The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 150

FROM ORCUS, HIGH PRIEST OF MEMPHIS, TO DECIUS, THE PRAETORIAN PREFECT.

Rejoice, my friend, rejoice;--the youthful Chief Of that light Sect which mocks at all belief, And gay and G.o.dless makes the present hour Its only heaven, is now within our power.

Smooth, impious school!--not all the weapons aimed, At priestly creeds, since first a creed was framed, E'er struck so deep as that sly dart they wield, The Bacchant's pointed spear in laughing flowers concealed.

And oh, 'twere victory to this heart, as sweet As any _thou _canst boast--even when the feet Of thy proud war-steed wade thro' Christian blood, To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood, And bring him tamed and prostrate to implore The vilest G.o.ds even Egypt's saints adore.

What!--do these sages think, to _them_ alone The key of this world's happiness is known?

That none but they who make such proud parade Of Pleasure's smiling favors win the maid, Or that Religion keeps no secret place, No niche in her dark fanes for Love to grace?

Fools!--did they know how keen the zest that's given To earthly joy when seasoned well with heaven; How Piety's grave mask improves the hue Of Pleasure's laughing features, half seen thro', And how the Priest set aptly within reach Of two rich worlds, traffics for bliss with each, Would they not, Decius--thou, whom the ancient tie 'Twixt Sword and Altar makes our best ally-- Would they not change their creed, their craft, for ours?

Leave the gross daylight joys that in their bowers Languish with too much sun, like o'er-blown flowers, For the veiled loves, the blisses undisplayed That slyly lurk within the Temple's shade?

And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's school-- Where cold Philosophy usurps a rule, Like the pale moon's, o'er pa.s.sion's heaving tide, Till Pleasure's self is chilled by Wisdom's pride-- Be taught by _us_, quit shadows for the true, Substantial joys we sager Priests pursue, Who far too wise to theorize on bliss Or pleasure's substance for its shade to miss.

Preach _other_ worlds but live for only _this_:- Thanks to the well-paid Mystery round us flung, Which, like its type the golden cloud that hung O'er Jupiter's love-couch its shade benign, Round human frailty wraps a veil divine.

Still less should they presume, weak wits, that they Alone despise the craft of us who pray;-- Still less their creedless vanity deceive With the fond thought that we who pray believe.

Believe!--Apis forbid--forbid it, all Ye monster G.o.ds before whose shrines we fall-- Deities framed in jest as if to try How far gross Man can vulgarize the sky; How far the same low fancy that combines Into a drove of brutes yon zodiac's signs, And turns that Heaven itself into a place Of sainted sin and deified disgrace, Can bring Olympus even to shame more deep, Stock it with things that earth itself holds cheap.

Fish, flesh, and fowl, the kitchen's sacred brood, Which Egypt keeps for worship, not for food-- All, worthy idols of a Faith that sees In dogs, cats, owls, and apes, divinities!

Believe!--oh, Decius, thou, who feel'st no care For things divine beyond the soldier's share, Who takes on trust the faith for which he bleeds, A good, fierce G.o.d to swear by, all he needs-- Little canst thou, whose creed around thee hangs Loose as thy summer war-cloak guess the pangs Of loathing and self-scorn with which a heart Stubborn as mine is acts the zealot's part-- The deep and dire disgust with which I wade Thro' the foul juggling of this holy trade-- This mud profound of mystery where the feet At every step sink deeper in deceit.

Oh! many a time, when, mid the Temple's blaze, O'er prostrate fools the sacred cist I raise, Did I not keep still proudly in my mind The power this priestcraft gives me o'er mankind-- A lever, of more might, in skilful hand, To move this world, than Archimede e'er planned-- I should in vengeance of the shame I feel At my own mockery crush the slaves that kneel Besotted round; and--like that kindred breed Of reverend, well-drest crocodiles they feed, At famed Arsinoe[1]--make my keepers bless, With their last throb, my sharp-fanged Holiness.

Say, _is_ it to be borne, that scoffers, vain Of their own freedom from the altar's chain, Should mock thus all that thou thy blood hast sold.

And I my truth, pride, freedom, to uphold?

It must not be:--think'st thou that Christian sect, Whose followers quick as broken waves, erect Their crests anew and swell into a tide, That threats to sweep away our shrines of pride-- Think'st thou with all their wondrous spells even they Would triumph thus, had not the constant play Of Wit's resistless archery cleared their way?-- That mocking spirit, worst of all the foes, Our solemn fraud, our mystic mummery knows, Whose wounding flash thus ever 'mong the signs Of a fast-falling creed, prelusive shines, Threatening such change as do the awful freaks Of summer lightning ere the tempest breaks.

But, to my point--a youth of this vain school, But one, whom Doubt itself hath failed to cool Down to that freezing point where Priests despair Of any spark from the altar catching there-- Hath, some nights since--it was, me thinks, the night That followed the full Moon's great annual rite-- Thro' the dark, winding ducts that downward stray To these earth--hidden temples, tracked his way, Just at that hour when, round the Shrine, and me, The choir of blooming nymphs thou long'st to see, Sing their last night-hymn in the Sanctuary.

The clangor of the marvellous Gate that stands At the Well's lowest depth--which none but hands Of new, untaught adventurers, from above, Who know not the safe path, e'er dare to move-- Gave signal that a foot profane was nigh:-- 'Twas the Greek youth, who, by that morning's sky, Had been observed, curiously wandering round The mighty fanes of our sepulchral ground.

Instant, the Initiate's Trials were prepared,-- The Fire, Air, Water; all that Orpheus dared, That Plato, that the bright-haired Samian[2] past, With trembling hope, to come to--_what_, at last?

Go, ask the dupes of Priestcraft; question him Who mid terrific sounds and spectres dim Walks at Eleusis; ask of those who brave The dazzling miracles of Mithra's Cave With its seven starry gates; ask all who keep Those terrible night-mysteries where they weep And howl sad dirges to the answering breeze.

O'er their dead G.o.ds, their mortal Deities-- Amphibious, hybrid things that died as men, Drowned, hanged, empaled, to rise as G.o.ds again;-- Ask _them_, what mighty secret lurks below This seven-fold mystery--can they tell thee? No; Gravely they keep that only secret, well And fairly kept--that they have none to tell; And duped themselves console their humbled pride By duping thenceforth all mankind beside.

And such the advance in fraud since Orpheus' time-- That earliest master of our craft sublime-- So many minor Mysteries, imps of fraud, From the great Orphic Egg have winged abroad, That, still to uphold our Temple's ancient boast, And seem most holy, we must cheat the most; Work the best miracles, wrap nonsense round In pomp and darkness till it seems profound; Play on the hopes, the terrors of mankind, With changeful skill; and make the human mind Like our own Sanctuary, where no ray But by the Priest's permission wins its way-- Where thro' the gloom as wave our wizard rods.

Monsters at will are conjured into G.o.ds; While Reason like a grave-faced mummy stands With her arms swathed in hieroglyphic bands.

But chiefly in that skill with which we use Man's wildest pa.s.sions for Religion's views, Yoking them to her car like fiery steeds, Lies the main art in which our craft succeeds.

And oh be blest, ye men of yore, whose toil Hath, for our use, scooped out from Egypt's soil This hidden Paradise, this mine of fanes, Gardens and palaces where Pleasure reigns In a rich, sunless empire of her own, With all earth's luxuries lighting up her throne:-- A realm for mystery made, which undermines The Nile itself and, 'neath the Twelve Great Shrines That keep Initiation's holy rite, Spreads its long labyrinths of unearthly light.

A light that knows no change--its brooks that run Too deep for day, its gardens without sun, Where soul and sense, by turns, are charmed, surprised.

And all that bard or prophet e'er devised For man's Elysium, priests have realized.

Here, at this moment--all his trials past.

And heart and nerve unshrinking to the last-- Our new Initiate roves--as yet left free To wander thro' this realm of mystery; Feeding on such illusions as prepare The soul, like mist o'er waterfalls, to wear All shapes and lines at Fancy's varying will, Thro' every shifting aspect, vapor still;-- Vague glimpses of the Future, vistas shown.

By scenic skill, into that world unknown.

Which saints and sinners claim alike their own; And all those other witching, wildering arts, Illusions, terrors, that make human hearts, Ay, even the wisest and the hardiest quail To _any_ goblin throned behind a veil.

Yes--such the spells shall haunt his eye, his ear, Mix wild his night-dreams, form his atmosphere; Till, if our Sage be not tamed down, at length, His wit, his wisdom, shorn of all their strength, Like Phrygian priests, in honor of the shrine-- If he become not absolutely mine, Body and soul and like the tame decoy Which wary hunters of wild doves employ Draw converts also, lure his brother wits To the dark cage where his own spirit flits.

And give us if not saints good hypocrites-- If I effect not this then be it said The ancient spirit of our craft hath fled, Gone with that serpent-G.o.d the Cross hath chased To hiss its soul out in the Theban waste.

[1] For the trinkets with which the sacred Crocodiles were ornamented see the "Epicurean" chap x.

[2] Pythagoras.

LALLA ROOKH

TO

SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

THIS EASTERN ROMANCE

IS INSCRIBED

BY

HIS VERY GRATEFUL AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND,

THOMAS MOORE.

LALLA ROOKH

In the eleventh year of the reign of Aurungzebe, Abdalla, King of the Lesser Bucharia, a lineal descendant from the Great Zingis, having abdicated the throne in favor of his son, set out on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Prophet; and, pa.s.sing into India through the delightful valley of Cashmere, rested for a short time at Delhi on his way. He was entertained by Aurungzebe in a style of magnificent hospitality, worthy alike of the visitor and the host, and was afterwards escorted with the same splendor to Surat, where he embarked for Arabia.[1] During the stay of the Royal Pilgrim at Delhi, a marriage was agreed upon between the Prince, his son, and the youngest daughter of the Emperor, LALLA ROOKH; [2]--a Princess described by the poets of her time as more beautiful than Leila,[3] Shirine,[4] Dewilde,[5] or any of those heroines whose names and loves embellish the songs of Persia and Hindostan. It was intended that the nuptials should be celebrated at Cashmere; where the young King, as soon as the cares of the empire would permit, was to meet, for the first time, his lovely bride, and, after a few months' repose in that enchanting valley, conduct her over the snowy hills into Bucharia.

The day of LALLA ROOKH'S departure from Delhi was as splendid as sunshine and pageantry could make it. The bazaars and baths were all covered with the richest tapestry; hundreds of gilded barges upon the Jumna floated with their banners shining in the water; while through the streets groups of beautiful children went strewing the most delicious flowers around, as in that Persian festival called the Scattering of the Roses;[6] till every part of the city was as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khoten had pa.s.sed through it. The Princess, having taken leave of her kind father, who at parting hung a cornelian of Yemen round her neck, on which was inscribed a verse from the Koran, and having sent a considerable present to the Fakirs, who kept up the Perpetual Lamp in her sister's tomb, meekly ascended the palankeen prepared for her; and while Aurungzebe stood to take a last look from his balcony, the procession moved slowly on the road to Lah.o.r.e.

Seldom had the Eastern world seen a cavalcade so superb. From the gardens in the suburbs to the Imperial palace, it was one unbroken line of splendor. The gallant appearance of the Rajahs and Mogul lords, distinguished by those insignia of the Emperor's favor,[7] the feathers of the egret of Cashmere in their turbans, and the small silver-rimm'd kettle-drums at the bows of their saddles;--the costly armor of their cavaliers, who vied, on this occasion, with the guards of the great Keder Khan,[8] in the brightness of their silver battle-axes and the ma.s.siness of their maces of gold;--the glittering of the gilt pine-apple[9] on the tops of the palankeens;--the embroidered trappings of the elephants, bearing on their backs small turrets, in the shape of little antique temples, within which the Ladies of LALLA ROOKH lay as it were enshrined; --the rose-colored veils of the Princess's own sumptuous litter,[10] at the front of which a fair young female slave sat fanning her through the curtains, with feathers of the Argus pheasant's wing;[11]--and the lovely troop of Tartarian and Cashmerian maids of honor, whom the young King had sent to accompany his bride, and who rode on each side of the litter, upon small Arabian horses;--all was brilliant, tasteful, and magnificent, and pleased even the critical and fastidious FADLADEEN, Great n.a.z.ir or Chamberlain of the Haram, who was borne in his palankeen immediately after the Princess, and considered himself not the least important personage of the pageant.

FADLADEEN was a judge of everything,--from the pencilling of a Circa.s.sian's eyelids to the deepest questions of science and literature; from the mixture of a conserve of rose-leaves to the composition of an epic poem: and such influence had his opinion upon the various tastes of the day, that all the cooks and poets of Delhi stood in awe of him. His political conduct and opinions were founded upon that line of Sadi,-- "Should the Prince at noon-day say, It is night, declare that you behold the moon and stars."--And his zeal for religion, of which Aurungzebe was a munificent protector,[12] was about as disinterested as that of the goldsmith who fell in love with the diamond eyes of the idol of Jaghernaut.[13]

During the first days of their journey, LALLA ROOKH, who had pa.s.sed all her life within the shadow of the Royal Gardens of Delhi,[14] found enough in the beauty of the scenery through which they pa.s.sed to interest her mind, and delight her imagination; and when at evening or in the heat of the day they turned off from the high road to those retired and romantic places which had been selected for her encampments,--sometimes, on the banks of a small rivulet, as clear as the waters of the Lake of Pearl;[15] sometimes under the sacred shade of a Banyan tree, from which the view opened upon a glade covered with antelopes; and often in those hidden, embowered spots, described by one from the Isles of the West, [16]as "places of melancholy, delight, and safety, where all the company around was wild peac.o.c.ks and turtle-doves;"--she felt a charm in these scenes, so lovely and so new to her, which, for a time, made her indifferent to every other amus.e.m.e.nt. But LALLA ROOKH was young, and the young love variety; nor could the conversation of her Ladies and the Great Chamberlain, FADLADEEN,(the only persons, of course, admitted to her pavilion.) sufficiently enliven those many vacant hours, which were devoted neither to the pillow nor the palankeen. There was a little Persian slave who sung sweetly to the Vina, and who, now and then, lulled the Princess to sleep with the ancient ditties of her country, about the loves of Wavnak and Ezra,[17] the fair-haired Zal and his mistress Rodahver,[18] not forgetting the combat of Rustam with the terrible White Demon.[19] At other times she was amused by those graceful dancing-girls of Delhi, who had been permitted by the Bramins of the Great PaG.o.da to attend her, much to the horror of the good Mussulman FADLADEEN, who could see nothing graceful or agreeable in idolaters, and to whom the very tinkling of their golden anklets[20] was an abomination.

But these and many other diversions were repeated till they lost all their charm, and the nights and noon-days were beginning to move heavily, when, at length, it was recollected that, among the attendants sent by the bridegroom, was a young poet of Cashmere, much celebrated throughout the Valley for his manner of reciting the Stories of the East, on whom his Royal Master had conferred the privilege of being admitted to the pavilion of the Princess, that he might help to beguile the tediousness of the journey by some of his most agreeable recitals. At the mention of a poet, FADLADEEN elevated his critical eyebrows, and, having refreshed his faculties with a dose of that delicious opium which is distilled from the black poppy of the Thebais, gave orders for the minstrel to be forthwith introduced into the presence.

The Princess, who had once in her life seen a poet from behind the screens of gauze in her father's hall, and had conceived from that specimen no very favorable ideas of the Caste, expected but little in this new exhibition to interest her;--she felt inclined, however, to alter her opinion on the very first appearance of FERAMORZ. He was a youth about LALLA ROOKH'S own age, and graceful as that idol of women, Crishna,[21]--such as he appears to their young imaginations, heroic, beautiful, breathing music from his very eyes, and exalting the religion of his worshippers into love. His dress was simple, yet not without some marks of costliness; and the Ladies of the Princess were not long in discovering that the cloth, which encircled his high Tartarian cap, was of the most delicate kind that the shawl-goats of Tibet supply.[22] Here and there, too, over his vest, which was confined by a flowered girdle of Kashan, hung strings of fine pearl, disposed with an air of studied negligence;--nor did the exquisite embroidery of his sandals escape the observation of these fair critics; who, however they might give way to FADLADEEN upon the unimportant topics of religion and government, had the spirit of martyrs in everything relating to such momentous matters as jewels and embroidery.

For the purpose of relieving the pauses of recitation by music, the young Cashmerian held in his hand a kitar;--such as, in old times, the Arab maids of the West used to listen to by moonlight in the gardens of the Alhambra--and, having premised, with much humility, that the story he was about to relate was founded on the adventures of that Veiled Prophet of Khora.s.san,[23] who, in the year of the Hegira 163, created such alarm throughout the Eastern Empire, made an obeisance to the Princess, and thus began:--