Part 12
Wildly these passionate words she spoke— Then hung her head, and wept for shame; Sobbing, as if her heart-string broke With every deep-heav’d 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 Dawn’d in his soul, and threw her smile O’er hours to come—o’er days and nights, Wing’d 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 bow’d To raise the suppliant, trembling stole, First warn’d him of this dangerous cloud Of softness passing o’er his soul. Starting, he brush’d the drops away, Unworthy o’er that cheek to stray;— Like one who, on the morn of fight, Shakes from his sword the dews of night, That had but dimm’d, not stain’d its light. Yet, though subdued the’ unnerving thrill, Its warmth, its weakness linger’d still So touching in each look and tone, That the fond, fearing, hoping maid Half counted on the flight she pray’d, Half thought the hero’s soul was grown As soft, as yielding as her own, And smil’d and bless’d him, while he said,— “Yes—if there be some happier sphere, “Where fadeless truth like ours is dear,— “If there be any land of rest “For those who love and ne’er forget, “Oh! comfort thee—for safe and blest “We’ll meet in that calm region yet!”
Scarce had she time to ask her heart If good or ill these words impart, When the rous’d youth impatient flew To the tower-wall, where, high in view, A ponderous sea-horn[291] hung, and blew A signal, deep and dread as those The storm-fiend at his rising blows.— Full well his Chieftains, sworn and true Through life and death, that signal knew; For ’twas the’ appointed warring-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 Went gaily 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 charg’d the wind, And the white ox-tails stream’d behind,[292] Looking, as if the steeds they rode Were wing’d, and every Chief a God! How fallen, how alter’d now! how wan Each scarr’d and faded visage shone, As round the burning shrine they came!— How deadly was the glare it cast, As mute they pass’d before the flame To light their torches as they pass’d! ’Twas silence all—the youth had plann’d The duties of his soldier-band; And each determin’d 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 shelter’d seat, And press’d 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 vanish’d dream of sleep; “And thou⸺” but ah!—he answers not— Good Heaven!—and does she go alone? She now has reach’d 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,[293] 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 lovèd 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 shriek’d his name To the dark woods—no HAFED came:— No—hapless pair—you’ve look’d your last:— Your hearts should both have broken then: The dream is o’er—your doom is cast— You’ll never meet on earth again!
Alas for him, who hears her cries! Still half-way down the steep he stands, Watching with fix’d and feverish 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 consign’d The corse of one, lov’d tenderly, To the bleak flood they leave behind; And on the deck still lingering stay, And long look back, with sad delay, To watch the moonlight on the wave, That ripples o’er that cheerless grave.
But see—he starts—what heard he then? That dreadful shout!—across the glen From the land-side it comes, and loud Rings through the chasm; as if the crowd Of fearful things, that haunt that dell, Its Gholes and Dives and shapes of hell, Had all in one dread howl broke out, So loud, so terrible that shout! “They come—the Moslems come!” he cries, His proud soul mounting to his eyes,— “Now, Spirits of the Brave, who roam “Enfranchis’d through yon starry dome, “Rejoice—for souls of kindred fire “Are on the wing to join your choir!” He said—and, light as bridegrooms bound To their young loves, reclimb’d the steep And gain’d 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 through the chasm—oh! who that then Had seen those listening warrior-men, With their swords grasp’d, their eyes of flame Turn’d 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 scorn’st the’ inglorious sacrifice. “No—though of all earth’s hope bereft, “Life, swords, and vengeance still are left. “We’ll make yon valley’s reeking caves “Live in the awe-struck minds of men, “Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves “Tell of the Ghebers’ bloody glen. “Follow, brave hearts!—this pile remains “Our refuge still from life and chains; “But his the best, the holiest bed, “Who sinks entomb’d in Moslem dead!”
Down the precipitous rocks they sprung, While vigour, more than human, strung Each arm and heart.—The’ exulting foe Still through the dark defiles below, Track’d by his torches’ lurid fire, Wound slow, as through GOLCONDA’S vale[294] 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, Cross’d the wild race that round them dwell, The very tigers from their delves Look out, and let them pass, as things Untam’d 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 fill’d the narrow chasm breast high, And, on each side, aloft and wild, Huge cliffs and toppling crags were pil’d,— The guards with which young Freedom 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, clogg’d with massacre. Never was horde of tyrants met With bloodier welcome—never yet To patriot vengeance hath the sword More terrible libations pour’d!
All up the dreary, long ravine, By the red, murky glimmer seen Of half-quench’d brands that o’er the flood Lie scatter’d round and burn in blood, What ruin glares! what carnage swims! Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs, Lost swords that, dropp’d from many a hand, In that thick pool of slaughter stand;— Wretches who wading, half on fire From the toss’d brands that round them fly, ’Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire;— And some who, grasp’d by those that die, Sink woundless with them, smother’d o’er In their dead brethren’s gushing gore!
But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed, Still hundreds, thousands more succeed; Countless as tow’rds 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, bridg’d with Moslem bodies o’er, It bears aloft their slippery tread, And o’er the dying and the dead, Tremendous causeway! on they pass. Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas, What hope was left for you? for you, Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice Is smoking in their vengeful eyes?— Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew, And burn with shame to find how few?
Crush’d down by that vast multitude, Some found their graves where first they stood; While some with hardier struggle died, And still fought on by HAFED’S side, Who, fronting to the foe, trod back Tow’rds 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,[295] 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 escap’d—guide, torches gone— By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost, The scatter’d crowd rush blindly on— “Curse on those tardy lights that wind,” They panting cry, “so far behind; “Oh for a bloodhound’s precious scent, “To track the way the Gheber went!” Vain wish—confusedly along They rush, more desperate as more wrong: Till, wilder’d by the far-off lights, Yet glittering up those gloomy heights, Their footing, maz’d and lost, they miss, And down the darkling precipice Are dash’d into the deep abyss; Or midway hang, impal’d 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, Resign’d, as if life’s task were o’er, Its last blood-offering amply paid, And IRAN’S self could claim no more. One only thought, one lingering 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 seem’d as if each thought that stain’d, Each fear that chill’d their loves was past, And not one cloud of earth remain’d 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 lov’d 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 rous’d the last remains Of life within him—“what! not yet “Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!” The thought could make e’en Death forget His icy bondage—with a bound He springs, all bleeding, from the ground, And grasps his comrade’s arm, now grown E’en feebler, heavier than his own, And up the painful pathway leads, Death gaining on each step he treads. Speed them, thou God, who heard’st their vow! They mount—they bleed—oh, save them now!— The crags are red they’ve clamber’d o’er, The rock-weeds dripping with their gore;— Thy blade too, HAFED, false at length, Now 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 gain’d the topmost steep at last. And now they touch the temple’s walls, Now HAFED sees the Fire divine— When, lo!—his weak, worn comrade 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 tow’rds 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 harm’d 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 delay’d?— 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 hop’d when HINDA, safe and free, Was render’d 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 clear’d 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 rock’d along the whispering tide; While every eye, in mute dismay, Was tow’rd that fatal mountain turn’d, Where the dim altar’s quivering ray As yet all lone and tranquil burn’d.
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 crush’d by fate, When, though no more remains to dread, The panic chill will not depart;— When, though the inmate Hope be dead, Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart. No—pleasures, hopes, affections gone, The wretch may bear, and yet live on, Like things, within the cold rock found Alive, when all’s congeal’d around. But there’s a blank repose in this, A calm stagnation, that were bliss To the keen, burning, harrowing pain, Now felt through all thy breast and brain;— That spasm of terror, mute, intense, That breathless, agonis’d 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, though 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 scatter’d death, E’en 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 tow’rd the Shrine All eyes are turn’d—thine, HINDA, thine Fix their last fading life-beams there. ’Twas but a moment—fierce and high The death-pile blaz’d into the sky, And far away, o’er rock and flood Its melancholy radiance sent; While HAFED, like a vision, stood Reveal’d before the burning pyre, Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire Shrin’d in its own grand element! “’Tis he!”—the shuddering maid exclaims,— But, while she speaks, he’s seen no more; High burst in air the funeral flames, And IRAN’S hopes and hers are o’er!
One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave; Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze, Where still she fix’d her dying gaze,— And, gazing, sunk into the wave, Deep, deep,—where never care or pain Shall reach her innocent heart again!
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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[296] o’er a summer lute blowing, And hush’d 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 nought but the sea-star[297] to light up her tomb.
And still, when the merry date-season is burning,[298] 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, belov’d of her Hero! forget thee— Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that Hero she’ll set thee, Embalm’d in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Farewell—be it ours to embellish thy pillow With every thing 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;[299] With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath’d chamber We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept.
We’ll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We’ll seek where the sands of the Caspian[300] 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.
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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 organising, 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[301] 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 vigour 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,[302] and Grand Nazir, or Chamberlain of the Haram.