« ForrigeFortsæt »
And calm and smooth it seem'd to win
Its moonlight way before the wind, As it bore all peace within,
Nor left one breaking heart behind!
The Princess, whose heart was sad enough already, could have wished that Feramorz had chosen a less melancholy story; as it is only to the happy that tears are a luxury. Her ladies, however, were by no means sorry that love was once more the poet's theme; for when he spoke of love, they said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree which grows over the tomb of the musician TanSein.
Their road all the morning had lain through a very dreary country, -- through valleys, covered with a low bushy jungle, where, in more than one place, the awful signal of the bamboo staff, with the white flag at its top, reminded the traveller that in that very spot the tiger had made some human creature his victim. It was therefore with much pleasure that they arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen, and encamped under one of those holy trees whose smooth columns and spreading roofs seem to destine them for natural temples of Religion. Beneath the shade, some pious hands had erected pillars ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain, which now supplied the use of mirrors to the young ladies, as they adjusted their hair in descending from the palankeens. Here, while, as usual, the Princess sat listening anxiously, with Fadladeen in one of his loftiest moods of criticism by her
For gentle skies and breezes fair !
She sung so sweet, with none to listen ;
Where thickets of pomegranate glisten In the clear dawn, — bespangled o'er
With dew, whose night-drops would not stain The best and brightest cimeter That ever youthful Sultan wore
On the first morning of his reign !
the Sun himself !— on wings
Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere,
When, from the banks of Bendemeer
Who on Cadessia's bloody plains
And bind her ancient faith in chains; ---
Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates,
Or on the snowy Mossian mountains, Far from his beauteous land of dates,
Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains ! Yet happier so than if he trod His own beloved but blighted sod, Beneath a despot stranger's nod! — Oh! he would rather houseless roam
Where freedom and his God may lead, Than be the sleekest slave at home
That crouches to the conqueror's creed ! Is Iran's pride then gone for ever,
Quench’d with the flame in Mithra's caves ? No: she has sons that never
Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves,
While heaven has light or earth has graves. Spirits of fire, that brood not long, But flash resentment back for wrong; And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds Of vengeance ripen into deeds, Till, in some treacherous hour of calm, They burst, like Zeilan's giant palm, Whose buds fly open with a sound That shakes the pigmy forests round!
Yes, Emir! he who scaled that tower,
And, had he reach'd thy slumbering breast, Had taught thee, in a Gheber's power
How safe even tyrant heads may rest