Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  They were now not far from that Forbidden River272 beyond which no pure Hindoo can pass, and were reposing for a time in the rich valley of Hussun Abdaul, which had always been a favorite resting-place of the Emperors in their annual migrations to Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the Faith, Jehan-Guire, been known to wander with his beloved and beautiful Nourmahal, and here would LALLA ROOKH have been happy to remain for ever, giving up the throne of Bucharia and the world for FERAMORZ and love in this sweet, lonely valley. But the time was now fast approaching when she must see him no longer, — or, what was still worse, behold him with eyes whose every look belonged to another, and there was a melancholy preciousness in these last moments, which made her heart cling to them as it would to life. During the latter part of the journey, indeed, she had sunk into a deep sadness from which nothing but the presence of the young minstrel could awake her. Like those lamps in tombs which only light up when the air is admitted, it was only at his approach that her eyes became smiling and animated. But here in this dear valley every moment appeared an age of pleasure; she saw him all day and was therefore all day happy, — resembling, she often thought, that people of Zinge273 who attribute the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly over their heads.274

  The whole party indeed seemed in their liveliest mood during the few days they passed in this delightful solitude. The young attendants of the Princess who were here allowed a much freer range than they could safely be indulged with in a less sequestered place ran wild among the gardens and bounded through the meadows lightly as young roes over the aromatic plains of Tibet. While FADLADEEN, in addition to the spiritual comfort derived by him from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Saint from whom the valley is named, had also opportunities of indulging in a small way his taste for victims by putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate little lizards,275 which all pious Mussulmans make it a point to kill; — taking for granted that the manner in which the creature hangs its head is meant as a mimicry of the attitude in which the Faithful say their prayers.

  About two miles from Hussun Abdaul were those Royal Gardens which had grown beautiful under the care of so many lovely eyes, and were beautiful still though those eyes could see them no longer. This place, with its flowers and its holy silence interrupted only by the dipping of the wings of birds in its marble basins filled with the pure water of those hills, was to LALLA ROOKH all that her heart could fancy of fragrance, coolness, and almost heavenly tranquillity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, “it was too delicious;”276 — and here in listening to the sweet voice of FERAMORZ or reading in his eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the most exquisite moments of her whole life were passed. One evening when they had been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal, the Light of the Haram, 277 who had so often wandered among these flowers, and fed with her own hands in those marble basins the small shining fishes of which she was so fond, — the youth in order to delay the moment of separation proposed to recite a short story or rather rhapsody of which this adored Sultana was the heroine. It related, he said, to the reconcilement of a sort of lovers’ quarrel which took place between her and the Emperor during a Feast of Roses at Cashmere; and would remind the Princess of that difference between Haroun-al-Raschid and his fair mistress Marida, which was so happily made up by the soft strains of the musician Moussali. As the story was chiefly to be told in song and FERAMORZ had unluckily forgotten his own lute in the valley, he borrowed the vina of LALLA ROOKH’S little Persian slave, and thus began: —

  THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM.

  Who has not heard of the Vale of CASHMERE,

  With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,278

  Its temples and grottos and fountains as clear

  As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?

  Oh! to see it at sunset, — when warm o’er the Lake

  Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws,

  Like a bride full of blushes when lingering to take

  A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes! —

  When the shrines thro’ the foliage are gleaming half shown,

  And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own.

  Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells,

  Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging,

  And here at the altar a zone of sweet bells

  Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.279

  Or to see it by moonlight when mellowly shines

  The light o’er its palaces, gardens, and shrines,

  When the water-falls gleam like a quick fall of stars

  And the nightingale’s hymn from the Isle of Chenars

  Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet

  From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet. —

  Or at morn when the magic of daylight awakes

  A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks,

  Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one

  Out of darkness as if but just born of the Sun.

  When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day

  From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away;

  And the wind full of wantonness wooes like a lover

  The young aspen-trees,280

  till they tremble all over.

  When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes,

  And day with his banner of radiance unfurled

  Shines in thro’ the mountainous portal281 that opes,

  Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world!

  But never yet by night or day,

  In dew of spring or summer’s ray,

  Did the sweet Valley shine so gay

  As now it shines — all love and light,

  Visions by day and feasts by night!

  A happier smile illumes each brow;

  With quicker spread each heart uncloses,

  And all is ecstasy — for now

  The Valley holds its Feast of Roses;282

  The joyous Time when pleasures pour

  Profusely round and in their shower

  Hearts open like the Season’s Rose, —

  The Floweret of a hundred leaves283

  Expanding while the dew-fall flows

  And every leaf its balm receives.

  ’Twas when the hour of evening came

  Upon the Lake, serene and cool,

  When day had hid his sultry flame

  Behind the palms of BARAMOULE,

  When maids began to lift their heads.

  Refresht from their embroidered beds

  Where they had slept the sun away,

  And waked to moonlight and to play.

  All were abroad: — the busiest hive

  On BELA’S284 hills is less alive

  When saffron-beds are full in flower,

  Than lookt the Valley in that hour.

  A thousand restless torches played

  Thro’ every grove and island shade;

  A thousand sparkling lamps were set

  On every dome and minaret;

  And fields and pathways far and near

  Were lighted by a blaze so clear

  That you could see in wandering round

  The smallest rose-leaf on the ground,

  Yet did the maids and matrons leave

  Their veils at home, that brilliant eve;

  And there were glancing eyes about

  And cheeks that would not dare shine out

  In open day but thought they might

  Look lovely then, because ’twas night.

  And all were free and wandering

  And all exclaimed to all they met,

  That never did the summer bring

  So gay a Feast of Roses yet; —

  The moon had never shed a light

  So clear as that which blest them there;

  The roses ne’er shone half so bright,

  Nor they themselves lookt half so fair.

  And what a wildernes
s of flowers!

  It seemed as tho’ from all the bowers

  And fairest fields of all the year,

  The mingled spoil were scattered here.

  The lake too like a garden breathes

  With the rich buds that o’er it lie, —

  As if a shower of fairy wreaths

  Had fallen upon it from the sky!

  And then the sounds of joy, — the beat

  Of tabors and of dancing feet; —

  The minaret-crier’s chant of glee

  Sung from his lighted gallery,285

  And answered by a ziraleet

  From neighboring Haram, wild and sweet; —

  The merry laughter echoing

  From gardens where the silken swing286

  Wafts some delighted girl above

  The top leaves of the orange-grove;

  Or from those infant groups at play

  Among the tents287 that line the way,

  Flinging, unawed by slave or mother,

  Handfuls of roses at each other. —

  Then the sounds from the Lake, — the low whispering in boats,

  As they shoot thro’ the moonlight, — the dipping of oars

  And the wild, airy warbling that everywhere floats

  Thro’ the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores

  Like those of KATHAY uttered music and gave

  An answer in song to the kiss on each wave.288

  But the gentlest of all are those sounds full of feeling

  That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing, —

  Some lover who knows all the heart-touching power

  Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour.

  Oh! best of delights as it everywhere is

  To be near the loved One, — what a rapture is his

  Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide

  O’er the Lake of CASHMERE with that One by his side!

  If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,

  Think, think what a Heaven she must make of CASHMERE!

  So felt the magnificent Son of ACBAR,

  When from power and pomp and the trophies of war

  He flew to that Valley forgetting them all

  With the Light of the HARAM, his young NOURMAHAL.

  When free and uncrowned as the Conqueror roved

  By the banks of that Lake with his only beloved

  He saw in the wreaths she would playfully snatch

  From the hedges a glory his crown could not match,

  And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curled

  Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world.

  There’s a beauty for ever unchangingly bright,

  Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day’s light,

  Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender

  Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor.

  This was not the beauty — oh, nothing like this

  That to young NOURMAHAL gave such magic of bliss!

  But that loveliness ever in motion which plays

  Like the light upon autumn’s soft shadowy days,

  Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies

  From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes;

  Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams,

  Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heaven in his dreams.

  When pensive it seemed as if that very grace,

  That charm of all others, was born with her face!

  And when angry, — for even in the tranquillest climes

  Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes —

  The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken

  New beauty like flowers that are sweetest when shaken.

  If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eye

  At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,

  From the depth of whose shadow like holy revealings

  From innermost shrines came the light of her feelings.

  Then her mirth — oh! ’twas sportive as ever took wing

  From the heart with a burst like the wild-bird in spring;

  Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages,

  Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages.289

  While her laugh full of life, without any control

  But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul;

  And where it most sparkled no glance could discover,

  In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brightened all over, —

  Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon

  When it breaks into dimples and, laughs in the sun.

  Such, such were the peerless enchantments that gave

  NOURMAHAL the proud Lord of the East for her slave:

  And tho’ bright was his Haram, — a living parterre

  Of the flowers290 of this planet — tho’ treasures were there,

  For which SOLIMAN’S self might have given all the store

  That the navy from OPHIR e’er winged to his shore,

  Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all

  And the Light of his Haram was young NOURMAHAL!

  But where is she now, this night of joy,

  When bliss is every heart’s employ? —

  When all around her is so bright,

  So like the visions of a trance,

  That one might think, who came by chance

  Into the vale this happy night,

  He saw that City of Delight291

  In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers

  Are made of gems and light and flowers!

  Where is the loved Sultana? where,

  When mirth brings out the young and fair,

  Does she, the fairest, hide her brow

  In melancholy stillness now?

  Alas! — how light a cause may move

  Dissension between hearts that love!

  Hearts that the world in vain had tried

  And sorrow but more closely tied;

  That stood the storm when waves were rough

  Yet in a sunny hour fall off,

  Like ships that have gone down at sea

  When heaven was all tranquillity!

  A something light as air — a look,

  A word unkind or wrongly taken —

  Oh! love that tempests never shook,

  A breath, a touch like this hath shaken.

  And ruder words will soon rush in

  To spread the breach that words begin;

  And eyes forget the gentle ray

  They wore in courtship’s smiling day;

  And voices lose the tone that shed

  A tenderness round all they said;

  Till fast declining one by one

  The sweetnesses of love are gone,

  And hearts so lately mingled seem

  Like broken clouds, — or like the stream

  That smiling left the mountain’s brow

  As tho’ its waters ne’er could sever,

  Yet ere it reach the plain below,

  Breaks into floods that part for ever.

  Oh, you that have the charge of Love,

  Keep him in rosy bondage bound,

  As in the Fields of Bliss above

  He sits with flowerets fettered round; —

  Loose not a tie that round him clings.

  Nor ever let him use his wings;

  For even an hour, a minute’s flight

  Will rob the plumes of half their light.

  Like that celestial bird whose nest

  Is found beneath far Eastern skies,

  Whose wings tho’ radiant when at rest

  Lose all their glory when he flies!292

  Some difference of this dangerous kind, —

  By which, tho’ light, the links that bind

  The fondest hearts may soon be riven;

  Some shadow in Love’s summer heaven,

  Which, tho’ a fleecy speck at first

  May yet in awful thunder burst; �
��

  Such cloud it is that now hangs over

  The heart of the Imperial Lover,

  And far hath banisht from his sight

  His NOURMAHAL, his Haram’s Light!

  Hence is it on this happy night

  When Pleasure thro’ the fields and groves

  Has let loose all her world of loves

  And every heart has found its own

  He wanders joyless and alone

  And weary as that bird of Thrace

  Whose pinion knows no resting place.293

  In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes

  This Eden of the Earth supplies

  Come crowding round — the cheeks are pale,

  The eyes are dim: — tho’ rich the spot

  With every flower this earth has got

  What is it to the nightingale

  If there his darling rose is not?294

  In vain the Valley’s smiling throng

  Worship him as he moves along;

  He heeds them not — one smile of hers

  Is worth a world of worshippers.

  They but the Star’s adorers are,

  She is the Heaven that lights the Star!

  Hence is it too that NOURMAHAL,

  Amid the luxuries of this hour,

  Far from the joyous festival

  Sits in her own sequestered bower,

  With no one near to soothe or aid,

  But that inspired and wondrous maid,

  NAMOUNA, the Enchantress; — one

  O’er whom his race the golden sun

  For unremembered years has run,

  Yet never saw her blooming brow

  Younger or fairer than ’tis now.

  Nay, rather, — as the west wind’s sigh

  Freshens the flower it passes by, —

  Time’s wing but seemed in stealing o’er

  To leave her lovelier than before.

  Yet on her smiles a sadness hung,

  And when as oft she spoke or sung

  Of other worlds there came a light

  From her dark eyes so strangely bright

  That all believed nor man nor earth

  Were conscious of NAMOUNA’S birth!

  All spells and talismans she knew,

  From the great Mantra,295 which around

  The Air’s sublimer Spirits drew,

  To the gold gems296 of AFRIC, bound