Classic Poem

The story of the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan being ended, they were now
doomed to hear FADLADEEN'S criticisms upon it. A series of disappointments
and accidents had occurred to this learned Chamberlain during the journey.
In the first place, those couriers stationed, as in the reign of Shah
Jehan, between Delhi and the Western coast of India, to secure a constant
supply of mangoes for the Royal Table, had by some cruel irregularity
failed in their duty; and to eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was of
course impossible. In the next place, the elephant laden with his
fine antique porcelain, had, in an unusual fit of liveliness,
shattered the whole set to pieces:--an irreparable loss, as many of the
vessels were so exquisitely old, as to have been used under the Emperors
Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran
too, supposed to be the identical copy between the leaves of which
Mahomet's favorite pigeon used to nestle, had been mislaid by his
Koran-bearer three whole days; not without much spiritual alarm to
FADLADEEN who though professing to hold with other loyal and orthodox
Mussulmans that salvation could only be found in the Koran was strongly
suspected of believing in his heart that it could only be found in his own
particular copy of it. When to all these grievances is added the obstinacy
of the cooks in putting the pepper of Canara into his dishes instead of
the cinnamon of Serendib, we may easily suppose that he came to the task
of criticism with at least a sufficient degree of irritability for the
purpose.

"In order," said he, importantly swinging about his chaplet of pearls, "to
convey with clearness my opinion of the story this young man has related,
it is necessary to take a review of all the stories that have ever"---"My
good FADLADEEN!" exclaimed the Princess, interrupting him, "we really do
not deserve that you should give yourself so much trouble. Your opinion of
the poem we have just heard, will I have no doubt be abundantly edifying
without any further waste of your valuable erudition."--"If that be all,"
replied the critic,--evidently mortified at not being allowed to show how
much he knew about everything but the subject immediately before him--"if
that be all that is required the matter is easily despatched." He then
proceeded to analyze the poem, in that strain (so well known to the
unfortunate bards of Delhi), whose censures were an infliction from which
few recovered and whose very praises were like the honey extracted from
the bitter flowers of the aloe. The chief personages of the story were, if
he rightly understood them, an ill-favored gentleman with a veil over his
face;--a young lady whose reason went and came according as it suited the
poet's convenience to be sensible or otherwise;--and a youth in one of
those hideous Bokharian bonnets, who took the aforesaid gentleman in a
veil for a Divinity. "From such materials," said he, "what can be
expected?--after rivalling each other in long speeches and absurdities
through some thousands of lines as indigestible as the filberts of Berdaa,
our friend in the veil jumps into a tub of aquafortis; the young lady dies
in a set speech whose only recommendation is that it is her last; and the
lover lives on to a good old age for the laudable purpose of seeing her
ghost which he at last happily accomplishes, and expires. This you will
allow is a fair summary of the story; and if Nasser, the Arabian merchant,
told no better, our Holy Prophet (to whom be all honor and glory!) had no
need to be jealous of his abilities for story-telling."

With respect to the style, it was worthy of the matter;--it had not even
those politic contrivances of structure which make up for the commonness
of the thoughts by the peculiarity of the manner nor that stately poetical
phraseology by which sentiments mean in themselves, like the blacksmith's
apron converted into a banner, are so easily gilt and embroidered
into consequence. Then as to the versification it was, to say no worse of
it, execrable: it had neither the copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness
of Hafez, nor the sententious march of Sadi; but appeared to him in the
uneasy heaviness of its movements to have been modelled upon the gait of a
very tired dromedary. The licenses too in which it indulged were
unpardonable;--for instance this line, and the poem abounded with such;--

Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.

"What critic that can count," said FADLADEEN, "and has his full complement
of fingers to count withal, would tolerate for an instant such syllabic
superfluities?"--He here looked round, and discovered that most of his
audience were asleep; while the glimmering lamps seemed inclined to follow
their example. It became necessary therefore, however painful to himself,
to put an end to his valuable animadversions for the present and he
accordingly concluded with an air of dignified candor, thus:--

"Notwithstanding the observations which I have thought it my duty to make,
it is by no means my wish to discourage the young man:--so far from it
indeed that if he will but totally alter his style of writing and thinking
I have very little doubt that I shall be vastly pleased with him."

Some days elapsed after this harangue of the Great Chamberlain before
LALLA ROOKH could venture to ask for another story. The youth was still a
welcome guest in the pavilion--to one heart perhaps too dangerously
welcome;--but all mention of poetry was as if by common consent avoided.
Though none of the party had much respect for FADLADEEN, yet his censures
thus magisterially delivered evidently made an impression on them all. The
Poet himself to whom criticism was quite a new operation, (being wholly
unknown in that Paradise of the Indies, Cashmere,) felt the shock as it is
generally felt at first, till use has made it more tolerable to the
patient;--the Ladies began to suspect that they ought not to be pleased
and seemed to conclude that there must have been much good sense in what
FADLADEEN said from its having set them all so soundly to sleep;--while
the self-complacent Chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea of having
for the hundred and fiftieth time in his life extinguished a Poet. LALLA
ROOKH alone--and Love knew why--persisted in being delighted with all she
had heard and in resolving to hear more as speedily as possible. Her
manner however of first returning to the subject was unlucky. It was while
they rested during the heat of noon near a fountain on which some hand had
rudely traced those well-known words from the Garden of Sadi.--"Many like
me have viewed this fountain, but they are gone and their eyes are closed
for ever!"--that she took occasion from the melancholy beauty of this
passage to dwell upon the charms of poetry in general. "It is true," she
said, "few poets can imitate that sublime bird which flies always in the
air and never touches the earth:--it is only once in many ages a
Genius appears whose words, like those on the Written Mountain last for
ever:--but still there are some as delightful perhaps, though not so
wonderful, who if not stars over our head are at least flowers along our
path and whose sweetness of the moment we ought gratefully to inhale
without calling upon them for a brightness and a durability beyond their
nature. In short," continued she, blushing as if conscious of being caught
in an oration, "it is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his
regions of enchantment without having a critic for ever, like the old Man
of the Sea, upon his back!"--FADLADEEN, it was plain took this last
luckless allusion to himself and would treasure it up in his mind as a
whetstone for his next criticism. A sudden silence ensued; and the
Princess, glancing a look at FERAMORZ, saw plainly she must wait for a
more courageous moment.

But the glories of Nature and her wild, fragrant airs playing freshly over
the current of youthful spirits will soon heal even deeper wounds than the
dull Fadladeens of this world can inflict. In an evening or two after,
they came to the small Valley of Gardens which had been planted by order
of the Emperor for his favorite sister Rochinara during their progress to
Cashmere some years before; and never was there a more sparkling
assemblage of sweets since the Gulzar-e-Irem or Rose-bower of Irem. Every
precious flower was there to be found that poetry or love or religion has
ever consecrated; from the dark hyacinth to which Hafez compares his
mistress's hair to be Cámalatá by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of
Indra is scented. As they sat in the cool fragrance of this
delicious spot and LALLA ROOKH remarked that she could fancy it the abode
of that flower-loving Nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay,
or of one of those Peris, those beautiful creatures of the air who
live upon perfumes and to whom a place like this might make some amends
for the Paradise they have lost,--the young Poet in whose eyes she
appeared while she spoke to be one of the bright spiritual creatures she
was describing said hesitatingly that he remembered a Story of a Peri,
which if the Princess had no objection he would venture to relate. "It
is," said he, with an appealing look to FADLADEEN, "in a lighter and
humbler strain than the other:" then, striking a few careless but
melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus began:--


PARADISE AND THE PERI.


One morn a Peri at the gate
Of Eden stood disconsolate;
And as she listened to the Springs
Of Life within like music flowing
And caught the light upon her wings
Thro' the half-open portal glowing,
She wept to think her recreant race
Should e'er have lost that glorious place!

"How happy," exclaimed this child of air,
"Are the holy Spirits who wander there
"Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall;
"Tho' mine are the gardens of earth and sea
"And the stars themselves have flowers for me,
"One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all!

"Tho' sunny the Lake of cool CASHMERE
"With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,
"And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall;
"Tho' bright are the waters of SING-SU-HAY
And the golden floods that thitherward stray,
Yet--oh, 'tis only the Blest can say
How the waters of Heaven outshine them all!

"Go, wing thy flight from star to star,
From world to luminous world as far
As the universe spreads its flaming wall:
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres
And multiply each thro' endless years
One minute of Heaven is worth them all!"

The glorious Angel who was keeping
The gates of Light beheld her weeping,
And as he nearer drew and listened
To her sad song, a tear-drop glistened
Within his eyelids, like the spray
From Eden's fountain when it lies
On the blue flower which--Bramins say--
Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.

"Nymph of a fair but erring line!"
Gently he said--"One hope is thine.
'Tis written in the Book of Fate,
The Peri yet may be forgiven
Who brings to this Eternal gate
The Gift that is most dear to Heaven!
Go seek it and redeem thy sin--
'Tis sweet to let the Pardoned in."

Rapidly as comets run
To the embraces of the Sun;--
Fleeter than the starry brands
Flung at night from angel hands
At those dark and daring sprites
Who would climb the empyreal heights,
Down the blue vault the PERI flies,
And lighted earthward by a glance
That just then broke from morning's eyes,
Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse.

But whither shall the Spirit go
To find this gift for Heaven;--"I know
The wealth," she cries, "of every urn
In which unnumbered rubies burn
Beneath the pillars of CHILMINAR:
I know where the Isles of Perfume are
Many a fathom down in the sea,
To the south of sun-bright ARABY;
I know too where the Genii hid
The jewelled cup of their King JAMSHID,
"With Life's elixir sparkling high--
"But gifts like these are not for the sky.
"Where was there ever a gem that shone
"Like the steps of ALLA'S wonderful Throne?
"And the Drops of Life--oh! what would they be
"In the boundless Deep of Eternity?"

While thus she mused her pinions fanned
The air of that sweet Indian land
Whose air is balm, whose ocean spreads
O'er coral rocks and amber beds,
Whose mountains pregnant by the beam
Of the warm sun with diamonds teem,
Whose rivulets are like rich brides,
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides,
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice
Might be a Peri's Paradise!
But crimson now her rivers ran
With human blood--the smell of death
Came reeking from those spicy bowers,
And man the sacrifice of man
Mingled his taint with every breath
Upwafted from the innocent flowers.
Land of the Sun! what foot invades
Thy Pagods and thy pillared shades--
Thy cavern shrines and Idol stones,
Thy Monarch and their thousand Thrones?

'Tis He of GAZNA, fierce in wrath
He comes and INDIA'S diadems
Lie scattered in his ruinous path.-
His bloodhounds he adorns with gems,
Torn from the violated necks
Of many a young and loved Sultana;
Maidens within their pure Zenana,
Priests in the very fane he slaughters,
And chokes up with the glittering wrecks
Of golden shrines the sacred waters!
Downward the PERI turns her gaze,
And thro' the war-field's bloody haze
Beholds a youthful warrior stand
Alone beside his native river,--
The red blade broken in his hand
And the last arrow in his quiver.
"Live," said the Conqueror, "live to share
"The trophies and the crowns I bear!"
Silent that youthful warrior stood--
Silent he pointed to the flood
All crimson with his country's blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For answer, to the Invader's heart.

False flew the shaft tho' pointed well;
The Tyrant lived, the Hero fell!--
Yet marked the PERI where he lay,
And when the rush of war was past
Swiftly descending on a ray
Of morning light she caught the last--
Last glorious drop his heart had shed
Before its free-born spirit fled!

"Be this," she cried, as she winged her flight,
"My welcome gift at the Gates of Light.
"Tho' foul are the drops that oft distil
"On the field of warfare, blood like this
"For Liberty shed so holy is,
"It would not stain the purest rill
"That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss!
"Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere
"A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,
"'Tis the last libation Liberty draws
"From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!"
"Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave
The gift into his radiant hand,
"Sweet is our welcome of the Brave
"Who die thus for their native Land.--
"But see--alas! the crystal bar
"Of Eden moves not--holier far
"Than even this drop the boon must be
"That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!"

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,
Now among AFRIC'S lunar Mountains
Far to the South the PERI lighted
And sleeked her plumage at the fountains
Of that Egyptian tide whose birth
Is hidden from the sons of earth
Deep in those solitary woods
Where oft the Genii of the Floods
Dance round the cradle of their Nile
And hail the new-born Giant's smile.
Thence over EGYPT'S palmy groves
Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings,
The exiled Spirit sighing roves
And now hangs listening to the doves
In warm ROSETTA'S vale; now loves
To watch the moonlight on the wings
Of the white pelicans that break
The azure calm of MOERIS' Lake
'Twas a fair scene: a Land more bright
Never did mortal eye behold!
Who could have thought that saw this night
Those valleys and their fruits of gold
Basking in Heaven's serenest light,
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending
Languidly their leaf-crowned heads,
Like youthful maids, when sleep descending
Warns them to their silken beds,
Those virgin lilies all the night
Bathing their beauties in the lake
That they may rise more fresh and bright,
When their beloved Sun's awake,
Those ruined shrines and towers that seem
The relics of a splendid dream,
Amid whose fairy loneliness
Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard,--
Naught seen but (when the shadows flitting,
Fast from the moon unsheath its gleam,)
Some purple-winged Sultana sitting
Upon a column motionless
And glittering like an Idol bird!-