Part 5
With rapid step, yet pleas’d and ling’ring eye, Did the youth pass these pictur’d stories by, And hasten’d 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 remain’d in breeze or rill. Here paus’d he, while the music, now less near, Breath’d with a holier language on his ear, As though the distance, and that heavenly ray Through which the sounds came floating, took away All that had been too earthly in the lay.
Oh! could he listen to such sounds unmov’d, And by that light—nor dream of her he lov’d? 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 nought 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 shrin’d in solitude—thine all, thine only, Like the one star above thee, bright and lonely. Oh! that a dream so sweet, so long enjoy’d, Should be so sadly, cruelly destroy’d!
The song is hush’d, 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 veil’d, Leaning, as if both heart and strength had fail’d, Against a pillar near;—not glittering o’er With gems and wreaths, such as the others wore, But in that deep-blue, melancholy dress,[93] 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 wak’d 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!—’tis ZELICA he sees! But, ah, so pale, so chang’d—none but a lover Could in that wreck of beauty’s shrine discover The once ador’d divinity—even he Stood for some moments mute, and doubtingly Put back the ringlets from her brow, and gaz’d Upon those lids, where once such lustre blaz’d, 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 loth He left her for the wars—in that worst hour Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower,[94] 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 lov’d lips—they move—that kiss hath run “Like the first shoot of life through 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 chas’d their short eclipse, And, gradual as the snow, at Heaven’s breath, Melts off and shows the azure flowers beneath, Her lids unclos’d, 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 belov’d 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! Shudd’ring 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 chang’d—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,—[95] 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 toss’d His desperate hand tow’rds Heaven—“though 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—though all thy love hath ceas’d— “I know it hath—yet, yet believe, at least, “That every spark of reason’s light must be “Quench’d 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! could’st 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 turn’d 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 would’st 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 “Turn’d to foul fires to light me into sin!— “Thou pitiest me—I knew thou would’st—that sky “Hath nought beneath it half so lorn as I. “The fiend, who lur’d 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 ruin’d even a holier heart— “Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere, “Where bless’d at length, if I but serv’d _him_ here, “I should for ever live in thy dear sight,— “And drink from those pure eyes eternal light. “Think, think how lost, how madden’d 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, “Shrin’d 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 treasur’d 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 tortur’d brain “Would burn like mine, and mine grow wild again! “Enough, that Guilt reigns here—that hearts, once good, “Now tainted, chill’d, 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 exclaim’d, In all the tortures of a mind inflam’d 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 ruin’d 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 turn’d on me; “And, in their light re-chasten’d silently, “Like the stain’d 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 dark’ning 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— Rung through 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, Though through the casement, now, nought 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 echo’d it—I hear them now! “Their eyes glar’d on me, while I pledg’d that bowl, “’Twas burning blood—I feel it in my soul! “And the Veil’d 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, though he should linger out more years Than wretch e’er told, can never leave his ears— Flew up through that long avenue of light, Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night Across the sun, and soon was out of sight!
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LALLA ROOKH could think of nothing all day but the misery of these two young lovers. Her gaiety was gone, and she looked pensively even upon FADLADEEN. 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,[96] 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,[97] 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),[98] 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 until 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 FERAMORZ, touched lightly at the door of her pavilion, that she waked from the reverie 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, every thing was arranged as on the preceding evening and all listened with eagerness, while the story was thus continued:—
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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,[99] as if the magic powers Of Him who, in the twinkling of a star, Built the high pillar’d halls of CHILMINAR,[100] Had conjur’d up, far as the eye can see, This world of tents, and domes, and sun-bright armory:— Princely pavilions, screen’d by many a fold Of crimson cloth, and topp’d 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,[101] Shaking in every breeze their light-ton’d 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[102] Hunting among the 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;—[103] Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze Of streamers from ten thousand canopies;— 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,[104] swell and float.
Who leads this mighty army?—ask ye “who?” And mark ye not those banners of dark hue, The Night and Shadow,[105] over yonder tent?— 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 hurl’d Defiance fierce at Islam[106] and the world,— Though worn with Grecian warfare, and behind The veils of his bright Palace calm reclin’d, Yet brook’d he not such blasphemy should stain, Thus unreveng’d, the evening of his reign; But, having sworn upon the Holy Grave[107] To conquer or to perish, once more gave His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze, And with an army, nurs’d in victories, Here stands to crush the rebels that o’er-run 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 spoil’d to feed the Pilgrim’s luxury;[108] When round him, ’mid the burning sands, he saw Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw, And cool’d his thirsty lip, beneath the glow Of MECCA’S sun, with urns of Persian snow:[109]— 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,[110] On their light mountain steeds, of royal stock:[111] Then, chieftains of DAMASCUS, proud to see The flashing of their swords’ rich marquetry;[112]— Men, from the regions near the VOLGA’S mouth, Mix’d with the rude, black archers of the South; And Indian lancers, in white turban’d ranks, From the far SINDE, or ATTOCK’S sacred banks, With dusky legions from the land of Myrrh,[113] And many a mace-arm’d Moor and Mid-sea islander.
Nor less in number, though more new and rude In warfare’s school, was the vast multitude That, fir’d by zeal, or by oppression wrong’d, Round the white standard of the’ impostor throng’d. Beside his thousands of Believers—blind, Burning and headlong as the Samiel wind— Many who felt, and more who fear’d to feel The bloody Islamite’s converting steel, Flock’d to his banner;—Chiefs of the’ UZBEK race, Waving their heron crests with martial grace;[114] TURKOMANS, countless as their flocks, led forth From the’ aromatic pastures of the North; Wild warriors of the turquoise hills,[115]—and those Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows Of HINDOO KOSH,[116] in stormy freedom bred, Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent’s bed. But none, of all who own’d the Chief’s command, Rush’d to that battle-field with bolder hand, Or sterner hate, than IRAN’S outlaw’d men, Her Worshippers of Fire[117]—all panting then For vengeance on the’ accursed Saracen; Vengeance at last for their dear country spurn’d, Her throne usurp’d, and her bright shrines o’erturned. From YEZD’S[118] eternal Mansion of the Fire, Where aged saints in dreams of Heaven expire: From BADKU, and those fountains of blue flame That burn into the CASPIAN,[119] fierce they came, Careless for what or whom the blow was sped, So vengeance triumph’d, 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 through 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 aw’d,[120] In the red Desert, when the wind’s abroad. “On, 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 check’d 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 through BEDER’S vale,[121]) 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 through 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 Arch-enemy. 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 load-star, following him!
Right tow’rds MOKANNA now he cleaves his path, Impatient cleaves, as though 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—though, in that hour of blood, Had all God’s seraphs round MOKANNA stood, With swords of 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 wedg’d array Of flying thousands—he is borne away; And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows, In this forc’d flight, is—murdering as he goes! As a grim tiger, whom the torrent’s might Surprises in some parch’d 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 he hath not power to stay.