Blest Alla! who shall save her now?
There’s not in all that warrior band
One Arab sword, one turban’d brow
From her own Faithful Moslem land.
Their garb—the leathern belt[280] that wraps
Each yellow vest[281]—that rebel hue—
The Tartar fleece upon their caps[282]—
Yes—yes—her fears are all too true,
And Heaven hath, in this dreadful hour,
Abandon’d her to Hafed’s power;—
Hafed, the Gheber!—at the thought
Her very heart’s blood chills within;
He, whom her soul was hourly taught
To loathe, as some foul fiend of sin,
Some minister, whom Hell had sent
To spread its blast, where’er he went,
And fling, as o’er our earth he trod,
His shadow betwixt man and God!
And she is now his captive,—thrown
In his fierce hands, alive, alone;
His the infuriate band she sees,
All infidels—all enemies!
What was the daring hope that then
Cross’d her like lightning, as again,
With boldness that despair had lent,
She darted through that armed crowd
A look so searching, so intent,
That e’en the sternest warrior bow’d
Abash’d, when he her glances caught,
As if he guess’d whose form they sought.
But no—she sees him not—’tis gone,
The vision that before her shone
Through all the maze of blood and storm,
Is fled—’twas but a phantom form—
One of those passing, rainbow dreams,
Half light, half shade, which Fancy’s beams
Paint on the fleeting mists that roll
In trance or slumber round the soul.
But now the bark, with livelier bound,
Scales the blue wave—the crew’s in motion,
The oars are out, and with light sound
Break the bright mirror of the ocean,
Scattering its brilliant fragments round.
And now she sees—with horror sees,
Their course is tow’rd that mountain-hold,—
Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze,
Where Mecca’s godless enemies
Lie, like beleaguer’d scorpions, roll’d
In their last deadly, venomous fold!
Amid the’ illumin’d land and flood
Sunless that mighty mountain stood;
Save where, above its awful head,
There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red,
As ’twere the flag of destiny
Hung out to mark where death would be!
Had her bewilder’d mind the power
Of thought in this terrific hour,
She well might marvel where or how
Man’s foot could scale that mountain’s brow,
Since ne’er had Arab heard or known
Of path but through the glen alone.—
But every thought was lost in fear,
When, as their bounding bark drew near
The craggy base, she felt the waves
Hurry them tow’rd those dismal caves,
That from the Deep in windings pass
Beneath that Mount’s volcanic mass;—
And loud a voice on deck commands
To lower the mast and light the brands!—
Instantly o’er the dashing tide
Within a cavern’s mouth they glide,
Gloomy as that eternal Porch
Through which departed spirits go:—
Not e’en the flare of brand and torch
Its flickering light could further throw
Than the thick flood that boil’d below.
Silent they floated—as if each
Sat breathless, and too aw’d for speech
In that dark chasm, where even sound
Seem’d dark,—so sullenly around
The goblin echoes of the cave
Mutter’d it o’er the long black wave,
As ’twere some secret of the grave!
But soft—they pause—the current turns
Beneath them from its onward track;—
Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns
The vexed tide, all foaming, back,
And scarce the oars’ redoubled force
Can stem the eddy’s whirling force;
When, hark!—some desperate foot has sprung
Among the rocks—the chain is flung—
The oars are up—the grapple clings,
And the toss’d bark in moorings swings.
Just then, a day-beam through the shade
Broke tremulous—but, ere the maid
Can see from whence the brightness steals,
Upon her brow she shuddering feels
A viewless hand, that promptly ties
A bandage round her burning eyes;
While the rude litter where she lies,
Uplifted by the warrior throng,
O’er the steep rocks is borne along.
Blest power of sunshine!—genial Day,
What balm, what life is in thy ray!
To feel thee is such real bliss,
That had the world no joy but this,
To sit in sunshine calm and sweet,—
It were a world too exquisite
For man to leave it for the gloom,
The deep, cold shadow of the tomb.
E’en Hinda, though she saw not where
Or whither wound the perilous road,
Yet knew by that awakening air,
Which suddenly around her glow’d,
That they had risen from darkness then,
And breath’d the sunny world again!
But soon this balmy freshness fled—
For now the steepy labyrinth led
Through damp and gloom—’mid crash of boughs,
And fall of loosen’d crags that rouse
The leopard from his hungry sleep,
Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey,
And long is heard, from steep to steep,
Chasing them down their thundering way!
The jackal’s cry—the distant moan
Of the hyæna, fierce and lone—
And that eternal saddening sound
Of torrents in the glen beneath,
As ’twere the ever-dark Profound
That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death!
All, all is fearful—e’en to see,
To gaze on those terrific things
She now but blindly hears, would be
Relief to her imaginings;
Since never yet was shape so dread,
But Fancy, thus in darkness thrown
And by such sounds of horror fed,
Could frame more dreadful of her own.
But does she dream? has Fear again
Perplex’d the workings of her brain,
Or did a voice, all music, then
Come from the gloom, low whispering near—
“Tremble not, love, thy Gheber’s here!”
She does not dream—all sense, all ear,
She drinks the words, “Thy Gheber’s here.”
’Twas his own voice—she could not err—
Throughout the breathing world’s extent
There was but one such voice for her,
So kind, so soft, so eloquent!
Oh, sooner shall the rose of May
Mistake her own sweet nightingale,
And to some meaner minstrel’s lay
Open her bosom’s glowing veil,[283]
Than Love shall ever doubt a tone,
A breath of the beloved one!
Though blest, ’mid all her ills, to think
She has that one beloved near,
Whose smile, though met on ruin’s brink,
Hath power to make e’en ruin dear,—
Yet soon this gleam of rapture, crost
By fears for him, is chill’d and lost.
How shall the ruthless Hafed brook
That one of Gheber blood should look,
With aught but curses in his eye,
On her—a maid of Araby—
A Moslem maid—the child of him,
Whose bloody banner’s dire success
Hath left their altars cold and dim,
And their fair land a wilderness!
And, worse than all, that night of blood
Which comes so fast—oh! who shall stay
The sword, that once hath tasted food
Of Persian hearts, or turn its way?
What arm shall then the victim cover,
Or from her father shield her lover?
“Save him, my God!” she inly cries—
“Save him this night—and if thine eyes
“Have ever welcom’d with delight
“The sinner’s tears, the sacrifice
“Of sinners’ hearts—guard him this night,
“And here, before thy throne, I swear
“From my heart’s inmost core to tear
“Love, hope, remembrance, though they be
“Link’d with each quivering life-string there,
“And give it bleeding all to Thee!
“Let him but live,—the burning tear,
“The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear,
“Which have been all too much his own,
“Shall from this hour be Heaven’s alone.
“Youth pass’d in penitence, and age
“In long and painful pilgrimage,
“Shall leave no traces of the flame
“That wastes me now—nor shall his name
“E’er bless my lips, but when I pray
“For his dear spirit, that away
“Casting from its angelic ray
“The’ eclipse of earth, he, too, may shine
“Redeem’d, all glorious and all Thine!
“Think—think what victory to win
“One radiant soul like his from sin,—
“One wandering star of virtue back
“To its own native, heaven-ward track!
“Let him but live, and both are Thine,
“Together Thine—for, blest or crost,
“Living or dead, his doom is mine,
“And, if he perish, both are lost!”

The next evening Lalla Rookh was entreated by her Ladies to continue the relation of her wonderful dream; but the fearful interest that hung round the fate of Hinda and her lover had completely removed every trace of it from her mind;—much to the disappointment of a fair seer or two in her train, who prided themselves on their skill in interpreting visions, and who had already remarked, as an unlucky omen, that the Princess, on the very morning after the dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blossoms of the sorrowful tree, Nilica.[284]

Fadladeen, whose indignation had more than once broken out during the recital of some parts of this heterodox poem, seemed at length to have made up his mind to the infliction; and took his seat this evening with all the patience of a martyr, while the Poet resumed his profane and seditious story as follows:—

To tearless eyes and hearts at ease
The leafy shores and sun-bright seas,
That lay beneath that mountain’s height,
Had been a fair enchanting sight.
’Twas one of those ambrosial eves
A day of storm so often leaves
At its calm setting—when the West
Opens her golden bowers of rest,
And a moist radiance from the skies
Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes
Of some meek penitent, whose last
Bright hours atone for dark ones past,
And whose sweet tears, o’er wrong forgiven,
Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven!
’Twas stillness all—the winds that late
Had rush’d through Kerman’s almond groves,
And shaken from her bowers of date
That cooling feast the traveller loves,[285]
Now, lull’d to languor, scarcely curl
The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam
Limpid, as if her mines of pearl
Were melted all to form the stream:
And her fair islets, small and bright,
With their green shores reflected there,
Look like those Peri isles of light,
That hang by spell-work in the air.
But vainly did those glories burst
On Hinda’s dazzled eyes, when first
The bandage from her brow was taken,
And, pale and aw’d as those who waken
In their dark tombs—when, scowling near,
The Searchers of the Grave[286] appear,—
She shuddering turn’d to read her fate
In the fierce eyes that flash’d around;
And saw those towers all desolate,
That o’er her head terrific frown’d,
As if defying e’en the smile
Of that soft heaven to gild their pile.
In vain, with mingled hope and fear,
She looks for him whose voice so dear
Had come, like music, to her ear—
Strange, mocking dream! again ’tis fled.
And oh, the shoots, the pangs of dread
That through her inmost bosom run,
When voices from without proclaim
“Hafed, the Chief”—and, one by one,
The warriors shout that fearful name!
He comes—the rock resounds his tread—
How shall she dare to lift her head,
Or meet those eyes whose scorching glare
Not Yemen’s boldest sons can bear?
In whose red beam, the Moslem tells,
Such rank and deadly lustre dwells,
As in those hellish fires that light
The mandrake’s charnel leaves at night.[287]
How shall she bear that voice’s tone,
At whose loud battle-cry alone
Whole squadrons oft in panic ran,
Scatter’d like some vast caravan,
When, stretch’d at evening round the well,
They hear the thirsting tiger’s yell!
Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down,
Shrinking beneath the fiery frown,
Which, fancy tells her, from that brow
Is flashing o’er her fiercely now:
And shuddering as she hears the tread
Of his retiring warrior band.—
Never was pause so full of dread;
Till Hafed with a trembling hand
Took hers, and, leaning o’er her, said,
“Hinda;”—that word was all he spoke,
And ’twas enough—the shriek that broke
From her full bosom, told the rest.—
Panting with terror, joy, surprise,
The maid but lifts her wondering eyes,
To hide them on her Gheber’s breast!
’Tis he, ’tis he—the man of blood,
The fellest of the Fire-fiend’s brood,
Hafed, the demon of the fight,
Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,—
Is her own loved Gheber, mild
And glorious as when first he smil’d
In her lone tower, and left such beams
Of his pure eye to light her dreams,
That she believ’d her bower had given
Rest to some wanderer from heaven!
Moments there are, and this was one,
Snatch’d like a minute’s gleam of sun
Amid the black Simoom’s eclipse—
Or, like those verdant spots that bloom
Around the crater’s burning lips,
Sweetening the very edge of doom!
The past—the future—all that Fate
Can bring of dark or desperate
Around such hours, but makes them cast
Intenser radiance while they last!
Even he, this youth—though dimm’d and gone
Each star of Hope that cheer’d him on—
His glories lost—his cause betray’d—
Iran, his dear-lov’d country made
A land of carcasses and slaves,
One dreary waste of chains and graves!—
Himself but lingering, dead at heart,
To see the last, long struggling breath
Of Liberty’s great soul depart,
Then lay him down and share her death—
Even he, so sunk in wretchedness,
With doom still darker gathering o’er him,
Yet, in this moment’s pure caress,
In the mild eyes that shone before him,
Beaming that blest assurance, worth
All other transports known on earth,
That he was lov’d—well, warmly lov’d—
Oh! in this precious hour he prov’d
How deep, how thorough-felt the glow
Of rapture, kindling out of woe;—
How exquisite one single drop
Of bliss, thus sparkling to the top
Of misery’s cup—how keenly quaff’d,
Though death must follow on the draught!
She, too, while gazing on those eyes
That sink into her soul so deep,
Forgets all fears, all miseries,
Or feels them like a wretch in sleep,
Whom fancy cheats into a smile,
Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while!
The mighty Ruins where they stood,
Upon the mount’s high, rocky verge,
Lay open tow’rds the ocean flood,
Where lightly o’er the illumin’d surge
Many a fair bark that, all the day,
Had lurk’d in sheltering creek or bay,
Now bounded on, and gave their sails,
Yet dripping, to the evening gales;
Like eagles, when the storm is done,
Spreading their wet wings in the sun.
The beauteous clouds, though daylight’s Star
Had sunk behind the hills of Lar,
Were still with lingering glories bright,—
As if, to grace the gorgeous West,
The Spirit of departing Light
That eve had left his sunny vest
Behind him, ere he wing’d his flight.
Never was scene so form’d for love!
Beneath them waves of crystal move
In silent swell—Heaven glows above,
And their pure hearts, to transport given,
Swell like the wave, and glow like Heaven.
But, ah! too soon that dream is past—
Again, again her fear returns;—
Night, dreadful night, is gathering last,
More faintly the horizon burns,
And every rosy tint that lay
On the smooth sea hath died away.
Hastily to the darkening skies
A glance she casts—then wildly cries
“At night, he said—and, look, ’tis near—
“Fly, fly—if yet thou lov’st me, fly—
“Soon will his murderous band be here,
“And I shall see thee bleed and die.—
“Hush! heard’st thou not the tramp of men
“Sounding from yonder fearful glen?—
“Perhaps e’en now they climb the wood—
“Fly, fly—though still the West is bright,
“He’ll come—oh! yes—he wants thy blood—
“I know him—he’ll not wait for night!”
In terrors e’en to agony
She clings around the wondering Chief;—
“Alas, poor wilder’d maid! to me
“Thou ow’st this raving trance of grief.
“Lost as I am, nought ever grew
“Beneath my shade but perish’d too—
“My doom is like the Dead Sea air,
“And nothing lives that enters there!
“Why were our barks together driven
“Beneath this morning’s furious heaven?
“Why, when I saw the prize that chance
“Had thrown into my desperate arms,—
“When, casting but a single glance
“Upon thy pale and prostrate charms,
“I vow’d (though watching viewless o’er
“Thy safety through that hour’s alarms)
“To meet the’ unmanning sight no more—
“Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow?
“Why weakly, madly met thee now?—
“Start not—that noise is but the shock
“Of torrents through yon valley hurl’d—
“Dread nothing here—upon this rock
“We stand above the jarring world,
“Alike beyond its hope—its dread—
“In gloomy safety, like the Dead!
“Or, could e’en earth and hell unite
“In league to storm this Sacred Height,
“Fear nothing thou—myself, to-night,
“And each o’erlooking star that dwells
“Near God will be thy sentinels;—
“And, ere to-morrow’s dawn shall glow,
“Back to thy sire—”
“Back to thy sire—”“To-morrow!—no—”
The maiden scream’d—“thou’lt never see
“To-morrow’s sun—death, death will be
“The night-cry through each reeking tower,
“Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour!
“Thou art betray’d—some wretch who knew
“That dreadful glen’s mysterious clew—
“Nay, doubt not—by yon stars, ’tis true—
“Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire;
“This morning, with that smile so dire
“He wears in joy, he told me all,
“And stamp’d in triumph through our hall,
“As though thy heart already beat
“Its last life-throb beneath his feet!
“Good Heaven, how little dream’d I then
“His victim was my own lov’d youth!—
“Fly—send—let some one watch the glen—
“By all my hopes of heaven ’tis truth!”
Oh! colder than the wind that freezes
Founts, that but now in sunshine play’d,
Is that congealing pang which seizes
The trusting bosom, when betray’d.
He felt it—deeply felt—and stood,
As if the tale had frozen his blood,
So maz’d and motionless was he;—
Like one whom sudden spells enchant,
Or some mute, marble habitant
Of the still Halls of Ishmonie![288]
But soon the painful chill was o’er,
And his great soul, herself once more,
Look’d from his brow in all the rays
Of her best, happiest, grandest days.
Never, in moment most elate,
Did that high spirit loftier rise;—
While bright, serene, determinate,
His looks are lifted to the skies,
As if the signal lights of Fate
Were shining in those awful eyes!
’Tis come—his hour of martyrdom
In Iran’s sacred cause is come;
And, though his life hath pass’d away
Like lightning on a stormy day,
Yet shall his death-hour leave a track
Of glory, permanent and bright,
To which the brave of after-times,
The suffering brave, shall long look back
With proud regret,—and by its light
Watch through the hours of slavery’s night
For vengeance on the’ oppressor’s crimes.
This rock, his monument aloft,
Shall speak the tale to many an age;
And hither bards and heroes oft
Shall come in secret pilgrimage,
And bring their warrior sons, and tell
The wondering boys where Hafed fell;
And swear them on those lone remains
Of their lost country’s ancient fanes,
Never—while breath of life shall live
Within them—never to forgive
The’ accursed race, whose ruthless chain
Hath left on Iran’s neck a stain
Blood, blood alone can cleanse again!
Such are the swelling thoughts that now
Enthrone themselves on Hafed’s brow;
And ne’er did saint of Issa[289] gaze
On the red wreath, for martyrs twin’d,
More proudly than the youth surveys
That pile, which through the gloom behind,
Half lighted by the altar’s fire,
Glimmers—his destin’d funeral pyre!
Heap’d by his own, his comrades’ hands,
Of every wood of odorous breath,
There, by the Fire-God’s shrine it stands,
Ready to fold in radiant death
The few still left of those who swore
To perish there, when hope was o’er—
The few, to whom that couch of flame,
Which rescues them from bonds and shame,
Is sweet and welcome as the bed
For their own infant Prophet spread,
When pitying Heaven to roses turn’d
The death-flames that beneath him burn’d![290]
With watchfulness the maid attends
His rapid glance, where’er it bends—
Why shoot his eyes such awful beams?
What plans he now? what thinks or dreams?
Alas! why stands he musing here,
When every moment teems with fear?
“Hafed, my own beloved Lord,”
She kneeling cries—“first, last ador’d!
“If in that soul thou’st ever felt
“Half what thy lips impassioned swore,
“Here, on my knees that never knelt
“To any but their God before,
“I pray thee, as thou lov’st me, fly—
“Now, now—ere yet their blades are nigh.
“Oh haste—the bark that bore me hither
“Can waft us o’er yon darkening sea
“East—west—alas, I care not whither,
“So thou art safe, and I with thee!
“Go where we will, this hand is thine,
“Those eyes before me smiling thus,
“Through good and ill, through storm and shine,
“The world’s a world of love for us!
“On some calm, blessed shore we’ll dwell,
“Where ’tis no crime to love too well;—
“Where thus to worship tenderly
“An erring child of light like thee
“Will not be sin—or, if it be,
“Where we may weep our faults away,
“Together kneeling, night and day,
“Thou, for my sake, at Alla’s shrine,
“And I—at any God’s, for thine!”
Wildly these passionate words she spoke—
Then hung her head, and wept for shame;
Sobbing, as if her heart-string broke
With every deep-heav’d sob that came.
While he, young, warm—oh! wonder not
If, for a moment, pride and fame,
His oath—his cause—that shrine of flame,
And Iran’s self are all forgot
For her whom at his feet he sees
Kneeling in speechless agonies.
No, blame him not, if Hope awhile
Dawn’d in his soul, and threw her smile
O’er hours to come—o’er days and nights,
Wing’d with those precious, pure delights
Which she, who bends all beauteous there,
Was born to kindle and to share.
A tear or two, which, as he bow’d
To raise the suppliant, trembling stole,
First warn’d him of this dangerous cloud
Of softness passing o’er his soul.
Starting, he brush’d the drops away,
Unworthy o’er that cheek to stray;—
Like one who, on the morn of fight,
Shakes from his sword the dews of night,
That had but dimm’d, not stain’d its light.
Yet, though subdued the’ unnerving thrill,
Its warmth, its weakness linger’d still
So touching in each look and tone,
That the fond, fearing, hoping maid
Half counted on the flight she pray’d,
Half thought the hero’s soul was grown
As soft, as yielding as her own,
And smil’d and bless’d him, while he said,—
“Yes—if there be some happier sphere,
“Where fadeless truth like ours is dear,—
“If there be any land of rest
“For those who love and ne’er forget,
“Oh! comfort thee—for safe and blest
“We’ll meet in that calm region yet!”
Scarce had she time to ask her heart
If good or ill these words impart,
When the rous’d youth impatient flew
To the tower-wall, where, high in view,
A ponderous sea-horn[291] hung, and blew
A signal, deep and dread as those
The storm-fiend at his rising blows.—
Full well his Chieftains, sworn and true
Through life and death, that signal knew;
For ’twas the’ appointed warring-blast,
The’ alarm, to tell when hope was past,
And the tremendous death-die cast!
And there, upon the mouldering tower,
Hath hung this sea-horn many an hour,
Ready to sound o’er land and sea
That dirge-note of the brave and free.
They came—his Chieftains at the call
Came slowly round, and with them all—
Alas, how few!—the worn remains
Of those who late o’er Kerman’s plains
Went gaily prancing to the clash
Of Moorish zel and tymbalon,
Catching new hope from every flash
Of their long lances in the sun,
And, as their coursers charg’d the wind,
And the white ox-tails stream’d behind,[292]
Looking, as if the steeds they rode
Were wing’d, and every Chief a God!
How fallen, how alter’d now! how wan
Each scarr’d and faded visage shone,
As round the burning shrine they came!—
How deadly was the glare it cast,
As mute they pass’d before the flame
To light their torches as they pass’d!
’Twas silence all—the youth had plann’d
The duties of his soldier-band;
And each determin’d brow declares
His faithful Chieftains well know theirs.
But minutes speed—night gems the skies—
And oh, how soon, ye blessed eyes,
That look from heaven, ye may behold
Sights that will turn your star-fires cold!
Breathless with awe, impatience, hope,
The maiden sees the veteran group
Her litter silently prepare,
And lay it at her trembling feet;—
And now the youth, with gentle care,
Hath placed her in the shelter’d seat,
And press’d her hand—that lingering press
Of hands, that for the last time sever;
Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness,
When that hold breaks, is dead for ever.
And yet to her this sad caress
Gives hope—so fondly hope can err!
’Twas joy, she thought, joy’s mute excess—
Their happy flight’s dear harbinger;
’Twas warmth—assurance—tenderness—
’Twas any thing but leaving her.
“Haste, haste!” she cried, “the clouds grow dark,
“But still, ere night, we’ll reach the bark;
“And by to-morrow’s dawn—oh bliss!
“With thee upon the sun-bright deep,
“Far off, I’ll but remember this,
“As some dark vanish’d dream of sleep;
“And thou—” but ah!—he answers not—
Good Heaven!—and does she go alone?
She now has reach’d that dismal spot,
Where, some hours since, his voice’s tone
Had come to soothe her fears and ills,
Sweet as the angel Israfil’s,[293]
When every leaf on Eden’s tree
Is trembling to his minstrelsy—
Yet now—oh, now, he is not nigh.—
“Hafed! my Hafed!—if it be
“Thy will, thy doom this night to die,
“Let me but stay to die with thee,
“And I will bless thy lovèd name,
“Till the last life-breath leave this frame.
“Oh! let our lips, our cheeks be laid
“But near each other while they fade;
“Let us but mix our parting breaths,
“And I can die ten thousand deaths!
“You too, who hurry me away
“So cruelly, one moment stay—
“Oh! stay—one moment is not much—
“He yet may come—for him I pray—
“Hafed! dear Hafed!—” all the way
In wild lamentings, that would touch
A heart of stone, she shriek’d his name
To the dark woods—no Hafed came:—
No—hapless pair—you’ve look’d your last:—
Your hearts should both have broken then:
The dream is o’er—your doom is cast—
You’ll never meet on earth again!
Alas for him, who hears her cries!
Still half-way down the steep he stands,
Watching with fix’d and feverish eyes
The glimmer of those burning brands,
That down the rocks, with mournful ray,
Light all he loves on earth away!
Hopeless as they who, far at sea,
By the cold moon have just consign’d
The corse of one, lov’d tenderly,
To the bleak flood they leave behind;
And on the deck still lingering stay,
And long look back, with sad delay,
To watch the moonlight on the wave,
That ripples o’er that cheerless grave.
But see—he starts—what heard he then?
That dreadful shout!—across the glen
From the land-side it comes, and loud
Rings through the chasm; as if the crowd
Of fearful things, that haunt that dell,
Its Gholes and Dives and shapes of hell,
Had all in one dread howl broke out,
So loud, so terrible that shout!
“They come—the Moslems come!” he cries,
His proud soul mounting to his eyes,—
“Now, Spirits of the Brave, who roam
“Enfranchis’d through yon starry dome,
“Rejoice—for souls of kindred fire
“Are on the wing to join your choir!”
He said—and, light as bridegrooms bound
To their young loves, reclimb’d the steep
And gain’d the Shrine—his Chiefs stood round—
Their swords, as with instinctive leap,
Together, at that cry accurst,
Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst.
And hark!—again—again it rings;
Near and more near its echoings
Peal through the chasm—oh! who that then
Had seen those listening warrior-men,
With their swords grasp’d, their eyes of flame
Turn’d on their Chief—could doubt the shame,
The’ indignant shame with which they thrill
To hear those shouts and yet stand still?
He read their thoughts—they were his own—
“What! while our arms can wield these blades,
“Shall we die tamely? die alone?
“Without one victim to our shades,
“One Moslem heart, where, buried deep,
“The sabre from its toil may sleep?
“No—God of Iran’s burning skies!
“Thou scorn’st the’ inglorious sacrifice.
“No—though of all earth’s hope bereft,
“Life, swords, and vengeance still are left.
“We’ll make yon valley’s reeking caves
“Live in the awe-struck minds of men,
“Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves
“Tell of the Ghebers’ bloody glen.
“Follow, brave hearts!—this pile remains
“Our refuge still from life and chains;
“But his the best, the holiest bed,
“Who sinks entomb’d in Moslem dead!”
Down the precipitous rocks they sprung,
While vigour, more than human, strung
Each arm and heart.—The’ exulting foe
Still through the dark defiles below,
Track’d by his torches’ lurid fire,
Wound slow, as through Golconda’s vale[294]
The mighty serpent, in his ire,
Glides on with glittering, deadly trail.
No torch the Ghebers need—so well
They know each mystery of the dell,
So oft have, in their wanderings,
Cross’d the wild race that round them dwell,
The very tigers from their delves
Look out, and let them pass, as things
Untam’d and fearless like themselves!
There was a deep ravine, that lay
Yet darkling in the Moslem’s way;
Fit spot to make invaders rue
The many fallen before the few.
The torrents from that morning’s sky
Had fill’d the narrow chasm breast high,
And, on each side, aloft and wild,
Huge cliffs and toppling crags were pil’d,—
The guards with which young Freedom lines
The pathways to her mountain-shrines.
Here, at this pass, the scanty band
Of Iran’s last avengers stand;
Here wait, in silence like the dead,
And listen for the Moslem’s tread
So anxiously, the carrion-bird
Above them flaps his wing unheard!
They come—that plunge into the water
Gives signal for the work of slaughter.
Now, Ghebers, now—if e’er your blades
Had point or prowess, prove them now—
Woe to the file that foremost wades!
They come—a falchion greets each brow,
And, as they tumble, trunk on trunk,
Beneath the gory waters sunk,
Still o’er their drowning bodies press
New victims quick and numberless;
Till scarce an arm in Hafed’s band,
So fierce their toil, hath power to stir,
But listless from each crimson hand
The sword hangs, clogg’d with massacre.
Never was horde of tyrants met
With bloodier welcome—never yet
To patriot vengeance hath the sword
More terrible libations pour’d!