The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
| III, IV. |
| V. |
 | VI, VII. |
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| THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. |
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| VIII, IX. |
| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM.
Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere,With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave ,
Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear
As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?
“The rose of Kashmire for its brilliancy and delicacy of odour has long been proverbial in the East.” —Forster.
Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws,
Like a bride, full of blushes, when ling'ring 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.
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 , 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 that opes,
Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world!
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 ;
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 ,
Expanding while the dew-fall flows,
And every leaf its balm receives.
“The little isles in the Lake of Cachemire are set with arbours and large-leaved aspen-trees, slender and tall.” —Bernier.
“The Tuckt Suliman, the name bestowed by the Mahommetans on this hill, forms one side of a grand portal to the Lake.” —Forster.
Upon the Lake, serene and cool,
When Day had hid his sultry flame
Behind the palms of Baramoule ,
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 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 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.
A place mentioned in the Toozek Jehangeery, or Memoirs of Jehanguire, where there is an account of the beds of saffron-flowers about Cashmere.
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 ,
From neighbouring Haram, wild and sweet;—
The merry laughter, echoing
From gardens, where the silken swing
Wafts some delighted girl above
The top leaves of the orange-grove;
Or, from those infant groups at play
Among the tents 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,
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.
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!
Think, think what a Heav'n she must make of Cashmere!
“It is the custom among the women to employ the Maazeen to chaunt from the gallery of the nearest minaret, which on that occasion is illuminated, and the women assembled at the house respond at intervals with a ziraleet or joyous chorus.” —Russell.
“The swing is a favourite pastime in the East, as promoting a circulation of air, extremely refreshing in those sultry climates.” —Richardson.
“The swings are adorned with festoons. This pastime is accompanied with music of voices and of instruments, hired by the masters of the swings.” — Thevenot.
“At the keeping of the Feast of Roses we beheld an infinite number of tents pitched, with such a crowd of men, women, boys, and girls, with music, dances,” &c. &c. —Herbert.
“An old commentator of the Chou-King says, the ancients having remarked that a current of water made some of the stones near its banks send forth a sound, they detached some of them, and being charmed with the delightful sound they emitted, constructed King or musical instruments of them.” —Grosier.
This miraculous quality has been attributed also to the shore of Attica. “Hujus littus, ait Capella, concentum musicum illisis terræ undis reddere, quod propter tantam eruditionis vim puto dictum.” —Ludov. Vives in Augustin de Civitat. Dei, lib. xviii. c. 8.
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.
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.
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;
Yet playful as Peris just loos'd from their cages.
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 flow'rs 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,
And the Light of his Haram was young Nourmahal!
In the wars of the Dives with the Peris, whenever the former took the latter prisoners, “they shut them up in iron cages, and hung them on the highest trees. Here they were visited by their companions, who brought them the choicest odours.” —Richardson.
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
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?
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,
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,
He sits, with flow'rets fetter'd round ;—
Loose not a tie that round him clings,
Nor ever let him use his wings;
For ev'n 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!
See the representation of the Eastern Cupid, pinioned closely round with wreaths of flowers, in Picart's Cérémonies Religieuses.
“Among the birds of Tonquin is a species of goldfinch, which sings so melodiously that it is called the Celestial Bird. Its wings, when it is perched, appear variegated with beautiful colours, but when it flies they lose all their splendour.” — Grosier.
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;—
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.
“As these birds on the Bosphorus are never known to rest, they are called by the French ‘les âmes damnées.’” — Dalloway.
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?
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!
“You may place a hundred handfuls of fragrant herbs and flowers before the nightingale, yet he wishes not, in his constant heart, for more than the sweet breath of his beloved rose.” —Jami.
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 wond'rous 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
From her dark eyes so strangely bright,
That all believ'd nor man nor earth
Were concious of Namouna's birth!
All spells and talismans she knew,
From the great Mantra , which around
The Air's sublimer Spirits drew,
To the gold gems of Afric, bound
Upon the wandering Arab's arm,
To keep him from the Siltim's 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 smile to Nourmahal!
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,
“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 ,
And new-blown lilies of the river,
And those sweet flow'rets, that unfold
Their buds on Camadeva's quiver ;—
The tube-rose, with her silvery light,
That in the Gardens of Malay
Is call'd the Mistress of the Night ,
She comes out when the sun's away;—
Amaranths, such as crown the maids
That wander through Zamara's shades ;—
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 ,
That blesses heaven's inhabitants
With fruits of immortality,
Down to the basil tuft , that waves,
Its fragrant blossom over graves,
And to the humble rosemary,
To scent the desert 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
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:—
“He is said to have found the great Mantra, spell or talisman, through which he ruled over the elements and spirits of all denominations.” —Wilford.
“The gold jewels of Jinnie, which are called by the Arabs El Herrez, from the supposed charm they contain.” —Jackson.
“This tree (the Nagacesara) is one of the most delightful on earth, and the delicious odour of its blossoms justly gives them a place in the quiver of Camadeva, or the God of Love.” —Id.
“The Malayans style the tube-rose (Polianthes tuberosa) Sandal Malam, or the Mistress of the Night.” —Pennant.
The people of the Batta country in Sumatra (of which Zamara is one of the ancient names), “when not engaged in war, lead an idle, inactive life, passing the day in playing on a kind of flute, crowned with garlands of flowers, among which the globe-amaranthus, a native of the country, mostly prevails.” — Marsden.
“The largest and richest sort (of the Jambu or rose-apple) is called Amrita, or immortal, and the mythologists of Tibet apply the same word to a celestial tree, bearing ambrosial fruit.” —Sir W. Jones.
Sweet basil, called Rayhan in Persia, and generally found in churchyards.
“The women in Egypt go, at least two days in the week, to pray and weep at the sepulchres of the dead; and the custom then is to throw upon the tombs a sort of herb, which the Arabs call rihan, and which is our sweet basil. —Maillet, Lett. 10.
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.
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,
That blooms on a leafless bough.
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The glitter of mines unfold,
Inhabit the mountain-herb , that dyes
The tooth of the fawn like gold.
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.
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.
An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to communicate a yellow golden hue to the teeth of the goats and other animals that graze upon it.
Niebuhr thinks this may be the herb which the Eastern alchymists look to as a means of making gold. “Most of those alchymical enthusiasts think themselves sure of success, if they could but find out the herb, which gilds the teeth and gives a yellow colour to the flesh of the sheep that eat it. Even the oil of this plant must be of a golden colour. It is called Haschischat ed dab.”
Father Jerom Dandini, however, asserts that the teeth of the goats at Mount Libanus are of a silver colour; and adds, “this confirms me that which I observed in Candia: to wit, that the animals that live on Mount Ida eat a certain herb, which renders their teeth of a golden colour; which, according to my judgment, cannot otherwise proceed than from the mines which are under ground.” —Dandini, Voyage to Mount Libanus.
Placed 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
Of Azab 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 ;
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:
“This idea (of deities living in shells) was not unknown to the Greeks, who represent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in shells on the shores of the Red Sea.” —Wilford.
Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell;
From Chindara's fount, my fairy home,
Where in music, morn and night, I dwell.
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.
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.
From soul to soul, the wishes of love,
As a bird, that wafts through genial airs
The cinnamon-seed from grove to grove.
“The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to different places, is a great disseminator of this valuable tree.” —See Brown's Illustr. Tab. 19.
The past, the present, and future of pleasure ;
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.
“Whenever our pleasure arises from a succession of sounds, it is a perception of a complicated nature, made up of a sensation of the present sound or note, and an idea or remembrance of the foregoing, while their mixture and concurrence produce such a mysterious delight, as neither could have produced alone. And it is often heightened by an anticipation of the succeeding notes. Thus Sense, Memory, and Imagination, are conjunctively employed.” —Gerrard on Taste.
This is exactly the Epicurean theory of Pleasure, as explained by Cicero:—“Quocirca corpus gaudere tamdiu, dum præsentem sentiret voluptatem: animum et præsentem percipere pariter cum corpore et prospicere venientem, nec præteritam præterfluere sinere.”
Madame de Staël accounts upon the same principle for the gratification we derive from rhyme:—“Elle est l'image de l'espérance et du souvenir. Un son nous fait désirer celui qui doit lui répondre, et quand le second retentit il nous rappelle celui qui vient de nous échapper.”
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.
'Tis dawn—at least that earlier dawn,
Whose glimpses are again withdrawn ,
Shut close her lids of light again.
And Nourmahal is up, and trying
The wonders of her lute, whose strings—
Oh, bliss!—now murmur like the sighing
From that ambrosial Spirit's wings.
And then, her voice—'tis more than human—
Never, till now, had it been given
To lips of any mortal woman
To utter notes so fresh from heaven;
Sweet as the breath of angel sighs,
When angel sighs are most divine.—
“Oh! let it last till night,” she cries,
“And he is more than ever mine.”
So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness
Should, ere the evening, fade away,—
For things so heavenly have such fleetness!
But, far from fading, it but grows
Richer, diviner as it flows;
Till rapt she dwells on every string,
And pours again each sound along,
Like echo, lost and languishing,
In love with her own wondrous song.
“The Persians have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim and the Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real day-break. They account for this phenomenon in a most whimsical manner. They say that as the sun rises from behind the Kohi Qaf (Mount Caucasus), it passes a hole perforated through that mountain, and that darting its rays through it, it is the cause of the Soobhi Kazim, or this temporary appearance of day-break. As it ascends, the earth is again veiled in darkness, until the sun rises above the mountain, and brings with it the Soobhi Sadig, or real morning.” —Scott Waring. He thinks Milton may allude to this, when he says,—
The nice morn on the Indian steep
From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.”
Might be from haunting love releas'd
By mirth, by music, and the bowl,)
The' Imperial Selim held a feast
In his magnificent Shalimar :—
In whose Saloons, when the first star
The Valley's loveliest all assembled;
All the bright creatures that, like dreams,
Glide through its foliage, and drink beams
Of beauty from its founts and streams ;
And all those wandering minstrel-maids,
Who leave—how can they leave?—the shades
Of that dear Valley, and are found
Singing in gardens of the South
As from a young Cashmerian's mouth.
“In the centre of the plain, as it approaches the Lake, one of the Delhi Emperors, I believe Shah Jehan, constructed a spacious garden called the Shalimar, which is abundantly stored with fruit-trees and flowering shrubs. Some of the rivulets which intersect the plain are led into a canal at the back of the garden, and flowing through its centre, or occasionally thrown into a variety of water-works, compose the chief beauty of the Shalimar. To decorate this spot the Mogul Princes of India have displayed an equal magnificence and taste; especially Jehan Gheer, who, with the enchanting Noor Mahl, made Kashmire his usual residence during the summer months. On arches thrown over the canal are erected, at equal distances, four or five suites of apartments, each consisting of a saloon, with four rooms at the angles, where the followers of the court attend, and the servants prepare sherbets, coffee, and the hookah. The frame of the doors of the principal saloon is composed of pieces of a stone of a black colour, streaked with yellow lines, and of a closer grain and higher polish than porphyry. They were taken, it is said, from a Hindoo temple, by one of the Mogul princes, and are esteemed of great value.” —Forster.
“The waters of Cachemir are the more renowned from its being supposed that the Cachemirians are indebted for their beauty to them.” —Ali Yezdi.
“From him I received the following little Gazzel, or Love Song, the notes of which he committed to paper from the voice of one of those singing girls of Cashmere, who wander from that delightful valley over the various parts of India.” —Persian Miscellanies.
Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair,
And from the Garden of the Nile,
Delicate as the roses there ;—
Daughters of Love from Cyprus' rocks,
With Paphian diamonds in their locks ;—
Light Peri forms, such as there are
On the gold meads of Candahar ;
And they, before whose sleepy eyes,
In their own bright Kathaian bowers,
Sparkle such rainbow butterflies,
That they might fancy the rich flowers,
Had been by magic all set flying.
“The roses of the Jinan Nile, or Garden of the Nile (attached to the Emperor of Marocco's palace), are unequalled, and matrasses are made of their leaves for the men of rank to recline upon.” —Jackson.
“On the side of a mountain near Paphos there is a cavern which produces the most beautiful rock-crystal. On account of its brilliancy it has been called the Paphian diamond.” —Mariti.
“There is a part of Candahar, called Peria, or Fairy Land.” —Thevenot. In some of those countries to the north of India vegetable gold is supposed to be produced.
“These are the butterflies which are called in the Chinese language Flying Leaves. Some of them have such shining colours, and are so variegated, that they may be called flying flowers; and indeed they are always produced in the finest flower-gardens.” —Dunn.
From East and West is blushing there,
Except—except—oh, Nourmahal!
Thou loveliest, dearest of them all,
The one, whose smile shone out alone,
Amidst a world the only one;
Whose light, among so many lights,
Was like that star on starry nights,
The seaman singles from the sky,
To steer his bark for ever by!
Thou wert not there—so Selim thought,
And every thing seem'd drear without thee;
But, ah! thou wert, thou wert,—and brought
Thy charm of song all fresh about thee.
Mingling unnotic'd with a band
Of lutanists from many a land,
The features of young Arab maids ,—
A mask that leaves but one eye free,
To do its best in witchery,—
She rov'd, with beating heart, around,
And waited, trembling, for the minute,
When she might try if still the sound
Of her lov'd lute had magic in it.
“The Arabian women wear black masks with little clasps prettily ordered.” —Carreri. Niebuhr mentions their showing but one eye in conversation.
With grapes of gold, like those that shine
On Casbin's hills ;—pomegranates full
Of melting sweetness, and the pears,
And sunniest apples that Caubul
In all its thousand gardens bears;—
Malaya's nectar'd mangusteen ;
Prunes of Bokara, and sweet nuts
From the far groves of Samarcand,
And Basra dates, and apricots,
Seed of the Sun , from Iran's land;—
With rich conserve of Visna cherries ,
Of orange flowers, and of those berries
That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles
Feed on in Erac's rocky dells.
All these in richest vases smile,
In baskets of pure santal-wood,
And urns of porcelain from that isle
Sunk underneath the Indian flood,
Vases to grace the halls of kings.
Wines, too, of every clime and hue,
Around their liquid lustre threw;
Amber Rosolli ,—the bright dew
From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing ;
And Shiraz wine, that richly ran
As if that jewel, large and rare,
The ruby for which Kublai-Khan
Offer'd a city's wealth , was blushing
Melted within the goblets there!
“We sat down under a tree, listened to the birds, and talked with the son of our Mehmaundar about our country and Caubul, of which he gave an enchanting account: that city and its 100,000 gardens,” &c. —Id.
“A delicious kind of apricot, called by the Persians tokmek-shems, signifying sun's seed.” —Description of Persia.
“Sweetmeats, in a crystal cup, consisting of rose-leaves in conserve, with lemon of Visna cherry, orange flowers,” &c. —Russell.
“Mauri-ga-Sima, an island near Formosa, supposed to have been sunk in the sea for the crimes of its inhabitants. The vessels which the fishermen and divers bring up from it are sold at an immense price in China and Japan. See Kempfer.
“The King of Zeilan is said to have the very finest ruby that was ever seen. Kublai-Khan sent and offered the value of a city for it, but the King answered he would not give it for the treasure of the world.” —Marco Polo.
And seems resolv'd the flood shall reach
His inward heart,—shedding around
A genial deluge, as they run,
That soon shall leave no spot undrown'd,
For Love to rest his wings upon.
Can float upon a goblet's streams,
Lighting them with his smile of joy;—
As bards have seen him in their dreams,
Down the blue Ganges laughing glide
Upon a rosy lotus wreath ,
Catching new lustre from the tide
That with his image shone beneath.
The Indians feign that Cupid was first seen floating down the Ganges on the Nymphæa Nelumbo. —See Pennant.
Of song to speed them as they flow?
And see—a lovely Georgian maid,
With all the bloom, the freshen'd glow
Of her own country maidens' looks,
When warm they rise from Teflis' brooks ;
And with an eye, whose restless ray,
Full, floating, dark—oh, he, who knows
His heart is weak, of Heav'n should pray
To guard him from such eyes as those!—
Her snowy hand across the strings
Of a syrinda , and thus sings:—
We linger in pleasures that never are gone;
Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away,
Another as sweet and as shining comes on.
And the love that is o'er, in expiring, gives birth
To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss;
And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.
As the flower of the Amra just op'd by a bee ;
Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea.
Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth
When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss,
And own if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.
Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere,
Who for wine of this earth left the fountains above,
And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have here.
And, bless'd with the odour our goblet gives forth,
What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss?
For, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.
“Around the exterior of the Dewan Khafs (a building of Shah Allum's) in the cornice are the following lines in letters of gold upon a ground of white marble—‘If there be a paradise upon earth, it is this, it is this.’” —Franklin.
“Delightful are the flowers of the Amra trees on the mountain-tops, while the murmuring bees pursue their voluptuous toil.” —Song of Jayadeva.
“The Nisan or drops of spring rain, which they believe to produce pearls if they fall into shells.” —Richardson.
When the same measure, sound for sound,
Was caught up by another lute,
And so divinely breathed around,
That all stood hush'd and wondering,
And turn'd and look'd into the air,
As if they thought to see the wing
Of Israfil , the Angel, there;—
So powerfully on every soul
That new, enchanted measure stole.
While now a voice, sweet as the note
Of the charm'd lute, was heard to float
Along its chords, and so entwine
Its sounds with theirs, that none knew whether
The voice or lute was most divine,
So wondrously they went together:—
When two, that are link'd in one heavenly tie,
With heart never changing, and brow never cold,
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die!
Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss;
And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.
But that deep magic in the chords
And in the lips, that gave such power
As Music knew not till that hour.
At once a hundred voices said,
“It is the mask'd Arabian maid!”
While Selim, who had felt the strain
Deepest of any, and had lain
Some minutes rapt, as in a trance,
After the fairy sounds were o'er,
Too inly touch'd for utterance,
Now motion'd with his hand for more:—
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt,
Of tents with love, or thrones without?
The' acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor lov'd the less
For flowering in a wilderness.
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs
As o'er the marble courts of kings.
The lov'd and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.
An instant sunshine through the heart,—
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;
Predestin'd to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then!
When first on me they breath'd and shone;
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if lov'd for years.
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,—
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found.
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place;—
My bower upon some icy lake
Than trust to love so false as thine!
That, ev'n without enchantment's art,
Would instantly have found its way
Deep into Selim's burning heart;
But, breathing, as it did, a tone
To earthly lutes and lips unknown;
With every chord fresh from the touch
Of Music's Spirit,—'twas too much!
Starting, he dash'd away the cup,—
Which, all the time of this sweet air,
His hand had held, untasted, up,
As if 'twere fix'd by magic there,—
And naming her, so long unnam'd,
So long unseen, wildly exclaim'd,
“Oh Nourmahal! oh Nourmahal!
“Hadst thou but sung this witching strain,
“I could forget—forgive thee all,
“And never leave those eyes again.”
And Selim to his heart has caught,
In blushes, more than ever bright,
His Nourmahal, his Haram's Light!
And well do vanish'd frowns enhance
The charm of every brighten'd glance;
And dearer seems each dawning smile
For having lost its light awhile:
And, happier now for all her sighs,
As on his arm her head reposes,
She whispers him, with laughing eyes,
“Remember, love, the Feast of Roses!”
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |