Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1834/The Zenana
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THE
DRAWING-ROOM SCRAP BOOK.
THE ZENANA.
HAT is there that the world hath not
Gathered in yon enchanted spot?
Where, pale, and with a languid eye,
The fair Sultana listlesslyOld Delhi
Leans on her silken couch, and dreams
Of mountain airs, and mountain streams.
Sweet though the music float around,
It wants the old familiar sound;
And fragrant though the flowers are breathing,
From far and near together wreathing,
They are not those she used to wear,
Upon the midnight of her hair.—
She’s very young, and childhood’s days
With all their old remembered ways,
The empire of her heart contest
With love, that is so new a guest;
When blushing with her Murad near,
Half timid bliss, half sweetest fear,
E’en the beloved past is dim,
Past, present, future, merge in him.
But he, the warrior and the chief,
His hours of happiness are brief;
And he must leave Nadira’s side
To woo and win a ruder bride;
Sought, sword in hand and spur on heel,
The fame, that weds with blood and steel.
And while from Delhi far away,
His youthful bride pines through the day,
RUINS, OLD DELHI.
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Weary and sad: thus when again
He seeks to bind love's loosened chain;
He finds the tears are scarcely dry
Upon a cheek whose bloom is faded,
The very flush of victory
Is, like the brow he watches, shaded.
A thousand thoughts are at her heart,
His image paramount o’er all,
Yet not all his, the tears that start,
As mournful memories recall
Scenes of another home, which yet
That fond young heart cannot forget.
She thinks upon that place of pride,*Dowlutabad.
Which frowned upon the mountain’s side;
While round it spread the ancient plain,
Her steps will never cross again.
And near those mighty temples† stand,Dus Awtar.
The miracles of mortal hand;
Where, hidden from the common eye,
The past’s long buried secrets lie,
Those mysteries of the first great creed,
Whose mystic fancies were the seed
Of every wild and vain belief,
That held o’er man their empire brief,
And turned beneath a southern sky,
All that was faith to poetry.
Hence had the Grecian fables birth,
And wandered beautiful o’er earth;
Till every wood, and stream, and cave,
Shelter to some bright vision gave:
For all of terrible and strange,
That from those gloomy caverns‡ sprung,Dher Warra.
From Greece received a graceful change,Temple of Kylas,
(Frontispiece.)
That spoke another sky and tongue,
THE FORTRESS OF DAWLUTABAD.
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* Dowlutabad.—A mountain fortress, on the road leading to the Caves of Ellora.
DUS AWTAR, CAVES OF ELLORA.
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† Dus Awtar.—One of the centre Excavations at Ellora. The compartment of sculpture represented in the plate, has Siva for the principal figure, in the character of Ehr Budr, taking vengeance for an affront that has been offered to his consort Parvati. "One of the right hands of Ehr Budr holds a cup, to catch the blood of the demon that he has transfixed with a spear, lest it should fall upon earth, and demons spring up from it. On the left of the group is Parvati, but mutilated and indistinct, seemingly rejoicing over the scene of vengeance."
INTERIOR OF DHER WARRA, CAVES OF ELLORA.
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‡ The Dher Warra is the cave at the southern extremity of Ellora.
EXCAVATED TEMPLE OF KYLAS, CAVES OF ELLORA.
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Excavated Temple of Kylas.—It is observed, in Elliot's Views of India, that of all the excavations, that of Kylas is "the most extraordinary and beautiful." This is no place to do more than allude to the wonderful influence of the Hindostan superstitions; if they did not create, they at least furnished the material of the Grecian mythology, though softened and beautified by that poetical imagination which formed in the classical time the golden age of poetry upon earth.
A finer eye, a gentler hand,
Than in their native Hindoo land.
’Twas thence Nadira came, and still
Her memory kept that lofty hill;
The vale below, her place of birth,
That one charmed spot, her native earth.
Still haunted by that early love,
Which youth can feel, and youth alone;
An eager, ready, tenderness,
To all its after-life unknown.
When the full heart its magic flings,
Alike o’er rare and common things,
The dew of morning's earliest hour,
Which swells but once from leaf and flower,
From the pure life within supplied,
A sweet but soon exhausted tide.
There falls a shadow on the gloom,
There steals a light step through the room,
Gentle as love, that, though so near,
No sound hath caught the list’ning ear.
A moment’s fond watch o’er her keeping,
Murad beholds Nadira weeping;
He who to win her lightest smile,
Had given his heart’s best blood the while.
She turned—a beautiful delight
Has flushed the pale one into rose,
Murad, her love, returned to-night,
Her tears, what recks she now of those?
Dried in the full heart's crimson ray,
Ere he can kiss those tears away—
And she is seated at his feet,
Too timid his dear eyes to meet;
But happy; for she knows whose brow
Is bending fondly o’er her now.
And eager for his sake to hear
The records red of sword and spear,
For his sake feels the colour rise,
His spirit kindle in her eyes,
Till her heart beating joins the cry
Of Murad, and of Victory.
City of glories now no more,
His camp extends by Bejapore,*Bejapore.
Where the Mahratta’s haughty race,The Taj Bowlee.
Has won the Moslem conqueror’s place;
A bolder prince now fills the throne,
And he will struggle for his own.
"And yet," he said, "when evening falls
Solemn above those mouldering walls,
Where the mosques† cleave the starry air,Mosque of Mustapha Khan.
Deserted at their hour of prayer,
And rises Ibrahim’s lonely tomb,‡Ibrahim Pudshah’s Tomb.
’Mid weed-grown shrines, and ruined towers,
All marked with that eternal gloom,
Left by the past to present hours.
When human pride and human sway
Have run their circle of decay;
And, mocking—the funereal stone,
Alone attests its builder gone.
Oh! vain such temple, o’er the sleep
Which none remain to watch or weep.
I could not choose but think how vain
The struggle fierce for worthless gain.
And calm and bright the moon looked down
O’er the white shrines of that fair town;
While heavily the cocoa-tree
Drooped o’er the walls its panoply,
BEJAPORE.
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* Bejapore.—"A more remarkable example of the vanity of all human grandeur, or of the short continuance of human power, than this desolate place affords, cannot, perhaps, be met with in the whole world. Its architectural remains may vie in size, magnificence, and beauty, with those nations that have been longest established upon earth; while the actual existence of its dominions scarcely doubles the period of time to which a man's natural life extends in these days. At Bejapore is the celebrated
Taj Bowlee—a superb tank, or well, nearly a hundred yards square, and fifty feet deep."—Elliot.
TAJ BOWLEE, BEJAPORE.
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MOSQUE OF MUSTAPHA KHAN, BEEJAPORE.
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† The Mosque of Mustapha Khan remains entire; the less substantial buildings around it have long been in ruins.
TOMB OF IBRAHIM PADSHAH, BEJAPORE.
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A warrior proud, whose crested head
Bends mournful o’er the recent dead,
And shadows deep athwart the plain
Usurp the silver moonbeam’s reign;
For every ruined building cast
Shadows, like memories of the past.
And not a sound the wind brought nigh,
Save the far jackal’s wailing cry,
And that came from the field now red
With the fierce banquet I had spread:
Accursed and unnatural feast,
For worm, and fly, and bird, and beast;
While round me earth and heaven recorded
The folly of life’s desperate game,
And the cold justice still awarded
By time, which makes all lots the same.
Slayer or slain, it matters not,
We struggle, perish, are forgot!
The earth grows green above the gone,
And the calm heaven looks sternly on.
’Twas folly this—the gloomy night
Fled before morning's orient light;
City and river owned its power,
And I, too, gladdened with the hour;
I saw my own far tents extend
My own proud crescent o’er them bend;
I heard the trumpet’s glorious voice
Summon the warriors of my choice.
Again impatient on to lead,
I sprang upon my raven steed,
Again I felt my father’s blood
Pour through my veins its burning flood.
My scimetar around I swung,
Forth to the air its lightning sprung,
A beautiful and fiery light,
The meteor of the coming fight.
"I turned from each forgotten grave
To others, which the name they bear
Will long from old oblivion save
The heroes of the race I share.
I thought upon the lonely isle*Shere Shah’s Tomb
Where sleeps the lion-king the while,
Who looked on death, yet paused to die
Till comraded by Victory.
And he, fire noblest of my line,
Whose tomb is now the warrior's shrine,
(Where I were well content to be,
So that such fame might live with me.)
The light of peace, the storm of war,
Lord of the earth, our proud Akbar.†Akbar’s Tomb
"What though our passing day but be
A bubble on eternity;
Small though the circle is, yet still
’Tis ours to colour at our will.
Mine be that consciousness of life
Which has its energies from strife,
Which lives its utmost, knows its power,
Claims from the mind its utmost dower—
With fiery pulse, and ready hand,
That wills, and willing wins command—
That boldly takes from earth its best—
To whom the grave can be but rest.
Mine the fierce free existence spent
Mid meeting ranks and armed tent:—
Save the few moments which I steal
At thy beloved feet to kneel—
And own the warrior's wild career
Has no such joy as waits him here—
When all that hope can dream is hung
Upon the music of thy tongue.
Ah! never is that cherished face
Banished from its accustomed place—
It shines upon my weariest night
It leads me on in thickest fight:
TOMB OF SHERE SHAH.
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* Shere Shah's Tomb—is situate at Sasseram, in the centre of a tank of water, about a mile in circumference. The name of so renowned a warrior would be likely to occur to a young and enterprising chief, who must, of course, be familiar with his history. His original name was Ferid, changed to Shere Chan, in consequence of having killed a tiger with one blow of his sabre. At the siege of Callinger, he was mortally wounded, by the bursting of a shell. "In this dreadful condition, the king began to breathe in great agonies: he, however, encouraged the attack, and gave orders, till, in the evening, news was brought him of the reduction of the place: he then cried out, ‘Thanks to Almighty God,’ and expired."—Dow's History of Hindostan.
AKBAR’S TOMB, SECUNDRA.
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† Akbar's Tomb.—Of this monarch, his historian, Abul Fazil, remarks, that "His name lives, the glory of the House of Timur, and an example of renown to the kings of the world."
All that seems most opposed to be
Is yet associate with thee—
Together life and thee depart,
Dream—idol—treasure of my heart."
Again, again Murad must wield
His scimetar in battle-field:
And must he leave his lonely flower
To pine in solitary bower?
Has power no aid—has wealth no charm,
The weight of absence to disarm?
Alas! she will not touch her lute—
What, sing? and not for Murad's ear?
The echo of the heart is mute,
And that alone makes music dear.
In vain, in vain, that royal hall
Is decked as for a festival.
The sunny birds, whose shining wings
Seem as if bathed in golden springs,
Though worth the gems they cost—and fair
As those which knew her earlier care.
The flowers—though there the rose expand
The sweetest depths wind ever fanned.
Ah! earth and sky have loveliest hues—
But none to match that dearest red,
Born of the heart, which still renews
The life that on itself is fed.
The maiden whom we love bestows
Her magic on the haunted rose.
Such was the colour—when her cheek
Spoke what the lip might never speak.
The crimson flush which could confess
All that we hoped—but dared not guess.
That blush which through the world is known
To love, and to the rose alone—
A sweet companionship, which never
The poet’s dreaming eye may sever.
And there were tulips, whose rich leaves
The rainbow’s dying light receives;
For only summer sun and skies
Could lend to earth such radiant dyes;
But still the earth will have its share,
The stem is green—the foliage fair—
Those coronals of gems but glow
Over the withered heart below—
That one dark spot, like passion’s fire,
Consuming with its own desire.
And pale, as one who dares not turn
Upon her inmost thoughts, and learn,
If it be love their depths conceal;
Love she alone is doomed to feel—
The jasmine droopeth mournfully
Over the bright anemone,
The summer’s proud and sun-burnt child:
In vain the queen is not beguiled,
They waste their bloom. Nadira's eye
Neglects them—let them pine and die.
Ah! birds and flowers may not suffice
The heart that throbs with stronger ties.
Again, again Murad is gone,
Again his young bride weeps alone:
Seeks her old nurse, to win her ear
With magic stories once so dear,
And calls the Almas to her aid.
With graceful dance, and gentle singing,
And bells like those some desert home
Hears from the camel’s neck far ringing.
Alas! she will not raise her brow;
Yet stay—some spell hath caught her now:
That melody has touched her heart.
Oh, triumph of Zilara’s art;
She listens to the mournful strain,
And bids her sing that song again.