Part 8

But see—who yonder comes by stealth,[182] This melancholy bower to seek, Like a young envoy, sent by Health, With rosy gifts upon her cheek? ’Tis she—far off, through 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 loosen’d 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 proffer’d lips alone— Those lips that, then so fearless grown, Never until that instant came Near his unask’d or without shame. “Oh! let me only breathe the air, “That blessed air, that’s breath’d 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 know’st, 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 lov’d bride— “The one, the chosen one, whose place “In life or death is by thy side? “Think’st 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 warm’d a woman’s breast— “Sleep on, in visions of odour rest, “In balmier airs than ever yet stirr’d “The’ enchanted pile of that lonely bird, “Who sings at the last his own death-lay,[183] “And in music and perfume dies away!”

Thus saying, from her lips she spread Unearthly breathings through the place, And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed Such lustre o’er each paly face, That like two lovely saints they seem’d, Upon the eve of doomsday taken From their dim graves, in odour sleeping; While that benevolent PERI beam’d 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 throbb’d her heart, with hope elate, The’ Elysian palm she soon shall win, For the bright Spirit at the gate Smil’d 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![184]

But, ah! even PERIS’ hopes are vain— Again the Fates forbade, again The’ immortal barrier clos’d—“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[185] 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 look’d 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 sun-light falls; Gay lizards, glittering on the walls[186] Of ruin’d 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,[187] with hum Of the wild bees of PALESTINE,[188] Banqueting through the flowery vales; And, JORDAN, those sweet banks of thine, And woods, so full of nightingales.[189]

But nought 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,[190] Whose lonely columns stand sublime, Flinging their shadows from on high, Like dials, which the wizard, Time, Had rais’d to count his ages by!

Yet haply there may lie conceal’d Beneath those Chambers of the Sun, Some amulet of gems anneal’d In upper fires, some tablet seal’d With the great name of SOLOMON, Which, spell’d by her illumin’d 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.

Cheer’d 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,[191] That flutter’d round the jasmine stems, Like wingèd flowers or flying gems:— And, near the boy, who tir’d 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[192] Impatient fling him down to drink. Then swift his haggard brow he turn’d To the fair child, who fearless sat, Though never yet hath day-beam burn’d 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 ruin’d maid—the shrine profan’d— Oaths broken—and the threshold stain’d 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 Soften’d his spirit) look’d and lay, Watching the rosy infant’s play:— Though still, whene’er his eye by chance Fell on the boy’s, its lurid glance Met that unclouded joyous gaze, As torches that have burnt all night Through 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,[193] 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 beguil’d 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 look’d and pray’d 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 through the withering airs of June “Upon EGYPT’S land,[194] of so healing a power, “So balmy a virtue, that e’en in the hour “The drop descends, contagion dies, “And health re-animates earth and skies!— “Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin, “The precious tears of repentance fall? “Though foul thy fiery plagues within, “One heavenly drop hath dispell’d 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 through Heaven The triumph of a Soul Forgiven! ’Twas when the golden orb had set, While on their knees they linger’d yet, There fell a light more lovely far Than ever came from sun or star, Upon the tear that, warm and meek, Dew’d that repentant sinner’s cheek. To mortal eye this light might seem A northern flash or meteor beam— But well the’ enraptur’d 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 pass’d, 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,[195] “And the fragrant bowers of AMBERABAD! “Farewell, ye odours of Earth, that die “Passing away like a lover’s sigh;— “My feast is now of the Tooba Tree,[196] “Whose scent is the breath of Eternity!

“Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone “In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief;— “Oh! what are the brightest that e’er have blown, “To the lote-tree, springing by ALLA’S throne,[197] “Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf! “Joy, joy for ever!—my task is done— “The Gates are pass’d, 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 over-run by a race of bards as numerous and as shallow as the hundred and twenty thousand Streams of Basra.[198] 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 license and ease of the bolder sons of song, without any of that grace or vigour which gave a dignity even to negligence;—who, like them, flung the jereed[199] 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[200] 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 common-places,—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;[201]—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.[202] 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 any thing 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 honours 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![203] 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 clue 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 endeavour 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![204]

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[205] 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,[206] 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,[207] at 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 favourite 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 enamoured 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 fanlike foliage of the Palmyra,—that favourite tree of the luxurious bird that lights up the chambers of its nest with fire-flies.[208] In the middle of the lawn where the pavilion stood there was a tank surrounded by small mangoe-trees, on the clear cold waters of which floated multitudes of the beautiful red lotus;[209] 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 their Arab conquerors,[210] 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,[211] 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,[212] 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.