The day is lowering — stilly black...

The day is lowering — stilly black

Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack,

Disperst and wild,‘ twixt earth and sky

Hangs like a shattered canopy.

There's not a cloud in that blue plain

But tells of storm to come or past;—

Here flying loosely as the mane

Of a young war-horse in the blast;—

There rolled in masses dark and swelling,

As proud to be the thunder's dwelling!

While some already burst and riven

Seen melting down the verge of heaven;

As tho’ the infant storm had rent

The mighty womb that gave him birth,

And having swept the firmament

Was now in fierce career for earth.

On earth‘ twas yet all calm around,

A pulseless silence, dread, profound,

More awful than the tempest's sound.

The diver steered for ORMUS’ bowers,

And moored his skiff till calmer hours;

The sea-birds with portentous screech

Flew fast to land;— upon the beach

The pilot oft had paused, with glance

Turned upward to that wild expanse;—

And all was boding, drear and dark

As her own soul when HINDA'S bark

Went slowly from the Persian shore.—

No music timed her parting oar,

Nor friends upon the lessening strand

Lingering to wave the unseen hand

Or speak the farewell, heard no more;—

But lone, unheeded, from the bay

The vessel takes its mournful way,

Like some ill-destined bark that steers

In silence thro’ the Gate of Tears.

And where was stern AL HASSAN then?

Could not that saintly scourge of men

From bloodshed and devotion spare

One minute for a farewell there?

No — close within in changeful fits

Of cursing and of prayer he sits

In savage loneliness to brood

Upon the coming night of blood,—

With that keen, second-scent of death,

By which the vulture snuffs his food

In the still warm and living breath!

While o'er the wave his weeping daughter

Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter,—

As a young bird of BABYLON,

Let loose to tell of victory won,

Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstained

By the red hands that held her chained.

And does the long-left home she seeks

Light up no gladness on her cheeks?

The flowers she nurst — the well-known groves,

Where oft in dreams her spirit roves —

Once more to see her dear gazelles

Come bounding with their silver bells;

Her birds’ new plumage to behold

And the gay, gleaming fishes count,

She left all filleted with gold

Shooting around their jasper fount;

Her little garden mosque to see,

And once again, at evening hour,

To tell her ruby rosary

In her own sweet acacia bower.—

Can these delights that wait her now

Call up no sunshine on her brow?

No,— silent, from her train apart,—

As if even now she felt at heart

The chill of her approaching doom,—

She sits, all lovely in her gloom

As a pale Angel of the Grave;

And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave

Looks with a shudder to those towers

Where in a few short awful hours

Blood, blood, in streaming tides shall run,

Foul incense for to-morrow's sun!

“Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou,

“So loved, so lost, where art thou now?

“Foe — Gheber — infidel — whate'er

“The unhallowed name thou'rt doomed to bear,

“Still glorious — still to this fond heart

“Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art!

“Yes — ALLA, dreadful ALLA! yes —

“If there be wrong, be crime in this,

“Let the black waves that round us roll,

“Whelm me this instant ere my soul

“Forgetting faith — home — father — all

“Before its earthly idol fall,

“Nor worship even Thyself above him —

“For, oh, so wildly do I love him,

“Thy Paradise itself were dim

“And joyless, if not shared with him!”

Her hands were claspt — her eyes upturned,

Dropping their tears like moonlight rain;

And, tho’ her lip, fond raver! burned

With words of passion, bold, profane.

Yet was there light around her brow,

A holiness in those dark eyes,

Which showed,— tho’ wandering earthward now,—

Her spirit's home was in the skies.

Yes — for a spirit pure as hers

Is always pure, even while it errs;

As sunshine broken in the rill

Tho’ turned astray is sunshine still!

So wholly had her mind forgot

All thoughts but one she heeded not

The rising storm — the wave that cast

A moment's midnight as it past —

Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread

Of gathering tumult o'er her head —

Clasht swords and tongues that seemed to vie

With the rude riot of the sky.—

But, hark!— that war-whoop on the deck —

That crash as if each engine there,

Mast, sails and all, were gone to wreck,

Mid yells and stampings of despair!

Merciful Heaven! what can it be?

‘ Tis not the storm, tho’ fearfully

The ship has shuddered as she rode

O'er mountain-waves — “Forgive me, God!

“Forgive me” — shrieked the maid and knelt,

Trembling all over — for she felt

As if her judgment hour was near;

While crouching round half dead with fear,

Her handmaids clung, nor breathed nor stirred —

When, hark!— a second crash — a third —

And now as if a bolt of thunder

Had riven the laboring planks asunder,

The deck falls in — what horrors then!

Blood, waves and tackle, swords and men

Come mixt together thro’ the chasm,—

Some wretches in their dying spasm

Still fighting on — and some that call

“For GOD and IRAN!” as they fall!

Whose was the hand that turned away

The perils of the infuriate fray,

And snatcht her breathless from beneath

This wilderment of wreck and death?

She knew not — for a faintness came

Chill o'er her and her sinking frame

Amid the ruins of that hour

Lay like a pale and scorched flower

Beneath the red volcano's shower.

But, oh! the sights and sounds of dread

That shockt her ere her senses fled!

The yawning deck — the crowd that strove

Upon the tottering planks above —

The sail whose fragments, shivering o'er

The stragglers’ heads all dasht with gore

Fluttered like bloody flags — the clash

Of sabres and the lightning's flash

Upon their blades, high tost about

Like meteor brands— as if throughout

The elements one fury ran,

One general rage that left a doubt

Which was the fiercer, Heaven or Man!

Once too — but no — it could not be —

‘ Twas fancy all — yet once she thought,

While yet her fading eyes could see

High on the ruined deck she caught

A glimpse of that unearthly form,

That glory of her soul,— even then,

Amid the whirl of wreck and storm,

Shining above his fellow-men,

As on some black and troublous night

The Star of EGYPT,whose proud light

Never hath beamed on those who rest

In the White Islands of the West,

Burns thro’ the storm with looks of flame

That put Heaven's cloudier eyes to shame.

But no —‘ twas but the minute's dream —

A fantasy — and ere the scream

Had half-way past her pallid lips,

A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse

Of soul and sense its darkness spread

Around her and she sunk as dead.

How calm, how beautiful comes on

The stilly hour when storms are gone,

When warring winds have died away,

And clouds beneath the glancing ray

Melt off and leave the land and sea

Sleeping in bright tranquillity,—

Fresh as if Day again were born,

Again upon the lap of Morn!—

When the light blossoms rudely torn

And scattered at the whirlwind's will,

Hang floating in the pure air still,

Filling it all with precious balm,

In gratitude for this sweet calm;—

And every drop the thundershowers

Have left upon the grass and flowers

Sparkles, as‘ twere that lightning-gem

Whose liquid flame is born of them!

When,‘ stead of one unchanging breeze,

There blow a thousand gentle airs

And each a different perfume bears,—

As if the loveliest plants and trees

Had vassal breezes of their own

To watch and wait on them alone,

And waft no other breath than theirs:

When the blue waters rise and fall,

In sleepy sunshine mantling all;

And even that swell the tempest leaves

Is like the full and silent heaves

Of lovers’ hearts when newly blest,

Too newly to be quite at rest.

Such was the golden hour that broke

Upon the world when HINDA woke

From her long trance and heard around

No motion but the water's sound

Rippling against the vessel's side,

As slow it mounted o'er the tide.—

But where is she?— her eyes are dark,

Are wilder still — is this the bark,

The same, that from HARMOZIA'S bay

Bore her at morn — whose bloody way

The sea-dog trackt?— no — strange and new

Is all that meets her wondering view.

Upon a galliot's deck she lies,

Beneath no rich pavilion's shade,—

No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes,

Nor jasmine on her pillow laid.

But the rude litter roughly spread

With war-cloaks is her homely bed,

And shawl and sash on javelins hung

For awning o'er her head are flung.

Shuddering she lookt around — there lay

A group of warriors in the sun,

Resting their limbs, as for that day

Their ministry of death were done.

Some gazing on the drowsy sea

Lost in unconscious revery;

And some who seemed but ill to brook

That sluggish calm with many a look

To the slack sail impatient cast,

As loose it bagged around the mast.

Blest ALLA! who shall save her now?

There's not in all that warrior band

One Arab sword, one turbaned brow

From her own Faithful Moslem land.

Their garb — the leathern belt that wraps

Each yellow vest— that rebel hue —

The Tartar fleece upon their caps—

Yes — yes — her fears are all too true,

And Heaven hath in this dreadful hour

Abandoned her to HAFED'S power;—

HAFED, the Gheber!— at the thought

Her very heart's blood chills within;

He whom her soul was hourly taught

To loathe as some foul fiend of sin,

Some minister whom Hell had sent

To spread its blast where'er he went

And fling as o'er our earth he trod

His shadow betwixt man and God!

And she is now his captive,— thrown

In his fierce hands, alive, alone;

His the infuriate band she sees,

All infidels — all enemies!

What was the daring hope that then

Crost her like lightning, as again

With boldness that despair had lent

She darted tho’ that armed crowd

A look so searching, so intent,

That even the sternest warrior bowed

Abasht, when he her glances caught,

As if he guessed whose form they sought.

But no — she sees him not —‘ tis gone,

The vision that before her shone

Thro’ all the maze of blood and storm,

Is fled —‘ twas but a phantom form —

One of those passing, rainbow dreams,

Half light, half shade, which Fancy's beams

Paint on the fleeting mists that roll

In trance or slumber round the soul.

But now the bark with livelier bound

Scales the blue wave — the crew's in motion.

The oars are out and with light sound

Break the bright mirror of the ocean,

Scattering its brilliant fragments round.

And now she sees — with horror sees,

Their course is toward that mountain-hold,—

Those towers that make her life-blood freeze,

Where MECCA'S godless enemies

Lie like beleaguered scorpions rolled

In their last deadly, venomous fold!

Amid the illumined land and flood

Sunless that mighty mountain stood;

Save where above its awful head,

There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red,

As‘ twere the flag of destiny

Hung out to mark where death would be!

Had her bewildered mind the power

Of thought in this terrific hour,

She well might marvel where or how

Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow,

Since ne'er had Arab heard or known

Of path but thro’ the glen alone.—

But every thought was lost in fear,

When, as their bounding bark drew near

The craggy base, she felt the waves

Hurry them toward those dismal caves

That from the Deep in windings pass

Beneath that Mount's volcanic mass;—

And loud a voice on deck commands

To lower the mast and light the brands!—

Instantly o'er the dashing tide

Within a cavern's mouth they glide,

Gloomy as that eternal Porch

Thro’ which departed spirits go:—

Not even the flare of brand and torch

Its flickering light could further throw

Than the thick flood that boiled below.

Silent they floated — as if each

Sat breathless, and too awed for speech

In that dark chasm where even sound

Seemed dark,— so sullenly around

The goblin echoes of the cave

Muttered it o'er the long black wave

As‘ twere some secret of the grave!

But soft — they pause — the current turns

Beneath them from its onward track;—

Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns

The vexed tide all foaming back,

And scarce the oar's redoubled force

Can stem the eddy's whirling course;

When, hark!— some desperate foot has sprung

Among the rocks — the chain is flung —

The oars are up — the grapple clings,

And the tost bark in moorings swings.

Just then, a day-beam thro’ the shade

Broke tremulous — but ere the maid

Can see from whence the brightness steals,

Upon her brow she shuddering feels

A viewless hand that promptly ties

A bandage round her burning eyes;

While the rude litter where she lies,

Uplifted by the warrior throng,

O'er the steep rocks is borne along.

Blest power of sunshine!— genial Day,

What balm, what life is in thy ray!

To feel thee is such real bliss,

That had the world no joy but this

To sit in sunshine calm and sweet.—

It were a world too exquisite

For man to leave it for the gloom,

The deep, cold shadow of the tomb.

Even HINDA, tho’ she saw not where

Or whither wound the perilous road,

Yet knew by that awakening air,

Which suddenly around her glowed,

That they had risen from the darkness there,

And breathed the sunny world again!

But soon this balmy freshness fled —

For now the steepy labyrinth led

Thro’ damp and gloom — mid crash of boughs,

And fall of loosened crags that rouse

The leopard from his hungry sleep,

Who starting thinks each crag a prey,

And long is heard from steep to steep

Chasing them down their thundering way!

The jackal's cry — the distant moan

Of the hyena, fierce and lone —

And that eternal saddening sound

Of torrents in the glen beneath,

As‘ twere the ever-dark Profound

That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death!

All, all is fearful — even to see,

To gaze on those terrific things

She now but blindly hears, would be

Relief to her imaginings;

Since never yet was shape so dread,

But Fancy thus in darkness thrown

And by such sounds of horror fed

Could frame more dreadful of her own.

But does she dream? has Fear again

Perplext the workings of her brain,

Or did a voice, all music, then

Come from the gloom, low whispering near —

“Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here?”

She does not dream — all sense, all ear,

She drinks the words, “Thy Gheber's here.”

‘ Twas his own voice — she could not err —

Throughout the breathing world's extent

There was but one such voice for her,

So kind, so soft, so eloquent!

Oh, sooner shall the rose of May

Mistake her own sweet nightingale,

And to some meaner minstrel's lay

Open her bosom's glowing veil,

Than Love shall ever doubt a tone,

A breath of the beloved one!

Though blest mid all her ills to think

She has that one beloved near,

Whose smile tho’ met on ruin's brink

Hath power to make even ruin dear,—

Yet soon this gleam of rapture crost

By fears for him is chilled and lost.

How shall the ruthless HAFED brook

That one of Gheber blood should look,

With aught but curses in his eye,

On her — a maid of ARABY —

A Moslem maid — the child of him,

Whose bloody banners’ dire success

Hath left their altars cold and dim,

And their fair land a wilderness!

And worse than all that night of blood

Which comes so fast — Oh! who shall stay

The sword, that once hath tasted food

Of Persian hearts or turn its way?

What arm shall then the victim cover,

Or from her father shield her lover?

“Save him, my God!” she inly cries —

“Save him this night — and if thine eyes

“Have ever welcomed with delight

“The sinner's tears, the sacrifice

“Of sinners’ hearts — guard him this night,

“And here before thy throne I swear

“From my heart's inmost core to tear

“Love, hope, remembrance, tho’ they be

“Linkt with each quivering life-string there,

“And give it bleeding all to Thee!

“Let him but live,— the burning tear,

“The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear,

“Which have been all too much his own,

“Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone.

“Youth past in penitence and age

“In long and painful pilgrimage

“Shall leave no traces of the flame

“That wastes me now — nor shall his name

“E'er bless my lips but when I pray

“For his dear spirit, that away

“Casting from its angelic ray

“The eclipse of earth, he too may shine

“Redeemed, all glorious and all Thine!

“Think — think what victory to win

“One radiant soul like his from sin,

“One wandering star of virtue back

“To its own native, heavenward track!

“Let him but live, and both are Thine,

“Together Thine — for blest or crost,

“Living or dead, his doom is mine,

“And if he perish, both are lost!”