With rapid step, yet pleas’d and ling’ring eye,
Did the youth pass these pictur’d stories by,
And hasten’d to a casement, where the light
Of the calm moon came in, and freshly bright
The fields without were seen, sleeping as still
As if no life remain’d in breeze or rill.
Here paus’d he, while the music, now less near,
Breath’d with a holier language on his ear,
As though the distance, and that heavenly ray
Through which the sounds came floating, took away
All that had been too earthly in the lay.
Oh! could he listen to such sounds unmov’d,
And by that light—nor dream of her he lov’d?
Dream on, unconscious boy! while yet thou may’st;
’Tis the last bliss thy soul shall ever taste.
Clasp yet awhile her image to thy heart,
Ere all the light, that made it dear, depart.
Think of her smiles as when thou saw’st them last,
Clear, beautiful, by nought of earth o’ercast;
Recall her tears, to thee at parting given,
Pure as they weep, if angels weep, in Heaven.
Think, in her own still bower she waits thee now,
With the same glow of heart and bloom of brow,
Yet shrin’d in solitude—thine all, thine only,
Like the one star above thee, bright and lonely.
Oh! that a dream so sweet, so long enjoy’d,
Should be so sadly, cruelly destroy’d!
The song is hush’d, the laughing nymphs are flown,
And he is left, musing of bliss, alone;—
Alone?—no, not alone—that heavy sigh,
That sob of grief, which broke from some one nigh—
Whose could it be?—alas! is misery found
Here, even here, on this enchanted ground?
He turns, and sees a female form, close veil’d,
Leaning, as if both heart and strength had fail’d,
Against a pillar near;—not glittering o’er
With gems and wreaths, such as the others wore,
But in that deep-blue, melancholy dress,[93]
Bokhara’s maidens wear in mindfulness
Of friends or kindred, dead or far away;—
And such as Zelica had on that day
He left her—when, with heart too full to speak,
He took away her last warm tears upon his cheek.
A strange emotion stirs within him,—more
Than mere compassion ever wak’d before;
Unconsciously he opes his arms, while she
Springs forward, as with life’s last energy,
But, swooning in that one convulsive bound,
Sinks, ere she reach his arms, upon the ground;—
Her veil falls off—her faint hands clasp his knees—
’Tis she herself!—’tis Zelica he sees!
But, ah, so pale, so chang’d—none but a lover
Could in that wreck of beauty’s shrine discover
The once ador’d divinity—even he
Stood for some moments mute, and doubtingly
Put back the ringlets from her brow, and gaz’d
Upon those lids, where once such lustre blaz’d,
Ere he could think she was indeed his own,
Own darling maid, whom he so long had known
In joy and sorrow, beautiful in both;
Who, even when grief was heaviest—when loth
He left her for the wars—in that worst hour
Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower,[94]
When darkness brings its weeping glories out,
And spreads its sighs like frankincense about.
“Look up, my Zelica—one moment show
“Those gentle eyes to me, that I may know
“Thy life, thy loveliness is not all gone,
“But there, at least, shines as it ever shone.
“Come, look upon thy Azim—one dear glance,
“Like those of old, were heaven! whatever chance
“Hath brought thee here, oh, ’twas a blessed one!
“There—my lov’d lips—they move—that kiss hath run
“Like the first shoot of life through every vein,
“And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again.
“Oh the delight—now, in this very hour,
“When had the whole rich world been in my power,
“I should have singled out thee, only thee,
“From the whole world’s collected treasury—
“To have thee here—to hang thus fondly o’er
“My own, best, purest Zelica once more!”
It was indeed the touch of those fond lips
Upon her eyes that chas’d their short eclipse,
And, gradual as the snow, at Heaven’s breath,
Melts off and shows the azure flowers beneath,
Her lids unclos’d, and the bright eyes were seen
Gazing on his—not, as they late had been,
Quick, restless, wild, but mournfully serene;
As if to lie, even for that tranced minute,
So near his heart, had consolation in it;
And thus to wake in his belov’d caress
Took from her soul one half its wretchedness.
But, when she heard him call her good and pure,
Oh, ’twas too much—too dreadful to endure!
Shudd’ring she broke away from his embrace,
And, hiding with both hands her guilty face,
Said, in a tone whose anguish would have riven
A heart of very marble, “Pure!—oh Heaven!”—
That tone—those looks so chang’d—the withering blight,
That sin and sorrow leave where’er they light;
The dead despondency of those sunk eyes,
Where once, had he thus met her by surprise,
He would have seen himself, too happy boy,
Reflected in a thousand lights of joy;
And then the place,—that bright, unholy place,
Where vice lay hid beneath each winning grace
And charm of luxury, as the viper weaves
Its wily covering of sweet balsam leaves,—[95]
All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold
As death itself;—it needs not to be told—
No, no—he sees it all, plain as the brand
Of burning shame can mark—whate’er the hand,
That could from Heaven and him such brightness sever,
’Tis done—to Heaven and him she’s lost for ever!
It was a dreadful moment; not the tears,
The lingering, lasting misery of years
Could match that minute’s anguish—all the worst
Of sorrow’s elements in that dark burst
Broke o’er his soul, and, with one crash of fate,
Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate.
“Oh! curse me not,” she cried, as wild he toss’d
His desperate hand tow’rds Heaven—“though I am lost,
“Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me fall,
“No, no—’twas grief, ’twas madness did it all!
“Nay, doubt me not—though all thy love hath ceas’d—
“I know it hath—yet, yet believe, at least,
“That every spark of reason’s light must be
“Quench’d in this brain, ere I could stray from thee.
“They told me thou wert dead—why, Azim, why
“Did we not, both of us, that instant die
“When we were parted? oh! could’st thou but know
“With what a deep devotedness of woe
“I wept thy absence—o’er and o’er again
“Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain,
“And memory, like a drop that, night and day,
“Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away.
“Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home,
“My eyes still turn’d the way thou wert to come,
“And, all the long, long night of hope and fear,
“Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear—
“Oh God! thou would’st not wonder that, at last,
“When every hope was all at once o’ercast,
“When I heard frightful voices round me say
“Azim is dead!—this wretched brain gave way,
“And I became a wreck, at random driven,
“Without one glimpse of reason or of Heaven—
“All wild—and even this quenchless love within
“Turn’d to foul fires to light me into sin!—
“Thou pitiest me—I knew thou would’st—that sky
“Hath nought beneath it half so lorn as I.
“The fiend, who lur’d me hither—hist! come near,
“Or thou too, thou art lost, if he should hear—
“Told me such things—oh! with such devilish art
“As would have ruin’d even a holier heart—
“Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere,
“Where bless’d at length, if I but serv’d him here,
“I should for ever live in thy dear sight,—
“And drink from those pure eyes eternal light.
“Think, think how lost, how madden’d I must be,
“To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee!
“Thou weep’st for me—do weep—oh, that I durst
“Kiss off that tear! but, no—these lips are curst,
“They must not touch thee;—one divine caress,
“One blessed moment of forgetfulness
“I’ve had within those arms, and that shall lie,
“Shrin’d in my soul’s deep memory till I die;
“The last of joy’s last relics here below,
“The one sweet drop, in all this waste of woe,
“My heart has treasur’d from affection’s spring,
“To soothe and cool its deadly withering!
“But thou—yes, thou must go—for ever go;
“This place is not for thee—for thee! oh no,
“Did I but tell thee half, thy tortur’d brain
“Would burn like mine, and mine grow wild again!
“Enough, that Guilt reigns here—that hearts, once good,
“Now tainted, chill’d, and broken, are his food.—
“Enough, that we are parted—that there rolls
“A flood of headlong fate between our souls,
“Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee
“As hell from heaven, to all eternity!”
“Zelica, Zelica!” the youth exclaim’d,
In all the tortures of a mind inflam’d
Almost to madness—“by that sacred Heaven,
“Where yet, if prayers can move, thou’lt be forgiven,
“As thou art here—here, in this writhing heart,
“All sinful, wild, and ruin’d as thou art!
“By the remembrance of our once pure love,
“Which, like a church-yard light, still burns above
“The grave of our lost souls—which guilt in thee
“Cannot extinguish, nor despair in me!
“I do conjure, implore thee to fly hence—
“If thou hast yet one spark of innocence,
“Fly with me from this place—”
“Fly with me from this place—”“With thee! oh bliss!
“’Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this.
“What! take the lost one with thee?—let her rove
“By thy dear side, as in those days of love,
“When we were both so happy, both so pure—
“Too heavenly dream! if there’s on earth a cure
“For the sunk heart, ’tis this—day after day
“To be the blest companion of thy way;
“To hear thy angel eloquence—to see
“Those virtuous eyes for ever turn’d on me;
“And, in their light re-chasten’d silently,
“Like the stain’d web that whitens in the sun,
“Grow pure by being purely shone upon!
“And thou wilt pray for me—I know thou wilt—
“At the dim vesper hour, when thoughts of guilt
“Come heaviest o’er the heart, thou’lt lift thine eyes,
“Full of sweet tears, unto the dark’ning skies,
“And plead for me with Heaven, till I can dare
“To fix my own weak, sinful glances there;
“Till the good angels, when they see me cling
“For ever near thee, pale and sorrowing,
“Shall for thy sake pronounce my soul forgiven,
“And bid thee take thy weeping slave to Heaven!
“Oh yes, I’ll fly with thee—”
“Oh yes, I’ll fly with thee”Scarce had she said
These breathless words, when a voice deep and dread
As that of Monker, waking up the dead
From their first sleep—so startling ’twas to both—
Rung through the casement near, “Thy oath! thy oath!”
Oh Heaven, the ghastliness of that Maid’s look!—
“’Tis he,” faintly she cried, while terror shook
Her inmost core, nor durst she lift her eyes,
Though through the casement, now, nought but the skies
And moonlight fields were seen, calm as before—
“’Tis he, and I am his—all, all is o’er—
“Go—fly this instant, or thou’rt ruin’d too—
“My oath, my oath, oh God! ’tis all too true,
“True as the worm in this cold heart it is—
“I am Mokanna’s bride—his, Azim, his—
“The Dead stood round us, while I spoke that vow,
“Their blue lips echo’d it—I hear them now!
“Their eyes glar’d on me, while I pledg’d that bowl,
“’Twas burning blood—I feel it in my soul!
“And the Veil’d Bridegroom—hist! I’ve seen to-night
“What angels know not of—so foul a sight,
“So horrible—oh! never may’st thou see
“What there lies hid from all but hell and me!
“But I must hence—off, off—I am not thine,
“Nor Heaven’s, nor Love’s, nor aught that is divine—
“Hold me not—ha! think’st thou the fiends that sever
“Hearts, cannot sunder hands?—thus, then—for ever!”
With all that strength, which madness lends the weak,
She flung away his arm; and, with a shriek,
Whose sound, though he should linger out more years
Than wretch e’er told, can never leave his ears—
Flew up through that long avenue of light,
Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night
Across the sun, and soon was out of sight!

Lalla Rookh could think of nothing all day but the misery of these two young lovers. Her gaiety was gone, and she looked pensively even upon Fadladeen. She felt, too, without knowing why, a sort of uneasy pleasure in imagining that Azim must have been just such a youth as Feramorz; just as worthy to enjoy all the blessings, without any of the pangs, of that illusive passion which too often, like the sunny apples of Istkahar,[96] is all sweetness on one side, and all bitterness on the other.

As they passed along a sequestered river after sunset, they saw a young Hindoo girl upon the bank,[97] whose employment seemed to them so strange, that they stopped their palankeens to observe her. She had lighted a small lamp, filled with oil of cocoa, and placing it in an earthen dish, adorned with a wreath of flowers, had committed it with a trembling hand to the stream; and was now anxiously watching its progress down the current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which had drawn up beside her. Lalla Rookh was all curiosity;—when one of her attendants, who had lived upon the banks of the Ganges (where this ceremony is so frequent, that often, in the dusk of the evening, the river is seen glittering all over with lights, like the Oton-tala, or Sea of Stars),[98] informed the Princess that it was the usual way, in which the friends of those who had gone on dangerous voyages offered up vows for their safe return. If the lamp sunk immediately, the omen was disastrous; but if it went shining down the stream, and continued to burn until entirely out of sight, the return of the beloved object was considered as certain.

Lalla Rookh, as they moved on, more than once looked back, to observe how the young Hindoo’s lamp proceeded; and, while she saw with pleasure that it was still unextinguished, she could not help fearing that all the hopes of this life were no better than that feeble light upon the river. The remainder of the journey was passed in silence. She now, for the first time, felt that shade of melancholy, which comes over the youthful maiden’s heart, as sweet and transient as her own breath upon a mirror; nor was it till she heard the lute of Feramorz, touched lightly at the door of her pavilion, that she waked from the reverie in which she had been wandering. Instantly her eyes were lighted up with pleasure; and after a few unheard remarks from Fadladeen, upon the indecorum of a poet seating himself in presence of a Princess, every thing was arranged as on the preceding evening and all listened with eagerness, while the story was thus continued:—

Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the way,
Where all was waste and silent yesterday?
This City of War, which, in a few short hours,
Hath sprung up here,[99] as if the magic powers
Of Him who, in the twinkling of a star,
Built the high pillar’d halls of Chilminar,[100]
Had conjur’d up, far as the eye can see,
This world of tents, and domes, and sun-bright armory:—
Princely pavilions, screen’d by many a fold
Of crimson cloth, and topp’d with balls of gold:—
Steeds, with their housings of rich silver spun,
Their chains and poitrels, glittering in the sun;
And camels, tufted o’er with Yemen’s shells,[101]
Shaking in every breeze their light-ton’d bells!
But yester-eve, so motionless around,
So mute was this wide plain, that not a sound
But the far torrent, or the locust bird[102]
Hunting among the thickets, could be heard;—
Yet hark! what discords now, of every kind,
Shouts, laughs, and screams are revelling in the wind;
The neigh of cavalry;—the tinkling throngs
Of laden camels and their drivers’ songs;—[103]
Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze
Of streamers from ten thousand canopies;—
War-music, bursting out from time to time,
With gong and tymbalon’s tremendous chime;—
Or, in the pause, when harsher sounds are mute,
The mellow breathings of some horn or flute,
That far off, broken by the eagle note
Of the’ Abyssinian trumpet,[104] swell and float.
Who leads this mighty army?—ask ye “who?”
And mark ye not those banners of dark hue,
The Night and Shadow,[105] over yonder tent?—
It is the Caliph’s glorious armament.
Roused in his Palace by the dread alarms,
That hourly came, of the false Prophet’s arms,
And of his host of infidels, who hurl’d
Defiance fierce at Islam[106] and the world,—
Though worn with Grecian warfare, and behind
The veils of his bright Palace calm reclin’d,
Yet brook’d he not such blasphemy should stain,
Thus unreveng’d, the evening of his reign;
But, having sworn upon the Holy Grave[107]
To conquer or to perish, once more gave
His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze,
And with an army, nurs’d in victories,
Here stands to crush the rebels that o’er-run
His blest and beauteous Province of the Sun.
Ne’er did the march of Mahadi display
Such pomp before;—not even when on his way
To Mecca’s Temple, when both land and sea
Were spoil’d to feed the Pilgrim’s luxury;[108]
When round him, ’mid the burning sands, he saw
Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw,
And cool’d his thirsty lip, beneath the glow
Of Mecca’s sun, with urns of Persian snow:[109]—
Nor e’er did armament more grand than that
Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat.
First, in the van, the People of the Rock,[110]
On their light mountain steeds, of royal stock:[111]
Then, chieftains of Damascus, proud to see
The flashing of their swords’ rich marquetry;[112]—
Men, from the regions near the Volga’s mouth,
Mix’d with the rude, black archers of the South;
And Indian lancers, in white turban’d ranks,
From the far Sinde, or Attock’s sacred banks,
With dusky legions from the land of Myrrh,[113]
And many a mace-arm’d Moor and Mid-sea islander.
Nor less in number, though more new and rude
In warfare’s school, was the vast multitude
That, fir’d by zeal, or by oppression wrong’d,
Round the white standard of the’ impostor throng’d.
Beside his thousands of Believers—blind,
Burning and headlong as the Samiel wind—
Many who felt, and more who fear’d to feel
The bloody Islamite’s converting steel,
Flock’d to his banner;—Chiefs of the’ Uzbek race,
Waving their heron crests with martial grace;[114]
Turkomans, countless as their flocks, led forth
From the’ aromatic pastures of the North;
Wild warriors of the turquoise hills,[115]—and those
Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows
Of Hindoo Kosh,[116] in stormy freedom bred,
Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent’s bed.
But none, of all who own’d the Chief’s command,
Rush’d to that battle-field with bolder hand,
Or sterner hate, than Iran’s outlaw’d men,
Her Worshippers of Fire[117]—all panting then
For vengeance on the’ accursed Saracen;
Vengeance at last for their dear country spurn’d,
Her throne usurp’d, and her bright shrines o’erturned.
From Yezd’s[118] eternal Mansion of the Fire,
Where aged saints in dreams of Heaven expire:
From Badku, and those fountains of blue flame
That burn into the Caspian,[119] fierce they came,
Careless for what or whom the blow was sped,
So vengeance triumph’d, and their tyrants bled.
Such was the wild and miscellaneous host,
That high in air their motley banners tost
Around the Prophet-Chief—all eyes still bent
Upon that glittering Veil, where’er it went,
That beacon through the battle’s stormy flood,
That rainbow of the field, whose showers were blood!
Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set,
And risen again, and found them grappling yet;
While streams of carnage, in his noontide blaze,
Smoke up to Heaven—hot as that crimson haze,
By which the prostrate Caravan is aw’d,[120]
In the red Desert, when the wind’s abroad.
“On, Swords of God!” the panting Caliph calls,—
“Thrones for the living—Heaven for him who falls!”
“On, brave avengers, on,” Mokanna cries,
“And Eblis blast the recreant slave that flies!”
Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day—
They clash—they strive—the Caliph’s troops give way!
Mokanna’s self plucks the black Banner down,
And now the Orient World’s Imperial crown
Is just within his grasp—when, hark, that shout!
Some hand hath check’d the flying Moslem’s rout;
And now they turn, they rally—at their head
A warrior, (like those angel youths who led,
In glorious panoply of Heaven’s own mail,
The Champions of the Faith through Beder’s vale,[121])
Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives,
Turns on the fierce pursuers’ blades, and drives
At once the multitudinous torrent back—
While hope and courage kindle in his track;
And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes
Terrible vistas through which victory breaks!
In vain Mokanna, midst the general flight,
Stands, like the red moon, on some stormy night,
Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by,
Leave only her unshaken in the sky—
In vain he yells his desperate curses out,
Deals death promiscuously to all about,
To foes that charge and coward friends that fly,
And seems of all the Great Arch-enemy.
The panic spreads—“A miracle!” throughout
The Moslem ranks, “a miracle!” they shout,
All gazing on that youth, whose coming seems
A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams;
And every sword, true as o’er billows dim
The needle tracks the load-star, following him!
Right tow’rds Mokanna now he cleaves his path,
Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath
He bears from Heaven withheld its awful burst
From weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst,
To break o’er Him, the mightiest and the worst!
But vain his speed—though, in that hour of blood,
Had all God’s seraphs round Mokanna stood,
With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall,
Mokanna’s soul would have defied them all;
Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong
For human force, hurries even him along;
In vain he struggles ’mid the wedg’d array
Of flying thousands—he is borne away;
And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows,
In this forc’d flight, is—murdering as he goes!
As a grim tiger, whom the torrent’s might
Surprises in some parch’d ravine at night,
Turns, even in drowning, on the wretched flocks,
Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks,
And, to the last, devouring on his way,
Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay.
“Alla illa Alla!”—the glad shout renew—
“Alla Akbar!”[122]—the Caliph’s in Merou.
Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets,
And light your shrines and chaunt your ziraleets.[123]
The Swords of God have triumph’d—on his throne
Your Caliph sits, and the veil’d Chief hath flown.
Who does not envy that young warrior now,
To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow,
In all the graceful gratitude of power,
For his throne’s safety in that perilous hour?
Who doth not wonder, when, amidst the’ acclaim
Of thousands, heralding to heaven his name—
Mid all those holier harmonies of fame,
Which sound along the path of virtuous souls,
Like music round a planet as it rolls,—
He turns away—coldly, as if some gloom
Hung o’er his heart no triumphs can illume;—
Some sightless grief, upon whose blasted gaze
Though glory’s light may play, in vain it plays?
Yes, wretched Azim! thine is such a grief,
Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief;
A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break,
Or warm or brighten,—like that Syrian Lake,[124]
Upon whose surface morn and summer shed
Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead!—
Hearts there have been, o’er which this weight of woe
Came by long use of suffering, tame and slow;
But thine, lost youth! was sudden—over thee
It broke at once, when all seemed ecstacy;
When Hope look’d up, and saw the gloomy Past
Melt into splendour, and Bliss dawn at last—
’Twas then, even then, o’er joys so freshly blown,
This mortal blight of misery came down;
Even then, the full, warm gushings of thy heart
Were check’d—like fount-drops, frozen as they start—
And there, like them, cold, sunless relics hang,
Each fix’d and chill’d into a lasting pang.
One sole desire, one passion now remains
To keep life’s fever still within his veins,
Vengeance!—dire vengeance on the wretch who cast
O’er him and all he lov’d that ruinous blast.
For this, when rumours reach’d him in his flight
Far, far away, after that fatal night,—
Rumours of armies, thronging to the’ attack
Of the Veil’d Chief,—for this he wing’d him back,
Fleet as the vulture speeds to flags unfurl’d,
And, when all hope seem’d desperate, wildly hurl’d
Himself into the scale, and sav’d a world.
For this he still lives on, careless of all
The wreaths that Glory on his path lets fall;
For this alone exists—like lightning-fire,
To speed one bolt of vengeance, and expire!
But safe as yet that Spirit of Evil lives;
With a small band of desperate fugitives,
The last sole stubborn fragment, left unriven,
Of the proud host that late stood fronting Heaven,
He gain’d Merou—breath’d a short curse of blood
O’er his lost throne—then pass’d the Jihon’s flood,[125]
And gathering all, whose madness of belief
Still saw a Saviour in their down-fall’n Chief,
Rais’d the white banner within Neksheb’s gates,[126]
And there, untam’d, the’ approaching conqu’ror waits.
Of all his Haram, all that busy hive,
With music and with sweets sparkling alive,
He took but one, the partner of his flight,
One—not for love—not for her beauty’s light—
No, Zelica stood withering midst the gay,
Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday
From the’ Alma tree and dies, while overhead
To-day’s young flower is springing in its stead.[127]
Oh, not for love—the deepest Damn’d must be
Touch’d with Heaven’s glory, ere such fiends as he
Can feel one glimpse of Love’s divinity.
But no, she is his victim; there lie all
Her charms for him—charms that can never pall,
As long as hell within his heart can stir,
Or one faint trace of Heaven is left in her.
To work an angel’s ruin,—to behold
As white a page as Virtue e’er unroll’d
Blacken, beneath his touch, into a scroll
Of damning sins, seal’d with a burning soul—
This is his triumph; this the joy accurst,
That ranks him among demons all but first:
This gives the victim, that before him lies
Blighted and lost, a glory in his eyes,
A light like that with which hell-fire illumes
The ghastly, writhing wretch whom it consumes!
But other tasks now wait him—tasks that need
All the deep daringness of thought and deed
With which the Dives[128] have gifted him—for mark,
Over yon plains, which night had else made dark,
Those lanterns, countless as the winged lights
That spangle India’s fields on showery nights,[129]—
Far as their formidable gleams they shed,
The mighty tents of the beleaguerer spread,
Glimmering along the’ horizon’s dusky line,
And thence in nearer circles, till they shine
Among the founts and groves, o’er which the town
In all its arm’d magnificence looks down.
Yet, fearless, from his lofty battlements
Mokanna views that multitude of tents;
Nay, smiles to think that, though entoil’d, beset,
Not less than myriads dare to front him yet;—
That friendless, throneless, he thus stands at bay,
Even thus a match for myriads such as they.
“Oh, for a sweep of that dark Angel’s wing,
“Who brush’d the thousands of the’ Assyrian King[130]
“To darkness in a moment, that I might
“People Hell’s chambers with yon host to-night!
“But, come what may, let who will grasp the throne,
“Caliph or Prophet, Man alike shall groan
“Let who will torture him, Priest—Caliph—King—
“Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring
“With victims’ shrieks, and howlings of the slave,—
“Sounds, that shall glad me even within my grave!”
Thus, to himself—but to the scanty train
Still left around him, a far different strain:—
“Glorious Defenders of the sacred Crown
“I bear from Heaven, whose light nor blood shall drown,
“Nor shadow of earth eclipse;—before whose gems
“The paly pomp of this world’s diadems,
“The crown of Gerashid, the pillar’d throne
“Of Parviz,[131] and the heron crest that shone,[132]
“Magnificent, o’er Ali’s beauteous eyes,[133]
“Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies:
“Warriors, rejoice—the port to which we’ve pass’d
“O’er Destiny’s dark wave, beams out at last!
“Victory’s our own—’tis written in that Book
“Upon whose leaves none but the angels look,
“That Islam’s sceptre shall beneath the power
“Of her great foe fall broken in that hour,
“When the moon’s mighty orb, before all eyes,
“From Neksheb’s Holy Well portentously shall rise!
“Now turn and see!”—
“Now turn and see!”They turn’d, and, as he spoke,
A sudden splendour all around them broke,
And they beheld an orb, ample and bright,
Rise from the Holy Well,[134] and cast its light
Round the rich city and the plain for miles,[135]—
Flinging such radiance o’er the gilded tiles
Of many a dome and fair-roof’d minaret
As autumn suns shed round them when they set.
Instant from all who saw the’ illusive sign
A murmur broke—“Miraculous! divine!”
The Gheber bow’d, thinking his idol star
Had wak’d, and burst impatient through the bar
Of midnight, to inflame him to the war;
While he of Moussa’s creed saw, in that ray,
The glorious Light which, in his freedom’s day,
Had rested on the Ark,[136] and now again
Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain.