The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 163

"No--G.o.d of IRAN'S burning skies!

"Thou scornest the inglorious sacrifice.

"No--tho' of all earth's hope bereft, "Life, swords, and vengeance still are left.

"We'll make yon valley's reeking caves "Live in the awe-struck minds of men "Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves "Tell of the Gheber's b.l.o.o.d.y glen, "Follow, brave hearts!--this pile remains "Our refuge still from life and chains; "But his the best, the holiest bed, "Who sinks entombed in Moslem dead!"

Down the precipitous rocks they sprung, While vigor more than human strung Each arm and heart.--The exulting foe Still thro' the dark defiles below, Trackt by his torches' lurid fire, Wound slow, as thro' GOLCONDA'S vale The mighty serpent in his ire Glides on with glittering, deadly trail.

No torch the Ghebers need--so well They know each mystery of the dell, So oft have in their wanderings Crost the wild race that round them dwell, The very tigers from their delves Look out and let them pa.s.s as things Untamed and fearless like themselves!

There was a deep ravine that lay Yet darkling in the Moslem's way; Fit spot to make invaders rue The many fallen before the few.

The torrents from that morning's sky Had filled the narrow chasm breast-high, And on each side aloft and wild Huge cliffs and toppling crags were piled,-- The guards with which young Freedom lines The pathways to her mountain-shrines, Here at this pa.s.s the scanty band; Of IRAN'S last avengers stand; Here wait in silence like the dead And listen for the Moslem's tread So anxiously the carrion-bird Above them flaps his wing unheard!

They come--that plunge into the water Gives signal for the work of slaughter.

Now, Ghebers, now--if e'er your blades Had point or prowess prove them now-- Woe to the file that foremost wades!

They come--a falchion greets each brow, And as they tumble trunk on trunk Beneath the gory waters sunk, Still o'er their drowning bodies press New victims quick and numberless; Till scarce an arm in HAFED'S band, So fierce their toil, hath power to stir, But listless from each crimson hand The sword hangs clogged with ma.s.sacre.

Never was horde of tyrants met With bloodier welcome--never yet To patriot vengeance hath the sword More terrible libations poured!

All up the dreary, long ravine, By the red, murky glimmer seen Of half-quenched brands, that o'er the flood Lie scattered round and burn in blood, What ruin glares! what carnage swims!

Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs, Lost swords that dropt from many a hand, In that thick pool of slaughter stand;-- Wretches who wading, half on fire From the tost brands that round them fly, 'Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire;-- And some who grasp by those that die Sink woundless with them, smothered o'er In their dead brethren's gushing gore!

But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed, Still hundreds, thousands more succeed; Countless as toward some flame at night The North's dark insects wing their flight And quench or perish in its light, To this terrific spot they pour-- Till, bridged with Moslem bodies o'er, It bears aloft their slippery tread, And o'er the dying and the dead, Tremendous causeway! on they pa.s.s.

Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas, What hope was left for you? for you, Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice Is smoking in their vengeful eyes;-- Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew.

And burned with shame to find how few.

Crusht down by that vast mult.i.tude Some found their graves where first they stood; While some with hardier struggle died, And still fought on by HAFED'S side, Who fronting to the foe trod back Towards the high towers his gory track; And as a lion swept away By sudden swell of JORDAN'S pride From the wild covert where he lay,[265]

Long battles with the o'erwhelming tide, So fought he back with fierce delay And kept both foes and fate at bay.

But whither now? their track is lost, Their prey escaped--guide, torches gone-- By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost, The scattered crowd rush blindly on-- "Curse on those tardy lights that wind,"

They panting cry, "so far behind; "Oh, for a bloodhound's precious scent, "To track the way the Ghebers went!"

Vain wish--confusedly along They rush more desperate as more wrong: Till wildered by the far-off lights, Yet glittering up those gloomy heights, Their footing mazed and lost they miss, And down the darkling precipice Are dasht into the deep abyss; Or midway hang impaled on rocks, A banquet yet alive for flocks Of ravening vultures,--while the dell Re-echoes with each horrible yell.

Those sounds--the last, to vengeance dear.

That e'er shall ring in HAFED'S ear,-- Now reached him as aloft alone Upon the steep way breathless thrown, He lay beside his reeking blade, Resigned, as if life's task were o'er, Its last blood-offering amply paid, And IRAN'S self could claim no more.

One only thought, one lingering beam Now broke across his dizzy dream Of pain and weariness--'twas she, His heart's pure planet shining yet Above the waste of memory When all life's other lights were set.

And never to his mind before Her image such enchantment wore.

It seemed as if each thought that stained, Each fear that chilled their loves was past, And not one cloud of earth remained Between him and her radiance cast;-- As if to charms, before so bright, New grace from other worlds was given.

And his soul saw her by the light Now breaking o'er itself from heaven!

A voice spoke near him--'twas the tone Of a loved friend, the only one Of all his warriors left with life From that short night's tremendous strife.-- "And must we then, my chief, die here?

"Foes round us and the Shrine so near!"

These words have roused the last remains Of life within him:--"What! not yet "Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!"

The thought could make even Death forget His icy bondage:--with a bound He springs all bleeding from the ground And grasps his comrade's arm now grown Even feebler, heavier than his own.

And up the painful pathway leads, Death gaining on each step he treads.

Speed them, thou G.o.d, who heardest their vow!

They mount--they bleed--oh save them now-- The crags are red they've clambered o'er, The rock-weed's dripping with their gore;-- Thy blade too, HAFED, false at length, How breaks beneath thy tottering strength!

Haste, haste--the voices of the Foe Come near and nearer from below-- One effort more--thank Heaven! 'tis past, They've gained the topmost steep at last.

And now they touch the temple's walls.

Now HAFED sees the Fire divine-- When, lo!--his weak, worn comrade falls Dead on the threshold of the shrine.

"Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled!

"And must I leave thee withering here, "The sport of every ruffian's tread, "The mark for every coward's spear?

"No, by yon altar's sacred beams!"

He cries and with a strength that seems Not of this world uplifts the frame Of the fallen Chief and toward the flame Bears him along; with death-damp hand The corpse upon the pyre he lays, Then lights the consecrated brand And fires the pile whose sudden blaze Like lightning bursts o'er OMAN'S Sea.-- "Now, Freedom's G.o.d! I come to Thee,"

The youth exclaims and with a smile Of triumph vaulting on the pile, In that last effort ere the fires Have harmed one glorious limb expires!

What shriek was that on OMAN'S tide?

It came from yonder drifting bark, That just hath caught upon her side The death-light--and again is dark.

It is the boat--ah! why delayed?-- That bears the wretched Moslem maid; Confided to the watchful care Of a small veteran band with whom Their generous Chieftain would not share The secret of his final doom, But hoped when HINDA safe and free Was rendered to her father's eyes, Their pardon full and prompt would be The ransom of so dear a prize.-- Unconscious thus of HAFED'S fate, And proud to guard their beauteous freight, Scarce had they cleared the surfy waves That foam around those frightful caves When the curst war-whoops known so well Came echoing from the distant dell-- Sudden each oar, upheld and still, Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side, And driving at the current's will, They rockt along the whispering tide; While every eye in mute dismay Was toward that fatal mountain turned.

Where the dim altar's quivering ray As yet all lone and tranquil burned.

Oh! 'tis not, HINDA, in the power Of Fancy's most terrific touch To paint thy pangs in that dread hour-- Thy silent agony--'twas such As those who feel could paint too well, But none e'er felt and lived to tell!

'Twas not alone the dreary state Of a lorn spirit crusht by fate, When tho' no more remains to dread The panic chill will not depart;-- When tho' the inmate Hope be dead, Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart; No--pleasures, hopes, affections gone, The wretch may bear and yet live on Like things within the cold rock found Alive when all's congealed around.

But there's a blank repose in this, A calm stagnation, that were bliss To the keen, burning, harrowing pain, Now felt thro' all thy breast and brain;-- That spasm of terror, mute, intense, That breathless, agonized suspense From whose hot throb whose deadly aching, The heart hath no relief but breaking!

Calm is the wave--heaven's brilliant lights Reflected dance beneath the prow;-- Time was when on such lovely nights She who is there so desolate now Could sit all cheerful tho' alone And ask no happier joy than seeing That starlight o'er the waters thrown-- No joy but that to make her blest, And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being Which bounds in youth's yet careless breast,-- Itself a star not borrowing light But in its own glad essence bright.

How different now!--but, hark! again The yell of havoc rings--brave men!

In vain with beating hearts ye stand On the bark's edge--in vain each hand Half draws the falchion from its sheath; All's o'er--in rust your blades may lie:-- He at whose word they've scattered death Even now this night himself must die!

Well may ye look to yon dim tower, And ask and wondering guess what means The battle-cry at this dead hour-- Ah! she could tell you--she who leans Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast, With brow against the dew-cold mast;-- Too well she knows--her more than life, Her soul's first idol and its last Lies bleeding in that murderous strife.

But see--what moves upon the height?

Some signal!--'tis a torch's light What bodes its solitary glare?

In gasping silence toward the Shrine All eyes are turned--thine, HINDA, thine Fix their last fading life-beams there.

'Twas but a moment--fierce and high The death-pile blazed into the sky And far-away o'er rock and flood Its melancholy radiance sent: While HAFED like a vision stood Revealed before the burning pyre.

Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of fire Shrined in its own grand element!

"'Tis he!"--the shuddering maid exclaims,-- But while she speaks he's seen no more; High burst in air the funeral flames, And IRAN'S hopes and hers are o'er!

One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave; Then sprung as if to reach that blaze Where still she fixt her dying gaze, And gazing sunk into the wave.-- Deep, deep,--where never care or pain Shall reach her innocent heart again!

Farewell--farewell to thee. ARABY'S daughter!

(Thus warbled a PERI beneath the dark sea,) No pearl ever lay under OMAN'S green water More pure in its sh.e.l.l than thy Spirit in thee.

Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till Love's witchery came, Like the wind of the south[266] o'er a summer lute blowing, And husht all its music and withered its frame!

But long upon ARABY'S green sunny highlands Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands With naught but the sea-star[267] to light up her tomb.

And still when the merry date-season is burning And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, The happiest there from their pastime returning At sunset will weep when thy story is told.

The young village-maid when with flowers she dresses Her dark flowing hair for some festival day Will think of thy fate till neglecting her tresses She mournfully turns from the mirror away.

Nor shall IRAN, beloved of her Hero! forget thee-- Tho' tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee, Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell--be it ours to embellish thy pillow With everything beauteous that grows in the deep; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept;[268]

With many a sh.e.l.l in whose hollow-wreathed chamber We Peris of Ocean by moonlight have slept.

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian[269] are sparkling And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

Farewell--farewell!--Until Pity's sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain, They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.