Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 001.djvu/502
die away in the solitary darkness of reflection.
We shall now endeavour, by extracts, to give our readers some idea of the execution of this fine Poem, the subject of which, and the story, is, we hope, clearly enough explained by the foregoing analysis.
We are thus introduced to Hinda, the heroine of the tale, and we think that, with the exception of the image of the serpent gazing on the emerald, which, in good truth, is but a sorry conceit, the description is most beautiful.
"Light as the angel shapes that bless
An infant's dream, yet not the less
Rich in all woman's loveliness;—
With eyes so pure, that from their ray
Dark Vice would turn abash'd away,
Blinded like serpents, when they gaze
Upon the emerald's virgin blaze!
Yet, fill'd with all youth's sweet desires,
Mingling the meek and vestal fires
Of other worlds with all the bliss,
The fond, weak tenderness of this!
A soul too, more than half divine,
Where, through some shades of earthly feeling,
Religion's soften'd glories shine,
Like light through summer foliage stealing,
Shedding a glow of such mild hue,
So warm and yet so shadowy too,
As makes the very darkness there
More beautiful than light elsewhere!"
A striking picture is conveyed in the following six lines, of Hinda listening the approach of her lover's skiff, from her airy tower:
"Ev'n now thou seest the flashing spray,
That lights his oar's impatient way;
Ev'n now thou hear'st die sudden shock
Of his swift bark against the rock,
And stretchest down thy arms of snow,
As if to lift him from below!"
Her first interview with her lover, and all her bewildering emotions, are thus described:
"She loves—but knows not whom she loves,
Nor what his race, nor whence he came;—
Like one who meets, in Indian groves,
Some beauteous bird, without a name,
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze
From isles in th' undiscover'd seas,
To shew his plumage for a day
To wondering eyes, and wing away!
Will he thus fly—her nameless lover?
Alla forbid! 'twas by a moon
As fair as this, while singing over
Some ditty to her soft Kanoon,
Alone, at this same witching hour,
She first beheld his radiant eyes
Gleam through the lattice of the bower,
Where nightly now they mix their sighs;
And thought some spirit of the air
(For what could waft a mortal there?)
Was pausing on his moonlight way
To listen to her lonely lay!
This fancy ne'er hath left her mind;
And though, when terror's swoon had past,
She saw a youth of mortal kind,
Before her in obeisance cast,—
Yet often since, when he has spoken,
Strange, awful words, and gleams have broken
From his dark eyes, too bright to bear,
Oh! she hath fear'd her soul was given
To some unhallowed child of air,
Some erring Spirit cast from heaven,
Like those angelic youths of old,
Who burned for maids of mortal mould,
Bewilder'd left the glorious skies,
And lost their heaven for woman's eyes!
Fond girl! nor fiend, nor angel he,
Who woos thy young simplicity;
But one of earth's impassioned sons,
As warm in love, as fierce in ire,
As the best heart whose current runs
Full of the Day-God's living fire!"
There is infinite spirit, freedom, strength, and energy, in that part of the poem where Hinda discovers her lover to be a Gheber, many fine and delicate touches of genuine pathos, and many bursts of uncontrollable passion. As for example:
"'Hold, hold—thy words are death—'
The stranger cried, as wild he flung
His mantle back, and show'd beneath
The Gheber belt that round him clung—
'Here, maiden, look—weep—blush to see
All that thy sire abhors in mr!
Yes—I am of that impious race,
Those Slaves of Fire, who, morn and even,
Hail their Creator's dwelling-place
Among the living lights of heaven!
Yes—I am of that outcast few,
To Iran and to vengeance true,
Who curse the hour your Arabs came
To desolate our shrines of flame,
And swear, before God's burning eye,
To break our country's chains, or die!
Thy bigot sire nay,—tremble not—
He, who gave birth to those dear eyes,
With me is sacred as the spot
From which our fires of worship rise!
But know—'twas he I sought that night,
When, from my watch-boat on the sea,
I caught this turret's glimmering light,
And up the rude rocks desperately
Rush'd to my prey—thou know'st the rest—
I climb'd the gory vulture's nest,
And found a trembling dove within;—
Thine, thine the victory—thine the sin—
If Love has made one thought his own,
That vengeance claims first—last—alone!
Oh! had we never, never met,
Or could this heart ev'n now forget
How link'd, how bless'd we might have been,
Had fate not frown'd so dark between!