Chapter I: Part 1

LALLA ROOKH:

AN ORIENTAL ROMANCE.

BY THOMAS MOORE.

WITH SIXTY-NINE ILLUSTRATIONS FROM ORIGINAL DRAWINGS BY JOHN TENNIEL,
ENGRAVED ON WOOD BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL;
AND FIVE ORNAMENTAL PAGES OF PERSIAN DESIGN BY T. SULMAN, JUN.
ENGRAVED ON WOOD BY H. N. WOODS.

LONDON:
LONGMAN, GREEN, LONGMAN, & ROBERTS.
1861.

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Richard Clay
Breads Hill
London
SOLA LUX MIHI LAUS

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TO

SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED

BY

HIS VERY GRATEFUL

AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND

THOMAS MOORE.

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

LALLA ROOKH.

ILLUMINATED TITLE-PAGE.
[From several ancient MSS. in the Library of the East India
House.]

PAGE
He was a youth about LALLA ROOKH’S own age. 1

That Veiled Prophet of Khorassan 8

THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN.

ORNAMENTAL TITLE-PAGE 9
[Principally from a beautiful MS. in the British Museum.]

There on that throne, to which the blind belief
Of millions rais’d him, sat the Prophet-Chief. 11

All, all are there;—each Land its flower hath given,
To form that fair young Nursery for Heaven! 14

Believes the form, to which he bends his knee,
Some pure, redeeming angel, sent to free. 17

She saw that youth, too well, too dearly known,
Silently kneeling at the Prophet’s throne. 21

All fire at once the madd’ning zeal she caught;—
Elect of Paradise! blest, rapturous thought! 25

She swore, and the wide charnel echoed, “Never, never!” 28

At length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke
From EBLIS at the Fall of Man, he spoke. 35

“Such the refin’d enchantress that must be
This hero’s vanquisher,—and thou art she!” 41

He raised his veil—the Maid turn’d slowly round,
Look’d at him—shriek’d—and sunk upon the ground! 47

Now, through the Haram chambers, moving lights
And busy shapes proclaim the toilet’s rites. 50

Young AZIM roams bewilder’d,—nor can guess
What means this maze of light and loneliness. 53

He sees a group of female forms advance. 59

“Poor maiden!” thought the youth, “if thou wert sent.” 62

Oh! could he listen to such sounds unmov’d,
And by that light—nor dream of her he lov’d? 68

“Look up, my ZELICA—one moment show
Those gentle eyes to me, that I may know.” 71

“Oh! curse me not,” she cried, as wild he toss’d
His desperate hand tow’rds Heaven. 75

“Thy oath! thy oath!” 79

They saw a young Hindoo girl upon the bank 81

Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the way? 84

In vain he yells his desperate curses out. 90

For this alone exists—like lightning-fire,
To speed one bolt of vengeance, and expire! 94

And they beheld an orb, ample and bright,
Rise from the Holy Well. 98

And led her glittering forth before the eyes
Of his rude train, as to a sacrifice. 102

And death and conflagration throughout all
The desolate city hold high festival! 104

“There, ye wise Saints, behold your Light, your Star—
Ye _would_ be dupes and victims, and ye _are_.” 109

He sprung and sunk, as the last words were said—
Quick clos’d the burning waters o’er his head. 113

“And pray that He may pardon her,—may take
Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake.” 117

For this the old man breath’d his thanks and died. 119

PARADISE AND THE PERI.

ORNAMENTAL TITLE-PAGE 127
[Architectural details from Baghdad, &c.]

The glorious Angel, who was keeping
The gates of Light, beheld her weeping. 129

⸺She caught the last—
Last glorious drop his heart had shed. 135

Like their good angel, calmly keeping
Watch o’er them till their souls would waken. 143

Then swift his haggard brow he turn’d
To the fair child, who fearless sat. 148

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence! 151

And now—behold him kneeling there
By the child’s side, in humble prayer. 152

“Joy, joy for ever!—my task is done.” 154

THE FIRE WORSHIPPERS.

ORNAMENTAL TITLE-PAGE 167
[In part from the binding of a “Shah Namah,” in the East India
House Library.]

And sits alone in that high bower
Watching the still and shining deep. 169

“Oh! ever thus, from childhood’s hour,
I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay.” 181

“Here, maiden, look—weep—blush to see
All that thy sire abhors in me!” 185

Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp’d,
Nor look’d—but from the lattice dropp’d. 189

The morn hath risen clear and calm,
And o’er the Green Sea palely shines. 192

’Tis HAFED—name of fear, whose sound
Chills like the muttering of a charm! 197

His Chiefs stood round—each shining blade
Upon the broken altar laid. 205

“This very night his blood shall steep
These hands all over ere I sleep!” 211

And o’er the wide, tempestuous wave
Looks, with a shudder, to those towers. 216

And snatch’d her breathless from beneath
This wilderment of wreck and death. 222

Shuddering, she look’d around—there lay
A group of warriors in the sun. 227

“Tremble not, love, thy Gheber’s here!” 233

Ancient Persian Fire-Altar, &c. &c. 236

’Twas one of those ambrosial eves
A day of storm so often leaves. 238

Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down. 241

He felt it—deeply felt—and stood,
As if the tale had frozen his blood. 248

A signal, deep and dread as those
The storm-fiend at his rising blows. 254

As mute they pass’d before the flame
To light their torches as they pass’d. 256

They come—that plunge into the water
Gives signal for the work of slaughter. 263

“Now, Freedom’s God! I come to Thee.” 269

Where still she fix’d her dying gaze,—
And, gazing, sunk into the wave. 274

“Farewell—farewell to thee, ARABY’S daughter!” 277

THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM.

ORNAMENTAL TITLE-PAGE 283
[From porcelain and illuminated MSS.]

Or to see it by moonlight,—when mellowly shines
The light o’er its palaces, gardens, and shrines. 285

He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch
From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match. 291

Such cloud it is that now hangs over
The heart of the Imperial Lover. 295

He heeds them not—one smile of hers
Is worth a world of worshippers. 297

Fill’d with the cool, inspiring smell,
The Enchantress now begins her spell. 302

No sooner was the flowery crown
Plac’d on her head, than sleep came down. 305

That all stood hush’d and wondering,
And turn’d and look’d into the air. 315

She whispers him with laughing eyes,
“Remember, love, the Feast of Roses!” 320

They had now begun to ascend those barren mountains. 321

The marriage was fixed for the morning after her arrival. 329

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PREFACE.

(WRITTEN ORIGINALLY FOR “LALLA ROOKH” IN THE COLLECTED
EDITION OF MOORE’S WORKS.)

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The Poem, or Romance, of LALLA ROOKH, having now reached, I understand, its twentieth edition, a short account of the origin and progress of a work which has been hitherto so very fortunate in its course, may not be deemed, perhaps, superfluous or misplaced.

It was about the year 1812, that, far more through the encouraging suggestions of friends than from any confident promptings of my own ambition, I conceived the design of writing a Poem upon some Oriental subject, and of those quarto dimensions which Scott’s successful publications in that form had then rendered the regular poetical standard. A negotiation on the subject was opened with the Messrs. Longman in the same year; but, from some causes which I cannot now recollect, led to no decisive result; nor was it till a year or two after, that any further steps were taken in the matter,—their house being the only one, it is right to add, with which, from first to last, I held any communication upon the subject.

On this last occasion, Mr. Perry kindly offered himself as my representative in the treaty; and, what with the friendly zeal of my negotiator on the one side, and the prompt and liberal spirit with which he was met on the other, there has seldom, I think, occurred any transaction in which Trade and Poesy have shone out so advantageously in each other’s eyes. The short discussion that then took place, between the two parties, may be comprised in a very few sentences. “I am of opinion,” said Mr. Perry,—enforcing his view of the case by arguments which it is not for me to cite,—“that Mr. Moore ought to receive for his Poem the largest price that has been given, in our day, for such a work.” “That was,” answered the Messrs. Longman, “three thousand guineas.” “Exactly so,” replied Mr. Perry, “and no less a sum ought he to receive.”

It was then objected, and very reasonably, on the part of the firm, that they had never yet seen a single line of the Poem; and that a perusal of the work ought to be allowed to them, before they embarked so large a sum in the purchase. But, no;—the romantic view which my friend, Perry, took of the matter, was, that this price should be given as a tribute to reputation already acquired, without any condition for a previous perusal of the new work. This high tone, I must confess, not a little startled and alarmed me; but, to the honour and glory of Romance,—as well on the publisher’s side as the poet’s,—this very generous view of the transaction was, without any difficulty, acceded to, and the firm agreed, before we separated, that I was to receive three thousand guineas for my Poem.

At the time of this agreement, but little of the work, as it stands at present, had yet been written. But the ready confidence in my success shown by others, made up for the deficiency of that requisite feeling, within myself; while a strong desire not wholly to disappoint this “auguring hope,” became almost a substitute for inspiration. In the year 1815, therefore, having made some progress in my task, I wrote to report the state of the work to the Messrs. Longman, adding, that I was now most willing and ready, should they desire it, to submit the manuscript for their consideration. Their answer to this offer was as follows:—“We are certainly impatient for the perusal of the Poem; but solely for our gratification. Your sentiments are always honourable.”[i]

I continued to pursue my task for another year, being likewise occasionally occupied with the Irish Melodies, two or three numbers of which made their appearance, during the period employed in writing Lalla Rookh. At length, in the year 1816, I found my work sufficiently advanced to be placed in the hands of the publishers. But the state of distress to which England was reduced, in that dismal year, by the exhausting effects of the series of wars she had just then concluded, and the general embarrassment of all classes both agricultural and commercial, rendered it a juncture the least favourable that could well be conceived for the first launch into print of so light and costly a venture as Lalla Rookh. Feeling conscious, therefore, that under such circumstances, I should act but honestly in putting it in the power of the Messrs. Longman to reconsider the terms of their engagement with me,—leaving them free to postpone, modify, or even, should such be their wish, relinquish it altogether, I wrote them a letter to that effect, and received the following answer:—“We shall be most happy in the pleasure of seeing you in February. We agree with you, indeed, that the times are most inauspicious for ‘poetry and thousands;’ but we believe that your poetry would do more than that of any other living poet at the present moment.”[ii]

The length of time I employed in writing the few stories strung together in Lalla Rookh will appear, to some persons, much more than was necessary for the production of such easy and “light o’ love” fictions. But, besides that I have been, at all times, a far more slow and painstaking workman than would ever be guessed, I fear, from the result, I felt that, in this instance, I had taken upon myself a more than ordinary responsibility, from the immense stake risked by others on my chance of success. For a long time, therefore, after the agreement had been concluded, though generally at work with a view to this task, I made but very little real progress in it; and I have still by me the beginnings of several stories continued, some of them, to the length of three or four hundred lines, which, after in vain endeavouring to mould them into shape, I threw aside, like the tale of Cambuscan, “left half-told.” One of these stories, entitled The Peri’s Daughter, was meant to relate the loves of a nymph of this aërial extraction with a youth of mortal race, the rightful Prince of Ormuz, who had been, from his infancy, brought up in seclusion, on the banks of the river Amou, by an aged guardian named Mohassan. The story opens with the first meeting of these destined lovers, then in their childhood; the Peri having wafted her daughter to this holy retreat, in a bright, enchanted boat, whose first appearance is thus described:—

* * * * *

For, down the silvery tide afar,
There came a boat, as swift and bright
As shines, in heav’n, some pilgrim-star,
That leaves its own high home, at night,
To shoot to distant shrines of light.

“It comes, it comes,” young Orian cries,
And panting to Mohassan flies.
Then, down upon the flowery grass
Reclines to see the vision pass;
With partly joy and partly fear,
To find its wondrous light so near,
And hiding oft his dazzled eyes
Among the flowers on which he lies.

* * * * *

Within the boat a baby slept,
Like a young pearl within its shell;
While one, who seem’d of riper years,
But not of earth, or earth-like spheres,
Her watch beside the slumberer kept;
Gracefully waving, in her hand,
The feathers of some holy bird,
With which, from time to time, she stirr’d
The fragrant air, and coolly fann’d
The baby’s brow, or brush’d away
The butterflies that, bright and blue
As on the mountains of Malay,
Around the sleeping infant flew.
And now the fairy boat hath stopp’d
Beside the bank,—the nymph has dropp’d
Her golden anchor in the stream;

* * * * *

A song is sung by the Peri in approaching, of which the following forms a part:—

My child she is but half divine,
Her father sleeps in the Caspian water;
Sea-weeds twine
His funeral shrine,
But he lives again in the Peri’s daughter.
Fain would I fly from mortal sight
To my own sweet bowers of Peristan;
But, there, the flowers are all too bright
For the eyes of a baby born of man.
On flowers of earth her feet must tread;
So hither my light-wing’d bark hath brought her;
Stranger, spread
Thy leafiest bed,
To rest the wandering Peri’s daughter.

In another of these inchoate fragments, a proud female saint, named Banou, plays a principal part; and her progress through the streets of Cufa, on the night of a great illuminated festival, I find thus described:—

It was a scene of mirth that drew
A smile from ev’n the Saint Banou,
As, through the hush’d, admiring throng,
She went with stately steps along,
And counted o’er, that all might see,
The rubies of her rosary.
But none might see the worldly smile
That lurk’d beneath her veil, the while:—
Alla forbid! for, who would wait
Her blessing at the temple’s gate,—
What holy man would ever run
To kiss the ground she knelt upon,
If once, by luckless chance, he knew
She look’d and smil’d as others do.
Her hands were join’d, and from each wrist
By threads of pearl and golden twist
Hung relics of the saints of yore,
And scraps of talismanic lore,—
Charms for the old, the sick, the frail,
Some made for use, and all for sale.
On either side, the crowd withdrew,
To let the Saint pass proudly through;
While turban’d heads of every hue,
Green, white, and crimson, bow’d around,
And gay tiaras touch’d the ground,—
As tulip-bells, when o’er their beds
The musk-wind passes, bend their heads.
Nay, some there were, among the crowd
Of Moslem heads that round her bow’d,
So fill’d with zeal, by many a draught
Of Shiraz wine profanely quaff’d,
That, sinking low in reverence then,
They never rose till morn again.

There are yet two more of these unfinished sketches, one of which extends to a much greater length than I was aware of; and, as far as I can judge from a hasty renewal of my acquaintance with it, is not incapable of being yet turned to account.

In only one of these unfinished sketches, the tale of The Peri’s Daughter, had I yet ventured to invoke that most home-felt of all my inspirations, which has lent to the story of The Fire-worshippers its main attraction and interest. That it was my intention, in the concealed Prince of Ormuz, to shadow out some impersonation of this feeling, I take for granted from the prophetic words supposed to be addressed to him by his aged guardian:—

Bright child of destiny! even now
I read the promise on that brow,
That tyrants shall no more defile
The glories of the Green Sea Isle,
But Ormuz shall again be free,
And hail her native Lord in thee!

In none of the other fragments do I find any trace of this sort of feeling, either in the subject or the personages of the intended story; and this was the reason, doubtless, though hardly known, at the time, to myself, that, finding my subjects so slow in kindling my own sympathies, I began to despair of their ever touching the hearts of others; and felt often inclined to say,

“Oh no, I have no voice or hand
For such a song, in such a land.”

Had this series of disheartening experiments been carried on much further, I must have thrown aside the work in despair. But, at last, fortunately, as it proved, the thought occurred to me of founding a story on the fierce struggle so long maintained between the Ghebers,[iii] or ancient Fire-worshippers of Persia, and their haughty Moslem masters. From that moment, a new and deep interest in my whole task took possession of me. The cause of tolerance was again my inspiring theme; and the spirit that had spoken in the melodies of Ireland soon found itself at home in the East.

Having thus laid open the secrets of the workshop to account for the time expended in _writing_ this work, I must also, in justice to my own industry, notice the pains I took in long and laboriously _reading_ for it. To form a store-house, as it were, of illustration purely Oriental, and so familiarise myself with its various treasures, that, as quick as Fancy required the aid of fact, in her spiritings, the memory was ready, like another Ariel, at her “strong bidding,” to furnish materials for the spellwork,—such was, for a long while, the sole object of my studies; and whatever time and trouble this preparatory process may have cost me, the effects resulting from it, as far as the humble merit of truthfulness is concerned, have been such as to repay me more than sufficiently for my pains. I have not forgotten how great was my pleasure, when told by the late Sir James Mackintosh, that he was once asked by Colonel W⸺s, the historian of British India, “whether it was true that Moore had never been in the East?” “Never,” answered Mackintosh. “Well, that shows me,” replied Colonel W⸺s, “that reading over D’Herbelot is as good as riding on the back of a camel.”

I need hardly subjoin to this lively speech, that although D’Herbelot’s valuable work was, of course, one of my manuals, I took the whole range of all such Oriental reading as was accessible to me; and became, for the time, indeed, far more conversant with all relating to that distant region, than I have ever been with the scenery, productions, or modes of life of any of those countries lying most within my reach. We know that D’Anville, though never in his life out of Paris, was able to correct a number of errors in a plan of the Troad taken by De Choiseul, on the spot; and, for my own very different, as well as far inferior, purposes, the knowledge I had thus acquired of distant localities, seen only by me in my day-dreams, was no less ready and useful.

An ample reward for all this painstaking has been found in such welcome tributes as I have just now cited; nor can I deny myself the gratification of citing a few more of the same description. From another distinguished authority on Eastern subjects, the late Sir John Malcolm, I had myself the pleasure of hearing a similar opinion publicly expressed;—that eminent person in a speech spoken by him at a Literary Fund Dinner, having remarked, that together with those qualities of a poet which he much too partially assigned to me was combined also “the truth of the historian.”

Sir William Ouseley, another high authority, in giving his testimony to the same effect, thus notices an exception to the general accuracy for which he gives me credit:—“Dazzled by the beauties of this composition,[iv] few readers can perceive, and none surely can regret, that the poet, in his magnificent catastrophe, has forgotten, or boldly and most happily violated, the precept of Zoroaster, above noticed, which held it impious to consume any portion of a human body by fire, especially by that which glowed upon their altars.” Having long lost, I fear, most of my Eastern learning, I can only cite, in defence of my catastrophe, an old Oriental tradition, which relates, that Nimrod, when Abraham refused, at his command, to worship the fire, ordered him to be thrown into the midst of the flames.[v] A precedent so ancient for this sort of use of the worshipped element, would appear, for all purposes at least of poetry, fully sufficient.

In addition to these agreeable testimonies, I have also heard, and, need hardly add, with some pride and pleasure, that parts of this work have been rendered into Persian, and have found their way to Ispahan. To this fact, as I am willing to think it, allusion is made in some lively verses, written many years since, by my friend, Mr. Luttrell:—

“I’m told, dear Moore, your lays are sung,
(Can it be true, you lucky man?)
By moonlight, in the Persian tongue,
Along the streets of Ispahan.”

That some knowledge of the work may have really reached that region, appears not improbable from a passage in the Travels of Mr. Frazer, who says, that “being delayed for some time at a town on the shores of the Caspian, he was lucky enough to be able to amuse himself with a copy of Lalla Rookh, which a Persian had lent him.”

Of the description of Balbec, in “Paradise and the Peri,” Mr. Carne, in his Letters from the East, thus speaks: “The description in Lalla Rookh of the plain and its ruins is exquisitely faithful. The minaret is on the declivity near at hand, and there wanted only the muezzin’s cry to break the silence.”

I shall now tax my reader’s patience with but one more of these generous vouchers. Whatever of vanity there may be in citing such tributes, they show, at least, of what great value, even in poetry, is that prosaic quality, industry; since, as the reader of the foregoing pages is now fully apprized, it was in a slow and laborious collection of small facts, that the first foundations of this fanciful Romance were laid.

The friendly testimony I have just referred to, appeared, some years since, in the form in which I now give it, and, if I recollect right, in the Athenæum:—

“I embrace this opportunity of bearing my individual testimony
(if it be of any value) to the extraordinary accuracy of Mr.
Moore, in his topographical, antiquarian, and characteristic
details, whether of costume, manners, or less-changing
monuments, both in his Lalla Rookh and in the Epicurean. It has
been my fortune to read his Atlantic, Bermudean, and American
Odes and Epistles, in the countries and among the people to
which and to whom they related; I enjoyed also the exquisite
delight of reading his Lalla Rookh, in Persia itself; and I have
perused the Epicurean, while all my recollections of Egypt and
its still existing wonders are as fresh as when I quitted the
banks of the Nile for Arabia:—I owe it, therefore, as a debt of
gratitude (though the payment is most inadequate), for the great
pleasure I have derived from his productions, to bear my humble
testimony to their local fidelity.

J. S. B.”

Among the incidents connected with this work, I must not omit to notice the splendid Divertissement, founded upon it, which was acted at the Château Royal of Berlin, during the visit of the Grand Duke Nicholas to that capital, in the year 1822. The different stories composing the work were represented in Tableaux Vivans and songs; and among the crowd of royal and noble personages engaged in the performances, I shall mention those only who represented the principal characters, and whom I find thus enumerated in the published account of the Divertissement.[vi]

“Fadladin, Grand-Nasir Comte Haack (Maréchal de Cour.)
Aliris, Roi de Bucharie S. A. I. Le Grand Duc.
Lalla Roûkh S. A. I. Le Grande Duchesse.
Aurungzeb, le Grand Mogol { S. A. R. Le Prince Guillaume,
{ frère du Roi.
Abdallah, Père d’Aliris S. A. R. Le Duc de Cumberland.
La Reine, son épouse { S. A. R. La Princesse Louise
{ Radzivill.”

Besides these and other leading personages, there were also brought into action, under the various denominations of Seigneurs et Dames de Bucharie, Dames de Cachemire, Seigneurs et Dames dansans à la Fête des Roses, &c. nearly 150 persons.

Of the manner and style in which the Tableaux of the different stories are described in the work from which I cite, the following account of the performance of Paradise and the Peri will afford some specimen:—

“La décoration représentoit les portes brillantes du Paradis, entourées de nuages. Dans le premier tableau on voyoit la Péri, triste et desolée, couchée sur le seuil des portes fermées, et l’Ange de lumière qui lui addresse des consolations et des conseils. Le second représente le moment où la Péri, dans l’espoir que ce don lui ouvrira l’entrée du Paradis, recueille la dernière goutte de sang que vient de verser le jeune guerrier Indien....

“La Péri et l’Ange de lumière répondoient pleinement à l’image et à l’idée qu’on est tenté de se faire de ces deux individus, et l’impression qu’a faite généralement la suite des tableaux de cet épisode délicat et intéressant est loin de s’effacer de notre souvenir.”

In this grand Fête, it appears, originated the translation of Lalla Rookh into German[vii] verse, by the Baron de la Motte Fouqué; and the circumstances which led him to undertake the task, are described by himself in a Dedicatory Poem to the Empress of Russia, which he has prefixed to his translation. As soon as the performance, he tells us, had ended, Lalla Rookh (the Empress herself) exclaimed, with a sigh, “Is it, then, all over? are we now at the close of all that has given us so much delight? and lives there no poet who will impart to others, and to future times, some notion of the happiness we have enjoyed this evening?” On hearing this appeal, a Knight of Cashmere (who is no other than the poetical Baron himself) comes forward and promises to attempt to present to the world “the Poem itself in the measure of the original:”—whereupon Lalla Rookh, it is added, approvingly smiled.

-----

Footnote i:

April 10, 1815.

Footnote ii:

November 9, 1816.

Footnote iii:

Voltaire, in his tragedy of “Les Guèbres,” written with a similar
under-current of meaning, was accused of having transformed his
Fire-worshippers into Jansenists:—“Quelques figuristes,” he says,
“prétendent que les Guèbres sont les jansénistes.”

Footnote iv:

The Fire-worshippers.

Footnote v:

“Tradunt autem Hebræi hanc fabulam quod Abraham in ignem missus sit
quia ignem adorare noluit.”—ST. HIERON. _in Quæst. in Genesim_.

Footnote vi:

Lalla Roûkh Divertissement, mêlé de Chants et de Danses, Berlin, 1822.
The work contains a series of coloured engravings, representing
groups, processions, &c. in different Oriental costumes.

Footnote vii:

Since this was written, another translation of Lalla Rookh into German
verse has been made by Theodor Oelckers (Leipzig, Tauchnitz, Jun.),
which has already passed through three editions.

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LALLA ROOKH

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In the eleventh year of the reign of Aurungzebe, Abdalla, King of the Lesser Bucharia, a lineal descendant from the Great Zingis, having abdicated the throne in favour of his son, set out on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Prophet; and, passing into India through the delightful valley of Cashmere, rested for a short time at Delhi on his way. He was entertained by Aurungzebe in a style of magnificent hospitality, worthy alike of the visitor and the host, and was afterwards escorted with the same splendour to Surat, where he embarked for Arabia.[1] During the stay of the Royal Pilgrim at Delhi, a marriage was agreed upon between the Prince, his son, and the youngest daughter of the emperor, LALLA ROOKH;[2]—a Princess described by the Poets of her time as more beautiful than Leila,[3] Shirine,[4] Dewildé,[5] or any of those heroines whose names and loves embellish the songs of Persia and Hindostan. It was intended that the nuptials should be celebrated at Cashmere; where the young King, as soon as the cares of empire would permit, was to meet, for the first time, his lovely bride, and, after a few months’ repose in that enchanting valley, conduct her over the snowy hills into Bucharia.

The day of LALLA ROOKH’S departure from Delhi was as splendid as sunshine and pageantry could make it. The bazaars and baths were all covered with the richest tapestry; hundreds of gilded barges upon the Jumna floated with their banners shining in the water; while through the streets groups of beautiful children went strewing the most delicious flowers around, as in that Persian festival called the Scattering of the Roses;[6] till every part of the city was as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khoten had passed through it. The Princess, having taken leave of her kind father, who at parting hung a cornelian of Yemen round her neck, on which was inscribed a verse from the Koran, and having sent a considerable present to the Fakirs, who kept up the Perpetual Lamp in her sister’s tomb, meekly ascended the palankeen prepared for her; and, while Aurungzebe stood to take a last look from his balcony, the procession moved slowly on the road to Lahore.

Seldom had the Eastern world seen a cavalcade so superb. From the gardens in the suburbs to the Imperial palace, it was one unbroken line of splendour. The gallant appearance of the Rajahs and Mogul Lords, distinguished by those insignia of the Emperor’s favour,[7] the feathers of the egret of Cashmere in their turbans, and the small silver-rimmed kettledrums at the bows of their saddles;—the costly armour of their cavaliers, who vied, on this occasion, with the guards of the great Keder Khan,[8] in the brightness of their silver battle-axes and the massiness of their maces of gold;—the glittering of the gilt pine-apples[9] on the tops of the palankeens;—the embroidered trappings of the elephants, bearing on their backs small turrets, in the shape of little antique temples, within which the Ladies of LALLA ROOKH lay as it were enshrined;—the rose-coloured veils of the Princess’s own sumptuous litter,[10] at the front of which a fair young female slave sat fanning her through the curtains, with feathers of the Argus pheasant’s wing;[11]—and the lovely troop of Tartarian and Cashmerian maids of honour, whom the young King had sent to accompany his bride, and who rode on each side of the litter, upon small Arabian horses:—all was brilliant, tasteful, and magnificent, and pleased even the critical and fastidious FADLADEEN, Great Nazir or Chamberlain of the Haram, who was borne in his palankeen immediately after the Princess, and considered himself not the least important personage of the pageant.

FADLADEEN was a judge of everything,—from the pencilling of a Circassian’s eyelids to the deepest questions of science and literature; from the mixture of a conserve of rose-leaves to the composition of an epic poem: and such influence had his opinion upon the various tastes of the day, that all the cooks and poets of Delhi stood in awe of him. His political conduct and opinions were founded upon that line of Sadi,—“Should the Prince at noon-day say, It is night, declare that you behold the moon and stars.”—And his zeal for religion; of which Aurungzebe was a munificent protector,[12] was about as disinterested as that of the goldsmith who fell in love with the diamond eyes of the Idol of Jaghernaut.[13]

During the first days of their journey, LALLA ROOKH, who had passed all her life within the shadow of the Royal Gardens of Delhi,[14] found enough in the beauty of the scenery through which they passed to interest her mind, and delight her imagination; and when at evening, or in the heat of the day, they turned off from the high road to those retired and romantic places which had been selected for her encampments, sometimes on the banks of a small rivulet, as clear as the waters of the Lake of Pearl;[15] sometimes under the sacred shade of a Banyan tree, from which the view opened upon a glade covered with antelopes; and often in those hidden, embowered spots, described by one from the Isles of the West,[16] as “places of melancholy, delight, and safety, where all the company around was wild peacocks and turtle-doves;”—she felt a charm in these scenes, so lovely and so new to her, which, for a time, made her indifferent to every other amusement. But LALLA ROOKH was young, and the young love variety; nor could the conversation of her Ladies and the great Chamberlain, FADLADEEN, (the only persons, of course, admitted to her pavilion,) sufficiently enliven those many vacant hours, which were devoted neither to the pillow nor the palankeen. There was a little Persian slave who sung sweetly to the Vina, and who, now and then, lulled the Princess to sleep with the ancient ditties of her country, about the loves of Wamak and Ezra,[17] the fair-haired Zal and his mistress Rodahver;[18] not forgetting the combat of Rustam with the terrible White Demon.[19] At other times she was amused by those graceful dancing-girls of Delhi, who had been permitted by the Bramins of the Great Pagoda to attend her, much to the horror of the good Mussulman FADLADEEN, who could see nothing graceful or agreeable in idolaters, and to whom the very tinkling of their golden anklets[20] was an abomination.

But these and many other diversions were repeated till they lost all their charm, and the nights and noondays were beginning to move heavily, when, at length, it was recollected that, among the attendants sent by the bridegroom, was a young poet of Cashmere, much celebrated throughout the valley for his manner of reciting the Stories of the East, on whom his Royal Master had conferred the privilege of being admitted to the pavilion of the Princess, that he might help to beguile the tediousness of the journey by some of his most agreeable recitals. At the mention of a poet, FADLADEEN elevated his critical eyebrows, and, having refreshed his faculties with a dose of that delicious opium[21] which is distilled from the black poppy of the Thebais, gave orders for the minstrel to be forthwith introduced into the presence.

The Princess, who had once in her life seen a poet from behind the screens of gauze in her Father’s hall, and had conceived from that specimen no very favourable ideas of the Caste, expected but little in this new exhibition to interest her;—she felt inclined, however, to alter her opinion on the very first appearance of FERAMORZ. He was a youth about LALLA ROOKH’S own age, and graceful as that idol of women, Crishna,[22]—such as he appears to their young imaginations, heroic, beautiful, breathing music from his very eyes, and exalting the religion of his worshippers into love. His dress was simple, yet not without some marks of costliness; and the ladies of the Princess were not long in discovering that the cloth, which encircled his high Tartarian cap, was of the most delicate kind that the shawl-goats of Tibet supply.[23] Here and there, too, over his vest, which was confined by a flowered girdle of Kashan, hung strings of fine pearl, disposed with an air of studied negligence:—nor did the exquisite embroidery of his sandals escape the observation of these fair critics; who, however they might give way to FADLADEEN upon the unimportant topics of religion and government, had the spirit of martyrs in every thing relating to such momentous matters as jewels and embroidery.

For the purpose of relieving the pauses of recitation by music, the young Cashmerian held in his hand a kitar;—such as, in old times, the Arab maids of the West used to listen to by moonlight in the gardens of the Alhambra—and, having premised, with much humility, that the story he was about to relate was founded on the adventures of that Veiled Prophet of Khorassan,[24] who, in the year of the Hegira 163, created such alarm throughout the Eastern Empire, made an obeisance to the Princess, and thus began:—

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The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan[25]

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In that delightful Province of the Sun,
The first of Persian lands he shines upon,
Where all the loveliest children of his beam,
Flow’rets and fruits, blush over every stream,[26]
And, fairest of all streams, the MURGA roves
Among MEROU’S[27] bright palaces and groves;—
There on that throne, to which the blind belief
Of millions rais’d him, sat the Prophet-Chief,
The Great MOKANNA. O’er his features hung
The Veil, the Silver Veil, which he had flung
In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight
His dazzling brow, till man could bear its light.
For, far less luminous, his votaries said,
Were ev’n the gleams, miraculously shed
O’er MOUSSA’S[28] cheek,[29] when down the Mount he trod,
All glowing from the presence of his God!

On either side, with ready hearts and hands,
His chosen guard of bold Believers stands;
Young fire-eyed disputants, who deem their swords,
On points of faith, more eloquent than words;
And such their zeal, there’s not a youth with brand
Uplifted there, but, at the Chief’s command,
Would make his own devoted heart its sheath,
And bless the lips that doom’d so dear a death!
In hatred to the Caliph’s hue of night,[30]
Their vesture, helms and all, is snowy white;
Their weapons various—some equipp’d for speed,
With javelins of the light Kathaian reed;[31]
Or bows of buffalo horn and shining quivers
Fill’d with the stems[32] that bloom on IRAN’S rivers;[33]
While some, for war’s more terrible attacks,
Wield the huge mace and ponderous battle-axe;
And as they wave aloft in morning’s beam
The milk-white plumage of their helms, they seem
Like a chenar-tree grove,[34] 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 plac’d 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 the’ 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,[35]
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;[36]
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,[37] of different shape and dyes,
Bending beneath the’ 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,[38]
So fiercely beautiful in form and eye,
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 heaven-sent Chief.

Though few his years, the West already knows
Young AZIM’S fame;—beyond the’ Olympian snows,
Ere manhood darken’d o’er his downy cheek,
O’erwhelm’d in fight and captive to the Greek,[39]
He linger’d there, till peace dissolv’d 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 godlike 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 the’ 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 heaven 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
The’ 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, the’ 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.[40]
Then thus he spoke:—“Stranger, though new the frame
“Thy soul inhabits now, I’ve track’d its flame
“For many an age,[41] 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:[42]
“Such the refin’d Intelligence that glow’d
“In MOUSSA’S[43] frame,—and, thence descending, flow’d
“Through many a Prophet’s breast;[44]—in ISSA[45] 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 the’ assembly, at these words,
Thousands of voices rung: the warriors’ swords
Were pointed up to heaven; a sudden wind
In the’ open banners played, 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 beck’ning to their bowers the’ 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 daylight 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 thrilled 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
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 the’ aërial 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 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,[46] 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 the’ 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
Their suns away—but ah! how cold and dim
Even summer suns, when not beheld with him!
From time to time ill-omen’d rumours came,
Like spirit-tongues mutt’ring the sick man’s name,
Just ere he dies:—at length those sounds of dread
Fell with’ring on her soul, “AZIM is dead!”
Oh Grief, beyond all other griefs, when fate
First leaves the young heart lone and desolate
In the wide world, without that only tie
For which it lov’d to live or fear’d to die;—
Lorn as the hung-up lute, that ne’er hath spoken
Since the sad day its master-chord was broken!
Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was such,
Even reason sunk,—blighted beneath its touch:
And though, ere long, her sanguine spirit rose
Above the first dead pressure of its woes,
Though health and bloom return’d, the delicate chain
Of thought, once tangled, never clear’d again.
Warm, lively, soft as in youth’s happiest day,
The mind was still all there, but turned astray;—
A wand’ring bark, upon whose pathway shone
All stars of heaven, except the guiding one!
Again she smil’d, nay, much and brightly smil’d,
But ’twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild;
And when she sung to her lute’s touching strain,
’Twas like the notes, half ecstasy, half pain,
The bulbul[47] utters, ere her soul depart,
When, vanquish’d by some minstrel’s powerful art,
She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke her heart!

Such was the mood in which that mission found
Young ZELICA,—that mission, which around
The Eastern world, in every region blest
With woman’s smile, sought out its loveliest,
To grace that galaxy of lips and eyes
Which the Veil’d Prophet destined for the skies:—
And such quick welcome as a spark receives
Dropp’d on a bed of Autumn’s withered leaves,
Did every tale of these enthusiasts find
In the wild maiden’s sorrow-blighted mind.
All fire at once the madd’ning zeal she caught;—
Elect of Paradise! blest, rapturous thought!
Predestin’d bride, in heaven’s eternal dome,
Of some brave youth—ha! durst they say “of _some_?”
No—of the one, one only object trac’d
In her heart’s core too deep to be effac’d;
The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twin’d
With every broken link of her lost mind;
Whose image lives, though Reason’s self be wreck’d,
Safe ’mid the ruins of her intellect!

Alas, poor ZELICA! it needed all
The fantasy, which held thy mind in thrall,
To see in that gay Haram’s glowing maids
A sainted colony for Eden’s shades;
Or dream that he,—of whose unholy flame
Thou wert too soon the victim,—shining came
From Paradise, to people its pure sphere
With souls like thine, which he hath ruin’d here!
No—had not Reason’s light totally set,
And left thee dark, thou hadst an amulet
In the lov’d image, graven on thy heart,
Which would have sav’d thee from the tempter’s art,
And kept alive, in all its bloom of breath,
That purity, whose fading is love’s death!—
But lost, inflamed,—a restless zeal took place
Of the mild virgin’s still and feminine grace;
First of the Prophet’s favourites, proudly first
In zeal and charms,—too well the’ Impostor nurs’d
Her soul’s delirium, in whose active flame,
Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant frame,
He saw more potent sorceries to bind
To his dark yoke the spirits of mankind,
More subtle chains than hell itself e’er twin’d.
No art was spar’d, no witchery;—all the skill
His demons taught him was employ’d to fill
Her mind with gloom and ecstasy by turns—
That gloom, through which Frenzy but fiercer burns;
That ecstasy, which from the depth of sadness
Glares like the maniac’s moon, whose light is madness.