And, as they wave aloft in morning's beam The milk-white plumage of their helms, they seem Like a chenar-tree grove, when winter throws O'er all its tufted heads his feathering snows.
Between the porphyry pillars, that uphold The rich moresque-work of the roof of gold, Aloft the Haram's curtain'd galleries rise, Where, through the silken net-work, glancing eyes, From time to time, like sudden gleams that glow Through autumn clouds, shine o'er the pomp below. What impious tongue, ye blushing saints, would dare To hint that aught but Heav'n hath placed you there? Or that the loves of this light world could bind, In their gross chain, your Prophet's soaring mind? No-wrongful thought!-commission'd from above To people Eden's bowers with shapes of love (Creatures so bright, that the same lips and eyes They wear on earth will serve in Paradise), There to recline among Heav'n's native maids, And crown the' Elect with bless that never fades!- Well hath the Prophet-Chief his bidding done; And every beauteous race beneath the sun, From those who kneel at Brahma's burning founts,* To the fresh nymphs bounding o'er Yemen's mounts; From Persia's eyes of full and fawn-like ray, To the small, half-shut glances of Kathay;t And Georgia's bloom, and Azab's darker smiles, And the gold ringlets of the Western Isles; All, all are there;-each land its flower hath given, To form that fair young nursery for Heaven!
But why this pageant now? this arm'd array? What triumph crowds the rich Divan to-day With turban'd heads, of every hue and race, Bowing before that veil'd and awful face, Like tulip-beds, of different shape and dyes, Bending beneath th' invisible West-wind's sighs! What new-made mystery now, for Faith to sign, And blood to seal, as genuine and divine,— What dazzling mimickry of God's own power Hath the bold Prophet plann'd to grace this hour? Not such the pageant now, though not less proud,— Yon warrior youth, advancing from the crowd, With silver bow, with belt of broider'd crape, And fur-bound bonnet of Bucharian shape,
So fiercely beautiful in form and eye,
"Near Chittagong, esteemed as holy
Like war's wild planet in a summer sky;- That youth to-day,-a proselyte, worth hordes Of cooler spirits and less practis'd swords,- Is come to join, all bravery and belief,
The creed and standard of the Heav'n-sent Chief. Though few his years, the West already knows Young Azim's fame;-beyond th' Olympian snows, Ere manhood darken'd o'er his downy cheek, O'erwhelm'd in fight and captive to the Greek, He linger'd there, till peace dissolv'd his chains;- Oh! who could, ev'n in bondage, tread the plains Of glorious Greece, nor feel his spirit rise Kindling within him? who, with heart and eyes, Could walk where Liberty had been, nor see The shining foot-prints of her Deity,
Nor feel those god-like breathings in the air, Which mutely told her spirit had been there? Not he, that youthful warrior,-no, too well For his soul's quiet work'd th' awakening spell; And now, returning to his own dear land, Full of those dreams of good that, vainly grand, Haunt the young heart;-proud views of human-kind, Of men to gods exalted and refin'd;-
False views, like that horizon's fair deceit,
Where earth and heav'n but seem, alas, to meet!— Soon as he heard an arm divine was rais'd
To right the nations, and beheld, emblaz'd On the white flag Mokanna's host unfurl'd, Those words of sunshine, "Freedom to the World," At once his faith, his sword, his soul obey'd Th' inspiring summons; every chosen blade, That fought beneath that banner's sacred text, Seem'd doubly edg'd, for this world and the next; And ne'er did Faith with her smooth bandage bind Eyes more devoutly willing to be blind,
In Virtue's cause; never was soul inspir'd With livelier trust in what it most desir'd, Than his, th' enthusiast there, who kneeling, pale With pious awe, before that silver veil,
Believes the form, to which he bends his knee, Some pure, redeeming angel, sent to free This fetter'd world from every bond and stain, And bring its primal glories back again!
Low as young Azim knelt, that motley crowd Of all earth's nations sunk the knee and bow'd, With shouts of "Alla!" echoing long and loud;
While high in air, above the Prophet's head, Hundreds of banners, to the sunbeam spread, Wav'd, like the wings of the white birds that fan The flying throne of star-taught Soliman!
Then thus he spoke :-"Stranger, though new the frame Thy soul inhabits now, I've track'd its flame For many an age,* in every chance and change Of that existence, through whose varied range,- As through a torch-race, where, from hand to hand The flying youths transmit their shining brand,— From frame to frame the unextinguish'd soul Rapidly passes, till it reach the goal!
"Nor think 'tis only the gross spirits, warm'd With duskier fire and for earth's medium form'd, That run this course;-Beings, the most divine, Thus deign through dark mortality to shine. Such was the Essence that in Adam dwelt,
To which all Heav'n, except the Proud One, knelt :† Such the refin'd Intelligence that glow'd In Moussa's frame; and, thence descending, flow'd Through many a Prophet's breast;-in Issat shone, And in Mohammed burn'd; till, hastening on (As a bright river that, from fall to fall
In many a maze descending, bright through all, Finds some fair region where, each labyrinth past, In one full lake of light it rests at last!) That Holy Spirit, settling calm and free From lapse or shadow, centers all in me!"
Again, throughout th' assembly at these words, Thousands of voices rung; the warriors' swords Were pointed up to Heav'n; a sudden wind In the' open banners play'd, and from behind Those Persian hangings, that but ill could screen The Haram's loveliness, white hands were seen Waving embroider'd scarves, whose motion gave A perfume forth;-like those the Houris wave When beckoning to their bowers th' Immortal Brave.
"But these," pursued the Chief, "are truths sublime, That claim a holier mood and calmer time
Than earth allows us now;-this sword must first The darkling prison-house of mankind burst,
Ere Peace can visit them, or Truth let in
"The transmigration of souls was one of his doctrines."
And when we said unto the angels, "Worship Adam," they all worshipped him except Eblis (Lucifer), who refused.-The Koran, chap. ii. Jesus.
Her wakening day-light on a world of sin! But then, celestial warriors, then, when all
Earth's shrines and thrones before our banner fall; When the glad slave shall at these feet lay down His broken chain, the tyrant lord his crown, The priest his book, the conqueror his wreath, And from the lips of Truth one mighty breath Shall, like a whirlwind, scatter in its breeze That whole dark pile of human mockeries;- Then shall the reign of Mind commence on earth, And starting fresh, as from a second birth, Man, in the sunshine of the world's new spring, Shall walk transparent, like some holy thing! Then, too, your Prophet from his angel brow Shall cast the veil, that hides its splendours now, And gladden'd Earth shall, through her wide expanse, Bask in the glories of this countenance!
"For thee, young warrior, welcome!-thou hast yet Some tasks to learn, some frailties to forget, Ere the white war-plume o'er thy brow can wave;— But, once my own, mine all till in the grave!"
The pomp is at an end,-the crowds are gone- Each ear and heart still haunted by the tone Of that deep voice, which thrill'd like Alla's own! The young all dazzled by the plumes and lances, The glittering throne, and Haram's half-caught glances; The old deep pondering on the promis'd reign Of peace and truth; and all the female train Ready to risk their eyes, could they but gaze A moment on that brow's miraculous blaze!
But there was one, among the chosen maids Who blush'd behind the gallery's silken shades, One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day Has been like death;-you saw her pale dismay, Ye wondering sisterhood, and heard the burst Of exclamation from her lips, when first She saw that youth, too well, too dearly known, Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne.
Ah Zelica! there was a time, when bliss Shone o'er thy heart from every look of his; When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air In which he dwelt, was thy soul's fondest prayer! When round him hung such a perpetual spell, What e'er he did, none ever did so well. Too happy days! when, if he touched a flower
Or gem of thine, 'twas sacred from that hour; When thou didst study him, till every tone And gesture and dear look became thy own,— Thy voice like his, the changes of his face In thine reflected with still lovelier grace, Like echo, sending back sweet music, fraught With twice th' aerial sweetness it had brought! Yet now he comes-brighter than even he E'er beam'd before, but ah! not bright for thee; No-dread, unlook'd for, like a visitant
From the' other world, he comes as if to haunt Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight, Long lost to all but memory's aching sight :- Sad dreams! as when the spirit of our youth Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth And innocence once ours, and leads us back, In mornful mockery, o'er the shining track Of our young life, and points out every ray Of hope and peace we've lost upon the way!
Once happy pair!-in proud Bokhara's groves, Who had not heard of their first youthful loves? Born by that ancient flood,* which from its spring In the Dark Mountains swiftly wandering, Enrich'd by every pilgrim brook that shines With relics from Bucharia's ruby mines, And, lending to the Caspian half its strength, In the cold Lake of Eagles sinks at length;- There, on the banks of that bright river born, The flowers, that hung above its wave at morn, Bless'd not the waters, as they murmur'd by, With holier scent and lustre, than the sigh And virgin glance of first affection cast Upon their youth's smooth current, as it pass'd! But war disturb'd this vision-far away From her fond eyes, summon'd to join th' array Of Persia's warriors on the hills of Thrace, The youth exchang'd his sylvan dwelling-place For the rude tent and war-field's deathful clash; His Zelica's sweet glances for the flash Of Grecian wild-fire, and Love's gentle chains For bleeding bondage on Byzantium's plains.
Month after month, in widowhood of soul Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll
The Amoo, which rises in the Belur Tag, or Dark Mountains, and running nearly from east to west, splits into two branches, one of which falls into the Caspian Sea, and the other into Aral Nahr, or the Lake of Eagles.
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