by Thomas Moore
Are shining everywhere: — some younger girls
Are gone by moonlight to the garden-beds,
To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads; —
Gay creatures! sweet, tho’ mournful, ’tis to see
How each prefers a garland from that tree
Which brings to mind her childhood’s innocent day
And the dear fields and friendships far away.
The maid of INDIA, blest again to hold
In her full lap the Champac’s leaves of gold,58
Thinks of the time when, by the GANGES’ flood,
Her little playmates scattered many a bud
Upon her long black hair with glossy gleam
Just dripping from the consecrated stream;
While the young Arab haunted by the smell
Of her own mountain flowers as by a spell, —
The sweet Alcaya59 and that courteous tree
Which bows to all who seek its canopy,60
Sees called up round her by these magic scents
The well, the camels, and her father’s tents;
Sighs for the home she left with little pain,
And wishes even its sorrow back again!
Meanwhile thro’ vast illuminated halls,
Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls
Of fragrant waters gushing with cool sound
From many a jasper fount is heard around,
Young AZIM roams bewildered, — nor can guess
What means this maze of light and loneliness.
Here the way leads o’er tesselated floors
Or mats of CAIRO thro’ long corridors,
Where ranged in cassolets and silver urns
Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns,
And spicy rods such as illume at night
The bowers of TIBET61 send forth odorous light,
Like Peris’ wands, when pointing out the road
For some pure Spirit to its blest abode: —
And here at once the glittering saloon
Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon;
Where in the midst reflecting back the rays
In broken rainbows a fresh fountain plays
High as the enamelled cupola which towers
All rich with Arabesques of gold and flowers:
And the mosaic floor beneath shines thro’
The sprinkling of that fountain’s silvery dew,
Like the wet, glistening shells of every dye
That on the margin of the Red Sea lie.
Here too he traces the kind visitings
Of woman’s love in those fair, living things
Of land and wave, whose fate — in bondage thrown
For their weak loveliness — is like her own!
On one side gleaming with a sudden grace
Thro’ water brilliant as the crystal vase
In which it undulates, small fishes shine
Like golden ingots from a fairy mine; —
While, on the other, latticed lightly in
With odoriferous woods of COMORIN,
Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen; —
Gay, sparkling loories such as gleam between
The crimson blossoms of the coral-tree62
In the warm isles of India’s sunny sea:
Mecca’s blue sacred pigeon,63 and the thrush
Of Hindostan64 whose holy warblings gush
At evening from the tall pagoda’s top; —
Those golden birds that in the spice time drop
About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food65
Whose scent hath lured them o’er the summer flood;66
And those that under Araby’s soft sun
Build their high nests of budding cinnamon;67
In short, all rare and beauteous things that fly
Thro’ the pure element here calmly lie
Sleeping in light, like the green birds68 that dwell
In Eden’s radiant fields of asphodel!
So on, thro’ scenes past all imagining,
More like the luxuries of that impious King,69
Whom Death’s dark Angel with his lightning torch
Struck down and blasted even in Pleasure’s porch,
Than the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent
Armed with Heaven’s sword for man’s enfranchisement —
Young AZIM wandered, looking sternly round,
His simple garb and war-boots clanking sound
But ill according with the pomp and grace
And silent lull of that voluptuous place.
“Is this, then,” thought the youth, “is this the way
“To free man’s spirit from the deadening sway
“Of worldly sloth, — to teach him while he lives
“To know no bliss but that which virtue gives,
“And when he dies to leave his lofty name
“A light, a landmark on the cliffs of fame?
“It was not so, Land of the generous thought
“And daring deed, thy god-like sages taught;
“It was not thus in bowers of wanton ease
“Thy Freedom nurst her sacred energies;
“Oh! not beneath the enfeebling, withering glow
“Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow
“With which she wreathed her sword when she would dare
“Immortal deeds; but in the bracing air
“Of toil, — of temperance, — of that high, rare,
“Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe
“Life, health, and lustre into Freedom’s wreath.
“Who that surveys this span of earth we press. —
“This speck of life in time’s great wilderness,
“This narrow isthmus ‘twixt two boundless seas,
“The past, the future, two eternities! —
“Would sully the bright spot, or leave it bare,
“When he might build him a proud temple there,
“A name that long shall hallow all its space,
“And be each purer soul’s high resting-place.
“But no — it cannot be, that one whom God
“Has sent to break the wizard Falsehood’s rod, —
“A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws
“Its rights from Heaven, should thus profane its cause
“With the world’s vulgar pomps; — no, no, — I see —
“He thinks me weak — this glare of luxury
“Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze
“Of my young soul — shine on, ‘twill stand the blaze!”
So thought the youth; — but even while he defied
This witching scene he felt its witchery glide
Thro’ every sense. The perfume breathing round,
Like a pervading spirit; — the still sound
Of falling waters, lulling as the song
Of Indian bees at sunset when they throng
Around the fragrant NILICA, and deep
In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep;70
And music, too — dear music! that can touch
Beyond all else the soul that loves it much —
Now heard far off, so far as but to seem
Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream;
All was too much for him, too full of bliss,
The heart could nothing feel, that felt not this;
Softened he sunk upon a couch and gave
His soul up to sweet thoughts like wave on wave
Succeeding in smooth seas when storms are laid;
He thought of ZELICA, his own dear maid,
And of the time when full of blissful sighs
They sat and lookt into each other’s eyes,
Silent and happy — as if God had given
Naught else worth looking at on this side heaven.
“Oh, my loved mistress, thou whose spirit still
“Is with me, round me, wander where I will —
> “It is for thee, for thee alone I seek
“The paths of glory; to light up thy cheek
“With warm approval — in that gentle look
“To read my praise as in an angel’s book,
“And think all toils rewarded when from thee
“I gain a smile worth immortality!
“How shall I bear the moment, when restored
“To that young heart where I alone am Lord.
“Tho’ of such bliss unworthy, — since the best
“Alone deserve to be the happiest: —
“When from those lips unbreathed upon for years
“I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears,
“And find those tears warm as when last they started,
“Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted.
“O my own life! — why should a single day,
“A moment keep me from those arms away?”
While thus he thinks, still nearer on the breeze
Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies,
Each note of which but adds new, downy links
To the soft chain in which his spirit sinks.
He turns him toward the sound, and far away
Thro’ a long vista sparkling with the play
Of countless lamps, — like the rich track which Day
Leaves on the waters, when he sinks from us,
So long the path, its light so tremulous; —
He sees a group of female forms advance,
Some chained together in the mazy dance
By fetters forged in the green sunny bowers,
As they were captives to the King of Flowers;71
And some disporting round, unlinkt and free,
Who seemed to mock their sisters’ slavery;
And round and round them still in wheeling flight
Went like gay moths about a lamp at night;
While others waked, as gracefully along
Their feet kept time, the very soul of song
From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly thrill,
Or their own youthful voices heavenlier still.
And now they come, now pass before his eye,
Forms such as Nature moulds when she would vie
With Fancy’s pencil and give birth to things
Lovely beyond its fairest picturings.
Awhile they dance before him, then divide,
Breaking like rosy clouds at eventide
Around the rich pavilion of the sun, —
Till silently dispersing, one by one,
Thro’ many a path that from the chamber leads
To gardens, terraces and moonlight meads,
Their distant laughter comes upon the wind,
And but one trembling nymph remains behind, —
Beckoning them back in vain — for they are gone
And she is left in all that light alone;
No veil to curtain o’er her beauteous brow,
In its young bashfulness more beauteous now;
But a light golden chain-work round her hair,72
Such as the maids of YEZD and SHIRAS wear,73
From which on either side gracefully hung
A golden amulet in the Arab tongue,
Engraven o’er with some immortal line
From Holy Writ or bard scarce less divine;
While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood,
Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood,
Which once or twice she touched with hurried strain,
Then took her trembling fingers off again.
But when at length a timid glance she stole
At AZIM, the sweet gravity of soul
She saw thro’ all his features calmed her fear,
And like a half-tamed antelope more near,
Tho’ shrinking still, she came; — then sat her down
Upon a musnud’s74 edge, and, bolder grown.
In the pathetic mode of ISFAHAN75
Touched a preluding strain and thus began: —
There’s a bower of roses by BENDEMEER’s76 stream,
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;
In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream,
To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song.
That bower and its music, I never forget,
But oft when alone in the bloom of the year
I think — is the nightingale singing there yet?
Are the roses still bright by the calm BENDEMEER?
No, the roses soon withered that hung o’er the wave,
But some blossoms were gathered while freshly they shone.
And a dew was distilled from their flowers that gave
All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.
Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies
An essence that breathes of it many a year;
Thus bright to my soul, as ’twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower on the banks of the calm BENDEMEER!
“Poor maiden!” thought the youth, “if thou wert sent
“With thy soft lute and beauty’s blandishment
“To wake unholy wishes in this heart,
“Or tempt its truth, thou little know’st the art.
“For tho’ thy lips should sweetly counsel wrong,
“Those vestal eyes would disavow its song.
“But thou hast breathed such purity, thy lay
“Returns so fondly to youth’s virtuous day,
“And leads thy soul — if e’er it wandered thence —
“So gently back to its first innocence,
“That I would sooner stop the unchained dove,
“When swift returning to its home of love,
“And round its snowy wing new fetters twine.
“Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine!”
Scarce had this feeling past, when sparkling thro’
The gently open’d curtains of light blue
That veiled the breezy casement, countless eyes
Peeping like stars thro’ the blue evening skies,
Looked laughing in as if to mock the pair
That sat so still and melancholy there: —
And now the curtains fly apart and in
From the cool air mid showers of jessamine
Which those without fling after them in play,
Two lightsome maidens spring, — lightsome as they
Who live in the air on odors, — and around
The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground,
Chase one another in a varying dance
Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance,
Too eloquently like love’s warm pursuit: —
While she who sung so gently to the lute
Her dream of home steals timidly away,
Shrinking as violets do in summer’s ray, —
But takes with her from AZIM’S heart that sigh
We sometimes give to forms that pass us by
In the world’s crowd, too lovely to remain,
Creatures of light we never see again!
Around the white necks of the nymphs who danced
Hung carcanets of orient gems that glanced
More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering o’er
The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore;77
While from their long, dark tresses, in a fall
Of curls descending, bells as musical
As those that on the golden-shafted trees
Of EDEN shake in the eternal breeze,78
Rung round their steps, at every bound more sweet.
As ‘twere the ecstatic language of their feet.
At length the chase was o’er, and they stood wreathed
Within each other’s arms; while soft there breathed
Thro’ the cool casement, mingled with the sighs
Of moonlight flowers, music that seemed to rise
From some still lake, so liquidly it rose;
&nbs
p; And as it swelled again at each faint close
The ear could track thro’ all that maze of chords
And young sweet voices these impassioned words: —
A SPIRIT there is whose fragrant sigh
Is burning now thro’ earth and air;
Where cheeks are blushing the Spirit is nigh,
Where lips are meeting the Spirit is there!
His breath is the soul of flowers like these,
And his floating eyes — oh! they resemble79
Blue water-lilies,80 when the breeze
Is making the stream around them tremble.
Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power!
Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss!
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,
And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.
By the fair and brave
Who blushing unite,
Like the sun and wave,
When they meet at night;
By the tear that shows
When passion is nigh,
As the rain-drop flows
From the heat of the sky;
By the first love-beat
Of the youthful heart,
By the bliss to meet,
And the pain to part;
By all that thou hast
To mortals given,
Which — oh, could it last,
This earth were heaven!
We call thee thither, entrancing Power!
Spirit of Love! Spirit of Bliss!
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,
And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.
Impatient of a scene whose luxuries stole,
Spite of himself, too deep into his soul,
And where, midst all that the young heart loves most,
Flowers, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost,
The youth had started up and turned away
From the light nymphs and their luxurious lay
To muse upon the pictures that hung round, — 81
Bright images, that spoke without a sound,
And views like vistas into fairy ground.
But here again new spells came o’er his sense: —
All that the pencil’s mute omnipotence
Could call up into life, of soft and fair,
Of fond and passionate, was glowing there;
Nor yet too warm, but touched with that fine art
Which paints of pleasure but the purer part;
Which knows even Beauty when half-veiled is best, —
Like her own radiant planet of the west,
Whose orb when half retired looks loveliest.82
There hung the history of the Genii-King,
Traced thro’ each gay, voluptuous wandering
With her from SABA’S bowers, in whose bright eyes
He read that to be blest is to be wise; —
Here fond ZULEIKA woos with open arms83
The Hebrew boy who flies from her young charms,