XXI.
Enchanted sleep, yet full of deadly dreams;
Companionship divine, stern solitude;
Thou serpent, colour'd with the brightest gleams
That e'er hid poison, making hearts thy food;
Woe to the heart that lets thee once intrude,
Victim of visions that life's purpose steal,
Till the whole struggling nature lies subdued,
Bleeding with wounds the grave alone must heal.
Proud Angel, was it thine that mortal woe to feel?
XXII.
Still knelt the pilgrim cover'd with her veil,
But all her beauty living on his eye;
Still hyacinth the clustering ringlets fell
Wreathing her forehead's polish'd ivory;
Her cheek unseen still wore the rose-bud's dye;
She sigh'd; he heard the sigh beside him swell,
He glanced around—no Spirit hover'd nigh—
Touch'd the fall'n flower, and blushing, sigh'd “farewell.”
What sound has stunn'd his ear? A sudden thunder-peal.
XXIII.
He look'd on heaven, 'twas calm, but in the vale
A creeping mist had girt the mountain round,
Making the golden minarets glimmer pale;
It sealed the mount,—the feeble day was drown'd.
The sky was with its livid hue embrown'd,
But soon the vapours grew a circling sea,
Reflecting lovely from its blue profound
Mountain, and crimson cloud, and blossom'd tree;
Another heaven and earth in bright tranquillity.
XXIV.
And on its bosom swam a small chaloupe,
That like a wild swan sported on the tide.
The silken sail that canopied its poop
Show'd one that look'd an Houri in her pride;
Anon came spurring up the mountain's side
A warrior Moslem all in glittering mail,
That to his country's doubtful battle hied.
He saw the form, he heard the tempter's tale,
And answered with his own: for beauty will prevail.
XXV.
But now in storm uprose the vast mirage;
Where sits she now who tempted him to roam?
How shall the skiff with that wild sea engage!
In vain the quivering helm is turn'd to home.
Dark'ning above the piles of tumbling foam,
Rushes a shape of woe, and through the roar
Peals in the warrior's ear a voice of doom.
Down plunges the chaloupe.—The storm is o'er.
Heavy and slow the corpse rolls onward to the shore.
XXVI.
The Angel's heart was smote—but that touch'd flower,
Now opening, breathed such fragrance subtly sweet,
He felt it strangely chain him to the bower.
He dared not then that pilgrim's eye to meet,
But gazed upon the small unsandal'd feet
Shining like silver on the floor of rose;
At length he raised his glance;—the veil's light net
Had floated backward from her pencil'd brows.
Her eye was fix'd on Heaven, in sad, sublime repose.
XXVII.
A simple Syrian lyre was on her breast,
And on her crimson lip was murmuring
A village strain, that in the day's sweet rest
Is heard in Araby round many a spring,
When down the twilight vales the maidens bring
The flocks to some old patriarchal well;
Or where beneath the palms some desert-king
Lies, with his tribe around him as they fell!
The thunder burst again; a long, deep, crashing peal.
XXVIII.
The Angel heard it not; as round the range
Of the blue hill-tops roar'd the volley on,
Uttering its voice with wild, aerial change;
Now sinking in a deep and distant moan,
Like the last echo of a host o'erthrown;
Then rushing with new vengeance down again,
Shooting the fiery flash and thunder-stone;
Till flamed, like funeral pyres, the mountain chain.
The Angel heard it not, its wisdom all was vain.
XXIX.
He heard not even the strain, though it had changed
From the calm sweetness of the holy hymn.
His thoughts from depth to depth unconscious ranged,
Yet all within was dizzy, strange, and dim;
A mist seem'd spreading between heaven and him;
He sat absorb'd in dreams;—a searching tone
Came on his ear, oh how her dark eyes swim
Who breathed that echo of a heart undone,
The song of early joys, delicious, dear, and gone!
XXX.
Again it changed.—But, now 'twas wild and grand,
The praise of hearts that scorn the world's control,
Disdaining all but Love's delicious band,
The chain of gold and flowers, the tie of soul.
Again strange paleness o'er her beauty stole,
She glanced above, then stoop'd her glowing eye,
Blue as the star that glitter'd by the pole;
One tear-drop gleam'd, she dash'd it quickly by,
And dropp'd the lyre, and turn'd—as if she turn'd to die.
Enchanted sleep, yet full of deadly dreams;
Companionship divine, stern solitude;
Thou serpent, colour'd with the brightest gleams
That e'er hid poison, making hearts thy food;
Woe to the heart that lets thee once intrude,
Victim of visions that life's purpose steal,
Till the whole struggling nature lies subdued,
Bleeding with wounds the grave alone must heal.
Proud Angel, was it thine that mortal woe to feel?
XXII.
Still knelt the pilgrim cover'd with her veil,
But all her beauty living on his eye;
Still hyacinth the clustering ringlets fell
Wreathing her forehead's polish'd ivory;
Her cheek unseen still wore the rose-bud's dye;
She sigh'd; he heard the sigh beside him swell,
He glanced around—no Spirit hover'd nigh—
Touch'd the fall'n flower, and blushing, sigh'd “farewell.”
What sound has stunn'd his ear? A sudden thunder-peal.
XXIII.
He look'd on heaven, 'twas calm, but in the vale
A creeping mist had girt the mountain round,
Making the golden minarets glimmer pale;
It sealed the mount,—the feeble day was drown'd.
The sky was with its livid hue embrown'd,
But soon the vapours grew a circling sea,
Reflecting lovely from its blue profound
Mountain, and crimson cloud, and blossom'd tree;
Another heaven and earth in bright tranquillity.
XXIV.
And on its bosom swam a small chaloupe,
That like a wild swan sported on the tide.
The silken sail that canopied its poop
Show'd one that look'd an Houri in her pride;
Anon came spurring up the mountain's side
A warrior Moslem all in glittering mail,
That to his country's doubtful battle hied.
He saw the form, he heard the tempter's tale,
And answered with his own: for beauty will prevail.
XXV.
But now in storm uprose the vast mirage;
Where sits she now who tempted him to roam?
How shall the skiff with that wild sea engage!
In vain the quivering helm is turn'd to home.
Dark'ning above the piles of tumbling foam,
Rushes a shape of woe, and through the roar
Peals in the warrior's ear a voice of doom.
Down plunges the chaloupe.—The storm is o'er.
Heavy and slow the corpse rolls onward to the shore.
XXVI.
The Angel's heart was smote—but that touch'd flower,
Now opening, breathed such fragrance subtly sweet,
He felt it strangely chain him to the bower.
He dared not then that pilgrim's eye to meet,
But gazed upon the small unsandal'd feet
Shining like silver on the floor of rose;
At length he raised his glance;—the veil's light net
Had floated backward from her pencil'd brows.
Her eye was fix'd on Heaven, in sad, sublime repose.
XXVII.
A simple Syrian lyre was on her breast,
And on her crimson lip was murmuring
A village strain, that in the day's sweet rest
Is heard in Araby round many a spring,
When down the twilight vales the maidens bring
The flocks to some old patriarchal well;
Or where beneath the palms some desert-king
Lies, with his tribe around him as they fell!
The thunder burst again; a long, deep, crashing peal.
XXVIII.
The Angel heard it not; as round the range
Of the blue hill-tops roar'd the volley on,
Uttering its voice with wild, aerial change;
Now sinking in a deep and distant moan,
Like the last echo of a host o'erthrown;
Then rushing with new vengeance down again,
Shooting the fiery flash and thunder-stone;
Till flamed, like funeral pyres, the mountain chain.
The Angel heard it not, its wisdom all was vain.
XXIX.
He heard not even the strain, though it had changed
From the calm sweetness of the holy hymn.
His thoughts from depth to depth unconscious ranged,
Yet all within was dizzy, strange, and dim;
A mist seem'd spreading between heaven and him;
He sat absorb'd in dreams;—a searching tone
Came on his ear, oh how her dark eyes swim
Who breathed that echo of a heart undone,
The song of early joys, delicious, dear, and gone!
XXX.
Again it changed.—But, now 'twas wild and grand,
The praise of hearts that scorn the world's control,
Disdaining all but Love's delicious band,
The chain of gold and flowers, the tie of soul.
Again strange paleness o'er her beauty stole,
She glanced above, then stoop'd her glowing eye,
Blue as the star that glitter'd by the pole;
One tear-drop gleam'd, she dash'd it quickly by,
And dropp'd the lyre, and turn'd—as if she turn'd to die.