Where, hidden from the common eye, The past's long buried secrets lie, Those mysteries of the first great creed, Whose mystic fancies were the seed Of every wild and vain belief, That held o'er man their empire brief, And turn'd beneath a southern sky, All that was faith to poetry. Hence had the Grecian fables birth, And wander'd beautiful o'er earth; Till every wood, and stream, and cave, Shelter to some bright vision gave: For all of terrible and strange,
That from those gloomy caverns sprung, From Greece received a graceful change, That spoke another sky and tongue,
A finer eye, a gentler hand, Than in their native Hindoo land.
"Twas thence Nadira came, and still Her memory kept that lofty hill ; The vale below, her place of birth, That one charm'd spot, her native earth. Still haunted by that early love,
Which youth can feel, and youth alone; An eager, ready, tenderness,
To all its after-life unknown
When the full heart its magic flings, Alike o'er rare and common things, The dew of morning's earliest hour, Which swells but once from leaf and flower, From the pure life within supplied, A sweet but soon exhausted tide.
There falls a shadow on the gloom, There steals a light step through the room, Gentle as love, that though so near, No sound hath caught the listening ear. A moment's fond watch o'er her keeping, Murad beholds Nadira weeping; He who to win her lightest smile,
Had given his heart's best blood the while.
She turn'd, a beautiful delight Has flush'd the pale one into rose,
Murad, her love, return'd to-night, Her tears, what recks she now of those? Dried in the full heart's crimson ray, Ere he can kiss those tears away
* The DHER WARRA is the cave at the southern extremity of Ellora.
EXCAVATED TEMPLE OF KYLAS. It is observed, in Elliot's Views of India, that of all the excavations, that of Kylas is "the most extraordinary and beautiful." This is no place to do more than allude to the wonderful influence of the Hindostan superstitions; if they did not create, they at least furnished the material of the Grecian mythology, though softened and beautified by that poetical imagination which formed in the classical time the golden age of poetry upon earth.
And she is seated at his feet, Too timid his dear eyes to meet; But happy; for she knows whose brow Is bending fondly o'er her now. And eager for his sake to hear
The records red of sword and spear, For his sake feels the colour rise, His spirit kindle in her eyes, Till her heart beating joins the cry Of Murad, and of victory.
City of glories now no more, His camp extends by Bejapore,* Where the Mahratta's haughty race, Has won the Moslem conqueror's place; A bolder prince now fills the throne, And he will struggle for his own. "And yet," he said, " when evening falls Solemn above those mouldering walls, Where the mosquest cleave the starry air, Deserted at their hour of prayer, And rises Ibrahim's lonely tomb,#
'Mid weed-grown shrines, and ruin'd towers, All mark'd with that eternal gloom,
Left by the past to present hours. When human pride and human sway Have run their circle of decay; And, mocking-the funereal stone, Alone attests its builder gone. O! vain such temple, o'er the sleep Which none remain to watch or weep. I could not choose but think how vain The struggle fierce for worthless gain. And calm and bright the moon look'd down O'er the white shrines of that fair town;
* BEJAPORE. A more remarkable example of the vanity of all human grandeur, or of the short continuance of human power, than this desolate place affords, cannot, perhaps, be met with in the whole world. Its architectural remains may vie in size, magnificence, and beauty, with those nations that have been longest established upon earth; while the actual existence of its dominions scarcely doubles the period of time to which a man's natural life extends in these days. At Bejapore is the celebrated
TAJ BOWLEE-a superb tank, or well, nearly a hundred yards square, and fifty feet deep."-Elliot.
† THE MOSQUE OF MUSTAPHA KHAN remains entire; the less substantial buildings around it have long been in ruins.
IBRAHIM PADSHAH'S TOмв. - "On the exterior of the body of the Mausoleum, over which the dome is raised, the walls are carved into Arabic inscriptions, sculptured with great skill, and disposed in every variety of ornament. The gilding and enamel, however, is entirely defaced, excepting in a small part in one of the sides, where its remains give a faint idea of its former lustre. A person looking at the illuminated page of an Oriental MS. magnifying this, and fancying it to be represented by sculpture, painting, and gilding, on the face of a wall of black granite, will have some conception of the labour, skill, and brilliancy of this work. The whole of the Koran is said to be carved on the four sides of this elegant structure, in which the utmost art and taste of the architect and the sculptor have combined to produce the richest effect."-Sydenham.
While heavily the cocoa tree Droop'd o'er the walls its panoply, A warrior proud, whose crested head Bends mournful o'er the recent dead, And shadows deep athwart th plain, Usurp the silver moonbeam's ign; For every ruin'd building cast Shadows, like memories of the past. And not a sound the wind brought nigh, Save the far jackal's wailing cry, And that came from the field now red With the fierce banquet I had spread: Accursed and unnatural feast,
For worm, and fly, and bird, and beast;
While round me earth and heaven recorded The folly of life's desperate game,
And the cold justice still awarded By time, which makes all lots the same. Slayer or slain, it matters not, We struggle, perish, are forgot! The earth grows green above the gone, And the calm heaven looks sternly on. "Twas folly this-the gloomy night Fled before morning's orient light; City and river own'd its power, And I, too, gladden'd with the hour; I saw my own far tents extend, My own proud crescent o'er them bend; I heard the trumpet's glorious voice Summon the warriors of my choice. Again impatient on to lead, I sprang upon my raven steed, Again I felt my father's blood Pour through my veins its burning flood. My cimetar around I swung, Forth to the air its lightning sprung, A beautiful and fiery light, The meteor of the coming fight.
"I turn'd from each forgotten grave To others, which the name they bear Will long from old oblivion save The heroes of the race I share. I thought upon the lonely isle* Where sleeps the lion king the while, Who look'd on death, yet paused to die Till comraded by Victory.
* SHERE SHAH'S TOMB-is situate at Sasseram, in the centre of a tank of water, about a mile in circumference. The name of so renowned a warrior would be likely to occur to a young and enterprising chief, who must, of course, be familiar with his history. His original name was Ferid, changed to Shere Chan, in consequence of having killed a tiger with one blow of his sabre. At the siege of Callinger he was mortally wounded, by the bursting of a shell. "In this dreadful condition, the king began to breathe in great agonies; he, however, encouraged the attack, and gave orders, till, in the evening, news was brought him of the reduction of the place: he then cried out, 'Thanks to Almighty God,' and expired." - Dow's History of Hindostan.
And he, the noblest of my line, Whose tomb is now the warrior's shrine, (Where I were well content to be, So that such fame might live with me.) The light of peace, the storm of war, Lord of the earth, our proud Akbar.* "What though our passing day but be A bubble on eternity; Small though the circle is, yet still 'Tis ours to colour at our will. Mine be that consciousness of life Which has its energies from strife, Which lives its utmost, knows its power, Claims from the mind its utmost dower- With fiery pulse, and ready hand, That wills, and willing wins command- That boldly takes from earth its best- To whom the grave can be but rest. Mine the fierce free existence spent 'Mid meeting ranks and armed tent :- Save the few moments which I steal At thy beloved feet to kneel- And own the warrior's wild career Has no such joy as waits him here- When all that hope can dream is hung Upon the music of thy tongue. Ah! never is that cherish'd face Banish'd from its accustom'd place- It shines upon my weariest night, It leads me on in thickest fight: All that seems most opposed to be Is yet associate with thee- Together life and thee depart, Dream-idol-treasure of my heart."
Again, again Murad must wield His cimetar in battle field: And must he leave his lonely flower To pine in solitary bower? Has power no aid-has wealth no charm, The weight of absence to disarm?
Alas! she will not touch her lute- What, sing! and not for Murad's ear ? The echo of the heart is mute, And that alone makes music dear. In vain, in vain, that royal hall Is deck'd as for a festival.
The sunny birds, whose shining wings Seem as if bathed in golden springs, Though worth the gems they cost and fair As those which knew her earlier care. The flowers-though there the rose expand The sweetest depths wind ever fann'd.
* AKBAR'S TOMB. Of this monarch, his historian, Abul Fazil, remarks, that "His name lives, the glory of the House of Timur, and an example of renown to the kings of the world."
Ah, earth and sky have loveliest hues- But none to match that dearest red, Born of the heart, which still renews The life that on itself is fed. The maiden whom we love bestows Her magic on the haunted rose. Such was the colour-when her cheek Spoke what the lip might never speak. The crimson flush which could confess All that we hoped-but dared not guess. That blush which through the world is known To love, and to the rose alone-
A sweet companionship, which never The poet's dreaming eye may sever. And there were tulips, whose rich leaves The rainbow's dying light receives; For only summer sun and skies
Could lend to earth such radiant dyes; But still the earth shall have its share, The stem is green-the foliage fair- Those coronals of gems but glow Over the wither'd heart below- That one dark spot, like passion's fire, Consuming with its own desire. And pale, as one who dares not turn Upon her inmost thoughts, and learn, If it be love their depths conceal; Love she alone is doom'd to feel- The jasmine droopeth mournfully Over the bright anemone, The summer's proud and sunburnt child: In vain the queen is not beguiled, They waste their bloom. Nadira's eye Neglects them.-Let them pine and die. Ah, birds and flowers may not suffice The heart that throbs with stronger ties. Again, again Murad is gone, Again his young bride weeps alone: Seeks her old nurse, to win her ear With magic stories once so dear, And calls the Almas to her aid.
With graceful dance and gentle singing, And bells like those some desert home Hears from the camel's neck far ringing. Alas! she will not raise her brow; Yet stay-some spell hath caught her now : That melody has touch'd her heart. O, triumph of Zilara's art;
She listens to the mournful strain And bids her sing that song again.
"My lonely lute, how can I ask
For music from thy silent strings ? It is too sorrowful a task,
When only swept by memory's wings: Yet waken from thy charmed sleep, Although I wake thee but to weep.
"Yet once I had a thousand songs, As now I have but only one. Ah, love, whate'er to thee belongs, With all life's other links, has done; And I can breathe no other words Than thou has left upon the chords.
"They say Camdeo's place of rest, When floating down the Ganges' tide, Is in the languid lotus breast,
Amid whose sweets he loves to hide.
O, false and cruel, though divine, What dost thou in so fair a shrine?
"And such the hearts that thou dost choose,
As pure, as fair, to shelter thee; Alas! they know not what they lose Who chance thy dwelling-place to be. For, never more in happy dream Will they float down life's sunny stream.
"My gentle lute, repeat one name, The very soul of love, and thine : No; sleep in silence, let me frame Some other love to image mine; Steal sadness from another's tone, I dare not trust me with my own.
"Thy chords will win their mournful way,
All treasured thoughts to them belong; For things it were so hard to say
Are murmur'd easily in song- It is for music to impart The secrets of the burthen'd heart.
"Go, taught by misery and love,
And thou hast spells for every ear: But the sweet skill each pulse to move, Alas! hath bought its knowledge dearBought by the wretchedness of years, A whole life dedicate to tears."
The voice has ceased, the chords are mute, The singer droops upon her lute; But, O, the fulness of each tone Straight to Nadira's heart hath goneAs if that mournful song reveal'd Depths in that heart till then conceal'd, A world of melancholy thought, Then only into being brought; Those tender mysteries of the soul, Like words on an enchanted scroll, Whose mystic meaning but appears When wash'd and understood by tears. She gazed upon the singer's face; Deeply that young brow wore the trace
Of years that leave their stamp behind: The wearied hope the fever'd mind- The heart which on itself hath turn'd, Worn out with feelings slighted-spurn'd- Till scarce one throb remain'd to show What warm emotions slept below, Never to be renew'd again, And known but by remember'd pain.
Her cheek was pale-impassion'd pale Like ashes white with former fire, Passion which might no more prevail, The rose had been its own sweet pyre. You gazed upon the large black eyes, And felt what unshed tears were there; Deep, gloomy, wild, like midnight skies, When storms are heavy on the air- And on the small red lip sat scorn, Writhing from what the past had borne. But far too proud to sigh-the will, Though crush'd, subdued, was haughty still; Last refuge of the spirit's pain, Which finds endurance in disdain.
Others wore blossoms in their hair, And golden bangles round the arm. She took no pride in being fair, The gay delight of youth to charm; The softer wish of love to please, What had she now to do with these ? She knew herself a barter'd slave, Whose only refuge was the grave.
Unsoften'd now by those sweet notes, Which half subdued the grief they told, Her long black hair neglected floats O'er that wan face, like marble cold; And carelessly her listless hand Wander'd above her lute's command But silently-or just a tone Woke into music, and was gone.
"Come hither, maiden, take thy seat," Nadira said, "here at my feet." And, with the sweetness of a child
Who smiles, and deems all else must smile, She gave the blossoms which she held, And praised the singer's skill the while; Then started with a sad surprise, For tears were in the stranger's eyes Ah, only those who rarely know
Kind words, can tell how sweet they seem. Great God, that there are those below To whom such words are like a dream.
"Come," said the young Sultana, "come To our lone garden by the river, Where summer hath its loveliest home, And where Camdeo fills his quiver. If, as thou sayest, 'tis stored with flowers, Where will he find them fair as ours ?
And the sweet songs which thou canst sing, Methinks might charm away his sting."
The evening banquet soon is spread- There the pomegranate's rougher red Was cloven, that it might disclose A colour stolen from the rose- The brown pistachio's glossy shell, The citron where faint odours dwell; And near the watermelon stands, Fresh from the Jumna's shining sands; And golden grapes, whose bloom and hue Wear morning light and morning dew, Or purple with the deepest dye That flushes evening's farewell sky. And in the slender vases glow- Vases that seem like sculptured snow- The rich sherbets are sparkling bright With ruby and with amber light. A fragrant mat the ground o'erspread, With an old tamarind overhead, With drooping bough of darkest green, Forms for their feast a pleasant screen.
"Tis night, but such delicious time Would seem like day in northern clime. A pure and holy element, Where light and shade, together blent, Are like the mind's high atmosphere, When hope is calm and heaven is near. The moon is young-her crescent brow Wears its ethereal beauty now, Unconscious of the crime and care, Which even her brief reign must know,
Till she will pine to be so fair, With such a weary world below. A tremulous and silvery beam Melts over palace, garden, stream ; Each flower beneath that tranquil ray, Wears other beauty than by day, All pale as if with love, and lose Their rich variety of hues-
But ah, that languid loveliness Hath magic, to the noon unknown,
A deep and pensive tenderness, The heart at once feels is its own- How fragrant to these dewy hours, The white magnolia lifts its urn The very Araby of flowers,
Wherein all precious odours burn. And when the wind disperses these, The faint scent of the lemon trees Mingles with that rich sigh which dwells Within the baubool's* golden bells. The dark green peepul's † glossy leaves, Like mirrors each a ray receives,
* A favourite Indian flower. † A tree usually planted by graves.
While luminous the moonlight falls, O'er pearl kiosk and marble walls, Those graceful palaces that stand Most like the work of peri-land. And rippling to the lovely shore, The river tremulous with light, On its small waves, is cover'd o'er
With the sweet offerings of the night- Heaps of that scented grass whose bands Have all been wove by pious hands, Or wreaths, where fragrantly combined, Red and white lotus flowers are twined. And on the deep blue waters float Many a cocoanut's small boat, Holding within the lamp which bears The maiden's dearest hopes and prayers, Watch'd far as ever eye can see, A vain but tender augury. Alas! this world is not his home, And still love trusts that signs will come From his own native world of bliss, To guide him through the shades of this Dreams, omens, he delights in these, For love is link'd with fantasies.
But, hark! upon the plaining wind Zilara's music floats again;
That midnight breeze could never find A meeter echo than that strain, Sad as the sobbing gale that sweeps The last sere leaf which autumn keeps, Yet sweet as when the waters fall, And make some lone glade musical.
"The vacant heart! ah, worse, a shrine
For one beloved name;
Kept, not a blessing, but a curse,
Amid remorse and shame.
"To know how deep, how pure, how true Your early feelings were;
But mock'd, betray'd, disdain'd, and changed, They have but left despair.
"And yet the happy and the young Bear in their hearts a well Of gentlest, kindliest sympathy, Where tears unbidden dwell.
"Then, lady, listen to my lute; As angels look below,
And e'en in heaven pause to weep O'er grief they cannot know."
The song was o'er, but yet the strings Made melancholy murmurings; She wander'd on from air to air, Changeful as fancies when they bear The impress of the various thought, From memory's twilight caverns brought. At length, one wild peculiar chime, Recall'd this tale of ancient time.
"There's dust upon the distant wind, and shadow on the skies,
That desperate that devoted love, Life never knows again.
"What know you of a weary hope, The fatal and the fond,
That feels it has no home on earth. Yet dares not look beyond?
"The bitterness of wasted youth, Impatient of its tears;
The dreary days, the feverish nights, The long account of years.
"The vain regret, the dream destroy'd, The vacancy of heart, When life's illusions, one by one, First darken-then depart.
Alas! that eyes so beautiful, should turn to heaven in vain.
* THE RAKL-The gift of a bracelet, whose acceptance was expressed by the return of a vest. It is a Rajpoot custom. Where there is both valour and beauty, it were hard not to find something of chivalric observance; and the one alluded to, excels in devotion any record of the old romances, however their heroes might be voués aux dames. The chieftain to whom the Raki (anglicé, bracelet) was sent, became bound to the service of some unknown dame, whose bright eyes could dispense no reward, inasmuch as he was never to see them; the "bracelet-bound brother," and his adopted sister, never holding any intercourse. Humaioon accepted this gage from Kurnavati, the princess of Cheetore, and at her summons abandoned his nearly completed conquest of Bengal, and flew to succour, or at least avenge.
« PreviousContinue » |