by Thomas Moore
“How oft I’ve prayed to God I might die so!
“But the Fiend’s venom was too scant and slow; —
“To linger on were maddening — and I thought
“If once that Veil — nay, look not on it — caught
“The eyes of your fierce soldiery, I should be
“Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly.
“But this is sweeter — oh! believe me, yes —
“I would not change this sad, but dear caress.
“This death within thy arms I would not give
“For the most smiling life the happiest live!
“All that stood dark and drear before the eye
“Of my strayed soul is passing swiftly by;
“A light comes o’er me from those looks of love,
“Like the first dawn of mercy from above;
“And if thy lips but tell me I’m forgiven,
“Angels will echo the blest words in Heaven!
“But live, my AZIM; — oh! to call thee mine
“Thus once again! my AZIM — dream divine!
“Live, if thou ever lovedst me, if to meet
“Thy ZELICA hereafter would be sweet,
“Oh, live to pray for her — to bend the knee
“Morning and night before that Deity
“To whom pure lips and hearts without a stain,
“As thine are, AZIM, never breathed in vain, —
“And pray that He may pardon her, — may take
“Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake,
“And naught remembering but her love to thee,
“Make her all thine, all His, eternally!
“Go to those happy fields where first we twined
“Our youthful hearts together — every wind
“That meets thee there fresh from the well-known flowers
“Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours
“Back to thy soul and thou mayst feel again
“For thy poor ZELICA as thou didst then.
“So shall thy orisons like dew that flies
“To Heaven upon the morning’s sunshine rise
“With all love’s earliest ardor to the skies!
“And should they — but, alas, my senses fail —
“Oh for one minute! — should thy prayers prevail —
“If pardoned souls may from that World of Bliss
“Reveal their joy to those they love in this —
“I’ll come to thee — in some sweet dream — and tell —
“Oh Heaven — I die — dear love! farewell, farewell.”
Time fleeted — years on years had past away,
And few of those who on that mournful day
Had stood with pity in their eyes to see
The maiden’s death and the youth’s agony,
Were living still — when, by a rustic grave,
Beside the swift Amoo’s transparent wave,
An aged man who had grown aged there
By that lone grave, morning and night in prayer,
For the last time knelt down — and tho’ the shade
Of death hung darkening over him there played
A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek,
That brightened even Death — like the last streak
Of intense glory on the horizon’s brim,
When night o’er all the rest hangs chill and dim.
His soul had seen a Vision while he slept;
She for whose spirit he had prayed and wept
So many years had come to him all drest
In angel smiles and told him she was blest!
For this the old man breathed his thanks and died. —
And there upon the banks of that loved tide,
He and his ZELICA sleep side by side.
The story of the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan being ended, they were now doomed to hear FADLADEEN’S criticisms upon it. A series of disappointments and accidents had occurred to this learned Chamberlain during the journey. In the first place, those couriers stationed, as in the reign of Shah Jehan, between Delhi and the Western coast of India, to secure a constant supply of mangoes for the Royal Table, had by some cruel irregularity failed in their duty; and to eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was of course impossible.136 In the next place, the elephant laden with his fine antique porcelain,137 had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, shattered the whole set to pieces: — an irreparable loss, as many of the vessels were so exquisitely old, as to have been used under the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran too, supposed to be the identical copy between the leaves of which Mahomet’s favorite pigeon used to nestle, had been mislaid by his Koran-bearer three whole days; not without much spiritual alarm to FADLADEEN who though professing to hold with other loyal and orthodox Mussulmans that salvation could only be found in the Koran was strongly suspected of believing in his heart that it could only be found in his own particular copy of it. When to all these grievances is added the obstinacy of the cooks in putting the pepper of Canara into his dishes instead of the cinnamon of Serendib, we may easily suppose that he came to the task of criticism with at least a sufficient degree of irritability for the purpose.
“In order,” said he, importantly swinging about his chaplet of pearls, “to convey with clearness my opinion of the story this young man has related, it is necessary to take a review of all the stories that have ever”— “My good FADLADEEN!” exclaimed the Princess, interrupting him, “we really do not deserve that you should give yourself so much trouble. Your opinion of the poem we have just heard, will I have no doubt be abundantly edifying without any further waste of your valuable erudition.”— “If that be all,” replied the critic, — evidently mortified at not being allowed to show how much he knew about everything but the subject immediately before him— “if that be all that is required the matter is easily despatched.” He then proceeded to analyze the poem, in that strain (so well known to the unfortunate bards of Delhi), whose censures were an infliction from which few recovered and whose very praises were like the honey extracted from the bitter flowers of the aloe. The chief personages of the story were, if he rightly understood them, an ill-favored gentleman with a veil over his face; — a young lady whose reason went and came according as it suited the poet’s convenience to be sensible or otherwise; — and a youth in one of those hideous Bokharian bonnets, who took the aforesaid gentleman in a veil for a Divinity. “From such materials,” said he, “what can be expected? — after rivalling each other in long speeches and absurdities through some thousands of lines as indigestible as the filberts of Berdaa, our friend in the veil jumps into a tub of aquafortis; the young lady dies in a set speech whose only recommendation is that it is her last; and the lover lives on to a good old age for the laudable purpose of seeing her ghost which he at last happily accomplishes, and expires. This you will allow is a fair summary of the story; and if Nasser, the Arabian merchant, told no better, our Holy Prophet (to whom be all honor and glory!) had no need to be jealous of his abilities for story-telling.”
With respect to the style, it was worthy of the matter; — it had not even those politic contrivances of structure which make up for the commonness of the thoughts by the peculiarity of the manner nor that stately poetical phraseology by which sentiments mean in themselves, like the blacksmith’s 138 apron converted into a banner, are so easily gilt and embroidered into consequence. Then as to the versification it was, to say no worse of it, execrable: it had neither the copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness of Hafez, nor the sententious march of Sadi; but appeared to him in the uneasy heaviness of its movements to have been modelled upon the gait of a very tired dromedary. The licenses too in which it indulged were unpardonable; — for instance this line, and the poem abounded with such; —
Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.
“What critic that can count,” said FADLADEEN, “and has his full complement of fingers to count withal, woul
d tolerate for an instant such syllabic superfluities?” — He here looked round, and discovered that most of his audience were asleep; while the glimmering lamps seemed inclined to follow their example. It became necessary therefore, however painful to himself, to put an end to his valuable animadversions for the present and he accordingly concluded with an air of dignified candor, thus: —
“Notwithstanding the observations which I have thought it my duty to make, it is by no means my wish to discourage the young man: — so far from it indeed that if he will but totally alter his style of writing and thinking I have very little doubt that I shall be vastly pleased with him.”
Some days elapsed after this harangue of the Great Chamberlain before LALLA ROOKH could venture to ask for another story. The youth was still a welcome guest in the pavilion — to one heart perhaps too dangerously welcome; — but all mention of poetry was as if by common consent avoided. Though none of the party had much respect for FADLADEEN, yet his censures thus magisterially delivered evidently made an impression on them all. The Poet himself to whom criticism was quite a new operation, (being wholly unknown in that Paradise of the Indies, Cashmere,) felt the shock as it is generally felt at first, till use has made it more tolerable to the patient; — the Ladies began to suspect that they ought not to be pleased and seemed to conclude that there must have been much good sense in what FADLADEEN said from its having set them all so soundly to sleep; — while the self-complacent Chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea of having for the hundred and fiftieth time in his life extinguished a Poet. LALLA ROOKH alone — and Love knew why — persisted in being delighted with all she had heard and in resolving to hear more as speedily as possible. Her manner however of first returning to the subject was unlucky. It was while they rested during the heat of noon near a fountain on which some hand had rudely traced those well-known words from the Garden of Sadi.— “Many like me have viewed this fountain, but they are gone and their eyes are closed for ever!” — that she took occasion from the melancholy beauty of this passage to dwell upon the charms of poetry in general. “It is true,” she said, “few poets can imitate that sublime bird which flies always in the air and never touches the earth:139 — it is only once in many ages a Genius appears whose words, like those on the Written Mountain last for ever:140 — but still there are some as delightful perhaps, though not so wonderful, who if not stars over our head are at least flowers along our path and whose sweetness of the moment we ought gratefully to inhale without calling upon them for a brightness and a durability beyond their nature. In short,” continued she, blushing as if conscious of being caught in an oration, “it is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his regions of enchantment without having a critic for ever, like the old Man of the Sea, upon his back!”141 — FADLADEEN, it was plain took this last luckless allusion to himself and would treasure it up in his mind as a whetstone for his next criticism. A sudden silence ensued; and the Princess, glancing a look at FERAMORZ, saw plainly she must wait for a more courageous moment.
But the glories of Nature and her wild, fragrant airs playing freshly over the current of youthful spirits will soon heal even deeper wounds than the dull Fadladeens of this world can inflict. In an evening or two after, they came to the small Valley of Gardens which had been planted by order of the Emperor for his favorite sister Rochinara during their progress to Cashmere some years before; and never was there a more sparkling assemblage of sweets since the Gulzar-e-Irem or Rose-bower of Irem. Every precious flower was there to be found that poetry or love or religion has ever consecrated; from the dark hyacinth to which Hafez compares his mistress’s hair to be Cámalatá by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of Indra is scented.142 As they sat in the cool fragrance of this delicious spot and LALLA ROOKH remarked that she could fancy it the abode of that flower-loving Nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay, 143 or of one of those Peris, those beautiful creatures of the air who live upon perfumes and to whom a place like this might make some amends for the Paradise they have lost, — the young Poet in whose eyes she appeared while she spoke to be one of the bright spiritual creatures she was describing said hesitatingly that he remembered a Story of a Peri, which if the Princess had no objection he would venture to relate. “It is,” said he, with an appealing look to FADLADEEN, “in a lighter and humbler strain than the other:” then, striking a few careless but melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus began: —
PARADISE AND THE PERI.
One morn a Peri at the gate
Of Eden stood disconsolate;
And as she listened to the Springs
Of Life within like music flowing
And caught the light upon her wings
Thro’ the half-open portal glowing,
She wept to think her recreant race
Should e’er have lost that glorious place!
“How happy,” exclaimed this child of air,
“Are the holy Spirits who wander there
“Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall;
“Tho’ mine are the gardens of earth and sea
“And the stars themselves have flowers for me,
“One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all!
“Tho’ sunny the Lake of cool CASHMERE
“With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,144
“And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall;
“Tho’ bright are the waters of SING-SU-HAY
And the golden floods that thitherward stray,145
Yet — oh, ’tis only the Blest can say
How the waters of Heaven outshine them all!
“Go, wing thy flight from star to star,
From world to luminous world as far
As the universe spreads its flaming wall:
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres
And multiply each thro’ endless years
One minute of Heaven is worth them all!”
The glorious Angel who was keeping
The gates of Light beheld her weeping,
And as he nearer drew and listened
To her sad song, a tear-drop glistened
Within his eyelids, like the spray
From Eden’s fountain when it lies
On the blue flower which — Bramins say —
Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.146
“Nymph of a fair but erring line!”
Gently he said— “One hope is thine.
’Tis written in the Book of Fate,
The Peri yet may be forgiven
Who brings to this Eternal gate
The Gift that is most dear to Heaven!
Go seek it and redeem thy sin —
’Tis sweet to let the Pardoned in.”
Rapidly as comets run
To the embraces of the Sun; —
Fleeter than the starry brands
Flung at night from angel hands147
At those dark and daring sprites
Who would climb the empyreal heights,
Down the blue vault the PERI flies,
And lighted earthward by a glance
That just then broke from morning’s eyes,
Hung hovering o’er our world’s expanse.
But whither shall the Spirit go
To find this gift for Heaven;— “I know
The wealth,” she cries, “of every urn
In which unnumbered rubies burn
Beneath the pillars of CHILMINAR:148
I know where the Isles of Perfume are149
Many a fathom down in the sea,
To the south of sun-bright ARABY;150
I know too where the Genii hid
The jewelled cup of their King JAMSHID,151
“With Life’s elixir sparkling high —
“But gifts like these are not for the sky.
“Where was there ever a gem that shone
“Like the steps of ALLA’S wonderful Throne?
“And the Drops of Life — oh! what would they be
“In the boundless
Deep of Eternity?”
While thus she mused her pinions fanned
The air of that sweet Indian land
Whose air is balm, whose ocean spreads
O’er coral rocks and amber beds,152
Whose mountains pregnant by the beam
Of the warm sun with diamonds teem,
Whose rivulets are like rich brides,
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides,
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice
Might be a Peri’s Paradise!
But crimson now her rivers ran
With human blood — the smell of death
Came reeking from those spicy bowers,
And man the sacrifice of man
Mingled his taint with every breath
Upwafted from the innocent flowers.
Land of the Sun! what foot invades
Thy Pagods and thy pillared shades —
Thy cavern shrines and Idol stones,
Thy Monarch and their thousand Thrones?153
’Tis He of GAZNA154, fierce in wrath
He comes and INDIA’S diadems
Lie scattered in his ruinous path.-
His bloodhounds he adorns with gems,
Torn from the violated necks
Of many a young and loved Sultana;155
Maidens within their pure Zenana,
Priests in the very fane he slaughters,
And chokes up with the glittering wrecks
Of golden shrines the sacred waters!
Downward the PERI turns her gaze,
And thro’ the war-field’s bloody haze
Beholds a youthful warrior stand
Alone beside his native river, —
The red blade broken in his hand
And the last arrow in his quiver.
“Live,” said the Conqueror, “live to share
“The trophies and the crowns I bear!”
Silent that youthful warrior stood —
Silent he pointed to the flood
All crimson with his country’s blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For answer, to the Invader’s heart.
False flew the shaft tho’ pointed well;
The Tyrant lived, the Hero fell! —
Yet marked the PERI where he lay,
And when the rush of war was past
Swiftly descending on a ray
Of morning light she caught the last —