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 Heaven 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 Heaven's native maids,
And crown th' Elect with bliss 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, Like war's wild planet in a summer sky
* "Near Chittagong, esteemed as holy."
That youth to-day,-a proselyte, worth hordes
Of cooler spirits and less practised swords,—
Is come to join, all bravery and belief,
The creed and standard of the Heaven-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 dissolved his chains.
Oh! who could, even 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 refined ;-
False views, like that horizon's fair deceit,
Where earth and heaven but seem, alas, to meet !—
Soon as he heard an arm divine was raised
To right the nations, and beheld, emblazed
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 edged, 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 inspired
With livelier trust in what it most desired,
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,
Waved 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 heaven, except the Proud One, knelt :+
Such the refined Intelligence that glow'd
In Moussa's frame-and, thence descending, flow'd
Through many a prophet's breast-in Issa ‡ 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, centres all in me!"
Again, throughout th' assembly at these words,
Thousands of voices rung: the warriors' swords
Were pointed up to heaven; a sudden wind
In th' 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
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;
"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.
When the glad slave shall at these feet lay down
His broken chain, the tyrant lord his crown,
The priest his book, the conquerer 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 goneEach 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 promised 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,
Whate'er he did, none ever did so well.
Too happy days! when, if he touch'd 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 th' 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 mournful 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 exchanged 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
Their suns away-but, ah! how cold and dim
Ev'n summer suns when not beheld with him!
From time to time ill-omen'd rumours came
(Like spirit-tongues, muttering the sick man's name,
* 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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