Drawing-Room Scrap Book

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The Zenana

She's very young, and childhood's days

With all their old remembered ways,

The empire of her heart contest

With love, that is so new a guest;

When blushing with her Murad near,

Half timid bliss, half sweetest fear,

E'en the beloved past is dim,

Past, present, future, merge in him.

But he, the warrior and the chief,

His hours of happiness are brief;

And he must leave Nadira's side,

To woo and win a ruder bride;

Sought, sword in hand and spur on heel,

The fame, that weds with blood and steel.

And while from Delhi far away,

His youthful bride pines through the day,

Weary and sad: thus when again

He seeks to bind love's loosened chain;

He finds the tears are scarcely dry

Upon a cheek whose bloom is faded,

The very flush of victory

Is, like the brow he watches, shaded.

A thousand thoughts are at her heart,

His image paramount o'er all,

Yet not all his, the tears that start,

As mournful memories recall

Scenes of another home, which yet

That fond young heart can not forget.

Which frowned upon the mountain's side;

While round it spread the ancient plain,

Her steps will never cross again.

The miracles of mortal hand;

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 turned beneath a southern sky,

All that was faith to poetry.

Hence had the Grecian fables birth,

And wandered beautiful o'er earth;

Till every wood, and stream, and cave,

Shelter to some bright vision gave:

For all of terrible and strange,

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 charmed 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 list'ning 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 turned, a beautiful delight

Has flushed the pale one into rose,

Murad, her love, returned 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--

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,

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,

Deserted at their hour of prayer,

'Mid weed-grown shrines, and ruined towers,

All marked 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.

Oh! 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 looked down

O'er the white shrines of that fair town;

While heavily the cocoa-tree

Drooped o'er the walls its panoply,

A warrior proud, whose crested head

Bends mournful o'er the recent dead,

And shadows deep athwart the plain,

Usurp the silver moonbeam's reign;

For every ruined 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 owned its power,

And I, too, gladdened 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 scimetar around I swung,

Forth to the air its lightning sprung,

A beautiful and fiery light,

The meteor of the coming fight.

"I turned from each forgotten grave

To others, which the name they bear

Will long from old oblivion save

The heroes of the race I share.

Where sleeps the lion king the while,

Who looked on death, yet paused to die

Till comraded by Victory.

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,

"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 cherished face

Banished from its accustomed 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 scimetar 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 decked 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 fanned.

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 will have its share,

The stem is green--the foliage fair--

Those coronals of gems but glow

Over the withered 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 doomed to feel--

The jasmine droopeth mournfully

Over the bright anemone,

The summer's proud and sun-burnt 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 touched her heart.

Oh, triumph of Zilara's art;

She listens to the mournful strain

And bids her sing that song again.

Song.

"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 wing:

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 hast left upon the chords.

When floating upon the Ganges' tide,

Is in the languid lotus breast,

Amid whose sweets he loves to hide.

Oh, 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 murmured easily in song--

It is for music to impart

The secrets of the burthened 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 dear--

Bought 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, oh, the fulness [sic] of each tone

Straight to Nadira's heart hath gone--

As if that mournful song revealed

Depths in that heart till then concealed,

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 washed 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 mine--

The heart which on itself hath turned,

Worn out with feelings--slighted--spurned--

Till scarce one throb remained to show

What warm emotions slept below,

Never to be renewed again,

And known but by remembered pain.

Her cheek was pale--impassioned 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 crushed, 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 bartered slave,

Whose only refuge was the grave.

Unsoftened 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

Wandered 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 stor'd 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,

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 sculptur'd 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

Like mirrors each a ray receives,

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 covered 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 cocoa-nut'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 linked 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.

Song.

"Lady, sweet Lady, song of mine

Was never meant for thee,

I sing but from my heart, and thine--

It cannot beat with me.

"You have not knelt in vain despair,

Beneath a love as vain,

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.

"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 chang'd,

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,

Recalled this tale of ancient time.

"There's dust upon the distant wind, and shadow on the skies,

And anxiously the maiden strains her long-expecting eyes,

And fancies she can catch the light far flashing from the sword,

And see the silver crescents raised, of him, the Mogul lord.

"She stands upon a lofty tower, and gazes o'er the plain:

Alas! that eyes so beautiful, should turn on heaven in vain.

'Tis but a sudden storm whose weight is darkening on the air,

The lightning sweeps the hill, but shows no coming warriors there.

"Yet crimson as the morning ray, she wears the robe of pride,

That binds the gallant Humaioon, a brother, to her side.

His gift, what time around his arm the glittering band was rolled,

With stars of ev'ry precious stone enwrought in shining gold.

"Bound by the Raki's sacred tie, his ready aid to yield,

Though beauty waited in the bower, and glory in the field:

Why comes he not, that chieftain vow'd, to this her hour of need?

Has honour no devotedness? has chivalry no speed?

"The young Sultana gazes round, she sees the plain afar,

Spread shining to the sun, which lights no trace of coming war.

The very storm has past away, as neither earth nor heaven

One token of their sympathy had to her anguish given.

"And still more hopeless than when last, she on their camp looked down,

The foeman's gathered numbers close round the devoted town:

And daily in that fatal trench her chosen soldiers fall,

And spread themselves a rampart vain, around that ruined wall.

"Her eyes upon her city turn--alas! what can they meet,

But famine, and despair, and death, in every lonely street?

Women and children wander pale, or with despairing eye

Look farewell to the native hearths, and lay them down to die.

"She seeks her palace, where her court collects in mournful bands,

Of maidens who but watch and weep, and wring their weary hands.

One word there came from her white lips, one words, she spoke no more:

But that word was for life and death, the young queen named--the Jojr.

"A wild shriek filled those palace halls--one shriek, it was the last,

All womanish complaint and wail have in its utterance past:

They kneel at Kurnavati's feet, they bathe her hands in tears,

Then hurrying to their task of death, each calm and stern appears.

"There is a mighty cavern close beside the palace gate,

Dark, gloomy temple meet to make such sacrifice to fate:

There heap they up all precious woods, the sandal and the rose,

While fragrant oils and essences like some sweet river flows.

"And shawls from rich Cashmere, and robes from Decca's golden loom,

And caskets filled with Orient pearls, or yet more rare perfume;

And lutes and wreaths, all graceful toys, of woman's gentle care,

Are heaped upon that royal pile, the general doom to share.

"But weep for those the human things, so lovely and so young,

The panting hearts which still to life so passionately clung;

Some bound to this dear earth by hope, and some by love's strong thrall,

And yet dishonour's high disdain was paramount with all.

"Her silver robe flowed to her feet, with jewels circled round,

And in her long and raven hair the regal gems were bound;

And diamonds blaze, ruby and pearl were glittering in her zone,

"The young Sultana led the way, while in her glorious eyes

Shone spiritual, the clear deep light, that is in moonlit skies:

Pale and resolved, her noble brow was worthy of a race

Whose proud blood flowed in those blue veins unconscious of disgrace.

"Solemn and slow with mournful chaunt, come that devoted band,

And Kurnavati follows that--the red torch in her hand:

She fires the pile, a death-black smoke mounts from that dreary cave--

Fling back the city gates--the foe, can now find but a grave.

"Hark the fierce music on the wind, the atabal, the gong,

The stern avenger is behind, he has not tarried long:

They brought his summons, though he stood before his plighted bride;

They brought his summons, though he stood in all but victory's pride.

"Yet down he flung the bridal wreath, he left the field unwon,

All that a warrior might achieve, young Humaioon had done:

Too late--he saw the reddening sky, he saw the smoke arise,

A few faint struggles lived to tell the Ranee's sacrifice.

"But still the monarch held a sword, and had a debt to pay;

Small cause had Buhadour to boast--the triumph of that day:

Again the lone streets flowed with blood, and though too late to save,

Vengeance was the funereal rite at Kurnavati's grave."

Song.

"Oh weep not o'er the quiet grave,

Although the spirit lost be near;

Weep not, for well those phantoms know

How vain the grief above their bier.

Weep not--ah no, 'tis best to die,

Ere all of bloom from life is fled;

Why live, when feelings, friends, and faith

Have long been numbered with the dead?

"They know no rainbow hope that weeps

Itself away to deepest shade;

Nor love, whose very happiness

Should make the trusting heart afraid.

Ah, human tears are tears of fire,

That scorch and wither as they flow;

Then let them fall for those who live,

And not for those who sleep below.

"Yes, weep for those, whose silver chain

Has long been loosed, and yet live on;

The doomed to drink from life's dark spring,

Whose golden bowl has long been gone.

Aye, weep for those, the weary, worn,

The bound to earth by some vain tie:

Some lingering love, some fond regret,

Who loathe to live, yet fear to die."

A moment's rest, and then once more

Zilara tried her memory's store,

And woke, while o'er the strings she bowed,

A tale of Rajahstan the proud.

"Bold as the falcon that faces the sun,

Wild as the streams when in torrents they run,

Fierce as the flame when the jungle's on fire,

Are the chieftains who call on the day-star as Sire.

And left but their ruins their reign to renew,

Those hills have paid tribute to no foreign lord,

And their children have kept what they won by the sword.

Yet downcast each forehead, a sullen dismay

For bootless the struggle, and weary the fight,

Which Adjeit Sing pictures with frown black as night:--

Saw the blood of our bravest sink red in the grass;

And the gifts which were destined to honour the bride,

By the contest of rivals in crimson were dyed.

Where are the warriors who once wont to stand

The glory and rampart of Rajahstan's land?

Ask of the hills for their young and their brave,

The mother sits pale by her desolate hearth,

And weeps o'er the infant an orphan from birth;

While the eldest boy watches the dust on the spear,

Which as yet his weak hand is unable to rear.

The fruit is ungathered, the harvest unsown,

And the vulture exults o'er our fields as his own:

There is famine on earth--there is plague in the air,

And all for a woman whose face is too fair."

There was silence like that from the tomb, for no sound

Was heard form the chieftains who darkened around,

When the voice of a woman arose in reply,

'The daughters of Rajahstan know how to die.'

Her long dark hair plaited with gold on each braid;

Her feet bound with jewels which flashed through the shade;

One hand filled with blossoms, pure hyacinth bells

Which treasure the summer's first breath in their cells;

The other caressing her white antelope,

In all the young beauty of life and of hope.

The princess roved onwards, her heart in her eyes,

That sought their delight in the fair earth and skies.

Oh, loveliest time! oh, happiest day!

When the heart is unconscious, and knows not its sway,

When the favourite bird, or the earliest flower,

Or the crouching fawn's eyes, make the joy of the hour,

And the spirits and steps are as light as the sleep

Which never has waken'd to watch or to weep.

She bounds o'er the soft grass, half woman half child,

As gay as her antelope, almost as wild.

The bloom of her cheek is like that on her years;

She has never known pain, she has never known tears,

And thought has no grief, and no fear to impart;

The shadow of Eden is yet on her heart.

"The midnight has fallen, the quite, the deep,

Yet in yon Zenana none lie down for sleep.

Like frighted birds gathered in timorous bands,

The young slaves within it are wringing their hands.

The mother hath covered her head with her veil,

She weepeth no tears, and she maketh no wail;

But all that lone chamber pass silently by;

She has flung her on earth to despair and to die.

But a lamp is yet burning in one dismal room,

Young princess; where now is thy morning of bloom?

Ah, ages, long ages, have passed in a breath,

And life's bitter knowledge has heralded death.

Proud, beautiful, fierce; while she gazes, the tone

Of those high murky features grows almost her own;

And the blood of her race rushes dark to her brow,

The spirit of heroes has entered her now.

"'Bring the death-cup, the never for my sake shall shame

Quell the pride of my house, or dishonour its name.'

She drained the sherbet, while Chand Baee looked on,

Like a warrior that marks the career of his son.

But life is so strong in each pure azure vein,

That they take not the venom--she drains it again.

The haughty eye closes, the white teeth are set,

And the dew-damps of pain on the wrung brow are wet:

The slight frame is writhing--she sinks to the ground;

She yields to no struggle, she utters no sound--

The small hands are clenched--they relax--it is past,

And her aunt kneels beside her--kneels weeping at last.

Again morning breaks over palace and lake,

But where are the glad eyes it wont to awake.

Weep, weep, 'mid a bright world of beauty and bloom,

For the sweet human flower that lies low in the tomb.

And wild through the palace the death-song is breathing,

And white are the blossoms, the slaves weep while wreathing,

To strew at the feet, and to bind round the head,

Of her who was numbered last night with the dead:

They braid her long tresses, they drop the shroud o'er,

And gaze on her cold and pale beauty no more:

But the heart has her image, and long after years

Will keep her sad memory with music and tears."

The peacock's shining feathers wave

From many a young and graceful slave;

Who silent kneel amid the gloom

Of that dim and perfumed room.

The fond desire of every heart;

But, oh! thou inner world, to thee,

What outward world can e'er impart?

But turn we to that darkened hall,

Where the cool fountain's pleasant fall

Wakens the odours yet unshed

From the blue hyacinth's drooping head;

And on the crimson couch beside

Reclines the young and royal bride;

Not sleeping, though the water's chime,

The lulling flowers, the languid time,

Might soothe her to the gentlest sleep,

O'er which the genii watchings keep,

And shed from their enchanted wings,

All loveliest imaginings:

No, there is murmuring in her ear,

A voice than sleep's more soft and dear;

While that pale slave with drooping eye

Speaks mournfully of days gone by;

And every plaintive word is fraught

With music which the heart has taught,

A pleading and confiding tone,

To those mute lips so long unknown.

Ah! all in vain that she had said,

To feeling, "slumber like the dead;"

Had bade each pang that might convulse

With fiery throb the beating pulse,

Each faded hope, each early dream,

Sleep as beneath a frozen stream;

Such as her native mountains bear,

Heights clad with that eternal snow,

Which happier valleys never know.

Some star in that ungenial sky,

Might well shape such a destiny;

But till within the dark calm grave,

There yet will run an under-wave,

Which human sympathy can still

Excite and melt to tears at will;

No magic any spell affords,

Whose power is like a few kind words.

'Twas strange the contrast in the pair

That leant by that cool fountain's side;

Both very young, both very fair,

By nature, not by fate allied:

That one a darling and delight,

A creature like the morning bright:

Whose weeping is the sunny shower

Half light upon an April hour;

One who had a long glad childhood past,

But left that happy home to 'bide

Where love a deeper shadow cast,

A hero's proud and treasured bride:

Who her light footstep more adored,

Than all the triumphs of his sword;

Whose kingdom at her feet the while,

Had seemed too little for a smile.

But that pale slave was as the tomb

Of her own youth, of her own bloom;

Enough remained to show how fair,

In other days those features were,

Still lingered delicate and fine,

The shadow of their pure outline;

The small curved lip, the glossy brow,

That melancholy beauty wore,

Whose spell is in the silent past,

Which saith to love and hope, "No more;"

No more, for hope hath long forsaken

Love, though at first it's gentle guide,

First lulled to sleep, then left to 'waken,

'Mid tears and scorn, despair and pride,

And only those who know can tell,

What love is after hope's farewell.

And first she spoke of childhood's time,

Little, what childhood ought to be,

When tenderly the gentle child

Is cherished at its mother's knee,

Who deems that ne'er before, from heaven

So sweet a thing to earth was given.

But she an orphan had no share

In fond affection's early care;

She knew not love until it came

Far other, though it bore that name.

"I felt," she said, "all things grow bright!

Before the spirit's inward light.

Earth was more lovely, night and day,

Conscious of some enchanted sway,

That flung around an atmosphere

I had not deemed could brighten here.

And I have gazed on Moohreeb's face,

As exiles watch their native place;

I knew his step before it stirred

From its green nest the cautious bird.

I woke, till eye and cheek grew dim,

Then slept--it was to dream of him;

I lived for days upon a word

Less watchful ear had never heard:

And won from careless look or sign

A happiness too dearly mine.

He was my world--I wished to make

My heart a temple for his sake.

It matters not--such passionate love

Has only life and hope above;

A wanderer from its home on high,

Here it is sent to droop and die.

He loved me not--or but a day,

I was a flower in his way:

A moment near his heart enshrined,

Then flung to perish on the wind."

She hid her face within her hands--

Methinks the maiden well might weep;

The heart it has a weary task

Which unrequited love must keep;

At once a treasure and a curse,

The shadow on its universe.

Alas for young and wasted years,

For long nights only spent in tears;

For hopes, like lamps in some dim urn,

That but for the departed burn.

Alas for her whose drooping brow

Scarce struggles with its sorrow now.

At first Nadira wept to see

That hopelessness of misery.

But, oh, she was too glad, too young,

To dream of an eternal grief;

A thousand thoughts within her sprung,

Of solace, promise, and relief.

Slowly Zilara raised her head,

Then, moved by some strong feeling, said,

"A boon, sultana, there is one

Which won by me, were heaven won;

Not wealth, not freedom--wealth to me

Is worthless, as all wealth must be,

When there are none its gifts to share:

For whom have I on earth to care?

None from whose head its golden shrine

May ward the ills that fell on mine.

And freedom--'tis a worthless boon,

To one who will be free so soon;

And yet I have one prayer, so dear,

I dare not hope--I only fear."

"Speak, trembler, be your wish confest,

And trust Nadira with the rest."

"Lady, look forth on yonder tower,

There spend I morn and midnight's hour,

Well may its branches wave o'er me,

For their dark wreaths are ever shed,

The mournful tribute to the dead--

There sit I, in fond wish to cheer

A captive's sad and lonely ear,

And strive his drooping hopes to raise,

With songs that breathe of happier days.

Lady, methinks I scarce need tell

The name that I have loved so well;

'Tis Moohreeb, captured by the sword

Of him, thy own unconquered lord.

Lady, one word--one look from thee,

And Murad sets that captive free."

"And you will follow at his side?"

"Ah, no, he hath another bride;

And if I pity, can'st thou bear

To think upon her lone despair?

No, break the mountain chieftain's chain,

Give him to hope, home, love again."

Her cheek with former beauty blushed,

The crimson to her forehead rushed,

Her eyes re-kindled till their light

Flashed form the lash's summer night.

So eager was her prayer, so strong

The love that bore her soul along.

Ah! many loves for many hearts;

But if mortality has known

One which its native heaven imparts

To that fine soil where it has grown;

'Tis in that first and early feeling,

Passion's most spiritual revealing;

Half dream, all poetry--whose hope

Colours life's charmed horoscope

With hues so beautiful, so pure--

Whose nature is not to endure.

As well expect the tints to last,

The rainbow on the storm hath cast.

Of all young feelings, love first dies,

Soon the world piles its obsequies;

Yet there have been who still would keep

That early vision dear and deep,

The wretched they, but love requires

Tears, tears to keep alive its fires:

The happy will forget, but those

To whom despair denies repose,

From whom all future light is gone,

The sad, the slighted, still love on.

The voice of the priest is heard from the tower,

The turrets of Delhi are white in the sun,

Alas! that another bright day has begun.

Children of earth, ah! how can ye bear

This constant awakening to toil and to care?

Out upon morning, its hours recall,

Earth to its trouble, man to his thrall;

Out upon morning, it chases the night,

With all the sweet dreams that on slumber alight;

Out upon morning, which wakes us to life,

With its toil, its repining, its sorrow and strife.

And yet there were many in Delhi that day,

Who watched the first light, and rejoiced in the ray;

They wait their young monarch, who comes from the field

With a wreath on his spear, and a dent on his shield.

There's a throng in the east, 'tis the king and his train:

And first prance the horsemen, who scarce can restrain

As the riders who curb them with bridles of gold:

The elephants follow, and o'er each proud head

The chattah that glitters with gems is outspread,

Whence the silver bells fall with their musical sound,

Behind stalk the camels, which, weary and worn,

Seem to stretch their long necks, and repine at the morn;

And wild on the air the fierce war-echoes come,

The voice of the atabal, trumpet, and drum:

Half lost in the shout that ascends from the crowd,

Who delight in the young, and the brave, and the proud.

'Tis folly to talk of the right and the wrong,

The triumph will carry the many along.

One watched that vessel from the shore,

Too conscious of the freight it bore,

And wretched in her granted vow,

Sees Moohreeb leaning by the prow,

And knows that soon the winding river

Will hide him from her view for ever.

Next morn they found that youthful slave

Still kneeling by the sacred wave;

Her head was leaning on the stone

Of an old ruined tomb beside,

A fitting pillow cold and lone,

The dead had to the dead supplied;

The heart's last string hath snapt in twain,

Oh, earth, receive thine own again:

The weary one at length as rest

Within thy chill but quiet breast.

Long did the young sultana keep

The memory of that maiden's lute;

And call to mind her songs, and weep,

Long after these charmed chords were mute.

A small white tomb was raised to show

That human sorrow slept below;

And solemn verse and sacred line

Were graved on that funereal shrine.

And by its side the cypress tree

Stood, like unchanging memory.

And even to this hour are thrown

Green wreaths on that remembered stone;

And songs remain, whose tunes are fraught

With music which herself first taught.

And, it is said, one lonely star

Still brings a murmur sweet and far

Upon the silent midnight air,

As if Zilara wandered there.

Oh! if her poet soul be blent

With its aerial element,

May its lone course be where the rill

Goes singing at its own glad will;

Where early flowers unclose and die;

Where shells beside the ocean lie,

Fill'd with strange tones; or where the breeze

Sheds odours o'er the moonlit seas:

There let her gentle spirit rove,

Embalmed by poetry and love.