---

Letitia Elizabeth Landon - The Zenana
Work rating: Low

1 2 
	
	Who deems that ne`er before, from heaven
	So sweet a thing to earth was given.
	But she an orphan had no share
	In fond affection`s early care;
	She knew not love until it came
	Far other, though it bore that name.

	"I felt," she said, "all things grow bright!
	Before the spirit`s inward light.
	Earth was more lovely, night and day,
	Conscious of some enchanted sway,
	That flung around an atmosphere
	I had not deemed could brighten here.
	And I have gazed on Moohreeb`s face,
	As exiles watch their native place;
	I knew his step before it stirred
	From its green nest the cautious bird.
	
	I woke, till eye and cheek grew dim,
	Then slept—it was to dream of him;
	I lived for days upon a word
	Less watchful ear had never heard:
	And won from careless look or sign
	A happiness too dearly mine.
	He was my world—I wished to make
	My heart a temple for his sake.
	It matters not—such passionate love
	Has only life and hope above;
	A wanderer from its home on high,
	Here it is sent to droop and die.
	He loved me not—or but a day,
	I was a flower upon his way:
	A moment near his heart enshrined,
	Then flung to perish on the wind."
	
	She hid her face within her hands—
	Methinks the maiden well might weep;
	The heart it has a weary task
	Which unrequited love must keep;
	At once a treasure and a curse,
	The shadow on its universe.
	Alas, for young and wasted years,
	For long nights only spent in tears;
	For hopes, like lamps in some dim urn,
	That but for the departed burn.
	Alas for her whose drooping brow
	Scarce struggles with its sorrow now.
	At first Nadira wept to see
	That hopelessness of misery.
	But, oh, she was too glad, too young,
	To dream of an eternal grief;
	A thousand thoughts within her sprung,
	Of solace, promise, and relief.
	
	Slowly Zilara raised her head,
	Then, moved by some strong feeling, said,
	"A boon, kind Princess, there is one
	Which won by me, were heaven won;
	Not wealth, not freedom—wealth to me
	Is worthless, as all wealth must be;
	When there are none its gifts to share:
	For whom have I on earth to care?
	None from whose head its golden shrine
	May ward the ills that fell on mine.
	And freedom—`tis a worthless boon
	To one who will be free so soon;
	And yet I have one prayer, so dear,
	I dare not hope—I only fear."
	"Speak, trembler, be your wish confest,
	And trust Nadira with the rest."
	"Lady, look forth on yonder tower,
	There spend I morn and midnight`s hour,
	
	Beneath that lonely peepul tree—
	Well may its branches wave o`er me,
	For their dark wreaths are ever shed,
	The mournful tribute to the dead—
	There sit I, in fond wish to cheer
	A captive`s sad and lonely ear,
	And strive his drooping hopes to raise,
	With songs that breathe of happier days.
	Lady, methinks I scarce need tell
	The name that I have loved so well;
	`Tis Moohreeb, captured by the sword
	Of him, thy own unconquered lord.
	Lady, one word—one look from thee,
	And Murad sets that captive free."
	
	"And you will follow at his side?"
	"Ah, no, he hath another bride;
	And if I pity, can`st thou bear
	To think upon her lone despair?
	No, break the mountain-chieftain`s chain,
	Give him to hope, home, love again."
	Her cheek with former beauty blushed,
	The crimson to her forehead rushed,
	Her eyes rekindled, till their light
	Flashed from the lash`s summer night.
	So eager was her prayer, so strong
	The love that bore her soul along.
	Ah! many loves for many hearts;
	But if mortality has known
	One which its native heaven imparts
	To that fine soil where it has grown;
	`Tis in that first and early feeling,
	Passion`s most spiritual revealing;
	
	Half dream, all poetry—whose hope
	Colours life`s charmed horoscope
	With hues so beautiful, so pure—
	Whose nature is not to endure.
	As well expect the tints to last,
	The rainbow on the storm hath cast.
	Of all young feelings, love first dies,
	Soon the world piles its obsequies;
	Yet there have been who still would keep
	That early vision dear and deep,
	The wretched they, but love requires
	Tears, tears to keep alive his fires:
	The happy will forget, but those
	To whom despair denies repose,
	From whom all future light is gone,
	The sad, the slighted, still love on.
	
	The ghurrees are chiming the morning hour, 
	The voice of the priest is heard from the tower,
	The turrets of Delhi are white in the sun,
	Alas! that another bright day has begun.
	Children of earth, ah! how can ye bear
	This constant awakening to toil and to care?
	Out upon morning, its hours recall,
	Earth to its trouble, man to his thrall;
	Out upon morning, it chases the night,
	With all the sweet dreams that on slumber alight;
	Out upon morning, which wakes us to life,
	With its toil, its repining, its sorrow and strife.
	And yet there were many in Delhi that day,
	Who watched the first light, and rejoiced in the ray;
	
	They wait their young monarch, who comes from the field
	With a wreath on his spear, and a dent on his shield.
	There`s a throng in the east, `tis the king and his train:
	And first prance the horsemen, who scarce can restrain
	Their steeds that are wild as the wind, and as bold 
	As the riders who curb them with bridles of gold:
	The elephants follow, and o`er each proud head
	The chattah that glitters with gems is outspread,
	Whence the silver bells fall with their musical sound,
	While the howdah`s red trappings float bright on the ground: 
	Behind stalk the camels, which, weary and worn,
	Seem to stretch their long necks, and repine at the morn:
	And wild on the air the fierce war-echoes come,
	The voice of the atabal, trumpet, and drum:
	
	Half lost in the shout that ascends from the crowd,
	Who delight in the young, and the brave, and the proud.
	Tis folly to talk of the right and the wrong,
	The triumph will carry the many along.
	A dearer welcome far remains,
	Than that of Delhi`s crowded plains?
	Soon Murad seeks the shadowy hall,
	Cool with the fountain`s languid fall;
	His own, his best beloved to meet.
	Why kneels Nadira at his feet?
	With flushing cheek, and eager air,
	One word hath won her easy prayer;
	It is such happiness to grant,
	The slightest fancy that can haunt
	The loved one`s wish, earth hath no gem,
	And heaven no hope, too dear for them.
	That night beheld a vessel glide,
	Over the Jumna`s onward tide;
	
	One watched that vessel from the shore,
	Too conscious of the freight it bore,
	And wretched in her granted vow,
	Sees Moohreeb leaning by the prow,
	And knows that soon the winding river
	Will hide him from her view for ever.

	Next morn they found that youthful slave
	Still kneeling by the sacred wave;
	Her head was leaning on the stone
	Of an old ruined tomb beside,
	A fitting pillow cold and lone,
	The dead had to the dead supplied:
	The heart`s last string hath snapt in twain,
	Oh, earth, receive thine own again:
	The weary one at length has rest
	Within thy chill but quiet breast.
	
	Long did the young Nadira keep
	The memory of that maiden`s lute;
	And call to mind her songs, and weep,
	Long after those charmed chords were mute.
	A small white tomb was raised, to show
	That human sorrow slept below;
	And solemn verse and sacred line
	Were graved on that funereal shrine.
	And by its side the cypress tree
	Stood, like unchanging memory.
	And even to this hour are thrown
	Green wreaths on that remembered stone;
	And songs remain, whose tunes are fraught
	With music which herself first taught.
	And, it is said, one lonely star
	Still brings a murmur sweet and far
	Upon the silent midnight air,
	As if Zilara wandered there.
	
	Oh! if her poet soul be blent
	With its aerial element,
	May its lone course be where the rill
	Goes singing at its own glad will;
	Where early flowers unclose and die;
	Where shells beside the ocean lie,
	Fill`d with strange tones; or where the breeze
	Sheds odours o`er the moonlit seas:
	There let her gentle spirit rove,
	Embalmed by poetry and love.
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.