“To victory!” is at once the cry of all—
Nor stands Mokanna loitering at that call;
But instant the huge gates are flung aside,
And forth, like a diminutive mountain-tide
Into the boundless sea, they speed their course
Right on into the Moslem’s mighty force.
The watchmen of the camp,—who, in their rounds,
Had paus’d, and even forgot the punctual sounds
Of the small drum with which they count the night,[137]
To gaze upon that supernatural light,—
Now sink beneath an unexpected arm,
And in a death-groan give their last alarm.
“On for the lamps, that light yon lofty screen,[138]
“Nor blunt your blades with massacre so mean;
“There rests the Caliph—speed—one lucky lance
“May now achieve mankind’s deliverance.”
Desperate the die—such as they only cast,
Who venture for a world, and stake their last.
But Fate’s no longer with him—blade for blade
Springs up to meet them through the glimmering shade,
And, as the clash is heard, new legions soon
Pour to the spot, like bees of Kauzeroon[139]
To the shrill timbrel’s summons,—till, at length,
The mighty camp swarms out in all its strength,
And back to Neksheb’s gates, covering the plain
With random slaughter, drives the adventurous train;
Among the last of whom the Silver Veil
Is seen glittering at times, like the white sail
Of some toss’d vessel, on a stormy night,
Catching the tempest’s momentary light!
And hath not this brought the proud spirit low?
Nor dash’d his brow, nor check’d his daring? No.
Though half the wretches, whom at night he led
To thrones and victory, lie disgrac’d and dead,
Yet morning hears him, with unshrinking crest,
Still vaunt of thrones, and victory to the rest;—
And they believe him!—oh, the lover may
Distrust that look which steals his soul away;—
The babe may cease to think that it can play
With Heaven’s rainbow;—alchymists may doubt
The shining gold their crucible gives out;
But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast
To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last.
And well the’ Impostor knew all lures and arts,
That Lucifer e’er taught to tangle hearts;
Nor, ’mid these last bold workings of his plot
Against men’s souls, is Zelica forgot.
Ill-fated Zelica! had reason been
Awake, through half the horrors thou hast seen,
Thou never couldst have borne it—Death had come
At once, and taken thy wrung spirit home.
But ’twas not so—a torpor, a suspense
Of thought, almost of life, came o’er the’ intense
And passionate struggles of that fearful night,
When her last hope of peace and heaven took flight:
And though, at times, a gleam of frenzy broke,—
As through some dull volcano’s veil of smoke
Ominous flashings now and then will start,
Which show the fire’s still busy at its heart;
Yet was she mostly wrapp’d in solemn gloom,—
Not such as Azim’s, brooding o’er its doom,
And calm without, as is the brow of death,
While busy worms are gnawing underneath,—
But in a blank and pulseless torpor, free
From thought or pain, a seal’d-up apathy,
Which left her oft, with scarce one living thrill,
The cold, pale victim of her torturer’s will.
Again, as in Merou, he had her deck’d
Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect;
And led her glittering forth before the eyes
Of his rude train, as to a sacrifice,—
Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride
Of the fierce Nile, when, deck’d in all the pride
Of nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide.[140]
And while the wretched maid hung down her head,
And stood, as one just risen from the dead,
Amid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tell
His credulous slaves it was some charm or spell
Possess’d her now,—and from that darken’d trance
Should dawn ere long their Faith’s deliverance.
Or if, at times, goaded by guilty shame,
Her soul was rous’d, and words of wildness came,
Instant the bold blasphemer would translate
Her ravings into oracles of fate,
Would hail heaven’s signals in her flashing eyes,
And call her shrieks the language of the skies!
But vain at length his arts—despair is seen
Gathering around; and famine comes to glean
All that the sword had left unreap’d:—in vain
At morn and eve across the northern plain
He looks impatient for the promis’d spears
Of the wild Hordes and Tartar mountaineers;
They come not—while his fierce beleaguerers pour
Engines of havoc in, unknown before,[141]
And horrible as new;[142]—javelins, that fly
Enwreath’d with smoky flames through the dark sky,
And red-hot globes, that, opening as they mount,
Discharge, as from a kindled Naphtha fount,[143]
Showers of consuming fire o’er all below;
Looking, as through the’ illumin’d night they go,
Like those wild birds[144] that by the Magians oft,
At festivals of fire, were sent aloft
Into the air, with blazing faggots tied
To their huge wings, scattering combustion wide.
All night the groans of wretches who expire
In agony, beneath these darts of fire,
Ring through the city—while, descending o’er
Its shrines and domes and streets of sycamore,—
Its lone bazaars, with their bright cloths of gold,
Since the last peaceful pageant left unroll’d,—
Its beauteous marble baths, whose idle jets
Now gush with blood,—and its tall minarets,
That late have stood up in the evening glare
Of the red sun, unhallow’d by a prayer;—
O’er each, in turn, the dreadful flame-bolts fall,
And death and conflagration throughout all
The desolate city hold high festival!
Mokanna sees the world is his no more;—
One sting at parting, and his grasp is o’er.
“What! drooping now?”—thus, with unblushing cheek,
He hails the few, who yet can hear him speak,
Of all those famish’d slaves around him lying,
And by the light of blazing temples dying;—
“What!—drooping now?—now, when at length we press
“Home o’er the very threshold of success;
“When Alla from our ranks hath thinn’d away
“Those grosser branches, that kept out his ray
“Of favour from us, and we stand at length
“Heirs of his light and children of his strength,
“The chosen few, who shall survive the fall
“Of Kings and Thrones, triumphant over all!
“Have you then lost, weak murmurers as you are,
“All faith in him, who was your Light, your Star?
“Have you forgot the eye of glory, hid
“Beneath this Veil, the flashing of whose lid
“Could, like a sun-stroke of the desert, wither
“Millions of such as yonder Chief brings hither?
“Long have its lightnings slept—too long—but now
“All earth shall feel the’ unveiling of this brow!
“To-night—yes, sainted men! this very night,
“I bid you all to a fair festal rite,
“Where—having deep refresh’d each weary limb
“With viands, such as feast Heaven’s cherubim,
“And kindled up your souls, now sunk and dim,
“With that pure wine the Dark-ey’d Maids above
“Keep, seal’d with precious musk, for those they love,[145]—
“I will myself uncurtain in your sight
“The wonders of this brow’s ineffable light;
“Then lead you forth, and with a wink disperse
“Yon myriads, howling through the universe!”
Eager they listen—while each accent darts
New life into their chill’d and hope-sick hearts;
Such treacherous life as the cool draught supplies
To him upon the stake, who drinks and dies!
Wildly they point their lances to the light
Of the fast sinking sun, and shout “To-night!”—
“To-night,” their Chief re-echoes in a voice
Of fiend-like mockery that bids hell rejoice.
Deluded victims!—never hath this earth
Seen mourning half so mournful as their mirth.
Here, to the few, whose iron frames had stood
This racking waste of famine and of blood,
Faint, dying wretches clung, from whom the shout
Of triumph like a maniac’s laugh broke out:—
There, others, lighted by the smould’ring fire,
Danc’d like wan ghosts about a funeral pyre,
Among the dead and dying, strew’d around;—
While some pale wretch look’d on, and from his wound
Plucking the fiery dart by which he bled,
In ghastly transport wav’d it o’er his head!
’Twas more than midnight now—a fearful pause
Had follow’d the long shouts, the wild applause,
That lately from those Royal Gardens burst,
Where the Veil’d demon held his feast accurst,
When Zelica—alas, poor ruin’d heart,
In every horror doom’d to bear its part!—
Was bidden to the banquet by a slave,
Who, while his quivering lip the summons gave,
Grew black, as though the shadows of the grave
Compass’d him round, and, ere he could repeat
His message through, fell lifeless at her feet!
Shuddering she went—a soul-felt pang of fear,
A presage that her own dark doom was near,
Rous’d every feeling, and brought Reason back
Once more, to writhe her last upon the rack.
All round seem’d tranquil—even the foe had ceas’d,
As if aware of that demoniac feast,
His fiery bolts; and though the heavens look’d red,
’Twas but some distant conflagration’s spread.
But hark—she stops—she listens—dreadful tone,
’Tis her Tormentor’s laugh—and now, a groan,
A long death-groan comes with it:—can this be
The place of mirth, the bower of revelry?
She enters—Holy Alla, what a sight
Was there before her! By the glimmering light
Of the pale dawn, mix’d with the flare of brands
That round lay burning, dropp’d from lifeless hands,
She saw the board, in splendid mockery spread,
Rich censers breathing—garlands overhead—
The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaff’d,
All gold and gems, but—what had been the draught?
Oh! who need ask, that saw those livid guests,
With their swoll’n heads sunk black’ning on their breasts,
Or looking pale to Heaven with glassy glare,
As if they sought but saw no mercy there;
As if they felt, though poison rack’d them through,
Remorse the deadlier torment of the two!
While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train
Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain
Would have met death with transport by his side,
Here mute and helpless gasp’d;—but, as they died,
Look’d horrible vengeance with their eyes’ last strain,
And clench’d the slack’ning hand at him in vain.
Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare,
The stony look of horror and despair,
Which some of these expiring victims cast
Upon their souls’ tormentor to the last;—
Upon that mocking Fiend, whose Veil, now rais’d,
Show’d them, as in death’s agony they gazed,
Not the long promis’d light, the brow, whose beaming
Was to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming,
But features horribler than Hell e’er trac’d
On its own brood;—no Demon of the Waste,[146]
No church-yard Ghole, caught lingering in the light
Of the blest sun, e’er blasted human sight
With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those
The’ Impostor, now in grinning mockery, shows:—
“There, ye wise Saints, behold your Light, your Star—
“Ye would be dupes and victims, and ye are.
“Is it enough? or must I, while a thrill
“Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still?
“Swear that the burning death ye feel within
“Is but the trance with which Heaven’s joys begin;
“That this foul visage, foul as e’er disgrac’d
“Even monstrous man, is—after God’s own taste;
“And that—but see!—ere I have half-way said
“My greetings through, the’ uncourteous souls are fled.
“Farewell, sweet spirits! not in vain ye die,
“If Eblis loves you half so well as I.—
“Ha, my young bride!—’tis well—take thou thy seat;
“Nay come—no shuddering—didst thou never meet
“The dead before?—they grac’d our wedding, sweet;
“And these, my guests to-night, have brimm’d so true
“Their parting cups, that thou shalt pledge one too.
“But—how is this?—all empty? all drunk up?
“Hot lips have been before thee in the cup,
“Young bride,—yet stay—one precious drop remains,
“Enough to warm a gentle Priestess’ veins;—
“Here, drink—and should thy lover’s conquering arms
“Speed hither, ere thy lip lose all its charms,
“Give him but half this venom in thy kiss,
“And I’ll forgive my haughty rival’s bliss!
“For me—I too must die—but not like these
“Vile, rankling things, to fester in the breeze;
“To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown,
“With all death’s grimness added to its own,
“And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes
“Of slaves, exclaiming, ‘There his Godship lies!
“No—cursed race—since first my soul drew breath,
“They’ve been my dupes, and shall be even in death.
“Thou see’st yon cistern in the shade—’tis fill’d
“With burning drugs, for this last hour distill’d:[147]—
“There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame—
“Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet’s frame!—
“There perish, all—ere pulse of thine shall fail—
“Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale.
“So shall my votaries, wheresoe’er they rave,
“Proclaim that Heaven took back the Saint it gave;—
“That I’ve but vanish’d from this earth awhile,
“To come again, with bright, unshrouded smile!
“So shall they build me altars in their zeal,
“Where knaves shall minister, and fools shall kneel;
“Where Faith may mutter o’er her mystic spell,
“Written in blood—and Bigotry may swell
“The sail he spreads for Heaven with blasts from hell!
“So shall my banner, through long ages, be
“The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy:—
“Kings yet unborn shall rue Mokanna’s name,
“And, though I die, my spirit, still the same,
“Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife,
“And guilt, and blood, that were its bliss in life.
“But, hark! their battering engine shakes the wall—
“Why, let it shake—thus I can brave them all.
“No trace of me shall greet them, when they come,
“And I can trust thy faith, for—thou’lt be dumb.
“Now mark how readily a wretch like me,
“In one bold plunge, commences Deity!”
He sprung and sunk, as the last words were said—
Quick clos’d the burning waters o’er his head,
And Zelica was left—within the ring
Of those wide walls the only living thing;
The only wretched one, still curs’d with breath,
In all that frightful wilderness of death!
More like some bloodless ghost—such as, they tell,
In the lone Cities of the Silent[148] dwell,
And there, unseen of all but Alla, sit
Each by its own pale carcass, watching it.
But morn is up, and a fresh warfare stirs
Throughout the camp of the beleaguerers.
Their globes of fire (the dread artillery lent
By Greece to conquering Mahadi) are spent;
And now the scorpion’s shaft, the quarry sent
From high balistas, and the shielding throng
Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along,
All speak the’ impatient Islamite’s intent
To try, at length, if tower and battlement
And bastion’d wall be not less hard to win,
Less tough to break down than the hearts within.
First in impatience and in toil is he,
The burning Azim—oh! could he but see
The’ Impostor once alive within his grasp,
Not the gaunt lion’s hug, nor boa’s clasp,
Could match that gripe of vengeance, or keep pace
With the fell heartiness of Hate’s embrace!
Loud rings the ponderous ram against the walls;
Now shake the ramparts, now a buttress falls,
But still no breach—“Once more, one mighty swing
“Of all your beams, together thundering!”
There—the wall shakes—the shouting troops exult,
“Quick, quick discharge your weightiest catapult
“Right on that spot, and Neksheb is our own!”
’Tis done—the battlements come crashing down,
And the huge wall, by that stroke riven in two,
Yawning, like some old crater, rent anew,
Shows the dim, desolate city smoking through.
But strange! no signs of life—nought living seen
Above, below—what can this stillness mean?
A minute’s pause suspends all hearts and eyes—
“In through the breach,” impetuous Azim cries;
But the cool Caliph, fearful of some wile
In this blank stillness, checks the troops awhile.—
Just then, a figure, with slow step, advanc’d
Forth from the ruin’d walls, and, as there glanc’d
A sunbeam over it, all eyes could see
The well-known Silver Veil!—“’Tis He, ’tis He,
“Mokanna, and alone!” they shout around;
Young Azim from his steed springs to the ground—
“Mine, Holy Caliph! mine,” he cries, “the task
“To crush yon daring wretch—’tis all I ask.”
Eager he darts to meet the demon foe,
Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow
And falteringly comes, till they are near;
Then, with a bound, rushes on Azim’s spear,
And, casting off the Veil in falling, shows—
Oh!—’tis his Zelica’s life-blood that flows!
“I meant not, Azim,” soothingly she said,
As on his trembling arm she lean’d her head,
And, looking in his face, saw anguish there
Beyond all wounds the quivering flesh can bear—
“I meant not thou shouldst have the pain of this:—
“Though death, with thee thus tasted, is a bliss
“Thou wouldst not rob me of, didst thou but know
“How oft I’ve pray’d to God I might die so!
“But the Fiend’s venom was too scant and slow;—
“To linger on were maddening—and I thought
“If once that Veil—nay, look not on it—caught
“The eyes of your fierce soldiery, I should be
“Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly.
“But this is sweeter—oh! believe me, yes—
“I would not change this sad, but dear caress,
“This death within thy arms I would not give
“For the most smiling life the happiest live!
“All, that stood dark and drear before the eye
“Of my stray’d soul, is passing swiftly by;
“A light comes o’er me from those looks of love,
“Like the first dawn of mercy from above;
“And if thy lips but tell me I’m forgiven,
“Angels will echo the blest words in Heaven!
“But live, my Azim;—oh! to call thee mine
“Thus once again! my Azim—dream divine!
“Live, if thou ever lov’dst me, if to meet
“Thy Zelica hereafter would be sweet,
“Oh, live to pray for her—to bend the knee
“Morning and night before that Deity,
“To whom pure lips and hearts without a stain,
“As thine are, Azim, never breath’d in vain,—
“And pray that He may pardon her,—may take
“Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake,
“And, nought remembering but her love to thee,
“Make her all thine, all His, eternally!
“Go to those happy fields where first we twin’d
“Our youthful hearts together—every wind
“That meets thee there, fresh from the well-known flowers,
“Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours
“Back to thy soul, and mayst thou feel again
“For thy poor Zelica as thou didst then.
“So shall thy orisons, like dew that flies
“To Heaven upon the morning’s sunshine, rise
“With all love’s earliest ardour to the skies!
“And should they—but, alas, my senses fail—
“Oh for one minute!—should thy prayers prevail—
“If pardon’d souls may, from that World of Bliss,
“Reveal their joy to those they love in this—
“I’ll come to thee—in some sweet dream—and tell—
“Oh Heaven—I die—dear love! farewell, farewell.”
Time fleeted—years on years had pass’d away,
And few of those who, on that mournful day,
Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see
The maiden’s death and the youth’s agony,
Were living still—when, by a rustic grave,
Beside the swift Amoo’s transparent wave,
An aged man, who had grown aged there
By that lone grave, morning and night in prayer,
For the last time knelt down—and, though the shade
Of death hung darkening over him, there play’d
A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek,
That brighten’d even Death—like the last streak
Of intense glory on the’ horizon’s brim,
When night o’er all the rest hangs chill and dim.
His soul had seen a Vision, while he slept;
She, for whose spirit he had pray’d and wept
So many years, had come to him, all drest
In angel smiles, and told him she was blest!
For this the old man breath’d his thanks and died.—
And there, upon the banks of that lov’d tide,
He and his Zelica sleep side by side.