Within that dome as yet Decay | |
Hath slowly work’d her cankering way – | |
But gloom is gather’d o’er the gate, | |
Nor there the Fakir’s self will wait; | |
340 | Nor there will wandering Dervise stay, |
For bounty cheers not his delay; | |
Nor there will weary stranger halt | |
To bless the sacred ‘bread and salt.’ | |
Alike must Wealth and Poverty | |
345 | Pass heedless and unheeded by, |
For Courtesy and Pity died | |
With Hassan on the mountain side. | |
His roof, that refuge unto men, | |
Is Desolation’s hungry den. | |
350 | The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour, |
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel’s sabre! | |
* * * * * | |
I hear the sound of coming feet, | |
But not a voice mine ear to greet; | |
More near – each turban I can scan, | |
355 | And silver-sheathed ataghan; |
The foremost of the band is seen | |
An Emir by his garb of green: | |
‘Ho! who art thou?’ – ‘This low salam | |
Replies of Moslem faith I am. ‘— | |
360 | ‘The burthen ye so gently bear |
Seems one that claims your utmost care, | |
And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, | |
My humble bark would gladly wait.’ | |
‘Thou speakest sooth: thy skiff unmoor, | |
365 | And waft us from the silent shore; |
Nay, leave the sail still furl’d, and ply | |
The nearest oar that’s scatter’d by, | |
And midway to those rocks where sleep | |
The channel’d waters dark and deep. | |
370 | Rest from your task – so – bravely done, |
Our course has been right swiftly run; | |
Yet ’tis the longest voyage, I trow, | |
That one of— | |
* * * * * * * *’ | |
Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, | |
375 | The calm wave rippled to the bank; |
I watch’d it as it sank, methought | |
Some motion from the current caught | |
Bestirr’d it more, – ‘twas but the beam | |
That checker’d o’er the living stream: | |
380 | I gazed, till vanishing from view, |
Like lessening pebble it withdrew; | |
Still less and less, a speck of white | |
That gemm’d the tide, then mock’d the sight; | |
And all its hidden secrets sleep, | |
385 | Known but to Genii of the deep, |
Which, trembling in their coral caves, | |
They dare not whisper to the waves. | |
* * * * * | |
As rising on its purple wing | |
The insect-queen | |
390 | O’er emerald meadows of Kashmeer |
Invites the young pursuer near, | |
And leads him on from flower to flower | |
A weary chase and wasted hour, | |
Then leaves him, as it soars on high, | |
395 | With panting heart and tearful eye: |
So Beauty lures the full-grown child, | |
With hue as bright, and wing as wild; | |
A chase of idle hopes and fears, | |
Begun in folly, closed in tears. | |
400 | If won, to equal ills betray’d, |
Woe waits the insect and the maid; | |
A life of pain, the loss of peace, | |
From infant’s play, and man’s caprice: | |
The lovely toy so fiercely sought | |
405 | Hath lost its charm by being caught, |
For every touch that woo’d its stay | |
Hath brush’d its brightest hues away, | |
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, | |
‘Tis left to fly or fall alone. | |
410 | With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, |
Ah! where shall either victim rest? | |
Can this with faded pinion soar | |
From rose to tulip as before? | |
Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, | |
415 | Find joy within her broken bower? |
No: gayer insects fluttering by | |
Ne’er droop the wing o’er those that die, | |
And lovelier things have mercy shown | |
To every failing but their own, | |
420 | And every woe a tear can claim |
Except an erring sister’s shame. | |
* * * * * | |
The Mind, that broods o’er guilty woes, | |
Is like the Scorpion girt by fire, | |
In circle narrowing as it glows, | |
425 | The flames around their captive close, |
Till inly search’d by thousand throes, | |
And maddening in her ire, | |
One sad and sole relief she knows, | |
The sting she nourish’d for her foes, | |
430 | Whose venom never yet was vain, |
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, | |
And darts into her desperate brain; | |
So do the dark in soul expire, | |
Or live like Scorpion girt by fire; | |
435 | So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven, |
Unfit for earth, undoom’d for heaven, | |
Darkness above, despair beneath, | |
Around it flame, within it death! | |
* * * * * | |
Black Hassan from the Haram flies, | |
440 | Nor bends on woman’s form his eyes; |
The unwonted chase each hour employs, | |
Yet shares he not the hunter’s joys. | |
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly | |
When Leila dwelt in his Serai. | |
445 | Doth Leila there no longer dwell? |
That tale can only Hassan tell: | |
Strange rumours in our city say | |
Upon that eve she fled away | |
When Rhamazan’s | |
450 | And flashing from each minaret |
Millions of lamps proclaim’d the feast | |
Of Bairam through the boundless East. | |
‘Twas then she went as to the bath, | |
Which Hassan vainly search’d in wrath; | |
455 | For she was flown her master’s rage |
In likeness of a Georgian page, | |
And far beyond the Moslem’s power | |
Had wrong’d him with the faithless Giaour. | |
Somewhat of this had Hassan deem’d; | |
460 | But still so fond, so fair she seem’d, |
Too well he trusted to the slave | |
Whose treachery deserved a grave: | |
And on that eve had gone to mosque, | |
And thence to feast in his kiosk. | |
465 | Such is the tale his Nubians tell, |
Who did not watch their charge too well; | |
But others say, that on that night, | |
By pale Phingari’s | |
The Giaour upon his jet black steed | |
470 | Was seen, but seen alone to speed |
With bloody spur along the shore, | |
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. | |
* * * * * | |
Her eye’s dark charm ’t were vain to tell, | |
But gaze on that of the Gazelle, | |
475 | It will assist thy fancy well; |
As large, as languishingly dark, | |
But Soul beam’d forth in every spark | |
That darted from beneath the lid, | |
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. | |
480 | Yea, |
That form was nought but breathing clay, | |
By Alla! I would answer nay; | |
Though on Al-Sirat’s | |
Which totters o’er the fiery flood, | |
485 | With Paradise within my view, |
And all his Houris beckoning through. | |
Oh! who young Leila’s glance could read | |
And keep that portion of his creed, | |
Which saith that woman is but dust, | |
490 | A soulless toy for tyrant’s lust? |
On her might Muftis gaze, and own | |
That through her eye the Immortal shone; | |
On her fair cheek’s unfading hue | |
The young pomegranate’s | |
495 | Their bloom in blushes ever new; |
Her hair in hyacynthine |