The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
203
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.
'Tis moonlight over Oman's Sea
;
Her banks of pearl and palmy isles
Bask in the night-beam beauteously,
And her blue waters sleep in smiles.
'Tis moonlight in Harmozia's walls,
And through her Emir's porphyry halls,
Where, some hours since, was heard the swell
Of trumpet and the clash of zel ,
Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell;—
The peaceful sun, whom better suits
The music of the bulbul's nest,
Or the light touch of lovers' lutes,
To sing him to his golden rest.
All hush'd—there's not a breeze in motion;
The shore is silent as the ocean.
If zephyrs come, so light they come,
Nor leaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven;—
The wind-tower on the Emir's dome
Can hardly win a breath from heaven.
Her banks of pearl and palmy isles
Bask in the night-beam beauteously,
And her blue waters sleep in smiles.
'Tis moonlight in Harmozia's walls,
And through her Emir's porphyry halls,
Where, some hours since, was heard the swell
Of trumpet and the clash of zel ,
Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell;—
The peaceful sun, whom better suits
The music of the bulbul's nest,
Or the light touch of lovers' lutes,
To sing him to his golden rest.
All hush'd—there's not a breeze in motion;
The shore is silent as the ocean.
204
Nor leaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven;—
The wind-tower on the Emir's dome
Can hardly win a breath from heaven.
Ev'n he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps
Calm, while a nation round him weeps;
While curses load the air he breathes,
And falchions from unnumber'd sheaths
Are starting to avenge the shame
His race hath brought on Iran's name.
Hard, heartless Chief, unmov'd alike
Mid eyes that weep, and swords that strike;—
One of that saintly, murderous brood,
To carnage and the Koran given,
Who think through unbelievers' blood
Lies their directest path to heaven;—
One, who will pause and kneel unshod
In the warm blood his hand hath pour'd,
To mutter o'er some text of God
Engraven on his reeking sword ;—
Nay, who can coolly note the line,
The letter of those words divine,
To which his blade, with searching art,
Had sunk into its victim's heart!
Calm, while a nation round him weeps;
While curses load the air he breathes,
And falchions from unnumber'd sheaths
Are starting to avenge the shame
His race hath brought on Iran's name.
Hard, heartless Chief, unmov'd alike
Mid eyes that weep, and swords that strike;—
One of that saintly, murderous brood,
To carnage and the Koran given,
Who think through unbelievers' blood
Lies their directest path to heaven;—
One, who will pause and kneel unshod
In the warm blood his hand hath pour'd,
205
Engraven on his reeking sword ;—
Nay, who can coolly note the line,
The letter of those words divine,
To which his blade, with searching art,
Had sunk into its victim's heart!
Just Alla! what must be thy look,
When such a wretch before thee stands
Unblushing, with thy Sacred Book,—
Turning the leaves with blood-stain'd hands,
And wresting from its page sublime
His creed of lust, and hate, and crime;—
Ev'n as those bees of Trebizond,
Which, from the sunniest flowers that glad
With their pure smile the gardens round,
Draw venom forth that drives men mad.
When such a wretch before thee stands
Unblushing, with thy Sacred Book,—
Turning the leaves with blood-stain'd hands,
And wresting from its page sublime
His creed of lust, and hate, and crime;—
Ev'n as those bees of Trebizond,
Which, from the sunniest flowers that glad
With their pure smile the gardens round,
Draw venom forth that drives men mad.
Never did fierce Arabia send
A satrap forth more direly great;
Never was Iran doom'd to bend
Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight.
Her throne had fall'n—her pride was crush'd—
Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush'd,
In their own land,—no more their own,—
To crouch beneath a stranger's throne.
Her towers, where Mithra once had burn'd,
To Moslem shrines—oh shame!—were turn'd,
Where slaves, converted by the sword,
Their mean, apostate worship pour'd,
And curs'd the faith their sires ador'd.
Yet has she hearts, mid all this ill,
O'er all this wreck high buoyant still
With hope and vengeance;—hearts that yet—
Like gems, in darkness, issuing rays
They've treasur'd from the sun that's set,—
Beam all the light of long-lost days!
And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow
To second all such hearts can dare;
As he shall know, well, dearly know,
Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there,
Tranquil as if his spirit lay
Becalm'd in Heav'n's approving ray.
Sleep on—for purer eyes than thine
Those waves are hush'd, those planets shine;
Sleep on, and be thy rest unmov'd
By the white moonbeam's dazzling power;—
None but the loving and the lov'd
Should be awake at this sweet hour.
A satrap forth more direly great;
206
Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight.
Her throne had fall'n—her pride was crush'd—
Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush'd,
In their own land,—no more their own,—
To crouch beneath a stranger's throne.
Her towers, where Mithra once had burn'd,
To Moslem shrines—oh shame!—were turn'd,
Where slaves, converted by the sword,
Their mean, apostate worship pour'd,
And curs'd the faith their sires ador'd.
Yet has she hearts, mid all this ill,
O'er all this wreck high buoyant still
With hope and vengeance;—hearts that yet—
Like gems, in darkness, issuing rays
They've treasur'd from the sun that's set,—
Beam all the light of long-lost days!
And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow
To second all such hearts can dare;
As he shall know, well, dearly know,
Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there,
Tranquil as if his spirit lay
Becalm'd in Heav'n's approving ray.
207
Those waves are hush'd, those planets shine;
Sleep on, and be thy rest unmov'd
By the white moonbeam's dazzling power;—
None but the loving and the lov'd
Should be awake at this sweet hour.
And see—where, high above those rocks
That o'er the deep their shadows fling,
Yon turret stands;—where ebon locks,
As glossy as a heron's wing
Upon the turban of a king ,
Hang from the lattice, long and wild,—
'Tis she, that Emir's blooming child,
All truth and tenderness and grace,
Though born of such ungentle race;—
An image of Youth's radiant Fountain
Springing in a desolate mountain!
That o'er the deep their shadows fling,
Yon turret stands;—where ebon locks,
As glossy as a heron's wing
Upon the turban of a king ,
Hang from the lattice, long and wild,—
'Tis she, that Emir's blooming child,
All truth and tenderness and grace,
Though born of such ungentle race;—
An image of Youth's radiant Fountain
Springing in a desolate mountain!
Oh what a pure and sacred thing
Is Beauty, curtain'd from the sight
Of the gross world, illumining
One only mansion with her light!
Unseen by man's disturbing eye,—
The flower that blooms beneath the sea,
Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie
Hid in more chaste obscurity.
So, Hinda, have thy face and mind,
Like holy mysteries, lain enshrin'd.
And oh, what transport for a lover
To lift the veil that shades them o'er!—
Like those who, all at once, discover
In the lone deep some fairy shore,
Where mortal never trod before,
And sleep and wake in scented airs
No lip had ever breath'd but theirs.
Is Beauty, curtain'd from the sight
208
One only mansion with her light!
Unseen by man's disturbing eye,—
The flower that blooms beneath the sea,
Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie
Hid in more chaste obscurity.
So, Hinda, have thy face and mind,
Like holy mysteries, lain enshrin'd.
And oh, what transport for a lover
To lift the veil that shades them o'er!—
Like those who, all at once, discover
In the lone deep some fairy shore,
Where mortal never trod before,
And sleep and wake in scented airs
No lip had ever breath'd but theirs.
Beautiful are the maids that glide,
On summer-eves, through Yemen's dales,
And bright the glancing looks they hide
Behind their litters' roseate veils;—
And brides, as delicate and fair
As the white jasmine flowers they wear,
Hath Yemen in her blissful clime,
Who, lull'd in cool kiosk or bower ,
Before their mirrors count the time ,
And grow still lovelier every hour.
But never yet hath bride or maid
In Araby's gay Haram smil'd,
Whose boasted brightness would not fade
Before Al Hassan's blooming child.
Light as the angel shapes that bless
An infant's dream, yet not the less
Rich in all woman's loveliness;—
With eyes so pure, that from their ray
Dark Vice would turn abash'd away,
Blinded like serpents, when they gaze
Upon the emerald's virgin blaze ;—
Yet fill'd with all youth's sweet desires,
Mingling the meek and vestal fires
Of other worlds with all the bliss,
The fond, weak tenderness of this:
A soul, too, more than half divine,
Where, through some shades of earthly feeling,
Religion's soften'd glories shine,
Like light through summer foliage stealing,
Shedding a glow of such mild hue,
So warm, and yet so shadowy too,
As makes the very darkness there
More beautiful than light elsewhere.
Such is the maid who, at this hour,
Hath risen from her restless sleep,
And sits alone in that high bower,
Watching the still and shining deep.
Ah! 'twas not thus,—with tearful eyes
And beating heart,—she us'd to gaze
On the magnificent earth and skies,
In her own land, in happier days.
Why looks she now so anxious down
Among those rocks, whose rugged frown
Blackens the mirror of the deep?
Whom waits she all this lonely night
Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep,
For man to scale that turret's height!—
On summer-eves, through Yemen's dales,
And bright the glancing looks they hide
Behind their litters' roseate veils;—
And brides, as delicate and fair
As the white jasmine flowers they wear,
209
Who, lull'd in cool kiosk or bower ,
Before their mirrors count the time ,
And grow still lovelier every hour.
But never yet hath bride or maid
In Araby's gay Haram smil'd,
Whose boasted brightness would not fade
Before Al Hassan's blooming child.
210
An infant's dream, yet not the less
Rich in all woman's loveliness;—
With eyes so pure, that from their ray
Dark Vice would turn abash'd away,
Blinded like serpents, when they gaze
Upon the emerald's virgin blaze ;—
Yet fill'd with all youth's sweet desires,
Mingling the meek and vestal fires
Of other worlds with all the bliss,
The fond, weak tenderness of this:
A soul, too, more than half divine,
Where, through some shades of earthly feeling,
Religion's soften'd glories shine,
Like light through summer foliage stealing,
Shedding a glow of such mild hue,
So warm, and yet so shadowy too,
As makes the very darkness there
More beautiful than light elsewhere.
211
Hath risen from her restless sleep,
And sits alone in that high bower,
Watching the still and shining deep.
Ah! 'twas not thus,—with tearful eyes
And beating heart,—she us'd to gaze
On the magnificent earth and skies,
In her own land, in happier days.
Why looks she now so anxious down
Among those rocks, whose rugged frown
Blackens the mirror of the deep?
Whom waits she all this lonely night
Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep,
For man to scale that turret's height!—
So deem'd at least her thoughtful sire,
When high, to catch the cool night-air,
After the day-beam's withering fire ,
He built her bower of freshness there,
And had it deck'd with costliest skill,
And fondly thought it safe as fair:—
Think, reverend dreamer! think so still,
Nor wake to learn what Love can dare;—
Love, all-defying Love, who sees
No charm in trophies won with ease;—
Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss
Are pluck'd on Danger's precipice!
Bolder than they, who dare not dive
For pearls, but when the sea's at rest,
Love, in the tempest most alive,
Hath ever held that pearl the best
He finds beneath the stormiest water.
Yes—Araby's unrivall'd daughter,
Though high that tower, that rock-way rude,
There's one who, but to kiss thy cheek,
Would climb the' untrodden solitude
Of Ararat's tremendous peak ,
And think its steeps, though dark and dread,
Heav'n's pathways, if to thee they led!
Ev'n now thou seest the flashing spray,
That lights his oar's impatient way;—
Ev'n now thou hear'st the sudden shock
Of his swift bark against the rock,
And stretchest down thy arms of snow,
As if to lift him from below!
Like her to whom, at dead of night,
The bridegroom, with his locks of light ,
Came, in the flush of love and pride,
And scal'd the terrace of his bride;—
When, as she saw him rashly spring,
And midway up in danger cling,
She flung him down her long black hair,
Exclaiming, breathless, “There, love, there!”
And scarce did manlier nerve uphold
The hero Zal in that fond hour,
Than wings the youth who, fleet and bold,
Now climbs the rocks to Hinda's bower.
See—light as up their granite steeps
The rock-goats of Arabia clamber ,
Fearless from crag to crag he leaps,
And now is in the maiden's chamber.
She loves—but knows not whom she loves,
Nor what his race, nor whence he came;—
Like one who meets, in Indian groves,
Some beauteous bird without a name,
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze,
From isles in the' undiscover'd seas,
To show his plumage for a day
To wondering eyes, and wing away!
Will he thus fly—her nameless lover?
Alla forbid! 'twas by a moon
As fair as this, while singing over
Some ditty to her soft Kanoon ,
Alone, at this same witching hour,
She first beheld his radiant eyes
Gleam through the lattice of the bower,
Where nightly now they mix their sighs;
And thought some spirit of the air
(For what could waft a mortal there?)
Was pausing on his moonlight way
To listen to her lonely lay!
This fancy ne'er hath left her mind:
And—though, when terror's swoon had past,
She saw a youth, of mortal kind,
Before her in obeisance cast,—
Yet often since, when he hath spoke
Strange, awful words,—and gleams have broken
From his dark eyes, too bright to bear,
Oh! she hath fear'd her soul was given
To some unhallow'd child of air,
Some erring Spirit cast from heaven,
Like those angelic youths of old,
Who burn'd for maids of mortal mould,
Bewilder'd left the glorious skies,
And lost their heaven for woman's eyes.
Fond girl! nor fiend nor angel he
Who woos thy young simplicity;
But one of earth's impassion'd sons,
As warm in love, as fierce in ire
As the best heart whose current runs
Full of the Day-God's living fire.
When high, to catch the cool night-air,
After the day-beam's withering fire ,
He built her bower of freshness there,
And had it deck'd with costliest skill,
And fondly thought it safe as fair:—
212
Nor wake to learn what Love can dare;—
Love, all-defying Love, who sees
No charm in trophies won with ease;—
Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss
Are pluck'd on Danger's precipice!
Bolder than they, who dare not dive
For pearls, but when the sea's at rest,
Love, in the tempest most alive,
Hath ever held that pearl the best
He finds beneath the stormiest water.
Yes—Araby's unrivall'd daughter,
Though high that tower, that rock-way rude,
There's one who, but to kiss thy cheek,
Would climb the' untrodden solitude
Of Ararat's tremendous peak ,
213
Heav'n's pathways, if to thee they led!
Ev'n now thou seest the flashing spray,
That lights his oar's impatient way;—
Ev'n now thou hear'st the sudden shock
Of his swift bark against the rock,
And stretchest down thy arms of snow,
As if to lift him from below!
Like her to whom, at dead of night,
The bridegroom, with his locks of light ,
Came, in the flush of love and pride,
And scal'd the terrace of his bride;—
When, as she saw him rashly spring,
And midway up in danger cling,
She flung him down her long black hair,
Exclaiming, breathless, “There, love, there!”
And scarce did manlier nerve uphold
The hero Zal in that fond hour,
214
Now climbs the rocks to Hinda's bower.
See—light as up their granite steeps
The rock-goats of Arabia clamber ,
Fearless from crag to crag he leaps,
And now is in the maiden's chamber.
She loves—but knows not whom she loves,
Nor what his race, nor whence he came;—
Like one who meets, in Indian groves,
Some beauteous bird without a name,
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze,
From isles in the' undiscover'd seas,
To show his plumage for a day
To wondering eyes, and wing away!
Will he thus fly—her nameless lover?
Alla forbid! 'twas by a moon
As fair as this, while singing over
Some ditty to her soft Kanoon ,
Alone, at this same witching hour,
She first beheld his radiant eyes
215
Where nightly now they mix their sighs;
And thought some spirit of the air
(For what could waft a mortal there?)
Was pausing on his moonlight way
To listen to her lonely lay!
This fancy ne'er hath left her mind:
And—though, when terror's swoon had past,
She saw a youth, of mortal kind,
Before her in obeisance cast,—
Yet often since, when he hath spoke
Strange, awful words,—and gleams have broken
From his dark eyes, too bright to bear,
Oh! she hath fear'd her soul was given
To some unhallow'd child of air,
Some erring Spirit cast from heaven,
Like those angelic youths of old,
Who burn'd for maids of mortal mould,
Bewilder'd left the glorious skies,
And lost their heaven for woman's eyes.
Fond girl! nor fiend nor angel he
Who woos thy young simplicity;
But one of earth's impassion'd sons,
As warm in love, as fierce in ire
216
Full of the Day-God's living fire.
But quench'd to-night that ardour seems,
And pale his cheek, and sunk his brow;—
Never before, but in her dreams,
Had she beheld him pale as now:
And those were dreams of troubled sleep,
From which 'twas joy to wake and weep;
Visions, that will not be forgot,
But sadden every waking scene,
Like warning ghosts, that leave the spot
All wither'd where they once have been.
And pale his cheek, and sunk his brow;—
Never before, but in her dreams,
Had she beheld him pale as now:
And those were dreams of troubled sleep,
From which 'twas joy to wake and weep;
Visions, that will not be forgot,
But sadden every waking scene,
Like warning ghosts, that leave the spot
All wither'd where they once have been.
“How sweetly,” said the trembling maid,
Of her own gentle voice afraid,
So long had they in silence stood,
Looking upon that tranquil flood—
“How sweetly does the moon-beam smile
“To-night upon yon leafy isle!
“Oft, in my fancy's wanderings,
“I've wish'd that little isle had wings,
“And we, within its fairy bowers,
“Were wafted off to seas unknown,
“Where not a pulse should beat but ours,
“And we might live, love, die alone!
“Far from the cruel and the cold,—
“Where the bright eyes of angels only
“Should come around us, to behold
“A paradise so pure and lonely.
“Would this be world enough for thee?”—
Playful she turn'd, that he might see
The passing smile her cheek put on;
But when she mark'd how mournfully
His eyes met hers, that smile was gone;
And, bursting into heart-felt tears,
“Yes, yes,” she cried, “my hourly fears,
“My dreams have boded all too right—
“We part—for ever part—to-night!
“I knew, I knew it could not last—
“'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past!
“Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour,
“I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
“I never loved a tree or flower,
“But 'twas the first to fade away.
“I never nurs'd a dear gazelle,
“To glad me with its soft black eye,
“But when it came to know me well,
“And love me, it was sure to die!
“Now too—the joy most like divine
“Of all I ever dreamt or knew,
“To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,—
“Oh misery! must I lose that too?
“Yet go—on peril's brink we meet;—
“Those frightful rocks—that treacherous sea—
“No, never come again—though sweet,
“Though heaven, it may be death to thee.
“Farewell—and blessings on thy way,
“Where'er thou go'st, beloved stranger!
“Better to sit and watch that ray,
“And think thee safe, though far away,
“Than have thee near me, and in danger!”
Of her own gentle voice afraid,
So long had they in silence stood,
Looking upon that tranquil flood—
“How sweetly does the moon-beam smile
“To-night upon yon leafy isle!
“Oft, in my fancy's wanderings,
“I've wish'd that little isle had wings,
“And we, within its fairy bowers,
“Were wafted off to seas unknown,
217
“And we might live, love, die alone!
“Far from the cruel and the cold,—
“Where the bright eyes of angels only
“Should come around us, to behold
“A paradise so pure and lonely.
“Would this be world enough for thee?”—
Playful she turn'd, that he might see
The passing smile her cheek put on;
But when she mark'd how mournfully
His eyes met hers, that smile was gone;
And, bursting into heart-felt tears,
“Yes, yes,” she cried, “my hourly fears,
“My dreams have boded all too right—
“We part—for ever part—to-night!
“I knew, I knew it could not last—
“'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past!
“Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour,
“I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
“I never loved a tree or flower,
“But 'twas the first to fade away.
“I never nurs'd a dear gazelle,
“To glad me with its soft black eye,
218
“And love me, it was sure to die!
“Now too—the joy most like divine
“Of all I ever dreamt or knew,
“To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,—
“Oh misery! must I lose that too?
“Yet go—on peril's brink we meet;—
“Those frightful rocks—that treacherous sea—
“No, never come again—though sweet,
“Though heaven, it may be death to thee.
“Farewell—and blessings on thy way,
“Where'er thou go'st, beloved stranger!
“Better to sit and watch that ray,
“And think thee safe, though far away,
“Than have thee near me, and in danger!”
“Danger!—oh, tempt me not to boast—”
The youth exclaim'd—“thou little know'st
“What he can brave, who, born and nurst
“In Danger's paths, has dar'd her worst;
“Upon whose ear the signal-word
“Of strife and death is hourly breaking;
“Who sleeps with head upon the sword
“His fever'd hand must grasp in waking.
“Danger!—”
“Say on—thou fear'st not then,
“And we may meet—oft meet again?”
The youth exclaim'd—“thou little know'st
“What he can brave, who, born and nurst
“In Danger's paths, has dar'd her worst;
“Upon whose ear the signal-word
“Of strife and death is hourly breaking;
“Who sleeps with head upon the sword
“His fever'd hand must grasp in waking.
219
“Say on—thou fear'st not then,
“And we may meet—oft meet again?”
“Oh! look not so—beneath the skies
“I now fear nothing but those eyes.
“If aught on earth could charm or force
“My spirit from its destin'd course,—
“If aught could make this soul forget
“The bond to which its seal is set,
“'Twould be those eyes;—they, only they,
“Could melt that sacred seal away!
“But no—'tis fix'd—my awful doom
“Is fix'd—on this side of the tomb
“We meet no more;—why, why did Heaven
“Mingle two souls that earth has riven,
“Has rent asunder wide as ours?
“Oh, Arab maid, as soon the Powers
“Of Light and Darkness may combine,
“As I be link'd with thee or thine!
“Thy Father—”
“Holy Alla save
“His grey head from that lightning glance!
“Thou know'st him not—he loves the brave;
“Nor lives there under heaven's expanse
“One who would prize, would worship thee
“And thy bold spirit, more than he.
“Oft when, in childhood, I have play'd
“With the bright falchion by his side,
“I've heard him swear his lisping maid
“In time should be a warrior's bride.
“And still, whene'er at Haram hours,
“I take him cool sherbets and flowers,
“He tells me, when in playful mood,
“A hero shall my bridegroom be,
“Since maids are best in battle woo'd,
“And won with shouts of victory!
“Nay, turn not from me—thou alone
“Art form'd to make both hearts thy own.
“Go—join his sacred ranks—thou know'st
“The' unholy strife these Persians wage:—
“Good Heav'n, that frown!—even now thou glow'st
“With more than mortal warrior's rage.
“Haste to the camp by morning's light,
“And, when that sword is rais'd in fight,
“Oh still remember, Love and I
“Beneath its shadow trembling lie!
“One victory o'er those Slaves of Fire,
“Those impious Ghebers, whom my sire
“Abhors—”
“Hold, hold—thy words are death—”
The stranger cried, as wild he flung
His mantle back, and show'd beneath
The Gheber belt that round him clung. —
“Here, maiden, look—weep—blush to see
“All that thy sire abhors in me!
“Yes—I am of that impious race,
“Those Slaves of Fire who, morn and even,
“Hail their Creator's dwelling-place
“Among the living lights of heaven :
“Yes—I am of that outcast few,
“To Iran and to vengeance true,
“Who curse the hour your Arabs came
“To desolate our shrines of flame,
“And swear, before God's burning eye,
“To break our country's chains, or die!
“Thy bigot sire,—nay, tremble not,—
“He, who gave birth to those dear eyes,
“With me is sacred as the spot
“From which our fires of worship rise!
“But know—'twas he I sought that night,
“When, from my watch-boat on the sea,
“I caught this turret's glimmering light,
“And up the rude rocks desperately
“Rush'd to my prey—thou know'st the rest—
“I climb'd the gory vulture's nest,
“And found a trembling dove within;—
“Thine, thine the victory—thine the sin—
“If Love hath made one thought his own,
“That Vengeance claims first—last—alone!
“Oh! had we never, never met,
“Or could this heart ev'n now forget
“How link'd, how bless'd we might have been,
“Had fate not frown'd so dark between!
“Hadst thou been born a Persian maid,
“In neighbouring valleys had we dwelt,
“Through the same fields in childhood play'd,
“At the same kindling altar knelt,—
“Then, then, while all those nameless ties,
“In which the charm of Country lies,
“Had round our hearts been hourly spun,
“Till Iran's cause and thine were one;
“While in thy lute's awakening sigh
“I heard the voice of days gone by,
“And saw, in every smile of thine,
“Returning hours of glory shine;—
“While the wrong'd Spirit of our Land
“Liv'd, look'd, and spoke her wrongs through thee,—
“God! who could then this sword withstand?
“Its very flash were victory!
“But now—estrang'd, divorc'd for ever,
“Far as the grasp of Fate can sever;
“Our only ties what love has wove,—
“In faith, friends, country, sunder'd wide;
“And then, then only, true to love,
“When false to all that's dear beside!
“Thy father Iran's deadliest foe—
“Thyself, perhaps, ev'n now—but no—
“Hate never look'd so lovely yet!
“No—sacred to thy soul will be
“The land of him who could forget
“All but that bleeding land for thee.
“When other eyes shall see, unmov'd,
“Her widows mourn, her warriors fall,
“Thou'lt think how well one Gheber lov'd,
“And for his sake thou'lt weep for all!
“But look—”
With sudden start he turn'd
And pointed to the distant wave,
Where lights, like charnel meteors, burn'd
Bluely, as o'er some seaman's grave;
And fiery darts, at intervals ,
Flew up all sparkling from the main,
As if each star that nightly falls,
Were shooting back to heaven again.
“I now fear nothing but those eyes.
“If aught on earth could charm or force
“My spirit from its destin'd course,—
“If aught could make this soul forget
“The bond to which its seal is set,
“'Twould be those eyes;—they, only they,
“Could melt that sacred seal away!
“But no—'tis fix'd—my awful doom
“Is fix'd—on this side of the tomb
“We meet no more;—why, why did Heaven
“Mingle two souls that earth has riven,
“Has rent asunder wide as ours?
“Oh, Arab maid, as soon the Powers
“Of Light and Darkness may combine,
“As I be link'd with thee or thine!
“Thy Father—”
“Holy Alla save
“His grey head from that lightning glance!
220
“Nor lives there under heaven's expanse
“One who would prize, would worship thee
“And thy bold spirit, more than he.
“Oft when, in childhood, I have play'd
“With the bright falchion by his side,
“I've heard him swear his lisping maid
“In time should be a warrior's bride.
“And still, whene'er at Haram hours,
“I take him cool sherbets and flowers,
“He tells me, when in playful mood,
“A hero shall my bridegroom be,
“Since maids are best in battle woo'd,
“And won with shouts of victory!
“Nay, turn not from me—thou alone
“Art form'd to make both hearts thy own.
“Go—join his sacred ranks—thou know'st
“The' unholy strife these Persians wage:—
“Good Heav'n, that frown!—even now thou glow'st
“With more than mortal warrior's rage.
“Haste to the camp by morning's light,
“And, when that sword is rais'd in fight,
221
“Beneath its shadow trembling lie!
“One victory o'er those Slaves of Fire,
“Those impious Ghebers, whom my sire
“Abhors—”
“Hold, hold—thy words are death—”
The stranger cried, as wild he flung
His mantle back, and show'd beneath
The Gheber belt that round him clung. —
“Here, maiden, look—weep—blush to see
“All that thy sire abhors in me!
“Yes—I am of that impious race,
“Those Slaves of Fire who, morn and even,
“Hail their Creator's dwelling-place
“Among the living lights of heaven :
222
“To Iran and to vengeance true,
“Who curse the hour your Arabs came
“To desolate our shrines of flame,
“And swear, before God's burning eye,
“To break our country's chains, or die!
“Thy bigot sire,—nay, tremble not,—
“He, who gave birth to those dear eyes,
“With me is sacred as the spot
“From which our fires of worship rise!
“But know—'twas he I sought that night,
“When, from my watch-boat on the sea,
223
“And up the rude rocks desperately
“Rush'd to my prey—thou know'st the rest—
“I climb'd the gory vulture's nest,
“And found a trembling dove within;—
“Thine, thine the victory—thine the sin—
“If Love hath made one thought his own,
“That Vengeance claims first—last—alone!
“Oh! had we never, never met,
“Or could this heart ev'n now forget
“How link'd, how bless'd we might have been,
“Had fate not frown'd so dark between!
“Hadst thou been born a Persian maid,
“In neighbouring valleys had we dwelt,
“Through the same fields in childhood play'd,
“At the same kindling altar knelt,—
“Then, then, while all those nameless ties,
“In which the charm of Country lies,
“Had round our hearts been hourly spun,
“Till Iran's cause and thine were one;
“While in thy lute's awakening sigh
“I heard the voice of days gone by,
“And saw, in every smile of thine,
“Returning hours of glory shine;—
224
“Liv'd, look'd, and spoke her wrongs through thee,—
“God! who could then this sword withstand?
“Its very flash were victory!
“But now—estrang'd, divorc'd for ever,
“Far as the grasp of Fate can sever;
“Our only ties what love has wove,—
“In faith, friends, country, sunder'd wide;
“And then, then only, true to love,
“When false to all that's dear beside!
“Thy father Iran's deadliest foe—
“Thyself, perhaps, ev'n now—but no—
“Hate never look'd so lovely yet!
“No—sacred to thy soul will be
“The land of him who could forget
“All but that bleeding land for thee.
“When other eyes shall see, unmov'd,
“Her widows mourn, her warriors fall,
“Thou'lt think how well one Gheber lov'd,
“And for his sake thou'lt weep for all!
“But look—”
With sudden start he turn'd
And pointed to the distant wave,
225
Bluely, as o'er some seaman's grave;
And fiery darts, at intervals ,
Flew up all sparkling from the main,
As if each star that nightly falls,
Were shooting back to heaven again.
“My signal lights!—I must away—
“Both, both are ruin'd, if I stay.
“Farewell—sweet life! thou cling'st in vain—
“Now, Vengeance, I am thine again!”
Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp'd,
Nor look'd—but from the lattice dropp'd
Down mid the pointed crags beneath,
As if he fled from love to death.
While pale and mute young Hinda stood,
Nor mov'd, till in the silent flood
A momentary plunge below
Startled her from her trance of woe;—
Shrieking she to the lattice flew,
“I come—I come—if in that tide
“Thou sleep'st to-night, I'll sleep there too,
“In death's cold wedlock, by thy side.
“Oh! I would ask no happier bed
“Than the chill wave my love lies under:—
“Sweeter to rest together dead,
“Far sweeter, than to live asunder!”
But no—their hour is not yet come—
Again she sees his pinnace fly,
Wafting him fleetly to his home,
Where'er that ill-starr'd home may lie;
And calm and smooth it seem'd to win
Its moonlight way before the wind,
As if it bore all peace within,
Nor left one breaking heart behind!
“Both, both are ruin'd, if I stay.
“Farewell—sweet life! thou cling'st in vain—
“Now, Vengeance, I am thine again!”
Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp'd,
Nor look'd—but from the lattice dropp'd
Down mid the pointed crags beneath,
As if he fled from love to death.
While pale and mute young Hinda stood,
Nor mov'd, till in the silent flood
A momentary plunge below
Startled her from her trance of woe;—
226
“I come—I come—if in that tide
“Thou sleep'st to-night, I'll sleep there too,
“In death's cold wedlock, by thy side.
“Oh! I would ask no happier bed
“Than the chill wave my love lies under:—
“Sweeter to rest together dead,
“Far sweeter, than to live asunder!”
But no—their hour is not yet come—
Again she sees his pinnace fly,
Wafting him fleetly to his home,
Where'er that ill-starr'd home may lie;
And calm and smooth it seem'd to win
Its moonlight way before the wind,
As if it bore all peace within,
Nor left one breaking heart behind!
“At Gombaroon and other places in Persia, they have towers for the purpose of catching the wind, and cooling the houses.” —Le Bruyn.
“There is a kind of Rhododendros about Trebizond, whose flowers the bee feeds upon, and the honey thence drives people mad.” —Tournefort.
“Their kings wear plumes of black herons' feathers upon the right side, as a badge of sovereignty.” —Hanway.
“The Fountain of Youth, by a Mahometan tradition, is situated in some dark region of the East.” —Richardson.
“In the midst of the garden is the chiosk, that is, a large room, commonly beautified with a fine fountain in the midst of it. It is raised nine or ten steps, and inclosed with gilded lattices, round which vines, jessamines, and honeysuckles, make a sort of green wall; large trees are planted round this place, which is the scene of their greatest pleasures.” —Lady M. W. Montagu.
The women of the East are never without their looking-glasses. “In Barbary,” says Shaw, “they are so fond of their looking-glasses, which they hang upon their breasts, that they will not lay them aside, even when after the drudgery of the day they are obliged to go two or three miles with a pitcher or a goat's skin to fetch water.” —Travels.
In other parts of Asia they wear little looking-glasses on their thumbs. “Hence (and from the lotus being considered the emblem of beauty) is the meaning of the following mute intercourse of two lovers before their parents:—
“‘He with salute of deference due,
A lotus to his forehead prest;
She rais'd her mirror to his view,
Then turn'd it inward to her breast.’”
A lotus to his forehead prest;
She rais'd her mirror to his view,
Then turn'd it inward to her breast.’”
Asiatic Miscellany, vol. ii.
“They say that if a snake or serpent fix his eyes on the lustre of those stones (emeralds), he immediately becomes blind.” —Ahmed ben Abdalaziz, Treatise on Jewels.
“At Gombaroon and the Isle of Ormus it is sometimes so hot, that the people are obliged to lie all day in the water.” —Marco Polo.
This mountain is generally supposed to be inaccessible. Struy says, “I can well assure the reader that their opinion is not true, who suppose this mount to be inaccessible.” He adds, that “the lower part of the mountain is cloudy, misty, and dark, the middlemost part very cold, and like clouds of snow, but the upper regions perfectly calm.”—It was on this mountain that the Ark was supposed to have rested after the Deluge, and part of it, they say, exists there still, which Struy thus gravely accounts for:—“Whereas none can remember that the air on the top of the hill did ever change or was subject either to wind or rain, which is presumed to be the reason that the Ark has endured so long without being rotten.” —See Carreri's Travels, where the Doctor laughs at this whole account of Mount Ararat.
In one of the books of the Shâh Nâmeh, when Zal (a celebrated hero of Persia, remarkable for his white hair,) comes to the terrace of his mistress Rodahver at night, she lets down her long tresses to assist him in his ascent;—he, however, manages it in a less romantic way by fixing his crook in a projecting beam.—See Champion's Ferdosi.
“Canun, espéce de psalterion, avec des cordes de boyaux; les dames en touchent dans le serrail, avec des décailles armées de pointes de cooc.” —Toderini, translated by De Cournand.
“They (the Ghebers) lay so much stress on their cushee or girdle, as not to dare to be an instant without it.” —Grose's Voyage. —“Le jeune homme nia d'abord la chose; mais, ayant ètè dèpouillè de sa robe, et la large ceinture qu'il portoit comme Ghebr,” &c. &c. —D'Herbelot, art. Agduani. “Pour se distinguer des Idolatres de l'Inde, les Guebres se ceignent tous d'un cordon de laine, ou de poil de chameau.” —Encyclopèdie Francoise.
D'Herbelot says this belt was generally of leather.
“They suppose the Throne of the Almighty is seated in the sun, and hence their worship of that luminary.” —Hanway. “As to fire, the Ghebers place the spring-head of it in that globe of fire, the Sun, by them called Mythras, or Mihir, to which they pay the highest reverence, in gratitude for the manifold benefits flowing from its ministerial omniscience. But they are so far from confounding the subordination of the Servant with the majesty of its Creator, that they not only attribute no sort of sense or reasoning to the sun or fire, in any of its operations, but consider it as a purely passive blind instrument, directed and governed by the immediate impression on it of the will of God; but they do not even give that luminary, all-glorious as it is, more than the second rank amongst his works, reserving the first for that stupendous production of divine power, the mind of man.” —Grose. The false charges brought against the religion of these people by their Mussulman tyrants is but one proof among many of the truth of this writer's remark, that “calumny is often added to oppression, if but for the sake of justifying it.”
“The Mameluks that were in the other boat, when it was dark used to shoot up a sort of fiery arrows into the air which in some measure resembled lightning or falling stars.” —Baumgarten.
230
The morn hath risen clear and calm,
And o'er the Green Sea palely shines,
Revealing Bahrein's groves of palm,
And lighting Kishma's amber vines.
Fresh smell the shores of Araby,
While breezes from the Indian sea
Blow round Selama's sainted cape,
And curl the shining flood beneath,—
Whose waves are rich with many a grape,
And cocoa-nut and flowery wreath,
Which pious seamen, as they pass'd,
Had tow'rd that holy headland cast—
Oblations to the Genii there
For gentle skies and breezes fair!
The nightingale now bends her flight
From the high trees, where all the night
She sung so sweet, with none to listen;
And hides her from the morning star
Where thickets of pomegranate glisten
In the clear dawn,—bespangled o'er
With dew, whose night-drops would not stain
The best and brightest scimitar
That ever youthful Sultan wore
On the first morning of his reign.
And o'er the Green Sea palely shines,
Revealing Bahrein's groves of palm,
And lighting Kishma's amber vines.
Fresh smell the shores of Araby,
While breezes from the Indian sea
Blow round Selama's sainted cape,
And curl the shining flood beneath,—
Whose waves are rich with many a grape,
And cocoa-nut and flowery wreath,
Which pious seamen, as they pass'd,
Had tow'rd that holy headland cast—
Oblations to the Genii there
For gentle skies and breezes fair!
231
From the high trees, where all the night
She sung so sweet, with none to listen;
And hides her from the morning star
Where thickets of pomegranate glisten
In the clear dawn,—bespangled o'er
With dew, whose night-drops would not stain
The best and brightest scimitar
That ever youthful Sultan wore
On the first morning of his reign.
And see—the Sun himself!—on wings
Of glory up the East he springs.
Angel of Light! who from the time
Those heavens began their march sublime,
Hath first of all the starry choir
Trod in his Maker's steps of fire!
Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere,
When Iran, like a sun-flower, turn'd
To meet that eye where'er it burn'd?—
When, from the banks of Bendemeer
To the nut-groves of Samarcand,
Thy temples flam'd o'er all the land?
Where are they? ask the shades of them
Who, on Cadessia's bloody plains,
Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem
From Iran's broken diadem,
And bind her ancient faith in chains:—
Ask the poor exile, cast alone
On foreign shores, unlov'd, unknown,
Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates ,
Or on the snowy Mossian mountains,
Far from his beauteous land of dates,
Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains:
Yet happier so than if he trod
His own belov'd, but blighted, sod,
Beneath a despot stranger's nod!—
Oh, he would rather houseless roam
Where Freedom and his God may lead,
Than be the sleekest slave at home
That crouches to the conqueror's creed!
Of glory up the East he springs.
Angel of Light! who from the time
Those heavens began their march sublime,
Hath first of all the starry choir
Trod in his Maker's steps of fire!
232
When Iran, like a sun-flower, turn'd
To meet that eye where'er it burn'd?—
When, from the banks of Bendemeer
To the nut-groves of Samarcand,
Thy temples flam'd o'er all the land?
Where are they? ask the shades of them
Who, on Cadessia's bloody plains,
Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem
From Iran's broken diadem,
And bind her ancient faith in chains:—
Ask the poor exile, cast alone
On foreign shores, unlov'd, unknown,
Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates ,
Or on the snowy Mossian mountains,
Far from his beauteous land of dates,
Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains:
Yet happier so than if he trod
His own belov'd, but blighted, sod,
Beneath a despot stranger's nod!—
233
Where Freedom and his God may lead,
Than be the sleekest slave at home
That crouches to the conqueror's creed!
Is Iran's pride then gone for ever,
Quench'd with the flame in Mithra's caves?—
No—she has sons, that never—never—
Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves,
While heaven has light or earth has graves;—
Spirits of fire, that brood not long,
But flash resentment back for wrong;
And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds
Of vengeance ripen into deeds,
Till, in some treacherous hour of calm,
They burst, like Zeilan's giant palm ,
Whose buds fly open with a sound
That shakes the pigmy forests round!
Yes, Emir! he, who scal'd that tower,
And, had he reach'd thy slumbering breast,
Had taught thee, in a Gheber's power
How safe ev'n tyrant heads may rest—
Is one of many, brave as he,
Who loathe thy haughty race and thee;
Who, though they know the strife is vain,
Who, though they know the riven chain
Snaps but to enter in the heart
Of him who rends its links apart,
Yet dare the issue,—blest to be
Ev'n for one bleeding moment free,
And die in pangs of liberty!
Thou know'st them well—'tis some moons since
Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags,
Thou satrap of a bigot Prince,
Have swarm'd among these Green Sea crags;
Yet here, ev'n here, a sacred band
Ay, in the portal of that land
Thou, Arab, dar'st to call thy own,
Their spears across thy path have thrown;
Here—ere the winds half wing'd thee o'er—
Rebellion brav'd thee from the shore.
Rebellion! foul, dishonouring word,
Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd
The holiest cause that tongue or sword
Of mortal ever lost or gain'd.
How many a spirit, born to bless,
Hath sunk beneath that withering name,
Whom but a day's, an hour's success
Had wafted to eternal fame!
As exhalations, when they burst
From the warm earth, if chill'd at first,
If check'd in soaring from the plain,
Darken to fogs and sink again;—
But, if they once triumphant spread
Their wings above the mountain-head,
Become enthron'd in upper air,
And turn to sun-bright glories there!
Quench'd with the flame in Mithra's caves?—
No—she has sons, that never—never—
Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves,
While heaven has light or earth has graves;—
Spirits of fire, that brood not long,
But flash resentment back for wrong;
And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds
Of vengeance ripen into deeds,
Till, in some treacherous hour of calm,
They burst, like Zeilan's giant palm ,
Whose buds fly open with a sound
That shakes the pigmy forests round!
234
And, had he reach'd thy slumbering breast,
Had taught thee, in a Gheber's power
How safe ev'n tyrant heads may rest—
Is one of many, brave as he,
Who loathe thy haughty race and thee;
Who, though they know the strife is vain,
Who, though they know the riven chain
Snaps but to enter in the heart
Of him who rends its links apart,
Yet dare the issue,—blest to be
Ev'n for one bleeding moment free,
And die in pangs of liberty!
Thou know'st them well—'tis some moons since
Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags,
Thou satrap of a bigot Prince,
Have swarm'd among these Green Sea crags;
Yet here, ev'n here, a sacred band
Ay, in the portal of that land
Thou, Arab, dar'st to call thy own,
Their spears across thy path have thrown;
Here—ere the winds half wing'd thee o'er—
Rebellion brav'd thee from the shore.
235
Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd
The holiest cause that tongue or sword
Of mortal ever lost or gain'd.
How many a spirit, born to bless,
Hath sunk beneath that withering name,
Whom but a day's, an hour's success
Had wafted to eternal fame!
As exhalations, when they burst
From the warm earth, if chill'd at first,
If check'd in soaring from the plain,
Darken to fogs and sink again;—
But, if they once triumphant spread
Their wings above the mountain-head,
Become enthron'd in upper air,
And turn to sun-bright glories there!
And who is he, that wields the might
Of Freedom on the Green Sea brink,
Before whose sabre's dazzling light
The eyes of Yemen's warriors wink?
Who comes, embower'd in the spears
Of Kerman's hardy mountaineers?—
Those mountaineers that truest, last,
Cling to their country's ancient rites,
As if that God, whose eyelids cast
Their closing gleam on Iran's heights,
Among her snowy mountains threw
The last light of his worship too!
Of Freedom on the Green Sea brink,
Before whose sabre's dazzling light
The eyes of Yemen's warriors wink?
236
Of Kerman's hardy mountaineers?—
Those mountaineers that truest, last,
Cling to their country's ancient rites,
As if that God, whose eyelids cast
Their closing gleam on Iran's heights,
Among her snowy mountains threw
The last light of his worship too!
'Tis Hafed—name of fear, whose sound
Chills like the muttering of a charm!—
Shout but that awful name around,
And palsy shakes the manliest arm.
'Tis Hafed, most accurs'd and dire
(So rank'd by Moslem hate and ire)
Of all the rebel Sons of Fire;
Of whose malign, tremendous power
The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour,
Such tales of fearful wonder tell,
That each affrighted sentinel
Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes,
Lest Hafed in the midst should rise!
A man, they say, of monstrous birth,
A mingled race of flame and earth,
Sprung from those old, enchanted kings
,
Who in their fairy helms, of yore
A feather from the mystic wings
Of the Simoorgh resistless wore;
And gifted by the Fiends of Fire,
Who groan'd to see their shrines expire,
With charms that, all in vain withstood,
Would drown the Koran's light in blood!
Chills like the muttering of a charm!—
Shout but that awful name around,
And palsy shakes the manliest arm.
'Tis Hafed, most accurs'd and dire
(So rank'd by Moslem hate and ire)
Of all the rebel Sons of Fire;
Of whose malign, tremendous power
The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour,
Such tales of fearful wonder tell,
That each affrighted sentinel
Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes,
Lest Hafed in the midst should rise!
A man, they say, of monstrous birth,
A mingled race of flame and earth,
237
Who in their fairy helms, of yore
A feather from the mystic wings
Of the Simoorgh resistless wore;
And gifted by the Fiends of Fire,
Who groan'd to see their shrines expire,
With charms that, all in vain withstood,
Would drown the Koran's light in blood!
Such were the tales, that won belief,
And such the colouring Fancy gave
To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief,—
One who, no more than mortal brave,
Fought for the land his soul ador'd,
For happy homes and altars free,—
His only talisman, the sword,
His only spell-word, Liberty!
One of that ancient hero line,
Along whose glorious current shine
Names, that have sanctified their blood;
As Lebanon's small mountain-flood
Is render'd holy by the ranks
Of sainted cedars on its banks.
'Twas not for him to crouch the knee
Tamely to Moslem tyranny;
'Twas not for him, whose soul was cast
In the bright mould of ages past,
Whose melancholy spirit, fed
With all the glories of the dead,
Though fram'd for Iran's happiest years,
Was born among her chains and tears!—
'Twas not for him to swell the crowd
Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow'd
Before the Moslem, as he pass'd,
Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast—
No—far he fled—indignant fled
The pageant of his country's shame;
While every tear her children shed
Fell on his soul like drops of flame;
And, as a lover hails the dawn
Of a first smile, so welcom'd he
The sparkle of the first sword drawn
For vengeance and for liberty!
And such the colouring Fancy gave
To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief,—
One who, no more than mortal brave,
Fought for the land his soul ador'd,
For happy homes and altars free,—
His only talisman, the sword,
His only spell-word, Liberty!
One of that ancient hero line,
Along whose glorious current shine
238
As Lebanon's small mountain-flood
Is render'd holy by the ranks
Of sainted cedars on its banks.
'Twas not for him to crouch the knee
Tamely to Moslem tyranny;
'Twas not for him, whose soul was cast
In the bright mould of ages past,
Whose melancholy spirit, fed
With all the glories of the dead,
Though fram'd for Iran's happiest years,
Was born among her chains and tears!—
'Twas not for him to swell the crowd
Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow'd
Before the Moslem, as he pass'd,
Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast—
239
The pageant of his country's shame;
While every tear her children shed
Fell on his soul like drops of flame;
And, as a lover hails the dawn
Of a first smile, so welcom'd he
The sparkle of the first sword drawn
For vengeance and for liberty!
But vain was valour—vain the flower
Of Kerman, in that deathful hour,
Against Al Hassan's whelming power.—
In vain they met him, helm to helm,
Upon the threshold of that realm
He came in bigot pomp to sway,
And with their corpses block'd his way—
In vain—for every lance they rais'd,
Thousands around the conqueror blaz'd;
For every arm that lin'd their shore,
Myriads of slaves were wafted o'er,—
A bloody, bold, and countless crowd,
Before whose swarm as fast they bow'd
As dates beneath the locust cloud.
There stood—but one short league away
From old Harmozia's sultry bay—
A rocky mountain, o'er the Sea
Of Oman beetling awfully ;
A last and solitary link
Of those stupendous chains that reach
From the broad Caspian's reedy brink
Down winding to the Green Sea beach.
Around its base the bare rocks stood,
Like naked giants, in the flood,
As if to guard the Gulf across;
While, on its peak, that brav'd the sky,
A ruin'd Temple tower'd, so high
That oft the sleeping albatross
Struck the wild ruins with her wing,
And from her cloud-rock'd slumbering
Started—to find man's dwelling there
In her own silent fields of air!
Beneath, terrific caverns gave
Dark welcome to each stormy wave
That dash'd, like midnight revellers, in;—
And such the strange, mysterious din
At times throughout those caverns roll'd,—
And such the fearful wonders told
Of restless sprites imprison'd there,
That bold were Moslem, who would dare,
At twilight hour, to steer his skiff
Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff.
Of Kerman, in that deathful hour,
Against Al Hassan's whelming power.—
In vain they met him, helm to helm,
Upon the threshold of that realm
He came in bigot pomp to sway,
And with their corpses block'd his way—
In vain—for every lance they rais'd,
Thousands around the conqueror blaz'd;
For every arm that lin'd their shore,
Myriads of slaves were wafted o'er,—
A bloody, bold, and countless crowd,
Before whose swarm as fast they bow'd
As dates beneath the locust cloud.
240
From old Harmozia's sultry bay—
A rocky mountain, o'er the Sea
Of Oman beetling awfully ;
A last and solitary link
Of those stupendous chains that reach
From the broad Caspian's reedy brink
Down winding to the Green Sea beach.
Around its base the bare rocks stood,
Like naked giants, in the flood,
As if to guard the Gulf across;
While, on its peak, that brav'd the sky,
A ruin'd Temple tower'd, so high
That oft the sleeping albatross
241
And from her cloud-rock'd slumbering
Started—to find man's dwelling there
In her own silent fields of air!
Beneath, terrific caverns gave
Dark welcome to each stormy wave
That dash'd, like midnight revellers, in;—
And such the strange, mysterious din
At times throughout those caverns roll'd,—
And such the fearful wonders told
Of restless sprites imprison'd there,
That bold were Moslem, who would dare,
At twilight hour, to steer his skiff
Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff.
On the land side, those towers sublime,
That seem'd above the grasp of Time,
Were sever'd from the haunts of men
By a wide, deep, and wizard glen,
So fathomless, so full of gloom,
No eye could pierce the void between:
It seem'd a place where Gholes might come
With their foul banquets from the tomb,
And in its caverns feed unseen.
Like distant thunder, from below,
The sound of many torrents came,
Too deep for eye or ear to know
If 'twere the sea's imprison'd flow,
Or floods of ever-restless flame.
For, each ravine, each rocky spire
Of that vast mountain stood on fire ;
And, though for ever past the days
When God was worshipp'd in the blaze
That from its lofty altar shone,—
Though fled the priests, the votaries gone,
Still did the mighty flame burn on ,
Through chance and change, through good and ill,
Like its own God's eternal will,
Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable!
That seem'd above the grasp of Time,
242
By a wide, deep, and wizard glen,
So fathomless, so full of gloom,
No eye could pierce the void between:
It seem'd a place where Gholes might come
With their foul banquets from the tomb,
And in its caverns feed unseen.
Like distant thunder, from below,
The sound of many torrents came,
Too deep for eye or ear to know
If 'twere the sea's imprison'd flow,
Or floods of ever-restless flame.
For, each ravine, each rocky spire
Of that vast mountain stood on fire ;
And, though for ever past the days
When God was worshipp'd in the blaze
That from its lofty altar shone,—
Though fled the priests, the votaries gone,
Still did the mighty flame burn on ,
243
Like its own God's eternal will,
Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable!
Thither the vanquish'd Hafed led
His little army's last remains;—
“Welcome, terrific glen!” he said,
“Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread,
“Is Heav'n to him who flies from chains!”
O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way, known
To him and to his Chiefs alone,
They cross'd the chasm and gain'd the towers,—
“This home,” he cried, “at least is ours;—
“Here we may bleed, unmock'd by hymns
“Of Moslem triumph o'er our head;
“Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs
“To quiver to the Moslem's tread.
“Stretch'd on this rock, while vultures' beaks
“Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks,
“Here—happy that no tyrant's eye
“Gloats on our torments—we may die!”—
'Twas night when to those towers they came,
And gloomily the fitful flame,
That from the ruin'd altar broke,
Glared on his features, as he spoke:—
“'Tis o'er—what men could do, we've done—
“If Iran will look tamely on,
“And see her priests, her warriors driven
“Before a sensual bigot's nod,
“A wretch who shrines his lusts in heaven,
“And makes a pander of his God;
“If her proud sons, her high-born souls,
“Men, in whose veins—oh last disgrace!
“The blood of Zal and Rustam rolls,—
“If they will court this upstart race,
“And turn from Mithra's ancient ray,
“To kneel at shrines of yesterday;
“If they will crouch to Iran's foes,
“Why, let them—till the land's despair
“Cries out to Heav'n, and bondage grows
“Too vile for ev'n the vile to bear!
“Till shame at last, long hidden, burns
“Their inmost core, and conscience turns
“Each coward tear the slave lets fall
“Back on his heart in drops of gall.
“But here, at least, are arms unchain'd,
“And souls that thraldrom never stain'd;—
“This spot, at least, no foot of slave
“Or satrap ever yet profaned;
“And though but few—though fast the wave
“Of life is ebbing from our veins,
“Enough for vengeance still remains.
“As panthers, after set of sun,
“Rush from the roots of Lebanon
“Across the dark-sea robber's way ,
“We'll bound upon our startled prey;
“And when some hearts that proudest swell
“Have felt our falchion's last farewell;
“When Hope's expiring throb is o'er,
“And ev'n Despair can prompt no more,
“This spot shall be the sacred grave
“Of the last few who, vainly brave,
“Die for the land they cannot save!”
His Chiefs stood round—each shining blade
Upon the broken altar laid—
And though so wild and desolate
Those courts, where once the Mighty sate;
Nor longer on those mouldering towers
Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers,
With which of old the Magi fed
The wandering Spirits of their Dead ;
Though neither priest nor rites were there,
Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate ;
Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air,
Nor symbol of their worshipp'd planet ;
Yet the same God that heard their sires
Heard them, while on that altar's fires
They swore the latest, holiest deed
Of the few hearts, still left to bleed,
Should be, in Iran's injur'd name,
To die upon that Mount of Flame—
The last of all her patriot line,
Before her last untrampled Shrine!
His little army's last remains;—
“Welcome, terrific glen!” he said,
“Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread,
“Is Heav'n to him who flies from chains!”
O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way, known
To him and to his Chiefs alone,
They cross'd the chasm and gain'd the towers,—
“This home,” he cried, “at least is ours;—
“Here we may bleed, unmock'd by hymns
“Of Moslem triumph o'er our head;
“Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs
“To quiver to the Moslem's tread.
“Stretch'd on this rock, while vultures' beaks
“Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks,
“Here—happy that no tyrant's eye
“Gloats on our torments—we may die!”—
244
And gloomily the fitful flame,
That from the ruin'd altar broke,
Glared on his features, as he spoke:—
“'Tis o'er—what men could do, we've done—
“If Iran will look tamely on,
“And see her priests, her warriors driven
“Before a sensual bigot's nod,
“A wretch who shrines his lusts in heaven,
“And makes a pander of his God;
“If her proud sons, her high-born souls,
“Men, in whose veins—oh last disgrace!
“The blood of Zal and Rustam rolls,—
“If they will court this upstart race,
“And turn from Mithra's ancient ray,
“To kneel at shrines of yesterday;
“If they will crouch to Iran's foes,
“Why, let them—till the land's despair
“Cries out to Heav'n, and bondage grows
“Too vile for ev'n the vile to bear!
245
“Their inmost core, and conscience turns
“Each coward tear the slave lets fall
“Back on his heart in drops of gall.
“But here, at least, are arms unchain'd,
“And souls that thraldrom never stain'd;—
“This spot, at least, no foot of slave
“Or satrap ever yet profaned;
“And though but few—though fast the wave
“Of life is ebbing from our veins,
“Enough for vengeance still remains.
“As panthers, after set of sun,
“Rush from the roots of Lebanon
“Across the dark-sea robber's way ,
“We'll bound upon our startled prey;
“And when some hearts that proudest swell
“Have felt our falchion's last farewell;
“When Hope's expiring throb is o'er,
“And ev'n Despair can prompt no more,
“This spot shall be the sacred grave
“Of the last few who, vainly brave,
“Die for the land they cannot save!”
246
Upon the broken altar laid—
And though so wild and desolate
Those courts, where once the Mighty sate;
Nor longer on those mouldering towers
Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers,
With which of old the Magi fed
The wandering Spirits of their Dead ;
Though neither priest nor rites were there,
Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate ;
Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air,
Nor symbol of their worshipp'd planet ;
247
Heard them, while on that altar's fires
They swore the latest, holiest deed
Of the few hearts, still left to bleed,
Should be, in Iran's injur'd name,
To die upon that Mount of Flame—
The last of all her patriot line,
Before her last untrampled Shrine!
Brave, suffering souls! they little knew
How many a tear their injuries drew
From one meek maid, one gentle foe,
Whom love first touch'd with others' woe—
Whose life, as free from thought as sin,
Slept like a lake, till Love threw in
His talisman, and woke the tide,
And spread its trembling circles wide.
Once, Emir! thy unheeding child,
Mid all this havoc, bloom'd and smil'd,—
Tranquil as on some battle plain
The Persian lily shines and towers
Before the combat's reddening stain
Hath fall'n upon her golden flowers.
Light-hearted maid, unaw'd, unmov'd,
While Heav'n but spar'd the sire she lov'd,
Once at thy evening tales of blood
Unlistening and aloof she stood—
And oft, when thou hast pac'd along
Thy Haram halls with furious heat,
Hast thou not curs'd her cheerful song,
That came across thee, calm and sweet,
Like lutes of angels, touch'd so near
Hell's confines, that the damn'd can hear!
How many a tear their injuries drew
From one meek maid, one gentle foe,
Whom love first touch'd with others' woe—
Whose life, as free from thought as sin,
Slept like a lake, till Love threw in
His talisman, and woke the tide,
And spread its trembling circles wide.
Once, Emir! thy unheeding child,
Mid all this havoc, bloom'd and smil'd,—
Tranquil as on some battle plain
The Persian lily shines and towers
248
Hath fall'n upon her golden flowers.
Light-hearted maid, unaw'd, unmov'd,
While Heav'n but spar'd the sire she lov'd,
Once at thy evening tales of blood
Unlistening and aloof she stood—
And oft, when thou hast pac'd along
Thy Haram halls with furious heat,
Hast thou not curs'd her cheerful song,
That came across thee, calm and sweet,
Like lutes of angels, touch'd so near
Hell's confines, that the damn'd can hear!
Far other feelings Love hath brought—
Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness,
She now has but the one dear thought,
And thinks that o'er, almost to madness!
Oft doth her sinking heart recall
His words—“for my sake weep for all;”
And bitterly, as day on day
Of rebel carnage fast succeeds,
She weeps a lover snatch'd away
In every Gheber wretch that bleeds.
There's not a sabre meets her eye,
But with his life-blood seems to swim;
There's not an arrow wings the sky,
But fancy turns its point to him.
No more she brings with footstep light
Al Hassan's falchion for the fight;
And—had he look'd with clearer sight,
Had not the mists, that ever rise
From a foul spirit, dimm'd his eyes—
He would have mark'd her shuddering frame,
When from the field of blood he came,
The faltering speech—the look estrang'd—
Voice, step, and life, and beauty chang'd—
He would have mark'd all this, and known
Such change is wrought by Love alone!
Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness,
She now has but the one dear thought,
And thinks that o'er, almost to madness!
Oft doth her sinking heart recall
His words—“for my sake weep for all;”
And bitterly, as day on day
Of rebel carnage fast succeeds,
249
In every Gheber wretch that bleeds.
There's not a sabre meets her eye,
But with his life-blood seems to swim;
There's not an arrow wings the sky,
But fancy turns its point to him.
No more she brings with footstep light
Al Hassan's falchion for the fight;
And—had he look'd with clearer sight,
Had not the mists, that ever rise
From a foul spirit, dimm'd his eyes—
He would have mark'd her shuddering frame,
When from the field of blood he came,
The faltering speech—the look estrang'd—
Voice, step, and life, and beauty chang'd—
He would have mark'd all this, and known
Such change is wrought by Love alone!
Ah! not the Love, that should have bless'd
So young, so innocent a breast;
Not the pure, open, prosperous Love,
That, pledg'd on earth and seal'd above,
Grows in the world's approving eyes,
In friendship's smile and home's caress,
Collecting all the heart's sweet ties
Into one knot of happiness!
No, Hinda, no,—thy fatal flame
Is nurs'd in silence, sorrow, shame;—
A passion, without hope or pleasure,
In thy soul's darkness buried deep,
It lies, like some ill-gotten treasure,—
Some idol, without shrine or name,
O'er which its pale-ey'd votaries keep
Unholy watch, while others sleep.
So young, so innocent a breast;
Not the pure, open, prosperous Love,
That, pledg'd on earth and seal'd above,
Grows in the world's approving eyes,
In friendship's smile and home's caress,
250
Into one knot of happiness!
No, Hinda, no,—thy fatal flame
Is nurs'd in silence, sorrow, shame;—
A passion, without hope or pleasure,
In thy soul's darkness buried deep,
It lies, like some ill-gotten treasure,—
Some idol, without shrine or name,
O'er which its pale-ey'd votaries keep
Unholy watch, while others sleep.
Seven nights have darken'd Oman's sea,
Since last, beneath the moonlight ray,
She saw his light oar rapidly
Hurry her Gheber's bark away,—
And still she goes, at midnight hour,
To weep alone in that high bower,
And watch, and look along the deep
For him whose smiles first made her weep;—
But watching, weeping, all was vain,
She never saw his bark again.
The owlet's solitary cry,
The night-hawk, flitting darkly by,
And oft the hateful carrion bird,
Heavily flapping his clogg'd wing,
Which reek'd with that day's banquetting—
Was all she saw, was all she heard.
Since last, beneath the moonlight ray,
She saw his light oar rapidly
Hurry her Gheber's bark away,—
And still she goes, at midnight hour,
To weep alone in that high bower,
And watch, and look along the deep
For him whose smiles first made her weep;—
But watching, weeping, all was vain,
She never saw his bark again.
The owlet's solitary cry,
The night-hawk, flitting darkly by,
251
Heavily flapping his clogg'd wing,
Which reek'd with that day's banquetting—
Was all she saw, was all she heard.
'Tis the eighth morn—Al Hassan's brow
Is brighten'd with unusual joy—
What mighty mischief glads him now,
Who never smiles but to destroy?
The sparkle upon Herkend's Sea,
When toss'd at midnight furiously ,
Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh,
More surely than that smiling eye!
“Up, daughter, up—the Kerna's breath
“Has blown a blast would waken death,
“And yet thou sleep'st—up, child, and see
“This blessed day for Heaven and me,
“A day more rich in Pagan blood
“Than ever flash'd o'er Oman's flood.
“Before another dawn shall shine,
“His head—heart—limbs—will all be mine;
“This very night his blood shall steep
“These hands all over ere I sleep!”—
Is brighten'd with unusual joy—
What mighty mischief glads him now,
Who never smiles but to destroy?
The sparkle upon Herkend's Sea,
When toss'd at midnight furiously ,
Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh,
More surely than that smiling eye!
“Up, daughter, up—the Kerna's breath
“Has blown a blast would waken death,
“And yet thou sleep'st—up, child, and see
“This blessed day for Heaven and me,
“A day more rich in Pagan blood
“Than ever flash'd o'er Oman's flood.
252
“His head—heart—limbs—will all be mine;
“This very night his blood shall steep
“These hands all over ere I sleep!”—
“His blood!” she faintly scream'd—her mind
Still singling one from all mankind—
“Yes—spite of his ravines and towers,
“Hafed, my child, this night is ours.
“Thanks to all-conquering treachery,
“Without whose aid the links accurst,
“That bind these impious slaves, would be
“Too strong for Alla's self to burst!
“That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread
“My path with piles of Moslem dead,
“Whose baffling spells had almost driven
“Back from their course the Swords of Heaven,
“This night, with all his band shall know
“How deep an Arab's steel can go,
“When God and Vengeance speed the blow.
“And—Prophet! by that holy wreath
“Thou wor'st on Ohod's field of death ,
“I swear, for every sob that parts
“In anguish from these heathen hearts,
“A gem from Persia's plunder'd mines
“Shall glitter on thy Shrine of Shrines.
“But, ha!—she sinks—that look so wild—
“Those livid lips—my child, my child,
“This life of blood befits not thee,
“And thou must back to Araby.
“Ne'er had I risk'd thy timid sex
“In scenes that man himself might dread,
“Had I not hop'd our every tread
“Would be on prostrate Persian necks—
“Curst race, they offer swords instead!
“But cheer thee, maid,—the wind that now
“Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow,
“To-day shall waft thee from the shore;
“And, e'er a drop of this night's gore
“Have time to chill in yonder towers,
“Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers!”
Still singling one from all mankind—
“Yes—spite of his ravines and towers,
“Hafed, my child, this night is ours.
“Thanks to all-conquering treachery,
“Without whose aid the links accurst,
“That bind these impious slaves, would be
“Too strong for Alla's self to burst!
“That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread
“My path with piles of Moslem dead,
“Whose baffling spells had almost driven
“Back from their course the Swords of Heaven,
“This night, with all his band shall know
“How deep an Arab's steel can go,
“When God and Vengeance speed the blow.
“And—Prophet! by that holy wreath
“Thou wor'st on Ohod's field of death ,
253
“In anguish from these heathen hearts,
“A gem from Persia's plunder'd mines
“Shall glitter on thy Shrine of Shrines.
“But, ha!—she sinks—that look so wild—
“Those livid lips—my child, my child,
“This life of blood befits not thee,
“And thou must back to Araby.
“Ne'er had I risk'd thy timid sex
“In scenes that man himself might dread,
“Had I not hop'd our every tread
“Would be on prostrate Persian necks—
“Curst race, they offer swords instead!
“But cheer thee, maid,—the wind that now
“Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow,
“To-day shall waft thee from the shore;
“And, e'er a drop of this night's gore
“Have time to chill in yonder towers,
“Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers!”
His bloody boast was all too true;
There lurk'd one wretch among the few
Whom Hafed's eagle eye could count
Around him on that Fiery Mount,—
One miscreant, who for gold betray'd
The pathway through the valley's shade
To those high towers, where Freedom stood
In her last hold of flame and blood.
Left on the field last dreadful night,
When, sallying from their Sacred height,
The Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight,
He lay—but died not with the brave;
That sun, which should have gilt his grave,
Saw him a traitor and a slave;—
And, while the few, who thence return'd
To their high rocky fortress, mourn'd
For him among the matchless dead
They left behind on glory's bed,
He liv'd, and, in the face of morn,
Laugh'd them and Faith and Heaven to scorn.
There lurk'd one wretch among the few
254
Around him on that Fiery Mount,—
One miscreant, who for gold betray'd
The pathway through the valley's shade
To those high towers, where Freedom stood
In her last hold of flame and blood.
Left on the field last dreadful night,
When, sallying from their Sacred height,
The Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight,
He lay—but died not with the brave;
That sun, which should have gilt his grave,
Saw him a traitor and a slave;—
And, while the few, who thence return'd
To their high rocky fortress, mourn'd
For him among the matchless dead
They left behind on glory's bed,
He liv'd, and, in the face of morn,
Laugh'd them and Faith and Heaven to scorn.
Oh for a tongue to curse the slave,
Whose treason, like a deadly blight,
Comes o'er the councils of the brave,
And blasts them in their hour of might!
May Life's unblessed cup for him
Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim,—
With hopes, that but allure to fly,
With joys, that vanish while he sips,
Like Dead-Sea fruits, that tempt the eye,
But turn to ashes on the lips!
His country's curse, his children's shame,
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame,
May he, at last, with lips of flame
On the parch'd desert thirsting die,—
While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh ,
Are fading off, untouch'd, untasted,
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted!
And, when from earth his spirit flies,
Just Prophet, let the damn'd-one dwell
Full in the sight of Paradise,
Beholding heaven, and feeling hell!
Whose treason, like a deadly blight,
Comes o'er the councils of the brave,
And blasts them in their hour of might!
255
Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim,—
With hopes, that but allure to fly,
With joys, that vanish while he sips,
Like Dead-Sea fruits, that tempt the eye,
But turn to ashes on the lips!
His country's curse, his children's shame,
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame,
May he, at last, with lips of flame
256
While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh ,
Are fading off, untouch'd, untasted,
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted!
And, when from earth his spirit flies,
Just Prophet, let the damn'd-one dwell
Full in the sight of Paradise,
Beholding heaven, and feeling hell!
Or Selemeh, the genuine name of the headland at the entrance of the Gulf, commonly called Cape Musseldom. “The Indians, when they pass the promontory, throw cocoa-nuts, fruits, or flowers into the sea, to secure a propitious voyage.” —Morier.
“The nightingale sings from the pomegranate-groves in the day-time, and from the loftiest trees at night.” —Russel's Aleppo.
In speaking of the climate of Shiraz, Francklin says, “The dew is of such a pure nature, that if the brightest scimitar should be exposed to it all night, it would not receive the least rust.”
The place where the Persians were finally defeated by the Arabs, and their ancient monarchy destroyed.
Derbend.—“Les Tures appellent cette ville Demir Capi, Porte de Fer; ce sont les Caspiæ Portæ des anciens.” —D'Herbelot.
The Talpot or Talipot tree. “This beautiful palm-tree, which grows in the heart of the forests, may be classed among the loftiest trees, and becomes still higher when on the point of bursting forth from its leafy summit. The sheath which then envelopes the flower is very large, and, when it bursts, makes an explosion like the report of a cannon.” —Thunberg.
Tahmuras, and other ancient Kings of Persia; whose adventures in Fairy-land among the Peris and Dives may be found in Richardson's curious Dissertation. The griffin Simoorgh, they say, took some feathers from her breast for Tahmuras, with which he adorned his helmet, and transmitted them afterwards to his descendants.
This rivulet, says Dandini, is called the Holy River from the “cedar-saints” among which it rises.
In the Lettres Edifiantes, there is a different cause assigned for its name of Holy. “In these are deep caverns, which formerly served as so many cells for a great number of recluses, who had chosen these retreats as the only witnesses upon earth of the severity of their penance. The tears of these pious penitents gave the river of which we have just treated the name of the Holy River.” —See Chateaubriand's Beauties of Christianity.
This mountain is my own creation, as the “stupendous chain,” of which I suppose it a link, does not extend quite so far as the shores of the Persian Gulf. “This long and lofty range of mountains formerly divided Media from Assyria, and now forms the boundary of the Persian and Turkish empires. It runs parallel with the river Tigris and Persian Gulf, and almost disappearing in the vicinity of Gomberoon (Harmozia) seems once more to rise in the southern districts of Kerman, and following an easterly course through the centre of Meckraun and Balouchistan, is entirely lost in the deserts of Sinde.” —Kinnier's Persian Empire.
“There is an extraordinary hill in this neighbourhood, called Kohé Gubr, or the Guebre's mountain. It rises in the form of a lofty cupola, and on the summit of it, they say, are the remains of an Atush Kudu or Fire Temple. It is superstitiously held to be the residence of Deeves or Sprites, and many marvellous stories are recounted of the injury and witchcraft suffered by those who essayed in former days to ascend or explore it.” —Pottinger's Beloochistan.
“At the city of Yezd, in Persia, which is distinguished by the appellation of the Darûb Abadut, or Seat of Religion, the Guebres are permitted to have an Atush Kudu or Fire Temple (which, they assert, has had the sacred fire in it since the days of Zoroaster) in their own compartment of the city; but for this indulgence they are indebted to the avarice, not the tolerance of the Persian government, which taxes them at twenty-five rupees each man.” —Pottinger's Beloochistan.
Ancient heroes of Persia. “Among the Guebres there are some, who boast their descent from Rustam.” —Stephen's Persia.
See Russel's account of the panther's attacking travellers in the night on the sea-shore about the roots of Lebanon.
“Among other ceremonies the Magi used to place upon the tops of high towers various kinds of rich viands, upon which it was supposed the Peris and the spirits of their departed heroes regaled themselves.” —Richardson.
In the ceremonies of the Ghebers round their Fire, as described by Lord, “the Daroo,” he says, “giveth them water to drink, and a pomegranate leaf to chew in the mouth, to cleanse them from inward uncleanness.”
“Early in the morning, they (the Parsees or Ghebers at Oulam) go in crowds to pay their devotions to the Sun, to whom upon all the altars there are spheres consecrated, made by magic, resembling the circles of the sun, and when the sun rises, these orbs seem to be inflamed, and to turn round with a great noise. They have every one a censer in their hands, and offer incense to the sun.” —Rabbi Benjamin.
“Nul d'entre eux oseroit se perjurer, quand il a pris à témoin cet élément terrible et vengeur.” —Encyclopédie Francoise.
“A vivid verdure succeeds the autumnal rains, and the ploughed fields are covered with the Persian lily, of a resplendent yellow colour.” —Russel's Aleppo.
“It is observed, with respect to the Sea of Herkend, that when it is tossed by tempestuous winds it sparkles like fire.” —Travels of Two Mohammedans.
A kind of trumpet;—it “was that used by Tamerlane, the sound of which is described as uncommonly dreadful, and so loud as to be heard at the distance of several miles.” —Richardson.
“Mohammed had two helmets, an interior and exterior one; the latter of which, called Al Mawashah, the fillet, wreath, or wreathed garland, he wore at the battle of Ohod.” —Universal History.
“They say that there are apple-trees upon the sides of this sea, which bear very lovely fruit, but within are all full of ashes.” —Thevenot. The same is asserted of the oranges there; v. Witman's Travels in Asiatic Turkey.
“The Asphalt Lake, known by the name of the Dead Sea, is very remarkable on account of the considerable proportion of salt which it contains. In this respect it surpasses every other known water on the surface of the earth. This great proportion of bitter tasted salts is the reason why neither animal nor plant can live in this water.”—Klaproth's Chemical Analysis of the Water of the Dead Sea, Annals of Philosophy, January, 1813. Hasselquist, however, doubts the truth of this last assertion, as there are shell-fish to be found in the lake.
Lord Byron has a similar allusion to the fruits of the Dead Sea, in that wonderful display of genius, his third Canto of Childe Harold,—magnificent beyond any thing, perhaps, that even he has ever written.
“The Suhrab or Water of the Desert is said to be caused by the rarefaction of the atmosphere from extreme heat; and, which augments the delusion, it is most frequent in hollows, where water might be expected to lodge. I have seen bushes and trees reflected in it, with as much accuracy as though it had been the face of a clear and still lake.” —Pottinger.
“As to the unbelievers, their works are like a vapour in a plain, which the thirsty traveller thinketh to be water, until when he cometh thereto he findeth it to be nothing.” —Koran, chap. 24.
260
The day is lowering—stilly black
Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack,
Dispers'd and wild, 'twixt earth and sky
Hangs like a shatter'd canopy.
There's not a cloud in that blue plain
But tells of storm to come or past;—
Here, flying loosely as the mane
Of a young war-horse in the blast;—
There, roll'd in masses dark and swelling,
As proud to be the thunder's dwelling!
While some, already burst and riven,
Seem melting down the verge of heaven;
As though the infant storm had rent
The mighty womb that gave him birth,
And, having swept the firmament,
Was now in fierce career for earth.
Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack,
Dispers'd and wild, 'twixt earth and sky
Hangs like a shatter'd canopy.
There's not a cloud in that blue plain
But tells of storm to come or past;—
Here, flying loosely as the mane
Of a young war-horse in the blast;—
There, roll'd in masses dark and swelling,
As proud to be the thunder's dwelling!
While some, already burst and riven,
Seem melting down the verge of heaven;
As though the infant storm had rent
The mighty womb that gave him birth,
And, having swept the firmament,
Was now in fierce career for earth.
On earth 'twas yet all calm around,
A pulseless silence, dread, profound,
More awful than the tempest's sound.
The diver steer'd for Ormus' bowers,
And moor'd his skiff till calmer hours;
The sea-birds, with portentous screech,
Flew fast to land;—upon the beach
The pilot oft had paus'd, with glance
Turn'd upward to that wild expanse;—
And all was boding, drear, and dark
As her own soul, when Hinda's bark
Went slowly from the Persian shore.—
No music tim'd her parting oar ,
Nor friends upon the lessening strand
Linger'd, to wave the unseen hand,
Or speak the farewell, heard no more;—
But lone, unheeded, from the bay
The vessel takes its mournful way,
Like some ill-destin'd bark that steers
In silence through the Gate of Tears.
And where was stern Al Hassan then?
Could not that saintly scourge of men
From bloodshed and devotion spare
One minute for a farewell there?
No—close within, in changeful fits
Of cursing and of prayer, he sits
In savage loneliness to brood
Upon the coming night of blood,—
With that keen, second-scent of death,
By which the vulture snuffs his food
In the still warm and living breath!
While o'er the wave his weeping daughter
Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter,—
As a young bird of Babylon ,
Let loose to tell of victory won,
Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstain'd
By the red hands that held her chain'd.
A pulseless silence, dread, profound,
More awful than the tempest's sound.
The diver steer'd for Ormus' bowers,
And moor'd his skiff till calmer hours;
261
Flew fast to land;—upon the beach
The pilot oft had paus'd, with glance
Turn'd upward to that wild expanse;—
And all was boding, drear, and dark
As her own soul, when Hinda's bark
Went slowly from the Persian shore.—
No music tim'd her parting oar ,
Nor friends upon the lessening strand
Linger'd, to wave the unseen hand,
Or speak the farewell, heard no more;—
But lone, unheeded, from the bay
The vessel takes its mournful way,
Like some ill-destin'd bark that steers
In silence through the Gate of Tears.
And where was stern Al Hassan then?
Could not that saintly scourge of men
262
One minute for a farewell there?
No—close within, in changeful fits
Of cursing and of prayer, he sits
In savage loneliness to brood
Upon the coming night of blood,—
With that keen, second-scent of death,
By which the vulture snuffs his food
In the still warm and living breath!
While o'er the wave his weeping daughter
Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter,—
As a young bird of Babylon ,
Let loose to tell of victory won,
Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstain'd
By the red hands that held her chain'd.
And does the long-left home she seeks
Light up no gladness on her cheeks?
The flowers she nurs'd—the well-known groves,
Where oft in dreams her spirit roves—
Once more to see her dear gazelles
Come bounding with their silver bells;
Her birds' new plumage to behold,
And the gay, gleaming fishes count,
She left, all filleted with gold,
Shooting around their jasper fount ;
Her little garden mosque to see,
And once again, at evening hour,
To tell her ruby rosary
In her own sweet acacia bower.—
Can these delights, that wait her now,
Call up no sunshine on her brow?
No,—silent, from her train apart,—
As if even now she felt at heart
The chill of her approaching doom,—
She sits, all lovely in her gloom
As a pale Angel of the Grave;
And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave,
Looks, with a shudder, to those towers,
Where, in a few short awful hours,
Blood, blood, in streaming tides shall run,
Foul incense for to-morrow's sun!
“Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou,
“So lov'd, so lost, where art thou now?
“Foe—Gheber—infidel—whate'er
“The' unhallow'd name thou'rt doom'd to bear,
“Still glorious—still to this fond heart
“Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art!
“Yes—Alla, dreadful Alla! yes—
“If there be wrong, be crime in this,
“Let the black waves that round us roll,
“Whelm me this instant, ere my soul,
“Forgetting faith—home—father—all—
“Before its earthly idol fall,
“Nor worship ev'n Thyself above him—
“For, oh, so wildly do I love him,
“Thy Paradise itself were dim
“And joyless, if not shar'd with him!”
Her hands were clasp'd—her eyes upturn'd,
Dropping their tears like moonlight rain;
And, though her lip, fond raver! burn'd
With words of passion, bold, profane,
Yet was there light around her brow,
A holiness in those dark eyes,
Which show'd,—though wandering earthward now,—
Her spirit's home was in the skies.
Yes—for a spirit pure as hers
Is always pure, ev'n while it errs;
As sunshine, broken in the rill,
Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still!
Light up no gladness on her cheeks?
The flowers she nurs'd—the well-known groves,
Where oft in dreams her spirit roves—
263
Come bounding with their silver bells;
Her birds' new plumage to behold,
And the gay, gleaming fishes count,
She left, all filleted with gold,
Shooting around their jasper fount ;
Her little garden mosque to see,
And once again, at evening hour,
To tell her ruby rosary
In her own sweet acacia bower.—
Can these delights, that wait her now,
Call up no sunshine on her brow?
No,—silent, from her train apart,—
As if even now she felt at heart
The chill of her approaching doom,—
She sits, all lovely in her gloom
264
And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave,
Looks, with a shudder, to those towers,
Where, in a few short awful hours,
Blood, blood, in streaming tides shall run,
Foul incense for to-morrow's sun!
“Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou,
“So lov'd, so lost, where art thou now?
“Foe—Gheber—infidel—whate'er
“The' unhallow'd name thou'rt doom'd to bear,
“Still glorious—still to this fond heart
“Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art!
“Yes—Alla, dreadful Alla! yes—
“If there be wrong, be crime in this,
“Let the black waves that round us roll,
“Whelm me this instant, ere my soul,
“Forgetting faith—home—father—all—
“Before its earthly idol fall,
“Nor worship ev'n Thyself above him—
“For, oh, so wildly do I love him,
“Thy Paradise itself were dim
“And joyless, if not shar'd with him!”
Her hands were clasp'd—her eyes upturn'd,
Dropping their tears like moonlight rain;
265
With words of passion, bold, profane,
Yet was there light around her brow,
A holiness in those dark eyes,
Which show'd,—though wandering earthward now,—
Her spirit's home was in the skies.
Yes—for a spirit pure as hers
Is always pure, ev'n while it errs;
As sunshine, broken in the rill,
Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still!
So wholly had her mind forgot
All thoughts but one, she heeded not
The rising storm—the wave that cast
A moment's midnight, as it pass'd—
Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread
Of gathering tumult o'er her head—
Clash'd swords, and tongues that seem'd to vie
With the rude riot of the sky.—
But, hark!—that war-whoop on the deck—
That crash, as if each engine there,
Mast, sails, and all, were gone to wreck,
Mid yells and stampings of despair!
Merciful Heaven! what can it be?
'Tis not the storm, though fearfully
The ship has shudder'd as she rode
O'er mountain-waves—“Forgive me, God!
“Forgive me”—shriek'd the maid, and knelt,
Trembling all over—for she felt
As if her judgment-hour was near;
While crouching round, half dead with fear,
Her handmaids clung, nor breath'd, nor stirr'd—
When, hark!—a second crash—a third—
And now, as if a bolt of thunder
Had riv'n the labouring planks asunder,
The deck falls in—what horrors then!
Blood, waves, and tackle, swords and men
Come mix'd together through the chasm,—
Some wretches in their dying spasm
Still fighting on—and some that call
“For God and Iran!” as they fall!
All thoughts but one, she heeded not
The rising storm—the wave that cast
A moment's midnight, as it pass'd—
Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread
Of gathering tumult o'er her head—
Clash'd swords, and tongues that seem'd to vie
With the rude riot of the sky.—
But, hark!—that war-whoop on the deck—
That crash, as if each engine there,
Mast, sails, and all, were gone to wreck,
Mid yells and stampings of despair!
266
'Tis not the storm, though fearfully
The ship has shudder'd as she rode
O'er mountain-waves—“Forgive me, God!
“Forgive me”—shriek'd the maid, and knelt,
Trembling all over—for she felt
As if her judgment-hour was near;
While crouching round, half dead with fear,
Her handmaids clung, nor breath'd, nor stirr'd—
When, hark!—a second crash—a third—
And now, as if a bolt of thunder
Had riv'n the labouring planks asunder,
The deck falls in—what horrors then!
Blood, waves, and tackle, swords and men
Come mix'd together through the chasm,—
Some wretches in their dying spasm
Still fighting on—and some that call
“For God and Iran!” as they fall!
Whose was the hand that turn'd away
The perils of the' infuriate fray,
And snatch'd her breathless from beneath
This wilderment of wreck and death?
She knew not—for a faintness came
Chill o'er her, and her sinking frame
Amid the ruins of that hour
Lay, like a pale and scorched flower,
Beneath the red volcano's shower.
But, oh! the sights and sounds of dread
That shock'd her ere her senses fled!
The yawning deck—the crowd that strove
Upon the tottering planks above—
The sail, whose fragments, shivering o'er
The strugglers' heads, all dash'd with gore
Flutter'd like bloody flags—the clash
Of sabres, and the lightning's flash
Upon their blades, high toss'd about
Like meteor brands —as if throughout
The elements one fury ran,
One general rage, that left a doubt
Which was the fiercer, Heav'n or Man!
The perils of the' infuriate fray,
And snatch'd her breathless from beneath
This wilderment of wreck and death?
267
Chill o'er her, and her sinking frame
Amid the ruins of that hour
Lay, like a pale and scorched flower,
Beneath the red volcano's shower.
But, oh! the sights and sounds of dread
That shock'd her ere her senses fled!
The yawning deck—the crowd that strove
Upon the tottering planks above—
The sail, whose fragments, shivering o'er
The strugglers' heads, all dash'd with gore
Flutter'd like bloody flags—the clash
Of sabres, and the lightning's flash
Upon their blades, high toss'd about
Like meteor brands —as if throughout
The elements one fury ran,
One general rage, that left a doubt
Which was the fiercer, Heav'n or Man!
Once too—but no—it could not be—
'Twas fancy all—yet once she thought,
While yet her fading eyes could see,
High on the ruin'd deck she caught
A glimpse of that unearthly form,
That glory of her soul,—even then,
Amid the whirl of wreck and storm,
Shining above his fellow-men,
As, on some black and troublous night,
The Star of Egypt , whose proud light
Never hath beam'd on those who rest
In the White Islands of the West ,
Burns through the storm with looks of flame
That put Heav'n's cloudier eyes to shame.
But no—'twas but the minute's dream—
A fantasy—and ere the scream
Had half-way pass'd her pallid lips,
A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse
Of soul and sense its darkness spread
Around her, and she sunk, as dead.
'Twas fancy all—yet once she thought,
While yet her fading eyes could see,
High on the ruin'd deck she caught
268
That glory of her soul,—even then,
Amid the whirl of wreck and storm,
Shining above his fellow-men,
As, on some black and troublous night,
The Star of Egypt , whose proud light
Never hath beam'd on those who rest
In the White Islands of the West ,
Burns through the storm with looks of flame
That put Heav'n's cloudier eyes to shame.
But no—'twas but the minute's dream—
A fantasy—and ere the scream
Had half-way pass'd her pallid lips,
A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse
Of soul and sense its darkness spread
Around her, and she sunk, as dead.
How calm, how beautiful comes on
The stilly hour, when storms are gone;
When warring winds have died away,
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,
Melt off, and leave the land and sea
Sleeping in bright tranquillity,—
Fresh as if Day again were born,
Again upon the lap of Morn!—
When the light blossoms, rudely torn
And scatter'd at the whirlwind's will,
Hang floating in the pure air still,
Filling it all with precious balm,
In gratitude for this sweet calm;—
And every drop the thunder-showers
Have left upon the grass and flowers
Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem
Whose liquid flame is born of them!
When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze,
There blow a thousand gentle airs,
And each a different perfume bears,—
As if the loveliest plants and trees
Had vassal breezes of their own
To watch and wait on them alone,
And waft no other breath than theirs:
When the blue waters rise and fall,
In sleepy sunshine mantling all;
And ev'n that swell the tempest leaves
Is like the full and silent heaves
Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest,
Too newly to be quite at rest.
The stilly hour, when storms are gone;
When warring winds have died away,
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,
269
Sleeping in bright tranquillity,—
Fresh as if Day again were born,
Again upon the lap of Morn!—
When the light blossoms, rudely torn
And scatter'd at the whirlwind's will,
Hang floating in the pure air still,
Filling it all with precious balm,
In gratitude for this sweet calm;—
And every drop the thunder-showers
Have left upon the grass and flowers
Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem
Whose liquid flame is born of them!
When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze,
There blow a thousand gentle airs,
And each a different perfume bears,—
As if the loveliest plants and trees
Had vassal breezes of their own
To watch and wait on them alone,
270
When the blue waters rise and fall,
In sleepy sunshine mantling all;
And ev'n that swell the tempest leaves
Is like the full and silent heaves
Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest,
Too newly to be quite at rest.
Such was the golden hour that broke
Upon the world, when Hinda woke
From her long trance, and heard around
No motion but the water's sound
Rippling against the vessel's side,
As slow it mounted o'er the tide.—
But where is she?—her eyes are dark,
Are wilder'd still—is this the bark,
The same, that from Harmozia's bay
Bore her at morn—whose bloody way
The sea-dog track'd?—no—strange and new
Is all that meets her wondering view.
Upon a galliot's deck she lies,
Beneath no rich pavilion's shade,—
No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes,
Nor jasmine on her pillow laid.
But the rude litter, roughly spread
With war-cloaks, is her homely bed,
And shawl and sash, on javelins hung,
For awning o'er her head are flung.
Shuddering she look'd around—there lay
A group of warriors in the sun,
Resting their limbs, as for that day
Their ministry of death were done.
Some gazing on the drowsy sea,
Lost in unconscious reverie;
And some, who seem'd but ill to brook
That sluggish calm, with many a look
To the slack sail impatient cast,
As loose it flagg'd around the mast.
Upon the world, when Hinda woke
From her long trance, and heard around
No motion but the water's sound
Rippling against the vessel's side,
As slow it mounted o'er the tide.—
But where is she?—her eyes are dark,
Are wilder'd still—is this the bark,
The same, that from Harmozia's bay
Bore her at morn—whose bloody way
The sea-dog track'd?—no—strange and new
Is all that meets her wondering view.
Upon a galliot's deck she lies,
Beneath no rich pavilion's shade,—
No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes,
Nor jasmine on her pillow laid.
271
With war-cloaks, is her homely bed,
And shawl and sash, on javelins hung,
For awning o'er her head are flung.
Shuddering she look'd around—there lay
A group of warriors in the sun,
Resting their limbs, as for that day
Their ministry of death were done.
Some gazing on the drowsy sea,
Lost in unconscious reverie;
And some, who seem'd but ill to brook
That sluggish calm, with many a look
To the slack sail impatient cast,
As loose it flagg'd around the mast.
Blest Alla! who shall save her now?
There's not in all that warrior band
One Arab sword, one turban'd brow
From her own Faithful Moslem land.
Their garb—the leathern belt that wraps
Each yellow vest —that rebel hue—
The Tartar fleece upon their caps
—
Yes—yes—her fears are all too true,
And Heav'n hath, in this dreadful hour,
Abandon'd her to Hafed's power;—
Hafed, the Gheber!—at the thought
Her very heart's blood chills within;
He, whom her soul was hourly taught
To loathe, as some foul fiend of sin,
Some minister, whom Hell had sent
To spread its blast, where'er he went,
And fling, as o'er our earth he trod,
His shadow betwixt man and God!
And she is now his captive,—thrown
In his fierce hands, alive, alone;
His the infuriate band she sees,
All infidels—all enemies!
What was the daring hope that then
Cross'd her like light'ning, as again,
With boldness that despair had lent,
She darted through that armed crowd
A look so searching, so intent,
That ev'n the sternest warrior bow'd
Abash'd, when he her glances caught,
As if he guess'd whose form they sought.
But no—she sees him not—'tis gone,
The vision that before her shone
Through all the maze of blood and storm,
Is fled—'twas but a phantom form—
One of those passing, rainbow dreams,
Half light, half shade, which Fancy's beams
Paint on the fleeting mists that roll
In trance or slumber round the soul.
There's not in all that warrior band
One Arab sword, one turban'd brow
From her own Faithful Moslem land.
Their garb—the leathern belt that wraps
Each yellow vest —that rebel hue—
272
Yes—yes—her fears are all too true,
And Heav'n hath, in this dreadful hour,
Abandon'd her to Hafed's power;—
Hafed, the Gheber!—at the thought
Her very heart's blood chills within;
He, whom her soul was hourly taught
To loathe, as some foul fiend of sin,
Some minister, whom Hell had sent
To spread its blast, where'er he went,
And fling, as o'er our earth he trod,
His shadow betwixt man and God!
And she is now his captive,—thrown
In his fierce hands, alive, alone;
His the infuriate band she sees,
All infidels—all enemies!
What was the daring hope that then
Cross'd her like light'ning, as again,
With boldness that despair had lent,
She darted through that armed crowd
A look so searching, so intent,
That ev'n the sternest warrior bow'd
273
As if he guess'd whose form they sought.
But no—she sees him not—'tis gone,
The vision that before her shone
Through all the maze of blood and storm,
Is fled—'twas but a phantom form—
One of those passing, rainbow dreams,
Half light, half shade, which Fancy's beams
Paint on the fleeting mists that roll
In trance or slumber round the soul.
But now the bark, with livelier bound,
Scales the blue wave—the crew's in motion,
The oars are out, and with light sound
Break the bright mirror of the ocean,
Scattering its brilliant fragments round.
And now she sees—with horror sees,
Their course is tow'rd that mountain-hold,—
Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze,
Where Mecca's godless enemies
Lie, like beleaguer'd scorpions, roll'd
In their last deadly, venomous fold!
Amid the' illumin'd land and flood
Sunless that mighty mountain stood;
Save where, above its awful head,
There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red,
As 'twere the flag of destiny
Hung out to mark where death would be!
Scales the blue wave—the crew's in motion,
The oars are out, and with light sound
Break the bright mirror of the ocean,
Scattering its brilliant fragments round.
And now she sees—with horror sees,
Their course is tow'rd that mountain-hold,—
Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze,
Where Mecca's godless enemies
Lie, like beleaguer'd scorpions, roll'd
In their last deadly, venomous fold!
Amid the' illumin'd land and flood
Sunless that mighty mountain stood;
274
There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red,
As 'twere the flag of destiny
Hung out to mark where death would be!
Had her bewilder'd mind the power
Of thought in this terrific hour,
She well might marvel where or how
Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow,
Since ne'er had Arab heard or known
Of path but through the glen alone.—
But every thought was lost in fear,
When, as their bounding bark drew near
The craggy base, she felt the waves
Hurry them tow'rd those dismal caves,
That from the Deep in windings pass
Beneath that Mount's volcanic mass;—
And loud a voice on deck commands
To lower the mast and light the brands!—
Instantly o'er the dashing tide
Within a cavern's mouth they glide,
Gloomy as that eternal Porch
Through which departed spirits go:—
Not ev'n the flare of brand and torch
Its flickering light could further throw
Than the thick flood that boil'd below.
Silent they floated—as if each
Sat breathless, and too aw'd for speech
In that dark chasm, where even sound
Seem'd dark,—so sullenly around
The goblin echoes of the cave
Mutter'd it o'er the long black wave,
As 'twere some secret of the grave!
Of thought in this terrific hour,
She well might marvel where or how
Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow,
Since ne'er had Arab heard or known
Of path but through the glen alone.—
But every thought was lost in fear,
When, as their bounding bark drew near
The craggy base, she felt the waves
Hurry them tow'rd those dismal caves,
That from the Deep in windings pass
Beneath that Mount's volcanic mass;—
And loud a voice on deck commands
To lower the mast and light the brands!—
Instantly o'er the dashing tide
Within a cavern's mouth they glide,
Gloomy as that eternal Porch
Through which departed spirits go:—
275
Its flickering light could further throw
Than the thick flood that boil'd below.
Silent they floated—as if each
Sat breathless, and too aw'd for speech
In that dark chasm, where even sound
Seem'd dark,—so sullenly around
The goblin echoes of the cave
Mutter'd it o'er the long black wave,
As 'twere some secret of the grave!
But soft—they pause—the current turns
Beneath them from its onward track;—
Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns
The vexed tide, all foaming, back,
And scarce the oars' redoubled force
Can stem the eddy's whirling force;
When, hark!—some desperate foot has sprung
Among the rocks—the chain is flung—
The oars are up—the grapple clings,
And the toss'd bark in moorings swings.
Just then, a day-beam through the shade
Broke tremulous—but, ere the maid
Can see from whence the brightness steals,
Upon her brow she shuddering feels
A viewless hand, that promptly ties
A bandage round her burning eyes;
While the rude litter where she lies,
Uplifted by the warrior throng,
O'er the steep rocks is borne along.
Beneath them from its onward track;—
Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns
The vexed tide, all foaming, back,
And scarce the oars' redoubled force
Can stem the eddy's whirling force;
When, hark!—some desperate foot has sprung
Among the rocks—the chain is flung—
The oars are up—the grapple clings,
And the toss'd bark in moorings swings.
Just then, a day-beam through the shade
Broke tremulous—but, ere the maid
276
Upon her brow she shuddering feels
A viewless hand, that promptly ties
A bandage round her burning eyes;
While the rude litter where she lies,
Uplifted by the warrior throng,
O'er the steep rocks is borne along.
Blest power of sunshine!—genial Day,
What balm, what life is in thy ray!
To feel thee is such real bliss,
That had the world no joy but this,
To sit in sunshine calm and sweet,—
It were a world too exquisite
For man to leave it for the gloom,
The deep, cold shadow of the tomb.
Ev'n Hinda, though she saw not where
Or whither wound the perilous road,
Yet knew by that awakening air,
Which suddenly around her glow'd,
That they had risen from darkness then,
And breath'd the sunny world again!
What balm, what life is in thy ray!
To feel thee is such real bliss,
That had the world no joy but this,
To sit in sunshine calm and sweet,—
It were a world too exquisite
For man to leave it for the gloom,
The deep, cold shadow of the tomb.
Ev'n Hinda, though she saw not where
Or whither wound the perilous road,
Yet knew by that awakening air,
Which suddenly around her glow'd,
That they had risen from darkness then,
And breath'd the sunny world again!
But soon this balmy freshness fled—
For now the steepy labyrinth led
Through damp and gloom—'mid crash of boughs,
And fall of loosen'd crags that rouse
The leopard from his hungry sleep,
Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey,
And long is heard, from steep to steep,
Chasing them down their thundering way!
The jackal's cry—the distant moan
Of the hyæna, fierce and lone—
And that eternal saddening sound
Of torrents in the glen beneath,
As 'twere the ever-dark Profound
That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death!
All, all is fearful—ev'n to see,
To gaze on those terrific things
She now but blindly hears, would be
Relief to her imaginings;
Since never yet was shape so dread,
But Fancy, thus in darkness thrown,
And by such sounds of horror fed,
Could frame more dreadful of her own.
For now the steepy labyrinth led
277
And fall of loosen'd crags that rouse
The leopard from his hungry sleep,
Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey,
And long is heard, from steep to steep,
Chasing them down their thundering way!
The jackal's cry—the distant moan
Of the hyæna, fierce and lone—
And that eternal saddening sound
Of torrents in the glen beneath,
As 'twere the ever-dark Profound
That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death!
All, all is fearful—ev'n to see,
To gaze on those terrific things
She now but blindly hears, would be
Relief to her imaginings;
Since never yet was shape so dread,
But Fancy, thus in darkness thrown,
And by such sounds of horror fed,
Could frame more dreadful of her own.
But does she dream? has Fear again
Perplex'd the workings of her brain,
Or did a voice, all music, then
Come from the gloom, low whispering near—
“Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here?”
She does not dream—all sense, all ear,
She drinks the words, “Thy Gheber's here.”
'Twas his own voice—she could not err—
Throughout the breathing world's extent
There was but one such voice for her,
So kind, so soft, so eloquent!
Oh, sooner shall the rose of May
Mistake her own sweet nightingale,
And to some meaner minstrel's lay
Open her bosom's glowing veil ,
Than Love shall ever doubt a tone,
A breath of the belovëd one!
Perplex'd the workings of her brain,
Or did a voice, all music, then
278
“Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here?”
She does not dream—all sense, all ear,
She drinks the words, “Thy Gheber's here.”
'Twas his own voice—she could not err—
Throughout the breathing world's extent
There was but one such voice for her,
So kind, so soft, so eloquent!
Oh, sooner shall the rose of May
Mistake her own sweet nightingale,
And to some meaner minstrel's lay
Open her bosom's glowing veil ,
Than Love shall ever doubt a tone,
A breath of the belovëd one!
Though blest, 'mid all her ills, to think
She has that one beloved near,
Whose smile, though met on ruin's brink,
Hath power to make ev'n ruin dear,—
Yet soon this gleam of rapture, crost
By fears for him, is chill'd and lost.
How shall the ruthless Hafed brook
That one of Gheber blood should look,
With aught but curses in his eye,
On her—a maid of Araby—
A Moslem maid—the child of him,
Whose bloody banner's dire success
Hath left their altars cold and dim,
And their fair land a wilderness!
And, worse than all, that night of blood
Which comes so fast—Oh! who shall stay
The sword, that once hath tasted food
Of Persian hearts, or turn its way?
What arm shall then the victim cover,
Or from her father shield her lover?
She has that one beloved near,
Whose smile, though met on ruin's brink,
Hath power to make ev'n ruin dear,—
Yet soon this gleam of rapture, crost
By fears for him, is chill'd and lost.
279
That one of Gheber blood should look,
With aught but curses in his eye,
On her—a maid of Araby—
A Moslem maid—the child of him,
Whose bloody banner's dire success
Hath left their altars cold and dim,
And their fair land a wilderness!
And, worse than all, that night of blood
Which comes so fast—Oh! who shall stay
The sword, that once hath tasted food
Of Persian hearts, or turn its way?
What arm shall then the victim cover,
Or from her father shield her lover?
“Save him, my God!” she inly cries—
“Save him this night—and if thine eyes
“Have ever welcom'd with delight
“The sinner's tears, the sacrifice
“Of sinners' hearts—guard him this night,
“And here, before thy throne, I swear
“From my heart's inmost core to tear
“Love, hope, remembrance, though they be
“Link'd with each quivering life-string there,
“And give it bleeding all to Thee!
“Let him but live,—the burning tear,
“The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear,
“Which have been all too much his own,
“Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone.
“Youth pass'd in penitence, and age
“In long and painful pilgrimage,
“Shall leave no traces of the flame
“That wastes me now—nor shall his name
“Ere bless my lips, but when I pray
“For his dear spirit, that away
“Casting from its angelic ray
“The' eclipse of earth, he, too, may shine
“Redeem'd, all glorious and all Thine!
“Think—think what victory to win
“One radiant soul like his from sin,—
“One wandering star of virtue back
“To its own native, heaven-ward track!
“Let him but live, and both are Thine,
“Together thine—for, blest or crost,
“Living or dead, his doom is mine,
“And, if he perish, both are lost!”
“Save him this night—and if thine eyes
“Have ever welcom'd with delight
“The sinner's tears, the sacrifice
“Of sinners' hearts—guard him this night,
“And here, before thy throne, I swear
“From my heart's inmost core to tear
“Love, hope, remembrance, though they be
“Link'd with each quivering life-string there,
280
“Let him but live,—the burning tear,
“The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear,
“Which have been all too much his own,
“Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone.
“Youth pass'd in penitence, and age
“In long and painful pilgrimage,
“Shall leave no traces of the flame
“That wastes me now—nor shall his name
“Ere bless my lips, but when I pray
“For his dear spirit, that away
“Casting from its angelic ray
“The' eclipse of earth, he, too, may shine
“Redeem'd, all glorious and all Thine!
“Think—think what victory to win
“One radiant soul like his from sin,—
“One wandering star of virtue back
“To its own native, heaven-ward track!
“Let him but live, and both are Thine,
“Together thine—for, blest or crost,
“Living or dead, his doom is mine,
“And, if he perish, both are lost!”
“The Gate of Tears, the straits or passage into the Red Sea, commonly called Babelmandel. It received this name from the old Arabians, on account of the danger of the navigation, and the number of shipwrecks by which it was distinguished; which induced them to consider as dead, and to wear mourning for all who had the boldness to hazard the passage through it into the Ethiopic ocean.” —Richardson.
“I have been told that whensoever an animal falls down dead, one or more vultures, unseen before, instantly appear.” —Pennant.
“They fasten some writing to the wings of a Bagdat, or Babylonian pigeon.” —Travels of certain Englishmen.
“The Empress of Jehan-Guire used to divert herself with feeding tame fish in her canals, some of which were many years afterwards known by fillets of gold, which she caused to be put round them.” —Harris.
“Le Tespih, qui est un chapelet, composé de 99 petites boules d'agathe, de jaspe, d'ambre, de corail, ou d'autre matière precieuse. J'en ai vu un superbe au Seigneur Jerpos; il étoit de belles et grosses perles parfaites et égales, estimé trente mille piastres.” —Toderini.
A precious stone of the Indies, called by the ancients, Ceraunium, because it was supposed to be found in places where thunder had fallen. Tertullian says it has a glittering appearance, as if there had been fire in it; and the author of the Dissertation in Harris's Voyages, supposes it to be the opal.
A frequent image among the oriental poets. “The nightingales warbled their enchanting notes, and rent the thin veils of the rose-bud and the rose.” —Jami.
283
To tearless eyes and hearts at ease
The leafy shores and sun-bright seas,
That lay beneath that mountain's height,
Had been a fair enchanting sight.
'Twas one of those ambrosial eves
A day of storm so often leaves
At its calm setting—when the West
Opens her golden bowers of rest,
And a moist radiance from the skies
Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes
Of some meek penitent, whose last,
Bright hours atone for dark ones past,
And whose sweet tears, o'er wrong forgiven,
Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven!
The leafy shores and sun-bright seas,
That lay beneath that mountain's height,
Had been a fair enchanting sight.
'Twas one of those ambrosial eves
A day of storm so often leaves
At its calm setting—when the West
Opens her golden bowers of rest,
And a moist radiance from the skies
Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes
Of some meek penitent, whose last,
Bright hours atone for dark ones past,
And whose sweet tears, o'er wrong forgiven,
Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven!
'Twas stillness all—the winds that late
Had rush'd through Kerman's almond groves,
And shaken from her bowers of date
That cooling feast the traveller loves ,
Now, lull'd to languor, scarcely curl
The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam
Limpid, as if her mines of pearl
Were melted all to form the stream:
And her fair islets, small and bright,
With their green shores reflected there,
Look like those Peri isles of light,
That hang by spell-work in the air.
Had rush'd through Kerman's almond groves,
And shaken from her bowers of date
That cooling feast the traveller loves ,
284
The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam
Limpid, as if her mines of pearl
Were melted all to form the stream:
And her fair islets, small and bright,
With their green shores reflected there,
Look like those Peri isles of light,
That hang by spell-work in the air.
But vainly did those glories burst
On Hinda's dazzled eyes, when first
The bandage from her brow was taken,
And, pale and aw'd as those who waken
In their dark tombs—when, scowling near,
The Searchers of the Grave appear,—
She shuddering turn'd to read her fate
In the fierce eyes that flash'd around;
And saw those towers all desolate,
That o'er her head terrific frown'd,
As if defying ev'n the smile
Of that soft heaven to gild their pile.
In vain with mingled hope and fear,
She looks for him whose voice so dear
Had come, like music, to her ear—
Strange, mocking dream! again 'tis fled.
And oh, the shoots, the pangs of dread
That through her inmost bosom run,
When voices from without proclaim
“Hafed, the Chief”—and, one by one,
The warriors shout that fearful name!
He comes—the rock resounds his tread—
How shall she dare to lift her head,
Or meet those eyes whose scorching glare
Not Yemen's boldest sons can bear?
In whose red beam, the Moslem tells,
Such rank and deadly lustre dwells,
As in those hellish fires that light
The mandrake's charnel leaves at night.
How shall she bear that voice's tone,
At whose loud battle-cry alone
Whole squadrons oft in panic ran,
Scatter'd like some vast caravan,
When, stretch'd at evening round the well,
They hear the thirsting tiger's yell.
On Hinda's dazzled eyes, when first
The bandage from her brow was taken,
And, pale and aw'd as those who waken
In their dark tombs—when, scowling near,
The Searchers of the Grave appear,—
She shuddering turn'd to read her fate
In the fierce eyes that flash'd around;
And saw those towers all desolate,
That o'er her head terrific frown'd,
As if defying ev'n the smile
Of that soft heaven to gild their pile.
285
She looks for him whose voice so dear
Had come, like music, to her ear—
Strange, mocking dream! again 'tis fled.
And oh, the shoots, the pangs of dread
That through her inmost bosom run,
When voices from without proclaim
“Hafed, the Chief”—and, one by one,
The warriors shout that fearful name!
He comes—the rock resounds his tread—
How shall she dare to lift her head,
Or meet those eyes whose scorching glare
Not Yemen's boldest sons can bear?
In whose red beam, the Moslem tells,
Such rank and deadly lustre dwells,
As in those hellish fires that light
The mandrake's charnel leaves at night.
How shall she bear that voice's tone,
At whose loud battle-cry alone
Whole squadrons oft in panic ran,
Scatter'd like some vast caravan,
286
They hear the thirsting tiger's yell.
Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down,
Shrinking beneath the fiery frown,
Which, fancy tells her, from that brow
Is flashing o'er her fiercely now:
And shuddering as she hears the tread
Of his retiring warrior band.—
Never was pause so full of dread;
Till Hafed with a trembling hand
Took hers, and, leaning o'er her, said,
“Hinda;”—that word was all he spoke,
And 'twas enough—the shriek that broke
From her full bosom, told the rest.—
Panting with terror, joy, surprise,
The maid but lifts her wondering eyes,
To hide them on her Gheber's breast!
'Tis he, 'tis he—the man of blood,
The fellest of the Fire-fiend's brood,
Hafed, the demon of the fight,
Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,—
Is her own loved Gheber, mild
And glorious as when first he smil'd
In her lone tower, and left such beams
Of his pure eye to light her dreams,
That she believ'd her bower had given
Rest to some wanderer from heaven!
Shrinking beneath the fiery frown,
Which, fancy tells her, from that brow
Is flashing o'er her fiercely now:
And shuddering as she hears the tread
Of his retiring warrior band.—
Never was pause so full of dread;
Till Hafed with a trembling hand
Took hers, and, leaning o'er her, said,
“Hinda;”—that word was all he spoke,
And 'twas enough—the shriek that broke
From her full bosom, told the rest.—
Panting with terror, joy, surprise,
The maid but lifts her wondering eyes,
To hide them on her Gheber's breast!
'Tis he, 'tis he—the man of blood,
The fellest of the Fire-fiend's brood,
Hafed, the demon of the fight,
Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,—
Is her own loved Gheber, mild
And glorious as when first he smil'd
287
Of his pure eye to light her dreams,
That she believ'd her bower had given
Rest to some wanderer from heaven!
Moments there are, and this was one,
Snatch'd like a minute's gleam of sun
Amid the black Simoom's eclipse—
Or, like those verdant spots that bloom
Around the crater's burning lips,
Sweetening the very edge of doom!
The past—the future—all that Fate
Can bring of dark or desperate
Around such hours, but makes them cast
Intenser radiance while they last!
Snatch'd like a minute's gleam of sun
Amid the black Simoom's eclipse—
Or, like those verdant spots that bloom
Around the crater's burning lips,
Sweetening the very edge of doom!
The past—the future—all that Fate
Can bring of dark or desperate
Around such hours, but makes them cast
Intenser radiance while they last!
Ev'n he, this youth—though dimm'd and gone
Each star of Hope that cheer'd him on—
His glories lost—his cause betray'd—
Iran, his dear-lov'd country, made
A land of carcasses and slaves,
One dreary waste of chains and graves!—
Himself but lingering, dead at heart,
To see the last, long struggling breath
Of Liberty's great soul depart,
Then lay him down and share her death—
Ev'n he, so sunk in wretchedness,
With doom still darker gathering o'er him,
Yet, in this moment's pure caress,
In the mild eyes that shone before him,
Beaming that blest assurance, worth
All other transports known on earth,
That he was lov'd—well, warmly lov'd—
Oh! in this precious hour he prov'd
How deep, how thorough-felt the glow
Of rapture, kindling out of woe;—
How exquisite one single drop
Of bliss, thus sparkling to the top
Of misery's cup—how keenly quaff'd,
Though death must follow on the draught!
Each star of Hope that cheer'd him on—
His glories lost—his cause betray'd—
Iran, his dear-lov'd country, made
A land of carcasses and slaves,
One dreary waste of chains and graves!—
Himself but lingering, dead at heart,
To see the last, long struggling breath
288
Then lay him down and share her death—
Ev'n he, so sunk in wretchedness,
With doom still darker gathering o'er him,
Yet, in this moment's pure caress,
In the mild eyes that shone before him,
Beaming that blest assurance, worth
All other transports known on earth,
That he was lov'd—well, warmly lov'd—
Oh! in this precious hour he prov'd
How deep, how thorough-felt the glow
Of rapture, kindling out of woe;—
How exquisite one single drop
Of bliss, thus sparkling to the top
Of misery's cup—how keenly quaff'd,
Though death must follow on the draught!
She, too, while gazing on those eyes
That sink into her soul so deep,
Forgets all fears, all miseries,
Or feels them like the wretch in sleep,
Whom fancy cheats into a smile,
Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while!
The mighty Ruins where they stood,
Upon the mount's high, rocky verge,
Lay open tow'rds the ocean flood,
Where lightly o'er the illumin'd surge
Many a fair bark that, all the day,
Had lurk'd in sheltering creek or bay
Now bounded on, and gave their sails,
Yet dripping, to the evening gales;
Like eagles, when the storm is done,
Spreading their wet wings in the sun.
The beauteous clouds, though daylight's Star
Had sunk behind the hills of Lar,
Were still with lingering glories bright,—
As if, to grace the gorgeous West,
The Spirit of departing Light
That eve had left his sunny vest
Behind him, ere he wing'd his flight.
Never was scene so form'd for love!
Beneath them waves of crystal move
In silent swell—Heav'n glows above,
And their pure hearts, to transport given,
Swell like the wave, and glow like Heav'n.
That sink into her soul so deep,
Forgets all fears, all miseries,
Or feels them like the wretch in sleep,
Whom fancy cheats into a smile,
Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while!
The mighty Ruins where they stood,
Upon the mount's high, rocky verge,
289
Where lightly o'er the illumin'd surge
Many a fair bark that, all the day,
Had lurk'd in sheltering creek or bay
Now bounded on, and gave their sails,
Yet dripping, to the evening gales;
Like eagles, when the storm is done,
Spreading their wet wings in the sun.
The beauteous clouds, though daylight's Star
Had sunk behind the hills of Lar,
Were still with lingering glories bright,—
As if, to grace the gorgeous West,
The Spirit of departing Light
That eve had left his sunny vest
Behind him, ere he wing'd his flight.
Never was scene so form'd for love!
Beneath them waves of crystal move
In silent swell—Heav'n glows above,
And their pure hearts, to transport given,
Swell like the wave, and glow like Heav'n.
But ah! too soon that dream is past—
Again, again her fear returns;—
Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast,
More faintly the horizon burns,
And every rosy tint that lay
On the smooth sea hath died away.
Hastily to the darkening skies
A glance she casts—then wildly cries
“At night, he said—and, look, 'tis near—
“Fly, fly—if yet thou lov'st me, fly—
“Soon will his murderous band be here,
“And I shall see thee bleed and die.—
“Hush! heard'st thou not the tramp of men
“Sounding from yonder fearful glen?—
“Perhaps ev'n now they climb the wood—
“Fly, fly—though still the West is bright,
“He'll come—oh! yes—he wants thy blood—
“I know him—he'll not wait for night!”
Again, again her fear returns;—
290
More faintly the horizon burns,
And every rosy tint that lay
On the smooth sea hath died away.
Hastily to the darkening skies
A glance she casts—then wildly cries
“At night, he said—and, look, 'tis near—
“Fly, fly—if yet thou lov'st me, fly—
“Soon will his murderous band be here,
“And I shall see thee bleed and die.—
“Hush! heard'st thou not the tramp of men
“Sounding from yonder fearful glen?—
“Perhaps ev'n now they climb the wood—
“Fly, fly—though still the West is bright,
“He'll come—oh! yes—he wants thy blood—
“I know him—he'll not wait for night!”
In terrors ev'n to agony
She clings around the wondering Chief;—
“Alas, poor wilder'd maid! to me
“Thou ow'st this raving trance of grief.
“Lost as I am, nought ever grew
“Beneath my shade but perish'd too—
“My doom is like the Dead Sea air,
“And nothing lives that enters there!
“Why were our barks together driven
“Beneath this morning's furious heaven?
“Why, when I saw the prize that chance
“Had thrown into my desperate arms,—
“When, casting but a single glance
“Upon thy pale and prostrate charms,
“I vow'd (though watching viewless o'er
“Thy safety through that hour's alarms)
“To meet the' unmanning sight no more—
“Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow?
“Why weakly, madly met thee now?—
“Start not—that noise is but the shock
“Of torrents through yon valley hurl'd—
“Dread nothing here—upon this rock
“We stand above the jarring world,
“Alike beyond its hope—its dread—
“In gloomy safety, like the Dead!
“Or, could ev'n earth and hell unite
“In league to storm this Sacred Height,
“Fear nothing thou—myself, to-night,
“And each o'erlooking star that dwells
“Near God will be thy sentinels;—
“And, ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow,
“Back to thy sire—”
“To-morrow!—no—”
The maiden scream'd—“thou'lt never see
“To-morrow's sun—death, death will be
“The night-cry through each reeking tower,
“Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour!
“Thou art betray'd—some wretch who knew
“That dreadful glen's mysterious clew—
“Nay, doubt not—by yon stars, 'tis true—
“Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire;
“This morning, with that smile so dire
“He wears in joy, he told me all,
“And stamp'd in triumph through our hall,
“As though thy heart already beat
“Its last life-throb beneath his feet!
“Good Heav'n, how little dream'd I then
“His victim was my own lov'd youth!—
“Fly—send—let some one watch the glen—
“By all my hopes of heaven 'tis truth!”
She clings around the wondering Chief;—
“Alas, poor wilder'd maid! to me
“Thou ow'st this raving trance of grief.
“Lost as I am, nought ever grew
“Beneath my shade but perish'd too—
291
“And nothing lives that enters there!
“Why were our barks together driven
“Beneath this morning's furious heaven?
“Why, when I saw the prize that chance
“Had thrown into my desperate arms,—
“When, casting but a single glance
“Upon thy pale and prostrate charms,
“I vow'd (though watching viewless o'er
“Thy safety through that hour's alarms)
“To meet the' unmanning sight no more—
“Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow?
“Why weakly, madly met thee now?—
“Start not—that noise is but the shock
“Of torrents through yon valley hurl'd—
“Dread nothing here—upon this rock
“We stand above the jarring world,
“Alike beyond its hope—its dread—
“In gloomy safety, like the Dead!
“Or, could ev'n earth and hell unite
“In league to storm this Sacred Height,
“Fear nothing thou—myself, to-night,
“And each o'erlooking star that dwells
“Near God will be thy sentinels;—
292
“Back to thy sire—”
“To-morrow!—no—”
The maiden scream'd—“thou'lt never see
“To-morrow's sun—death, death will be
“The night-cry through each reeking tower,
“Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour!
“Thou art betray'd—some wretch who knew
“That dreadful glen's mysterious clew—
“Nay, doubt not—by yon stars, 'tis true—
“Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire;
“This morning, with that smile so dire
“He wears in joy, he told me all,
“And stamp'd in triumph through our hall,
“As though thy heart already beat
“Its last life-throb beneath his feet!
“Good Heav'n, how little dream'd I then
“His victim was my own lov'd youth!—
“Fly—send—let some one watch the glen—
“By all my hopes of heaven 'tis truth!”
Oh! colder than the wind that freezes
Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd,
Is that congealing pang which seizes
The trusting bosom, when betray'd.
He felt it—deeply felt—and stood,
As if the tale had froz'n his blood,
So maz'd and motionless was he;—
Like one whom sudden spells enchant,
Or some mute, marble habitant
Of the still Halls of Ishmonie!
Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd,
293
The trusting bosom, when betray'd.
He felt it—deeply felt—and stood,
As if the tale had froz'n his blood,
So maz'd and motionless was he;—
Like one whom sudden spells enchant,
Or some mute, marble habitant
Of the still Halls of Ishmonie!
But soon the painful chill was o'er,
And his great soul, herself once more,
Look'd from his brow in all the rays
Of her best, happiest, grandest days.
Never, in moment most elate,
Did that high spirit loftier rise;—
While bright, serene, determinate,
His looks are lifted to the skies,
As if the signal lights of Fate
Were shining in those awful eyes!
'Tis come—his hour of martyrdom
In Iran's sacred cause is come;
And, though his life hath pass'd away
Like lightning on a stormy day,
Yet shall his death-hour leave a track
Of glory, permanent and bright,
To which the brave of after-times,
The suffering brave, shall long look back
With proud regret,—and by its light
Watch through the hours of slavery's night
For vengeance on the' oppressor's crimes.
This rock, his monument aloft,
Shall speak the tale to many an age;
And hither bards and heroes oft
Shall come in secret pilgrimage,
And bring their warrior sons, and tell
The wondering boys where Hafed fell;
And swear them on those lone remains
Of their lost country's ancient fanes,
Never—while breath of life shall live
Within them—never to forgive
The' accursed race, whose ruthless chain
Hath left on Iran's neck a stain
Blood, blood alone can cleanse again!
And his great soul, herself once more,
Look'd from his brow in all the rays
Of her best, happiest, grandest days.
Never, in moment most elate,
Did that high spirit loftier rise;—
While bright, serene, determinate,
His looks are lifted to the skies,
As if the signal lights of Fate
Were shining in those awful eyes!
'Tis come—his hour of martyrdom
In Iran's sacred cause is come;
294
Like lightning on a stormy day,
Yet shall his death-hour leave a track
Of glory, permanent and bright,
To which the brave of after-times,
The suffering brave, shall long look back
With proud regret,—and by its light
Watch through the hours of slavery's night
For vengeance on the' oppressor's crimes.
This rock, his monument aloft,
Shall speak the tale to many an age;
And hither bards and heroes oft
Shall come in secret pilgrimage,
And bring their warrior sons, and tell
The wondering boys where Hafed fell;
And swear them on those lone remains
Of their lost country's ancient fanes,
Never—while breath of life shall live
Within them—never to forgive
The' accursed race, whose ruthless chain
Hath left on Iran's neck a stain
Blood, blood alone can cleanse again!
Such are the swelling thoughts that now
Enthrone themselves on Hafed's brow;
And ne'er did Saint of Issa
gaze
On the red wreath, for martyrs twin'd,
More proudly than the youth surveys
That pile, which through the gloom behind,
Half lighted by the altar's fire,
Glimmers—his destin'd funeral pyre!
Heap'd by his own, his comrades' hands,
Of every wood of odorous breath,
There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands,
Ready to fold in radiant death
The few still left of those who swore
To perish there, when hope was o'er—
The few, to whom that couch of flame,
Which rescues them from bonds and shame,
Is sweet and welcome as the bed
For their own infant Prophet spread,
When pitying Heav'n to roses turn'd
The death-flames that beneath him burn'd!
Enthrone themselves on Hafed's brow;
295
On the red wreath, for martyrs twin'd,
More proudly than the youth surveys
That pile, which through the gloom behind,
Half lighted by the altar's fire,
Glimmers—his destin'd funeral pyre!
Heap'd by his own, his comrades' hands,
Of every wood of odorous breath,
There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands,
Ready to fold in radiant death
The few still left of those who swore
To perish there, when hope was o'er—
The few, to whom that couch of flame,
Which rescues them from bonds and shame,
Is sweet and welcome as the bed
For their own infant Prophet spread,
When pitying Heav'n to roses turn'd
The death-flames that beneath him burn'd!
296
With watchfulness the maid attends
His rapid glance, where'er it bends—
Why shoot his eyes such awful beams?
What plans he now? what thinks or dreams?
Alas! why stands he musing here,
When every moment teems with fear?
“Hafed, my own beloved Lord,”
She kneeling cries—“first, last ador'd!
“If in that soul thou'st ever felt
“Half what thy lips impassion'd swore,
“Here, on my knees that never knelt
“To any but their God before,
“I pray thee, as thou lov'st me, fly—
“Now, now—ere yet their blades are nigh.
“Oh haste—the bark that bore me hither
“Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea
“East—west—alas, I care not whither,
“So thou art safe, and I with thee!
“Go where we will, this hand in thine,
“Those eyes before me smiling thus,
“Through good and ill, through storm and shine,
“The world's a world of love for us!
“On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell,
“Where 'tis no crime to love too well;—
“Where thus to worship tenderly
“An erring child of light like thee
“Will not be sin—or, if it be,
“Where we may weep our faults away,
“Together kneeling, night and day,
“Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine,
“And I—at any God's, for thine!”
His rapid glance, where'er it bends—
Why shoot his eyes such awful beams?
What plans he now? what thinks or dreams?
Alas! why stands he musing here,
When every moment teems with fear?
“Hafed, my own beloved Lord,”
She kneeling cries—“first, last ador'd!
“If in that soul thou'st ever felt
“Half what thy lips impassion'd swore,
“Here, on my knees that never knelt
“To any but their God before,
“I pray thee, as thou lov'st me, fly—
“Now, now—ere yet their blades are nigh.
“Oh haste—the bark that bore me hither
“Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea
“East—west—alas, I care not whither,
“So thou art safe, and I with thee!
“Go where we will, this hand in thine,
“Those eyes before me smiling thus,
297
“The world's a world of love for us!
“On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell,
“Where 'tis no crime to love too well;—
“Where thus to worship tenderly
“An erring child of light like thee
“Will not be sin—or, if it be,
“Where we may weep our faults away,
“Together kneeling, night and day,
“Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine,
“And I—at any God's, for thine!”
Wildly these passionate words she spoke—
Then hung her head, and wept for shame;
Sobbing, as if a heart-string broke
With every deep-heav'd sob that came.
While he, young, warm—oh! wonder not
If, for a moment, pride and fame,
His oath—his cause—that shrine of flame,
And Iran's self are all forgot
For her whom at his feet he sees
Kneeling in speechless agonies.
No, blame him not, if Hope awhile
Dawn'd in his soul, and threw her smile
O'er hours to come—o'er days and nights,
Wing'd with those precious, pure delights
Which she, who bends all beauteous there,
Was born to kindle and to share.
A tear or two, which, as he bow'd
To raise the suppliant, trembling stole,
First warn'd him of this dangerous cloud
Of softness passing o'er his soul.
Starting, he brush'd the drops away,
Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray;—
Like one who, on the morn of fight,
Shakes from his sword the dews of night,
That had but dimm'd, not stain'd its light.
Then hung her head, and wept for shame;
Sobbing, as if a heart-string broke
With every deep-heav'd sob that came.
While he, young, warm—oh! wonder not
If, for a moment, pride and fame,
His oath—his cause—that shrine of flame,
And Iran's self are all forgot
For her whom at his feet he sees
Kneeling in speechless agonies.
No, blame him not, if Hope awhile
Dawn'd in his soul, and threw her smile
298
Wing'd with those precious, pure delights
Which she, who bends all beauteous there,
Was born to kindle and to share.
A tear or two, which, as he bow'd
To raise the suppliant, trembling stole,
First warn'd him of this dangerous cloud
Of softness passing o'er his soul.
Starting, he brush'd the drops away,
Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray;—
Like one who, on the morn of fight,
Shakes from his sword the dews of night,
That had but dimm'd, not stain'd its light.
Yet, though subdued the' unnerving thrill,
Its warmth, its weakness linger'd still
So touching in each look and tone,
That the fond, fearing, hoping maid
Half counted on the flight she pray'd,
Half thought the hero's soul was grown
As soft, as yielding as her own,
And smil'd and bless'd him, while he said,—
“Yes—if there be some happier sphere,
“Where fadeless truth like ours is dear,—
“If there be any land of rest
“For those who love and ne'er forget,
“Oh! comfort thee—for safe and blest
“We'll meet in that calm region yet!”
Its warmth, its weakness linger'd still
So touching in each look and tone,
That the fond, fearing, hoping maid
Half counted on the flight she pray'd,
Half thought the hero's soul was grown
As soft, as yielding as her own,
And smil'd and bless'd him, while he said,—
“Yes—if there be some happier sphere,
“Where fadeless truth like ours is dear,—
299
“For those who love and ne'er forget,
“Oh! comfort thee—for safe and blest
“We'll meet in that calm region yet!”
Scarce had she time to ask her heart
If good or ill these words impart,
When the rous'd youth impatient flew
To the tower-wall, where, high in view,
A ponderous sea-horn hung, and blew
A signal, deep and dread as those
The storm-fiend at his rising blows.—
Full well his Chieftains, sworn and true
Through life and death, that signal knew;
For 'twas the' appointed warning-blast,
The' alarm, to tell when hope was past,
And the tremendous death-die cast!
And there, upon the mouldering tower,
Hath hung this sea-horn many an hour,
Ready to sound o'er land and sea
That dirge-note of the brave and free.
They came—his Chieftains at the call
Came slowly round, and with them all—
Alas, how few!—the worn remains
Of those who late o'er Kerman's plains
Went gaily prancing to the clash
Of Moorish zel and tymbalon,
Catching new hope from every flash
Of their long lances in the sun,
And, as their coursers charg'd the wind,
And the white ox-tails stream'd behind ,
Looking, as if the steeds they rode
Were wing'd, and every Chief a God!
How fall'n, how alter'd now! how wan
Each scarr'd and faded visage shone,
As round the burning shrine they came;—
How deadly was the glare it cast,
As mute they paus'd before the flame
To light their torches as they pass'd!
'Twas silence all—the youth hath plann'd
The duties of his soldier-band;
And each determin'd brow declares
His faithful Chieftains well know theirs.
If good or ill these words impart,
When the rous'd youth impatient flew
To the tower-wall, where, high in view,
A ponderous sea-horn hung, and blew
A signal, deep and dread as those
The storm-fiend at his rising blows.—
Full well his Chieftains, sworn and true
Through life and death, that signal knew;
For 'twas the' appointed warning-blast,
The' alarm, to tell when hope was past,
And the tremendous death-die cast!
And there, upon the mouldering tower,
Hath hung this sea-horn many an hour,
Ready to sound o'er land and sea
That dirge-note of the brave and free.
300
Came slowly round, and with them all—
Alas, how few!—the worn remains
Of those who late o'er Kerman's plains
Went gaily prancing to the clash
Of Moorish zel and tymbalon,
Catching new hope from every flash
Of their long lances in the sun,
And, as their coursers charg'd the wind,
And the white ox-tails stream'd behind ,
Looking, as if the steeds they rode
Were wing'd, and every Chief a God!
How fall'n, how alter'd now! how wan
Each scarr'd and faded visage shone,
As round the burning shrine they came;—
How deadly was the glare it cast,
As mute they paus'd before the flame
To light their torches as they pass'd!
'Twas silence all—the youth hath plann'd
The duties of his soldier-band;
301
His faithful Chieftains well know theirs.
But minutes speed—night gems the skies—
And oh, how soon, ye blessed eyes,
That look from heaven, ye may behold
Sights that will turn your star-fires cold!
Breathless with awe, impatience, hope,
The maiden sees the veteran group
Her litter silently prepare,
And lay it at her trembling feet;—
And now the youth, with gentle care,
Hath plac'd her in the shelter'd seat,
And press'd her hand—that lingering press
Of hands, that for the last time sever;
Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness,
When that hold breaks, is dead for ever.
And yet to her this sad caress
Gives hope—so fondly hope can err!
'Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess—
Their happy flight's dear harbinger;
'Twas warmth—assurance—tenderness—
'Twas any thing but leaving her.
“Haste, haste!” she cried, “the clouds grow dark,
“But still, ere night, we'll reach the bark;
“And by to-morrow's dawn—oh bliss!
“With thee upon the sun-bright deep,
“Far off, I'll but remember this,
“As some dark vanish'd dream of sleep;
“And thou—” but ah!—he answers not—
Good Heavn'!—and does she go alone?
She now has reach'd that dismal spot,
Where, some hours since, his voice's tone
Had come to soothe her fears and ills,
Sweet as the angel Israfil's ,
When every leaf on Eden's tree
Is trembling to his minstrelsy—
Yet now—oh, now, he is not nigh.—
“Hafed! my Hafed!—if it be
“Thy will, thy doom this night to die,
“Let me but stay to die with thee,
“And I will bless thy loved name,
“Till the last life-breath leave this frame.
“Oh! let our lips, our cheeks be laid
“But near each other while they fade;
“Let us but mix our parting breaths,
“And I can die ten thousand deaths!
“You too, who hurry me away
“So cruelly, one moment stay—
“Oh! stay—one moment is not much—
“He yet may come—for him I pray—
“Hafed! dear Hafed!—” all the way
In wild lamentings, that would touch
A heart of stone, she shriek'd his name
To the dark woods—no Hafed came:—
No—hapless pair—you've look'd your last:—
Your hearts should both have broken then:
The dream is o'er—your doom is cast—
You'll never meet on earth again!
And oh, how soon, ye blessed eyes,
That look from heaven, ye may behold
Sights that will turn your star-fires cold!
Breathless with awe, impatience, hope,
The maiden sees the veteran group
Her litter silently prepare,
And lay it at her trembling feet;—
And now the youth, with gentle care,
Hath plac'd her in the shelter'd seat,
And press'd her hand—that lingering press
Of hands, that for the last time sever;
Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness,
When that hold breaks, is dead for ever.
And yet to her this sad caress
Gives hope—so fondly hope can err!
'Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess—
Their happy flight's dear harbinger;
'Twas warmth—assurance—tenderness—
'Twas any thing but leaving her.
302
“But still, ere night, we'll reach the bark;
“And by to-morrow's dawn—oh bliss!
“With thee upon the sun-bright deep,
“Far off, I'll but remember this,
“As some dark vanish'd dream of sleep;
“And thou—” but ah!—he answers not—
Good Heavn'!—and does she go alone?
She now has reach'd that dismal spot,
Where, some hours since, his voice's tone
Had come to soothe her fears and ills,
Sweet as the angel Israfil's ,
When every leaf on Eden's tree
Is trembling to his minstrelsy—
Yet now—oh, now, he is not nigh.—
“Hafed! my Hafed!—if it be
“Thy will, thy doom this night to die,
“Let me but stay to die with thee,
“And I will bless thy loved name,
“Till the last life-breath leave this frame.
“Oh! let our lips, our cheeks be laid
“But near each other while they fade;
303
“And I can die ten thousand deaths!
“You too, who hurry me away
“So cruelly, one moment stay—
“Oh! stay—one moment is not much—
“He yet may come—for him I pray—
“Hafed! dear Hafed!—” all the way
In wild lamentings, that would touch
A heart of stone, she shriek'd his name
To the dark woods—no Hafed came:—
No—hapless pair—you've look'd your last:—
Your hearts should both have broken then:
The dream is o'er—your doom is cast—
You'll never meet on earth again!
Alas for him, who hears her cries!
Still half-way down the steep he stands,
Watching with fix'd and feverish eyes
The glimmer of those burning brands,
That down the rocks, with mournful ray,
Light all he loves on earth away!
Hopeless as they who, far at sea,
By the cold moon have just consign'd
The corse of one, lov'd tenderly,
To the bleak flood they leave behind;
And on the deck still lingering stay,
And long look back, with sad delay,
To watch the moonlight on the wave,
That ripples o'er that cheerless grave.
Still half-way down the steep he stands,
Watching with fix'd and feverish eyes
The glimmer of those burning brands,
That down the rocks, with mournful ray,
Light all he loves on earth away!
Hopeless as they who, far at sea,
By the cold moon have just consign'd
304
To the bleak flood they leave behind;
And on the deck still lingering stay,
And long look back, with sad delay,
To watch the moonlight on the wave,
That ripples o'er that cheerless grave.
But see—he starts—what heard he then?
That dreadful shout!—across the glen
From the land-side it comes, and loud
Rings through the chasm; as if the crowd
Of fearful things, that haunt that dell,
Its Gholes and Dives and shapes of hell,
Had all in one dread howl broke out,
So loud, so terrible that shout!
“They come—the Moslems come!”—he cries,
His proud soul mounting to his eyes,—
“Now, Spirits of the Brave, who roam
“Enfranchis'd through yon starry dome,
“Rejoice—for souls of kindred fire
“Are on the wing to join your choir!”
He said—and, light as bridegrooms bound
To their young loves, reclimb'd the steep
And gain'd the Shrine—his Chiefs stood round—
Their swords, as with instinctive leap,
Together, at that cry accurst,
Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst.
And hark!—again—again it rings;
Near and more near its echoings
Peal through the chasm—oh! who that then
Had seen those listening warrior-men,
With their swords grasp'd, their eyes of flame
Turn'd on their Chief—could doubt the shame,
The' indignant shame with which they thrill
To hear those shouts and yet stand still?
That dreadful shout!—across the glen
From the land-side it comes, and loud
Rings through the chasm; as if the crowd
Of fearful things, that haunt that dell,
Its Gholes and Dives and shapes of hell,
Had all in one dread howl broke out,
So loud, so terrible that shout!
“They come—the Moslems come!”—he cries,
His proud soul mounting to his eyes,—
“Now, Spirits of the Brave, who roam
“Enfranchis'd through yon starry dome,
“Rejoice—for souls of kindred fire
“Are on the wing to join your choir!”
He said—and, light as bridegrooms bound
To their young loves, reclimb'd the steep
305
Their swords, as with instinctive leap,
Together, at that cry accurst,
Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst.
And hark!—again—again it rings;
Near and more near its echoings
Peal through the chasm—oh! who that then
Had seen those listening warrior-men,
With their swords grasp'd, their eyes of flame
Turn'd on their Chief—could doubt the shame,
The' indignant shame with which they thrill
To hear those shouts and yet stand still?
He read their thoughts—they were his own—
“What! while our arms can wield these blades,
“Shall we die tamely? die alone?
“Without one victim to our shades,
“One Moslem heart, where, buried deep,
“The sabre from its toil may sleep?
“No—God of Iran's burning skies!
“Thou scorn'st the' inglorious sacrifice.
“No—though of all earth's hope bereft,
“Life, swords, and vengeance still are left.
“We'll make yon valley's reeking caves
“Live in the awe-struck minds of men,
“Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves
“Tell of the Gheber's bloody glen.
“Follow, brave hearts!—this pile remains
“Our refuge still from life and chains;
“But his the best, the holiest bed,
“Who sinks entomb'd in Moslem dead!”
“What! while our arms can wield these blades,
“Shall we die tamely? die alone?
“Without one victim to our shades,
“One Moslem heart, where, buried deep,
“The sabre from its toil may sleep?
“No—God of Iran's burning skies!
“Thou scorn'st the' inglorious sacrifice.
“No—though of all earth's hope bereft,
“Life, swords, and vengeance still are left.
306
“Live in the awe-struck minds of men,
“Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves
“Tell of the Gheber's bloody glen.
“Follow, brave hearts!—this pile remains
“Our refuge still from life and chains;
“But his the best, the holiest bed,
“Who sinks entomb'd in Moslem dead!”
Down the precipitous rocks they sprung,
While vigour, more than human, strung
Each arm and heart.—The' exulting foe
Still through the dark defiles below,
Track'd by his torches' lurid fire,
Wound slow, as through Golconda's vale
The mighty serpent, in his ire,
Glides on with glittering, deadly trail.
No torch the Ghebers need—so well
They know each mystery of the dell,
So oft have, in their wanderings,
Cross'd the wild race that round them dwell,
The very tigers from their delves
Look out, and let them pass, as things
Untam'd and fearless like themselves!
There was a deep ravine, that lay
Yet darkling in the Moslem's way;
Fit spot to make invaders rue
The many fall'n before the few.
The torrents from that morning's sky
Had fill'd the narrow chasm breast-high,
And, on each side, aloft and wild,
Huge cliffs and toppling crags were pil'd,—
The guards with which young Freedom lines
The pathways to her mountain-shrines.
Here, at this pass, the scanty band
Of Iran's last avengers stand;
Here wait, in silence like the dead,
And listen for the Moslem's tread
So anxiously, the carrion-bird
Above them flaps his wing unheard!
While vigour, more than human, strung
Each arm and heart.—The' exulting foe
Still through the dark defiles below,
Track'd by his torches' lurid fire,
Wound slow, as through Golconda's vale
The mighty serpent, in his ire,
Glides on with glittering, deadly trail.
No torch the Ghebers need—so well
They know each mystery of the dell,
So oft have, in their wanderings,
Cross'd the wild race that round them dwell,
The very tigers from their delves
Look out, and let them pass, as things
Untam'd and fearless like themselves!
307
Yet darkling in the Moslem's way;
Fit spot to make invaders rue
The many fall'n before the few.
The torrents from that morning's sky
Had fill'd the narrow chasm breast-high,
And, on each side, aloft and wild,
Huge cliffs and toppling crags were pil'd,—
The guards with which young Freedom lines
The pathways to her mountain-shrines.
Here, at this pass, the scanty band
Of Iran's last avengers stand;
Here wait, in silence like the dead,
And listen for the Moslem's tread
So anxiously, the carrion-bird
Above them flaps his wing unheard!
They come—that plunge into the water
Gives signal for the work of slaughter.
Now, Ghebers, now—if e'er your blades
Had point or prowess, prove them now—
Woe to the file that foremost wades!
They come—a falchion greets each brow,
And, as they tumble, trunk on trunk,
Beneath the gory waters sunk,
Still o'er their drowning bodies press
New victims quick and numberless;
Till scarce an arm in Hafed's band,
So fierce their toil, hath power to stir,
But listless from each crimson hand
The sword hangs, clogg'd with massacre.
Never was horde of tyrants met
With bloodier welcome—never yet
To patriot vengeance hath the sword
More terrible libations pour'd!
Gives signal for the work of slaughter.
Now, Ghebers, now—if e'er your blades
Had point or prowess, prove them now—
Woe to the file that foremost wades!
They come—a falchion greets each brow,
308
Beneath the gory waters sunk,
Still o'er their drowning bodies press
New victims quick and numberless;
Till scarce an arm in Hafed's band,
So fierce their toil, hath power to stir,
But listless from each crimson hand
The sword hangs, clogg'd with massacre.
Never was horde of tyrants met
With bloodier welcome—never yet
To patriot vengeance hath the sword
More terrible libations pour'd!
All up the dreary, long ravine,
By the red, murky glimmer seen
Of half-quench'd brands, that o'er the flood
Lie scatter'd round and burn in blood,
What ruin glares! what carnage swims!
Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs,
Lost swords that, dropp'd from many a hand,
In that thick pool of slaughter stand;—
Wretches who wading, half on fire
From the toss'd brands that round them fly,
'Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire;—
And some who, grasp'd by those that die,
Sink woundless with them, smother'd o'er
In their dead brethren's gushing gore!
By the red, murky glimmer seen
Of half-quench'd brands, that o'er the flood
Lie scatter'd round and burn in blood,
What ruin glares! what carnage swims!
Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs,
Lost swords that, dropp'd from many a hand,
In that thick pool of slaughter stand;—
Wretches who wading, half on fire
From the toss'd brands that round them fly,
309
And some who, grasp'd by those that die,
Sink woundless with them, smother'd o'er
In their dead brethren's gushing gore!
But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed,
Still hundreds, thousands more succeed;
Countless as tow'rds some flame at night
The North's dark insects wing their flight,
And quench or perish in its light,
To this terrific spot they pour—
Till, bridg'd with Moslem bodies o'er,
It bears aloft their slippery tread,
And o'er the dying and the dead,
Tremendous causeway! on they pass.
Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas,
What hope was left for you? for you,
Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice
Is smoking in their vengeful eyes;—
Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew,
And burn with shame to find how few.
Still hundreds, thousands more succeed;
Countless as tow'rds some flame at night
The North's dark insects wing their flight,
And quench or perish in its light,
To this terrific spot they pour—
Till, bridg'd with Moslem bodies o'er,
It bears aloft their slippery tread,
And o'er the dying and the dead,
Tremendous causeway! on they pass.
Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas,
What hope was left for you? for you,
Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice
Is smoking in their vengeful eyes;—
Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew,
And burn with shame to find how few.
Crush'd down by that vast multitude,
Some found their graves where first they stood;
While some with hardier struggle died,
And still fought on by Hafed's side,
Who, fronting to the foe, trod back
Tow'rds the high towers his gory track;
And, as a lion swept away
By sudden swell of Jordan's pride
From the wild covert where he lay ,
Long battles with the' o'erwhelming tide,
So fought he back with fierce delay,
And kept both foes and fate at bay.
Some found their graves where first they stood;
310
And still fought on by Hafed's side,
Who, fronting to the foe, trod back
Tow'rds the high towers his gory track;
And, as a lion swept away
By sudden swell of Jordan's pride
From the wild covert where he lay ,
Long battles with the' o'erwhelming tide,
So fought he back with fierce delay,
And kept both foes and fate at bay.
But whither now? their track is lost,
Their prey escap'd—guide, torches gone—
By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost,
The scatter'd crowd rush blindly on—
“Curse on those tardy lights that wind,”
They panting cry, “so far behind;
“Oh for a bloodhound's precious scent,
“To track the way the Gheber went!”
Vain wish—confusedly along
They rush, more desperate as more wrong:
Till, wilder'd by the far-off lights,
Yet glittering up those gloomy heights,
Their footing, maz'd and lost, they miss,
And down the darkling precipice
Are dash'd into the deep abyss;
Or midway hang, impal'd on rocks,
A banquet, yet alive, for flocks
Of ravening vultures,—while the dell
Re-echoes with each horrible yell.
Their prey escap'd—guide, torches gone—
By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost,
The scatter'd crowd rush blindly on—
“Curse on those tardy lights that wind,”
They panting cry, “so far behind;
“Oh for a bloodhound's precious scent,
“To track the way the Gheber went!”
311
They rush, more desperate as more wrong:
Till, wilder'd by the far-off lights,
Yet glittering up those gloomy heights,
Their footing, maz'd and lost, they miss,
And down the darkling precipice
Are dash'd into the deep abyss;
Or midway hang, impal'd on rocks,
A banquet, yet alive, for flocks
Of ravening vultures,—while the dell
Re-echoes with each horrible yell.
Those sounds—the last, to vengeance dear,
That e'er shall ring in Hafed's ear,—
Now reach'd him, as aloft, alone,
Upon the steep way breathless thrown,
He lay beside his reeking blade,
Resign'd, as if life's task were o'er,
Its last blood-offering amply paid,
And Iran's self could claim no more.
One only thought, one lingering beam
Now broke across his dizzy dream
Of pain and weariness—'twas she,
His heart's pure planet, shining yet
Above the waste of memory,
When all life's other lights were set.
And never to his mind before
Her image such enchantment wore.
It seem'd as if each thought that stain'd,
Each fear that chill'd their loves was past,
And not one cloud of earth remain'd
Between him and her radiance cast;—
As if to charms, before so bright,
New grace from other worlds was given,
And his soul saw her by the light
Now breaking o'er itself from heaven!
That e'er shall ring in Hafed's ear,—
Now reach'd him, as aloft, alone,
Upon the steep way breathless thrown,
He lay beside his reeking blade,
Resign'd, as if life's task were o'er,
Its last blood-offering amply paid,
And Iran's self could claim no more.
One only thought, one lingering beam
Now broke across his dizzy dream
Of pain and weariness—'twas she,
His heart's pure planet, shining yet
312
When all life's other lights were set.
And never to his mind before
Her image such enchantment wore.
It seem'd as if each thought that stain'd,
Each fear that chill'd their loves was past,
And not one cloud of earth remain'd
Between him and her radiance cast;—
As if to charms, before so bright,
New grace from other worlds was given,
And his soul saw her by the light
Now breaking o'er itself from heaven!
A voice spoke near him—'twas the tone
Of a lov'd friend, the only one
Of all his warriors, left with life
From that short night's tremendous strife.—
“And must we then, my chief, die here?
“Foes round us, and the Shrine so near!”
These words have rous'd the last remains
Of life within him—“what! not yet
“Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!”
The thought could make ev'n Death forget
His icy bondage—with a bound
He springs, all bleeding, from the ground,
And grasps his comrade's arm, now grown
Ev'n feebler, heavier than his own,
And up the painful pathway leads,
Death gaining on each step he treads.
Speed them, thou God, who heard'st their vow!
They mount—they bleed—oh save them now—
The crags are red they've clamber'd o'er,
The rock-weed's dripping with their gore;—
Thy blade too, Hafed, false at length,
Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength!
Haste, haste—the voices of the Foe
Come near and nearer from below—
One effort more—thank Heav'n! 'tis past,
They've gain'd the topmost steep at last.
And now they touch the temple's walls,
Now Hafed sees the Fire divine—
When, lo!—his weak, worn comrade falls
Dead on the threshold of the shrine.
“Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled!
“And must I leave thee withering here,
“The sport of every ruffian's tread,
“The mark for every coward's spear?
“No, by yon altar's sacred beams!”
He cries, and, with a strength that seems
Not of this world, uplifts the frame
Of the fall'n Chief, and tow'rds the flame
Bears him along;—with death-damp hand
The corpse upon the pyre he lays,
Then lights the consecrated brand,
And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze
Like lightning bursts o'er Oman's Sea.—
“Now, Freedom's God! I come to Thee,”
The youth exclaims, and with a smile
Of triumph vaulting on the pile,
In that last effort, ere the fires
Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires!
Of a lov'd friend, the only one
Of all his warriors, left with life
From that short night's tremendous strife.—
“And must we then, my chief, die here?
“Foes round us, and the Shrine so near!”
These words have rous'd the last remains
Of life within him—“what! not yet
“Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!”
The thought could make ev'n Death forget
313
He springs, all bleeding, from the ground,
And grasps his comrade's arm, now grown
Ev'n feebler, heavier than his own,
And up the painful pathway leads,
Death gaining on each step he treads.
Speed them, thou God, who heard'st their vow!
They mount—they bleed—oh save them now—
The crags are red they've clamber'd o'er,
The rock-weed's dripping with their gore;—
Thy blade too, Hafed, false at length,
Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength!
Haste, haste—the voices of the Foe
Come near and nearer from below—
One effort more—thank Heav'n! 'tis past,
They've gain'd the topmost steep at last.
And now they touch the temple's walls,
Now Hafed sees the Fire divine—
When, lo!—his weak, worn comrade falls
Dead on the threshold of the shrine.
“Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled!
“And must I leave thee withering here,
“The sport of every ruffian's tread,
“The mark for every coward's spear?
314
He cries, and, with a strength that seems
Not of this world, uplifts the frame
Of the fall'n Chief, and tow'rds the flame
Bears him along;—with death-damp hand
The corpse upon the pyre he lays,
Then lights the consecrated brand,
And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze
Like lightning bursts o'er Oman's Sea.—
“Now, Freedom's God! I come to Thee,”
The youth exclaims, and with a smile
Of triumph vaulting on the pile,
In that last effort, ere the fires
Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires!
What shriek was that on Oman's tide?
It came from yonder drifting bark,
That just hath caught upon her side
The death-light—and again is dark.
It is the boat—ah, why delay'd?—
That bears the wretched Moslem maid;
Confided to the watchful care
Of a small veteran band, with whom
Their generous Chieftain would not share
The secret of his final doom,
But hop'd when Hinda, safe and free,
Was render'd to her father's eyes,
Their pardon, full and prompt, would be
The ransom of so dear a prize.—
Unconscious, thus, of Hafed's fate,
And proud to guard their beauteous freight,
Scarce had they clear'd the surfy waves
That foam around those frightful caves,
When the curst war-whoops, known so well,
Came echoing from the distant dell—
Sudden each oar, upheld and still,
Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side,
And, driving at the current's will,
They rock'd along the whispering tide;
While every eye, in mute dismay,
Was tow'rd that fatal mountain turn'd,
Where the dim altar's quivering ray
As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd.
It came from yonder drifting bark,
That just hath caught upon her side
The death-light—and again is dark.
It is the boat—ah, why delay'd?—
That bears the wretched Moslem maid;
Confided to the watchful care
Of a small veteran band, with whom
315
The secret of his final doom,
But hop'd when Hinda, safe and free,
Was render'd to her father's eyes,
Their pardon, full and prompt, would be
The ransom of so dear a prize.—
Unconscious, thus, of Hafed's fate,
And proud to guard their beauteous freight,
Scarce had they clear'd the surfy waves
That foam around those frightful caves,
When the curst war-whoops, known so well,
Came echoing from the distant dell—
Sudden each oar, upheld and still,
Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side,
And, driving at the current's will,
They rock'd along the whispering tide;
While every eye, in mute dismay,
Was tow'rd that fatal mountain turn'd,
Where the dim altar's quivering ray
As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd.
Oh! 'tis not, Hinda, in the power
Of Fancy's most terrific touch
To paint thy pangs in that dread hour—
Thy silent agony—'twas such
As those who feel could paint too well,
But none e'er felt and liv'd to tell!
'Twas not alone the dreary state
Of a lorn spirit, crush'd by fate,
When, though no more remains to dread,
The panic chill will not depart;—
When, though the inmate Hope be dead,
Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart;
No—pleasures, hopes, affections gone,
The wretch may bear, and yet live on,
Like things, within the cold rock found
Alive, when all's congeal'd around.
But there's a blank repose in this,
A calm stagnation, that were bliss
To the keen, burning, harrowing pain,
Now felt through all thy breast and brain;—
That spasm of terror, mute, intense,
That breathless, agonis'd suspense,
From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching,
The heart hath no relief but breaking!
Calm is the wave—heav'n's brilliant lights
Reflected dance beneath the prow;—
Time was when, on such lovely nights,
She who is there, so desolate now,
Could sit all cheerful, though alone,
And ask no happier joy than seeing
That star-light o'er the waters thrown—
No joy but that, to make her blest,
And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being,
Which bounds in youth's yet careless breast,—
Itself a star, not borrowing light,
But in its own glad essence bright.
How different now!—but, hark, again
The yell of havoc rings—brave men!
In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand
On the bark's edge—in vain each hand
Half draws the falchion from its sheath;
All's o'er—in rust your blades may lie:—
He, at whose word they've scatter'd death,
Ev'n now, this night, himself must die!
Well may ye look to yon dim tower,
And ask, and wondering guess what means
The battle-cry at this dead hour—
Ah! she could tell you—she, who leans
Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast,
With brow against the dew-cold mast;—
Too well she knows—her more than life,
Her soul's first idol and its last,
Lies bleeding in that murderous strife.
Of Fancy's most terrific touch
316
Thy silent agony—'twas such
As those who feel could paint too well,
But none e'er felt and liv'd to tell!
'Twas not alone the dreary state
Of a lorn spirit, crush'd by fate,
When, though no more remains to dread,
The panic chill will not depart;—
When, though the inmate Hope be dead,
Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart;
No—pleasures, hopes, affections gone,
The wretch may bear, and yet live on,
Like things, within the cold rock found
Alive, when all's congeal'd around.
But there's a blank repose in this,
A calm stagnation, that were bliss
To the keen, burning, harrowing pain,
Now felt through all thy breast and brain;—
That spasm of terror, mute, intense,
That breathless, agonis'd suspense,
From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching,
The heart hath no relief but breaking!
317
Reflected dance beneath the prow;—
Time was when, on such lovely nights,
She who is there, so desolate now,
Could sit all cheerful, though alone,
And ask no happier joy than seeing
That star-light o'er the waters thrown—
No joy but that, to make her blest,
And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being,
Which bounds in youth's yet careless breast,—
Itself a star, not borrowing light,
But in its own glad essence bright.
How different now!—but, hark, again
The yell of havoc rings—brave men!
In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand
On the bark's edge—in vain each hand
Half draws the falchion from its sheath;
All's o'er—in rust your blades may lie:—
He, at whose word they've scatter'd death,
Ev'n now, this night, himself must die!
Well may ye look to yon dim tower,
And ask, and wondering guess what means
The battle-cry at this dead hour—
Ah! she could tell you—she, who leans
318
With brow against the dew-cold mast;—
Too well she knows—her more than life,
Her soul's first idol and its last,
Lies bleeding in that murderous strife.
But see—what moves upon the height?
Some signal!—'tis a torch's light.
What bodes its solitary glare?
In gasping silence tow'rd the Shrine
All eyes are turn'd—thine, Hinda, thine
Fix their last fading life-beams there.
'Twas but a moment—fierce and high
The death-pile blaz'd into the sky,
And far away, o'er rock and flood
Its melancholy radiance sent;
While Hafed, like a vision stood
Reveal'd before the burning pyre,
Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire
Shrin'd in its own grand element!
“'Tis he!”—the shuddering maid exclaims,—
But, while she speaks, he's seen no more;
High burst in air the funeral flames,
And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er!
One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave;
Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze,
Where still she fix'd her dying gaze,
And, gazing, sunk into the wave,—
Deep, deep,—where never care or pain
Shall reach her innocent heart again!
Some signal!—'tis a torch's light.
What bodes its solitary glare?
In gasping silence tow'rd the Shrine
All eyes are turn'd—thine, Hinda, thine
Fix their last fading life-beams there.
'Twas but a moment—fierce and high
The death-pile blaz'd into the sky,
And far away, o'er rock and flood
Its melancholy radiance sent;
While Hafed, like a vision stood
Reveal'd before the burning pyre,
Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire
Shrin'd in its own grand element!
“'Tis he!”—the shuddering maid exclaims,—
But, while she speaks, he's seen no more;
High burst in air the funeral flames,
And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er!
319
Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze,
Where still she fix'd her dying gaze,
And, gazing, sunk into the wave,—
Deep, deep,—where never care or pain
Shall reach her innocent heart again!
Farewell—farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,)
No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water,
More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee.
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,)
No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water,
More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee.
Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,
How light was thy heart till Love's witchery came,
Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing,
And hush'd all its music, and wither'd its frame!
How light was thy heart till Love's witchery came,
Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing,
And hush'd all its music, and wither'd its frame!
But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands,
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom
Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands,
With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb.
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom
320
With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb.
And still, when the merry date-season is burning
,
And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old,
The happiest there, from their pastime returning
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.
And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old,
The happiest there, from their pastime returning
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.
The young village-maid, when with flowers she dresses
Her dark flowing hair for some festival day,
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,
She mournfully turns from the mirror away.
Her dark flowing hair for some festival day,
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,
She mournfully turns from the mirror away.
Nor shall Iran, beloved of her Hero! forget thee—
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start,
Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee,
Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start,
321
Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Farewell—be it ours to embellish thy pillow
With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep;
Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.
With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep;
Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.
Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ;
With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber
We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept.
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ;
With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber
We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept.
We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head;
We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head;
We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.
322
Farewell—farewell—until Pity's sweet fountain
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,
They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain,
They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,
They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain,
They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.
END OF THE SIXTH VOLUME.
“In parts of Kerman, whatever dates are shaken from the trees by the wind they do not touch, but leave them for those who have not any, or for travellers.” —Ebn Haukal.
The two terrible angels, Monkir and Nakir, who are called “the Searchers of the Grave” in the “Creed of the orthodox Mahometans” given by Ockley, vol. ii.
“The Arabians call the mandrake ‘the Devil's candle,’ on account of its shining appearance in the night.” —Richardson.
For an account of Ishmonie, the petrified city in Upper Egypt, where it is said there are many statues of men, women, &c. to be seen to this day, see Perry's View of the Levant.
The Ghebers say that when Abraham, their great Prophet, was thrown into the fire by order of Nimrod, the flame turned instantly into “a bed of roses, where the child sweetly reposed.” —Tavernier.
Of their other Prophet, Zoroaster, there is a story told in Dion Prusæus, Orat. 36., that the love of wisdom and virtue leading him to a solitary life upon a mountain, he found it one day all in a flame, shining with celestial fire, out of which he came without any harm, and instituted certain sacrifices to God, who, he declared, then appeared to him. —v. Patrick on Exodus, iii. 2.
“The shell called Siiankos, common to India, Africa, and the Mediterranean, and still used in many parts as a trumpet for blowing alarms or giving signals: it sends forth a deep and hollow sound.” —Pennant.
“The finest ornament for the horses is made of six large flying tassels of long white hair, taken out of the tails of wild oxen, that are to be found in some places of the Indies.” —Thevenot.
“In this thicket upon the banks of the Jordan several sorts of wild beasts are wont to harbour themselves, whose being washed out of the covert by the overflowings of the river, gave occasion to that allusion of Jeremiah, he shall come up like a lion from the swelling of Jordan.” —Maundrell's Aleppo.
“This wind (the Samoor) so softens the strings of lutes, that they can never be tuned while it lasts.” —Stephen's Persia.
“One of the greatest curiosities found in the Persian Gulf is a fish which the English call Star-fish. It is circular, and at night very luminous, resembling the full moon surrounded by rays.” —Mirza Abu Taleb.
For a description of the merriment of the date-time, of their work, their dances, and their return home from the palm-groves at the end of autumn with the fruits, see Kempfer, Amœnitat. Exot.
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