To Samuel Rogers, Esq. This Eastern Romance Is Inscribed By His Very Grateful And Affectionate Friend, Thomas Moore. Lalla Rookh In The Eleventh Year Of The Reign Of Aurungzebe, Abdalla, King Of The Lesser Bucharia, A Lineal Descendant From The Great Zingis, Having Abdicated The Throne In Favor Of His Son, Set Out On A Pilgrimage To The Shrine Of The Prophet; And, Passing Into India Through The Delightful Valley Of Cashmere, Rested For A Short Time At Delhi On His Way. He Was Entertained By Aurungzebe In A Style Of Magnificent Hospitality, Worthy Alike Of The Visitor And The Host, And Was Afterwards Escorted With The Same Splendor To Surat, Where He Embarked For Arabia.[1] During The Stay Of The Royal Pilgrim At Delhi, A Marriage Was Agreed Upon Between The Prince, His Son, And The Youngest Daughter Of The Emperor, Lalla Rookh; [2]--A Princess Described By The Poets Of Her Time As More Beautiful Than Leila,[3] Shirine,[4] Dewild',[5] Or Any Of Those Heroines Whose Names And Loves Embellish The Songs Of Persia And Hindostan. It Was Intended That The Nuptials Should Be Celebrated At Cashmere; Where The Young King, As Soon As The Cares Of The Empire Would Permit, Was To Meet, For The First Time, His Lovely Bride, And, After A Few Months' Repose In That Enchanting Valley, Conduct Her Over The Snowy Hills Into Bucharia. The Day Of Lalla Rookh'S Departure From Delhi Was As Splendid As Sunshine And Pageantry Could Make It. The Bazaars And Baths Were All Covered With The Richest Tapestry; Hundreds Of Gilded Barges Upon The Jumna Floated With Their Banners Shining In The Water; While Through The Streets Groups Of Beautiful Children Went Strewing The Most Delicious Flowers Around, As In That Persian Festival Called The Scattering Of The Roses;[6] Till Every Part Of The City Was As Fragrant As If A Caravan Of Musk From Khoten Had Passed Through It. The Princess, Having Taken Leave Of Her Kind Father, Who At Parting Hung A Cornelian Of Yemen Round Her Neck, On Which Was Inscribed A Verse From The Koran, And Having Sent A Considerable Present To The Fakirs, Who Kept Up The Perpetual Lamp In Her Sister'S Tomb, Meekly Ascended The Palankeen Prepared For Her; And While Aurungzebe Stood To Take A Last Look From His Balcony, The Procession Moved Slowly On The Road To Lahore. Seldom Had The Eastern World Seen A Cavalcade So Superb. From The Gardens In The Suburbs To The Imperial Palace, It Was One Unbroken Line Of Splendor. The Gallant Appearance Of The Rajahs And Mogul Lords, Distinguished By Those Insignia Of The Emperor'S Favor,[7] The Feathers Of The Egret Of Cashmere In Their Turbans, And The Small Silver-Rimm'D Kettle-Drums At The Bows Of Their Saddles;--The Costly Armor Of Their Cavaliers, Who Vied, On This Occasion, With The Guards Of The Great Keder Khan,[8] In The Brightness Of Their Silver Battle-Axes And The Massiness Of Their Maces Of Gold;--The Glittering Of The Gilt Pine-Apple[9] On The Tops Of The Palankeens;--The Embroidered Trappings Of The Elephants, Bearing On Their Backs Small Turrets, In The Shape Of Little Antique Temples, Within Which The Ladies Of Lalla Rookh Lay As It Were Enshrined; --The Rose-Colored Veils Of The Princess'S Own Sumptuous Litter,[10] At The Front Of Which A Fair Young Female Slave Sat Fanning Her Through The Curtains, With Feathers Of The Argus Pheasant'S Wing;[11]--And The Lovely Troop Of Tartarian And Cashmerian Maids Of Honor, Whom The Young King Had Sent To Accompany His Bride, And Who Rode On Each Side Of The Litter, Upon Small Arabian Horses;--All Was Brilliant, Tasteful, And Magnificent, And Pleased Even The Critical And Fastidious Fadladeen, Great Nazir Or Chamberlain Of The Haram, Who Was Borne In His Palankeen Immediately After The Princess, And Considered Himself Not The Least Important Personage Of The Pageant. Fadladeen Was A Judge Of Everything,--From The Pencilling Of A Circassian'S Eyelids To The Deepest Questions Of Science And Literature; From The Mixture Of A Conserve Of Rose-Leaves To The Composition Of An Epic Poem: And Such Influence Had His Opinion Upon The Various Tastes Of The Day, That All The Cooks And Poets Of Delhi Stood In Awe Of Him. His Political Conduct And Opinions Were Founded Upon That Line Of Sadi,-- "Should The Prince At Noon-Day Say, It Is Night, Declare That You Behold The Moon And Stars."--And His Zeal For Religion, Of Which Aurungzebe Was A Munificent Protector,[12] Was About As Disinterested As That Of The Goldsmith Who Fell In Love With The Diamond Eyes Of The Idol Of Jaghernaut.[13] During The First Days Of Their Journey, Lalla Rookh, Who Had Passed All Her Life Within The Shadow Of The Royal Gardens Of Delhi,[14] Found Enough In The Beauty Of The Scenery Through Which They Passed To Interest Her Mind, And Delight Her Imagination; And When At Evening Or In The Heat Of The Day They Turned Off From The High Road To Those Retired And Romantic Places Which Had Been Selected For Her Encampments,--Sometimes, On The Banks Of A Small Rivulet, As Clear As The Waters Of The Lake Of Pearl;[15] Sometimes Under The Sacred Shade Of A Banyan Tree, From Which The View Opened Upon A Glade Covered With Antelopes; And Often In Those Hidden, Embowered Spots, Described By One From The Isles Of The West, [16]As "Places Of Melancholy, Delight, And Safety, Where All The Company Around Was Wild Peacocks And Turtle-Doves;"--She Felt A Charm In These Scenes, So Lovely And So New To Her, Which, For A Time, Made Her Indifferent To Every Other Amusement. But Lalla Rookh Was Young, And The Young Love Variety; Nor Could The Conversation Of Her Ladies And The Great Chamberlain, Fadladeen,(The Only Persons, Of Course, Admitted To Her Pavilion.) Sufficiently Enliven Those Many Vacant Hours, Which Were Devoted Neither To The Pillow Nor The Palankeen. There Was A Little Persian Slave Who Sung Sweetly To The Vina, And Who, Now And Then, Lulled The Princess To Sleep With The Ancient Ditties Of Her Country, About The Loves Of Wavnak And Ezra,[17] The Fair-Haired Zal And His Mistress Rodahver,[18] Not Forgetting The Combat Of Rustam With The Terrible White Demon.[19] At Other Times She Was Amused By Those Graceful Dancing-Girls Of Delhi, Who Had Been Permitted By The Bramins Of The Great Pagoda To Attend Her, Much To The Horror Of The Good Mussulman Fadladeen, Who Could See Nothing Graceful Or Agreeable In Idolaters, And To Whom The Very Tinkling Of Their Golden Anklets[20] Was An Abomination. But These And Many Other Diversions Were Repeated Till They Lost All Their Charm, And The Nights And Noon-Days Were Beginning To Move Heavily, When, At Length, It Was Recollected That, Among The Attendants Sent By The Bridegroom, Was A Young Poet Of Cashmere, Much Celebrated Throughout The Valley For His Manner Of Reciting The Stories Of The East, On Whom His Royal Master Had Conferred The Privilege Of Being Admitted To The Pavilion Of The Princess, That He Might Help To Beguile The Tediousness Of The Journey By Some Of His Most Agreeable Recitals. At The Mention Of A Poet, Fadladeen Elevated His Critical Eyebrows, And, Having Refreshed His Faculties With A Dose Of That Delicious Opium Which Is Distilled From The Black Poppy Of The Thebais, Gave Orders For The Minstrel To Be Forthwith Introduced Into The Presence. The Princess, Who Had Once In Her Life Seen A Poet From Behind The Screens Of Gauze In Her Father'S Hall, And Had Conceived From That Specimen No Very Favorable Ideas Of The Caste, Expected But Little In This New Exhibition To Interest Her;--She Felt Inclined, However, To Alter Her Opinion On The Very First Appearance Of Feramorz. He Was A Youth About Lalla Rookh'S Own Age, And Graceful As That Idol Of Women, Crishna,[21]--Such As He Appears To Their Young Imaginations, Heroic, Beautiful, Breathing Music From His Very Eyes, And Exalting The Religion Of His Worshippers Into Love. His Dress Was Simple, Yet Not Without Some Marks Of Costliness; And The Ladies Of The Princess Were Not Long In Discovering That The Cloth, Which Encircled His High Tartarian Cap, Was Of The Most Delicate Kind That The Shawl-Goats Of Tibet Supply.[22] Here And There, Too, Over His Vest, Which Was Confined By A Flowered Girdle Of Kashan, Hung Strings Of Fine Pearl, Disposed With An Air Of Studied Negligence;--Nor Did The Exquisite Embroidery Of His Sandals Escape The Observation Of These Fair Critics; Who, However They Might Give Way To Fadladeen Upon The Unimportant Topics Of Religion And Government, Had The Spirit Of Martyrs In Everything Relating To Such Momentous Matters As Jewels And Embroidery. For The Purpose Of Relieving The Pauses Of Recitation By Music, The Young Cashmerian Held In His Hand A Kitar;--Such As, In Old Times, The Arab Maids Of The West Used To Listen To By Moonlight In The Gardens Of The Alhambra--And, Having Premised, With Much Humility, That The Story He Was About To Relate Was Founded On The Adventures Of That Veiled Prophet Of Khorassan,[23] Who, In The Year Of The Hegira 163, Created Such Alarm Throughout The Eastern Empire, Made An Obeisance To The Princess, And Thus Began:-- The Veiled Prophet Of Khorassan.[24] In That Delightful Province Of The Sun, The First Of Persian Lands He Shines Upon. Where All The Loveliest Children Of His Beam, Flowerets And Fruits, Blush Over Every Stream,[25] And, Fairest Of All Streams, The Murga Roves Among Merou'S[26] Bright Palaces And Groves;-- There On That Throne, To Which The Blind Belief Of Millions Raised Him, Sat The Prophet-Chief, The Great Mokanna. O'Er His Features Hung The Veil, The Silver Veil, Which He Had Flung In Mercy There, To Hide From Mortal Sight His Dazzling Brow, Till Man Could Bear Its Light. For, Far Less Luminous, His Votaries Said, Were Even The Gleams, Miraculously Shed O'Er Moussa'S[27] Cheek, When Down The Mount He Trod All Glowing From The Presence Of His God! On Either Side, With Ready Hearts And Hands, His Chosen Guard Of Bold Believers Stands; Young Fire-Eyed Disputants, Who Deem Their Swords, On Points Of Faith, More Eloquent Than Words; And Such Their Zeal, There'S Not A Youth With Brand Uplifted There, But At The Chief'S Command, Would Make His Own Devoted Heart Its Sheath, And Bless The Lips That Doomed So Dear A Death! In Hatred To The Caliph'S Hue Of Night,[28] Their Vesture, Helms And All, Is Snowy White; Their Weapons Various--Some Equipt For Speed, With Javelins Of The Light Kathaian Reed;[29] Or Bows Of Buffalo Horn And Shining Quivers Filled With The Stems[30] That Bloom On Iran'S Rivers;[31] While Some, For War'S More Terrible Attacks, Wield The Huge Mace And Ponderous Battle-Axe; And As They Wave Aloft In Morning'S Beam The Milk-White Plumage Of Their Helms, They Seem Like A Chenar-Tree Grove[32] When Winter Throws O'Er All Its Tufted Heads His Feathery Snows. Between The Porphyry Pillars That Uphold The Rich Moresque-Work Of The Roof Of Gold, Aloft The Haram'S Curtained Galleries Rise, Where Thro' The Silken Net-Work, Glancing Eyes, From Time To Time, Like Sudden Gleams That Glow Thro' Autumn Clouds, Shine O'Er The Pomp Below.-- What Impious Tongue, Ye Blushing Saints, Would Dare To Hint That Aught But Heaven Hath Placed You There? Or That The Loves Of This Light World Could Bind, In Their Gross Chain, Your Prophet'S Soaring Mind? No--Wrongful Thought!--Commissioned From Above To People Eden'S Bowers With Shapes Of Love, (Creatures So Bright, That The Same Lips And Eyes They Wear On Earth Will Serve In Paradise,) There To Recline Among Heaven'S Native Maids, And Crown The Elect With Bliss That Never Fades-- Well Hath The Prophet-Chief His Bidding Done; And Every Beauteous Race Beneath The Sun, From Those Who Kneel At Brahma'S Burning Fount,[33] To The Fresh Nymphs Bounding O'Er Yemen'S Mounts; From Persia'S Eyes Of Full And Fawnlike Ray, To The Small, Half-Shut Glances Of Kathay;[34] And Georgia'S Bloom, And Azab'S Darker Smiles, And The Gold Ringlets Of The Western Isles; All, All Are There;--Each Land Its Flower Hath Given, To Form That Fair Young Nursery For Heaven! But Why This Pageant Now? This Armed Array? What Triumph Crowds The Rich Divan To-Day With Turbaned Heads Of Every Hue And Race, Bowing Before That Veiled And Awful Face, Like Tulip-Beds,[35] Of Different Shape And Dyes, Bending Beneath The Invisible West-Wind'S Sighs! What New-Made Mystery Now For Faith To Sign And Blood To Seal, As Genuine And Divine, What Dazzling Mimicry Of God'S Own Power Hath The Bold Prophet Planned To Grace This Hour? Not Such The Pageant Now, Tho' Not Less Proud; Yon Warrior Youth Advancing From The Crowd With Silver Bow, With Belt Of Broidered Crape And Fur-Bound Bonnet Of Bucharian Shape.[36] So Fiercely Beautiful In Form And Eye, Like War'S Wild Planet In A Summer Sky; That Youth To-Day,--A Proselyte, Worth Hordes Of Cooler Spirits And Less Practised Swords,-- Is Come To Join, All Bravery And Belief, The Creed And Standard Of The Heaven-Sent Chief. Tho' Few His Years, The West Already Knows Young Azim'S Fame;--Beyond The Olympian Snows Ere Manhood Darkened O'Er His Downy Cheek, O'Erwhelmed In Fight And Captive To The Greek,[37] He Lingered There, Till Peace Dissolved His Chains;-- Oh! Who Could Even In Bondage Tread The Plains Of Glorious Greece Nor Feel His Spirit Rise Kindling Within Him? Who With Heart And Eyes Could Walk Where Liberty Had Been Nor See The Shining Foot-Prints Of Her Deity, Nor Feel Those God-Like Breathings In The Air Which Mutely Told Her Spirit Had Been There? Not He, That Youthful Warrior,--No, Too Well For His Soul'S Quiet Worked The Awakening Spell; And Now, Returning To His Own Dear Land, Full Of Those Dreams Of Good That, Vainly Grand, Haunt The Young Heart,--Proud Views Of Human-Kind, Of Men To Gods Exalted And Refined,-- False Views Like That Horizon'S Fair Deceit Where Earth And Heaven But Seem, Alas, To Meet!-- Soon As He Heard An Arm Divine Was Raised To Right The Nations, And Beheld, Emblazed On The White Flag Mokanna'S Host Unfurled, Those Words Of Sunshine, "Freedom To The World," At Once His Faith, His Sword, His Soul Obeyed The Inspiring Summons; Every Chosen Blade That Fought Beneath That Banner'S Sacred Text Seemed Doubly Edged For This World And The Next; And Ne'Er Did Faith With Her Smooth Bandage Bind Eyes More Devoutly Willing To Be Blind, In Virtue'S Cause;--Never Was Soul Inspired With Livelier Trust In What It Most Desired, Than His, The Enthusiast There, Who Kneeling, Pale With Pious Awe Before That Silver Veil, Believes The Form To Which He Bends His Knee Some Pure, Redeeming Angel Sent To Free This Fettered World From Every Bond And Stain, And Bring Its Primal Glories Back Again! Low As Young Azim Knelt, That Motley Crowd Of All Earth'S Nations Sunk The Knee And Bowed, With Shouts Of "Alla!" Echoing Long And Loud; Which High In Air, Above The Prophet'S Head, Hundreds Of Banners To The Sunbeam Spread Waved, Like The Wings Of The White Birds That Fan The Flying Throne Of Star-Taught Soliman.[38] Then Thus He Spoke:-"Stranger, Tho' New The Frame "Thy Soul Inhabits Now. I'Ve Trackt Its Flame "For Many An Age,[39] In Every Chance And Change "Of That Existence, Thro' Whose Varied Range,-- "As Thro' A Torch-Race Where From Hand To Hand "The Flying Youths Transmit Their Shining Brand, "From Frame To Frame The Unextinguisht Soul "Rapidly Passes Till It Reach The Goal! "Nor Think 'Tis Only The Gross Spirits Warmed "With Duskier Fire And For Earth'S Medium Formed "That Run This Course;--Beings The Most Divine "Thus Deign Thro' Dark Mortality To Shine. "Such Was The Essence That In Adam Dwelt, "To Which All Heaven Except The Proud One Knelt:[40] "Such The Refined Intelligence That Glowed "In Moussa'S[41] Frame,--And Thence Descending Flowed "Thro' Many A Prophet'S Breast;--In Issa[42] Shone "And In Mohammed Burned; Till Hastening On. "(As A Bright River That From Fall To Fall "In Many A Maze Descending Bright Thro' All, "Finds Some Fair Region Where, Each Labyrinth Past, "In One Full Lake Of Light It Rests At Last) "That Holy Spirit Settling Calm And Free "From Lapse Or Shadow Centres All In Me! Again Throughout The Assembly At These Words Thousands Of Voices Rung: The Warrior'S Swords Were Pointed Up At Heaven; A Sudden Wind In The Open Banners Played, And From Behind Those Persian Hangings That But Ill Could Screen The Harem'S Loveliness, White Hands Were Seen Waving Embroidered Scarves Whose Motion Gave A Perfume Forth--Like Those The Houris Wave When Beckoning To Their Bowers The Immortal Brave. "But These," Pursued The Chief "Are Truths Sublime, "That Claim A Holier Mood And Calmer Time "Than Earth Allows Us Now;--This Sword Must First "The Darkling Prison-House Of Mankind Burst. "Ere Peace Can Visit Them Or Truth Let In "Her Wakening Daylight On A World Of Sin. "But Then,--Celestial Warriors, Then When All "Earth'S Shrines And Thrones Before Our Banner Fall, "When The Glad Slave Shall At These Feet Lay Down "His Broken Chain, The Tyrant Lord His Crown, "The Priest His Book, The Conqueror His Wreath, "And From The Lips Of Truth One Mighty Breath "Shall Like A Whirlwind Scatter In Its Breeze "That Whole Dark Pile Of Human Mockeries:-- "Then Shall The Reign Of Mind Commence On Earth, "And Starting Fresh As From A Second Birth, "Man In The Sunshine Of The World'S New Spring "Shall Walk Transparent Like Some Holy Thing! "Then Too Your Prophet From His Angel Brow "Shall Cast The Veil That Hides Its Splendors Now, "And Gladdened Earth Shall Thro' Her Wide Expanse "Bask In The Glories Of This Countenance! "For Thee, Young Warrior, Welcome!--Thou Hast Yet "Some Tasks To Learn, Some Frailties To Forget, "Ere The White War-Plume O'Er Thy Brow Can Wave;-- "But, Once My Own, Mine All Till In The Grave!" The Pomp Is At An End--The Crowds Are Gone-- Each Ear And Heart Still Haunted By The Tone Of That Deep Voice, Which Thrilled Like Alla'S Own! The Young All Dazzled By The Plumes And Lances, The Glittering Throne And Haram'S Half-Caught Glances, The Old Deep Pondering On The Promised Reign Of Peace And Truth, And All The Female Train Ready To Risk Their Eyes Could They But Gaze A Moment On That Brow'S Miraculous Blaze! But There Was One Among The Chosen Maids Who Blushed Behind The Gallery'S Silken Shades, One, To Whose Soul The Pageant Of To-Day Has Been Like Death:--You Saw Her Pale Dismay, Ye Wondering Sisterhood, And Heard The Burst Of Exclamation From Her Lips When First She Saw That Youth, Too Well, Too Dearly Known, Silently Kneeling At The Prophet'S Throne. Ah Zelica! There Was A Time When Bliss Shone O'Er Thy Heart From Every Look Of His, When But To See Him, Hear Him, Breathe The Air In Which He Dwelt Was Thy Soul'S Fondest Prayer; When Round Him Hung Such A Perpetual Spell, Whate'Er He Did, None Ever Did So Well. Too Happy Days! When, If He Touched A Flower Or Gem Of Thine, 'Twas Sacred From That Hour; When Thou Didst Study Him Till Every Tone And Gesture And Dear Look Became Thy Own.-- Thy Voice Like His, The Changes Of His Face In Thine Reflected With Still Lovelier Grace, Like Echo, Sending Back Sweet Music, Fraught With Twice The Aerial Sweetness It Had Brought! Yet Now He Comes,--Brighter Than Even He E'Er Beamed Before,--But, Ah! Not Bright For Thee; No--Dread, Unlookt For, Like A Visitant From The Other World He Comes As If To Haunt Thy Guilty Soul With Dreams Of Lost Delight, Long Lost To All But Memory'S Aching Sight:-- Sad Dreams! As When The Spirit Of Our Youth Returns In Sleep, Sparkling With All The Truth And Innocence Once Ours And Leads Us Back, In Mournful Mockery O'Er The Shining Track Of Our Young Life And Points Out Every Ray Of Hope And Peace We'Ve Lost Upon The Way! Once Happy Pair!--In Proud Bokhara'S Groves, Who Had Not Heard Of Their First Youthful Loves? Born By That Ancient Flood,[43]Which From Its Spring In The Dark Mountains Swiftly Wandering, Enriched By Every Pilgrim Brook That Shines With Relics From Bucharia'S Ruby Mines. And, Lending To The Caspian Half Its Strength, In The Cold Lake Of Eagles Sinks At Length;-- There, On The Banks Of That Bright River Born, The Flowers That Hung Above Its Wave At Morn Blest Not The Waters As They Murmured By With Holier Scent And Lustre Than The Sigh And Virgin-Glance Of First Affection Cast Upon Their Youth'S Smooth Current As It Past! But War Disturbed This Vision,--Far Away From Her Fond Eyes Summoned To Join The Array Of Persia'S Warriors On The Hills Of Thrace, The Youth Exchanged His Sylvan Dwelling-Place For The Rude Tent And War-Field'S Deathful Clash; His Zelica'S Sweet Glances For The Flash Of Grecian Wild-Fire, And Love'S Gentle Chains For Bleeding Bondage On Byzantium'S Plains. Month After Month In Widowhood Of Soul Drooping The Maiden Saw Two Summers Roll Their Suns Away--But, Ah, How Cold And Dim Even Summer Suns When Not Beheld With Him! From Time To Time Ill-Omened Rumors Came Like Spirit-Tongues Muttering The Sick Man'S Name Just Ere He Dies:--At Length Those Sounds Of Dread Fell Withering On Her Soul, "Azim Is Dead!" Oh Grief Beyond All Other Griefs When Fate First Leaves The Young Heart Lone And Desolate In The Wide World Without That Only Tie For Which It Loved To Live Or Feared To Die;-- Lorn As The Hung-Up Lute, That Near Hath Spoken Since The Sad Day Its Master-Chord Was Broken! Fond Maid, The Sorrow Of Her Soul Was Such, Even Reason Sunk,--Blighted Beneath Its Touch; And Tho' Ere Long Her Sanguine Spirit Rose Above The First Dead Pressure Of Its Woes, Tho' Health And Bloom Returned, The Delicate Chain Of Thought Once Tangled Never Cleared Again. Warm, Lively, Soft As In Youth'S Happiest Day, The Mind Was Still All There, But Turned Astray,-- A Wandering Bark Upon Whose Pathway Shone All Stars Of Heaven Except The Guiding One! Again She Smiled, Nay, Much And Brightly Smiled, But 'Twas A Lustre, Strange, Unreal, Wild; And When She Sung To Her Lute'S Touching Strain, 'Twas Like The Notes, Half Ecstasy, Half Pain, The Bulbul[44] Utters Ere Her Soul Depart, When, Vanquisht By Some Minstrel'S Powerful Art, She Dies Upon The Lute Whose Sweetness Broke Her Heart! Such Was The Mood In Which That Mission Found, Young Zelica,--That Mission Which Around The Eastern World In Every Region Blest With Woman'S Smile Sought Out Its Loveliest To Grace That Galaxy Of Lips And Eyes Which The Veiled Prophet Destined For The Skies:-- And Such Quick Welcome As A Spark Receives Dropt On A Bed Of Autumn'S Withered Leaves, Did Every Tale Of These Enthusiasts Find In The Wild Maiden'S Sorrow-Blighted Mind. All Fire At Once The Maddening Zeal She Caught:-- Elect Of Paradise! Blest, Rapturous Thought! Predestined Bride, In Heaven'S Eternal Dome, Of Some Brave Youth--Ha! Durst They Say "Of Some?" No--Of The One, One Only Object Traced In Her Heart'S Core Too Deep To Be Effaced; The One Whose Memory, Fresh As Life, Is Twined With Every Broken Link Of Her Lost Mind; Whose Image Lives Tho' Reason'S Self Be Wreckt Safe Mid The Ruins Of Her Intellect! Alas, Poor Zelica! It Needed All The Fantasy Which Held Thy Mind In Thrall To See In That Gay Haram'S Glowing Maids A Sainted Colony For Eden'S Shades; Or Dream That He,--Of Whose Unholy Flame Thou Wert Too Soon The Victim,--Shining Came From Paradise To People Its Pure Sphere With Souls Like Thine Which He Hath Ruined Here! No--Had Not Reason'S Light Totally Set, And Left Thee Dark Thou Hadst An Amulet In The Loved Image Graven On Thy Heart Which Would Have Saved Thee From The Tempter'S Art, And Kept Alive In All Its Bloom Of Breath That Purity Whose Fading Is Love'S Death!-- But Lost, Inflamed,--A Restless Zeal Took Place Of The Mild Virgin'S Still And Feminine Grace; First Of The Prophets Favorites, Proudly First In Zeal And Charms, Too Well The Impostor Nurst Her Soul'S Delirium In Whose Active Flame, Thus Lighting Up A Young, Luxuriant Frame, He Saw More Potent Sorceries To Bind To His Dark Yoke The Spirits Of Mankind, More Subtle Chains Than Hell Itself E'Er Twined. No Art Was Spared, No Witchery;--All The Skill His Demons Taught Him Was Employed To Fill Her Mind With Gloom And Ecstasy By Turns-- That Gloom, Thro' Which Frenzy But Fiercer Burns, That Ecstasy Which From The Depth Of Sadness Glares Like The Maniac'S Moon Whose Light Is Madness! 'Twas From A Brilliant Banquet Where The Sound Of Poesy And Music Breathed Around, Together Picturing To Her Mind And Ear The Glories Of That Heaven, Her Destined Sphere, Where All Was Pure, Where Every Stain That Lay Upon The Spirit'S Light Should Pass Away, And Realizing More Than Youthful Love E'Er Wisht Or Dreamed, She Should For Ever Rove Thro' Fields Of Fragrance By Her Azim'S Side, His Own Blest, Purified, Eternal Bride!-- T Was From A Scene, A Witching Trance Like This, He Hurried Her Away, Yet Breathing Bliss, To The Dim Charnel-House;--Thro' All Its Steams Of Damp And Death Led Only By Those Gleams Which Foul Corruption Lights, As With Design To Show The Gay And Proud She Too Can Shine-- And Passing On Thro' Upright Ranks Of Dead Which To The Maiden, Doubly Crazed By Dread, Seemed, Thro' The Bluish Death-Light Round Them Cast, To Move Their Lips In Mutterings As She Past-- There In That Awful Place, When Each Had Quaft And Pledged In Silence Such A Fearful Draught, Such--Oh! The Look And Taste Of That Red Bowl Will Haunt Her Till She Dies--He Bound Her Soul By A Dark Oath, In Hell'S Own Language Framed, Never, While Earth His Mystic Presence Claimed, While The Blue Arch Of Day Hung O'Er Them Both, Never, By That All-Imprecating Oath, In Joy Or Sorrow From His Side To Sever.-- She Swore And The Wide Charnel Echoed "Never, Never!" From That Dread Hour, Entirely, Wildly Given To Him And--She Believed, Lost Maid!--To Heaven; Her Brain, Her Heart, Her Passions All Inflamed, How Proud She Stood, When In Full Haram Named The Priestess Of The Faith!--How Flasht Her Eyes With Light, Alas, That Was Not Of The Skies, When Round In Trances Only Less Than Hers She Saw The Haram Kneel, Her Prostrate Worshippers. Well Might Mokanna Think That Form Alone Had Spells Enough To Make The World His Own:-- Light, Lovely Limbs To Which The Spirit'S Play Gave Motion, Airy As The Dancing Spray, When From Its Stem The Small Bird Wings Away; Lips In Whose Rosy Labyrinth When She Smiled The Soul Was Lost, And Blushes, Swift And Wild As Are The Momentary Meteors Sent Across The Uncalm But Beauteous Firmament. And Then Her Look--Oh! Where'S The Heart So Wise Could Unbewildered Meet Those Matchless Eyes? Quick, Restless, Strange, But Exquisite Withal, Like Those Of Angels Just Before Their Fall; Now Shadowed With The Shames Of Earth--Now Crost By Glimpses Of The Heaven Her Heart Had Lost; In Every Glance There Broke Without Control, The Flashes Of A Bright But Troubled Soul, Where Sensibility Still Wildly Played Like Lightning Round The Ruins It Had Made! And Such Was Now Young Zelica--So Changed From Her Who Some Years Since Delighted Ranged The Almond Groves That Shade Bokhara'S Tide All Life And Bliss With Azim By Her Side! So Altered Was She Now, This Festal Day, When, Mid The Proud Divan'S Dazzling Array, The Vision Of That Youth Whom She Had Loved, Had Wept As Dead, Before Her Breathed And Moved;-- When--Bright, She Thought, As If From Eden'S Track But Half-Way Trodden, He Had Wandered Back Again To Earth, Glistening With Eden'S Light-- Her Beauteous Azim Shone Before Her Sight. O Reason! Who Shall Say What Spells Renew, When Least We Look For It, Thy Broken Clew! Thro' What Small Vistas O'Er The Darkened Brain Thy Intellectual Day-Beam Bursts Again; And How Like Forts To Which Beleaguerers Win Unhoped-For Entrance Thro' Some Friend Within, One Clear Idea, Wakened In The Breast By Memory'S Magic, Lets In All The Rest. Would It Were Thus, Unhappy Girl, With Thee! But Tho' Light Came, It Came But Partially; Enough To Show The Maze, In Which Thy Sense Wandered About,--But Not To Guide It Thence; Enough To Glimmer O'Er The Yawning Wave, But Not To Point The Harbor Which Might Save. Hours Of Delight And Peace, Long Left Behind, With That Dear Form Came Rushing O'Er Her Mind; But, Oh! To Think How Deep Her Soul Had Gone In Shame And Falsehood Since Those Moments Shone; And Then Her Oath--There Madness Lay Again, And Shuddering, Back She Sunk Into Her Chain Of Mental Darkness, As If Blest To Flee From Light Whose Every Glimpse Was Agony! Yet One Relief This Glance Of Former Years Brought Mingled With Its Pain,--Tears, Floods Of Tears, Long Frozen At Her Heart, But Now Like Rills Let Loose In Spring-Time From The Snowy Hills, And Gushing Warm After A Sleep Of Frost, Thro' Valleys Where Their Flow Had Long Been Lost. Sad And Subdued, For The First Time Her Frame Trembled With Horror When The Summons Came (A Summons Proud And Rare, Which All But She, And She, Till Now, Had Heard With Ecstasy,) To Meet Mokanna At His Place Of Prayer, A Garden Oratory Cool And Fair By The Stream'S Side, Where Still At Close Of Day The Prophet Of The Veil Retired To Pray, Sometimes Alone--But Oftener Far With One, One Chosen Nymph To Share His Orison. Of Late None Found Such Favor In His Sight As The Young Priestess; And Tho', Since That Night When The Death-Cavorns Echoed Every Tone Of The Dire Oath That Made Her All His Own, The Impostor Sure Of His Infatuate Prize Had More Than Once Thrown Off His Soul'S Disguise, And Uttered Such Unheavenly, Monstrous Things, As Even Across The Desperate Wanderings Of A Weak Intellect, Whose Lamp Was Out, Threw Startling Shadows Of Dismay And Doubt;-- Yet Zeal, Ambition, Her Tremendous Vow, The Thought, Still Haunting Her, Of That Bright Brow, Whose Blaze, As Yet From Mortal Eye Concealed, Would Soon, Proud Triumph! Be To Her Revealed, To Her Alone;--And Then The Hope, Most Dear, Most Wild Of All, That Her Transgression Here Was But A Passage Thro' Earth'S Grosser Fire, From Which The Spirit Would At Last Aspire, Even Purer Than Before,--As Perfumes Rise Thro' Flame And Smoke, Most Welcome To The Skies-- And That When Azim'S Fond, Divine Embrace Should Circle Her In Heaven, No Darkening Trace Would On That Bosom He Once Loved Remain. But All Be Bright, Be Pure, Be His Again!-- These Were The Wildering Dreams, Whose Curst Deceit Had Chained Her Soul Beneath The Tempter'S Feet, And Made Her Think Even Damning Falsehood Sweet. But Now That Shape, Which Had Appalled Her View, That Semblance--Oh How Terrible, If True! Which Came Across Her Frenzy'S Full Career With Shock Of Consciousness, Cold, Deep, Severe. As When In Northern Seas At Midnight Dark An Isle Of Ice Encounters Some Swift Bark, And Startling All Its Wretches From Their Sleep By One Cold Impulse Hurls Them To The Deep;-- So Came That Shock Not Frenzy'S Self Could Bear, And Waking Up Each Long-Lulled Image There, But Checkt Her Headlong Soul To Sink It In Despair! Wan And Dejected, Thro' The Evening Dusk, She Now Went Slowly To That Small Kiosk, Where, Pondering Alone His Impious Schemes, Mokanna Waited Her--Too Wrapt In Dreams Of The Fair-Ripening Future'S Rich Success, To Heed The Sorrow, Pale And Spiritless, That Sat Upon His Victim'S Downcast Brow, Or Mark How Slow Her Step, How Altered Now From The Quick, Ardent Priestess, Whose Light Bound Came Like A Spirit'S O'Er The Unechoing Ground,-- From That Wild Zelica Whose Every Glance Was Thrilling Fire, Whose Every Thought A Trance! Upon His Couch The Veiled Mokanna Lay, While Lamps Around--Not Such As Lend Their Ray, Glimmering And Cold, To Those Who Nightly Pray In Holy Koom,[45] Or Mecca'S Dim Arcades,-- But Brilliant, Soft, Such Lights As Lovely Maids. Look Loveliest In, Shed Their Luxurious Glow Upon His Mystic Veil'S White Glittering Flow. Beside Him, 'Stead Of Beads And Books Of Prayer, Which The World Fondly Thought He Mused On There, Stood Vases, Filled With Kisiimee'S[46] Golden Wine, And The Red Weepings Of The Shiraz Vine; Of Which His Curtained Lips Full Many A Draught Took Zealously, As If Each Drop They Quaft Like Zemzem'S Spring Of Holiness[47] Had Power To Freshen The Soul'S Virtues Into Flower! And Still He Drank And Pondered--Nor Could See The Approaching Maid, So Deep His Revery; At Length With Fiendish Laugh Like That Which Broke From Eblis At The Fall Of Man He Spoke:-- "Yes, Ye Vile Race, For Hell'S Amusement Given, "Too Mean For Earth, Yet Claiming Kin With Heaven; "God'S Images, Forsooth!--Such Gods As He "Whom India Serves, The Monkey Deity;[48] "Ye Creatures Of A Breath, Proud Things Of Clay, "To Whom If Lucifer, As Gran-Dams Say, "Refused Tho' At The Forfeit Of Heaven'S Light "To Bend In Worship, Lucifer Was Right! "Soon Shall I Plant This Foot Upon The Neck "Of Your Foul Race And Without Fear Or Check, "Luxuriating In Hate, Avenge My Shame, "My Deep-Felt, Long-Nurst Loathing Of Man'S Name!-- "Soon At The Head Of Myriads, Blind And Fierce "As Hooded Falcons, Thro' The Universe "I'Ll Sweep My Darkening, Des