The Captive Ladie

Front matter

THE

CAPTIVE LADIE,

(AN INDIAN TALE)

Introduction

INTRODUCTION.

To 8

I.

Come, list thee, gentle one!—and whil'st the lyre Breathes softer melody for thee, mine own! I'll weave the sunny dreams, those eyes inspire, In wreathes to consecrate to thee alone,— Love's offering, gentle one!—to Beauty's queenly throne

II.

'Tis sweet to gaze upon those eyes where Love Has treasur’d all his rays of softest beam;— 'Tis sweet to see thee smile as from above Some child of Light,—such as we often dream Doth dwell on planet pale,—or star of golden gleam

III.

The heart which once has sigh'd in solitude, And yearn'd t' unlock the fount where softly lie Its gentlest feelings,—well may shun the mood Of grief—so cold—when thou, dear one! art nigh, To sun it with thy smile,—Love's lustrous radiancy!

IV.

The home of youth, 'tis far,—oh! far away,— The hopes of youth, they've fled and taught to weep,— The friends of youth, e'en they,—oh! where are they? Ask memory and the dreams which haunt in sleep,— Wing'd messengers and sweet from, Past! thy Donjon keep!

V.

But must I weep e'en now as once I wept, 'Midst life's gay—crowded scenes, unmark'd and lone, Where bitterest thoughts of solitude oft crept To chill the bosom's glow,—when thou, mine own! Dost smile in tranquil joy like star on sapphire throne?

VI.

Yes,—like that star which, on the wilderness Of vasty ocean, woos the anxious eye Of lonely mariner,—and woos to bless,— For there be Hope writ on her brow on high: He recks not darkling waves,—nor fears the lightless sky!

VII.

Oh! beautiful as Inspiration, when She fills the Poet's breast,—her fairy shrine— Woo'd by melodious worship!—welcome then,— Tho' ours the home of Want,—I ne'er repine, Art thou not there—e'en thou—a priceless gem and mine?

VIII.

Life hath its dreams to beautify its scene,— And sun-light for its desart;—but there be None softer in its store—of brighter sheen— Than Love—than gentle Love; and thou to me Art that sweet dream, mine own! in glad reality!

IX.

Though bitter be the echo of the tale Of my youth's wither'd spring—I sigh not now; For I am as a tree when some sweet gale Doth sweep away the sere leaves from each bough, And wake far greener charms to re-adorn its brow!

X.

Then come and list thee to the minstrel-lyre And Lay of Eld of this my father-land, When first, as unchain'd demons, breathing fire, Wild, stranger foe-men trod her sunny strand, And pluckt her brightest gems with rude, unspairing hand.

XI.

The world's dark frowns may damp,—its coldness chill The kindling altar which the Heart hath rear'd For deep—devoted—life-long worship,—still Be thine the soothing smile by Love endear'd:— Eve's dew must heal the flow'r by day's hot breathings sear'd!

Preface

PREFACE.

The following tale is founded on a circumstance pretty generally known in India, and, if I mistake not, noticed by some European writers.—A little before the famous Indian expeditions of Mahommed of Ghizni, the King of Kanoje celebrated the "Raj-shooio Jugum" or, as I have translated it in the text, the "Feast of Victory." Almost all the contemporary Princes, being unable to resist his power, attended it, with the exception of the King of Delhi, who, being a lineal descendant of the great Pandû Princes—the heroes of the far-famed "Mohabarut" of Vyasa—refused to sanction by his presence the assumption of a dignity—for the celebration of this Festival was an universal assertion of claims to being considered as the lord paramount over the whole country—which by right of descent belonged to his family alone. The king of Kanoje, highly incensed at this refusal, had an image of gold made to represent the absent chief.—On the last day of the Feast, the king of Delhi, having, with a few chosen followers, entered the palace in disguise, carried off this image, together, as some say, with one of the Princesses Royal whose hand he had once solicited but in vain, owing to his obstinate maintenance of the rights of his ancient house.—The fair Princess, however, was retaken and sent to a solitary castle to be out of the way of her pugnacious lover, who, eventually effected her escape in the disguise of a Bhât or Indian Troubadour. The King of Kanoje never forgave this insult, and, when Mahommed invaded the kingdom of Delhi, sternly refused to aid his son-in-law in expelling a foe, who soon after crushed him also.—I have slightly deviated from the above story in representing my heroine as sent to confinement before the celebration of the "Feast of Victory."

I have, I am afraid, many reasons to apologize to the Public for the imperfections which have crept into the following Poem. It was originally composed in great haste for the columns of a local Journal,—"The Madras Circulator and General Chronicle,"—in the midst of scenes where it required a more than ordinary effort to abstract one's thoughts from the ugly realities of Life.—Want and Poverty with the "battalions" of "Sorrows" which they bring, have but little inspiration for their Victim!—

M. M. S. D.

Royapooram.

Canto First

CANTO FIRST.

"Love will find its way

Through paths where wolves would fear to prey."

The Giaour.

THE

CAPTIVE LADIE.

CANTO FIRST.

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, 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 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 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— 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! 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 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, 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 Rov'd joyously and sported there— Or, on the Jumna's holy stream 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, 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 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 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— 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 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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? 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, Who came to win from lone captivity The bride a ruthless father's wrath would doom To desert-solitude and donjon-gloom!

END OF CANTO I.

NOTES TO CANTO I.

Canto Second

CANTO SECOND.

"Land of the Sun! what foot invades Thy pagods and thy pillar'd shades, Thy cavern shrines and idol stones, Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones? 'Tis he of Gazna!"4

Lalla Rookh.

THE

CAPTIVE LADIE.

CANTO SECOND.

Round proud Husteena's tow'r-crown'd wall, 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, Smiles gayly like a lightless stream, When Chandra sheds her silver beam, As sweetly sounds the gay Sittar, , Or wild and thrilling rolls along, Ferdousi's high, heroic song;— 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!

, 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!— 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—