The Captive Ladie/Canto 2

Round proud Husteena's tow'r-crown'd wall, ^[1]
Fierce foe-men throng to work her fall;
And on fair Jumna's purpl'd stream,
The Crescent flings its blood-red gleam,
As high it waves on wing of pride,
Fann'd by the breath of Even-tide,
Which faintly comes, as murmur'd sigh,
Of lonely mourner wafted high:
And there be blood on land and wave,
And many a dead without a grave—
And there be blood in grove and bow'r,
And fane and altar, leaf and flow'r,
For wild and dire and long the fray,
Hath rag'd around full many a day,

And well hath Valour battled there,
With fiery hope,—in calm despair,
To conquer, save, or proudly die,
For death-less fame—or liberty!

High in his tent of costliest shawl,
Which tow'rs midst thousands, glittering all,
Like fair pavilions Fancy's eyes
View limn'd on sun-set eastern skies,
The Moslem-chief holds glad divan,
Nor fasts and lists to alcoran,
And that grim brow where bigot zeal,
Oft set its sternest—fiercest seal, ^[2]
Smiles gayly like a lightless stream,
When Chandra sheds her silver beam,
As sweetly sounds the gay Sittar, ^[3]
Like voice of Home when heard afar^{[errata 1]},
Or wild and thrilling rolls along,
Ferdousi's high, heroic song;—^[4]
For ceaseless orison and fast,
Have won Heaven's favouring smile at last,
And when to-morrow's sun shall rise,
On car of light from orient skies,
The first, faint blushing of his ray,
Will lead proud Conquest to her prey,
And see the Crescent's blood-red wave,

Gild fall'n Husteena's lowly grave!

A thousand lamps all gayly shine^{[errata 2]},
Along the wide extended line;—
And loud the laugh and proud the boast,
Swells from that fierce, un-number'd host,
And wild the prayer ascends on high,
Dark Vengeance! thine impatient cry—
"Oh! for a glimpse of Day's fair brow,
To crush yon city tow'ring now,
To make each cafir-bosom feel,
Th' unerring blade of Moslem steel!—
By Alla! how I long to be,
Where Myriads writhe in agony,
And mark each wretch with rolling eye,
Call on false gods,—then curse and die,
Meet pilgrim for the dire domain,
Where Eblis holds his sun-less reign!—^[5]
To-morrow—oh!—why wilt thou, Night!
Thus veil the smile of Day so bright?
We want not now thy Moon and Star,
In pensive beauty shrin'd afar,—
We want not now thy pearly dew
To dim our falchion's blood-red hue—
Thy lonely breath thus passing by,
Like Beauty's whispered, farewell-sigh—

Go—hie thee hence—where Rocnabad,—^[6]
With murmuring waters wildly glad,
Doth woo thy stars to silver rest,
Upon its gently-heaving breast—
Or, where soon as the sun hath set,
And dome, kiosk and minaret
Glow with thy pale moon's gentler beam^{[errata 3]},
Like the bright limnings of some dream,
The lover gayly tunes his lay—
The rosy bow'rs of Mosellay!—
We want thee not,—the brightest flood,
The fiery sun can ever shed,
Must blaze o'er warrior's deeds of blood,
And light him on whene'er he tread,
The field where foe-men fierce and brave,
Meet—slay—or win a bloody grave!"

But must she fall,—that city fair,
Who sits her like an empress there,—
The tow'r-tiara'd bride of Time,—
The brightest of her sunny clime,—
Mother of heroes, once whose name, ^[7]
Like thunder-winged whirl-winds came,
And shook the mightiest thrones below,
And pal'd the brow of proudest foe?—
Alas!—fierce Famine and her train,—

Parch'd Thirst—and famished Hunger—Pain,
With bloody, vulture-claws have rent,
Like Hell-nurs'd fiends unchain'd and sent,
And Death hath strown on land and wave,
Youth,—age—the beauteous and the brave,
And blasted hands alone could save!

Oh!—who can look upon the plain,
Where sleep the glorious—mighty slain,—
Brave hearts that for their country bled,
And read upon their eyes tho' seal'd,
The proud defiance there reveal'd,
Lit by each spirit ere it fled—
Or, mark the fierce disdain that lies,
Upon their lips and yet defies,—
Unquench'd by Death,—like the last ray,
Of the set sun, still lingering there,
As if too loth to pass away,
But scorch and blast with lightning glare,—
Nor feel his blood within his vein,
Rage like the tempest-stirred main,
As if to burst—to gush—to flow—
And sweep away fair Freedom's foe,—
Nor madly long to wield the brand,
To save—defend his Native Land,—
Nor sigh his heart's best blood to shed,—

And make on glory's lap his bed!

'Twas thus they felt,—the warriors brave,
Husteena nurs'd but for the grave!
'Twas thus they felt—and thus they died,
As well beseemed their warrior-pride,—
But wild and dire the tide of war,
Had roll'd on conquest-wheeled car,
And fierce the foe whose ruthless creed,
Taught he but wins Heaven's brightest meed,
Who shrinks not—never fears to bleed!
Days, months have pass'd, and feebler grown,
She stands alas!—as one alone,
'Midst seried ranks of foe-men fell,
Who aim her fall and aim but well.—
A boundless grave—a widening tomb,
Where all is wilderness and gloom,—
Where rending sobs—and mournful sighs—
The widows' and the orphans' cries,—
The parting spirits' fare-well groan,
The wounded, writhing warriors' moan,
Fall darkly on the startled ear,
And freeze the bravest heart with fear!
And hope hath fled—and bleak despair,
Is on her brow—deep darkling there,
Such as un-nerves the boldest hand,

And blunts the edge of sharpest brand!

Yes—she must fall—and when again,
Yon Moon asserts her silver reign,
She'll smile on crumbling—blacken'd tow'r,
And ruin'd dome,—blood-delug'd bow'r!
And when yon stars, which look so bright,
Shall gem again the locks of Night,
They'll shine like lamps lit in the gloom,
Of some dark, lonely, silent tomb,
Where midst the wild and desert-scene,
Sleeps—lowly sleeps—an eastern queen!

Within Husteena's tow'r-crown'd wall,
And in his dim—tho' gorgeous hall,
Upon the proud, gem-studded throne,
Which soon must cease to be his own,
The Rajah sits,—and small the band,
Doth 'round in moody silence stand,
As if each fear'd to breathe the thought,
Within his bosom wildly wrought!

'We part, brave friends,—there is a clime,
'Beyond the rolling tide of Time,—
'A sweet and bright and blissful shore,
'Where we shall meet to part no more!—

'Nay—let not maiden tears bedew
'The warrior cheek of sterner hue:
'Yes—we must part, a fiery grave,
'Must blaze o'er him who dies no slave!
'Ye know the rest—farewell!—and now'—
Why came that shade upon his brow,
As on he hastened from his throne,
And vanish'd from that hall alone?

As o'er some desert, dreary plain,—
Grim Desolation's wide domain,
The silver sands' bright sun-nurs'd child, ^[8]
So beautiful—so sweetly wild,—
Oft to the thirsty pilgrim's eye,
Displays her luring witchery,
And becks him on with promised bliss,
To cool his lips with liquid kiss,
Till solemnly dim Twilight gray,
Frowns her to nothingness away,
And on her dupe, thus spell betray'd
Doth spread a soft and dewy shade,
And gently fan his burning brow,
With balmy breath,—so welcome now,
And in soft, soothing accents tell,
Of that wild witch, so bright yet fell,
Who, when she smil'd and seem'd to save

But led him to a hideous grave!
Thus on Life's darksome vale the ray,
Of hope will falsely light the way,
And deck dim Future's brow afar,
With many a gay and light-eyed star,
Till cold Reality, as fair-brow'd Light,
Dispels the rain-bow dreams of Night,—
Unveils her face, and calls Despair,
To crash the vision false but fair!
Oh then, how cold the solitude,
Comes on the bosom's starry mood,—
How bleak, O God! 'tis then to feel,
There's nought above,—below,—can heal,
Or, even lull the bleeding breast,
To sweet and calm—tho' short-liv'd rest!—

He pass'd thro' high and pillar'd halls,
And flow'r-gemm'd courts with fountain-falls,
Which echo'd to his hurried tread,
Like lonely Mansions of the Dead,
All lightless,—save, where moon-beams slept,
O'er flow'rs which blush'd and smil'd and wept,
Or, by sweet founts which rose and fell,
Sleepless,—as if some fairy-spell,
Did in their diamond bosoms dwell^{[errata 4]};
He reck'd them not,—their silent gloom,

Was but the shadow of the doom,
Which soon must burst—and crush—and rend,
And with the Past's dim shadow blend,
Bride—Beauty—Glory^{[errata 5]}—all that be,
Of high and sovran Majesty!
He reck'd them not,—but swiftly pass'd,
As thro' a bow'r some speed-wing'd blast,
Uncheck'd by tears and sighs the rose,
Doth shed and breathe as on he goes!—
But when within the Haram-gate,
Which gap'd—all lone and desolate,
He near'd the chambers high and fair,—
The shrines of Beauty, worshiped there,—
He paus'd like wild, tho' calm Despair,
Ere yet she plunges to the wave,
Which rolls below—a hideous grave;—
As if to hush the mournful plaint,
Regret still breath'd in accents faint!—
'O God! and is there naught to steel,
'The timid heart which shrinks to feel,
'And lock the founts whose murmurings still,
'Unnerve each strong resolve of Will!
'But it must be?'—The corridor,
Is cross'd,—he treads the marble-floor;
But, ere the gentlest Echo woke,
Or softly in that chamber spoke,

Upon his wildly heaving breast,
He prest,—O Love!—how fondly prest,
Thy fairest daughter,—blessing,—blest!

"Oh! hast thou conquer'd—have they fled,—
And is he come,—and are they dead?
My God!—but why that hueless check,
Must Victory thus to true Love speak!—
Oh! tell me, for thy tale must be,
Of Joy since^{[errata 6]} thou art come to me!
For fearful visions in my sleep,
Have made me shudder—shriek—and weep!
When wearied with long Vigils kept,
I laid me down and thought I slept:
Methought there came a warrior-maid,^[9]
With blood-stain'd brow and sheath-less blade;
Dark was her hue, as darkest cloud,
Which comes the Moon's fair face to shroud,—
And 'round her waist a hideous zone,
Of hands with charnal lightnings shone,
And long the garland which she wore,
Of heads all bath'd in streaming gore,
How fierce the eyes by Death unseal'd,
And blasting gleams which they reveal'd!—
I shudder'd—tho' I knew 'twas she,
The awful, ruthless Deity,

On whose dread altar like a flood,
There flows for aye her victims' blood!
I shudder'd—for, methought, she came,
With eyes of bright consuming flame,—
'Daughter,'—she said,—'farewell!—I go—
'The time is come,—it must be so—
'Leave thee and thine I must to-night,'—
Then vanish'd like a flash of light!—

"I wept—when, lo!—before me stood—
One girt with snakes of flow'r-crown'd hood,—^[10]
Tall as the loftiest palm that be,
Beneath yon heav'ns blue canopy:—
His hue was pale,—and wild his eyes,
Roll'd bright like meteors of the skies,—
A fiery trident high he bore,—^[11]
Methought, it, too, was bath'd in gore—
And from his golden crown aloft,—
There came still murmurs sweet and soft, ^[12]
Like the low plaints of some young rill,
When check'd its thoughtless, wandering will!
'Daughter,' he said, 'farewell!—I go,—
'But bless thee not,—for thine is woe!'
He pass'd—I shrieked—his look, his word,
Pierced like a sharp, unerring sword!—

"I look'd around,—it was no sleep,
But some mysterious trance and deep,
When tho' sight—sense suspended be,
The spirit wakes to feel and see!—
I look'd around,—and now there stole,
The sweetest perfumes o'er my soul,
And softest sounds, such as the bee,
Breathes when on wing of melody,
He woos the sweets of fairest flow'rs,
And revels in the noon-tide bow'rs;
And then a soft and cloudless ray,
Shone bright as smile of sunniest day,
I look'd —there stood beside my bed,
A child of Light—a heavenly maid!—^[13]
Upon her brow a diadem,
Glisten'd with many a starry gem;
But the calm lustre of her eye,
Methought aye pal'd their radiancy,—
And dewy wreathes of flowers that be,
From realms of Immortality,
Encircling bloom'd—all beauteously!
A moon-lit halo around her shone,
Like dreams of Joy link'd 'round Love's throne,
And sweet the aery symphony,
From viewless harps came sweeping by!—
She spoke,—oh! like a nameless spell,

Her voice upon my spirit fell!
'Daughter,' she said, 'man's pride and pow'r,
'Are things but of a day—an hour,
'A sun-bright bubble of the sea,
'Which rises but to burst and flee—
'A glance of Light—a fleet-wing'd ray,
'Which shines, but shines to fade away!—
'Then grieve not for a bitter doom,
'Now hangs o'er thee and thine in gloom;
'And I must go,—'tis to fulfil,
'Eternal Brim's mysterious will:
'Farewell!—but soon the realms above,
'Will welcome thee to joy and love!'
She vanish'd with her viewless train,—
And then, methought, I dreamt again.

"I dreamt,—I stood in saddest mood,
Within a chamber's solitude,
'Twas in a castle high and lone,
And pale the moon-light o'er it shone,
And sound of sleepless waters there,
Came hoarsely on the dewy air;—
I look'd me thro' the lattice high,
On desert earth, and boundless sky,
Like prison'd bird which yearns to fly:
But suddenly the voice of song,

'In echo'd strains now roll'd along:—
It was a lay of warrior-deed,
Of foe-men fierce who met to bleed,—
I listen'd with a throbbing heart,
And hueless cheek and lips apart,
For Memory whisper'd words that came,
Like breath of all-consuming flame!
I look'd and shriek'd—a faded flow'r,
Pluckt from our last, sad trysting bow'r,
I dropp'd ere sight and sense all fled,
And left me there—unheeded—dead.
But when I woke, a mingl'd sound,
Of dashing waters rung around,
I look'd and saw thee by my side
Upon the dark and heaving tide,
On lightest skiff which seem'd to sweep
Along the bosom of the deep
Like falcon cleaving thro' the air,—
Like lion bounding from his lair!
I heard thy words—'Love! fear no more,
'Dost see a steed on yonder shore?
''Twill waft thee far from donjon gloom,
'To festal halls—and bow'rs of bloom!'—

"Again I dreamt:—I saw a pyre
Blaze high with fiercely gleaming fire;

And one there came,—a warrior he,—
Tho' faint yet bold,—undauntedly,
And plung'd—oh! God! into the flame
Which like a hungry monster rose,
And circl'd round his quivering frame,
A hideous curtain—waving close!
I shriek'd—but, tell me why that start,
And paler brow—and heaving heart?
Oh! tell me, hath my royal sire
Forgot his deep and ruthless ire,
And come and crush'd our foe-men dire?"

"Baiza! thy father's ruthless ire
Hath lit for me a funeral pyre!—
Nay—start not, Love!—a warrior's bride
Must have his heart of fearless pride!—
Of bitterest taunts and stinging jest,
Would madden e'en a coward breast,
Is his reply,—Oh! why didst thou
With tearful eye and pallid brow,
Urge me to sue and sue in vain,
And court disgrace—vile insult,—pain?
But hear. He said—'why seeks relief
'From me a proud and valiant chief,
'Whose minstrel-skill can win and steal
'Hearts, ere they learn what 'tis to feel!

'Why charms he not,—if that his blade
'Doth love its sheath—as if afraid
'Lest blood like touch of blighting dew
'Should rob it of its sheen and hue,—
'Why charms he not his foe-men strong
‘By roundelay and love-some song?'—
And then in words of withering hate,
Which burst like doom to desolate,
He curst me,—'yes,—let Moslem tread
'Crush,—trample on the dastard-head
'Of him who pluckt my sweetest flow'r,
'The joy,—the glory of my bow'r!'
And like the monarch of the wood,
When in his home of solitude,
There rings the wild, exulting cry
Of hound and hunter fearlessly,
He raged and fiercely called me knave,
And, oh! my God!—a coward slave!
Ah!—he forgot the day when blood,
Flow'd in his hall like winter flood,
Where thousands throng'd and met to die,—
His fearful feast of Victory!
But let that pass;—tis all in vain
To call the past to live again!—
Baiza! arise, there is a steed
Awaits below of whirl-wind speed,

Oh! rise and to thy father's hall,
Flee,—all is lost—yes—dearest! all!
For when the sun of yesterday
Hied to his ocean-home away
His golden smile fell on the grave
Of those, alas!—alone could save!
Oh! flee, ere yet disgrace and shame
Stain,—foully stain—my honour, name!
Yes—all is lost,—they, too, are gone,
The heavenly guardians of my throne:—
I knew 'twas so,—for when to night
I wander'd by the moon-shine bright,
And trod each lone, deserted fane,
I ne'er must see and tread again,
I saw each image prostrate thrown,
And heard, methought, a voice of moan,
As if sad, aery mourners' wail
Came there upon the viewless gale!

"Oh! fly—and when far, far away,
Thy life is as a sunny day,
And when the Past to thee shall seem,
A dim,—a half forgotten dream,
Oh! then let tales of by gone years
Claim but a passing sigh,—some tears!"
He paus'd, she spoke not,—but her eye

Look'd into his all vacantly,
As if the bosom, over-wrought,
Lost in its wilderness all thought,
Till tears, like rose-empearling dew,
Stream'd in their soft and diamond hue!
"Oh never—never will I fly,
But with thee, Love! I live or die!
When from my father's hall I fled,
And wander'd far—a lonely maid,—
When coldly 'round the donjon's gloom
Rose like a deep and lightless tomb,—
I wept not—for I thought of thee,—
And the sweet dreams of Memory
Lent smiles to cheer the solitude
Of the lone bosom's widow-hood!
And now, when dangers 'round thee lower
Like flames all blazing to devour—
Like furious waves round some fair isle,
To sweep away its vernal smile,—
Oh! never,—never will this heart
Be sever'd, Love! to beat apart!
I fear not Death, tho' fierce he be,
When thus I cling, mine own! to thee!—
For in the forest's green retreat,
Where leafy branches twine and meet,
Tho' wildly round dread Agni roars, ^[14]

Like angry surge by rock-girt shores,—
The soft gazelle of liquid eye
Leaves not her mate alone to die!—
But tell me, must thou bow thee low,
And yield thee to thy godless foe,
And humbly kneel before the throne
Which once, alas! was all thine own?
Nay—frown not thus?"—like lightning-ray
Pride fiercely flash'd,—then past away!
"Baiza!—look thro' yon lattice there,
By yonder fane, dost see the glare
Which kindles round the dewy air?
The steeds below,—oh! rise and flee,—
Baiza!—that fiery grave's for me!"—
She shriek'd and fell,—as cypress high
When blasted by the storm-god's eye!
But he was gone,—'twas lonely all—
None heard her shriek,—none saw her fall!—

High flames the fiercely kindling pyre
Like Rudra's all consuming ire; ^[15]
And many a spark ascends on high
Like light-wing'd birds which wildly fly
Or gayly sweep along the sky;—
The Rishi with his gods is there
But weeps as swells his solemn pray'r,

And all around the brightening glow
Lights hueless cheek and pallid brow!
And there be murmur'd voice of wail,
Like mournful sigh of mid-night gale,—
'And must he die so young—so brave,
'Is there no god above to save!'

There is a hush:—a warrior stands
Fast by that pyre of blazing brands;
With all a warrior's fearless pride
He shrinks not from the fiery tide,
Which rolls, a golden, lava-stream,
And darts full many a lightning beam;—
A glittering crown his on his brow
Of beauty,—tho' all pallid now,
And in his hand a broken blade
Bath'd in red gore but lately shed!
He looks him round with dauntless eye,
As one who never fears to die!
'Farewell!—Death's but a short-liv'd pain,
'I live not for a captive's chain;
'And now, ye gods! who love the brave,
'Smile o'er a warrior's fiery grave!'—
He paus'd—they look'd—'oh! he is gone,
'His last,—his boldest deed is done,—
'Husteena! see thy hope expire

'Upon yon pile of blazing fire!' ^[16]

But, hark! there is a shriek,—a cry,
Of wild,—controlless agony!
How fearfully around it rung,
As one burst thro' that weeping throng,
And plung'd into that flaming pyre,
And clove awile the column'd fire!
They look'd—they knew—yes, it was she,—
The bride of him whose spirit there
Had burst its prison,—joyously
To fly far to the realms of air!

Go,—ope the portals far and wide,
And let the over-whelming tide,
Of foe-men like an ocean glide!
What boots it now, since they must sheathe
Their blades in hearts have ceas'd to breathe,
And Conquest in proud triumph tread
A lone, wide city of the dead!—

'Tis morn: the sun is on the sky,
With beaming brow and laughing eye!
Fair light! lit at Creation's birth
Bright tenant of eternity,
He melts not like the things of Earth,

In fadeless glory shrin'd on high!
What empire's 'neath his changeless beams,
Have sprung, then sunk—like baseless dreams!
He fades not like thy works, proud man,
Thou creature of a measur'd span!
Thy pride, thy glory, and thy power,
Are things to him but of an hour,—
He on Creation's birth did smile,
And he shall light its funeral pile,
When Time shall flow into the sea,
Of boundless, wide Eternity!

'Tis morn:—along the moslem line,
Ten thousand spears all brightly shine,
And many a flashing blade is bare,
And voice of triumph on the air,
As column'd warrior's onward press,
With all the haste of eagerness,
When Vengeance sternly wings the feet,
To rush where falchion'd foe-men meet;
On—on thy press,—'tis idlesse all,
There stirs no foe on yonder wall,
And wide the portals gape and far,—
Deserted—lone—as if no War,
Rag'd round to crush—destroy and mar!—

'Tis noon:—and from his car on high,
The sun looks down, his burning eye,
Now sees the Crescent's blood-red wave,
Gild fall'n Husteena's lowly grave,
Where Love and Valour with her sleep
In dreamless slumber long and deep!—
What tho' fierce foe-men's shouts^{[errata 7]} come on the gale,
Far louder than, lone Grief! thy bitter wail,—
What tho' their dirge be the exulting cry
Of foe-men crown'd by bloody Victory,—
It breaks not,—nay 'twill never break the rest
Which lull'd them yester-night upon its breast!—