My Fairy Home, And If There'S A Magic In Music'S Strain, I Swear By The Breath Of That Moonlight Wreath Thy Lover Shall Sigh At Thy Feet Again. 'Tis Dawn--At Least That Earlier Dawn Whose Glimpses Are Again Withdrawn,[312] As If The Morn Had Waked, And Then Shut Close Her Lids Of Light Again. And Nourmahal Is Up And Trying The Wonders Of Her Lute Whose Strings-- Oh, Bliss!--Now Murmur Like The Sighing From That Ambrosial SpirIt's Wings. And Then Her Voice--'Tis More Than Human-- Never Till Now Had It Been Given To Lips Of Any Mortal Woman To Utter Notes So Fresh From Heaven; Sweet As The Breath Of Angel Sighs When Angel Sighs Are Most Divine.-- "Oh! Let It Last Till Night," She Cries, "And He Is More Than Ever Mine." And Hourly She Renews The Lay, So Fearful Lest Its Heavenly Sweetness Should Ere The Evening Fade Away,-- For Things So Heavenly Have Such Fleetness! But Far From Fading It But Grows Richer, Diviner As It Flows; Till Rapt She Dwells On Every String And Pours Again Each Sound Along, Like Echo, Lost And Languishing, In Love With Her Own Wondrous Song. That Evening, (Trusting That His Soul Might Be From Haunting Love Released By Mirth, By Music And The Bowl,) The Imperial Selim Held A Feast In His Magnificent Shalimar:[313]-- In Whose Saloons, When The First Star Of Evening O'Er The Waters Trembled, The Valley'S Loveliest All Assembled; All The Bright Creatures That Like Dreams Glide Thro' Its Foliage And Drink Beams Of Beauty From Its Founts And Streams;[314] And All Those Wandering Minstrel-Maids, Who Leave--How Can They Leave?--The Shades Of That Dear Valley And Are Found Singing In Gardens Of The South[315] Those Songs That Ne'er So Sweetly Sound As From A Young Cashmerian'S Mouth. There Too The Haram'S Inmates Smile;-- Maids From The West, With Sun-Bright Hair, And From The Garden Of The Nile, Delicate As The Roses There;[316]-- Daughters Of Love From Cyprus Rocks, With Paphian Diamonds In Their Locks;[317]-- Light Peri Forms Such As There Are On The Gold Meads Of Candahar;[318] And They Before Whose Sleepy Eyes In Their Own Bright Kathaian Bowers Sparkle Such Rainbow Butterflies That They Might Fancy The Rich Flowers That Round Them In The Sun Lay Sighing Had Been By Magic All Set Flying.[319] Every Thing Young, Every Thing Fair From East And West Is Blushing There, Except--Except--Oh, Nourmahal! Thou Loveliest, Dearest Of Them All, The One Whose Smile Shone Out Alone, Amidst A World The Only One; Whose Light Among So Many Lights Was Like That Star On Starry Nights, The Seaman Singles From The Sky, To Steer His Bark For Ever By! Thou Wert Not There--So Selim Thought, And Every Thing Seemed Drear Without Thee; But, Ah! Thou Wert, Thou Wert,--And Brought Thy Charm Of Song All Fresh About Thee, Mingling Unnoticed With A Band Of Lutanists From Many A Land, And Veiled By Such A Mask As Shades The Features Of Young Arab Maids,[320]-- A Mask That Leaves But One Eye Free, To Do Its Best In Witchery,-- She Roved With Beating Heart Around And Waited Trembling For The Minute When She Might Try If Still The Sound Of Her Loved Lute Had Magic In It. The Board Was Spread With Fruits And Wine, With Grapes Of Gold, Like Those That Shine On Casbin Hills;[321]--Pomegranates Full Of Melting Sweetness, And The Pears, And Sunniest Apples[322] That Caubul In All Its Thousand Gardens[323] Bears;-- Plantains, The Golden And The Green, Malaya'S Nectared Mangusteen;[324] Prunes Of Bockhara, And Sweet Nuts From The Far Groves Of Samarcand, And Basra Dates, And Apricots, Seed Of The Sun,[325] From Iran'S Land;-- With Rich Conserve Of Visna Cherries,[326] Of Orange Flowers, And Of Those Berries That, Wild And Fresh, The Young Gazelles Feed On In Erac'S Rocky Dells.[327] All These In Richest Vases Smile, In Baskets Of Pure Santal-Wood, And Urns Of Porcelain From That Isle[328] Sunk Underneath The Indian Flood, Whence Oft The Lucky Diver Brings Vases To Grace The Halls Of Kings. Wines Too Of Every Clime And Hue Around Their Liquid Lustre Threw; Amber Rosolli,[329]--The Bright Dew From Vineyards Of The Green-Sea Gushing;[330] And Shiraz Wine That Richly Ran As If That Jewel Large And Rare, The Ruby For Which Kublai-Khan Offered A City'S Wealth,[331] Was Blushing Melted Within The Goblets There! And Amply Selim Quaffs Of Each, And Seems Resolved The Flood Shall Reach His Inward Heart,--Shedding Around A Genial Deluge, As They Run, That Soon Shall Leave No Spot Undrowned For Love To Rest His Wings Upon. He Little Knew How Well The Boy Can Float Upon A Goblet'S Streams, Lighting Them With His Smile Of Joy;-- As Bards Have Seen Him In Their Dreams, Down The Blue Ganges Laughing Glide Upon A Rosy Lotus Wreath,[332] Catching New Lustre From The Tide That With His Image Shone Beneath. But What Are Cups Without The Aid Of Song To Speed Them As They Flow? And See--A Lovely Georgian Maid With All The Bloom, The Freshened Glow Of Her Own Country Maidens' Looks, When Warm They Rise From Teflis' Brooks;[333] And With An Eye Whose Restless Ray Full, Floating, Dark--Oh, He, Who Knows His Heart Is Weak, Of Heaven Should Pray To Guard Him From Such Eyes As Those!-- With A Voluptuous Wildness Flings Her Snowy Hand Across The Strings Of A Syrinda[334] And Thus Sings:-- Come Hither, Come Hither--By Night And By Day, We Linger In Pleasures That Never Are Gone; Like The Waves Of The Summer As One Dies Away Another As Sweet And As Shining Comes On. And The Love That Is O'Er, In Expiring Gives Birth To A New One As Warm, As Unequalled In Bliss; And, Oh! If There Be An Elysium On Earth, It Is This, It Is This.[335] Here Maidens Are Sighing, And Fragrant Their Sigh As The Flower Of The Amra Just Oped By A Bee;[336] And Precious Their Tears As That Rain From The Sky,[337] Which Turns Into Pearls As It Falls In The Sea. Oh! Think What The Kiss And The Smile Must Be Worth When The Sigh And The Tear Are So Perfect In Bliss, And Own If There Be An Elysium On Earth, It Is This, It Is This. Here Sparkles The Nectar That Hallowed By Love Could Draw Down Those Angels Of Old From Their Sphere, Who For Wine Of This Earth[338] Left The Fountains Above, And Forgot Heaven'S Stars For The Eyes We Have Here. And, Blest With The Odor Our Goblet Gives Forth, What Spirit The Sweets Of His Eden Would Miss? For, Oh! If There Be An Elysium On Earth, It Is This, It Is This. The Georgian'S Song Was Scarcely Mute, When The Same Measure, Sound For Sound, Was Caught Up By Another Lute And So Divinely Breathed Around That All Stood Husht And Wondering, And Turned And Lookt Into The Air, As If They Thought To See The Wing Of Israfil[339] The Angel There;-- So Powerfully On Every Soul That New, Enchanted Measure Stole. While Now A Voice Sweet As The Note Of The Charmed Lute Was Heard To Float Along Its Chords And So Entwine Its Sounds With Theirs That None Knew Whether The Voice Or Lute Was Most Divine, So Wondrously They Went Together:-- There'S A Bliss Beyond All That The Minstrel Has Told, When Two That Are Linkt In One Heavenly Tie, With Heart Never Changing And Brow Never Cold, Love On Thro' All Ills And Love On Till They Die! One Hour Of A Passion So Sacred Is Worth Whole Ages Of Heartless And Wandering Bliss; And, Oh! If There Be An Elysium On Earth, It Is This, It Is This. 'Twas Not The Air, 'Twas Not The Words, But That Deep Magic In The Chords And In The Lips That Gave Such Power As Music Knew Not Till That Hour. At Once A Hundred Voices Said, "It Is The Maskt Arabian Maid!" While Selim Who Had Felt The Strain Deepest Of Any And Had Lain Some Minutes Rapt As In A Trance After The Fairy Sounds Were O'Er. Too Inly Touched For Utterance, Now Motioned With His Hand For More:-- Fly To The Desert, Fly With Me, Our Arab'S Tents Are Rude For Thee; But Oh! The Choice What Heart Can Doubt, Of Tents With Love Or Thrones Without? Our Rocks Are Rough, But Smiling There The Acacia Waves Her Yellow Hair, Lonely And Sweet Nor Loved The Less For Flowering In A Wilderness. Our Sands Are Bare, But Down Their Slope The Silvery-Footed Antelope As Gracefully And Gayly Springs As O'Er The Marble Courts Of Kings. Then Come--Thy Arab Maid Will Be The Loved And Lone Acacia-Tree. The Antelope Whose Feet Shall Bless With Their Light Sound Thy Loneliness. Oh! There Are Looks And Tones That Dart An Instant Sunshine Thro' The Heart,-- As If The Soul That Minute Caught Some Treasure It Thro' Life Had Sought; As If The Very Lips And Eyes, Predestined To Have All Our Sighs And Never Be Forgot Again, Sparkled And Spoke Before Us Then! So Came Thy Every Glance And Tone, When First On Me They Breathed And Shone, New As If Brought From Other Spheres Yet Welcome As If Loved For Years. Then Fly With Me,--If Thou Hast Known No Other Flame Nor Falsely Thrown A Gem Away, That Thou Hadst Sworn Should Ever In Thy Heart Be Worn. Come If The Love Thou Hast For Me Is Pure And Fresh As Mine For Thee,-- Fresh As The Fountain Under Ground, When First 'Tis By The Lapwing Found.[340] But If For Me Thou Dost Forsake Some Other Maid And Rudely Break Her Worshipt Image From Its Base, To Give To Me The Ruined Place;-- Then Fare Thee Well--I'D Rather Make My Bower Upon Some Icy Lake When Thawing Suns Begin To Shine Than Trust To Love So False As Thine. There Was A Pathos In This Lay, That, Even Without Enchantment'S Art, Would Instantly Have Found Its Way Deep In To Selim'S Burning Heart; But Breathing As It Did A Tone To Earthly Lutes And Lips Unknown; With Every Chord Fresh From The Touch Of Music'S Spirit,--'Twas Too Much! Starting He Dasht Away The Cup,-- Which All The Time Of This Sweet Air His Hand Had Held, Untasted, Up, As If 'Twere Fixt By Magic There-- And Naming Her, So Long Unnamed, So Long Unseen, Wildly Exclaimed, "Oh Nourmahal! Oh Nourmahal! "Hadst Thou But Sung This Witching Strain, "I Could Forget--Forgive Thee All "And Never Leave Those Eyes Again." The Mask Is Off--The Charm Is Wrought-- And Selim To His Heart Has Caught, In Blushes, More Than Ever Bright, His Nourmahal, His Haram'S Light! And Well Do Vanisht Frowns Enhance The Charm Of Every Brightened Glance; And Dearer Seems Each Dawning Smile For Having Lost Its Light Awhile: And Happier Now For All Her Sighs As On His Arm Her Head Reposes She Whispers Him, With Laughing Eyes, "Remember, Love, The Feast Of Roses!" Fadladeen, At The Conclusion Of This Light Rhapsody, Took Occasion To Sum Up His Opinion Of The Young Cashmerian'S Poetry,--Of Which, He Trusted, They Had That Evening Heard The Last. Having Recapitulated The Epithets, "Frivolous"--"Inharmonious"--"Nonsensical," He Proceeded To Say That, Viewed In The Most Favorable Light It Resembled One Of Those Maldivian Boats, To Which The Princess Had Alluded In The Relation Of Her Dream,-- A Slight, Gilded Thing, Sent Adrift Without Rudder Or Ballast, And With Nothing But Vapid Sweets And Faded Flowers On Board. The Profusion, Indeed, Of Flowers And Birds, Which This Poet Had Ready On All Occasions, --Not To Mention Dews, Gems, Etc.--Was A Most Oppressive Kind Of Opulence To His Hearers; And Had The Unlucky Effect Of Giving To His Style All The Glitter Of The Flower Garden Without Its Method, And All The Flutter Of The Aviary Without Its Song. In Addition To This, He Chose His Subjects Badly, And Was Always Most Inspired By The Worst Parts Of Them. The Charms Of Paganism, The Merits Of Rebellion,--These Were The Themes Honored With His Particular Enthusiasm; And, In The Poem Just Recited, One Of His Most Palatable Passages Was In Praise Of That Beverage Of The Unfaithful, Wine;--"Being, Perhaps," Said He, Relaxing Into A Smile, As Conscious Of His Own Character In The Haram On This Point, "One Of Those Bards, Whose Fancy Owes All Its Illumination To The Grape, Like That Painted Porcelain,[341] So Curious And So Rare, Whose Images Are Only Visible When Liquor Is Poured Into It." Upon The Whole, It Was His Opinion, From The Specimens Which They Had Heard, And Which, He Begged To Say, Were The Most Tiresome Part Of The Journey, That--Whatever Other Merits This Well-Dressed Young Gentleman Might Possess--Poetry Was By No Means His Proper Avocation; "And Indeed," Concluded The Critic, "From His Fondness For Flowers And For Birds, I Would Venture To Suggest That A Florist Or A Bird-Catcher Is A Much More Suitable Calling For Him Than A Poet." They Had Now Begun To Ascend Those Barren Mountains, Which Separate Cashmere From The Rest Of India; And, As The Heats Were Intolerable, And The Time Of Their Encampments Limited To The Few Hours Necessary For Refreshment And Repose, There Was An End To All Their Delightful Evenings, And Lalla Rookh Saw No More Of Feramorz. She Now Felt That Her Short Dream Of Happiness Was Over, And That She Had Nothing But The Recollection Of Its Few Blissful Hours, Like The One Draught Of Sweet Water That Serves The Camel Across The Wilderness, To Be Her Heart'S Refreshment During The Dreary Waste Of Life That Was Before Her. The Blight That Had Fallen Upon Her Spirits Soon Found Its Way To Her Cheek, And Her Ladies Saw With Regret--Though Not Without Some Suspicion Of The Cause--That The Beauty Of Their Mistress, Of Which They Were Almost As Proud As Of Their Own, Was Fast Vanishing Away At The Very Moment Of All When She Had Most Need Of It. What Must The King Of Bucharia Feel, When, Instead Of The Lively And Beautiful Lalla Rookh, Whom The Poets Of Delhi Had Described As More Perfect Than The Divinest Images In The House Of Azor,[342] He Should Receive A Pale And Inanimate Victim, Upon Whose Cheek Neither Health Nor Pleasure Bloomed, And From Whose Eyes Love Had Fled,--To Hide Himself In Her Heart? If Any Thing Could Have Charmed Away The Melancholy Of Her Spirits, It Would Have Been The Fresh Airs And Enchanting Scenery Of That Valley, Which The Persians So Justly Called The Unequalled.[343] But Neither The Coolness Of Its Atmosphere, So Luxurious After Toiling Up Those Bare And Burning Mountains,--Neither The Splendor Of The Minarets And Pagodas, That Shone Put From The Depth Of Its Woods, Nor The Grottoes, Hermitages, And Miraculous Fountains,[344] Which Make Every Spot Of That Region Holy Ground,--Neither The Countless Waterfalls, That Rush Into The Valley From All Those High And Romantic Mountains That Encircle It, Nor The Fair City On The Lake, Whose Houses, Roofed With Flowers,[345] Appeared At A Distance Like One Vast And Variegated Parterre;--Not All These Wonders And Glories Of The Most Lovely Country Under The Sun Could Steal Her Heart For A Minute From Those Sad Thoughts Which But Darkened And Grew Bitterer Every Step She Advanced. The Gay Pomps And Processions That Met Her Upon Her Entrance Into The Valley, And The Magnificence With Which The Roads All Along Were Decorated, Did Honor To The Taste And Gallantry Of The Young King. It Was Night When They Approached The City, And, For The Last Two Miles, They Had Passed Under Arches, Thrown From Hedge To Hedge, Festooned With Only Those Rarest Roses From Which The Attar Gul, More Precious Than Gold, Is Distilled, And Illuminated In Rich And Fanciful Forms With Lanterns Of The Triple-Colored Tortoise-Shell Of Pegu.[346] Sometimes, From A Dark Wood By The Side Of The Road, A Display Of Fireworks Would Break Out, So Sudden And So Brilliant, That A Brahmin Might Fancy He Beheld That Grove, In Whose Purple Shade The God Of Battles Was Born, Bursting Into A Flame At The Moment Of His Birth;--While, At Other Times, A Quick And Playful Irradiation Continued To Brighten All The Fields And Gardens By Which They Passed, Forming A Line Of Dancing Lights Along The Horizon; Like The Meteors Of The North As They Are Seen By Those Hunters Who Pursue The White And Blue Foxes On The Confines Of The Icy Sea. These Arches And Fireworks Delighted The Ladies Of The Princess Exceedingly; And, With Their Usual Good Logic, They Deduced From His Taste For Illuminations, That The King Of Bucharia Would Make The Most Exemplary Husband Imaginable. Nor, Indeed, Could Lalla Rookh Herself Help Feeling The Kindness And Splendor With Which The Young Bridegroom Welcomed Her;--But She Also Felt How Painful Is The Gratitude Which Kindness From Those We Cannot Love Excites; And That Their Best Blandishments Come Over The Heart With All That Chilling And Deadly Sweetness Which We Can Fancy In The Cold, Odoriferous Wind[347] That Is To Blow Over This Earth In The Last Days. The Marriage Was Fixed For The Morning After Her Arrival, When She Was, For The First Time, To Be Presented To The Monarch In That Imperial Palace Beyond The Lake, Called The Shalimar. Though Never Before Had A Night Of More Wakeful And Anxious Thought Been Passed In The Happy Valley, Yet, When She Rose In The Morning, And Her Ladies Came Around Her, To Assist In The Adjustment Of The Bridal Ornaments, They Thought They Had Never Seen Her Look Half So Beautiful. What She Had Lost Of The Bloom And Radiancy Of Her Charms Was More Than Made Up By That Intellectual Expression, That Soul Beaming Forth From The Eyes, Which Is Worth All The Rest Of Loveliness. When They Had Tinged Her Fingers With The Henna Leaf, And Placed Upon Her Brow A Small Coronet Of Jewels, Of The Shape Worn By The Ancient Queens Of Bucharia, They Flung Over Her Head The Rose-Colored Bridal Veil, And She Proceeded To The Barge That Was To Convey Her Across The Lake;--First Kissing, With A Mournful Look, The Little Amulet Of Cornelian, Which Her Father At Parting Had Hung About Her Neck. The Morning Was As Fresh And Fair As The Maid On Whose Nuptials It Rose, And The Shining Lake, All Covered With Boats, The Minstrels Playing Upon The Shores Of The Islands, And The Crowded Summer-Houses On The Green Hills Around, With Shawls And Banners Waving From Their Roofs, Presented Such A Picture Of Animated Rejoicing, As Only She, Who Was The Object Of It All, Did Not Feel With Transport. To Lalla Rookh Alone It Was A Melancholy Pageant; Nor Could She Have Even Borne To Look Upon The Scene, Were It Not For A Hope That Among The Crowds Around, She Might Once More Perhaps Catch A Glimpse Of Feramorz. So Much Was Her Imagination Haunted By This Thought That There Was Scarcely An Islet Or Boat She Passed On The Way At Which Her Heart Did Not Flutter With The Momentary Fancy That He Was There. Happy, In Her Eyes, The Humblest Slave Upon Whom The Light Of His Dear Looks Fell!--In The Barge Immediately After The Princess Sat Fadladeen, With His Silken Curtains Thrown Widely Apart, That All Might Have The Benefit Of His August Presence, And With His Head Full Of The Speech He Was To Deliver To The King, "Concerning Feramorz And Literature And The Chabuk As Connected Therewith." They Now Had Entered The Canal Which Leads From The Lake To The Splendid Domes And Saloons Of The Shalimar And Went Gliding On Through The Gardens That Ascended From Each Bank, Full Of Flowering Shrubs That Made The Air All Perfume; While From The Middle Of The Canal Rose Jets Of Water, Smooth And Unbroken, To Such A Dazzling Height That They Stood Like Tall Pillars Of Diamond In The Sunshine. After Sailing Under The Arches Of Various Saloons They At Length Arrived At The Last And Most Magnificent, Where The Monarch Awaited The Coming Of His Bride; And Such Was The Agitation Of Her Heart And Frame That It Was With Difficulty She Could Walk Up The Marble Steps Which Were Covered With Cloth Of Gold For Her Ascent From The Barge. At The End Of The Hall Stood Two Thrones, As Precious As The Cerulean Throne Of Koolburga,[348] On One Of Which Sat Aliris, The Youthful King Of Bucharia, And On The Other Was In A Few Minutes To Be Placed The Most Beautiful Princess In The World. Immediately Upon The Entrance Of Lalla Rookh Into The Saloon The Monarch Descended From His Throne To Meet Her; But Scarcely Had He Time To Take Her Hand In His When She Screamed With Surprise And Fainted At His Feet. It Was Feramorz, Himself, Who Stood Before Her! Feramorz, Was, Himself, The Sovereign Of Bucharia, Who In This Disguise Had Accompanied His Young Bride From Delhi, And Having Won Her Love As An Humble Minstrel Now Amply Deserved To Enjoy It As A King. The Consternation Of Fadladeen At This Discovery Was, For The Moment, Almost Pitiable. But Change Of Opinion Is A Resource Too Convenient In Courts For This Experienced Courtier Not To Have Learned To Avail Himself Of It. His Criticisms Were All, Of Course, Recanted Instantly: He Was Seized With An Admiration Of The King'S Verses, As Unbounded As, He Begged Him To Believe, It Was Disinterested; And The Following Week Saw Him In Possession Of An Additional Place, Swearing By All The Saints Of Islam That Never Had There Existed So Great A Poet As The Monarch Aliris, And Moreover Ready To Prescribe His Favorite Regimen Of The Chabuk For Every Man, Woman And Child That Dared To Think Otherwise. Of The Happiness Of The King And Queen Of Bucharia, After Such A Beginning, There Can Be But Little Doubt; And Among The Lesser Symptoms It Is Recorded Of Lalla Rookh That To The Day Of Her Death In Memory Of Their Delightful Journey She Never Called The King By Any Other Name Than Feramorz.