by Thomas Moore
“Who sinks entombed in Moslem dead!”
Down the precipitous rocks they sprung,
While vigor more than human strung
Each arm and heart. — The exulting foe
Still thro’ the dark defiles below,
Trackt by his torches’ lurid fire,
Wound slow, as thro’ 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
Crost the wild race that round them dwell,
The very tigers from their delves
Look out and let them pass as things
Untamed 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 fallen before the few.
The torrents from that morning’s sky
Had filled the narrow chasm breast-high,
And on each side aloft and wild
Huge cliffs and toppling crags were piled, —
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 clogged with massacre.
Never was horde of tyrants met
With bloodier welcome — never yet
To patriot vengeance hath the sword
More terrible libations poured!
All up the dreary, long ravine,
By the red, murky glimmer seen
Of half-quenched brands, that o’er the flood
Lie scattered round and burn in blood,
What ruin glares! what carnage swims!
Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs,
Lost swords that dropt from many a hand,
In that thick pool of slaughter stand; —
Wretches who wading, half on fire
From the tost brands that round them fly,
‘Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire; —
And some who grasp by those that die
Sink woundless with them, smothered o’er
In their dead brethren’s gushing gore!
But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed,
Still hundreds, thousands more succeed;
Countless as toward 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, bridged 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 burned with shame to find how few.
Crusht 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
Towards 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,265
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 escaped — guide, torches gone —
By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost,
The scattered 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 Ghebers went!”
Vain wish — confusedly along
They rush more desperate as more wrong:
Till wildered by the far-off lights,
Yet glittering up those gloomy heights,
Their footing mazed and lost they miss,
And down the darkling precipice
Are dasht into the deep abyss;
Or midway hang impaled 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 reached him as aloft alone
Upon the steep way breathless thrown,
He lay beside his reeking blade,
Resigned, 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 seemed as if each thought that stained,
Each fear that chilled their loves was past,
And not one cloud of earth remained
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 loved 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 roused the last remains
Of life within him:— “What! not yet
“Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!”
The thought could make even Death forget
His icy bondage: — with a bound
He springs all bleeding from the ground
And grasps his comrade’s arm now grown
Even feebler, heavier than his own.
And up the painful pathway leads,
Death gaining on each step he treads.
Speed them, thou God, who heardest their vow!
They mount — they bleed — oh save them now —
The crags are red they’ve clambered o’er,
The rock-weed’s dripping with their gore; —
Thy blade too, HAFED, false at length,
How breaks beneath thy tottering strength!
Haste, hast
e — the voices of the Foe
Come near and nearer from below —
One effort more — thank Heaven! ’tis past,
They’ve gained 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 fallen Chief and toward 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 harmed 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 delayed? —
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 hoped when HINDA safe and free
Was rendered 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 cleared 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 rockt along the whispering tide;
While every eye in mute dismay
Was toward that fatal mountain turned.
Where the dim altar’s quivering ray
As yet all lone and tranquil burned.
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 lived to tell!
’Twas not alone the dreary state
Of a lorn spirit crusht by fate,
When tho’ no more remains to dread
The panic chill will not depart; —
When tho’ 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 congealed around.
But there’s a blank repose in this,
A calm stagnation, that were bliss
To the keen, burning, harrowing pain,
Now felt thro’ all thy breast and brain; —
That spasm of terror, mute, intense,
That breathless, agonized suspense
From whose hot throb whose deadly aching,
The heart hath no relief but breaking!
Calm is the wave — heaven’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 tho’ alone
And ask no happier joy than seeing
That starlight 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 scattered death
Even 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.
But see — what moves upon the height?
Some signal!— ’tis a torch’s light
What bodes its solitary glare?
In gasping silence toward the Shrine
All eyes are turned — thine, HINDA, thine
Fix their last fading life-beams there.
’Twas but a moment — fierce and high
The death-pile blazed into the sky
And far-away o’er rock and flood
Its melancholy radiance sent:
While HAFED like a vision stood
Revealed before the burning pyre.
Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of fire
Shrined 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 fixt 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.
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 south266 o’er a summer lute blowing,
And husht all its music and withered 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 naught but the sea-star267 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.
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.
Nor shall IRAN, beloved of her Hero! forget thee —
Tho’ tyrants watch over her
tears as they start,
Close, close by the side of that Hero she’ll set thee,
Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Farewell — be it ours to embellish thy pillow
With everything 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;268
With many a shell in whose hollow-wreathed 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 Caspian269 are sparkling
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.
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.
The singular placidity with which FADLADEEN had listened during the latter part of this obnoxious story surprised the Princess and FERAMORZ exceedingly; and even inclined towards him the hearts of these unsuspicious young persons who little knew the source of a complacency so marvellous. The truth was he had been organizing for the last few days a most notable plan of persecution against the poet in consequence of some passages that had fallen from him on the second evening of recital, — which appeared to this worthy Chamberlain to contain language and principles for which nothing short of the summary criticism of the Chabuk270 would be advisable. It was his intention therefore immediately on their arrival at Cashmere to give information to the King of Bucharia of the very dangerous sentiments of his minstrel; and if unfortunately that monarch did not act with suitable vigor on the occasion, (that is, if he did not give the Chabuk to FERAMORZ and a place to FADLADEEN.) there would be an end, he feared, of all legitimate government in Bucharia. He could not help however auguring better both for himself and the cause of potentates in general; and it was the pleasure arising from these mingled anticipations that diffused such unusual satisfaction through his features and made his eyes shine out like poppies of the desert over the wide and lifeless wilderness of that countenance.
Having decided upon the Poet’s chastisement in this manner he thought it but humanity to spare him the minor tortures of criticism. Accordingly when they assembled the following evening in the pavilion and LALLA ROOKH was expecting to see all the beauties of her bard melt away one by one in the acidity of criticism, like pearls in the cup of the Egyptian queen. — he agreeably disappointed her by merely saying with an ironical smile that the merits of such a poem deserved to be tried at a much higher tribunal; and then suddenly passed off into a panegyric upon all Mussulman sovereigns, more particularly his august and Imperial master, Aurungzebe, — the wisest and best of the descendants of Timur, — who among other great things he had done for mankind had given to him, FADLADEEN, the very profitable posts of Betel-carrier and Taster of Sherbets to the Emperor, Chief Holder of the Girdle of Beautiful Forms,271 and Grand Nazir or Chamberlain of the Haram.
