152 of the thoughts by the peculiarity of the manner, Poet. LALLA ROOKн 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:15-it is only once in many ages a Genius appears, whose words, like those on the Written Mountain, last for ever:154_ but still there are some, as delightful, perhaps, though not so wonderful, who, if not stars over our 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 dis-head, are at least flowers along our path, and whose covered 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 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!15-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,156 to the Cámalatá, by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of Indra is scented.157 As they sat in the cool fragrance of this delicious spot, and LALLA ROOKн remarked that she could fancy it the abode of that Flowerloving Nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay,158 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: While thus she mused, her pinions fann'd The air of that sweet Indian land, Whose air is balm; whose ocean spreads O'er coral rocks, and amber beds;167 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 bow'rs 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 bow'rs, And man, the sacrifice of man, Mingled his taint with ev'ry breath Upwafted from th' innocent flow'rs. Land of the Sun! what foot invades Thy Pagods and thy pillar'd shades-10 Thy cavern shrines, and Idol stones, He comes, and INDIA's diadems Of many a young and loved Sultana;171 Downward the PERI turns her gaze, Alone beside his native river,- And the last arrow in his quiver. "Live," said the Conqu'ror, "live to share "The trophies and the crowns I bear?" Silent that youthful warrior stoodSilent he pointed to the flood All crimson with his country's blood, False flew the shaft, though pointed well; And, when the rush of war was past, Of morning light, she caught the lastLast glorious drop his heart had shed, Before its free-born spirit fled! "Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight, "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 Heav'n 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 ev'n this drop the boon must be, "That opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee!" Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, Now among AFRIC's lunar Mountains,173 Far to the South, the PERI lighted; And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings," To watch the moonlight on the wings Who could have thought, that saw this night Languidly their leaf-crown'd heads, Bathing their beauties in the lake, Amid whose fairy loneliness And glitt'ring like an Idol bird! Who could have thought, that there, ev'n there, The Demon of the Plague hath cast Like plants, where the Simoom hath pass'd, At once falls black and withering! The sun went down on many a brow Which, full of bloom and freshness then, |