Brightly O'er spire, and dome, and tower, The pale moon shone at midnight hour, While all beneath her smile of light Was resting there in calm delight: Evening, with robe of stars, appears, Bright as repentant Peri's tears, And o'er her turban's fleecy fold Night's crescent streamed with rays of gold; While every crystal cloud of heaven Bowed as it passed the queen of even.
Beneath, calm Cashmere's lovely vale1 Breathed perfumes to the sighing gale; The amaranth and tuberose, Convolvulus in deep repose, Bent to each breeze which swept their bed, Or scarcely kissed the dew, and fled; The bulbul, with his lay of love,2 Sang, 'mid the stillness of the grove; The gulnare blushed a deeper hue,3 And trembling shed a shower of dew, Which perfumed, ere it kissed the ground, Each zephyr's pinion hovering round; The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow4 Glittered beneath the moon's pale glow; And wide the plantain's arms were spread,5 The guardian of its native bed.
Where was Amreta at this hour? Say! was she slumbering in her bower? Or gazing on this scene of rest, Less calm, less peaceful than her breast? Or was she resting in the dream Of brighter days, on Fortune's stream? Or was she weeping Friendship broken, Or sighing o'er Love's withered token?
No! she was calmly resting there: Her eye ne'er spoke of hope nor fear, But 'mid the blaze of splendor round, Forever bent upon the ground, Their long dark lashes hid from view The brilliant glances which they threw; Her cheek was neither pale nor red; The rose, upon its summer bed, Could never boast so faint a hue— So faint, and yet so brilliant too!
Though round her Cashmere's incense streamed; Though Persia's gems around her beamed; Though diamonds of Golconda shed Their warmest lustre o'er her head; Though music lulled each fear to sleep, Or, like the night-wind o'er the deep, Just waking love and calm delight, Kindling Hope's watch-fire clear and bright— For her, though Cashmere's roses twine Together round. the parent vine; And though to her, as Cashmere's star, Knelt the once haughty Subahdar;6 Still, still; Amreta gazed unmoved, Nor sighed, nor smiled, nor owned she loved! But, like the Parian marble there, So bright, so exquisitely fair, She seemed by Nature famed to bless, Rich in surpassing loveliness. But never from those lips of red A single syllable had fled, Since Amir Khan first blessed the hour7 That placed Amreta in his bower. Within that bower, 'mid twining roses, Upon whose leaves the breeze reposes, She sits unmoved, while round her flow Strains of sweet music, sad and low; Or now, in softer numbers breathing, A song of love and sorrow: wreathing, Such strains as in wild sweetness ran Through the sad breast of Amir Khan!
He loved,—and O! he loved so well That sorrow scarce dared break the spell; Though oft Suspicion whispered near One vague, one sadly boding fear, A fear that Heaven in wrath had made That face with seraph-charms arrayed, And then denied in mockery there To breathe upon a face so fair! Without that spark of heavenly flame, Which burns unchanging, still the same; Without that bright ethereal charm; O! what were beauty's angel form?
The breeze as it sweeps o'er the poisonous flower, Dripping with night's damp, blistering shower, Laden with woe, disease, and death, Fading youth's bloom with its passing breath, Blighting each flower of various hue, Ne'er o'er its fated victim threw So dark a shade, a cloud so drear, As hovered o'er the Subahdar.
Cool and refreshing sighs the breeze Through the long walk of tzinnar-trees,8 And cool upon the water's breast The pale moon rocks herself to rest,— Yes! calmer, brighter, cooler far Than the fevered brow of the Subahdar!
Amreta was fair as the morning beam, As it glides o'er the wave of the Wuller's stream,9 But O! she was cold as the marble floor That glitters beneath the nightly shower.
Where was that eye which none could scan, Which once belonged to Amir Khan? Where was that voice that mocked the storm? Where was that tall, majestic form? That eye was turned in love and woe Upon Amreta's changeless brow; That haughty form was bending low: That voice was uttering vow on vow, Beneath the lofty plane-tree's shade, Before that cold Circassian maid!
"O speak, Amreta! but one word! Let one soft sigh confess I'm heard! Those eyes (than those of yon gazelle More bright) a tale of love might tell! Then speak, Amreta! raise thine eye, Blush, smile, or answer with a sigh."
But 'twas in vain: no sigh, no word Told that his humble suit was heard; Veiled 'neath their silken lashes there, Her dark eyes glanced no answered prayer; Upon her cheek no blush was straying, Around her lip no smile was playing; And calm despair reigned darkly now O'er Amir Khan's deep-clouded brow.
What pity that so fair a form Should want a heart with feeling warm! What pity that an eye so bright Should beam o'er Reason's clouded night! And like a star on Mahmoud's wave,10 Should glitter o'er a dreary grave: A dark abyss—a sunless day, An endless night without one ray.
'Twas at that day, that silent hour, When the tall poppy sheds its shower, When all on earth, and all on high Seemed breathing slumber's sweetest sigh; At that calm hour when Peris love To gaze upon the heaven above, Whose portals, bright with many a gem, Are closed—forever closed on them; 'Twas at this silent, solemn hour, That, gliding from his summer bower, The Subahdar with noiseless step Steals like the night-breeze o'er the deep.
Where glides the haughty Subahdar? Onward he glides to where afar Proud Hirney-Purvet rears his head11 High above Cashmere's blooming bed, And twines his turban's fleecy fold With many a brilliant ray of gold, Or places on his brow of blue The crescent with its silver hue.
There, 'neath a plantain's sacred shade, Which deep, and dark, and widely spread, Al Shinar's high prophetic form Held secret counsel with the storm; His hand had grasped, with fearless might, The mantle of descending night. Such matchless skill the prophet knew, Such wond'rous feats his hand could do, That Persia's realm astonished saw, And Cashmere's valley gazed with awe!
Low bowed the lofty Amir Khan, Before the high and mighty man, And bending o'er the Naptha's stream, Which onward rolled its fiery gleam, The Subahdar in murmurs told Of beauteous form, of bosom cold, Of rayless eye, of changeless cheek, Of tongue which could or would not speak.
At length the mourner's tale had ceased, He crossed his hands upon his breast; He spoke no word, he breathed no sigh, But keenly fixed his piercing eye Upon Al Shinar's gloomy brow, In all the deep despair of woe. The Prophet paused; his eye he raised, And stern and earnestly he gazed, As if to pierce the sable veil Which would conceal the mournful tale; When, starting with a sudden blow, He oped a portal dark and low, Which shrouded from each mortal eye Al Shinar's cavern broad and high; 'Twas bright, 'twas exquisitely bright, For founts of rich and living light There poured their burning treasures forth, Which sought again their parent earth. Rich vases, with sweet incense streaming, Mirrors a flood of brilliance beaming, Fountain, and bath, and curling stream, At every turn before them beam; And marble pillars, pure and cold, And glittering roof, inlaid with gold, And gems and diamonds met his view In wild and rich profusion too; And had Amreta's smiles been given, This place had been the Moslem heaven!
The Prophet paused; while Amir Khan Gazed, awe-struck, on the wond'rous man, Al Shinar plucked a pale blue flower, Which bent beneath the fountain's shower, Then slowly turned towards Amir Khan, And placed the treasure in his hand.
"Mark me!" he cried; "this pensive flower, Gathered at midnight's magic hour, Will charm each passion of the breast, And calm each throbbing nerve to rest; 'Twill leave thy bounding bosom warm, Yet set death's seal upon thy form; 'Twill leave thee stiff, and cold, and pale, A slumberer 'neath an icy veil, But still shall Reason's conscious reign Unbroken, undisturbed, remain, And thou shalt hear, and feel, and know Each sigh, each touch, each throb of woe!
"Go thou! and if Amreta be Worthy of love, and worthy thee, When she beholds thee pale and cold, Wrapped in the damp sepulchral fold; When her eye wanders for that glow Once burning on thy marble brow; Then, if her bosom's icy frame Hath ever warmed 'neath passion's flame, 'Twill heave tumultuous as it glows Like Baikal's everlasting throes; And if, to-morrow eve, you press This pale cold floweret to your breast, Ere morning smiles, its spell will prove If that cold heart be worth thy love!
PART II.
There's silence in the princely halls, And brightly blaze the lighted walls, While clouds of musk and incense rise From vases of a thousand dyes, And roll their perfumed treasures wide, In one luxuriant, fragrant tide; And glittering chandeliers of gold, Reflecting fire from every fold, Hung o'er the shrouded body there, Of Cashmere's once proud Subahdar! The crystal's and the diamond's rays Kindled a wide and brilliant blaze; The ruby's blush, the coral's hue, By Peris dipped in Henni's dew, The topaz' rich and golden ray, The opal's flame, the agate gray, The amethyst of violet hue, The sapphire with its heavenly blue, The snow-white jasper sparkling there Near the carbuncle's deepening glare, The warm carnelian's blushing glow Reflected back the brilliant flow Of light, which in refulgent streams, O'er hall, o'er bower, and fountain beams.
O'er beds of roses, bright with dew, Unfolding modestly to view, Each trembling leaf, each blushing breast, In Cashmere's wildest sweetness dressed; Through vistas long, through myrtle bowers Where Amir Khan once passed his hours In gazing on Amreta's face, So full of beauty, full of grace, Through veils of silver bright and clear, It poured its softened radiance far; Or beamed in pure and milky brightness, O'er urns of alabaster whiteness; Through Persian screens of glittering gold, O'er many an altar's sacred fold, Where to Eternity will blaze The naphtha's never-fading rays, The Gheber's fire which dieth never, But burns, and beams, and glows forever!
'Twas silent: not a voice was heard— No sigh, no murmur, not one word Was echoed through that brilliant hall; The spell of silence hung o'er all; For there had paused the wing of death, The midnight spirit's withering breath.
At that still hour no sound arose To break the charm of deep repose; The lake was glittering, and the breeze Sighed softly through the tzinnar trees, And kissed the Wuller's wave of blue, Or sipped the gull's light trembling dew; But not a murmur, not a sigh Was wafted by the night-breeze by, Through that wide hall and princely bower, At midnight's calm and solemn hour!
O! where was Love his night-watch keeping! Or was the truant sweetly sleeping? Where was he at that hour of rest, By him created, claimed, and blessed? Where were the tears of Love, and Sorrow, The sigh which Sympathy can borrow? Where were regret, and chill despair? Where was Amreta?—where, O where?
Hark! 'tis the night-breeze softly playing, Through veils of glittering silver straying— No! 'tis a step—so quick, so light, That the wild flower which weeps at night, Would raise again its drooping head, To greet the footstep which had fled.
'Tis not the breeze which floats around, Lifting the light veil from the ground: No! 'tis a form of heavenly mien Hath dared to draw the curtain's screen.
Dimly, behind the fluttering veil, Which trembles in the breathing gale, A form appears of seraph mould As 'neath a light cloud's fleecy fold; The veil is drawn with hasty hand, Loosed is the rich embroidered band; 'Tis solemn solitude around, There's not a murmur, not a sound,— Again a snowy hand is seen, Again is raised the silken screen, And lo! with light and noiseless tread, Amreta glided from its shade!
Her veil was fluttering in the air, Her brow, as Parian marble fair, Was glittering bright with many a gem Set in a brilliant diadem; Her long dark hair was floating far, Braided with many a diamond star; Her eye was raised, and O! that eye Seemed only formed to gaze on high! For O, more piercing bright its beam Than diamonds 'neath Golconda's stream: That angel-eye was only given To look upon its native heaven! The glow upon her cheek was bright, But it came, and it fled like a meteor's light; A brilliant tear was still lingering there, And O, it was shed for the Subahdar!
O'er every tear the maiden shed, The heart of Amir Khan had bled; Now, Amir Khan, she weeps for thee, O! what must be thy ecstasy? For Amir Khan Amreta weeps, Yet Amir Khan unheeding sleeps! Like crystal dew-drops purely glowing, O'er his pale brow her tears are flowing; She wipes them with her veil away, Less sacred far—less sweet than they!
Where was that eye whose ardent gaze Had warmed her bosom with its rays? Where was that glance of love and woe? Where was that proud heart's throbbing glow? All, all was cold and silent there, And all was death, and dark despair! She hid her face, now cold and pale, Within her sweetly scented veil; Then seized her lute, and a strain so clear, So soft, so mournful arose on the air, That O! it was sweet as the music of heaven O'er a lost one returning, a sinner forgiven! Such notes as repentance in sorrow might sing, Notes wafted to heaven by Israfil's wing:—
SONG.
Star of the morning! this bosom was cold, When forced from my native shade, And I wrapped me around in my mantle's fold, A mournful Circassian maid!
I vowed. that rapture should never move This changeless cheek, this rayless eye, I vowed to feel neither bliss nor love,— In silence to meet thee, and then to die!
Each burning sigh thy bosom hath breathed, Has been melting that chain away; The galling chain which around me I wreathed, On the morn of that fatal day!
'Tis done! and this night I have broken the vow Which bound me in silence forever! And thy spirit hath fled from a world of woe, To return again, never! O never!
My soul is sad! and my heart is weary! For thy bosom is cold to me; Without thy smile the world is dreary, And I will fly with thee!
Together we'll float down eternity's stream, Twin stars on the breast of the billow, The splendors of Paradise round us shall beam, And thy bosom shall be my pillow! Then open thine arms, bright star of the morning! My grave in thy bosom shall be, The glories of Paradise round us are dawning, My heaven is only with thee!
Hushed were the words, and hushed the song, Which sadly, sweetly flowed along, But Amir Khan's warm heart beat high, Though closed and rayless was his eye; And every. note which struck his ear, Whispered a hovering angel near; And each warm tear that wet his cheek, Her long-concealed regard bespeak; His bosom bounded to be free, And fluttered,—wild with ecstasy! O! would the magic charm had passed! Would that the morn would break at last! But no,—it will not, may not be! He is not, nor can yet be free!
But hark! Amreta's murmurs rise, Sweet as the bird of Paradise; She bowed her head, and deeply sighed, "Yes, Amir Khan, I am thy bride! And here the crimson hand of death Shall wed us with a rosy wreath! My blood shall join us as it flows, And bind us in a deep repose!"
Beneath her veil a light is beaming, A dagger in her hand is gleaming, And livid was the light it threw, A pale, cold, death-like stream of blue, Around her form of angel brightness, And o'er her brow of marble whiteness!
Awake! O Amir Khan, awake! Canst thou not rouse thee for her sake? Beside thee can Amreta stand, The fatal dagger in her hand, And canst thou still regardless lie, And let thy loved Amreta die? Awake! O Amir Khan, awake! And rouse thee for Amreta's sake!
—Like lightning from a midnight cloud, The Subahdar, from 'neath his shroud, Burst the cold, magic, death-like band, And snatched the dagger from her hand! The maiden sunk upon his breast, And deep and lengthened was her rest! There was no sigh, no murmur there, And scarcely breathed the Subahdar, While almost fearing to be blest, He clasped Amreta to his breast:! Deep buried in his mantle's fold, He felt not that her cheek was cold; His own heart throbbed with pleasure's thrill, But whispered not that hers was still! —Yes! the wild flow of blissful joy. Which, bursting, threatened to destroy, Gave to her soul a rest from feeling; A transient torpor gently stealing O'er beating pulse, and throbbing breast, Had calmed her every nerve to rest; —But see! the tide of life returns, Once more her cheek with rapture burns, Once more her dark eye's heavenly beam Pours forth its full and piercing gleam, Once more her heart is bounding high, Too full to weep—too blest to sigh! 1824.
