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Letitia Elizabeth Landon - The Zenana
Work rating: Low

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WHAT is there that the world hath not 
	Gathered in yon enchanted spot?
	Where, pale, and with a languid eye,
	The fair Sultana listlessly
	Leans on her silken couch, and dreams
	Of mountain airs, and mountain streams.
	Sweet though the music float around,
	It wants the old familiar sound;
	
	And fragrant though the flowers are breathing,
	From far and near together wreathing,
	They are not those she used to wear,
	Upon the midnight of her hair.—

	She`s very young, and childhood`s days
	With all their old remembered ways,
	The empire of her heart contest
	With love, that is so new a guest;
	When blushing with her Murad near,
	Half timid bliss, half sweetest fear,
	E`en the beloved past is dim,
	Past, present, future, merge in him.
	But he, the warrior and the chief,
	His hours of happiness are brief;
	And he must leave Nadira`s side
	To woo and win a ruder bride;
	
	Sought, sword in hand and spur on heel,
	The fame, that weds with blood and steel.
	And while from Delhi far away,
	His youthful bride pines through the day,
	Weary and sad: thus when again
	He seeks to bind love`s loosen`d chain;
	He finds the tears are scarcely dry
	Upon a cheek whose bloom is faded,
	The very flush of victory
	Is, like the brow he watches, shaded.
	A thousand thoughts are at her heart,
	His image paramount o`er all,
	Yet not all his, the tears that start,
	As mournful memories recall
	Scenes of another home, which yet
	That fond young heart can not forget.
	She thinks upon that place of pride,
	Which frowned upon the mountain`s side;
	
	While round it spread the ancient plain,
	Her steps will never cross again.
	And near those mighty temples stand,
	The miracles of mortal hand,
	Where, hidden from the common eye,
	The past`s long buried secrets lie,
	Those mysteries of the first great creed,
	Whose mystic fancies were the seed
	Of every wild and vain belief,
	That held o`er man their empire brief,
	And turned beneath a southern sky,
	All that was faith to poetry.
	Hence had the Grecian fables birth,
	And wandered beautiful o`er earth;
	Till every wood, and stream, and cave,
	Shelter to some bright vision gave:
	For all of terrible and strange,
	That from those gloomy caverns sprung,
	
	From Greece received a graceful change,
	That spoke another sky and tongue,
	A finer eye, a gentler hand,
	Than in their native Hindoo land.

	`Twas thence Nadira came, and still
	Her memory kept that lofty hill;
	The vale below, her place of birth,
	That one charmed spot, her native earth.
	Still haunted by that early love,
	Which youth can feel, and youth alone;
	An eager, ready, tenderness,
	To all its after-life unknown.
	When the full heart its magic flings,
	Alike o`er rare and common things,
	The dew of morning`s earliest hour,
	Which swells but once from leaf and flower,
	
	From the pure life within supplied,
	A sweet but soon exhausted tide.

	There falls a shadow on the gloom,
	There steals a light step through the room,
	Gentle as love, that, though so near,
	No sound hath caught the list`ning ear.
	A moment`s fond watch o`er her keeping.
	Murad beholds Nadira weeping;
	He who to win her lightest smile,
	Had given his heart`s best blood the while.
	She turned—a beautiful delight
	Has flushed the pale one into rose,
	Murad, her love, returned to-night,
	Her tears, what recks she now of those?
	Dried in the full heart`s crimson ray,
	Ere he can kiss those tears away—
	
	And she is seated at his feet,
	Too timid his dear eyes to meet;
	But happy; for she knows whose brow
	Is bending fondly o`er her now.
	And eager, for his sake, to hear
	The records red of sword and spear,
	For his sake feels the colour rise,
	His spirit kindle in her eyes,
	Till her heart beating joins the cry
	Of Murad, and of Victory.

	City of glories now no more,
	His camp extends by Bejapore,
	Where the Mahratta`s haughty race
	Has won the Moslem conqueror`s place;
	A bolder prince now fills the throne,
	And he will struggle for his own.
	
	"And yet," he said, "when evening falls
	Solemn above those mouldering walls,
	Where the mosques cleave the starry air,
	Deserted at their hour of prayer,
	And rises Ibrahim`s lonely tomb,
	`Mid weed-grown shrines, and ruined towers,
	All marked with that eternal gloom
	Left by the past to present hours.
	When human pride and human sway
	Have run their circle of decay;
	And, mocking—the funereal stone,
	Alone attests its builder gone.
	Oh! vain such temple, o`er the sleep
	Which none remain to watch or weep.
	I could not choose but think how vain
	The struggle fierce for worthless gain.
	And calm and bright the moon looked down
	O`er the white shrines of that fair town;
	
	While heavily the cocoa-tree
	Drooped o`er the walls its panoply,
	A warrior proud, whose crested head
	Bends mournful o`er the recent dead,
	And shadows deep athwart the plain
	Usurp the silver moonbeam`s reign;
	For every ruined building cast
	Shadows, like memories of the past.
	And not a sound the wind brought nigh,
	Save the far jackal`s wailing cry,
	And that came from the field now red
	With the fierce banquet I had spread:
	Accursed and unnatural feast,
	For worm, and fly, and bird, and beast;
	While round me earth and heaven recorded
	The folly of life`s desperate game,
	And the cold justice still awarded
	By time, which makes all lots the same.
	
	Slayer or slain, it matters not,
	We struggle, perish, are forgot!
	The earth grows green above the gone,
	And the calm heaven looks sternly on.
	`Twas folly this—the gloomy night
	Fled before morning`s orient light;
	City and river owned its power,
	And I, too, gladdened with the hour;
	I saw my own far tents extend
	My own proud crescent o`er them bend;
	I heard the trumpet`s glorious voice
	Summon the warriors of my choice.
	Again impatient on to lead,
	I sprang upon my raven steed,
	Again I felt my father`s blood
	Pour through my veins its burning flood.
	My scimetar around I swung,
	Forth to the air its lightning sprung,
	
	A beautiful and fiery light,
	The meteor of the coming fight.

	"I turned from each forgotten grave
	To others, which the name they bear
	Will long from old oblivion save
	The heroes of the race I share.
	I thought upon the lonely isle
	Where sleeps the lion-king the while,
	
	Who looked on death, yet paused to die
	Till comraded by Victory.
	And he, fire noblest of my line,
	Whose tomb is now the warrior`s shrine,
	(Where I were well content to be,
	So that such fame might live with me.)
	The light of peace, the storm of war,
	Lord of the earth, our proud Akbar.
	"What though our passing day but be
	A bubble on eternity;
	Small though the circle is, yet still
	`Tis ours to colour at our will.
	Mine be that consciousness of life
	Which has its energies from strife,
	Which lives its utmost, knows its power,
	Claims from the mind its utmost dower—
	
	With fiery pulse, and ready hand,
	That wills, and willing wins command—
	That boldly takes from earth its best—
	To whom the grave can be but rest.
	Mine the fierce free existence spent
	Mid meeting ranks and armed tent:—
	Save the few moments which I steal
	At thy beloved feet to kneel—
	And own the warrior`s wild career
	Has no such joy as waits him here—
	When all that hope can dream is hung
	Upon the music of thy tongue.
	Ah! never is that cherished face
	Banished from its accustomed place—
	It shines upon my weariest night
	It leads me on in thickest fight:
	All that seems most opposed to be
	Is yet associate with thee—
	
	Together life and thee depart,
	Dream—idol—treasure of my heart.`

	Again, again Murad must wield
	His scimetar in battle-field:
	And must he leave his lonely flower
	To pine in solitary bower?
	Has power no aid has wealth no charm,
	The weight of absence to disarm?
	Alas! she will not touch her lute—
	What!—sing?—and not for Murad`s ear?
	The echo of the heart is mute,
	And that alone makes music dear.
	In vain, in vain that royal hall
	Is decked as for a festival.
	The sunny birds, whose shining wings
	Seem as if bathed in golden springs,
	
	Though worth the gems they cost—and fair
	As those which knew her earlier care.
	The flowers—though there the rose expand
	The sweetest depths wind ever fanned.
	Ah! earth and sky have loveliest hues—
	But none to match that dearest red,
	Born of the heart, which still renews
	The life that on itself is fed.
	The maiden whom we love bestows
	Her magic on the haunted rose.
	Such was the colour—when her cheek
	Spoke what the lip might never speak.
	The crimson flush which could confess
	All that we hoped—but dared not guess.
	That blush which through the world is known
	To love, and to the rose alone—
	A sweet companionship, which never
	The poet`s dreaming eye may sever.
	
	And there were tulips, whose rich leaves
	The rainbow`s dying light receives;
	For only summer sun and skies
	Could lend to earth such radiant dyes;
	But still the earth will have its share,
	The stem is green—the foliage fair—
	Those coronals of gems but glow
	Over the withered heart below—
	That one dark spot, like passion`s fire,
	Consuming with its own desire.
	And pale, as one who dares not turn
	Upon her inmost thoughts, and learn,
	If it be love their depths conceal,
	Love she alone is doomed to feel—
	The jasmine droopeth mournfully
	Over the bright anemone,
	The summer`s proud and sun-burnt child:
	In vain the queen is not beguiled,
	
	They waste their bloom. Nadira`s eye
	Neglects them—let them pine and die.
	Ah! birds and flowers may not suffice
	The heart that throbs with stronger ties.
	Again, again Murad is gone,
	Again his young bride weeps alone:
	Seeks her old nurse, to win her ear
	With magic stories once so dear,
	And calls the Almas to her aid.
	With graceful dance, and gentle singing,
	And bells like those some desert home
	Hears from the camel`s neck far ringing.
	Alas! she will not raise her brow;
	Yet stay—some spell hath caught her now:
	That melody has touched her heart.
	Oh, triumph of Zilara`s art;
	She listens to the mournful strain,
	And bids her sing that song again.

Song.
	"My lonely lute, how can I ask
	For music from thy silent strings?
	It is too sorrowful a task,
	When only swept by memory`s wings:
	Yet waken from thy charmed sleep,
	Although I wake thee but to weep.

	"Yet once I had a thousand songs,
	As now I have but only one.
	Ah, love, whate`er to thee belongs.
	With all life`s other links, has done;
	And I can breathe no other words
	Than thou hast left upon the chords.

	"They say Camdeo`s place of rest, 
	When floating down the Ganges` tide,
	Is in the languid lotus breast,
	Amid whose sweets he loves to hide.
	Oh, false and cruel, though divine,
	What dost thou in so fair a shrine?

	"And such the hearts that thou dost choose,
	As pure, as fair, to shelter thee;
	Alas! they know not what they lose
	Who chance thy dwelling-place to be.
	For, never more in happy dream
	Will they float down life`s sunny stream.

	"My gentle lute, repeat one name,
	The very soul of love, and thine:
	No; sleep in silence, let me frame
	Some other love to image mine;
	
	Steal sadness from another`s tone,
	I dare not trust me with my own.

	"Thy chords will win their mournful way,
	All treasured thoughts to them belong;
	For things it were so hard to say
	Are murmured easily in song—
	It is for music to impart
	The secrets of the burthened heart.

	"Go, taught by misery and love,
	And thou hast spells for every ear:
	But the sweet skill each pulse to move,
	Alas! hath bought its knowledge dear—
	Bought by the wretchedness of years,
	A whole life dedicate to tears."

	The voice has ceased, the chords are mute,
	The singer droops upon her lute;
	
	But, oh, the fulness of each tone
	Straight to Nadira`s heart hath gone—
	As if that mournful song revealed
	Depths in that heart till then concealed,
	A world of melancholy thought,
	Then only into being brought;
	Those tender mysteries of the soul,
	Like words on an enchanted scroll,
	Whose mystic meaning but appears
	When washed and understood by tears.
	She gaged upon the singer`s face;
	Deeply that young brow wore the trace
	Of years that leave their stamp behind:
	The wearied hope—the fever`d mind—
	The heart which on itself hath turned,
	Worn out with feelings—slighted—spurned—
	Till scarce one throb remained to show
	What warm emotions slept below,
	
	Never to be renewed again,
	And known but by remembered pain.

	Her cheek was pale—impassioned pale—
	Like ashes white with former fire,
	Passion which might no more prevail,
	The rose had been its own sweet pyre.
	You gazed upon the large black eyes,
	And felt what unshed tears were there;
	Deep, gloomy, wild, like midnight skies,
	When storms are heavy on the air—
	And on the small red lip sat scorn,
	Writhing from what the past had borne.
	But far too proud to sigh—the will,
	Though crushed, subdued, was haughty still;
	Last refuge of the spirit`s pain,
	Which finds endurance in disdain.
	
	Others wore blossoms in their hair,
	And golden bangles round the arm.
	She took no pride in being fair,
	The gay delight of youth to charm;
	The softer wish of love to please,
	What had she now to do with these?
	She knew herself a bartered slave,
	Whose only refuge was the grave.
	Unsoftened now by those sweet notes,
	Which half subdued the grief they told,
	Her long black hair neglected floats
	O`er that wan face, like marble cold;
	And carelessly her listless hand
	Wandered above her lute`s command
	But silently—or just a tone
	Woke into music, and was gone.

	"Come hither, maiden, take thy seat,"
	Nadira said, "here at my feet."
	
	And, with the sweetness of a child
	Who smiles, and deems all else must smile,
	She gave the blossoms which she held,
	And praised the singer`s skill the while;
	Then started with a sad surprise,
	For tears were in the stranger`s eyes.
	Ah, only those who rarely know
	Kind words, can tell how sweet they seem.
	Great God, that there are those below
	To whom such words are like a dream.

	"Come," said the young Sultana, "come
	To our lone garden by the river,
	Where summer hath its loveliest home,
	And where Camdeo fills his quiver.
	If, as thou sayest, `tis stored with flowers,
	Where will he find them fair as ours?
	And the sweet songs which thou canst sing
	Methinks might charm away his sting."
	
	The evening banquet soon is spread—
	There the pomegranate`s rougher red
	Was cloven, that it might disclose
	A colour stolen from the rose—
	The brown pistachio`s glossy shell,
	The citron where faint odours dwell;
	And near the watermelon stands,
	Fresh from the Jumna`s shining sands;
	And golden grapes, whose bloom and hue
	Wear morning light and morning dew,
	Or purple with the deepest dye
	That flushes evening`s farewell sky.
	And in the slender vases glow—
	Vases that seem like sculptured snow—
	The rich sherbets are sparkling bright
	With ruby and with amber light.
	A fragrant mat the ground o`erspread,
	With an old tamarind overhead,
	
	With drooping bough of darkest green,
	Forms for their feast a pleasant screen.

	`Tis night, but such delicious time
	Would seem like day in northern clime.
	A pure and holy element,
	Where light and shade, together blent,
	Are like the mind`s high atmosphere,
	When hope is calm, and heaven is near.
	The moon is young—her crescent brow
	Wears its ethereal beauty now,
	Unconscious of the crime and care,
	Which even her brief reign must know,
	Till she will pine to be so fair,
	With such a weary world below.
	A tremulous and silvery beam
	Melts over palace, garden, stream;
	
	Each flower beneath that tranquil ray,
	Wears other beauty than by day,
	All pale as if with love, and lose
	Their rich variety of hues—
	But ah, that languid loveliness
	Hath magic, to the noon unknown,
	A deep and pensive tenderness,
	The heart at once feels is its own—
	How fragrant to these dewy hours,
	The white magnolia lifts its urn
	The very Araby of flowers,
	Wherein all precious odours burn.
	And when the wind disperses these,
	The faint scent of the lemon trees
	Mingles with that rich sigh which dwells
	Within the baubool`s golden bells. 
	
	The dark green peepul`s glossy leaves, 
	Like mirrors each a ray receives,
	While luminous the moonlight falls,
	O`er pearl kiosk and marble walls,
	Those graceful palaces that stand
	Most like the work of peri-land.
	And rippling to the lovely shore,
	The river tremulous with light,
	On its small waves, is covered o`er
	With the sweet offerings of the night—
	Heaps of that scented grass whose bands
	Have all been wove by pious hands,
	Or wreaths, where fragrantly combined,
	Red and white lotus flowers are twined.
	And on the deep blue waters float
	Many a cocoa-nut`s small boat,
	
	Holding within the lamp which bears
	The maiden`s dearest hopes and prayers,
	Watch`d far as ever eye can see,
	A vain but tender augury.
	Alas! this world is not his home,
	And still love trusts that signs will come
	From his own native world of bliss,
	To guide him through the shades of this.
	Dreams, omens, he delights in these,
	For love is linked with fantasies,
	But hark! upon the plaining wind
	Zilara`s music floats again;
	That midnight breeze could never find
	A meeter echo than that strain,
	Sad as the sobbing gale that sweeps
	The last sere leaf which autumn keeps,
	
	Yet sweet as when the waters fall
	And make some lone glade musical.
Song.
	"Lady, sweet Lady, song of mine
	Was never meant for thee,
	I sing but from my heart, and thine—
	It cannot beat with me.

	"You have not knelt in vain despair,
	Beneath a love as vain,
	That desperate—that devoted love,
	Life never knows again.

	"What know you of a weary hope,
	The fatal and the fond,
	That feels it has no home on earth,
	Yet dares not look beyond?

	"The bitterness of wasted youth,
	Impatient of its tears;
	The dreary days, the feverish nights,
	The long account of years.

	"The vain regret, the dream destroy`d,
	The vacancy of heart,
	When life`s illusions, one by one,
	First darken—then depart.

	"The vacant heart! ah, worse,—a shrine
	For one beloved name:
	Kept, not a blessing, but a curse,
	Amid remorse and shame.

	"To know how deep, how pure, how true
	Your early feelings were;
	But mock`d, betray`d, disdain`d, and chang`d,
	They have but left despair.

	"And yet the happy and the young
	Bear in their hearts a well
	Of gentlest, kindliest sympathy,
	Where tears unbidden dwell.

	"Then, lady, listen to my lute;
	As angels look below,
	And e`en in heaven pause to weep
	O`er grief they cannot know."

	The song was o`er, but yet the strings
	Made melancholy murmurings;
	She wandered on from air to air,
	Changeful as fancies when they bear
	The impress of the various thought,
	From memory`s twilight caverns brought.
	At length, one wild, peculiar chime
	Recalled this tale of ancient time.
THE RAKI. 
	"There`s dust upon the distant wind, and shadow on the skies,
	And anxiously the maiden strains her long-expecting eyes
	And fancies she can catch the light far flashing from the sword,
	And see the silver crescents raised, of him, the Mogul lord.

	"She stands upon a lofty tower, and gazes o`er the plain:
	Alas! that eyes so beautiful, should turn on heaven in vain.
	`Tis but a sudden storm whose weight is darkening on the air,
	The lightning sweeps the hill, but shows no coming warriors there.

	"Yet crimson as the morning ray, she wears the robe of pride
	That binds the gallant Humaioon, a brother, to her side;
	His gift, what time around his arm, the glittering band was rolled,
	With stars of ev`ry precious stone enwrought in shining gold.
	"Bound by the Raki`s sacred tie, his ready aid to yield,
	Though beauty waited in the bower, and glory in the field:
	Why comes he not, that chieftain vow`d, to this her hour of need?
	Has honour no devotedness? Has chivalry no speed?

	"The Rajpoot`s daughter gazes round, she sees the plain afar,
	Spread shining to the sun, which lights no trace of coming war.
	The very storm has past away, as neither earth nor heaven
	One token of their sympathy had to her anguish given.

	"And still more hopeless than when last she on their camp looked down,
	The foeman`s gathered numbers close round the devoted town:
	And daily in that fatal trench her chosen soldiers fall,
	And spread themselves, a rampart vain, around that ruined wall.

	"Her eyes upon her city turn—alas! what can they meet,
	But famine, and despair, and death, in every lonely street?
	Women and children wander pale, or with despairing eye
	Look farewell to their native hearths, and lay them down to die.

	"She seeks her palace, where her court collects in mournful bands,
	Of maidens who but watch and weep, and wring their weary hands.
	
	One word there came from her white lips, one word, she spoke no more;
	But that word was for life and death, the young queen named—the Jojr.

	[ the last,
	"A wild shriek filled those palace halls—one shriek, it was
	All womanish complaint and wail have in its utterance past:
	They kneel at Kurnavati`s feet, they bathe her hands in tears,
	Then hurrying to their task of death, each calm and stern appears.

	"There is a mighty cavern close beside the palace gate,
	Dark, gloomy temple, meet to make such sacrifice to fate:
	There heap they up all precious woods, the sandal and the rose,
	While fragrant oils and essences like some sweet river flows.

	"And shawls from rich Cashmere, and robes from Dacca`s golden loom,
	And caskets filled with Orient pearls, or yet more rare perfume:
	
	And lutes and wreaths, all graceful toys, of woman`s gentle care,
	Are heaped upon that royal pile, the general doom to share.

	"But weep for those the human things, so lovely and so young,
	The panting hearts which still to life so passionately clung;
	Some bound to this dear earth by hope, and some by love`s strong thrall,
	And yet dishonour`s high disdain was paramount with all.

	"Her silver robe flowed to her feet, with jewels circled round,
	And in her long and raven hair the regal gems were bound;
	And diamonds blaze, ruby and pearl were glittering in her zone,
	And there, with starry emeralds set, the radiant Kandjar shone. 

	"The youthful Ranee led the way, while in her glorious eyes
	Shone spiritual, the clear deep light, that is in moonlit skies:
	
	Pale and resolved, her noble brow was worthy of a race
	Whose proud blood flowed in those blue veins unconscious of disgrace.
	"Solemn and slow with mournful chaunt, come that devoted band,
	And Kurnavati follows last—the red torch in her hand:
	She fires the pile, a death-black smoke mounts from that dreary cave—
	Fling back the city gates—the foe, can now find but a grave.

	"Hark the fierce music on the wind, the atabal, the gong,
	The stem avenger is behind, he has not tarried long:
	They brought his summons, though he stood before his plighted bride;
	They brought his summons, though he stood in all but victory`s pride.

	"Yet down he flung the bridal wreath, he left the field unwon,
	All that a warrior might achieve, young Humaioon had done,
	Too late—he saw the reddening sky, he saw the smoke arise,
	A few faint stragglers lived to tell the Ranee`s sacrifice.
	"But still the monarch held a sword, and had a debt to pay;
	Small cause had Buhadour to boast—the triumph of that day:
	Again the lone streets flowed with blood, and though too late to save,
	Vengeance was the funereal rite at Kurnavati`s grave."

	Deep silence chained the listeners round,
	When, lo, another plaintive sound,
	Came from the river`s side, and there
	They saw a girl with loosened hair
	
	Seat her beneath a peepul tree,
	Where swung her gurrah mournfully, 
	Filled with the cool and limpid wave,
	An offering o`er some dear one`s grave.
	At once Zilara caught the tone,
	And made it, as she sung, her own.
Song.
	"Oh weep not o`er the quiet grave,
	Although the spirit lost be near;
	Weep not, for well those phantoms know
	How vain the grief above their bier.
	
	Weep not—ah no, `tis best to die,
	Ere all of bloom from life is fled;
	Why live, when feelings, friends, and faith
	Have long been numbered with the dead?

	"They know no rainbow-hope that weeps
	Itself away to deepest shade;
	Nor love, whose very happiness
	Should make the trusting heart afraid.
	Ah, human tears are tears of fire,
	That scorch and wither as they flow;
	Then let them fall for those who live,
	And not for those who sleep below.

	"Yes, weep for those, whose silver chain
	Has long been loosed, and yet live on;
	The doomed to drink from life`s dark spring,
	Whose golden bowl has long been gone.
	
	Aye, weep for those, the weary, worn,
	The bound to earth by some vain tie;
	Some lingering love, some fond regret,
	Who loathe to live, yet fear to die."

	A moment`s rest, and then once more
	Zilara tried her memory`s store,
	And woke, while o`er the strings she bowed,
	A tale of Rajahstan the proud.
KISHEN KOWER. 
	"Bold as the falcon that faces the sun,
	Wild as the streams when in torrents they run,
	
	Fierce as the flame when the jungle`s on fire,
	Are the chieftains who call on the day-star as Sire.
	Since the Moghuls were driven from stately Mandoo,
	And left but their ruins their reign to renew,
	Those hills have paid tribute to no foreign lord,
	And their children have kept what they won by the sword.
	Yet downcast each forehead, a sullen dismay
	At Oudeypoor reigns in the Durbar to-day, 
	For bootless the struggle, and weary the fight,
	Which Adjeit Sing pictures with frown black as night:—
	
	"Oh fatal the hour, when Makundra`s dark pass
	Saw the blood of our bravest sink red in the grass;
	And the gifts which were destined to honour the bride,
	By the contest of rivals in crimson were dyed.
	Where are the warriors who once wont to stand
	The glory and rampart of Rajahstan`s land?
	Ask of the hills for their young and their brave,
	They will point to the valleys beneath as their grave.
	The mother sits pale by her desolate hearth,
	And weeps o`er the infant an orphan from birth;
	While the eldest boy watches the dust on the spear,
	Which as yet his weak hand is unable to rear.
	The fruit is ungathered, the harvest unsown,
	And the vulture exults o`er our fields as his own:
	There is famine on earth—there is plague in the air,
	And all for a woman whose face is too fair."
	There was silence like that from the tomb, for no sound
	Was heard from the chieftains who darkened around,
	
	When the voice of a woman arose in reply,
	`The daughters of Rajahstan know how to die.`

	"Day breaks, and the earliest glory of morn
	Afar o`er the tops of the mountains is borne;
	Then the young Kishen Kower wandered through the green bowers,
	That sheltered the bloom of the island of flowers;
	Where a fair summer palace arose mid the shade,
	Which a thousand broad trees for the noon-hour had made
	Far around spread the hills with their varying hue,
	From the deepest of purple to faintest of blue;
	On one side the courts of the Rana are spread,
	The white marble studded with granite`s deep red;
	While far sweeps the terrace, and rises the dome,
	Till lost in the pure clouds above like a home.
	Beside is a lake covered over with isles,
	As the face of a beauty is varied with smiles:
	
	Some small, just a nest for the heron that springs
	From the long grass, and flashes the light from its wings;
	Some bearing one palm-tree, the stately and fair,
	Alone like a column aloft in the air;
	While others have shrubs and sweet plants that extend
	Their boughs to the stream o`er whose mirror they bend.
	The lily that queen-like uprears to the sun,
	The loveliest face that his light is upon;
	While beside stands the cypress, which darkens the wave
	With a foliage meant only to shadow the grave.

	But the isle in the midst was the fairest of all
	Where ran the carved trellis around the light hall;
	Where the green creeper`s starry wreaths, scented and bright.
	Wooed the small purple doves `mid their shelter to light;
	There the proud oleander with white tufts was hung,
	And the fragile clematis its silver showers flung,
	
	And the nutmeg`s soft pink was near lost in the pride
	Of the pomegranate blossom that blushed at its side.
	There the butterflies flitted around on the leaves,
	From which every wing its own colour receives;
	There the scarlet finch past like a light on the wind,
	And the hues of the bayas like sunbeams combined;
	Till the dazzled eye sought from such splendours to rove
	And rested at last on the soft lilac dove;
	Whose song seemed a dirge that at evening should be
	Pour`d forth from the height of the sad cypress tree.
	Her long dark hair plaited with gold on each braid;
	Her feet bound with jewels which flash`d through the shade;
	One hand filled with blossoms, pure hyacinth bells
	Which treasure the summer`s first breath in their cells;
	The other caressing her white antelope,
	In all the young beauty of life and of hope.
	The princess roved onwards, her heart in her eyes,
	That sought their delight in the fair earth and skies.
	
	Oh, loveliest time! oh, happiest day!
	When the heart is unconscious, and knows not its sway,
	When the favourite bird, or the earliest flower,
	Or the crouching fawn`s eyes, make the joy of the hour,
	And the spirits and steps are as light as the sleep
	Which never has waken`d to watch or to weep.
	She bounds o`er the soft grass, half woman half child,
	As gay as her antelope, almost as wild.
	The bloom of her cheek is like that on her years;
	She has never known pain, she has never known tears,
	And thought has no grief, and no fear to impart;
	The shadow of Eden is yet on her heart.

	"The midnight has fallen, the quiet, the deep,
	Yet in yon Zenana none lie down for sleep.
	Like frighted birds gathered in timorous bands,
	The young slaves within it are wringing their hands.
	
	The mother hath covered her head with her veil,
	She weepeth no tears, and she maketh no wail;
	But all that lone chamber pass silently by;
	She has flung her on earth, to despair and to die.
	But a lamp is yet burning in one dismal room,
	Young princess; where now is thy morning of bloom?
	Ah, ages, long ages, have passed in a breath,
	And life`s bitter knowledge has heralded death.
	At the edge of the musnud  she bends on her knee, 
	While her eyes watch the face of the stern Chand Baee. 
	Proud, beautiful, fierce; while she gazes, the tone
	Of those high murky features grows almost her own;
	And the blood of her race rushes dark to her brow,
	The spirit of heroes has entered her now.
	
	" `Bring the death-cup, and never for my sake shall shame
	Quell the pride of my house, or dishonour its name.
	She drained the sherbet, while Chand Baee looked on,
	Like a warrior that marks the career of his son.
	But life is so strong in each pure azure vein,
	That they take not the venom—she drains it again.
	The haughty eye closes, the white teeth are set,
	And the dew-damps of pain on the wrung brow are wet:
	The slight frame is writhing—she sinks to the ground;
	She yields to no struggle, she utters no sound—
	The small hands are clenched—they relax—it is past,
	And her aunt kneels beside her—kneels weeping at last.
	Again morning breaks over palace and lake,
	But where are the glad eyes it wont to awake.
	Weep, weep, `mid a bright world of beauty and bloom,
	For the sweet human flower that lies low in the tomb.
	And wild through the palace the death-song is breathing,
	And white are the blossoms, the slaves weep while wreathing,
	
	To strew at the feet and to bind round the head,
	Of her who was numbered last night with the dead:
	They braid her long tresses, they drop the shroud o`er,
	And gaze on her cold and pale beauty no more:
	But the heart has her image, and long after-years
	Will keep her sad memory with music and tears."

	Days pass, yet still Zilara`s song
	Beguiled the regal beauty`s hours
	As the wind bears some bird along
	Over the haunted orange bowers.
	`Twas as till then she had not known
	How much her heart had for its own;
	And Murad`s image seemed more dear,
	These higher chords of feeling strung;
	"And love shone brighter for the shade
	"That others` sorrows round it flung.
	
	It was one sultry noon, yet sweet
	The air which through the matted grass
	Came cool—its breezes had to meet
	A hundred plumes, ere it could pass;
	The peacock`s shining feathers wave
	From many a young and graceful slave;
	Who silent kneel amid the gloom
	Of that dim and perfumed room.

	Beyond, the radiant sunbeams rest
	On many a minaret`s glittering crest,
	And white the dazzling tombs below,
	Like masses sculptured of pure snow;
	While round stands many a giant tree,
	Like pillars of a sanctuary,
	Whose glossy foliage, dark and bright,
	Reflects, and yet excludes the light.
	Oh sun, how glad thy rays are shed;
	How canst thou glory o`er the dead?
	
	Ah, folly this of human pride,
	What are the dead to one like thee,
	Whose mirror is the mighty tide,
	Where time flows to eternity?
	A single race, a single age,
	What are they in thy pilgrimage?
	The tent, the palace, and the tomb
	Repeat the universal doom.
	Man passes, but upon the plain
	Still the sweet seasons hold their reign,
	As if earth were their sole domain,
	And man a toy and mockery thrown
	Upon the world he deems his own.

	All is so calm—the sunny air
	Has not a current nor a shade;
	The vivid green the rice-fields wear
	Seems of one moveless emerald made;
	
	The Ganges` quiet waves are rolled
	In one broad sheet of molten gold;
	And in the tufted brakes beside,
	The water-fowls and herons hide.
	And the still earth might also seem
	The strange creation of a dream.
	Actual, breathless—dead, yet bright—
	Unblest with life—yet mocked with light,
	It mocks our nature`s fate and power,
	When we look forth in such an hour,
	And that repose in nature see,
	The fond desire of every heart;
	But, oh! thou inner world, to thee,
	What outward world can e`er impart?

	But turn we to that darkened hall,
	Where the cool fountain`s pleasant fall
	
	Wakens the odours yet unshed
	From the blue hyacinth`s drooping head;
	And on the crimson couch beside
	Reclines the young and royal bride;
	Not sleeping, though the water`s chime,
	The lulling flowers, the languid time,
	Might soothe her to the gentlest sleep,
	O`er which the genii watchings keep,
	And shed from their enchanted wings,
	All loveliest imaginings:
	No, there is murmuring in her ear,
	A voice than sleep`s more soft and dear;
	While that pale slave with drooping eye
	Speaks mournfully of days gone by;
	And every plaintive word is fraught
	With music which the heart has taught,
	A pleading and confiding tone,
	To those mute lips so long unknown.
	
	Ah! all in vain that she had said
	To feeling, "slumber like the dead;"
	Had bade each pang that might convulse
	With fiery throb the beating pulse,
	Each faded hope, each early dream,
	Sleep as beneath a frozen stream;
	Such as her native mountains bear,
	The cold white hills around Jerdair;
	Heights clad with that eternal snow,
	Which happier valleys never know.
	Some star in that ungenial sky,
	Might well shape such a destiny;
	But till within the dark calm grave,
	There yet will run an under-wave,
	Which human sympathy can still
	Excite and melt to tears at will;
	No magic any spell affords,
	Whose power is like a few kind words.
	
	`Twas strange the contrast in the pair,
	That leant by that cool fountain`s side
	Both very young, both very fair,
	By nature, not by fate allied:
	The one a darling and delight,
	A creature like the morning bright:
	Whose weeping is the sunny shower
	Half light upon an April hour;
	One who a long glad childhood past,
	But left that happy home to `bide
	Where love a deeper shadow cast,
	A hero`s proud and treasured bride:
	Who her light footstep more adored,
	Than all the triumphs of his sword;
	Whose kingdom at her feet the while,
	Had seemed too little for a smile.
	But that pale slave was as the tomb
	Of her own youth, of her own bloom;
	
	Enough remained to show how fair,
	In other days those features were,
	Still lingered delicate and fine,
	The shadow of their pure outline;
	The small curved lip, the glossy brow,
	That melancholy beauty wore,
	Whose spell is in the silent past,
	Which saith to love and hope, "No more:"
	No more, for hope hath long forsaken
	Love, though at first its gentle guide
	First lulled to sleep, then left to `waken,
	`Mid tears and scorn, despair and pride,
	And only those who know can tell,
	What love is after hope`s farewell.
	And first she spoke of childhood`s time,
	Little, what childhood ought to be,
	When tenderly the gentle child
	Is cherished at its mother`s knee,
Source
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