The Captive Ladie/Canto 1

The star of Eve is on the sky,
But pale it shines and tremblingly,
As if the solitude around,
So vast—so wild—without a bound,
Hath in its softly throbbing breast
Awak'd some maiden fear—unrest:
But soon—soon will its radiant peers
Peep forth from out their deep-blue spheres,
And soon the ladie Moon will rise
To bathe in silver Earth and Skies,
The soft—pale silver of her pensive eyes.
****'Tis eve—the dew's on leaf and flow'r,
The soft breeze in the moon-lit bow'r,

And fire-flies with pale gleaming gems
Upon their fairy diadems,
Like winged stars now walk the deep
Of space soft-hushed in dewy sleep,
And people every leaf and tree
With beauty and with radiancy:—
There's light upon the heaving stream,
And music sweet as heard in dream,
And many a star upon its breast
Is calmly pillow'd unto rest,
While there—as on a silver throne—
All melancholy—veil'd—alone—
Beneath the pale Moon's colder ray—
The Bride of him—the Lord of Day, ^[1]
In silence droops—as in lone bow'r
The love-lorn maid at twilight hour!
She looks not on the smiling sky—
The wide expanse blue, far and high,
She looks not on the stars above
Throbbing like bosoms breathing love—
Nor lists she to the breeze so gay,
Which whispers round in wanton play,
And stirs soft waves of starry gleam
To wake her from that moody dream!
****The moon-light's on yon frowning pile,

But oh! how faint and pale its smile!
Methinks yon high and gloomy tow'r
And battlement and faded bow'r,
With awful hush and solitude
Have chill'd its soft and joyous mood.

And well may moonlight there look pale,
And night-breeze come—but come to wail,
For 'tis the scene where sorrow weeps,
And grief her lonely vigil keeps—
Consigned by tyranny to pine
In cruelty's dark, demon shrine,
The donjon's cold and sunless gloom,
Far colder than the silent tomb—
For there the memory of light
Haunts not the sleeper of its night,
With dreams which mock the lightless mood
Of the crush'd bosom's solitude!

The moon-light's on yon frowning pile,
Tho' faint and pale now be its smile,
It lingers on yon gloomy tow'r
And battlement and fountless bow'r,
As one who soothes—tho' all in vain—
The mad and agonizing brain—
Or heart in depth of anguish deep,—

And lingers—tho' it be to weep—
And mingle with the sufferer's sigh
Thine own oh! gentle sympathy!

Yes—rest thee there—thou gentle beam!
And bring from thine own realm some dream,
For yon lone maiden weeping there—
Like thee—the only being fair
Of light within yon donjon's gloom,
Her beauty's cold and darksome tomb!

And there she sits that maiden fair,
In silent sorrow and despair,
As lovely 'midst that scene of gloom
As some sweet flow'r beside a tomb,
Or as some fondly cherish'd dream
Of happiness that could not last,
Brightening with solitary beam
The shadowy regions of the past!—

It is a lone and rocky isle,
Where Nature frowns but will not smile;
And save yon castle beetling high
In silent and in gloomy mood,
There's naught e'en sternly woos the eye—
A desert—and a solitude!

How madly all around the stream
Rolls heedless of soft breeze or beam,
Which haunt the gentler streamlets' dream!
And well it may—a wilder shore
Ne'er spread its rugged brow to lave,
Amidst the sleepless waters' roar,
Proud Gunga! in thy holy wave!—
And well it may—nor breeze nor beam
E'er lull'd it to a gentler dream:
For if the breeze which softly sings
To flow'rs its wild imaginings,—
While they with dewy, bright tears hail
The viewless bard of whispering tale,
Should ever come to that bleak shore,
'Twill flee when it lists to the waters' roar,
Which hoarsely sounds for ever-more;
Or, if a star e'er sleep on the breast
Of the wave, 'twill savagely break its rest !—
********"'Tis night—oh!—how I hate her smile,
Which lights the horrors of this isle,
Where like lone captives we must sigh
O'er arms that rust and idly lie—
Far from the scenes where oft the brave
Will meet thee, glory! or a grave—

Far from the scenes where revels gay
Will chase the darkest cares away—
Far from the scenes where maiden bright
Will steal to list, at fall of night,
To her lover's lute and roundelay,
And like a viewless spirit show'r,
Her dewy wreathes of leaf and flow'r,
Love's token—and then swiftly fade,
And vanish like an aery shade!—

"You tell me that yon captive lone
Would grace the proudest monarch's throne,
And that from regal bow'rs she came,
And halls whose splendour has no name—
Because she lov'd some chief whose pride
Would stoop not—e'en to win his bride—
To her proud father—for his hand
Could wield as well the warrior brand,
And his the race who ne'er hath shown
Submission to a stranger's throne—
And ne'er hath lowly bent the knee
To Powers of this wide earth that be!—
I grieve to hear her piteous tale—
And must such cruel fate bewail—
I grieve to hear that maiden fair
Should shed the tear of dark Despair—

And dim the lustre of her eye,
And blanche her cheek's soft—rosy dye—
But why should warrior come to dwell
Like captive in his lightless cell—
Nor list to charger's neigh so shrill
Reechoed far from hill to hill,—
Nor midst the battle's maddening roar—
Nor on wide plains all bath'd in gore,
Wield his bright blade where foe-men throng
To spare the weak—to crush the strong!

"They say the Crescent's on the gales
Which whisper in our moon-lit vales—
They say that Moslem feet have trod
The fanes of him—the Bramin's God—
And that from western realms afar
Fast flows the tide of furious war—
Like torrent from the mountain glen
Like Lion from his bloody den—
Like eagle from the aery peak
Of skiey mount—and high and bleak!—
What—must we here—on this lone isle—
Watch yon pale Goddess' pensive smile,
Like craven—who will shrink to bleed
E'en for the Hero's deathless meed—
And that, too, when perchance her eye

Pales at thy struggles, Liberty!
Or—o'er the warrior's funeral pyre—
His blood-stained bier—and grave of fire!"

He paused—that warrior young and brave,
And look'd him on his comrades all,
Who by the light fair Chandra gave ^[2]
Now sat them near that castle-wall:
They sigh'd—and on their brow there came
The hue of thoughts of fiery flame,
Such as the captive knight will feel
When looking on his rusty steel!
For they had come from the battle-field
Where they lov'd their trusty blades to wield,
To that lone isle and castle there
To guard yon weeping maiden fair,—
A task which ill beseems the brave
With thoughts as free as ocean-wave!

"But come, why is thy brow so pale—
Dost grieve at yon lone maiden's tale?
Or hath this wild and rocky isle
Robb'd e'en thy gay and joyous smile?
Come, wake thy Vin—thou child of Song ^[3]
Methinks its strings have slept full long—
And tho' there be no bow'r and hall

Of joyaunce or glad festival,
Where eyes of light and starry ray,
Shine brightly when the minstrel's lay
Breathes in soft accents—sweet and bland,
Of Beauty and of fairy-land—
Or pale when in sad cadence low
It tells of love-lorn maiden's woe—
We'll sit us on yon moon-lit shore
And whil'st the sleepless waters roar,
And moon-beams in the waves' embrace
Struggle and blush in bashfulness,
We'll list to thy sweet Vin and song
Echo'd yon misty rocks among!"—

He rose—but who is he?—"He came
A wand'ring minstrel—gay and free—^[4]
Who roves like thousand-winged Fame,
And charms with gentle minstrelsie
The high and low—where'er he be:
When first this castle open'd wide
Its portals for yon maiden fair,
His skiff came on the heaving tide,
In fairy beauty—gliding there;
How sweetly from the moon-lit stream
Which hush'd itself to beaming smile,
His music—soft as heard in dream—

Came o'er this solitary isle!
We call'd—he came—we love him well—
For wondrous are the deeds he sings—
And sweet the music of his strings—
And wild the tales which he will tell,—
And there be some enchanting spell
In the wildness of his imaginings!
And well I know our captive fair
Doth love to list to his gentle lay—
And oft thro' yon high lattice there
Her eyes of soft and tranquil ray
Shine pensively—whene'er his Vin
Woos Melody—and woos to win!"
He rose—that bard—and you might deem
'Twas Cama—God of Love's gay dream! ^[5]
How wildly o'er the listener fell
His Vin's deep—sweet—and rapturous swell
As thus he sung ***

"The Raja sat in his gorgeous hall
In pomp the proudest earth had known—
While monarchs bow'd them to his thrall,
And knelt them lowly round his throne—
The brightest gems of the South lay there
And the North's treasures from afar,

And of the East and West—so fair,
The home of Even's dewy star—
For all were his—o'er earth and sea
His flag had wav'd in Victory—
From proud Himala's realms of snow
To where upon the ocean-tide
Fair Lunka smiles in beauty's glow ^[7]
And breathes soft perfumes far and wide—
And sits her like a regal maid
In her gay, bridal wreathes array'd!

A prouder scene the fiery sun
Had never—never shone upon!
Like golden clouds that on the breast
Of yonder Heavens love to rest,
Unnumber'd hosts in bright array
Glitter'd beneath the noon-tide ray—
A thousand flags wav'd on the air,
Like bright-wing'd birds disporting there—
A thousand spears flash'd in the light
In dazzling splendour—high and bright—
The warrior-steed—so fierce and proud—
Neigh'd in wild fury—shrill and loud—
The jewell'd elephant too stood
In solemn pride and quiet mood—
And in the glittering pomp of war

The mail-clad hero in his car—
For nations on that glorious day
Met there from regions far away—
The mightiest on this earth that be
In all the pride of Chivalrie—
To celebrate thy feast—proud Victory!

"And all around the dazzled eye,
Met scenes of gayest revelrie:—
For, here beneath the perfum'd shade,
By some bright silken awning made, ^[8]
Midst rose and lily scatter'd 'round—
That blush'd as if on fairy ground—
Bright maidens—fair as those above—
Sang softly—for they sang of Love—
How fondly in the moon-lit bow'r,
When mid-night came with star and flow'r,
Young Krishna with his maidens fair ^[9]
Rov'd joyously and sported there—
Or, on the Jumna's holy stream ^[10]
Where star-light came to sleep and dream,
From his light skiff, that sped along,
His soft reed breath'd the gayest song,
Which swelling on the fitful sweep
Of the lone night-wind's sigh—so deep—
Wing'd ravishment where'er it fell—

Love's accents in their aery spell!
"While there the bard in loftier strain, ^[11]
Sang war and mighty heroes slain:—
How when Nesumba's impious pride
Swell'd high like storm-lash'd ocean tide,
And made his very Mother Earth
Oft curse the hour she gave him birth,
And the great Monarch of the sky ^[12]
Realmless to other regions fly—
And quench'd the Brahmin's holy flame,
And curs'd—oh! horror—Vishnu's name—
How then the Goddess from her throne ^[13]
Descended to the Earth, alone,
And in the tyrant's noon-tide bow'rs,
Like a fair Virgin cull'd soft flow'rs,
Till thro' his chamber-lattice high
He saw her sporting joyously,
And sent to seize that lonely maid,
In Beauty's fairest blooms array'd—
Then rose the battle's dreadful yell,
And the fierce blasts of warriors' shell— ^[14]
For, lo! that maiden—erst so fair,
Stood like a tygress in her lair,
And swept th' accursed race away
Far from the smiling realms of Day,
And banish'd Peace restor'd again

O'er hill and vale and mount and plain!
"Or—how to Beauty's lonely bow'r ^[15]
The false one came at noon-tide hour,
And pluckt its brightest—fairest flow'r;
And on his aery-wheeled car
He wafted her to realms afar—
And how the Wanderer of the wood
Came home—but came to solitude—
And in his grief sought her in vain
O'er mount—in cave—by fount—on plain:
But when he knew the cruel hand
That tore her from her sunny Land,
How in the hero's madden'd ire
He swore in words—all breathing fire—
That he would cross the ocean-wave
And make fair Lunka all a grave,
And light a quenchless funeral pile
On the green bosom of that isle—
Incarnadine the very wave
That comes its fairy shores to lave!
And how with mightiest hosts he came,
As comes some whirl-wind winged flame,—
The very ocean wore his chain, ^[16]
Nor could his onward rage restrain—
And how he wrought his work of gloom,
And made thee, Lunka! all a tomb—

Left not a living soul to light,
The funeral lamp at fall of night,
Where calmly in their bloody graves,
The warriors slept by the moaning waves,
And won the bride, who was to thee,
The evil-star of Destiny!

"Or—how like to the sunny tide^[17]
Of ocean rolling far and wide,
The Curu came in all his pride,
And led the mighty and the brave,
But led them to a bloody grave,
When on the fiercest field the sun,
Hath ever shrunk to gaze upon,
He lost the throne—he died to save!
How fatal was that bloody field,
Where warriors came—but not to yield—
Where Lord—chief—vassal—serf—and all,
Wild carnage! swell'd thy festival!—
How loud the dirge, which o'er them peal'd!
For nations raised that bitter cry,
From peasant-shed,—from palace high—
The regal bride on vacant throne,
Midst scenes of splendour—yet how lone—
The widow'd wife in cottage low,
Now desolate—how darkly so!—

"The Rishi fed the sacred flame^[18]
Lit to high Brim's mysterious name,
With delicate leaves o'er which the dew
Nightly caught its moon-lit hue,
For the fire-fly—on gay wing of light
To quaff it like a spirit bright—
And in each hoary fane—and grove
Of Beauty—where e'en Gods might rove,
And think they were in Swerga's bow'rs^[19]
With ceaseless founts—and deathless flow'rs—
The solemn chant—the tinkling bell—
Rose sweetly wild—as gladsome swell
Of hymned praise at twilight hours
From out some lone and silent dell!

"It was a scene—around—above—
All bright as Glory—sweet as Love—
Such as Husteena's palace high^[20]
Beheld—when ocean—earth and sky
Sent glittering hosts, at thy proud call,
Idasteer!—to thy regal hall,
Where they all humbly bow'd the knee—
And own'd thy might—thy majesty!

"But there was one—a monarch he—
Came not to that high revelrie;

They said—he once had sought to gain
That chieftain's daughter—but in vain—
And that his slighted love had taught
Hate—deathless—deep—and unforgot—
Such as the bosom's inmost core
Will darkly nurse for ever-more—
Such as will ever fiercely blight
Love—Friendship—Mercy—all that's bright
And gilds Life's path with starry light—
And part but with the latest breath
That heaves the breast embrac'd by Death!
Perchance this was a whisper'd lie—
An idle tale—foul calumny.
Yet—tho' Inquiry all around
Breath'd from each hurried look and sound—
'Why comes he not?—once in this hall,
'Now gay with blithesome festival,
'How oft he came—a welcome guest,
'Best lov'd—best cherish'd—honour'd best?'
Calm was that chieftain's brow and stern
From which Conjecture naught could learn—
Yes—calm it was as is the grave—
Or some unruffl'd—slumbering wave!
****"Now heralds from each skiey tow'r^[21]
Peal'd proudly forth o'er earth and sky,

The might—the grandeur of his pow'r—
The glory of his majesty!
And nations heard that haughty sound,
And bow'd them lowly to the ground,
As if on thunder-wings it came
Or on some lightning-wheeled car,
Burst from a dark cloud's womb of flame,
Appalling Nature from afar,
To chain the storm's death-dealing course
To curb the madden'd whirl-wind's force!
And thus it came—that haughty sound,
And roll'd with proudest accents round:
'Let all the Sons of Earth,
'The King—the vassal—and the slave—
'From where the Sun receives his birth,
'To where beneath the western wave
'He seeks his azure—pearly cave,
'Bow to the mightiest Lord of all!
'And own his Majesty and thrall!
'His sway is boundless as the sea—
'A very God on earth is he!'
Now rose the trumpet's shrilly yell,
And music in her joyous swell—
From battlement and turret high,
The loudest shouts now rent the sky—
And Echo—waken'd from her sleep,

From sunny vale all green and deep—
Prolong'd that sound in its onward sweep.
The warriors bow'd them on their steeds—
The Rishi paus'd to tell his beads—
The maiden from her fairy bow'r,
Started from dream of fount and flow'r—
The very babe e'en ceas'd to cry,
And look'd up to its mother's eye,
As if in voiceless wonderment,
It, too, its share of homage sent.—
The bard now dropp'd his sounding lyre,
And paus'd to wake its notes of fire—
And at that monarch's proud behest,
Throngs countless were now prostrate laid,
From north to south—from east to west,
All at his throne low homage paid!

"But suddenly a warrior shell,
In loud defiance rose and fell;
As if the Thunderer from on high,
To crush vain mortals met below,
In pomp and grandeur which might vie,
With realms above the starry sky,
Came there to work fierce scenes of woe!
And loud it swell'd and hall and bow'r.
And turret high and skiey tow'r,

Shook, for it was the call to war,
Wild, fierce, and rolling from afar!
The maiden's blushing cheek was pale,
And hush'd her lover's whisper'd tale;
The hand which strung the breathing lyre,
Seiz'd falchions, bright as blazing fire;
And thousands from that blithesome hall,
Rush'd madly forth to slay or fall!—
Loud was the trumpet's shrilly yell,
And loud the warrior's deafening shell,
And madden'd war-steed's whirl-wind tread,
Which crush'd the dying and the dead!
As when within the starless gloom,
Of Himalaya's snowy womb,
Ten thousand torrents madly roll,
To burst from out its dark control;
They roar, as if each furious wave,
Writhed wild with life some Fury gave!

"But there came one on blackest steed,
And there was naught he seem'd to heed;
The proudest warriors from him fled,
His path was o'er the bravest dead!
Fierce was his bloody falchion's sweep,
And fierce his shell's loud blasts and deep,
As on he rush'd, like lightning ray,

To that high hall, erst blithe and gay.

"Beside his high and golden throne,
The Raja stood, but not alone,
For Beauty's wail was on his ear,
He saw her pallid cheek and tear;
And long th' embrace she wildly gave,
To chain his falchion'd arm, so brave,
To deal fierce death around, or save!
He stood him like a lion chain'd,
By victors, whom its pride disdain'd;
And from his wide, deserted hall,
Impatient heard the battle call,
As high it rose, and rolling fell,
Then rose again in fiercer swell!
But Beauty ask'd, can warrior-breast,
List, coldly list to her behest?
'Oh! go not to that bloody field,
'We want thee not thy blade to wield;—
'Hark! to that wild, tumultuous roar,
'Like ocean rous'd from shore to shore,
'When thousand billows proudly rise,
'Like mountains tow'ring to the skies!
'Oh! go not, do not leave us here,
'Defenceless as the timid deer,
'Within the Lion's bloody den!'—

She faintly said, then wept again!

"Now o'er the battle's fainter cry,
Loud swell'd the shout of victory!
'They fly;' wild Echo caught that sound,
Which rung triumphant all around:
'Who fly?—oh! let me, let me free,
'The battle-cry is fainter now'—
He paus'd, and press'd his burning brow;—
Loud steps are heard, 'they come,—'tis he!'
A youthful warrior there he stood,
His falchion bare,—'twas bath'd in blood!
'Raja! I come to claim my bride,
'Thro' blood, which flows like ocean-tide;
'This is the arm, and this the blade,
'Thy proudest warriors low hath laid;
'And made this day, of festal glee,
'A day of death-less grief to thee!
'My bride'—'is far where ne'er again
'She'll list to thy vile, perjur'd strain!
'But flee,'—he seized his blade, his eye
Glar'd round, but glar'd on vacancy,—
For he was gone, that warrior brave,
As some speed-wing'd, receding wave!—

"Yes—he was gone, but that proud hall,

Erst glad with blithesome festival,
Where nations met, but met to die,
Now rung with sad, funereal cry!"

He ceas'd, that bard, and plaudits 'round
Swell'd high as died his Vin's soft sound;
But all unheeded; for his eye
Turn'd to that castle's lattice high,—
How soft the look which gently stole,
The silent eloquence of soul!—
But, lo! a sweet yet faded flow'er,
Dropp'd gently from a lofty tow'r,
Was it from Seraswatti's bow'r? ^[22]
Perchance it was;—he took and prest
Its hueless leaves upon his breast,
As if they spoke in tongue unknown
To all save him, and him alone!—

'Tis midnight—but the Moon is pale,
And there be clouds her brow to veil;
And faint the light her pensive smile
Sheds on that dim and rocky isle:—
The lonely warder looks on high,
On dark-wing'd clouds and lightless sky;
And dull and listless is his mood,
As his who dreams in solitude,

When softly as Night's lonely sigh
Which wakes the leaves to rustling stir,
Or Morn's sweet breath when passing by
To fan the silken gossamer,
Some undefin'd—and nameless spell
Awakes the aery thoughts that dwell,
And tenant—all embalm'd with tears,
The sepulchre of by-gone years—
Where Memory her vigil keeps,
And the lone Heart in sorrow weeps!—

Upon the far and darkling tide
A shadowy form now seem'd to glide,
But soon it pass'd—the warder's eye
Beheld it softly gliding by
Upon that dark—wide—liquid plain,—
When next he look'd—he look'd in vain.
Perchance it was some wandering shade
Of fair but love-lorn, hapless maid,
From out her cold and watery grave
Upon the dark and troubl'd wave,
On aery skiff to haunt the spot
Of perjur'd love—yet unforgot!

He reck'd it not—that warder brave,—
Full soon it vanish'd o'er the wave,

But wistfully now turn'd his eye
To hail the smile of light on high,
Which faintly spread along the sky:—
Morn came—and rock and land and stream
Soon caught her gladsome—rosy beam,
And there was beauty in her smile
E'en on that lone and rocky isle!
Morn came—but now her laughing ray
Chas'd not a Captive's sleep away,
As thro' that castle's lattice high
It peep'd and smiled all joyously,
For she was gone!—they sought in vain
In hall and tow'r—on rock and plain!
The minstrel, too, they found him not,
As eagerly around they sought.
"They’ve fled"—Truth whisper'd to the ear
Of pale Despair—in accents clear!—

Yes they were gone:—but who was he,
That nameless son of Minstrelsie?
Was it some being of heavenly birth,
Had stray'd below to woo the love
Of that fair, beautiful child of earth,—
Then winged her to the realms above?
They ask'd—conjectur'd—question'd on,
Yet only knew that they were gone;—

Till as a tale whose accents fall
Like Death's all stern resistless call,—
They heard the bard whose minstrel-lay
Once sooth'd their lonely hours away,
Was proud Husteena's monarch high, ^[23]
Who came to win from lone captivity
The bride a ruthless father's wrath would doom
To desert-solitude and donjon-gloom!