University of Virginia Library

Where Tamerlane and Bajazet,
Like tempest and tornado, met,
And battle rais'd her wildest yell,
As thousands yielded—thousands fell—
There silence now hath fixed her seat;
Save when some weary trav'lers meet
At yon lone Khan's deserted door—
And wary o'er the threshold bending,
Though night her thickest shades is blending,
Seem loth its loneness to explore.

But once, when loud the whirlwind rush'd,
And the rent clouds in cat'racts gush'd,
As vengeance had unlock'd his hoard,
Or heaven a second deluge pour'd,—
Some screen, if but that Khan's to share,
Three passing Pilgrims hurried there!
Blenches the first? His iron form
Might meet and combat with the storm—
His cheek, where mounting soul ne'er sought
To whisper feeling, stamp the thought,
Rough, tells of many a conflict met,
And boldly borne, unconquered yet—
While close-knit joints, and sinewy frame,
And eye that glanced like lightning's flame,
The daring, restless soul disclose,
Whose only languor is repose!
The second, with fatigue oppress'd,
Seemed forc'd to roam; yet seeking rest—
His sallow cheek, and sunken eye
Spoke suff'ring; but not energy—
His tangled hair, and matted beard,
And bending form oppress'd appear'd
With hardships that must pity melt;
Still something like contempt is felt,
And loathing, as that squalid face,
Unstamped by character we trace.
Not so the third—his lofty port
Might awe the senate—grace the court,
As his dark eye in spirit spoke,
E'er from his lips the accents broke;
Or bland expression's light and shade,
O'er features palid, not decay'd,
Threw the deep charm that wins at will—
And locks, that once were raven, still
(Though bleached by thought or sorrow now)
Shade graceful his commanding brow,
Where dignity a reverence gains,
That youth, nor beauty e'er attains.
His was the mind's meridian day,
When soul can triumph o'er its clay.
But closely scann'd his features, there
Were seen the workings of despair—
'Twas sorrow's sacred, pensive tone,
Griefs deeply felt, but felt alone,
When every human aid withdrawn,
Nor earthly stay to rest upon,
Alike extinguished hope and fear,
The soul collects itself to bear—
No wish, no thought save t'endure,
Since He who bruis'd alone can cure—
Nor murmurs to a mortal ear
Woes that a God alone should hear,
Nor seeks even sympathy to find;
Its only prayer—“to be resigned!”
He spoke not—and the other twain,
To gain attention strove in vain,
His look was calm, and fix'd as fate,
Though the rude shelter where they sate,
Beneath the shrieking storm's commotion,
Rock'd like a vessel on the ocean;
Till spent at length, the tempest's force,
Or farther driven its wasting course,
It sunk in sounds, that seemed to breathe
A requiem o'er its track of death—
Then mingling with the dying close,
The elder Pilgrim's song arose.

FIRST PILGRIM'S Song.

He ceased—no cadence marked the pause,
Nor harmony had given him laws;
His rugged voice as harshly fell
As doth the clarion's battle-swell—
But e'er he could begin again,
Arose the second Pilgrim's strain:
Trembling it rose, and low the air,
As though his soul a captive were,
And feared to rouse a master's ear,
Lest he the tyrant's threats should hear.

SECOND PILGRIM'S Song.

The murmur'd numbers died away;
Yet fix'd as listening to the lay
The pensive Pilgrim lean'd, his cheek
Emotion's varying feelings streak—
As gleams o'er autumn's landscape given,
E'er sinks the sun in shrouds of even,
Though every summer flower is dead,
And every summer sweet is fled,
Add softness, as a smile from heaven—
So on his mind lov'd images
Would o'er his ruined hopes arise,
While mem'ry with reflective rays,
Gave back the joys of other days;
And tender feelings thrilling came,
As each dear form and cherished name,
In beauty's light, or music's tone,
Responded, smil'd, again his own—
Oh, could such shapes embodied be,
Or thought were but reality!
'Tis past—the waking vision's o'er,
And fancy's meteors cheat no more—
Dark as the storm his fate appears,
Nor hopes a change with changing years;
The whirlwinds path may desert lie—
'Twill bloom beneath a milder sky—
But clos'd those eyes that with us gaz'd,
And mute the voice that with us prais'd,
And deaf, forever deaf, the ear
That turn'd each wish, each thought to hear;
And fled the fond approving smile
That could our dullest tasks beguile;
And the warm hand that ours would clasp,
Now cold within death's icy grasp—
Oh, then is felt our friend is gone—
And then we are—must be—alone!
Nor nature's images express
The spirit's deep, dark loneliness;
Nor spicy gale, nor smiling sky
Can desert hearts re-vivify—
And pity melted even the twain,
When flow'd the pensive Pilgrim's strain,
Breathing that hopelessness of grief,
That asks not, nor expects relief.

THIRD PILGRIM'S Song.