The Bengali Book of English Verse/The Captive Ladie (Michael Madhusudan Dutt)
MICHAEL MADHUSUDAN DUTT,
1824-1873.
The Captive Ladie.
The Captive Ladie is the most considerable verse production in English from the pen of a Bengali writer. For this reason alone it deserves more lengthy representation than other works. Concerning its theme the author himself writes:—
"The following tale is founded on a circumstance pretty generally known in India, and, if I mistake not, noticed by some European writers. A little before the famous Indian expedition of Mahmud of Ghuzni, the King of Kanauj celebrated the "Raj-shooio Jugum" or, as I have translated it in the text, the "Feast of Victory." Almost all the contemporary Princes, being unable to resist his power, attended it, with the exception of the King of Delhi, who, being a lineal descendant of the great Pandu Princes—the heroes of the far-famed Mahabharat of Vyasa—refused to sanction by his presence the assumption of a dignity—for the celebration of this Festival was an universal assertion of claims to being considered as the lord paramount over the whole country—which by right of descent belonged to his family alone. The King of Kanauj highly incensed at this refusal, had an image of gold made to represent the absent chief. On the last day of the Feast, the King of Delhi, having, with a few chosen followers, entered the palace in disguise, carried off this image, together, as some say, with one of the Princesses Royal whose hand he had once solicited but in vain, owing to his obstinate maintenance of the rights of his ancient house. The fair Princess, however, was retaken and sent to a solitary castle to be out of the way of her pugnacious lover, who eventually effected her escape in the disguise of a Bhat or Indian Troubadour. The King of Kanauj never forgave this insult, and, when Mahmud invaded the kingdom of Delhi, sternly refused to aid his son-in-law in expelling a foe, who soon after crushed him also. I have slightly deviated from the above story in representing my heroine as sent to confinement before the celebration of the "Feast of Victory."
CANTO FIRST.
The star of Eve is in the sky,
But pale it shines and tremblingly,
As if the solitude around,
So vast, so wild, without a bound,
Hath in its softly throbbing breast
Awak'd some maiden fear—unrest:
****
'Tis eve—the dew's on leaf and flower,
The soft breeze in the moon-lit bower,
And fire-flies with pale gleaming gems
Upon their fairy diadems,
Like winged stars now walk the deep
Of space soft-hushed in dewy sleep,
And people every leaf and tree
With beauty and with radiancy.
There's light upon the heaving stream,
And music sweet as heard in dream,
And many a star upon its breast
Is calmly pillow'd unto rest,
While there, as on a silver throne,
All melancholy, veil'd, alone,
Beneath the pale Moon's colder ray,
The Bride of him—the Lord of Day,
In silence droops, as in lone bower
The love-lorn maid at twilight hour.
She looks not on the smiling sky,
The wide expanse blue, far and high,
She looks not on the stars above
Throbbing like bosoms breathing love;
Nor lists she to the breeze so gay,
Which whispers round in wanton play,
And stirs soft waves of starry gleam
To wake her from that moody dream.
The moon-light's on yon frowning pile.
But oh! how faint and pale its smile!
Methinks yon high and gloomy tow'r
And battlement and faded bow'r,
With awful hush and solitude
Have chill'd its soft and joyous mood.
This fortress is the prison of the captive princess whose guards deplore the duty that keeps them from the more active service of their time:—
You tell me that yon captive lone
Would grace the proudest monarch's throne,
And that from regal bowers she came,
And halls whose splendour has no name,
Because she lov'd some chief whose pride
Would stoop not, e'en to win his bride,
To her proud father; for his hand
Could wield as well the warrior brand,
And his the race who ne'er hath shown
Submission to a stranger's throne;
And ne'er hath lowly bent the knee
To Powers of this wide earth that be!
I grieve to hear her piteous tale;
And must such cruel fate bewail;
I grieve to hear that maiden fair
Should shed the tear of dark Despair,
And dim the lustre of her eye,
And blanche her cheek's soft, rosy dye.
But why should warrior come to dwell
Like captive in his lightless cell,
Nor list to charger's neigh so shrill
Re-echoed far from hill to hill,
Nor midst the battle's maddening roar,
Nor on wide plains all bath'd in gore,
Wield his bright blade where foe-men throng
To spare the weak—to crush the strong!
"They say the Crescent's on the gales
Which whisper in our moon-lit vales:
They say that Moslem feet have trod
The fanes of him—the Bramin's God;
And that from western realms afar
Fast flows the tide of furious war,
Like torrent from the mountain glen,
Like lion from his bloody den,
Like eagle from the aery peak
Of skiey mount and high and bleak.
What—must we here on this lone isle
Watch yon pale Goddess' pensive smile,
Like cravens who will shrink to bleed
E'en for the Hero's deathless meed!"
The guards decide to while the weary hours with song; and one of their number, a soldier-minstrel or troubadour, tells the story of the Feast of Victory:—
"The Raja sat in his gorgeous hall
In pomp the proudest earth had known,
While monarchs bow'd them to his thrall,
And knelt them lowly round his throne,
The brightest gems of the South lay there
And the North 's treasures from afar,
And of the East and West so fair,
The home of Even's dewy star:
For all were his—o'er earth and sea
His flag had wav'd in Victory,
From proud Himala's realms of snow
To where upon the ocean-tide
Fair Lunka smiles in beauty's glow
And breathes soft perfumes far and wide,
And sits her like a regal maid
In her gay, bridal wreathes array'd!
A prouder scene the fiery sun
Had never, never shone upon!
Like golden clouds that on the breast
Of yonder Heavens love to rest,
Unnumber'd hosts in bright array
Glitter'd beneath the noon-tide ray;
A thousand flags wav'd on the air,
Like bright-wing'd birds disporting there;
A thousand spears flash'd in the light
In dazzling splendour high and bright.
The warrior-steed so fierce and proud
Neigh'd in wild fury shrill and loud.
The jewell'd elephant too stood
In solemn pride and quiet mood;
And in the glittering pomp of war
The mail-clad hero in his car.
For nations on that glorious day
Met there from regions far away—
The mightiest on this earth that be
In all the pride of Chivalrie—
To celebrate thy feast, proud Victory!
And all around the dazzled eye
Met scenes of gayest revelrie:
For, here beneath the perfum'd shade,
By some bright silken awning made,
Midst rose and lily scatter'd round
That blush'd as if on fairy ground,
Bright maidens fair as those above
Sang softly—for they sang of Love.
****
But there was one—a monarch he—
Came not to that high revelrie:
They said he once had sought to gain
That chieftain's daughter but in vain;
And that his slighted love had taught
Hate, deathless, deep and unforgot:
Such as the bosom's inmost core
Will darkly nurse for ever-more:
Such as will ever fiercely blight
Love, Friendship, Mercy—all that's bright
And gilds Life's path with starry light,
And parts but with the latest breath
That heaves the breast embrac'd by Death!
Perchance this was a whisper'd lie—
An idle tale—foul calumny.
Yet—tho' Inquiry all around
Breath'd from each hurried look and sound—
'Why comes he not?—once in this hall,
'Now gay with blithesome festival,
'How oft he came—a welcome guest,
'Best lov'd—best cherish'd—honour'd best?'
Calm was that chieftain's brow and stern
From which conjecture naught could learn:
Yes—calm it was as is the grave
Or some unruffl'd slumbering wave.
But suddenly a warrior shell
In loud defiance rose and fell;
As if the Thunderer from on high,
To crush vain mortals met below,
In pomp and grandeur which might vie
With realms above the starry sky,
Came there to work fierce scenes of woe!
And loud it swell'd and hall and bower,
And turret high and skiey tower
Shook, for it was the call to war,
Wild, fierce, and rolling from afar!
The maiden's blushing cheek was pale.
And hush'd her lover's whisper'd tale;
The hand which strung the breathing lyre,
Seiz'd falchions, bright as blazing fire;
And thousands from that blithesome hall,
Rush'd madly forth to slay or fall!
Loud was the trumpet's shrilly yell,
And loud the warrior's deafening shell,
And madden'd war-steed's whirl-wind tread,
Which crush'd the dying and the dead!
As when within the starless gloom,
Of Himalaya's snowy womb,
Ten thousand torrents madly roll,
To burst from out its dark control;
They roar, as if each furious wave,
Writhed wild with life some Fury gave!"
The tale of the troubadour recited to the guards was heard by the captive princess to rescue whom the singer, in reality the King of Delhi in disguise, had thus made known his mission and identity. They managed to escape together in the night following the recital. The second Canto opens with the Moslem siege of Delhi.
High in his tent of costliest shawl,
Which tow'rs midst thousands, glittering all,
Like fair pavilions Fancy's eyes
View limn'd on sun-set eastern skies,
The Moslem-chief holds glad divan,
Nor fasts and lists to alcoran,
And that grim brow where bigot zeal
Oft set its sternest, fiercest seal,
Smiles gayly like a lightless stream,
When Chandra sheds her silver beam,
As sweetly sounds the gay Sittar,
Like voice of Home when heard afar,
Or wild and thrilling rolls along,
Ferdousi's high, heroic song;
For ceaseless orison and fast,
Have won Heaven's favouring smile at last,
And when to-morrow's sun shall rise,
On car of light from orient skies,
The first, faint blushing of his ray,
Will lead proud Conquest to her prey,
And see the Crescent's blood-red wave,
Gild fall'n Husteena's lowly grave!
A thousand lamps all gayly shine,
Along the wide extended line;
And loud the laugh and proud the boast,
Swells from that fierce, unnumber'd host,
And wild the prayer ascends on high,
Dark Vengeance! thine impatient cry—
Oh! for a glimpse of Day's fair brow,
To crush yon city tow'ring now,
To make each cafir-bosom feel,
Th' unerring blade of Moslem steel!
By Alla! how I long to be,
Where myriads writhe in agony,
And mark each wretch with rolling eye
Call on false gods,—then curse and die,
Meet pilgrim for the dire domain,
Where Eblis holds his sun-less reign!
To-morrow—oh!—why wilt thou, Night,
Thus veil the smile of Day so bright?
We want not now thy Moon and Star,
In pensive beauty shrin'd afar,
We want not now thy pearly dew
To dim our falchion's blood-red hue,
Thy lonely breath thus passing by,
Like Beauty's whispered, farewell-sigh:
Go—hie thee hence!—where Rocnabad,
With murmuring waters wildly glad,
Doth woo thy stars to silver rest,
Upon its gently-heaving breast,
Or, where soon as the sun hath set,
And dome, kiosk and minaret
Glow with thy pale moon's gentler beam,
Like the bright limnings of some dream,
The lover gayly tunes his lay—
The rosy bow'rs of Mosellay!
We want thee not, the brightest flood,
The fiery sun can ever shed,
Must blaze o'er warrior's deeds of blood,
And light him on whene'er he tread,
The field where foe-men fierce and brave,
Meet, slay, or win a bloody grave!"
At this point the poem reaches its dramatic climax, and is full of fine feeling for the incidents related. The besieged monarch, the troubadour of the first canto, knows his doom, and goes to break it to his love:—
Oh! hast thou conquer'd—have they fled,
And is he come,—and are they dead?
My God—but why that hueless cheek,
Must Victory thus to true Love speak!
Oh! tell me, for thy tale must be
Of Joy since thou art come to me!
For fearful visions in my sleep,
Have made me shudder, shriek, and weep!
When wearied with long vigils kept,
I laid me down and thought I slept:
Methought there came a warrior-maid,
With blood-stain'd brow and sheathless blade;
Dark was her hue, as darkest cloud,
Which comes the Moon's fair face to shroud,
And 'round her waist a hideous zone
Of hands with charnal lightnings shone,
And long the garland which she wore
Of heads all bath'd in streaming gore:
How fierce the eyes by Death unseal'd.
And blasting gleams which they reveal'd.
I shudder'd—tho' I knew 'twas she,
The awful, ruthless Deity,
On whose dread altar like a flood,
There flows for aye her victim's blood!
I shudder'd—for, methought, she came,
With eyes of bright consuming flame,
'Daughter,'—she said,—'farewell!—I go:
'The time is come,—it must be so:
'Leave thee and thine I will to-night,'—
Then vanish'd like a flash of light!
Again I dreamt:—I saw a pyre
Blaze high with fiercely gleaming fire;
And one there came,—a warrior he,—
Tho' faint, yet bold,—undauntedly,
And plung'd—oh! God! into the flame
Which like a hungry monster rose,
And circl'd round his quivering frame,
A hideous curtain waving close!
I shriek'd—but, tell me why that start.
And paler brow and heaving heart?
Oh! tell me, hath my royal sire
Forgot his deep and ruthless ire,
And come and crush'd our foe-men dire?"
Oh! never,—never will this heart
Be sever'd, Love! to beat apart!
I fear not Death, tho' fierce he be,
When thus I cling, mine own to thee!
For in the forest's green retreat,
Where leafy branches twine and meet,
Tho' wildly round dread Agni roars,
Like angry surge by rock-girt shores,
The soft gazelle of liquid eye
Leaves not her mate alone to die!
The funeral pyre consumes the lovers, and the tale ends with the disappointed Moslem's entry into the doomed city.
High flames the fiercely kindling pyre
Like Rudra's all consuming ire;
And many a spark ascends on high
Like light-wing'd birds which wildly fly
Or gayly sweep along the sky;
The Rishi with his gods is there
But weeps as swells his solemn pray'r,
And all around the brightening glow
Lights hueless cheek and pallid brow!
And there be murmured voice of wail,
Like mournful sigh of mid-night gale,
'And must he die so young, so brave,
'Is there no god above to save!'
There is a hush:— a warrior stands
Fast by that pyre of blazing brands;
With all a warrior's fearless pride
He shrinks not from the fiery tide,
Which rolls, a golden lava-stream,
And darts full many a lightning beam;
A glittering crown is on his brow
Of beauty,—tho' all pallid now,
And in his hand a broken blade
Bath'd in red gore but lately shed!
He looks him round with dauntless eye,
As one who never fears to die!
'Farewell!—Death's but a short-liv'd pain,
'I Live not for a captive's chain;
'And now, ye gods who love the brave,
'Smile o'er a warrior's fiery grave!'
He paus'd—they look'd —'oh! he is gone,
'His last, his boldest deed is done,
'Husteena see thy hope expire,
'Upon yon pile of blazing fire!'
But, hark! there is a shriek,—a cry,
Of wild, controlless agony!
How fearfully around it rung,
As one burst thro' that weeping throng,
And plung'd into that flaming pyre,
And clove awhile the column'd fire!
They look'd—they knew—yes, it was she,
The bride of him whose spirit there
Had burst its prison, joyously
To fly far to the realms of air!
Go,—ope the portals far and wide,
And let the over-whelming tide
Of foe-men like an ocean glide;
What boots it now, since they must sheathe
Their blades in hearts have ceas'd to breathe,
And Conquest in proud triumph tread
A lone, wide city of the dead!