Lalla Rookh/The Light of the Haram

by Thomas Moore (1779-1852)

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 Chabuk^[1] 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 vigour 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 next evening in the pavilion, and Lalla Rookh expected 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 passing 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^[2], and Grand Nazir, or Chamberlain of the Haram.

They were now not far from that Forbidden River,^[3] 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 favourite resting-place of the Emperors in their annual migrations to Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the Faith, Jehanguire, wandered 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. The time was now fast approaching when she must see him no longer,—or see 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 was an age of pleasure; she saw him all day and was, therefore, all day happy,―resembling, she often thought, that people of Zinge, who attribute the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly over their heads^[4].

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 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, beside the spiritual comfort he derived from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Saint from whom the valley is named, had opportunities of gratifying, in a small way, his taste for victims, by putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate little lizards, 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 basons 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;"—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^[5], who had so often wandered among these flowers, and fed with her own hands, in those marble basons, the small shining fishes of which she was so fond,^[6]—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 sweet 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:—

Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere,With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,^[7]Its temples and grottos and fountains as clearAs the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?

Oh! to see it at sunset,—when warm o'er the LakeIts splendour at parting a summer eve throws,Like a bride full of blushes when lingering to takeA last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!—When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown,And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own.Here the music of pray'r from a minaret swells,Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging,And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bellsRound the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.^[8] Or to see it by moonlight,—when mellowly shinesThe 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 ChenarsIs broken by laughs and light echoes of feetFrom the cool, shining walks where the young people meet.—Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakesA new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks,Hills, cupolas, fountains, call'd forth every oneOut 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 woos like a loverThe young aspen-trees^[9] till they tremble all over.When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes,And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl'dShines in through the mountainous portal^[10] 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 gayAs 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 nowThe Valley holds its Feast of Roses.^[11]The joyous time, when pleasures pourProfusely round, and in their showerHearts open, like the Season's Rose,—The Floweret of a hundred leaves^[12]Expanding while the dew-fall flows,And every leaf its balm receives!

'Twas when the hour of evening cameUpon the Lake, serene and cool, When Day had hid his sultry flameBehind the palms of Baramoule,^[13]When maids began to lift their heads,Refresh'd, from their embroider'd beds,Where they had slept the sun away,And wak'd to moonlight and to play.All were abroad—the busiest hiveOn Bela's^[14] hills is less aliveWhen saffron beds are full in flower,Than look'd the Valley in that hour.A thousand restless torches play'dThrough every grove and island shade;A thousand sparkling lamps were setOn 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 leaveTheir veils at home, that brilliant eve;And there were glancing eyes about,And cheeks, that would not dare shine outIn open day, but thought they mightLook lovely then, because 'twas night!And all were free, and wandering,And all exclaim'd to all they metThat never did the summer bringSo gay a Feast of Roses yet;—The moon had never shed a lightSo clear as that which bless'd them there;The roses ne'er shone half so bright,Nor they themselves look'd half so fair.

And what a wilderness of flowers!It seem'd as though from all the bowersAnd fairest fields of all the year,The mingled spoil were scatter'd here.The Lake too like a garden breathes,With the rich buds that o'er it lie,—As if a shower of fairy wreathsHad fall'n upon it from the sky! And then the sounds of joy,—the beatOf tabors and of dancing feet;—The minaret-cryer's chaunt of gleeSung from his lighted gallery,^[15]And answer'd by a ziraleetFrom neighbouring Haram, wild and sweet;—The merry laughter, echoingFrom gardens, where the silken swingWafts some delighted girl aboveThe top leaves of the orange grove;Or, from those infant groups at playAmong the tents^[16] that line the way,Flinging, unaw'd by slave or mother,Handfuls of roses at each other!—And the sounds from the Lake,—the low whisp'ring in boats,As they shoot through the moonlight;—the dipping of oars,And the wild, airy warbling that every where floats,Through the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores Like those of Kathay utter'd music, and gaveAn answer in song to the kiss on each wave!^[17]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 powerOf a lute and a sigh in this magical hour.Oh! best of delights as it every where isTo be near the lov'd One,—what a rapture is his,Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glideO'er the Lake of Cashmere, with that One by his side!If Woman can make the worst wilderness dear,Think, think what a Heav'n she must make of Cashmere!

So felt the magnificent Son of Acbar,^[18]When from power and pomp and the trophies of warHe flew to that Valley, forgetting them allWith the Light of the Haram, his young Nourmahal.When free and uncrown'd as the Conqueror rov'dBy the banks of that Lake, with his only belov'd, He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatchFrom the hedges, a glory his crown could not match,And preferr'd in his heart the least ringlet that curl'dDown 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 splendour.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 playsLike the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days,Now here and now there, giving warmth as it fliesFrom 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 Heav'n in his dreams!When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace,That charm of all others, was born with her face;And when angry,—for ev'n in the tranquillest climesLight breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes—The short, passing anger but seem'd to awakenNew beauty, like flow'rs that are sweetest when shaken. If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eyeAt once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealingsFrom innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings!Then her mirth—oh! 'twas sportive as ever took wingFrom the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring;—Illum'd by a wit that would fascinate sages,Yet playful as Peris just loos'd from their cages.^[19]While her laugh, full of life, without any controulBut 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 brighten'd 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 gaveNourmahal the proud Lord of the East for her slave;And though bright was his Haram,—a living parterreOf the flow'rs^[20] of this planet—though treasures were there,For which Soliman's self might have giv'n all the storeThat the navy from Ophir e'er wing'd 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 chanceInto the vale this happy night,He saw that City of Delight^[21]In Fairy-land, whose streets and towersAre 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 moveDissension 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 heav'n 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 inTo spread the breach that words begin;And eyes forget the gentle rayThey wore in courtship's smiling day;And voices lose the tone that shedA tenderness round all they said;Till fast declining one by one,The sweetnesses of love are gone,And hearts, so lately mingled, seemLike broken clouds,—or like the stream,That smiling left the mountain's brow,As though 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 aboveHe sits, with flowerets fetter'd round;—^[22]Loose not a tie that round him clings,Nor ever let him use his wings;For ev'n an hour, a minute's flightWill rob the plumes of half their light.Like that celestial bird,—whose nestIs found beneath far Eastern skies,—Whose wings, though radiant when at rest,Lose all their glory when he flies!^[23]

Some difference, of this dangerous kind,—By which, though light, the links that bindThe fondest hearts may soon be riven;Some shadow in love's summer heaven,Which, though a fleecy speck at first,May yet in awful thunder burst;—Such cloud it is, that now hangs overThe heart of the Imperial Lover, And far hath banish'd from his sightHis Nourmahal, his Haram's Light!Hence is it, on this happy night,When Pleasure through the fields and grovesHas 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.^[24]In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyesThis Eden of the Earth suppliesCome crowding round—the cheeks are pale,The eyes are dim—though rich the spotWith every flow'r this earth has got,What is it to the nightingale,If there his darling rose is not?^[25]In vain the Valley's smiling throngWorship him, as he moves along; He heeds them not—one smile of hersIs worth a world of worshippers.They but the Star's adorers are,She is the heav'n 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 sequester'd bower,With no one near, to soothe or aid,But that inspir'd and wond'rous maid,Namouna, the Enchantress;—one,O'er whom his race the golden sunFor unremember'd years has run,Yet never saw her blooming browYounger or fairer than 'tis now.Nay, rather, as the west-wind's sighFreshens the flower it passes by,Time's wing but seem'd 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 lightFrom her dark eyes so strangely bright,That all believ'd nor man nor earthWere conscious of Namouna's birth!

All spells and talismans she knew,From the great Mantra,^[26] which aroundThe Air's sublimer Spirits drew,To the gold gems^[27] of Afric, boundUpon the wandering Arab's arm,To keep him from the Siltim's^[28] harm.And she had pledg'd her powerful art,—Pledg'd it with all the zeal and heartOf one who knew, though high her sphere,What 'twas to lose a love so dear,To find some spell that should recallHer Selim's^[29] smile to Nourmahal! 'Twas midnight—through the lattice, wreath'dWith woodbine, many a perfume breath'dFrom plants that wake when others sleep,From timid jasmine buds, that keepTheir odour to themselves all day,But, when the sun-light dies away,Let the delicious secret outTo every breeze that roams about;—When thus Namouna:—"'Tis the hour"That scatters spells on herb and flower,"And garlands might be gather'd now,"That, twin'd around the sleeper's brow,"Would make him dream of such delights,"Such miracles and dazzling sights"As Genii of the Sun behold,"At evening, from their tents of gold"Upon the' horizon—where they play"Till twilight comes, and, ray by ray,"The sunny mansions melt away!"Now too, a chaplet might be wreath'd"Of buds o'er which the moon has breath'd,"Which worn by her, whose love has stray'd,"Might bring some Peri from the skies, "Some sprite, whose very soul is made"Of flowrets' breaths and lovers' sighs,"And who might tell———""For me, for me,"Cried Nourmahal impatiently,—"Oh! twine that wreath for me to-night."Then, rapidly, with foot as lightAs the young musk-roe's, out she flewTo cull each shining leaf that grewBeneath the moonlight's hallowing beamsFor this enchanted Wreath of Dreams.Anemones and Seas of Gold,^[30]And new-blown lilies of the river,And those sweet flowrets that unfoldTheir buds on Camadeva's quiver;—^[31]The tube-rose, with her silvery light,That in the Gardens of MalayIs called the Mistress of the Night,^[32] So like a bride, scented and bright,She comes out when the sun's away.—Amaranths, such as crown the maidsThat wander through Zamara's shades;—^[33]And the white moon-flower, as it showsOn Serendib's high crags to thoseWho near the isle at evening sail,Scenting her clove-trees in the gale;—In short, all flowerets and all plants,From the divine Amrita tree,^[34]That blesses heaven's inhabitantsWith fruits of immortality,Down to the basil^[35] tuft, that wavesIts fragrant blossom over graves, And to the humble rosemary,Whose sweets so thanklessly are shedTo scent the desert^[36] and the dead,—All in that garden bloom, and allAre gather'd by young Nourmahal,Who heaps her baskets with the flowersAnd leaves, till they can hold no more;Then to Namouna flies, and showersUpon her lap the shining store.

With what delight th' Enchantress viewsSo many buds, bath'd with the dewsAnd beams of that bless'd hour!—her glanceSpoke something, past all mortal pleasures,As, in a kind of holy trance,She hung above those fragrant treasures,Bending to drink their balmy airs,As if she mix'd her soul with theirs.And 'twas indeed the perfume shedFrom flow'rs and scented flame that fed Her charmed life—for none had e'erBeheld her taste of mortal fare,Nor ever in aught earthly dip,But the morn's dew, her roseate lip.Fill'd with the cool, inspiring smell,Th' Enchantress now begins her spell,Thus singing, as she winds and weavesIn mystic form the glittering leaves:— ——— I know where the winged visions dwellThat around the night-bed play;I know each herb and flowret's bell,Where they hide their wings by day.Then hasten we, maid,To twine our braid,To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The image of love, that nightly fliesTo visit the bashful maid,Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighsIts soul, like her, in the shade. The hope, in dreams, of a happier hourThat alights on misery's brow,Springs out of the silvery almond-flower,That blooms on a leafless bough.^[37]Then hasten we, maid,To twine our braid,To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The visions, that oft to worldly eyesThe glitter of mines unfold,Inhabit the mountain-herb,^[38] that dyesThe tooth of the fawn like gold.The phantom shapes—oh touch not them—That appal the murderer's sight,Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem,That shrieks, when pluckt at night!Then hasten we, maid,To twine our braid,To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The dream of the injur'd, patient mind,That smiles at the wrongs of men,Is found in the bruis'd and wounded rindOf the cinnamon, sweetest then!Then hasten we, maid,To twine our braid,To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

———

No sooner was the flowery crownPlac'd on her head, than sleep came down,Gently as nights of summer fall,Upon the lids of Nourmahal;—And, suddenly, a tuneful breeze,As full of small, rich harmoniesAs ever wind, that o'er the tentsOf Azab^[39] blew, was full of scents,Steals on her ear and floats and swells,Like the first air of morning creepingInto those wreathy, Red-Sea shells,Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping;—^[40] And now a Spirit form'd, 'twould seem,Of music and of light, so fair,So brilliantly his features beam,And such a sound is in the airOf sweetness, when he waves his wings,Hovers around her, and thus sings:————From Chindara's^[41] warbling fount I come,Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell;From Chindara's fount, my fairy home,Where in music, morn and night, I dwell.Where lutes in the air are heard about,And voices are singing the whole day long,And every sigh the heart breathes outIs turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song!Hither I comeFrom my fairy home,And if there's a magic in Music's strain,I swear by the breathOf that moonlight wreath,Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

For mine is the lay that lightly floats,And mine are the murmuring, dying notes,That fall as soft as snow on the sea,And melt in the heart as instantly!And the passionate strain that, deeply going,Refines the bosom it trembles through,As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too!

Mine is the charm, whose mystic swayThe Spirits of past Delight obey;—Let but the tuneful talisman sound,And they come, like Genii hovering round.And mine is the gentle song, that bearsFrom soul to soul, the wishes of love,As a bird, that wafts through genial airsThe cinnamon seed from grove to grove.^[42]

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measureThe past, the present, and future of pleasure; When Memory links the tone that is goneWith the blissful tone that's still in the ear;And Hope from a heavenly note flies onTo a note more heavenly still that is near!

The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me,Can as downy soft and as yielding beAs his own white plume, that high amid deathThrough the field has shone—yet moves with a breath.And, oh how the eyes of Beauty glisten,When Music has reach'd her inward soul,Like the silent stars, that wink and listenWhile Heav'n's eternal melodies roll!So, hither I comeFrom my fairy home,And if there's a magic in Music's strain,I swear by the breathOf that moonlight wreathThy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.———'Tis dawn—at least that earlier dawn,Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,^[43] As if the morn had wak'd, and thenShut close her lids of light again.And Nourmahal is up, and tryingThe wonders of her lute, whose strings—Oh, bliss!—now murmur like the sighingFrom that ambrosial Spirit's wings!And then, her voice—'tis more than human—Never, till now, had it been givenTo lips of any mortal womanTo utter notes so fresh from heaven;Sweet as the breath of angel sighs,When angel sighs are most divine.—"Oh! let it last till night," she cries,"And he is more than ever mine."And hourly she renews the lay,So fearful lest its heavenly sweetnessShould, ere the evening, fade away,—For things so heavenly have such fleetness!But, far from fading, it but growsRicher, diviner as it flows;Till rapt she dwells on every string,And pours again each sound along,Like Echo, lost and languishingIn love with her own wondrous song. That evening, (trusting that his soulMight be from haunting love releas'dBy mirth, by music, and the bowl)Th' Imperial Selim held a FeastIn his magnificent Shalimar;—In whose Saloons, when the first starOf evening o'er the waters trembled,The Valley's loveliest all assembled;All the bright creatures that, like dreams,Glide through its foliage, and drink beamsOf beauty from its founts and streams.^[44]And all those wandering minstrel-maids,Who leave—how can they leave?—the shadesOf that dear Valley, and are foundSinging in gardens of the South^[45]Those songs that ne'er so sweetly soundAs from a young Cashmerian's mouth. There too the Haram's inmates smile;—Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair,And from the Garden of the Nile,Delicate as the roses there;—^[46]Daughters of Love from Cyprus' rocks,With Paphian diamonds in their locks;—^[47]Light Peri forms such as there areOn the gold Meads of Candahar;^[48]And they, before whose sleepy eyes,In their own bright Kathaian bowers,Sparkle such rainbow butterflies,^[49]That they might fancy the rich flowers,That round them in the sun lay sighing,Had been by magic all set flying! Every thing young, every thing fairFrom East and West is blushing there,Except—except—oh Nourmahal!Thou loveliest, dearest of them all,The one, whose smile shone out alone,Amidst a world the only one!Whose light, among so many lights,Was like that star, on starry nights,The seaman singles from the sky,To steer his bark for ever by!Thou wert not there—so Selim thought,And every thing seem'd drear without thee;But ah! thou wert, thou wert—and broughtThy charm of song all fresh about thee.Mingling unnotic'd with a bandOf lutanists from many a land,And veil'd by such a mask as shadesThe features of young Arab maids,—^[50] A mask that leaves but one eye free,To do its best in witchery,—She rov'd, with beating heart, around,And waited, trembling, for the minute,When she might try if still the soundOf her lov'd lute had magic in it.

The board was spread with fruits and wine;With grapes of gold, like those that shineOn Casbin hills;^[51]—pomegranates fullOf melting sweetness, and the pearsAnd sunniest apples^[52] that CaubulIn all its thousand gardens^[53] bears.Plantains, the golden and the green,Malaya's nectar'd mangusteen;^[54] Prunes of Bockhara, and sweet nutsFrom the far groves of Samarcand,And Basra dates, and apricots,Seed of the Sun,^[55] from Iran's land;—With rich conserve of Visna cherries,^[56]Of orange flowers, and of those berriesThat, wild and fresh, the young gazellesFeed on in Erac's rocky dells.^[57]All these in richest vases smile,In baskets of pure santal-wood,And urns of porcelain from that isle^[58]Sunk underneath the Indian flood,Whence oft the lucky diver bringsVases to grace the halls of kings. Wines too, of every clime and hue,Around their liquid lustre threw;Amber Rosolli^[59],—the bright dewFrom vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing;^[60]And Shiraz wine, that richly ranAs if that jewel, large and rare,The ruby, for which Kublai-KhanOffer'd a city's wealth,^[61] was blushingMelted within the goblets there!

And amply Selim quaffs of each,And seems resolv'd the flood shall reachHis inward heart,—shedding aroundA genial deluge, as they run,That soon shall leave no spot undrown'd,For Love to rest his wings upon. He little knew how well the boyCan float upon a goblet's streams,Lighting them with his smile of joy;—As bards have seen him, in their dreams,Down the blue Ganges laughing glideUpon a rosy lotus wreath,^[62]Catching new lustre from the tideThat with his image shone beneath.

But what are cups, without the aidOf song to speed them as they flow?And see—a lovely Georgian maid,With all the bloom, the freshen'd glowOf her own country maidens' looks,When warm they rise from Teflis' brooks;^[63]And with an eye, whose restless ray,Full, floating, dark—oh he, who knowsHis heart is weak, of heav'n should prayTo guard him from such eyes as those!— With a voluptuous wildness flingsHer snowy hand across the stringsOf a syrinda,^[64] and thus sings:————Come hither, come hither—by night and by day,We linger in pleasures that never are gone;Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away,Another as sweet and as shining comes on.And the Love that is o'er, in expiring, gives birthTo a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss;And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,It is this, it is this.

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sighAs the flower of the Amra just op'd by a bee;^[65]And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,^[66]Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth,When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss;And own if there be an Elysium on earth,It is this, it is this.

Here sparkles the nectar that, hallow'd by love,Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere,Who for wine of this earth^[67] left the fountains above,And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have here.And, bless'd with the odour our goblet gives forth,What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss?For oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,It is this, it is this.———The Georgian's song was scarcely mute,When the same measure, sound for sound,Was caught up by another lute,And so divinely breathed around,That all stood hush'd and wondering,And turn'd and look'd into the air, As if they thought to see the wingOf Israfil,^[68] the Angel, there;—So pow'rfully on every soulThat new, enchanted measure stole.While now a voice, sweet as the noteOf the charm'd lute, was heard to floatAlong its chords and so entwineIts sound with theirs, that none knew whetherThe voice or lute was most divine,So wond'rously they went together:—

———

There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,When two, that are link'd in one heavenly tie,With heart never changing and brow never cold,Love on through all ills, and love on till they die!One hour of a passion so sacred is worthWhole ages of heartless and wandering bliss;And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,It is this, it is this.——— 'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words,But that deep magic in the chordsAnd in the lips, that gave such powerAs Music knew not till that hour.At once a hundred voices said,"It is the mask'd Arabian maid!"While Selim, who had felt the strainDeepest of any, and had lainSome minutes rapt, as in a trance,After the fairy sounds were o'er,Too inly touch'd for utterance,Now motion'd with his hand for more:—

———

Fly to the desert, fly with me,Our Arab's tents are rude for thee;But oh! the choice what heart can doubtOf tents with love, or thrones without?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling thereTh' acacia waves her yellow hair,Lonely and sweet, nor lov'd the lessFor flowering in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slopeThe silvery-footed antelopeAs gracefully and gaily springsAs o'er the marble courts of Kings.

Then come—thy Arab maid will beThe lov'd and lone acacia-tree,The antelope, whose feet shall blessWith their light sound thy loneliness.

Oh! there are looks and tones that dartAn instant sunshine through the heart,—As if the soul that minute caughtSome treasure it through life had sought;

As if the very lips and eyesPredestin'd to have all our sighs,And never be forgot again,Sparkled and spoke before us then!

So came thy every glance and tone,When first on me they breath'd and shone;New, as if brought from other spheres,Yet welcome as if lov'd for years!

Then fly with me,—if thou hast knownNo other flame, nor falsely thrownA gem away, that thou hadst swornShould ever in thy heart be worn.

Come, if the love thou hast for meIs pure and fresh as mine for thee,—Fresh as the fountain under ground,When first 'tis by the lapwing found.^[69]

But if for me thou dost forsakeSome other maid, and rudely breakHer worshipp'd image from its base,To give to me the ruin'd place;—

Then, fare thee well—I'd rather makeMy bower upon some icy lakeWhen thawing suns begin to shine,Than trust to love so false as thine!

———

There was a pathos in this lay,That, ev'n without enchantment's art,Would instantly have found its wayDeep in to Selim's burning heart;But breathing, as it did, a toneTo earthly lutes and lips unknown;With every chord fresh from the touchOf Music's Spirit,—'twas too much!Starting, he dash'd away the cup,—Which, all the time of this sweet air,His hand had held, untasted, up,As if 'twere fix'd by magic there,—And naming her, so long unnam'd,So long unseen, wildly exclaim'd,"Oh Nourmahal! oh Nourmahal!"Hadst thou but sung this witching strain,"I could forget—forgive thee all,"And never leave those eyes again."

The mask is off—the charm is wrought—And Selim to his heart has caught,In blushes, more than ever bright,His Nourmahal, his Haram's Light! And well do vanish'd frowns enhanceThe charm of every brighten'd glance;And dearer seems each dawning smileFor having lost its light awhile;And, happier now for all her sighs,As on his arm her head reposes,She whispers him, with laughing eyes,"Remember, love, the Feast of Roses!"

---

1. "The application of whips or rods."—Dubois.
2. Kempfer mentions such an officer among the attendants of the King of Persia, and calls him "formæ corporis estimator." His business was, at stated periods, to measure the ladies of the Haram by a sort of regulation-girdle, whose limits it was not thought graceful to exceed. If any of them outgrew this standard of shape, they were reduced by abstinence till they came within proper bounds.
3. The Attock.
4. The star Soheil, or Canopus.
5. Nourmahal signifies Light of the Haram. She was afterwards called Nourjehan, or the Light of the World.
6. V. note, p. 227.
7. "The rose of Kashmire for its brilliancy and delicacy of odour has long been proverbial in the East."—Forster.
8. "Tied round her waist the zone of bells, that sounded with ravishing melody."—Song of Jayadeva.
9. "The little isles in the Lake of Cachemire are set with arbours and large-leaved aspen-trees, slender and tall."—Bernier.
10. "The Tuckt Suliman, the name bestowed by the Mahometans on this hill, forms one side of a grand portal to the Lake."—Forster.
11. "The Feast of Roses continues the whole time of their remaining in bloom."—v. Pietro de la Valle.
12. "Gul sad berk, the Rose of a hundred leaves. I believe a particular species."—Ouseley.
13. Bernier.
14. A place mentioned in the Toozek Jehangeery, or Memoirs of Jehanguire, where there is an account of the beds of saffron flowers about Cashmere.
15. "It is the custom among the women to employ the Maazeen to chaunt from the gallery of the nearest minaret, which on that occasion is illuminated, and the women assembled at the house respond at intervals with a ziraleet or joyous chorus."—Russel.
16. At the keeping of the Feast of Roses we beheld an infinite number of tents pitched, with such a crowd of men, women, boys and girls, with music, dances," &c. &c.—Herbert.
17. "An old commentator of the Chou-King says, the ancients having remarked that a current of water made some of the stones near its banks send forth a sound, they detached some of them, and being charmed with the delightful sound they emitted, constructed King or musical instruments of them,"—Grosier.
18. Jehanguire was the son of the Great Acbar.
19. In the wars of the Dives with the Peris, whenever the former took the latter prisoners, "they shut them up in iron cages, and hung them on the highest trees. Here they were visited by their companions, who brought them the choicest odours."—Richardson.
20. In the Malay language the same word signifies women and flowers.
21. The capital of Shadukiam. V. note, p. 160.
22. See the representation of the Eastern Cupid, pinioned closely round with wreaths of flowers, in Picart's Cérémonies Religieuses.
23. "Among the birds of Tonquin is a species of goldfinch, which sings so melodiously that it is called the Celestial Bird. Its wings, when it is perched, appear variegated with beautiful colours, but when it flies they lose all their splendour."—Grosier.
24. "As these birds on the Bosphorus are never known to rest, they are called by the French 'les ames damnées.'"—Dalloway.
25. "You may place a hundred handfuls of fragrant herbs and flowers before the nightingale, yet he wishes not, in his constant heart, for more than the sweet breath of his beloved rose."—Jami.
26. "He is said to have found the great Mantra, spell or talisman, through which he ruled over the elements and spirits of all denominations."—Wilford.
27. "The gold jewels of Jinnie, which are called by the Arabs El Herrez, from the supposed charm they contain."—Jackson.
28. "A demon, supposed to haunt woods, &c., in a human shape."—Richardson.
29. The name of Jehanguire before his accession to the throne.
30. "Hemasagara, or the Sea of Gold, with flowers of the brightest gold colour."—Sir W. Jones.
31. "This tree (the Nagacesara) is one of the most delightful on earth, and the delicious odour of its blossoms justly gives them a place in the quiver of Camadeva or the God of Love."—Id.
32. "The Malayans style the tube-rose (Polianthes tuberosa) Sandal Malam, or the Mistress of the Night."—Pennant.
33. The people of the Batta country in Sumatra (of which Zamara is one of the ancient names), "when not engaged in war, lead an idle, inactive life, passing the day in playing on a kind of flute, crowned with garlands of flowers, among which the globe-amaranthus, a native of the country, mostly prevails,"—Marsden.
34. "The largest and richest sort (of the Jambu or rose-apple) is called Amrita or immortal, and the mythologists of Tibet apply the same word to a celestial tree, bearing ambrosial fruit."—Sir W. Jones.
35. Sweet Basil, called Rayhan in Persia, and generally found in churchyards.
36. "In the Great Desert are found many stalks of lavender and rosemary."—Asiat. Res.
37. "The almond-tree, with white flowers, blossoms on the bare branches."—Hasselquist.
38. An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to communicate a yellow golden hue to the teeth of the goats and other animals that graze upon it.
39. The myrrh country.
40. "This idea (of deities living in shells) was not unknown to the Greeks, who represent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in shells on the shores of the Red Sea."—Wilford.
41. "A fabulous fountain, where instruments are said to be constantly playing."—Richardson.
42. "The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to different places, is a great disseminator of this valuable tree."—V. Brown's Illustr. Tab. 19.
43. "They have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim, and the Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real day-break."—Waring.
44. "The waters of Cachemir are the more renowned from its being supposed that the Cachemirians are indebted for their beauty to them."—Ali Yezdi.
45. "From him I received the following little Gazzel or Love Song, the notes of which he committed to paper from the voice of one of those singing girls of Cashmere, who wander from that delightful valley over the various parts of India."—Persian Miscellanies.
46. "The roses of the Jinan Nile, or Garden of the Nile (attached to the Emperor of Morocco's palace) are unequalled, and mattresses are made of their leaves for the men of rank to recline upon."—Jackson.
47. "On the side of a mountain near Paphos there is a cavern which produces the most beautiful rock crystal. On account of its brilliancy it has been called the Paphian diamond."—Mariti.
48. "These is a part of Candahar, called Peria, or Fairy Land."—Thevenot. In some of those countries to the north of India vegetable gold is supposed to be produced.
49. "These are the butterflies which are called in the Chinese language Flying Leaves. Some of them have such shining colours, and are so variegated, that they may be called flying flowers; and indeed they are always produced in the finest flower-gardens."—Dunn.
50. "The Arabian women wear black masks with little clasps, prettily ordered."—Carreri. Niebuhr mentions their showing but one eye in conversation.
51. "The golden grapes of Casbin."—Description of Persia.
52. The fruits exported from Caubul are apples, pears, pomegranates," etc.—Elphinstone.
53. "We sat down under a tree, listened to the birds, and talked with the son of our Mehmaundar about our country and Caubul, of which he gave an enchanting account: that city and its 100,000 gardens, etc."—Id.
54. "The mangusteen, the most delicate fruit in the world; the pride of the Malay islands."—Marsden.
55. "A delicious kind of apricot, called by the Persians tokm-ek-shems, signifying sun's seed."—Descript. of Persia.
56. "Sweetmeats in a crystal cup, consisting of rose-leaves in conserve, with lemon or Visna cherry, orange flowers, etc."—Russell.
57. "Antelopes cropping the fresh berries of Erac."—The Moallakat, Poem of Tarafa.
58. "Mauri-ga-Sima, an island near Formosa, supposed to have been sunk in the sea for the crimes of its inhabitants. The vessels which the fishermen and divers bring up from it are sold at an immense price in China and Japan."—v. Kempfer.
59. Persian Tales.
60. The white wine of Kishma.
61. "The King of Zeilan is said to have the very finest ruby that was ever seen. Kublai-Khan sent and offered the value of a city for it, but the King answered he would not give it for the treasure of the world."—Marco Polo.
62. The Indians feign that Cupid was first seen floating down the Ganges on the Nymphæa Nelumbo. v. Pennant.
63. Teflis is celebrated for its natural warm baths. v. Ebn Haukel.
64. "The Indian Syrinda or guitar."—Symes.
65. "Delightful are the flowers of the Amra trees on the mountain-tops, while the murmuring bees pursue their voluptuous toil."—Song of Jayadeva.
66. "The Nisan or drops of spring rain, which they believe to produce pearls if they fall into shells."—Richardson.
67. For an account of the share which wine had in the fall of the angels, v. Mariti.
68. The Angel of Music. v. note, p. 267.
69. The Hudhud, or Lapwing, is supposed to have the power of discovering water under ground.