’Tis Hafed—name of fear, whose sound
Chills like the muttering of a charm!—
Shout but that awful name around,
And palsy shakes the manliest arm.
’Tis Hafed, most accurs’d and dire
(So rank’d by Moslem hate and ire)
Of all the rebel Sons of Fire;
Of whose malign, tremendous power
The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour,
Such tales of fearful wonder tell,
That each affrighted sentinel
Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes,
Lest Hafed in the midst should rise!
A man, they say, of monstrous birth,
A mingled race of flame and earth,
Sprung from those old, enchanted kings,[247]
Who in their fairy helms, of yore,
A feather from the mystic wings
Of the Simoorgh resistless wore;
And gifted by the Fiends of Fire,
Who groan’d to see their shrines expire,
With charms that, all in vain withstood,
Would drown the Koran’s light in blood!
Such were the tales, that won belief,
And such the colouring Fancy gave
To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief,—
One who, no more than mortal brave,
Fought for the land his soul ador’d,
For happy homes and altars free,—
His only talisman, the sword,
His only spell-word, Liberty!
One of that ancient hero line,
Along whose glorious current shine
Names, that have sanctified their blood;
As Lebanon’s small mountain-flood
Is render’d holy by the ranks
Of sainted cedars on its banks.[248]
’Twas not for him to crouch the knee
Tamely to Moslem tyranny;
’Twas not for him, whose soul was cast
In the bright mould of ages past,
Whose melancholy spirit, fed
With all the glories of the dead,
Though fram’d for Iran’s happiest years,
Was born among her chains and tears!—
’Twas not for him to swell the crowd
Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow’d
Before the Moslem, as he pass’d,
Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast—
No—far he fled—indignant fled
The pageant of his country’s shame;
While every tear her children shed
Fell on his soul like drops of flame;
And, as a lover hails the dawn
Of a first smile, so welcom’d he
The sparkle of the first sword drawn
For vengeance and for liberty!
But vain was valour—vain the flower
Of Kerman, in that deathful hour,
Against Al Hassan’s whelming power.—
In vain they met him, helm to helm,
Upon the threshold of that realm
He came in bigot pomp to sway,
And with their corpses block’d his way—
In vain—for every lance they rais’d,
Thousands around the conqueror blaz’d;
For every arm that lin’d their shore,
Myriads of slaves were wafted o’er,—
A bloody, bold, and countless crowd,
Before whose swarm as fast they bow’d
As dates beneath the locust cloud.
There stood—but one short league away
From old Harmozia’s sultry bay—
A rocky mountain, o’er the Sea
Of Oman beetling awfully:[249]
A last and solitary link
Of those stupendous chains that reach
From the broad Caspian’s reedy brink
Down winding to the Green Sea beach.
Around its base the bare rocks stood,
Like naked giants, in the flood,
As if to guard the Gulf across;
While, on its peak, that brav’d the sky,
A ruin’d Temple tower’d, so high
That oft the sleeping albatross[250]
Struck the wild ruins with her wing,
And from her cloud-rock’d slumbering
Started—to find man’s dwelling there
In her own silent fields of air!
Beneath, terrific caverns gave
Dark welcome to each stormy wave
That dash’d, like midnight revellers, in;—
And such the strange, mysterious din
At times throughout those caverns roll’d,—
And such the fearful wonders told
Of restless sprites imprison’d there,
That bold were Moslem, who would dare,
At twilight hour, to steer his skiff
Beneath the Gheber’s lonely cliff.[251]
On the land side, those towers sublime,
That seem’d above the grasp of Time,
Were sever’d from the haunts of men
By a wide, deep, and wizard glen,
So fathomless, so full of gloom,
No eye could pierce the void between:
It seem’d a place where Gholes might come
With their foul banquets from the tomb,
And in its caverns feed unseen.
Like distant thunder, from below,
The sound of many torrents came,
Too deep for eye or ear to know
If ’twere the sea’s imprison’d flow,
Or floods of ever-restless flame.
For, each ravine, each rocky spire
Of that vast mountain stood on fire;[252]
And, though for ever past the days
When God was worshipp’d in the blaze
That from its lofty altar shone,—
Though fled the priests, the votaries gone,
Still did the mighty flame burn on,[253]
Through chance and change, through good and ill,
Like its own God’s eternal will,
Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable!
Thither the vanquish’d Hafed led
His little army’s last remains;—
“Welcome, terrific glen!” he said,
“Thy gloom, that Eblis’ self might dread,
“Is Heaven to him who flies from chains!”
O’er a dark, narrow bridge-way, known
To him and to his Chiefs alone,
They cross’d the chasm and gain’d the towers,—
“This home,” he cried, “at least is ours;—
“Here we may bleed, unmock’d by hymns
“Of Moslem triumph o’er our head;
“Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs
“To quiver to the Moslem’s tread.
“Stretch’d on this rock, while vultures’ beaks
“Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks,
“Here—happy that no tyrant’s eye
“Gloats on our torments—we may die!”—
’Twas night when to those towers they came,
And gloomily the fitful flame,
That from the ruin’d altar broke,
Glar’d on his features, as he spoke:—
“’Tis o’er—what men could do, we’ve done—
“If Iran will look tamely on,
“And see her priests, her warriors driven
“Before a sensual bigot’s nod,
“A wretch, who shrines his lusts in heaven,
“And makes a pander of his God;
“If her proud sons, her high-born souls,
“Men, in whose veins—oh last disgrace!
“The blood of Zal and Rustam[254] rolls,—
“If they will court this upstart race,
“And turn from Mithra’s ancient ray,
“To kneel at shrines of yesterday;
“If they will crouch to Iran’s foes,
“Why, let them—till the land’s despair
“Cries out to Heaven, and bondage grows
“Too vile for e’en the vile to bear!
“Till shame at last, long hidden, burns
“Their inmost core, and conscience turns
“Each coward tear the slave lets fall
“Back on his heart in drops of gall.
“But here, at least, are arms unchain’d,
“And souls that thraldom never stain’d;—
“This spot, at least, no foot of slave
“Or satrap ever yet profan’d;
“And though but few—though fast the wave
“Of life is ebbing from our veins,
“Enough for vengeance still remains.
“As panthers, after set of sun,
“Rush from the roots of Lebanon
“Across the dark sea-robber’s way,[255]
“We’ll bound upon our startled prey;
“And when some hearts that proudest swell
“Have felt our falchion’s last farewell;
“When Hope’s expiring throb is o’er,
“And e’en despair can prompt no more,
“This spot shall be the sacred grave
“Of the last few who, vainly brave,
“Die for the land they cannot save!”
His Chiefs stood round—each shining blade
Upon the broken altar laid—
And though so wild and desolate
Those courts, where once the Mighty sate;
No longer on those mouldering towers
Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers,
With which of old the Magi fed
The wandering Spirits of their Dead;[256]
Though neither priest nor rites were there,
Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate;[257]
Nor hymn, nor censer’s fragrant air,
Nor symbol of their worshipp’d planet;[258]
Yet the same God that heard their sires
Heard them, while on that altar’s fires
They swore[259] the latest, holiest deed
Of the few hearts, still left to bleed,
Should be, in Iran’s injur’d name,
To die upon that Mount of Flame—
The last of all her patriot line,
Before her last untrampled Shrine!
Brave, suffering souls! they little knew
How many a tear their injuries drew
From one meek maid, one gentle foe,
Whom love first touch’d with others’ woe—
Whose life, as free from thought as sin,
Slept like a lake, till Love threw in
His talisman, and woke the tide,
And spread its trembling circles wide.
Once, Emir! thy unheeding child,
’Mid all this havoc, bloom’d and smil’d,—
Tranquil as on some battle plain
The Persian lily shines and towers,[260]
Before the combat’s reddening stain
Hath fall’n upon her golden flowers.
Light-hearted maid, unaw’d, unmov’d,
While Heaven but spar’d the sire she lov’d,
Once at thy evening tales of blood
Unlistening and aloof she stood—
And oft, when thou hast pac’d along
Thy Haram halls with furious heat,
Hast thou not curs’d her cheerful song,
That came across thee, calm and sweet,
Like lutes of angels, touch’d so near
Hell’s confines, that the damn’d can hear!
Far other feelings Love hath brought—
Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness,
She now has but the one dear thought,
And thinks that o’er, almost to madness!
Oft doth her sinking heart recall
His words—“For my sake weep for all;”
And bitterly, as day on day
Of rebel carnage fast succeeds,
She weeps a lover snatch’d away
In every Gheber wretch that bleeds.
There’s not a sabre meets her eye,
But with his life-blood seems to swim;
There’s not an arrow wings the sky,
But fancy turns its point to him.
No more she brings with footstep light
Al Hassan’s falchion for the fight;
And—had he look’d with clearer sight,
Had not the mists, that ever rise
From a foul spirit, dimm’d his eyes—
He would have mark’d her shuddering frame,
When from the field of blood he came,
The faltering speech—the look estrang’d—
Voice, step, and life, and beauty chang’d—
He would have mark’d all this, and known
Such change is wrought by Love alone!
Ah! not the Love, that should have bless’d
So young, so innocent a breast;
Not the pure, open, prosperous Love,
That, pledg’d on earth and seal’d above,
Grows in the world’s approving eyes,
In friendship’s smile and home’s caress,
Collecting all the heart’s sweet ties
Into one knot of happiness!
No, Hinda, no,—thy fatal flame
Is nurs’d in silence, sorrow, shame;—
A passion, without hope or pleasure,
In thy soul’s darkness buried deep,
It lies, like some ill-gotten treasure,—
Some idol, without shrine or name,
O’er which its pale-eyed votaries keep
Unholy watch, while others sleep.
Seven nights have darken’d Oman’s sea,
Since last, beneath the moonlight ray,
She saw his light oar rapidly
Hurry her Gheber’s bark away,—
And still she goes, at midnight hour,
To weep alone in that high bower,
And watch, and look along the deep
For him whose smiles first made her weep;—
But watching, weeping, all was vain,
She never saw his bark again.
The owlet’s solitary cry,
The night-hawk, flitting darkly by,
And oft the hateful carrion bird,
Heavily flapping his clogg’d wing,
Which reek’d with that day’s banqueting—
Was all she saw, was all she heard.
’Tis the eighth morn—Al Hassan’s brow
Is brighten’d with unusual joy—
What mighty mischief glads him now,
Who never smiles but to destroy?
The sparkle upon Herkend’s Sea,
When toss’d at midnight furiously,[261]
Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh,
More surely than that smiling eye!
“Up, daughter, up—the Kerna’s[262] breath
“Has blown a blast would waken death,
“And yet thou sleep’st—up, child, and see
“This blessed day for Heaven and me,
“A day more rich in Pagan blood
“Than ever flash’d o’er Oman’s flood.
“Before another dawn shall shine,
“His head—heart—limbs—will all be mine;
“This very night his blood shall steep
“These hands all over ere I sleep!”—
“His blood!” she faintly scream’d—her mind
Still singling one from all mankind—
“Yes—spite of his ravines and towers,
“Hafed, my child, this night is ours.
“Thanks to all-conquering treachery,
“Without whose aid the links accurst,
“That bind these impious slaves, would be
“Too strong for Alla’s self to burst!
“That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread
“My path with piles of Moslem dead,
“Whose baffling spells had almost driven
“Back from their course the Swords of Heaven,
“This night, with all his band, shall know
“How deep an Arab’s steel can go,
“When God and Vengeance speed the blow.
“And—Prophet! by that holy wreath
“Thou wor’st on Ohod’s field of death,[263]
“I swear, for every sob that parts
“In anguish from these heathen hearts,
“A gem from Persia’s plunder’d mines
“Shall glitter on thy Shrine of Shrines.
“But, ha!—she sinks—that look so wild—
“Those livid lips—my child, my child,
“This life of blood befits not thee,
“And thou must back to Araby.
“Ne’er had I risk’d thy timid sex
“In scenes that man himself might dread,
“Had I not hop’d our every tread
“Would be on prostrate Persian necks—
“Curst race, they offer swords instead!
“But cheer thee, maid,—the wind that now
“Is blowing o’er thy feverish brow,
“To-day shall waft thee from the shore;
“And, ere a drop of this night’s gore
“Have time to chill in yonder towers,
“Thou’lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers!”
His bloody boast was all too true;
There lurk’d one wretch among the few
Whom Hafed’s eagle eye could count
Around him on that Fiery Mount,—
One miscreant, who for gold betray’d
The pathway through the valley’s shade
To those high towers, where Freedom stood
In her last hold of flame and blood.
Left on the field last dreadful night,
When, sallying from their Sacred height,
The Ghebers fought hope’s farewell fight,
He lay—but died not with the brave;
That sun, which should have gilt his grave,
Saw him a traitor and a slave;—
And, while the few, who thence return’d
To their high rocky fortress mourn’d
For him among the matchless dead
They left behind on glory’s bed,
He liv’d, and, in the face of morn,
Laugh’d them and Faith and Heaven to scorn.
Oh for a tongue to curse the slave,
Whose treason, like a deadly blight,
Comes o’er the councils of the brave,
And blasts them in their hour of might!
May Life’s unblessed cup for him
Be drugg’d with treacheries to the brim,—
With hopes, that but allure to fly,
With joys, that vanish while he sips,
Like Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye,
But turn to ashes on the lips![264]
His country’s curse, his children’s shame,
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame,
May he, at last, with lips of flame
On the parch’d desert thirsting die,—
While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh,[265]
Are fading off, untouch’d, untasted,
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted!
And, when from earth his spirit flies,
Just Prophet, let the damn’d one dwell
Full in the sight of Paradise,
Beholding heaven, and feeling hell!

Lalla Rookh had, the night before, been visited by a dream which, in spite of the impending fate of poor Hafed, made her heart more than usually cheerful during the morning, and gave her cheeks all the freshened animation of a flower that the Bid-musk had just passed over.[266] She fancied that she was sailing on that Eastern Ocean, where the sea-gipsies, who live for ever on the water,[267] enjoy a perpetual summer in wandering from isle to isle, when she saw a small gilded bark approaching her. It was like one of those boats which the Maldivian islanders send adrift, at the mercy of winds and waves, loaded with perfumes, flowers, and odoriferous wood, as an offering to the Spirit whom they call King of the Sea. At first, this little bark appeared to be empty, but, on coming nearer—

She had proceeded thus far in relating the dream to her Ladies, when Feramorz appeared at the door of the pavilion. In his presence, of course, every thing else was forgotten, and the continuance of the story was instantly requested by all. Fresh wood of aloes was set to burn in the cassolets;—the violet sherbets[268] were hastily handed round, and after a short prelude on his lute, in the pathetic measure of Nava,[269] which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers, the Poet thus continued:—

The day is lowering—stilly black
Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven’s rack,
Dispers’d and wild, ’twixt earth and sky
Hangs like a shatter’d canopy.
There’s not a cloud in that blue plain
But tells of storm to come or past;—
Here, flying loosely as the mane
Of a young war-horse in the blast;—
There, roll’d in masses dark and swelling,
As proud to be the thunder’s dwelling!
While some, already burst and riven,
Seem melting down the verge of heaven;
As though the infant storm had rent
The mighty womb that gave him birth,
And, having swept the firmament,
Was now in fierce career for earth.
On earth ’twas yet all calm around,
A pulseless silence, dread, profound,
More awful than the tempest’s sound.
The diver steer’d for Ormus’ bowers,
And moor’d his skiff till calmer hours;
The sea-birds, with portentous screech,
Flew fast to land;—upon the beach
The pilot oft had paus’d, with glance
Turn’d upward to that wild expanse;—
And all was boding, drear, and dark
As her own soul, when Hinda’s bark
Went slowly from the Persian shore.—
No music tim’d her parting oar,[270]
Nor friends upon the lessening strand
Linger’d, to wave the unseen hand,
Or speak the farewell, heard no more;—
But lone, unheeded, from the bay
The vessel takes its mournful way,
Like some ill-destin’d bark that steers
In silence through the Gate of Tears.[271]
And where was stern Al Hassan then?
Could not that saintly scourge of men
From bloodshed and devotion spare
One minute for a farewell there?
No—close within, in changeful fits
Of cursing and of prayer, he sits
In savage loneliness to brood
Upon the coming night of blood,—
With that keen second-scent of death,
By which the vulture snuffs his food
In the still warm and living breath![272]
While o’er the wave his weeping daughter
Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter,—
As a young bird of Babylon,[273]
Let loose to tell of victory won,
Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstain’d
By the red hands that held her chain’d.
And does the long-left home she seeks
Light up no gladness on her cheeks?
The flowers she nurs’d—the well-known groves,
Where oft in dreams her spirit roves—
Once more to see her dear gazelles
Come bounding with their silver bells;
Her birds’ new plumage to behold,
And the gay, gleaming fishes count,
She left, all filleted with gold,
Shooting around their jasper fount;[274]
Her little garden mosque to see,
And once again, at evening hour,
To tell her ruby rosary[275]
In her own sweet acacia bower.—
Can these delights, that wait her now,
Call up no sunshine on her brow?
No,—silent, from her train apart,—
As if e’en now she felt at heart
The chill of her approaching doom,—
She sits, all lovely in her gloom
As a pale Angel of the Grave;
And o’er the wide, tempestuous wave,
Looks, with a shudder, to those towers,
Where, in a few short awful hours,
Blood, blood, in streaming tides shall run.
Foul incense for to-morrow’s sun!
“Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou,
“So loved, so lost, where art thou now?
“Foe—Gheber—infidel—whate’er
“The’ unhallow’d name thou’rt doom’d to bear,
“Still glorious—still to this fond heart
“Dear as its blood, whate’er thou art!
“Yes—Alla, dreadful Alla! yes—
“If there be wrong, be crime in this,
“Let the black waves that round us roll,
“Whelm me this instant, ere my soul,
“Forgetting faith—home—father—all—
“Before its earthly idol fall,
“Nor worship e’en Thyself above him—
“For, oh, so wildly do I love him,
“Thy Paradise itself were dim
“And joyless, if not shared with him!”
Her hands were clasp’d—her eyes upturn’d,
Dropping their tears like moonlight rain;
And, though her lip, fond raver! burn’d
With words of passion, bold, profane,
Yet was there light around her brow,
A holiness in those dark eyes,
Which show’d, though wandering earthward now,
Her spirit’s home was in the skies.
Yes—for a spirit pure as hers
Is always pure, e’en while it errs;
As sunshine, broken in the rill,
Though turn’d astray, is sunshine still!
So wholly had her mind forgot
All thoughts but one, she heeded not
The rising storm—the wave that cast
A moment’s midnight, as it pass’d—
Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread
Of gathering tumult o’er her head—
Clash’d swords, and tongues that seem’d to vie
With the rude riot of the sky.—
But, hark!—that war-whoop on the deck—
That crash, as if each engine there,
Masts, sails, and all, were gone to wreck,
Mid yells and stampings of despair!
Merciful Heaven! what can it be?
’Tis not the storm, though fearfully
The ship has shudder’d as she rode
O’er mountain-waves—“Forgive me, God!
“Forgive me”—shrieked the maid, and knelt,
Trembling all over—for she felt
As if her judgment-hour was near
While crouching round, half dead with fear,
Her handmaids clung, nor breath’d, nor stirr’d—
When, hark!—a second crash—a third—
And now, as if a bolt of thunder
Had riv’n the labouring planks asunder,
The deck falls in—what horrors then!
Blood, waves, and tackle, swords and men
Come mix’d together through the chasm,—
Some wretches in their dying spasm
Still fighting on—and some that call
“For God and Iran!” as they fall!
Whose was the hand that turn’d away
The perils of the’ infuriate fray,
And snatch’d her breathless from beneath
This wilderment of wreck and death?
She knew not—for a faintness came
Chill o’er her, and her sinking frame
Amid the ruins of that hour
Lay, like a pale and scorched flower,
Beneath the red volcano’s shower.
But, oh! the sights and sounds of dread
That shock’d her ere her senses fled!
The yawning deck—the crowd that strove
Upon the tottering planks above—
The sail, whose fragments, shivering o’er
The strugglers’ heads, all dash’d with gore,
Flutter’d like bloody flags—the clash
Of sabres, and the lightning’s flash
Upon their blades, high toss’d about
Like meteor brands[276]—as if throughout
The elements one fury ran,
One general rage, that left a doubt
Which was the fiercer, Heaven or Man!
Once too—but no—it could not be—
’Twas fancy all—yet once she thought,
While yet her fading eyes could see,
High on the ruin’d deck she caught
A glimpse of that unearthly form,
That glory of her soul,—e’en then,
Amid the whirl of wreck and storm,
Shining above his fellow-men,
As, on some black and troublous night,
The Star of Egypt,[277] whose proud light
Never hath beam’d on those who rest
In the White Islands of the West,[278]
Burns through the storm with looks of flame
That put Heaven’s cloudier eyes to shame.
But no—’twas but the minute’s dream—
A fantasy—and ere the scream
Had half-way pass’d her pallid lips,
A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse
Of soul and sense its darkness spread
Around her, and she sunk, as dead.
How calm, how beautiful comes on
The stilly hour, when storms are gone;
When warring winds have died away,
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,
Melt off, and leave the land and sea
Sleeping in bright tranquillity,—
Fresh as if Day again were born,
Again upon the lap of Morn!—
When the light blossoms, rudely torn
And scatter’d at the whirlwind’s will,
Hang floating in the pure air still,
Filling it all with precious balm,
In gratitude for this sweet calm;—
And every drop the thunder-showers
Have left upon the grass and flowers
Sparkles, as ’twere that lightning-gem[279]
Whose liquid flame is born of them!
When, ’stead of one unchanging breeze,
There blow a thousand gentle airs,
And each a different perfume bears,—
As if the loveliest plants and trees
Had vassal breezes of their own
To watch and wait on them alone,
And waft no other breath than theirs:
When the blue waters rise and fall,
In sleepy sunshine mantling all;
And e’en that swell the tempest leaves
Is like the full and silent heaves
Of lovers’ hearts, when newly blest,
Too newly to be quite at rest.
Such was the golden hour that broke
Upon the world, when Hinda woke
From her long trance, and heard around
No motion but the water’s sound
Rippling against the vessel’s side,
As slow it mounted o’er the tide.—
But where is she?—her eyes are dark,
Are wilder’d still—is this the bark,
The same, that from Harmozia’s bay
Bore her at morn—whose bloody way
The sea-dog track’d?—no—strange and new
Is all that meets her wondering view.
Upon a galliot’s deck she lies,
Beneath no rich pavilion’s shade,—
No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes,
Nor jasmine on her pillow laid.
But the rude litter, roughly spread
With war-cloaks, is her homely bed,
And shawl and sash, on javelins hung,
For awning o’er her head are flung.
Shuddering she look’d around—there lay
A group of warriors in the sun,
Resting their limbs, as for that day
Their ministry of death were done.
Some gazing on the drowsy sea,
Lost in unconscious reverie;
And some, who seem’d but ill to brook
That sluggish calm, with many a look
To the slack sail impatient cast,
As loose it flagg’d around the mast.