Part 11

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 scatter’d at the whirlwind’s will, Hang floating in the pure air still, Filling it all with precious balm, In gratitude for this sweet calm;— And every drop the thunder-showers Have left upon the grass and flowers Sparkles, as ’twere that lightning-gem[279] 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 e’en 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’d still—is this the bark, The same, that from HARMOZIA’S bay Bore her at morn—whose bloody way The sea-dog track’d?—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 look’d 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 reverie; And some, who seem’d but ill to brook That sluggish calm, with many a look To the slack sail impatient cast, As loose it flagg’d around the mast.

Blest ALLA! who shall save her now? There’s not in all that warrior band One Arab sword, one turban’d brow From her own Faithful Moslem land. Their garb—the leathern belt[280] that wraps Each yellow vest[281]—that rebel hue— The Tartar fleece upon their caps[282]— Yes—yes—her fears are all too true, And Heaven hath, in this dreadful hour, Abandon’d 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 Cross’d her like lightning, as again, With boldness that despair had lent, She darted through that armed crowd A look so searching, so intent, That e’en the sternest warrior bow’d Abash’d, when he her glances caught, As if he guess’d whose form they sought. But no—she sees him not—’tis gone, The vision that before her shone Through 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 tow’rd that mountain-hold,— Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze, Where MECCA’S godless enemies Lie, like beleaguer’d scorpions, roll’d In their last deadly, venomous fold! Amid the’ illumin’d 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 bewilder’d 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 through 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 tow’rd 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 Through which departed spirits go:— Not e’en the flare of brand and torch Its flickering light could further throw Than the thick flood that boil’d below. Silent they floated—as if each Sat breathless, and too aw’d for speech In that dark chasm, where even sound Seem’d dark,—so sullenly around The goblin echoes of the cave Mutter’d 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 oars’ redoubled force Can stem the eddy’s whirling force; When, hark!—some desperate foot has sprung Among the rocks—the chain is flung— The oars are up—the grapple clings, And the toss’d bark in moorings swings. Just then, a day-beam through the 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. E’en HINDA, though she saw not where Or whither wound the perilous road, Yet knew by that awakening air, Which suddenly around her glow’d, That they had risen from darkness then, And breath’d the sunny world again!

But soon this balmy freshness fled— For now the steepy labyrinth led Through damp and gloom—’mid crash of boughs, And fall of loosen’d 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 hyæna, 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—e’en 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 Perplex’d 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,[283] 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, though met on ruin’s brink, Hath power to make e’en ruin dear,— Yet soon this gleam of rapture, crost By fears for him, is chill’d 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 banner’s 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 welcom’d 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, though they be “Link’d with each quivering life-string there, “And give it bleeding all to Thee! “Let him but live,—the burning tear, “The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear, “Which have been all too much his own, “Shall from this hour be Heaven’s alone. “Youth pass’d in penitence, and age “In long and painful pilgrimage, “Shall leave no traces of the flame “That wastes me now—nor shall his name “E’er bless my lips, but when I pray “For his dear spirit, that away “Casting from its angelic ray “The’ eclipse of earth, he, too, may shine “Redeem’d, all glorious and all Thine! “Think—think what victory to win “One radiant soul like his from sin,— “One wandering star of virtue back “To its own native, heaven-ward track! “Let him but live, and both are Thine, “Together Thine—for, blest or crost, “Living or dead, his doom is mine, “And, if _he_ perish, both are lost!”

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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.[284]

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:—

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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 eves 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 rush’d through KERMAN’S almond groves, And shaken from her bowers of date That cooling feast the traveller loves,[285] Now, lull’d 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 aw’d as those who waken In their dark tombs—when, scowling near, The Searchers of the Grave[286] appear,— She shuddering turn’d to read her fate In the fierce eyes that flash’d around; And saw those towers all desolate, That o’er her head terrific frown’d, As if defying e’en 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 through 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.[287] How shall she bear that voice’s tone, At whose loud battle-cry alone Whole squadrons oft in panic ran, Scatter’d like some vast caravan, When, stretch’d at evening round the well, They hear the thirsting tiger’s yell! Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down, Shrinking beneath the fiery frown, Which, fancy tells her, from that brow Is flashing o’er her fiercely now: And shuddering as she hears the tread Of his retiring warrior band.— Never was pause so 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 wondering eyes, To hide them on her Gheber’s breast! ’Tis he, ’tis he—the man of blood, The fellest of the Fire-fiend’s brood, HAFED, the demon of the fight, Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,— Is her own loved Gheber, mild And glorious as when first he smil’d In her lone tower, and left such beams Of his pure eye to light her dreams, That she believ’d her bower had given Rest to some wanderer from heaven!

Moments there are, and this was one, Snatch’d 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—though dimm’d and gone Each star of Hope that cheer’d him on— His glories lost—his cause betray’d— IRAN, his dear-lov’d 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 lov’d—well, warmly lov’d— Oh! in this precious hour he prov’d 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 quaff’d, Though 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 a wretch in sleep, Whom fancy cheats into a smile, Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while! The mighty Ruins where they stood, Upon the mount’s high, rocky verge, Lay open tow’rds the ocean flood, Where lightly o’er the illumin’d surge Many a fair bark that, all the day, Had lurk’d in sheltering creek or bay, Now bounded on, and gave their sails, Yet dripping, to the evening gales; Like eagles, when the storm is done, Spreading their wet wings in the sun. The beauteous clouds, though daylight’s 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 wing’d his flight. Never was scene so form’d 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 last, 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 lov’st me, fly— “Soon will his murderous band be here, “And I shall see thee bleed and die.— “Hush! heard’st thou not the tramp of men “Sounding from yonder fearful glen?— “Perhaps e’en now they climb the wood— “Fly, fly—though still the West is bright, “He’ll come—oh! yes—he wants thy blood— “I know him—he’ll not wait for night!”

In terrors e’en to agony She clings around the wondering Chief;— “Alas, poor wilder’d maid! to me “Thou ow’st this raving trance of grief. “Lost as I am, nought ever grew “Beneath my shade but perish’d too— “My doom is like the Dead Sea air, “And nothing lives that enters there! “Why were our barks together driven “Beneath this morning’s furious heaven? “Why, when I saw the prize that chance “Had thrown into my desperate arms,— “When, casting but a single glance “Upon thy pale and prostrate charms, “I vow’d (though watching viewless o’er “Thy safety through that hour’s alarms) “To meet the’ unmanning sight no more— “Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow? “Why weakly, madly met thee now?— “Start not—that noise is but the shock “Of torrents through yon valley hurl’d— “Dread nothing here—upon this rock “We stand above the jarring world, “Alike beyond its hope—its dread— “In gloomy safety, like the Dead! “Or, could e’en earth and hell unite “In league to storm this Sacred Height, “Fear nothing thou—myself, to-night, “And each o’erlooking star that dwells “Near God will be thy sentinels;— “And, ere to-morrow’s dawn shall glow, “Back to thy sire⸺” “To-morrow!—no—” The maiden scream’d—“thou’lt never see “To-morrow’s sun—death, death will be “The night-cry through each reeking tower, “Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour! “Thou art betray’d—some wretch who knew “That dreadful glen’s mysterious clew— “Nay, doubt not—by yon stars, ’tis true— “Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire; “This morning, with that smile so dire “He wears in joy, he told me all, “And stamp’d in triumph through our hall, “As though thy heart already beat “Its last life-throb beneath his feet! “Good Heaven, how little dream’d I then “His victim was my own lov’d youth!— “Fly—send—let some one watch the glen— “By all my hopes of heaven ’tis truth!”

Oh! colder than the wind that freezes Founts, that but now in sunshine play’d, Is that congealing pang which seizes The trusting bosom, when betray’d. He felt it—deeply felt—and stood, As if the tale had frozen his blood, So maz’d and motionless was he;— Like one whom sudden spells enchant, Or some mute, marble habitant Of the still Halls of ISHMONIE![288]

But soon the painful chill was o’er, And his great soul, herself once more, Look’d 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, though his life hath pass’d 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 through 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[289] gaze On the red wreath, for martyrs twin’d, More proudly than the youth surveys That pile, which through the gloom behind, Half lighted by the altar’s fire, Glimmers—his destin’d funeral pyre! Heap’d by his own, his comrades’ hands, Of every wood of odorous breath, There, by the Fire-God’s shrine it stands, Ready to fold in radiant 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 turn’d The death-flames that beneath him burn’d![290]

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 ador’d! “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 lov’st me, fly— “Now, now—ere yet their blades are nigh. “Oh haste—the bark that bore me hither “Can waft us o’er yon darkening sea “East—west—alas, I care not whither, “So thou art safe, and I with thee! “Go where we will, this hand is thine, “Those eyes before me smiling thus, “Through good and ill, through storm and shine, “The world’s a world of love for us! “On some calm, blessed shore we’ll dwell, “Where ’tis no crime to love too well;— “Where thus to worship tenderly “An erring child of light like thee “Will not be sin—or, if it be, “Where we may weep our faults away, “Together kneeling, night and day, “Thou, for _my_ sake, at ALLA’S shrine, “And I—at _any_ God’s, for thine!”