Part 13
They were now not far from that Forbidden River,[303] 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 favourite 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 paid 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, who attribute the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly over their heads.[304]
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,[305] 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,[306] 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;”[307]—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,[308] 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,[309]—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,[310] 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:—
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The Light of the Haram
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Who has not heard of the vale of CASHMERE, With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,[311] 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 splendour 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 through the foliage are gleaming half shown, And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. Here the music of pray’r 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.[312] 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, call’d 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, woos like a lover The young aspen-trees,[313] till they tremble all over. When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes, And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl’d, Shines in through the mountainous portal[314] 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;[315] The joyous Time, when pleasures pour Profusely round, and, in their shower, Hearts open, like the Season’s Rose,— The Flow’ret of a hundred leaves,[316] 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,[317] When maids began to lift their heads, Refresh’d from their embroider’d beds, Where they had slept the sun away, And wak’d to moonlight and to play. All were abroad—the busiest hive On BELA’S[318] hills is less alive, When saffron-beds are full in flower, Than look’d the Valley in that hour. A thousand restless torches play’d Through 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 exclaim’d 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 bless’d them there; The roses ne’er shone half so bright, Nor they themselves look’d half so fair.
And what a wilderness of flowers! It seem’d as though from all the bowers And fairest fields of all the year, The mingled spoil were scatter’d 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 fall’n upon it from the sky! And then the sounds of joy,—the beat Of tabors and of dancing feet;— The minaret-crier’s chaunt of glee Sung from his lighted gallery,[319] And answered by a ziraleet From neighbouring Haram, wild and sweet;— The merry laughter, echoing From gardens, where the silken swing[320] Wafts some delighted girl above The top leaves of the orange grove; Or, from those infant groups at play Among the tents[321] that line the way, Flinging, unaw’d by slave or mother, Handfuls of roses at each other.— Then, the sounds from the Lake, the low whispering in boats, As they shoot through the moonlight;—the dipping of oars. And the wild, airy warbling that every where floats, Through the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores, Like those of KATHAY, utter’d music, and gave An answer in song to the kiss of each wave.[322] 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 every where is To be near the lov’d _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,[323] 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 uncrown’d as the Conqueror rov’d By the banks of that Lake, with his only belov’d, He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match, And preferr’d in his heart the least ringlet that curl’d 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 splendour. 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 Heav’n in his dreams. When pensive, it seem’d as if that very grace, That charm of all others, was born with her face! And when angry,—for ev’n in the tranquillest climes Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes— The short, passing anger but seem’d to awaken New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken. If tenderness touch’d 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; Illum’d by a wit that would fascinate sages, Yet playful as Peris just loos’d from their cages.[324] 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 brighten’d 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 though bright was his Haram,—a living parterre Of the flowers[325] of this planet—though treasures were there, For which SOLIMAN’S self might have giv’n all the store That the navy from OPHIR e’er wing’d 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[326] In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers Are made of gems and light and flowers!— Where is the lov’d 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 though 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 flow’rets fetter’d round;[327]— Loose not a tie that round him clings, Nor ever let him use his wings; For e’en 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, though radiant when at rest, Lose all their glory when he flies![328]
Some difference, of this dangerous kind,— By which, though light, the links that bind The fondest hearts may soon be riven; Some shadow in Love’s summer heaven, Which, though 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 banish’d from his sight His NOURMAHAL, his Haram’s Light! Hence is it, on this happy night, When Pleasure through 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.[329] In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes This Eden of the Earth supplies Come crowding round—the cheeks are pale, The eyes are dim:—though rich the spot With every flow’r this earth has got, What is it to the nightingale, If there his darling rose is not?[330] 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 Heav’n 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 sequester’d bower, With no one near, to soothe or aid, But that inspir’d and wondrous maid, NAMOUNA, the Enchantress;—one, O’er whom his race the golden sun For unremember’d 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 seem’d, 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 believ’d nor man nor earth Were conscious of NAMOUNA’S birth! All spells and talismans she knew, From the great Mantra,[331] which around The Air’s sublimer Spirits drew, To the gold gems[332] of AFRIC, bound Upon the wandering Arab’s arm, To keep him from the Siltim’s[333] harm. And she had pledg’d her powerful art,— Pledg’d it with all the zeal and heart Of one who knew, though high her sphere, What ’twas to lose a love so dear,— To find some spell that should recall Her Selim’s[334] smile to NOURMAHAL!
’Twas midnight—through the lattice, wreath’d With woodbine, many a perfume breath’d From plants that wake when others sleep, From timid jasmine buds, that keep Their odour to themselves all day, But, when the sun-light 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 gather’d now, “That, twin’d 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 wreath’d “Of buds o’er which the moon has breath’d, “Which worn by her, whose love has stray’d, “Might bring some Peri from the skies, “Some sprite, whose very soul is made “Of flow’rets’ 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,[335] And new-blown lilies of the river, And those sweet flow’rets, that unfold Their buds on CAMADEVA’S quiver;[336] The tube-rose, with her silvery light, That in the Gardens of Malay Is call’d the Mistress of the Night,[337] So like a bride, scented and bright, She comes out when the sun’s away;— Amaranths, such as crown the maids That wander through ZAMARA’S shades;[338]— 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 flow’rets and all plants, From the divine Amrita tree,[339] That blesses heaven’s inhabitants With fruits of immortality, Down to the basil tuft,[340] that waves Its fragrant blossom over graves, And to the humble rosemary, Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed To scent the desert[341] and the dead:— All in that garden bloom, and all Are gather’d 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, bath’d with the dews And beams of that bless’d 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 mix’d her soul with theirs. And ’twas, indeed, the perfume shed From flow’rs and scented flame, that fed Her charmèd 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. Fill’d with the cool, inspiring smell, The’ Enchantress now begins her spell, Thus singing as she winds and weaves In mystic form the glittering leaves:—
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I know where the winged visions dwell That around the night-bed play; I know each herb and flow’ret’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.[342] 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,[343] 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 pluck’d at night! Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The dream of the injur’d, patient mind, That smiles at the wrongs of men, Is found in the bruis’d and wounded rind Of the cinnamon, sweetest then. Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
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No sooner was the flowery crown Plac’d 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[344] 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;[345] And now a Spirit form’d, ’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:—
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From CHINDARA’S[346] warbling fount I come, Call’d by that moonlight garland’s spell; From CHINDARA’S fount, my fairy home, Where in 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 turn’d, 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 through, 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 through genial airs The cinnamon-seed from grove to grove.[347]
’Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure The past, the present, and future of pleasure;[348] 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 touch’d by me, Can as downy soft and as yielding be As his own white plume, that high amid death Through the field has shone—yet moves with a breath! And oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten, When Music has reach’d 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.
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