 | Aladdin ; or, The Wonderful Lamp |  |
6
A large chamber, illuminated by a faintly-burning lamp. Round about, upon the walls, hang all kinds of singular instruments; several book-shelves on one side. In the background sits The Enchanter, Noureddin, in a long black robe, with a scarf, on which numerous mystical characters are blazoned. On the table before him a little chest, filled with white sand. Buried in thought, he traces lines in the sand with an ebony stylus. Suddenly he exclaims—
A wondrous treasure? The greatest in the world?
Hid in a cavern?—Where?—In Asia?—
And where in Asia?—Hard by Ispahan!
Deep in the earth—high overarch'd with rocks,—
Girt round with lofty mountains. Holy Allah!
What mighty mystery begins to dawn
Upon me? Shall I reach the goal at last,
At midnight hour, after the silent toil
Of forty weary years? I question further;—
What is this matchless prize? A copper lamp!—
How's this? An old, rust-eaten copper lamp!
And what, then, is its virtue?—How!—Concealed—
Known but to him that owns it. And shall I—
Scarce dares my tongue give the bold question voice—
Shall I, then, e'er its happy owner be?
See, the fine sand, like water, interblends,
And of the stylus leaves no trace behind.
All's dark!—Yet stay!—With surging waves it heaves,
This arid sea, as when the tempest sweeps
With eddying blast through Biledulgerid.
What mean these furrows?—I am to draw forth
A poem, that lies eastward in the hall,
Old, dust-begrimed; and wheresoe'er my eyes,
When so I open it, may chance to fall,
I am to read, and all shall then be clear.
Hid in a cavern?—Where?—In Asia?—
And where in Asia?—Hard by Ispahan!
Deep in the earth—high overarch'd with rocks,—
Girt round with lofty mountains. Holy Allah!
What mighty mystery begins to dawn
Upon me? Shall I reach the goal at last,
At midnight hour, after the silent toil
Of forty weary years? I question further;—
What is this matchless prize? A copper lamp!—
How's this? An old, rust-eaten copper lamp!
And what, then, is its virtue?—How!—Concealed—
Known but to him that owns it. And shall I—
Scarce dares my tongue give the bold question voice—
Shall I, then, e'er its happy owner be?
See, the fine sand, like water, interblends,
And of the stylus leaves no trace behind.
All's dark!—Yet stay!—With surging waves it heaves,
This arid sea, as when the tempest sweeps
With eddying blast through Biledulgerid.
What mean these furrows?—I am to draw forth
A poem, that lies eastward in the hall,
Old, dust-begrimed; and wheresoe'er my eyes,
When so I open it, may chance to fall,
I am to read, and all shall then be clear.
7
Fair Fortune's boons are scattered wide and far,
In single sparkles only found and rare,
And all her gifts in few combinèd are.
In single sparkles only found and rare,
And all her gifts in few combinèd are.
Earth's choicest flow'rets bloom not everywhere.
Where mellows ripe the vine's inspiring tide,
With bale and bane doth Nature wrestle there.
Where mellows ripe the vine's inspiring tide,
With bale and bane doth Nature wrestle there.
In the lush Orient's sultry palm-groves glide
Fell serpents through rank herbage noiselessly,
And there death-dealing venom doth abide.
Fell serpents through rank herbage noiselessly,
And there death-dealing venom doth abide.
Darkness and storm deface the northern sky,
Yet there no sudden shock o'erwhelms the land,
And steadfast cliffs the tempest's rage defy.
Yet there no sudden shock o'erwhelms the land,
And steadfast cliffs the tempest's rage defy.
Life's gladsome child is led by Fortune's hand,
And what the sage doth moil to make his prize,
When in the sky the pale stars coldly stand,
And what the sage doth moil to make his prize,
When in the sky the pale stars coldly stand,
From his own breast leaps forth in wondrous wise;
Met by boon Fortune midway, he prevails,
Scarce weeting how, in whatsoe'er he tries.
Met by boon Fortune midway, he prevails,
Scarce weeting how, in whatsoe'er he tries.
'Tis ever thus, that Fortune freely hails
Her favourite, and on him her blessings showers,
Even as to heaven the scented flower exhales.
Her favourite, and on him her blessings showers,
Even as to heaven the scented flower exhales.
Unwoo'd she comes, at unexpected hours;
And little it avails to rack thy brain,
And ask, where lurk her long reluctant powers.
And little it avails to rack thy brain,
And ask, where lurk her long reluctant powers.
Fain wouldst thou grasp—Hope's portal shuts amain,
And all thy fabric vanishes in air;
Unless foredoomed by Fate, thy toils are vain,
Thy aspirations doomed to meet despair.
And all thy fabric vanishes in air;
Unless foredoomed by Fate, thy toils are vain,
Thy aspirations doomed to meet despair.
These lines were woven in a mortal's brain,
A sorry rhymer's, little conversant
With nature's deep and sacred mysteries.
Kindly she tenders me the hidden prize!
Is it that she, with woman's waywardness,
May make a mock of me? Not so,—on fools
She wastes not her sage accents; the pure light
Is not a meteor light, that leads astray.
With a grave smile, her finger indicates
Where lies the treasure she has mark'd for mine.
Yes! I divine the hidden import well
Of that enigma she prepared for me
In the unconscious poet's mystic song.
The needful powers are by no one possess'd:
To lift great loads must many hands combine:
To me 'twas given, with penetrating soul,
To fathom nature's inmost mysteries;
But I am not the outward instrument.
“Life's gladsome child!” That means, some creature, gay,
By nature dower'd, instead of intellect,
With body only, and mere youthful bloom.
A young dull-witted boy shall be my aid,
And, all unconscious of its priceless worth,
Secure and place the treasure in my hands.
Is it not so, thou mighty Solomon?
(traces lines in the sand).
Yes, yes, it is! A fume of incense will
Disclose to me the entrance to the rock,
And a rose-cheek'd, uneducated boy,
Will draw the prize for my advantage forth,
As striplings do in Europe's lotteries.
Oh holy Prophet! take my fervent thanks!
My mind's exhausted with its deep research.
The goal achieved, my over-wearied frame
Longs for repose. Now will I sleep in peace.
To-morrow, by the magic of my ring,
I stand in Asia; the succeeding day
Beholds me here, and with the wondrous lamp!
A sorry rhymer's, little conversant
With nature's deep and sacred mysteries.
Kindly she tenders me the hidden prize!
Is it that she, with woman's waywardness,
May make a mock of me? Not so,—on fools
She wastes not her sage accents; the pure light
8
With a grave smile, her finger indicates
Where lies the treasure she has mark'd for mine.
Yes! I divine the hidden import well
Of that enigma she prepared for me
In the unconscious poet's mystic song.
The needful powers are by no one possess'd:
To lift great loads must many hands combine:
To me 'twas given, with penetrating soul,
To fathom nature's inmost mysteries;
But I am not the outward instrument.
“Life's gladsome child!” That means, some creature, gay,
By nature dower'd, instead of intellect,
With body only, and mere youthful bloom.
A young dull-witted boy shall be my aid,
And, all unconscious of its priceless worth,
Secure and place the treasure in my hands.
Is it not so, thou mighty Solomon?
(traces lines in the sand).
Yes, yes, it is! A fume of incense will
Disclose to me the entrance to the rock,
And a rose-cheek'd, uneducated boy,
Will draw the prize for my advantage forth,
As striplings do in Europe's lotteries.
Oh holy Prophet! take my fervent thanks!
My mind's exhausted with its deep research.
The goal achieved, my over-wearied frame
Longs for repose. Now will I sleep in peace.
To-morrow, by the magic of my ring,
I stand in Asia; the succeeding day
Beholds me here, and with the wondrous lamp!
| Aladdin ; or, The Wonderful Lamp | |