Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 001.djvu/282

"'Twas more than midnight now,—a fearful pause
Had followed the long shouts, the wild applause,
That lately from those Royal Gardens burst,
Where the Veiled Demon held his feast accurst,
When Zelica—alas, poor ruin'd heart,
In every horror doom'd to bear its part!—
Was bidden to the banquet by a slave,
Who, while his quivering lip the summons gave,
Grew black, as though the shadows of the grave
Compassed him round, and, ere he could repeat
His message through, fell lifeless at her feet!
Shuddering she went—a soul-felt pang of fear,
A presage that her own dark doom was near,
Roused every feeling, and brought Reason back
Once more, to writhe her last upon the rack.
All round seemed tranquil; even the foe had ceased,
As if aware of that demoniac feast,
His fiery bolts; and though the heavens looked red,
'Twas but some distant conflagration's spread.
But, hark!—she stops—she listens—dreadful tone!
'Tis her Tormentor's laugh—and now a groan,
A long death-groan, comes with it—can this be
The place of mirth, the bower of revelry?
She enters—Holy Alla! what a sight
Was there before her! By the glimmering light
Of the pale dawn, mixed with the flame of brands
That round lay burning, dropped from lifeless hands,
She saw the board in splendid mockery spread,
Rich censers breathing,—garlands over head,—
The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaffed,
All gold and gems, but—what had been the draught?
Oh! who need ask, that saw those livid guests,
With their swollen heads sunk blackening on their breasts,
Or looking pale to Heaven with glassy glare,
As if they sought, but saw no mercy there;
As if they felt, though poison racked them through,
Remorse the deadlier torment of the two!
While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train
Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain
Would have met death with transport by his side,
Here mute and helpless gasped;—but as they died,
Looked horrible vengeance with their eyes' last strain,
And clenched the slackening hand at him in vain.
Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare,
The stony look of horror and despair,
Which some of these expiring victims cast
Upon their souls' tormentor to the last;—
Upon that mocking Fiend, whose Veil now raised,
Show'd them, as in death's agony they gazed,
Not the long promised light, the brow, whose beaming
Was to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming,
But features horribler than Hell e'er traced
On its own brood—no Demon of the Waste,^[2]
No church-yard Ghole, caught lingering in the light
Of the blessed sun, ere blasted human sight
With lineaments so foul, so fierce, as those
Th' Impostor now in grinning mockery shows—
'There, ye wise Saints, behold your Light, your Star—
Ye would be dupes and victims, and ye are.
Is it enough? or must I, while a thrill
Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still?
Swear that the burning death you feel within
Is but a trance, with which heaven's joys begin;
That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgraced
Even monstrous man, is—after God's own taste;