while they last!
Ev'n he, this youth—though dimm'd and goneEach star of Hope that cheer'd him on—His glories lost—his cause betray'd—Iran, his dear-lov'd country, madeA land of carcases and slaves,One dreary waste of chains and graves!—Himself but lingering, dead at heart,To see the last, long-struggling breath Of Liberty's great soul depart,Then lay him down, and share her death—Ev'n he, so sunk in wretchedness,With doom still darker gathering o'er him,Yet, in this moment's pure caress,In the mild eyes that shone before him,Beaming that blest assurance, worthAll other transports known on earth,That he was lov'd—well, warmly lov'd—Oh! in this precious hour he prov'dHow deep, how thorough-felt the glowOf rapture, kindling out of woe;—How exquisite one single dropOf bliss, thus sparkling to the topOf misery's cup—how keenly quaff'd,Though death must follow on the draught!
She too, while gazing on those eyesThat sink into her soul so deep,Forgets all fears, all miseries,Or feels them like the wretch in sleep,Whom fancy cheats into a smile,Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while! The mighty Ruins where they stood,Upon the mount's high, rocky verge,Lay open tow'rds the ocean flood,Where lightly o'er th' illumin'd surgeMany a fair bark that, all the day,Had lurk'd in sheltering creek or bay,Now bounded on and gave their sails,Yet dripping, to the evening gales;Like eagles, when the storm is done,Spreading their wet wings in the sun.The beauteous clouds, though daylight's StarHad sunk behind the hills of Lar,Were still with lingering glories bright,―As if, to grace the gorgeous West,The Spirit of departing LightThat eve had left his sunny vestBehind him, ere he wing'd his flight.Never was scene so form'd for love!Beneath them, waves of crystal moveIn silent swell—heav'n glows above,And their pure hearts, to transport given,Swell like the wave, and glow like heaven! But ah! too soon that dream is past—Again, again her fear returns;—Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast,More faintly the horizon burns,And every rosy tint that layOn the smooth sea has died away.Hastily to the darkening skiesA glance she casts—then wildly cries"At night, he said—and, look, 'tis near—"Fly, fly—if yet thou lov'st me, fly—"Soon will his murderous band be here,"And I shall see thee bleed and die.—"Hush!—heard'st thou not the tramp of men"Sounding from yonder fearful glen?—"Perhaps ev'n now they climb the wood—"Fly, fly—though still the West is bright,"He'll come—oh! yes—he wants thy blood—"I know him—he'll not wait for night!"
In terrors ev'n to agonyShe clings around the wondering Chief;—"Alas, poor wilder'd maid! to me"Thou ow'st this raving trance of grief. "Lost as I am, nought ever grew"Beneath my shade but perish'd too—"My doom is like the Dead Sea air,"And nothing lives that enters there!"Why were our barks together driven"Beneath this morning's furious heaven?"Why, when I saw the prize that chance"Had thrown into my desperate arms,—"When, casting but a single glance"Upon thy pale and prostrate charms,"I vow'd (though watching viewless o'er"Thy safety through that hour's alarms)"To meet the' unmanning sight no more—"Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow?"Why weakly, madly met thee now?—"Start not—that noise is but the shock"Of torrents through yon valley hurl'd—"Dread nothing here—upon this rock"We stand above the jarring world,"Alike beyond its hope—its dread—"In gloomy safety, like the Dead!"Or, could ev'n earth and hell unite"In league to storm this Sacred Height,"Fear nothing thou—myself, to-night, "And each o'erlooking star that dwells"Near God will be thy centinels;—And, ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow,"Back to thy sire—""To-morrow!—no—"The maiden scream'd—"thou'lt never see"To-morrow's sun—death, death will be"The night-cry through each reeking tower,"Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour!"Thou art betray'd—some wretch who knew"That dreadful glen's mysterious clew—"Nay, doubt not—by yon stars, 'tis true—"Has sold thee to my vengeful sire;"This morning, with that smile so dire"He wears in joy, he told me all,"And stamp'd in triumph through our hall,"As though thy heart already beat"Its last life-throb beneath his feet!"Good Heav'n, how little dream'd I then"His victim was my own lov'd youth!—"Fly—send—let some one watch the glen—"By all my hopes of heaven 'tis truth!" Oh! colder than the wind that freezesFounts, that but now in sunshine play'd,Is that congealing pang which seizesThe trusting bosom, when betray'd.He felt it—deeply felt—and stood,As if the tale had froz'n his blood,So maz'd and motionless was he;—Like one whom sudden spells enchant,Or some mute, marble habitantOf the still Halls of Ishmonie![65]
But soon the painful chill was o'er,And his great soul, herself once more,Look'd from his brow in all the raysOf her best, happiest, grandest days!Never, in moment most elate,Did that high spirit loftier rise;—While bright, serene, determinate,His looks are lifted to the skies, As if the signal-lights of FateWere shining in those awful eyes!'Tis come—his hour of martyrdomIn Iran's sacred cause is come;And, though his life has pass'd awayLike lightning on a stormy day,Yet shall his death-hour leave a trackOf glory, permanent and bright,To which the brave of after-times,The suffering brave, shall long look backWith proud regret,—and by its lightWatch through the hours of slavery's nightFor vengeance on the' oppressor's crimes!This rock, his monument aloft,Shall speak the tale to many an age;And hither bards and heroes oftShall come in secret pilgrimage,And bring their warrior sons, and tellThe wondering boys where Hafed fell,And swear them on those lone remainsOf their lost country's ancient fanes,Never—while breath of life shall liveWithin them—never to forgive The' accursed race, whose ruthless chainHas left on Iran's neck a stainBlood, blood alone can cleanse again!
Such are the swelling thoughts that nowEnthrone themselves on Hafed's brow;And ne'er did Saint of Issa[66] gazeOn the red wreath, for martyrs twin'd,More proudly than the youth surveysThat pile, which through the gloom behind,Half lighted by the altar's fire,Glimmers,—his destin'd funeral pyre!Heap'd by his own, his comrades' hands,Of every wood of odorous breath,There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands,Ready to fold in radiant deathThe few still left of those who sworeTo perish there, when hope was o'er—The few, to whom that couch of flame,Which rescues them from bonds and shame,Is sweet and welcome as the bedFor their own infant Prophet spread, When pitying Heav'n to roses turn'dThe death-flames that beneath him burn'd![67]
With watchfulness the maid attendsHis rapid glance, where'er it bends―Why shoot his eyes such awful beams?What plans he now? what thinks or dreams?Alas! why stands he musing here,When every moment teems with fear?"Hafed, my own beloved Lord,"She kneeling cries—"first, last ador'd!"If in that soul thou'st ever felt"Half what thy lips impassion'd swore,"Here, on my knees that never knelt"To any but their God before,"I pray thee, as thou lov'st me, fly—"Now, now—ere yet their blades are nigh."Oh haste—the bark that bore me hither"Can waft us o'er yon darkening seaEast—west—alas, I care not whither,"So thou art safe, and I with thee! "Go where we will, this hand in thine,"Those eyes before me smiling thus,"Through good and ill, through storm and shine,"The world's a world of love for us!"On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell,"Where 'tis no crime to love too well;—"Where thus to worship tenderly"An erring child of light like thee"Will not be sin—or, if it be,"Where we may weep our faults away,"Together kneeling, night and day,"Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine,"And I—at any God's, for thine!"
Wildly these passionate words she spoke—Then hung her head, and wept for shame;Sobbing, as if a heart-string brokeWith every deep-heav'd sob that came.While he, young, warm—oh! wonder notIf, for a moment, pride and fame,His oath—his cause—that shrine of flame,And Iran's self are all forgotFor her whom at his feet he sees,Kneeling in speechless agonies. No, blame him not, if Hope awhileDawn'd in his soul, and threw her smileO'er hours to come—o'er days and nights,Wing'd with those precious, pure delightsWhich she, who bends all beauteous there,Was born to kindle and to share!A tear or two, which, as he bow'dTo raise the suppliant, trembling stole,First warn'd him of this dangerous cloudOf softness passing o'er his soul.Starting, he brush'd the drops away,Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray;—Like one who, on the morn of fight,Shakes from his sword the dew of night,That had but dimm'd, not stain'd its light.
Yet, though subdued th' unnerving thrill,Its warmth, its weakness linger'd stillSo touching in each look and tone,That the fond, fearing, hoping maidHalf counted on the flight she pray'd,Half thought the hero's soul was grownAs soft, as yielding as her own, And smil'd and bless'd him, while he said,—"Yes—if there be some happier sphere,"Where fadeless truth like ours is dear;—"If there be any land of rest"For those who love and ne'er forget,"Oh! comfort thee—for safe and blest"We'll meet in that calm region yet!"
Scarce had she time to ask her heartIf good or ill these words impart,When the rous'd youth impatient flewTo the tower-wall, where, high in view,A ponderous sea-horn[68] hung, and blewA signal, deep and dread as thoseThe storm-fiend at his rising blows.—Full well his Chieftains, sworn and trueThrough life and death, that signal knew;For 'twas th' appointed warning-blast,Th' alarm, to tell when hope was past,And the tremendous death-die cast! And there, upon the mouldering tower,Has hung this sea-horn many an hour,Ready to sound o'er land and seaThat dirge-note of the brave and free.
They came—his Chieftains at the callCame slowly round, and with them all—Alas, how few!—the worn remainsOf those who late o'er Kerman's plainsWent gaily prancing to the clashOf Moorish zel and tymbalon,Catching new hope from every flashOf their long lances in the sun―And, as their coursers charg'd the wind,And the white ox-tails stream'd behind,[69]Looking, as if the steeds they rodeWere wing'd, and every Chief a God!How fall'n, how alter'd now! how wanEach scarr'd and faded visage shone,As round the burning shrine they came;—How deadly was the glare it cast, As mute they paus'd before the flameTo light their torches as they pass'd!'Twas silence all-the youth had plann'dThe duties of his soldier-band;And each determin'd brow declaresHis faithful Chieftains well know theirs.
But minutes speed—night gems the skies—And oh how soon, ye blessed eyes,That look from heav'n, ye may beholdSights that will turn your star-fires cold!Breathless with awe, impatience, hope,The maiden sees the veteran groupHer litter silently prepare,And lay it at her trembling feet;—And now the youth, with gentle care,Has plac'd her in the shelter'd seat,And press'd her hand—that lingering pressOf hands, that for the last time sever;Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness,When that hold breaks, is dead for ever.And yet to her this sad caressGives hope—so fondly hope can err! 'Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess—Their happy flight's dear harbinger;'Twas warmth—assurance—tenderness—'Twas any thing but leaving her.
"Haste, haste!" she cried, "the clouds grow dark,"But still, ere night, we'll reach the bark;"And, by to-morrow's dawn—oh bliss!"With thee upon the sunbright deep,"Far off, I'll but remember this,"As some dark vanish'd dream of sleep!"And thou—" but ha!—he answers not—Good Heav'n!—and does she go alone?She now has reach'd that dismal spot,Where, some hours since, his voice's toneHad come to soothe her fears and ills,Sweet as the Angel Israfil's,[70]When every leaf on Eden's treeIs trembling to his minstrelsy—Yet now-oh now, he is not nigh—"Hafed! my Hafed!—if it be "Thy will, thy doom this night to die,"Let me but stay to die with thee,"And I will bless thy loved name,"'Till the last life-breath leave this frame."Oh! let our lips, our cheeks be laid"But near each other while they fade;"Let us but mix our parting breaths,"And I can die ten thousand deaths!"You too, who hurry me away"So cruelly, one moment stay—"Oh! stay—one moment is not much—"He yet may come—for him I pray—"Hafed! dear Hafed!" all the wayIn wild lamentings, that would touchA heart of stone, she shriek'd his nameTo the dark woods—no Hafed came:—No—hapless pair! you've looked your last;Your hearts should both have broken then:The dream is o'er—your doom is cast—You'll never meet on earth again!
Alas for him, who hears her cries!—Still half-way down the steep he stands, Watching with fix'd and feverish eyesThe glimmer of those burning brands,That down the rocks, with mournful ray,Light all he loves on earth away!Hopeless as they who, far at sea,By the cold moon have just consign'dThe corse of one, lov'd tenderly,To the bleak flood they leave behind;And on the deck still lingering stay,And long look back, with sad delay,To watch the moonlight on the wave,That ripples o'er that cheerless grave.
But see—he starts—what heard he then?That dreadful shout!—across the glenFrom the land side it comes, and loudRings through the chasm; as if the crowdOf fearful things, that haunt that dell,Its Gholes and Dives and shapes of hellHad all in one dread howl broke out,So loud, so terrible that shout!"They come—the Moslems come!"—he cries,His proud soul mounting to his eyes,— "Now, Spirits of the Brave, who roam"Enfranchis'd through yon starry dome,"Rejoice—for souls of kindred fire"Are on the wing to join your choir!"He said—and, light as bridegrooms boundTo their young loves, reclimb'd the steepAnd gain'd the shrine—his Chief's stood round—Their swords, as with instinctive leap,Together, at that cry accurst,Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst.And hark!—again—again it rings;Near and more near its echoingsPeal through the chasm—oh! who that thenHad seen those listening warrior-men,With their swords grasp'd, their eyes of flameTurn'd on their Chief—could doubt the shame,Th' indignant shame with which they thrillTo hear those shouts and yet stand still?
He read their thoughts—they were his own—"What! while our arms can wield these blades,"Shall we die tamely? die alone?"Without one victim to our shades, "One Moslem heart where, buried deep,"The sabre from its toil may sleep?"No—God of Iran's burning skies!"Thou scorn'st th' inglorious sacrifice."No—though of all earth's hope bereft,"Life, swords and vengeance still are left."We'll make yon valley's reeking caves"Live in the awe-struck minds of men,"'Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves"Tell of the Ghebers' bloody glen."Follow, brave hearts!—this pile remains"Our refuge still from life and chains;"But his the best, the holiest bed,"Who sinks entomb'd in Moslem dead!"
Down the precipitous rocks they sprung,While vigour, more than human, strungEach arm and heart.—Th' exulting foeStill through the dark defiles below,Track'd by his torches' lurid fire,Wound slow, as through Golconda's vale[71] The mighty serpent, in his ire,Glides on with glittering, deadly trail.No torch the Ghebers need—so wellThey know each mystery of the dell,So oft have, in their wanderings,Cross'd the wild race that round them dwell,The very tigers from their delvesLook out, and let them pass, as thingsUntam'd and fearless like themselves!
There was a deep ravine, that layYet darkling in the Moslem's way;—Fit spot to make invaders rueThe many fall'n before the few.The torrents from that morning's skyHad fill'd the narrow chasm breast-high,And, on each side, aloft and wild,Huge cliffs and toppling crags were pil'd,The guards, with which young Freedom linesThe pathways to her mountain shrines.Here, at this pass, the scanty bandOf Iran's last avengers stand;— Here wait, in silence like the dead,And listen for the Moslem's treadSo anxiously, the carrion-birdAbove them flaps his wing unheard!
They come—that plunge into the waterGives signal for the work of slaughter.Now, Ghebers, now—if e'er your bladesHad point or prowess, prove them now—Woe to the file that foremost wades!They come—a falchion greets cach brow,And, as they tumble, trunk on trunk,Beneath the gory waters sunk,Still o'er their drowning bodies pressNew victims quick and numberless;Till scarce an arm in Hafed's band,So fierce their toil, has power to stir,But listless from each crimson handThe sword hangs, clogg'd with massacre.Never was horde of tyrants metWith bloodier welcome—never yetTo patriot vengeance hath the swordMore terrible libations pour'd! All up the dreary, long ravine,By the red, murky glimmer seenOf half-quench'd brands, that o'er the floodLie scatter'd round and burn in blood,What ruin glares! what carnage swims!Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs,Lost swords that, dropp'd from many a hand,In that thick pool of slaughter stand;—Wretches who wading, half on fireFrom the toss'd brands that round them fly,'Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire;—And some who, grasp'd by those that die,Sink woundless with them, smother'd o'erIn their dead brethren's gushing gore!
But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed,Still hundreds, thousands more succeed;—Countless as tow'rds some flame at nightThe North's dark insects wing their flight,And quench or perish in its light,To this terrific spot they pour—Till, bridg'd with Moslem bodies o'er,It bears aloft their slippery tread,And o'er the dying and the dead, Tremendous causeway! on they pass.—Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas!What hope was left for you? for you,Whose yet warm pile of sacrificeIs smoking in their vengeful eyes—Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew,And burn with shame to find how few.Crush'd down by that vast multitude,Some found their graves where first they stood;While some with hardier struggle died,And still fought on by Hafed's side,Who, fronting to the foe, trod backTow'rds the high towers his gory track;And, as a lion, swept awayBy sudden swell of Jordan's prideFrom the wild covert where he lay,[72]Long battles with th' o'erwhelming tide, So fought he back with fierce delay,And kept both foes and fate at bay!
But whither now? their track is lost,Their prey escap'd—guide, torches gone—By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost,The scatter'd crowd rush blindly on—"Curse on those tardy lights that wind,"They panting cry, "so far behind—"Oh for a bloodhound's precious scent,"To track the way the Gheber went!"Vain wish—confusedly alongThey rush, more desperate as more wrong;Till, wilder'd by the far-off lights,Yet glittering up those gloomy heights,Their footing, maz'd and lost, they miss,And down the darkling precipiceAre dash'd into the deep abyss ;—Or midway hang, impal'd on rocks,A banquet, yet alive, for flocksOf ravening vultures,—while the dellRe-echoes with each horrible yell.
Those sounds—the last, to vengeance dear,That e'er shall ring in Hafed's ear,—Now reach'd him, as aloft, alone,Upon the steep way breathless thrown,He lay beside his reeking blade,Resign'd, as if life's task were o'er,Its last blood-offering amply paid,And Iran's self could claim no more.One only thought, one lingering beamNow broke across his dizzy dreamOf pain and weariness—'twas sheHis heart's pure planet, shining yetAbove the waste of memory,When all life's other lights were set.And never to his mind beforeHer image such enchantment wore.It seem'd as if each thought that stain'd,Each fear that chill'd their loves was past,And not one cloud of earth remain'dBetween him and her glory cast;—As if to charms, before so bright,New grace from other worlds was given,And his soul saw her by the lightNow breaking o'er itself from heaven! A voice spoke near him—'twas the toneOf a lov'd friend, the only oneOf all his warriors, left with lifeFrom that short night's tremendous strife.—"And must we then, my Chief, die here?—"Foes round us, and the Shrine so near!"These words have rous'd the last remainsOf life within him—"what! not yet"Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!"—The thought could make ev'n Death forgetHis icy bondage—with a boundHe springs, all bleeding, from the ground,And grasps his comrade's arm, now grownEv'n feebler, heavier than his own,And up the painful pathway leads,Death gaining on each step he treads.Speed them, thou God, who heard'st their vow!They mount—they bleed—oh save them now—The crags are red they've clamber'd o'er,The rock-weed's dripping with their gore—Thy blade too, Hafed, false at length,Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength—Haste, haste—the voices of the FoeCome near and nearer from below— One effort more—thank Heav'n! 'tis past,They've gain'd the topmost steep at last.And now they touch the temple's walls,Now Hafed sees the Fire divine—When, lo!—his weak, worn comrade fallsDead on the threshold of the Shrine."Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled!"And must I leave thee withering here,"The sport of every ruffian's tread,"The mark for every coward's spear?"No, by yon altar's sacred beams!"He cries, and, with a strength that seemsNot of this world, uplifts the frameOf the fall'n Chief, and tow'rds the flameBears him along;—with death-damp handThe corpse upon the pyre he lays,Then lights the consecrated brand,And fires the pile, whose sudden blazeLike lightning bursts o'er Oman's Sea.—"Now, Freedom's God! I come to Thee,"The youth exclaims, and with a smileOf triumph vaulting on the pile,In that last effort, ere the firesHave harm'd one glorious limb, expires! What shriek was that on Oman's tide?It came from yonder drifting bark,That just has caught upon her sideThe death-light—and again is dark.It is the boat—ah, why delay'd?—That bears the wretched Moslem maid;Confided to the watchful careOf a small veteran band, with whomTheir generous Chieftain would not shareThe secret of his final doom;But hop'd when Hinda, safe and free,Was render'd to her father's eyes,Their pardon, full and prompt, would beThe ransom of so dear a prize.—Unconscious, thus, of Hafed's fate,And proud to guard their beauteous freight,Scarce had they clear'd the surfy wavesThat foam around those frightful caves,When the curst war-whoops, known so well,Came echoing from the distant dell—Sudden each oar, upheld and still,Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side,And, driving at the current's will,They rock'd along the whispering tide, While every eye, in mute dismay,Was tow'rd that fatal mountain turn'd,Where the dim altar's quivering rayAs yet all lone and tranquil burn'd.
Oh! 'tis not, Hinda, in the powerOf Fancy's most terrific touchTo paint thy pangs in that dread hour—Thy silent agony—'twas suchAs those who feel could paint too well,But none e'er felt and liv'd to tell!'Twas not alone the dreary stateOf a lorn spirit, crush'd by fate,When, though no more remains to dread,The panic chill will not depart;—When, though the inmate Hope be dead,Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart.No—pleasures, hopes, affections gone,The wretch may bear, and yet live on,Like things, within the cold rock foundAlive, when all's congeal'd around.But there's a blank repose in this,A calm stagnation, that were bliss To the keen, burning, harrowing pain,Now felt through all thy breast and brain—That spasm of terror, mute, intense,That breathless, agoniz'd suspense,From whose hot throb, whose deadly achingThe heart has no relief but breaking!
Calm is the wave—heav'n's brilliant lightsReflected dance beneath the prow;—Time was when, on such lovely nights,She who is there, so desolate now,Could sit, all cheerful, though alone,And ask no happier joy than seeingThat star-light o'er the waters thrown—No joy but that to make her blest,And the fresh, buoyant sense of BeingThat bounds in youth's yet careless breast,—Itself a star, not borrowing light,But in its own glad essence bright.How different now!—but, hark, againThe yell of havoc rings—brave men!In vain, with beating hearts, ye standOn the bark's edge—in vain each hand Half draws the falchion from its sheath;All's o'er—in rust your blades may lie;—He, at whose word they've scatter'd death,Ev'n now, this night, himself must die!Well may ye look to yon dim tower,And ask, and wondering guess what meansThe battle-cry at this dead hour—Ah! she could tell you—she, who leansUnheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast,With brow against the dew-cold mast—Too well she knows—her more than life,Her soul's first idol and its last,Lies bleeding in that murderous strife.
But see—what moves upon the height?Some signal!—'tis a torch's light.What bodes its solitary glare?In gasping silence tow'rd the shrineAll eyes are turn'd—thine, Hinda, thineFix their last failing life-beams there.'Twas but a moment—fierce and highThe death-pile blaz'd into the sky, And far away o'er rock and floodIts melancholy radiance sent;While Hafed, like a vision, stoodReveal'd before the burning pyre,Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of FireShrin'd in its own grand element!"'Tis he!"—the shuddering maid exclaims,—But, while she speaks, he's seen no more;High burst in air the funeral flames,And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er!
One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave—Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze,Where still she fix'd her dying gaze,And, gazing, sunk into the wave,—Deep, deep,—where never care or painShall reach her innocent heart again!
Farewell—farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea)No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water,More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee.
Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,How light was thy heart 'till love's witchery came,Like the wind of the south[73] o'er a summer lute blowing,And hush'd all its music and wither'd its frame!
But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands,Shall maids and their lovers remember the doomOf her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands,With nought but the sea-star[74] to light up her tomb.
And still, when the merry date-season is burning,And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old,[75]The happiest there, from their pastime returning,At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.
The young village maid, when with flowers she dressesHer dark flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,She mournfully turns from the mirror away.
Nor shall Iran, belov'd of her Hero! forget thee,—Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start,Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee,Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Farewell—be it ours to embellish thy pillowWith every thing beauteous that grows in the deep;Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billowShall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.
Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amberThat ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept;[76]With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber,We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept.
We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian[77] are sparkling,And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.
Farewell—farewell—until Pity's sweet fountainIs lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain,They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.
- ↑ It is said that the rivers or streams of Basra were reckoned in the time of Belal ben Abi Bordeh, and amounted to the number of 120 thousand streams."—Ebn Haukal.
- ↑ The name of the javelin with which the Easterns exercise. v. Chatillon, Moeurs des Ottomans, tom. iii. p. 161.
- ↑ For a description of this Hospital of the Banyans, v. Parsons's Travels, p. 262.
- ↑ "Near this is a curious hill, called Koh Talism, the Mountain of the Talisman, because, according to the traditions of the country, no person ever succeeded in gaining its summit."—Kinneir.
- ↑ "The Arabians believe that the ostriches hatch their young by only looking at them."—P. Vanslebe, Relat. d'Egypte.
- ↑ V. Sale's Koran, note, vol. 2. p. 484.
- ↑ Ferishta.
- ↑ The fine road made by the Emperor Jehan-Guire from Agra to Lahore, planted with trees on each side.
- ↑ The Baya, or Indian Gross-beak.—Sir W. Jones.
- ↑ The "Ager ardens" described by Kempfer, Amænitat. Exot.
- ↑ The Persian Gulf, sometimes so called, which separates the shores of Persia and Arabia.
- ↑ The present Gombaroon, a town on the Persian side of the Gulf.
- ↑ A Moorish instrument of music.
- ↑ "At Gombaroon and other places in Persia, they have towers for the purpose of catching the wind, and cooling the houses.—Le Bruyn.
- ↑ "Iran is the true general name for the empire of Persia.—Asiat. Res. Disc. 5.
- ↑ "On the blades of their scimitars some verse from the Koran is usually inscribed.—Russel.
- ↑ There is a kind of Rhododendros about Trebizond, whose flowers the bee feeds upon, and the honey thence drives people mad;"—Tournefort.
- ↑ Their kings wear plumes of black herons' feathers, upon the right side, as a badge of sovereignty."—Hanway.
- ↑ "The Fountain of Youth, by a Mahometan tradition, is situated in some dark region of the East."—Richardson.
- ↑ Arabia Felix.
- ↑ "They say that if a snake or serpent fix his eyes on the lustre of those stones (emeralds), he immediately becomes blind."—Ahmed ben Abdalaziz, Treatise on Jewels.
- ↑ At Gombaroon and the Isle of Ormus, it is sometimes so hot, that the people are obliged to lie all day in the water.—Marco Polo.
- ↑ This mountain is generally supposed to be inaccessible.
- ↑ In one of the books of the Shâh Nâmeh, when Zal (a celebrated hero of Persia, remarkable for his white hair), comes to the terrace of his mistress Rodahver at night, she lets down her long tresses to assist him in his ascent;—he, however, manages it in a less romantic way by fixing his crook in a projecting beam.—v. Champion's Ferdosi.
- ↑ "On the lofty hills of Arabia Petræa are rock-goats."—Niebuhr.
- ↑ "Canun, espèce de psalterion, avec des cordes de boyaux; les dames en touchent dans le serrail, avec des décailles armées de pointes de coco."—Toderini, translated by De Cournand.
- ↑ "They (the Ghebers) lay so much stress on their cushee or girdle, as not to dare to be an instant without it."—Grose's Voyage.—Le jeune homme nia d'abord la chose; mais, ayant été dépouillé de sa robe, et la large ceinture qu'il portoit comme Ghebr, &c. &c.-—D'Herbelot, art. Agduani.
- ↑ "They suppose the Throne of the Almighty is seated in the sun, and hence their worship of that luminary."—Hanway.
- ↑ "The Mameluks that were in the other boat, when it was dark used to shoot up a sort of fiery arrows into the air, which in some measure resembled lightning or falling stars."—Baumgarten.
- ↑ The Persian Gulf.—"To dive for pearls in the Green Sea, or Persian Gulf."—Sir W. Jones.
- ↑ Islands in the Gulf.
- ↑ Or Selemeh, the genuine name of the headland at the entrance of the Gulf, commonly called Cape Musseldom. "The Indians, when they pass the promontory, throw cocoa-nuts, fruits, or flowers, into the sea, to secure a propitious voyage."—Morier.
- ↑ In speaking of the climate of Shiraz, Francklin says, "the dew is of such a pure nature, that, if the brightest scimitar should be exposed to it all night, it would not receive the least rust."
- ↑ The place where the Persians were finally defeated by the Arabs, and their ancient monarchy destroyed.
- ↑ Derbend.—"Les Tures appellent cette ville Demir Capi, Forte de Fer; ce sont les Caspiæ Portæ des anciens."—D'Herbelot.
- ↑ The Talpot or Talipot tree. "This beautiful palm-tree, which grows in the heart of the forests, may be classed among the loftiest trees, and becomes still higher when on the point of bursting forth from its leafy summit. The sheath which then envelopes the flower is very large, and, when it bursts, makes an explosion like the report of a cannon."—Thunberg.
- ↑ Tahmuras, and other ancient Kings of Persia; whose adventures in Fairy-Land among the Peris and Dives may be found in Richardson's curious Dissertation. The griffin Simoorgh, they say, took some feathers from her breast for Tahmuras, with which he adorned his helmet, and transmitted them afterwards to his descendants.
- ↑ This rivulet, says Dandini, is called the Holy River from the "cedar-saints" among which it rises.
- ↑ These birds sleep in the air. They are most common about the Cape of Good Hope.
- ↑ The Ghebers generally built their temples over subterraneous fires.
- ↑ Ancient heroes of Persia. "Among the Guebres there are some, who boast their descent from Rustani."—Stephen's Persia.
- ↑ V. Russel's account of the panthers attacking travellers in the night on the sea-shore about the roots of Lebanon.
- ↑ "Among other ceremonies the Magi used to place upon the tops of high towers various kinds of rich viands, upon which it was supposed the Peris and the spirits of their departed heroes regaled themselves.—"Richardson.
- ↑ In the ceremonies of the Ghebers round their Fire, as described by Lord, "the Daroo," he says, "giveth them water to drink, and a pomegranate leaf to chew in the mouth, to cleanse them from inward uncleanness."
- ↑ "Early in the morning, they (the Parsees or Ghebers at Oulam) go in crowds to pay their devotions to the Sun, to whom upon all the altars there are spheres consecrated, made by magic, resembling the circles of the sun, and when the sun rises, these orbs seem to be inflamed, and to turn round with a great noise. They have every one a censer in their hands, and offer incense to the sun."—Rabbi Benjamin.
- ↑ "It is observed, with respect to the Sea of Herkend, that when it is tossed by tempestuous winds it sparkles like fire."—Travels of two Mohammedans.
- ↑ A kind of trumpet;—it "was that used by Tamerlane, the sound of which is described as uncommonly dreadful, and so loud as to be heard at a distance of several miles."—Richardson.
- ↑ "Mohammed had two helmets, an interior and exterior one; the latter of which, called Al Mawashah, the fillet, wreath, or wreathed garland, he wore at the battle of Ohod."—Universal History.
- ↑ "The Easterns used to set out on their longer voyages with music."—Harmer.
- ↑ "The Gate of Tears, the straits or passage into the Red Sea, commonly called Babelmandel. It received this name from the old Arabians, on account of the danger of the navigation, and the number of shipwrecks by which it was distinguished; which induced them to consider as dead, and to wear mourning for all who had the boldness to hazard the passage though it into the Ethiopic ocean."—Richardson.
- ↑ "I have been told that whensoever an animal falls down dead, one or more vultures, unseen before, instantly appear."—Pennant.
- ↑ "They fasten some writing to the wings of a Bagdat, or Babylonian pigeon."—Travels of certain Englishmen.
- ↑ "The Empress of Jehan-Guire used to divert herself with feeding tame fish in her canals, some of which were many years afterwards known by fillets of gold, which she caused to be put round them."—Harris.
- ↑ The meteors that Pliny calls "faces."
- ↑ "The brilliant Canopus, unseen in European climates."—Brown.
- ↑ V. Wilford's learned Essays on the Sacred Isles in the West.
- ↑ A precious stone of the Indies, called by the ancients Ceraunium, because it was supposed to be found in places where thunder had fallen. Tertullian says it has a glittering appearance, as if there had been fire in it; and the author of the Dissertation in Harris's Voyages supposes it to be the opal.
- ↑ D'Herbelot, Art. Agduani.
- ↑ "The Guebres are known by a dark yellow colour, which the men affect in their clothes."—Thevenot.
- ↑ "The Kolah, or cap, worn by the Persians, is made of the skin of the sheep of Tartary."—Waring.
- ↑ A frequent image among the oriental poets. "The nightingales warbled their enchanting notes, and rent the thin veils of the rose-bud and the rose."—Jami.
- ↑ " In parts of Kerman, whatever dates are shaken from the trees by the wind they do not touch, but leave them for those who have not any, or for travellers."—Ebn Haukel.
- ↑ The two terrible angels, Monkir and Nakir; who are called "the Searchers of the Grave" in the "Creed of the orthodox Mahometans" given by Ockley, vol. 2.
- ↑ "The Arabians call the mandrake 'the Devil's candle,' on account of its shining appearance in the night."—Richardson.
- ↑ For an account of Ishmonie, the petrified city in Upper Egypt, where it is said there are many statues of men, women, &c. to be seen to this day, v. Perry's View of the Levant.
- ↑ Jesus.
- ↑ The Ghebers say that when Abraham, their great Prophet, was thrown into the fire by order of Nimrod, the flame turned instantly into a bed of roses, where the child sweetly reposed."—Tavernier.
- ↑ "The shell called Siiankos, common to India, Africa, and the Mediterranean, and still used in many parts as a trumpet for blowing alarms or giving signals: it sends forth a deep and hollow sound."—Pennant.
- ↑ "The finest ornament for the horses is made of six large flying tassels of long white hair, taken out of the tails of wild oxen, that are to be found in some places of the Indies."—Thevenot.
- ↑ "The Angel Israfil, who has the most melodious voice of all God's creatures."—Sale.
- ↑ V. Hoole upon the Story of Sinbad.
- ↑ "In this thicket upon the banks of the Jordan several sorts of wild beasts are wont to harbour themselves, whose being washed out of the covert by the overflowings of the river gave occasion to that allusion of Jeremiah, he shall come up like a lion from the swelling of Jordan."—Maundrell's Aleppo.
- ↑ "This wind (the Samoor) so softens the strings of lutes, that they can never be tuned while it lasts."—Stephen's Persia.
- ↑ "One of the greatest curiosities found in the Persian Gulf is a fish which the English call Star-fish. It is circular, and at night very luminous, resembling the full moon surrounded by rays."—Mirza Abu Taleb.
- ↑ "For a description of the merriment of the date-time, of their work, their dances, and their return home from the palm-groves at the end of autumn with the fruits, v. Kempfer, Amænitat. Exot.
- ↑ Some naturalists have imagined that amber is a concretion of the tears of birds.—v. Trevoux, Chambers.
- ↑ "The bay Kieselarke, which is otherwise called the Golden Bay, the sand whereof shines as fire."—Struy.