book iv

. chap. viii.

LIKE MORNING, WHEN HER EARLY BREEZE.

(AIR. BEETHOVEN.)

Like morning, when her early breeze Breaks up the surface of the seas, That, in those furrows, dark with night, Her hand may sow the seeds of light--

Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er The Spirit, dark and lost before, And, freshening all its depths, prepare For Truth divine to enter there.

Till David touched his sacred lyre. In silence lay the unbreathing wire; But when he swept its chords along, Even Angels stooped to hear that song.

So sleeps the soul, till Thou, oh LORD, Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord-- Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise In music, worthy of the skies!

COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.

(AIR.--GERMAN.)

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, Come, at God's altar fervently kneel; Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish-- Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, Here speaks the Comforter, in GOD'S name saying-- "Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure."

Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us What charm for aching hearts _he_ can reveal, Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us-- "Earth has no sorrow that GOD cannot heal."

AWAKE, ARISE, THY LIGHT IS COME.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

Awake, arise, thy light is come;[1] The nations, that before outshone thee, Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb-- The glory of the Lord is on thee!

Arise--the Gentiles to thy ray, From every nook of earth shall cluster; And kings and princes haste to pay Their homage to thy rising lustre.[2]

Lift up thine eyes around, and see O'er foreign fields, o'er farthest waters, Thy exiled sons return to thee, To thee return thy home-sick daughters.[3]

And camels rich, from Midians' tents, Shall lay their treasures down before thee; And Saba bring her gold and scents, To fill thy air and sparkle o'er thee.[4]

See, who are these that, like a cloud,[5] Are gathering from all earth's dominions, Like doves, long absent, when allowed Homeward to shoot their trembling pinions.

Surely the isles shall wait for me,[6] The ships of Tarshish round will hover, To bring thy sons across the sea, And waft their gold and silver over.

And Lebanon thy pomp shall grace[7]-- The fir, the pine, the palm victorious Shall beautify our Holy Place, And make the ground I tread on glorious.

No more shall dischord haunt thy ways,[8] Nor ruin waste thy cheerless nation; But thou shalt call thy portal Praise, And thou shalt name thy walls Salvation.

The sun no more shall make thee bright,[9] Nor moon shall lend her lustre to thee; But God, Himself, shall be thy Light, And flash eternal glory thro' thee.

Thy sun shall never more go down; A ray from heaven itself descended Shall light thy everlasting crown-- Thy days of mourning all are ended.[10]

My own, elect, and righteous Land! The Branch, for ever green and vernal, Which I have planted with this hand-- Live thou shalt in Life Eternal.[11]

[1] "Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee."--_Isaiah_, xl.

[2] "And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising."--_Isaiah_, xl.

[3] "Lift up thine eyes round about, and see; all they gather themselves together, they come to thee: thy sons shall come from afar, and thy daughters shall be nursed at thy side."--_Isaiah_, lx.

[4] "The multitude of camels shall cover thee; the dromedaries of Midian and Ephah; all they from Sheba shall come; they shall bring gold and incense."--_Ib_.

[5] "Who are these that fly as a cloud and as the doves to their windows?"--_Ib_.

[6] "Surely the isles shall wait for me, and the ships of Tarshish first, to bring thy sons from far, their silver and their gold with them."--_Ib_.

[7] "The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee; the fir-tree, the pine-tree, and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary; and I will make the place of my feet glorious."--_Ib_.

[8] "Violence shall no more be heard in thy land, wasting nor destruction within thy borders; but thou shalt call thy walls, Salvation, and thy gates, Praise.--_Isaiah_, lx.

[9] "Thy sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee: but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory."--_Ib_.

[10] "Thy sun shall no more go down...for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended."--_Ib_.

[11] "Thy people also shall be all righteous; they shall inherit the land for ever, the branch of my planting, the work of my hands."--_Ib_.

THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT.

(AIR.--CRESCENTINI.)

There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary-- What may that Desert be? 'Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that come Are lost, like that daylight, for 'tis not their home.

There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes The water he pants for but sparkles and flies-- Who may that Pilgrim be? 'Tis Man, hapless Man, thro' this life tempted on By fair shining hopes, that in shining are gone.

There is a bright Fountain, thro' that Desert stealing To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing-- What may that Fountain be? 'Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ground, By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found.

There is a fair Spirit whose wand hath the spell To point where those waters in secrecy dwell-- Who may that Spirit be? 'Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learned that where'er Her wand bends to worship the Truth must be there!

SINCE FIRST THY WORD.

(AIR.--NICHOLAS FREEMAN.)

Since first Thy Word awaked my heart, Like new life dawning o'er me, Where'er I turn mine eyes, Thou art, All light and love before me. Naught else I feel, or hear or see-- All bonds of earth I sever-- Thee, O God, and only Thee I live for, now and ever.

Like him whose fetters dropt away When light shone o'er his prison,[1] My spirit, touched by Mercy's ray, Hath from her chains arisen. And shall a soul Thou bidst be free, Return to bondage?--never! Thee, O God, and only Thee I live for, now and ever.

[1] "And, behold, the angel of the Lord came upon him, and a light shined in the prison...and his chains fell off from his hands."--_Acts_, xii. 7.

HARK! 'TIS THE BREEZE.

(AIR.--ROUSSEAU.)

Hark! 'tis the breeze of twilight calling; Earth's weary children to repose; While, round the couch of Nature falling, Gently the night's soft curtains close. Soon o'er a world, in sleep reclining, Numberless stars, thro' yonder dark, Shall look, like eyes of Cherubs shining From out the veils that hid the Ark.

Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest, Thou who in silence throned above, Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest Thy watch of Glory, Power, and Love. Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely, Our souls awhile from life withdrawn May in their darkness stilly, purely, Like "sealed fountains," rest till dawn.

WHERE IS YOUR DWELLING, YE SAINTED?

(AIR.--HASSE.)

Where is your dwelling, ye Sainted? Thro' what Elysium more bright Than fancy or hope ever painted, Walk ye in glory and light? Who the same kingdom inherits? Breathes there a soul that may dare Look to that world of Spirits, Or hope to dwell with you there?

Sages! who even in exploring Nature thro' all her bright ways, Went like the Seraphs adoring, And veiled your eyes in the blaze-- Martyrs! who left for our reaping Truths you had sown in your blood-- Sinners! whom, long years of weeping Chastened from evil to good--

Maidens! who like the young Crescent, Turning away your pale brows From earth and the light of the Present, Looked to your Heavenly Spouse-- Say, thro' what region enchanted Walk ye in Heaven's sweet air? Say, to what spirits 'tis granted, Bright, souls, to dwell with you there?

HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING.

(AIR--ANONYMOUS.)

How lightly mounts the Muse's wing, Whose theme is in the skies-- Like morning larks that sweeter sing The nearer Heaven they rise,

Tho' love his magic lyre may tune, Yet ah, the flowers he round it wreathes, Were plucked beneath pale Passion's moon, Whose madness in their ode breathes.

How purer far the sacred lute, Round which Devotion ties Sweet flowers that turn to heavenly fruit, And palm that never dies.

Tho' War's high-sounding harp may be., Most welcome to the hero's ears, Alas, his chords of victory Are wet, all o'er, with human tears.

How far more sweet their numbers run, Who hymn like Saints above, No victor but the Eternal One, No trophies but of Love!

GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT,

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

Go forth to the Mount; bring the olive-branch home,[1] And rejoice; for the day of our freedom is come! From that time,[2] when the moon upon Ajalon's vale, Looking motionless down,[3] saw the kings of the earth, In the presence of God's mighty champion grow pale-- Oh, never had Judah an hour of such mirth! Go forth to the Mount--bring the olive-branch home, And rejoice, for the day of our freedom is come!

Bring myrtle and palm--bring the boughs of each tree That's worthy to wave o'er the tents of the Free.[4] From that day when the footsteps of Israel shone With a light not their own, thro' the Jordan's deep tide, Whose waters shrunk back as the ark glided on[5]-- Oh, never had Judah an hour of such pride! Go forth to the Mount--bring the olive-branch home, And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!

[1] And that they should publish and proclaim in all their cities, and in Jerusalem, saying, "Go forth unto the mount, and fetch olive-branches,'! etc.--_Neh_. viii. 15.

[2] "For since the days of Joshua the son of Nun unto that day had not the children of Israel done so; and there was very great gladness."-- _Ib_. 17.

[3] "Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon and thou Moon, in the valley of Ajalon."--_Josh_. x. 12.

[4] "Fetch olive-branches, and pine-branches, and myrtle-branches, and palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, to make booths."

--_Neh_. viii. 15.

[5] "And the priests that bare the ark of the covenant of the Lord stood firm on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and all the Israelites passed over on dry ground."--_Josh_. iii. 17.

IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER.

(AIR.--HAYDN.)

Is it not sweet to think, hereafter, When the Spirit leaves this sphere. Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her To those she long hath mourned for here?

Hearts from which 'twas death to sever. Eyes this world can ne'er restore, There, as warm, as bright as ever, Shall meet us and be lost no more.

When wearily we wander, asking Of earth and heaven, where are they, Beneath whose smile we once lay basking, Blest and thinking bliss would stay?

Hope still lifts her radiant finger Pointing to the eternal Home, Upon whose portal yet they linger, Looking back for us to come.

Alas, alas--doth Hope deceive us? Shall friendship--love--shall all those ties That bind a moment, and then leave us, Be found again where nothing dies?

Oh, if no other boon were given, To keep our hearts from wrong and stain, Who would not try to win a Heaven Where all we love shall live again?

WAR AGAINST BABYLON.

(AIR.--NOVELLO.)

"War against Babylon!" shout we around, Be our banners through earth unfurled; Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the sound-- "War against Babylon!" shout thro' the world! Oh thou, that dwellest on many waters,[1] Thy day of pride is ended now; And the dark curse of Israel's daughters Breaks like a thundercloud over thy brow! War, war, war against Babylon!

Make bright the arrows, and gather the shields,[2] Set the standard of God on high; Swarm we, like locusts, o'er all her fields. "Zion" our watchword, and "vengeance" our cry! Woe! woe!--the time of thy visitation[3] Is come, proud land, thy doom is cast-- And the black surge of desolation Sweeps o'er thy guilty head, at last! War, war, war against Babylon!

[1] "Oh thou that dwellest upon many waters...thine end is come."--_Jer_. li. 13.

[2] "Make bright the arrows; gather the shields...set up the standard upon the walls of Babylon"--_Jer_. li. 11, 12.

[3] "Woe unto them! for their day is come, the time of their visitation!"--_Jer_. l. 27.

A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC.

ADVERTISEMENT.

These verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste; and it very rarely happens that poetry which has cost but little labor to the writer is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I certainly should not have published them if they had not found their way into some of the newspapers with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them.

With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman Senate for using "the outlandish term, _monopoly_." But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude, with whom, "If 'tis not sense, at least 'tis Greek." To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that by "Melologue," I mean that mixture of recitation of music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember is the prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalie of Racine.

T.M.

MELOLOGUE

A SHORT STRAIN OF MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA.

_There_ breathes a language known and felt Far as the pure air spreads its living zone; Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt, That language of the soul is felt and known. From those meridian plains, Where oft, of old, on some high tower The soft Peruvian poured his midnight strains, And called his distant love with such sweet power, That, when she heard the lonely lay, Not worlds could keep her from his arms away,[1] To the bleak climes of polar night, Where blithe, beneath a sunless sky, The Lapland lover bids his reindeer fly, And sings along the lengthening waste of snow, Gayly as if the blessed light Of vernal Phoebus burned upon his brow; Oh Music! thy celestial claim Is still resistless, still the same; And, faithful as the mighty sea To the pale star that o'er its realm presides, The spell-bound tides Of human passion rise and fall for thee!

[1] "A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but she cried out, 'For God's sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder tower, calls me with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and he my husband.'"--"_Garcilasso de la Véga_," in Sir Paul Ryeaut's translation.

GREEK AIR

List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings, While, from Ilissus' silvery springs, She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn; And by her side, in Music's charm dissolving, Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving, Dreams of bright days that never can return; When Athens nurst her olive bough With hands by tyrant power unchained; And braided for the muse's brow A wreath by tyrant touch unstained. When heroes trod each classic field Where coward feet now faintly falter; When every arm was Freedom's shield, And every heart was Freedom's altar!

FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS.

Hark, 'tis the sound that charms The war-steed's wakening ears!-- Oh! many a mother folds her arms Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears; And, tho' her fond heart sink with fears, Is proud to feel his young pulse bound With valor's fever at the sound. See, from his native hills afar The rude Helvetian flies to war; Careless for what, for whom he fights, For slave or despot, wrongs or rights: A conqueror oft--a hero never-- Yet lavish of his life-blood still, As if 'twere like his mountain rill, And gushed forever!

Yes, Music, here, even here, Amid this thoughtless, vague career, Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.-- There's a wild air which oft, among the rocks Of his own loved land, at evening hour, Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks, Whose every note hath power to thrill his mind With tenderest thoughts; to bring around his knees The rosy children whom he left behind, And fill each little angel eye With speaking tears, that ask him why He wandered from his hut for scenes like these. Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar; Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears; And the stern eyes that looked for blood before Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.

SWISS AIR.--"RANZ DES VACHES."

But wake, the trumpet's blast again, And rouse the ranks of warrior-men! Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs, And Freedom's spirit guides the laboring storm, 'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallowed form, And like Heaven's lightning sacredly destroys. Nor, Music, thro' thy breathing sphere, Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear Of Him who made all harmony, Than the blest sound of fetters breaking, And the first hymn that man awaking From Slavery's slumber breathes to Liberty.

SPANISH CHORUS.

Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain, Burst the bold, enthusiast strain, Like morning's music on the air; And seems in every note to swear By Saragossa's ruined streets, By brave Gerona's deathful story, That, while _one_ Spaniard's life-blood beats, That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory.

SPANISH AIR.--"YA DESPERTO."

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal, If neither valor's force nor wisdom's light Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal Which shuts so close the books of Europe's right-- What song shall then in sadness tell Of broken pride, of prospects shaded, Of buried hopes, remembered well Of ardor quenched, and honor faded? What muse shall mourn the breathless brave, In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine? What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave? Oh Erin, Thine!

SET OF GLEES,

MUSIC BY MOORE.

THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.

When o'er the silent seas alone, For days and nights we've cheerless gone, Oh they who've felt it know how sweet, Some sunny morn a sail to meet.

Sparkling at once is every eye, "Ship ahoy!" our joyful cry; While answering back the sounds we hear, "Ship ahoy!" what cheer? what...cheer?

Then sails are backed, we nearer come, Kind words are said of friends and home; And soon, too soon, we part with pain, To sail o'er silent seas again.

HIP, HIP, HURRA!

Come, fill round a bumper, fill up to the brim, He who shrinks from a bumper I pledge not to him; Here's the girl that each loves, be her eye of what hue, Or lustre, it may, so her heart is but true. Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Come charge high, again, boy, nor let the full wine Leave a space in the brimmer, where daylight may shine; Here's "the friends of our youth--tho' of some we're bereft, May the links that are lost but endear what are left!" Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Once more fill a bumper--ne'er talk of the hour; On hearts thus united old Time has no power. May our lives, tho', alas! like the wine of to-night, They must soon have an end, to the last flow as bright. Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Quick, quick, now, I'll give you, since Time's glass will run Even faster than ours doth, three bumpers in one; Here's the poet who sings--here's the warrior who fights-- Here's the, statesman who speaks, in the cause of men's rights! Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Come, once more, a bumper!--then drink as you please, Tho', _who_ could fill half-way to toast such as these? Here's our next joyous meeting--and oh when we meet, May our wine be as bright and our union as sweet! Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

HUSH, HUSH!

"Hush, hush!"--how well That sweet word sounds, When Love, the little sentinel, Walks his night-rounds; Then, if a foot but dare One rose-leaf crush, Myriads of voices in the air Whisper, "Hush, hush!"

"Hark, hark, 'tis he!" The night elves cry, And hush their fairy harmony, While he steals by; But if his silvery feet One dew-drop brush, Voices are heard in chorus sweet, Whispering, "Hush, hush!"

THE PARTING BEFORE THE BATTLE.

HE.

On to the field, our doom is sealed, To conquer or be slaves: This sun shall see our nation free, Or set upon our graves.

SHE.

Farewell, oh farewell, my love, May heaven thy guardian be, And send bright angels from above To bring thee back to me.

HE.

On to the field, the battle-field, Where freedom's standard waves, This sun shall see our tyrant yield, Or shine upon our graves.

THE WATCHMAN.

A TRIO.

WATCHMAN.

Past twelve o'clock--past twelve.

Good night, good night, my dearest-- How fast the moments fly! 'Tis time to part, thou hearest That hateful watchman's cry.

WATCHMAN.

Past one o'clock--past one.

Yet stay a moment longer-- Alas! why is it so, The wish to stay grows stronger, The more 'tis time to go?

WATCHMAN.

Past two o'clock--past two.

Now wrap thy cloak about thee-- The hours must sure go wrong, For when they're past without thee, They're, oh, ten times as long.

WATCHMAN.

Past three o'clock--past three.

Again that dreadful warning! Had ever time such flight? And see the sky, 'tis morning-- So now, _indeed_, good night.

WATCHMAN.

Past three o'clock--past three.

Goodnight, good night.

SAY, WHAT SHALL WE DANCE?

Say, what shall we dance? Shall we bound along the moonlight plain, To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain? Say, what shall we dance? Shall we, like those who rove Thro' bright Grenada's grove, To the light Bolero's measures move? Or choose the Guaracia's languishing lay, And thus to its sound die away?

Strike the gay chords, Let us hear each strain from every shore That music haunts, or young feet wander o'er. Hark! 'tis the light march, to whose measured time, The Polish lady, by her lover led, Delights thro' gay saloons with step untried to tread, Or sweeter still, thro' moonlight walks Whose shadows serve to hide The blush that's raised by who talks Of love the while by her side, Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating sound Like dreams we go gliding around, Say, which shall we dance? which shall we dance?

THE EVENING GUN.

Remember'st thou that setting sun, The last I saw with thee, When loud we heard the evening gun Peal o'er the twilight sea? Boom!--the sounds appeared to sweep Far o'er the verge of day,

Till, into realms beyond the deep, They seemed to die away. Oft, when the toils of day are done, In pensive dreams of thee, I sit to hear that evening gun, Peal o'er the stormy sea. Boom!--and while, o'er billows curled. The distant sounds decay, I weep and wish, from this rough world Like them to die away.

LEGENDARY BALLADS.

TO

THE MISS FEILDINGS,

THIS VOLUME

IS INSCRIBED

BY

THEIR FAITHFUL FRIEND AND SERVANT,

THOMAS MOORE.

LEGENDARY BALLADS

THE VOICE.

It came o'er her sleep, like a voice of those days, When love, only love was the light of her ways; And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago, It whispered her name from the garden below.

"Alas," sighed the maiden, "how fancy can cheat! "The world once had lips that could whisper thus sweet; "But cold now they slumber in yon fatal deep. "Where, oh that beside them this heart too could sleep!"

She sunk on her pillow--but no, 'twas in vain To chase the illusion, that Voice came again! She flew to the casement--but, husht as the grave, In moonlight lay slumbering woodland and wave.

"Oh sleep, come and shield me," in anguish she said, "From that call of the buried, that cry of the Dead!" And sleep came around her--but, starting, she woke, For still from the garden that spirit Voice spoke!

"I come," she exclaimed, "be thy home where it may, "On earth or in Heaven, that call I obey;" Then forth thro' the moonlight, with heart beating fast And loud as a death-watch, the pale maiden past.

Still round her the scene all in loneliness shone; And still, in the distance, that Voice led her on; But whither she wandered, by wave or by shore, None ever could tell, for she came back no more.

No, ne'er came she back,--but the watchman who stood, That night, in the tower which o'ershadows the flood, Saw dimly, 'tis said, o'er the moonlighted spray, A youth on a steed bear the maiden away.

CUPID AND PSYCHE.

They told her that he, to whose vows she had listened Thro' night's fleeting hours, was a spirit unblest;-- Unholy the eyes, that beside her had glistened, And evil the lips she in darkness had prest.

"When next in thy chamber the bridegroom reclineth, "Bring near him thy lamp, when in slumber he lies; "And there, as the light, o'er his dark features shineth, "Thou'lt see what a demon hath won all thy sighs!"

Too fond to believe them, yet doubting, yet fearing, When calm lay the sleeper she stole with her light; And saw--such a vision!--no image, appearing To bards in their day-dreams, was ever so bright.

A youth, but just passing from childhood's sweet morning, While round him still lingered its innocent ray; Tho' gleams, from beneath his shut eyelids gave warning Of summer-noon lightnings that under them lay.

His brow had a grace more than mortal around it, While, glossy as gold from a fairy-land mine, His sunny hair hung, and the flowers that crowned it Seemed fresh from the breeze of some garden divine.

Entranced stood the bride, on that miracle gazing, What late was but love is idolatry now; But, ah--in her tremor the fatal lamp raising-- A sparkle flew from it and dropt on his brow.

All's lost--with a start from his rosy sleep waking; The Spirit flashed o'er her his glances of fire; Then, slow from the clasp of her snowy arms breaking, Thus said, in a voice more of sorrow than ire:

"Farewell--what a dream thy suspicion hath broken! "Thus ever. Affection's fond vision is crost; "Dissolved are her spells when a doubt is but spoken, "And love, once distrusted, for ever is lost!"

HERO AND LEANDER.

"The night wind is moaning with mournful sigh, "There gleameth no moon in the misty sky "No star over Helle's sea; "Yet, yet, there is shining one holy light, "One love-kindled star thro' the deep of night, "To lead me, sweet Hero, to thee!"

Thus saying, he plunged in the foamy stream, Still fixing his gaze on that distant beam No eye but a lover's could see; And still, as the surge swept over his head, "To night," he said tenderly, "living or dead, "Sweet Hero, I'll rest with thee!"

But fiercer around him, the wild waves speed; Oh, Love! in that hour of thy votary's need, Where, where could thy Spirit be? He struggles--he sinks--while the hurricane's breath Bears rudely away his last farewell in death-- "Sweet Hero, I die for thee!"

THE LEAF AND THE FOUNTAIN.

"Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee, "So may the stars obey thee "So may each airy "Moon-elf and fairy "Nightly their homage pay thee! "Say, by what spell, above, below, "In stars that wink or flowers that blow, "I may discover, "Ere night is over, "Whether my love loves me, or no, "Whether my love loves me."

"Maiden, the dark tree nigh thee "Hath charms no gold could buy thee; "Its stem enchanted. "By moon-elves planted, "Will all thou seek'st supply thee. "Climb to yon boughs that highest grow, "Bring thence their fairest leaf below; "And thou'lt discover, "Ere night is over, "Whether thy love loves thee or no, "Whether thy love loves thee."

"See, up the dark tree going, "With blossoms round me blowing, "From thence, oh Father, "This leaf I gather, "Fairest that there is growing. "Say, by what sign I now shall know "If in this leaf lie bliss or woe "And thus discover "Ere night is over, "Whether my love loves me or no, "Whether my love loves me."

"Fly to yon fount that's welling "Where moonbeam ne'er had dwelling, "Dip in its water "That leaf, oh Daughter, "And mark the tale 'tis telling;[1] "Watch thou if pale or bright it glow, "List thou, the while, that fountain's flow, "And thou'lt discover "Whether thy lover, "Loved as he is, loves thee or no, "Loved as he is, loves thee."

Forth flew the nymph, delighted, To seek that fount benighted; But, scarce a minute The leaf lay in it, When, lo, its bloom was blighted! And as she asked, with voice of woe-- Listening, the while, that fountain's flow-- "Shall I recover "My truant lover?" The fountain seemed to answer, "No;" The fountain answered, "No."

[1] The ancients had a mode of divination somewhat similar to this; and we find the Emperor Adrian, when he went to consult the Fountain of Castalia, plucking a bay leaf, and dipping it into the sacred water.

CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS.

A hunter once in that grove reclined, To shun the noon's bright eye, And oft he wooed the wandering wind, To cool his brow with its sigh, While mute lay even the wild bee's hum, Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair, His song was still "Sweet air, oh come?" While Echo answered, "Come, sweet Air!"

But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise! What meaneth that rustling spray? "'Tis the white-horned doe," the Hunter cries, "I have sought since break of day." Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs, The arrow flies from his sounding bow, "Hilliho-hilliho!" he gayly sings, While Echo sighs forth "Hilliho!"

Alas, 'twas not the white-horned doe He saw in the rustling grove, But the bridal veil, as pure as snow, Of his own young wedded love. And, ah, too sure that arrow sped, For pale at his feet he sees her lie;-- "I die, I die," was all she said, While Echo murmured. "I die, I die!"

YOUTH AND AGE.

"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth, one day, To drooping Age, who crest his way.-- "It is a sunny hour of play, "For which repentance dear doth pay; "Repentance! Repentance! "And this is Love, as wise men say." "Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth once more, Fearful, yet fond, of Age's lore.-- "Soft as a passing summer's wind, "Wouldst know the blight it leaves behind? "Repentance! Repentance! "And this is Love--when love is o'er."

"Tell me, what's Love? "said Youth again, Trusting the bliss, but not the pain. "Sweet as a May tree's scented air-- "Mark ye what bitter fruit 'twill bear, "Repentance! Repentance! "This, this is Love--sweet Youth, beware."

Just then, young Love himself came by, And cast on Youth a smiling eye; Who could resist that glance's ray? In vain did Age his warning say, "Repentance! Repentance!" Youth laughing went with Love away.

THE DYING WARRIOR.

A wounded Chieftain, lying By the Danube's leafy side, Thus faintly said, in dying, "Oh! bear, thou foaming tide. "This gift to my lady-bride."

'Twas then, in life's last quiver, He flung the scarf he wore Into the foaming river, Which, ah too quickly, bore That pledge of one no more!

With fond impatience burning, The Chieftain's lady stood, To watch her love returning In triumph down the flood, From that day's field of blood.

But, field, alas, ill-fated! The lady saw, instead Of the bark whose speed she waited, Her hero's scarf, all red With the drops his heart had shed.

One shriek--and all was over-- Her life-pulse ceased to beat; The gloomy waves now cover That bridal-flower so sweet. And the scarf is her winding sheet!

THE MAGIC MIRROR.

"Come, if thy magic Glass have power "To call up forms we sigh to see; "Show me my, love, in that, rosy bower, "Where last she pledged her truth to me."

The Wizard showed him his Lady bright, Where lone and pale in her bower she lay; "True-hearted maid," said the happy Knight, "She's thinking of one, who is far away."

But, lo! a page, with looks of joy, Brings tidings to the Lady's ear; "'Tis," said the Knight, "the same bright boy, "Who used to guide me to my dear." The Lady now, from her favorite tree, Hath, smiling, plucked a rosy flower: "Such," he exclaimed, "was the gift that she "Each morning sent me from that bower!"

She gives her page the blooming rose, With looks that say, "Like lightning, fly!" "Thus," thought the Knight, "she soothes her woes, "By fancying, still, her true-love nigh." But the page returns, and--oh, what a sight, For trusting lover's eyes to see!-- Leads to that bower another Knight, As young and, alas, as loved as he!

"Such," quoth the Youth, "is Woman's love!" Then, darting forth, with furious bound, Dashed at the Mirror his iron glove, And strewed it all in fragments round.

MORAL.

Such ills would never have come to pass, Had he ne'er sought that fatal view; The Wizard would still have kept his Glass, And the Knight still thought his Lady true.

THE PILGRIM.

Still thus, when twilight gleamed, Far off his Castle seemed, Traced on the sky; And still, as fancy bore him. To those dim towers before him, He gazed, with wishful eye; And thought his home was nigh.

"Hall of my Sires!" he said, "How long, with weary tread, "Must I toil on? "Each eve, as thus I wander, "Thy towers seem rising yonder, "But, scarce hath daylight shone, "When, like a dream, thou'rt gone!"

So went the Pilgrim still, Down dale and over hill, Day after day; That glimpse of home, so cheering, At twilight still appearing, But still, with morning's ray, Melting, like mist, away!

Where rests the Pilgrim now? Here, by this cypress bough, Closed his career; That dream, of fancy's weaving, No more his steps deceiving, Alike past hope and fear, The Pilgrim's home is here.

THE HIGH-BORN LADYE.

In vain all the Knights to the Underwald wooed her, Tho' brightest of maidens, the proudest was she; Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her, But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.

"Whosoever I wed," said this maid, so excelling, "That Knight must the conqueror of conquerors be; "He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in:-- "None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!

Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her On Knights and on Nobles of highest degree; Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her, And worshipt at distance the high-born Ladye.

At length came a Knight, from a far land to woo her, With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea; His visor was down--but, with voice that thrilled thro her, He whispered his vows to the high-born Ladye.

"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to grace thee, "In me the great conqueror of conquerors see; "Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee, "And mine, thou'rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!"

The maiden she smiled, and in jewels arrayed her, Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she; And proud was the step, as her bridegroom conveyed her In pomp to his home, of that highborn Ladye.

"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you, led me? "Here's naught but a tomb and a dark cypress tree; "Is _this_ the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?" With scorn in her glance said the high-born Ladye.

"Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures"-- Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see; But she sunk on the ground--'twas a skeleton's features And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye!

THE INDIAN BOAT.

'Twas midnight dark, The seaman's bark, Swift o'er the waters bore him, When, thro' the night, He spied a light Shoot o'er the wave before him. "A sail! a sail!" he cries; "She comes from the Indian shore "And to-night shall be our prize, "With her freight of golden ore; "Sail on! sail on!" When morning shone He saw the gold still clearer; But, though so fast The waves he past That boat seemed never the nearer.

Bright daylight came, And still the same Rich bark before him floated; While on the prize His wishful eyes Like any young lover's doted: "More sail! more sail!" he cries, While the waves overtop the mast; And his bounding galley flies, Like an arrow before the blast. Thus on, and on, Till day was gone, And the moon thro' heaven did hie her, He swept the main, But all in vain, That boat seemed never the nigher.

And many a day To night gave way, And many a morn succeeded: While still his flight, Thro day and night, That restless mariner speeded. Who knows--who knows what seas He is now careering o'er? Behind, the eternal breeze, And that mocking bark, before! For, oh, till sky And earth shall die, And their death leave none to rue it, That boat must flee O'er the boundless sea, And that ship in vain pursue it.

THE STRANGER.

Come list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground; Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger Hears soft fairy music re-echo around.

None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady, Her language, tho' sweet, none could e'er understand; But her features so sunned, and her eyelash so shady, Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land.

'Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping, A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears; So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping, Like music that Sorrow had steeped in her tears.

We thought 'twas an anthem some angel had sung us;-- But, soon as the day-beams had gushed from on high, With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us, All lovely and lone, as if strayed from the sky.

Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended, For pale was her cheek, with that spirit-like hue, Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended, And light from another already shines through.

Then her eyes, when she sung--oh, but once to have seen them-- Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart; While her looks and her voice made a language between them, That spoke more than holiest words to the heart.

But she past like a day-dream, no skill could restore her-- Whate'er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast; She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her. That song of past days on her lips to the last.

Not even in the grave is her sad heart reposing-- Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb; For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing, The same strain of music is heard thro' the gloom.

BALLADS, SONGS, ETC.

TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS.

To-day, dearest! is ours; Why should Love carelessly lose it? This life shines or lowers Just as we, weak mortals, use it. 'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay, To think of the thorns of Sorrow And Joy, if left on the stem to-day, May wither before to-morrow.

Then why, dearest! so long Let the sweet moments fly over? Tho' now, blooming and young Thou hast me devoutly thy lover; Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse, Some treasure may steal or borrow; Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps, Or I less in love to-morrow.

WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS.

When on the lip the sigh delays, As if 'twould linger there for ever; When eyes would give the world to gaze, Yet still look down and venture never; When, tho' with fairest nymphs we rove, There's one we dream of more than any-- If all this is not real love, 'Tis something wondrous like it, Fanny!

To think and ponder, when apart, On all we've got to say at meeting; And yet when near, with heart to heart, Sit mute and listen to their beating: To see but one bright object move, The only moon, where stars are many-- If all this is not downright love, I prithee say what _is_, my Fanny!

When Hope foretells the brightest, best, Tho' Reason on the darkest reckons; When Passion drives us to the west, Tho' Prudence to the eastward beckons; When all turns round, below, above, And our own heads the most of any-- If this is not stark, staring love, Then you and I are sages, Fanny.

HERE, TAKE MY HEART.

Here, take my heart--'twill be safe in thy keeping, While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea; Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping, What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If in the race we are destined to run, love, They who have light hearts the happiest be, Then happier still must be they who have none, love. And that will be _my_ case when mine is with thee.

It matters not where I may now be a rover, I care not how many bright eyes I may see; Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her, I'd tell her I couldn't--my heart is with thee.

And there let it lie, growing fonder and, fonder-- For, even should Fortune turn truant to me, Why, let her go--I've a treasure beyond her, As long as my heart's out at interest With thee!

OH, CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME.

Oh, call it by some better name, For Friendship sounds too cold, While Love is now a worldly flame, Whose shrine must be of gold: And Passion, like the sun at noon, That burns o'er all he sees, Awhile as warm will set as soon-- Then call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far, More free from stain of clay Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are, Yet human, still as they: And if thy lip, for love like this, No mortal word can frame, Go, ask of angels what it is, And call it by that name!

POOR WOUNDED HEART

Poor wounded heart, farewell! Thy hour of rest is come; Thou soon wilt reach thy home, Poor wounded heart, farewell! The pain thou'lt feel in breaking Less bitter far will be, Than that long, deadly aching, This life has been to thee.

There--broken heart, farewell! The pang is o'er-- The parting pang is o'er; Thou now wilt bleed no more. Poor broken heart, farewell! No rest for thee but dying-- Like waves whose strife is past, On death's cold shore thus lying, Thou sleepst in peace at last-- Poor broken heart, farewell!

THE EAST INDIAN.

Come, May, with all thy flowers, Thy sweetly-scented thorn, Thy cooling evening showers, The fragrant breath at morn: When, May-flies haunt the willow, When May-buds tempt the bee, Then o'er the shining billow My love will come to me.

From Eastern Isles she's winging Thro' watery wilds her way, And on her cheek is bringing The bright sun's orient ray: Oh, come and court her hither, Ye breezes mild and warm-- One winter's gale would wither So soft, so pure a form.

The fields where she was straying Are blest with endless light, With zephyrs always playing Thro' gardens always bright. Then now, sweet May! be sweeter Than e'er, thou'st been before; Let sighs from roses meet her When she comes near our shore.

POOR BROKEN FLOWER.

Poor broken flower! what art can now recover thee? Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath-- In vain the sunbeams seek To warm that faded cheek; The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee; Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,-- Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou; In vain the smiles of all Like sunbeams round her fall: The only smile that could from death awaken her, That smile, alas! is gone to others now.

THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

Being weary of love, I flew to the grove, And chose me a tree of the fairest; Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree, "Thou my mistress shall be, "And I'll worship each bud thou bearest. "For the hearts of this world are hollow, "And fickle the smiles we follow; "And 'tis sweet, when all "Their witcheries pall "To have a pure love to fly to: "So, my pretty Rose-tree, "Thou my mistress shalt be, "And the only one now I shall sigh to."

When the beautiful hue Of thy cheek thro' the dew Of morning is bashfully peeping, "Sweet tears," I shall say (As I brush them away), "At least there's no art in this weeping" Altho thou shouldst die to-morrow; 'Twill not be from pain or sorrow; And the thorns of thy stem Are not like them With which men wound each other; So, my pretty Rose-tree, Thou my mistress shalt be And I'll never again sigh to another.

SHINE OUT, STARS!

Shine out, Stars! let Heaven assemble Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, All to grace this Eve of May. Let the flower-beds all lie waking, And the odors shut up there, From their downy prisons breaking, Fly abroad thro sea and air.

And Would Love, too, bring his sweetness, With our other joys to weave, Oh what glory, what completeness, Then would crown this bright May Eve! Shine out, Stars! let night assemble Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, To adorn this Eve of May.

THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA.

Oh, the joys of our evening posada, Where, resting, at close of day, We, young Muleteers of Grenada, Sit and sing the sunshine away; So merry, that even the slumbers That round us hung seem gone; Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers Again beguile them on. Oh the joys, etc.

Then as each to his loved sultana In sleep still breathes the sigh, The name of some black-eyed Tirana, Escapes our lips as we lie. Till, with morning's rosy twinkle, Again we're up and gone-- While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle Beguiles the rough way on. Oh the joys of our merry posada, Where, resting at close of day, We, young Muleteers of Grenada, Thus sing the gay moments away.

TELL HER, OH, TELL HER.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying Beneath the green arbor is still lying there; And breezes like lovers around it are sighing, But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going, Beside the green arbor she playfully set, As lovely as, ever is blushing and blowing, And not a, bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.

So while away from that arbor forsaken, The maiden is wandering, still let her be As true as the lute that no sighing can waken And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree!

NIGHTS OF MUSIC.

Nights of music, nights of loving, Lost too soon, remembered long. When we went by moonlight roving, Hearts all love and lips all song. When this faithful lute recorded All my spirit felt to thee; And that smile the song rewarded-- Worth Whole years of fame to me!

Nights of song, and nights of splendor, Filled with joys too sweet to last-- Joys that, like the star-light, tender, While they shore no shadow cast. Tho' all other happy hours From my fading memory fly, Of, that starlight, of those bowers, Not a beam, a leaf may die!

OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE.

Our first young love resembles That short but brilliant ray, Which smiles and weeps and trembles Thro' April's earliest day. And not all life before us, Howe'er its lights may play, Can shed a lustre o'er us Like that first April ray.

Our summer sun may squander A blaze serener, grander; Our autumn beam May, like a dream Of heaven, die calm away; But no--let life before us Bring all the light it may, 'Twill ne'er shed lustre o'er us Like that first youthful ray.

BLACK AND BLUE EYES.

The brilliant black eye May in triumph let fly All its darts without Caring who feels 'em; But the soft eye of blue, Tho' it scatter wounds too, Is much better pleased when it heals 'em-- Dear Fanny! Is much better pleased when it heals 'em.

The black eye may say, "Come and worship my ray-- "By adoring, perhaps you may move me!" But the blue eye, half hid, Says from under its lid, "I love and am yours, if you love me!" Yes, Fanny! The blue eye, half hid, Says, from under its lid, "I love and am yours, if you love me!"

Come tell me, then, why In that lovely blue eye Not a charm of its tint I discover; Oh why should you wear The only blue pair That ever said "No" to a lover? Dear Fanny! Oh, why should you wear The only blue pair That ever said "No" to a lover?

DEAR FANNY.

"She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool; "She has wit, but you mustn't be caught, so;" Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool, And 'tis not the first time I have thought so, Dear Fanny. 'Tis not the first time I have thought so.

"She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly; "'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season;" Thus Love has advised me and who will deny That Love reasons much better than Reason, Dear Fanny? Love reasons much better than Reason.

FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.

From life without freedom, say, who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die? Hark!--hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave, The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave. Our country lies bleeding--haste, haste to her aid; One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-- The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains. On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed. And oh, even if Freedom from _this_ world be driven, Despair not--at least we shall find her in heaven.

HERE'S THE BOWER.

Here's the bower she loved so much, And the tree she planted; Here's the harp she used to touch-- Oh, how that touch enchanted! Roses now unheeded sigh; Where's the hand to wreathe them? Songs around neglected lie; Where's the lip to breathe them? Here's the bower, etc.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved Ne'er shall feel its sweetness; Time, that once so fleetly moved, Now hath lost its fleetness. Years were days, when here she strayed, Days were moments near her; Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid, Nor Pity wept a dearer! Here's the bower, etc.

I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR.

A FINLAND LOVE SONG.

I saw the moon rise clear O'er hills and vales of snow Nor told my fleet reindeer The track I wished to go. Yet quick he bounded forth; For well my reindeer knew I've but one path on earth-- The path which leads to you.

The gloom that winter cast, How soon the heart forgets, When summer brings, at last, Her sun that never sets! So dawned my love for you; So, fixt thro' joy and pain, Than summer sun more true, 'Twill never set again.

LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL.

Young Love found a Dial once in a dark shade Where man ne'er had wandered nor sunbeam played; "Why thus in darkness lie?" whispered young Love, "Thou, whose gay hours in sunshine should move." "I ne'er," said the Dial, "have seen the warm sun, "So noonday and midnight to me, Love, are one."

Then Love took the Dial away from the shade, And placed her where Heaven's beam warmly played. There she reclined, beneath Love's gazing eye, While, marked all with sunshine, her hours flew by. "Oh, how," said the Dial, "can any fair maid "That's born to be shone upon rest in the shade?"

But night now comes on and the sunbeam's o'er, And Love stops to gaze on the Dial no more. Alone and neglected, while bleak rain and winds Are storming around her, with sorrow she finds That Love had but numbered a few sunny hours,-- Then left the remainder to darkness and showers!

LOVE AND TIME.

'Tis said--but whether true or not Let bards declare who've seen 'em-- That Love and Time have only got One pair of wings between 'em. In Courtship's first delicious hour, The boy full oft can spare 'em; So, loitering in his lady's bower, He lets the gray-beard wear 'em. Then is Time's hour of play; Oh, how be flies, flies away!

But short the moments, short as bright, When he the wings can borrow; If Time to-day has had his flight, Love takes his turn to-morrow. Ah! Time and Love, your change is then The saddest and most trying, When one begins to limp again, And t'other takes to flying. Then is Love's hour to stray; Oh, how he flies, flies away!

But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel, And bless the silken fetter, Who knows, the dear one, how to deal With Love and Time much better. So well she checks their wanderings, So peacefully she pairs 'em, That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings, And Time for ever wears 'em. This is Time's holiday; Oh, how he flies, flies away!

LOVE'S LIGHT SUMMER-CLOUD.

Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us-- Youth may wither, but feeling will last; All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us Love's light summer-cloud only shall cast. Oh, if to love thee more Each hour I number o'er-- If this a passion be Worthy of thee, Then be happy, for thus I adore thee. Charms may wither, but feeling shall last: All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee, Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast. Rest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain thee, Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal; Beam, bright eyelid, no weeping shall stain thee, Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel. Oh, if there be a charm, In love, to banish harm-- If pleasure's truest spell Be to love well, Then be happy, for thus I adore thee, Charms may wither, but feeling shall last; All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee. Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.

LOVE, WANDERING THRO' THE GOLDEN MAZE.

Love, wandering through the golden maze Of my beloved's hair, Traced every lock with fond delays, And, doting, lingered there. And soon he found 'twere vain to fly; His heart was close confined, For, every ringlet was a tie-- A chain by beauty twined.

MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOUNDETH.

(THE TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY.)

Merrily every bosom boundeth, Merrily, oh! Where the song of Freedom soundeth, Merrily oh! There the warrior's arms Shed more splendor; There the maiden's charm's Shine more tender; Every joy the land surroundeth, Merrily, oh! merrily, oh!

Wearily every bosom pineth, Wearily, oh! Where the bond of slavery twineth Wearily, oh There the warrior's dart Hath no fleetness; There the maiden's heart Hath no sweetness-- Every flower of life declineth, Wearily, oh! wearily, oh!

Cheerily then from hill and valley, Cheerily, oh! Like your native fountain sally, Cheerily, oh! If a glorious death, Won by bravery, Sweeter be than breath Sighed in slavery, Round the flag of Freedom rally, Cheerily, oh! cheerily, oh!

REMEMBER THE TIME.

(THE CASTILIAN MAID.)

Remember the time, in La Mancha's shades, When our moments so blissfully flew; When you called me the flower of Castilian maids, And I blushed to be called so by you; When I taught you to warble the gay seguadille. And to dance to the light castanet; Oh, never, dear youth, let you roam where you will, The delight of those moments forget.

They tell me, you lovers from Erin's green isle, Every hour a new passion can feel; And that soon, in the light of some lovelier smile. You'll forget the poor maid of Castile. But they know not how brave in battle you are, Or they never could think you would rove; For 'tis always the spirit most gallant in war That is fondest and truest in Love.

OH, SOON RETURN.

Our white sail caught the evening ray, The wave beneath us seemed to burn, When all the weeping maid could say, Was, "Oh, soon return!" Thro' many a clime our ship was driven O'er many a billow rudely thrown; Now chilled beneath a northern heaven, Now sunned in summer's zone: And still, where'er we bent our way, When evening bid the west wave burn, I fancied still I heard her say, "Oh, soon return!"

If ever yet my bosom found Its thoughts one moment turned from thee, 'Twas when the combat raged around, And brave men looked to me. But tho' the war-field's wild alarm For gentle love was all unmeet, He lent to glory's brow the charm, Which made even danger sweet. And still, when victory's calm came o'er The hearts where rage had ceased to burn, Those parting words I heard once more, "Oh, soon return!--Oh, soon return!"

LOVE THEE?

Love thee?--so well, so tenderly Thou'rt loved, adored by me, Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty, Were worthless without thee. Tho' brimmed with blessings, pure and rare, Life's cup before me lay, Unless thy love were mingled there, I'd spurn the draft away. Love thee?--so well, so tenderly, Thou'rt loved, adored by me, Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty, Are worthless without thee.

Without thy smile, the monarch's lot To me were dark and lone, While, _with_ it, even the humblest cot Were brighter than his throne. Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs For me would have no charms; My only world thy gentle eyes-- My throne thy circling arms! Oh, yes, so well, so tenderly Thou'rt loved, adored by me, Whole realms of light and liberty Were worthless without thee.

ONE DEAR SMILE.

Couldst thou look as dear as when First I sighed for thee; Couldst thou make me feel again Every wish I breathed thee then, Oh, how blissful life would be! Hopes that now beguiling leave me, Joys that lie in slumber cold-- All would wake, couldst thou but give me One dear smile like those of old.

No--there's nothing left us now, But to mourn the past; Vain was every ardent vow-- Never yet did Heaven allow Love so warm, so wild, to last. Not even hope could now deceive me-- Life itself looks dark and cold; Oh, thou never more canst give me One dear smile like those of old

YES, YES, WHEN THE BLOOM.

Yes, yes, when, the bloom of Love's boyhood is o'er, He'll turn into friendship that feels no decay; And, tho' Time may take from him the wings he once wore, The charms that remain will be bright as before, And he'll lose but his young trick of flying away. Then let it console thee, if Love should not stay, That Friendship our last happy moments will crown: Like the shadows of morning, Love lessens away, While Friendship, like those at the closing of day, Will linger and lengthen as life's sun goes down.

THE DAY OF LOVE.

The beam of morning trembling Stole o'er the mountain brook, With timid ray resembling Affection's early look. Thus love begins--sweet morn of love!

The noon-tide ray ascended, And o'er the valley's stream Diffused a glow as splendid As passion's riper dream. Thus love expands--warm noon of love!

But evening came, o'ershading The glories of the sky, Like faith and fondness fading From passion's altered eye. Thus love declines--cold eve of love!

LUSITANIAN WAR-SONG.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains, Till not one hateful link remains Of slavery's lingering chains; Till not one tyrant tread our plains, Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains. No! never till that glorious day Shall Lusitania's sons be gay, Or hear, oh Peace, thy welcome lay Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains, Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say, "Your cloud of foes hath past away, "And Freedom comes with new-born ray "To gild your vines and light your fountains." Oh, never till that glorious day Shall Lusitania's sons be gay, Or hear, sweet Peace, thy welcome lay Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

THE YOUNG ROSE.

The young rose I give thee, so dewy and bright, Was the floweret most dear to the sweet bird of night, Who oft, by the moon, o'er her blushes hath hung, And thrilled every leaf with the wild lay he sung.

Oh, take thou this young rose, and let her life be Prolonged by the breath she will borrow from thee; For, while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill, She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still.

WHEN MIDST THE GAY I MEET.

When midst the gay I meet That gentle smile of thine, Tho' still on me it turns most sweet, I scarce can call it mine: But when to me alone Your secret tears you show, Oh, then I feel those tears my own, And claim them while they flow. Then still with bright looks bless The gay, the cold, the free; Give smiles to those who love you less, But keep your tears for me.

The snow on Jura's steep Can smile in many a beam, Yet still in chains of coldness sleep. How bright soe'er it seem. But, when some deep-felt ray Whose touch is fire appears, Oh, then the smile is warmed away, And, melting, turns to tears. Then still with bright looks bless The gay, the cold, the free; Give smiles to those who love you less, But keep your tears for me.

WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS.

When twilight dews are falling soft Upon the rosy sea, love, I watch the star, whose beam so oft Has lighted me to thee, love. And thou too, on that orb so dear, Dost often gaze at even, And think, tho' lost for ever here, Thou'lt yet be mine in heaven.

There's not a garden walk I tread, There's not a flower I see, love, But brings to mind some hope that's fled, Some joy that's gone with thee, Love. And still I wish that hour was near, When, friends and foes forgiven, The pains, the ills we've wept thro' here May turn to smiles in heaven.

YOUNG JESSICA.

Young Jessica sat all the day, With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining; Her needle bright beside her lay, So active once!--now idly shining. Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts That love and mischief are most nimble; The safest shield against the darts Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble.

The child who with a magnet plays Well knowing all its arts, so wily, The tempter near a needle lays. And laughing says, "We'll steal it slily." The needle, having naught to do, Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle; Till closer, closer come the two, And--off, at length, elopes the needle.

Now, had this needle turned its eye To some gay reticule's construction, It ne'er had strayed from duty's tie, Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction. Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts, Your snowy fingers must be nimble; The safest shield against the darts Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble.

HOW HAPPY, ONCE.

_How_ happy, once, tho' winged with sighs, My moments flew along, While looking on those smiling eyes, And listening to thy magic song! But vanished now, like summer dreams, Those moments smile no more; For me that eye no longer beams, That song for me is o'er. Mine the cold brow, That speaks thy altered vow, While others feel thy sunshine now.

Oh, could I change my love like thee, One hope might yet be mine-- Some other eyes as bright to see, And hear a voice as sweet as thine: But never, never can this heart Be waked to life again; With thee it lost its vital part, And withered then! Cold its pulse lies, And mute are even its sighs, All other grief it now defies.

I LOVE BUT THEE.

If, after all, you still will doubt and fear me, And think this heart to other loves will stray, If I must swear, then, lovely doubter, hear me; By every dream I have when thou'rt away, By every throb I feel when thou art near me, I love but thee--I love but thee!

By those dark eyes, where light is ever playing, Where Love in depth of shadow holds his throne, And by those lips, which give whate'er thou'rt saying, Or grave or gay, a music of its own, A music far beyond all minstrel's playing, I love but thee--I love but thee!

By that fair brow, where Innocence reposes, As pure as moonlight sleeping upon snow, And by that cheek, whose fleeting blush discloses A hue too bright to bless this world below, And only fit to dwell on Eden's roses, I love but thee--I love but thee!

LET JOY ALONE BE REMEMBERED NOW.

Let thy joys alone be remembered now, Let thy sorrows go sleep awhile; Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow, Let Love light it up with his smile, For thus to meet, and thus to find, That Time, whose touch can chill Each flower of form, each grace of mind, Hath left thee blooming still, Oh, joy alone should be thought of now, Let our sorrows go sleep awhile; Or, should thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow, Let Love light it up with his smile.

When the flowers of life's sweet garden fade, If but _one_ bright leaf remain, Of the many that once its glory made, It is not for us to complain. But thus to meet and thus to wake In all Love's early bliss; Oh, Time all other gifts may take, So he but leaves us this! Then let joy alone be remembered now, Let our sorrows go sleep awhile; Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er the brow, Let Love light it up with his smile!

LOVE THEE, DEAREST? LOVE THEE?

Love thee, dearest? love thee? Yes, by yonder star I swear, Which thro' tears above thee Shines so sadly fair; Tho' often dim, With tears, like him, Like him my truth will shine, And--love thee, dearest? love thee? Yes, till death I'm thine.

Leave thee, dearest? leave thee? No, that star is not more true; When my vows deceive thee, _He_ will wander too. A cloud of night May veil his light, And death shall darken mine-- But--leave thee, dearest? leave thee? No, till death I'm thine.

MY HEART AND LUTE.

I give thee all--I can no more-- Tho' poor the offering be; My heart and lute are all the store That I can bring to thee. A lute whose gentle song reveals The soul of love full well; And, better far, a heart that feels Much more than lute could tell.

Tho' love and song may fail, alas! To keep life's clouds away, At least 'twill make them lighter pass, Or gild them if they stay. And even if Care at moments flings A discord o'er life's happy strain, Let Love but gently touch the strings, 'Twill all be sweet again!

PEACE, PEACE TO HIM THAT'S GONE!

When I am dead. Then lay my head In some lone, distant dell, Where voices ne'er Shall stir the air, Or break its silent spell.

If any sound Be heard around, Let the sweet bird alone, That weeps in song, Sing all night long, "Peace, peace, to him that's gone!"

Yet, oh, were mine One sigh of thine, One pitying word from thee, Like gleams of heaven, To sinners given, Would be that word to me.

Howe'er unblest, My shade would rest While listening to that tone;-- Enough 'twould be To hear from thee, "Peace, peace, to him that gone."

ROSE OF THE DESERT

Rose of the Desert! thou, whose blushing ray, Lonely and lovely, fleets unseen away; No hand to cull thee, none to woo thy sigh,-- In vestal silence left to live and die.-- Rose of the Desert! thus should woman be, Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee.

Rose of the Garden, how, unlike thy doom! Destined for others, not thyself, to bloom; Culled ere thy beauty lives thro' half its day; A moment cherished, and then cast away; Rose of the Garden! such is woman's lot,-- Worshipt while blooming--when she fades, forgot.

'TIS ALL FOR THEE.

If life for me hath joy or light, 'Tis all from thee, My thoughts by day, my dreams by night, Are but of thee, of only thee. Whate'er of hope or peace I know, My zest in joy, my balm in woe, To those dear eyes of thine I owe, 'Tis all from thee.

My heart, even ere I saw those eyes, Seemed doomed to thee; Kept pure till then from other ties, 'Twas all for thee, for only thee. Like plants that sleep till sunny May Calls forth their life my spirit lay, Till, touched by Love's awakening ray, It lived for thee, it lived for thee.

When Fame would call me to her heights, She speaks by thee; And dim would shine her proudest lights, Unshared by thee, unshared by thee. Whene'er I seek the Muse's shrine, Where Bards have hung their wreaths divine, And wish those wreaths of glory mine, 'Tis all for thee, for only thee.

THE SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME.

There's a song of the olden time, Falling sad o'er the ear, Like the dream of some village chime, Which in youth we loved to hear. And even amidst the grand and gay, When Music tries her gentlest art I never hear so sweet a lay, Or one that hangs so round my heart, As that song of the olden time, Falling sad o'er the ear, Like the dream of some village chime, Which in youth we loved to hear,

And when all of this life is gone,-- Even the hope, lingering now, Like the last of the leaves left on Autumn's sere and faded bough,-- 'Twill seem as still those friends were near, Who loved me in youth's early day, If in that parting hour I hear The same sweet notes and die away,-- To that song of the olden time, Breathed, like Hope's farewell strain, To say, in some brighter clime, Life and youth will shine again!

WAKE THEE, MY DEAR.

Wake thee, my dear--thy dreaming Till darker hours will keep; While such a moon is beaming, 'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

Moments there are we number, Moments of pain and care, Which to oblivious slumber Gladly the wretch would spare.

But now,--who'd think of dreaming When Love his watch should keep? While such a moon is beaming, 'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

If e'er the fates should sever My life and hopes from thee, love, The sleep that lasts for ever Would then be sweet to me, love; But now,--away with dreaming! Till darker hours 'twill keep; While such a moon is beaming, 'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

THE BOY OF THE ALPS.

Lightly, Alpine rover, Tread the mountains over; Rude is the path thou'st yet to go; Snow cliffs hanging o'er thee, Fields of ice before thee, While the hid torrent moans below. Hark, the deep thunder, Thro' the vales yonder! 'Tis the huge avalanche downward cast; From rock to rock Rebounds the shock. But courage, boy! the danger's past. Onward, youthful rover, Tread the glacier over, Safe shalt thou reach thy home at last. On, ere light forsake thee, Soon will dusk o'ertake thee: O'er yon ice-bridge lies thy way! Now, for the risk prepare thee; Safe it yet may bear thee, Tho' 'twill melt in morning's ray.

Hark, that dread howling! 'Tis the wolf prowling,-- Scent of thy track the foe hath got; And cliff and shore Resound his roar. But courage, boy,--the danger's past!

Watching eyes have found thee, Loving arms are round thee, Safe hast thou reached thy father's cot.

FOR THEE ALONE.

For thee alone I brave the boundless deep, Those eyes my light through every distant sea; My waking thoughts, the dream that gilds my sleep, The noon-tide revery, all are given to thee, To thee alone, to thee alone.

Tho' future scenes present to Fancy's eye Fair forms of light that crowd the distant air, When nearer viewed, the fairy phantoms fly, The crowds dissolve, and thou alone art there, Thou, thou alone.

To win thy smile, I speed from shore to shore, While Hope's sweet voice is heard in every blast, Still whispering on that when some years are o'er, One bright reward shall crown my toil at last, Thy smile alone, thy smile alone,

Oh place beside the transport of that hour All earth can boast of fair, of rich, and bright, Wealth's radiant mines, the lofty thrones of power,-- Then ask where first thy lover's choice would light? On thee alone, on thee alone.

HER LAST WORDS, AT PARTING.

Her last words, at parting, how _can_ I forget? Deep treasured thro' life, in my heart they shall stay; Like music, whose charm in the soul lingers yet, When its sounds from the ear have long melted away. Let Fortune assail me, her threatenings are vain; Those still-breathing words shall my talisman be,-- "Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain, "There's one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee."

From the desert's sweet well tho' the pilgrim must hie, Never more of that fresh-springing fountain to taste, He hath still of its bright drops a treasured supply, Whose sweetness lends life to his lips thro' the waste. So, dark as my fate is still doomed to remain, These words shall my well in the wilderness be,-- "Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain, "There's one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee."

LET'S TAKE THIS WORLD AS SOME WIDE SCENE.

Let's take this world as some wide scene. Thro' which in frail but buoyant boat, With skies now dark and now serene, Together thou and I must float; Beholding oft on either shore Bright spots where we should love to stay; But Time plies swift his flying oar, And away we speed, away, away.

Should chilling winds and rains come on, We'll raise our awning 'gainst the shower; Sit closer till the storm is gone, And, smiling, wait a sunnier hour. And if that sunnier hour should shine, We'll know its brightness cannot stay, But happy while 'tis thine and mine,

Complain not when it fades away. So shall we reach at last that Fall Down which life's currents all must go,-- The dark, the brilliant, destined all To sink into the void below. Nor even that hour shall want its charms, If, side by side, still fond we keep, And calmly, in each other's arms Together linked, go down the steep.

LOVE'S VICTORY.

Sing to Love--for, oh, 'twas he Who won the glorious day; Strew the wreaths of victory Along the conqueror's way. Yoke the Muses to his car, Let them sing each trophy won; While his mother's joyous star Shall light the triumph on.

Hail to Love, to mighty Love, Let spirits sing around; While the hill, the dale, and grove, With "mighty Love" resound; Or, should a sigh of sorrow steal Amid the sounds thus echoed o'er, 'Twill but teach the god to feel His victories the more.

See his wings, like amethyst Of sunny Ind their hue; Bright as when, by Psyche kist, They trembled thro' and thro'. Flowers spring beneath his feet; Angel forms beside him run; While unnumbered lips repeat "Love's victory is won!" Hail to Love, to mighty Love, etc,

SONG OF HERCULES TO HIS DAUGHTER.[1]

"I've been, oh, sweet daughter, "To fountain and sea, "To seek in their water "Some bright gem for thee. "Where diamonds were sleeping, "Their sparkle I sought, "Where crystal was weeping, "Its tears I have caught.

"The sea-nymph I've courted "In rich coral halls; "With Naiads have sported "By bright waterfalls. "But sportive or tender, "Still sought I around "That gem, with whose splendor "Thou yet shalt be crowned.

"And see, while I'm speaking, "Yon soft light afar;-- "The pearl I've been seeking "There floats like a star! "In the deep Indian Ocean "I see the gem shine, "And quick as light's motion "Its wealth shall be thine."

Then eastward, like lightning, The hero-god flew, His sunny looks brightening The air he went thro'. And sweet was the duty, And hallowed the hour, Which saw thus young Beauty Embellished by Power.

[1] Founded on the fable reported by Arrian (in Indicis) of Hercules having searched the Indian Ocean, to find the pearl with which he adorned his daughter Pandaea.

THE DREAM OF HOME.

Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam? Sunlight more soft may o'er us fall, To greener shores our bark may come; But far more bright, more dear than all, That dream of home, that dream of home.

Ask the sailor youth when far His light bark bounds o'er ocean's foam, What charms him most, when evening's star Smiles o'er the wave? to dream of home. Fond thoughts of absent friends and loves At that sweet hour around him come; His heart's best joy where'er he roves, That dream of home, that dream of home.

THEY TELL ME THOU'RT THE FAVORED GUEST.

They tell me thou'rt the favored guest Of every fair and brilliant throng; No wit like thine to wake the jest, No voice like thine to breathe the song; And none could guess, so gay thou art, That thou and I are far apart.

Alas! alas! how different flows With thee and me the time away! Not that I wish thee sad--heaven knows-- Still if thou canst, be light and gay; I only know, that without thee The sun himself is dark to me.

Do I thus haste to hall and bower, Among the proud and gay to shine? Or deck my hair with gem and flower, To flatter other eyes than thine? Ah, no, with me love's smiles are past Thou hadst the first, thou hadst the last.

THE YOUNG INDIAN MAID.

There came a nymph dancing Gracefully, gracefully, Her eye a light glancing Like the blue sea; And while all this gladness Around her steps hung, Such sweet notes of sadness Her gentle lips sung, That ne'er while I live from my memory shall fade The song or the look of that young Indian maid.

Her zone of bells ringing Cheerily, cheerily, Chimed to her singing Light echoes of glee; But in vain did she borrow Of mirth the gay tone, Her voice spoke of sorrow, And sorrow alone. Nor e'er while I live from my memory shall fade The song or the look of that young Indian maid.

THE HOMEWARD MARCH.

Be still my heart: I hear them come: Those sounds announce my lover near: The march that brings our warriors home Proclaims he'll soon be here.

Hark, the distant tread, O'er the mountain's head, While hills and dales repeat the sound; And the forest deer Stand still to hear, As those echoing steps ring round.

Be still my heart. I hear them come, Those sounds that speak my soldier near; Those joyous steps seem winged fox home.-- Rest, rest, he'll soon be here.

But hark, more faint the footsteps grow, And now they wind to distant glades; Not here their home,--alas, they go To gladden happier maids!

Like sounds in a dream, The footsteps seem, As down the hills they die away; And the march, whose song So pealed along, Now fades like a funeral lay.

'Tis past, 'tis o'er,--hush, heart, thy pain! And tho' not here, alas, they come, Rejoice for those, to whom that strain Brings sons and lovers home.

WAKE UP, SWEET MELODY.

Wake up, sweet melody! Now is the hour When young and loving hearts Feel most thy power, One note of music, by moonlight's soft ray-- Oh, 'tis worth thousands heard coldly by day. Then wake up, sweet melody! Now is the hour When young and loving hearts Feel most thy power.

Ask the fond nightingale, When his sweet flower Loves most to hear his song, In her green bower? Oh, he will tell thee, thro' summer-nights long, Fondest she lends her whole soul to his song. Then wake up, sweet melody! Now is the hour When young and loving hearts Feel most thy power.

CALM BE THY SLEEP.

Calm be thy sleep as infant's slumbers! Pure as angel thoughts thy dreams! May every joy this bright world numbers Shed o'er thee their mingled beams! Or if, where Pleasure's wing hath glided, There ever must some pang remain, Still be thy lot with me divided,-- Thine all the bliss and mine the pain!

Day and night my thoughts shall hover Round thy steps where'er they stray; As, even when clouds his idol cover, Fondly the Persian tracks its ray. If this be wrong, if Heaven offended By worship to its creature be, Then let my vows to both be blended, Half breathed to Heaven and half to thee.

THE EXILE.

Night waneth fast, the morning star Saddens with light the glimmering sea, Whose waves shall soon to realms afar Waft me from hope, from love, and thee. Coldly the beam from yonder sky Looks o'er the waves that onward stray; But colder still the stranger's eye To him whose home is far away

Oh, not at hour so chill and bleak, Let thoughts of me come o'er thy breast; But of the lost one think and speak, When summer suns sink calm to rest. So, as I wander, Fancy's dream Shall bring me o'er the sunset seas, Thy look in every melting beam, Thy whisper in each dying breeze.

THE FANCY FAIR.

Come, maids and youths, for here we sell All wondrous things of earth and air; Whatever wild romancers tell, Or poets sing, or lovers swear, You'll find at this our Fancy Fair.

Here eyes are made like stars to shine, And kept for years in such repair, That even when turned of thirty-nine, They'll hardly look the worse for wear, If bought at this our Fancy Fair.

We've lots of tears for bards to shower, And hearts that such ill usage bear, That, tho' they're broken every hour, They'll still in rhyme fresh breaking bear, If purchased at our Fancy Fair.

As fashions change in every thing, We've goods to suit each season's air, Eternal friendships for the spring, And endless loves for summer wear,-- All sold at this our Fancy Fair.

We've reputations white as snow, That long will last if used with care, Nay, safe thro' all life's journey go, If packed and marked as "brittle ware,"-- Just purchased at the Fancy Fair.

IF THOU WOULDST HAVE ME SING AND PLAY.

If thou wouldst have me sing and play, As once I played and sung, First take this time-worn lute away, And bring one freshly strung. Call back the time when pleasure's sigh First breathed among the strings; And Time himself, in flitting by. Made music with his wings.

But how is this? tho' new the lute, And shining fresh the chords, Beneath this hand they slumber mute, Or speak but dreamy words. In vain I seek the soul that dwelt Within that once sweet shell, Which told so warmly what it felt, And felt what naught could tell.

Oh, ask not then for passion's lay, From lyre so coldly strung; With this I ne'er can sing or play, As once I played and sung. No, bring that long-loved lute again,-- Tho' chilled by years it be, If _thou_ wilt call the slumbering strain, 'Twill wake again for thee.

Tho' time have frozen the tuneful stream Of thoughts that gushed along, One look from thee, like summer's beam, Will thaw them into song. Then give, oh give, that wakening ray, And once more blithe and young, Thy bard again will sing and play, As once he played and sung.

STILL WHEN DAYLIGHT.

Still when daylight o'er the wave Bright and soft its farewell gave, I used to hear, while light was falling, O'er the wave a sweet voice calling, Mournfully at distance calling.

Ah! once how blest that maid would come, To meet her sea-boy hastening home; And thro' the night those sounds repeating, Hail his bark with joyous greeting, Joyously his light bark greeting.

But, one sad night, when winds were high, Nor earth, nor heaven could hear her cry. She saw his boat come tossing over Midnight's wave,--but not her lover! No, never more her lover.

And still that sad dream loath to leave, She comes with wandering mind at eve, And oft we hear, when night is falling, Faint her voice thro' twilight calling, Mournfully at twilight calling.

THE SUMMER WEBS.

The summer webs that float and shine, The summer dews that fall, Tho' light they be, this heart of mine Is lighter still than all. It tells me every cloud is past Which lately seemed to lour; That Hope hath wed young Joy at last, And now's their nuptial hour!

With light thus round, within, above, With naught to wake one sigh, Except the wish that all we love Were at this moment nigh,-- It seems as if life's brilliant sun Had stopt in full career, To make this hour its brightest one, And rest in radiance here.

MIND NOT THO' DAYLIGHT.

Mind not tho' daylight around us is breaking,-- Who'd think now of sleeping when morn's but just waking? Sound the merry viol, and daylight or not, Be all for one hour in the gay dance forgot.

See young Aurora up heaven's hill advancing, Tho' fresh from her pillow, even she too is dancing: While thus all creation, earth, heaven, and sea. Are dancing around us, oh, why should not we?

Who'll say that moments we use thus are wasted? Such sweet drops of time only flow to be tasted; While hearts are high beating and harps full in tune, The fault is all morning's for coming so soon.

THEY MET BUT ONCE.

They met but once, in youth's sweet hour, And never since that day Hath absence, time, or grief had power To chase that dream away. They've seen the suns of other skies, On other shores have sought delight; But never more to bless their eyes Can come a dream so bright! They met but once,--a day was all Of Love's young hopes they knew; And still their hearts that day recall As fresh as then it flew.

Sweet dream of youth! oh, ne'er again Let either meet the brow They left so smooth and smiling then, Or see what it is now. For, Youth, the spell was only thine, From thee alone the enchantment flows, That makes the world around thee shine With light thyself bestows. They met but once,--oh, ne'er again Let either meet the brow They left so smooth and smiling then, Or see what it is now.

WITH MOONLIGHT BEAMING.

With moonlight beaming Thus o'er the deep, Who'd linger dreaming In idle sleep? Leave joyless souls to live by day,-- Our life begins with yonder ray; And while thus brightly The moments flee, Our barks skim lightly The shining sea.

To halls of splendor Let great ones hie; Thro' light more tender Our pathways lie. While round, from banks of brook or lake, Our company blithe echoes make; And as we lend 'em Sweet word or strain, Still back they send 'em More sweet again.

CHILD'S SONG.

FROM A MASQUE.

I have a garden of my own, Shining with flowers of every hue; I loved it dearly while alone, But I shall love it more with you: And there the golden bees shall come, In summer-time at break of morn, And wake us with their busy hum Around the Siha's fragrant thorn.

I have a fawn from Aden's land, On leafy buds and berries nurst; And you shall feed him from your hand, Though he may start with fear at first. And I will lead you where he lies For shelter in the noontide heat; And you may touch his sleeping eyes, And feel his little silvery feet.

THE HALCYON HANGS O'ER OCEAN.

The halcyon hangs o'er ocean, The sea-lark skims the brine; This bright world's all in motion, No heart seems sad but mine.

To walk thro' sun-bright places, With heart all cold the while; To look in smiling faces, When we no more can smile;

To feel, while earth and heaven Around thee shine with bliss, To thee no light is given,-- Oh, what a doom is this!

THE WORLD WAS HUSHT.

The world was husht, the moon above Sailed thro' ether slowly, When near the casement of my love, Thus I whispered lowly,-- "Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep? "The field I seek to-morrow "Is one where man hath fame to reap, "And woman gleans but sorrow."

"Let battle's field be what it may. Thus spoke a voice replying, "Think not thy love, while thou'rt away, "Will sit here idly sighing. "No--woman's soul, if not for fame, "For love can brave all danger! Then forth from out the casement came A plumed and armed stranger.

A stranger? No; 'twas she, the maid, Herself before me beaming, With casque arrayed and falchion blade Beneath her girdle gleaming! Close side by side, in freedom's fight, That blessed morning found us; In Victory's light we stood ere night, And Love the morrow crowned us!

THE TWO LOVES.

There are two Loves, the poet sings, Both born of Beauty at a birth: The one, akin to heaven, hath wings, The other, earthly, walks on earth. With _this_ thro' bowers below we play, With _that_ thro' clouds above we soar; With both, perchance, may lose our way:-- Then, tell me which, Tell me which shall we adore?

The one, when tempted down from air, At Pleasure's fount to lave his lip, Nor lingers long, nor oft will dare His wing within the wave to dip. While plunging deep and long beneath, The other bathes him o'er and o'er In that sweet current, even to death:-- Then, tell me which, Tell me which shall we adore?

The boy of heaven, even while he lies In Beauty's lap, recalls his home; And when most happy, inly sighs For something happier still to come. While he of earth, too fully blest With this bright world to dream of more, Sees all his heaven on Beauty's breast:-- Then, tell me which, Tell me which shall we adore?

The maid who heard the poet sing These twin-desires of earth and sky, And saw while one inspired his string, The other glistened in his eye,-- To name the earthlier boy ashamed, To chose the other fondly loath, At length all blushing she exclaimed,-- "Ask not which, "Oh, ask not which--we'll worship both.

"The extremes of each thus taught to shun, "With hearts and souls between them given, "When weary of this earth with one, "We'll with the other wing to heaven." Thus pledged the maid her vow of bliss; And while _one_ Love wrote down the oath, The other sealed it with a kiss; And Heaven looked on, Heaven looked on and hallowed both.

THE LEGEND OF PUCK THE FAIRY.

Wouldst know what tricks, by the pale moonlight, Are played by me, the merry little Sprite, Who wing thro' air from the camp to the court, From king to clown, and of all make sport; Singing, I am the Sprite Of the merry midnight, Who laugh at weak mortals and love the moonlight.

To a miser's bed, where he snoring slept And dreamt of his cash, I slyly crept; Chink, chink o'er his pillow like money I rang, And he waked to catch--but away I sprang, Singing, I am the Sprite, etc.

I saw thro' the leaves, in a damsel's bower, She was waiting her love at that starlight hour: "Hist--hist!" quoth I, with an amorous sigh, And she flew to the door, but away flew I, Singing, I am the Sprite, etc.

While a bard sat inditing an ode to his love, Like a pair of blue meteors I stared from above, And he swooned--for he thought 'twas the ghost, poor man! Of his lady's eyes, while away I ran, Singing, I am the Sprite, etc.

BEAUTY AND SONG.

Down in yon summer vale, Where the rill flows. Thus said a Nightingale To his loved Rose:-- "Tho' rich the pleasures "Of song's sweet measures, "Vain were its melody, "Rose, without thee."

Then from the green recess Of her night-bower, Beaming with bashfulness, Spoke the bright flower:-- "Tho' morn should lend her "Its sunniest splendor, "What would the Rose be, "Unsung by thee?"

Thus still let Song attend Woman's bright way; Thus still let woman lend Light to the lay. Like stars thro' heaven's sea Floating in harmony Beauty should glide along Circled by Song.

WHEN THOU ART NIGH.

When thou art nigh, it seems A new creation round; The sun hath fairer beams, The lute a softer sound. Tho' thee alone I see, And hear alone thy sigh, 'Tis light, 'tis song to me, Tis all--when thou art nigh.

When thou art nigh, no thought Of grief comes o'er my heart; I only think--could aught But joy be where thou art? Life seems a waste of breath, When far from thee I sigh; And death--ay, even death Were sweet, if thou wert nigh.

SONG OF A HYPERBOREAN.

I come from a land in the sun bright deep, Where golden gardens grow; Where the winds of the north, be calmed in sleep, Their conch-shells never blow.[1] Haste to that holy Isle with me, Haste--haste!

So near the track of the stars are we, That oft on night's pale beams The distant sounds of their harmony Come to our ear, like dreams. Then haste to that holy Isle with me, etc.

The Moon too brings her world so nigh, That when the night-seer looks To that shadowless orb, in a vernal sky, He can number its hills and brooks. Then, haste, etc.

To the Sun-god all our hearts and lyres[2] By day, by night, belong; And the breath we draw from his living fires, We give him back in song. Then, haste, etc.

From us descends the maid who brings To Delos gifts divine; And our wild bees lend their rainbow wings To glitter on Delphi's shrine. Then haste to that holy Isle with me, Haste--haste!

[1] On the Tower of the Winds, at Athens, there is a conch shell placed in the hands of Boreas.--See _Stuart's Antiquities_. "The north wind," says Herodotus, in speaking of the Hyperboreans, "never blows with them."

[2] Hecataeus tells us, that this Hyperborean island was dedicated to Apollo; and most of the inhabitants were either priests or songsters.

THOU BIDST ME SING.

Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee In other days ere joy had left this brow; But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be, How different feels the heart that breathes them now! The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same We saw this morning on its stem so gay; But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came Like life o'er all its leaves, hath past away.

Since first that music touched thy heart and mine, How many a joy and pain o'er both have past,-- The joy, a light too precious long to shine,-- The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last. And tho' that lay would like the voice of home Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh-- Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come, But, sadder far, for real bliss gone by.

CUPID ARMED.

Place the helm on thy brow, In thy hand take the spear;-- Thou art armed, Cupid, now, And thy battle-hour is near. March on! march on! thy shaft and bow Were weak against such charms; March on! march on! so proud a foe Scorns all but martial arms.

See the darts in her eyes, Tipt with scorn, how they shine! Every shaft, as it flies, Mocking proudly at thine. March on! march on! thy feathered darts Soft bosoms soon might move; But ruder arms to ruder hearts Must teach what 'tis to love. Place the helm on thy brow; In thy hand take the spear,-- Thou art armed, Cupid, now, And thy battle-hour is near.

ROUND THE WORLD GOES.

Round the world goes, by day and night, While with it also round go we; And in the flight of one day's light An image of all life's course we see. Round, round, while thus we go round, The best thing a man can do, Is to make it, at least, a _merry_-go-round, By--sending the wine round too.

Our first gay stage of life is when Youth in its dawn salutes the eye-- Season of bliss! Oh, who wouldn't then Wish to cry, "Stop!" to earth and sky? But, round, round, both boy and girl Are whisked thro' that sky of blue; And much would their hearts enjoy the whirl, If--their heads didn't whirl round too.

Next, we enjoy our glorious noon, Thinking all life a life of light; But shadows come on, 'tis evening soon, And ere we can say, "How short!"--'tis night. Round, round, still all goes round, Even while I'm thus singing to you; And the best way to make it a _merry_-go-round, Is to--chorus my song round too.

OH, DO NOT LOOK SO BRIGHT AND BLEST.

Oh, do not look so bright and blest, For still there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest, That grief is then most near. There lurks a dread in all delight, A shadow near each ray, That warns us then to fear their flight, When most we wish their stay. Then look not thou so bright and blest, For ah! there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest, That grief is then most near.

Why is it thus that fairest things The soonest fleet and die?-- That when most light is on their wings, They're then but spread to fly! And, sadder still, the pain will stay-- The bliss no more appears; As rainbows take their light away, And leave us but the tears! Then look not thou so bright and blest, For ah! there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest, That grief is then most near.

THE MUSICAL BOX.

"Look here," said Rose, with laughing eyes, "Within this box, by magic hid, "A tuneful Sprite imprisoned lies, "Who sings to me whene'er he's bid. "Tho' roving once his voice and wing, "He'll now lie still the whole day long; "Till thus I touch the magic spring-- "Then hark, how sweet and blithe his song!" _(A symphony.)_

"Ah, Rose," I cried, "the poet's lay "Must ne'er even Beauty's slave become; "Thro' earth and air his song may stray, "If all the while his heart's at home. "And tho' in freedom's air he dwell, "Nor bond nor chain his spirit knows, "Touch but the spring thou knowst so well, "And--hark, how sweet the love-song flows!" _(A symphony.)_

Thus pleaded I for freedom's right; But when young Beauty takes the field, And wise men seek defence in flight, The doom of poets is to yield. No more my heart the enchantress braves, I'm now in Beauty's prison hid; The Sprite and I are fellow slaves, And I, too, sing whene'er I'm bid.

WHEN TO SAD MUSIC SILENT YOU LISTEN.

When to sad Music silent you listen, And tears on those eyelids tremble like dew, Oh, then there dwells in those eyes as they glisten A sweet holy charm that mirth never knew. But when some lively strain resounding Lights up the sunshine of joy on that brow, Then the young reindeer o'er the hills bounding Was ne'er in its mirth so graceful as thou.

When on the skies at midnight thou gazest. A lustre so pure thy features then wear, That, when to some star that bright eye thou raisest, We feel 'tis thy home thou'rt looking for there. But when the word for the gay dance is given, So buoyant thy spirit, so heartfelt thy mirth, Oh then we exclaim, "Ne'er leave earth for heaven, "But linger still here, to make heaven of earth."

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

Fly swift, my light gazelle, To her who now lies waking, To hear thy silver bell The midnight silence breaking. And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet, Beneath her lattice springing, Ah, well she'll know how sweet The words of love thou'rt bringing.

Yet, no--not words, for they But half can tell love's feeling; Sweet flowers alone can say What passion fears revealing. A once bright rose's withered leaf, A towering lily broken,-- Oh these may paint a grief No words could e'er have spoken.

Not such, my gay gazelle, The wreath thou speedest over Yon moonlight dale, to tell My lady how I love her. And, what to her will sweeter be Than gems the richest, rarest,-- From Truth's immortal tree[1] One fadeless leaf thou bearest.

[1] The tree called in the East, Amrita, or the Immortal.

THE DAWN IS BREAKING O'ER US.

The dawn is breaking o'er us, See, heaven hath caught its hue! We've day's long light before us, What sport shall we pursue? The hunt o'er hill and lea? The sail o'er summer sea? Oh let not hour so sweet Unwinged by pleasure fleet. The dawn is breaking o'er us, See, heaven hath caught its hue! We've days long light before us, What sport shall we pursue?

But see, while we're deciding, What morning sport to play, The dial's hand is gliding, And morn hath past away! Ah, who'd have thought that noon Would o'er us steal so soon,-- That morn's sweet hour of prime Would last so short a time? But come, we've day before us, Still heaven looks bright and blue; Quick, quick, ere eve comes o'er us, What sport shall we pursue?

Alas! why thus delaying? We're now at evening's hour; Its farewell beam is playing O'er hill and wave and bower. That light we thought would last, Behold, even now 'tis past; And all our morning dreams Have vanisht with its beams But come! 'twere vain to borrow Sad lessons from this lay, For man will be to-morrow-- Just what he's been to-day.

UNPUBLISHED SONGS.

ETC.

ASK NOT IF STILL I LOVE.

Ask not if still I love, Too plain these eyes have told thee; Too well their tears must prove How near and dear I hold thee. If, where the brightest shine, To see no form but thine, To feel that earth can show No bliss above thee,-- If this be love, then know That thus, that thus, I love thee.

'Tis not in pleasure's idle hour That thou canst know affection's power. No, try its strength in grief or pain; Attempt as now its bonds to sever, Thou'lt find true love's a chain That binds forever!

DEAR? YES.

Dear? yes, tho' mine no more, Even this but makes thee dearer; And love, since hope is o'er, But draws thee nearer.

Change as thou wilt to me, The same thy charm must be; New loves may come to weave Their witchery o'er thee, Yet still, tho' false, believe That I adore thee, yes, still adore thee. Think'st thou that aught but death could end A tie not falsehood's self can rend? No, when alone, far off I die, No more to see, no more cares thee, Even then, my life's last sigh Shall be to bless thee, yes, still to bless thee.

UNBIND THEE, LOVE.

Unbind thee, love, unbind thee, love, From those dark ties unbind thee; Tho' fairest hand the chain hath wove, Too long its links have twined thee. Away from earth!--thy wings were made In yon mid-sky to hover, With earth beneath their dove-like shade, And heaven all radiant over.

Awake thee, boy, awake thee, boy, Too long thy soul is sleeping; And thou mayst from this minute's joy Wake to eternal weeping. Oh, think, this world is not for thee; Tho' hard its links to sever; Tho' sweet and bright and dear they be, Break or thou'rt lost for ever.

THERE'S SOMETHING STRANGE.

A BUFFALO SONG.

There's something strange, I know not what, Come o'er me, Some phantom I've for ever got Before me. I look on high and in the sky 'Tis shining; On earth, its light with all things bright Seems twining. In vain I try this goblin's spells To sever; Go where I will, it round me dwells For ever.

And then what tricks by day and night It plays me; In every shape the wicked sprite Waylays me. Sometimes like two bright eyes of blue 'Tis glancing; Sometimes like feet, in slippers neat, Comes dancing. By whispers round of every sort I'm taunted. Never was mortal man, in short, So haunted.

NOT FROM THEE.

Not from thee the wound should come, No, not from thee. Care not what or whence my doom, So not from thee! Cold triumph! first to make This heart thy own; And then the mirror break Where fixt thou shin'st alone. Not from thee the wound should come, Oh, not from thee. I care not what, or whence, my doom, So not from thee.

Yet no--my lips that wish recall; From thee, from thee-- If ruin o'er this head must fall, 'Twill welcome be. Here to the blade I bare This faithful heart; Wound deep--thou'lt find that there, In every pulse thou art. Yes from thee I'll bear it all: If ruin be The doom that o'er this heart must fall, 'Twere sweet from thee.

GUESS, GUESS.

I love a maid, a mystic maid, Whose form no eyes but mine can see; She comes in light, she comes in shade, And beautiful in both is she. Her shape in dreams I oft behold, And oft she whispers in my ear Such words as when to others told, Awake the sigh, or wring the tear; Then guess, guess, who she, The lady of my love, may be.

I find the lustre of her brow, Come o'er me in my darkest ways; And feel as if her voice, even now, Were echoing far off my lays. There is no scene of joy or woe But she doth gild with influence bright; And shed o'er all so rich a glow As makes even tears seem full of light: Then guess, guess, who she, The lady of my love, may be.

WHEN LOVE, WHO RULED.

When Love, who ruled as Admiral o'er Has rosy mother's isles of light, Was cruising off the Paphian shore, A sail at sunset hove in sight. "A chase, a chase! my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

Aloft the winged sailors sprung, And, swarming up the mast like bees, The snow-white sails expanding flung, Like broad magnolias to the breeze. "Yo ho, yo ho, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

The chase was o'er--the bark was caught, The winged crew her freight explored; And found 'twas just as Love had thought, For all was contraband aboard. "A prize, a prize, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

Safe stowed in many a package there, And labelled slyly o'er, as "Glass," Were lots of all the illegal ware, Love's Custom-House forbids to pass. "O'erhaul, o'erhaul, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

False curls they found, of every hue, With rosy blushes ready made; And teeth of ivory, good as new, For veterans in the smiling trade. "Ho ho, ho ho, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

Mock sighs, too,--kept in bags for use, Like breezes bought of Lapland seers,-- Lay ready here to be let loose, When wanted, in young spinsters' ears. "Ha ha, ha ha, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

False papers next on board were found, Sham invoices of flames and darts, Professedly for Paphos bound, But meant for Hymen's golden marts. "For shame, for shame, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

Nay, still to every fraud awake, Those pirates all Love's signals knew, And hoisted oft his flag, to make Rich wards and heiresses _bring-to_.[1] "A foe, a foe, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

"This must not be," the boy exclaims, "In vain I rule the Paphian seas, "If Love's and Beauty's sovereign names "Are lent to cover frauds like these. "Prepare, prepare, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

Each Cupid stood with lighted match-- A broadside struck the smuggling foe, And swept the whole unhallowed batch Of Falsehood to the depths below. "Huzza, huzza! my Cupids all!" Said Love the little Admiral.

[1] "_To Bring-to_, to check the course of a ship."--_Falconer_.

STILL THOU FLIEST.

Still thou fliest, and still I woo thee, Lovely phantom,--all in vain; Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee, Fleeting ever, thou mock'st their pain. Such doom, of old, that youth betided, Who wooed, he thought, some angel's charms, But found a cloud that from him glided,-- As thou dost from these outstretched arms.

Scarce I've said, "How fair thou shinest," Ere thy light hath vanished by; And 'tis when thou look'st divinest Thou art still most sure to fly. Even as the lightning, that, dividing The clouds of night, saith, "Look on me," Then flits again, its splendor hiding.-- Even such the glimpse I catch of thee.

THEN FIRST FROM LOVE.

Then first from Love, in Nature's bowers, Did Painting learn her fairy skill, And cull the hues of loveliest flowers, To picture woman lovelier still. For vain was every radiant hue, Till Passion lent a soul to art, And taught the painter, ere he drew, To fix the model in his heart.

Thus smooth his toil awhile went on, Till, lo, one touch his art defies; The brow, the lip, the blushes shone, But who could dare to paint those eyes? 'Twas all in vain the painter strove; So turning to that boy divine, "Here take," he said, "the pencil, Love, "No hand should paint such eyes but thine."

HUSH, SWEET LUTE.

Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me Of past joys, now turned to pain; Of ties that long have ceased to bind me, But whose burning marks remain. In each tone, some echo falleth On my ear of joys gone by; Every note some dream recalleth Of bright hopes but born to die.

Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me, Once more let thy numbers thrill; Tho' death were in the strain they sing me, I must woo its anguish still. Since no time can e'er recover Love's sweet light when once 'tis set,-- Better to weep such pleasures over, Than smile o'er any left us yet.

BRIGHT MOON.

Bright moon, that high in heaven art shining, All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night Thy own Endymion lay reclining, And thou wouldst wake him with a kiss of light!-- By all the bliss thy beam discovers, By all those visions far too bright for day, Which dreaming bards and waking lovers Behold, this night, beneath thy lingering ray,--

I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven, Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea, Till Anthe, in this bower, hath given Beneath thy beam, her long-vowed kiss to me. Guide hither, guide her steps benighted, Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide; Let Love but in this bower be lighted, Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.

LONG YEARS HAVE PAST.

Long years have past, old friend, since we First met in life's young day; And friends long loved by thee and me, Since then have dropt away;-- But enough remain to cheer us on, And sweeten, when thus we're met, The glass we fill to the many gone, And the few who're left us yet. Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow, And some hang white and chill; While some, like flowers mid Autumn's snow, Retain youth's color still. And so, in our hearts, tho' one by one, Youth's sunny hopes have set, Thank heaven, not all their light is gone,-- We've some to cheer us yet.

Then here's to thee, old friend, and long May thou and I thus meet, To brighten still with wine and song This short life, ere it fleet. And still as death comes stealing on, Let's never, old friend, forget, Even while we sigh o'er blessings gone, How many are left us yet.

DREAMING FOR EVER.

Dreaming for ever, vainly dreaming, Life to the last, pursues its flight; Day hath its visions fairly beaming, But false as those of night. The one illusion, the other real, But both the same brief dreams at last; And when we grasp the bliss ideal, Soon as it shines, 'tis past.

Here, then, by this dim lake reposing, Calmly I'll watch, while light and gloom Flit o'er its face till night is closing-- Emblem of life's short doom! But tho', by turns, thus dark and shining, 'Tis still unlike man's changeful day, Whose light returns not, once declining, Whose cloud, once come, will stay.

THO' LIGHTLY SOUNDS THE SONG I SING.

A SONG OF THE ALPS.

Tho' lightly sounds the song I sing to thee, Tho' like the lark's its soaring music be, Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells How near such April joy to weeping dwells. 'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oftenest steal Those saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel; And music never half so sweet appears, As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.

Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay-- It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay, Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath Most warms the surface feel most sad beneath. The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,-- And passion's power can never lend the glow Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.

THE RUSSIAN LOVER.

Fleetly o'er the moonlight snows Speed we to my lady's bower; Swift our sledge as lightning goes, Nor shall stop till morning's hour. Bright, my steed, the northern star Lights us from yon jewelled skies; But to greet us, brighter far, Morn shall bring my lady's eyes. Lovers, lulled in sunny bowers, Sleeping out their dream of time, Know not half the bliss that's ours, In this snowy, icy clime. Like yon star that livelier gleams From the frosty heavens around, Love himself the keener beams When with snows of coyness crowned. Fleet then on, my merry steed, Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale;-- What can match a lover's speed? See, 'tis daylight, breaking pale! Brightly hath the northern star Lit us from yon radiant Skies; But, behold, how brighter far Yonder shine my lady's eyes!

A SELECTION FROM THE SONGS IN

M. P.; OR, THE BLUE-STOCKING:

A COMIC OPERA IN THREE ACTS.

1811.

BOAT GLEE.

The song that lightens the languid way, When brows are glowing, And faint with rowing, Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay, To whose sound thro' life we stray; The beams that flash on the oar awhile, As we row along thro' the waves so clear, Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile That shines o'er sorrow's tear.

Nothing is lost on him who sees With an eye that feeling gave;-- For him there's a story in every breeze, And a picture in every wave. Then sing to lighten the languid way; When brows are glowing, And faint with rowing, 'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay, To whose sound thro' life we stray.

* * * * *

'Tis sweet to behold when the billows are sleeping, Some gay-colored bark moving gracefully by; No damp on her deck but the eventide's weeping, No breath in her sails but the summer wind's sigh. Yet who would not turn with a fonder emotion, To gaze on the life-boat, tho' rugged and worn. Which often hath wafted o'er hills of the ocean The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn!

Oh! grant that of those who in life's sunny slumber Around us like summer-barks idly have played, When storms are abroad we may find in the number One friend, like the life-boat, to fly to our aid.

* * * * *

When Lelia touched the lute, Not _then_ alone 'twas felt, But when the sounds were mute, In memory still they dwelt. Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers Still we heard thy morning numbers.

Ah, how could she who stole Such breath from simple wire, Be led, in pride of soul, To string with gold her lyre? Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh; Golden now the strings she waketh!

But where are all the tales Her lute so sweetly told? In lofty themes she fails, And soft ones suit not gold. Rich lute! we see thee glisten, But, alas! no more we listen!

* * * * *

Young Love lived once in a humble shed, Where roses breathing And woodbines wreathing Around the lattice their tendrils spread, As wild and sweet as the life he led. His garden flourisht, For young Hope nourisht. The infant buds with beams and showers; But lips, tho' blooming, must still be fed, And not even Love can live on flowers.

Alas! that Poverty's evil eye Should e'er come hither, Such sweets to wither! The flowers laid down their heads to die, And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh. She came one morning. Ere Love had warning, And raised the latch, where the young god lay; "Oh ho!" said Love--"is it you? good-by;" So he oped the window and flew away!

* * * * *

Spirit of Joy, thy altar lies In youthful hearts that hope like mine; And 'tis the light of laughing eyes That leads us to thy fairy shrine.

There if we find the sigh, the tear, They are not those to sorrow known; But breathe so soft, and drop so clear, That bliss may claim them for her own. Then give me, give me, while I weep, The sanguine hope that brightens woe, And teaches even our tears to keep The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

The child who sees the dew of night Upon the spangled hedge at morn, Attempts to catch the drops of light, But wounds his finger with the thorn. Thus oft the brightest joys we seek, Are lost when touched, and turned to pain; The flush they kindle leaves the cheek, The tears they waken long remain. But give me, give me, etc.

* * * * *

To sigh, yet feel no pain. To weep, yet scarce know why; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by; To kneel at many a shrine, Yet lay the heart on none; To think all other charms divine, But those we just have won; This is love, careless love, Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame, Thro' life unchilled, unmoved, To love in wintry age the same As first in youth we loved; To feel that we adore To such refined excess. That tho' the heart would break with _more_, We could not live with _less_; This is love, faithful love, Such as saints might feel above.

* * * * *

Dear aunt, in the olden time of love, When women like slaves were spurned, A maid gave her heart, as she would her glove, To be teased by a fop, and returned! But women grow wiser as men improve. And, tho' beaux, like monkeys, amuse us, Oh! think not we'd give such a delicate gem As the heart to be played with or sullied by them; No, dearest aunt, excuse us.

We may know by the head on Cupid's seal What impression the heart will take; If shallow the head, oh! soon we feel What a poor impression 'twill make! Tho' plagued, Heaven knows! by the foolish zeal Of the fondling fop who pursues me, Oh, think not I'd follow their desperate rule, Who get rid of the folly by wedding the fool; No, dearest aunt! excuse me.

* * * * *

When Charles was deceived by the maid he loved, We saw no cloud his brow o'er-casting, But proudly he smiled as if gay and unmoved, Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting. And oft at night when the tempest rolled He sung as he paced the dark deck over-- "Blow, wind, blow! thou art not so cold As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

Yet he lived with the happy and seemed to be gay, Tho' the wound but sunk more deep for concealing; And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way, Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling! And still by the frowning of Fate unsubdued He sung as if sorrow had placed him above her-- "Frown, Fate, frown! thou art not so rude As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

At length his career found a close in death, The close he long wished to his cheerless roving, For Victory shone on his latest breath, And he died in a cause of his heart's approving. But still he remembered his sorrow,--and still He sung till the vision of life was over-- "Come, death, come! thou art not so chill As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

* * * * *

When life looks lone and dreary, What light can dispel the gloom? When Time's swift wing grows weary, What charm can refresh his plume? 'Tis woman whose sweetness beameth O'er all that we feel or see; And if man of heaven e'er dreameth, 'Tis when he thinks purely of thee, O woman!

Let conquerors fight for glory, Too dearly the meed they gain; Let patriots live in story-- Too often they die in vain; Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em, This world can offer to me No throne like Beauty's bosom, No freedom like serving thee, O woman!

CUPID'S LOTTERY.

A lottery, a Lottery, In Cupid's court there used to be; Two roguish eyes The highest prize In Cupid's scheming Lottery; And kisses, too, As good as new, Which weren't very hard to win, For he who won The eyes of fun Was sure to have the kisses in A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

This Lottery, this Lottery, In Cupid's court went merrily, And Cupid played A Jewish trade In this his scheming Lottery; For hearts, we're told, In _shares_ he sold To many a fond believing drone, And cut the hearts In sixteen parts So well, each thought the whole his own. _Chor_.--A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

* * * * *

Tho' sacred the tie that our country entwineth, And dear to the heart her remembrance remains, Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth, And sad the remembrance that slavery stains. O thou who wert born in the cot of the peasant, But diest in languor in luxury's dome, Our vision when absent--our glory, when present-- Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.

Farewell to the land where in childhood I've wandered! In vain is she mighty, in vain, is she brave! Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered, And fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave. But hail to thee, Albion! who meet'st the commotion. Of Europe as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam! With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean, Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.

* * * * *

Oh think, when a hero is sighing, What danger in such an adorer! What woman can dream' of denying The hand that lays laurels before her? No heart is so guarded around, But the smile of the victor will take it; No bosom can slumber so sound, But the trumpet of glory will wake it.

Love sometimes is given to sleeping, And woe to the heart that allows him; For oh, neither smiling nor weeping Has power at those moments to rouse him. But tho' he was sleeping so fast, That the life almost seemed to forsake him, Believe me, one soul-thrilling blast From the trumpet of glory would wake him.

* * * * *

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice, The one squeaking thus, and the other down so! In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice, For one was B alt, and the rest G below. Oh! oh, Orator Puff! One voice for one orator's surely enough.

But he still talked away spite of coughs and of frowns, So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, That a wag once on hearing the orator say, "My voice is for war," asked him, "Which of them, pray?" Oh! oh! etc.

Reeling homewards one evening, top-heavy with gin, And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown, He tript near a sawpit, and tumbled right in, "Sinking Fund," the last words as his noddle came down. Oh! oh, etc.

"Help! help!" he exclaimed, in his he and she tones, "Help me out! help me out--I have broken my bones!" "Help you out?" said a Paddy who passed, "what a bother! Why, there's two of you there, can't you help one another?" Oh I oh! etc.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MR. COBBY, IN THE CHARACTER OF VAPID, AFTER THE PLAY OF THE DRAMATIST, AT THE KILKENNY THEATRE.

(_Entering as if to announce the Play_.)

Ladies and Gentlemen, on Monday night, For the ninth time--oh accents of delight To the poor author's ear, when _three times three_ With a full bumper crowns, his Comedy! When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken, He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken, And sees his play-bill circulate--alas, The only bill on which his name will pass! Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame Thro' box and gallery waft your well-known name, While critic eyes the happy cast shall con, And learned ladies spell your _Dram. Person_.

'Tis said our worthy Manager[1]intends To help my night, and _he_, ye know, has friends. Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or _parts_, Engaging actors, or engaging hearts, There's nothing like him! wits, at his request. Are turned to fools, and dull dogs learn to jest; Soldiers, for him, good "trembling cowards" make, And beaus, turned clowns, look ugly for his sake; For him even lawyers talk without a fee, For him (oh friendship) _I_ act tragedy! In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricks Make _boars_ amusing, and put life in _sticks_.

With _such_ a manager we can't but please, Tho' London sent us all her loud O. P.'s,[2] Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle, Armed with a thousand fans, we'd give them battle; You, on our side, R. P.[3]upon our banners, Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.'s manners: And show that, here--howe'er John Bull may doubt-- In all _our_ plays, the Riot-Act's cut out; And, while we skim the cream of many a jest, Your well-timed thunder never sours its zest.

Oh gently thus, when three short weeks are past, At Shakespeare's altar,[4] shall we breathe our last; And, ere this long-loved dome to ruin nods, Die all, die nobly, die like demigods!

[1] The late Mr. Richard Power.

[2] The brief appellation by which these persons were distinguished who, at the opening of the new theatre of Convent Garden, clamored for the continuance of the old prices of admission.

[3] The initials of our manager's name.

[4] This alludes to a scenic representation then preparing for the last night of the performances.

EXTRACT.

FROM A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, AT THE OPENING OF THE KILKENNY THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1809.

* * * * *

Yet, even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour, There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power; And there are tears, too--tears that Memory sheds Even o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads, When her heart misses one lamented guest,[1] Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest! There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task, And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.

Forgive this gloom--forgive this joyless strain, Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train. But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter, As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter; Gay Epilogue will shine where Prologue fails-- As glow-worms keep their splendor for their tails.

I know not why--but time, methinks, hath past More fleet than usual since we parted last. It seems but like a dream of yesternight. Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light; And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue Of former joy, we come to kindle new. Thus ever may the flying moments haste With trackless foot along life's vulgar waste, But deeply print and lingeringly move, When thus they reach the sunny spots we love. Oh yes, whatever be our gay career, Let this be still the solstice of the year, Where Pleasure's sun shall at its height remain, And slowly sink to level life again.

[1] The late Mr. John Lyster, one of the oldest members and best actors of the Kilkenny Theatrical Society.

THE SYLPH'S BALL.

A sylph, as bright as ever sported Her figure thro' the fields of air, By an old swarthy Gnome was courted. And, strange to say, he won the fair.

The annals of the oldest witch A pair so sorted could not show, But how refuse?--the Gnome was rich, The Rothschild of the world below;

And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures, Are told, betimes, they must consider Love as an auctioneer of features, Who knocks them down to the best bidder.

Home she was taken to his Mine-- A Palace paved with diamonds all-- And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine, Sent out her tickets for a ball.

The _lower_ world of course was there, And all the best; but of the _upper_ The sprinkling was but shy and rare,-- A few old Sylphids who loved supper.

As none yet knew the wondrous Lamp Of DAVY, that renowned Aladdin, And the Gnome's Halls exhaled a damp Which accidents from fire were had in;

The chambers were supplied with light By many strange but safe devices; Large fire-flies, such as shine at night Among the Orient's flowers and spices;--

Musical flint-mills--swiftly played By elfin hands--that, flashing round, Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids, Gave out at once both light and sound.

Bologna stones that drink the sun; And water from that Indian sea, Whose waves at night like wildfire run-- Corked up in crystal carefully.

Glow-worms that round the tiny dishes Like little light-houses, were set up; And pretty phosphorescent fishes That by their own gay light were eat up.

'Mong the few guests from Ether came That wicked Sylph whom Love we call-- My Lady knew him but by name, My Lord, her husband, not at all.

Some prudent Gnomes, 'tis said, apprised That he was coming, and, no doubt Alarmed about his torch, advised He should by all means be kept out.

But others disapproved this plan, And by his flame tho' somewhat frighted, Thought Love too much a gentleman In such a dangerous place to light it.

However, _there_ he was--and dancing With the fair Sylph, light as a feather; They looked like two fresh sunbeams glancing At daybreak down to earth together.

And all had gone off safe and well, But for that plaguy torch whose light, Though not _yet_ kindled--who could tell How soon, how devilishly, it _might_?

And so it chanced--which, in those dark And fireless halls was quite amazing; Did we not know how small a spark Can set the torch of Love a-blazing.

Whether it came (when close entangled In the gay waltz) from her bright eyes, Or from the _lucciole_, that spangled Her locks of jet--is all surmise;

But certain 'tis the ethereal girl _Did_ drop a spark at some odd turning, Which by the waltz's windy whirl Was fanned up into actual burning.

Oh for that Lamp's metallic gauze, That curtain of protecting wire, Which DAVY delicately draws Around illicit, dangerous fire!--

The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air, (Like that which barred young Thisbe's bliss,) Thro' whose small holes this dangerous pair May see each other but not kiss.

At first the torch looked rather bluely,-- A sign, they say, that no good boded-- Then quick the gas became unruly. And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.

Sylphs, gnomes, and fiddlers mixt together, With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces, Like butterflies in stormy weather, Were blown--legs, wings, and tails--to pieces!

While, mid these victims of the torch, The Sylph, alas, too, bore her part-- Found lying with a livid scorch As if from lightning o'er her heart!

* * * * *

"Well done"--a laughing Goblin said-- Escaping from this gaseous strife-- "'Tis not the _first_ time Love has made "A _blow-up_ in connubial life!"

REMONSTRANCE.

_After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits. _

What! _thou_, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name-- Thou, born of a Russell--whose instinct to run The accustomed career of thy sires, is the same As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun!

Whose nobility comes to thee, stampt with a seal, Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set; With the blood of thy race, offered up for the weal Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet!

Shalt _thou_ be faint-hearted and turn from the strife, From the mighty arena, where all that is grand And devoted and pure and adorning in life, 'Tis for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command?

Oh no, never dream it--while good men despair Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow, Never think for an instant thy country can spare Such a light from her darkening horizon as thou.

With a spirit, as meek as the gentlest of those Who in life's sunny valley lie sheltered and warm; Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose To the top cliffs of Fortune and breasted her storm;

With an ardor for liberty fresh as in youth It first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre; Yet mellowed, even now, by that mildness of truth Which tempers but chills not the patriot fire;

With an eloquence--not like those rills from a height, Which sparkle and foam and in vapor are o'er; But a current that works out its way into light Thro' the filtering recesses of thought and of lore.

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade; If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame, And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade, Yet think how to Freedom thou'rt pledged by thy Name.

Like the boughs of that laurel by Delphi's decree Set apart for the Fane and its service divine, So the branches that spring from the old Russell tree Are by Liberty _claimed_ for the use of her Shrine.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

"My birth-day"--what a different sound That word had in my youthful ears! And how, each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears!

"When first our scanty years are told, It seems like pastime to grow old; And as Youth counts the shining links That Time around him binds so fast, Pleased with the task, he little thinks How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said--"were he ordained to run "His long career of life again, "He would do all that he _had_ done."-- Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells In sober birth-days speaks to me; Far otherwise--of time it tells, Lavished unwisely, carelessly: Of counsel mockt; of talents made Haply for high and pure designs, But oft, like Israel's incense, laid Upon unholy, earthly shrines; Of nursing many a wrong desire, Of wandering after Love too far, And taking every meteor fire That crost my pathway, for his star.-- All this it tells, and, could I trace The imperfect picture o'er again. With power to add, retouch, efface The lights and shades, the joy and pain, How little of the past would stay! How quickly all should melt away-- All--but that Freedom of the Mind Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships, in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingly, And that dear home, that saving ark, Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark And comfortless and stormy round!

FANCY.

The more I've viewed this world, the more I've found, That filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare, Fancy commands within her own bright round A world of scenes and creatures far more fair. Nor is it that her power can call up there A single charm, that's not from Nature won,-- No more than rainbows in their pride can wear A single tint unborrowed from the sun; But 'tis the mental medium; it shines thro', That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue; As the same light that o'er the level lake One dull monotony of lustre flings, Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make Colors as gay as those on angels' wings!

SONG.

FANNY, DEAREST.

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn, Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh; And every smile on my cheek should turn To tears when thou art nigh. But between love and wine and sleep, So busy a life I live, That even the time it would take to weep Is more than my heart can give. Then wish me not to despair and pine, Fanny, dearest of all the dears! The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine, Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine, Fanny dearest, thy image lies; But ah! the mirror would cease to shine, If dimmed too often with sighs. They lose the half of beauty's light, Who view it thro' sorrow's tear; And 'tis but to see thee truly bright That I keep my eye-beams clear. Then wait no longer till tears shall flow--

Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain; If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow, I shall never attempt it with rain.

TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS.

CARM. 70.

_dicebas quondam, etc_.

TO LESBIA.

Thou told'st me, in our days of love, That I had all that heart of thine; That, even to share the couch of Jove, Thou wouldst not, Lesbia, part from mine.

How purely wert thou worshipt then! Not with the vague and vulgar fires Which Beauty wakes in soulless men,-- But loved, as children by their sires.

That flattering dream, alas, is o'er;-- I know thee now--and tho' these eyes Doat on thee wildly as before, Yet, even in doating, I despise.

Yes, sorceress--mad as it may seem-- With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee, That passion even outlives esteem. And I at once adore--and scorn thee.

CARM. II.

_pauca nunciate meae puellae_.

Comrades and friends! with whom, where'er The fates have willed thro' life I've roved, Now speed ye home, and with you bear These bitter words to her I've loved.

Tell her from fool to fool to run, Where'er her vain caprice may call; Of all her dupes not loving one, But ruining and maddening all.

Bid her forget--what now is past-- Our once dear love, whose rain lies Like a fair flower, the meadow's last. Which feels the ploughshare's edge and dies!

CARM. 29.

_peninsularum Sirmio, insularumque ocelle_.

Sweet Sirmio! thou, the very eye Of all peninsulas and isles, That in our lakes of silver lie, Or sleep enwreathed by Neptune's smiles--

How gladly back to thee I fly! Still doubting, asking--_can_ it be That I have left Bithynia's sky, And gaze in safety upon thee?

Oh! what is happier than to find Our hearts at ease, our perils past; When, anxious long, the lightened mind Lays down its load of care at last:

When tired with toil o'er land and deep, Again we tread the welcome floor Of our own home, and sink to sleep On the long-wished-for bed once more.

This, this it is that pays alone The ills of all life's former track.-- Shine out, my beautiful, my own Sweet Sirmio, greet thy master back.

And thou, fair Lake, whose water quaffs The light of heaven like Lydia's sea, Rejoice, rejoice--let all that laughs Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!

TIBULLUS TO SULPICIA.

_nulla tuum nobis subducet femina lectum, etc., Lib. iv. Carm. 13_.

"Never shall woman's smile have power "To win me from those gentle charms!"-- Thus swore I, in that happy hour, When Love first gave thee to my arms.

And still alone thou charm'st my sight-- Still, tho' our city proudly shine With forms and faces, fair and bright, I see none fair or bright but thine.

Would thou wert fair for only me, And couldst no heart but mine allure!-- To all men else unpleasing be, So shall I feel my prize secure.

Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest Of others' envy, others' praise; But, in its silence safely blest, Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.

Charm of my life! by whose sweet power All cares are husht, all ills subdued-- My light in even the darkest hour, My crowd in deepest solitude!

No, not tho' heaven itself sent down Some maid of more than heavenly charms, With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown, Would he for her forsake those arms!

IMITATION.

FROM THE FRENCH.

With women and apples both Paris and Adam Made mischief enough in their day:-- God be praised that the fate of mankind, my dear Madam, Depends not on _us_, the same way. For, weak as I am with temptation to grapple, The world would have doubly to rue thee:

Like Adam, I'd gladly take _from_ thee the apple, Like Paris, at once give it _to_ thee.

INVITATION TO DINNER.

ADDRESSED TO LORD LANSDOWNE.

September, 1818.

Some think we bards have nothing real; That poets live among the stars so, Their very dinners are ideal,-- (And, heaven knows, too oft they _are_ so,)-- For instance, that we have, instead Of vulgar chops and stews and hashes, First course--a Phoenix, at the head. Done in its own celestial ashes; At foot, a cygnet which kept singing All the time its neck was wringing. Side dishes, thus--Minerva's owl, Or any such like learned fowl: Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets, When Cupid shoots his mother's pets. Larks stewed in Morning's roseate breath, Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendor; And nightingales, berhymed to death-- Like young pigs whipt to make them tender.

Such fare may suit those bards, who are able To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table; But as for me, who've long been taught To eat and drink like other people; And can put up with mutton, bought Where Bromham[1] rears its ancient steeple-- If Lansdowne will consent to share My humble feast, tho' rude the fare, Yet, seasoned by that salt he brings From Attica's salinest springs, 'Twill turn to dainties;--while the cup, Beneath his influence brightening up, Like that of Baucis, touched by Jove, Will sparkle fit for gods above!

[1] A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is separated out by a small verdant valley.

VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.[1]

(WRITTEN MAY, 1832.)

All, as he left it!--even the pen, So lately at that mind's command, Carelessly lying, as if then Just fallen from his gifted hand.

Have we then lost him? scarce an hour, A little hour, seems to have past, Since Life and Inspiration's power Around that relic breathed their last.

Ah, powerless now--like talisman Found in some vanished wizard's halls, Whose mighty charm with him began, Whose charm with him extinguisht falls.

Yet, tho', alas! the gifts that shone Around that pen's exploring track, Be now, with its great master, gone, Nor living hand can call them back;

Who does not feel, while thus his eyes Rest on the enchanter's broken wand, Each earth-born spell it worked arise Before him in succession grand?

Grand, from the Truth that reigns o'er all; The unshrinking truth that lets her light Thro' Life's low, dark, interior fall, Opening the whole, severely bright:

Yet softening, as she frowns along, O'er scenes which angels weep to see-- Where Truth herself half veils the Wrong, In pity of the Misery.

True bard!--and simple, as the race Of true-born poets ever are, When, stooping from their starry place, They're children near, tho' gods afar.

How freshly doth my mind recall, 'Mong the few days I've known with thee, One that, most buoyantly of all, Floats in the wake of memory;[2]

When he, the poet, doubly graced, In life, as in his perfect strain, With that pure, mellowing power of Taste, Without which Fancy shines in vain;

Who in his page will leave behind, Pregnant with genius tho' it be, But half the treasures of a mind, Where Sense o'er all holds mastery:--

Friend of long years! of friendship tried Thro' many a bright and dark event; In doubts, my judge--in taste, my guide-- In all, my stay and ornament!

He, too, was of our feast that day, And all were guests of one whose hand Hath shed a new and deathless ray Around the lyre of this great land;

In whose sea-odes--as in those shells Where Ocean's voice of majesty Seems still to sound--immortal dwells Old Albion's Spirit of the Sea.

Such was our host; and tho', since then, Slight clouds have risen 'twixt him and me, Who would not grasp such hand again, Stretched forth again in amity?

Who can, in this short life, afford To let such mists a moment stay, When thus one frank, atoning word, Like sunshine, melts them all away?

Bright was our board that day--tho' _one_ Unworthy brother there had place; As 'mong the horses of the Sun, One was, they say, of earthly race.

Yet, _next_ to Genius is the power Of feeling where true Genius lies; And there was light around that hour Such as, in memory, never dies;

Light which comes o'er me as I gaze, Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee, Like all such dreams of vanisht days, Brightly, indeed--but mournfully!

[1] Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the honor of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, etc., which their distinguished father had long been in the habit of using.

[2] The lines that follow allude to a day passed in company with Mr. Crabbe, many years since, when a party, consisting only of Mr. Rogers, Mr. Crabbe, and the author of these verses, had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Thomas Campbell, at his house at Sydenham.

TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.

When I would sing thy beauty's light, Such various forms, and all so bright, I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear, I know not which to call most fair, Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring For ever round thee, _which_ to sing.

When I would paint thee as thou _art_, Then all thou _wert_ comes o'er my heart-- The graceful child in Beauty's dawn Within the nursery's shade withdrawn, Or peeping out--like a young moon Upon a world 'twill brighten soon. Then next in girlhood's blushing hour, As from thy own loved Abbey-tower I've seen thee look, all radiant, down, With smiles that to the hoary frown Of centuries round thee lent a ray, Chasing even Age's gloom away;-- Or in the world's resplendent throng, As I have markt thee glide along, Among the crowds of fair and great A spirit, pure and separate, To which even Admiration's eye Was fearful to approach too nigh;-- A creature circled by a spell Within which nothing wrong could dwell; And fresh and clear as from the source. Holding through life her limpid course, Like Arethusa thro' the sea, Stealing in fountain purity.

Now, too, another change of light! As noble bride, still meekly bright Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above All earthly price, pure woman's love; And showd'st what lustre Rank receives, When with his proud Corinthian leaves Her rose this high-bred Beauty weaves.

Wonder not if, where all's so fair, To choose were more than bard can dare; Wonder not if, while every scene I've watched thee thro' so bright hath been, The enamored muse should, in her quest Of beauty, know not where to rest, But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall, Hailing thee beautiful in all!

A SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth, The best that I know for a lover of pelf, Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth, And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.

TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.

They tell us of an Indian tree, Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free, And shoot and blossom wide and high, Far better loves to bend its arms Downward again to that dear earth, From which the life that, fills and warms Its grateful being, first had birth. 'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends, And fed with fame (_if_ fame it be) This heart, my own dear mother, bends, With love's true instinct, back to thee!

LOVE AND HYMEN.

Love had a fever--ne'er could close His little eyes till day was breaking; And wild and strange enough, Heaven knows, The things he raved about while waking.

To let him pine so were a sin;-- One to whom all the world's a debtor-- So Doctor Hymen was called in, And Love that night slept rather better.

Next day the case gave further hope yet, Tho' still some ugly fever latent;-- "Dose, as before"--a gentle opiate. For which old Hymen has a patent.

After a month of daily call, So fast the dose went on restoring, That Love, who first ne'er slept at all, Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.

LINES ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES, 1821.

_carbone notati_.

Ay--down to the dust with them, slaves as they are, From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on like a cloud, thro' their beautiful vales, Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er-- Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails From each slave-mart of Europe and shadow their shore!

Let their fate be a mock-word--let men of all lands Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven, Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be, To think--as the Doomed often think of that heaven They had once within reach--that they _might_ have been free.

Oh shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat Ever rose 'bove the _zero_ of Castlereagh's heart. That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat, And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start;

When the world stood in hope--when a spirit that breathed The fresh air of the olden time whispered about; And the swords of all Italy, halfway unsheathed, But waited one conquering cry to flash out!

When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame, FILICAJAS and PETRARCHS, seemed bursting to view, And their words and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!

Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of life Worth the history of ages, when, had you but hurled One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife Between freemen and tyrants had spread thro' the world--

That then--oh! disgrace upon manhood--even then, You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath; Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.

It is strange, it is dreadful:--shout, Tyranny, shout Thro' your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er;"-- If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out, And return to your empire of darkness once more.

For if _such_ are the braggarts that claim to be free, Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss; Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee, Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this!

SCEPTICISM.

Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed Immortal Life into her soul, Some evil spirit poured, 'tis said, One drop of Doubt into the bowl--

Which, mingling darkly with the stream, To Psyche's lips--she knew not why-- Made even that blessed nectar seem As tho' its sweetness soon would die.

Oft, in the very arms of Love, A chill came o'er her heart--a fear That Death might, even yet, remove Her spirit from that happy sphere.

"Those sunny ringlets," she exclaimed. Twining them round her snowy fingers; "That forehead, where a light unnamed, "Unknown on earth, for ever lingers;

"Those lips, thro' which I feel the breath "Of Heaven itself, whene'er they sever-- "Say, are they mine, beyond all death, "My own, hereafter, and for ever?

"Smile not--I know that starry brow, "Those ringlets, and bright lips of thine, "Will always shine, as they do now-- "But shall _I_ live to see them shine?"

In vain did Love say, "Turn thine eyes "On all that sparkles round thee here-- "Thou'rt now in heaven where nothing dies, "And in these arms--what _canst_ thou fear?"

In vain--the fatal drop, that stole Into that cup's immortal treasure, Had lodged its bitter near her soul. And gave a tinge to every pleasure.

And, tho' there ne'er was transport given Like Psyche's with that radiant boy, Here is the only face in heaven, That wears a cloud amid its joy.

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, "There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake-- "It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife"-- "Why, so it is, father--whose wife shall I take?"

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

Pure as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood By Jordan's stream, descended from the sky, Is that remembrance which the wise and good Leave in the hearts that love them, when they die.

So pure, so precious shall the memory be, Bequeathed, in dying, to our souls by thee-- So shall the love we bore thee, cherisht warm Within our souls thro' grief and pain and strife, Be, like Elisha's cruse, a holy charm, Wherewith to "heal the waters" of this life!

TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.

ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE STRAINER.

BRIGHTON, JUNE, 1825.

This life, dear Corry, who can doubt?-- Resembles much friend Ewart's[1] wine, When _first_ the rosy drops come out, How beautiful, how clear they shine! And thus awhile they keep their tint, So free from even a shade with some, That they would smile, did you but hint, That darker drops would _ever_ come.

But soon the ruby tide runs short, Each minute makes the sad truth plainer, Till life, like old and crusty port, When near its close, requires a strainer.

_This_ friendship can alone confer, Alone can teach the drops to pass, If not as bright as _once_ they were, At least unclouded, thro' the glass.

Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine. Of which this heart were fonder, vainer, Than thus, if life grow like old wine, To have _thy_ friendship for its strainer.

[1] A wine-merchant.

FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER.

Here lies Factotum Ned at last; Long as he breathed the vital air, Nothing throughout all Europe past In which Ned hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was _in_, whoe'er was _out_, Whatever statesmen did or said, If not exactly brought about, 'Twas all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With Nap, if Russia went to war, 'Twas owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Tsar-- (Vide his pamphlet--price, sixpence.)

If France was beat at Waterloo-- As all but Frenchmen think she was-- To Ned, as Wellington well knew, Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news--no envoy's bag E'er past so many secrets thro' it; Scarcely a telegraph could wag Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots, With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in! From Russia, _shefs_ and _ofs_ in lots, From Poland, _owskis_ by the dozen.

When George, alarmed for England's creed, Turned out the last Whig ministry, And men asked--who advised the deed? Ned modestly confest 'twas he.

For tho', by some unlucky miss, He had not downright _seen_ the King, He sent such hints thro' Viscount _This_, To Marquis _That_, as clenched the thing.

The same it was in science, arts, The Drama, Books, MS. and printed-- Kean learned from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read, And, here and there infused some soul in't-- Nay, Davy's Lamp, till seen by Ned, Had--odd enough--an awkward hole in't.

'Twas thus, all-doing and all-knowing, Wit, statesman, boxer, chymist, singer, Whatever was the best pie going, In _that_ Ned--trust him--had his finger.

* * * * *

WHAT SHALL I SING THEE?

TO ----.

What shall I sing thee? Shall I tell Of that bright hour, remembered well As tho' it shone but yesterday,

When loitering idly in the ray Of a spring sun I heard o'er-head, My name as by some spirit said, And, looking up, saw two bright eyes Above me from a casement shine, Dazzling my mind with such surprise As they, who sail beyond the Line, Feel when new stars above them rise;-- And it was thine, the voice that spoke, Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then; And thine the eye whose lustre broke-- Never to be forgot again!

What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave A song of that sweet summer-eve, (Summer, of which the sunniest part Was that we, each, had in the heart,) When thou and I, and one like thee, In life and beauty, to the sound Of our own breathless minstrelsy. Danced till the sunlight faded round, Ourselves the whole ideal Ball, Lights, music, company, and all?

Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain Of lute like mine, whose day is past, To call up even a dream again Of the fresh light those moments cast.

COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE.

One night the nymph called country dance-- (Whom folks, of late, have used so ill, Preferring a coquette from France, That mincing thing, _Mamselle_ quadrille)--

Having been chased from London down To that most humble haunt of all She used to grace--a Country Town-- Went smiling to the New-Year's Ball.

"Here, here, at least," she cried, tho' driven "From London's gay and shining tracks-- "Tho', like a Peri cast from heaven, "I've lost, for ever lost, Almack's--

"Tho' not a London Miss alive "Would now for her acquaintance own me; "And spinsters, even, of forty-five, "Upon their honors ne'er have known me;

"Here, here, at least, I triumph still, "And--spite of some few dandy Lancers. "Who vainly try to preach Quadrille-- "See naught but _true-blue_ Country Dancers,

"Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms, "My throne, like Magna Charta, raise "'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms, "That scorn the threatened _chaine anglaise_."

'Twas thus she said, as mid the din Of footmen, and the town sedan, She lighted at the King's Head Inn, And up the stairs triumphant ran.

The Squires and their Squiresses all, With young Squirinas, just _come out_, And my Lord's daughters from the Hall, (Quadrillers in their hearts no doubt,)--

All these, as light she tript upstairs, Were in the cloak-room seen assembling-- When, hark! some new outlandish airs, From the First Fiddle, set her trembling.

She stops--she listens--_can_ it be? Alas, in vain her ears would 'scape it-- It _is "Di tanti palpiti"_ As plain as English bow can scrape it.

"Courage!" however--in she goes, With her best, sweeping country grace; When, ah too true, her worst of foes, Quadrille, there meets her, face to face.

Oh for the lyre, or violin, Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore, To sing the rage these nymphs were in, Their looks and language, airs and trickery.

There stood Quadrille, with cat-like face (The beau-ideal of French beauty), A band-box thing, all art and lace Down from her nose-tip to her shoe-tie.

Her flounces, fresh from _Victorine_-- From _Hippolyte_, her rouge and hair-- Her poetry, from _Lamartine_-- Her morals, from--the Lord knows where.

And, when she danced--so slidingly, So near the ground she plied her art, You'd swear her mother-earth and she Had made a compact ne'er to part.

Her face too, all the while, sedate, No signs of life or motion showing. Like a bright _pendule's_ dial-plate-- So still, you'd hardly think 'twas _going_.

Full fronting her stood Country Dance-- A fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know For English, at a single glance-- English all o'er, from top to toe.

A little _gauche_, 'tis fair to own, And rather given to skips and bounces; Endangering thereby many a gown, And playing, oft, the devil with flounces.

Unlike _Mamselle_--who would prefer (As morally a lesser ill) A thousand flaws of character, To one vile rumple of a frill.

No rouge did She of Albion wear; Let her but run that two-heat race She calls a _Set_, not Dian e'er Came rosier from the woodland chase.

Such was the nymph, whose soul had in't Such anger now--whose eyes of blue (Eyes of that bright, victorious tint, Which English maids call "Waterloo")--

Like summer lightnings, in the dusk Of a warm evening, flashing broke. While--to the tune of "Money Musk,"[1] Which struck up now--she proudly spoke--

"Heard you that strain--that joyous strain? "'Twas such as England loved to hear, "Ere thou and all thy frippery train, "Corrupted both her foot and ear--

"Ere Waltz, that rake from foreign lands, "Presumed, in sight of all beholders, "To lay his rude, licentious hands "On virtuous English backs and shoulders--

"Ere times and morals both grew bad, "And, yet unfleeced by funding block-heads, "Happy John Bull not only _had_, "But danced to, 'Money in both pockets.'

"Alas, the change!--Oh, Londonderry, "Where is the land could 'scape disasters, "With _such_ a Foreign Secretary, "Aided by Foreign Dancing Masters?

"Woe to ye, men of ships and shops! "Rulers of day-books and of waves! "Quadrilled, on one side, into fops, "And drilled, on t'other, into slaves!

"Ye, too, ye lovely victims, seen, "Like pigeons, trussed for exhibition, "With elbows, _à la crapaudine_, "And feet, in--God knows what position;

"Hemmed in by watchful chaperons, "Inspectors of your airs and graces, "Who intercept all whispered tones, "And read your telegraphic faces;

"Unable with the youth adored, "In that grim _cordon_ of Mammas, "To interchange one tender word, "Tho' whispered but in _queue-de-chats_.

"Ah did you know how blest we ranged, "Ere vile Quadrille usurpt the fiddle-- "What looks in _setting_ were exchanged, "What tender words in _down the middle_;

"How many a couple, like the wind, "Which nothing in its course controls, Left time and chaperons far behind, "And gave a loose to legs and souls;

How matrimony throve--ere stopt "By this cold, silent, foot-coquetting-- "How charmingly one's partner propt "The important question in _poussetteing_.

"While now, alas--no sly advances-- "No marriage hints--all goes on badly-- "'Twixt Parson Malthus and French Dances, "We, girls, are at a discount sadly.

"Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell) "Declares not half so much is made "By Licences--and he must know well-- "Since vile Quadrilling spoiled the trade."

She ceased--tears fell from every Miss-- She now had touched the true pathetic:-- One such authentic fact as this, Is worth whole volumes theoretic.

Instant the cry was "Country Dance!" And the maid saw with brightening face, The Steward of the night advance, And lead her to her birthright place.

The fiddles, which awhile had ceased, Now tuned again their summons sweet, And, for one happy night, at least, Old England's triumph was complete.

[1] An old English country dance.

GAZEL.

Haste, Maami, the spring is nigh; Already, in the unopened flowers That sleep around us, Fancy's eye Can see the blush of future bowers; And joy it brings to thee and me, My own beloved Maami!

The streamlet frozen on its way, To feed the marble Founts of Kings, Now, loosened by the vernal ray, Upon its path exulting springs-- As doth this bounding heart to thee, My ever blissful Maami!

Such bright hours were not made to stay; Enough if they awhile remain, Like Irem's bowers, that fade away. From time to time, and come again. And life shall all one Irem be For us, my gentle Maami.

O haste, for this impatient heart, Is like the rose in Yemen's vale, That rends its inmost leaves apart With passion for the nightingale; So languishes this soul for thee, My bright and blushing Maami!

LINES ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ., OF DUBLIN.

If ever life was prosperously cast, If ever life was like the lengthened flow Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last, 'Twas his who, mourned by many, sleeps below.

The sunny temper, bright where all is strife. The simple heart above all worldly wiles; Light wit that plays along the calm of life, And stirs its languid surface into smiles;

Pure charity that comes not in a shower, Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds, But, like the dew, with gradual silent power, Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads;

The happy grateful spirit, that improves And brightens every gift by fortune given; That, wander where it will with those it loves, Makes every place a home, and home a heaven:

All these were his.--Oh, thou who read'st this stone, When for thyself, thy children, to the sky Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone, That ye like him may live, like him may die!

GENIUS AND CRITICISM.

_scripsit quidem fata, sed sequitur_. SENECA.

Of old, the Sultan Genius reigned, As Nature meant, supreme alone; With mind unchekt, and hands unchained, His views, his conquests were his own.

But power like his, that digs its grave With its own sceptre, could not last; So Genius' self became the slave Of laws that Genius' self had past.

As Jove, who forged the chain of Fate, Was, ever after, doomed to wear it: His nods, his struggles all too late-- "_Qui semel jussit, semper paret_."

To check young Genius' proud career, The slaves who now his throne invaded, Made Criticism his prime Vizir, And from that hour his glories faded.

Tied down in Legislation's school, Afraid of even his own ambition, His very victories were by rule, And he was great but by permission.

His most heroic deeds--the same, That dazzled, when spontaneous actions-- Now, done by law, seemed cold and tame, And shorn of all their first attractions.

If he but stirred to take the air, Instant, the Vizir's Council sat-- "Good Lord, your Highness can't go there-- "Bless me, your Highness can't do that."

If, loving pomp, he chose to buy Rich jewels for his diadem, "The taste was bad, the price was high-- "A flower were simpler than a gem."

To please them if he took to flowers-- "What trifling, what unmeaning things! "Fit for a woman's toilet hours, "But not at all the style for Kings."

If, fond of his domestic sphere, He played no more the rambling comet-- "A dull, good sort of man, 'twas clear, "But, as for great or brave, far from it."

Did he then look o'er distant oceans, For realms more worthy to enthrone him?-- "Saint Aristotle, what wild notions! "Serve a '_ne exeat regno_' on him."

At length, their last and worst to do, They round him placed a guard of watchmen, Reviewers, knaves in brown, or blue Turned up with yellow--chiefly Scotchmen;

To dog his footsteps all about Like those in Longwood's prison grounds, Who at Napoleon's heels rode out, For fear the Conqueror should break bounds.

Oh for some Champion of his power, Some _Ultra_ spirit, to set free, As erst in Shakespeare's sovereign hour, The thunders of his Royalty!--

To vindicate his ancient line, The first, the true, the only one, Of Right eternal and divine, That rules beneath the blessed sun.

TO LADY JERSEY.

ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE SOMETHING IN HER ALBUM.

Written at Middleton.

Oh albums, albums, how I dread Your everlasting scrap and scrawl! How often wish that from the dead Old Omar would pop forth his head, And make a bonfire of you all!

So might I 'scape the spinster band, The blushless blues, who, day and night, Like duns in doorways, take their stand, To waylay bards, with book in hand, Crying for ever, "Write, sir, write!"

So might I shun the shame and pain, That o'er me at this instant come, When Beauty, seeking Wit in vain, Knocks at the portal of my brain, And gets, for answer, "Not at home!"

_November, 1828_.

TO THE SAME.

ON LOOKING THROUGH HER ALBUM.

No wonder bards, both high and low, From Byron down to ***** and me, Should seek the fame which all bestow On him whose task is praising thee.

Let but the theme be Jersey's eyes, At once all errors are forgiven; As even old Sternhold still we prize, Because, tho' dull, he sings of heaven.

AT NIGHT.[1]

At night, when all is still around. How sweet to hear the distant sound Of footstep, coming soft and light! What pleasure in the anxious beat, With which the bosom flies to meet That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say "'Tis late, my love!" and chide delay, Tho' still the western clouds are bright; Oh! happy, too, the silent press, The eloquence of mute caress. With those we love exchanged at night!

[1] These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its device a Cupid, with the words "at night" written over him.

TO LADY HOLLAND.

ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OP A SNUFF-BOX.

Gift of the Hero, on his dying day, To her, whose pity watched, for ever nigh; Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray, This relic lights up on her generous eye, Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy.

_Paris, July_, 1821

EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN FOR LADY DACRE'S TRAGEDY OF INA.

Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat, Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and--all that, And wondering much what little knavish sprite Had put it first in women's heads to write:-- Sudden I saw--as in some witching dream-- A bright-blue glory round my book-case beam, From whose quick-opening folds of azure light Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright As Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head, Some sunny morning from a violet bed. "Bless me!" I starting cried "what imp are you?"-- "A small he-devil, Ma'am--my name BAS BLEU-- "A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading; "'Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding, "The reigning taste in chemistry and caps, "The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps, "And when the waltz has twirled her giddy brain "With metaphysics twirl it back again!" I viewed him, as he spoke--his hose were blue, His wings--the covers of the last Review-- Cerulean, bordered with a jaundice hue, And tinselled gayly o'er, for evening wear, Till the next quarter brings a new-fledged pair. "Inspired by me--(pursued this waggish Fairy)-- "That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary, "Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse, "Makes her own splay-foot epigrams and shoes. "For me the eyes of young Camilla shine, "And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine; "For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking, "Looks wise--the pretty soul!--and _thinks_ she's thinking. "By my advice Miss Indigo attends "Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends, "''Pon honor!--(_mimics_)--nothing can surpass the plan "'Of that professor--(_trying to recollect_)--psha! that memory-man-- "'That--what's his name?--him I attended lately-- "''Pon honor, he improved _my_ memory greatly.'" Here curtsying low, I asked the blue-legged sprite, What share he had in this our play to-night. 'Nay, there--(he cried)--there I am guiltless quite-- "What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time "When no one waltzed and none but monks could rhyme; "When lovely woman, all unschooled and wild, "Blushed without art, and without culture smiled-- "Simple as flowers, while yet unclassed they shone, "Ere Science called their brilliant world her own, "Ranged the wild, rosy things in learned orders, "And filled with Greek the garden's blushing borders!-- "No, no--your gentle Inas will not do-- "To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue, "I'll come--(_pointing downwards_)--you understand--till then adieu!"

And _has_ the sprite been here! No--jests apart-- Howe'er man rules in science and in art, The sphere of woman's glories is the heart. And, if our Muse have sketched with pencil true The wife--the mother--firm, yet gentle too-- Whose soul, wrapt up in ties itself hath spun, Trembles, if touched in the remotest one; Who loves--yet dares even Love himself disown, When Honor's broken shaft supports his throne: If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils, Dire as they are, of Critics and--Blue Devils.

THE DAY-DREAM.[1]

They both were husht, the voice, the chords,-- I heard but once that witching lay; And few the notes, and few the words. My spell-bound memory brought away;

Traces, remembered here and there, Like echoes of some broken strain;-- Links of a sweetness lost in air, That nothing now could join again.

Even these, too, ere the morning, fled; And, tho' the charm still lingered on, That o'er each sense her song had shed, The song itself was faded, gone;--

Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours, On summer days, ere youth had set; Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers, Tho' _what_ they were we now forget.

In vain with hints from other strains I wooed this truant air to come-- As birds are taught on eastern plains To lure their wilder kindred home.

In vain:--the song that Sappho gave, In dying, to the mournful sea, Not muter slept beneath the wave Than this within my memory.

At length, one morning, as I lay In that half-waking mood when dreams Unwillingly at last gave way To the full truth of daylight's beams,

A face--the very face, methought, From which had breathed, as from a shrine Of song and soul, the notes I sought-- Came with its music close to mine;

And sung the long-lost measure o'er,-- Each note and word, with every tone And look, that lent it life before,-- All perfect, all again my own!

Like parted souls, when, mid the Blest They meet again, each widowed sound Thro' memory's realm had winged in quest Of its sweet mate, till all were found.

Nor even in waking did the clew, Thus strangely caught, escape again; For never lark its matins knew So well as now I knew this strain.

And oft when memory's wondrous spell Is talked of in our tranquil bower, I sing this lady's song, and tell The vision of that morning hour.

[1] In these stanzas I have done little more than relate a fact in verse; and the lady, whose singing gave rise to this curious instance of the power of memory in sleep, is Mrs. Robert Arkwright.

SONG.

Where is the heart that would not give Years of drowsy days and nights, One little hour, like this, to live-- Full, to the brim, of life's delights? Look, look around, This fairy ground, With love-lights glittering o'er; While cups that shine With freight divine Go coasting round its shore.

Hope is the dupe of future hours, Memory lives in those gone by; Neither can see the moment's flowers Springing up fresh beneath the eye, Wouldst thou, or thou, Forego what's _now_, For all that Hope may say? No--Joy's reply, From every eye, Is, "Live we while we may,"

SONG OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY.

_haud curat Hippoclides_. ERASM. _Adag_.

To those we love we've drank tonight; But now attend and stare not, While I the ampler list recite Of those for whom WE CARE NOT.

For royal men, howe'er they frown, If on their fronts they bear not That noblest gem that decks a crown, The People's Love--WE CARE NOT.

For slavish men who bend beneath A despot yoke, yet dare not Pronounce the will whose very breath Would rend its links--WE CARE NOT.

For priestly men who covet sway And wealth, tho' they declare not; Who point, like finger-posts, the way They never go--WE CARE NOT.

For martial men who on their sword, Howe'er it conquers, wear not The pledges of a soldier's word, Redeemed and pure--WE CARE NOT.

For legal men who plead for wrong. And, tho' to lies they swear not, Are hardly better than the throng Of those who do--WE CARE NOT.

For courtly men who feed upon The land, like grubs, and spare not The smallest leaf where they can sun Their crawling limbs--WE CARE NOT.

For wealthy men who keep their mines In darkness hid, and share not The paltry ore with him who pines In honest want--WE CARE NOT.

For prudent men who hold the power Of Love aloof, and bare not Their hearts in any guardless hour To Beauty's shaft--WE CARE NOT.

For all, in short, on land or sea, In camp or court, who _are_ not, Who never _were_, or e'er _will_ be Good men and true--WE CARE NOT.

ANNE BOLEYN.

TRANSLATION FROM THE METRICAL

"_Histoire d'Anne Boleyn."_

_"S'elle estoit belle et de taille élégante, Estoit des yeulx encor plus attirante, Lesquelz sçavoit bien conduyre à propos En les lenant quelquefoys en repos; Aucune foys envoyant en message Porter du cueur le secret tesmoignage_."

Much as her form seduced the sight, Her eyes could even more surely woo; And when and how to shoot their light Into men's hearts full well she knew. For sometimes in repose she hid Their rays beneath a downcast lid; And then again, with wakening air, Would send their sunny glances out, Like heralds of delight, to bear Her heart's sweet messages about.

THE DREAM OF THE TWO SISTERS.

FROM DANTE.

_Nell ora, credo, che dell'oriente Prima raggio nel monte Citerea, Che di fuoco d'amor par sempre dente, Giovane e bella in sogno mi parea Donna vedere andar per una landa Cogliendo flori; e cantando dicea ;-- Sappia qualunque'l mio nome dimanda, Ch'io mi son Lia, e vo movendo 'ntorno Le belle mani a farmi una ghirlanda-- Per piacermi allo specchio qui m'adorno; Ma mia suora Rachel mai non si smaga Dal suo ammiraglio, e siede tutto il giorno_.

_Ell' è de'suoi begli occhi veder vaga, Com' io dell'adornarmi con le mani; Lei lo vodere e me l'ovrare appaga_.

DANTE, _Purg. Canto xxvii_.

'Twas eve's soft hour, and bright, above. The star of beauty beamed, While lulled by light so full of love, In slumber thus I dreamed-- Methought, at that sweet hour, A nymph came o'er the lea, Who, gathering many a flower, Thus said and sung to me:-- "Should any ask what Leila loves, "Say thou, To wreathe her hair "With flowerets culled from glens and groves, "Is Leila's only care.

"While thus in quest of flowers rare, "O'er hill and dale I roam, "My sister, Rachel, far more fair, "Sits lone and mute at home. "Before her glass untiring, "With thoughts that never stray, "Her own bright eyes admiring, "She sits the live-long day; "While I!--oh, seldom even a look "Of self salutes my eye; "My only glass, the limpid brook, "That shines and passes by."

SOVEREIGN WOMAN.

A BALLAD.

The dance was o'er, yet still in dreams That fairy scene went on; Like clouds still flusht with daylight gleams Tho' day itself is gone. And gracefully to music's sound, The same bright nymphs were gliding round; While thou, the Queen of all, wert there-- The Fairest still, where all were fair. The dream then changed--in halls of state, I saw thee high enthroned; While, ranged around, the wise, the great, In thee their mistress owned; And still the same, thy gentle sway O'er willing subjects won its way-- Till all confest the Right Divine To rule o'er man was only thine!

But, lo, the scene now changed again-- And borne on plumed steed, I saw thee o'er the battle-plain Our land's defenders lead: And stronger in thy beauty's charms, Than man, with countless hosts in arms, Thy voice, like music, cheered the Free, Thy very smile was victory!

Nor reign such queens on thrones alone-- In cot and court the same, Wherever woman's smile is known, Victoria's still her name. For tho' she almost blush to reign, Tho' Love's own flowerets wreath the chain, Disguise our bondage as we will, 'Tis woman, woman, rules us still.

COME, PLAY ME THAT SIMPLE AIR AGAIN.

A BALLAD.

Come, play me that simple air again, I used so to love, in life's young day, And bring, if thou canst, the dreams that then Were wakened by that sweet lay The tender gloom its strain Shed o'er the heart and brow Grief's shadow without its pain-- Say where, where is it now? But play me the well-known air once more, For thoughts of youth still haunt its strain Like dreams of some far, fairy shore We never shall see again.

Sweet air, how every note brings back Some sunny hope, some daydream bright, That, shining o'er life's early track, Filled even its tears with light. The new-found life that came With love's first echoed vow;-- The fear, the bliss, the shame-- Ah--where, where are they now? But, still the same loved notes prolong, For sweet 'twere thus, to that old lay, In dreams of youth and love and song, To breathe life's hour away.

POEMS FROM THE EPICUREAN

(1827.)

THE VALLEY OF THE NILE.

Far as the sight can reach, beneath as clear And blue a heaven as ever blest this sphere, Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domes And high-built temples, fit to be the homes Of mighty gods, and pyramids whose hour Outlasts all time, above the waters tower!

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make One theatre of this vast peopled lake, Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives Of life and motion, ever moves and lives, Here, up in the steps of temples, from the wave Ascending, in procession slow and grave, Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands: While there, rich barks--fresh from those sunny tracts Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts-- Glide with their precious lading to the sea, Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros' ivory, Gems from the isle of Meroë, and those grains Of gold, washed down by Abyssinian rains.

Here, where the waters wind into a bay Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims on their way To Saïs or Bubastus, among beds Of lotos flowers that close above their heads, Push their light barks, and hid as in a bower Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour, While haply, not far off, beneath a bank Of blossoming acacias, many a prank Is played in the cool current by a train Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she whose chain Around two conquerors of the world was cast; But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.

SONG OF THE TWO CUPBEARERS.

FIRST CUPBEARER.

Drink of this cup--Osiris sips The same in his halls below; And the same he gives, to cool the lips Of the dead, who downward go.

Drink of this cup--the water within Is fresh from Lethe's stream; 'Twill make the past, with all its sin, And all its pain and sorrows, seem Like a long forgotten dream; The pleasure, whose charms Are steeped in woe; The knowledge, that harms The soul to know;

The hope, that bright As the lake of the waste, Allures the sight And mocks the taste;

The love, that binds Its innocent wreath, Where the serpent winds In venom beneath!--

All that of evil or false, by thee Hath ever been known or seen, Shalt melt away in this cup, and be Forgot as it never had been!

SECOND CUPBEARER.

Drink of this cup--when Isis led Her boy of old to the beaming sky, She mingled a draught divine and said.-- "Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"

Thus do I say and sing to thee. Heir of that boundless heaven on high, Though frail and fallen and lost thou be, "Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"

* * * * *

And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come, Dreams of a former, happier day, When heaven was still the spirit's home, And her wings had not yet fallen away.

Glimpses of glory ne'er forgot, That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea, What once hath been, what now is not. But oh! what again shall brightly be!"

SONG OF THE NUBIAN GIRL.

O Abyssinian tree, We pray, we pray to thee; By the glow of thy golden fruit And the violet hue of the flower, And the greeting mute Of thy boughs' salute To the stranger who seeks thy bow.

O Abyssinian tree! How the traveller blesses thee When the light no moon allows, And the sunset hour is near, And thou bend'st thy boughs To kiss his brows. Saying, "Come, rest thee here." O Abyssinian tree! Thus bow thy head to me!

THE SUMMER FÊTE.

TO THE HONORABLE MRS. NORTON.

For the groundwork of the following Poem I am indebted to a memorable Fête, given some years since, at Boyle Farm, the seat of the late Lord Henry Fitzgerald. In commemoration of that evening--of which the lady to whom these pages are inscribed was, I well recollect, one of the most distinguished ornaments--I was induced at the time to write some verses, which were afterwards, however, thrown aside unfinished, on my discovering that the same task had been undertaken by a noble poet,[1] whose playful and happy _jeu d'esprit_ on the subject has since been published. It was but lately, that, on finding the fragments of my own sketch among my papers, I thought of founding on them such a description of an imaginary Fête as might furnish me with situations for the introduction of music.

Such is the origin and object of the following Poem, and to MRS. NORTON it is, with every feeling of admiration and regard, inscribed by her father's warmly attached friend,

THOMAS MOORE.

_Sloperton Cottage_,

_November 1881_

[1] Lord Francis Egerton.

THE SUMMER FÊTE

"Where are ye now, ye summer days, "That once inspired the poet's lays? "Blest time! ere England's nymphs and swains, "For lack of sunbeams, took to coals-- "Summers of light, undimmed by rains, "Whose only mocking trace remains "In watering-pots and parasols."

Thus spoke a young Patrician maid, As, on the morning of that Fête Which bards unborn shall celebrate, She backward drew her curtain's shade, And, closing one half-dazzled eye, Peeped with the other at the sky-- The important sky, whose light or gloom Was to decide, this day, the doom Of some few hundred beauties, wits, Blues, Dandies, Swains, and Exquisites.

Faint were her hopes; for June had now Set in with all his usual rigor! Young Zephyr yet scarce knowing how To nurse a bud, or fan a bough, But Eurus in perpetual vigor; And, such the biting summer air, That she, the nymph now nestling there-- Snug as her own bright gems recline At night within their cotton shrine-- Had more than once been caught of late Kneeling before her blazing grate, Like a young worshipper of fire, With hands uplifted to the flame, Whose glow as if to woo them nigher. Thro' the white fingers flushing came.

But oh! the light, the unhoped-for light, That now illumed this morning's heaven! Up sprung Iänthe at the sight, Tho'--hark!--the clocks but strike eleven, And rarely did the nymph surprise Mankind so early with her eyes. Who now will say that England's sun (Like England's self, these spendthrift days) His stock of wealth hath near outrun, And must retrench his golden rays-- Pay for the pride of sunbeams past, And to mere moonshine come at last?

"Calumnious thought!" Iänthe cries, While coming mirth lit up each glance, And, prescient of the ball, her eyes Already had begun to dance: For brighter sun than that which now Sparkled o'er London's spires and towers, Had never bent from heaven his brow To kiss Firenze's City of Flowers.

What must it be--if thus so fair. Mid the smoked groves of Grosvenor Square-- What must it be where Thames is seen Gliding between his banks of green, While rival villas, on each side, Peep from their bowers to woo his tide, And, like a Turk between two rows Of Harem beauties, on he goes-- A lover, loved for even the grace With which he slides from their embrace.

In one of those enchanted domes, One, the most flowery, cool, and bright Of all by which that river roams, The Fête is to be held to-night-- That Fête already linked to fame, Whose cards, in many a fair one's sight (When looked for long, at last they came,) Seemed circled with a fairy light;-- That Fête to which the cull, the flower Of England's beauty, rank and power, From the young spinster, just come _out_, To the old Premier, too long _in_-- From legs of far descended gout, To the last new-mustachioed chin-- All were convoked by Fashion's spells To the small circle where she dwells, Collecting nightly, to allure us, Live atoms, which, together hurled, She, like another Epicurus, Sets dancing thus, and calls "the World."

Behold how busy in those bowers (Like May-flies in and out of flowers.) The countless menials, swarming run, To furnish forth ere set of sun The banquet-table richly laid Beneath yon awning's lengthened shade, Where fruits shall tempt and wines entice, And Luxury's self, at Gunter's call, Breathe from her summer-throne of ice A spirit of coolness over all.

And now the important hour drew nigh, When, 'neath the flush of evening's sky, The west-end "world" for mirth let loose, And moved, as he of Syracuse[1] Ne'er dreamt of moving worlds, by force Of four horse power, had all combined Thro' Grosvenor Gate to speed their course, Leaving that portion of mankind, Whom they call "Nobody," behind; No star for London's feasts to-day, No moon of beauty, new this May, To lend the night her crescent ray;-- Nothing, in short, for ear or eye, But veteran belles and wits gone by, The relics of a past beau-monde, A world like Cuvier's, long dethroned! Even Parliament this evening nods Beneath the harangues of minor Gods, On half its usual opiate's share; The great dispensers of repose, The first-rate furnishers of prose Being all called to--prose elsewhere.

Soon as thro' Grosvenor's lordly square-- That last impregnable redoubt, Where, guarded with Patrician care, Primeval Error still holds out-- Where never gleam of gas must dare 'Gainst ancient Darkness to revolt, Nor smooth Macadam hope to spare The dowagers one single jolt;-- Where, far too stately and sublime To profit by the lights of time, Let Intellect march how it will, They stick to oil and watchman still:-- Soon as thro' that illustrious square The first epistolary bell. Sounding by fits upon the air, Of parting pennies rung the knell; Warned by that tell-tale of the hours, And by the day-light's westering beam, The young Iänthe, who, with flowers Half crowned, had sat in idle dream Before her glass, scarce knowing where Her fingers roved thro' that bright hair, While, all capriciously, she now Dislodged some curl from her white brow, And now again replaced it there:-- As tho' her task was meant to be One endless change of ministry-- A routing-up of Loves and Graces, But to plant others in their places.

Meanwhile--what strain is that which floats Thro' the small boudoir near--like notes Of some young bird, its task repeating For the next linnet music-meeting? A voice it was, whose gentle sounds Still kept a modest octave's bounds, Nor yet had ventured to exalt Its rash ambition to _B alt_, That point towards which when ladies rise, The wise man takes his hat and--flies. Tones of a harp, too, gently played, Came with this youthful voice communing; Tones true, for once, without the aid Of that inflictive process, tuning-- A process which must oft have given Poor Milton's ears a deadly wound; So pleased, among the joys of Heaven, He specifies "harps _ever_ tuned." She who now sung this gentle strain Was our young nymph's still younger sister-- Scarce ready yet for Fashion's train In their light legions to enlist her, But counted on, as sure to bring Her force into the field next spring.

The song she thus, like Jubal's shell, Gave forth "so sweetly and so well," Was one in Morning Post much famed, From a _divine_ collection, named, "Songs of the Toilet"--every Lay Taking for subject of its Muse, Some branch of feminine array, Some item, with full scope, to choose, From diamonds down to dancing shoes; From the last hat that Herbault's hands Bequeathed to an admiring world, Down to the latest flounce that stands Like Jacob's Ladder--or expands Far forth, tempestuously unfurled.

Speaking of one of these new Lays, The Morning Post thus sweetly says:-- "Not all that breathes from Bishop's lyre, "That Barnett dreams, or Cooke conceives, "Can match for sweetness, strength, or fire, "This fine Cantata upon Sleeves. "The very notes themselves reveal "The cut of each new sleeve so well; "A _flat_ betrays the _Imbécilles_,[2] "Light fugues the flying lappets tell; "While rich cathedral chords awake 'Our homage for the _Manches d'Évêque_."

'Twas the first opening song the Lay Of all least deep in toilet-lore, That the young nymph, to while away The tiring-hour, thus warbled o'er:--

SONG.

Array thee, love, array thee, love, In all thy best array thee; The sun's below--the moon's above-- And Night and Bliss obey thee. Put on thee all that's bright and rare, The zone, the wreath, the gem, Not so much gracing charms so fair, As borrowing grace from them. Array thee, love, array thee, love, In all that's bright array thee; The sun's below--the moon's above-- And Night and Bliss obey thee.

Put on the plumes thy lover gave. The plumes, that, proudly dancing, Proclaim to all, where'er they wave, Victorious eyes advancing. Bring forth the robe whose hue of heaven From thee derives such light, That Iris would give all her seven To boast but _one_ so bright. Array thee, love, array thee, love, etc.

Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, Thro' Pleasure's circles hie thee. And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move, Will beat when they come nigh thee. Thy every word shall be a spell, Thy every look a ray, And tracks of wondering eyes shall tell The glory of thy way! Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, Thro' Pleasure's circles hie thee, And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move, Shall beat when they come nigh thee.

* * * * *

Now in his Palace of the West, Sinking to slumber, the bright Day, Like a tired monarch fanned to rest, Mid the cool airs of Evening lay; While round his couch's golden rim The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept-- Struggling each other's light to dim, And catch his last smile e'er he slept. How gay, as o'er the gliding Thames The golden eve its lustre poured, Shone out the high-born knights and dames Now grouped around that festal board; A living mass of plumes and flowers. As tho' they'd robbed both birds and bowers-- A peopled rainbow, swarming thro' With habitants of every hue; While, as the sparkling juice of France High in the crystal brimmers flowed, Each sunset ray that mixt by chance With the wine's sparkles, showed How sunbeams may be taught to dance. If not in written form exprest, 'Twas known at least to every guest, That, tho' not bidden to parade Their scenic powers in masquerade, (A pastime little found to thrive In the bleak fog of England's skies, Where wit's the thing we best contrive, As masqueraders, to _disguise_,) It yet was hoped-and well that hope Was answered by the young and gay-- That in the toilet's task to-day Fancy should take her wildest scope;-- That the rapt milliner should be Let loose thro fields of poesy, The tailor, in inventive trance, Up to the heights of Epic clamber, And all the regions of Romance Be ransackt by the _femme de chambre_.

Accordingly, with gay Sultanas, Rebeccas, Sapphos, Roxalanas-- Circassian slaves whom Love would pay Half his maternal realms to ransom;-- Young nuns, whose chief religion lay In looking most profanely handsome;-- Muses in muslin-pastoral maids With hats from the _Arcade-ian_ shades, And fortune-tellers, rich, 'twas plain, As fortune-_hunters_ formed their train.

With these and more such female groups, Were mixt no less fantastic troops Of male exhibitors--all willing To look even more than usual killing;-- Beau tyrants, smock-faced braggadocios, And brigands, charmingly ferocious:-- M.P.'s turned Turks, good Moslems then, Who, last night, voted for the Greeks; And Friars, stanch No-Popery men, In close confab with Whig Caciques.

But where is she--the nymph whom late We left before her glass delaying Like Eve, when by the lake she sate, In the clear wave her charms surveying, And saw in that first glassy mirror The first fair face that lured to error. "Where is she," ask'st thou?--watch all looks As centring to one point they bear, Like sun-flowers by the sides of brooks, Turned to the sun--and she is there. Even in disguise, oh never doubt By her own light you'd track her out: As when the moon, close shawled in fog, Steals as she thinks, thro' heaven _incog_., Tho' hid herself, some sidelong ray At every step, detects her way.

But not in dark disguise to-night Hath our young heroine veiled her light;-- For see, she walks the earth, Love's own. His wedded bride, by _holiest_ vow Pledged in Olympus, and made known To mortals by the type which now Hangs glittering on her snowy brow, That butterfly, mysterious trinket, Which means the Soul (tho' few would think it), And sparkling thus on brow so white, Tells us we've Psyche here tonight! But hark! some song hath caught her ears-- And, lo, how pleased, as tho' she'd ne'er Heard the Grand Opera of the Spheres, Her goddess-ship approves the air; And to a mere terrestrial strain, Inspired by naught but pink champagne, Her butterfly as gayly nods As tho' she sate with all her train At some great Concert of the Gods, With Phoebus, leader--Jove, director, And half the audience drunk with nectar.

From the male group the carol came-- A few gay youths whom round the board The last-tried flask's superior fame Had lured to taste the tide it poured; And one who from his youth and lyre Seemed grandson to the Teian-sire, Thus gayly sung, while, to his song, Replied in chorus the gay throng:--

SONG.

Some mortals there may be, so wise, or so fine, As in evenings like this no enjoyment to see; But, as I'm not particular--wit, love, and wine, Are for one night's amusement sufficient for me. Nay--humble and strange as my tastes may appear-- If driven to the worst, I could manage, thank Heaven, To put up with eyes such as beam round me here, And such wine as we're sipping, six days out of seven. So pledge me a bumper--your sages profound May be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan: But as we are _not_ sages, why--send the cup round-- We must only be happy the best way we can.

A reward by some king was once offered, we're told, To whoe'er could invent a new bliss for mankind; But talk of _new_ pleasures!--give me but the old, And I'll leave your inventors all new ones they find. Or should I, in quest of fresh realms of bliss, Set sail in the pinnace of Fancy some day, Let the rich rosy sea I embark on be this, And such eyes as we've here be the stars of my way! In the mean time, a bumper--your Angels, on high, May have pleasures unknown to life's limited span; But, as we are _not_ Angels, why--let the flask fly-- We must be happy _all_ ways that we can.

* * * * *

Now nearly fled was sunset's light, Leaving but so much of its beam As gave to objects, late so blight, The coloring of a shadowy dream; And there was still where Day had set A flush that spoke him loath to die-- A last link of his glory yet, Binding together earth and sky. Say, why is it that twilight best Becomes even brows the loveliest? That dimness with its softening Touch Can bring out grace unfelt before, And charms we ne'er can see too much, When seen but half enchant the more? Alas, it is that every joy In fulness finds its worst alloy, And half a bliss, but hoped or guessed, Is sweeter than the whole possest;-- That Beauty, when least shone upon, A creature most ideal grows; And there's no light from moon or sun Like that Imagination throws;-- It is, alas, that Fancy shrinks Even from a bright reality, And turning inly, feels and thinks For heavenlier things than e'er will be.

Such was the effect of twilight's hour On the fair groups that, round and round, From glade to grot, from bank to bower, Now wandered thro' this fairy ground; And thus did Fancy--and champagne-- Work on the sight their dazzling spells, Till nymphs that looked at noonday plain, Now brightened in the gloom to belles; And the brief interval of time, 'Twixt after dinner and before, To dowagers brought back their prime, And shed a halo round two-score.

Meanwhile, new pastimes for the eye, The ear, the fancy, quick succeed; And now along the waters fly Light gondoles, of Venetian breed, With knights and dames who, calm reclined, Lisp out love-sonnets as they glide-- Astonishing old Thames to find Such doings on his moral tide.

So bright was still that tranquil river, With the last shaft from Daylight's quiver, That many a group in turn were seen Embarking on its wave serene; And 'mong the rest, in chorus gay, A band of mariners, from the isles Of sunny Greece, all song and smiles, As smooth they floated, to the play Of their oar's cadence, sung this lay:--

TRIO.

Our home is on the sea, boy, Our home is on the sea; When Nature gave The ocean-wave, She markt it for the Free. Whatever storms befall, boy, Whatever storms befall, The island bark Is Freedom's ark, And floats her safe thro' all.

Behold yon sea of isles, boy, Behold yon sea of isles, Where every shore Is sparkling o'er With Beauty's richest smiles. For us hath Freedom claimed, boy, For us hath Freedom claimed Those ocean-nests Where Valor rests His eagle wing untamed.

And shall the Moslem dare, boy, And shall the Moslem dare, While Grecian hand Can wield a brand, To plant his Crescent there? No--by our fathers, no, boy, No, by the Cross, we show-- From Maina's rills To Thracia's hills All Greece re-echoes "No!"

* * * * *

Like pleasant thoughts that o'er the mind A minute come and go again, Even so by snatches in the wind, Was caught and lost that choral strain, Now full, now faint upon the ear, As the bark floated far or near. At length when, lost, the closing note Had down the waters died along, Forth from another fairy boat, Freighted with music, came this song--

SONG.

Smoothly flowing thro' verdant vales, Gentle river, thy current runs, Sheltered safe from winter gales, Shaded cool from summer suns. Thus our Youth's sweet moments glide. Fenced with flowery shelter round; No rude tempest wakes the tide, All its path is fairy ground.

But, fair river, the day will come, When, wooed by whispering groves in vain, Thou'lt leave those banks, thy shaded home, To mingle with the stormy main. And thou, sweet Youth, too soon wilt pass Into the world's unsheltered sea, Where, once thy wave hath mixt, alas, All hope of peace is lost for thee.

Next turn we to the gay saloon, Resplendent as a summer noon, Where, 'neath a pendent wreath of lights, A Zodiac of flowers and tapers-- (Such as in Russian ball-rooms sheds Its glory o'er young dancers' heads)-- Quadrille performs her mazy rites, And reigns supreme o'er slides and capers;--

Working to death each opera strain, As, with a foot that ne'er reposes, She jigs thro' sacred and profane, From "Maid and Magpie" up to "Moses;"--[3] Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes, Till fagged Rossini scarce respires; Till Meyerbeer for mercy sues, And Weber at her feet expires.

And now the set hath ceased--the bows Of fiddlers taste a brief repose, While light along the painted floor, Arm within arm, the couples stray, Talking their stock of nothings o'er, Till--nothing's left at last to say. When lo!--most opportunely sent-- Two Exquisites, a he and she, Just brought from Dandyland, and meant For Fashion's grand Menagerie, Entered the room--and scarce were there When all flocked round them, glad to stare At _any_ monsters, _any_ where. Some thought them perfect, to their tastes; While others hinted that the waists (That in particular of the _he_ thing) Left far too ample room for breathing: Whereas, to meet these critics' wishes, The isthmus there should be so small, That Exquisites, at last, like fishes, Must manage not to breathe at all. The female (these same critics said), Tho' orthodox from toe to chin, Yet lacked that spacious width of head To hat of toadstool much akin-- That build of bonnet, whose extent Should, like a doctrine of dissent, Puzzle church-doors to let it in.

However--sad as 'twas, no doubt, That nymph so smart should go about, With head unconscious of the place It _ought_ to fill in Infinite Space-- Yet all allowed that, of her kind, A prettier show 'twas hard to find; While of that doubtful genus, "dressy men," The male was thought a first-rate specimen. Such _Savans_, too, as wisht to trace The manners, habits, of this race-- To know what rank (if rank at all) 'Mong reasoning things to them should fall-- What sort of notions heaven imparts To high-built heads and tight-laced hearts And how far Soul, which, Plato says, Abhors restraint, can act in stays-- Might now, if gifted with discerning, Find opportunities of learning: As these two creatures--from their pout And frown, 'twas plain--had just fallen out; And all their little thoughts, of course. Were stirring in full fret and force;-- Like mites, through microscope espied, A world of nothings magnified.

But mild the vent such beings seek, The tempest of their souls to speak: As Opera swains to fiddles sigh, To fiddles fight, to fiddles die, Even so this tender couple set Their well-bred woes to a Duet.

WALTZ DUET.

HE. Long as I waltzed with only thee, Each blissful Wednesday that went by, Nor stylish Stultz, nor neat Nugee Adorned a youth so blest as I. Oh! ah! ah! oh! Those happy days are gone--heigho!

SHE. Long as with thee I skimmed the ground, Nor yet was scorned for Lady Jane, No blither nymph tetotumed round To Collinet's immortal strain. Oh! ah! etc. Those happy days are gone--heigho!

HE. With Lady Jane now whirled about, I know no bounds of time or breath; And, should the charmer's head hold out, My heart and heels are hers till death. Oh! ah! etc. Still round and round thro' life we'll go.

SHE. To Lord Fitznoodle's eldest son, A youth renowned for waistcoats smart, I now have given (excuse the pun) A vested interest in my heart. Oh! ah! etc. Still round and round with him I'll go.

HE. What if by fond remembrance led Again to wear our mutual chain. For me thou cut'st Fitznoodle dead, And I _levant_ from Lady Jane. Oh! ah! etc. Still round and round again we'll go.

SHE. Tho' he the Noodle honors give, And thine, dear youth, are not so high, With thee in endless waltz I'd live, With thee, to Weber's Stop-- Waltz, die! Oh! ah! etc. Thus round and round thro' life we'll go.

[_Exeunt waltzing_.

* * * * *

While thus, like motes that dance away Existence in a summer ray, These gay things, born but to quadrille, The circle of their doom fulfil-- (That dancing doom whose law decrees That they should live on the alert toe A life of ups-and-downs, like keys Of Broadwood's in a long concerto:--) While thus the fiddle's spell, _within_, Calls up its realm of restless sprites. _Without_, as if some Mandarin Were holding there his Feast of Lights, Lamps of all hues, from walks and bowers, Broke on the eye, like kindling flowers, Till, budding into light, each tree Bore its full fruit of brilliancy.

Here shone a garden-lamps all o'er, As tho' the Spirits of the Air Had taken it in their heads to pour A shower of summer meteors there;-- While here a lighted shrubbery led To a small lake that sleeping lay, Cradled in foliage but, o'er-head, Open to heaven's sweet breath and ray; While round its rim there burning stood Lamps, with young flowers beside them bedded, That shrunk from such warm neighborhood, And, looking bashful in the flood, Blushed to behold themselves so wedded.

Hither, to this embowered retreat, Fit but for nights so still and sweet; Nights, such as Eden's calm recall In its first lonely hour, when all So silent is, below, on high, That is a star falls down the sky, You almost think you hear it fall-- Hither, to this recess, a few, To shun the dancers' wildering noise, And give an hour, ere night-time flew, To music's more ethereal joys, Came with their voices-ready all As Echo waiting for a call-- In hymn or ballad, dirge or glee, To weave their mingling ministrelsy, And first a dark-eyed nymph, arrayed-- Like her whom Art hath deathless made, Bright Mona Lisa[4]--with that braid Of hair across the brow, and one Small gem that in the centre shone-- With face, too, in its form resembling Da Vinci's Beauties-the dark eyes, Now lucid as thro' crystal trembling, Now soft as if suffused with sighs-- Her lute that hung beside her took, And, bending o'er it with shy look, More beautiful, in shadow thus, Than when with life most luminous, Past her light finger o'er the chords, And sung to them these mournful words:--

SONG.

Bring hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying-- Here will I lay me and list to thy song; Should tones of other days mix with its sighing, Tones of a light heart, now banisht so long, Chase them away-they bring but pain, And let thy theme be woe again.

Sing on thou mournful lute--day is fast going, Soon will its light from thy chords die away; One little gleam in the west is still glowing, When that hath vanisht, farewell to thy lay. Mark, how it fades!-see, it is fled! Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.

The group that late in garb of Greeks Sung their light chorus o'er the tide-- Forms, such as up the wooded creeks Of Helle's shore at noon-day glide, Or nightly on her glistening sea, Woo the bright waves with melody-- Now linked their triple league again Of voices sweet, and sung a strain, Such as, had Sappho's tuneful ear But caught it, on the fatal steep, She would have paused, entranced, to hear, And for that day deferred her leap.

SONG AND TRIO.

On one of those sweet nights that oft Their lustre o'er the AEgean fling, Beneath my casement, low and soft, I heard a Lesbian lover sing; And, listening both with ear and thought, These sounds upon the night breeze caught-- "Oh, happy as the gods is he, "Who gazes at this hour on thee!"

The song was one by Sappho sung, In the first love-dreams of her lyre, When words of passion from her tongue Fell like a shower of living fire. And still, at close of every strain, I heard these burning words again-- "Oh, happy as the gods is he, "Who listens at this hour to thee!"

Once more to Mona Lisa turned Each asking eye--nor turned in vain Tho' the quick, transient blush that burned Bright o'er her cheek and died again, Showed with what inly shame and fear Was uttered what all loved to hear. Yet not to sorrow's languid lay Did she her lute-song now devote; But thus, with voice that like a ray Of southern sunshine seemed to float-- So rich with climate was each note-- Called up in every heart a dream Of Italy with this soft theme:--

SONG.

Oh, where art thou dreaming, On land, or on sea? In my lattice is gleaming The watch-light for thee;

And this fond heart is glowing To welcome thee home, And the night is fast going, But thou art not come: No, thou com'st not!

'Tis the time when night-flowers Should wake from their rest; 'Tis the hour of all hours, When the lute singeth best, But the flowers are half sleeping Till _thy_ glance they see; And the husht lute is keeping Its music for thee. Yet, thou com'st not!

* * * * *

Scarce had the last word left her lip, When a light, boyish form, with trip Fantastic, up the green walk came, Prankt in gay vest to which the flame Of every lamp he past, or blue Or green or crimson, lent its hue; As tho' a live chameleon's skin He had despoiled, to robe him in. A zone he wore of clattering shells, And from his lofty cap, where shone A peacock's plume, there dangled bells That rung as he came dancing on. Close after him, a page--in dress And shape, his miniature express-- An ample basket, filled with store Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore; Till, having reached this verdant seat, He laid it at his master's feet, Who, half in speech and half in song, Chanted this invoice to the throng:--

SONG.

Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?-- We've toys to suit all ranks and ages; Besides our usual fools' supply, We've lots of playthings, too, for sages. For reasoners here's a juggler's cup That fullest seems when nothing's in it; And nine-pins set, like systems, up, To be knocked down the following minute. Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?

Gay caps we here of foolscap make. For bards to wear in dog-day weather; Or bards the bells alone may take, And leave to wits the cap and feather, Tetotums we've for patriots got, Who court the mob with antics humble; Like theirs the patriot's dizzy lot, A glorious spin, and then--a tumble, Who'll buy, etc.

Here, wealthy misers to inter, We've shrouds of neat post-obit paper; While, for their heirs, we've _quick_silver, That, fast as they can wish, will caper. For aldermen we've dials true, That tell no hour but that of dinner; For courtly parsons sermons new, That suit alike both saint and sinner. Who'll buy, etc.

No time we've now to name our terms, But, whatsoe'er the whims that seize you, This oldest of all mortal firms, Folly and Co., will try to please you. Or, should you wish a darker hue Of goods than _we_ can recommend you, Why then (as we with lawyers do) To Knavery's shop next door we'll send you. Who'll buy, etc.

While thus the blissful moments rolled, Moments of rare and fleeting light, That show themselves, like grains of gold In the mine's refuse, few and bright; Behold where, opening far away, The long Conservatory's range, Stript of the flowers it wore all day, But gaining lovelier in exchange, Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware, A supper such as Gods might share.

Ah much-loved Supper!--blithe repast Of other times, now dwindling fast, Since Dinner far into the night Advanced the march of appetite; Deployed his never-ending forces Of various vintage and three courses, And, like those Goths who played the dickens With Rome and all her sacred chickens, Put Supper and her fowls so white, Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight. Now waked once more by wine--whose tide Is the true Hippocrene, where glide The Muse's swans with happiest wing, Dipping their bills before they sing-- The minstrels of the table greet The listening ear with descant sweet:--

SONG AND TRIO.

THE LEVÉE AND COUCHÉE.

Call the Loves around, Let the whispering sound Of their wings be heard alone. Till soft to rest My Lady blest At this bright hour hath gone, Let Fancy's beams Play o'er her dreams, Till, touched with light all through. Her spirit be Like a summer sea, Shining and slumbering too. And, while thus husht she lies, Let the whispered chorus rise-- "Good evening, good evening, to our Lady's bright eyes."

But the day-beam breaks, See, our Lady wakes! Call the Loves around once more, Like stars that wait At Morning's gate, Her first steps to adore. Let the veil of night From her dawning sight All gently pass away, Like mists that flee From a summer sea, Leaving it full of day. And, while her last dream flies, Let the whispered chorus rise-- "Good morning, good morning, to our Lady's bright eyes."

SONG.

If to see thee be to love thee, If to love thee be to prize Naught of earth or heaven above thee, Nor to live but for those eyes: If such love to mortal given, Be wrong to earth, be wrong to heaven, 'Tis not for thee the fault to blame, For from those eyes the madness came. Forgive but thou the crime of loving In this heart more pride 'twill raise To be thus wrong with thee approving, Than right with all a world to praise!

* * * * *

But say, while light these songs resound, What means that buzz of whispering round, From lip to lip--as if the Power Of Mystery, in this gay hour, Had thrown some secret (as we fling Nuts among children) to that ring Of rosy, restless lips, to be Thus scrambled for so wantonly? And, mark ye, still as each reveals The mystic news, her hearer steals A look towards yon enchanted chair, Where, like the Lady of the Masque, A nymph, as exquisitely fair As Love himself for bride could ask, Sits blushing deep, as if aware Of the winged secret circling there. Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse, What, in the name of all odd things That woman's restless brain pursues, What mean these mystic whisperings?

Thus runs the tale:--yon blushing maid, Who sits in beauty's light arrayed, While o'er her leans a tall young Dervise, (Who from her eyes, as all observe, is Learning by heart the Marriage Service,) Is the bright heroine of our song,-- The Love-wed Psyche, whom so long We've missed among this mortal train, We thought her winged to heaven again.

But no--earth still demands her smile; Her friends, the Gods, must wait awhile. And if, for maid of heavenly birth, A young Duke's proffered heart and hand Be things worth waiting for on earth, Both are, this hour, at her command. To-night, in yonder half-lit shade, For love concerns expressly meant, The fond proposal first was made, And love and silence blusht consent Parents and friends (all here, as Jews, Enchanters, house-maids, Turks, Hindoos,) Have heard, approved, and blest the tie; And now, hadst thou a poet's eye, Thou might'st behold, in the air, above That brilliant brow, triumphant Love, Holding, as if to drop it down Gently upon her curls, a crown Of Ducal shape--but, oh, such gems! Pilfered from Peri diadems, And set in gold like that which shines To deck the Fairy of the Mines: In short, a crown all glorious--such as Love orders when he makes a Duchess.

But see, 'tis morn in heaven; the Sun Up in the bright orient hath begun To canter his immortal beam; And, tho' not yet arrived in sight, His leaders' nostrils send a steam Of radiance forth, so rosy bright As makes their onward path all light. What's to be done? if Sol will be So deuced early, so must we: And when the day thus shines outright, Even dearest friends must bid good night. So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking, Now almost a by-gone tale; Beauties, late in lamp-light basking, Now, by daylight, dim and pale; Harpers, yawning o'er your harps, Scarcely knowing flats from sharps; Mothers who, while bored you keep Time by nodding, nod to sleep; Heads of hair, that stood last night _Crépé_, crispy, and upright, But have now, alas, one sees, a Leaning like the tower of Pisa; Fare ye will--thus sinks away All that's mighty, all that's bright: Tyre and Sidon had their day, And even a Ball--has but its night!

[1] Archimedes.

[2] The name given to those large sleeves that hang loosely.

[3] In England the partition of this opera of Rossini was transferred to the story of Peter the Hermit; by which means the indecorum of giving such names as "Moyse," "Pharaon," etc., to the dancers selected from it (as was done in Paris), has been avoided.

[4] The celebrated portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, which he is said to have occupied four years in painting,--_Vasari_, vol. vii.

EVENINGS IN GREECE

In thus connecting together a series of Songs by a thread of poetical narrative, my chief object has been to combine Recitation with Music, so as to enable a greater number of persons to join in the performance, by enlisting as readers those who may not feel willing or competent to take a part as singers.

The Island of Zea where the scene is laid was called by the ancients Ceos, and was the birthplace of Simonides, Bacchylides, and other eminent persons. An account of its present state may be found in the Travels of Dr. Clarke, who says, that "it appeared to him to be the best cultivated of any of the Grecian Isles."--Vol. vi. p. 174.

T.M.

EVENINGS IN GREECE.

FIRST EVENING.

"The sky is bright--the breeze is fair, "And the mainsail flowing, full and free-- "Our farewell word is woman's prayer, "And the hope before us--Liberty! "Farewell, farewell. "To Greece we give our shining blades, "And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!

"The moon is in the heavens above, "And the wind is on the foaming sea-- "Thus shines the star of woman's love "On the glorious strife of Liberty! "Farewell, farewell. "To Greece we give our shining blades, "And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!"

Thus sung they from the bark, that now Turned to the sea its gallant prow, Bearing within its hearts as brave, As e'er sought Freedom o'er the wave; And leaving on that islet's shore, Where still the farewell beacons burn, Friends that shall many a day look o'er The long, dim sea for their return.

Virgin of Heaven! speed their way-- Oh, speed their way,--the chosen flower, Of Zea's youth, the hope and stay Of parents in their wintry hour, The love of maidens and the pride Of the young, happy, blushing bride, Whose nuptial wreath has not yet died-- All, all are in that precious bark, Which now, alas! no more is seen-- Tho' every eye still turns to mark The moonlight spot where it had been.

Vainly you look, ye maidens, sires, And mothers, your beloved are gone!-- Now may you quench those signal fires, Whose light they long looked back upon From their dark deck--watching the flame As fast it faded from their view, With thoughts, that, but for manly shame, Had made them droop and weep like you. Home to your chambers! home, and pray For the bright coming of that day, When, blest by heaven, the Cross shall sweep The Crescent from the Aegean deep, And your brave warriors, hastening back, Will bring such glories in their track, As shall, for many an age to come, Shed light around their name and home.

There is a Fount on Zea's isle, Round which, in soft luxuriance, smile All the sweet flowers, of every kind, On which the sun of Greece looks down, Pleased as a lover on the crown His mistress for her brow hath twined, When he beholds each floweret there, Himself had wisht her most to wear; Here bloomed the laurel-rose,[1] whose wreath Hangs radiant round the Cypriot shines, And here those bramble-flowers, that breathe Their odor into Zante's wines:-- The splendid woodbine that, as eve, To grace their floral diadems, The lovely maids of Patmos weave:--[2] And that fair plant whose tangled stems Shine like a Nereid's hair,[3] when spread, Dishevelled, o'er her azure bed:-- All these bright children of the clime, (Each at its own most genial time, The summer, or the year's sweet prime,) Like beautiful earth-stars, adorn The Valley where that Fount is born; While round, to grace its cradle green Groups of Velani oaks are seen Towering on every verdant height-- Tall, shadowy, in the evening light, Like Genii set to watch the birth Of some enchanted child of earth-- Fair oaks that over Zea's vales, Stand with their leafy pride unfurled; While Commerce from her thousand sails Scatters their fruit throughout the world![4]

'Twas here--as soon as prayer and sleep (Those truest friends to all who weep) Had lightened every heart; and made Even sorrow wear a softer shade-- 'Twas here, in this secluded spot, Amid whose breathings calm and sweet Grief might be soothed if not forgot, The Zean nymphs resolved to meet Each evening now, by the same light That saw their farewell tears that night: And try if sound of lute and song, If wandering mid the moonlight flowers In various talk, could charm along With lighter step, the lingering hours, Till tidings of that Bark should come, Or Victory waft their warriors home!

When first they met--the wonted smile Of greeting having gleamed awhile-- 'Twould touch even Moslem heart to see The sadness that came suddenly O'er their young brows, when they looked round Upon that bright, enchanted ground; And thought how many a time with those Who now were gone to the rude wars They there had met at evening's close, And danced till morn outshone the stars!

But seldom long doth hang the eclipse Of sorrow o'er such youthful breasts-- The breath from her own blushing lips, That on the maiden's mirror rests, Not swifter, lighter from the glass, Than sadness from her brow doth pass.

Soon did they now, as round the Well They sat, beneath the rising moon-- And some with voice of awe would tell Of midnight fays and nymphs who dwell In holy founts--while some would time Their idle lutes that now had lain For days without a single strain;-- And others, from the rest apart, With laugh that told the lightened heart, Sat whispering in each other's ear Secrets that all in turn would hear;-- Soon did they find this thoughtless play So swiftly steal their griefs away, That many a nymph tho' pleased the while, Reproached her own forgetful smile, And sighed to think she _could_ be gay.

Among these maidens there was one Who to Leucadia[5] late had been-- Had stood beneath the evening sun On its white towering cliffs and seen The very spot where Sappho sung Her swan-like music, ere she sprung (Still holding, in that fearful leap, By her loved lyre,) into the deep, And dying quenched the fatal fire, At once, of both her heart and lyre.

Mutely they listened all--and well Did the young travelled maiden tell Of the dread height to which that steep Beetles above the eddying deep--[6] Of the lone sea-birds, wheeling round The dizzy edge with mournful sound-- And of those scented lilies found Still blooming on that fearful place-- As if called up by Love to grace The immortal spot o'er which the last Bright footsteps of his martyr past!

While fresh to every listener's thought These legends of Leucadia brought All that of Sappho's hapless flame Is kept alive, still watcht by Fame-- The maiden, tuning her soft lute, While all the rest stood round her, mute, Thus sketched the languishment of soul, That o'er the tender Lesbian stole; And in a voice whose thrilling tone Fancy might deem the Lesbian's own, One of those fervid fragments gave, Which still,--like sparkles of Greek Fire, Undying, even beneath the wave,-- Burn on thro' Time and ne'er expire.

SONG.

As o'er her loom the Lesbian Maid In love-sick languor hung her head, Unknowing where her fingers strayed, She weeping turned away, and said, "Oh, my sweet Mother--'tis in vain-- "I cannot weave, as once I wove-- "So wildered is my heart and brain "With thinking of that youth I love!"

Again the web she tried to trace, But tears fell o'er each tangled thread; While looking in her mother's face, Who watchful o'er her leaned, she said, "Oh, my sweet Mother--'tis in vain-- "I cannot weave, as once I wove-- "So wildered is my heart and brain "With thinking of that youth I love!"

* * * * *

A silence followed this sweet air, As each in tender musing stood, Thinking, with lips that moved in prayer, Of Sappho and that fearful flood: While some who ne'er till now had known How much their hearts resembled hers, Felt as they made her griefs their own, That _they_ too were Love's worshippers.

At length a murmur, all but mute, So faint it was, came from the lute Of a young melancholy maid, Whose fingers, all uncertain played From chord to chord, as if in chase Of some lost melody, some strain Of other times, whose faded trace She sought among those chords again. Slowly the half-forgotten theme (Tho' born in feelings ne'er forgot) Came to her memory--as a beam Falls broken o'er some shaded spot;-- And while her lute's sad symphony Filled up each sighing pause between; And Love himself might weep to see What ruin comes where he hath been-- As withered still the grass is found Where fays have danced their merry round-- Thus simply to the listening throng She breathed her melancholy song:--

SONG.

Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long day, Lonely and wearily life wears away. Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long night-- No rest in darkness, no joy in light! Naught left but Memory whose dreary tread Sounds thro' this ruined heart, where all lies dead-- Wakening the echoes of joy long fled!

* * * * *

Of many a stanza, this alone Had 'scaped oblivion--like the one Stray fragment of a wreck which thrown With the lost vessel's name ashore Tells who they were that live no more. When thus the heart is in a vein Of tender thought, the simplest strain Can touch it with peculiar power-- As when the air is warm, the scent Of the most wild and rustic flower Can fill the whole rich element-- And in such moods the homeliest tone That's linked with feelings, once our own-- With friends or joy gone by--will be Worth choirs of loftiest harmony!

But some there were among the group Of damsels there too light of heart To let their spirits longer droop, Even under music's melting art; And one upspringing with a bound From a low bank of flowers, looked round With eyes that tho' so full of light Had still a trembling tear within; And, while her fingers in swift flight Flew o'er a fairy mandolin, Thus sung the song her lover late Had sung to her--the eve before That joyous night, when as of yore All Zea met to celebrate The feast of May on the sea-shore.

SONG.

When the Balaika[7] Is heard o'er the sea, I'll dance the Romaika By moonlight with thee. If waves then advancing Should steal on our play, Thy white feet in dancing Shall chase them away.[8] When the Balaika Is heard o'er the sea, Thou'lt dance the Romaika My own love, with me.

Then at the closing Of each merry lay, How sweet 'tis, reposing Beneath the night ray! Or if declining The moon leave the skies, We'll talk by the shining Of each other's eyes.

Oh then how featly The dance we'll renew, Treading so fleetly Its light mazes thro':[9] Till stars, looking o'er us From heaven's high bowers, Would change their bright chorus For one dance of ours! When the Balaika Is heard o'er the sea, Thou'lt dance the Romaika, My own love, with me.

* * * * *

How changingly for ever veers The heart of youth 'twixt smiles and tears! Even as in April the light vane Now points to sunshine, now to rain. Instant this lively lay dispelled The shadow from each blooming brow, And Dancing, joyous Dancing, held Full empire o'er each fancy now.

But say--_what_ shall the measure be? "Shall we the old Romaika tread," (Some eager asked) "as anciently "'Twas by the maids of Delos led, "When slow at first, then circling fast, "As the gay spirits rose--at last, "With hand in hand like links enlocked, "Thro' the light air they seemed to flit "In labyrinthine maze, that mocked "The dazzled eye that followed it?" Some called aloud "the Fountain Dance!"-- While one young, dark-eyed Amazon, Whose step was air-like and whose glance Flashed, like a sabre in the sun, Sportively said, "Shame on these soft "And languid strains we hear so oft. "Daughters of Freedom! have not we "Learned from our lovers and our sires "The Dance of Greece, while Greece was free-- "That Dance, where neither flutes nor lyres, "But sword and shield clash on the ear "A music tyrants quake to hear? "Heroines of Zea, arm with me "And dance the dance of Victory!"

Thus saying, she, with playful grace, Loosed the wide hat, that o'er her face (From Anatolia came the maid) Hung shadowing each sunny charm; And with a fair young armorer's aid, Fixing it on her rounded arm, A mimic shield with pride displayed; Then, springing towards a grove that spread Its canopy of foliage near, Plucked off a lance-like twig, and said, "To arms, to arms!" while o'er her head She waved the light branch, as a spear.

Promptly the laughing maidens all Obeyed their Chief's heroic call;-- Round the shield-arm of each was tied Hat, turban, shawl, as chance might be; The grove, their verdant armory, Falchion and lance[10] alike supplied; And as their glossy locks, let free, Fell down their shoulders carelessly, You might have dreamed you saw a throng Of youthful Thyads, by the beam Of a May moon, bounding along Peneus' silver-eddied stream!

And now they stept, with measured tread, Martially o'er the shining field; Now to the mimic combat led (A heroine at each squadron's head), Struck lance to lance and sword to shield: While still, thro' every varying feat, Their voices heard in contrast sweet With some of deep but softened sound From lips of aged sires around, Who smiling watched their children's play-- Thus sung the ancient Pyrrhic lay:--

SONG.

"Raise the buckler--poise the lance-- "Now here--now there--retreat--advance!"

Such were the sounds to which the warrior boy Danced in those happy days when Greece was free; When Sparta's youth, even in the hour of joy, Thus trained their steps to war and victory. "Raise the buckler--poise the lance-- "Now here--now there--retreat--advance!" Such was the Spartan warriors' dance. "Grasp the falchion--gird the shield-- "Attack--defend--do all but yield."

Thus did thy sons, oh Greece, one glorious night, Dance by a moon like this, till o'er the sea That morning dawned by whose immortal light They nobly died for thee and liberty![11] "Raise the buckler--poise the lance-- "Now here--now there--retreat--advance!" Such was the Spartan heroes' dance.

* * * * *

Scarce had they closed this martial lay When, flinging their light spears away, The combatants, in broken ranks. All breathless from the war-field fly; And down upon the velvet banks And flowery slopes exhausted lie, Like rosy huntresses of Thrace, Resting at sunset from the chase.

"Fond girls!" an aged Zean said-- One who himself had fought and bled, And now with feelings half delight, Half sadness, watched their mimic fight-- "Fond maids! who thus with War can jest-- "Like Love in Mar's helmet drest, "When, in his childish innocence, "Pleased with the shade that helmet flings, "He thinks not of the blood that thence "Is dropping o'er his snowy wings. "Ay--true it is, young patriot maids, "If Honor's arm still won the fray, "If luck but shone on righteous blades, "War were a game for gods to play! "But, no, alas!--hear one, who well "Hath tracked the fortunes of the brave-- "Hear _me_, in mournful ditty, tell "What glory waits the patriot's grave."

SONG.

As by the shore, at break of day, A vanquished chief expiring lay. Upon the sands, with broken sword, He traced his farewell to the Free; And, there, the last unfinished word He dying wrote was "Liberty!"

At night a Sea-bird shrieked the knell Of him who thus for Freedom fell; The words he wrote, ere evening came, Were covered by the sounding sea;-- So pass away the cause and name Of him who dies for Liberty!

* * * * *

That tribute of subdued applause A charmed but timid audience pays, That murmur which a minstrel draws From hearts that feel but fear to praise, Followed this song, and left a pause Of silence after it, that hung Like a fixt spell on every tongue.

At length a low and tremulous sound Was heard from midst a group that round A bashful maiden stood to hide Her blushes while the lute she tried-- Like roses gathering round to veil The song of some young nightingale, Whose trembling notes steal out between The clustered leaves, herself unseen. And while that voice in tones that more Thro' feeling than thro' weakness erred, Came with a stronger sweetness o'er The attentive ear, this strain was heard:--

SONG.

I saw from yonder silent cave,[12] Two Fountains running side by side; The one was Memory's limpid wave, The other cold Oblivion's tide. "Oh Love!" said I, in thoughtless mood, As deep I drank of Lethe's stream, "Be all my sorrows in this flood "Forgotten like a vanisht dream!"

But who could bear that gloomy blank Where joy was lost as well as pain? Quickly of Memory's fount I drank. And brought the past all back again; And said, "Oh Love! whate'er my lot, "Still let this soul to thee be true-- "Rather than have one bliss forgot, "Be all my pains remembered too!"

* * * * *

The group that stood around to shade The blushes of that bashful maid, Had by degrees as came the lay More strongly forth retired away, Like a fair shell whose valves divide To show the fairer pearl inside: For such she was--a creature, bright And delicate as those day-flowers, Which while they last make up in light And sweetness what they want in hours.

So rich upon the ear had grown Her voice's melody--its tone Gathering new courage as it found An echo in each bosom round-- That, ere the nymph with downcast eye Still on the chords, her lute laid by, "Another song," all lips exclaimed, And each some matchless favorite named; while blushing as her fingers ran O'er the sweet chords she thus began:--

SONG.

Oh, Memory, how coldly Thou paintest joy gone by: Like rainbows, thy pictures But mournfully shine and die. Or if some tints thou keepest That former days recall, As o'er each line thou weepest, Thy tears efface them all.

But, Memory, too truly Thou paintest grief that's past; Joy's colors are fleeting, But those of Sorrow last. And, while thou bringst before us Dark pictures of past ill, Life's evening closing o'er us But makes them darker still.

* * * * *

So went the moonlight hours along, In this sweet glade; and so with song And witching sounds--not such as they, The cymbalists of Ossa, played, To chase the moon's eclipse away,[13] But soft and holy--did each maid Lighten her heart's eclipse awhile, And win back Sorrow to a smile.

Not far from this secluded place, On the sea-shore a ruin stood;-- A relic of the extinguisht race, Who once o'er that foamy flood, When fair Ioulis[14] by the light Of golden sunset on the sight Of mariners who sailed that sea, Rose like a city of chrysolite Called from the wave by witchery. This ruin--now by barbarous hands Debased into a motley shed, Where the once splendid column stands Inverted on its leafy head-- Formed, as they tell in times of old The dwelling of that bard whose lay Could melt to tears the stern and cold, And sadden mid their mirth the gay-- Simonides,[15] whose fame thro' years And ages past still bright appears-- Like Hesperus, a star of tears!

'Twas hither now--to catch a view Of the white waters as they played Silently in the light--a few Of the more restless damsels strayed; And some would linger mid the scent Of hanging foliage that perfumed The ruined walls; while others went Culling whatever floweret bloomed

In the lone leafy space between, Where gilded chambers once had been; Or, turning sadly to the sea, Sent o'er the wave a sigh unblest To some brave champion of the Free-- Thinking, alas, how cold might be At that still hour his place of rest!

Meanwhile there came a sound of song From the dark ruins--a faint strain, As if some echo that among Those minstrel halls had slumbered long Were murmuring into life again.

But, no--the nymphs knew well the tone-- A maiden of their train, who loved Like the night-bird to sing alone. Had deep into those ruins roved, And there, all other thoughts forgot, Was warbling o'er, in lone delight, A lay that, on that very spot, Her lover sung one moonlight night:--

SONG.

Ah! where are they, who heard, in former hours, The voice of Song in these neglected bowers? They are gone--all gone!

The youth who told his pain in such sweet tone That all who heard him wisht his pain their own-- He is gone--he is gone!

And she who while he sung sat listening by And thought to strains like these 'twere sweet to die-- She is gone--she too is gone!

'Tis thus in future hours some bard will say Of her who hears and him who sings this lay-- They are gone--they both are gone!

* * * * *

The moon was now, from heaven's steep, Bending to dip her silvery urn Into the bright and silent deep-- And the young nymphs, on their return From those romantic ruins, found Their other playmates ranged around The sacred Spring, prepared to tune Their parting hymn,[16] ere sunk the moon, To that fair Fountain by whose stream Their hearts had formed so many a dream.

Who has not read the tales that tell Of old Eleusis' sacred Well, Or heard what legend-songs recount Of Syra and its holy Fount,[17] Gushing at once from the hard rock Into the laps of living flowers-- Where village maidens loved to flock, On summer-nights and like the Hours Linked in harmonious dance and song, Charmed the unconscious night along; While holy pilgrims on their way To Delos' isle stood looking on, Enchanted with a scene so gay, Nor sought their boats till morning shone.

Such was the scene this lovely glade And its fair inmates now displayed. As round the Fount in linked ring They went in cadence slow and light And thus to that enchanted Spring Warbled their Farewell for the night:--

SONG.

Here, while the moonlight dim Falls on that mossy brim, Sing we our Fountain Hymn, Maidens of Zea! Nothing but Music's strain, When Lovers part in pain, Soothes till they meet again, Oh, Maids of Zea!

Bright Fount so clear and cold Round which the nymphs of old Stood with their locks of gold, Fountain of Zea! Not even Castaly, Famed tho' its streamlet be, Murmurs or shines like thee, Oh, Fount of Zea!

Thou, while our hymn we sing, Thy silver voice shalt bring, Answering, answering, Sweet Fount of Zea! For of all rills that run Sparkling by moon or sun Thou art the fairest one, Bright Fount of Zea!

Now, by those stars that glance Over heaven's still expanse Weave we our mirthful dance, Daughters of Zea! Such as in former days Danced they by Dian's rays Where the Eurotas strays, Oh, Maids of Zea!

But when to merry feet Hearts with no echo beat, Say, can the dance be sweet? Maidens of Zea! No, naught but Music's strain, When lovers part in pain, Soothes till they meet again, Oh, Maids of Zea!

SECOND EVENING.

SONG.

When evening shades are falling O'er Ocean's sunny sleep, To pilgrims' hearts recalling Their home beyond the deep; When rest o'er all descending The shores with gladness smile, And lutes their echoes blending Are heard from isle to isle, Then, Mary, Star of the Sea, We pray, we pray, to thee!

The noon-day tempest over, Now Ocean toils no more, And wings of halcyons hover Where all was strife before. Oh thus may life in closing Its short tempestuous day Beneath heaven's smile reposing Shine all its storms away: Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea, We pray, we pray, to thee!

On Helle's sea the light grew dim As the last sounds of that sweet hymn Floated along its azure tide-- Floated in light as if the lay Had mixt with sunset's fading ray And light and song together died. So soft thro' evening's air had breathed That choir of youthful voices wreathed In many-linked harmony, That boats then hurrying o'er the sea Paused when they reached this fairy shore, And lingered till the strain was o'er.

Of those young maids who've met to fleet In song and dance this evening's hours, Far happier now the bosoms beat Than when they last adorned these bowers; For tidings of glad sound had come, At break of day from the far isles-- Tidings like breath of life to some-- That Zea's sons would soon wing home, Crowded with the light of Victory's smiles To meet that brightest of all meeds That wait on high, heroic deeds. When gentle eyes that scarce for tears Could trace the warrior's parting track, Shall like a misty morn that clears When the long-absent sun appears Shine out all bliss to hail him back.

How fickle still the youthful breast!-- More fond of change than a young moon, No joy so new was e'er possest But Youth would leave for newer soon. These Zean nymphs tho' bright the spot Where first they held their evening play As ever fell to fairy's lot To wanton o'er by midnight's ray, Had now exchanged that sheltered scene For a wide glade beside the sea-- A lawn whose soft expanse of green Turned to the west sun smilingly As tho' in conscious beauty bright It joyed to give him light for light.

And ne'er did evening more serene Look down from heaven on lovelier scene. Calm lay the flood around while fleet O'er the blue shining element Light barks as if with fairy feet That stirred not the husht waters went; Some, that ere rosy eve fell o'er The blushing wave, with mainsail free, Had put forth from the Attic shore, Or the near Isle of Ebony;-- Some, Hydriot barks that deep in caves Beneath Colonna's pillared cliffs, Had all day lurked and o'er the waves Now shot their long and dart-like skiffs. Woe to the craft however fleet These sea-hawks in their course shall meet, Laden with juice of Lesbian vines, Or rich from Naxos' emery mines; For not more sure, when owlets flee O'er the dark crags of Pendelee, Doth the night-falcon mark his prey, Or pounce on it more fleet than they.

And what a moon now lights the glade Where these young island nymphs are met! Full-orbed yet pure as if no shade Had touched its virgin lustre yet; And freshly bright as if just made By Love's own hands of new-born light Stolen from his mother's star tonight.

On a bold rock that o'er the flood Jutted from that soft glade there stood A Chapel, fronting towards the sea,-- Built in some by-gone century,-- Where nightly as the seaman's mark When waves rose high or clouds were dark, A lamp bequeathed by some kind Saint Shed o'er the wave its glimmer faint. Waking in way-worn men a sigh And prayer to heaven as they went by. 'Twas there, around that rock-built shrine A group of maidens and their sires Had stood to watch the day's decline, And as the light fell o'er their lyres Sung to the Queen-Star of the Sea That soft and holy melody.

But lighter thoughts and lighter song Now woo the coming hours along. For mark, where smooth the herbage lies, Yon gay pavilion curtained deep With silken folds thro' which bright eyes From time to time are seen to peep; While twinkling lights that to and fro Beneath those veils like meteors go, Tell of some spells at work and keep Young fancies chained in mute suspense, Watching what next may shine from thence, Nor long the pause ere hands unseen That mystic curtain backward drew, And all that late but shone between In half-caught gleams now burst to view.

A picture 'twas of the early days Of glorious Greece ere yet those rays Of rich, immortal Mind were hers That made mankind her worshippers; While yet unsung her landscapes shone With glory lent by heaven alone; Nor temples crowned her nameless hills, Nor Muse immortalized her rills; Nor aught but the mute poesy Of sun and stars and shining sea Illumed that land of bards to be. While prescient of the gifted race That yet would realm so blest adorn, Nature took pains to deck the place Where glorious Art was to be born.

Such was the scene that mimic stage Of Athens and her hills portrayed Athens in her first, youthful age, Ere yet the simple violet braid,[18] Which then adorned her had shone down The glory of earth's loftiest crown. While yet undreamed, her seeds of Art Lay sleeping in the marble mine-- Sleeping till Genius bade them start To all but life in shapes divine; Till deified the quarry shone And all Olympus stood in stone!

There in the foreground of that scene, On a soft bank of living green Sate a young nymph with her lap full Of the newly gathered flowers, o'er which She graceful leaned intent to cull All that was there of hue most rich, To form a wreath such as the eye Of her young lover who stood by, With pallet mingled fresh might choose To fix by Painting's rainbow hues.

The wreath was formed; the maiden raised Her speaking eyes to his, while he-- Oh _not_ upon the flowers now gazed, But on that bright look's witchery. While, quick as if but then the thought Like light had reached his soul, he caught His pencil up and warm and true As life itself that love-look drew: And, as his raptured task went on, And forth each kindling feature shone, Sweet voices thro' the moonlight air From lips as moonlight fresh and pure Thus hailed the bright dream passing there, And sung the Birth of Portraiture.[19]

SONG.

As once a Grecian maiden wove Her garland mid the summer bowers, There stood a youth with eyes of love To watch her while she wreathed the flowers. The youth was skilled in Painting's art, But ne'er had studied woman's brow, Nor knew what magic hues the heart Can shed o'er Nature's charms till now.

CHORUS.

Blest be Love to whom we owe All that's fair and bright below.

His hand had pictured many a rose And sketched the rays that light the brook; But what were these or what were those To woman's blush, to woman's look? "Oh, if such magic power there be, "This, this," he cried, "is all my prayer, "To paint that living light I see "And fix the soul that sparkles there."

His prayer as soon as breathed was heard; His pallet touched by Love grew warm, And Painting saw her hues transferred From lifeless flowers to woman's form. Still as from tint to tint he stole, The fair design shone out the more, And there was now a life, a soul, Where only colors glowed before.

Then first carnations learned to speak And lilies into life were brought; While mantling on the maiden's cheek Young roses kindled into thought. Then hyacinths their darkest dyes Upon the locks of Beauty threw; And violets transformed to eyes Inshrined a soul within their blue.

CHORUS.

Blest be Love to whom we owe, All that's fair and bright below. Song was cold and Painting dim Till Song and Painting learned from him.

* * * * *

Soon as the scene had closed, a cheer Of gentle voices old and young Rose from the groups that stood to hear This tale of yore so aptly sung; And while some nymphs in haste to tell The workers of that fairy spell How crowned with praise their task had been Stole in behind the curtained scene, The rest in happy converse strayed-- Talking that ancient love-tale o'er-- Some to the groves that skirt the glade, Some to the chapel by the shore, To look what lights were on the sea. And think of the absent silently.

But soon that summons known so well Thro' bower and hall in Eastern lands, Whose sound more sure than gong or bell Lovers and slaves alike commands,-- The clapping of young female hands, Calls back the groups from rock and field To see some new-formed scene revealed;-- And fleet and eager down the slopes Of the green glades like antelopes When in their thirst they hear the sound Of distant rills, the light nymphs bound.

Far different now the scene--a waste Of Libyan sands, by moonlight's ray; An ancient well, whereon were traced The warning words, for such as stray Unarmed there, "Drink and away!"[20] While near it from the night-ray screened, And like his bells in husht repose, A camel slept--young as if weaned When last the star Canopus rose.[21]

Such was the back-ground's silent scene;-- While nearer lay fast slumbering too In a rude tent with brow serene A youth whose cheeks of wayworn hue And pilgrim-bonnet told the tale That he had been to Mecca's Vale: Haply in pleasant dreams, even now Thinking the long wished hour is come When o'er the well-known porch at home His hand shall hang the aloe bough-- Trophy of his accomplished vow.[22]

But brief his dream--for now the call Of the camp-chiefs from rear to van, "Bind on your burdens,"[23] wakes up all The widely slumbering caravan; And thus meanwhile to greet the ear Of the young pilgrim as he wakes, The song of one who lingering near Had watched his slumber, cheerly breaks.

SONG.

Up and march! the timbrel's sound Wakes the slumbering camp around; Fleet thy hour of rest hath gone, Armed sleeper, up, and on! Long and weary is our way O'er the burning sands to-day; But to pilgrim's homeward feet Even the desert's path is sweet.

When we lie at dead of night, Looking up to heaven's light, Hearing but the watchman’s tone Faintly chanting "God is one,"[24] Oh what thoughts then o'er us come Of our distant village home, Where that chant when evening sets Sounds from all the minarets.

Cheer thee!--soon shall signal lights, Kindling o'er the Red Sea heights, Kindling quick from man to man, Hail our coming caravan:[25] Think what bliss that hour will be! Looks of home again to see, And our names again to hear Murmured out by voices dear.

* * * * *

So past the desert dream away, Fleeting as his who heard this lay, Nor long the pause between, nor moved The spell-bound audience from that spot; While still as usual Fancy roved On to the joy that yet was not;-- Fancy who hath no present home, But builds her bower in scenes to come, Walking for ever in a light That flows from regions out of sight.

But see by gradual dawn descried A mountain realm-rugged as e'er Upraised to heaven its summits bare, Or told to earth with frown of pride That Freedom's falcon nest was there, Too high for hand of lord or king To hood her brow, or chain her wing.

'Tis Maina's land--her ancient hills, The abode of nymphs--her countless rills And torrents in their downward dash Shining like silver thro' the shade Of the sea-pine and flowering ash-- All with a truth so fresh portrayed As wants but touch of life to be A world of warm reality.

And now light bounding forth a band Of mountaineers, all smiles, advance-- Nymphs with their lovers hand in hand Linked in the Ariadne dance; And while, apart from that gay throng, A minstrel youth in varied song Tells of the loves, the joys, the ills Of these wild children of the hills, The rest by turns or fierce or gay As war or sport inspires the lay Follow each change that wakes the strings And act what thus the lyrist sings:--

SONG.

No life is like the mountaineer's, His home is near the sky, Where throned above this world he hears Its strife at distance die, Or should the sound of hostile drum Proclaim below, "We come--we come," Each crag that towers in air Gives answer, "Come who dare!" While like bees from dell and dingle, Swift the swarming warriors mingle, And their cry "Hurra!" will be, "Hurra, to victory!"

Then when battle's hour is over See the happy mountain lover With the nymph who'll soon be bride Seated blushing by his side,-- Every shadow of his lot In her sunny smile forgot. Oh, no life is like the mountaineer's. His home is near the sky, Where throned above this world he hears Its strife at distance die. Nor only thus thro' summer suns His blithe existence cheerly runs-- Even winter bleak and dim Brings joyous hours to him; When his rifle behind him flinging He watches the roe-buck springing, And away, o'er the hills away Re-echoes his glad "hurra."

Then how blest when night is closing, By the kindled hearth reposing, To his rebeck's drowsy song, He beguiles the hour along; Or provoked by merry glances To a brisker movement dances, Till, weary at last, in slumber's chain, He dreams o'er chase and dance again, Dreams, dreams them o'er again.

* * * * *

As slow that minstrel at the close Sunk while he sung to feigned repose, Aptly did they whose mimic art Followed the changes of his lay Portray the lull, the nod, the start, Thro' which as faintly died away His lute and voice, the minstrel past, Till voice and lute lay husht at last.

But now far other song came o'er Their startled ears--song that at first As solemnly the night-wind bore Across the wave its mournful burst, Seemed to the fancy like a dirge Of some lone Spirit of the Sea, Singing o'er Helle's ancient surge The requiem of her Brave and Free.

Sudden amid their pastime pause The wondering nymphs; and as the sound Of that strange music nearer draws, With mute inquiring eye look round, Asking each other what can be The source of this sad minstrelsy? Nor longer can they doubt, the song Comes from some island-bark which now Courses the bright waves swift along And soon perhaps beneath the brow Of the Saint's Bock will shoot its prow.

Instantly all with hearts that sighed 'Twixt fear's and fancy's influence, Flew to the rock and saw from thence A red-sailed pinnace towards them glide, Whose shadow as it swept the spray Scattered the moonlight's smiles away. Soon as the mariners saw that throng From the cliff gazing, young and old, Sudden they slacked their sail and song, And while their pinnace idly rolled On the light surge, these tidings told:--

'Twas from an isle of mournful name, From Missolonghi, last they came-- Sad Missolonghi sorrowing yet O'er him, the noblest Star of Fame That e'er in life's young glory set!-- And now were on their mournful way, Wafting the news thro' Helle's isles;-- News that would cloud even Freedom's ray And sadden Victory mid her smiles.

Their tale thus told and heard with pain, Out spread the galliot's wings again; And as she sped her swift career Again that Hymn rose on the ear-- "Thou art not dead--thou art not dead!" As oft 'twas sung in ages flown Of him, the Athenian, who to shed A tyrant's blood poured out his own.

SONG.

Thou art not dead--thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no. Thy soul to realms above us fled Tho' like a star it dwells o'er head Still lights this world below. Thou art _not_ dead--thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thro' isles of light where heroes tread And flowers ethereal blow, Thy god-like Spirit now is led, Thy lip with life ambrosial fed Forgets all taste of woe. Thou art not dead--thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

The myrtle round that falchion spread Which struck the immortal blow, Throughout all time with leaves unshed-- The patriot's hope, the tyrant's dread-- Round Freedom's shrine shall grow. Thou art not dead--thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Where hearts like thine have broke or bled, Tho' quenched the vital glow, Their memory lights a flame instead, Which even from out the narrow bed Of death its beams shall throw. Thou art not dead--thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thy name, by myriads sung and said, From age to age shall go, Long as the oak and ivy wed, As bees shall haunt Hymettus' head, Or Helle's waters flow. Thou art not dead--thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

* * * * *

'Mong those who lingered listening there,-- Listening with ear and eye as long As breath of night could towards them bear A murmur of that mournful song,-- A few there were in whom the lay Had called up feelings far too sad To pass with the brief strain away, Or turn at once to theme more glad; And who in mood untuned to meet The light laugh of the happie train, Wandered to seek some moonlight seat Where they might rest, in converse sweet, Till vanisht smiles should come again.

And seldom e'er hath noon of night To sadness lent more soothing light. On one side in the dark blue sky Lonely and radiant was the eye Of Jove himself, while on the other 'Mong tiny stars that round her gleamed, The young moon like the Roman mother Among her living "jewels" beamed.

Touched by the lovely scenes around, A pensive maid--one who, tho' young, Had known what 'twas to see unwound The ties by which her heart had clung-- Wakened her soft tamboura's sound, And to its faint accords thus sung:--

SONG.

Calm as beneath its mother's eyes In sleep the smiling infant lies, So watched by all the stars of night Yon landscape sleeps in light. And while the night-breeze dies away, Like relics of some faded strain, Loved voices, lost for many a day, Seem whispering round again. Oh youth! oh love! ye dreams that shed Such glory once--where are ye fled?

Pure ray of light that down the sky Art pointing like an angel's wand, As if to guide to realms that lie In that bright sea beyond: Who knows but in some brighter deep Than even that tranquil, moonlit main, Some land may lie where those who weep Shall wake to smile again! With cheeks that had regained their power And play of smiles,--and each bright eye Like violets after morning's shower The brighter for the tears gone by, Back to the scene such smiles should grace These wandering nymphs their path retrace, And reach the spot with rapture new Just as the veils asunder flew And a fresh vision burst to view.

There by her own bright Attic flood, The blue-eyed Queen of Wisdom stood;-- Not as she haunts the sage's dreams, With brow unveiled, divine, severe; But softened as on bards she beams When fresh from Poesy's high sphere A music not her own she brings, And thro' the veil which Fancy flings O'er her stern features gently sings.

But who is he--that urchin nigh, With quiver on the rose-trees hung, Who seems just dropt from yonder sky, And stands to watch that maid with eye So full of thought for one so young?-- That child--but, silence! lend thine ear, And thus in song the tale thou'lt hear:--

SONG.

As Love one summer eve was straying, Who should he see at that soft hour But young Minerva gravely playing Her flute within an olive bower. I need not say, 'tis Love's opinion That grave or merry, good or ill, The sex all bow to his dominion, As woman will be woman still.

Tho' seldom yet the boy hath given To learned dames his smiles or sighs, So handsome Pallas looked that even Love quite forgot the maid was wise. Besides, a youth of his discerning Knew well that by a shady rill At sunset hour whate'er her learning A woman will be woman still.

Her flute he praised in terms extatic,-- Wishing it dumb, nor cared how soon.-- For Wisdom's notes, howe'er chromatic, To Love seem always out of tune. But long as he found face to flatter, The nymph found breath to shake and thrill; As, weak or wise--it doesn't matter-- Woman at heart is woman still.

Love changed his plan, with warmth exclaiming, "How rosy was her lips' soft dye!" And much that flute the flatterer blaming, For twisting lips so sweet awry. The nymph looked down, beheld her features Reflected in the passing rill, And started, shocked--for, ah, ye creatures! Even when divine you're women still.

Quick from the lips it made so odious. That graceless flute the Goddess took And while yet filled with breath melodious, Flung it into the glassy brook; Where as its vocal life was fleeting Adown the current, faint and shrill, 'Twas heard in plaintive tone repeating, "Woman, alas, vain woman still!"

* * * * *

An interval of dark repose-- Such as the summer lightning knows, Twixt flash and flash, as still more bright The quick revealment comes and goes, Opening each time the veils of night, To show within a world of light-- Such pause, so brief, now past between This last gay vision and the scene Which now its depth of light disclosed. A bower it seemed, an Indian bower, Within whose shade a nymph reposed, Sleeping away noon's sunny hour-- Lovely as she, the Sprite, who weaves Her mansion of sweet Durva leaves, And there, as Indian legends say, Dreams the long summer hours away. And mark how charmed this sleeper seems With some hid fancy--she, too, dreams! Oh for a wizard's art to tell The wonders that now bless her sight! 'Tis done--a truer, holier spell Than e'er from wizard's lip yet fell. Thus brings her vision all to light:--

SONG.

"Who comes so gracefully "Gliding along "While the blue rivulet "Sleeps to her song; "Song richly vying "With the faint sighing "Which swans in dying "Sweetly prolong?"

So sung the shepherd-boy By the stream's side, Watching that fairy-boat Down the flood glide, Like a bird winging, Thro' the waves bringing That Syren, singing To the husht tide.

"Stay," said the shepherd-boy, "Fairy-boat, stay, "Linger, sweet minstrelsy, "Linger a day." But vain his pleading, Past him, unheeding, Song and boat, speeding, Glided away.

So to our youthful eyes Joy and hope shone; So while we gazed on them Fast they flew on;-- Like flowers declining Even in the twining, One moment shining. And the next gone!

* * * * *

Soon as the imagined dream went by, Uprose the nymph, with anxious eye Turned to the clouds as tho' some boon She waited from that sun-bright dome, And marvelled that it came not soon As her young thoughts would have it come.

But joy is in her glance!--the wing Of a white bird is seen above; And oh, if round his neck he bring The long-wished tidings from her love, Not half so precious in her eyes Even that high-omened bird[26] would be. Who dooms the brow o'er which he flies To wear a crown of royalty.

She had herself last evening sent A winged messenger whose flight Thro' the clear, roseate element, She watched till lessening out of sight Far to the golden West it went, Wafting to him, her distant love, A missive in that language wrought Which flowers can speak when aptly wove, Each hue a word, each leaf a thought.

And now--oh speed of pinion, known To Love's light messengers alone I-- Ere yet another evening takes Its farewell of the golden lakes, She sees another envoy fly, With the wished answer, thro' the sky.

SONG.

Welcome sweet bird, thro' the sunny air winging, Swift hast thou come o'er the far-shining sea, Like Seba's dove on thy snowy neck bringing Love's written vows from my lover to me. Oh, in thy absence what hours did I number!-- Saying oft, "Idle bird, how could he rest?" But thou art come at last, take now thy slumber, And lull thee in dreams of all thou lov'st best.

Yet dost thou droop--even now while I utter Love's happy welcome, thy pulse dies away; Cheer thee, my bird--were it life's ebbing flutter. This fondling bosom should woo it to stay, But no--thou'rt dying--thy last task is over-- Farewell, sweet martyr to Love and to me! The smiles thou hast wakened by news from my lover, Will now all be turned into weeping for thee.

* * * * *

While thus this scene of song (their last For the sweet summer season) past, A few presiding nymphs whose care Watched over all invisibly, As do those guardian sprites of air Whose watch we feel but cannot see, Had from the circle--scarcely missed, Ere they were sparkling there again-- Glided like fairies to assist Their handmaids on the moonlight plain, Where, hid by intercepting shade From the stray glance of curious eyes, A feast of fruits and wines was laid-- Soon to shine out, a glad surprise!

And now the moon, her ark of light Steering thro' Heaven, as tho' she bore In safety thro' that deep of night Spirits of earth, the good, the bright, To some remote immortal shore, Had half-way sped her glorious way, When round reclined on hillocks green In groups beneath that tranquil ray, The Zeans at their feast were seen. Gay was the picture--every maid Whom late the lighted scene displayed, Still in her fancy garb arrayed;-- The Arabian pilgrim, smiling here Beside the nymph of India's sky; While there the Mainiote mountaineer Whispered in young Minerva's ear, And urchin Love stood laughing by.

Meantime the elders round the board, By mirth and wit themselves made young, High cups of juice Zacynthian poured, And while the flask went round thus sung:--

SONG.

Up with the sparkling brimmer, Up to the crystal rim; Let not a moonbeam glimmer 'Twixt the flood and brim. When hath the world set eyes on Aught to match this light, Which o'er our cup's horizon Dawns in bumpers bright?

Truth in a deep well lieth-- So the wise aver; But Truth the fact denieth-- Water suits not her. No, her abode's in brimmers, Like this mighty cup-- Waiting till we, good swimmers, Dive to bring her up.

* * * * *

Thus circled round the song of glee, And all was tuneful mirth the while, Save on the cheeks of some whose smile As fixt they gaze upon the sea, Turns into paleness suddenly! What see they there? a bright blue light That like a meteor gliding o'er The distant wave grows on the sight, As tho' 'twere winged to Zea's shore. To some, 'mong those who came to gaze, It seemed the night-light far away Of some lone fisher by the blaze Of pine torch luring on his prey; While others, as 'twixt awe and mirth They breathed the blest Panaya's[27] name, Vowed that such light was not of earth But of that drear, ill-omen'd flame Which mariners see on sail or mast When Death is coming in the blast. While marvelling thus they stood, a maid Who sate apart with downcast eye, Not yet had like the rest surveyed That coming light which now was nigh, Soon as it met her sight, with cry Of pain-like joy, "'Tis he! 'tis he!" Loud she exclaimed, and hurrying by The assembled throng, rushed towards the sea. At burst so wild, alarmed, amazed, All stood like statues mute and gazed Into each other's eyes to seek What meant such mood in maid so meek?

Till now, the tale was known to few, But now from lip to lip it flew:-- A youth, the flower of all the band, Who late had left this sunny shore, When last he kist that maiden's hand, Lingering to kiss it o'er and o'er. By his sad brow too plainly told The ill-omened thought which crost him then, That once those hands should lose their hold, They ne'er would meet on earth again! In vain his mistress sad as he, But with a heart from Self as free As generous woman's only is, Veiled her own fears to banish his:-- With frank rebuke but still more vain, Did a rough warrior who stood by Call to his mind this martial strain, His favorite once, ere Beauty's eye Had taught his soldier-heart to sigh:--

SONG.

March! nor heed those arms that hold thee, Tho' so fondly close they come; Closer still will they enfold thee When thou bring'st fresh laurels home. Dost thou dote on woman's brow? Dost thou live but in her breath? March!--one hour of victory now Wins thee woman's smile till death.

Oh what bliss when war is over Beauty's long-missed smile to meet. And when wreaths our temples cover Lay them shining at her feet. Who would not that hour to reach Breathe out life's expiring sigh,-- Proud as waves that on the beach Lay their war-crests down and die.

There! I see thy soul is burning-- She herself who clasps thee so Paints, even now, thy glad returning, And while clasping bids thee go. One deep sigh to passion given, One last glowing tear and then-- March!--nor rest thy sword till Heaven Brings thee to those arms again.

* * * * *

Even then ere loath their hands could part A promise the youth gave which bore Some balm unto the maiden's heart, That, soon as the fierce fight was o'er, To home he'd speed, if safe and free-- Nay, even if dying, still would come, So the blest word of "Victory!" Might be the last he'd breathe at home. "By day," he cried, "thou'lt know my bark; "But should I come thro' midnight dark, "A blue light on the prow shall tell "That Greece hath won and all is well!"

Fondly the maiden every night, Had stolen to seek that promised light; Nor long her eyes had now been turned From watching when the signal burned. Signal of joy--for her, for all-- Fleetly the boat now nears the land, While voices from the shore-edge call For tidings of the long-wished band.

Oh the blest hour when those who've been Thro' peril's paths by land or sea Locked in our arms again are seen Smiling in glad security; When heart to heart we fondly strain, Questioning quickly o'er and o'er-- Then hold them off to gaze affain And ask, tho' answered oft before, If they _indeed_ are ours once more?

Such is the scene so full of joy Which welcomes now this warrior-boy, As fathers, sisters, friends all run Bounding to meet him--all but one Who, slowest on his neck to fall, Is yet the happiest of them all.

And now behold him circled round With beaming faces at that board, While cups with laurel foliage crowned, Are to the coming warriors poured-- Coming, as he, their herald, told, With blades from victory scarce yet cold, With hearts untouched by Moslem steel And wounds that home's sweet breath will heal.

"Ere morn," said he,--and while he spoke Turned to the east, where clear and pale The star of dawn already broke-- "We'll greet on yonder wave their sail!" Then wherefore part? all, all agree To wait them here beneath this bower; And thus, while even amidst their glee, Each eye is turned to watch the sea, With song they cheer the anxious hour.

SONG.

"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" said the cup-loving boy As he saw it spring bright from the earth, And called the young Genii of Wit, Love, and Joy, To witness and hallow its birth. The fruit was full grown, like a ruby it flamed Till the sunbeam that kist it looked pale; "'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" every Spirit exclaimed "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

First, fleet as a bird to the summons Wit flew, While a light on the vine-leaves there broke In flashes so quick and so brilliant all knew T'was the light from his lips as he spoke. "Bright tree! let thy nectar but cheer me," he cried, "And the fount of Wit never can fail:" "'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" hills and valleys reply, "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

Next Love as he leaned o'er the plant to admire Each tendril and cluster it wore, From his rosy mouth sent such a breath of desire, As made the tree tremble all o'er. Oh! never did flower of the earth, sea, or sky, Such a soul-giving odor inhale: "'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" all re-echo the cry, "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

Last, Joy, without whom even Love and Wit die, Came to crown the bright hour with his ray; And scarce had that mirth-waking tree met his eye, When a laugh spoke what Joy could not say;-- A laugh of the heart which was echoed around Till like music it swelled on the gale: "T is the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" laughing myriads resound, "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

[1] "_Nerium Oleander_. In Cyprus it retains its ancient name, Rhododaphne, and the Cypriots adorn their churches with the flowers on feast-days."--_Journal of Dr. Sibthorpe, Walpole's, Turkey_.

[2] _Lonicera caprifolium_, used by the girls of Patmos for garlands.

[3] _Cuscuta europoea_. "From the twisting and twining of the stems, it is compared by the Greeks to the dishevelled hair of the Nereids."-- _Walpole's Turkey_.

[4] "The produce of the island in these acorns alone amounts annually to fifteen thousand quintals."--_Clarke's Travels_.

[5] Now Santa Maura--the island, from whose cliffs Sappho leaped into the sea.

[6] "The precipice, which is fearfully dizzy, is about one hundred and fourteen feet from the water, which is of a profound depth, as appears from the dark blue color and the eddy that plays round the pointed and projecting rocks."--_Goodisson's Ionian Isles_.

[7] This word is defrauded here, I suspect, of a syllable; Dr. Clarke, if I recollect right, makes it "Balalaika."

[8] "I saw above thirty parties engaged in dancing the Romaika upon the sand; in some of these groups, the girl who led them chased the retreating wave."--Douglas on the Modern Greeks.

[9] "In dancing the Romaika [says Mr. Douglas] they begin in slow and solemn step till they have gained the time, but by degrees the air becomes more sprightly; the conductress of the dance sometimes setting to her partners, sometimes darting before the rest, and leading them through the most rapid revolutions: sometimes crossing under the hands, which are held up to let her pass, and giving as much liveliness and intricacy as she can to the figures, into which she conducts her companions, while their business is to follow her in all her movements, without breaking the chain, or losing the measure,"

[10] The sword was the weapon chiefly used in this dance.

[11] It is said that Leonidas and his companions employed themselves, on the eve of the battle, in music and the gymnastic exercises of their country.

[12] "This morning we paid our visit to the Cave of Trophonius, and the Fountains of Memory and Oblivion, just upon the water of Hercyna, which flows through stupendous rocks."--_Williams's Travels in Greece_.

[13] This superstitious custom of the Thessalians exists also, as Pietro dello Valle tells us, among the Persians.

[14] An ancient city of Zea, the walls of which were of marble. Its remains (says Clarke) "extend from the shore, quite into a valley watered by the streams of a fountain, whence Ioulis received its name."

[15] Zea was the birthplace of this poet, whose verses are by Catullus called "tears."

[16] These "Songs of the Well," as they were called among the ancients, still exist in Greece. _De Guys_ tells us that he has seen "the young women in Prince's Island, assembled in the evening at a public well, suddenly strike up a dance, while others sung in concert to them."

[17] "The inhabitants of Syra, both ancient and modern, may be considered as the worshippers of water. The old fountain, at which the nymphs of the island assembled in the earliest ages, exists in its original state; the same rendezvous as it was formerly, whether of love and gallantry, or of gossiping and tale-telling. It is near to the town, and the most limpid water gushes continually from the solid rock. It is regarded by the inhabitants with a degree of religious veneration; and they p reserve a tradition, that the pilgrims of old time, in their way to Delos, resorted hither for purification."_--Clarke_.

[18] "Violet-crowned Athens."--_Pindar_.

[19] The whole of this scene was suggested by Pliny's account of the artist Pausias and his mistress Glycera, _Lib_. 35 c. 40.

[20] The traveller Shaw mentions a beautiful rill In Barbary, which is received into a large basin called _Shrub wee krub_, "Drink and away"-- there being great danger of meeting with thieves and assassins in such places.

[21] The Arabian shepherd has a peculiar ceremony in weaning the young camel; when the proper time arrives, he turns the camel towards the rising star, Canopus, and says, "Do you see Canopus? from this moment you taste not another drop of milk."--_Richardson_.

[22] "Whoever returns from a pilgrimage to Mecca hangs this plant (the mitre-shaped Aloe) over his street door, as a token of his having performed this holy journey."--_Hasselquist_.

[23] This form of notice to the caravans to prepare for marching was applied by Hafiz to the necessity of relinquishing the pleasures of this world, and preparing for death:--"For me what room is there for pleasure in the bower of Beauty, when every moment the bell makes proclamation, 'Bind on your burden'?"

[24] The watchmen, in the camp of the caravans, go their rounds, crying one after another, "God is one," etc.

[25] "It was customary," says Irwin, "to light up fires on the mountains, within view of Cosseir, to give notice of the approach of the caravans that came from the Nile."

[26] the Hume.

[27] The name which the Greeks give to the Virgin Mary.

ALCIPHRON: A FRAGMENT.

LETTER I.

FROM ALCIPHRON AT ALEXANDRIA TO CLEON AT ATHENS.

Well may you wonder at my flight From those fair Gardens in whose bowers Lingers whate'er of wise and bright, Of Beauty's smile or Wisdom's light, Is left to grace this world of ours. Well may my comrades as they roam On such sweet eyes as this inquire Why I have left that happy home Where all is found that all desire, And Time hath wings that never tire: Where bliss in all the countless shapes That Fancy's self to bliss hath given Comes clustering round like roadside grapes That woo the traveller's lip at even; Where Wisdom flings not joy away-- As Pallas in the stream they say Once flung her flute--but smiling owns That woman's lip can send forth tones Worth all the music of those spheres So many dream of but none hears; Where Virtue's self puts on so well Her sister Pleasure's smile that, loath From either nymph apart to dwell, We finish by embracing both. Yes, such the place of bliss, I own From all whose charms I just have flown; And even while thus to thee I write, And by the Nile's dark flood recline, Fondly, in thought I wing my flight Back to those groves and gardens bright, And often think by this sweet light How lovelily they all must shine; Can see that graceful temple throw Down the green slope its lengthened shade, While on the marble steps below There sits some fair Athenian maid, Over some favorite volume bending; And by her side a youthful sage Holds back the ringlets that descending Would else o'ershadow all the page. But hence such thoughts!--nor let me grieve O'er scenes of joy that I but leave, As the bird quits awhile its nest To come again with livelier zest.

And now to tell thee--what I fear Thou'lt gravely smile at--_why_ I'm here Tho' thro' my life's short, sunny dream, I've floated without pain or care Like a light leaf down pleasure's stream, Caught in each sparkling eddy there; Tho' never Mirth awaked a strain That my heart echoed not again; Yet have I felt, when even most gay, Sad thoughts--I knew not whence or why-- Suddenly o'er my spirit fly, Like clouds that ere we've time to say "How bright the sky is!" shade the sky. Sometimes so vague, so undefined Were these strange darkenings of my mind-- "While naught but joy around me beamed So causelessly they've come and flown, That not of life or earth they seemed, But shadows from some world unknown. More oft, however, 'twas the thought How soon that scene with all its play Of life and gladness must decay-- Those lips I prest, the hands I caught-- Myself--the crowd that mirth had brought Around me--swept like weeds away!

This thought it was that came to shed O'er rapture's hour its worst alloys; And close as shade with sunshine wed Its sadness with my happiest joys. Oh, but for this disheartening voice Stealing amid our mirth to say That all in which we most rejoice Ere night may be the earthworm's prey-- _But_ for this bitter--only this-- Full as the world is brimmed with bliss, And capable as feels my soul Of draining to its dregs the whole, I should turn earth to heaven and be, If bliss made Gods, a Deity?

Thou know'st that night--the very last That 'mong my Garden friends I past-- When the School held its feast of mirth To celebrate our founder's birth. And all that He in dreams but saw When he set Pleasure on the throne Of this bright world and wrote her law In human hearts was felt and known-- _Not_ in unreal dreams but true, Substantial joy as pulse e'er knew-- By hearts and bosoms, that each felt _Itself_ the realm where Pleasure dwelt.

That night when all our mirth was o'er, The minstrels silent, and the feet Of the young maidens heard no more-- So stilly was the time, so sweet, And such a calm came o'er that scene, Where life and revel late had been-- Lone as the quiet of some bay From which the sea hath ebbed away-- That still I lingered, lost in thought, Gazing upon the stars of night, Sad and intent as if I sought Some mournful secret in their light; And asked them mid that silence why Man, glorious man, alone must die While they, less wonderful than he, Shine on thro' all eternity.

That night--thou haply may'st forget Its loveliness--but 'twas a night To make earth's meanest slave regret Leaving a world so soft and bright. On one side in the dark blue sky Lonely and radiant was the eye Of Jove himself, while on the other, 'Mong stars that came out one by one, The young moon--like the Roman mother Among her living jewels--shone. "Oh that from yonder orbs," I thought, "Pure and eternal as they are, "There could to earth some power be brought, "Some charm with their own essence fraught "To make man deathless as a star, "And open to his vast desires "A course, as boundless and sublime "As that which waits those comet-fires, "That burn and roam throughout all time!"

While thoughts like these absorbed my mind, That weariness which earthly bliss However sweet still leaves behind, As if to show how earthly 'tis, Came lulling o'er me and I laid My limbs at that fair statue's base-- That miracle, which Art hath made Of all the choice of Nature's grace-- To which so oft I've knelt and sworn. That could a living maid like her Unto this wondering world be born, I would myself turn worshipper.

Sleep came then o'er me--and I seemed To be transported far away To a bleak desert plain where gleamed One single, melancholy ray. Throughout that darkness dimly shed From a small taper in the hand Of one who pale as are the dead Before me took his spectral stand, And said while awfully a smile Came o'er the wanness of his cheek-- "Go and beside the sacred Nile "You'll find the Eternal Life you seek."

Soon as he spoke these words the hue Of death o'er all his features grew Like the pale morning when o'er night She gains the victory full of light; While the small torch he held became A glory in his hand whose flame Brightened the desert suddenly, Even to the far horizon's line-- Along whose level I could see Gardens and groves that seemed to shine As if then o'er them freshly played A vernal rainbow's rich cascade; And music floated every where, Circling, as 'twere itself the air, And spirits on whose wings the hue Of heaven still lingered round me flew, Till from all sides such splendors broke, That with the excess of light I woke!

Such was my dream;--and I confess Tho' none of all our creedless school E'er conned, believed, or reverenced less The fables of the priest-led fool Who tells us of a soul, a mind, Separate and pure within us shrined, Which is to live--ah, hope too bright!-- For ever in yon fields of light; Who fondly thinks the guardian eyes Of Gods are on him--as if blest And blooming in their own blue skies The eternal Gods were not too wise To let weak man disturb their rest!-- Tho' thinking of such creeds as thou And all our Garden sages think, Yet is there something, I allow, In dreams like this--a sort of link With worlds unseen which from the hour I first could lisp my thoughts till now Hath mastered me with spell-like power.

And who can tell, as we're combined Of various atoms--some refined, Like those that scintillate and play In the fixt stars--some gross as they That frown in clouds or sleep in clay-- Who can be sure but 'tis the best And brightest atoms of our frame, Those most akin to stellar flame, That shine out thus, when we're at rest;-- Even as the stars themselves whose light Comes out but in the silent night. Or is it that there lurks indeed Some truth in Man's prevailing creed And that our Guardians from on high Come in that pause from toil and sin To put the senses' curtain by And on the wakeful soul look in!

Vain thought!--but yet, howe'er it be, Dreams more than once have proved to me Oracles, truer far than Oak Or Dove or Tripod ever spoke. And 'twas the words--thou'lt hear and smile-- The words that phantom seemed to speak-- "Go and beside the sacred Nile "You'll find the Eternal Life you seek"-- That haunting me by night, by day, At length as with the unseen hand Of Fate itself urged me away From Athens to this Holy Land; Where 'mong the secrets still untaught, The mysteries that as yet nor sun Nor eye hath reached--oh, blessed thought!-- May sleep this everlasting one.

Farewell--when to our Garden friends Thou talk'st of the wild dream that sends The gayest of their school thus far, Wandering beneath Canopus' star, Tell them that wander where he will Or howsoe'er they now condemn His vague and vain pursuit he still Is worthy of the School and them;-- Still all their own--nor e'er forgets Even while his heart and soul pursue The Eternal Light which never sets, The many meteor joys that _do_, But seeks them, hails them with delight Where'er they meet his longing sight. And if his life _must_ wane away Like other lives at least the day, The hour it lasts shall like a fire With incense fed in sweets expire.

LETTER II.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

_Memphis_.

'Tis true, alas--the mysteries and the lore I came to study on this, wondrous shore. Are all forgotten in the new delights. The strange, wild joys that fill my days and nights. Instead of dark, dull oracles that speak From subterranean temples, those _I_ seek Come from the breathing shrines where Beauty lives, And Love, her priest, the soft responses gives. Instead of honoring Isis in those rites At Coptos held, I hail her when she lights Her first young crescent on the holy stream-- When wandering youths and maidens watch her beam And number o'er the nights she hath to run, Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun. While o'er some mystic leaf that dimly lends A clew into past times the student bends, And by its glimmering guidance learns to tread Back thro' the shadowy knowledge of the dead-- The only skill, alas, _I_ yet can claim Lies in deciphering some new loved-one's name-- Some gentle missive hinting time and place, In language soft as Memphian reed can trace.

And where--oh where's the heart that could withstand The unnumbered witcheries of this sun-born land, Where first young Pleasure's banner was unfurled And Love hath temples ancient as the world! Where mystery like the veil by Beauty worn Hides but to win and shades but to adorn; Where that luxurious melancholy born Of passion and of genius sheds a gloom Making joy holy;--where the bower and tomb Stand side by side and Pleasure learns from Death The instant value of each moment's breath. Couldst thou but see how like a poet's dream This lovely land now looks!--the glorious stream That late between its banks was seen to glide 'Mong shrines and marble cities on each side Glittering like jewels strung along a chain Hath now sent forth its waters, and o'er plain And valley like a giant from his bed Rising with outstretched limbs hath grandly spread. While far as sight can reach beneath as clear And blue a heaven as ever blest our sphere, Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domes And high-built temples fit to be the homes Of mighty Gods, and pyramids whose hour Outlasts all time above the waters tower!

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make One theatre of this vast, peopled lake, Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives Of life and motion ever moves and lives. Here, up the steps of temples from the wave Ascending in procession slow and grave. Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands; While there, rich barks--fresh from those sunny tracts Far off beyond the sounding cataracts-- Glide with their precious lading to the sea, Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros ivory, Gems from the Isle of Meroe, and those grains Of gold washed down by Abyssinian rains. Here where the waters wind into a bay Shadowy and cool some pilgrims on their way To Saïs or Bubastus among beds Of lotus flowers that close above their heads Push their light barks, and there as in a bower, Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour; Oft dipping in the Nile, when faint with heat, That leaf from which its waters drink most sweet.-- While haply not far off beneath a bank Of blossoming acacias many a prank Is played in the cool current by a train Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she,[1] whose chain Around two conquerors of the world was cast, But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.

For oh! believe not them who dare to brand As poor in charms the women of this land. Tho' darkened by that sun whose spirit flows Thro' every vein and tinges as it goes, 'Tis but the embrowning of the fruit that tells How rich within the soul of ripeness dwells-- The hue their own dark sanctuaries wear, Announcing heaven in half-caught glimpses there. And never yet did tell-tale looks set free The secret of young hearts more tenderly. Such eyes!--long, shadowy, with that languid fall Of the fringed lids which may be seen in all Who live beneath the sun's too ardent rays-- Lending such looks as on their marriage days Young maids cast down before a bridegroom's gaze! Then for their grace--mark but the nymph-like shapes Of the young village girls, when carrying grapes From green Anthylla or light urns of flowers-- Not our own Sculpture in her happiest hours E'er imaged forth even at the touch of him[2] Whose touch was life, more luxury of limb! Then, canst thou wonder if mid scenes like these I should forget all graver mysteries, All lore but Love's, all secrets but that best In heaven or earth, the art of being blest! Yet are there times--tho' brief I own their stay, Like summer-clouds that shine themselves away-- Moments of gloom, when even these pleasures pall Upon my saddening heart and I recall That garden dream--that promise of a power, Oh, were there such!--to lengthen out life's hour, On, on, as thro' a vista far away Opening before us into endless day! And chiefly o'er my spirit did this thought Come on that evening--bright as ever brought Light's golden farewell to the world--when first The eternal pyramids of Memphis burst Awfully on my sight-standing sublime Twixt earth and heaven, the watch-towers of Time, From whose lone summit when his reign hath past From earth for ever he will look his last!

There hung a calm and solemn sunshine round Those mighty monuments, a hushing sound In the still air that circled them which stole Like music of past times into my soul. I thought what myriads of the wise and brave And beautiful had sunk into the grave, Since earth first saw these wonders--and I said "Are things eternal only for the Dead? "Hath Man no loftier hope than this which dooms "His only lasting trophies to be tombs? "But _'tis_ not so--earth, heaven, all nature shows "He _may_ become immortal--_may_ unclose "The wings within him wrapt, and proudly rise "Redeemed from earth, a creature of the skies!

"And who can say, among the written spells "From Hermes' hand that in these shrines and cells "Have from the Flood lay hid there may not be "Some secret clew to immortality, "Some amulet whose spell can keep life's fire "Awake within us never to expire! "'Tis known that on the Emerald Table, hid "For ages in yon loftiest pyramid, "The Thrice-Great[3] did himself engrave of old "The chymic mystery that gives endless gold. "And why may not this mightier secret dwell "Within the same dark chambers? who can tell "But that those kings who by the written skill "Of the Emerald Table called forth gold at will "And quarries upon quarries heapt and hurled, "To build them domes that might outstand the world-- "Who knows, but that the heavenlier art which shares "The life of Gods with man was also theirs-- "That they themselves, triumphant o'er the power "Of fate and death, are living at this hour; "And these, the giant homes they still possess. "Not tombs but everlasting palaces "Within whose depths hid from the world above "Even now they wander with the few they love, "Thro' subterranean gardens, by a light "Unknown on earth which hath nor dawn nor night! "Else, why those deathless structures? why the grand "And hidden halls that undermine this land? "Why else hath none of earth e'er dared to go "Thro' the dark windings of that realm below, "Nor aught from heaven itself except the God "Of Silence thro' those endless labyrinths trod?" Thus did I dream--wild, wandering dreams, I own, But such as haunt me ever, if alone, Or in that pause 'twixt joy and joy I be, Like a ship husht between two waves at sea. Then do these spirit whisperings like the sound Of the Dark Future come appalling round; Nor can I break the trance that holds me then, Till high o'er Pleasure's surge I mount again!

Even now for new adventure, new delight, My heart is on the wing;--this very night, The Temple on that island halfway o'er From Memphis' gardens to the eastern shore Sends up its annual rite[4] to her whose beams Bring the sweet time of night-flowers and dreams; The nymph who dips her urn in silent lakes And turns to silvery dew each drop it takes;-- Oh! not our Dian of the North who chains In vestal ice the current of young veins, But she who haunts the gay Bubastian[5] grove And owns she sees from her bright heaven above, Nothing on earth to match that heaven but Love. Think then what bliss will be abroad to-night!-- Besides those sparkling nymphs who meet the sight Day after day, familiar as the sun, Coy buds of beauty yet unbreathed upon And all the hidden loveliness that lies,-- Shut up as are the beams of sleeping eyes Within these twilight shrines--tonight shall be Let loose like birds for this festivity! And mark, 'tis nigh; already the sun bids His evening farewell to the Pyramids. As he hath done age after age till they Alone on earth seem ancient as his ray; While their great shadows stretching from the light Look like the first colossal steps of Night Stretching across the valley to invade The distant hills of porphyry with their shade. Around, as signals of the setting beam, Gay, gilded flags on every housetop gleam: While, hark!--from all the temples a rich swell Of music to the Moon--farewell--farewell.

[1] Cleopatra.

[2] Apellas.

[3] The Hermes Trismegistus.

[4] The great Festival of the Moon.

[5] Bubastis, or Isis, was the Diana of the Egyptian mythology.

LETTER III.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

_Memphis_.

There is some star--or may it be That moon we saw so near last night-- Which comes athwart my destiny For ever with misleading light. If for a moment pure and wise And calm I feel there quick doth fall A spark from some disturbing eyes, That thro' my heart, soul, being flies, And makes a wildfire of it all. I've seen--oh, Cleon, that this earth Should e'er have given such beauty birth!-- That man--but, hold--hear all that past Since yester-night from first to last.

The rising of the Moon, calm, slow, And beautiful, as if she came Fresh from the Elysian bowers below, Was with a loud and sweet acclaim Welcomed from every breezy height, Where crowds stood waiting for her light. And well might they who viewed the scene Then lit up all around them, say That never yet had Nature been Caught sleeping in a lovelier ray Or rivalled her own noontide face With purer show of moonlight grace.

Memphis--still grand, tho' not the same Unrivalled Memphis that could seize From ancient Thebes the crown of Fame, And wear it bright thro' centuries-- Now, in the moonshine, that came down Like a last smile upon that crown. Memphis, still grand among her lakes, Her pyramids and shrines of fire, Rose like a vision that half breaks On one who dreaming still awakes To music from some midnight choir: While to the west--where gradual sinks In the red sands from Libya rolled. Some mighty column or fair sphynx, That stood in kingly courts of old-- It seemed as, mid the pomps that shone Thus gayly round him Time looked on, Waiting till all now bright and blest, Should sink beneath him like the rest.

No sooner had the setting sun Proclaimed the festal rite begun, And mid their idol's fullest beams The Egyptian world was all afloat, Than I who live upon these streams Like a young Nile-bird turned my boat To the fair island on whose shores Thro' leafy palms and sycamores Already shone the moving lights Of pilgrims hastening to the rites. While, far around like ruby sparks Upon the water, lighted barks, Of every form and kind--from those That down Syene's cataract shoots, To the grand, gilded barge that rows To tambour's beat and breath of flutes, And wears at night in words of flame On the rich prow its master's name;-- All were alive and made this sea Of cities busy as a hill Of summer ants caught suddenly In the overflowing of a rill.

Landed upon the isle, I soon Thro' marble alleys and small groves Of that mysterious palm she loves, Reached the fair Temple of the Moon; And there--as slowly thro' the last Dim-lighted vestibule I past-- Between the porphyry pillars twined With palm and ivy, I could see A band of youthful maidens wind In measured walk half dancingly, Round a small shrine on which was placed That bird[1] whose plumes of black and white Wear in their hue by Nature traced A type of the moon's shadowed light.

In drapery like woven snow These nymphs were clad; and each below The rounded bosom loosely wore A dark blue zone or bandelet, With little silver stars all o'er As are the skies at midnight set. While in their tresses, braided thro', Sparkled that flower of Egypt's lakes, The silvery lotus in whose hue As much delight the young Moon takes As doth the Day-God to behold The lofty bean-flower's buds of gold. And, as they gracefully went round The worshipt bird, some to the beat Of castanets, some to the sound Of the shrill sistrum timed their feet; While others at each step they took A tinkling chain of silver shook.

They seemed all fair--but there was one On whom the light had not yet shone, Or shone but partly--so downcast She held her brow, as slow she past. And yet to me there seemed to dwell A charm about that unseen face-- A something in the shade that fell Over that brow's imagined grace Which won me more than all the best Outshining beauties of the rest. And _her_ alone my eyes could see Enchained by this sweet mystery; And her alone I watched as round She glided o'er that marble ground, Stirring not more the unconscious air Than if a Spirit were moving there. Till suddenly, wide open flew The Temple's folding gates and threw A splendor from within, a flood Of glory where these maidens stood. While with that light--as if the same Rich source gave birth to both--there came A swell of harmony as grand As e'er was born of voice and band, Filling the gorgeous aisles around With luxury of light and sound.

Then was it, by the flash that blazed Full o'er her features--oh 'twas then, As startingly her eyes she raised, But quick let fall their lids again, I saw--not Psyche's self when first Upon the threshold of the skies She paused, while heaven's glory burst Newly upon her downcast eyes, Could look more beautiful or blush With holier shame than did this maid, Whom now I saw in all that gush Of splendor from the aisles, displayed. Never--tho' well thou know'st how much I've felt the sway of Beauty's star-- Never did her bright influence touch My soul into its depths so far; And had that vision lingered there One minute more I should have flown, Forgetful _who_ I was and where. And at her feet in worship thrown Proffered my soul thro' life her own.

But scarcely had that burst of light And music broke on ear and sight, Than up the aisle the bird took wing As if on heavenly mission sent, While after him with graceful spring Like some unearthly creatures, meant To live in that mixt element Of light and song the young maids went; And she who in my heart had thrown A spark to burn for life was flown.

In vain I tried to follow;--bands Of reverend chanters filled the aisle: Where'er I sought to pass, their wands Motioned me back, while many a file Of sacred nymphs--but ah, not they Whom my eyes looked for thronged the way. Perplext, impatient, mid this crowd Of faces, lights--the o'erwhelming cloud Of incense round me, and my blood Full of its new-born fire--I stood, Nor moved, nor breathed, but when I caught A glimpse of some blue, spangled zone, Or wreath of lotus, which I thought Like those she wore at distance shone.

But no, 'twas vain--hour after hour, Till my heart's throbbing turned to pain, And my strained eyesight lost its power, I sought her thus, but all in vain. At length, hot--wildered--in despair, I rushed into the cool night-air, And hurrying (tho' with many a look Back to the busy Temple) took My way along the moonlight shore, And sprung into my boat once more. There is a Lake that to the north Of Memphis stretches grandly forth, Upon whose silent shore the Dead Have a proud city of their own,[2] With shrines and pyramids o'erspread-- Where many an ancient kingly head Slumbers, immortalized in stone; And where thro' marble grots beneath The lifeless, ranged like sacred things, Nor wanting aught of life but breath, Lie in their painted coverings, And on each new successive race That visit their dim haunts below Look with the same unwithering face They wore three thousand years ago.

There. Silence, thoughtful God, who loves The neighborhood of death in groves Of asphodel lies hid and weaves His hushing spell among the leaves-- Nor ever noise disturbs the air Save the low, humming, mournful sound Of priests within their shrines at prayer For the fresh Dead entombed around.

'Twas toward this place of death--in mood Made up of thoughts, half bright, half dark-- I now across the shining flood Unconscious turned my light-winged bark. The form of that young maid in all Its beauty was before me still; And oft I thought, if thus to call Her image to my mind at will, If but the memory of that one Bright look of hers for ever gone, Was to my heart worth all the rest Of woman-kind, beheld, possest-- What would it be if wholly mine, Within these arms as in a shrine, Hallowed by Love, I saw her shine-- An idol, worshipt by the light Of her own beauties, day and night-- If 'twas a blessing but to see And lose again, what would _this_ be?

In thoughts like these--but often crost By darker threads--my mind was lost, Till near that City of the Dead, Waked from my trance, I saw o'erhead-- As if by some enchanter bid Suddenly from the wave to rise-- Pyramid over pyramid Tower in succession to the skies; While one, aspiring, as if soon, 'Twould touch the heavens, rose over all; And, on its summit, the white moon Rested as on a pedestal!

The silence of the lonely tombs And temples round where naught was heard But the high palm-tree's tufted plumes, Shaken at times by breeze or bird, Formed a deep contrast to the scene Of revel where I late had been; To those gay sounds that still came o'er, Faintly from many a distant shore, And the unnumbered lights that shone Far o'er the flood from Memphis on To the Moon's Isle and Babylon.

My oars were lifted and my boat Lay rocked upon the rippling stream; While my vague thoughts alike afloat, Drifted thro' many an idle dream. With all of which, wild and unfixt As was their aim, that vision mixt, That bright nymph of the Temple--now, With the same innocence of brow She wore within the lighted fane-- Now kindling thro' each pulse and vein With passion of such deep-felt fire As Gods might glory to inspire;-- And now--oh Darkness of the tomb, That must eclipse even light like hers! Cold, dead, and blackening mid the gloom Of those eternal sepulchres.

Scarce had I turned my eyes away From that dark death-place, at the thought, When by the sound of dashing spray From a light oar my ear was caught, While past me, thro' the moonlight, sailed. A little gilded bark that bore Two female figures closely veiled And mantled towards that funeral shore. They landed--and the boat again Put off across the watery plain.

Shall I confess--to _thee_ I may-- That never yet hath come the chance Of a new music, a new ray From woman's voice, from woman's glance, Which--let it find me how it might, In joy or grief--I did not bless, And wander after as a light Leading to undreamt, happiness. And chiefly now when hopes so vain Were stirring in my heart and brain, When Fancy had allured my soul Into a chase as vague and far As would be his who fixt his goal In the horizon or some star-- _Any_ bewilderment that brought More near to earth my high-flown thought-- The faintest glimpse of joy, less pure, Less high and heavenly, but more sure, Came welcome--and was then to me What the first flowery isle must be To vagrant birds blown out to sea.

Quick to the shore I urged my bark, And by the bursts of moonlight shed Between the lofty tombs could mark Those figures as with hasty tread They glided on--till in the shade Of a small pyramid, which thro' Some boughs of palm its peak displayed, They vanisht instant from my view.

I hurried to the spot--no trace Of life was in that lonely place; And had the creed I hold by taught Of other worlds I might have thought Some mocking spirits had from thence Come in this guise to cheat my sense.

At length, exploring darkly round The Pyramid's smooth sides, I found An iron portal--opening high 'Twixt peak and base--and, with a prayer To the bliss-loving Moon whose eye Alone beheld me sprung in there. Downward the narrow stairway led Thro' many a duct obscure and dread, A labyrinth for mystery made, With wanderings onward, backward, round, And gathering still, where'er it wound. But deeper density of shade.

Scarce had I asked myself, "Can aught "That man delights in sojourn here?"-- When, suddenly, far off, I caught A glimpse of light, remote, but clear-- Whose welcome glimmer seemed to pour From some alcove or cell that ended The long, steep, marble corridor, Thro' which I now, all hope, descended. Never did Spartan to his bride With warier foot at midnight glide. It seemed as echo's self were dead In this dark place, so mute my tread. Reaching at length that light, I saw-- Oh! listen to the scene now raised Before my eyes--then guess the awe, The still, rapt awe with which I gazed.

'Twas a small chapel, lined around With the fair, spangling marble found In many a ruined shrine that stands Half seen above the Libyan sands. The walls were richly sculptured o'er, And charactered with that dark lore Of times before the Flood, whose key Was lost in the "Universal Sea."-- While on the roof was pictured bright The Theban beetle as he shines, When the Nile's mighty flow declines And forth the creature springs to light, With life regenerate in his wings:-- Emblem of vain imaginings! Of a new world, when this is gone, In which the spirit still lives on!

Direct beneath this type, reclined On a black granite altar, lay A female form, in crystal shrined, And looking fresh as if the ray Of soul had fled but yesterday, While in relief of silvery hue Graved on the altar's front were seen A branch of lotus, broken in two, As that fair creature's life had been, And a small bird that from its spray Was winging like her soul away.

But brief the glimpse I now could spare To the wild, mystic wonders round; For there was yet one wonder there That held me as by witchery bound. The lamp that thro' the chamber shed Its vivid beam was at the head Of her who on that altar slept; And near it stood when first I came-- Bending her brow, as if she kept Sad watch upon its silent flame-- A female form as yet so placed Between the lamp's strong glow and me, That I but saw, in outline traced, The shadow of her symmetry. Yet did my heart--I scarce knew why-- Even at that shadowed shape beat high. Nor was it long ere full in sight The figure turned; and by the light That touched her features as she bent Over the crystal monument, I saw 'twas she--the same--the same-- That lately stood before me, brightening The holy spot where she but came And went again like summer lightning!

Upon the crystal o'er the breast Of her who took that silent rest, There was a cross of silver lying-- Another type of that blest home, Which hope and pride and fear of dying Build for us in a world to come:-- This silver cross the maiden raised To her pure lips:--then, having gazed Some minutes on that tranquil face, Sleeping in all death's mournful grace, Upward she turned her brow serene, As if intent on heaven those eyes Saw them nor roof nor cloud between Their own pure orbits and the skies, And, tho' her lips no motion made, And that fixt look was all her speech, I saw that the rapt spirit prayed Deeper within than words could reach.

Strange power of Innocence, to turn To its own hue whate'er comes near, And make even vagrant Passion burn With purer warmth within its sphere! She who but one short hour before Had come like sudden wild-fire o'er My heart and brain--whom gladly even From that bright Temple in the face Of those proud ministers of heaven, I would have borne in wild embrace, And risked all punishment, divine And human, but to make her mine;-- She, she was now before me, thrown By fate itself into my arms-- There standing, beautiful, alone, With naught to guard her but her charms. Yet did I, then--did even a breath From my parched lips, too parched to move, Disturb a scene where thus, beneath Earth's silent covering, Youth and Death Held converse thro' undying love? No--smile and taunt me as thou wilt-- Tho' but to gaze thus was delight, Yet seemed it like a wrong, a guilt, To win by stealth so pure a sight: And rather than a look profane Should then have met those thoughtful eyes, Or voice or whisper broke the chain That linked her spirit with the skies, I would have gladly in that place From which I watched her heavenward face, Let my heart break, without one beat That could disturb a prayer so sweet. Gently, as if on every tread. My life, my more than life depended, Back thro' the corridor that led To this blest scene I now ascended, And with slow seeking and some pain And many a winding tried in vain Emerged to upper earth again.

The sun had freshly risen, and down The marble hills of Araby, Scattered as from a conqueror's crown His beams into that living sea. There seemed a glory in his light, Newly put on--as if for pride. Of the high homage paid this night To his own Isis, his young bride., Now fading feminine away In her proud Lord's superior ray.

My mind's first impulse was to fly At once from this entangling net-- New scenes to range, new loves to try, Or in mirth, wine and luxury Of every sense that might forget. But vain the effort--spell-bound still, I lingered, without power or will To turn my eyes from that dark door, Which now enclosed her 'mong the dead; Oft fancying, thro' the boughs that o'er The sunny pile their flickering shed. 'Twas her light form again I saw Starting to earth--still pure and bright, But wakening, as I hoped, less awe, Thus seen by morning's natural light, Than in that strange, dim cell at night.

But no, alas--she ne'er returned: Nor yet--tho' still I watch--nor yet, Tho' the red sun for hours hath burned, And now in his mid course hath met The peak of that eternal pile He pauses still at noon to bless, Standing beneath his downward smile, Like a great Spirit shadowless!-- Nor yet she comes--while here, alone, Sauntering thro' this death-peopled place, Where no heart beats except my own, Or 'neath a palm-tree's shelter thrown, By turns I watch and rest and trace These lines that are to waft to thee My last night's wondrous history.

Dost thou remember, in that Isle Of our own Sea where thou and I Lingered so long, so happy a while, Till all the summer flowers went by-- How gay it was when sunset brought To the cool Well our favorite maids-- Some we had won, and some we sought-- To dance within the fragrant shades, And till the stars went down attune Their Fountain Hymns[3] to the young moon?

That time, too--oh, 'tis like a dream-- When from Scamander's holy tide I sprung as Genius of the Stream, And bore away that blooming bride, Who thither came, to yield her charms (As Phrygian maids are wont ere wed) Into the cold Scamander's arms, But met and welcomed mine, instead-- Wondering as on my neck she fell, How river-gods could love so well! Who would have thought that he who roved Like the first bees of summer then, Rifling each sweet nor ever loved But the free hearts that loved again, Readily as the reed replies To the least breath that round it sighs-- Is the same dreamer who last night Stood awed and breathless at the sight Of one Egyptian girl; and now Wanders among these tombs with brow Pale, watchful, sad, as tho' he just, Himself, had risen from out their dust!

Yet so it is--and the same thirst For something high and pure, above This withering world, which from the first Made me drink deep of woman's love-- As the one joy, to heaven most near Of all our hearts can meet with here-- Still burns me up, still keeps awake A fever naught but death can slake.

Farewell; whatever may befall-- Or bright, or dark--thou'lt know it all.

[1] The Ibis.

[2] Necropolis, or the City of the Dead, to the south of Memphis.

[3] These Songs of the Well, as they were called by the ancients, are still common in the Greek isles.

LETTER IV.

FROM ORCUS, HIGH PRIEST OF MEMPHIS, TO DECIUS, THE PRAETORIAN PREFECT.

Rejoice, my friend, rejoice;--the youthful Chief Of that light Sect which mocks at all belief, And gay and godless makes the present hour Its only heaven, is now within our power. Smooth, impious school!--not all the weapons aimed, At priestly creeds, since first a creed was framed, E'er struck so deep as that sly dart they wield, The Bacchant's pointed spear in laughing flowers concealed. And oh, 'twere victory to this heart, as sweet As any _thou _canst boast--even when the feet Of thy proud war-steed wade thro' Christian blood, To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood, And bring him tamed and prostrate to implore The vilest gods even Egypt's saints adore. What!--do these sages think, to _them_ alone The key of this world's happiness is known? That none but they who make such proud parade Of Pleasure's smiling favors win the maid, Or that Religion keeps no secret place, No niche in her dark fanes for Love to grace?

Fools!--did they know how keen the zest that's given To earthly joy when seasoned well with heaven; How Piety's grave mask improves the hue Of Pleasure's laughing features, half seen thro', And how the Priest set aptly within reach Of two rich worlds, traffics for bliss with each, Would they not, Decius--thou, whom the ancient tie 'Twixt Sword and Altar makes our best ally-- Would they not change their creed, their craft, for ours? Leave the gross daylight joys that in their bowers Languish with too much sun, like o'er-blown flowers, For the veiled loves, the blisses undisplayed That slyly lurk within the Temple's shade? And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's school-- Where cold Philosophy usurps a rule, Like the pale moon's, o'er passion's heaving tide, Till Pleasure's self is chilled by Wisdom's pride-- Be taught by _us_, quit shadows for the true, Substantial joys we sager Priests pursue, Who far too wise to theorize on bliss Or pleasure's substance for its shade to miss. Preach _other_ worlds but live for only _this_:- Thanks to the well-paid Mystery round us flung, Which, like its type the golden cloud that hung O'er Jupiter's love-couch its shade benign, Round human frailty wraps a veil divine.

Still less should they presume, weak wits, that they Alone despise the craft of us who pray;-- Still less their creedless vanity deceive With the fond thought that we who pray believe. Believe!--Apis forbid--forbid it, all Ye monster Gods before whose shrines we fall-- Deities framed in jest as if to try How far gross Man can vulgarize the sky; How far the same low fancy that combines Into a drove of brutes yon zodiac's signs, And turns that Heaven itself into a place Of sainted sin and deified disgrace, Can bring Olympus even to shame more deep, Stock it with things that earth itself holds cheap. Fish, flesh, and fowl, the kitchen's sacred brood, Which Egypt keeps for worship, not for food-- All, worthy idols of a Faith that sees In dogs, cats, owls, and apes, divinities!

Believe!--oh, Decius, thou, who feel'st no care For things divine beyond the soldier's share, Who takes on trust the faith for which he bleeds, A good, fierce God to swear by, all he needs-- Little canst thou, whose creed around thee hangs Loose as thy summer war-cloak guess the pangs Of loathing and self-scorn with which a heart Stubborn as mine is acts the zealot's part-- The deep and dire disgust with which I wade Thro' the foul juggling of this holy trade-- This mud profound of mystery where the feet At every step sink deeper in deceit. Oh! many a time, when, mid the Temple's blaze, O'er prostrate fools the sacred cist I raise, Did I not keep still proudly in my mind The power this priestcraft gives me o'er mankind-- A lever, of more might, in skilful hand, To move this world, than Archimede e'er planned-- I should in vengeance of the shame I feel At my own mockery crush the slaves that kneel Besotted round; and--like that kindred breed Of reverend, well-drest crocodiles they feed, At famed Arsinoë[1]--make my keepers bless, With their last throb, my sharp-fanged Holiness.

Say, _is_ it to be borne, that scoffers, vain Of their own freedom from the altar's chain, Should mock thus all that thou thy blood hast sold. And I my truth, pride, freedom, to uphold? It must not be:--think'st thou that Christian sect, Whose followers quick as broken waves, erect Their crests anew and swell into a tide, That threats to sweep away our shrines of pride-- Think'st thou with all their wondrous spells even they Would triumph thus, had not the constant play Of Wit's resistless archery cleared their way?-- That mocking spirit, worst of all the foes, Our solemn fraud, our mystic mummery knows, Whose wounding flash thus ever 'mong the signs Of a fast-falling creed, prelusive shines, Threatening such change as do the awful freaks Of summer lightning ere the tempest breaks.

But, to my point--a youth of this vain school, But one, whom Doubt itself hath failed to cool Down to that freezing point where Priests despair Of any spark from the altar catching there-- Hath, some nights since--it was, me thinks, the night That followed the full Moon's great annual rite-- Thro' the dark, winding ducts that downward stray To these earth--hidden temples, tracked his way, Just at that hour when, round the Shrine, and me, The choir of blooming nymphs thou long'st to see, Sing their last night-hymn in the Sanctuary. The clangor of the marvellous Gate that stands At the Well's lowest depth--which none but hands Of new, untaught adventurers, from above, Who know not the safe path, e'er dare to move-- Gave signal that a foot profane was nigh:-- 'Twas the Greek youth, who, by that morning's sky, Had been observed, curiously wandering round The mighty fanes of our sepulchral ground.

Instant, the Initiate's Trials were prepared,-- The Fire, Air, Water; all that Orpheus dared, That Plato, that the bright-haired Samian[2] past, With trembling hope, to come to--_what_, at last? Go, ask the dupes of Priestcraft; question him Who mid terrific sounds and spectres dim Walks at Eleusis; ask of those who brave The dazzling miracles of Mithra's Cave With its seven starry gates; ask all who keep Those terrible night-mysteries where they weep And howl sad dirges to the answering breeze. O'er their dead Gods, their mortal Deities-- Amphibious, hybrid things that died as men, Drowned, hanged, empaled, to rise as gods again;-- Ask _them_, what mighty secret lurks below This seven-fold mystery--can they tell thee? No; Gravely they keep that only secret, well And fairly kept--that they have none to tell; And duped themselves console their humbled pride By duping thenceforth all mankind beside.

And such the advance in fraud since Orpheus' time-- That earliest master of our craft sublime-- So many minor Mysteries, imps of fraud, From the great Orphic Egg have winged abroad, That, still to uphold our Temple's ancient boast, And seem most holy, we must cheat the most; Work the best miracles, wrap nonsense round In pomp and darkness till it seems profound; Play on the hopes, the terrors of mankind, With changeful skill; and make the human mind Like our own Sanctuary, where no ray But by the Priest's permission wins its way-- Where thro' the gloom as wave our wizard rods. Monsters at will are conjured into Gods; While Reason like a grave-faced mummy stands With her arms swathed in hieroglyphic bands. But chiefly in that skill with which we use Man's wildest passions for Religion's views, Yoking them to her car like fiery steeds, Lies the main art in which our craft succeeds. And oh be blest, ye men of yore, whose toil Hath, for our use, scooped out from Egypt's soil This hidden Paradise, this mine of fanes, Gardens and palaces where Pleasure reigns In a rich, sunless empire of her own, With all earth's luxuries lighting up her throne:-- A realm for mystery made, which undermines The Nile itself and, 'neath the Twelve Great Shrines That keep Initiation's holy rite, Spreads its long labyrinths of unearthly light. A light that knows no change--its brooks that run Too deep for day, its gardens without sun, Where soul and sense, by turns, are charmed, surprised. And all that bard or prophet e'er devised For man's Elysium, priests have realized.

Here, at this moment--all his trials past. And heart and nerve unshrinking to the last-- Our new Initiate roves--as yet left free To wander thro' this realm of mystery; Feeding on such illusions as prepare The soul, like mist o'er waterfalls, to wear All shapes and lines at Fancy's varying will, Thro' every shifting aspect, vapor still;-- Vague glimpses of the Future, vistas shown. By scenic skill, into that world unknown. Which saints and sinners claim alike their own; And all those other witching, wildering arts, Illusions, terrors, that make human hearts, Ay, even the wisest and the hardiest quail To _any_ goblin throned behind a veil. Yes--such the spells shall haunt his eye, his ear, Mix wild his night-dreams, form his atmosphere; Till, if our Sage be not tamed down, at length, His wit, his wisdom, shorn of all their strength, Like Phrygian priests, in honor of the shrine-- If he become not absolutely mine, Body and soul and like the tame decoy Which wary hunters of wild doves employ Draw converts also, lure his brother wits To the dark cage where his own spirit flits. And give us if not saints good hypocrites-- If I effect not this then be it said The ancient spirit of our craft hath fled, Gone with that serpent-god the Cross hath chased To hiss its soul out in the Theban waste.

[1] For the trinkets with which the sacred Crocodiles were ornamented see the "Epicurean" chap x.

[2] Pythagoras.

LALLA ROOKH

TO

SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

THIS EASTERN ROMANCE

IS INSCRIBED

BY

HIS VERY GRATEFUL AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND,

THOMAS MOORE.

LALLA ROOKH

In the eleventh year of the reign of Aurungzebe, Abdalla, King of the Lesser Bucharia, a lineal descendant from the Great Zingis, having abdicated the throne in favor of his son, set out on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Prophet; and, passing into India through the delightful valley of Cashmere, rested for a short time at Delhi on his way. He was entertained by Aurungzebe in a style of magnificent hospitality, worthy alike of the visitor and the host, and was afterwards escorted with the same splendor to Surat, where he embarked for Arabia.[1] During the stay of the Royal Pilgrim at Delhi, a marriage was agreed upon between the Prince, his son, and the youngest daughter of the Emperor, LALLA ROOKH; [2]--a Princess described by the poets of her time as more beautiful than Leila,[3] Shirine,[4] Dewildé,[5] or any of those heroines whose names and loves embellish the songs of Persia and Hindostan. It was intended that the nuptials should be celebrated at Cashmere; where the young King, as soon as the cares of the empire would permit, was to meet, for the first time, his lovely bride, and, after a few months' repose in that enchanting valley, conduct her over the snowy hills into Bucharia.

The day of LALLA ROOKH'S departure from Delhi was as splendid as sunshine and pageantry could make it. The bazaars and baths were all covered with the richest tapestry; hundreds of gilded barges upon the Jumna floated with their banners shining in the water; while through the streets groups of beautiful children went strewing the most delicious flowers around, as in that Persian festival called the Scattering of the Roses;[6] till every part of the city was as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khoten had passed through it. The Princess, having taken leave of her kind father, who at parting hung a cornelian of Yemen round her neck, on which was inscribed a verse from the Koran, and having sent a considerable present to the Fakirs, who kept up the Perpetual Lamp in her sister's tomb, meekly ascended the palankeen prepared for her; and while Aurungzebe stood to take a last look from his balcony, the procession moved slowly on the road to Lahore.

Seldom had the Eastern world seen a cavalcade so superb. From the gardens in the suburbs to the Imperial palace, it was one unbroken line of splendor. The gallant appearance of the Rajahs and Mogul lords, distinguished by those insignia of the Emperor's favor,[7] the feathers of the egret of Cashmere in their turbans, and the small silver-rimm'd kettle-drums at the bows of their saddles;--the costly armor of their cavaliers, who vied, on this occasion, with the guards of the great Keder Khan,[8] in the brightness of their silver battle-axes and the massiness of their maces of gold;--the glittering of the gilt pine-apple[9] on the tops of the palankeens;--the embroidered trappings of the elephants, bearing on their backs small turrets, in the shape of little antique temples, within which the Ladies of LALLA ROOKH lay as it were enshrined; --the rose-colored veils of the Princess's own sumptuous litter,[10] at the front of which a fair young female slave sat fanning her through the curtains, with feathers of the Argus pheasant's wing;[11]--and the lovely troop of Tartarian and Cashmerian maids of honor, whom the young King had sent to accompany his bride, and who rode on each side of the litter, upon small Arabian horses;--all was brilliant, tasteful, and magnificent, and pleased even the critical and fastidious FADLADEEN, Great Nazir or Chamberlain of the Haram, who was borne in his palankeen immediately after the Princess, and considered himself not the least important personage of the pageant.

FADLADEEN was a judge of everything,--from the pencilling of a Circassian's eyelids to the deepest questions of science and literature; from the mixture of a conserve of rose-leaves to the composition of an epic poem: and such influence had his opinion upon the various tastes of the day, that all the cooks and poets of Delhi stood in awe of him. His political conduct and opinions were founded upon that line of Sadi,-- "Should the Prince at noon-day say, It is night, declare that you behold the moon and stars."--And his zeal for religion, of which Aurungzebe was a munificent protector,[12] was about as disinterested as that of the goldsmith who fell in love with the diamond eyes of the idol of Jaghernaut.[13]

During the first days of their journey, LALLA ROOKH, who had passed all her life within the shadow of the Royal Gardens of Delhi,[14] found enough in the beauty of the scenery through which they passed to interest her mind, and delight her imagination; and when at evening or in the heat of the day they turned off from the high road to those retired and romantic places which had been selected for her encampments,--sometimes, on the banks of a small rivulet, as clear as the waters of the Lake of Pearl;[15] sometimes under the sacred shade of a Banyan tree, from which the view opened upon a glade covered with antelopes; and often in those hidden, embowered spots, described by one from the Isles of the West, [16]as "places of melancholy, delight, and safety, where all the company around was wild peacocks and turtle-doves;"--she felt a charm in these scenes, so lovely and so new to her, which, for a time, made her indifferent to every other amusement. But LALLA ROOKH was young, and the young love variety; nor could the conversation of her Ladies and the Great Chamberlain, FADLADEEN,(the only persons, of course, admitted to her pavilion.) sufficiently enliven those many vacant hours, which were devoted neither to the pillow nor the palankeen. There was a little Persian slave who sung sweetly to the Vina, and who, now and then, lulled the Princess to sleep with the ancient ditties of her country, about the loves of Wavnak and Ezra,[17] the fair-haired Zal and his mistress Rodahver,[18] not forgetting the combat of Rustam with the terrible White Demon.[19] At other times she was amused by those graceful dancing-girls of Delhi, who had been permitted by the Bramins of the Great Pagoda to attend her, much to the horror of the good Mussulman FADLADEEN, who could see nothing graceful or agreeable in idolaters, and to whom the very tinkling of their golden anklets[20] was an abomination.

But these and many other diversions were repeated till they lost all their charm, and the nights and noon-days were beginning to move heavily, when, at length, it was recollected that, among the attendants sent by the bridegroom, was a young poet of Cashmere, much celebrated throughout the Valley for his manner of reciting the Stories of the East, on whom his Royal Master had conferred the privilege of being admitted to the pavilion of the Princess, that he might help to beguile the tediousness of the journey by some of his most agreeable recitals. At the mention of a poet, FADLADEEN elevated his critical eyebrows, and, having refreshed his faculties with a dose of that delicious opium which is distilled from the black poppy of the Thebais, gave orders for the minstrel to be forthwith introduced into the presence.

The Princess, who had once in her life seen a poet from behind the screens of gauze in her father's hall, and had conceived from that specimen no very favorable ideas of the Caste, expected but little in this new exhibition to interest her;--she felt inclined, however, to alter her opinion on the very first appearance of FERAMORZ. He was a youth about LALLA ROOKH'S own age, and graceful as that idol of women, Crishna,[21]--such as he appears to their young imaginations, heroic, beautiful, breathing music from his very eyes, and exalting the religion of his worshippers into love. His dress was simple, yet not without some marks of costliness; and the Ladies of the Princess were not long in discovering that the cloth, which encircled his high Tartarian cap, was of the most delicate kind that the shawl-goats of Tibet supply.[22] Here and there, too, over his vest, which was confined by a flowered girdle of Kashan, hung strings of fine pearl, disposed with an air of studied negligence;--nor did the exquisite embroidery of his sandals escape the observation of these fair critics; who, however they might give way to FADLADEEN upon the unimportant topics of religion and government, had the spirit of martyrs in everything relating to such momentous matters as jewels and embroidery.

For the purpose of relieving the pauses of recitation by music, the young Cashmerian held in his hand a kitar;--such as, in old times, the Arab maids of the West used to listen to by moonlight in the gardens of the Alhambra--and, having premised, with much humility, that the story he was about to relate was founded on the adventures of that Veiled Prophet of Khorassan,[23] who, in the year of the Hegira 163, created such alarm throughout the Eastern Empire, made an obeisance to the Princess, and thus began:--

THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN.[24]

In that delightful Province of the Sun, The first of Persian lands he shines upon. Where all the loveliest children of his beam, Flowerets and fruits, blush over every stream,[25] And, fairest of all streams, the MURGA roves Among MEROU'S[26] bright palaces and groves;-- There on that throne, to which the blind belief Of millions raised him, sat the Prophet-Chief, The Great MOKANNA. O'er his features hung The Veil, the Silver Veil, which he had flung In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight His dazzling brow, till man could bear its light. For, far less luminous, his votaries said, Were even the gleams, miraculously shed O'er MOUSSA'S[27] cheek, when down the Mount he trod All glowing from the presence of his God!

On either side, with ready hearts and hands, His chosen guard of bold Believers stands; Young fire-eyed disputants, who deem their swords, On points of faith, more eloquent than words;

And such their zeal, there's not a youth with brand Uplifted there, but at the Chief's command, Would make his own devoted heart its sheath, And bless the lips that doomed so dear a death! In hatred to the Caliph's hue of night,[28] Their vesture, helms and all, is snowy white; Their weapons various--some equipt for speed, With javelins of the light Kathaian reed;[29] Or bows of buffalo horn and shining quivers Filled with the stems[30] that bloom on IRAN'S rivers;[31] While some, for war's more terrible attacks, Wield the huge mace and ponderous battle-axe; And as they wave aloft in morning's beam The milk-white plumage of their helms, they seem Like a chenar-tree grove[32] when winter throws O'er all its tufted heads his feathery snows.

Between the porphyry pillars that uphold The rich moresque-work of the roof of gold, Aloft the Haram's curtained galleries rise, Where thro' the silken net-work, glancing eyes, From time to time, like sudden gleams that glow Thro' autumn clouds, shine o'er the pomp below.-- What impious tongue, ye blushing saints, would dare To hint that aught but Heaven hath placed you there? Or that the loves of this light world could bind, In their gross chain, your Prophet's soaring mind? No--wrongful thought!--commissioned from above To people Eden's bowers with shapes of love, (Creatures so bright, that the same lips and eyes They wear on earth will serve in Paradise,) There to recline among Heaven's native maids, And crown the Elect with bliss that never fades-- Well hath the Prophet-Chief his bidding done; And every beauteous race beneath the sun, From those who kneel at BRAHMA'S burning fount,[33] To the fresh nymphs bounding o'er YEMEN'S mounts; From PERSIA'S eyes of full and fawnlike ray, To the small, half-shut glances of KATHAY;[34] And GEORGIA'S bloom, and AZAB'S darker smiles, And the gold ringlets of the Western Isles; All, all are there;--each Land its flower hath given, To form that fair young Nursery for Heaven!

But why this pageant now? this armed array? What triumph crowds the rich Divan to-day With turbaned heads of every hue and race, Bowing before that veiled and awful face, Like tulip-beds,[35] of different shape and dyes, Bending beneath the invisible West-wind's sighs! What new-made mystery now for Faith to sign And blood to seal, as genuine and divine, What dazzling mimicry of God's own power Hath the bold Prophet planned to grace this hour?

Not such the pageant now, tho' not less proud; Yon warrior youth advancing from the crowd With silver bow, with belt of broidered crape And fur-bound bonnet of Bucharian shape.[36] So fiercely beautiful in form and eye, Like war's wild planet in a summer sky; That youth to-day,--a proselyte, worth hordes Of cooler spirits and less practised swords,-- Is come to join, all bravery and belief, The creed and standard of the heaven-sent Chief.

Tho' few his years, the West already knows Young AZIM'S fame;--beyond the Olympian snows Ere manhood darkened o'er his downy cheek, O'erwhelmed in fight and captive to the Greek,[37] He lingered there, till peace dissolved his chains;-- Oh! who could even in bondage tread the plains Of glorious GREECE nor feel his spirit rise Kindling within him? who with heart and eyes Could walk where Liberty had been nor see The shining foot-prints of her Deity, Nor feel those god-like breathings in the air Which mutely told her spirit had been there? Not he, that youthful warrior,--no, too well For his soul's quiet worked the awakening spell; And now, returning to his own dear land, Full of those dreams of good that, vainly grand, Haunt the young heart,--proud views of human-kind, Of men to Gods exalted and refined,-- False views like that horizon's fair deceit Where earth and heaven but _seem_, alas, to meet!-- Soon as he heard an Arm Divine was raised To right the nations, and beheld, emblazed On the white flag MOKANNA'S host unfurled, Those words of sunshine, "Freedom to the World," At once his faith, his sword, his soul obeyed The inspiring summons; every chosen blade That fought beneath that banner's sacred text Seemed doubly edged for this world and the next; And ne'er did Faith with her smooth bandage bind Eyes more devoutly willing to be blind, In virtue's cause;--never was soul inspired With livelier trust in what it most desired, Than his, the enthusiast there, who kneeling, pale With pious awe before that Silver Veil, Believes the form to which he bends his knee Some pure, redeeming angel sent to free This fettered world from every bond and stain, And bring its primal glories back again!

Low as young AZIM knelt, that motley crowd Of all earth's nations sunk the knee and bowed, With shouts of "ALLA!" echoing long and loud; Which high in air, above the Prophet's head, Hundreds of banners to the sunbeam spread Waved, like the wings of the white birds that fan The flying throne of star-taught SOLIMAN.[38] Then thus he spoke:-"Stranger, tho' new the frame "Thy soul inhabits now. I've trackt its flame "For many an age,[39] in every chance and change "Of that existence, thro' whose varied range,-- "As thro' a torch-race where from hand to hand "The flying youths transmit their shining brand, "From frame to frame the unextinguisht soul "Rapidly passes till it reach the goal!

"Nor think 'tis only the gross Spirits warmed "With duskier fire and for earth's medium formed "That run this course;--Beings the most divine "Thus deign thro' dark mortality to shine. "Such was the Essence that in ADAM dwelt, "To which all Heaven except the Proud One knelt:[40] "Such the refined Intelligence that glowed "In MOUSSA'S[41] frame,--and thence descending flowed "Thro' many a Prophet's breast;--in ISSA[42] shone "And in MOHAMMED burned; till hastening on. "(As a bright river that from fall to fall "In many a maze descending bright thro' all, "Finds some fair region where, each labyrinth past, "In one full lake of light it rests at last) "That Holy Spirit settling calm and free "From lapse or shadow centres all in me!

Again throughout the assembly at these words Thousands of voices rung: the warrior's swords Were pointed up at heaven; a sudden wind In the open banners played, and from behind Those Persian hangings that but ill could screen The Harem's loveliness, white hands were seen Waving embroidered scarves whose motion gave A perfume forth--like those the Houris wave When beckoning to their bowers the immortal Brave.

"But these," pursued the Chief "are truths sublime, "That claim a holier mood and calmer time "Than earth allows us now;--this sword must first "The darkling prison-house of mankind burst. "Ere Peace can visit them or Truth let in "Her wakening daylight on a world of sin. "But then,--celestial warriors, then when all "Earth's shrines and thrones before our banner fall, "When the glad Slave shall at these feet lay down "His broken chain, the tyrant Lord his crown, "The Priest his book, the Conqueror his wreath, "And from the lips of Truth one mighty breath "Shall like a whirlwind scatter in its breeze "That whole dark pile of human mockeries:-- "Then shall the reign of mind commence on earth, "And starting fresh as from a second birth, "Man in the sunshine of the world's new spring "Shall walk transparent like some holy thing! "Then too your Prophet from his angel brow "Shall cast the Veil that hides its splendors now, "And gladdened Earth shall thro' her wide expanse "Bask in the glories of this countenance!

"For thee, young warrior, welcome!--thou hast yet "Some tasks to learn, some frailties to forget, "Ere the white war-plume o'er thy brow can wave;-- "But, once my own, mine all till in the grave!"

The pomp is at an end--the crowds are gone-- Each ear and heart still haunted by the tone Of that deep voice, which thrilled like ALLA'S own! The Young all dazzled by the plumes and lances, The glittering throne and Haram's half-caught glances, The Old deep pondering on the promised reign Of peace and truth, and all the female train Ready to risk their eyes could they but gaze A moment on that brow's miraculous blaze!

But there was one among the chosen maids Who blushed behind the gallery's silken shades, One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day Has been like death:--you saw her pale dismay, Ye wondering sisterhood, and heard the burst Of exclamation from her lips when first She saw that youth, too well, too dearly known, Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne.

Ah ZELICA! there was a time when bliss Shone o'er thy heart from every look of his, When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air In which he dwelt was thy soul's fondest prayer; When round him hung such a perpetual spell, Whate'er he did, none ever did so well. Too happy days! when, if he touched a flower Or gem of thine, 'twas sacred from that hour; When thou didst study him till every tone And gesture and dear look became thy own.-- Thy voice like his, the changes of his face In thine reflected with still lovelier grace, Like echo, sending back sweet music, fraught With twice the aerial sweetness it had brought! Yet now he comes,--brighter than even he E'er beamed before,--but, ah! not bright for thee; No--dread, unlookt for, like a visitant From the other world he comes as if to haunt Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight, Long lost to all but memory's aching sight:-- Sad dreams! as when the Spirit of our Youth Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth And innocence once ours and leads us back, In mournful mockery o'er the shining track Of our young life and points out every ray Of hope and peace we've lost upon the way!

Once happy pair!--In proud BOKHARA'S groves, Who had not heard of their first youthful loves? Born by that ancient flood,[43]which from its spring In the dark Mountains swiftly wandering, Enriched by every pilgrim brook that shines With relics from BUCHARIA'S ruby mines. And, lending to the CASPIAN half its strength, In the cold Lake of Eagles sinks at length;-- There, on the banks of that bright river born, The flowers that hung above its wave at morn Blest not the waters as they murmured by With holier scent and lustre than the sigh And virgin-glance of first affection cast Upon their youth's smooth current as it past! But war disturbed this vision,--far away From her fond eyes summoned to join the array Of PERSIA'S warriors on the hills of THRACE, The youth exchanged his sylvan dwelling-place For the rude tent and war-field's deathful clash; His ZELICA'S sweet glances for the flash Of Grecian wild-fire, and Love's gentle chains For bleeding bondage on BYZANTIUM'S plains.

Month after month in widowhood of soul Drooping the maiden saw two summers roll Their suns away--but, ah, how cold and dim Even summer suns when not beheld with him! From time to time ill-omened rumors came Like spirit-tongues muttering the sick man's name Just ere he dies:--at length those sounds of dread Fell withering on her soul, "AZIM is dead!" Oh Grief beyond all other griefs when fate First leaves the young heart lone and desolate In the wide world without that only tie For which it loved to live or feared to die;-- Lorn as the hung-up lute, that near hath spoken Since the sad day its master-chord was broken!

Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was such, Even reason sunk,--blighted beneath its touch; And tho' ere long her sanguine spirit rose Above the first dead pressure of its woes, Tho' health and bloom returned, the delicate chain Of thought once tangled never cleared again. Warm, lively, soft as in youth's happiest day, The mind was still all there, but turned astray,-- A wandering bark upon whose pathway shone All stars of heaven except the guiding one! Again she smiled, nay, much and brightly smiled, But 'twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild; And when she sung to her lute's touching strain, 'Twas like the notes, half ecstasy, half pain, The bulbul[44] utters ere her soul depart, When, vanquisht by some minstrel's powerful art, She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke her heart!

Such was the mood in which that mission found, Young ZELICA,--that mission which around The Eastern world in every region blest With woman's smile sought out its loveliest To grace that galaxy of lips and eyes Which the Veiled Prophet destined for the skies:-- And such quick welcome as a spark receives Dropt on a bed of Autumn's withered leaves, Did every tale of these enthusiasts find In the wild maiden's sorrow-blighted mind. All fire at once the maddening zeal she caught:-- Elect of Paradise! blest, rapturous thought! Predestined bride, in heaven's eternal dome, Of some brave youth--ha! durst they say "of _some_?" No--of the one, one only object traced In her heart's core too deep to be effaced; The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twined With every broken link of her lost mind; Whose image lives tho' Reason's self be wreckt Safe mid the ruins of her intellect!

Alas, poor ZELICA! it needed all The fantasy which held thy mind in thrall To see in that gay Haram's glowing maids A sainted colony for Eden's shades; Or dream that he,--of whose unholy flame Thou wert too soon the victim,--shining came From Paradise to people its pure sphere With souls like thine which he hath ruined here! No--had not reason's light totally set, And left thee dark thou hadst an amulet In the loved image graven on thy heart Which would have saved thee from the tempter's art, And kept alive in all its bloom of breath That purity whose fading is love's death!-- But lost, inflamed,--a restless zeal took place Of the mild virgin's still and feminine grace; First of the Prophets favorites, proudly first In zeal and charms, too well the Impostor nurst Her soul's delirium in whose active flame, Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant frame, He saw more potent sorceries to bind To his dark yoke the spirits of mankind, More subtle chains than hell itself e'er twined. No art was spared, no witchery;--all the skill His demons taught him was employed to fill Her mind with gloom and ecstasy by turns-- That gloom, thro' which Frenzy but fiercer burns, That ecstasy which from the depth of sadness Glares like the maniac's moon whose light is madness!

'Twas from a brilliant banquet where the sound Of poesy and music breathed around, Together picturing to her mind and ear The glories of that heaven, her destined sphere, Where all was pure, where every stain that lay Upon the spirit's light should pass away, And realizing more than youthful love E'er wisht or dreamed, she should for ever rove Thro' fields of fragrance by her AZIM'S side, His own blest, purified, eternal bride!-- T was from a scene, a witching trance like this, He hurried her away, yet breathing bliss, To the dim charnel-house;--thro' all its steams Of damp and death led only by those gleams Which foul Corruption lights, as with design To show the gay and proud _she_ too can shine-- And passing on thro' upright ranks of Dead Which to the maiden, doubly crazed by dread, Seemed, thro' the bluish death-light round them cast, To move their lips in mutterings as she past-- There in that awful place, when each had quaft And pledged in silence such a fearful draught, Such--oh! the look and taste of that red bowl Will haunt her till she dies--he bound her soul By a dark oath, in hell's own language framed, Never, while earth his mystic presence claimed, While the blue arch of day hung o'er them both, Never, by that all-imprecating oath, In joy or sorrow from his side to sever.-- She swore and the wide charnel echoed "Never, never!"

From that dread hour, entirely, wildly given To him and--she believed, lost maid!--to heaven; Her brain, her heart, her passions all inflamed, How proud she stood, when in full Haram named The Priestess of the Faith!--how flasht her eyes With light, alas, that was not of the skies, When round in trances only less than hers She saw the Haram kneel, her prostrate worshippers. Well might MOKANNA think that form alone Had spells enough to make the world his own:-- Light, lovely limbs to which the spirit's play Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray, When from its stem the small bird wings away; Lips in whose rosy labyrinth when she smiled The soul was lost, and blushes, swift and wild As are the momentary meteors sent Across the uncalm but beauteous firmament. And then her look--oh! where's the heart so wise Could unbewildered meet those matchless eyes? Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal, Like those of angels just before their fall; Now shadowed with the shames of earth--now crost By glimpses of the Heaven her heart had lost; In every glance there broke without control, The flashes of a bright but troubled soul, Where sensibility still wildly played Like lightning round the ruins it had made!

And such was now young ZELICA--so changed From her who some years since delighted ranged The almond groves that shade BOKHARA'S tide All life and bliss with AZIM by her side! So altered was she now, this festal day, When, mid the proud Divan's dazzling array, The vision of that Youth whom she had loved, Had wept as dead, before her breathed and moved;-- When--bright, she thought, as if from Eden's track But half-way trodden, he had wandered back Again to earth, glistening with Eden's light-- Her beauteous AZIM shone before her sight.

O Reason! who shall say what spells renew, When least we look for it, thy broken clew! Thro' what small vistas o'er the darkened brain Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again; And how like forts to which beleaguerers win Unhoped-for entrance thro' some friend within, One clear idea, wakened in the breast By memory's magic, lets in all the rest. Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with thee! But tho' light came, it came but partially; Enough to show the maze, in which thy sense Wandered about,--but not to guide it thence; Enough to glimmer o'er the yawning wave, But not to point the harbor which might save. Hours of delight and peace, long left behind, With that dear form came rushing o'er her mind; But, oh! to think how deep her soul had gone In shame and falsehood since those moments shone; And then her oath--_there_ madness lay again, And shuddering, back she sunk into her chain Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee From light whose every glimpse was agony! Yet _one_ relief this glance of former years Brought mingled with its pain,--tears, floods of tears, Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills Let loose in spring-time from the snowy hills, And gushing warm after a sleep of frost, Thro' valleys where their flow had long been lost.

Sad and subdued, for the first time her frame Trembled with horror when the summons came (A summons proud and rare, which all but she, And she, till now, had heard with ecstasy,) To meet MOKANNA at his place of prayer, A garden oratory cool and fair By the stream's side, where still at close of day The Prophet of the Veil retired to pray, Sometimes alone--but oftener far with one, One chosen nymph to share his orison.

Of late none found such favor in his sight As the young Priestess; and tho', since that night When the death-cavorns echoed every tone Of the dire oath that made her all his own, The Impostor sure of his infatuate prize Had more than once thrown off his soul's disguise, And uttered such unheavenly, monstrous things, As even across the desperate wanderings Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out, Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt;-- Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow, The thought, still haunting her, of that bright brow, Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye concealed, Would soon, proud triumph! be to her revealed, To her alone;--and then the hope, most dear, Most wild of all, that her transgression here Was but a passage thro' earth's grosser fire, From which the spirit would at last aspire, Even purer than before,--as perfumes rise Thro' flame and smoke, most welcome to the skies-- And that when AZIM's fond, divine embrace Should circle her in heaven, no darkening trace Would on that bosom he once loved remain. But all be bright, be pure, be _his_ again!-- These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit Had chained her soul beneath the tempter's feet, And made her think even damning falsehood sweet. But now that Shape, which had appalled her view, That Semblance--oh how terrible, if true! Which came across her frenzy's full career With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe. As when in northern seas at midnight dark An isle of ice encounters some swift bark, And startling all its wretches from their sleep By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep;-- So came that shock not frenzy's self could bear, And waking up each long-lulled image there, But checkt her headlong soul to sink it in despair!

Wan and dejected, thro' the evening dusk, She now went slowly to that small kiosk, Where, pondering alone his impious schemes, MOKANNA waited her--too wrapt in dreams Of the fair-ripening future's rich success, To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless, That sat upon his victim's downcast brow, Or mark how slow her step, how altered now From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound Came like a spirit's o'er the unechoing ground,-- From that wild ZELICA whose every glance Was thrilling fire, whose every thought a trance!

Upon his couch the Veiled MOKANNA lay, While lamps around--not such as lend their ray, Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray In holy KOOM,[45] or MECCA'S dim arcades,-- But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids. Look loveliest in, shed their luxurious glow Upon his mystic Veil's white glittering flow. Beside him, 'stead of beads and books of prayer, Which the world fondly thought he mused on there, Stood Vases, filled with KISIIMEE'S[46] golden wine, And the red weepings of the SHIRAZ vine; Of which his curtained lips full many a draught Took zealously, as if each drop they quaft Like ZEMZEM'S Spring of Holiness[47] had power To freshen the soul's virtues into flower! And still he drank and pondered--nor could see The approaching maid, so deep his revery; At length with fiendish laugh like that which broke From EBLIS at the Fall of Man he spoke:-- "Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusement given, "Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with heaven; "God's images, forsooth!--such gods as he "Whom INDIA serves, the monkey deity;[48] "Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay, "To whom if LUCIFER, as gran-dams say, "Refused tho' at the forfeit of heaven's light "To bend in worship, LUCIFER was right! "Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck "Of your foul race and without fear or check, "Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame, "My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man's name!-- "Soon at the head of myriads, blind and fierce "As hooded falcons, thro' the universe "I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way, "Weak man my instrument, curst man my prey!

"Ye wise, ye learned, who grope your dull way on "By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone, "Like superstitious thieves who think the light "From dead men's marrow guides them best at night[49]-- "Ye shall have honors--wealth--yes, Sages, yes-- "I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothingness; "Undazzled it can track yon starry sphere, "But a gilt stick, a bauble blinds it here. "How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along "In lying speech and still more lying song, "By these learned slaves, the meanest of the throng; "Their wits brought up, their wisdom shrunk so small, "A sceptre's puny point can wield it all!

"Ye too, believers of incredible creeds, "Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it breeds; "Who, bolder even than NEMROD, think to rise "By nonsense heapt on nonsense to the skies; "Ye shall have miracles, ay, sound ones too, "Seen, heard, attested, everything--but true. "Your preaching zealots too inspired to seek "One grace of meaning for the things they speak: "Your martyrs ready to shed out their blood, "For truths too heavenly to be understood; "And your State Priests, sole venders of the lore, "That works salvation;--as, on AVA'S shore, "Where none _but_ priests are privileged to trade "In that best marble of which Gods are made[50]; "They shall have mysteries--ay precious stuff "For knaves to thrive by--mysteries enough; "Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave, "Which simple votaries shall on trust receive, "While craftier feign belief till they believe. "A Heaven too ye must have, ye lords of dust,-- "A splendid Paradise,--pure souls, ye must: "That Prophet ill sustains his holy call, "Who finds not heavens to suit the tastes of all; "Houris for boys, omniscience for sages, "And wings and glories for all ranks and ages. "Vain things!--as lust or vanity inspires, "The heaven of each is but what each desires, "And, soul or sense, whate'er the object be, "Man would be man to all eternity! "So let him--EBLIS! grant this crowning curse, "But keep him what he is, no Hell were worse."

"Oh my lost soul!" exclaimed the shuddering maid, Whose ears had drunk like poison all he said: MOKANNA started--not abasht, afraid,-- He knew no more of fear than one who dwells Beneath the tropics knows of icicles! But in those dismal words that reached his ear, "Oh my lost soul!" there was a sound so drear, So like that voice among the sinful dead In which the legend o'er Hell's Gate is read, That, new as 'twas from her whom naught could dim Or sink till now, it startled even him.

"Ha, my fair Priestess!"--thus, with ready wile, The impostor turned to greet her--"thou whose smile "Hath inspiration in its rosy beam "Beyond the Enthusiast's hope or Prophet's dream, "Light of the Faith! who twin'st religion's zeal "So close with love's, men know not which they feel, "Nor which to sigh for, in their trance of heart, "The heaven thou preachest or the heaven thou art! "What should I be without thee? without thee "How dull were power, how joyless victory! "Tho' borne by angels, if that smile of thine "Blest not my banner 'twere but half divine. "But--why so mournful, child? those eyes that shone "All life last night--what!--is their glory gone? "Come, come--this morn's fatigue hath made them pale, "They want rekindling--suns themselves would fail "Did not their comets bring, as I to thee, "From light's own fount supplies of brilliancy. "Thou seest this cup--no juice of earth is here, "But the pure waters of that upper sphere, "Whose rills o'er ruby beds and topaz flow, "Catching the gem's bright color as they go. "Nightly my Genii come and fill these urns-- "Nay, drink--in every drop life's essence burns; "'Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all light-- "Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to-night: "There is a youth--why start?--thou saw'st him then; "Lookt he not nobly? such the godlike men, "Thou'lt have to woo thee in the bowers above;-- "Tho' _he_, I fear, hath thoughts too stern for love, "Too ruled by that cold enemy of bliss "The world calls virtue--we must conquer this; "Nay, shrink not, pretty sage! 'tis not for thee "To scan the mazes of Heaven's mystery: "The steel must pass thro' fire, ere it can yield "Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield. "This very night I mean to try the art "Of powerful beauty on that warrior's heart. "All that my Haram boasts of bloom and wit, "Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite, "Shall tempt the boy;--young MIRZALA'S blue eyes "Whose sleepy lid like snow on violets lies; "AROUYA'S cheeks warm as a spring-day sun "And lips that like the seal of SOLOMON "Have magic in their pressure; ZEBA'S lute, "And LILLA'S dancing feet that gleam and shoot "Rapid and white as sea-birds o'er the deep-- "All shall combine their witching powers to steep "My convert's spirit in that softening trance, "From which to heaven is but the next advance;-- "That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast. "On which Religion stamps her image best. "But hear me, Priestess!--tho' each nymph of these "Hath some peculiar, practised power to please, "Some glance or step which at the mirror tried "First charms herself, then all the world beside: "There still wants _one_ to make the victory sure, "One who in every look joins every lure, "Thro' whom all beauty's beams concentred pass, "Dazzling and warm as thro' love's burning glass; "Whose gentle lips persuade without a word, "Whose words, even when unmeaning, are adored. "Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine, "Which our faith takes for granted are divine! "Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and light, "To crown the rich temptations of to-night; "Such the refined enchantress that must be "This hero's vanquisher,--and thou art she!"

With her hands claspt, her lips apart and pale, The maid had stood gazing upon the Veil From which these words like south winds thro' a fence Of Kerzrah flowers, came filled with pestilence;[51] So boldly uttered too! as if all dread Of frowns from her, of virtuous frowns, were fled, And the wretch felt assured that once plunged in, Her woman's soul would know no pause in sin!

At first, tho' mute she listened, like a dream Seemed all he said: nor could her mind whose beam As yet was weak penetrate half his scheme. But when at length he uttered, "Thou art she!" All flasht at once and shrieking piteously, "Oh not for worlds! "she cried--"Great God! to whom "I once knelt innocent, is this my doom? "Are all my dreams, my hopes of heavenly bliss, "My purity, my pride, then come to this,-- "To live, the wanton of a fiend! to be "The pander of his guilt--oh infamy! "And sunk myself as low as hell can steep "In its hot flood, drag others down as deep!

"Others--ha! yes--that youth who came to-day-- "_Not_ him I loved--not him--oh! do but say, "But swear to me this moment 'tis not he, "And I will serve, dark fiend, will worship even thee!"

"Beware, young raving thing!--in time beware, "Nor utter what I can not, must not bear, "Even from _thy_ lips. Go--try thy lute, thy voice, "The boy must feel their magic;--I rejoice "To see those fires, no matter whence they rise, "Once more illuming my fait Priestess' eyes; "And should the youth whom soon those eyes shall warm, "Indeed resemble thy dead lover's form, "So much the happier wilt thou find thy doom, "As one warm lover full of life and bloom "Excels ten thousand cold ones in the tomb. "Nay, nay, no frowning, sweet!--those eyes were made "For love, not anger--I must be obeyed."

"Obeyed!--'tis well--yes, I deserve it all-- "On me, on me Heaven's vengeance can not fall "Too heavily--but AZIM, brave and true "And beautiful--must _he_ be ruined too? "Must _he_ too, glorious as he is, be driven "A renegade like me from Love and Heaven? "Like me?--weak wretch, I wrong him--not like me; "No--he's all truth and strength and purity! "Fill up your maddening hell-cup to the brim, "Its witchery, fiends, will have no charm for him. "Let loose your glowing wantons from their bowers, "He loves, he loves, and can defy their powers! "Wretch as I am, in his heart still I reign "Pure as when first we met, without a stain! "Tho' ruined--lost--my memory like a charm "Left by the dead still keeps his soul from harm. "Oh! never let him know how deep the brow "He kist at parting is dishonored now;-- "Ne'er tell him how debased, how sunk is she. "Whom once he loved--once!--_still_ loves dotingly. "Thou laugh'st, tormentor,--what!--thou it brand my name? "Do, do--in vain--he'll not believe my shame-- "He thinks me true, that naught beneath God's sky "Could tempt or change me, and--so once thought I. "But this is past--tho' worse than death my lot, "Than hell--'tis nothing while _he_ knows it not. "Far off to some benighted land I'll fly, "Where sunbeam ne'er shall enter till I die; "Where none will ask the lost one whence she came, "But I may fade and fall without a name. "And thou--curst man or fiend, whate'er thou art, "Who found'st this burning plague-spot in my heart, "And spread'st it--oh, so quick!--thro' soul and frame, "With more than demon's art, till I became "A loathsome thing, all pestilence, all flame!-- "If, when I'm gone"--"Hold, fearless maniac, hold, "Nor tempt my rage--by Heaven, not half so bold "The puny bird that dares with teasing hum "Within the crocodile's stretched jaws to come![52] "And so thou'lt fly, forsooth?--what!--give up all "Thy chaste dominion in the Haram Hall, "Where now to Love and now to ALLA given, "Half mistress and half saint, thou hang'st as even "As doth MEDINA'S tomb, 'twixt hell and heaven! "Thou'lt fly?--as easily may reptiles run, "The gaunt snake once hath fixt his eyes upon; "As easily, when caught, the prey may be "Pluckt from his loving folds, as thou from me. "No, no, 'tis fixt--let good or ill betide, "Thou'rt mine till death, till death MOKANNA'S bride! "Hast thou forgot thy oath?"-- At this dread word, The Maid whose spirit his rude taunts had stirred Thro' all its depths and roused an anger there, That burst and lightened even thro' her despair-- Shrunk back as if a blight were in the breath That spoke that word and staggered pale as death.

"Yes, my sworn bride, let others seek in bowers "Their bridal place--the charnel vault was ours! "Instead of scents and balms, for thee and me "Rose the rich steams of sweet mortality, "Gay, flickering death-lights shone while we were wed. "And for our guests a row of goodly Dead, "(Immortal spirits in their time, no doubt,) "From reeking shrouds upon the rite looked out! "That oath thou heard'st more lips than thine repeat-- "That cup--thou shudderest, Lady,--was it sweet? "That cup we pledged, the charnel's choicest wine, "Hath bound thee--ay--body and soul all mine; "Bound thee by chains that, whether blest or curst "No matter now, not hell itself shall burst! "Hence, woman, to the Haram, and look gay, "Look wild, look--anything but sad; yet stay-- "One moment more--from what this night hath past, "I see thou know'st me, know'st me _well_ at last. "Ha! ha! and so, fond thing, thou thought'st all true, "And that I love mankind?--I do, I do-- "As victims, love them; as the sea-dog dotes "Upon the small, sweet fry that round him floats; "Or, as the Nile-bird loves the slime that gives "That rank and venomous food on which she lives!--

"And, now thou seest my _soul's_ angelic hue, "'Tis time these _features_ were uncurtained too;-- "This brow, whose light--oh rare celestial light! "Hath been reserved to bless thy favored sight; "These dazzling eyes before whose shrouded might "Thou'st seen immortal Man kneel down and quake-- "Would that they _were_ heaven's lightnings for his sake! "But turn and look--then wonder, if thou wilt, "That I should hate, should take revenge, by guilt, "Upon the hand whose mischief or whose mirth "Sent me thus mained and monstrous upon earth; "And on that race who, tho' more vile they be "Than moving apes, are demigods to me! "Here--judge if hell, with all its power to damn, "Can add one curse to the foul thing I am!"-- He raised his veil--the Maid turned slowly round, Looked at him--shrieked--and sunk upon the ground!

On their arrival next night at the place of encampment they were surprised and delighted to find the groves all around illuminated; some artists of Yamtcheou[53] having been sent on previously for the purpose. On each side of the green alley, which led to the Royal Pavilion, artificial sceneries of bamboo-work were erected, representing arches, minarets, towers, from which hung thousands of silken lanterns painted by the most delicate pencils of Canton.--Nothing could be more beautiful than the leaves of the mango-trees and acacias shining in the light of the bamboo-scenery which shed a lustre round as soft as that of the nights of Peristan.

LALLA ROOKH, however, who was too much occupied by the sad story of ZELICA and her lover to give a thought to anything else, except perhaps him who related it, hurried on through this scene of splendor to her pavilion,--greatly to the mortification of the poor artists of Yamtcheou,--and was followed with equal rapidity by the Great Chamberlain, cursing, as he went, that ancient Mandarin, whose parental anxiety in lighting up the shores of the lake, where his beloved daughter had wandered and been lost, was the origin of these fantastic Chinese illuminations.[54]

Without a moment's delay, young FERAMORZ was introduced, and FADLADEEN, who could never make up his mind as to the merits of a poet till he knew the religious sect to which he belonged, was about to ask him whether he was a Shia or a Sooni when LALLA KOOKH impatiently clapped her hands for silence, and the youth being seated upon the musnud near her proceeded:--

Prepare thy soul, young AZIM!--thou hast braved The bands of GREECE, still mighty tho' enslaved; Hast faced her phalanx armed with all its fame,-- Her Macedonian pikes and globes of fame, All this hast fronted with firm heart and brow, But a more perilous trial waits thee now,-- Woman's bright eyes, a dazzling host of eyes From every land where woman smiles or sighs; Of every hue, as Love may chance to raise His black or azure banner in their blaze; And each sweet mode of warfare, from the flash That lightens boldly thro' the shadowy lash, To the sly, stealing splendors almost hid Like swords half-sheathed beneath the downcast lid;-- Such, AZIM, is the lovely, luminous host Now led against thee; and let conquerors boast Their fields of fame, he who in virtue arms A young, warm spirit against beauty's charms, Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall, Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all.

Now, thro' the Haram chambers, moving lights And busy shapes proclaim the toilet's rites;-- From room to room the ready handmaids hie, Some skilled to wreath the turban tastefully, Or hang the veil in negligence of shade O'er the warm blushes of the youthful maid, Who, if between the folds but one eye shone, Like SEBA'S Queen could vanquish with that one:[55]--

While some bring leaves of Henna to imbue The fingers' ends with a bright roseate hue,[56] So bright that in the mirror's depth they seem Like tips of coral branches in the stream: And others mix the Kohol's jetty dye, To give that long, dark languish to the eye,[57] Which makes the maids whom kings are proud to call From fair Circassia's vales, so beautiful. All is in motion; rings and plumes and pearls Are shining everywhere:--some younger girls Are gone by moonlight to the garden-beds, To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads;-- Gay creatures! sweet, tho' mournful, 'tis to see How each prefers a garland from that tree Which brings to mind her childhood's innocent day And the dear fields and friendships far away. The maid of INDIA, blest again to hold In her full lap the Champac's leaves of gold,[58] Thinks of the time when, by the GANGES' flood, Her little playmates scattered many a bud Upon her long black hair with glossy gleam Just dripping from the consecrated stream; While the young Arab haunted by the smell Of her own mountain flowers as by a spell,-- The sweet Alcaya[59] and that courteous tree Which bows to all who seek its canopy,[60] Sees called up round her by these magic scents The well, the camels, and her father's tents; Sighs for the home she left with little pain, And wishes even its sorrow back again!

Meanwhile thro' vast illuminated halls, Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls Of fragrant waters gushing with cool sound From many a jasper fount is heard around, Young AZIM roams bewildered,--nor can guess What means this maze of light and loneliness. Here the way leads o'er tesselated floors Or mats of CAIRO thro' long corridors, Where ranged in cassolets and silver urns Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns, And spicy rods such as illume at night The bowers of TIBET[61] send forth odorous light, Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the road For some pure Spirit to its blest abode:-- And here at once the glittering saloon Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon; Where in the midst reflecting back the rays In broken rainbows a fresh fountain plays High as the enamelled cupola which towers All rich with Arabesques of gold and flowers: And the mosaic floor beneath shines thro' The sprinkling of that fountain's silvery dew, Like the wet, glistening shells of every dye That on the margin of the Red Sea lie.

Here too he traces the kind visitings Of woman's love in those fair, living things Of land and wave, whose fate--in bondage thrown For their weak loveliness--is like her own! On one side gleaming with a sudden grace Thro' water brilliant as the crystal vase In which it undulates, small fishes shine Like golden ingots from a fairy mine;-- While, on the other, latticed lightly in With odoriferous woods of COMORIN, Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen;-- Gay, sparkling loories such as gleam between The crimson blossoms of the coral-tree[62] In the warm isles of India's sunny sea: Mecca's blue sacred pigeon,[63] and the thrush Of Hindostan[64] whose holy warblings gush At evening from the tall pagoda's top;-- Those golden birds that in the spice time drop About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food[65] Whose scent hath lured them o'er the summer flood;[66] And those that under Araby's soft sun Build their high nests of budding cinnamon;[67] In short, all rare and beauteous things that fly Thro' the pure element here calmly lie Sleeping in light, like the green birds[68] that dwell In Eden's radiant fields of asphodel!

So on, thro' scenes past all imagining, More like the luxuries of that impious King,[69] Whom Death's dark Angel with his lightning torch Struck down and blasted even in Pleasure's porch, Than the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent Armed with Heaven's sword for man's enfranchisement-- Young AZIM wandered, looking sternly round, His simple garb and war-boots clanking sound But ill according with the pomp and grace And silent lull of that voluptuous place.

"Is this, then," thought the youth, "is this the way "To free man's spirit from the deadening sway "Of worldly sloth,--to teach him while he lives "To know no bliss but that which virtue gives, "And when he dies to leave his lofty name "A light, a landmark on the cliffs of fame? "It was not so, Land of the generous thought "And daring deed, thy god-like sages taught; "It was not thus in bowers of wanton ease "Thy Freedom nurst her sacred energies; "Oh! not beneath the enfeebling, withering glow "Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow "With which she wreathed her sword when she would dare "Immortal deeds; but in the bracing air "Of toil,--of temperance,--of that high, rare, "Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe "Life, health, and lustre into Freedom's wreath. "Who that surveys this span of earth we press.-- "This speck of life in time's great wilderness, "This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas, "The past, the future, two eternities!-- "Would sully the bright spot, or leave it bare, "When he might build him a proud temple there, "A name that long shall hallow all its space, "And be each purer soul's high resting-place. "But no--it cannot be, that one whom God "Has sent to break the wizard Falsehood's rod,-- "A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws "Its rights from Heaven, should thus profane its cause "With the world's vulgar pomps;--no, no,--I see-- "He thinks me weak--this glare of luxury "Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze "Of my young soul--shine on, 'twill stand the blaze!"

So thought the youth;--but even while he defied This witching scene he felt its witchery glide Thro' every sense. The perfume breathing round, Like a pervading spirit;--the still sound Of falling waters, lulling as the song Of Indian bees at sunset when they throng Around the fragrant NILICA, and deep In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep;[70] And music, too--dear music! that can touch Beyond all else the soul that loves it much-- Now heard far off, so far as but to seem Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream; All was too much for him, too full of bliss, The heart could nothing feel, that felt not this; Softened he sunk upon a couch and gave His soul up to sweet thoughts like wave on wave Succeeding in smooth seas when storms are laid; He thought of ZELICA, his own dear maid, And of the time when full of blissful sighs They sat and lookt into each other's eyes, Silent and happy--as if God had given Naught else worth looking at on this side heaven.

"Oh, my loved mistress, thou whose spirit still "Is with me, round me, wander where I will-- "It is for thee, for thee alone I seek "The paths of glory; to light up thy cheek "With warm approval--in that gentle look "To read my praise as in an angel's book, "And think all toils rewarded when from thee "I gain a smile worth immortality! "How shall I bear the moment, when restored "To that young heart where I alone am Lord. "Tho' of such bliss unworthy,--since the best "Alone deserve to be the happiest:-- "When from those lips unbreathed upon for years "I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears, "And find those tears warm as when last they started, "Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted. "O my own life!--why should a single day, "A moment keep me from those arms away?"

While thus he thinks, still nearer on the breeze Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies, Each note of which but adds new, downy links To the soft chain in which his spirit sinks. He turns him toward the sound, and far away Thro' a long vista sparkling with the play Of countless lamps,--like the rich track which Day Leaves on the waters, when he sinks from us, So long the path, its light so tremulous;-- He sees a group of female forms advance, Some chained together in the mazy dance By fetters forged in the green sunny bowers, As they were captives to the King of Flowers;[71] And some disporting round, unlinkt and free, Who seemed to mock their sisters' slavery; And round and round them still in wheeling flight Went like gay moths about a lamp at night; While others waked, as gracefully along Their feet kept time, the very soul of song From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly thrill, Or their own youthful voices heavenlier still. And now they come, now pass before his eye, Forms such as Nature moulds when she would vie With Fancy's pencil and give birth to things Lovely beyond its fairest picturings. Awhile they dance before him, then divide, Breaking like rosy clouds at eventide Around the rich pavilion of the sun,-- Till silently dispersing, one by one, Thro' many a path that from the chamber leads To gardens, terraces and moonlight meads, Their distant laughter comes upon the wind, And but one trembling nymph remains behind,-- Beckoning them back in vain--for they are gone And she is left in all that light alone; No veil to curtain o'er her beauteous brow, In its young bashfulness more beauteous now; But a light golden chain-work round her hair,[72] Such as the maids of YEZD and SHIRAS wear,[73] From which on either side gracefully hung A golden amulet in the Arab tongue, Engraven o'er with some immortal line From Holy Writ or bard scarce less divine; While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood, Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood, Which once or twice she touched with hurried strain, Then took her trembling fingers off again. But when at length a timid glance she stole At AZIM, the sweet gravity of soul She saw thro' all his features calmed her fear, And like a half-tamed antelope more near, Tho' shrinking still, she came;--then sat her down Upon a musnud's[74] edge, and, bolder grown. In the pathetic mode of ISFAHAN[75] Touched a preluding strain and thus began:--

There's a bower of roses by BENDEMEER's[76] stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.

That bower and its music, I never forget, But oft when alone in the bloom of the year I think--is the nightingale singing there yet? Are the roses still bright by the calm BENDEMEER?

No, the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gathered while freshly they shone. And a dew was distilled from their flowers that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm BENDEMEER!

"Poor maiden!" thought the youth, "if thou wert sent "With thy soft lute and beauty's blandishment "To wake unholy wishes in this heart, "Or tempt its truth, thou little know'st the art. "For tho' thy lips should sweetly counsel wrong, "Those vestal eyes would disavow its song. "But thou hast breathed such purity, thy lay "Returns so fondly to youth's virtuous day, "And leads thy soul--if e'er it wandered thence-- "So gently back to its first innocence, "That I would sooner stop the unchained dove, "When swift returning to its home of love, "And round its snowy wing new fetters twine. "Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine!"

Scarce had this feeling past, when sparkling thro' The gently open'd curtains of light blue That veiled the breezy casement, countless eyes Peeping like stars thro' the blue evening skies, Looked laughing in as if to mock the pair That sat so still and melancholy there:-- And now the curtains fly apart and in From the cool air mid showers of jessamine Which those without fling after them in play, Two lightsome maidens spring,--lightsome as they Who live in the air on odors,--and around The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground, Chase one another in a varying dance Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance, Too eloquently like love's warm pursuit:-- While she who sung so gently to the lute Her dream of home steals timidly away, Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray,-- But takes with her from AZIM'S heart that sigh We sometimes give to forms that pass us by In the world's crowd, too lovely to remain, Creatures of light we never see again!

Around the white necks of the nymphs who danced Hung carcanets of orient gems that glanced More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering o'er The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore;[77] While from their long, dark tresses, in a fall Of curls descending, bells as musical As those that on the golden-shafted trees Of EDEN shake in the eternal breeze,[78] Rung round their steps, at every bound more sweet. As 'twere the ecstatic language of their feet. At length the chase was o'er, and they stood wreathed Within each other's arms; while soft there breathed Thro' the cool casement, mingled with the sighs Of moonlight flowers, music that seemed to rise From some still lake, so liquidly it rose; And as it swelled again at each faint close The ear could track thro' all that maze of chords And young sweet voices these impassioned words:--

A SPIRIT there is whose fragrant sigh Is burning now thro' earth and air; Where cheeks are blushing the Spirit is nigh, Where lips are meeting the Spirit is there!

His breath is the soul of flowers like these, And his floating eyes--oh! they resemble[79] Blue water-lilies,[80] when the breeze Is making the stream around them tremble.

Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power! Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss! Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.

By the fair and brave Who blushing unite, Like the sun and wave, When they meet at night;

By the tear that shows When passion is nigh, As the rain-drop flows From the heat of the sky;

By the first love-beat Of the youthful heart, By the bliss to meet, And the pain to part;

By all that thou hast To mortals given, Which--oh, could it last, This earth were heaven!

We call thee thither, entrancing Power! Spirit of Love! Spirit of Bliss! Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.

Impatient of a scene whose luxuries stole, Spite of himself, too deep into his soul, And where, midst all that the young heart loves most, Flowers, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost, The youth had started up and turned away From the light nymphs and their luxurious lay To muse upon the pictures that hung round,--[81] Bright images, that spoke without a sound, And views like vistas into fairy ground. But here again new spells came o'er his sense:-- All that the pencil's mute omnipotence Could call up into life, of soft and fair, Of fond and passionate, was glowing there; Nor yet too warm, but touched with that fine art Which paints of pleasure but the purer part; Which knows even Beauty when half-veiled is best,-- Like her own radiant planet of the west, Whose orb when half retired looks loveliest.[82] _There_ hung the history of the Genii-King, Traced thro' each gay, voluptuous wandering With her from SABA'S bowers, in whose bright eyes He read that to be blest is to be wise;-- _Here_ fond ZULEIKA woos with open arms[83] The Hebrew boy who flies from her young charms, Yet flying turns to gaze and half undone Wishes that Heaven and she could _both_ be won; And here MOHAMMED born for love and guile Forgets the Koran in his MARY'S smile;-- Then beckons some kind angel from above With a new text to consecrate their love.[84]

With rapid step, yet pleased and lingering eye, Did the youth pass these pictured stories by, And hastened to a casement where the light Of the calm moon came in and freshly bright The fields without were seen sleeping as still As if no life remained in breeze or rill. Here paused he while the music now less near Breathed with a holier language on his ear, As tho' the distance and that heavenly ray Thro' which the sounds came floating took away All that had been too earthly in the lay.

Oh! could he listen to such sounds unmoved, And by that light--nor dream of her he loved? Dream on, unconscious boy! while yet thou may'st; 'Tis the last bliss thy soul shall ever taste. Clasp yet awhile her image to thy heart, Ere all the light that made it dear depart. Think of her smiles as when thou saw'st them last, Clear, beautiful, by naught of earth o'ercast; Recall her tears to thee at parting given, Pure as they weep, _if_ angels weep in Heaven. Think in her own still bower she waits thee now With the same glow of heart and bloom of brow, Yet shrined in solitude--thine all, thine only, Like the one star above thee, bright and lonely. Oh! that a dream so sweet, so long enjoyed, Should be so sadly, cruelly destroyed!

The song is husht, the laughing nymphs are flown, And he is left musing of bliss alone;-- Alone?--no, not alone--that heavy sigh, That sob of grief which broke from some one nigh-- Whose could it be?--alas! is misery found Here, even here, on this enchanted ground? He turns and sees a female form close veiled, Leaning, as if both heart and strength had failed, Against a pillar near;--not glittering o'er With gems and wreaths such as the others wore, But in that deep-blue, melancholy dress.[85] BOKHARA'S maidens wear in mindfulness Of friends or kindred, dead or far away;-- And such as ZELICA had on that day He left her--when with heart too full to speak He took away her last warm tears upon his cheek.

A strange emotion stirs within him,--more Than mere compassion ever waked before; Unconsciously he opes his arms while she Springs forward as with life's last energy, But, swooning in that one convulsive bound, Sinks ere she reach his arms upon the ground;-- Her veil falls off--her faint hands clasp his knees-- 'Tis she herself!--it is ZELICA he sees! But, ah, so pale, so changed--none but a lover Could in that wreck of beauty's shrine discover The once adorned divinity--even he Stood for some moments mute, and doubtingly Put back the ringlets from her brow, and gazed Upon those lids where once such lustre blazed, Ere he could think she was _indeed_ his own, Own darling maid whom he so long had known In joy and sorrow, beautiful in both; Who, even when grief was heaviest--when loath He left her for the wars--in that worst hour Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower,[86] When darkness brings its weeping glories out, And spreads its sighs like frankincense about.

"Look up, my ZELICA--one moment show "Those gentle eyes to me that I may know "Thy life, thy loveliness is not all gone, "But _there_ at least shines as it ever shone. "Come, look upon thy AZIM--one dear glance, "Like those of old, were heaven! whatever chance "Hath brought thee here, oh, 'twas a blessed one! "There--my loved lips--they move--that kiss hath run "Like the first shoot of life thro' every vein, "And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again. "Oh the delight--now, in this very hour, "When had the whole rich world been in my power, "I should have singled out thee only thee, "From the whole world's collected treasury-- "To have thee here--to hang thus fondly o'er "My own, best, purest ZELICA once more!"

It was indeed the touch of those fond lips Upon her eyes that chased their short eclipse. And gradual as the snow at Heaven's breath Melts off and shows the azure flowers beneath, Her lids unclosed and the bright eyes were seen Gazing on his--not, as they late had been, Quick, restless, wild, but mournfully serene; As if to lie even for that tranced minute So near his heart had consolation in it; And thus to wake in his beloved caress Took from her soul one half its wretchedness. But, when she heard him call her good and pure, Oh! 'twas too much--too dreadful to endure! Shuddering she broke away from his embrace. And hiding with both hands her guilty face Said in a tone whose anguish would have riven A heart of very marble, "Pure!--oh Heaven!"--

That tone--those looks so changed--the withering blight, That sin and sorrow leave where'er they light: The dead despondency of those sunk eyes, Where once, had he thus met her by surprise, He would have seen himself, too happy boy, Reflected in a thousand lights of joy: And then the place,--that bright, unholy place, Where vice lay hid beneath each winning grace And charm of luxury as the viper weaves Its wily covering of sweet balsam leaves,[87]-- All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold As death itself;--it needs not to be told-- No, no--he sees it all plain as the brand Of burning shame can mark--whate'er the hand, That could from Heaven and him such brightness sever, 'Tis done--to Heaven and him she's lost for ever! It was a dreadful moment; not the tears, The lingering, lasting misery of years Could match that minute's anguish--all the worst Of sorrow's elements in that dark burst Broke o'er his soul and with one crash of fate Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate.

"Oh! curse me not," she cried, as wild he tost His desperate hand towards Heav'n--"tho' I am lost, "Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me fall, "No, no--'twas grief, 'twas madness did it all! "Nay, doubt me not--tho' all thy love hath ceased-- "I know it hath--yet, yet believe, at least, "That every spark of reason's light must be "Quenched in this brain ere I could stray from thee. "They told me thou wert dead--why, AZIM, why "Did we not, both of us, that instant die "When we were parted? oh! couldst thou but know "With what a deep devotedness of woe "I wept thy absence--o'er and o'er again "Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain, "And memory like a drop that night and day "Falls cold and ceaseless wore my heart away. "Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home, "My eyes still turned the way thou wert to come, "And, all the long, long night of hope and fear, "Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear-- "Oh God! thou wouldst not wonder that at last, "When every hope was all at once o'ercast, "When I heard frightful voices round me say "_Azim is dead_!--this wretched brain gave way, "And I became a wreck, at random driven, "Without one glimpse of reason or of Heaven-- "All wild--and even this quenchless love within "Turned to foul fires to light me into sin!-- "Thou pitiest me--I knew thou wouldst--that sky "Hath naught beneath it half so lorn as I. "The fiend, who lured me hither--hist! come near. "Or thou too, _thou_ art lost, if he should hear-- "Told me such things--oh! with such devilish art. "As would have ruined even a holier heart-- "Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere, "Where blest at length, if I but served him here, "I should for ever live in thy dear sight. "And drink from those pure eyes eternal light. "Think, think how lost, how maddened I must be, "To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee! "Thou weep'st for me--do weep--oh, that I durst "Kiss off that tear! but, no--these lips are curst, "They must not touch thee;--one divine caress, "One blessed moment of forgetfulness "I've had within those arms and _that_ shall lie "Shrined in my soul's deep memory till I die; "The last of joy's last relics here below, "The one sweet drop, in all this waste of woe, "My heart has treasured from affection's spring, "To soothe and cool its deadly withering! "But thou--yes, thou must go--for ever go; "This place is not for thee--for thee! oh no, "Did I but tell thee half, thy tortured brain "Would burn like mine, and mine go wild again! "Enough that Guilt reigns here--that hearts once good "Now tainted, chilled and broken are his food.-- "Enough that we are parted--that there rolls "A flood of headlong fate between our souls, "Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee "As hell from heaven to all eternity!"

"ZELICA, ZELICA!" the youth exclaimed. In all the tortures of a mind inflamed Almost to madness--"by that sacred Heaven, "Where yet, if prayers can move, thou'lt be forgiven, "As thou art here--here, in this writhing heart, "All sinful, wild, and ruined as thou art! "By the remembrance of our once pure love, "Which like a church-yard light still burns above "The grave of our lost souls--which guilt in thee "Cannot extinguish nor despair in me! "I do conjure, implore thee to fly hence-- "If thou hast yet one spark of innocence, "Fly with me from this place"-- "With thee! oh bliss! "'Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this. "What! take the lost one with thee?--let her rove "By thy dear side, as in those days of love, "When we were both so happy, both so pure-- "Too heavenly dream! if there's on earth a cure "For the sunk heart, 'tis this--day after day "To be the blest companion of thy way; "To hear thy angel eloquence--to see "Those virtuous eyes for ever turned on me; "And in their light re-chastened silently, "Like the stained web that whitens in the sun, "Grow pure by being purely shone upon! "And thou wilt pray for me--I know thou wilt-- "At the dim vesper hour when thoughts of guilt "Come heaviest o'er the heart thou'lt lift thine eyes "Full of sweet tears unto the darkening skies "And plead for me with Heaven till I can dare "To fix my own weak, sinful glances there; "Till the good angels when they see me cling "For ever near thee, pale and sorrowing, "Shall for thy sake pronounce my soul forgiven, "And bid thee take thy weeping slave to Heaven! "Oh yes, I'll fly with thee"-- Scarce had she said These breathless words when a voice deep and dread As that of MONKER waking up the dead From their first sleep--so startling 'twas to both-- Rang thro' the casement near, "Thy oath! thy oath!" Oh Heaven, the ghastliness of that Maid's look!-- "'Tis he," faintly she cried, while terror shook Her inmost core, nor durst she lift her eyes, Tho' thro' the casement, now naught but the skies And moonlight fields were seen, calm as before-- "'Tis he, and I am his--all, all is o'er-- "Go--fly this instant, or thou'rt ruin'd too-- "My oath, my oath, oh God! 'tis all too true, "True as the worm in this cold heart it is-- "I am MOKANNA'S bride--his, AZIM, his-- "The Dead stood round us while I spoke that vow, "Their blue lips echoed it--I hear them now! "Their eyes glared on me, while I pledged that bowl, "'Twas burning blood--I feel it in my soul! "And the Veiled Bridegroom--hist! I've seen to-night "What angels know not of--so foul a sight. "So horrible--oh! never may'st thou see "What _there_ lies hid from all but hell and me! "But I must hence--off, off--I am not thine, "Nor Heaven's, nor Love's, nor aught that is divine-- "Hold me not--ha! think'st thou the fiends that sever "Hearts cannot sunder hands?--thus, then--for ever!"

With all that strength which madness lends the weak She flung away his arm; and with a shriek Whose sound tho' be should linger out more years Than wretch e'er told can never leave his ears-- Flew up thro' that long avenue of light, Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night, Across the sun; and soon was out of sight!

LALLA ROOKH could think of nothing all day but the misery of those two young lovers. Her gayety was gone, and she looked pensively even upon FADLAPEEN. She felt, too, without knowing why, a sort of uneasy pleasure in imagining that AZIM must have been just such a youth as FERAMORZ; just as worthy to enjoy all the blessings, without any of the pangs, of that illusive passion, which too often like the sunny apples of Istkahar[88] is all sweetness on one side and all bitterness on the other.

As they passed along a sequestered river after sunset they saw a young Hindoo girl upon the bank, whose employment seemed to them so strange that they stopped their palankeens to observe her. She had lighted a small lamp filled with oil of cocoa, and placing it in an earthen dish adorned with a wreath of flowers, had committed it with a trembling hand to the stream; and was now anxiously watching its progress down the current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which had drawn up beside her. LALLA ROOKH was all curiosity;--when one of her attendants, who had lived upon the banks of the Ganges, (where this ceremony is so frequent that often in the dusk of the evening the river is seen glittering all over with lights, like the Oton-tala or Sea of Stars,)[89] informed the princess that it was the usual way in which the friends of those who had gone on dangerous voyages offered up vows for their safe return. If the lamp sunk immediately the omen was disastrous; but if it went shining down the stream and continued to burn till entirely out of sight, the return of the beloved object was considered as certain.

LALLA ROOKH as they moved on more than once looked back to observe how the young Hindoo's lamp proceeded; and while she saw with pleasure that it was still unextinguished she could not help fearing that all the hopes of this life were no better than that feeble light upon the river. The remainder of the journey was passed in silence. She now for the first time felt that shade of melancholy which comes over the youthful maiden's heart as sweet and transient as her own breath upon a mirror; nor was it till she heard the lute of FERAMOKZ, touched lightly at the door of her pavilion that she waked from the revery in which she had been wandering. Instantly her eyes were lighted up with pleasure; and after a few unheard remarks from FADLADEEN upon the indecorum of a poet seating himself in presence of a Princess everything was arranged as on the preceding evening and all listened with eagerness while the story was thus continued:--

Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the way, Where all was waste and silent yesterday? This City of War which, in a few short hours, Hath sprung up here, as if the magic powers[90] Of Him who, in the twinkling of a star, Built the high pillared halls of CHILMINAR,[91] Had conjur'd up, far as the eye can see, This world of tents and domes and sunbright armory:-- Princely pavilions screened by many a fold Of crimson cloth and topt with balls of gold:-- Steeds with their housings of rich silver spun, Their chains and poitrels glittering in the sun; And camels tufted o'er with Yemen's shells[92] Shaking in every breeze their light-toned bells!

But yester-eve, so motionless around, So mute was this wide plain that not a sound But the far torrent or the locust bird[93] Hunting among thickets could be heard;-- Yet hark! what discords now of every kind, Shouts, laughs, and screams are revelling in the wind; The neigh of cavalry;--the tinkling throngs Of laden camels and their drivers' songs;-- Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze Of streamers from ten thousand canopies;--[94] War-music bursting out from time to time With gong and tymbalon's tremendous chime;-- Or in the pause when harsher sounds are mute, The mellow breathings of some horn or flute, That far off, broken by the eagle note Of the Abyssinian trumpet, swell and float.[95]

Who leads this mighty army?--ask ye "who?" And mark ye not those banners of dark hue, The Night and Shadow, over yonder tent?--[96] It is the CALIPH'S glorious armament. Roused in his Palace by the dread alarms, That hourly came, of the false Prophet's arms, And of his host of infidels who hurled Defiance fierce at Islam and the world,[97] Tho' worn with Grecian warfare, and behind The veils of his bright Palace calm reclined, Yet brooked he not such blasphemy should stain, Thus unrevenged, the evening of his reign; But having sworn upon the Holy Grave[98] To conquer or to perish, once more gave His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze, And with an army nurst in victories, Here stands to crush the rebels that o'errun His blest and beauteous Province of the Sun.

Ne'er did the march of MAHADI display Such pomp before;--not even when on his way To MECCA'S Temple, when both land and sea Were spoiled to feed the Pilgrim's luxury;[99] When round him mid the burning sands he saw Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw, And cooled his thirsty lip beneath the glow Of MECCA'S sun with urns of Persian snow:-- Nor e'er did armament more grand than that Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat. First, in the van, the People of the Rock[100] On their light mountain steeds of royal stock:[101] Then chieftains of DAMASCUS proud to see The flashing of their swords' rich marquetry;--[102] Men from the regions near the VOLGA'S mouth Mixt with the rude, black archers of the South; And Indian lancers in white-turbaned ranks From the far SINDE or ATTOCK'S sacred banks, With dusky legions from the Land of Myrrh,[103] And many a mace-armed Moor and Midsea islander.

Nor less in number tho' more new and rude In warfare's school was the vast multitude That, fired by zeal or by oppression wronged, Round the white standard of the impostor thronged. Beside his thousands of Believers--blind, Burning and headlong as the Samiel wind-- Many who felt and more who feared to feel The bloody Islamite's converting steel, Flockt to his banner;--Chiefs of the UZBEK race, Waving their heron crests with martial grace;[104] TURKOMANS, countless as their flocks, led forth From the aromatic pastures of the North; Wild warriors of the turquoise hills,--and those[105] Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows Of HINDOO KOSH, in stormy freedom bred, Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent's bed. But none of all who owned the Chief's command Rushed to that battle-field with bolder hand Or sterner hate than IRAN'S outlawed men, Her Worshippers of Fire--all panting then[106] For vengeance on the accursed Saracen; Vengeance at last for their dear country spurned, Her throne usurpt, and her bright shrines o'erturned.

From YEZD'S eternal Mansion of the Fire[107] Where aged saints in dreams of Heaven expire: From BADKU and those fountains of blue flame That burn into the CASPIAN, fierce they came,[108] Careless for what or whom the blow was sped, So vengeance triumpht and their tyrants bled.

Such was the wild and miscellaneous host That high in air their motley banners tost Around the Prophet-Chief--all eyes still bent Upon that glittering Veil, where'er it went, That beacon thro' the battle's stormy flood, That rainbow of the field whose showers were blood!

Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set And risen again and found them grappling yet; While streams of carnage in his noontide blaze, Smoke up to Heaven--hot as that crimson haze By which the prostrate Caravan is awed[109] In the red Desert when the wind's abroad. "Oh, Swords of God!" the panting CALIPH calls,-- "Thrones for the living--Heaven for him who falls!"-- "On, brave avengers, on," MOKANNA cries, "And EBLIS blast the recreant slave that flies!" Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day-- They clash--they strive--the CALIPH'S troops give way! MOKANNA'S self plucks the black Banner down, And now the Orient World's Imperial crown Is just within his grasp--when, hark, that shout! Some hand hath checkt the flying Moslem's rout; And now they turn, they rally--at their head A warrior, (like those angel youths who led, In glorious panoply of Heaven's own mail, The Champions of the Faith thro BEDER'S vale,)[110] Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives, Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and drives At once the multitudinous torrent back-- While hope and courage kindle in his track; And at each step his bloody falchion makes Terrible vistas thro' which victory breaks! In vain MOKANNA, midst the general flight, Stands like the red moon on some stormy night Among the fugitive clouds that hurrying by Leave only her unshaken in the sky-- In vain he yells his desperate curses out, Deals death promiscuously to all about, To foes that charge and coward friends that fly, And seems of _all_ the Great Archenemy. The panic spreads--"A miracle!" throughout The Moslem ranks, "a miracle!" they shout, All gazing on that youth whose coming seems A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams; And every sword, true as o'er billows dim The needle tracks the lode-star, following him!

Right towards MOKANNA now he cleaves his path, Impatient cleaves as tho' the bolt of wrath He bears from Heaven withheld its awful burst From weaker heads and souls but half way curst, To break o'er Him, the mightiest and the worst! But vain his speed--tho', in that hour of blood, Had all God's seraphs round MOKANNA stood With swords o'fire ready like fate to fall, MOKANNA'S soul would have defied them all; Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong For human force, hurries even _him_ along; In vain he struggles mid the wedged array Of flying thousands--he is borne away; And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows, In this forced flight, is--murdering as he goes! As a grim tiger whom the torrent's might Surprises in some parched ravine at night, Turns even in drowning on the wretched flocks Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks, And, to the last, devouring on his way, Bloodies the stream lie hath not power to stay.

"Alla illa Alla!"--the glad shout renew-- "Alla Akbar"--the Caliph's in MEROU.[111] Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets, And light your shrines and chant your ziraleets.[112] The swords of God have triumpht--on his throne Your Caliph sits and the veiled Chief hath flown. Who does not envy that young warrior now To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow, In all the graceful gratitude of power, For his throne's safety in that perilous hour? Who doth not wonder, when, amidst the acclaim Of thousands heralding to heaven his name-- Mid all those holier harmonies of fame Which sound along the path of virtuous souls, Like music round a planet as it rolls,-- He turns away--coldly, as if some gloom Hung o'er his heart no triumphs can illume;-- Some sightless grief upon whose blasted gaze Tho' glory's light may play, in vain it plays. Yes, wretched AZIM! thine is such a grief, Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief! A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break. Or warm or brighten,--Like that Syrian Lake[113] Upon whose surface morn and summer shed Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead!-- Hearts there have been o'er which this weight of woe Came by long use of suffering, tame and slow; But thine, lost youth! was sudden--over thee It broke at once, when all seemed ecstasy; When Hope lookt up and saw the gloomy Past Melt into splendor and Bliss dawn at last-- 'Twas then, even then, o'er joys so freshly blown This mortal blight of misery came down; Even then, the full, warm gushings of thy heart Were checkt--like fount-drops, frozen as they start-- And there like them cold, sunless relics hang, Each fixt and chilled into a lasting pang.

One sole desire, one passion now remains To keep life's fever still within his veins, Vengeance!--dire vengeance on the wretch who cast O'er him and all he loved that ruinous blast. For this, when rumors reached him in his flight Far, far away, after that fatal night,-- Rumors of armies thronging to the attack Of the Veiled Chief,--for this he winged him back, Fleet as the Vulture speeds to flags unfurled, And when all hope seemed desperate, wildly hurled Himself into the scale and saved a world. For this he still lives on, careless of all The wreaths that Glory on his path lets fall; For this alone exists--like lightning-fire, To speed one bolt of vengeance and expire!

But safe as yet that Spirit of Evil lives; With a small band of desperate fugitives, The last sole stubborn fragment left unriven Of the proud host that late stood fronting Heaven, He gained MEROU--breathed a short curse of blood O'er his lost throne--then past the JIHON'S flood,[114] And gathering all whose madness of belief Still saw a Saviour in their down-fallen Chief, Raised the white banner within NEKSHEB'S gates,[115] And there, untamed, the approaching conqueror waits.

Of all his Haram, all that busy hive, With music and with sweets sparkling alive, He took but one, the partner of his flight, One--not for love--not for her beauty's light-- No, ZELICA stood withering midst the gay. Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday From the Alma tree and dies, while overhead To-day's young flower is springing in its stead.[116] Oh, not for love--the deepest Damned must be Touched with Heaven's glory ere such fiends as he Can feel one glimpse of Love's divinity. But no, she is his victim; _there_ lie all Her charms for him-charms that can never pall, As long as hell within his heart can stir, Or one faint trace of Heaven is left in her. To work an angel's ruin,--to behold As white a page as Virtue e'er unrolled Blacken beneath his touch into a scroll Of damning sins, sealed with a burning soul-- This is his triumph; this the joy accurst, That ranks him among demons all but first: This gives the victim that before him lies Blighted and lost, a glory in his eyes, A light like that with which hellfire illumes The ghastly, writhing wretch whom it consumes!

But other tasks now wait him--tasks that need All the deep daringness of thought and deed With which the Divs have gifted him--for mark,[117] Over yon plains which night had else made dark, Those lanterns countless as the winged lights That spangle INDIA'S field on showery nights,--[118] Far as their formidable gleams they shed, The mighty tents of the beleaguerer spread, Glimmering along the horizon's dusky line And thence in nearer circles till they shine Among the founts and groves o'er which the town In all its armed magnificence looks down. Yet, fearless, from his lofty battlements MOKANNA views that multitude of tents; Nay, smiles to think that, tho' entoiled, beset, Not less than myriads dare to front him yet;-- That friendless, throneless, he thus stands at bay, Even thus a match for myriads such as they. "Oh, for a sweep of that dark Angel's wing, "Who brushed the thousands of the Assyrian King[119] "To darkness in a moment that I might "People Hell's chambers with yon host to-night! "But come what may, let who will grasp the throne, "Caliph or Prophet, Man alike shall groan; "Let who will torture him, Priest--Caliph--King-- "Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring "With victims' shrieks and howlings of the slave,-- "Sounds that shall glad me even within my grave!" Thus, to himself--but to the scanty train Still left around him, a far different strain:-- "Glorious Defenders of the sacred Crown "I bear from Heaven whose light nor blood shall drown "Nor shadow of earth eclipse;--before whose gems "The paly pomp of this world's diadems, "The crown of GERASHID. the pillared throne "Of PARVIZ[120] and the heron crest that shone[121] "Magnificent o'er ALI'S beauteous eyes.[122] "Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies: "Warriors, rejoice--the port to which we've past "O'er Destiny's dark wave beams out at last! "Victory's our own--'tis written in that Book "Upon whose leaves none but the angels look, "That ISLAM'S sceptre shall beneath the power "Of her great foe fall broken in that hour "When the moon's mighty orb before all eyes "From NEKSHEB'S Holy Well portentously shall rise! "Now turn and see!"--They turned, and, as he spoke, A sudden splendor all around them broke, And they beheld an orb, ample and bright, Rise from the Holy Well and cast its light[123] Round the rich city and the plain for miles,-- Flinging such radiance o'er the gilded tiles Of many a dome and fair-roofed imaret As autumn suns shed round them when they set. Instant from all who saw the illusive sign A murmur broke--"Miraculous! divine!" The Gheber bowed, thinking his idol star Had waked, and burst impatient thro' the bar Of midnight to inflame him to the war; While he of MOUSSA'S creed saw in that ray The glorious Light which in his freedom's day Had rested on the Ark, and now again[124] Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain.

"To victory!" is at once the cry of all-- Nor stands MOKANNA loitering at that call; But instant the huge gates are flung aside, And forth like a diminutive mountain-tide Into the boundless sea they speed their course Right on into the MOSLEM'S mighty force. The watchmen of the camp,--who in their rounds Had paused and even forgot the punctual sounds Of the small drum with which they count the night,[125] To gaze upon that supernatural light,-- Now sink beneath an unexpected arm, And in a death-groan give their last alarm. "On for the lamps that light yon lofty screen[126] "Nor blunt your blades with massacre so mean; "_There_ rests the CALIPH--speed--one lucky lance "May now achieve mankind's deliverance." Desperate the die--such as they only cast Who venture for a world and stake their last. But Fate's no longer with him--blade for blade Springs up to meet them thro' the glimmering shade, And as the clash is heard new legions soon Pour to the spot, like bees of KAUZEROON[127] To the shrill timbrel's summons,--till at length The mighty camp swarms out in all its strength. And back to NEKSHEB'S gates covering the plain With random slaughter drives the adventurous train; Among the last of whom the Silver Veil Is seen glittering at times, like the white sail Of some tost vessel on a stormy night Catching the tempest's momentary light!

And hath not this brought the proud spirit low! Nor dashed his brow nor checkt his daring? No. Tho' half the wretches whom at night he led To thrones and victory lie disgraced and dead, Yet morning hears him with unshrinking crest. Still vaunt of thrones and victory to the rest;-- And they believe him!--oh, the lover may Distrust that look which steals his soul away;-- The babe may cease to think that it can play With Heaven's rainbow;--alchymists may doubt The shining gold their crucible gives out; But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast To some dear falsehood hugs it to the last.

And well the Impostor knew all lures and arts, That LUCIFER e'er taught to tangle hearts; Nor, mid these last bold workings of his plot Against men's souls, is ZELICA forgot. Ill-fated ZELICA! had reason been Awake, thro' half the horrors thou hast seen, Thou never couldst have borne it--Death had come At once and taken thy wrung spirit home. But 'twas not so--a torpor, a suspense Of thought, almost of life, came o'er the intense And passionate struggles of that fearful night, When her last hope of peace and heaven took flight: And tho' at times a gleam of frenzy broke,-- As thro' some dull volcano's veil of smoke Ominous flashings now and then will start, Which show the fire's still busy at its heart; Yet was she mostly wrapt in solemn gloom,-- Not such as AZIM'S, brooding o'er its doom And calm without as is the brow of death While busy worms are gnawing underneath-- But in a blank and pulseless torpor free From thought or pain, a sealed-up apathy Which left her oft with scarce one living thrill The cold, pale victim of her torturer's will.

Again, as in MEROU, he had her deckt Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect; And led her glittering forth before the eyes Of his rude train as to a sacrifice,-- Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride Of the fierce NILE, when, deckt in all the pride Of nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide.[128] And while the wretched maid hung down her head, And stood as one just risen from the dead Amid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tell His credulous slaves it was some charm or spell Possest her now,--and from that darkened trance Should dawn ere long their Faith's deliverance. Or if at times goaded by guilty shame, Her soul was roused and words of wildness came, Instant the bold blasphemer would translate Her ravings into oracles of fate, Would hail Heaven's signals in her flashing eyes And call her shrieks the language of the skies!

But vain at length his arts--despair is seen Gathering around; and famine comes to glean All that the sword had left unreaped;--in vain At morn and eve across the northern plain He looks impatient for the promised spears Of the wild Hordes and TARTAR mountaineers; They come not--while his fierce beleaguerers pour Engines of havoc in, unknown before,[129] And horrible as new;--javelins, that fly[130] Enwreathed with smoky flames thro' the dark sky, And red-hot globes that opening as they mount Discharge as from a kindled Naphtha fount[131] Showers of consuming fire o'er all below; Looking as thro' the illumined night they go Like those wild birds that by the Magians oft[132] At festivals of fire were sent aloft Into the air with blazing fagots tied To their huge wings, scattering combustion wide. All night the groans of wretches who expire In agony beneath these darts of fire Ring thro' the city--while descending o'er Its shrines and domes and streets of sycamore,-- Its lone bazars, with their bright cloths of gold, Since the last peaceful pageant left unrolled,-- Its beauteous marble baths whose idle jets. Now gush with blood,--and its tall minarets That late have stood up in the evening glare Of the red sun, unhallowed by a prayer;-- O'er each in turn the dreadful flame-bolts fall, And death and conflagration throughout all The desolate city hold high festival!

MOKANNA sees the world is his no more;-- One sting at parting and his grasp is o'er, "What! drooping now?"--thus, with unblushing cheek, He hails the few who yet can hear him speak, Of all those famished slaves around him lying, And by the light of blazing temples dying; "What!--drooping now!--now, when at length we press "Home o'er the very threshold of success; "When ALLA from our ranks hath thinned away "Those grosser branches that kept out his ray "Of favor from us and we stand at length "Heirs of his light and children of his strength, "The chosen few who shall survive the fall "Of Kings and Thrones, triumphant over all! "Have you then lost, weak murmurers as you are, "All faith in him who was your Light, your Star? "Have you forgot the eye of glory hid "Beneath this Veil, the flashing of whose lid "Could like a sun-stroke of the desert wither "Millions of such as yonder Chief brings hither? "Long have its lightnings slept--too long--but now "All earth shall feel the unveiling of this brow! "To-night--yes, sainted men! this very night, "I bid you all to a fair festal rite, "Where--having deep refreshed each weary limb "With viands such as feast Heaven's cherubim "And kindled up your souls now sunk and dim "With that pure wine the Dark-eyed Maids above "Keep, sealed with precious musk, for those they love,--[133] "I will myself uncurtain in your sight "The wonders of this brow's ineffable light; "Then lead you forth and with a wink disperse "Yon myriads howling thro' the universe!"

Eager they listen--while each accent darts New life into their chilled and hope-sick hearts; Such treacherous life as the cool draught supplies To him upon the stake who drinks and dies! Wildly they point their lances to the light Of the fast sinking sun, and shout "To-night!"-- "To-night," their Chief re-echoes in a voice Of fiend-like mockery that bids hell rejoice. Deluded victims!--never hath this earth Seen mourning half so mournful as their mirth. _Here_, to the few whose iron frames had stood This racking waste of famine and of blood, Faint, dying wretches clung, from whom the shout Of triumph like a maniac's laugh broke out:-- _There_, others, lighted by the smouldering fire, Danced like wan ghosts about a funeral pyre Among the dead and dying strewed around;-- While some pale wretch lookt on and from his wound Plucking the fiery dart by which he bled, In ghastly transport waved it o'er his head!

'Twas more than midnight now--a fearful pause Had followed the long shouts, the wild applause, That lately from those Royal Gardens burst, Where the veiled demon held his feast accurst, When ZELICA, alas, poor ruined heart, In every horror doomed to bear its part!-- Was bidden to the banquet by a slave, Who, while his quivering lip the summons gave, Grew black, as tho' the shadows of the grave Compast him round and ere he could repeat His message thro', fell lifeless at her feet! Shuddering she went--a soul-felt pang of fear A presage that her own dark doom was near, Roused every feeling and brought Reason back Once more to writhe her last upon the rack. All round seemed tranquil even the foe had ceased As if aware of that demoniac feast His fiery bolts; and tho' the heavens looked red, 'Twas but some distant conflagration's spread. But hark--she stops--she listens--dreadful tone! 'Tis her Tormentor's laugh--and now, a groan, A long death-groan comes with it--can this be The place of mirth, the bower of revelry?

She enters--Holy ALLA, what a sight Was there before her! By the glimmering light Of the pale dawn, mixt with the flare of brands That round lay burning dropt from lifeless hands, She saw the board in splendid mockery spread, Rich censers breathing--garlands overhead-- The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaft All gold and gems, but--what had been the draught? Oh! who need ask that saw those livid guests, With their swollen heads sunk blackening on their breasts, Or looking pale to Heaven with glassy glare, As if they sought but saw no mercy there; As if they felt, tho' poison racked them thro', Remorse the deadlier torment of the two! While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain Would have met death with transport by his side, Here mute and helpless gasped;--but as they died Lookt horrible vengeance with their eyes' last strain, And clenched the slackening hand at him in vain.

Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare, The stony look of horror and despair, Which some of these expiring victims cast Upon their souls' tormentor to the last; Upon that mocking Fiend whose Veil now raised, Showed them as in death's agony they gazed, Not the long promised light, the brow whose beaming Was to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming, But features horribler than Hell e'er traced On its own brood;--no Demon of the Waste,[134] No church-yard Ghoul caught lingering in the light Of the blest sun, e'er blasted human sight With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those The Impostor now in grinning mockery shows:-- "There, ye wise Saints, behold your Light, your Star-- "Ye _would_ be dupes and victims and ye _are_. "Is it enough? or must I, while a thrill "Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still? "Swear that the burning death ye feel within "Is but the trance with which Heaven's joys begin: "That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgraced "Even monstrous men, is--after God's own taste; "And that--but see!--ere I have half-way said "My greetings thro', the uncourteous souls are fled. "Farewell, sweet spirits! not in vain ye die, "If EBLIS loves you half so well as I.-- "Ha, my young bride!--'tis well--take thou thy seat; "Nay come--no shuddering--didst thou never meet "The Dead before?--they graced our wedding, sweet; "And these, my guests to-night, have brimmed so true "Their parting cups, that _thou_ shalt pledge one too. "But--how is this?--all empty? all drunk up? "Hot lips have been before thee in the cup, "Young bride,--yet stay--one precious drop remains, "Enough to warm a gentle Priestess' veins;-- "Here, drink--and should thy lover's conquering arms "Speed hither ere thy lip lose all its charms, "Give him but half this venom in thy kiss, "And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss!

"For, _me_--I too must die--but not like these "Vile rankling things to fester in the breeze; "To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown, "With all death's grimness added to its own, "And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes "Of slaves, exclaiming, 'There his Godship lies!' "No--cursed race--since first my soul drew breath, "They've been my dupes and _shall_ be even in death. "Thou seest yon cistern in the shade--'tis filled "With burning drugs for this last hour distilled; "There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame-- "Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet's frame!-- "There perish, all--ere pulse of thine shall fail-- "Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale. "So shall my votaries, wheresoe'er they rave, "Proclaim that Heaven took back the Saint it gave;-- "That I've but vanished from this earth awhile, "To come again with bright, unshrouded smile! "So shall they build me altars in their zeal, "Where knaves shall minister and fools shall kneel; "Where Faith may mutter o'er her mystic spell, "Written in blood--and Bigotry may swell "The sail he spreads for Heaven with blasts from hell! "So shall my banner thro' long ages be "The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy;-- "Kings yet unborn shall rue MOKANNA'S name, "And tho' I die my spirit still the same "Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife, "And guilt and blood that were its bliss in life. "But hark! their battering engine shakes the wall-- "Why, _let_ it shake--thus I can brave them all. "No trace of me shall greet them when they come, "And I can trust thy faith, for--thou'lt be dumb. "Now mark how readily a wretch like me "In one bold plunge commences Deity!"

He sprung and sunk as the last words were said-- Quick closed the burning waters o'er his head, And ZELICA was left--within the ring Of those wide walls the only living thing; The only wretched one still curst with breath In all that frightful wilderness of death! More like some bloodless ghost--such as they tell, In the Lone Cities of the Silent dwell,[135] And there unseen of all but ALLA sit Each by its own pale carcass watching it. But morn is up and a fresh warfare stirs Throughout the camp of the beleaguerers. Their globes of fire (the dread artillery lent By GREECE to conquering MAHADI) are spent; And now the scorpion's shaft, the quarry sent From high balistas and the shielded throng Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along, All speak the impatient Islamite's intent To try, at length, if tower and battlement And bastioned wall be not less hard to win, Less tough to break down than the hearts within. First he, in impatience and in toil is The burning AZIM--oh! could he but see The impostor once alive within his grasp, Not the gaunt lion's hug nor boa's clasp Could match thy gripe of vengeance or keep pace With the fell heartiness of Hate's embrace!

Loud rings the ponderous ram against the walls; Now shake the ramparts, now a buttress falls, But, still no breach--"Once more one mighty swing "Of all your beams, together thundering!" There--the wall shakes--the shouting troops exult, "Quick, quick discharge your weightiest catapult "Right on that spot and NEKSHEB is our own!" 'Tis done--the battlements come crashing down, And the huge wall by that stroke riven in two Yawning like some old crater rent anew, Shows the dim, desolate city smoking thro'. But strange! no sign of life--naught living seen Above, below--what can this stillness mean? A minute's pause suspends all hearts and eyes-- "In thro' the breach," impetuous AZIM cries; But the cool CALIPH fearful of some wile In this blank stillness checks the troops awhile.-- Just then a figure with slow step advanced Forth from the ruined walls and as there glanced A sunbeam over it all eyes could see The well-known Silver Veil!--"'Tis He, 'tis He, "MOKANNA and alone!" they shout around; Young AZIM from his steed springs to the ground-- "Mine, Holy Caliph! mine," he cries, "the task "To crush yon daring wretch--'tis all I ask." Eager he darts to meet the demon foe Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow And falteringly comes, till they are near; Then with a bound rushes on AZIM'S spear, And casting off the Veil in falling shows-- Oh!--'tis his ZELICA'S life-blood that flows!

"I meant not, AZIM," soothingly she said, As on his trembling arm she leaned her head, And looking in his face saw anguish there Beyond all wounds the quivering flesh can bear-- "I meant not _thou_ shouldst have the pain of this:-- "Tho' death with thee thus tasted is a bliss "Thou wouldst not rob me of, didst thou but know "How oft I've prayed to God I might die so! "But the Fiend's venom was too scant and slow;-- "To linger on were maddening--and I thought "If once that Veil--nay, look not on it--caught "The eyes of your fierce soldiery, I should be "Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly. "But this is sweeter--oh! believe me, yes-- "I would not change this sad, but dear caress. "This death within thy arms I would not give "For the most smiling life the happiest live! "All that stood dark and drear before the eye "Of my strayed soul is passing swiftly by; "A light comes o'er me from those looks of love, "Like the first dawn of mercy from above; "And if thy lips but tell me I'm forgiven, "Angels will echo the blest words in Heaven! "But live, my AZIM;--oh! to call thee mine "Thus once again! _my_ AZIM--dream divine! "Live, if thou ever lovedst me, if to meet "Thy ZELICA hereafter would be sweet, "Oh, live to pray for her--to bend the knee "Morning and night before that Deity "To whom pure lips and hearts without a stain, "As thine are, AZIM, never breathed in vain,-- "And pray that He may pardon her,--may take "Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake, "And naught remembering but her love to thee, "Make her all thine, all His, eternally! "Go to those happy fields where first we twined "Our youthful hearts together--every wind "That meets thee there fresh from the well-known flowers "Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours "Back to thy soul and thou mayst feel again "For thy poor ZELICA as thou didst then. "So shall thy orisons like dew that flies "To Heaven upon the morning's sunshine rise "With all love's earliest ardor to the skies! "And should they--but, alas, my senses fail-- "Oh for one minute!--should thy prayers prevail-- "If pardoned souls may from that World of Bliss "Reveal their joy to those they love in this-- "I'll come to thee--in some sweet dream--and tell-- "Oh Heaven--I die--dear love! farewell, farewell."

Time fleeted--years on years had past away, And few of those who on that mournful day Had stood with pity in their eyes to see The maiden's death and the youth's agony, Were living still--when, by a rustic grave, Beside the swift Amoo's transparent wave, An aged man who had grown aged there By that lone grave, morning and night in prayer, For the last time knelt down--and tho' the shade Of death hung darkening over him there played A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek, That brightened even Death--like the last streak Of intense glory on the horizon's brim, When night o'er all the rest hangs chill and dim. His soul had seen a Vision while he slept; She for whose spirit he had prayed and wept So many years had come to him all drest In angel smiles and told him she was blest! For this the old man breathed his thanks and died.-- And there upon the banks of that loved tide, He and his ZELICA sleep side by side.

The story of the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan being ended, they were now doomed to hear FADLADEEN'S criticisms upon it. A series of disappointments and accidents had occurred to this learned Chamberlain during the journey. In the first place, those couriers stationed, as in the reign of Shah Jehan, between Delhi and the Western coast of India, to secure a constant supply of mangoes for the Royal Table, had by some cruel irregularity failed in their duty; and to eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was of course impossible.[136] In the next place, the elephant laden with his fine antique porcelain,[137] had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, shattered the whole set to pieces:--an irreparable loss, as many of the vessels were so exquisitely old, as to have been used under the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran too, supposed to be the identical copy between the leaves of which Mahomet's favorite pigeon used to nestle, had been mislaid by his Koran-bearer three whole days; not without much spiritual alarm to FADLADEEN who though professing to hold with other loyal and orthodox Mussulmans that salvation could only be found in the Koran was strongly suspected of believing in his heart that it could only be found in his own

## particular copy of it. When to all these grievances is added the obstinacy

of the cooks in putting the pepper of Canara into his dishes instead of the cinnamon of Serendib, we may easily suppose that he came to the task of criticism with at least a sufficient degree of irritability for the purpose.

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

With respect to the style, it was worthy of the matter;--it had not even those politic contrivances of structure which make up for the commonness of the thoughts by the peculiarity of the manner nor that stately poetical phraseology by which sentiments mean in themselves, like the blacksmith's [138] apron converted into a banner, are so easily gilt and embroidered into consequence. Then as to the versification it was, to say no worse of it, execrable: it had neither the copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness of Hafez, nor the sententious march of Sadi; but appeared to him in the uneasy heaviness of its movements to have been modelled upon the gait of a very tired dromedary. The licenses too in which it indulged were unpardonable;--for instance this line, and the poem abounded with such;--

Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.

"What critic that can count," said FADLADEEN, "and has his full complement of fingers to count withal, would tolerate for an instant such syllabic superfluities?"--He here looked round, and discovered that most of his audience were asleep; while the glimmering lamps seemed inclined to follow their example. It became necessary therefore, however painful to himself, to put an end to his valuable animadversions for the present and he accordingly concluded with an air of dignified candor, thus:--

"Notwithstanding the observations which I have thought it my duty to make, it is by no means my wish to discourage the young man:--so far from it indeed that if he will but totally alter his style of writing and thinking I have very little doubt that I shall be vastly pleased with him."

Some days elapsed after this harangue of the Great Chamberlain before LALLA ROOKH could venture to ask for another story. The youth was still a welcome guest in the pavilion--to _one_ heart perhaps too dangerously welcome;--but all mention of poetry was as if by common consent avoided. Though none of the party had much respect for FADLADEEN, yet his censures thus magisterially delivered evidently made an impression on them all. The Poet himself to whom criticism was quite a new operation, (being wholly unknown in that Paradise of the Indies, Cashmere,) felt the shock as it is generally felt at first, till use has made it more tolerable to the patient;--the Ladies began to suspect that they ought not to be pleased and seemed to conclude that there must have been much good sense in what FADLADEEN said from its having set them all so soundly to sleep;--while the self-complacent Chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea of having for the hundred and fiftieth time in his life extinguished a Poet. LALLA ROOKH alone--and Love knew why--persisted in being delighted with all she had heard and in resolving to hear more as speedily as possible. Her manner however of first returning to the subject was unlucky. It was while they rested during the heat of noon near a fountain on which some hand had rudely traced those well-known words from the Garden of Sadi.--"Many like me have viewed this fountain, but they are gone and their eyes are closed for ever!"--that she took occasion from the melancholy beauty of this passage to dwell upon the charms of poetry in general. "It is true," she said, "few poets can imitate that sublime bird which flies always in the air and never touches the earth:[139]--it is only once in many ages a Genius appears whose words, like those on the Written Mountain last for ever:[140]--but still there are some as delightful perhaps, though not so wonderful, who if not stars over our head are at least flowers along our path and whose sweetness of the moment we ought gratefully to inhale without calling upon them for a brightness and a durability beyond their nature. In short," continued she, blushing as if conscious of being caught in an oration, "it is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his regions of enchantment without having a critic for ever, like the old Man of the Sea, upon his back!"[141]--FADLADEEN, it was plain took this last luckless allusion to himself and would treasure it up in his mind as a whetstone for his next criticism. A sudden silence ensued; and the Princess, glancing a look at FERAMORZ, saw plainly she must wait for a more courageous moment.

But the glories of Nature and her wild, fragrant airs playing freshly over the current of youthful spirits will soon heal even deeper wounds than the dull Fadladeens of this world can inflict. In an evening or two after, they came to the small Valley of Gardens which had been planted by order of the Emperor for his favorite sister Rochinara during their progress to Cashmere some years before; and never was there a more sparkling assemblage of sweets since the Gulzar-e-Irem or Rose-bower of Irem. Every precious flower was there to be found that poetry or love or religion has ever consecrated; from the dark hyacinth to which Hafez compares his mistress's hair to be _Cámalatá_ by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of Indra is scented.[142] As they sat in the cool fragrance of this delicious spot and LALLA ROOKH remarked that she could fancy it the abode of that flower-loving Nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay, [143] or of one of those Peris, those beautiful creatures of the air who live upon perfumes and to whom a place like this might make some amends for the Paradise they have lost,--the young Poet in whose eyes she appeared while she spoke to be one of the bright spiritual creatures she was describing said hesitatingly that he remembered a Story of a Peri, which if the Princess had no objection he would venture to relate. "It is," said he, with an appealing look to FADLADEEN, "in a lighter and humbler strain than the other:" then, striking a few careless but melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus began:--

PARADISE AND THE PERI.

One morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood disconsolate; And as she listened to the Springs Of Life within like music flowing And caught the light upon her wings Thro' the half-open portal glowing, She wept to think her recreant race Should e'er have lost that glorious place!

"How happy," exclaimed this child of air, "Are the holy Spirits who wander there "Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall; "Tho' mine are the gardens of earth and sea "And the stars themselves have flowers for me, "One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all!

"Tho' sunny the Lake of cool CASHMERE "With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,[144] "And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall; "Tho' bright are the waters of SING-SU-HAY And the golden floods that thitherward stray,[145] Yet--oh, 'tis only the Blest can say How the waters of Heaven outshine them all!

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

The glorious Angel who was keeping The gates of Light beheld her weeping, And as he nearer drew and listened To her sad song, a tear-drop glistened Within his eyelids, like the spray From Eden's fountain when it lies On the blue flower which--Bramins say-- Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.[146]

"Nymph of a fair but erring line!" Gently he said--"One hope is thine. 'Tis written in the Book of Fate, _The Peri yet may be forgiven Who brings to this Eternal gate The Gift that is most dear to Heaven_! Go seek it and redeem thy sin-- 'Tis sweet to let the Pardoned in."

Rapidly as comets run To the embraces of the Sun;-- Fleeter than the starry brands Flung at night from angel hands[147] At those dark and daring sprites Who would climb the empyreal heights, Down the blue vault the PERI flies, And lighted earthward by a glance That just then broke from morning's eyes, Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse.

But whither shall the Spirit go To find this gift for Heaven;--"I know The wealth," she cries, "of every urn In which unnumbered rubies burn Beneath the pillars of CHILMINAR:[148] I know where the Isles of Perfume are[149] Many a fathom down in the sea, To the south of sun-bright ARABY;[150] I know too where the Genii hid The jewelled cup of their King JAMSHID,[151] "With Life's elixir sparkling high-- "But gifts like these are not for the sky. "Where was there ever a gem that shone "Like the steps of ALLA'S wonderful Throne? "And the Drops of Life--oh! what would they be "In the boundless Deep of Eternity?"

While thus she mused her pinions fanned The air of that sweet Indian land Whose air is balm, whose ocean spreads O'er coral rocks and amber beds,[152] Whose mountains pregnant by the beam Of the warm sun with diamonds teem, Whose rivulets are like rich brides, Lovely, with gold beneath their tides, Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice Might be a Peri's Paradise! But crimson now her rivers ran With human blood--the smell of death Came reeking from those spicy bowers, And man the sacrifice of man Mingled his taint with every breath Upwafted from the innocent flowers. Land of the Sun! what foot invades Thy Pagods and thy pillared shades-- Thy cavern shrines and Idol stones, Thy Monarch and their thousand Thrones?[153]

'Tis He of GAZNA[154], fierce in wrath He comes and INDIA'S diadems Lie scattered in his ruinous path.- His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, Torn from the violated necks Of many a young and loved Sultana;[155] Maidens within their pure Zenana, Priests in the very fane he slaughters, And chokes up with the glittering wrecks Of golden shrines the sacred waters! Downward the PERI turns her gaze, And thro' the war-field's bloody haze Beholds a youthful warrior stand Alone beside his native river,-- The red blade broken in his hand And the last arrow in his quiver. "Live," said the Conqueror, "live to share "The trophies and the crowns I bear!" Silent that youthful warrior stood-- Silent he pointed to the flood All crimson with his country's blood, Then sent his last remaining dart, For answer, to the Invader's heart.

False flew the shaft tho' pointed well; The Tyrant lived, the Hero fell!-- Yet marked the PERI where he lay, And when the rush of war was past Swiftly descending on a ray Of morning light she caught the last-- Last glorious drop his heart had shed Before its free-born spirit fled!

"Be this," she cried, as she winged her flight, "My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. "Tho' foul are the drops that oft distil "On the field of warfare, blood like this "For Liberty shed so holy is, "It would not stain the purest rill "That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss! "Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere "A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, "'Tis the last libation Liberty draws "From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!" "Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave The gift into his radiant hand, "Sweet is our welcome of the Brave "Who die thus for their native Land.-- "But see--alas! the crystal bar "Of Eden moves not--holier far "Than even this drop the boon must be "That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!"

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, Now among AFRIC'S lunar Mountains[156] Far to the South the PERI lighted And sleeked her plumage at the fountains Of that Egyptian tide whose birth Is hidden from the sons of earth Deep in those solitary woods Where oft the Genii of the Floods Dance round the cradle of their Nile And hail the new-born Giant's smile.[157] Thence over EGYPT'S palmy groves Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings,[158] The exiled Spirit sighing roves And now hangs listening to the doves In warm ROSETTA'S vale;[159] now loves To watch the moonlight on the wings Of the white pelicans that break The azure calm of MOERIS' Lake.[160] 'Twas a fair scene: a Land more bright Never did mortal eye behold! Who could have thought that saw this night Those valleys and their fruits of gold Basking in Heaven's serenest light, Those groups of lovely date-trees bending Languidly their leaf-crowned heads, Like youthful maids, when sleep descending Warns them to their silken beds,[161] Those virgin lilies all the night Bathing their beauties in the lake That they may rise more fresh and bright, When their beloved Sun's awake, Those ruined shrines and towers that seem The relics of a splendid dream, Amid whose fairy loneliness Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard,-- Naught seen but (when the shadows flitting, Fast from the moon unsheath its gleam,) Some purple-winged Sultana sitting[162] Upon a column motionless And glittering like an Idol bird!-- Who could have thought that there, even there, Amid those scenes so still and fair, The Demon of the Plague hath cast From his hot wing a deadlier blast, More mortal far than ever came From the red Desert's sands of flame! So quick that every living thing Of human shape touched by his wing, Like plants, where the Simoom hath past At once falls black and withering! The sun went down on many a brow Which, full of bloom and freshness then, Is rankling in the pest-house now And ne'er will feel that sun again, And, oh! to see the unburied heaps On which the lonely moonlight sleeps-- The very vultures turn away, And sicken at so foul a prey! Only the fierce hyaena stalks[163] Throughout the city's desolate walks[164] At midnight and his carnage plies:-- Woe to the half-dead wretch who meets The glaring of those large blue eyes Amid the darkness of the streets!

"Poor race of men!" said the pitying Spirit, "Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall-- "Some flowerets of Eden ye still inherit, "But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!" She wept--the air grew pure and clear Around her as the bright drops ran, For there's a magic in each tear Such kindly Spirits weep for man!

Just then beneath some orange trees Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze Were wantoning together, free, Like age at play with infancy-- Beneath that fresh and springing bower Close by the Lake she heard the moan Of one who at this silent hour, Had thither stolen to die alone. One who in life where'er he moved, Drew after him the hearts of many; Yet now, as tho' he ne'er were loved, Dies here unseen, unwept by any! None to watch near him--none to slake The fire that in his bosom lies, With even a sprinkle from that lake Which shines so cool before his eyes. No voice well known thro' many a day To speak the last, the parting word Which when all other sounds decay Is still like distant music heard;-- That tender farewell on the shore Of this rude world when all is o'er, Which cheers the spirit ere its bark Puts off into the unknown Dark.

Deserted youth! one thought alone Shed joy around his soul in death That she whom he for years had known, And loved and might have called his own Was safe from this foul midnight's breath,-- Safe in her father's princely halls Where the cool airs from fountain falls, Freshly perfumed by many a brand Of the sweet wood from India's land, Were pure as she whose brow they fanned.

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

"Sleep," said the PERI, as softly she stole The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, As true as e'er warmed a woman's breast-- "Sleep on, in visions of odor rest "In balmier airs than ever yet stirred "The enchanted pile of that lonely bird "Who sings at the last his own death-lay[165] "And in music and perfume dies away!" Thus saying, from her lips she spread Unearthly breathings thro' the place And shook her sparkling wreath and shed Such lustre o'er each paly face That like two lovely saints they seemed, Upon the eve of doomsday taken From their dim graves in ordor sleeping; While that benevolent PERI beamed Like their good angel calmly keeping Watch o'er them till their souls would waken.

But morn is blushing in the sky; Again the PERI soars above, Bearing to Heaven that precious sigh Of pure, self-sacrificing love. High throbbed her heart with hope elate The Elysian palm she soon shall win. For the bright Spirit at the gate Smiled as she gave that offering in; And she already hears the trees Of Eden with their crystal bells Ringing in that ambrosial breeze That from the throne of ALLA swells; And she can see the starry bowls That lie around that lucid lake Upon whose banks admitted Souls Their first sweet draught of glory take![166]

But, ah! even PERIS' hopes are vain-- Again the Fates forbade, again The immortal barrier closed--"Not yet," The Angel said as with regret He shut from her that glimpse of glory-- "True was the maiden, and her story "Written in light o'er ALLA'S head "By seraph eyes shall long be read. "But, PERI, see--the crystal bar "Of Eden moves not--holier far "Than even this sigh the boon must be "That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee."

Now upon SYRIA'S land of roses[167] Softly the light of Eve reposes, And like a glory the broad sun Hangs over sainted LEBANON, Whose head in wintry grandeur towers And whitens with eternal sleet, While summer in a vale of flowers Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

To one who looked from upper air O'er all the enchanted regions there, How beauteous must have been the glow, The life, the sparkling from below! Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks Of golden melons on their banks, More golden where the sunlight falls;-- Gay lizards, glittering on the walls[168] Of ruined shrines, busy and bright As they were all alive with light; And yet more splendid numerous flocks Of pigeons settling on the rocks With their rich restless wings that gleam Variously in the crimson beam Of the warm West,--as if inlaid With brilliants from the mine or made Of tearless rainbows such as span The unclouded skies of PERISTAN. And then the mingling sounds that come, Of shepherd's ancient reed,[169] with hum Of the wild bees of PALESTINE,[170] Banqueting thro' the flowery vales; And, JORDAN, those sweet banks of thine And woods so full of nightingales.[171] But naught can charm the luckless PERI; Her soul is sad--her wings are weary-- Joyless she sees the Sun look down On that great Temple once his own,[172] Whose lonely columns stand sublime, Flinging their shadows from on high Like dials which the Wizard Time Had raised to count his ages by!

Yet haply there may lie concealed Beneath those Chambers of the Sun Some amulet of gems, annealed In upper fires, some tablet sealed With the great name of SOLOMON, Which spelled by her illumined eyes, May teach her where beneath the moon, In earth or ocean, lies the boon, The charm, that can restore so soon An erring Spirit to the skies.

Cheered by this hope she bends her thither;-- Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven, Nor have the golden bowers of Even In the rich West begun to wither;-- When o'er the vale of BALBEC winging Slowly she sees a child at play, Among the rosy wild flowers singing, As rosy and as wild as they; Chasing with eager hands and eyes The beautiful blue damsel-flies,[173] That fluttered round the jasmine stems Like winged flowers or flying gems:-- And near the boy, who tired with play Now nestling mid the roses lay. She saw a wearied man dismount From his hot steed and on the brink Of a small imaret's rustic fount Impatient fling him down to drink. Then swift his haggard brow he turned To the fair child who fearless sat, Tho' never yet hath day-beam burned Upon a brow more fierce than that,-- Sullenly fierce--a mixture dire Like thunder-clouds of gloom and fire; In which the PERI'S eye could read Dark tales of many a ruthless deed; The ruined maid--the shrine profaned-- Oaths broken--and the threshold stained With blood of guests!--_there_ written, all, Black as the damning drops that fall From the denouncing Angel's pen, Ere Mercy weeps them out again. Yet tranquil now that man of crime (As if the balmy evening time Softened his spirit) looked and lay, Watching the rosy infant's play:-- Tho' still whene'er his eye by chance Fell on the boy's, its lucid glance Met that unclouded, joyous gaze, As torches that have burnt all night Tho' some impure and godless rite, Encounter morning's glorious rays.

But, hark! the vesper call to prayer, As slow the orb of daylight sets, Is rising sweetly on the air. From SYRIA'S thousand minarets! The boy has started from the bed Of flowers where he had laid his head. And down upon the fragrant sod Kneels[174] with his forehead to the south Lisping the eternal name of God From Purity's own cherub mouth, And looking while his hands and eyes Are lifted to the glowing skies Like a stray babe of Paradise Just lighted on that flowery plain And seeking for its home again. Oh! 'twas a sight--that Heaven--that child-- A scene, which might have well beguiled Even haughty EBLIS of a sigh For glories lost and peace gone by! And how felt _he_, the wretched Man Reclining there--while memory ran O'er many a year of guilt and strife, Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, Nor found one sunny resting-place. Nor brought him back one branch of grace. "There _was_ a time," he said, in mild, Heart-humbled tones--"thou blessed child! "When young and haply pure as thou "I looked and prayed like thee--but now"-- He hung his head--each nobler aim And hope and feeling which had slept From boyhood's hour that instant came Fresh o'er him and he wept--he wept!

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence! In whose benign, redeeming flow Is felt the first, the only sense Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. "There's a drop," said the PERI, "that down from the moon "Falls thro' the withering airs of June "Upon EGYPT'S land,[175] of so healing a power, "So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour "That drop descends contagion dies "And health reanimates earth and skies!-- "Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin, "The precious tears of repentance fall? "Tho' foul thy fiery plagues within "One heavenly drop hath dispelled them all!" And now--behold him kneeling there By the child's side, in humble prayer, While the same sunbeam shines upon The guilty and the guiltless one. And hymns of joy proclaim thro' Heaven The triumph of a Soul Forgiven!

'Twas when the golden orb had set, While on their knees they lingered yet, There fell a light more lovely far Than ever came from sun or star, Upon the tear that, warm and meek, Dewed that repentant sinner's cheek. To mortal eye this light might seem A northern flash or meteor beam-- But well the enraptured PERI knew 'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw From Heaven's gate to hail that tear Her harbinger of glory near!

"Joy, joy for ever! my task is done-- "The Gates are past and Heaven is won! "Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am-- "To thee, sweet Eden! how dark and sad "Are the diamond turrets of SHADUKIAM,[176] "And the fragrant bowers of AMBERABAD!

"Farewell ye odors of Earth that die "Passing away like a lover's sigh;-- "My feast is now of the Tooba Tree[177] "Whose scent is the breath of Eternity!

"Farewell, ye vanishing flowers that shone "In my fairy wreath so bright an' brief;-- "Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown "To the lote-tree springing by ALLA'S throne[178] "Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf. "Joy, joy for ever.--my task is done-- "The Gates are past and Heaven is won!"

"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.[179] 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 licence and ease of the bolder sons of song without any of that grace or vigor which gave a dignity even to negligence;--who like them flung the jereed[180] 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 allow themselves, like one of those young pagans that dance before the Princess, who is ingenious enough 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[181] for Sick Insects should undertake."

In vain did LALLA ROOKH try to soften this inexorable critic; in vain did she resort to her most eloquent commonplaces, 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,[182] that severity often extinguished 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.[183] 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 anything 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 was the same too 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 appeared to share equal honors 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 her already. She was here met by messengers despatched from Cashmere who informed her that the King had arrived in the Valley and was himself superintending the sumptuous preparations that were then 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 had fallen off in which this passion at first disguises itself, 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 had 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! [184] 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 endeavor to forget the short dream 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!

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 confectionery among the people, while the artisans in chariots[185] 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 kept waving over their heads plates of gold and silver flowers,[186] and then threw them around 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[187] a least as far as the mountains of Cashmere;--while the Ladies who had nothing now to do all day but to be fanned by peacocks' feathers and listen to FADLADEEN seemed heartily weary of the life they led and in spite of all the Great Chamberlain's criticisms were so tasteless as to wish for the poet again. One evening as they were proceeding to their place of rest for the night the Princess who for the freer enjoyment of the air had mounted her favorite Arabian palfrey, in passing by a small grove heard the notes of a lute from within its leaves and a voice which she but too well knew singing the following words:--

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

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

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

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

The tone of melancholy defiance in which these words were uttered went to LALLA ROOKH'S heart;--and as she reluctantly rode on she could not help feeling it to be a sad but still sweet certainty that FERAMORZ was to the full as enamored 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 favorite tree of the luxurious bird that lights up the chambers of its nest with fire-flies.[188]. In the middle of the lawn where the pavilion stood there was a tank surrounded by small mango-trees on the clear cold waters of which floated multitudes of the beautiful red lotus,[189] while at a distance stood the ruins of a strange and awful- looking tower which seemed old enough to have been the temple of some religion no longer known and which spoke the voice of desolation in the midst of all that bloom and loveliness. This singular ruin excited the wonder and conjectures of all. LALLA ROOKH guessed in vain, and the all- pretending FADLADEEN who had never till this journey been beyond the precincts of Delhi was proceeding most learnedly to show that he knew nothing whatever about the matter, when one of the Ladies suggested that perhaps FERAMORZ could satisfy their curiosity. They were now approaching his native mountains and this tower might perhaps be a relic of some of those dark superstitions which had prevailed in that country before the light of Islam dawned upon it. The Chamberlain who usually preferred his own ignorance to the best knowledge that any one else could give him was by no means pleased with this officious reference, and the Princess too was about to interpose a faint word of objection, but before either of them could speak a slave was despatched for FERAMORZ, who in a very few minutes made his appearance before them--looking so pale and unhappy in LALLA ROOKH'S eyes that she repented already of her cruelty in having so long excluded him.

That venerable tower he told them was the remains of an ancient Fire- Temple, built by those Ghebers or Persians of the old religion, who many hundred years since had fled hither from the Arab conquerors, preferring liberty and their altars in a foreign land to the alternative of apostasy or persecution in their own. It was impossible, he added, not to feel interested in the many glorious but unsuccessful struggles which had been made by these original natives of Persia to cast off the yoke of their bigoted conquerors. Like their own Fire in the Burning Field at Bakou 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[190] 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!"[191]-- while FERAMORZ happy to take advantage of this almost speechless horror of the Chamberlain proceeded to say that he knew a melancholy story connected with the events of one of those struggles of the brave Fire-worshippers against their Arab masters, which if the evening was not too far advanced he should have much pleasure in being allowed to relate to the Princess. It was impossible for LALLA ROOKH to refuse;--he had never before looked half so animated, and when he spoke of the Holy Valley his eyes had sparkled she thought like the talismanic characters on the scimitar of Solomon. Her consent was therefore most readily granted; and while FADLADEEN sat in unspeakable dismay, expecting treason and abomination in every line, the poet thus began his story of the Fire-worshippers:

THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.

'Tis moonlight over OMAN'S SEA;[192] Her banks of pearl and palmy isles Bask in the night-beam beauteously And her blue waters sleep in smiles. 'Tis moonlight in HARMOZIA'S[193] walls, And through her EMIR'S porphyry halls Where some hours since was heard the swell Of trumpets and the clash of zel[194] Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell;-- The peaceful sun whom better suits The music of the bulbul's nest Or the light touch of lovers' lutes To sing him to his golden rest. All husht--there's not a breeze in motion; The shore is silent as the ocean. If zephyrs come, so light they come. Nor leaf is stirred nor wave is driven;-- The wind-tower on the EMIR'S dome[195] Can hardly win a breath from heaven.

Even he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps Calm, while a nation round him weeps, While curses load the air he breathes And falchions from unnumbered sheaths Are starting to avenge the shame His race hath brought on IRAN'S[196]name. Hard, heartless Chief, unmoved alike Mid eyes that weep and swords that strike; One of that saintly, murderous brood, To carnage and the Koran given, Who think thro' unbelievers' blood Lies their directest path to heaven,-- One who will pause and kneel unshod In the warm blood his hand hath poured, To mutter o'er some text of God Engraven on his reeking sword;[197] Nay, who can coolly note the line, The letter of those words divine, To which his blade with searching art Had sunk into its victim's heart!

Just ALLA! what must be thy look When such a wretch before thee stands Unblushing, with thy Sacred Book,-- Turning the leaves with bloodstained hands, And wresting from its page sublime His creed of lust and hate and crime;-- Even as those bees of TREBIZOND, Which from the sunniest flowers that glad With their pure smile the gardens round, Draw venom forth that drives men mad.[198] Never did fierce Arabia send A satrap forth more direly great; Never was IRAN doomed to bend Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight. Her throne had fallen--her pride was crusht-- Her sons were willing slaves, nor blusht, In their own land,--no more their own,-- To crouch beneath a stranger's throne. Her towers where MITHRA once had burned. To Moslem shrines--oh shame!--were turned, Where slaves converted by the sword, Their mean, apostate worship poured, And curst the faith their sires adored. Yet has she hearts, mid all this ill, O'er all this wreck high buoyant still With hope and vengeance;--hearts that yet-- Like gems, in darkness, issuing rays They've treasured from the sun that's set,-- Beam all the light of long-lost days! And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow To second all such hearts can dare: As he shall know, well, dearly know. Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there, Tranquil as if his spirit lay Becalmed in Heaven's approving ray. Sleep on--for purer eyes than thine Those waves are husht, those planets shine; Sleep on and be thy rest unmoved By the white moonbeam's dazzling power;-- None but the loving and the loved Should be awake at this sweet hour.

And see--where high above those rocks That o'er the deep their shadows fling. Yon turret stands;--where ebon locks, As glossy as the heron's wing Upon the turban of a king,[199] 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 Fountain Springing in a desolate mountain![200]

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

Beautiful are the maids that glide On summer-eves thro' YEMEN'S[201] dales, And bright the glancing looks they hide Behind their litters' roseate veils;-- And brides as delicate and fair As the white jasmine flowers they wear, Hath YEMEN in her blissful clime, Who lulled in cool kiosk or bower,[202] Before their mirrors count the time[203] And grow still lovelier every hour. But never yet hath bride or maid In ARABY'S gay Haram smiled. Whose boasted brightness would not fade Before AL HASSAN'S blooming child.

Light as the angel shapes that bless An infant's dream, yet not the less Rich in all woman's loveliness;-- With eyes so pure that from their ray Dark Vice would turn abasht away, Blinded like serpents when they gaze Upon the emerald's virgin blaze;[204]-- Yet filled with all youth's sweet desires, Mingling the meek and vestal fires Of other worlds with all the bliss, The fond, weak tenderness of this: A soul too more than half divine, Where, thro' some shades of earthly feeling, Religion's softened glories shine, Like light thro' summer foliage stealing, Shedding a glow of such mild hue, So warm and yet so shadowy too, As makes the very darkness there More beautiful than light elsewhere.

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

So deemed at least her thoughtful sire, When high, to catch the cool night-air After the day-beam's withering fire,[205] He built her bower of freshness there, And had it deckt with costliest skill And fondly thought it safe as fair:-- Think, reverend dreamer! think so still, Nor wake to learn what Love can dare;-- Love, all defying Love, who sees No charm in trophies won with ease;-- Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss Are plucked on Danger's precipice! Bolder than they who dare not dive For pearls but when the sea's at rest, Love, in the tempest most alive, Hath ever held that pearl the best He finds beneath the stormiest water. Yes, ARABY'S unrivalled daughter, Tho' high that tower, that rock-way rude, There's one who but to kiss thy cheek Would climb the untrodden solitude Of ARARAT'S tremendous peak,[206] And think its steeps, tho' dark and dread, Heaven's pathways, if to thee they led! Even now thou seest the flashing spray, That lights his oar's impatient way;-- Even now thou hearest the sudden shock Of his swift bark against the rock, And stretchest down thy arms of snow As if to lift him from below! Like her to whom at dead of night The bridegroom with his locks of light[207] Came in the flush of love and pride And scaled the terrace of his bride;-- When as she saw him rashly spring, And midway up in danger cling, She flung him down her long black hair, Exclaiming breathless, "There, love, there!" And scarce did manlier nerve uphold The hero ZAL in that fond hour, Than wings the youth who, fleet and bold, Now climbs the rocks to HINDA'S bower. See-light as up their granite steeps The rock-goats of ARABIA clamber,[208] Fearless from crag to crag he leaps, And now is in the maiden's chamber. She loves--but knows not whom she loves, Nor what his race, nor whence he came;-- Like one who meets in Indian groves Some beauteous bird without a name; Brought by the last ambrosial breeze From isles in the undiscovered seas, To show his plumage for a day To wondering eyes and wing away! Will he thus fly--her nameless lover? ALLA forbid! 'twas by a moon As fair as this, while singing over Some ditty to her soft Kanoon, Alone, at this same witching hour, She first beheld his radiant eyes Gleam thro' the lattice of the bower, Where nightly now they mix their sighs; And thought some spirit of the air (For what could waft a mortal there?) Was pausing on his moonlight way To listen to her lonely lay! This fancy ne'er hath left her mind: And--tho', when terror's swoon had past, She saw a youth of mortal kind Before her in obeisance cast,-- Yet often since, when he hath spoken Strange, awful words,--and gleams have broken From his dark eyes, too bright to bear, Oh! she hath feared her soul was given To some unhallowed child of air, Some erring spirit cast from heaven, Like those angelic youths of old Who burned for maids of mortal mould, Bewildered 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 impassioned sons, As warm in love, as fierce in ire As the best heart whose current runs Full of the Day-God's living fire.

But quenched to-night that ardor 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 withered where they once have been.

"How sweetly," said the trembling maid, Of her own gentle voice afraid, So long had they in silence stood Looking upon that tranquil flood-- "How sweetly does the moonbeam smile "To-night upon yon leafy isle! "Oft, in my fancy's wanderings, "I've wisht 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 turned that he might see The passing smile her cheek put on; But when she markt how mournfully His eye 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--tonight! "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 loved a tree or flower, "But 'twas the first to fade away. "I never nurst 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 I "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--tho' sweet, "Tho' heaven, it may be death to thee. "Farewell--and blessings on thy way, "Where'er thou goest, beloved stranger! "Better to sit and watch that ray "And think thee safe, tho' far away, "Than have thee near me and in danger!"

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

"Oh! look not so--beneath the skies "I now fear nothing but those eyes. "If aught on earth could charm or force "My spirit from its destined course,-- "If aught could make this soul forget "The bond to which its seal is set, "'Twould be those eyes;--they, only they, "Could melt that sacred seal away! "But no--'tis fixt--_my_ awful doom "Is fixt--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 linkt with thee or thine! "Thy Father"-- "Holy ALLA save "His gray head from that lightning glance! "Thou knowest 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 played "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 wooed, "And won with shouts of victory! "Nay, turn not from me--thou alone "Art formed to make both hearts thy own. "Go--join his sacred ranks--thou knowest "The unholy strife these Persians wage:-- "Good Heaven, that frown!--even now thou glowest "With more than mortal warrior's rage. "Haste to the camp by morning's light, "And when that sword is raised in fight, "Oh still remember, Love and I "Beneath its shadow trembling lie! "One victory o'er those Slaves of Fire, "Those impious Ghebers whom my sire "Abhors"-- "Hold, hold--thy words are death"-- The stranger cried as wild he flung His mantle back and showed beneath The Gheber belt that round him clung.[209]-- "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:[210] "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 "Rusht to my prey--thou knowest the rest-- "I climbed 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 even now forget "How linkt, how blest we might have been, "Had fate not frowned so dark between! "Hadst thou been born a Persian maid, "In neighboring valleys had we dwelt, "Thro' the same fields in childhood played, "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 wronged Spirit of our Land "Lived, lookt, and spoke her wrongs thro' thee,-- "God! who could then this sword withstand? "Its very flash were victory! "But now--estranged, divorced for ever, "Far as the grasp of Fate can sever; "Our only ties what love has wove,-- "In faith, friends, country, sundered wide; "And then, then only, true to love, "When false to all that's dear beside! "Thy father IKAN'S deadliest foe-- "Thyself, perhaps, even now--but no-- "Hate never looked so lovely yet! No--sacred to thy soul will be "The land of him who could forget "All but that bleeding land for thee. "When other eyes shall see, unmoved, "Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, "Thou'lt think how well one Gheber loved. "And for _his_ sake thou'lt weep for all! "But look"-- With sudden start he turned And pointed to the distant wave Where lights like charnel meteors burned Bluely as o'er some seaman's grave; And fiery darts at intervals[211] 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 ruined, if I stay. "Farewell--sweet life! thou clingest in vain-- "Now, Vengeance, I am thine again!" Fiercely he broke away, nor stopt, Nor lookt--but from the lattice dropt Down mid the pointed crags beneath As if he fled from love to death. While pale and mute young HINDA stood, Nor moved till in the silent flood A momentary plunge below Startled her from her trance of woe;-- Shrieking she to the lattice flew, "I come--I come--if in that tide "Thou sleepest 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 win Its moonlight way before the wind As if it bore all peace within Nor left one breaking heart behind!

The Princess whose heart was sad enough already could have wished that FERAMORZ had chosen a less melancholy story; as it is only to the happy that tears are a luxury. Her Ladies however were by no means sorry that love was once more the Poet's theme; for, whenever he spoke of love, they said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree, which grows over the tomb of the musician, Tan-Sein.[212]

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[213] 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 this spacious shade some pious hands had erected a row of pillars ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain[214] 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[215] palely shines, Revealing BAHREIN'S groves of palm And lighting KISHMA'S amber vines. Fresh smell the shores of ARABY, While breezes from the Indian sea Blow round SELAMA'S[216] 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 past Had toward that holy headland cast-- Oblations to the Genii there For gentle skies and breezes fair! The nightingale now bends her flight[217] From the high trees where all the night She sung so sweet with none to listen; And hides her from the morning star Where thickets of pomegranate glisten In the clear dawn,--bespangled o'er With dew whose night-drops would not stain The best and brightest scimitar[218] That ever youthful Sultan wore On the first morning of his reign.

And see--the Sun himself!--on wings Of glory up the East he springs. Angel of Light! who from the time Those heavens began their march sublime, Hath first of all the starry choir Trod in his Maker's steps of fire! Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere, When IRAN, like a sun-flower, turned To meet that eye where'er it burned?-- When from the banks of BENDEMEER To the nut-groves of SAMARCAND Thy temples flamed o'er all the land? Where are they? ask the shades of them Who, on CADESSIA'S[219] bloody plains, Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem From IRAN'S broken diadem, And bind her ancient faith in chains:-- Ask the poor exile cast alone On foreign shores, unloved, unknown, Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates, Or on the snowy Mossian mountains, Far from his beauteous land of dates, Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains: Yet happier so than if he trod His own beloved but blighted sod Beneath a despot stranger's nod!-- Oh, he would rather houseless roam Where Freedom and his God may lead, Than be the sleekest slave at home That crouches to the conqueror's creed!

Is IRAN'S pride then gone for ever, Quenched with the flame in MITHRA'S caves? No--she has sons that never--never-- Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves While heaven has light or earth has graves;-- Spirits of fire that brood not long But flash resentment back for wrong; And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds Of vengeance ripen into deeds, Till in some treacherous hour of calm They burst like ZEILAN'S giant palm[220] Whose buds fly open with a sound That shakes the pigmy forests round! Yes, EMIR! he, who scaled that tower, And had he reached thy slumbering breast Had taught thee in a Gheber's power How safe even tyrant heads may rest-- Is one of many, brave as he, Who loathe thy haughty race and thee; Who tho' they knew the strife is vain, Who tho' they know the riven chain Snaps but to enter in the heart Of him who rends its links apart, Yet dare the issue,--blest to be Even for one bleeding moment free And die in pangs of liberty! Thou knowest them well--'tis some moons since Thy turbaned troops and blood-red flags, Thou satrap of a bigot Prince, Have swarmed among these Green Sea crags; Yet here, even here, a sacred band Ay, in the portal of that land Thou, Arab, darest to call thy own, Their spears across thy path have thrown; Here--ere the winds half winged thee o'er-- Rebellion braved thee from the shore.

Rebellion! foul, dishonoring word, Whose wrongful blight so oft has stained The holiest cause that tongue or sword Of mortal ever lost or gained. How many a spirit born to bless Hath sunk beneath that withering name, Whom but a day's, an hour's success Had wafted to eternal fame! As exhalations when they burst From the warm earth if chilled at first, If checkt in soaring from the plain Darken to fogs and sink again;-- But if they once triumphant spread Their wings above the mountain-head, Become enthroned in upper air, And turn to sun-bright glories there!

And who is he that wields the might Of Freedom on the Green Sea brink, Before whose sabre's dazzling light[221] The eyes of YEMEN'S warriors wink? Who comes embowered in the spears Of KERMAN'S hardy mountaineers? Those mountaineers that truest, last, Cling to their country's ancient rites, As if that God whose eyelids cast Their closing gleam on IRAN'S heights, Among her snowy mountains threw The last light of his worship too! 'Tis HAFED--name of fear, whose sound Chills like the muttering of a charm!-- Shout but that awful name around, And palsy shakes the manliest arm.

'Tis HAFED, most accurst and dire (So rankt by Moslem hate and ire) Of all the rebel Sons of Fire; Of whose malign, tremendous power The Arabs at their mid-watch hour Such tales of fearful wonder tell That each affrighted sentinel Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes, Lest HAFED in the midst should rise! A man, they say, of monstrous birth, A mingled race of flame and earth, Sprung from those old, enchanted kings[222] Who in their fairy helms of yore A feather from the mystic wings Of the Simoorgh resistless wore; And gifted by the Fiends of Fire, Who groaned 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 coloring Fancy gave To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief,-- One who, no more than mortal brave, Fought for the land his soul adored, For happy homes and altars free,-- His only talisman, the sword, His only spell-word, Liberty! One of that ancient hero line, Along whose glorious current shine Names that have sanctified their blood: As LEBANON'S small mountain-flood Is rendered holy by the ranks Of sainted cedars on its banks.[223] 'Twas not for him to crouch the knee Tamely to Moslem tyranny; 'Twas not for him whose soul was cast In the bright mould of ages past, Whose melancholy spirit fed With all the glories of the dead Tho' framed for IRAN'S happiest years. Was born among her chains and tears!-- 'Twas not for him to swell the crowd Of slavish heads, that shrinking bowed Before the Moslem as he past Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast-- No--far he fled--indignant fled The pageant of his country's shame; While every tear her children shed Fell on his soul like drops of flame; And as a lover hails the dawn Of a first smile, so welcomed he The sparkle of the first sword drawn For vengeance and for liberty! But vain was valor--vain the flower Of KERMAN, in that deathful hour, Against AL HASSAN'S whelming power.-- In vain they met him helm to helm Upon the threshold of that realm He came in bigot pomp to sway, And with their corpses blockt his way-- In vain--for every lance they raised Thousands around the conqueror blazed; For every arm that lined their shore Myriads of slaves were wafted o'er,-- A bloody, bold, and countless crowd, Before whose swarm as fast they bowed As dates beneath the locust cloud.

There stood--but one short league away From old HARMOZIA'S sultry bay-- A rocky mountain o'er the Sea-- Of OMAN beetling awfully;[224] A last and solitary link Of those stupendous chains that reach From the broad Caspian's reedy brink Down winding to the Green Sea beach. Around its base the bare rocks stood Like naked giants, in the flood As if to guard the Gulf across; While on its peak that braved the sky A ruined Temple towered so high That oft the sleeping albatross[225] Struck the wild ruins with her wing, And from her cloud-rockt slumbering Started--to find man's dwelling there In her own silent fields of air! Beneath, terrific caverns gave Dark welcome to each stormy wave That dasht like midnight revellers in;-- And such the strange, mysterious din At times throughout those caverns rolled,-- And such the fearful wonders told Of restless sprites imprisoned there, That bold were Moslem who would dare At twilight hour to steer his skiff Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff.[226] On the land side those towers sublime, That seemed above the grasp of Time, Were severed from the haunts of men By a wide, deep, and wizard glen, So fathomless, so full of gloom, No eye could pierce the void between: It seemed a place where Ghouls might come With their foul banquets from the tomb And in its caverns feed unseen. Like distant thunder, from below The sound of many torrents came, Too deep for eye or ear to know If 'twere the sea's imprisoned flow, Or floods of ever-restless flame. For each ravine, each rocky spire Of that vast mountain stood on fire;[227] And tho' for ever past the days When God was worshipt in the blaze-- That from its lofty altar shone,-- Tho' fled the priests, the votaries gone, Still did the mighty flame burn on,[228] Thro' chance and change, thro' good and ill, Like its own God's eternal will, Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable!

Thither the vanquisht HAFED led His little army's last remains;-- "Welcome, terrific glen!" he said, "Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread, "Is Heaven to him who flies from chains!" O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way known To him and to his Chiefs alone They crost the chasm and gained the towers;-- "This home," he cried, "at least is ours; "Here we may bleed, unmockt by hymns "Of Moslem triumph o'er our head; "Here we may fall nor leave our limbs "To quiver to the Moslem's tread. "Stretched 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 ruined altar broke Glared on his features as he spoke:-- "'Tis o'er--what men could do, we've done-- "If IRAN _will_ look tamely on "And see her priests, her warriors driven "Before a sensual bigot's nod, "A wretch who shrines his lusts in 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[229] 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 Heaven, and bondage grows "Too vile for even 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 unchained "And souls that thraldom never stained;-- "This spot at least no foot of slave "Or satrap ever yet profaned, "And tho' but few--tho' 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,[230] "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 even Despair can prompt no more, "This spot shall be the sacred grave "Of the last few who vainly brave "Die for the land they cannot save!"

His Chiefs stood round--each shining blade Upon the broken altar laid-- And tho' so wild and desolate Those courts where once the Mighty sate: Nor longer on those mouldering towers Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers With which of old the Magi fed The wandering Spirits of their Dead;[231] Tho' neither priest nor rites were there, Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate,[232] Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air, Nor symbol of their worshipt planet;[233] Yet the same God that heard their sires Heard _them_ while on that altar's fires They swore the latest, holiest deed Of the few hearts, still left to bleed, Should be in IRAN'S injured name To die upon that Mount of Flame-- The last of all her patriot line, Before her last untrampled Shrine!

Brave, suffering souls! they little knew How many a tear their injuries drew From one meek maid, one gentle foe, Whom love first touched with others' woe-- Whose life, as free from thought as sin, Slept like a lake till Love threw in His talisman and woke the tide And spread its trembling circles wide. Once, EMIR! thy unheeding child Mid all this havoc bloomed and smiled,-- Tranquil as on some battle plain The Persian lily shines and towers[234] Before the combat's reddening stain Hath fallen upon her golden flowers. Light-hearted maid, unawed, unmoved, While Heaven but spared the sire she loved, Once at thy evening tales of blood Unlistening and aloof she stood-- And oft when thou hast paced along Thy Haram halls with furious heat, Hast thou not curst her cheerful song, That came across thee, calm and sweet, Like lutes of angels touched so near Hell's confines that the damned can hear!

Far other feelings Love hath brought-- Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness, She now has but the one dear thought, And thinks that o'er, almost to madness! Oft doth her sinking heart recall His words--"for _my_ sake weep for all;" And bitterly as day on day Of rebel carnage fast succeeds, She weeps a lover snatched away In every Gheber wretch that bleeds. There's not a sabre meets her eye But with his life-blood seems to swim; There's not an arrow wings the sky But fancy turns its point to him. No more she brings with footsteps light AL HASSAN's falchion for the fight; And--had he lookt with clearer sight, Had not the mists that ever rise From a foul spirit dimmed his eyes-- He would have markt her shuddering frame, When from the field of blood he came, The faltering speech--the look estranged-- Voice, step and life and beauty changed-- He would have markt all this, and known Such change is wrought by Love alone! Ah! not the Love that should have blest So young, so innocent a breast; Not the pure, open, prosperous Love, That, pledged on earth and sealed above, Grows in the world's approving eyes, In friendship's smile and home's caress, Collecting all the heart's sweet ties Into one knot of happiness! No, HINDA, no,--thy fatal flame Is nurst 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-eyed votaries keep Unholy watch while others sleep.

Seven nights have darkened OMAN'S sea, Since last beneath the moonlight ray She saw his light oar rapidly Hurry 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 deep For him whose smiles first made her weep;-- But watching, weeping, all was vain, She never saw his bark again. The owlet's solitary cry, The night-hawk flitting darkly by, And oft the hateful carrion bird, Heavily flapping his clogged wing, Which reeked with that day's banqueting-- Was all she saw, was all she heard.

'Tis the eighth morn--AL HASSAN'S brow Is brightened 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,[235] Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh, More surely than that smiling eye! "Up, daughter, up--the KERNA'S[236] breath "Has blown a blast would waken death, "And yet thou sleepest--up, child, and see "This blessed day for heaven and me, "A day more rich in Pagan blood "Than ever flasht 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 screamed--her mind Still 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 worest on OHOD'S field of death,[237] "I swear, for every sob that parts "In anguish from these heathen hearts, "A gem from PERSIA'S plundered 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 riskt thy timid sex "In scenes that man himself might dread, "Had I not hoped 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 lurkt one wretch among the few Whom HAFED'S eagle eye could count Around him on that Fiery Mount,-- One miscreant who for gold betrayed The pathway thro' the valley's shade To those high towers where Freedom stood In 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 returned To their high rocky fortress mourned For him among the matchless dead They left behind on glory's bed, He lived, and in the face of morn Laught 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 him Be drugged 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![238] His country's curse, his children's shame, Outcast of virtue, peace and fame, May he at last with lips of flame On the parched desert thirsting die,-- While lakes that shone in mockery nigh,[239] Are fading off, untouched, untasted, Like the once glorious hopes he blasted! And when from earth his spirit flies, Just Prophet, let the damned-one dwell Full in the sight of Paradise Beholding heaven and feeling hell!

LALLA ROOKH had the night before been visited by a dream which in spite of the impending fate of poor HAFED made her heart more than usually cheerful during the morning and gave her cheeks all the freshened animation of a flower that the Bidmusk had just passed over.[240] She fancied that she was sailing on that Eastern Ocean where the sea-gypsies who live for ever on the water[241] enjoy a perpetual summer in wandering from isle to isle when she saw a small gilded bark approaching her. It was like one of those boats which the Maldivian islanders send adrift, at the mercy of winds and waves, loaded with perfumes, flowers, and odoriferous wood, as an offering to the Spirit whom they call King of the Sea. At first, this little bark appeared to be empty but on coming nearer--

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 everything 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[242] were hastily handed round, and after a short prelude on his lute in the pathetic measure of Nava,[243] which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers, the Poet thus continued:--

The day is lowering--stilly black Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack, Disperst and wild, 'twixt earth and sky Hangs like a shattered canopy. There's not a cloud in that blue plain But tells of storm to come or past;-- Here flying loosely as the mane Of a young war-horse in the blast;-- There rolled in masses dark and swelling, As proud to be the thunder's dwelling! While some already burst and riven Seen melting down the verge of heaven; As tho' the infant storm had rent The 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 steered for ORMUS' bowers, And moored his skiff till calmer hours; The sea-birds with portentous screech Flew fast to land;--upon the beach The pilot oft had paused, with glance Turned upward to that wild expanse;-- And all was boding, drear and dark As her own soul when HINDA'S bark Went slowly from the Persian shore.-- No music timed her parting oar,[244] Nor friends upon the lessening strand Lingering to wave the unseen hand Or speak the farewell, heard no more;-- But lone, unheeded, from the bay The vessel takes its mournful way, Like some ill-destined bark that steers In silence thro' the Gate of Tears.[245] And where was stern AL HASSAN then? Could not that saintly scourge of men From bloodshed and devotion spare One minute for a farewell there? No--close within in changeful fits Of cursing and of prayer he sits In savage loneliness to brood Upon the coming night of blood,-- With that keen, second-scent of death, By which the vulture snuffs his food In the still warm and living breath![246] While o'er the wave his weeping daughter Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter,-- As a young bird of BABYLON,[247] Let loose to tell of victory won, Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstained By the red hands that held her chained.

And does the long-left home she seeks Light up no gladness on her cheeks? The flowers she nurst--the well-known groves, Where oft in dreams her spirit roves-- Once more to see her dear gazelles Come 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;[248] 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 even now she felt at heart The chill of her approaching doom,-- She sits, all lovely in her gloom As 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 streaming tides shall run, Foul incense for to-morrow's sun! "Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou, "So loved, so lost, where art thou now? "Foe--Gheber--infidel--whate'er "The unhallowed name thou'rt doomed 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 even Thyself above him-- "For, oh, so wildly do I love him, "Thy Paradise itself were dim "And joyless, if not shared with him!" Her hands were claspt--her eyes upturned, Dropping their tears like moonlight rain; And, tho' her lip, fond raver! burned With words of passion, bold, profane. Yet was there light around her brow, A holiness in those dark eyes, Which showed,--tho' wandering earthward now,-- Her spirit's home was in the skies. Yes--for a spirit pure as hers Is always pure, even while it errs; As sunshine broken in the rill Tho' turned astray is sunshine still!

So wholly had her mind forgot All thoughts but one she heeded not The rising storm--the wave that cast A moment's midnight as it past-- Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread Of gathering tumult o'er her head-- Clasht swords and tongues that seemed to vie With 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, tho' fearfully The ship has shuddered as she rode O'er mountain-waves--"Forgive me, God! "Forgive me"--shrieked the maid and knelt, Trembling all over--for she felt As if her judgment hour was near; While crouching round half dead with fear, Her handmaids clung, nor breathed nor stirred-- When, hark!--a second crash--a third-- And now as if a bolt of thunder Had riven the laboring planks asunder, The deck falls in--what horrors then! Blood, waves and tackle, swords and men Come mixt together thro' the chasm,-- Some wretches in their dying spasm Still fighting on--and some that call "For GOD and IRAN!" as they fall! Whose was the hand that turned away The perils of the infuriate fray, And snatcht her breathless from beneath This wilderment of wreck and death? She knew not--for a faintness came Chill o'er her and her sinking frame Amid the ruins of that hour Lay like a pale and scorched flower Beneath the red volcano's shower. But, oh! the sights and sounds of dread That shockt her ere her senses fled! The yawning deck--the crowd that strove Upon the tottering planks above-- The sail whose fragments, shivering o'er The stragglers' heads all dasht with gore Fluttered like bloody flags--the clash Of sabres and the lightning's flash Upon their blades, high tost about Like meteor brands[249]--as if throughout The elements one fury ran, One general rage that left a doubt Which was the fiercer, Heaven 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 ruined deck she caught A glimpse of that unearthly form, That glory of her soul,--even then, Amid the whirl of wreck and storm, Shining above his fellow-men, As on some black and troublous night The Star of EGYPT,[250] whose proud light Never hath beamed on those who rest In the White Islands of the West, Burns thro' the storm with looks of flame That put Heaven's cloudier eyes to shame. But no--'twas but the minute's dream-- A fantasy--and ere the scream Had half-way past her pallid lips, A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse Of soul and sense its darkness spread Around her and she sunk as dead. How calm, how beautiful comes on The 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 sea Sleeping in bright tranquillity,-- Fresh as if Day again were born, Again upon the lap of Morn!-- When the light blossoms rudely torn And scattered 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 thundershowers Have left upon the grass and flowers Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem[251] 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 trees Had vassal breezes of their own To 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 even that swell the tempest leaves Is like the full and silent heaves Of lovers' hearts when newly blest, Too newly to be quite at rest.

Such was the golden hour that broke Upon the world when HINDA woke From her long trance and heard around No motion but the water's sound Rippling against the vessel's side, As slow it mounted o'er the tide.-- But where is she?--her eyes are dark, Are wilder still--is this the bark, The same, that from HARMOZIA'S bay Bore her at morn--whose bloody way The sea-dog trackt?--no--strange and new Is 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 jasmine on her pillow laid. But the rude litter roughly spread With war-cloaks is her homely bed, And shawl and sash on javelins hung For awning o'er her head are flung. Shuddering she lookt around--there lay A group of warriors in the sun, Resting their limbs, as for that day Their ministry of death were done. Some gazing on the drowsy sea Lost in unconscious revery; And some who seemed but ill to brook That sluggish calm with many a look To the slack sail impatient cast, As loose it bagged around the mast.

Blest ALLA! who shall save her now? There's not in all that warrior band One Arab sword, one turbaned brow From her own Faithful Moslem land. Their garb--the leathern belt that wraps Each yellow vest[252]--that rebel hue-- The Tartar fleece upon their caps[253]-- Yes--yes--her fears are all too true, And Heaven hath in this dreadful hour Abandoned her to HAFED'S power;-- HAFED, the Gheber!--at the thought Her very heart's blood chills within; He whom her soul was hourly taught To loathe as some foul fiend of sin, Some minister whom Hell had sent To spread its 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,--thrown In his fierce hands, alive, alone; His the infuriate band she sees, All infidels--all enemies! What was the daring hope that then Crost her like lightning, as again With boldness that despair had lent She darted tho' that armed crowd A look so searching, so intent, That even the sternest warrior bowed Abasht, when he her glances caught, As if he guessed whose form they sought. But no--she sees him not--'tis gone, The vision that before her shone Thro' 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 beams Paint on the fleeting mists that roll In 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 sound Break the bright mirror of the ocean, Scattering its brilliant fragments round. And now she sees--with horror sees, Their course is toward that mountain-hold,-- Those towers that make her life-blood freeze, Where MECCA'S godless enemies Lie like beleaguered scorpions rolled In their last deadly, venomous fold! Amid the illumined land and flood Sunless that mighty mountain stood; Save where above its awful head, There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red, As 'twere the flag of destiny Hung out to mark where death would be!

Had her bewildered mind the power Of thought in this terrific hour, She well might marvel where or how Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow, Since ne'er had Arab heard or known Of path but thro' the glen alone.-- But every thought was lost in fear, When, as their bounding bark drew near The craggy base, she felt the waves Hurry them toward those dismal caves That from the Deep in windings pass Beneath that Mount's volcanic mass;-- And loud a voice on deck commands To lower the mast and light the brands!-- Instantly o'er the dashing tide Within a cavern's mouth they glide, Gloomy as that eternal Porch Thro' which departed spirits go:-- Not even the flare of brand and torch Its flickering light could further throw Than the thick flood that boiled below. Silent they floated--as if each Sat breathless, and too awed for speech In that dark chasm where even sound Seemed dark,--so sullenly around The goblin echoes of the cave Muttered it o'er the long black wave As 'twere some secret of the grave!

But soft--they pause--the current turns Beneath them from its onward track;-- Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns The vexed tide all foaming back, And scarce the oar's redoubled force Can stem the eddy's whirling course; When, hark!--some desperate foot has sprung Among the rocks--the chain is flung-- The oars are up--the grapple clings, And the tost bark in moorings swings. Just then, a day-beam thro' the shade Broke tremulous--but ere the maid Can see from whence the brightness steals, Upon her brow she shuddering feels A viewless hand that promptly ties A 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 is 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 exquisite For man to leave it for the gloom, The deep, cold shadow of the tomb. Even HINDA, tho' she saw not where Or whither wound the perilous road, Yet knew by that awakening air, Which suddenly around her glowed, That they had risen from the darkness there, And breathed the sunny world again!

But soon this balmy freshness fled-- For now the steepy labyrinth led Thro' damp and gloom--mid crash of boughs, And fall of loosened crags that rouse The 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 moan Of the hyena, fierce and lone-- And that eternal saddening sound Of torrents in the glen beneath, As 'twere the ever-dark Profound That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death! All, all is fearful--even to see, To gaze on those terrific things She now but blindly hears, would be Relief 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 again Perplext the workings of her brain, Or did a voice, all music, then Come 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 extent There was but _one_ such voice for her, So kind, so soft, so eloquent! Oh, sooner shall the rose of May Mistake her own sweet nightingale, And to some meaner minstrel's lay Open her bosom's glowing veil,[254] Than Love shall ever doubt a tone, A breath of the beloved one!

Though blest mid all her ills to think She has that one beloved near, Whose smile tho' met on ruin's brink Hath power to make even ruin dear,-- Yet soon this gleam of rapture crost By fears for him is chilled and lost. How shall the ruthless HAFED brook That 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 banners' dire success Hath left their altars cold and dim, And their fair land a wilderness! And worse than all that night of blood Which comes so fast--Oh! who shall stay The sword, that once hath tasted food Of 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 welcomed with delight "The sinner's tears, the sacrifice "Of sinners' hearts--guard him this night, "And here before thy throne I swear "From my heart's inmost core to tear "Love, hope, remembrance, tho' they be "Linkt 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 past 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 "The eclipse of earth, he too may shine "Redeemed, 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, heavenward 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!"

The next evening LALLA ROOKH was entreated by her Ladies to continue the relation of her wonderful dream; but the fearful interest that hung round the fate of HINDA and her lover had completely removed every trace of it from her mind;--much to the disappointment of a fair seer or two in her train, who prided themselves on their skill in interpreting visions, and who had already remarked, as an unlucky omen, that the Princess, on the very morning after the dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blossoms of the sorrowful tree, Nilica.[255]

FADLADEEN, whose indignation had more than once broken out during the recital of some parts of this 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 resumed his profane and seditious story as follows:--

To tearless eyes and hearts at ease The leafy shores and sun-bright seas That lay beneath that mountain's height Had been a fair enchanting sight. 'Twas one of those ambrosial eyes A day of storm so often leaves At its calm setting--when the West Opens her golden bowers of rest, And a moist radiance from the skies Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes Of 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 late Had rushed through KERMAN'S almond groves, And shaken from her bowers of date That cooling feast the traveller loves.[256] Now lulled to languor scarcely curl The Green Sea wave whose waters gleam Limpid as if her mines of pearl Were 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 burst On HINDA'S dazzled eyes, when first The bandage from her brow was taken, And, pale and awed as those who waken In their dark tombs--when, scowling near, The Searchers of the Grave[257] appear.-- She shuddering turned to read her fate In the fierce eyes that flasht around; And saw those towers all desolate, That o'er her head terrific frowned, As if defying even the smile Of that soft heaven to gild their pile. In vain with mingled hope and fear, She looks for him whose voice so dear Had come, like music, to her ear,-- Strange, mocking dream! again 'tis fled. And oh, the shoots, the pangs of dread That thro' her inmost bosom 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 glare Not 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 light The mandrake's charnel leaves at night.[258] How shall she bear that voice's tone, At whose loud battle-cry alone Whole squadrons oft in panic ran, Scattered like some vast caravan, When stretched 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 brow Is flashing o'er her fiercely now: And shuddering as she hears the tread Of his retiring warrior band.-- Never was pause full of dread; Till HAFED with a trembling hand Took hers and leaning o'er her said, "HINDA;"--that word was all he spoke. And 'twas enough--the shriek that broke From her full bosom told the rest.-- Panting with terror, joy, surprise, The maid but lifts her wandering 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, mild And glorious as when first he smiled In her lone tower and left such beams Of his pure eye to light her dreams, That she believed her bower had given Rest to some wanderer from heaven!

Moments there are, and this was one, Snatched like a minute's gleam of sun Amid the black Simoom's eclipse-- Or like those verdant spots that bloom Around the crater's burning lips. Sweetening the very edge of doom! The past, the future--all that Fate Can bring of dark or desperate Around such hours but makes them cast Intenser radiance while they last! Even he, this youth--tho' dimmed and gone Each Star of Hope that cheered him on-- His glories lost--his cause betrayed-- IRAN, his dear-loved country, made A land of carcasses 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-- Even 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 worth All other transports known on earth. That he was loved-well, warmly loved-- Oh! in this precious hour he proved How deep, how thorough-felt the glow Of rapture kindling out of woe;-- How exquisite one single drop Of bliss thus sparkling to the top Of misery's cup--how keenly quaft, Tho' death must follow on the draught!

She too while gazing on those eyes That 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 towards the ocean flood, Where lightly o'er the illumined surge Many a fair bark that, all the day, Had lurkt 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, tho' daylight's Star Had sunk behind the hills of LAR, Were still with lingering glories bright.-- As if to grace the gorgeous West The Spirit of departing Light That eve had left his sunny vest Behind him ere he winged his flight. Never was scene so formed for love! Beneath them waves of crystal move In silent swell--Heaven 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 lay On the smooth sea hath died away Hastily to the darkening skies A glance she casts--then wildly cries "_At night_, he said--and look, 'tis near-- "Fly, fly--if yet thou lovest me, fly-- "Soon will his murderous band be here. "And I shall see thee bleed and die.-- "Hush! heardest thou not the tramp of men "Sounding from yonder fearful glen?-- "Perhaps, even now they climb the wood-- "Fly, fly--tho' 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 even to agony She clings around the wondering Chief;-- "Alas, poor wildered maid! to me "Thou owest this raving trance of grief. "Lost as I am, naught ever grew "Beneath my shade but perisht 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 vowed (tho' watching viewless o'er "Thy safety thro' 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 thro' yon valley hurled-- "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 even earth and hell unite "In league to storm this Sacred Height, "Fear nothing thou--myself, tonight, "And each o'erlooking star that dwells "Near God will be thy sentinels;-- "And ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow, "Back to thy sire"-- "To-morrow!--no"-- The maiden screamed--"Thou'lt never see "To-morrow's sun--death, death will be "The night-cry thro' each reeking tower, "Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour! "Thou art betrayed--some wretch who knew "That dreadful glen's mysterious clew- "Nay, doubt not--by yon stars, 'tis true-- "Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire; "This morning, with that smile so dire "He wears in joy he told me all "And stampt in triumph thro' our hall, "As tho' thy heart already beat "Its last life-throb beneath his feet! "Good Heaven, how little dreamed I then "His victim was my own loved youth!-- "Fly--send--let some one watch the glen-- "By all my hopes of heaven 'tis truth!"

Oh! colder than the wind that freezes Founts that but now in sunshine played, Is that congealing pang which seizes The trusting bosom, when betrayed. He felt it--deeply felt--and stood, As if the tale had frozen his blood, So mazed and motionless was he;-- Like one whom sudden spells enchant, Or some mute, marble habitant Of the still Halls of ISHMONIE![259] But soon the painful chill was o'er, And his great soul herself once more Lookt from his brow in all the rays Of 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 Fate Were shining in those awful eyes! 'Tis come--his hour of martyrdom In IRAN'S sacred cause is come; And tho' his life hath past away Like lightning on a stormy day, Yet shall his death-hour leave a track Of glory permanent and bright To which the brave of after-times, The suffering brave, shall long look back With proud regret,--and by its light Watch thro' the hours of slavery's night For vengeance on the oppressor's crimes. This rock, his monument aloft, Shall speak the tale to many an age; And hither bards and heroes oft Shall come in secret pilgrimage, And bring their warrior sons and tell The wondering boys where HAFED fell; And swear them on those lone remains Of their lost country's ancient fanes, Never--while breath of life shall live Within them--never to forgive The accursed race whose ruthless chain Hath left on IRAN'S neck a stain Blood, blood alone can cleanse again!

Such are the swelling thoughts that now Enthrone themselves on HAFED'S brow; And ne'er did Saint of ISSA [260] gaze On the red wreath for martyrs twined. More proudly than the youth surveys That pile which thro' the gloom behind, Half lighted by the altar's fire, Glimmers--his destined funeral pyre! Heaped 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 death The few still left of those who swore To 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 bed For their own infant Prophet spread, When pitying Heaven to roses turned The death-flames that beneath him burned![261]

With watchfulness the maid attends His 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 adored! "If in that soul thou'st ever felt "Half what thy lips impassioned swore, "Here on my knees that never knelt "To any but their God before, "I pray thee, as thou lovest 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 sea "East--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, "Thro' good and ill, thro' 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 broke With every deep-heaved sob that came, While he, young, warm--oh! wonder not If, for a moment, pride and fame; His oath--his cause--that shrine of flame, And IRAN'S self are all forgot For her, whom at his feet he sees Kneeling in speechless agonies. No, blame him not if Hope awhile Dawned in his soul and threw her smile O'er hours to come--o'er days and nights, Winged with those precious, pure delights Which she who bends all beauteous there Was born to kindle and to share. A tear or two which as he bowed To raise the suppliant, trembling stole, First warned him of this dangerous cloud Of softness passing o'er his soul. Starting he brusht the drops away Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray;-- Like one who on the morn of fight Shakes from his sword the dews of night, That had but dimmed not stained its light.

Yet tho' subdued the unnerving thrill, Its warmth, its weakness lingered still So touching in each look and tone, That the fond, fearing, hoping maid Half counted on the flight she prayed, Half thought the hero's soul was grown As soft, as yielding as her own, And smiled and blest 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 heart If good or ill these words impart, When the roused youth impatient flew To the tower-wall, where high in view A ponderous sea-horn[262] hung, and blew A signal deep and dread as those The storm-fiend at his rising blows.-- Full well his Chieftains, sworn and true Thro' life and death, that signal knew; For 'twas the appointed warning-blast, The alarm to tell when hope was past And the tremendous death-die cast! And there upon the mouldering tower Hath hung this sea-horn many an hour, Ready to sound o'er land and sea That dirge-note of the brave and free.

They came--his Chieftains at the call Came slowly round and with them all-- Alas, how few!--the worn remains Of those who late o'er KERMAN'S plains When gayly prancing to the clash Of Moorish zel and tymbalon Catching new hope from every flash Of their long lances in the sun, And as their coursers charged the wind And the white ox-tails streamed behind,[263] Looking as if the steeds they rode Were winged and every Chief a God! How fallen, how altered now! how wan Each scarred and faded visage shone, As round the burning shrine they came;-- How deadly was the glare it cast, As mute they paused before the flame To light their torches as they past! 'Twas silence all--the youth hath planned The duties of his soldier-band; And each determined brow declares His faithful Chieftains well know theirs. But minutes speed--night gems the skies-- And oh, how soon, ye blessed eyes That look from heaven ye may behold Sights that will turn your star-fires cold! Breathless with awe, impatience, hope, The maiden sees the veteran group Her litter silently prepare, And lay it at her trembling feet;-- And now the youth with gentle care, Hath placed her in the sheltered seat And prest her hand--that lingering press Of 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 caress Gives 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 sun-bright deep, "Far off, I'll but remember this, "As some dark vanisht dream of sleep; "And thou"--but ah!--he answers not-- Good Heaven!--and does she go alone? She now has reached that dismal spot, Where some hours since his voice's tone Had come to soothe her fears and ills, Sweet as the angel ISRAFIL'S,[264] When every leaf on Eden's tree Is 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 way In wild lamentings that would touch A heart of stone she shrieked his name To the dark woods--no HAFED came:-- No--hapless pair--you've lookt 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 fixt and feverish eyes The 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 consigned The corse of one loved 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 glen From the land-side it comes and loud Rings thro' the chasm, as if the crowd Of fearful things that haunt that dell Its Ghouls and Divs and shapes of hell, And 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 "Enfranchised thro' yon starry dome, "Rejoice--for souls of kindred fire "Are on the wing to join your choir!" He said--and, light as bridegrooms bound To their young loves, reclined the steep And gained the Shrine--his Chiefs 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 echoings Peal thro' the chasm--oh! who that then Had seen those listening warrior-men, With their swords graspt, their eyes of flame Turned on their Chief--could doubt the shame, The indignant shame with which they thrill To 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 scornest the inglorious sacrifice. "No--tho' 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 Gheber's bloody glen, "Follow, brave hearts!--this pile remains "Our refuge still from life and chains; "But his the best, the holiest bed, "Who sinks entombed in Moslem dead!"

Down the precipitous rocks they sprung, While vigor more than human strung Each arm and heart.--The exulting foe Still thro' the dark defiles below, Trackt by his torches' lurid fire, Wound slow, as thro' GOLCONDA'S vale The mighty serpent in his ire Glides on with glittering, deadly trail. No torch the Ghebers need--so well They know each mystery of the dell, So oft have in their wanderings Crost the wild race that round them dwell, The very tigers from their delves Look out and let them pass as things Untamed and fearless like themselves!

There was a deep ravine that lay Yet darkling in the Moslem's way; Fit spot to make invaders rue The many fallen before the few. The torrents from that morning's sky Had filled the narrow chasm breast-high, And on each side aloft and wild Huge cliffs and toppling crags were piled,-- The guards with which young Freedom lines The pathways to her mountain-shrines, Here at this pass the scanty band; Of IRAN'S last avengers stand; Here wait in silence like the dead And listen for the Moslem's tread So anxiously the carrion-bird Above them flaps his wing unheard!

They come--that plunge into the water Gives signal for the work of slaughter. Now, Ghebers, now--if e'er your blades Had point or prowess prove them now-- Woe to the file that foremost wades! They come--a falchion greets each brow, And as they tumble trunk on trunk Beneath the gory waters sunk, Still o'er their drowning bodies press New victims quick and numberless; Till scarce an arm in HAFED'S band, So fierce their toil, hath power to stir, But listless from each crimson hand The sword hangs clogged with massacre. Never was horde of tyrants met With bloodier welcome--never yet To patriot vengeance hath the sword More terrible libations poured!

All up the dreary, long ravine, By the red, murky glimmer seen Of half-quenched brands, that o'er the flood Lie scattered round and burn in blood, What ruin glares! what carnage swims! Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs, Lost swords that dropt from many a hand, In that thick pool of slaughter stand;-- Wretches who wading, half on fire From the tost brands that round them fly, 'Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire;-- And some who grasp by those that die Sink woundless with them, smothered o'er In their dead brethren's gushing gore!

But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed, Still hundreds, thousands more succeed; Countless as toward some flame at night The North's dark insects wing their flight And quench or perish in its light, To this terrific spot they pour-- Till, bridged 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 sacrifice Is smoking in their vengeful eyes;-- Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew. And burned with shame to find how few.

Crusht 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 back Towards the high towers his gory track; And as a lion swept away By sudden swell of JORDAN'S pride From the wild covert where he lay,[265] Long battles with the 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 escaped--guide, torches gone-- By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost, The scattered 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 Ghebers went!" Vain wish--confusedly along They rush more desperate as more wrong: Till wildered by the far-off lights, Yet glittering up those gloomy heights, Their footing mazed and lost they miss, And down the darkling precipice Are dasht into the deep abyss; Or midway hang impaled on rocks, A banquet yet alive for flocks Of ravening vultures,--while the dell Re-echoes with each horrible yell. Those sounds--the last, to vengeance dear. That e'er shall ring in HAFED'S ear,-- Now reached him as aloft alone Upon the steep way breathless thrown, He lay beside his reeking blade, Resigned, 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 beam Now broke across his dizzy dream Of pain and weariness--'twas she, His heart's pure planet shining yet Above the waste of memory When all life's other lights were set. And never to his mind before Her image such enchantment wore. It seemed as if each thought that stained, Each fear that chilled their loves was past, And not one cloud of earth remained Between him and her radiance cast;-- As if to charms, before so bright, New grace from other worlds was given. And his soul saw her by the light Now breaking o'er itself from heaven!

A voice spoke near him--'twas the tone Of a loved friend, the only one Of all his warriors left with life From 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 roused the last remains Of life within him:--"What! not yet "Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!"

The thought could make even Death forget His icy bondage:--with a bound He springs all bleeding from the ground And grasps his comrade's arm now grown Even feebler, heavier than his own. And up the painful pathway leads, Death gaining on each step he treads. Speed them, thou God, who heardest their vow! They mount--they bleed--oh save them now-- The crags are red they've clambered o'er, The rock-weed's dripping with their gore;-- Thy blade too, HAFED, false at length, How breaks beneath thy tottering strength! Haste, haste--the voices of the Foe Come near and nearer from below-- One effort more--thank Heaven! 'tis past, They've gained 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 falls Dead 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 seems Not of this world uplifts the frame Of the fallen Chief and toward the flame Bears him along; with death-damp hand The corpse upon the pyre he lays, Then lights the consecrated brand And fires the pile whose sudden blaze Like lightning bursts o'er OMAN'S Sea.-- "Now, Freedom's God! I come to Thee," The youth exclaims and with a smile Of triumph vaulting on the pile, In that last effort ere the fires Have harmed one glorious limb expires!

What shriek was that on OMAN'S tide? It came from yonder drifting bark, That just hath caught upon her side The death-light--and again is dark. It is the boat--ah! why delayed?-- That bears the wretched Moslem maid; Confided to the watchful care Of a small veteran band with whom Their generous Chieftain would not share The secret of his final doom, But hoped when HINDA safe and free Was rendered to her father's eyes, Their pardon full and prompt would be The ransom of so dear a prize.-- Unconscious thus of HAFED'S fate, And proud to guard their beauteous freight, Scarce had they cleared the surfy waves That 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 rockt along the whispering tide; While every eye in mute dismay Was toward that fatal mountain turned. Where the dim altar's quivering ray As yet all lone and tranquil burned.

Oh! 'tis not, HINDA, in the power Of Fancy's most terrific touch To paint thy pangs in that dread hour-- Thy silent agony--'twas such As those who feel could paint too well, But none e'er felt and lived to tell! 'Twas not alone the dreary state Of a lorn spirit crusht by fate, When tho' no more remains to dread The panic chill will not depart;-- When tho' 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 found Alive when all's congealed around. But there's a blank repose in this, A calm stagnation, that were bliss To the keen, burning, harrowing pain, Now felt thro' all thy breast and brain;-- That spasm of terror, mute, intense, That breathless, agonized suspense From whose hot throb whose deadly aching, The heart hath no relief but breaking!

Calm is the wave--heaven's brilliant lights Reflected dance beneath the prow;-- Time was when on such lovely nights She who is there so desolate now Could sit all cheerful tho' alone And ask no happier joy than seeing That starlight o'er the waters thrown-- No joy but that to make her blest, And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being Which 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! again The yell of havoc rings--brave men! In vain with beating hearts ye stand On 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 scattered death Even now this night himself must die! Well may ye look to yon dim tower, And ask and wondering guess what means The battle-cry at this dead hour-- Ah! she could tell you--she who leans Unheeded 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 toward the Shrine All eyes are turned--thine, HINDA, thine Fix their last fading life-beams there. 'Twas but a moment--fierce and high The death-pile blazed into the sky And far-away o'er rock and flood Its melancholy radiance sent: While HAFED like a vision stood Revealed before the burning pyre. Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of fire Shrined 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 fixt her dying gaze, And gazing sunk into the wave.-- Deep, deep,--where never care or pain Shall 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[266] o'er a summer lute blowing, And husht all its music and withered its frame!

But long upon ARABY'S green sunny highlands Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands With naught but the sea-star[267] 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, The happiest there from their pastime returning At sunset will weep when thy story is told.

The young village-maid when with flowers she dresses Her 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, beloved of her Hero! forget thee-- Tho' tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee, Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell--be it ours to embellish thy pillow With everything beauteous that grows in the deep; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept;[268] With many a shell in whose hollow-wreathed 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[269] are sparkling And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

Farewell--farewell!--Until Pity's sweet fountain Is 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.

The singular placidity with which FADLADEEN had listened during the latter part of this obnoxious story surprised the Princess and FERAMORZ exceedingly; and even inclined towards him the hearts of these unsuspicious young persons who little knew the source of a complacency so marvellous. The truth was he had been organizing for the last few days a most notable plan of persecution against the poet in consequence of some passages that had fallen from him on the second evening of recital,--which appeared to this worthy Chamberlain to contain language and principles for which nothing short of the summary criticism of the Chabuk[270] would be advisable. It was his intention therefore immediately on their arrival at Cashmere to give information to the King of Bucharia of the very dangerous sentiments of his minstrel; and if unfortunately that monarch did not act with suitable vigor on the occasion, (that is, if he did not give the Chabuk to FERAMORZ and a place to FADLADEEN.) there would be an end, he feared, of all legitimate government in Bucharia. He could not help however auguring better both for himself and the cause of potentates in general; and it was the pleasure arising from these mingled anticipations that diffused such unusual satisfaction through his features and made his eyes shine out like poppies of the desert over the wide and lifeless wilderness of that countenance.

Having decided upon the Poet's chastisement in this manner he thought it but humanity to spare him the minor tortures of criticism. Accordingly when they assembled the following evening in the pavilion and LALLA ROOKH was expecting to see all the beauties of her bard melt away one by one in the acidity of criticism, like pearls in the cup of the Egyptian queen.-- he agreeably disappointed her by merely saying with an ironical smile that the merits of such a poem deserved to be tried at a much higher tribunal; and then suddenly passed off into a panegyric upon all Mussulman sovereigns, more particularly his august and Imperial master, Aurungzebe, --the wisest and best of the descendants of Timur,--who among other great things he had done for mankind had given to him, FADLADEEN, the very profitable posts of Betel-carrier and Taster of Sherbets to the Emperor, Chief Holder of the Girdle of Beautiful Forms,[271] and Grand Nazir or Chamberlain of the Haram.

They were now not far from that Forbidden River[272] beyond which no pure Hindoo can pass, and were reposing for a time in the rich valley of Hussun Abdaul, which had always been a favorite resting-place of the Emperors in their annual migrations to Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the Faith, Jehan-Guire, been known to wander with his beloved and beautiful Nourmahal, and here would LALLA ROOKH have been happy to remain for ever, giving up the throne of Bucharia and the world for FERAMORZ and love in this sweet, lonely valley. But the time was now fast approaching when she must see him no longer,--or, what was still worse, behold him with eyes whose every look belonged to another, and there was a melancholy preciousness in these last moments, which made her heart cling to them as it would to life. During the latter part of the journey, indeed, she had sunk into a deep sadness from which nothing but the presence of the young minstrel could awake her. Like those lamps in tombs which only light up when the air is admitted, it was only at his approach that her eyes became smiling and animated. But here in this dear valley every moment appeared an age of pleasure; she saw him all day and was therefore all day happy,-- resembling, she often thought, that people of Zinge[273] who attribute the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly over their heads.[274]

The whole party indeed seemed in their liveliest mood during the few days they passed in this delightful solitude. The young attendants of the Princess who were here allowed a much freer range than they could safely be indulged with in a less sequestered place ran wild among the gardens and bounded through the meadows lightly as young roes over the aromatic plains of Tibet. While FADLADEEN, in addition to the spiritual comfort derived by him from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Saint from whom the valley is named, had also opportunities of indulging in a small way his taste for victims by putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate little lizards,[275] which all pious Mussulmans make it a point to kill;-- taking for granted that the manner in which the creature hangs its head is meant as a mimicry of the attitude in which the Faithful say their prayers.

About two miles from Hussun Abdaul were those Royal Gardens which had grown beautiful under the care of so many lovely eyes, and were beautiful still though those eyes could see them no longer. This place, with its flowers and its holy silence interrupted only by the dipping of the wings of birds in its marble basins filled with the pure water of those hills, was to LALLA ROOKH all that her heart could fancy of fragrance, coolness, and almost heavenly tranquillity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, "it was too delicious;"[276]--and here in listening to the sweet voice of FERAMORZ or reading in his eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the most exquisite moments of her whole life were passed. One evening when they had been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal, the Light of the Haram, [277] who had so often wandered among these flowers, and fed with her own hands in those marble basins the small shining fishes of which she was so fond,--the youth in order to delay the moment of separation proposed to recite a short story or rather rhapsody of which this adored Sultana was the heroine. It related, he said, to the reconcilement of a sort of lovers' quarrel which took place between her and the Emperor during a Feast of Roses at Cashmere; and would remind the Princess of that difference between Haroun-al-Raschid and his fair mistress Marida, which was so happily made up by the soft strains of the musician Moussali. As the story was chiefly to be told in song and FERAMORZ had unluckily forgotten his own lute in the valley, he borrowed the vina of LALLA ROOKH'S little Persian slave, and thus began:--

THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM.

Who has not heard of the Vale of CASHMERE, With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,[278] Its temples and grottos and fountains as clear As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?

Oh! to see it at sunset,--when warm o'er the Lake Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws, Like a bride full of blushes when lingering to take A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!-- When the shrines thro' the foliage are gleaming half shown, And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells, Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging, And here at the altar a zone of sweet bells Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.[279] Or to see it by moonlight when mellowly shines The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines, When the water-falls gleam like a quick fall of stars And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet.-- Or at morn when the magic of daylight awakes A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks, Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one Out of darkness as if but just born of the Sun. When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away; And the wind full of wantonness wooes like a lover The young aspen-trees,[280] till they tremble all over. When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes, And day with his banner of radiance unfurled Shines in thro' the mountainous portal[281] that opes, Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world!

But never yet by night or day, In dew of spring or summer's ray, Did the sweet Valley shine so gay As now it shines--all love and light, Visions by day and feasts by night! A happier smile illumes each brow; With quicker spread each heart uncloses, And all is ecstasy--for now The Valley holds its Feast of Roses;[282] The joyous Time when pleasures pour Profusely round and in their shower Hearts open like the Season's Rose,-- The Floweret of a hundred leaves[283] Expanding while the dew-fall flows And every leaf its balm receives.

'Twas when the hour of evening came Upon the Lake, serene and cool, When day had hid his sultry flame Behind the palms of BARAMOULE, When maids began to lift their heads. Refresht from their embroidered beds Where they had slept the sun away, And waked to moonlight and to play. All were abroad:--the busiest hive On BELA'S[284] hills is less alive When saffron-beds are full in flower, Than lookt the Valley in that hour. A thousand restless torches played Thro' every grove and island shade; A thousand sparkling lamps were set On every dome and minaret; And fields and pathways far and near Were lighted by a blaze so clear That you could see in wandering round The smallest rose-leaf on the ground, Yet did the maids and matrons leave Their veils at home, that brilliant eve; And there were glancing eyes about And cheeks that would not dare shine out In open day but thought they might Look lovely then, because 'twas night. And all were free and wandering And all exclaimed to all they met, That never did the summer bring So gay a Feast of Roses yet;-- The moon had never shed a light So clear as that which blest them there; The roses ne'er shone half so bright, Nor they themselves lookt half so fair.

And what a wilderness of flowers! It seemed as tho' from all the bowers And fairest fields of all the year, The mingled spoil were scattered here. The lake too like a garden breathes With the rich buds that o'er it lie,-- As if a shower of fairy wreaths Had fallen upon it from the sky! And then the sounds of joy,--the beat Of tabors and of dancing feet;-- The minaret-crier's chant of glee Sung from his lighted gallery,[285] And answered by a ziraleet From neighboring Haram, wild and sweet;-- The merry laughter echoing From gardens where the silken swing[286] Wafts some delighted girl above The top leaves of the orange-grove; Or from those infant groups at play Among the tents[287] that line the way, Flinging, unawed by slave or mother, Handfuls of roses at each other.-- Then the sounds from the Lake,--the low whispering in boats, As they shoot thro' the moonlight,--the dipping of oars And the wild, airy warbling that everywhere floats Thro' the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores Like those of KATHAY uttered music and gave An answer in song to the kiss on each wave.[288] But the gentlest of all are those sounds full of feeling That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing,-- Some lover who knows all the heart-touching power Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour. Oh! best of delights as it everywhere is To be near the loved _One_,--what a rapture is his Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide O'er the Lake of CASHMERE with that _One_ by his side!

If woman can make the worst wilderness dear, Think, think what a Heaven she must make of CASHMERE!

So felt the magnificent Son of ACBAR, When from power and pomp and the trophies of war He flew to that Valley forgetting them all With the Light of the HARAM, his young NOURMAHAL. When free and uncrowned as the Conqueror roved By the banks of that Lake with his only beloved He saw in the wreaths she would playfully snatch From the hedges a glory his crown could not match, And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curled Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world.

There's a beauty for ever unchangingly bright, Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day's light, Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. This _was_ not the beauty--oh, nothing like this That to young NOURMAHAL gave such magic of bliss! But that loveliness ever in motion which plays Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes; Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heaven in his dreams. When pensive it seemed as if that very grace, That charm of all others, was born with her face! And when angry,--for even in the tranquillest climes Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes-- The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken New beauty like flowers that are sweetest when shaken. If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eye At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, From the depth of whose shadow like holy revealings From innermost shrines came the light of her feelings. Then her mirth--oh! 'twas sportive as ever took wing From the heart with a burst like the wild-bird in spring; Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages, Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages.[289] While her laugh full of life, without any control But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul; And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brightened all over,-- Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon When it breaks into dimples and, laughs in the sun. Such, such were the peerless enchantments that gave NOURMAHAL the proud Lord of the East for her slave: And tho' bright was his Haram,--a living parterre Of the flowers[290] of this planet--tho' treasures were there, For which SOLIMAN'S self might have given all the store That the navy from OPHIR e'er winged to his shore, Yet dim before _her_ were the smiles of them all And the Light of his Haram was young NOURMAHAL!

But where is she now, this night of joy, When bliss is every heart's employ?-- When all around her is so bright, So like the visions of a trance, That one might think, who came by chance Into the vale this happy night, He saw that City of Delight[291] In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers Are made of gems and light and flowers! Where is the loved Sultana? where, When mirth brings out the young and fair, Does she, the fairest, hide her brow In melancholy stillness now?

Alas!--how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love! Hearts that the world in vain had tried And sorrow but more closely tied; That stood the storm when waves were rough Yet in a sunny hour fall off, Like ships that have gone down at sea When heaven was all tranquillity! A something light as air--a look, A word unkind or wrongly taken-- Oh! love that tempests never shook, A breath, a touch like this hath shaken.

And ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words begin; And eyes forget the gentle ray They wore in courtship's smiling day; And voices lose the tone that shed A tenderness round all they said; Till fast declining one by one The sweetnesses of love are gone, And hearts so lately mingled seem Like broken clouds,--or like the stream That smiling left the mountain's brow As tho' its waters ne'er could sever, Yet ere it reach the plain below, Breaks into floods that part for ever.

Oh, you that have the charge of Love, Keep him in rosy bondage bound, As in the Fields of Bliss above He sits with flowerets fettered round;-- Loose not a tie that round him clings. Nor ever let him use his wings; For even an hour, a minute's flight Will rob the plumes of half their light. Like that celestial bird whose nest Is found beneath far Eastern skies, Whose wings tho' radiant when at rest Lose all their glory when he flies![292]

Some difference of this dangerous kind,-- By which, tho' light, the links that bind The fondest hearts may soon be riven; Some shadow in Love's summer heaven, Which, tho' a fleecy speck at first May yet in awful thunder burst;-- Such cloud it is that now hangs over The heart of the Imperial Lover, And far hath banisht from his sight His NOURMAHAL, his Haram's Light! Hence is it on this happy night When Pleasure thro' the fields and groves Has let loose all her world of loves And every heart has found its own He wanders joyless and alone And weary as that bird of Thrace Whose pinion knows no resting place.[293]

In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes This Eden of the Earth supplies Come crowding round--the cheeks are pale, The eyes are dim:--tho' rich the spot With every flower this earth has got What is it to the nightingale If there his darling rose is not?[294] In vain the Valley's smiling throng Worship him as he moves along; He heeds them not--one smile of hers Is worth a world of worshippers. They but the Star's adorers are, She is the Heaven that lights the Star!

Hence is it too that NOURMAHAL, Amid the luxuries of this hour, Far from the joyous festival Sits in her own sequestered bower, With no one near to soothe or aid, But that inspired and wondrous maid, NAMOUNA, the Enchantress;--one O'er whom his race the golden sun For unremembered years has run, Yet never saw her blooming brow Younger or fairer than 'tis now. Nay, rather,--as the west wind's sigh Freshens the flower it passes by,-- Time's wing but seemed in stealing o'er To leave her lovelier than before. Yet on her smiles a sadness hung, And when as oft she spoke or sung Of other worlds there came a light From her dark eyes so strangely bright That all believed nor man nor earth Were conscious of NAMOUNA'S birth! All spells and talismans she knew, From the great Mantra,[295] which around The Air's sublimer Spirits drew, To the gold gems[296] of AFRIC, bound Upon the wandering Arab's arm To keep him from the Siltim's[297] harm. And she had pledged her powerful art,-- Pledged it with all the zeal and heart Of one who knew tho' high her sphere, What 'twas to lose a love so dear,-- To find some spell that should recall Her Selim's[298] smile to NOURMAHAL!

'Twas midnight--thro' the lattice wreathed With woodbine many a perfume breathed From plants that wake when others sleep. From timid jasmine buds that keep Their odor to themselves all day But when the sunlight dies away Let the delicious secret out To every breeze that roams about;-- When thus NAMOUNA:--"'Tis the hour "That scatters spells on herb and flower, "And garlands might be gathered now, "That twined around the sleeper's brow "Would make him dream of such delights, "Such miracles and dazzling sights "As Genii of the Sun behold "At evening from their tents of gold "Upon the horizon--where they play "Till twilight comes and ray by ray "Their sunny mansions melt away. "Now too a chaplet might be wreathed "Of buds o'er which the moon has breathed, "Which worn by her whose love has strayed "Might bring some Peri from the skies, "Some sprite, whose very soul is made "Of flowerets' breaths and lovers' sighs, "And who might tell"-- "For me, for me," Cried NOURMAHAL impatiently,-- "Oh! twine that wreath for me to-night." Then rapidly with foot as light As the young musk-roe's out she flew To cull each shining leaf that grew Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams. Anemones and Seas of Gold,[299] And new-blown lilies of the river, And those sweet flowerets that unfold Their buds on CAMADEVA'S quiver;[300]-- The tuberose, with her silvery light, That in the Gardens of Malay Is called the Mistress of the Night,[301] So like a bride, scented and bright, She comes out when the sun's away:-- Amaranths such as crown the maids That wander thro' ZAMARA'S shades;[302]-- And the white moon-flower as it shows, On SERENDIB'S high crags to those Who near the isle at evening sail, Scenting her clove-trees in the gale; In short all flowerets and all plants, From the divine Amrita tree[303] That blesses heaven's habitants With fruits of immortality, Down to the basil tuft[304] that waves Its fragrant blossom over graves, And to the humble rosemary Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed To scent the desert[305]and the dead:-- All in that garden bloom and all Are gathered by young NOURMAHAL, Who heaps her baskets with the flowers And leaves till they can hold no more; Then to NAMOUNA flies and showers Upon her lap the shining store. With what delight the Enchantress views So many buds bathed with the dews And beams of that blest hour!--her glance Spoke something past all mortal pleasures, As in a kind of holy trance She hung above those fragrant treasures, Bending to drink their balmy airs, As if she mixt her soul with theirs. And 'twas indeed the perfume shed From flowers and scented flame that fed Her charmed life--for none had e'er Beheld her taste of mortal fare, Nor ever in aught earthly dip, But the morn's dew, her roseate lip. Filled with the cool, inspiring smell, The Enchantress now begins her spell, Thus singing as she winds and weaves In mystic form the glittering leaves:--

I know where the winged visions dwell That around the night-bed play; I know each herb and floweret's bell, Where they hide their wings by day. Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The image of love that nightly flies To visit the bashful maid, Steals from the jasmine flower that sighs Its soul like her in the shade. The dream of a future, happier hour That alights on misery's brow, Springs out of the silvery almond-flower That blooms on a leafless bough.[306] Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The visions that oft to worldly eyes The glitter of mines unfold Inhabit the mountain-herb[307] that dyes The tooth of the fawn like gold. The phantom shapes--oh touch not them-- That appal the murderer's sight, Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem, That shrieks when pluckt at night! Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The dream of the injured, patient mind That smiles at the wrongs of men Is found in the bruised and wounded rind Of the cinnamon, sweetest then. Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

No sooner was the flowery crown Placed on her head than sleep came down, Gently as nights of summer fall, Upon the lids of NOURMAHAL;-- And suddenly a tuneful breeze As full of small, rich harmonies As ever wind that o'er the tents Of AZAB[308] blew was full of scents, Steals on her ear and floats and swells Like the first air of morning creeping Into those wreathy, Red-Sea shells Where Love himself of old lay sleeping;[309] And now a Spirit formed, 'twould seem, Of music and of light,--so fair, So brilliantly his features beam, And such a sound is in the air Of sweetness when he waves his wings,-- Hovers around her and thus sings:

From CHINDARA'S[310] warbling fount I come, Called by that moonlight garland's spell; From CHINDARA'S fount, my fairy home, Wherein music, morn and night, I dwell. Where lutes in the air are heard about And voices are singing the whole day long, And every sigh the heart breathes out Is turned, as it leaves the lips, to song! Hither I come From my fairy home, And if there's a magic in Music's strain I swear by the breath Of that moonlight wreath Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

For mine is the lay that lightly floats And mine are the murmuring, dying notes That fall as soft as snow on the sea And melt in the heart as instantly:-- And the passionate strain that, deeply going, Refines the bosom it trembles thro' As the musk-wind over the water blowing Ruffles the wave but sweetens it too.

Mine is the charm whose mystic sway The Spirits of past Delight obey;-- Let but the tuneful talisman sound, And they come like Genii hovering round. And mine is the gentle song that bears From soul to soul the wishes of love, As a bird that wafts thro' genial airs The cinnamon-seed from grove to grove.[311]

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure The past, the present and future of pleasure; When Memory links the tone that is gone With the blissful tone that's still in the ear; And Hope from a heavenly note flies on To a note more heavenly still that is near.

The warrior's heart when touched by me, Can as downy soft and as yielding be As his own white plume that high amid death Thro' the field has shone--yet moves with a breath! And oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten. When Music has reached her inward soul, Like the silent stars that wink and listen While Heaven's eternal melodies roll. So hither I come From my fairy home, And if there's a magic in Music's strain, I swear by the breath Of that moonlight wreath Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

'Tis dawn--at least that earlier dawn Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,[312] As if the morn had waked, and then Shut close her lids of light again. And NOURMAHAL is up and trying The wonders of her lute whose strings-- Oh, bliss!--now murmur like the sighing From that ambrosial Spirit's wings. And then her voice--'tis more than human-- Never till now had it been given To lips of any mortal woman To utter notes so fresh from heaven; Sweet as the breath of angel sighs When angel sighs are most divine.-- "Oh! let it last till night," she cries, "And he is more than ever mine."

And hourly she renews the lay, So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness Should ere the evening fade away,-- For things so heavenly have such fleetness! But far from fading it but grows Richer, diviner as it flows; Till rapt she dwells on every string And pours again each sound along, Like echo, lost and languishing, In love with her own wondrous song.

That evening, (trusting that his soul Might be from haunting love released By mirth, by music and the bowl,) The Imperial SELIM held a feast In his magnificent Shalimar:[313]-- In whose Saloons, when the first star Of evening o'er the waters trembled, The Valley's loveliest all assembled; All the bright creatures that like dreams Glide thro' its foliage and drink beams Of beauty from its founts and streams;[314] And all those wandering minstrel-maids, Who leave--how _can_ they leave?--the shades Of that dear Valley and are found Singing in gardens of the South[315] Those songs that ne'er so sweetly sound As from a young Cashmerian's mouth.

There too the Haram's inmates smile;-- Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair, And from the Garden of the NILE, Delicate as the roses there;[316]-- Daughters of Love from CYPRUS rocks, With Paphian diamonds in their locks;[317]-- Light PERI forms such as there are On the gold Meads of CANDAHAR;[318] And they before whose sleepy eyes In their own bright Kathaian bowers Sparkle such rainbow butterflies That they might fancy the rich flowers That round them in the sun lay sighing Had been by magic all set flying.[319]

Every thing young, every thing fair From East and West is blushing there, Except--except--oh, NOURMAHAL! Thou loveliest, dearest of them all, The one whose smile shone out alone, Amidst a world the only one; Whose light among so many lights Was like that star on starry nights, The seaman singles from the sky, To steer his bark for ever by! Thou wert not there--so SELIM thought, And every thing seemed drear without thee; But, ah! thou wert, thou wert,--and brought Thy charm of song all fresh about thee, Mingling unnoticed with a band Of lutanists from many a land, And veiled by such a mask as shades The features of young Arab maids,[320]-- A mask that leaves but one eye free, To do its best in witchery,-- She roved with beating heart around And waited trembling for the minute When she might try if still the sound Of her loved lute had magic in it.

The board was spread with fruits and wine, With grapes of gold, like those that shine On CASBIN hills;[321]--pomegranates full Of melting sweetness, and the pears, And sunniest apples[322] that CAUBUL In all its thousand gardens[323] bears;-- Plantains, the golden and the green, MALAYA'S nectared mangusteen;[324] Prunes of BOCKHARA, and sweet nuts From the far groves of SAMARCAND, And BASRA dates, and apricots, Seed of the Sun,[325] from IRAN'S land;-- With rich conserve of Visna cherries,[326] Of orange flowers, and of those berries That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles Feed on in ERAC's rocky dells.[327] All these in richest vases smile, In baskets of pure santal-wood, And urns of porcelain from that isle[328] Sunk underneath the Indian flood, Whence oft the lucky diver brings Vases to grace the halls of kings. Wines too of every clime and hue Around their liquid lustre threw; Amber Rosolli,[329]--the bright dew From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing;[330] And SHIRAZ wine that richly ran As if that jewel large and rare, The ruby for which KUBLAI-KHAN Offered a city's wealth,[331] was blushing Melted within the goblets there!

And amply SELIM quaffs of each, And seems resolved the flood shall reach His inward heart,--shedding around A genial deluge, as they run, That soon shall leave no spot undrowned For Love to rest his wings upon. He little knew how well the boy Can float upon a goblet's streams, Lighting them with his smile of joy;-- As bards have seen him in their dreams, Down the blue GANGES laughing glide Upon a rosy lotus wreath,[332] Catching new lustre from the tide That with his image shone beneath.

But what are cups without the aid Of song to speed them as they flow? And see--a lovely Georgian maid With all the bloom, the freshened glow Of her own country maidens' looks, When warm they rise from Teflis' brooks;[333] And with an eye whose restless ray Full, floating, dark--oh, he, who knows His heart is weak, of Heaven should pray To guard him from such eyes as those!-- With a voluptuous wildness flings Her snowy hand across the strings Of a syrinda[334] and thus sings:--

Come hither, come hither--by night and by day, We linger in pleasures that never are gone; Like the waves of the summer as one dies away Another as sweet and as shining comes on. And the love that is o'er, in expiring gives birth To a new one as warm, as unequalled in bliss; And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.[335]

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh As the flower of the Amra just oped by a bee;[336] And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,[337] Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss, And own if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.

Here sparkles the nectar that hallowed by love Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere, Who for wine of this earth[338] left the fountains above, And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have here. And, blest with the odor our goblet gives forth, What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss? For, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.

The Georgian's song was scarcely mute, When the same measure, sound for sound, Was caught up by another lute And so divinely breathed around That all stood husht and wondering, And turned and lookt into the air, As if they thought to see the wing Of ISRAFIL[339] the Angel there;-- So powerfully on every soul That new, enchanted measure stole. While now a voice sweet as the note Of the charmed lute was heard to float Along its chords and so entwine Its sounds with theirs that none knew whether The voice or lute was most divine, So wondrously they went together:--

There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, When two that are linkt in one heavenly tie, With heart never changing and brow never cold, Love on thro' all ills and love on till they die! One hour of a passion so sacred is worth Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss; And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.

'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words, But that deep magic in the chords And in the lips that gave such power As music knew not till that hour. At once a hundred voices said, "It is the maskt Arabian maid!" While SELIM who had felt the strain Deepest of any and had lain Some minutes rapt as in a trance After the fairy sounds were o'er. Too inly touched for utterance, Now motioned with his hand for more:--

Fly to the desert, fly with me, Our Arab's tents are rude for thee; But oh! the choice what heart can doubt, Of tents with love or thrones without? Our rocks are rough, but smiling there The acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet nor loved the less For flowering in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope As gracefully and gayly springs As o'er the marble courts of kings.

Then come--thy Arab maid will be The loved and lone acacia-tree. The antelope whose feet shall bless With their light sound thy loneliness.

Oh! there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine thro' the heart,-- As if the soul that minute caught Some treasure it thro' life had sought;

As if the very lips and eyes, Predestined to have all our sighs And never be forgot again, Sparkled and spoke before us then!

So came thy every glance and tone, When first on me they breathed and shone, New as if brought from other spheres Yet welcome as if loved for years.

Then fly with me,--if thou hast known No other flame nor falsely thrown A gem away, that thou hadst sworn Should ever in thy heart be worn.

Come if the love thou hast for me Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,-- Fresh as the fountain under ground, When first 'tis by the lapwing found.[340]

But if for me thou dost forsake Some other maid and rudely break Her worshipt image from its base, To give to me the ruined place;--

Then fare thee well--I'd rather make My bower upon some icy lake When thawing suns begin to shine Than trust to love so false as thine.

There was a pathos in this lay, That, even without enchantment's art, Would instantly have found its way Deep in to SELIM'S burning heart; But breathing as it did a tone To earthly lutes and lips unknown; With every chord fresh from the touch Of Music's Spirit,--'twas too much! Starting he dasht away the cup,-- Which all the time of this sweet air His hand had held, untasted, up, As if 'twere fixt by magic there-- And naming her, so long unnamed, So long unseen, wildly exclaimed, "Oh NOURMAHAL! oh NOURMAHAL! "Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, "I could forget--forgive thee all "And never leave those eyes again."

The mask is off--the charm is wrought-- And SELIM to his heart has caught, In blushes, more than ever bright, His NOURMAHAL, his Haram's Light! And well do vanisht frowns enhance The charm of every brightened glance; And dearer seems each dawning smile For having lost its light awhile: And happier now for all her sighs As on his arm her head reposes She whispers him, with laughing eyes, "Remember, love, the Feast of Roses!"

FADLADEEN, at the conclusion of this light rhapsody, took occasion to sum up his opinion of the young Cashmerian's poetry,--of which, he trusted, they had that evening heard the last. Having recapitulated the epithets, "frivolous"--"inharmonious"--"nonsensical," he proceeded to say that, viewed in the most favorable light it resembled one of those Maldivian boats, to which the Princess had alluded in the relation of her dream,-- a slight, gilded thing, sent adrift without rudder or ballast, and with nothing but vapid sweets and faded flowers on board. The profusion, indeed, of flowers and birds, which this poet had ready on all occasions, --not to mention dews, gems, etc.--was a most oppressive kind of opulence to his hearers; and had the unlucky effect of giving to his style all the glitter of the flower garden without its method, and all the flutter of the aviary without its song. In addition to this, he chose his subjects badly, and was always most inspired by the worst parts of them. The charms of paganism, the merits of rebellion,--these were the themes honored with his particular enthusiasm; and, in the poem just recited, one of his most palatable passages was in praise of that beverage of the Unfaithful, wine;--"being, perhaps," said he, relaxing into a smile, as conscious of his own character in the Haram on this point, "one of those bards, whose fancy owes all its illumination to the grape, like that painted porcelain,[341] so curious and so rare, whose images are only visible when liquor is poured into it." Upon the whole, it was his opinion, from the specimens which they had heard, and which, he begged to say, were the most tiresome part of the journey, that--whatever other merits this well-dressed young gentleman might possess--poetry was by no means his proper avocation; "and indeed," concluded the critic, "from his fondness for flowers and for birds, I would venture to suggest that a florist or a bird-catcher is a much more suitable calling for him than a poet."

They had now begun to ascend those barren mountains, which separate Cashmere from the rest of India; and, as the heats were intolerable, and the time of their encampments limited to the few hours necessary for refreshment and repose, there was an end to all their delightful evenings, and LALLA ROOKH saw no more of FERAMORZ. She now felt that her short dream of happiness was over, and that she had nothing but the recollection of its few blissful hours, like the one draught of sweet water that serves the camel across the wilderness, to be her heart's refreshment during the dreary waste of life that was before her. The blight that had fallen upon her spirits soon found its way to her cheek, and her ladies saw with regret--though not without some suspicion of the cause--that the beauty of their mistress, of which they were almost as proud as of their own, was fast vanishing away at the very moment of all when she had most need of it. What must the King of Bucharia feel, when, instead of the lively and beautiful LALLA ROOKH, whom the poets of Delhi had described as more perfect than the divinest images in the house of AZOR,[342] he should receive a pale and inanimate victim, upon whose cheek neither health nor pleasure bloomed, and from whose eyes Love had fled,--to hide himself in her heart?

If any thing could have charmed away the melancholy of her spirits, it would have been the fresh airs and enchanting scenery of that Valley, which the Persians so justly called the Unequalled.[343] But neither the coolness of its atmosphere, so luxurious after toiling up those bare and burning mountains,--neither the splendor of the minarets and pagodas, that shone put from the depth of its woods, nor the grottoes, hermitages, and miraculous fountains,[344] which make every spot of that region holy ground,--neither the countless waterfalls, that rush into the Valley from all those high and romantic mountains that encircle it, nor the fair city on the Lake, whose houses, roofed with flowers,[345] appeared at a distance like one vast and variegated parterre;--not all these wonders and glories of the most lovely country under the sun could steal her heart for a minute from those sad thoughts which but darkened and grew bitterer every step she advanced.

The gay pomps and processions that met her upon her entrance into the Valley, and the magnificence with which the roads all along were decorated, did honor to the taste and gallantry of the young King. It was night when they approached the city, and, for the last two miles, they had passed under arches, thrown from hedge to hedge, festooned with only those rarest roses from which the Attar Gul, more precious than gold, is distilled, and illuminated in rich and fanciful forms with lanterns of the triple-colored tortoise-shell of Pegu.[346] Sometimes, from a dark wood by the side of the road, a display of fireworks would break out, so sudden and so brilliant, that a Brahmin might fancy he beheld that grove, in whose purple shade the God of Battles was born, bursting into a flame at the moment of his birth;--while, at other times, a quick and playful irradiation continued to brighten all the fields and gardens by which they passed, forming a line of dancing lights along the horizon; like the meteors of the north as they are seen by those hunters who pursue the white and blue foxes on the confines of the Icy Sea.

These arches and fireworks delighted the Ladies of the Princess exceedingly; and, with their usual good logic, they deduced from his taste for illuminations, that the King of Bucharia would make the most exemplary husband imaginable. Nor, indeed, could LALLA ROOKH herself help feeling the kindness and splendor with which the young bridegroom welcomed her;--but she also felt how painful is the gratitude which kindness from those we cannot love excites; and that their best blandishments come over the heart with all that chilling and deadly sweetness which we can fancy in the cold, odoriferous wind[347] that is to blow over this earth in the last days.

The marriage was fixed for the morning after her arrival, when she was, for the first time, to be presented to the monarch in that Imperial Palace beyond the lake, called the Shalimar. Though never before had a night of more wakeful and anxious thought been passed in the Happy Valley, yet, when she rose in the morning, and her Ladies came around her, to assist in the adjustment of the bridal ornaments, they thought they had never seen her look half so beautiful. What she had lost of the bloom and radiancy of her charms was more than made up by that intellectual expression, that soul beaming forth from the eyes, which is worth all the rest of loveliness. When they had tinged her fingers with the Henna leaf, and placed upon her brow a small coronet of jewels, of the shape worn by the ancient Queens of Bucharia, they flung over her head the rose-colored bridal veil, and she proceeded to the barge that was to convey her across the lake;--first kissing, with a mournful look, the little amulet of cornelian, which her father at parting had hung about her neck.

The morning was as fresh and fair as the maid on whose nuptials it rose, and the shining lake, all covered with boats, the minstrels playing upon the shores of the islands, and the crowded summer-houses on the green hills around, with shawls and banners waving from their roofs, presented such a picture of animated rejoicing, as only she, who was the object of it all, did not feel with transport. To LALLA ROOKH alone it was a melancholy pageant; nor could she have even borne to look upon the scene, were it not for a hope that among the crowds around, she might once more perhaps catch a glimpse of FERAMORZ. So much was her imagination haunted by this thought that there was scarcely an islet or boat she passed on the way at which her heart did not flutter with the momentary fancy that he was there. Happy, in her eyes, the humblest slave upon whom the light of his dear looks fell!--In the barge immediately after the Princess sat FADLADEEN, with his silken curtains thrown widely apart, that all might have the benefit of his august presence, and with his head full of the speech he was to deliver to the King, "concerning FERAMORZ and literature and the Chabuk as connected therewith."

They now had entered the canal which leads from the Lake to the splendid domes and saloons of the Shalimar and went gliding on through the gardens that ascended from each bank, full of flowering shrubs that made the air all perfume; while from the middle of the canal rose jets of water, smooth and unbroken, to such a dazzling height that they stood like tall pillars of diamond in the sunshine. After sailing under the arches of various saloons they at length arrived at the last and most magnificent, where the monarch awaited the coming of his bride; and such was the agitation of her heart and frame that it was with difficulty she could walk up the marble steps which were covered with cloth of gold for her ascent from the barge. At the end of the hall stood two thrones, as precious as the Cerulean Throne of Koolburga,[348] on one of which sat ALIRIS, the youthful King of Bucharia, and on the other was in a few minutes to be placed the most beautiful Princess in the world. Immediately upon the entrance of LALLA ROOKH into the saloon the monarch descended from his throne to meet her; but scarcely had he time to take her hand in his when she screamed with surprise and fainted at his feet. It was FERAMORZ, himself, who stood before her! FERAMORZ, was, himself, the Sovereign of Bucharia, who in this disguise had accompanied his young bride from Delhi, and having won her love as an humble minstrel now amply deserved to enjoy it as a King.

The consternation of FADLADEEN at this discovery was, for the moment, almost pitiable. But change of opinion is a resource too convenient in courts for this experienced courtier not to have learned to avail himself of it. His criticisms were all, of course, recanted instantly: he was seized with an admiration of the King's verses, as unbounded as, he begged him to believe, it was disinterested; and the following week saw him in possession of an additional place, swearing by all the Saints of Islam that never had there existed so great a poet as the Monarch ALIRIS, and moreover ready to prescribe his favorite regimen of the Chabuk for every man, woman and child that dared to think otherwise.

Of the happiness of the King and Queen of Bucharia, after such a beginning, there can be but little doubt; and among the lesser symptoms it is recorded of LALLA ROOKH that to the day of her death in memory of their delightful journey she never called the King by any other name than FERAMORZ.

[1] These particulars of the visit of the King of Bucharia to Aurungzebe are found in _Dow's "History of Hindostan_," vol. iii. p. 392.

[2] Tulip cheek.

[3] The mistress of Mejnoun, upon whose story so many Romances in all the languages of the East are founded.

[4] For the loves of this celebrated beauty with Khosrou and with Ferhad, see _D'Herbelot, Gibbon, Oriental Collections_, etc.

[5] "The history of the loves of Dewildé and Chizer, the son of the Emperor Alla, is written in an elegant poem, by the noble Chusero."—- _Ferishta_.

[6] Gul Reazee.

[7] "One mark of honor or knighthood bestowed by the Emperor is the permission to wear a small kettle-drum at the bows of their saddles, which at first was invented for the training of hawks, and to call them to the lure, and is worn in the field by all sportsmen to that end."--_Fryer's_ Travels. "Those on whom the King has conferred the privilege must wear an ornament of jewels on the right side of the turban, surmounted by a high plume of the feathers of a kind of egret. This bird is found only in Cashmere, and the feathers are carefully collected for the King, who bestows them on his nobles."--_Elphinstone's_ Account of Cabul.

[8] "Khedar Khan, the Khakan, or King of Turquestan beyond the Gibon (at the end of the eleventh century), whenever he appeared abroad was preceded by seven hundred horsemen with silver battle-axes, and was followed by an equal number bearing maces of gold. He was a great patron of poetry, and it was he who used to preside at public exercises of genius, with four basins of gold and silver by him to distribute among the poets who excelled."--_Richardson's_ Dissertation prefixed to his Dictionary.

[9] "The kubdeh, a large golden knob, generally in the shape of a pine- apple, on the top of the canopy over the litter or palanquin."--_Scott's_ Notes on the Bahardanush.

[10] In the Poem of Zohair, in the Moallakat, there is the following lively description of "a company of maidens seated on camels." "They are mounted in carriages covered with costly awnings, and with rose-colored veils, the linings of which have the hue of crimson Andem-wood. "When they ascend from the bosom of the vale, they sit forward on the saddlecloth, with every mark of a voluptuous gayety. "Now, When they have reached the brink of yon blue-gushing rivulet, they fix the poles of their tents like the Arab with a settled mansion."

[11] See _Bernier's_ description of the attendants on Rauchanara Begum, in her progress to Cashmere.

[12] This hypocritical Emperor would have made a worthy associate of certain Holy Leagues.--"He held the cloak of religion [says Dow] between his actions and the vulgar; and impiously thanked the Divinity for a success which he owed to his own wickedness. When he was murdering and persecuting his brothers and their families, he was building a magnificent mosque at Delhi, as an offering to God for his assistance to him in the civil wars. He acted as high priest at the consecration of this temple; and made a practice of attending divine service there, in the humble dress of a Fakeer. But when he lifted one hand to the Divinity, he, with the other, signed warrants for the assassination of his relations."--"_History of Hindostan_,". vol. iii. p.335. See also the curious letter of Aurungzebe, given in the _Oriental Collections_, vol. i. p.320.

[13] "The idol at Jaghernat has two fine diamonds for eyes. No goldsmith is suffered to enter the Pagoda, one having stole one of these eyes, being locked up all night with the Idol."--_Tavernier_.

[14] See a description of these royal Gardens in "An Account of the present State of Delhi, by Lieut. W. Franklin."--_Asiat. Research_, vol. iv. p. 417.

[15] "In the neighborhood is Notte Gill, or the Lake of Pearl, which receives this name from its pellucid water."--_Pennant's_ "Hindostan." "Nasir Jung encamped in the vicinity of the Lake of Tonoor, amused himself with sailing on that clear and beautiful water, and gave it the fanciful name of Motee Talah, 'the Lake of Pearls,' which it still retains."-- _Wilks's_ "South of India."

[16] Sir Thomas Roe, Ambassador from James I. to Jehanguire.

[17] "The romance Wemakweazra, written in Persian verse, which contains the loves of Wamak and Ezra, two celebrated lovers who lived before the time of Mahomet."--_Note on the Oriental Tales_.

[18] Their amour is recounted in the Shah-Namêh of Ferdousi; and there is much beauty in the passage which describes the slaves of Rodahver sitting on the bank of the river and throwing flowers into the stream, in order to draw the attention of the young Hero who is encamped on the opposite side.--See _Champion's_ translation.

[19] Rustam is the Hercules of the Persians. For the particulars of his victory over the Sepeed Deeve, or White Demon, see _Oriental Collections_, vol. ii. p. 45.--Near the city of Shiraz is an immense quadrangular monument, in commemoration of this combat, called the Kelaat-i-Deev Sepeed, or castle of the White Giant, which Father Angelo, in his "_Gazophilacium Persicum_," p.127, declares to have been the most memorable monument of antiquity which he had seen in Persia.--See _Ouseley's_ "Persian Miscellanies."

[20] "The women of the Idol, or dancing girls of the Pagoda, have little golden bells, fastened to their feet, the soft harmonious tinkling of which vibrates in unison with the exquisite melody of their voices."-- _Maurice's_ "Indian Antiquities."

"The Arabian courtesans, like the Indian women, have little golden bells fastened round their legs, neck, and elbows, to the sound of which they dance before the King. The Arabian princesses wear golden rings on their fingers, to which little bells are suspended, as well as in the flowing tresses of their hair, that their superior rank may be known and they themselves receive in passing the homage due to them."--See _Calmet's_ Dictionary, art. "Bells."

[21] The Indian Apollo.— "He and the three Ramas are described as youths of perfect beauty, and the princesses of Hindustan were all passionately in love with Chrishna, who continues to this hour the darling God of the Indan women."--_Sir W. Jones_, on the Gods of Greece, Italy, and India.

[22] See _Turner's_ Embassy for a description of this animal, "the most beautiful among the whole tribe of goats." The material for the shawls (which is carried to Cashmere) is found next the skin.

[23] For the real history of this Impostor, whose original name was Hakem ben Haschem, and who was called Mocanna from the veil of silver gauze (or, as others say, golden) which he always wore, see _D'Herbelot_.

[24] Khorassan signifies, in the old Persian language, Province or Region of the Sun.--_Sir W. Jones_.

[25] "The fruits of Meru are finer than those of any other place: and one cannot see in any other city such palaces with groves, and streams, and gardens."--_Ebn Haukal's_ Geography.

[26] One of the royal cities of Khorassan.

[27] Moses.

[28] Black was the color adopted by the Caliphs of the House of Abbas, in their garments, turbans, and standards.

[29] "Our dark javelins, exquisitely wrought of Khathaian reeds, slender and delicate."--_Poem of Amru_.

[30] Pichula, used anciently for arrows by the Persians.

[31] The Persians call this plant Gaz. The celebrated shaft of Isfendiar, one of their ancient heroes, was made of it.--"Nothing can be more beautiful than the appearance of this plant in flower during the rains on the banks of rivers, where it is usually interwoven with a lovely twining asclepias."--_Sir W. Jones_..

[32] The oriental plane. "The chenar is a delightful tree; its bole is of a fine white and smooth bark; and its foliage, which grows in a tuft at the summit, is of a bright green."--_Morier's Travels_..

[33] The burning fountains of Brahma near Chittogong, esteemed as holy.--_Turner_.

[34] China.

[35] "The name of tulip is said to be of Turkish extraction, and given to the flower on account of its resembling a turban."--_Beckmann_'s History of Inventions.

[36] "The inhabitants of Bucharia wear a round cloth bonnet, shaped much after the Polish fashion, having a large fur border. They tie their kaftans about the middle with a girdle of a kind of silk crape, several times round the body."--_Account of Independent Tartary, in Pinkerton's Collection_.

[37] In the war of the Caliph Mahadi against the Empress Irene, for an account of which _vide Gibbon_, vol. x.

[38] When Soliman travelled, the eastern writers say, "He had a carpet of green silk on which his throne was placed, being of a prodigious length and breadth, and sufficient for all his forces to stand upon, the men placing themselves on his right hand, and the spirits on his left; and that when all were in order, the wind, at his command, took up the carpet, and transported it, with all that were upon it, wherever he pleased; the army of birds at the same time flying over their heads, and forming a kind of canopy to shade them from the sun."--Sale's Koran, vol. ii. p. 214, note.

[39] The transmigration of souls was one of his doctrines.--_Vide D'Herbelot_..

[40] "And when we said unto the angels. Worship Adam, they all worshipped him except Eblis (Lucifer), who refused." _The. Koran_, chap. ii.

[41] Moses.

[42] Jesus.

[43] The Amu, which rises in the Belur Tag, or Dark Mountains, and running nearly from east to west, splits into two branches; one of which falls into the Caspian Sea, and the other into Aral Nahr, or the Lake of Eagles.

[44] The nightingale.

[45] The cities of Com (or Koom) and Cashan are full of mosques, mausoleums and sepulchres of the descendants of Ali, the Saints of Persia --_Chardin_..

[46] An island in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for its white wine.

[47] The miraculous well at Mecca: so called, says Sale, from the murmuring of its waters.

[48] The god Hannaman.--"Apes are in many parts of India highly venerated, out of respect to the God Hannaman, a deity partaking of the form of that race."--_Pennant's_ Hindoostan. See a curious account in _Stephen's Persia_, of a solemn embassy from some part of the Indies to Goa when the Portuguese were there, offering vast treasures for the recovery of a monkey's tooth, which they held in great veneration, and which had been taken away upon the conquest of the kingdom of Jafanapatan.

[49] A kind of lantern formerly used by robbers, called the Hand of Glory, the candle for which was made of the fat of a dead malefactor. This, however, was rather a western than an eastern superstition.

[50] The material of which images of Gaudma (the Birman Deity) are made, is held sacred. "Birmans may not purchase the marble in mass, but are suffered, and indeed encouraged, to buy figures of the Deity ready made." --_Sytnes's_ "Ava," vol. ii. p. 876.

[51] "It is commonly said in Persia, that if a man breathe in the hot south wind, which in June or July passes over that flower (the Kerzereh), it will kill him."--_Thevenot_.

[52] The humming bird is said to run this risk for the purpose of picking the crocodile's teeth. The same circumstance is related of the lapwing, as a fact to which he was witness, by _Paul Lucas, "Voyage fait en_ 1714."

The ancient story concerning the Trochilus, or humming-bird, entering with impunity into the mouth of the crocodile, is firmly believed at Java.--_Barrow's "Cochin-China_."

[53] "The feast of Lanterns celebrated at Yamtcheou with more magnificence than anywhere else! and the report goes that the illuminations there are so splendid, that an Emperor once, not daring openly to leave his Court to go thither, committed himself with the Queen and several Princesses of his family into the hands of a magician, who promised to transport them thither in a trice. He made them in the night to ascend magnificent thrones that were borne up by swans, which in a moment arrived at Yamtcheou. The Emperor saw at his leisure all the solemnity, being carried upon a cloud that hovered over the city and descended by degrees; and came back again with the same speed and equipage, nobody at court perceiving his absence."--_The Present State of China_," p. 156.

[54] "The vulgar ascribe it to an accident that happened in the family of a famous mandarin, whose daughter, walking one evening upon the shore of a lake, fell in and was drowned: this afflicted father, with his family, ran thither, and the better to find her, he caused a great company of lanterns to be lighted. All the inhabitants of the place thronged after him with torches. The year ensuing they made fires upon the shores the same day; they continued the ceremony every year, every one lighted his lantern, and by degrees it commenced into a custom."--_The Present State of China_."

[55] "Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes."--_Sol. Song_.

[56] "They tinged the ends of her fingers scarlet with Henna, so that they resembled branches of coral."--_Story of Prince Futtun in Bahardanush_.

[57] "The women blacken the inside of their eyelids with a powder named the black Kohol."--_Russell_.

"None of these ladies," says _Shaw_, "take themselves to be completely dressed, till they have tinged their hair and edges of their eyelids with the powder of lead ore. Now, as this operation is performed by dipping first into the powder a small wooden bodkin of the thickness of a quill, and then drawing it afterwards through the eyelids over the ball of the eye, we shall have a lively image of what the Prophet (Jer. iv. 30) may be supposed to mean by _rending the eyes with painting_. This practice is no doubt of great antiquity; for besides the instance already taken notice of, we find that where Jezebel is said (2 Kings ix. 30.) _to have painted her face_, the original words are, _she adjusted her eyes with the powder of lead-ore_."--_Shaw's_ Travels.

[58] "The appearance of the blossoms of the gold-colored Campac on the black hair of the Indian women has supplied the Sanscrit Poets with many elegant allusions."--See _Asiatic Researches_, vol. iv.

[59] A tree famous for its perfume, and common on the hills of Yemen.--_Niebuhr_.

[60] Of the genus mimosa "which droops its branches whenever any person approaches it, seeming as if it saluted those who retire under its shade."--_Niebuhr_.

[61] Cloves are a principal ingredient in the composition of the perfumed rods, which men of rank keep constantly burning in their presence.-- _Turner's_ "Tibet."

[62] "Thousands of variegated loories visit the coral-trees."--_Barrow_.

[63] "In Mecca there are quantities of blue pigeons, which none will affright or abuse, much less kill."--_Pitt's_ Account of the Mahometans.

[64] "The Pagoda Thrush is esteemed among the first choristers of India. It sits perched on the sacred pagodas, and from thence delivers its melodious song."--_Pennant's_ "Hindostan."

[65] _Tavernier_ adds, that while the Birds of Paradise lie in this intoxicated state, the emmets come and eat off their legs; and that hence it is they are said to have no feet.

[66] Birds of Paradise, which, at the nutmeg season, come in flights from the southern isles to India; and "the strength of the nutmeg," says _Tavernier_, "so intoxicates them that they fall dead drunk to the earth."

[67] "That bird which liveth in Arabia, and buildeth its nest with cinnamon."--_Brown's_ Vulgar Errors.

[68] "The spirits of the martyrs will be lodged in the crops of green birds."--_Gibbon_, vol. ix. p. 421.

[69] Shedad, who made the delicious gardens of Irim, in imitation of Paradise, and was destroyed by lightning the first time he attempted to enter them.

[70] "My Pandits assure me that the plant before us (the Nilica) is their Sephalica, thus named because the bees are supposed to sleep on its blossoms."--_Sir W. Jones_.

[71] They deterred it till the King of Flowers should ascend his throne of enamelled foliage."--_The Bahardanush_".

[72] "One of the head-dresses of the Persian women is composed of a light golden chain-work, set with small pearls, with a thin gold plate pendant, about the bigness of a crown-piece, on which is impressed an Arabian prayer, and which hangs upon the cheek below the ear."--_Hanway's_ Travels.

[73] "Certainly the women of Yezd are the handsomest women in Persia. The proverb is, that to live happy a man must have a wife of Yezd, eat the bread of Yezdecas, and drink the wine of Shiraz."--_Tavernier_.

[74] Musnuds are cushioned seats, usually reserved for persons of distinction.

[75] The Persians, like the ancient Greeks call their musical modes or Perdas by the names of different countries or cities, as the mode of Isfahan, the mode of Irak, etc.

[76] A river which flows near the ruins of Chilminar.

[77] "To the north of us (on the coast of the Caspian, near Badku,) was a mountain, which sparkled like diamonds, arising from the sea-glass and crystals with which it abounds."--_Journey of the Russian Ambassador to Persia_, 1746.

[78] "To which will be added, the sound of the bells, hanging on the trees, which will be put in motion by the wind proceeding from the throne of God, as often as the blessed wish for music."--_Sale_.

[79] "Whose wanton eyes resemble blue water-lilies, agitated by the breeze."--_Jayadeva_.

[80] The blue lotos, which grows in Cashmere and in Persia.

[81] It has been generally supposed that the Mahometans prohibit all pictures of animals; but _Toderini_ shows that, though the practice is forbidden by the Koran, they are not more averse to painted figures and images than other people. From Mr. Murphy's work, too, we find that the Arabs of Spain had no objection to the introduction of figures into Painting.

[82] This is not quite astronomically true. "Dr. Hadley [says Keil] has shown that Venus is brightest when she is about forty degrees removed from the sun; and that then but _only a fourth part_ of her lucid disk is to be seen from the earth."

[83] The wife of Potiphar, thus named by the Orientals. The passion which this frail beauty of antiquity conceived for her young Hebrew slave has given rise to a much esteemed poem in the Persian language, entitled _Yusef vau Zelikha_, by _Noureddin Jami;_ the manuscript copy of which, in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, is supposed to be the finest in the whole world."--_Note upon Nott's Translation of Hafez_."

[84] The particulars of Mahomet's amour with Mary, the Coptic girl, in justification of which he added a new chapter to the Koran, may be found in _Gagnier's Notes upon Abulfeda_, p. 151.

[85] "Deep blue is their mourning color." _Hanway_.

[86] The sorrowful nyctanthes, which begins to spread its rich odor after sunset.

[87] "Concerning the vipers, which Pliny says were frequent among the balsam-trees, I made very particular inquiry; several were brought me alive both to Yambo and Jidda."--_Bruce_.

[88] In the territory of Istkahar there is a kind of apple, half of which is sweet and half sour.--_Ebn Haukal_.

[89] "The place where the Whangho, a river of Tibet, rises, and where there are more than a hundred springs, which sparkle like stars; whence it is called Hotun-nor, that is, the Sea of Stars."--_Description of Tibet in Pinkerton_.

[90] "The Lescar or Imperial Camp is divided, like a regular town, into squares, alleys, and streets, and from a rising ground furnishes one of the most agreeable prospects in the world. Starting up in a few hours in an uninhabited plain, it raises the idea of a city built by enchantment. Even those who leave their houses in cities to follow the prince in his progress are frequently so charmed with the Lescar, when situated in a beautiful and convenient place, that they cannot prevail with themselves to remove. To prevent this inconvenience to the court, the Emperor, after sufficient time is allowed to the tradesmen to follow, orders them to be burnt out of their tents."--_Dow's Hindostan_.

[91] The edifices of Chilminar and Balbec are supposed to have been built by the Genii, acting under the orders of Jan ben Jan, who governed the world long before the time of Adam.

[92] "A superb camel, ornamented with strings and tufts of small shells."--_Ali Bey_.

[93] A native of Khorassan, and allured southward by means of the water of a fountain between Shiraz and Ispahan, called the Fountain of Birds, of which it is so fond that it will follow wherever that water is carried.

[94] "Some of the camels have bells about their necks, and some about their legs, like those which our carriers put about their fore-horses' necks, which together with the servants (who belong to the camels, and travel on foot), singing all night, make a pleasant noise, and the journey passes away delightfully."--_Pitt's_ Account of the Mahometans.

"The camel-driver follows the camels singing, and sometimes playing upon his pipe; the louder he sings and pipes, the faster the camels go. Nay, they will stand still when he gives over his music."--_Tavernier_.

[95] "This trumpet is often called, in Abyssinia, _nesser cano_, which signifies the Note of the Eagle."--_Note of Bruce's Editor_.

[96] The two black standards borne before the Caliphs of the House of Abbas were called, allegorically, The Night and The Shadow.--See _Gibbon_.

[97] The Mohometan religion.

[98] "The Persians swear by the Tomb of Shad Besade, who is buried at Casbin; and when one desires another to asseverate a matter he will ask him, if he dare swear by the Holy Grave."--_Struy_.

[99] Mahadi, in a single pilgrimage to Mecca, expended six millions of dinars of gold.

[100] The inhabitants of Hejaz or Arabia Petraea, called by an Eastern writer "The People of the Rock."--_Ebn Haukal_.

[101] "Those horses, called by the Arabians Kochlani, of whom a written genealogy has been kept for 2000 years. They are said to derive their origin from King Solomon's steeds."--_Niebuhr_.

[102] "Many of the figures on the blades of their swords are wrought in gold or silver, or in marquetry with small gems."--_Asiat. Misc_. v. i.

[103] Azab or Saba.

[104] "The chiefs of the Uzbek Tartars wear a plume of white heron's feathers in their turbans."--_Account of Independent Tartary_.

[105] In the mountains of Nishapour and Tous in (Khorassan) they find turquoises.--_Ebn Huukal_.

[106] The Ghebers or Guebres, those original natives of Persia, who adhered to their ancient faith, the religion of Zoroaster, and who, after the conquest of their country by the Arabs, were either persecuted at home, or forced to become wanderers abroad.

[107] "Yezd, the chief residence of those ancient natives who worship the Sun and the Fire, which latter they have carefully kept lighted, without being once extinguished for a moment, about 3000 years, on a mountain near Yezd, called Ater Quedah, signifying the House or Mansion of the Fire. He is reckoned very unfortunate who dies off that mountain."--_Stephen's Persia_.

[108] When the weather is hazy, the springs of Naphtha (on an island near Baku) boil up the higher, and the Naphtha often takes fire on the surface of the earth, and runs in a flame into the sea to a distance almost incredible."--_Hanway on the Everlasting Fire at Baku_.

[109] _Savary_ says of the south wind, which blows in Egypt from February to May, "Sometimes it appears only in the shape of an impetuous whirlwind, which passes rapidly, and is fatal to the traveller, surprised in the middle of the deserts. Torrents of burning sand roll before it, the firmament is enveloped in a thick veil, and the sun appears of the color of blood. Sometimes whole caravans are buried in it."

[110] In the great victory gained by Mahomed at Beder, he was assisted, say the Mussulmans, by three thousand angels led by Gabriel mounted on his horse Hiazum.--See _The Koran and its Commentators_.

[111] The Techir, or cry of the Arabs. "Alla Acbar!" says Ockley, means, "God is most mighty."

[112] The ziraleet is a kind of chorus, which the women of the East sing upon joyful occasions.

[113] The Dead Sea, which contains neither animal nor vegetable life.

[114] The ancient Oxus.

[115] A city of Transoxiana.

[116] "You never can cast your eyes on this tree, but you meet there either blossoms or fruit; and as the blossom drops underneath on the ground (which is frequently covered with these purple-colored flowers), others come forth in their stead," etc.--_Nieuhoff_.

[117] The Demons of the Persian mythology.

[118] Carreri mentions the fire-flies in India during the rainy season.--See his Travels.

[119] Sennacherib, called by the Orientals King of Moussal.--_D'Herbelot_.

[120] Chosroes. For the description of his Throne or Palace, see _Gibbon and D'Herbelot_.

There were said to be under this Throne or Palace of Khosrou Parviz a hundred vaults filled with "treasures so immense that some Mahometan writers tell us, their Prophet to encourage his disciples carried them to a rock which at his command opened and gave them a prospect through it of the treasures of Khosrou."--_Universal History_.

[121] "The crown of Gerashid is cloudy and tarnished before the heron tuft of thy turban."--From one of the elegies or songs in praise of Ali, written in characters of gold round the gallery of Abbas's tomb.--See _Chardin_.

[122] The beauty of Ali's eyes was so remarkable, that whenever the Persians would describe anything as very lovely, they say it is Ayn Hali, or the Eyes of Ali.--_Chardin_.

[123] "Nakshab, the name of a city in Transoxiana, where they say there is a well, in which the appearance of the moon is to be seen night and day."

[124] The Shechinah, called Sakfnat in the Koran.--See _Sale's Note_, chap. ii.

[125] The parts of the night are made known as well by instruments of music, as by the rounds of the watchmen with cries and small drums.--See _Burder's Oriental Customs_, vol. i. p. 119.

[126] The Serrapurda, high screens of red cloth, stiffened with cane, used to enclose a considerable space round the royal tents.--_Notes on the Bakardanush.

The tents of Princes were generally illuminated. Norden tells us that the tent of the Bey of Girge was distinguished from the other tents by forty lanterns being suspended before it.--See _Harmer's Observations on Job_.

[127] "From the groves of orange trees at Kauzeroon the bees cull a celebrated honey.--_Morier's Travels_.

[128] "A custom still subsisting at this day, seems to me to prove that the Egyptians formerly sacrificed a young virgin to the God of the Nile; for they now make a statue of earth in shape of a girl, to which they give the name of the Betrothed Bride, and throw it into the river."--_Savary_.

[129] That they knew the secret of the Greek fire among the Mussulmans early in the eleventh century, appears from _Dow's_ account of Mamood I. "When he at Moultan, finding that the country of the Jits was defended by great rivers, he ordered fifteen hundred boats to be built, each of which he armed with six iron spikes, projecting from their prows and sides, to prevent their being boarded by the enemy, who were very expert in that kind of war. When he had launched this fleet, he ordered twenty archers into each boat, and five others with fire-balls, to burn the craft of the Jits, and naphtha to set the whole river on fire."

[130] The Greek fire, which was occasionally lent by the emperors to their allies. "It was," says Gibbon, "either launched in red-hot balls of stone and iron, or darted in arrows and javelins, twisted round with flax and tow, which had deeply imbibed the imflammable oil."

[131] See _Hanway's_ Account of the Springs of Naphtha at Baku (which is called by _Lieutenant Pottinger_ Joala Mookee, or, the Flaming Mouth), taking fire and running into the sea. _Dr. Cooke_, in his Journal, mentions some wells in Circassia, strongly impregnated with this inflammable oil, from which issues boiling water. "Though the weather," he adds, "was now very cold, the warmth of these wells of hot water produced near them the verdure and flowers of spring.'

[132] "At the great festival of fire, called the Sheb Seze, they used to set fire to large bunches of dry combustibles, fastened round wild beasts and birds, which being then let loose, the air and earth appeared one great illumination; and as these terrified creatures naturally fled to the woods for shelter, it is easy to conceive the conflagrations they produced."--_Richardson's Dissertation_.

[133] "The righteous shall be given to drink of pure wine, sealed: the seal whereof shall be musk."--_Koran_, chap lxxxiii.

[134] The Afghans believe each of the numerous solitudes and deserts of their country to be inhabited by a lonely demon, whom they call The Ghoolee Beeabau, or Spirit of the Waste. They often illustrate the wildness of any sequestered tribe, by saying they are wild as the Demon of the Waste."--_Elphinstone's Caubul_.

[135] "They have all a great reverence for burial-grounds, which they sometimes call by the poetical name of Cities of the Silent, and which they people with the ghosts of the departed, who sit each at the head of his own grave, invisible to mortal eyes."--_Elphinstone_.

[136] The celebrity of Mazagong is owing to its mangoes, which are certainly the best I ever tasted. The parent-tree, from which all those of this species have been grafted, is honored during the fruit-season by a guard of sepoys; and, in the reign of Shah Jehan, couriers ware stationed between Delhi and the Mahratta coast, to secure an abundant and fresh supply of mangoes for the royal table."--_Mrs. Graham's_ Journal of Residence in India.

[137] This old porcelain is found in digging, and "if it is esteemed, it is not because it has acquired any new degree of beauty in the earth, but because it has retained its ancient beauty; and this alone is of great importance in China, where they give large sums for the smallest vessels which were used under the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang, at which time porcelain began to be used by the Emperors" (about the year 442).--_Dunn's_ Collection of curious Observations, etc.

[138] The blacksmith Gao, who successfully resisted the tyrant Zohak, and whose apron became the royal standard of Persia.

[139] "The Huma, a bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly constantly in the air, and never touch the ground; it is looked upon as a bird of happy omen; and that every head it overshades will in time wear a crown."--_Richardson_.

In the terms of alliance made by Fuzel Oola Khan with Hyder in 1760, one of the stipulations was, "that he should have the distinction of two honorary attendants standing behind him, holding fans composed of the feathers of the humma, according to the practice of his family."-- _Wilks's_ South of India. He adds in a note;--"The Humma is a fabulous bird. The head over which its shadow once passes will assuredly be circled with a crown. The splendid little bird suspended over the throne of Tippoo Sultaun, found at Seringapatam in 1799, was intended to represent this poetical fancy."

[140] "To the pilgrims to Mount Sinai we must attribute the inscriptions, figures, etc., on those rocks, which have from thence acquired the name of the Written Mountain."--_Volney_.

M. Gebelin and others have been at much pains to attach some mysterious and important meaning to these inscriptions; but Niebuhr, as well as Volney, thinks that they must have been executed at idle hours by the travellers to Mount Sinai, "who were satisfied with cutting the unpolished rock with any pointed instrument; adding to their names and the date of their journeys some rude figures, which bespeak the hand of a people but little skilled in the arts."--_Niebuhr_.

[141] The Story of Sinbad.

[142] "The Cámalatá (called by Linnaeus, Ipomaea) is the most beautiful of its order, both in the color and form of its leaves and flowers; its elegant blossoms are 'celestial rosy red, Love's proper hue,' and have justly procured is the name of Cámalatá, or Love's creeper."--_Sir W. Jones_.

[143] "According to Father Premare, in his tract on Chinese Mythology, the mother of Fo-hi was the daughter of heaven, surnamed Flower-loving; and as the nymph was walking alone on the bank of a river, she found herself encircled by a rainbow, after which she became pregnant, and, at the end of twelve years, was delivered of a son radiant as herself."--_Asiat. Res_.

[144] "Numerous small islands emerge from the Lake of Cashmere. One is called Char Chenaur, from the plane trees upon it.--_Foster_.

[145] "The Altan Kol or Golden River of Tibet, which runs into the Lakes of Sing-su-hay, has abundance of gold in its sands, which employs the inhabitants all the summer in gathering it."--_Description of Tibet in Pinkerton_.

[146] "The Brahmins of this province insist that the blue campac flowers only in Paradise."--_Sir W. Jones_. It appears, however, from a curious letter of the Sultan of Menangeabow, given by Marsden, that one place on earth may lay claim to the possession of it. "This is the Sultan, who keeps the flower champaka that is blue, and to be found in no other country but his, being yellow elsewhere."--_Marsden's_ Sumatra.

[147] "The Mahometans suppose that falling stars are the firebrands wherewith the good angels drive away the bad, when they approach too near the empyrean or verge or the heavens."--_Fryer_.

[148] The Forty Pillars; so the Persians call the ruins of Persepolis. It is imagined by them that this palace and the edifices at Balbec were built by Genii, for the purpose of hiding in their subterraneous caverns immense treasures, which still remain there.--_D'Herbelot, Volney_.

[149] _Diodorus_ mentions the Isle of Panchai, to the south of Arabia Felix, where there was a temple of Jupiter. This island, or rather cluster of isles, has disappeared, "sunk [says _Grandpré_] in the abyss made by the fire beneath their foundations."--_Voyage to the Indian Ocean_.

[150] The Isles of Panchaia.

[151] "The cup of Jamshid, discovered, they say, when digging for the foundations of Persepolis."-_Richardson_.

[152] "It is not like the Sea of India, whose bottom is rich with pearls and ambergris, whose mountains of the coast are stored with gold and precious stones, whose gulfs breed creatures that yield ivory, and among the plants of whose shores are ebony, red wood, and the wood of Hairzan, aloes, camphor, cloves, sandal-wood, and all other spices and aromatics; where parrots and peacocks are birds of the forest, and musk and civit are collected upon the lands."--_Travels of Two Mohammedans_.

[153] "With this immense treasure Mamood returned to Ghizni and in the year 400 prepared a magnificent festival, where he displayed to the people his wealth in golden thrones and in other ornaments, in a great plain without the city of Ghizni." _Ferishta_.

[154] "Mahmood of Gazna, or Chizni, who conquered India in the beginning of the 11th century."--See his History in _Dow_ and Sir _J. Malcolm_.

[155] "It is reported that the hunting equipage of the Sultan Mahmood was so magnificent, that he kept 400 greyhounds and bloodhounds each of which wore a collar set with jewels and a covering edged with gold and pearls."--_Universal History_, vol. iii.

[156] "The Mountains of the Moon, or the _Montes Lunae_ of antiquity, at the foot of which the Nile is supposed to arise."--_Bruce_.

[157] "The Nile, which the Abyssinians know by the names of Abey and Alawy or the Giant."--_Asiat. Research_. vol. i. p. 387.

[158] See Perry's View of the Levant for an account of the sepulchres in Upper Thebes, and the numberless grots, covered all over with hieroglyphics in the mountains of Upper Egypt.

[159] "The orchards of Rosetta are filled with turtle-doves.--_Sonnini_.

[160] Savary mentions the pelicans upon Lake Moeris.

[161] "The superb date-tree, whose head languidly reclines, like that of a handsome woman overcome with sleep."--_Dafard el Hadad_.

[162] "That beautiful bird, with plumage of the finest shining blue, with purple beak and legs, the natural and living ornament of the temples and palaces of the Greeks and Romans, which, from the stateliness of its part, as well as the brilliancy of its colors, has obtained the title of Sultana,"--_Sonnini_.

[163] Jackson, speaking of the plague that occurred in West Barbary, when he was there, says, "The birds of the air fled away from the abodes of men. The hyaenas, on the contrary, visited the cemeteries," etc.

[164] "Gondar was full of hyaenas from the time it turned dark, till the dawn of day, seeking the different pieces of slaughtered carcasses, which this cruel and unclean people expose in the streets without burial, and who firmly believe that these animals are Falashta from the neighboring mountains, transformed by magic, and come down to eat human flesh in the dark in safety."--_Bruce_.

[165] "In the East, they suppose the Phoenix to have fifty orifices in his bill, which are continued to his tail; and that, after living one thousand years, he builds himself a funeral pile, sings a melodious air of different harmonies through his fifty organ pipes, flaps his wings with a velocity which sets fire to the wood and consumes himself."--_Richardson_.

[166] "On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thousand goblets, made of stars, out of which souls predestined to enjoy felicity drink the crystal wave."--From _Chateaubriand's_ Description of the Mahometan Paradise, in his _"Beauties of Christianity_."

[167] Richardson thinks that Syria had its name from Suri, a beautiful and delicate species of rose, for which that country has always been famous;--hence, Suristan, the Land of Roses.

[168] "The number of lizards I saw one day in the great court of the Temple of the Sun at Balbec amounted to many thousands; the ground, the walls, and stones of the ruined buildings, were covered with them."--_Bruce_.

[169] "The Syrinx or Pan's pipes is still a pastoral instrument in Syria."--_Russel_.

[170] "Wild bees, frequent in Palestine, in hollow trunks or branches of trees, and the clefts of rocks. Thus it is said (Psalm lxxxi.), _'honey out of the stony rock.'_"--_Burder's_ Oriental Customs.

[171] "The River Jordan is on both sides beset with little, thick, and pleasant woods, among which thousands of nightingales warble all together."_--Thevenot_.

[172] The Temple of the Sun at Balbec.

[173] "You behold there a considerable number of a remarkable species of beautiful insects, the elegance of whose appearance and their attire procured for them the name of Damsels.--_Sonnini_.

[174] "Such Turks as at the common hours of prayer are on the road, or so employed as not to find convenience to attend the mosques, are still obliged to execute that duty; nor are they ever known to fail, whatever business they are then about, but pray immediately when the hour alarms them, whatever they are about, in that very place they chance to stand on; insomuch that when a janissary, whom you have to guard you up and down the city, hears the notice which is given him from the steeples, he will turn about, stand still, and beckon with his hand, to tell his charge he must have patience for awhile; when, taking out his handkerchief, he spreads it on the ground, sits cross-legged thereupon, and says his prayers, though in the open market, which, having ended he leaps briskly up, salutes the person whom he undertook to convey, and renews his journey with the mild expression of _Ghell yelinnum ghell_, or Come, dear, follow me."--_Aaron Hill's_ Travels.

[175] The Nucta, Or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt precisely on St. John's day in June and is supposed to have the effect of stopping the plague.

[176] The Country of Delight--the name of a province in the kingdom of Jinnistan, or Fairy Land, the capital of which is called the City of Jewels. Amberabad is another of the cities of Jinnistan.

[177] The tree Tooba, that stands in Paradise, in the palace of Mahomet. See _Sale's Prelim. Disc_.--Tooba, says _D'Herbelot_, signifies beatitude, or eternal happiness.

[178] Mahomet is described, in the 53d chapter of the Koran, as having seen the Angel Gabriel "by the lote-tree, beyond which there is no passing: near it is the Garden of Eternal Abode." This tree, say the commentators, stands in the seventh Heaven, on the right hand of the Throne of God.

[179] "It is said that the rivers or streams of Basra were reckoned in the time of Peisl ben Abi Bordeh, and amounted to the number of one hundred and twenty thousand streams."--_Ebn Haukal_.

[180] The name of the javelin with which the Easterns exercise. See _Castellan, "Moeurs des Ottomans," tom_. iii. p. 161.

[181] "This account excited a desire of visiting the Banyan Hospital, as I had heard much of their benevolence to all kinds of animals that were either sick, lame, or infirm, through age or accident. On my arrival, there were presented to my view many horses, cows, and oxen, in one apartment; in another, dogs, sheep, goats, and monkeys, with clean straw for them to repose on. Above stairs were depositories for seeds of many sorts, and flat, broad dishes for water, for the use of birds and insects."--_Parson_'s Travels. It is said that all animals know the Banyans, that the most timid approach them, and that birds will fly nearer to them than to other people.--See _Grandpré_.

[182] "A very fragrant grass from the banks of the Ganges, near Heridwar, which in some places covers whole acres, and diffuses, when crushed, a strong odor."--_Sir W. Jones_ on the Spikenard of the Ancients.

[183] "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_.

[184] "The Arabians believe that the ostriches hatch their young by only looking at them."

[185] Oriental Tales.

[186] Ferishta. "Or rather," says _Scott_, upon the passage of Ferishta, from which this is taken, "small coins, stamped with the figure of a flower. They are still used in India to distribute in charity and on occasion thrown by the purse-bearers of the great among the populace."

[187] The fine road made by the Emperor Jehan-Guire from Agra to Lahore, planted with trees on each side. This road is 250 leagues in length. It has "little pyramids or turrets," says _Bernier_, "erected every half league, to mark the ways, and frequent wells to afford drink to passengers, and to water the young trees."

[188] The Baya, or Indian Grosbeak.--_Sir W. Jones_.

[189] "Here is a large pagoda by a tank, on the water of which float multitudes of the beautiful red lotus: the flower is larger than that of the white water-lily, and is the most lovely of the nymphaeas I have seen."--_Mrs. Graham's_ Journal of a Residence in India.

[190] "Cashmere (says its historian) had its own princes 4000 years before its conquest by Akbar in 1585. Akbar would have found some difficulty to reduce this paradise of the Indies, situated as it is within such a fortress of mountains, but its monarch, Yusef-Khan, was basely betrayed by his Omrahs."--_Pennant_.

[191] Voltaire tells us that in his tragedy, "_Les Guèbres_," he was generally supposed to have alluded to the Jansenists. I should not be surprised if this story of the Fire worshippers were found capable of a similar doubleness of application.

[192] The Persian Gulf, sometimes so called, which separates the shores of Persia and Arabia.

[193] The present Gombaroon, a town on the Persian side of the Gulf.

[194] A Moorish instrument of music.

[195] "At Gombaroon and other places in Persia, they have towers for the purpose of catching the wind and cooling the houses.--_Le Bruyn_.

[196] "Iran is the true general name for the empire of Persia.--_Asiat. Res. Disc. 5_.

[197] "On the blades of their scimitars some verse from the Koran is usually inscribed.--_Russel_.

[198] There is a kind of Rhododendros about Trebizond, whose flowers the bee feeds upon, and the honey thence drives people mad;"--_Tournefort_.

[199] Their kings wear plumes of black herons' feathers, upon the right side, as a badge of sovereignty "--_Hanway_.

[200] "The Fountain of Youth, by a Mahometan tradition, is situated in some dark region of the East."--_Richardson_.

[201] Arabia Felix.

[202] "In the midst of the garden is the chiosk, that is, a large room, commonly beautified with a fine fountain in the midst of it. It is raised nine or ten steps, and enclosed with gilded lattices, round which vines, jessamines, and honeysuckles, make a sort of green wall; large trees are planted round this place, which is the scene of their greatest pleasures."--_Lady M. W. Montagu_.

[203] The women of the East are never without their looking-glasses. "In Barbary," says _Shaw_, "they are so fond of their looking-glasses, which they hang upon their breasts, that they will not lay them aside, even when after the drudgery of the day they are obliged to go two or three miles with a pitcher or a goat's skin to fetch water."--_Travels_.

[204] "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.

[205] "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_.

[206] This mountain is generally supposed to be inaccessible. _Struy_ says, "I can well assure the reader that their opinion is not true, who suppose this mount to be inaccessible." He adds, that "the lower part of the mountain is cloudy, misty, and dark, the middlemost part very cold, and like clouds of snow, but the upper regions perfectly calm."--It was on this mountain that the Ark was supposed to have rested after the Deluge, and part of it, they say, exists there still, which Struy thus gravely accounts for:--"Whereas none can remember that the air on the top of the hill did ever change or was subject either to wind or rain, which is presumed to be the reason that the Ark has endured so long without being rotten."--See _Carreri's_ Travels, where the Doctor laughs at this whole account of Mount Ararat.

[207] 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.--See _Champion's_ Ferdosi.

[208] "On the lofty hills of Arabia Petraea, are rock-goats."--_Niebuhr_.

[209] "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.

[210] "They suppose the Throne of the Almighty is seated in the sun, and hence their worship of that luminary."--_Hanway_.

[211] 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_.

[212] "Within the enclosure which surrounds his monument (at Gualior) is a small tomb to the memory of Tan-Sein, a musician of incomparable skill, who flourished at the court of Akbar. The tomb is overshadowed by a tree, concerning which a superstitious notion prevails, that the chewing of its leaves will give an extraordinary melody to the voice."--_Narrative of a Journey from Agra to Ouzein, by W. Hunter, Esq_.

[213] "It is usual to place a small white triangular flag, fixed to a bamboo staff of ten or twelve feet long, at the place where a tiger has destroyed a man. It is common for the passengers also to throw each a stone or brick near the spot, so that in the course of a little time a pile equal to a good wagon-load is collected. The sight of these flags and piles of stones imparts a certain melancholy, not perhaps altogether void of apprehension."--_Oriental Field Sports_, vol. ii.

[214] "The Ficus Indica is called the Pagod Tree of Councils; the first, from the idols placed under its shade; the second, because meetings were held under its cool branches. In some places it is believed to be the haunt of spectres, as the ancient spreading oaks of Wales have been of fairies; in others are erected beneath the shade pillars of stone, or posts, elegantly carved, and ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain to supply the use of mirrors."--_Pennant_.

[215] The Persian Gulf.--"To dive for pearls in the Green Sea, or Persian Gulf."--_Sir W. Jones_.

[216] 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_.

[217] "The nightingale sings from the pomegranate-groves in the daytime and from the loftiest trees at night."--_Russel's_ "Aleppo."

[218] 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."

[219] The place where the Persians were finally defeated by the Arabs, and their ancient monarchy destroyed.

[220] 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_.

[221] "When the bright scimitars make the eyes of our heroes wink."--_The Moallakat, Poem of Amru_.

[222] Tahmuras, and other ancient Kings of Persia; whose adventures in Fairy-land among the Peris and Divs 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.

[223] This rivulet, says Dandini, is called the Holy River from the "cedar-saints" among which it rises.

[224] This mountain is my own creation, as the "stupendous chain," of which I suppose it a link, does not extend quite so far as the shores of the Persian Gulf.

[225] These birds sleep in the air. They are most common about the Cape of Good Hope.

[226] "There is an extraordinary hill in this neighborhood, called Kohé Gubr, or the Guebre's mountain. It rises in the form of a lofty cupola, and on the summit of it, they say, are the remains of an Atush Kudu or Fire Temple. It is superstitiously held to be the residence or Deeves or Sprites, and many marvellous stories are recounted of the injury and witchcraft suffered by those who essayed in former days to ascend or explore it."--_Pottinger's_ "Beloochistan."

[227] The Ghebers generally built their temples over subterraneous fires.

[228] "At the city of Yezd, in Persia, which is distinguished by the appellation of the Darub Abadut, or Seat of Religion, the Guebres are permitted to have an Atush Kudu or Fire Temple (which, they assert, has had the sacred fire in it since the days of Zoroaster) in their own compartment of the city; but for this indulgence they are indebted to the avarice, not the tolerance of the Persian government, which taxes them at twenty-five rupees each man."--_Pottinger's_ "Beloochistan."

[229] Ancient heroes of Persia. "Among the Guebres there are some who boast their descent from Rustam."--_Stephen's Persia_.

[230] See Russel's account of the panther's attacking travellers in the night on the sea-shore about the roots of Lebanon.

[231] "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_.

[232] 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."

[233] "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_.

[234] A vivid verdure succeeds the autumnal rains, and the ploughed fields are covered with the Persian lily, of a resplendent yellow color."-- _Russel's_ "Aleppo."

[235] 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_.

[236] 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_.

[237] "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_.

[238] "They say that there are apple-trees upon the sides of this sea, which bear very lovely fruit, but within are all full of ashes."-- _Thevenot_.

[239] "The Suhrab or Water of the Desert is said to be caused by the rarefaction of the atmosphere from extreme heat; and, which augments the delusion, it is most frequent in hollows, where water might be expected to lodge. I have seen bushes and trees reflected in it, with as much accuracy is though it had been the face of a clear and still lake."--_Pottinger_.

[240] "A wind which prevails in February, called Bidmusk, from a small and odoriferous flower of that name."--"The wind which blows these flowers commonly lasts till the end of the month."--_Le Bruyn_.

[241] "The Biajús are of two races: the one is settled on Borneo, and are a rude but warlike and industrious nation, who reckon themselves the original possessors of the island of Borneo. The other is a species of sea-gypsies or itinerant fishermen, who live in small covered boats, and enjoy a perpetual summer on the eastern ocean, shifting to leeward from island to island, with the variations of the monsoon.

[242] "The sweet-scented violet is one of the plants most esteemed,

## particularly for its great use in Sorbet, which they make of violet

sugar."--_Hassequist_.

[243] "Last of all she took a guitar, and sang a pathetic air in the measure called Nava, which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers."--_Persian Tales_.

[244] "The Easterns used to set out on their longer voyages with music."--_Harmer_.

[245] "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 through it into the Ethiopic ocean."--_Richardson_.

[246] "I have been told that whensoever an animal falls down dead, one or more vultures, unseen before, instantly appears."--_Pennant_.

[247] "They fasten some writing to the wings of a Bagdat, or Babylonian pigeon."--_Travels of certain Englishmen_.

[248] "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_.

[249] The meteors that Pliny calls "_faces_."

[250] "The brilliant Canopus, unseen in European climates."--_Brown_.

[251] 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 fire in it; and the author of the Dissertation of Harris's Voyages, supposes it to be the opal.

[252] "The Guebres are known by a dark yellow color, which the men affect in their clothes."--_Thevenot_.

[253] "The Kolah, or cap, worn by the Persians, is made of the skin of the sheep of Tartary."--_Waring_.

[254] 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_.

[255] "Blossoms of the sorrowful Nyctanthes give a durable color to silk."--_Remarks on the Husbandry of Bengal_, p. 200. Nilica is one of the Indian names of this flower.--_Sir W. Jones_. The Persians call it Gul.--Carreri.

[256] "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 Haukal.

[257] 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. ii.

[258] "The Arabians call the mandrake 'the devil's candle,' on account of its shining appearance in the night."--_Richardson_.

[259] For an account of Ishmonie, the petrified city in Upper Egypt, where it is said there are many statues of men, women, etc., to be seen to this day, see _Perry's "Views of the Levant_."

[260] Jesus.

[261] 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_.

[262] "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_.

[263] "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_.

[264] "The angel Israfll, who has the most melodious voice of all God's creatures."--_Sale_.

[265] "In this thicket upon the banks of the Jordan several sorts of wild beasts are wont to harbor 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 smelling of Jordan_."--_Maundrell's "Aleppo."_

[266] "This wind (the Samoor) so softens the strings of lutes, that they can never be tuned while it lasts."--_Stephen's Persia_.

[267] "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_.

[268] Some naturalists have imagined that amber is a concretion of the tears of birds.--See _Trevoux, Chambers_.

[269] "The bay Kieselarke, which is otherwise called the Golden Bay, the sand whereof shines as fire."--_Struy_.

[270] "The application of whips or rods."--_Dubois_.

[271] Kempfer mentions such an officer among the attendants of the King of Persia, and calls him "_formae corporis estimator_." His business was, at stated periods, to measure the ladies of the Haram by a sort of regulation-girdle whose limits it was not thought graceful to exceed. If any of them outgrew this standard of shape, they were reduced by abstinence till they came within proper bounds.

[272] "Akbar on his way ordered a fort to be built upon the Nilab, which he called Attock, which means in the Indian language Forbidden; for, by the superstition of the Hindoos, it was held unlawful to cross that river."--_Dow's_ Hindostan.

[273] "The inhabitants of this country (Zinge) are never afflicted with sadness or melancholy; on this subject the Sheikh _Abu-al-Kheir-Azhari_ has the following distich:--

"'Who is the man without care or sorrow, (tell) that I may rub my hand to him.

"'(Behold) the Zingians, without care and sorrow, frolicsome with tipsiness and mirth.'"

[274] The star Soheil, or Canopus.

[275] "The lizard Stellio. The Arabs call it Hardun. The Turks kill it, for they imagine that by declining the head it mimics them when they say their prayers."--_Hasselquist_.

[276] "As you enter at that Bazar, without the gate of Damascus, you see the Green Mosque, so called because it hath a steeple faced with green glazed bricks, which render it very resplendent: It is covered at top with a pavilion of the same stuff. The Turks say this mosque was made in that place, because Mahomet being come so far, would not enter the town, saying it was too delicious."--_Thevenot_.

[277] Nourmahal signifies Light of the Haram. She was afterwards called Nourjehan, or the Light of the World.

[278] "The rose of Kashmire for its brilliancy and delicacy of odor has long been proverbial in the East."--Foster.

[279] "Tied round her waist the zone of bells, that sounded with ravishing melody."--_Song of Jayadeva_.

[280] "The little isles in the Lake of Cachemire are set with arbors and large-leaved aspen-trees, slender and tall."--_Bernier_.

[281] "The Tuckt Suliman, the name bestowed by the Mahommetans on this hill, forms one side of a grand portal to the Lake."--_Forster_.

[282] "The Feast of Roses continues the whole time of their remaining in bloom."--See _Pietro de la Valle_.

[283] "Gul sad berk, the Rose of a hundred leaves. I believe a particular species."--_Ouseley_.

[284] A place mentioned in the Toozek Jehangeery, or Memoirs of Jehan- Guire, where there is an account of the beds of saffron-flowers about Cashmere.

[285] "It is the custom among the women to employ the Maazeen to chant from the gallery of the nearest minaret, which on that occasion is illuminated, and the women assembled at the house respond at intervals with a ziraleet or joyous chorus."--_Russel_.

[286] "The swing is a favorite pastime in the East, as promoting a circulation of air, extremely refreshing in those sultry climates."-- _Richardson_.

[287] At the keeping of the Feast of Roses we beheld an infinite number of tents pitched, with such a crowd of men, women, boys, and girls, with music, dances, etc."--_Herbert_.

[288] "An old commentator of the Chou-King says, the ancients having remarked that a current of water made some of the stones near its banks send forth a sound, they detached some of them, and being charmed with the delightful sound they emitted, constructed King or musical instruments of them,"--_Grosier_.

[289] In the wars of the Divs with the Peris, whenever the former took the latter prisoners, "they shut them up in iron cages, and hung them on the highest trees. Here they were visited by their companions, who brought them the choicest odors."--_Richardson_.

[290] In the Malay language the same word signifies women and flowers.

[291] The capital of Shadukiam.

[292] "Among the birds of Tonquin is a species of goldfinch, which sings so melodiously that it is called the Celestial Bird. Its wings, when it is perched, appear variegated with beautiful colors, but when it flies they lose all their splendor."--_Grosier_.

[293] "As these birds on the Bosphorus are never known to rest, they are called by the French '_les âmes damnées_.'"--_Dalloway_.

[294] "You may place a hundred handfuls of fragrant herbs and flowers before the nightingale, yet he wishes not in his constant heart for more than the sweet breath of his beloved rose."--_Jami_.

[295] "He is said to have found the great _Mantra_, spell or talisman, through which he ruled over the elements and spirits of all denominations."--_Wilford_.

[296] "The gold jewels of Jinnie, which are called by the Arabs El Herrez, from the supposed charm they contain."--_Jackson_.

[297] "A demon, supposed to haunt woods, etc., in a human shape."-- _Richardson_.

[298] The name of Jehan-Guire before his accession to the throne.

[299] "Hemasagara, or the Sea of Gold, with flowers of the brightest gold color."--_Sir W. Jones_.

[300] "This tree (the Nagacesara) is one of the most delightful on earth, and the delicious odor of its blossoms justly gives them a place in the quiver of Camadeva, or the God of Love."--_Id_.

[301] "The Malayans style the tuberose (_polianthes tuberosa_) Sandal Malam, or the Mistress of the Night."--_Pennant_.

[302] The people of the Batta country in Sumatra (of which Zamara is one of the ancient names), "when not engaged in war, lead an idle, inactive life, passing the day in playing on a kind of flute, crowned with garlands of flowers, among which the globe-amaranthus, a native of the country, mostly prevails,"--_Marsden_.

[303] "The largest and richest sort (of the Jambu or rose-apple) is called Amrita, or immortal, and the mythologists of Tibet apply the same word to a celestial tree, bearing ambrosial fruit."--_Sir W. Jones_.

[304] Sweet Basil, called Rayhan in Persia, and generally found in churchyards.

[305] "In the Great Desert are found many stalks of lavender and rosemary."--_Asiat. Res_.

[306] "The almond-tree, with white flowers, blossoms on the bare branches."--_Hasselquist_.

[307] An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to communicate a yellow golden hue to the teeth of the goat and other animals that graze upon it.

[308] The myrrh country.

[309] "This idea (of deities living in shells) was not unknown to the Greeks, who represent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in shells on the shores of the Red Sea."--_Wilford_.

[310] "A fabulous fountain, where instruments are said to be constantly playing."--_Richardson_.

[311] "The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to different places, is a great disseminator of this valuable tree."--See _Brown's_ Illustr. Tab. 19.

[312] "The Persians have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim and the Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real daybreak. They account for this phenomenon in a most whimsical manner. They say that as the sun rises from behind the Kohi Qaf (Mount Caucasus), it passes a hole perforated through that mountain, and that darting its rays through it, it is the cause of the Soobhi Kazim, or this temporary appearance of daybreak. As it ascends, the earth is again veiled in darkness, until the sun rises above the mountain, and brings with it the Soobhi Sadig, or real morning."--_Scott Waring_.

[313] "In the centre of the plain, as it approaches the Lake, one of the Delhi Emperors, I believe Shan Jehan, constructed a spacious garden called the Shalimar, which is abundantly stored with fruit-trees and flowering shrubs. Some of the rivulets which intersect the plain are led into a canal at the back of the garden, and flowing through its centre, or occasionally thrown into a variety of water-works, compose the chief beauty of the Shalimar."--_Forster_.

[314] "The waters of Cachemir are the more renowned from its being supposed that the Cachemirians are indebted for their beauty to them."--_Ali Yezdi_.

[315] "From him I received the following little Gazzel, or Love Song, the notes of which he committed to paper from the voice of one of those singing girls of Cashmere, who wander from that delightful valley over the various parts of India."--_Persian Miscellanies_.

[316] "The roses of the Jinan Nile, or Garden of the Nile (attached to the Emperor of Morocco's palace) are unequalled, and mattresses are made of their leaves for the men of rank to recline upon."--_Jackson_.

[317] "On the side of a mountain near Paphos there is a cavern which produces the most beautiful rock-crystal. On account of its brilliancy it has been called the Paphian diamond."--_Mariti_.

[318] "These is a part of Candahar, called Peria, or Fairy Land."-- _Thevenot_. In some of those countries to the north of India vegetable gold is supposed to be produced.

[319] "These are the butterflies which are called in the Chinese language Flying Leaves. Some of them have such shining colors, and are so variegated, that they may be called flying flowers; and indeed they are always produced in the finest flower-gardens."--_Dunn_.

[320] "The Arabian women wear black masks with little clasps prettily ordered."--_Carreri_. Niebuhr mentions their showing but one eye in conversation.

[321] "The golden grapes of Casbin."--_Description of Persia_.

[322] "The fruits exported from Caubul are apples, pears, pomegranates," etc.--_Elphinstone_.

[323] "We sat down under a tree, listened to the birds, and talked with the son of our Mehmaundar about our country and Caubul, of which he gave an enchanting account; that city and its 100,000 gardens," etc.--_Ib_.

[324] "The mangusteen, the most delicate fruit in the world; the pride of the Malay islands."--_Marsden_.

[325] "A delicious kind of apricot, called by the Persians tokmekshems, signifying sun's seed."--_Description of Persia_.

[326] "Sweetmeats, in a crystal cup, consisting of rose-leaves in conserve, with Iemon of Visna cherry, orange flowers," etc.--_Russel_.

[327] "Antelopes cropping the fresh berries of Erac."--The _Moallakat_, Poem of Tarafa.

[328] "Mauri-ga-Sima, an island near Formosa, supposed to have been sunk in the sea for the crimes of its inhabitants. The vessels which the fishermen and divers bring up from it are sold at an immense price in China and Japan."--See _Kempfer_.

[329] Persian Tales.

[330] The white wine of Kishma.

[331] "The King of Zeilan is said to have the very finest ruby that was ever seen. Kublai-Khan sent and offered the value of a city for It, but the king answered he would not give it for the treasure of the world."--_Marco Polo_.

[332] The Indians feign that Cupid was first seen floating down the Ganges on the Nymphaea Nelumbo.--See _Pennant_.

[333] Teflis is celebrated for its natural warm baths.--See _Ebn Haukal_.

[334] "The Indian Syrinda, or guitar."--_Symez_.

[335] "Around the exterior of the Dewan Khafs (a building of Shah Allum's) in the cornice are the following lines in letters of gold upon a ground of white marble--'_If there be a paradise upon earth, it is this, it is this.'"--Franklin_.

[336] "Delightful are the flowers of the Amra trees on the mountain tops while the murmuring bees pursue their voluptuous toil."--_Song of Jayadera_.

[337] "The Nison or drops of spring rain, which they believe to produce pearls if they fall into shells."--_Richardson_.

[338] For an account of the share which wine had in the fall of the angels, see _Mariti_.

[339] The Angel of Music.

[340] The Hudhud, or Lapwing, is supposed to have the power of discovering water under ground.

[341] "The Chinese had formerly the art of painting on the sides of porcelain vessels fish and other animals, which were only perceptible when the vessel was full of some liquor, They call this species Kia-tsin, that is, _azure is put in press_, on account of the manner in which the azure is laid on."--"They are every now and then trying to discover the art of this magical painting, but to no purpose."--_Dunn_.

[342] An eminent carver of idols, said in the Koran to be father to Abraham. "I have such a lovely idol as is not to be met with in the house of Azor."--_Hafiz_.

[343] Kachmire be Nazeer.--_Forster_.

[344] Jehan-Guire mentions "a fountain in Cashmere called Tirnagh, which signifies a snake; probably because some large snake had formerly been seen there."--"During the lifetime of my father, I went twice to this fountain, which is about twenty coss from the city of Cashmere. The vestiges of places of worship and sanctity are to be traced without number amongst the ruins and the caves which are interspersed in its neighborhood."--_Toozek Jehangeery_.--v. _Asiat. Misc_. vol. ii.

[345] "On a standing roof of wood is laid a covering of fine earth, which shelters the building from the great quantity of snow that falls in the winter season. This fence communicates an equal warmth in winter, as a refreshing coolness in the summer season, when the tops of the houses, which are planted with a variety of flowers, exhibit at a distance the spacious view of a beautifully checkered parterre."--_Forster_.

[346] "Two hundred slaves there are, who have no other office than to hunt the woods and marshes for triple-colored tortoises for the King's Vivary. Of the shells of these also lanterns are made."--_Vincent le Blanc's_ Travels.

[347] This wind, which is to blow from Syria Damascena, is, according to the Mahometans, one of the signs of the Last Day's approach.

Another of the signs is, "Great distress in the world, so that a man when he passes by another's grave shall say, Would to God I were in his place!"--_Sale's_ Preliminary Discourse.

[348] "On Mahommed Shaw's return to Koolburga (the capital of Dekkan), he made a great festival, and mounted this throne with much pomp and magnificence, calling it Firozeh or Cerulean. I have heard some old persons, who saw the throne Firozeh in the reign of Sultan Mamood Bhamenee, describe it. They say that it was in length nine feet, and three in breadth; made of ebony covered with plates of pure gold, and set with precious stones of immense value. Every prince of the house of Bhamenee, who possessed this throne, made a point of adding to it some rich stones; so that when in the reign of Sultan Mamood it was taken to pieces to remove some of the jewels to be set in vases and cups, the jewellers valued it at one corore of oons (nearly four millions sterling). I learned also that it was called Firozeh from being partly enamelled of a sky-blue color which was in time totally concealed by the number of jewels."-- _Ferishta_.

THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS.

PREFACE.

The Eastern story of the angels Harut and Marut and the Rabbinical fictions of the loves of Uzziel and Shámchazai are the only sources to which I need refer for the origin of the notion on which this Romance is founded. In addition to the fitness of the subject for poetry, it struck me also as capable of affording an allegorical medium through which might be shadowed out (as I have endeavored to do in the following stories) the fall of the Soul from its original purity[1]--the loss of light and happiness which it suffers, in the pursuit of this world's perishable pleasures--and the punishments both from conscience and Divine justice with which impurity, pride, and presumptuous inquiry into the awful secrets of Heaven are sure to be visited--The beautiful story of Cupid and Psyche owes its chief charm to this sort of "veiled meaning," and it has been my wish (however I may have failed in the attempt) to communicate to the following pages the same _moral_ interest.

Among the doctrines or notions derived by Plato from the East, one of the most natural and sublime is that which inculcates the pre-existence of the soul and its gradual descent into this dark material world from that region of spirit and light which it is supposed to have once inhabited and to which after a long lapse of purification and trial it will return. This belief under various symbolical forms may be traced through almost all the Oriental theologies. The Chaldeans represent the Soul as originally endowed with wings which fall away when it sinks from its native element and must be re-produced before it can hope to return. Some disciples of Zoroaster once inquired of him, "How the wings of the Soul might be made to grow again?"

"By sprinkling them," he replied, "with the Waters of Life."

"But where are those Waters to be found?" they asked.

"In the Garden of God," replied Zoroaster.

The mythology of the Persians has allegorized the same doctrine, in the history of those genii of light who strayed from their dwellings in the stars and obscured their original nature by mixture with this material sphere; while the Egyptians connecting it with the descent and ascent of the sun in the zodiac considered Autumn as emblematic of the Soul's decline toward darkness and the re-appearance of Spring as its return to life and light.

Besides the chief spirits of the Mahometan heaven, such as Gabriel the angel of Revelation, Israfil by whom the last trumpet is to be sounded, and Azrael the angel of death, there were also a number of subaltern intelligences of which tradition has preserved the names, appointed to preside over the different stages of ascents into which the celestial world was supposed to be divided.[2] Thus Kelail governs the fifth heaven; while Sadiel, the presiding spirit of the third, is also employed in steadying the motions of the earth which would be in a constant state of agitation if this angel did not keep his foot planted upon its orb.

Among other miraculous interpositions in favor of Mahomet we find commemorated in the pages of the Koran the appearance of five thousand angels on his side at the battle of Bedr.

The ancient Persians supposed that Ormuzd appointed thirty angels to preside successively over the days of the month and twelve greater ones to assume the government of the months themselves; among whom Bahman (to whom Ormuzd committed the custody of all animals, except man) was the greatest. Mihr, the angel of the 7th month, was also the spirit that watched over the affairs of friendship and love;--Chûr had the care of the disk of the sun;--Mah was agent for the concerns of the moon;--Isphandârmaz (whom Cazvin calls the Spirit of the Earth) was the tutelar genius of good and virtuous women, etc. For all this the reader may consult the 19th and 20th chapters of Hyde, "_de Religione Veterum Persarum_," where the names and attributes of these daily and monthly angels are with much minuteness and erudition explained. It appears from the Zend-avesta that the Persians had a certain office or prayer for every day of the month (addressed to the

## particular angel who presided over it), which they called the Sirouzé.

The Celestial Hierarchy of the Syrians, as described by Kircher, appears to be the most regularly graduated of any of these systems. In the sphere of the Moon they placed the angels, in that of Mercury the archangels, Venus and the Sun contained the Principalities and the Powers;--and so on to the summit of the planetary system, where, in the sphere of Saturn, the Thrones had their station. Above this was the habitation of the Cherubim in the sphere of the fixed stars; and still higher, in the region of those stars which are so distant as to be imperceptible, the Seraphim, we are told, the most perfect of all celestial creatures, dwelt.

The Sabeans also (as D'Herbelot tells us) had their classes of angels, to whom they prayed as mediators, or intercessors; and the Arabians worshipped _female_ angels, whom they called Benab Hasche, or, Daughters of God.

[1] The account which Macrobius gives of the downward journey of the Soul, through that gate of the zodiac which opens into the lower spheres, is a curious specimen of the wild fancies that passed for philosophy in ancient times.

[2] "We adorned the lower heaven with lights, and placed therein a guard of angels."--_Koran, chap. xli_.

THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS

'Twas when the world was in its prime, When the fresh stars had just begun Their race of glory and young Time Told his first birth-days by the sun; When in the light of Nature's dawn Rejoicing, men and angels met On the high hill and sunny lawn,-- Ere sorrow came or Sin had drawn 'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet! When earth lay nearer to the skies Than in these days of crime and woe, And mortals saw without surprise In the mid-air angelic eyes Gazing upon this world below.

Alas! that Passion should profane Even then the morning of the earth! That, sadder still, the fatal stain Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth-- And that from Woman's love should fall So dark a stain, most sad of all!

One evening, in that primal hour, On a hill's side where hung the ray Of sunset brightening rill and bower, Three noble youths conversing lay; And, as they lookt from time to time To the far sky where Daylight furled His radiant wing, their brows sublime Bespoke them of that distant world-- Spirits who once in brotherhood Of faith and bliss near ALLA stood, And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown The wind that breathes from ALLA'S throne,[1] Creatures of light such as _still_ play, Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord, And thro' their infinite array Transmit each moment, night and day, The echo of His luminous word!

Of Heaven they spoke and, still more oft, Of the bright eyes that charmed them thence; Till yielding gradual to the soft And balmy evening's influence-- The silent breathing of the flowers-- The melting light that beamed above, As on their first, fond, erring hours,-- Each told the story of his love, The history of that hour unblest, When like a bird from its high nest Won down by fascinating eyes, For Woman's smile he lost the skies.

The First who spoke was one, with look The least celestial of the three-- A Spirit of light mould that took The prints of earth most yieldingly; Who even in heaven was not of those Nearest the Throne but held a place Far off among those shining rows That circle out thro' endless space, And o'er whose wings the light from Him In Heaven's centre falls most dim.[2]

Still fair and glorious, he but shone Among those youths the unheavenliest one-- A creature to whom light remained From Eden still, but altered, stained, And o'er whose brow not Love alone A blight had in his transit cast, But other, earthlier joys had gone, And left their foot-prints as they past. Sighing, as back thro' ages flown, Like a tomb-searcher, Memory ran, Lifting each shroud that Time had thrown O'er buried hopes, he thus began:--

FIRST ANGEL'S STORY.

'Twas in a land that far away Into the golden orient lies, Where Nature knows not night's delay, But springs to meet her bridegroom, Day, Upon the threshold of the skies, One morn, on earthly mission sent,[3] And mid-way choosing where to light, I saw from the blue element-- Oh beautiful, but fatal sight!-- One of earth's fairest womankind, Half veiled from view, or rather shrined In the clear crystal of a brook; Which while it hid no single gleam Of her young beauties made them look More spirit-like, as they might seem Thro' the dim shadowing of a dream. Pausing in wonder I lookt on, While playfully around her breaking The waters that like diamonds shone She moved in light of her own making. At length as from that airy height I gently lowered my breathless flight, The tremble of my wings all o'er (For thro' each plume I felt the thrill) Startled her as she reached the shore Of that small lake--her mirror still-- Above whose brink she stood, like snow When rosy with a sunset glow, Never shall I forget those eyes!-- The shame, the innocent surprise Of that bright face when in the air Uplooking she beheld me there. It seemed as if each thought and look And motion were that minute chained Fast to the spot, such root she took, And--like a sunflower by a brook, With face upturned--so still remained!

In pity to the wondering maid, Tho' loath from such a vision turning, Downward I bent, beneath the shade Of my spread wings to hide the burning Of glances, which--I well could feel-- For me, for her, too warmly shone; But ere I could again unseal My restless eyes or even steal One sidelong look the maid was gone-- Hid from me in the forest leaves, Sudden as when in all her charms Of full-blown light some cloud receives The Moon into his dusky arms.

'Tis not in words to tell the power, The despotism that from that hour Passion held o'er me. Day and night I sought around each neighboring spot; And in the chase of this sweet light, My task and heaven and all forgot;-- All but the one, sole, haunting dream Of her I saw in that bright stream.

Nor was it long ere by her side I found myself whole happy days Listening to words whose music vied With our own Eden's seraph lays, When seraph lays are warmed by love, But wanting _that_ far, far above!-- And looking into eyes where, blue And beautiful, like skies seen thro' The sleeping wave, for me there shone A heaven, more worshipt than my own. Oh what, while I could hear and see Such words and looks, was heaven to me?

Tho' gross the air on earth I drew, 'Twas blessed, while she breathed it too; Tho' dark the flowers, tho' dim the sky, Love lent them light while she was nigh. Throughout creation I but knew Two separate worlds--the _one_, that small, Beloved and consecrated spot Where LEA was--the other, all The dull, wide waste where she was _not_!

But vain my suit, my madness vain; Tho' gladly, from her eyes to gain One earthly look, one stray desire, I would have torn the wings that hung Furled at my back and o'er the Fire In GEHIM'S[4] pit their fragments flung;-- 'Twas hopeless all--pure and unmoved She stood as lilies in the light Of the hot noon but look more white;-- And tho' she loved me, deeply loved, 'Twas not as man, as mortal--no, Nothing of earth was in that glow-- She loved me but as one, of race Angelic, from that radiant place She saw so oft in dreams--that Heaven To which her prayers at morn were sent And on whose light she gazed at even, Wishing for wings that she might go Out of this shadowy world below To that free, glorious element!

Well I remember by her side Sitting at rosy even-tide, When,--turning to the star whose head Lookt out as from a bridal bed, At that mute, blushing hour,--she said, "Oh! that it were my doom to be "The Spirit of yon beauteous star, "Dwelling up there in purity, "Alone as all such bright things are;-- "My sole employ to pray and shine, "To light my censer at the sun, "And cast its fire towards the shrine "Of Him in heaven, the Eternal One!"

So innocent the maid, so free From mortal taint in soul and frame, Whom 'twas my crime--my destiny-- To love, ay, burn for, with a flame To which earth's wildest fires are tame. Had you but seen her look when first From my mad lips the avowal burst; Not angered--no!--the feeling came From depths beyond mere anger's flame-- It was a _sorrow_ calm as deep, A mournfulness that could not weep, So filled her heart was to the brink, So fixt and frozen with grief to think That angel natures--that even I Whose love she clung to, as the tie Between her spirit and the sky-- Should fall thus headlong from the height Of all that heaven hath pure and bright!

That very night--my heart had grown Impatient of its inward burning; The term, too, of my stay was flown, And the bright Watchers near the throne. Already, if a meteor shone Between them and this nether zone, Thought 'twas their herald's wing returning. Oft did the potent spell-word, given To Envoys hither from the skies, To be pronounced when back to heaven It is their time or wish to rise, Come to my lips that fatal day; And once too was so nearly spoken, That my spread plumage in the ray And breeze of heaven began to play;-- When my heart failed--the spell was broken-- The word unfinisht died away, And my checkt plumes ready to soar, Fell slack and lifeless as before. How could I leave a world which she, Or lost or won, made all to me? No matter where my wanderings were, So there she lookt, breathed, moved about-- Woe, ruin, death, more sweet with her, Than Paradise itself, without!

But to return--that very day A feast was held, where, full of mirth, Came--crowding thick as flowers that play In summer winds--the young and gay And beautiful of this bright earth. And she was there and mid the young And beautiful stood first, alone; Tho' on her gentle brow still hung The shadow I that morn had thrown-- The first that ever shame or woe Had cast upon its vernal snow. My heart was maddened;--in the flush Of the wild revel I gave way To all that frantic mirth--that rush Of desperate gayety which they, Who never felt how pain's excess Can break out thus, think happiness! Sad mimicry of mirth and life Whose flashes come but from the strife Of inward passions--like the light Struck out by clashing swords in fight.

Then too that juice of earth, the bane And blessing of man's heart and brain-- That draught of sorcery which brings Phantoms of fair, forbidden things-- Whose drops like those of rainbows smile Upon the mists that circle man, Brightening not only Earth the while, But grasping Heaven too in their span!-- Then first the fatal wine-cup rained Its dews of darkness thro' my lips, Casting whate'er of light remained To my lost soul into eclipse; And filling it with such wild dreams, Such fantasies and wrong desires, As in the absence of heaven's beams Haunt us for ever--like wildfires That walk this earth when day retires.

Now hear the rest;--our banquet done, I sought her in the accustomed bower, Where late we oft, when day was gone And the world husht, had met alone, At the same silent, moonlight hour. Her eyes as usual were upturned To her loved star whose lustre burned Purer than ever on that night; While she in looking grew more bright As tho' she borrowed of its light.

There was a virtue in that scene, A spell of holiness around, Which had my burning brain not been Thus maddened would have held me bound, As tho' I trod celestial ground. Even as it was, with soul all flame And lips that burned in their own sighs, I stood to gaze with awe and shame-- The memory of Eden came Full o'er me when I saw those eyes; And tho' too well each glance of mine To the pale, shrinking maiden proved How far, alas! from aught divine, Aught worthy of so pure a shrine, Was the wild love with which I loved, Yet must she, too, have seen--oh yes, 'Tis soothing but to _think_ she saw The deep, true, soul-felt tenderness, The homage of an Angel's awe To her, a mortal, whom pure love Then placed above him--far above-- And all that struggle to repress A sinful spirit's mad excess, Which workt within me at that hour, When with a voice where Passion shed All the deep sadness of her power, Her melancholy power--I said, "Then be it so; if back to heaven "I must unloved, unpitied fly. "Without one blest memorial given "To soothe me in that lonely sky; "One look like those the young and fond "Give when they're parting--which would be, "Even in remembrance far beyond "All heaven hath left of bliss for me!

"Oh, but to see that head recline "A minute on this trembling arm, "And those mild eyes look up to mine, "Without a dread, a thought of harm! "To meet but once the thrilling touch "Of lips too purely fond to fear me-- "Or if that boon be all too much, "Even thus to bring their fragrance near me! "Nay, shrink not so--a look--a word-- "Give them but kindly and I fly; "Already, see, my plumes have stirred "And tremble for their home on high. "Thus be our parting--cheek to cheek-- "One minute's lapse will be forgiven, "And thou, the next, shalt hear me speak "The spell that plumes my wing for heaven!"

While thus I spoke, the fearful maid, Of me and of herself afraid, Had shrinking stood like flowers beneath The scorching of the south-wind's breath: But when I named--alas, too well, I now recall, tho' wildered then,-- Instantly, when I named the spell Her brow, her eyes uprose again; And with an eagerness that spoke The sudden light that o'er her broke, "The spell, the spell!--oh, speak it now. "And I will bless thee!" she exclaimed-- Unknowing what I did, inflamed, And lost already, on her brow I stampt one burning kiss, and named The mystic word till then ne'er told To living creature of earth's mould! Scarce was it said when quick a thought, Her lips from mine like echo caught The holy sound--her hands and eyes Were instant lifted to the skies, And thrice to heaven she spoke it out With that triumphant look Faith wears, When not a cloud of fear or doubt, A vapor from this vale of tears. Between her and her God appears! That very moment her whole frame All bright and glorified became, And at her back I saw unclose Two wings magnificent as those That sparkle around ALLA'S Throne, Whose plumes, as buoyantly she rose Above me, in the moon-beam shone With a pure light; which--from its hue, Unknown upon this earth--I knew Was light from Eden, glistening thro'! Most holy vision! ne'er before Did aught so radiant--since the day When EBLIS in his downfall, bore The third of the bright stars away-- Rise in earth's beauty to repair That loss of light and glory there!

But did I tamely view her flight? Did not I too proclaim out thrice The powerful words that were that night,-- Oh even for heaven too much delight!-- Again to bring us, eyes to eyes And soul to soul, in Paradise? I did--I spoke it o'er and o'er-- I prayed, I wept, but all in vain; For me the spell had power no more. There seemed around me some dark chain Which still as I essayed to soar Baffled, alas, each wild endeavor; Dead lay my wings as they have lain Since that sad hour and will remain-- So wills the offended God--for ever!

It was to yonder star I traced Her journey up the illumined waste-- That isle in the blue firmament To which so oft her fancy went In wishes and in dreams before, And which was now--such, Purity, Thy blest reward--ordained to be Her home of light for evermore! Once--or did I but fancy so?-- Even in her flight to that fair sphere, Mid all her spirit's new-felt glow, A pitying look she turned below On him who stood in darkness here; Him whom perhaps if vain regret Can dwell in heaven she pities yet; And oft when looking to this dim And distant world remembers him.

But soon that passing dream was gone; Farther and farther off she shone, Till lessened to a point as small As are those specks that yonder burn,-- Those vivid drops of light that fall The last from Day's exhausted urn. And when at length she merged, afar, Into her own immortal star, And when at length my straining sight Had caught her wing's last fading ray, That minute from my soul the light Of heaven and love both past away; And I forgot my home, my birth, Profaned my spirit, sunk my brow, And revelled in gross joys of earth Till I became--what I am now!

The Spirit bowed his head in shame; A shame that of itself would tell-- Were there not even those breaks of flame, Celestial, thro' his clouded frame-- How grand the height from which he fell! That holy Shame which ne'er forgets The unblenched renown it used to wear; Whose blush remains when Virtue sets To show her sunshine _has_ been there.

Once only while the tale he told Were his eyes lifted to behold That happy stainless, star where she Dwelt in her bower of purity! One minute did he look and then-- As tho' he felt some deadly pain From its sweet light thro' heart and brain-- Shrunk back and never lookt again.

Who was the Second Spirit? he With the proud front and piercing glance-- Who seemed when viewing heaven's expanse As tho' his far-sent eye could see On, on into the Immensity Behind the veils of that blue sky Where ALLA'S grandest secrets lie?-- His wings, the while, tho' day was gone, Flashing with many a various hue Of light they from themselves alone, Instinct with Eden's brightness drew. 'Twas RUBI--once among the prime And flower of those bright creatures, named Spirits of Knowledge,[5] who o'er Time And Space and Thought an empire claimed, Second alone to Him whose light Was even to theirs as day to night; 'Twixt whom and them was distance far And wide as would the journey be To reach from any island star To vague shores of Infinity

'Twas RUBI in whose mournful eye Slept the dim light of days gone by; Whose voice tho' sweet fell on the ear Like echoes in some silent place When first awaked for many a year; And when he smiled, if o'er his face Smile ever shone, 'twas like the grace Of moonlight rainbows, fair, but wan, The sunny life, the glory gone. Even o'er his pride tho' still the same, A softening shade from sorrow came; And tho' at times his spirit knew The kindlings of disdain and ire, Short was the fitful glare they threw-- Like the last flashes, fierce but few, Seen thro' some noble pile on fire! Such was the Angel who now broke The silence that had come o'er all, When he the Spirit that last spoke Closed the sad history of his fall; And while a sacred lustre flown For many a day relumed his cheek-- Beautiful as in days of old; And not those eloquent lips alone But every feature seemed to speak-- Thus his eventful story told:--

SECOND ANGEL'S STORY.

You both remember well the day When unto Eden's new-made bowers ALLA convoked the bright array Of his supreme angelic powers To witness the one wonder yet, Beyond man, angel, star, or sun, He must achieve, ere he could set His seal upon the world as done-- To see the last perfection rise, That crowning of creation's birth, When mid the worship and surprise Of circling angels Woman's eyes First open upon heaven and earth; And from their lids a thrill was sent, That thro' each living spirit went Like first light thro' the firmament!

Can you forget how gradual stole The fresh-awakened breath of soul Throughout her perfect form--which seemed To grow transparent as there beamed That dawn of Mind within and caught New loveliness from each new thought? Slow as o'er summer seas we trace The progress of the noontide air, Dimpling its bright and silent face Each minute into some new grace, And varying heaven's reflections there-- Or like the light of evening stealing O'er some fair temple which all day Hath slept in shadow, slow revealing Its several beauties ray by ray, Till it shines out, a thing to bless, All full of light and loveliness.

Can you forget her blush when round Thro' Eden's lone, enchanted ground She lookt, and saw the sea--the skies-- And heard the rush of many a wing, On high behests then vanishing; And saw the last few angel eyes, Still lingering--mine among the rest,-- Reluctant leaving scenes so blest? From that miraculous hour the fate Of this new, glorious Being dwelt For ever with a spell-like weight Upon my spirit--early, late, Whate'er I did or dreamed or felt, The thought of what might yet befall That matchless creature mixt with all.-- Nor she alone but her whole race Thro' ages yet to come--whate'er Of feminine and fond and fair Should spring from that pure mind and face, All waked my soul's intensest care; Their forms, souls, feelings, still to me Creation's strangest mystery!

It was my doom--even from the first, When witnessing the primal burst Of Nature's wonders, I saw rise Those bright creations in the skies,-- Those worlds instinct with life and light, Which Man, remote, but sees by night,-- It was my doom still to be haunted By some new wonder, some sublime And matchless work, that for the time Held all my soul enchained, enchanted, And left me not a thought, a dream, A word but on that only theme!

The wish to know--that endless thirst, Which even by quenching is awaked, And which becomes or blest or curst As is the fount whereat 'tis slaked-- Still urged me onward with desire Insatiate, to explore, inquire-- Whate'er the wondrous things might be That waked each new idolatry-- Their cause, aim, source, whenever sprung-- Their inmost powers, as tho' for me Existence on that knowledge hung.

Oh what a vision were the stars When first I saw them born on high, Rolling along like living cars Of light for gods to journey by![6] They were like my heart's first passion--days And nights unwearied, in their rays Have I hung floating till each sense Seemed full of their bright influence. Innocent joy! alas, how much Of misery had I shunned below, Could I have still lived blest with such; Nor, proud and restless, burned to know The knowledge that brings guilt and woe.

Often--so much I loved to trace The secrets of this starry race-- Have I at morn and evening run Along the lines of radiance spun Like webs between them and the sun, Untwisting all the tangled ties Of light into their different dyes-- The fleetly winged I off in quest Of those, the farthest, loneliest, That watch like winking sentinels,[7] The void, beyond which Chaos dwells; And there with noiseless plume pursued Their track thro' that grand solitude, Asking intently all and each What soul within their radiance dwelt, And wishing their sweet light were speech, That they might tell me all they felt.

Nay, oft, so passionate my chase, Of these resplendent heirs of space, Oft did I follow--lest a ray Should 'scape me in the farthest night-- Some pilgrim Comet on his way To visit distant shrines of light, And well remember how I sung Exultingly when on my sight New worlds of stars all fresh and young As if just born of darkness sprung!

Such was my pure ambition then, My sinless transport night and morn Ere yet this newer world of men, And that most fair of stars was born Which I in fatal hour saw rise Among the flowers of Paradise!

Thenceforth my nature all was changed, My heart, soul, senses turned below; And he who but so lately ranged Yon wonderful expanse where glow Worlds upon worlds,--yet found his mind Even in that luminous range confined,-- Now blest the humblest, meanest sod Of the dark earth where Woman trod! In vain my former idols glistened From their far thrones; in vain these ears To the once-thrilling music listened, That hymned around my favorite spheres-- To earth, to earth each thought was given, That in this half-lost soul had birth; Like some high mount, whose head's in heaven While its whole shadow rests on earth!

Nor was it Love, even yet, that thralled My spirit in his burning ties; And less, still less could it be called That grosser flame, round which Love flies Nearer and near till he dies-- No, it was wonder, such as thrilled At all God's works my dazzled sense; The same rapt wonder, only filled With passion, more profound, intense,-- A vehement, but wandering fire, Which, tho' nor love, nor yet desire,-- Tho' thro' all womankind it took Its range, its lawless lightnings run, Yet wanted but a touch, a look, To fix it burning upon _One_.

Then too the ever-restless zeal, The insatiate curiosity, To know how shapes so fair must feel-- To look but once beneath the seal Of so much loveliness and see What souls belonged to such bright eyes-- Whether as sunbeams find their way Into the gem that hidden lies, Those looks could inward turn their ray, And make the soul as bright as they: All this impelled my anxious chase. And still the more I saw and knew Of Woman's fond, weak, conquering race, The intenser still my wonder grew. I had beheld their First, their EVE, Born in that splendid Paradise, Which sprung there solely to receive The first light of her waking eyes. I had seen purest angels lean In worship o'er her from above; And man--oh yes, had envying seen Proud man possest of all her love.

I saw their happiness, so brief, So exquisite,--her error, too, That easy trust, that prompt belief In what the warm heart wishes true; That faith in words, when kindly said. By which the whole fond sex is led Mingled with--what I durst not blame, For 'tis my own--that zeal to _know_, Sad, fatal zeal, so sure of woe; Which, tho' from heaven all pure it came, Yet stained, misused, brought sin and shame On her, on me, on all below!

I had seen this; had seen Man, armed As his soul is with strength and sense, By her first words to ruin charmed; His vaunted reason's cold defence, Like an ice-barrier in the ray Of melting summer, smiled away. Nay, stranger yet, spite of all this-- Tho' by her counsels taught to err, Tho' driven from Paradise for her, (And _with_ her--_that_ at least was bliss,) Had I not heard him ere he crost The threshold of that earthly heaven, Which by her bewildering smile he lost-- So quickly was the wrong forgiven-- Had I not heard him, as he prest The frail, fond trembler to a breast Which she had doomed to sin and strife, Call her--even then--his Life! his Life![8] Yes, such a love-taught name, the first, That ruined Man to Woman gave, Even in his outcast hour, when curst By her fond witchery, with that worst And earliest boon of love, the grave! She who brought death into the world There stood before him, with the light Of their lost Paradise still bright Upon those sunny locks that curled Down her white shoulders to her feet-- So beautiful in form, so sweet In heart and voice, as to redeem The loss, the death of all things dear, Except herself--and make it seem Life, endless Life, while she was near! Could I help wondering at a creature, Thus circled round with spells so strong-- One to whose every thought, word, feature. In joy and woe, thro' right and wrong, Such sweet omnipotence heaven gave, To bless or ruin, curse or save?

Nor did the marvel cease with her-- New Eves in all her daughters came, As strong to charm, as weak to err, As sure of man thro' praise and blame, Whate'er they brought him, pride or shame, He still the unreasoning worshipper, And they, throughout all time, the same Enchantresses of soul and frame, Into whose hands, from first to last, This world with all its destinies, Devotedly by heaven seems cast, To save or ruin as they please! Oh! 'tis not to be told how long, How restlessly I sighed to find Some _one_ from out that witching throng, Some abstract of the form and mind Of the whole matchless sex, from which, In my own arms beheld, possest, I might learn all the powers to witch, To warm, and (if my fate unblest _Would_ have it) ruin, of the rest! Into whose inward soul and sense, I might descend, as doth the bee Into the flower's deep heart, and thence Rifle in all its purity The prime, the quintessence, the whole Of wondrous Woman's frame and soul! At length my burning wish, my prayer-- (For such--oh! what will tongues not dare, When hearts go wrong?--this lip preferred)-- At length my ominous prayer was heard-- But whether heard in heaven or hell, Listen--and thou wilt know _too_ well.

There was a maid, of all who move Like visions o'er this orb most fit. To be a bright young angel's love-- Herself so bright, so exquisite! The pride too of her step, as light Along the unconscious earth she went, Seemed that of one born with a right To walk some heavenlier element, And tread in places where her feet A star at every step should meet. 'Twas not alone that loveliness By which the wildered sense is caught-- Of lips whose very breath could bless; Of playful blushes that seemed naught But luminous escapes of thought; Of eyes that, when by anger stirred, Were fire itself, but at a word Of tenderness, all soft became As tho' they could, like the sun's bird, Dissolve away in their own flame-- Of form, as pliant as the shoots Of a young tree, in vernal flower; Yet round and glowing as the fruits, That drop from it in summer's hour;-- 'Twas not alone this loveliness That falls to loveliest women's share, Tho' even here her form could spare From its own beauty's rich excess Enough to make even _them_ more fair-- But 'twas the Mind outshining clear Thro' her whole frame--the soul, still near, To light each charm, yet independent Of what it lighted, as the sun That shines on flowers would be resplendent Were there no flowers to shine upon-- 'Twas this, all this, in one combined-- The unnumbered looks and arts that form The glory of young womankind, Taken, in their perfection, warm, Ere time had chilled a single charm, And stampt with such a seal of Mind, As gave to beauties that might be Too sensual else, too unrefined, The impress of Divinity!

'Twas this--a union, which the hand Of Nature kept for her alone, Of every thing most playful, bland, Voluptuous, spiritual, grand, In angel-natures and her own-- Oh! this it was that drew me nigh One, who seemed kin to heaven as I, A bright twin-sister from on high-- One in whose love, I felt, were given The mixt delights of either sphere, All that the spirit seeks in heaven, And all the senses burn for here.

Had we--but hold!--hear every part Of our sad tale--spite of the pain Remembrance gives, when the fixt dart Is stirred thus in the wound again-- Hear every step, so full of bliss, And yet so ruinous, that led Down to the last, dark precipice, Where perisht both--the fallen, the dead!

From the first hour she caught my sight, I never left her--day and night Hovering unseen around her way, And mid her loneliest musings near, I soon could track each thought that lay, Gleaming within her heart, as clear As pebbles within brooks appear; And there among the countless things That keep young hearts for ever glowing-- Vague wishes, fond imaginings, Love-dreams, as yet no object knowing-- Light, winged hopes that come when bid, And rainbow joys that end in weeping; And passions among pure thoughts hid, Like serpents under flowerets sleeping:-- 'Mong all these feelings--felt where'er Young hearts are beating--I saw there Proud thoughts, aspirings high--beyond Whate'er yet dwelt in soul so fond-- Glimpses of glory, far away Into the bright, vague future given; And fancies, free and grand, whose play, Like that of eaglets, is near heaven! With this, too--what a soul and heart To fall beneath the tempter's art!-- A zeal for knowledge, such as ne'er Enshrined itself in form so fair, Since that first, fatal hour, when Eve, With every fruit of Eden blest Save one alone--rather than leave That _one_ unreached, lost all the rest.

It was in dreams that first I stole With gentle mastery o'er her mind-- In that rich twilight of the soul, When reason's beam, half hid behind The clouds of sleep, obscurely gilds Each shadowy shape that Fancy builds-- 'Twas then by that soft light I brought Vague, glimmering visions to her view,-- Catches of radiance lost when caught, Bright labyrinths that led to naught, And vistas with no pathway thro';-- Dwellings of bliss that opening shone, Then closed, dissolved, and left no trace-- All that, in short, could tempt Hope on, But give her wing no resting-place; Myself the while with brow as yet Pure as the young moon's coronet, Thro' every dream _still_ in her sight. The enchanter of each mocking scene, Who gave the hope, then brought the blight, Who said, "Behold yon world of light," Then sudden dropt a veil between!

At length when I perceived each thought, Waking or sleeping, fixt on naught But these illusive scenes and me-- The phantom who thus came and went, In half revealments, only meant To madden curiosity-- When by such various arts I found Her fancy to its utmost wound. One night--'twas in a holy spot Which she for prayer had chosen--a grot Of purest marble built below Her garden beds, thro' which a glow From lamps invisible then stole, Brightly pervading all the place-- Like that mysterious light the soul, Itself unseen, sheds thro' the face. There at her altar while she knelt, And all that woman ever felt, When God and man both claimed her sighs-- Every warm thought, that ever dwelt, Like summer clouds, 'twixt earth and skies, Too pure to fall, too gross to rise, Spoke in her gestures, tones, and eyes-- Then, as the mystic light's soft ray Grew softer still, as tho' its ray Was breathed from her, I heard her say:--

"O idol of my dreams! whate'er "Thy nature be--human, divine, "Or but half heavenly--still too fair, "Too heavenly to be ever mine!

"Wonderful Spirit who dost make "Slumber so lovely that it seems "No longer life to live awake, "Since heaven itself descends in dreams,

"Why do I ever lose thee? why "When on thy realms and thee I gaze "Still drops that veil, which I could die, "Oh! gladly, but one hour to raise?

"Long ere such miracles as thou "And thine came o'er my thoughts, a thirst "For light was in this soul which now "Thy looks have into passion burst.

"There's nothing bright above, below, "In sky--earth--ocean, that this breast "Doth not intensely burn to know, "And thee, thee, thee, o'er all the rest!

"Then come, oh Spirit, from behind "The curtains of thy radiant home, "If thou wouldst be as angel shrined, "Or loved and claspt as mortal, come!

"Bring all thy dazzling wonders here, "That I may, waking, know and see; "Or waft me hence to thy own sphere, "Thy heaven or--ay, even _that_ with thee!

"Demon or God, who hold'st the book "Of knowledge spread beneath thine eye, "Give me, with thee, but one bright look "Into its leaves and let me die!

"By those ethereal wings whose way "Lies thro' an element so fraught "With living Mind that as they play "Their every movement is a thought!

"By that bright, wreathed hair, between "Whose sunny clusters the sweet wind "Of Paradise so late hath been "And left its fragrant soul behind!

"By those impassioned eyes that melt "Their light into the inmost heart, "Like sunset in the waters, felt "As molten fire thro' every part--

"I do implore thee, oh most bright "And worshipt Spirit, shine but o'er "My waking, wondering eyes this night "This one blest night--I ask no more!"

Exhausted, breathless, as she said These burning words, her languid head Upon the altar's steps she cast, As if that brain-throb were its last---

Till, startled by the breathing, nigh, Of lips that echoed back her sigh, Sudden her brow again she raised; And there, just lighted on the shrine, Beheld me--not as I had blazed Around her, full of light divine, In her late dreams, but softened down Into more mortal grace;--my crown Of flowers, too radiant for this world, Left hanging on yon starry steep; My wings shut up, like banners furled, When Peace hath put their pomp to sleep; Or like autumnal clouds that keep Their lightnings sheathed rather than mar The dawning hour of some young star; And nothing left but what beseemed The accessible, tho' glorious mate Of mortal woman--whose eyes beamed Back upon hers, as passionate; Whose ready heart brought flame for flame, Whose sin, whose madness was the same; And whose soul lost in that one hour For her and for her love--oh more Of heaven's light than even the power Of heaven itself could now restore! And yet, that hour!--

The Spirit here Stopt in his utterance as if words Gave way beneath the wild career Of his then rushing thoughts--like chords, Midway in some enthusiast's song, Breaking beneath a touch too strong; While the clenched hand upon the brow Told how remembrance throbbed there now! But soon 'twas o'er--that casual blaze From the sunk fire of other days-- That relic of a flame whose burning Had been too fierce to be relumed, Soon passt away, and the youth turning To his bright listeners thus resumed:--

Days, months elapsed, and, tho' what most On earth I sighed for was mine, all-- Yet--was I happy? God, thou know'st, Howe'er they smile and feign and boast, What happiness is theirs, who fall! 'Twas bitterest anguish--made more keen Even by the love, the bliss, between Whose throbs it came, like gleams of hell In agonizing cross-light given Athwart the glimpses, they who dwell In purgatory[9] catch of heaven! The only feeling that to me Seemed joy--or rather my sole rest From aching misery--was to see My young, proud, blooming LILIS blest. She, the fair fountain of all ill To my lost soul--whom yet its thirst Fervidly panted after still, And found the charm fresh as at first-- To see _her_ happy--to reflect Whatever beams still round me played Of former pride, of glory wreckt, On her, my Moon, whose light I made, And whose soul worshipt even my shade-- This was, I own, enjoyment--this My sole, last lingering glimpse of bliss. And proud she was, fair creature!--proud, Beyond what even most queenly stirs In woman's heart, nor would have bowed That beautiful young brow of hers To aught beneath the First above, So high she deemed her Cherub's love!

Then too that passion hourly growing Stronger and stronger--to which even Her love at times gave way--of knowing Everything strange in earth and heaven; Not only all that, full revealed, The eternal ALLA loves to show, But all that He hath wisely sealed In darkness for man _not_ to know-- Even this desire, alas! ill-starred And fatal as it was, I sought To feed each minute, and unbarred Such realms of wonder on her thought As ne'er till then had let their light Escape on any mortal's sight!

In the deep earth--beneath the sea-- Thro' caves of fire--thro' wilds of air-- Wherever sleeping Mystery Had spread her curtain, we were there-- Love still beside us as we went, At home in each new element And sure of worship everywhere!

Then first was Nature taught to lay The wealth of all her kingdoms down At woman's worshipt feet and say "Bright creature, this is all thine own!" Then first were diamonds from the night, Of earth's deep centre brought to light And made to grace the conquering way Of proud young beauty with their ray.

Then too the pearl from out its shell Unsightly, in the sunless sea, (As 'twere a spirit, forced to dwell In form unlovely) was set free, And round the neck of woman threw A light it lent and borrowed too. For never did this maid--whate'er The ambition of the hour--forget Her sex's pride in being fair; Nor that adornment, tasteful, rare, Which makes the mighty magnet, set In Woman's form, more mighty yet. Nor was there aught within the range Of my swift wing in sea or air, Of beautiful or grand or strange, That, quickly as her wish could change, I did not seek, with such fond care, That when I've seen her look above At some bright star admiringly, I've said, "Nay, look not there, my love,[10] "Alas, I _can not_ give it thee!"

But not alone the wonders found Thro' Nature's realm--the unveiled, material, Visible glories, that abound Thro' all her vast, enchanted ground-- But whatsoe'er unseen, ethereal, Dwells far away from human sense, Wrapt in its own intelligence-- The mystery of that Fountainhead, From which all vital spirit runs, All breath of Life, where'er 'tis spread Thro' men or angels, flowers or suns-- The workings of the Almighty Mind, When first o'er Chaos he designed The outlines of this world, and thro' That depth of darkness--like the bow, Called out of rain-clouds hue by hue[11] Saw the grand, gradual picture grow;-- The covenant with human kind By ALLA made--the chains of Fate He round himself and them hath twined, Till his high task he consummate;-- Till good from evil, love from hate, Shall be workt out thro' sin and pain, And Fate shall loose her iron chain And all be free, be bright again!

Such were the deep-drawn mysteries, And some, even more obscure, profound, And wildering to the mind than these, Which--far as woman's thought could sound, Or a fallen, outlawed spirit reach-- She dared to learn and I to teach. Till--filled with such unearthly lore, And mingling the pure light it brings With much that fancy had before Shed in false, tinted glimmerings-- The enthusiast girl spoke out, as one Inspired, among her own dark race, Who from their ancient shrines would run, Leaving their holy rites undone, To gaze upon her holier face. And tho' but wild the things she spoke, Yet mid that play of error's smoke Into fair shapes by fancy curled, Some gleams of pure religion broke-- Glimpses that have not yet awoke, But startled the still dreaming world! Oh! many a truth, remote, sublime, Which Heaven would from the minds of men Have kept concealed till its own time, Stole out in these revealments then-- Revealments dim that have forerun, By ages, the great, Sealing One![12] Like that imperfect dawn or light[13] Escaping from the Zodiac's signs, Which makes the doubtful east half bright, Before the real morning shines!

Thus did some moons of bliss go by-- Of bliss to her who saw but love And knowledge throughout earth and sky; To whose enamored soul and eye I seemed--as is the sun on high-- The light of all below, above, The spirit of sea and land and air, Whose influence, felt everywhere, Spread from its centre, her own heart, Even to the world's extremest part; While thro' that world her rainless mind Had now careered so fast and far, That earth itself seemed left behind And her proud fancy unconfined Already saw Heaven's gates ajar!

Happy enthusiast! still, oh! still Spite of my own heart's mortal chill, Spite of that double-fronted sorrow Which looks at once before and back, Beholds the yesterday, the morrow, And sees both comfortless, both black-- Spite of all this, I could have still In her delight forgot all ill; Or if pain _would_ not be forgot, At least have borne and murmured not. When thoughts of an offended heaven, Of sinfulness, which I--even I, While down its steep most headlong driven-- Well knew could never be forgiven, Came o'er me with an agony Beyond all reach of mortal woe-- A torture kept for those who know.

Know _every_ thing, and--worst of all-- Know and love Virtue while they fall! Even then her presence had the power To soothe, to warm--nay, even to bless-- If ever bliss could graft its flower On stem so full of bitterness-- Even then her glorious smile to me Brought warmth and radiance if not balm; Like moonlight o'er a troubled sea. Brightening the storm it cannot calm.

Oft too when that disheartening fear, Which all who love, beneath yon sky, Feel when they gaze on what is dear-- The dreadful thought that it must die! That desolating thought which comes Into men's happiest hours and homes; Whose melancholy boding flings Death's shadow o'er the brightest things, Sicklies the infant's bloom and spreads The grave beneath young lovers' heads! This fear, so sad to all--to me Most full of sadness from the thought That I most still live on,[14] when she Would, like the snow that on the sea Fell yesterday, in vain be sought; That heaven to me this final seal Of all earth's sorrow would deny, And I eternally must feel The death-pang without power to die!

Even this, her fond endearments--fond As ever cherisht the sweet bond 'Twixt heart and heart--could charm away; Before her looks no clouds would stay, Or if they did their gloom was gone, Their darkness put a glory on! But 'tis not, 'tis not for the wrong, The guilty, to be happy long; And she too now had sunk within The shadow of her tempter's sin, Too deep for even Omnipotence To snatch the fated victim thence! Listen and if a tear there be Left in your hearts weep it for me.

'Twas on the evening of a day, Which we in love had dreamt away; In that same garden, where--the pride Of seraph splendor laid aside, And those wings furled, whose open light For mortal gaze were else too bright-- I first had stood before her sight, And found myself--oh, ecstasy, Which even in pain I ne'er forget-- Worshipt as only God should be, And loved as never man was yet! In that same garden where we now, Thoughtfully side by side reclining, Her eyes turned upward and her brow With its own silent fancies shining.

It was an evening bright and still As ever blusht on wave or bower, Smiling from heaven as if naught ill Could happen in so sweet an hour. Yet I remember both grew sad In looking at that light--even she, Of heart so fresh and brow so glad, Felt the still hour's solemnity, And thought she saw in that repose The death-hour not alone of light, But of this whole fair world--the close Of all things beautiful and bright-- The last, grand sunset, in whose ray Nature herself died calm away!

At length, as tho' some livelier thought Had suddenly her fancy caught, She turned upon me her dark eyes, Dilated into that full shape They took in joy, reproach, surprise, As 'twere to let more soul escape, And, playfully as on my head Her white hand rested, smiled and said:--

"I had last night a dream of thee, "Resembling those divine ones, given, "Like preludes to sweet minstrelsy, "Before thou camest thyself from heaven.

"The same rich wreath was on thy brow, "Dazzling as if of starlight made; "And these wings, lying darkly now, "Like meteors round thee flasht and played.

"Thou stoodest, all bright, as in those dreams, "As if just wafted from above, "Mingling earth's warmth with heaven's beams, "And creature to adore and love.

"Sudden I felt thee draw me near "To thy pure heart, where, fondly placed, "I seemed within the atmosphere "Of that exhaling light embraced;

"And felt methought the ethereal flame "Pass from thy purer soul to mine; "Till--oh, too blissful--I became, "Like thee, all spirit, all divine!

"Say, why did dream so blest come o'er me, "If, now I wake, 'tis faded, gone? "When will my Cherub shine before me "Thus radiant, as in heaven he shone?

"When shall I, waking, be allowed "To gaze upon those perfect charms, "And clasp thee once without a cloud, "A chill of earth, within these arms?

"Oh what a pride to say, this, this "Is my own Angel--all divine, "And pure and dazzling as he is "And fresh from heaven--he's mine, he's mine!

"Thinkest thou, were LILIS in thy place, "A creature of yon lofty skies, "She would have hid one single grace, "One glory from her lover's eyes?

"No, no--then, if thou lovest like me, "Shine out, young Spirit in the blaze "Of thy most proud divinity, "Nor think thou'lt wound this mortal gaze.

"Too long and oft I've looked upon "Those ardent eyes, intense even thus-- "Too near the stars themselves have gone, "To fear aught grand or luminous.

"Then doubt me not--oh! who can say "But that this dream may yet come true "And my blest spirit drink thy ray, "Till it becomes all heavenly too?

"Let me this once but feel the flame "Of those spread wings, the very pride "Will change my nature, and this frame "By the mere touch be deified!"

Thus spoke the maid, as one not used To be by earth or heaven refused-- As one who knew her influence o'er All creatures, whatsoe'er they were, And tho' to heaven she could not soar, At least would bring down heaven to her.

Little did she, alas! or I-- Even I, whose soul, but halfway yet Immerged in sin's obscurity Was as the earth whereon we lie, O'er half whose disk the sun is set-- Little did we foresee the fate, The dreadful--how can it be told? Such pain, such anguish to relate Is o'er again to feel, behold! But, charged as 'tis, my heart must speak Its sorrow out or it will break! Some dark misgivings _had_, I own, Past for a moment thro' my breast-- Fears of some danger, vague, unknown, To one, or both--something unblest To happen from this proud request.

But soon these boding fancies fled; Nor saw I aught that could forbid My full revealment save the dread Of that first dazzle, when, unhid, Such light should burst upon a lid Ne'er tried in heaven;--and even this glare She might, by love's own nursing care, Be, like young eagles, taught to bear. For well I knew, the lustre shed From cherub wings, when proudliest spread, Was in its nature lambent, pure, And innocent as is the light The glow-worm hangs out to allure Her mate to her green bower at night. Oft had I in the mid-air swept Thro' clouds in which the lightning slept, As in its lair, ready to spring, Yet waked it not--tho' from my wing A thousand sparks fell glittering! Oft too when round me from above The feathered snow in all its whiteness, Fell like the moultings of heaven's Dove,[15]-- So harmless, tho' so full of brightness, Was my brow's wreath that it would shake From off its flowers each downy flake As delicate, unmelted, fair, And cool as they had lighted there.

Nay even with LILIS--had I not Around her sleep all radiant beamed, Hung o'er her slumbers nor forgot To kiss her eyelids as she dreamed? And yet at morn from that repose, Had she not waked, unscathed and bright, As doth the pure, unconscious rose Tho' by the fire-fly kist all night?

Thus having--as, alas! deceived By my sin's blindness, I believed-- No cause for dread and those dark eyes Now fixt upon me eagerly As tho' the unlocking of the skies Then waited but a sign from me-- How could I pause? how even let fall A word; a whisper that could stir In her proud heart a doubt that all I brought from heaven belonged to her? Slow from her side I rose, while she Arose too, mutely, tremblingly, But not with fear--all hope, and pride, She waited for the awful boon, Like priestesses at eventide Watching the rise of the full moon Whose light, when once its orb hath shone, 'Twill madden them to look upon!

Of all my glories, the bright crown Which when I last from heaven came down Was left behind me in yon star That shines from out those clouds afar-- Where, relic sad, 'tis treasured yet, The downfallen angel's coronet!-- Of all my glories, this alone Was wanting:--but the illumined brow, The sun-bright locks, the eyes that now Had love's spell added to their own, And poured a light till then unknown;-- The unfolded wings that in their play Shed sparkles bright as ALLA'S throne; All I could bring of heaven's array, Of that rich panoply of charms A Cherub moves in, on the day Of his best pomp, I now put on; And, proud that in her eyes I shone Thus glorious, glided to her arms; Which still (tho', at a sight so splendid, Her dazzled brow had instantly Sunk on her breast), were wide extended To clasp the form she durst not see![16] Great Heaven! how _could_ thy vengeance light So bitterly on one so bright? How could the hand that gave such charms, Blast them again in love's own arms? Scarce had I touched her shrinking frame, When--oh most horrible!--I felt That every spark of that pure flame-- Pure, while among the stars I dwelt-- Was now by my transgression turned Into gross, earthly fire, which burned, Burned all it touched as fast as eye Could follow the fierce, ravening flashes; Till there--oh God, I still ask why Such doom was hers?--I saw her lie Blackening within my arms to ashes! That brow, a glory but to see-- Those lips whose touch was what the first Fresh cup of immortality Is to a new-made angel's thirst!

Those clasping arms, within whose round-- My heart's horizon--the whole bound Of its hope, prospect, heaven was found! Which, even in this dread moment, fond As when they first were round me cast, Loosed not in death the fatal bond, But, burning, held me to the last! All, all, that, but that morn, had seemed As if Love's self there breathed and beamed, Now parched and black before me lay, Withering in agony away; And mine, oh misery! mine the flame From which this desolation came;-- I, the curst spirit whose caress Had blasted all that loveliness!

'Twas maddening!--but now hear even worse-- Had death, death only, been the curse I brought upon her--had the doom But ended here, when her young bloom Lay in the dust--and did the spirit No part of that fell curse inherit, 'Twere not so dreadful--but, come near-- Too shocking 'tis for earth to hear-- Just when her eyes in fading took Their last, keen, agonized farewell, And looked in mine with--oh, that look! Great vengeful Power, whate'er the hell Thou mayst to human souls assign, The memory of that look is mine!--

In her last struggle, on my brow Her ashy lips a kiss imprest, So withering!--I feel it now-- 'Twas fire--but fire, even more unblest Than was my own, and like that flame, The angels shudder but to name, Hell's everlasting element! Deep, deep it pierced into my brain, Maddening and torturing as it went; And here, mark here, the brand, the stain It left upon my front--burnt in By that last kiss of love and sin-- A brand which all the pomp and pride Of a fallen Spirit cannot hide!

But is it thus, dread Providence-- _Can_ it indeed be thus, that she Who, (but for _one_ proud, fond offence,) Had honored heaven itself, should be Now doomed--I cannot speak it--no, Merciful ALLA! _'tis_ not so-- Never could lips divine have said The fiat of a fate so dread. And yet, that look--so deeply fraught With more than anguish, with despair-- That new, fierce fire, resembling naught In heaven or earth--this scorch I bear!-- Oh--for the first time that these knees Have bent before thee since my fall, Great Power, if ever thy decrees Thou couldst for prayer like mine recall, Pardon that spirit, and on me, On me, who taught her pride to err, Shed out each drop of agony Thy burning phial keeps for her! See too where low beside me kneel Two other outcasts who, tho' gone And lost themselves, yet dare to feel And pray for that poor mortal one. Alas, too well, too well they know The pain, the penitence, the woe That Passion brings upon the best, The wisest, and the loveliest.-- Oh! who is to be saved, if such Bright, erring souls are not forgiven; So loath they wander, and so much Their very wanderings lean towards heaven! Again I cry. Just Power, transfer That creature's sufferings all to me-- Mine, mine the guilt, the torment be, To save one minute's pain to her, Let mine last all eternity!

He paused and to the earth bent down His throbbing head; while they who felt That agony as 'twere their own, Those angel youths, beside him knelt, And in the night's still silence there, While mournfully each wandering air Played in those plumes that never more To their lost home in heaven must soar, Breathed inwardly the voiceless prayer, Unheard by all but Mercy's ear-- And which if Mercy _did not_ hear, Oh, God would _not_ be what this bright And glorious universe of His, This world of beauty, goodness, light And endless love proclaims He _is_!

Not long they knelt, when from a wood That crowned that airy solitude, They heard a low, uncertain sound, As from a lute, that just had found Some happy theme and murmured round The new-born fancy, with fond tone, Scarce thinking aught so sweet its own! Till soon a voice, that matched as well That gentle instrument, as suits The sea-air to an ocean-shell, (So kin its spirit to the lute's), Tremblingly followed the soft strain, Interpreting its joy, its pain, And lending the light wings of words To many a thought that else had lain Unfledged and mute among the chords.

All started at the sound--but chief The third young Angel in whose face, Tho' faded like the others, grief Had left a gentler, holier trace; As if, even yet, thro' pain and ill, Hope had not fled him--as if still Her precious pearl in sorrow's cup Unmelted at the bottom lay, To shine again, when, all drunk up, The bitterness should pass away. Chiefly did he, tho' in his eyes There shone more pleasure than surprise, Turn to the wood from whence that sound Of solitary sweetness broke; Then, listening, look delighted round To his bright peers, while thus it spoke:-- "Come, pray with me, my seraph love, "My angel-lord, come pray with me: "In vain to-night my lips hath strove "To send one holy prayer above-- "The knee may bend, the lip may move, "But pray I cannot, without thee! "I've fed the altar in my bower "With droppings from the incense tree; "I've sheltered it from wind and shower, "But dim it burns the livelong hour, "As if, like me, it had no power "Of life or lustre without thee!

"A boat at midnight sent alone "To drift upon the moonless sea, "A lute, whose leading chord is gone, "A wounded bird that hath but one "Imperfect wing to soar upon, "Are like what I am without thee!

"Then ne'er, my spirit-love, divide, "In life or death, thyself from me; "But when again in sunny pride "Thou walk'st thro' Eden, let me glide, "A prostrate shadow, by thy side-- "Oh happier thus than without thee!"

The song had ceased when from the wood Which sweeping down that airy height, Reached the lone spot whereon they stood-- There suddenly shone out a light From a clear lamp, which, as it blazed Across the brow of one, who raised Its flame aloft (as if to throw The light upon that group below), Displayed two eyes sparkling between The dusky leaves, such as are seen By fancy only, in those faces, That haunt a poet's walk at even, Looking from out their leafy places Upon his dreams of love and heaven. 'Twas but a moment--the blush brought O'er all her features at the thought Of being seen thus, late, alone, By any but the eyes she sought, Had scarcely for an instant shore Thro' the dark leaves when she was gone-- Gone, like a meteor that o'erhead Suddenly shines, and, ere we've said, "Behold, how beautiful!"--'tis fled, Yet ere she went the words, "I come, "I come, my NAMA," reached her ear, In that kind voice, familiar, dear, Which tells of confidence, of home,-- Of habit, that hath drawn hearts near, Till they grow _one_,--of faith sincere, And all that Love most loves to hear; A music breathing of the past, The present and the time to be, Where Hope and Memory to the last Lengthen out life's true harmony!

Nor long did he whom call so kind Summoned away remain behind: Nor did there need much time to tell What they--alas! more fallen than he From happiness and heaven--knew well, His gentler love's short history!

Thus did it run--_not_ as he told The tale himself, but as 'tis graved Upon the tablets that, of old, By SETH[17] were from the deluge saved, All written over with sublime And saddening legends of the unblest But glorious Spirits of that time, And this young Angel's 'mong the rest.

THIRD ANGEL'S STORY.

Among the Spirits, of pure flame, That in the eternal heavens abide-- Circles of light that from the same Unclouded centre sweeping wide, Carry its beams on every side-- Like spheres of air that waft around The undulations of rich sound--

Till the far-circling radiance be Diffused into infinity! First and immediate near the Throne Of ALLA, as if most his own, The Seraphs stand[18] this burning sign Traced on their banner, "Love Divine!" Their rank, their honors, far above Even those to high-browed Cherubs given, Tho' knowing all;--so much doth Love Transcend all Knowledge, even in heaven!

'Mong these was ZARAPH once--and none E'er felt affection's holy fire, Or yearned towards the Eternal One, With half such longing, deep desire. Love was to his impassioned soul Not as with others a mere part Of its existence, but the whole-- The very life-breath of his heart!

Oft, when from ALLA'S lifted brow A lustre came, too bright to bear, And all the seraph ranks would bow, To shade their dazzled sight nor dare To look upon the effulgence there-- This Spirit's eyes would court the blaze (Such pride he in adoring took),

And rather lose in that one gaze The power of looking than _not_ look! Then too when angel voices sung The mercy of their God and strung Their harps to hail with welcome sweet That moment, watched for by all eyes, When some repentant sinner's feet First touched the threshold of the skies, Oh! then how clearly did the voice Of ZARAPH above all rejoice! Love was in every buoyant tone-- Such love as only could belong To the blest angels and alone Could, even from angels, bring such song! Alas! that it should e'er have been In heaven as 'tis too often here, Where nothing fond or bright is seen, But it hath pain and peril near;-- Where right and wrong so close resemble, That what we take for virtue's thrill Is often the first downward tremble Of the heart's balance unto ill; Where Love hath not a shrine so pure, So holy, but the serpent, Sin, In moments, even the most secure, Beneath his altar may glide in!

So was it with that Angel--such The charm, that sloped his fall along, From good to ill, from loving much, Too easy lapse, to loving wrong.-- Even so that amorous Spirit, bound By beauty's spell where'er 'twas found, From the bright things above the moon Down to earth's beaming eyes descended, Till love for the Creator soon In passion for the creature ended.

'Twas first at twilight, on the shore Of the smooth sea, he heard the lute And voice of her he loved steal o'er The silver waters that lay mute, As loath, by even a breath, to stay The pilgrimage of that sweet lay; Whose echoes still went on and on, Till lost among the light that shone Far off beyond the ocean's brim-- There where the rich cascade of day Had o'er the horizon's golden rim, Into Elysium rolled away! Of God she sung and of the mild Attendant Mercy that beside His awful throne for ever smiled, Ready with her white hand to guide His bolts of vengeance to their prey-- That she might quench them on the way! Of Peace--of that Atoning Love, Upon whose star, shining above This twilight world of hope and fear, The weeping eyes of Faith are fixt So fond that with her every tear The light of that love-star is mixt!-- All this she sung, and such a soul Of piety was in that song That the charmed Angel as it stole Tenderly to his ear, along Those lulling waters where he lay, Watching the daylight's dying ray, Thought 'twas a voice from out the wave, An echo, that some sea-nymph gave To Eden's distant harmony, Heard faint and sweet beneath the sea!

Quickly, however, to its source, Tracking that music's melting course, He saw upon the golden sands Of the sea-shore a maiden stand, Before whose feet the expiring waves Flung their last offering with a sigh-- As, in the East, exhausted slaves Lay down the far-brought gift and die-- And while her lute hung by her hushed As if unequal to the tide Of song that from her lips still gushed, She raised, like one beatified, Those eyes whose light seemed rather given To be adored than to adore-- Such eyes as may have lookt _from_ heaven But ne'er were raised to it before!

Oh Love, Religion, Music--all That's left of Eden upon earth-- The only blessings, since the fall Of our weak souls, that still recall A trace of their high, glorious birth-- How kindred are the dreams you bring! How Love tho' unto earth so prone, Delights to take Religion's wing, When time or grief hath stained his own! How near to Love's beguiling brink Too oft entranced Religion lies! While Music, Music is the link They _both_ still hold by to the skies, The language of their native sphere Which they had else forgotten here.

How then could ZARAPH fail to feel That moment's witcheries?--one, so fair, Breathing out music, that might steal Heaven from itself, and rapt in prayer That seraphs might be proud to share! Oh, he _did_ feel it, all too well-- With warmth, that far too dearly cost-- Nor knew he, when at last he fell, To which attraction, to which spell, Love, Music, or Devotion, most His soul in that sweet hour was lost.

Sweet was the hour, tho' dearly won, And pure, as aught of earth could be, For then first did the glorious sun Before religion's altar see Two hearts in wedlock's golden tie Self-pledged, in love to live and die. Blest union! by that Angel wove, And worthy from such hands to come; Safe, sole, asylum, in which Love, When fallen or exiled from above, In this dark world can find a home.

And, tho' the Spirit had transgrest, Had, from his station 'mong the blest Won down by woman's smile, allow'd Terrestrial passion to breathe o'er The mirror of his heart, and cloud God's image there so bright before-- Yet never did that Power look down On error with a brow so mild; Never did Justice wear a frown, Thro' which so gently Mercy smiled.

For humble was their love--with awe And trembling like some treasure kept, That was not theirs by holy law-- Whose beauty with remorse they saw And o'er whose preciousness they wept. Humility, that low, sweet root, From which all heavenly virtues shoot, Was in the hearts of both--but most In NAMA'S heart, by whom alone Those charms, for which a heaven was lost. Seemed all unvalued and unknown; And when her Seraph's eyes she caught, And hid hers glowing on his breast, Even bliss was humbled by the thought-- "What claim have I to be so blest"? Still less could maid, so meek, have nurst Desire of knowledge--that vain thirst, With which the sex hath all been curst From luckless EVE to her who near The Tabernacle stole to hear The secrets of the Angels: no-- To love as her own Seraph loved, With Faith, the same thro' bliss and woe-- Faith that were even its light removed, Could like the dial fixt remain And wait till it shone out again;-- With Patience that tho' often bowed By the rude storm can rise anew; And Hope that even from Evil's cloud See sunny Good half breaking thro'! This deep, relying Love, worth more In heaven than all a Cherub's lore-- This Faith more sure than aught beside Was the sole joy, ambition, pride Of her fond heart--the unreasoning scope Of all its views, above, below-- So true she felt it that to _hope_, To _trust_, is happier than to _know_. And thus in humbleness they trod, Abasht but pure before their God; Nor e'er did earth behold a sight So meekly beautiful as they, When with the altar's holy light Full on their brows they knelt to pray, Hand within hand and side by side, Two links of love awhile untied From the great chain above, but fast Holding together to the last!-- Two fallen Splendors from that tree[19] Which buds with such eternally, Shaken to earth yet keeping all Their light and freshness in the fall.

Their only punishment, (as wrong, However sweet, must bear its brand.) Their only doom was this--that, long As the green earth and ocean stand, They both shall wander here--the same, Throughout all time, in heart and frame-- Still looking to that goal sublime, Whose light remote but sure they see; Pilgrims of Love whose way is Time, Whose home is in Eternity! Subject the while to all the strife True Love encounters in this life-- The wishes, hopes, he breathes in vain; The chill that turns his warmest sighs To earthly vapor ere they rise; The doubt he feeds on and the pain That in his very sweetness lies:-- Still worse, the illusions that betray His footsteps to their shining brink; That tempt him on his desert way Thro' the bleak world, to bend and drink, Where nothing meets his lips, alas!-- But he again must sighing pass On to that far-off home of peace, In which alone his thirst will cease.

All this they bear but not the less Have moments rich in happiness-- Blest meetings, after many a day Of widowhood past far away, When the loved face again is seen Close, close, with not a tear between-- Confidings frank, without control, Poured mutually from soul to soul; As free from any fear or doubt As is that light from chill or strain The sun into the stars sheds out To be by them shed back again!-- That happy minglement of hearts, Where, changed as chymic compounds are, Each with its own existence parts To find a new one, happier far! Such are their joys--and crowning all That blessed hope of the bright hour, When, happy and no more to fall, Their spirits shall with freshened power Rise up rewarded for their trust In Him from whom all goodness springs, And shaking off earth's soiling dust From their emancipated wings, Wander for ever thro' those skies Of radiance where Love never dies!

In what lone region of the earth, These Pilgrims now may roam or dwell, God and the Angels who look forth To watch their steps, alone can tell. But should we in our wanderings Meet a young pair whose beauty wants But the adornment of bright wings To look like heaven's inhabitants-- Who shine where'er they tread and yet Are humble in their earthly lot, As is the way-side violet, That shines unseen, and were it not For its sweet breath would be forgot Whose hearts in every thought are one, Whose voices utter the same wills-- Answering, as Echo doth some tone Of fairy music 'mong the hills, So like itself we seek in vain Which is the echo, which the strain-- Whose piety is love, whose love Tho' close as 'twere their souls' embrace. Is not of earth but from above-- Like two fair mirrors face to face, Whose light from one to the other thrown, Is heaven's reflection, not their own-- Should we e'er meet with aught so pure, So perfect here, we may be sure 'Tis ZARAPH and his bride we see; And call young lovers round to view The pilgrim pair as they pursue Their pathway towards eternity.

[1] "To which will be joined the sound of the bells hanging on the trees, which will be put in motion by the wind proceeding from the Throne, so often as the Blessed wish for music."--See _Sale's Koran, Prelim. Dissert_.

[2] The ancient Persians supposed that this Throne was placed in the Sun, and that through the stars were distributed the various classes of Angels that encircled it. The Basilidians supposed that there were three hundred and sixty-five orders of angels.

[3] It appears that, in most languages, the term employed for an angel means also a messenger.

[4] The name given by the Mahometans to the infernal regions, over which, they say, the angel Tabliek presides.

[5] The Kerubilna, as the Mussulmans call them, are often joined indiscriminately with the Asrafil or Seraphim, under one common name of Azazil, by which all spirits who approach near the throne of Alla are designated.

[6] A belief that the stars are either spirits or the vehicles of spirits, was common to all the religions and heresies of the East. Kircher has given the names and stations of the seven archangels, who were by the Cabala of the Jews distributed through the planets.

[7] According to the cosmogony of the ancient Persians, there were four stars set as sentinels in the four quarters of the heavens, to watch over the other fixed stars, and superintend the planets in their course. The names of these four Sentinel stars are, according to the Boundesh, Taschter, for the east; Satevis, for the west; Venand, for the south; and Haftorang. for the north.

[8] Chavah, or, as it is Arabic, Havah (the name by which Adam called the woman after their transgression), means "Life".

[9] Called by the Mussulmans Al Araf--a sort of wall or partition which, according to the 7th chapter of the Koran, separates hell from paradise, and where they, who have not merits sufficient to gain them immediate admittance into heaven, are supposed to stand for a certain period, alternately tantalized and tormented by the sights that are on either side presented to them.

[10] I am aware that this happy saying of Lord Albemarle's loses much of its grace and playfulness, by being put into the mouth of any but a human lover.

[11] According to Whitehurst's theory, the mention of rainbows by an antediluvian angel is an anachronism; as he says, "There was no rain before the flood, and consequently no rainbow, which accounts for the novelty of this sight after the Deluge."

[12] In acknowledging the authority of the great Prophets who had preceded him, Mahomet represented his own mission as the final "_Seal_," or consummation of them all.

[13] The Zodiacal Light.

[14] Pococke, however, gives it as the opinion of the Mahometan doctors, that all souls, not only of men and of animals, living either on land or in the sea, but of angels also, must necessarily taste of death.

[15] The Dove, or pigeon which attended Mahomet as his Familiar, and was frequently seen to whisper into his ear, was, if I recollect right, one of that select number of animals [including also the ant of Solomon, the dog of the Seven Sleepers, etc.] which were thought by the Prophet worthy of admission into Paradise.

[16] "Mohammed [says Sale], though a prophet, was not able to bear the sight of Gabriel, when he appeared in his proper form, much less would others be able to support it."

[17] Seth is a favorite personage among the Orientals, and acts a conspicuous part in many of their most extravagant romances. The Syrians pretended to have a Testament of this Patriarch in their possession, in which was explained the whole theology of angels, their different orders, etc. The Curds, too (as Hyde mentions in his Appendix), have a book, which contains all the rites of their religion, and which they call Sohuph Sheit, or the Book of Seth.

[18] The Seraphim, or Spirits of Divine Love.

[19] An allusion to the Sephiroths or Splendors of the Jewish Cabala, represented as a tree, of which God is the crown or summit.

RHYMES ON THE ROAD.

EXTRACTED FROM THE JOURNAL OF A TRAVELLING MEMBER OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY,

1819.

The greater part of the following Rhymes were written or composed in an old _calêche_ for the purpose of beguiling the _ennui_ of solitary travelling; and as verses made by a gentleman in his sleep, have been lately called "a _psychological_ curiosity," it is to be hoped that verses, composed by a gentleman to keep himself awake, may be honored with some appellation equally Greek.

RHYMES ON THE ROAD

INTRODUCTORY RHYMES.

_Different Attitudes in which Authors compose.--Bayes, Henry Stevens, Herodotus, etc.--Writing in Bed--in the Fields.--Plato and Sir Richard Blackmore.--Fiddling with Gloves and Twigs.--Madame de Staël.--Rhyming on the Road, in an old Calêche_.

What various attitudes and ways And tricks we authors have in writing! While some write sitting, some like BAYES Usually stand while they're inditing, Poets there are who wear the floor out, Measuring a line at every stride; While some like HENRY STEPHENS pour out Rhymes by the dozen while they ride. HERODOTUS wrote most in bed; And RICHERAND, a French physician, Declares the clock-work of the head Goes best in that reclined position. If you consult MONTAIGNE and PLINY on The subject, 'tis their joint opinion That Thought its richest harvest yields Abroad among the woods and fields, That bards who deal in small retail At home may at their counters stop; But that the grove, the hill, the vale, Are Poesy's true wholesale shop. And verily I think they're right-- For many a time on summer eves, Just at that closing hour of light, When, like an Eastern Prince, who leaves For distant war his Haram bowers, The Sun bids farewell to the flowers, Whose heads are sunk, whose tears are flowing Mid all the glory of his going!-- Even _I_ have felt, beneath those beams, When wandering thro' the fields alone, Thoughts, fancies, intellectual gleams, Which, far too bright to be my own, Seemed lent me by the Sunny Power That was abroad at that still hour.

If thus I've felt, how must _they_ feel, The few whom genuine Genius warms, Upon whose soul he stamps his seal, Graven with Beauty's countless forms;-- The few upon this earth, who seem Born to give truth to PLATO'S dream, Since in their thoughts, as in a glass, Shadows of heavenly things appear. Reflections of bright shapes that pass Thro' other worlds, above our sphere! But this reminds me I digress;-- For PLATO, too, produced, 'tis said, (As one indeed might almost guess), His glorious visions all in bed.[1] 'Twas in his carriage the sublime Sir RICHARD BLACKMORE used to rhyme; And (if the wits don’t do him wrong) Twixt death and epics past his time,[2] Scribbling and killing all day long-- Like Phoebus in his car, at ease, Now warbling forth a lofty song, Now murdering the young Niobes.

There was a hero 'mong the Danes, Who wrote, we're told, mid all the pains And horrors of exenteration, Nine charming odes, which, if you'll look, You'll find preserved with a translation By BARTHOLINOS in his book. In short 'twere endless to recite The various modes in which men write. Some wits are only in the mind. When beaus and belles are round them prating; Some when they dress for dinner find Their muse and valet both in waiting And manage at the self-same time To adjust a neckcloth and a rhyme.

Some bards there are who cannot scribble Without a glove to tear or nibble Or a small twig to whisk about-- As if the hidden founts of Fancy, Like wells of old, were thus found out By mystic trick of rhabdomancy. Such was the little feathery wand,[3] That, held for ever in the hand Of her who won and wore the crown[4] Of female genius in this age, Seemed the conductor that drew down Those words of lightning to her page.

As for myself--to come, at last, To the odd way in which _I_ write-- Having employ'd these few months past Chiefly in travelling, day and night, I've got into the easy mode Of rhyming thus along the road-- Making a way-bill of my pages, Counting my stanzas by my stages-- 'Twixt lays and _re_-lays no time lost-- In short, in two words, _writing post_.

[1] The only authority I know for imputing this practice to Plato and Herodotus, is a Latin poem by M. de Valois on his Bed, in which he says:--

_Lucifer Herodotum vidit Vesperque cubantem, desedit totos heic Plato saepe dies_.

[2] Sir Richard Blackmore was a physician, as well as a bad poet.

[3] Made of paper, twisted up like a fan or feather.

[4] Madame de Staël.

EXTRACT I.

Geneva.

_View of the Lake of Geneva from the Jura.[1]--Anxious to reach it before the Sun went down.--Obliged to proceed on Foot.--Alps.--Mont Blanc.--Effect of the Scene_.

'Twas late--the sun had almost shone His last and best when I ran on Anxious to reach that splendid view Before the daybeams quite withdrew And feeling as all feel on first Approaching scenes where, they are told, Such glories on their eyes will burst As youthful bards in dreams behold.

'Twas distant yet and as I ran Full often was my wistful gaze Turned to the sun who now began To call in all his out-posts rays, And form a denser march of light, Such as beseems a hero's flight. Oh, how I wisht for JOSHUA'S power, To stay the brightness of that hour? But no--the sun still less became, Diminisht to a speck as splendid And small as were those tongues of flame, That on the Apostles' heads descended!

'Twas at this instant--while there glowed This last, intensest gleam of light-- Suddenly thro' the opening road The valley burst upon my sight! That glorious valley with its Lake And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling, Mighty and pure and fit to make The ramparts of a Godhead's dwelling.

I stood entranced--as Rabbins say This whole assembled, gazing world Will stand, upon that awful day, When the Ark's Light aloft unfurled Among the opening clouds shall shine, Divinity's own radiant sign!

Mighty MONT BLANC, thou wert to me That minute, with thy brow in heaven, As sure a sign of Deity As e'er to mortal gaze was given. Nor ever, were I destined yet To live my life twice o'er again, Can I the deep-felt awe forget, The dream, the trance that rapt me then!

'Twas all that consciousness of power And life, beyond this mortal hour;-- Those mountings of the soul within At thoughts of Heaven--as birds begin By instinct in the cage to rise, When near their time for change of skies;-- That proud assurance of our claim To rank among the Sons of Light, Mingled with shame--oh bitter shame!-- At having riskt that splendid right, For aught that earth thro' all its range Of glories offers in exchange! 'Twas all this, at that instant brought Like breaking sunshine o'er my thought-- 'Twas all this, kindled to a glow Of sacred zeal which could it shine Thus purely ever man might grow, Even upon earth a thing divine, And be once more the creature made To walk unstained the Elysian shade!

No, never shall I lose the trace Of what I've felt in this bright place. And should my spirit's hope grow weak, Should I, oh God! e'er doubt thy power, This mighty scene again I'll seek, At the same calm and glowing hour, And here at the sublimest shrine That Nature ever reared to Thee Rekindle all that hope divine And _feel_ my immortality!

[1] Between Vattay and Gex.

EXTRACT II.

Geneva.

FATE OF GENEVA IN THE YEAR 1782.

A FRAGMENT.

Yes--if there yet live some of those, Who, when this small Republic rose, Quick as a startled hive of bees, Against her leaguering enemies--[1] When, as the Royal Satrap shook His well-known fetters at her gates, Even wives and mothers armed and took Their stations by their sons and mates; And on these walls there stood--yet, no, Shame to the traitors--_would_ have stood As firm a band as e'er let flow At Freedom's base their sacred blood; If those yet live, who on that night When all were watching, girt for fight, Stole like the creeping of a pest From rank to rank, from breast to breast, Filling the weak, the old with fears, Turning the heroine's zeal to tears,-- Betraying Honor to that brink, Where, one step more, and he must sink-- And quenching hopes which tho' the last, Like meteors on a drowning mast, Would yet have led to death more bright, Than life e'er lookt, in all its light! Till soon, too soon, distrust, alarms Throughout the embattled thousands ran, And the high spirit, late in arms, The zeal that might have workt such charms, Fell like a broken talisman-- Their gates, that they had sworn should be The gates of Death, that very dawn, Gave passage widely, bloodlessly, To the proud foe--nor sword was drawn, Nor even one martyred body cast To stain their footsteps, as they past; But of the many sworn at night To do or die, some fled the sight, Some stood to look with sullen frown, While some in impotent despair Broke their bright armor and lay down, Weeping, upon the fragments there!-- If those, I say, who brought that shame, That blast upon GENEVA'S name Be living still--tho' crime so dark Shall hang up, fixt and unforgiven, In History's page, the eternal mark For Scorn to pierce--so help me, Heaven, I wish the traitorous slaves no worse, No deeper, deadlier disaster From all earth's ills no fouler curse Than to have *********** their master!

[1] In the year 1782, when the forces of Berne, Sardinia, and France laid siege to Geneva, and when, after a demonstration of heroism and self-devotion, which promised to rival the feats of their ancestors in 1602 against Savoy, the Genevans, either panic-struck or betrayed, to the surprise of all Europe, opened their gates to the besiegers, and submitted without a struggle to the extinction of their liberties--See an account of this Revolution in Coxe's Switzerland.

EXTRACT III.

Geneva.

_Fancy and Truth--Hippomenes and Atalanta. Mont Blanc.--Clouds_.

Even here in this region of wonders I find That light-footed Fancy leaves Truth far behind; Or at least like Hippomenes turns her astray By the golden illusions he flings in her way.

What a glory it seemed the first evening I gazed! MONT BLANC like a vision then suddenly raised On the wreck of the sunset--and all his array Of high-towering Alps, touched still with a light Far holier, purer than that of the Day, As if nearness to Heaven had made them so bright! Then the dying at last of these splendors away From peak after peak, till they left but a ray, One roseate ray, that, too precious to fly, O'er the Mighty of Mountains still glowingly hung, Like the last sunny step of ASTRAEA, when high, From the summit of earth to Elysium she sprung! And those infinite Alps stretching out from the sight Till they mingled with Heaven, now shorn of their light, Stood lofty and lifeless and pale in the sky, Like the ghosts of a Giant Creation gone by!

That scene--I have viewed it this evening again, By the same brilliant light that hung over it then-- The valley, the lake in their tenderest charms-- MONT BLANC in his awfullest pomp--and the whole A bright picture of Beauty, reclined in the arms Of Sublimity, bridegroom elect of her soul! But where are the mountains that round me at first One dazzling horizon of miracles burst? Those Alps beyond Alps, without end swelling on Like the waves of eternity--where are _they_ gone? Clouds--clouds--they were nothing but clouds, after all![1] That chain of MONT BLANC'S, which my fancy flew o'er, With a wonder that naught on this earth can recall, Were but clouds of the evening and now are no more.

What a picture of Life's young illusions! Oh, Night, Drop thy curtain at once and hide _all_ from my sight.

[1] It is often very difficult to distinguish between clouds and Alps; and on the evening when I first saw this magnificent scene, the clouds were so disposed along the whole horizon, as to deceive me into an idea of the stupendous extent of these mountains, which my subsequent observation was very far, of course, from confirming.

EXTRACT IV.

Milan.

_The Picture Gallery.--Albano's Rape of Proserpine.--Reflections.-- Universal Salvation.--Abraham sending away Agar, by Guercino.--Genius_.

Went to the _Brera_--saw a Dance of Loves By smooth ALBANO! him whose pencil teems With Cupids numerous as in summer groves The leaflets are or motes in summer beams.

'Tis for the theft of Enna's flower from earth, These urchins celebrate their dance of mirth Round the green tree, like fays upon a heath-- Those that are nearest linkt in order bright, Cheek after cheek, like rose-buds in a wreath; And those more distant showing from beneath The others' wings their little eyes of light. While see! among the clouds, their eldest brother But just flown up tells with a smile of bliss This prank of Pluto to his charmed mother Who turns to greet the tidings with a kiss!

Well might the Loves rejoice--and well did they Who wove these fables picture in their weaving That blessed truth, (which in a darker day ORIGEN lost his saintship for believing,[1])-- That Love, eternal Love, whose fadeless ray Nor time nor death nor sin can overcast, Even to the depths of hell will find his way, And soothe and heal and triumph there at last! GUERCINO'S Agar--where the bondmaid hears From Abram's lips that he and she must part, And looks at him with eyes all full of tears That seem the very last drops from her heart. Exquisite picture!--let me not be told Of minor faults, of coloring tame and cold-- If thus to conjure up a face so fair,[2] So full of sorrow; with the story there Of all that woman suffers when the stay Her trusting heart hath leaned on falls away-- If thus to touch the bosom's tenderest spring, By calling into life such eyes as bring Back to our sad remembrance some of those We've smiled and wept with in their joys and woes, Thus filling them with tears, like tears we've known, Till all the pictured grief becomes our own-- If _this_ be deemed the victory of Art-- If thus by pen or pencil to lay bare The deep, fresh, living fountains of the heart Before all eyes be Genius--it is _there_!

[1] The extension of the Divine Love ultimately even to the regions of the damned.

[2] It is probable that this fine head is a portrait, as we find it repeated in a picture by Guercino, which is in the possession of Signor Carnuccini, the brother of the celebrated painter at Rome.

EXTRACT V.

Padua.

_Fancy and Reality.--Rain-drops and Lakes.--Plan of a Story.--Where to place the Scene of it.--In some unknown Region.--Psalmanazar's Imposture with respect to the Island of Formosa_.

The more I've viewed this world the more I've found, That, filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare. Fancy commands within her own bright round A world of scenes and creatures far more fair. Nor is it that her power can call up there A single charm, that's not from Nature won, No more than rainbows in their pride can wear A single hue unborrowed from the sun-- But 'tis the mental medium it shines thro' That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue; As the same light that o'er the level lake One dull monotony of lustre flings, Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make Colors as gay as those on Peris' wings!

And such, I deem, the difference between real, Existing Beauty and that form ideal Which she assumes when seen by poets' eyes, Like sunshine in the drop--with all those dyes Which Fancy's variegating prism supples.

I have a story of two lovers, filled With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness, And the sad, doubtful bliss that ever thrilled Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madness. But where to choose the region of my vision In this wide, vulgar world--what real spot Can be found out sufficiently Elysian For two such perfect lovers I know not. Oh for some fair FORMOSA, such as he, The young Jew fabled of, in the Indian Sea, By nothing but its name of Beauty known, And which Queen Fancy might make all her own, Her fairy kingdom--take its people, lands, And tenements into her own bright hands, And make at least one earthly corner fit For Love to live in, pure and exquisite!

EXTRACT VI.

Venice.

_The Fall of Venice not to be lamented--Former Glory.--Expedition against Constantinople.--Giustinianis.--Republic.--Characteristics of the old Government.--Golden Book.--Brazen Mouths.--Spies.--Dungeons.--Present Desolation_.

Mourn not for VENICE--let her rest In ruin, 'mong those States unblest, Beneath whose gilded hoofs of pride, Where'er they trampled, Freedom died. No--let us keep our tears for them, Where'er they pine, whose fall hath been Not from a blood-stained diadem, Like that which deckt this ocean-queen, But from high daring in the cause Of human Rights--the only good And blessed strife, in which man draws His mighty sword on land or flood.

Mourn not for VENICE; tho' her fall Be awful, as if Ocean's wave Swept o'er her, she deserves it all, And Justice triumphs o'er her grave. Thus perish every King and State That run the guilty race she ran, Strong but in ill and only great By outrage against God and man!

True, her high spirit is at rest, And all those days of glory gone, When the world's waters, east and west, Beneath her white-winged commerce shone; When with her countless barks she went To meet the Orient Empire's might.[1] And her Giustinianis sent Their hundred heroes to that fight.

Vanisht are all her pomps, 'tis true, But mourn them not--for vanisht too (Thanks to that Power, who soon or late, Hurls to the dust the guilty Great,) Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud, The chains, the rapine, and the blood, That filled each spot, at home, abroad, Where the Republic's standard stood. Desolate VENICE! when I track Thy haughty course thro' centuries back; Thy ruthless power, obeyed but curst-- The stern machinery of thy State, Which hatred would, like steam, have burst, Had stronger fear not chilled even hate;-- Thy perfidy, still worse than aught Thy own unblushing SARPI[2] taught;-- Thy friendship which, o'er all beneath Its shadow, rained down dews of death;[3]-- Thy Oligarchy's Book of Gold, Closed against humble Virtue's name, But opened wide for slaves who sold Their native land to thee and shame;[4]-- Thy all-pervading host of spies Watching o'er every glance and breath, Till men lookt in each others' eyes, To read their chance of life or death;-- Thy laws that made a mart of blood, And legalized the assassin's knife;[5]-- Thy sunless cells beneath the flood, And racks and Leads that burnt out life;--

When I review all this and see The doom that now hath fallen on thee; Thy nobles, towering once so proud, Themselves beneath the yoke now bowed,-- A yoke by no one grace redeemed, Such as of old around thee beamed, But mean and base as e'er yet galled Earth's tyrants when themselves enthralled,-- I feel the moral vengeance sweet. And smiling o'er the wreck repeat:-- "Thus perish every King and State "That tread the steps which VENICE trod, "Strong but in ill and only great, "By outrage against man and God!"

[1] Under the Doge Michaeli, in 1171.

[2] The celebrated Fra Paolo. The collections of Maxims which this bold monk drew up at the request of the Venetian Government, for the guidance of the Secret Inquisition of State, are so atrocious as to seem rather an over-charged satire upon despotism, than a system of policy, seriously inculcated, and but too readily and constantly pursued.

[3] Conduct of Venice towards her allies and dependencies, particularly to unfortunate Padua.

[4] Among those admitted to the honor of being inscribed in the _Libro d'oro_ were some families of Brescia, Treviso, and other places, whose only claim to that distinction was the zeal with which they prostrated themselves and their country at the feet of the republic.

[5] By the infamous statutes of the State Inquisition, not only was assassination recognized as a regular mode of punishment, but this secret power over life was delegated to their minions at a distance, with nearly as much facility as a licence is given under the game laws of England. The only restriction seems to have been the necessity of applying for a new certificate, after every individual exercise of the power.

EXTRACT VII.

Venice.

_Lord Byron's Memoirs, written by himself.--Reflections, when about to read them_.

Let me a moment--ere with fear and hope Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope-- As one in fairy tale to whom the key Of some enchanter's secret halls is given, Doubts while he enters slowly, tremblingly, If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven-- Let me a moment think what thousands live O'er the wide earth this instant who would give, Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow Over these precious leaves, as I do now.

How all who know--and where is he unknown? To what far region have his songs not flown, Like PSAPHON'S birds[1] speaking their master's name, In every language syllabled by Fame?-- How all who've felt the various spells combined Within the circle of that mastermind,-- Like spells derived from many a star and met Together in some wondrous amulet,-- Would burn to know when first the Light awoke In his young soul,--and if the gleams that broke From that Aurora of his genius, raised Most pain or bliss in those on whom they blazed; Would love to trace the unfolding of that power, Which had grown ampler, grander, every hour; And feel in watching o'er his first advance As did the Egyptian traveller[2] when he stood By the young Nile and fathomed with his lance The first small fountains of that mighty flood.

They too who mid the scornful thoughts that dwell In his rich fancy, tingeing all its streams,-- As if the Star of Bitterness which fell On earth of old,[3] had touched them with its beams,-- Can track a spirit which tho' driven to hate, From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate; And which even now, struck as it is with blight, Comes out at times in love's own native light;-- How gladly all who've watched these struggling rays Of a bright, ruined spirit thro' his lays, Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips, What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven That noble nature into cold eclipse; Like some fair orb that, once a sun in heaven. And born not only to surprise but cheer With warmth and lustre all within its sphere, Is now so quenched that of its grandeur lasts Naught but the wide, cold shadow which it casts.

Eventful volume! whatsoe'er the change Of scene and clime--the adventures bold and strange-- The griefs--the frailties but too frankly told-- The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold, If Truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks His virtues as his failings, we shall find The record there of friendships held like rocks, And enmities like sun-touched snow resigned; Of fealty, cherisht without change or chill, In those who served him, young, and serve him still; Of generous aid given, with that noiseless art Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart; Of acts--but, no--_not_ from himself must aught Of the bright features of his life be sought.

While they who court the world, like Milton's cloud, "Turn forth their silver lining" on the crowd, This gifted Being wraps himself in night; And keeping all that softens and adorns And gilds his social nature hid from sight, Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns.

[1] Psaphon, in order to attract the attention of the world, taught multitudes of birds to speak his name, and then let them fly away in various directions; whence the proverb, "Psaphonis aves."

[2] Bruce.

[3] "And the name of the star is called Wormwood, and the third part of the waters became wormwood."--_Rev_. viii.

EXTRACT VIII.

Venice.

_Female Beauty at Venice.--No longer what it was in the time of Titian.-- His mistress.--Various Forms in which he has painted her.--Venus.--Divine and profane Love.--La Fragilita d'Amore--Paul Veronese.--His Women.-- Marriage of Cana.--Character of Italian Beauty.--Raphael's Fornarina.-- Modesty_.

Thy brave, thy learned have passed away: Thy beautiful!--ah, where are they? The forms, the faces that once shone, Models of grace, in Titian's eye, Where are they now, while flowers live on In ruined places, why, oh! why Must Beauty thus with Glory die? That maid whose lips would still have moved, Could art have breathed a spirit through them; Whose varying charms her artist loved More fondly every time he drew them, (So oft beneath his touch they past, Each semblance fairer than the last); Wearing each shape that Fancy's range Offers to Love--yet still the one Fair idol seen thro' every change, Like facets of some orient stone,-- In each the same bright image shown. Sometimes a Venus, unarrayed But in her beauty[1]--sometimes deckt In costly raiment, as a maid That kings might for a throne select.[2] Now high and proud, like one who thought The world should at her feet be brought; Now with a look reproachful sad,[3]-- Unwonted look from brow so glad,-- And telling of a pain too deep For tongue to speak or eyes to weep. Sometimes thro' allegory's veil, In double semblance seemed to shine, Telling a strange and mystic tale Of Love Profane and Love Divine[4]-- Akin in features, but in heart As far as earth and heaven apart. Or else (by quaint device to prove The frailty of all worldly love) Holding a globe of glass as thin As air-blown bubbles in her hand, With a young Love confined therein, Whose wings seem waiting to expand-- And telling by her anxious eyes That if that frail orb break he flies.[5]

Thou too with touch magnificent, PAUL of VERONA!--where are they? The oriental forms[6] that lent Thy canvas such a bright array? Noble and gorgeous dames whose dress Seems part of their own loveliness; Like the sun's drapery which at eve The floating clouds around him weave Of light they from himself receive! Where is there now the living face Like those that in thy nuptial throng[7] By their superb, voluptuous grace, Make us forget the time, the place, The holy guests they smile among,-- Till in that feast of heaven-sent wine We see no miracles but thine.

If e'er, except in Painting's dream, There bloomed such beauty here, 'tis gone,-- Gone like the face that in the stream Of Ocean for an instant shone, When Venus at that mirror gave A last look ere she left the wave. And tho', among the crowded ways, We oft are startled by the blaze Of eyes that pass with fitful light. Like fire-flies on the wing at night[8] 'Tis not that nobler beauty given To show how angels look in heaven. Even in its shape most pure and fair, 'Tis Beauty with but half her zone, All that can warm the sense is there, But the Soul's deeper charm has flown:-- 'Tis RAPHAEL's Fornarina,--warm, Luxuriant, arch, but unrefined; A flower round which the noontide swarm Of young Desires may buzz and wind, But where true Love no treasure meets Worth hoarding in his hive of sweets.

Ah no,--for this and for the hue Upon the rounded cheek, which tells How fresh within the heart this dew Of love's unrifled sweetness dwells, We must go back to our own Isles, Where Modesty, which here but gives A rare and transient grace to smiles, In the heart's holy centre lives; And thence as from her throne diffuses O'er thoughts and looks so bland a reign, That not a thought or feeling loses Its freshness in that gentle chain.

[1] In the Tribune at Florence.

[2] In the Palazzo Pitti.

[3] Alludes particularly to the portrait of her in the Sciarra collection at Rome, where the look of mournful reproach in those full, shadowy eyes, as if she had been unjustly accused of something wrong, is exquisite.

[4] The fine picture in the Palazzo Borghese, called (it is not easy to say why) "Sacred and Profane Love," in which the two figures, sitting on the edge of the fountain, are evidently portraits of the same person.

[5] This fanciful allegory is the subject of a picture by Titian in the possession of the Marquis Cambian at Turin, whose collection, though small, contains some beautiful specimens of all the great masters.

[6] As Paul Veronese gave but little into the _beau idéal_, his women may be regarded as pretty close imitations of the living models which Venice afforded in his time.

[7] The Marriage of Cana.

[8] "Certain it is [as Arthur Young truly and feelingly says] one now and then meets with terrible eyes in Italy."

EXTRACT IX.

Venice.

_The English to be met with everywhere.--Alps and Threadneedle Street.--The Simplon and the Stocks.--Rage for travelling.--Blue Stockings among the Wahabees.--Parasols and Pyramids.--Mrs. Hopkins and the Wall of China_.

And is there then no earthly place, Where we can rest in dream Elysian, Without some curst, round English face, Popping up near to break the vision? Mid northern lakes, mid southern vines, Unholy cits we're doomed to meet; Nor highest Alps nor Apennines Are sacred from Threadneedle Street!

If up the Simplon's path we wind, Fancying we leave this world behind, Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear As--"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear-- "The funds--(phew I curse this ugly hill)-- "Are lowering fast--(what, higher still?)-- "And--(zooks, we're mounting up to heaven!)-- "Will soon be down to sixty-seven."

Go where we may--rest where we will. Eternal London haunts us still. The trash of Almack's or Fleet Ditch-- And scarce a pin's head difference _which_-- Mixes, tho' even to Greece we run, With every rill from Helicon! And if this rage for travelling lasts, If Cockneys of all sects and castes, Old maidens, aldermen, and squires, _Will_ leave their puddings and coal fires, To gape at things in foreign lands No soul among them understands; If Blues desert their coteries, To show off 'mong the Wahabees; If neither sex nor age controls, Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids Young ladies with pink parasols To glide among the Pyramids--

Why, then, farewell all hope to find A spot that's free from London-kind! Who knows, if to the West we roam, But we may find some _Blue_ "at home" Among the Blacks of Carolina-- Or flying to the Eastward see Some Mrs. HOPKINS taking tea And toast upon the Wall of China!

EXTRACT X.

Mantua.

_Verses of Hippolyta to her Husband_.

They tell me thou'rt the favored guest Of every fair and brilliant throng; No wit like thine to wake the jest, No voice like thine to breathe the song. And none could guess, so gay thou art, That thou and I are far apart. Alas, alas! how different flows, With thee and me the time away! Not that I wish thee sad, heaven knows-- Still if thou canst, be light and gay; I only know that without thee The sun himself is dark for me.

Do I put on the jewels rare Thou'st always loved to see me wear? Do I perfume the locks that thou So oft hast braided o'er my brow, Thus deckt thro' festive crowds to run, And all the assembled world to see,-- All but the one, the absent one, Worth more than present worlds to me! No, nothing cheers this widowed heart-- My only joy from thee apart, From thee thyself, is sitting hours And days before thy pictured form-- That dream of thee, which Raphael's powers Have made with all but life-breath warm! And as I smile to it, and say The words I speak to thee in play, I fancy from their silent frame, Those eyes and lips give back the same: And still I gaze, and still they keep Smiling thus on me--till I weep! Our little boy too knows it well, For there I lead him every day And teach his lisping lips to tell The name of one that's far away. Forgive me, love, but thus alone My time is cheered while thou art gone.

EXTRACT XI.

Florence.

No--'tis not the region where Love's to be found-- They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances that rove, They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound, When she warbled her best--but they've nothing like Love.

Nor is't that pure _sentiment_ only they want, Which Heaven for the mild and the tranquil hath made-- Calm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant Which sweetens seclusion and smiles in the shade;

That feeling which, after long years have gone by, Remains like a portrait we've sat for in youth, Where, even tho' the flush of the colors may fly, The features still live in their first smiling truth;

That union where all that in Woman is kind, With all that in Man most ennoblingly towers, Grow wreathed into one--like the column, combined Of the _strength_ of the shaft and the capital's _flowers_.

Of this--bear ye witness, ye wives, everywhere, By the ARNO, the PO, by all ITALY'S streams-- Of this heart-wedded love, so delicious to share, Not a husband hath even one glimpse in his dreams.

But it _is_ not this only;--born full of the light Of a sun from whose fount the luxuriant festoons Of these beautiful valleys drink lustre so bright That beside him our suns of the north are but moons,--

We might fancy at least, like their climate they burned; And that Love tho' unused in this region of spring To be thus to a tame Household Deity turned, Would yet be all soul when abroad on the wing.

And there _may_ be, there _are_ those explosions of heart Which burst when the senses have first caught the flame; Such fits of the blood as those climates impart, Where Love is a sun-stroke that maddens the frame.

But that Passion which springs in the depth of the soul; Whose beginnings are virginly pure as the source Of some small mountain rivulet destined to roll As a torrent ere long, losing peace in its course--

A course to which Modesty's struggle but lends A more headlong descent without chance of recall; But which Modesty even to the last edge attends, And then throws a halo of tears round its fall!

This exquisite Passion--ay, exquisite, even Mid the ruin its madness too often hath made, As it keeps even then a bright trace of the heaven, That heaven of Virtue from which it has strayed--

This entireness of love which can only be found, Where Woman like something that's holy, watched over, And fenced from her childhood with purity round, Comes body and soul fresh as Spring to a lover!

Where not an eye answers, where not a hand presses, Till spirit with spirit in sympathy move; And the Senses asleep in their sacred recesses Can only be reached thro' the temple of Love!--

This perfection of Passion-how can it be found, Where the mystery Nature hath hung round the tie By which souls are together attracted and bound, Is laid open for ever to heart, ear and eye;--

Where naught of that innocent doubt can exist, That ignorance even than knowledge more bright, Which circles the young like the morn's sunny mist, And curtains them round in their own native light;--

Where Experience leaves nothing for Love to reveal, Or for Fancy in visions to gleam o'er the thought: But the truths which alone we would die to conceal From the maiden's young heart are the only ones taught.

No, no, 'tis not here, howsoever we sigh, Whether purely to Hymen's one planet we pray, Or adore, like Sabaeans, each light of Love's sky, Here is not the region to fix or to stray.

For faithless in wedlock, in gallantry gross, Without honor to guard, to reserve, to restrain, What have they a husband can mourn as a loss? What have they a lover can prize as a gain?

EXTRACT XII.

Florence.

_Music in Italy.--Disappointed by it.--Recollections or other Times and Friends.--Dalton.--Sir John Stevenson.--His Daughter.--Musical Evenings together_.

If it be true that Music reigns, Supreme, in ITALY'S soft shades, 'Tis like that Harmony so famous, Among the spheres, which He of SAMOS Declared had such transcendent merit That not a soul on earth could hear it; For, far as I have come--from Lakes, Whose sleep the Tramontana breaks, Thro' MILAN and that land which gave The Hero of the rainbow vest[1]-- By MINCIO'S banks, and by that wave, Which made VERONA'S bard so blest-- Places that (like the Attic shore, Which rung back music when the sea Struck on its marge) should be all o'er Thrilling alive with melody-- I've heard no music--not a note Of such sweet native airs as float In my own land among the throng And speak our nation's soul for song.

Nay, even in higher walks, where Art Performs, as 'twere, the gardener's part, And richer if not sweeter makes The flowers she from the wild-hedge takes-- Even there, no voice hath charmed my ear, No taste hath won my perfect praise, Like thine, dear friend[2]--long, truly dear-- Thine, and thy loved OLIVIA'S lays. She, always beautiful, and growing Still more so every note she sings-- Like an inspired young Sibyl,[3] glowing With her own bright imaginings! And thou, most worthy to be tied In music to her, as in love, Breathing that language by her side, All other language far above, Eloquent Song--whose tones and words In every heart find answering chords!

How happy once the hours we past, Singing or listening all daylong, Till Time itself seemed changed at last To music, and we lived in song! Turning the leaves of HAYDN o'er, As quick beneath her master hand They opened all their brilliant store, Like chambers, touched by fairy wand; Or o'er the page of MOZART bending, Now by his airy warblings cheered, Now in his mournful _Requiem_ blending Voices thro' which the heart was heard. And still, to lead our evening choir, Was He invoked, thy loved-one's Sire[4]-- He who if aught of grace there be In the wild notes I write or sing, First smoothed their links of harmony, And lent them charms they did not bring;-- He, of the gentlest, simplest heart, With whom, employed in his sweet art, (That art which gives this world of ours A notion how they speak in heaven.) I've past more bright and charmed hours Than all earth's wisdom could have given. Oh happy days, oh early friends, How Life since then hath lost its flowers! But yet--tho' Time _some_ foliage rends, The stem, the Friendship, still is ours; And long may it endure, as green And fresh as it hath always been!

How I have wandered from my theme! But where is he, that could return To such cold subjects from a dream, Thro' which these best of feelings burn?-- Not all the works of Science, Art, Or Genius in this world are worth One genuine sigh that from the heart Friendship or Love draws freshly forth.

[1] Bermago--the birthplace, it is said, of Harlequin.

[2] Edward Tuite Dalton, the first husband of Sir John Stevenson's daughter, the late Marchioness of Headfort.

[3] Such as those of Domenichino in the Palazza Borghese, at the Capitol, etc.

[4] Sir John Stevenson.

EXTRACT XIII.

Rome.

_Reflections on reading Du Cerceau's Account of the Conspiracy of Rienzi, in 1347.--The Meeting of the Conspirators on the Night of the 19th of May.--Their Procession in the Morning to the Capitol.--Rienzi's Speech_.

'Twas a proud moment--even to hear the words Of Truth and Freedom mid these temples breathed, And see once more the Forum shine with swords In the Republic's sacred name unsheathed-- That glimpse, that vision of a brighter day For his dear ROME, must to a Roman be, Short as it was, worth ages past away In the dull lapse of hopeless slavery.

'Twas on a night of May, beneath that moon Which had thro' many an age seen Time untune The strings of this Great Empire, till it fell From his rude hands, a broken, silent shell-- The sound of the church clock near ADRIAN'S Tomb Summoned the warriors who had risen for ROME, To meet unarmed,--with none to watch them there, But God's own eye,--and pass the night in prayer. Holy beginning of a holy cause, When heroes girt for Freedom's combat pause Before high Heaven, and humble in their might Call down its blessing on that coming fight.

At dawn, in arms went forth the patriot band; And as the breeze, fresh from the TIBER, fanned Their gilded gonfalons, all eyes could see The palm-tree there, the sword, the keys of Heaven-- Types of the justice, peace and liberty, That were to bless them when their chains were riven. On to the Capitol the pageant moved, While many a Shade of other times, that still Around that grave of grandeur sighing roved, Hung o'er their footsteps up the Sacred Hill And heard its mournful echoes as the last High-minded heirs of the Republic past. 'Twas then that thou, their Tribune,[1] (name which brought Dreams of lost glory to each patriot's thought,) Didst, with a spirit Rome in vain shall seek To wake up in her sons again, thus speak:-- "ROMANS, look round you--on this sacred place "There once stood shrines and gods and godlike men. "What see you now? what solitary trace "Is left of all that made ROME'S glory then? "The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount bereft "Even of its name--and nothing now remains "But the deep memory of that glory, left "To whet our pangs and aggravate our chains! "But _shall_ this be?--our sun and sky the same,-- "Treading the very soil our fathers trod,-- "What withering curse hath fallen on soul and frame, "What visitation hath there come from God "To blast our strength and rot us into slaves, "_Here_ on our great forefathers' glorious graves? "It cannot be--rise up, ye Mighty Dead,-- "If we, the living, are too weak to crush "These tyrant priests that o'er your empire tread, "Till all but Romans at Rome's tameness blush!

"Happy, PALMYRA, in thy desert domes "Where only date-trees sigh and serpents hiss; "And thou whose pillars are but silent homes "For the stork's brood, superb PERSEPOLIS! "Thrice happy both, that your extinguisht race "Have left no embers--no half-living trace-- "No slaves to crawl around the once proud spot, "Till past renown in present shame's forgot. "While ROME, the Queen of all, whose very wrecks, "If lone and lifeless thro' a desert hurled, "Would wear more true magnificence than decks "The assembled thrones of all the existing world-- "ROME, ROME alone, is haunted, stained and curst, "Thro' every spot her princely TIBER laves, "By living human things--the deadliest, worst, "This earth engenders--tyrants and their slaves! "And we--oh shame!--we who have pondered o'er "The patriot's lesson and the poet's lay;[2] "Have mounted up the streams of ancient lore, "Tracking our country's glories all the way-- "Even _we_ have tamely, basely kist the ground "Before that Papal Power,--that Ghost of Her, "The World's Imperial Mistress--sitting crowned "And ghastly on her mouldering sepulchre![3] "But this is past:--too long have lordly priests "And priestly lords led us, with all our pride "Withering about us--like devoted beasts, "Dragged to the shrine, with faded garlands tied. "'Tis o'er--the dawn of our deliverance breaks! "Up from his sleep of centuries awakes "The Genius of the Old Republic, free "As first he stood, in chainless majesty, "And sends his voice thro' ages yet to come, "Proclaiming ROME, ROME, ROME, Eternal ROME!"

[1] Rienzi.

[2] The fine Canzone of Petrarch, beginning _"Spirto gentil,"_ is supposed, by Voltaire and others, to have been addressed to Rienzi; but there is much more evidence of its having been written, as Ginguené asserts, to the young Stephen Colonna, on his being created a Senator of Rome.

[3] This image is borrowed from Hobbes, whose words are, as near as I can recollect:--"For what is the Papacy, but the Ghost of the old Roman Empire, sitting crowned on the grave thereof?"

EXTRACT XIV.

Rome.

_Fragment of a Dream.--The great Painters supposed to be Magicians.--The Beginnings of the Art.--Gildings on the Glories and Draperies.-- Improvements under Giotto, etc.--The first Dawn of the true Style in Masaccio.--Studied by all the great Artists who followed him.--Leonardo da Vinci, with whom commenced the Golden Age of Painting.--His Knowledge of Mathematics and of Music.--His female heads all like each other.-- Triangular Faces.--Portraits of Mona Lisa, etc.--Picture of Vanity and Modesty.--His_ chef-d'oeuvre, _the Last Supper.--Faded and almost effaced_.

Filled with the wonders I had seen In Rome's stupendous shrines and halls, I felt the veil of sleep serene Come o'er the memory of each scene, As twilight o'er the landscape falls. Nor was it slumber, sound and deep, But such as suits a poet's rest-- That sort of thin, transparent sleep, Thro' which his day-dreams shine the best. Methought upon a plain I stood, Where certain wondrous men, 'twas said, With strange, miraculous power endued, Were coming each in turn to shed His art's illusions o'er the sight And call up miracles of light. The sky above this lonely place, Was of that cold, uncertain hue, The canvas wears ere, warmed apace, Its bright creation dawns to view.

But soon a glimmer from the east Proclaimed the first enchantments nigh;[1] And as the feeble light increased, Strange figures moved across the sky, With golden glories deckt and streaks Of gold among their garments' dyes;[2] And life's resemblance tinged their cheeks, But naught of life was in their eyes;-- Like the fresh-painted Dead one meets, Borne slow along Rome's mournful streets.

But soon these figures past away; And forms succeeded to their place With less of gold in their array, But shining with more natural grace, And all could see the charming wands Had past into more gifted hands. Among these visions there was one,[3] Surpassing fair, on which the sun, That instant risen, a beam let fall, Which thro' the dusky twilight trembled. And reached at length the spot where all Those great magicians stood assembled. And as they turned their heads to view The shining lustre, I could trace The bright varieties it threw On each uplifted studying face:[4] While many a voice with loud acclaim Called forth, "Masaccio" as the name Of him, the Enchanter, who had raised This miracle on which all gazed.

'Twas daylight now--the sun had risen From out the dungeon of old Night.-- Like the Apostle from his prison Led by the Angel's hand of light; And--as the fetters, when that ray Of glory reached them, dropt away.[5] So fled the clouds at touch of day! Just then a bearded sage came forth,[6] Who oft in thoughtful dream would stand, To trace upon the dusky earth Strange learned figures with his wand; And oft he took the silver lute His little page behind him bore, And waked such music as, when mute, Left in the soul a thirst for more!

Meanwhile his potent spells went on, And forms and faces that from out A depth of shadow mildly shone Were in the soft air seen about. Tho' thick as midnight stars they beamed, Yet all like living sisters seemed, So close in every point resembling Each other's beauties--from the eyes Lucid as if thro' crystal trembling, Yet soft as if suffused with sighs, To the long, fawn-like mouth, and chin, Lovelily tapering, less and less, Till by this very charm's excess, Like virtue on the verge of sin, It touched the bounds of ugliness. Here lookt as when they lived the shades Of some of Arno's dark-eyed maids-- Such maids as should alone live on In dreams thus when their charms are gone: Some Mona Lisa on whose eyes A painter for whole years might gaze,[7] Nor find in all his pallet's dyes One that could even approach their blaze! Here float two spirit shapes,[8] the one, With her white fingers to the sun Outspread as if to ask his ray Whether it e'er had chanced to play On lilies half so fair as they! This self-pleased nymph was Vanity-- And by her side another smiled, In form as beautiful as she, But with that air subdued and mild, That still reserve of purity, Which is to beauty like the haze Of evening to some sunny view, Softening such charms as it displays And veiling others in that hue, Which fancy only can see thro'! This phantom nymph, who could she be, But the bright Spirit, Modesty?

Long did the learned enchanter stay To weave his spells and still there past, As in the lantern's shifting play Group after group in close array, Each fairer, grander, than the last. But the great triumph of his power Was yet to come:--gradual and slow, (As all that is ordained to tower Among the works of man must grow,) The sacred vision stole to view, In that half light, half shadow shown, Which gives to even the gayest hue A sobered, melancholy tone. It was a vision of that last,[9] Sorrowful night which Jesus past With his disciples when he said Mournfully to them--"I shall be "Betrayed by one who here hath fed "This night at the same board with me." And tho' the Saviour in the dream Spoke not these words, we saw them beam Legibly in his eyes (so well The great magician workt his spell), And read in every thoughtful line Imprinted on that brow divine.

The meek, the tender nature, grieved, Not angered to be thus deceived-- Celestial love requited ill For all its care, yet loving still-- Deep, deep regret that there should fall From man's deceit so foul a blight Upon that parting hour--and all _His_ Spirit must have felt that night. Who, soon to die for human-kind, Thought only, mid his mortal pain, How many a soul was left behind For whom he died that death in vain!

Such was the heavenly scene--alas! That scene so bright so soon should pass But pictured on the humid air, Its tints, ere long, grew languid there;[10] And storms came on, that, cold and rough, Scattered its gentlest glories all-- As when the baffling winds blow off The hues that hang o'er Terni's fall,-- Till one by one the vision's beams Faded away and soon it fled. To join those other vanisht dreams That now flit palely 'mong the dead,-- The shadows of those shades that go. Around Oblivion's lake below!

[1] The paintings of those artists who were introduced into Venice and Florence from Greece.

[2] Margaritone of Orezzo, who was a pupil and imitator of the Greeks, is said to have invented this art of gilding the ornaments of pictures, a practice which, though it gave way to a purer taste at the beginning of the 16th century, was still occasionally used by many of the great masters: as by Raphael in the ornaments of the Fornarina, and by Rubens not unfrequently in glories and flames.

[3] The works of Masaccio.--For the character of this powerful and original genius, see Sir Joshua Reynolds's twelfth discourse. His celebrated frescoes are in the church of St. Pietro del Carmine, at Florence.

[4] All the great artists studies, and many of them borrowed from Masaccio. Several figures in the Cartoons of Raphael are taken, with but little alteration, from his frescoes.

[5] "And a light shined in the prison ... and his chains fell off from his hands."--_Acts_.

[6] Leonardo da Vinci.

[7] He is said to have been four years employed upon the portrait of this fair Florentine, without being able, after all, to come up to his idea of her beauty.

[8] Vanity and Modesty in the collection of Cardinal Fesch, at Rome. The composition of the four hands here is rather awkward, but the picture, altogether, is very delightful. There is a repetition of the subject in the possession of Lucien Bonaparte.

[9] The Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci, which is in the Refectory of the Convent delle Grazie at Milan.

[10] Leonardo appears to have used a mixture of oil and varnish for this picture, which alone, without the various other causes of its ruin, would have prevented any long duration of its beauties. It is now almost entirely effaced.

EXTRACT XV.

Rome.

_Mary Magdalen.--Her Story.--Numerous Pictures of her.--Correggio--Guido --Raphael, etc.--Canova's two exquisite Statues.--The Somariva Magdalen. --Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works_.

No wonder, MARY, that thy story Touches all hearts--for there we see thee. The soul's corruption and its glory, Its death and life combine in thee.

From the first moment when we find Thy spirit haunted by a swarm Of dark desires,--like demons shrined Unholily in that fair form,-- Till when by touch of Heaven set free, Thou camest, with those bright locks of gold (So oft the gaze of BETHANY), And covering in their precious fold Thy Saviour's feet didst shed such tears As paid, each drop, the sins of years!-- Thence on thro' all thy course of love To Him, thy Heavenly Master,--Him Whose bitter death-cup from above Had yet this cordial round the brim, That woman's faith and love stood fast And fearless by Him to the last:-- Till, oh! blest boon for truth like thine! Thou wert of all the chosen one, Before whose eyes that Face Divine When risen from the dead first shone; That thou might'st see how, like a cloud, Had past away its mortal shroud, And make that bright revealment known To hearts less trusting than thy own. All is affecting, cheering, grand; The kindliest record ever given, Even under God's own kindly hand, Of what repentance wins from Heaven!

No wonder, MARY, that thy face, In all its touching light of tears, Should meet us in each holy place, Where Man before his God appears, Hopeless--were he not taught to see All hope in Him who pardoned thee! No wonder that the painter's skill Should oft have triumpht in the power Of keeping thee all lovely still Even in thy sorrow's bitterest hour; That soft CORREGGIO should diffuse His melting shadows round thy form; That GUIDO'S pale, unearthly hues Should in portraying thee grow warm; That all--from the ideal, grand, Inimitable Roman hand, Down to the small, enameling touch Of smooth CARLINO--should delight In picturing her, "who loved so much," And was, in spite of sin, so bright!

But MARY, 'mong these bold essays Of Genius and of Art to raise A semblance of those weeping eyes-- A vision worthy of the sphere Thy faith has earned thee in the skies, And in the hearts of all men here,-- None e'er hath matched, in grief or grace, CANOVA'S day-dream of thy face, In those bright sculptured forms, more bright With true expression's breathing light, Than ever yet beneath the stroke Of chisel into life awoke. The one,[1] portraying what thou wert In thy first grief,--while yet the flower Of those young beauties was unhurt By sorrow's slow, consuming power; And mingling earth's seductive grace With heaven's subliming thoughts so well, We doubt, while gazing, in _which_ place Such beauty was most formed to dwell!-- The other, as thou look'dst, when years Of fasting, penitence and tears Had worn thy frame;--and ne'er did Art With half such speaking power express The ruin which a breaking heart Spreads by degrees o'er loveliness. Those wasting arms, that keep the trace, Even still, of all their youthful grace, That loosened hair of which thy brow Was once so proud,--neglected now!-- Those features even in fading worth The freshest bloom to others given, And those sunk eyes now lost to earth But to the last still full of heaven!

Wonderful artist! praise, like mine-- Tho' springing from a soul that feels Deep worship of those works divine Where Genius all his light reveals-- How weak 'tis to the words that came From him, thy peer in art and fame,[2] Whom I have known, by day, by night, Hang o'er thy marble with delight; And while his lingering hand would steal O'er every grace the taper's rays[3] Give thee with all the generous zeal Such master spirits only feel, That best of fame, a rival's prize!

[1] This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was not yet in marble when I left Rome. The other, which seems to prove, in contradiction to very high authority, that expression of the intensest kind is fully within the sphere of sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is in the possession of the Count Somariva at Paris.

[2] Chantrey.

[3] Canova always shows his fine statue, the Venere Vincitrice, by the light of a small candle.

EXTRACT XVI.

Les Charmettes.

_A Visit to the house where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warrens.-- Their Menage.--Its Grossness.--Claude Anet.--Reverence with which the spot is now visited.--Absurdity of this blind Devotion to Fame.--Feelings excited by the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene. Disturbed by its Associations with Rousseau's History.--Impostures of Men of Genius.--Their Power of mimicking all the best Feelings, Love, Independence, etc_.

Strange power of Genius, that can throw Round all that's vicious, weak, and low, Such magic lights, such rainbows dyes As dazzle even the steadiest eyes.

* * * * *

'Tis worse than weak--'tis wrong, 'tis shame, This mean prostration before Fame; This casting down beneath the car Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are, Life's purest, holiest decencies, To be careered o'er as they please. No--give triumphant Genius all For which his loftiest wish can call: If he be worshipt, let it be For attributes, his noblest, first; Not with that base idolatry Which sanctifies his last and worst.

I may be cold;--may want that glow Of high romance which bards should know; That holy homage which is felt In treading where the great have dwelt; This reverence, whatsoe'er it be, I fear, I feel, I have it _not_:-- For here at this still hour, to me The charms of this delightful spot, Its calm seclusion from the throng, From all the heart would fain forget, This narrow valley and the song Of its small murmuring rivulet, The flitting to and fro of birds, Tranquil and tame as they were once In Eden ere the startling words Of man disturbed their orisons, Those little, shadowy paths that wind Up the hillside, with fruit-trees lined And lighted only by the breaks The gay wind in the foliage makes, Or vistas here and there that ope Thro' weeping willows, like the snatches Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope Even tho' the shade of sadness catches!-- All this, which--could I once but lose The memory of those vulgar ties Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues Of Genius can no more disguise Than the sun's beams can do away The filth of fens o'er which they play-- This scene which would have filled my heart With thoughts of all that happiest is;-- Of Love where self hath only part, As echoing back another's bliss; Of solitude secure and sweet. Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet. Which while it shelters never chills Our sympathies with human woe, But keeps them like sequestered rills Purer and fresher in their flow; Of happy days that share their beams 'Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ; Of tranquil nights that give in dreams The moonlight of the morning's joy!-- All this my heart could dwell on here, But for those gross mementoes near; Those sullying truths that cross the track Of each sweet thought and drive them back Full into all the mire and strife And vanities of that man's life, Who more than all that e'er have glowed With fancy's flame (and it was _his_, In fullest warmth and radiance) showed What an impostor Genius is; How with that strong, mimetic art Which forms its life and soul, it takes All shapes of thought, all hues of heart, Nor feels itself one throb it wakes; How like a gem its light may smile O'er the dark path by mortals trod, Itself as mean a worm the while As crawls at midnight o'er the sod; What gentle words and thoughts may fall From its false lip, what zeal to bless, While home, friends, kindred, country, all, Lie waste beneath its selfishness; How with the pencil hardly dry From coloring up such scenes of love And beauty as make young hearts sigh And dream and think thro' heaven they rove, They who can thus describe and move, The very workers of these charms, Nor seek nor know a joy above Some Maman's or Theresa's arms!

How all in short that makes the boast Of their false tongues they want the most; And while with freedom on their lips, Sounding their timbrels, to set free This bright world, laboring in the eclipse Of priestcraft and of slavery,-- They may themselves be slaves as low As ever Lord or Patron made To blossom in his smile or grow Like stunted brushwood in his shade. Out on the craft!--I'd rather be One of those hinds that round me tread, With just enough of sense to see The noonday sun that's o'er his head, Than thus with high-built genius curst, That hath no heart for its foundation, Be all at once that's brightest, worst, Sublimest, meanest in creation!

CORRUPTION,

AND

INTOLERANCE.

TWO POEMS.

ADDRESSED TO AN ENGLISHMAN BY AN IRISHMAN.

PREFACE.

The practice which has been lately introduced into literature, of writing very long notes upon very indifferent verses, appears to me a rather happy invention, as it supplies us with a mode of turning dull poetry to account; and as horses too heavy for the saddle may yet serve well enough to draw lumber, so Poems of this kind make excellent beasts of burden and will bear notes though they may not bear reading. Besides, the comments in such cases are so little under the necessity of paying any servile deference to the text, that they may even adopt that Socratic, "_quod supra nos nihil ad nos."_

In the first of the two following Poems, I have ventured to speak of the Revolution of 1688, in language which has sometimes been employed by Tory writers and which is therefore neither very new nor popular. But however an Englishman might be reproached with ingratitude for depreciating the merits and results of a measure which he is taught to regard as the source of his liberties--however ungrateful it might appear in Alderman Birch to question for a moment the purity of that glorious era to which he is indebted for the seasoning of so many orations--yet an Irishman who has none of these obligations to acknowledge, to whose country the Revolution brought nothing but injury and insult, and who recollects that the book of Molyneux was burned by order of William's Whig Parliament for daring to extend to unfortunate Ireland those principles on which the Revolution was professedly founded--an Irishman _may_ be allowed to criticise freely the measures of that period without exposing himself either to the imputation of ingratitude or to the suspicion of being influenced by any Popish remains of Jacobitism. No nation, it is true, was ever blessed with a more golden opportunity of establishing and securing its liberties for ever than the conjuncture of Eighty-eight presented to the people of Great Britain. But the disgraceful reigns of Charles and James had weakened and degraded the national character. The bold notions of popular right which had arisen out of the struggles between Charles the First and his Parliament were gradually supplanted by those slavish doctrines for which Lord Hawkesbury eulogizes the churchmen of that period, and as the Reformation had happened too soon for the purity of religion, so the Revolution came too late for the spirit of liberty. Its advantages accordingly were for the most part specious and transitory, while the evils which it entailed are still felt and still increasing. By rendering unnecessary the frequent exercise of Prerogative,--that unwieldy power which cannot move a step without alarm,--it diminished the only interference of the Crown, which is singly and independently exposed before the people, and whose abuses therefore are obvious to their senses and capabilities. Like the myrtle over a celebrated statue in Minerva's temple at Athens, it skilfully veiled from the public eye the only obtrusive feature of royalty. At the same time, however, that the Revolution abridged this unpopular attribute, it amply compensated by the substitution of a new power, as much more potent in its effect as it is more secret in its operations. In the disposal of an immense revenue and the extensive patronage annexed to it, the first foundations of this power of the Crown were laid; the innovation of a standing army at once increased and strengthened it, and the few slight barriers which the Act of Settlement opposed to its progress have all been gradually removed during the Whiggish reigns that succeeded; till at length this spirit of influence has become the vital principle of the state,--an agency, subtle and unseen, which pervades every part of the Constitution, lurks under all its forms and regulates all its movements, and, like the invisible sylph or grace which presides over the motions of beauty,

"_illam, quicquid agit, quoquo westigia flectit, componit furlim subsequiturque."_

The cause of Liberty and the Revolution are so habitually associated in the minds of Englishmen that probably in objecting to the latter I may be thought hostile or indifferent to the former. But assuredly nothing could be more unjust than such a suspicion. The very object indeed which my humble animadversions would attain is that in the crisis to which I think England is now hastening, and between which and foreign subjugation she may soon be compelled to choose, the errors and omissions of 1688 should be remedied; and, as it was then her fate to experience a Revolution without Reform, so she may now endeavor to accomplish a Reform without Revolution.

In speaking of the parties which have so long agitated England, it will be observed that I lean as little to the Whigs as to their adversaries. Both factions have been equally cruel to Ireland and perhaps equally insincere in their efforts for the liberties of England. There is one name indeed connected with Whiggism, of which I can never think but with veneration and tenderness. As justly, however, might the light of the sun be claimed by any particular nation as the sanction of that name be monopolized by any party whatsoever. Mr. Fox belonged to mankind and they have lost in him their ablest friend.

With respect to the few lines upon Intolerance, which I have subjoined, they are but the imperfect beginning of a long series of Essays with which I here menace my readers upon the same important subject. I shall look to no higher merit in the task than that of giving a new form to claims and remonstrances which have often been much more eloquently urged and which would long ere now have produced their effect, but that the minds of some of our statesmen, like the pupil of the human eye, contract themselves the more, the stronger light is shed upon them.

CORRUPTION,

AN EPISTLE.

Boast on, my friend--tho' stript of all beside, Thy struggling nation still retains her pride: That pride which once in genuine glory woke When Marlborough fought and brilliant St. John spoke; That pride which still, by time and shame unstung, Outlives even Whitelocke's sword and Hawkesbury's tongue! Boast on, my friend, while in this humbled isle[1] Where Honor mourns and Freedom fears to smile, Where the bright light of England's fame is known But by the shadow o'er our fortunes thrown; Where, doomed ourselves to naught but wrongs and slights,[2] We hear you boast of Britain's glorious rights, As wretched slaves that under hatches lie Hear those on deck extol the sun and sky! Boast on, while wandering thro' my native haunts, I coldly listen to thy patriot vaunts; And feel, tho' close our wedded countries twine, More sorrow for my own than pride from thine.

Yet pause a moment--and if truths severe Can find an inlet to that courtly ear, Which hears no news but Ward's gazetted lies, And loves no politics in rhyme but Pye's,-- If aught can please thee but the good old saws Of "Church and State," and "William's matchless laws," And "Acts and Rights of glorious Eighty-eight,"-- Things which tho' now a century out of date Still serve to ballast with convenient words, A few crank arguments for speeching lords,-- Turn while I tell how England's freedom found, Where most she lookt for life, her deadliest wound; How brave she struggled while her foe was seen, How faint since Influence lent that foe a screen; How strong o'er James and Popery she prevailed, How weakly fell when Whigs and gold assailed.

While kings were poor and all those schemes unknown Which drain the people to enrich the throne; Ere yet a yielding Commons had supplied Those chains of gold by which themselves are tied, Then proud Prerogative, untaught to creep With bribery's silent foot on Freedom's sleep, Frankly avowed his bold enslaving plan And claimed a right from God to trample man! But Luther's schism had too much roused mankind For Hampden's truths to linger long behind; Nor then, when king-like popes had fallen so low, Could pope-like kings escape the levelling blow.[3] That ponderous sceptre (in whose place we bow To the light talisman of influence now), Too gross, too visible to work the spell Which modern power performs, in fragments fell: In fragments lay, till, patched and painted o'er With fleurs-de-lis, it shone and scourged once more.

'Twas then, my friend, thy kneeling nation quaft Long, long and deep, the churchman's opiate draught Of passive, prone obedience--then took flight All sense of man's true dignity and right; And Britons slept so sluggish in their chain That Freedom's watch-voice called almost in vain. Oh England! England! what a chance was thine, When the last tyrant of that ill-starred line Fled from his sullied crown and left thee free To found thy own eternal liberty! How nobly high in that propitious hour Might patriot hands have raised the triple tower[4] Of British freedom on a rock divine Which neither force could storm nor treachery mine! But no--the luminous, the lofty plan, Like mighty Babel, seemed too bold for man; The curse of jarring tongues again was given To thwart a work which raised men nearer heaven. While Tories marred what Whigs had scarce begun, While Whigs undid what Whigs themselves had done. The hour was lost and William with a smile Saw Freedom weeping o'er the unfinisht pile!

Hence all the ills you suffer,--hence remain Such galling fragments of that feudal chain[5] Whose links, around you by the Norman flung, Tho' loosed and broke so often, still have clung. Hence sly Prerogative like Jove of old Has turned his thunder into showers of gold, Whose silent courtship wins securer joys, Taints by degrees, and ruins without noise. While parliaments, no more those sacred things Which make and rule the destiny of kings. Like loaded dice by ministers are thrown, And each new set of sharpers cog their own. Hence the rich oil that from the Treasury steals Drips smooth o'er all the Constitution's wheels, Giving the old machine such pliant play[6] That Court and Commons jog one joltless way, While Wisdom trembles for the crazy car, So gilt, so rotten, carrying fools so far; And the duped people, hourly doomed to pay The sums that bribe their liberties away,[7]-- Like a young eagle who has lent his plume To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom,-- See their own feathers pluckt, to wing the dart Which rank corruption destines for their heart! But soft! methinks I hear thee proudly say, "What! shall I listen to the impious lay "That dares with Tory license to profane "The bright bequests of William's glorious reign? "Shall the great wisdom of our patriot sires, "Whom Hawkesbury quotes and savory Birch admires, "Be slandered thus? shall honest Steele agree "With virtuous Rose to call us pure and free, "Yet fail to prove it? Shall our patent pair "Of wise state-poets waste their words in air, "And Pye unheeded breathe his prosperous strain, "And Canning _take the people's sense_ in vain?"

The people!--ah! that Freedom's form should stay Where Freedom's spirit long hath past away! That a false smile should play around the dead And flush the features when the soul hath fled![8] When Rome had lost her virtue with her rights, When her foul tyrant sat on Capreae's heights,[9] Amid his ruffian spies and doomed to death Each noble name they blasted with their breath,-- Even then, (in mockery of that golden time, When the Republic rose revered, sublime, And her proud sons, diffused from zone to zone, Gave kings to every nation but their own,) Even then the senate and the tribunes stood, Insulting marks, to show how high the flood Of Freedom flowed, in glory's bygone day, And how it ebbed,--for ever ebbed away![10]

Look but around--tho' yet a tyrant's sword Nor haunts our sleep nor glitters o'er our board, Tho' blood be better drawn, by modern quacks, With Treasury leeches than with sword or axe; Yet say, could even a prostrate tribune's power Or a mock senate in Rome's servile hour Insult so much the claims, the rights of man, As doth that fettered mob, that free divan, Of noble tools and honorable knaves, Of pensioned patriots and privileged slaves;-- That party-colored mass which naught can warm But rank corruption's heat--whose quickened swarm Spread their light wings in Bribery's golden sky, Buzz for a period, lay their eggs and die;-- That greedy vampire which from Freedom's tomb Comes forth with all the mimicry of bloom Upon its lifeless cheek and sucks and drains A people's blood to feel its putrid veins!

Thou start'st, my friend, at picture drawn so dark-- "Is there no light?"--thou ask'st--"no lingering spark "Of ancient fire to warm us? Lives there none, "To act a Marvell's part?"[11]--alas! not one. _To_ place and power all public spirit tends, _In_ place and power all public spirit ends; Like hardy plants that love the air and sky, When _out_, 'twill thrive--but taken _in_, 'twill die!

Not bolder truths of sacred Freedom hung From Sidney's pen or burned on Fox's tongue, Than upstart Whigs produce each market-night, While yet their conscience, as their purse, is light; While debts at home excite their care for those Which, dire to tell, their much-loved country owes, And loud and upright, till their prize be known, They thwart the King's supplies to raise their own. But bees on flowers alighting cease their hum-- So, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb. And, tho' most base is he who, 'neath the shade Of Freedom's ensign plies corruption's trade, And makes the sacred flag he dares to show His passport to the market of her foe, Yet, yet, I own, so venerably dear Are Freedom's grave old anthems to my ear, That I enjoy them, tho' by traitors sung, And reverence Scripture even from Satan's tongue. Nay, when the constitution has expired, I'll have such men, like Irish wakers, hired To chant old "_Habeas Corpus_" by its side, And ask in purchased ditties why it died?

See yon smooth lord whom nature's plastic pains Would seem to've fashioned for those Eastern reigns When eunuchs flourisht, and such nerveless things As men rejected were the chosen of kings;--[12] Even _he_, forsooth, (oh fraud, of all the worst!) Dared to assume the patriot's name at first-- Thus Pitt began, and thus begin his apes; Thus devils when _first_ raised take pleasing shapes. But oh, poor Ireland! if revenge be sweet For centuries of wrong, for dark deceit And withering insult--for the Union thrown Into thy bitter cup when that alone Of slavery's draught was wanting[13]--if for this Revenge be sweet, thou _hast_ that daemon's bliss; For sure 'tis more than hell's revenge to fee That England trusts the men who've ruined thee:-- That in these awful days when every hour Creates some new or blasts some ancient power, When proud Napoleon like the enchanted shield Whose light compelled each wondering foe to yield, With baleful lustre blinds the brave and free And dazzles Europe into slavery,-- That in this hour when patriot zeal should guide, When Mind should rule and--Fox should _not_ have died, All that devoted England can oppose To enemies made fiends and friends made foes, Is the rank refuse, the despised remains Of that unpitying power, whose whips and chains Drove Ireland first to turn with harlot glance Towards other shores and woo the embrace of France;-- Those hacked and tainted tools, so foully fit For the grand artisan of mischief, Pitt, So useless ever but in vile employ, So weak to save, so vigorous to destroy-- Such are the men that guard thy threatened shore, Oh England! sinking England! boast no more.

[1] England began very early to feel the effects of cruelty towards her dependencies. "The severity of her government [says Macpherson] contributed more to deprive her of the continental dominions of the family of the Plantagenet than the arms of France."--See his _History_, vol. i.

[2] "By the total reduction of the kingdom of Ireland in 1691[says Burke], the ruin of the native Irish, and in a great measure, too, of the first races of the English, was completely accomplished. The new English interested was settled with as solid a stability as anything in human affairs can look for. All the penal laws of that unparalleled code of oppression, which were made after the last event, were manifestly the effects of national hatred and scorn towards a conquered people, whom the victors delighted to trample upon, and were not at all afraid to provoke." Yet this is the era to which the wise Common Council of Dublin refer us for "invaluable blessings," etc.

[3] The drivelling correspondence between James I and his "dog Steenie" (the Duke of Buckingham), which we find among the Hardwicke Papers, sufficiently shows, if we wanted any such illustration, into what doting, idiotic brains the plan at arbitrary power may enter.

[4] Tacitus has expressed his opinion, in a passage very frequently quoted, that such a distribution of power as the theory of the British constitution exhibits is merely a subject of bright speculation, "a system more easily praised than practised, and which, even could it happen to exist, would certainly not prove permanent;" and, in truth, a review of England's annals would dispose us to agree with the great historian's remark. For we find that at no period whatever has this balance of the three estates existed; that the nobles predominated till the policy of Henry VII, and his successor reduced their weight by breaking up the feudal system of property; that the power of the Crown became then supreme and absolute, till the bold encroachments of the Commons subverted the fabric altogether; that the alternate ascendency of prerogative and privilege distracted the period which followed the Restoration; and that lastly, the Acts of 1688, by laying the foundation of an unbounded court- influence, have secured a preponderance to the Throne, which every succeeding year increases. So that the vaunted British constitution has never perhaps existed but in mere theory.

[5] The last great wound given to the feudal system was the Act of the 12th of Charles II, which abolished the tenure of knight's service _in capite_, and which Blackstone compares, for its salutary influence upon property, to the boasted provisions of Magna Charta itself. Yet even in this act we see the effects of that counteracting spirit which has contrived to weaken every effort of the English nation towards liberty.

[6] "They drove so fast [says Wellwood of the ministers of Charles I.], that it was no wonder that the wheels and chariot broke."--(_Memoirs_ p. 86.)

[7] Among those auxiliaries which the Revolution of 1688 marshalled on the side of the Throne, the bugbear of Popery has not been the least convenient and serviceable. Those unskilful tyrants, Charles and James, instead of profiting by that useful subserviency which has always distinguished the ministers of our religious establishment, were so infatuated as to plan the ruin of this best bulwark of their power and moreover connected their designs upon the Church so undisguisedly with their attacks upon the Constitution that they identified in the minds of the people the interests of their religion and their liberties. During those times therefore "No Popery" was the watchword of freedom and served to keep the public spirit awake against the invasions of bigotry and prerogative.

[8] "It is a scandal [said Sir Charles Sedley in William's reign] that a government so sick at heart as ours is should look so well in the face."

[9] The senate still continued, during the reign of Tiberius, to manage all the business of the public: the money was then and long after coined by their authority, and every other public affair received their sanction.

[10] There is something very touching in what Tacitus tells us of the hopes that revived in a few patriot bosoms, when the death of Augustus was near approaching, and the fond expectation with which they already began "_bona libertatis incassum disserere_."

[11] Andrew Marvell, the honest opposer of the court during the reign of Charles the Second, and the last member of parliament who, according to the ancient mode, took wages from his constituents. The Commons have, since then, much changed their pay-masters.

[12] According to Xenophon, the chief circumstance which recommended these creatures to the service of Eastern princes was the ignominious station they held in society, and the probability of their being, upon this account, more devoted to the will and caprice of a master, from whose notice alone they derived consideration, and in whose favor they might seek refuge from the general contempt of mankind.

[13] Among the many measures, which, since the Revolution, have contributed to increase the influence of the Throne, and to feed up this "Aaron's serpent" of the constitution to its present healthy and respectable magnitude, there have been few more nutritive than the Scotch and Irish Unions.

INTOLERANCE,

A SATIRE.

"This clamor which pretends to be raised for the safety of religion has almost worn put the very appearance of it, and rendered us not only the most divided but the most immoral people upon the face of the earth."

ADDISON, _Freeholder_, No. 37.

Start not, my friend, nor think the Muse will stain Her classic fingers with the dust profane Of Bulls, Decrees and all those thundering scrolls Which took such freedom once with royal souls,[1] When heaven was yet the pope's exclusive trade, And kings were _damned_ as fast as now they're _made_, No, no--let Duigenan search the papal chair For fragrant treasures long forgotten there; And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks, Let sallow Perceval snuff up the gale Which wizard Duigenan's gathered sweets exhale. Enough for me whose heart has learned to scorn Bigots alike in Rome or England born, Who loathe the venom whence-soe'er it springs, From popes or lawyers,[2] pastrycooks or kings,-- Enough for me to laugh and weep by turns, As mirth provokes or indignation burns, As Canning Vapors or as France succeeds, As Hawkesbury proses, or as Ireland bleeds!

And thou, my friend, if, in these headlong days, When bigot Zeal her drunken antics plays So near a precipice, that men the while Look breathless on and shudder while they smile-- If in such fearful days thou'lt dare to look To hapless Ireland, to this rankling nook Which Heaven hath freed from poisonous things in vain, While Gifford's tongue and Musgrave's pen remain-- If thou hast yet no golden blinkers got To shade thine eyes from this devoted spot, Whose wrongs tho' blazoned o'er the world they be, Placemen alone are privileged _not_ to see-- Oh! turn awhile, and tho' the shamrock wreathes My homely harp, yet shall the song it breathes Of Ireland's slavery and of Ireland's woes Live when the memory of her tyrant foes Shall but exist, all future knaves to warn, Embalmed in hate and canonized by scorn. When Castlereagh in sleep still more profound Than his own opiate tongue now deals around, Shall wait the impeachment of that awful day Which even _his_ practised hand can't bribe away.

Yes, my dear friend, wert thou but near me now, To see how Spring lights up on Erin's brow Smiles that shine out unconquerably fair Even thro' the blood-marks left by Camden there,--[3] Couldst thou but see what verdure paints the sod Which none but tyrants and their slaves have trod, And didst thou know the spirit, kind and brave, That warms the soul of each insulted slave, Who tired with struggling sinks beneath his lot And seems by all but watchful France forgot--[4] Thy heart would burn--yes, even thy Pittite heart Would burn to think that such a blooming part Of the world's garden, rich in nature's charms And filled with social souls and vigorous arms, Should be the victim of that canting crew, So smooth, so godly,--yet so devilish too; Who, armed at once with prayer-books and with whips, Blood on their hands and Scripture on their lips, Tyrants by creed and tortures by text, Make _this_ life hell in honor of the _next_! Your Redesdales, Percevals,--great, glorious Heaven, If I'm presumptuous, be my tongue forgiven, When here I swear by my soul's hope of rest, I'd rather have been born ere man was blest With the pure dawn of Revelation's light, Yes,--rather plunge me back in Pagan night, And take my chance with Socrates for bliss,[5] Than be the Christian of a faith like this, Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway And in a convert mourns to lose a prey; Which, grasping human hearts with double hold,-- Like Danäe's lover mixing god and gold,[6]-- Corrupts both state and church and makes an oath The knave and atheist's passport into both; Which, while it dooms dissenting souls to know Nor bliss above nor liberty below, Adds the slave's suffering to the sinner's fear, And lest he 'scape hereafter racks him here! But no--far other faith, far milder beams Of heavenly justice warm the Christian's dreams; _His_ creed is writ on Mercy's page above, By the pure hands of all-atoning Love; _He_ weeps to see abused Religion twine Round Tyranny's coarse brow her wreath divine; And _he_, while round him sects and nations raise To the one God their varying notes of praise, Blesses each voice, whate'er its tone may be, That serves to swell the general harmony.[7]

Such was the spirit, gently, grandly bright, That filled, oh Fox! thy peaceful soul with light; While free and spacious as that ambient air Which folds our planet in its circling care, The mighty sphere of thy transparent mind Embraced the world, and breathed for all mankind. Last of the great, farewell!--yet _not_ the last-- Tho' Britain's sunshine hour with thee be past, Ierne still one ray of glory gives And feels but half thy loss while Grattan lives.

[1] The king-deposing doctrine, notwithstanding its many mischievous absurdities, was of no little service to the cause of political liberty, by inculcating the right of resistance to tyrants and asserting the will of the people to be the only true fountain of power.

[2] When Innocent X. was entreated to decide the controversy between the Jesuits and the Jansenists, he answered, that "he had been bred a lawyer, and had therefore nothing to do with divinity." It were to be wished that some of our English pettifoggers knew their own fit element as well as Pope Innocent X.

[3] Not the Camden who speaks thus of Ireland:--"To wind up all, whether we regard the fruitfulness of the soil, the advantage of the sea, with so many commodious havens, or the natives themselves, who are warlike, ingenious, handsome, and well-complexioned, soft-skinned and very nimble, by reason of the pliantness of their muscles, this Island is in many respects so happy, that Giraldus might very well say, 'Nature had regarded with more favorable eyes than ordinary this Kingdom of Zephyr.'"

[4] The example of toleration, which Bonaparte has held forth, will, I fear, produce no other effect than that of determining the British government to persist, from the very spirit of opposition, in their own old system of intolerance and injustice: just as the Siamese blacken their teeth, "because," as they say, "the devil has white ones."

[5] In a singular work, written by one Franciscus Collius, "upon the Souls of the Pagans," the author discusses, with much coolness and erudition, all the probable chances of salvation upon which a heathen philosopher might calculate. Consigning to perdition without much difficulty Plato, Socrates, etc., the only sage at whose fate he seems to hesitate is Pythagoras, in consideration of his golden thigh, and the many miracles which he performed. But having balanced a little his claims and finding reason to father all these miracles on the devil, he at length, in the twenty-fifth chapter, decides upon damning him also.

[6] Mr. Fox, in his Speech on the Repeal of the Test Act (1790), thus condemns the intermixture of religion with the political constitution of a state:--"What purpose [he asks] can it serve, except the baleful purpose of communicating and receiving contamination? Under such an alliance corruption must alight upon the one, and slavery overwhelm the other."

[7] Both Bayle and Locke would have treated the subject of Toleration in a manner much more worthy of themselves and of the cause if they had written in an age less distracted by religious prejudices.

THE SCEPTIC,

A PHILOSOPHICAL SATIRE.

PREFACE.

The Sceptical Philosophy of the Ancients has been no less misrepresented than the Epicurean. Pyrrho may perhaps have carried it to rather an irrational excess;--but we must not believe with Beattie all the absurdities imputed to this philosopher; and it appears to me that the doctrines of the school, as explained by Sextus Empiricus, are far more suited to the wants and infirmities of human reason as well as more conducive to the mild virtues of humility and patience, than any of those systems of philosophy which preceded the introduction of Christianity. The Sceptics may be said to have held a middle path between the Dogmatists and Academicians; the former of whom boasted that they had attained the truth while the latter denied that any attainable truth existed. The Sceptics however, without either asserting or denying its existence, professed to be modestly and anxiously in search of it; or, as St. Augustine expresses it, in his liberal tract against the Manichaeans, "_nemo nostrum dicat jam se invenisse veritatem; sic eam quoeramus quasi ab utrisque nesciatur_." From this habit of impartial investigation and the necessity which it imposed upon them of studying not only every system of philosophy but every art and science which professed to lay its basis in truth, they necessarily took a wider range of erudition and were far more travelled in the regions of philosophy than those whom conviction or bigotry had domesticated in any particular system. It required all the learning of dogmatism to overthrow the dogmatism of learning; and the Sceptics may be said to resemble in this respect that ancient incendiary who stole from the altar the fire with which he destroyed the temple. This advantage over all the other sects is allowed to them even by Lipsius, whose treatise on the miracles of the Virgo Hallensis will sufficiently save him from all suspicion of scepticism. "_labore, ingenio, memoria_," he says, "_supra omnes pene philosophos fuisse.--quid nonne omnia aliorum secta tenere debuerunt et inquirere, si poterunt refellere? res dicit nonne orationes varias, raras, subtiles inveniri ad tam receptas, claras, certas (ut videbatur) sententias evertendas?" etc.--"Manuduct. ad Philosoph. Stoic." Dissert_. 4.

Between the scepticism of the ancients and the moderns the great difference is that the former doubted for the purpose of investigating, as may be exemplified by the third book of Aristotle's Metaphysics, while the latter investigate for the purpose of doubting, as may be seen through most of the philosophical works of Hume. Indeed the Pyrrhonism of latter days is not only more subtle than that of antiquity, but, it must be confessed, more dangerous in its tendency. The happiness of a Christian depends so essentially upon his belief, that it is but natural he should feel alarm at the progress of doubt, lest it should steal by degrees into that region from which he is most interested in excluding it, and poison at last the very spring of his consolation and hope. Still however the abuses of doubting ought not to deter a philosophical mind from indulging mildly and rationally in its use; and there is nothing surely more consistent with the meek spirit of Christianity than that humble scepticism which professes not to extend its distrust beyond the circle of human pursuits and the pretensions of human knowledge. A follower of this school may be among the readiest to admit the claims of a superintending Intelligence upon his faith and adoration: it is only to the wisdom of this weak world that he refuses or at least delays his assent;--it is only in passing through the shadow of earth that his mind undergoes the eclipse of scepticism. No follower of Pyrrho has ever spoken more strongly against the dogmatists than St. Paul himself, in the First Epistle to the Corinthians; and there are passages in Ecclesiastes and other parts of Scripture, which justify our utmost diffidence in all that human reason originates. Even the Sceptics of antiquity refrained carefully from the mysteries of theology, and in entering the temples of religion laid aside their philosophy at the porch. Sextus Empiricus declares the acquiescence of his sect in the general belief of a divine and foreknowing Power:--In short it appears to me that this rational and well-regulated scepticism is the only daughter of the Schools that can safely be selected as a handmaid for Piety. He who distrusts the light of reason will be the first to follow a more luminous guide; and if with an ardent love for truth he has sought her in vain through the ways of this life, he will but turn with the more hope to that better world where all is simple, true and everlasting: for there is no parallax at the zenith;--it is only near our troubled horizon that objects deceive us into vague and erroneous calculations.

THE SCEPTIC

As the gay tint that decks the vernal rose[1] Not in the flower but in our vision glows; As the ripe flavor of Falernian tides Not in the wine but in our taste resides; So when with heartfelt tribute we declare That Marco's honest and that Susan's fair, 'Tis in our minds and not in Susan's eyes Or Marco's life the worth or beauty lies: For she in flat-nosed China would appear As plain a thing as Lady Anne is here; And one light joke at rich Loretto's dome Would rank good Marco with the damned at Rome.

There's no deformity so vile, so base, That 'tis not somewhere thought a charm, a grace; No foul reproach that may not steal a beam From other suns to bleach it to esteem. Ask who is wise?--you'll find the self-same man A sage in France, a madman in Japan; And _here_ some head beneath a mitre swells, Which _there_ had tingled to a cap and bells: Nay, there may yet some monstrous region be, Unknown to Cook and from Napoleon free, Where Castlereagh would for a patriot pass And mouthing Musgrave scarce be deemed an ass!

"List not to reason (Epicurus cries), "But trust the senses, _there_ conviction lies:"[2]-- Alas! _they_ judge not by a purer light, Nor keep their fountains more untinged and bright: Habit so mars them that the Russian swain Will sigh for train-oil while he sips Champagne; And health so rules them, that a fever's heat Would make even Sheridan think water sweet.

Just as the mind the erring sense[3] believes, The erring mind in turn the sense deceives; And cold disgust can find but wrinkles there, Where passion fancies all that's smooth and fair. P * * * *, who sees, upon his pillow laid, A face for which ten thousand pounds were paid, Can tell how quick before a jury flies The spell that mockt the warm seducer's eyes.

Self is the medium thro' which Judgment's ray Can seldom pass without being turned astray. The smith of Ephesus[4] thought Dian's shrine, By which his craft most throve, the most divine; And even the _true_ faith seems not half so true, When linkt with _one_ good living as with _two_. Had Wolcot first been pensioned by the throne, Kings would have suffered by his praise alone; And Paine perhaps, for something snug _per ann_., Had laught like Wellesley at all Rights of Man.

But 'tis not only individual minds,-- Whole nations too the same delusion blinds. Thus England, hot from Denmark's smoking meads, Turns up her eyes at Gallia's guilty deeds; Thus, self-pleased still, the same dishonoring chain She binds in Ireland she would break in Spain; While praised at distance, but at home forbid, Rebels in Cork are patriots at Madrid.

If Grotius be thy guide, shut, shut the book,-- In force alone for Laws of Nations look. Let shipless Danes and whining Yankees dwell On naval rights, with Grotius and Vattel. While Cobbet's pirate code alone appears Sound moral sense to England and Algiers.

Woe to the Sceptic in these party days Who wafts to neither shrine his puffs of praise! For him no pension pours its annual fruits, No fertile sinecure spontaneous shoots; Not _his_ the meed that crowned Don Hookham's rhyme, Nor sees he e'er in dreams of future time Those shadowy forms of sleek reversions rise, So dear to Scotchmen's second-sighted eyes. Yet who that looks to History's damning leaf, Where Whig and Tory, thief opposed to thief, On either side in lofty shame are seen,[5] While Freedom's form lies crucified between-- Who, Burdett, who such rival rogues can see, But flies from _both_ to Honesty and thee?

If weary of the world's bewildering maze,[6] Hopeless of finding thro' its weedy ways One flower of truth, the busy crowd we shun, And to the shades of tranquil learning run, How many a doubt pursues! how oft we sigh When histories charm to think that histories lie! That all are grave romances, at the best, And Musgrave's but more clumsy than the rest. By Tory Hume's seductive page beguiled, We fancy Charles was just and Strafford mild;[7] And Fox himself with party pencil draws Monmouth a hero, "for the good old cause!"

Then rights are wrongs and victories are defeats, As French or English pride the tale repeats; And when they tell Corunna's story o'er, They'll disagree in all but honoring Moore: Nay, future pens to flatter future courts May cite perhaps the Park-guns' gay reports, To prove that England triumphs on the morn Which found her Junot's jest and Europe's scorn.

In science too--how many a system, raised Like Neva's icy domes, awhile hath blazed With lights of fancy and with forms of pride, Then, melting, mingled with the oblivious tide! _Now_ Earth usurps the centre of the sky, _Now_ Newton puts the paltry planet by; _Now_ whims revive beneath Descartes's[8] pen, Which _now_, assailed by Locke's, expire again. And when perhaps in pride of chemic powers, We think the keys of Nature's kingdom ours, Some Davy's magic touch the dream unsettles, And turns at once our alkalis to metals. Or should we roam in metaphysic maze Thro' fair-built theories of former days, Some Drummond from the north, more ably skilled, Like other Goths, to ruin than to build, Tramples triumphant thro' our fanes o'erthrown, Nor leaves one grace, one glory of its own.

Oh! Learning, whatsoe'er thy pomp and boast, _Un_lettered minds have taught and charmed men most. The rude, unread Columbus was our guide To worlds, which learned Lactantius had denied; And one wild Shakespeare following Nature's lights Is worth whole planets filled with Stagyrites.

See grave Theology, when once she strays From Revelation's path, what tricks she plays; What various heavens,--all fit for bards to sing,-- Have churchmen dreamed, from Papias,[9] down to King![10] While hell itself, in India naught but smoke[11] In Spain's a furnace and in France--a joke.

Hail! modest Ignorance, thou goal and prize, Thou last, best knowledge of the simply wise! Hail! humble Doubt, when error's waves are past, How sweet to reach thy sheltered port at last, And there by changing skies nor lured nor awed. Smile at the battling winds that roar abroad. _There_ gentle Charity who knows how frail The bark of Virtue, even in summer's gale, Sits by the nightly fire whose beacon glows For all who wander, whether friends or foes. _There_ Faith retires and keeps her white sail furled, Till called to spread it for a better world; While Patience watching on the weedy shore, And mutely waiting till the storm be o'er, Oft turns to Hope who still directs her eye To some blue spot just breaking in the sky!

Such are the mild, the blest associates given To him who doubts,--and trusts in naught but Heaven!

[1] "The particular bulk, number, figure, and motion of the parts of fire or snow are really in them, whether any one perceives them or not, and therefore they may be called real qualities because they really exist in those bodies; but light, heat, whiteness or coldness are no more really in them than sickness or pain is in manna. Take away the sensation of them; let not the eye see light or colors, nor the ears hear sounds; let the palate not taste nor the nose smell, and all colors, tastes, odors and sounds, as they are such particular ideas, vanish and cease."--_Locke_,