When the death-caverns echo'd every tone Of the dire oath that made her all his own, Th' impostor, sure of his infatuate prize,
Had, more than once, thrown off his soul's disguise, And utter'd such unheavenly, monstrous things, As e'en across the desperate wanderings
Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out, Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt, Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow,
The thought, still haunting her, of that bright brow Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye conceal'd, Would soon, proud triumph! be to her reveal'd, To her alone; and then the hope, most dear, Most wild of all, that her transgression here Was but a passage through earth's grosser fire, From which the spirit would at last aspire, Even purer than before, as perfumes rise
Through flame and smoke, most welcome to the skies,— And that when Azim's fond, divine embrace Should circle her in heaven, no darkening trace Would on that bosom he once loved remain, But all be bright, be pure, be his again!
Wan and dejected, through the evening dusk, She now went slowly to that small kiosk, Where, pondering alone his impious schemes, Mokanna waited her, too wrapt in dreams Of the fair-ripening future's rich success, To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless, That sat upon his victim's downcast brow, Or mark how slow her step, how alter'd now
From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound Came like a spirit's o'er th' unechoing ground, From that wild Zelica, whose every glance Was thrilling fire, whose every thought a trance!
Upon his couch the Veil'd Mokanna lay, While lamps around not such as lend their ray, Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray In holy Koom, or Mecca's dim arcades,
But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids
shed their luxurious glow
Upon his mystic Veil's white glittering flow.
Beside him, 'stead of beads and books of prayer, Which the world fondly thought he mused on there, Stood vases, filled with Kishmee's golden wine, And the red weepings of the Shiraz vine; Of which his curtain'd lips full many a draught Took zealously, as if each drop they quaff'd, Like Zemzem's Spring of Holiness, had power To freshen the soul's virtues into flower! And still he drank and ponder'd, nor could see Th' approaching maid, so deep his reverie; At length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke From Eblis at the Fall of Man, he spoke :
"Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusement given, Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with Heaven; God's images, forsooth! such gods as he
Whom India serves, the monkey deity;
Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay, To whom if Lucifer, as grandams say, Refused, though at the forfeit of Heaven's light, To bend in worship, Lucifer was right! — Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck Of your foul race, and without fear or check, Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame,
My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man's name! Soon, at the head of myriads, blind and fierce As hooded falcons, through the universe I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way,
Weak man my instrument, curst man my prey!
"Ye wise, ye learn'd, who grope your dull way on By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone, Like superstitious thieves, who think the light From dead men's marrow guides them best at night, Ye shall have honours, wealth, - yes, sages, yes, I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothingness; Undazzled it can track yon starry sphere, But a gilt stick, a bawble, blinds it here. How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along, In lying speech and still more lying song,
By these learn'd slaves, the meanest of the throng; Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk so small A sceptre's puny point can wield it all!
"Ye, too, believers of incredible creeds,
Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it breeds; Who, bolder even than Nemrod, think to rise, By nonsense heap'd on nonsense to the skies, Ye shall have the miracles, aye, sound ones too, Seen, heard, attested, everything but true. Your preaching zealots, too inspired to seek One grace of meaning for the things they speak ; Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood, For truths too heavenly to be understood; And your state priests, sole venders of the lore That works salvation, as on Ava's shore, Where none but priests are privileged to trade In that best marble of which gods are made; They shall have mysteries, aye, precious stuff For knaves to thrive by, - mysteries enough; Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave,
Which simple votaries shall on trust receive, While craftier feign belief, till they believe. A heaven, too, ye must have, ye lords of dust, A splendid paradise, pure souls, ye must:
That Prophet ill sustains his holy call,
Who finds not heavens to suit the tastes of all; Houris for boys, omniscience for sages,
And wings and glories for all ranks and ages.
Vain things! as lust or vanity inspires,
The heaven of each is but what each desires,
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