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TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
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 TALFrS 
 
 THE HAREM. 
 
 I. THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 
 II. THE CAVE OF GULISTAN. 
 III. THE HET^RIA. 
 IV. THE INDIAN MAID. 
 
 So we'll live \ 
 
 And pray and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh 
 At gilded butterflies. 
 
 King Lear. 
 
 BY MRS. PICKERSGILL. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR 
 
 LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, AND GREEN, 
 
 PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 1827. 
 
.m a. >i A Jtl 
 
 Printed by Bradbury and Co;, 
 Bolt Comt, Fleet St. 
 
RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 THE LADY ELIZABETH BELGRAVE, 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED 
 
 BY 
 
 HER LADYSHIP'S 
 OBLIGED AND OBEDIENT SERVANT, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 588774 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE following pages are submitted to the 
 public with considerable diffidence. They 
 form part of a series of poems illustrative 
 of Oriental scenery and mythology, which, 
 should the present specimens be approved, 
 may hereafter be published in a similar 
 
 form. 
 
 i 
 
 The circumstances on which the Tales in 
 the present collection are, for the most part, 
 founded, are detailed in the notes at the end 
 of the volume ; by a reference to which the 
 reader will be enabled to separate the real 
 from the fictitious incidents employed by the 
 author in the development of each story. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOE 
 
 THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA .... 19 
 
 THE CAVE OF GULISTAN .... 99 
 
 THE HET^ERIA 135 
 
 THE INDIAN MAID 157 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 Page 37, 1. 5, Should read " Like to the ravening vulture's 
 
 cries." 
 144, last line, for where read were. 
 
TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 HARP of the East ! thy powerful thrill 
 Might well some genial warmth instil, 
 And e'en the lowly Minstrel fire 
 With bolder hand to strike the lyre ! 
 What though a northern sun must warm 
 Her simple lay, her fancy charm, 
 Tis the same fount of fire whose rays 
 O'er Asia shine with vivid blaze, 
 B 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Shed milder beams o'er Europe 's vales, 
 Varied with showers and southern gales ; 
 That power the Muse invokes again, 
 Which raised of old the thrilling strain 
 Of many an Eastern bard, while she 
 Learns their wild strains of minstrelsy, 
 That while in Fancy's path she strays, 
 She flowers may cull to deck her lays : 
 Some of those gems which Eastern lore 
 Has strewed o'er Europe's colder shore 
 That she may emulate the strains 
 Which erst were heard through Asian plains : 
 The deeds of martial fame to tell ; 
 With Love's own power her lays to swell ; 
 Sing nymphs as graceful as the pine, 
 Sweet as the rose, or jessamine, 
 In whose bright, wavy ringlets bound, 
 A thousand hearts are captive found, 
 While in each dark and sparkling eye, 
 Love's treacherous snares in ambush lie. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Yet, what were life but storm and gloom, 
 Robbed of the charm of Beauty's bloom ? 
 
 That power, the rosebud's lovely hue 
 Could paint, and gem with glittering dew, 
 And tinge the ruby's roseate glow* 
 Crowning fair heaven's refulgent brow 
 With diadem of stars, whose light 
 Gems the dark veil of gloomy Night ; 
 H E to the sons of earth hath given 
 Love's sacred fire, terrestrial heaven ! 
 
THE HAREM. 
 
 LAND of the Free ! where once the brave 
 Had proudly spurned the name of Slave ! 
 Where Freedom erst in splendour shone 
 Her very name is scarcely known! 
 The bark as freely spreads her sails 
 As freely blow the mountain gales 
 The tiger, in his woody den, 
 Is still as fierce and free as then 
 Far as the charmed eye can scan, 
 Nought seems degenerate save Man ! 
 Where once the masters of the world 
 Destruction o'er their proud foes hurled, 
 E 2 
 
TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 And the famed Roman eagle soared, 
 The Moslem has his vengeance poured ; 
 And where in prayer the Christians met, 
 Glittering is seen the minaret ! 
 
 Now mirth from Stambol's towers has fled; 
 
 From many a lovely cheek and eye, 
 Which once such power and lustre shed, 
 
 (Ah ! who might 'scape their witchery !) 
 Fair as the maids whose soft black eyes 
 Will bless the just in Paradise. 
 Lone Melancholy glides along 
 Where once resounded joy and song ! 
 All all is sad : the bright parterre 
 And gay kiosk now seem less fair ; 
 For Stambol's lord bestrides his steed 
 Beneath his blade the Giaour must bleed ; 
 And who can tell, in that dread fight, 
 On whose lone head the shaft may light ? 
 
THE HAREM. 
 
 It's warrior train have left it's towers, 
 It's marble halls, it's perfumed bowers, 
 It's downy couches, gilded roofs, 
 For neighing steeds and clanging hoofs ; 
 The lute's soft notes and dying strains, 
 For war's harsh sounds on battle plains. 
 Death marks their strides, for lo ! unfurled, 
 The Crescent awes the Eastern world 
 The angry meteor shines afar, 
 And hovers like a baleful star, 
 O'er peaceful vales which never knew 
 Till then the tints of blood's deep hue, 
 Which, ere those falchions shall again 
 
 Rest in their sheaths, will dim their shine ; 
 And helpless age may plead in vain ; 
 
 And maidens, even from the shrine, 
 Be borne away, and never more 
 View the dear plains they loved before 
 For never yet did Moslem zeal 
 The heavenly touch of Mercy feel ! 
 
8 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 The splendid cavalcade has passed ; 
 
 Nor longer on the distance floats, 
 The trumpets' martial, hollow blast, 
 
 Or the loud clarion's echoing notes. 
 The Harem's Queen, who shared the throne 
 With her Imperial Lord, is gone ; 
 And in her train, a motley crew, 
 Of maids of every clime and hue, 
 Who in that change a glimpse might see, 
 A distant gleam of liberty ; 
 For ne'er beyond that proud Serai, 
 Had their chained hopes once dared to stray. 
 
 And all was still in those high walls, 
 Save in the Harem's guarded halls ; 
 And there were maids from every land 
 O'er which the Crescent waved command, 
 From all the East the young and fair 
 Of every clime were gathered there ; 
 
THE HAREM. 
 
 Some whom stern War had captives made, 
 
 And to those dontes so young were brought, 
 That they amidst their fetters played, 
 
 Nor of their gilded cages thought ; 
 Nor dreamed of other years, when free, 
 Unfettered as the Spring's light gales, 
 When wandering through their native vales, 
 Their sweetest song was Liberty. 
 Yet Memory o'er their thoughts would steal, 
 Teaching their youthful hearts to feel ; 
 For there were some, whose pensive brows, 
 
 Which nought illumined, seemed to tell, 
 That Love had claimed their secret vows, 
 
 And bound them with a sorcerer's spell. 
 
 The sun's last rays were lingering still, 
 On vale, on stream, on woodland hill ; 
 And ere in night those rays were set, 
 Glittered on mosque and minaret. 
 
10 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Sweet Eve' had poured her influence there, 
 
 Luring them from their peaceful cells, 
 That they might chase the wizard Care, 
 
 Who oft in gilded bowers dwells. 
 Maids from the West, with beaming eyes, 
 
 Blue as the lily of the stream, 
 With clustering locks, whose golden dyes 
 
 Vied with the sun's last setting beam : 
 And those of Yemen's leafy woods, 
 
 It's palm-tree groves, it's lofty mountains, 
 With her who bathed in Teflis' floods, 
 
 Fair as the Naiads of its fountains ; 
 The dark-eyed girl from Indian groves, 
 Where bloom the fragrant flowers she loves, 
 Those which wreathed Camadeva's quiver, 
 Culled near her own pure, sacred river ; 
 And those of Cashmeer's lovely vale , 
 
 With the Circassian beauties strayed, 
 Wooing the fragrance of the gale, 
 
 Which 'midst their flowing tresses played ; 
 
THE HAREM. 11 
 
 And many an eye, with thrilling glance, 
 Shot through that twilight's gentle ray, 
 
 As oft, beneath the banian, dance 
 The fire-flies at the close of day. 
 
 At that sweet hour the sun had fled 
 
 And sunk within his ocean-bed, 
 
 While Summer, on the eve's soft gales, 
 
 His tribute sent from flowery vales, 
 
 Like zephyrs borne upon the breeze, 
 
 From the bright isles 'midst India's seas. 
 
 On such a night as this, no eye 
 
 Ought to have gazed with apathy ; 
 
 Yet, vain the hope, though all essay, 
 
 By every wild, fantastic play, 
 
 To charm the long and tedious hours, 
 
 And even crown old Time with flowers. 
 
 Some mount aloft the buoyant swing, 
 As the young bird first tries his wing ; 
 
12 
 
 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 With shouts as loud, and mirth as wild, 
 As echoed e'er from mountain child ; 
 Some twine the dance's mazy round, 
 To music's soft, melodious sound ; 
 Others the lute's sweet notes prolong, 
 Or warble some enchanting song, 
 That e'en the bulbul on the spray, 
 Might envy the soft, thrilling lay ; 
 And so some younger maidens thought, 
 As they their flowery garlands sought, 
 Each pressing to her own young breast 
 The buds her childhood loved the best ; 
 And every spray of brilliant hue 
 
 Was gathered by the Hindoo slave, 
 That in the sunny vallies grew, 
 
 Beside the Ganga's sacred wave ; 
 And all those fragrant buds were there 
 Her nation's sacred bards declare 
 Around bright Cama's bow entwine, 
 Or on his barbed arrows shine. 
 
THE HAREM. 13 
 
 The Arab sought those flowers like gems 
 From the mimosa's pendent stems, 
 And the young blossoms that delight 
 To close by day and bloom by night, 
 Sweet as the zephyr's spicy breath ; 
 With these she formed her playful wreath. 
 The young Cashmeerian culled the rose, 
 That in her native Eden grows ; 
 Dearer to her each shrub, though wild, 
 Her hand had gathered when a child, 
 Than the proud diamond's rays which shone 
 Upon her now resplendent zone ; 
 And of those happier hours she thought, 
 
 When, on the first return of spring, 
 She there the garden's pride had sought, 
 
 Blithe as a bird on sportive wing. 
 
 Thus varied is life's brightest hours, 
 And thorns will spring 'midst sweetest flowers ; 
 c 
 
14 TALES OF THE HAREM, 
 
 While Memory, e'en o'er pleasure flings 
 The deepest shadow of her wings 
 Yet soon they fade, and brighter themes 
 Will mingle with Youth's fairy dreams ; 
 And thus, to chase their gloom away, 
 Each sang some wild, yet plaintive lay. 
 
 THE INDIAN GIRL'S SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 To our bowers let us haste, 
 
 Ere the morning's light 
 From the garden has chased 
 
 The tears of the night ; 
 Let the jasmine fair 
 
 In our wreath be seen, 
 And the rosebud be there, 
 
 From her throne of green. 
 
THE HAREM. 
 
 For the blossoms, they say, 
 Are more holy by far, 
 
 Plucked beneath the ray 
 Of the midnight star ! 
 
 II. 
 
 And let those bright flowers, 
 
 When spangled with dew, 
 Which hang from our bowers 
 
 Of roseate hue. 
 With the champaca sweet, 
 
 To braid our dark hair ; 
 While their perfumes all meet, 
 
 And are blended there. 
 - 
 
 N. 
 
 For the blossoms, they say, 
 Are more holy by far, 
 
 Plucked beneath the ray 
 Of the midnight star ! 
 
 15 
 
16 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 The song was o'er, yet still they sought 
 To chase away the demon, Thought, 
 And fly his spells for some short hours, 
 Revelling in music, mirth, and flowers ; 
 Yet time with them, though time has wings, 
 
 They found he could not, would not fly 
 For in the very courts of Kings, 
 
 Lurks the dark fiend, Satiety. 
 And, listless all, they soon agree 
 
 To seek a kiosk's still retreat, 
 Which o'er Marmora's dark-blue sea 
 
 Hangs its proud towers the white waves beat 
 Against its base, and there to sit, 
 
 And gaze upon the waning moon ; 
 It seemed as if the sea were lit, 
 
 And morning's beams would come too soon : 
 And many a heart was there, who well 
 Could feel that night's enchanting spell, 
 Which with soft tears dissolved the eye, 
 And sought the bosom's sanctuary. 
 
THE HAREM. 
 
 One owned its power, an Arab maid, 
 
 Who thought how oft, in Kerman's vales, 
 Under the date-trees' leafy shade 
 
 She sat, to list her native tales 
 And thus their pensive musing broke : 
 " Let us," she cried, " some spell invoke, 
 That we may this sweet scene prolong, 
 By legend wild or dulcet song; 
 For never did the moon's pale ray 
 More sweetly on the waters play ; 
 And young Mehd Alia, with her lute, 
 Which should not at this hour be mute, 
 May sing a lay of sweet Cashmeer, 
 The long and lingering hours to cheer. " 
 
 The young Cashmeerian gently bowed, 
 
 
 Her cheeks with soft emotions glowed, 
 
 When of that Vale her fancy dreamed, 
 The fairest, her fond bosom deemed. 
 c2 
 
 17 
 
TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 O'er which kind Nature still had flung 
 Her flowery veil, or poet sung ; 
 She strikes the chords with timid fingers. 
 And on the soft vibration lingers. 
 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 
 
 THE CASHMEERIAN'S TALE. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 FAIR was the eve ; the sun's last beam 
 Shone gently on the dark-blue stream, 
 Mingling his tender streaks of red 
 With the pure rays the pale moon shed. 
 Ne'er, save beneath an Eastern sky, 
 
 Is seen so fair, so sweet an hour, 
 When Nature's self rests silently, 
 
 In soft repose, on shrub and flower ; 
 
20 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Nought broke that lovely stillness, save 
 The distant plashing of the wave, 
 When the light bark, with dripping oar, 
 Darted to reach the distant shore, 
 Or music's thrilling notes, that fell 
 On the cool breeze, and woke a spell, 
 So heavenly, that the listening ear 
 Had thought some wandering spirit near. 
 
 Perchance the sweet sitara's chords 
 
 Were struck by one who felt the pain 
 That never could be told by words, 
 
 But floated sweetly in that strain. 
 None ever viewed a scene so fair 
 As those who haply lingered there, 
 And marked th' horizon's vivid glow, 
 The mountain's summit clad in snow ; 
 And where the broad-leaved plantain shone 
 Near the slight palm-tree's fan-like crown, 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 21 
 
 The banian's hospitable shade, 
 By reproductive branches made, 
 Lending its kindly shelter still, 
 From noontide heat or midnight chill ; 
 Groves where the feathery cocoa grew, 
 Glittering with eve's own lucid dew. 
 A thousand birds on sportive wing, 
 
 Made vocal every bending spray 
 With varied notes they seemed to sing 
 
 Soft vespers to the parting day ; 
 The pale moon there her crescent hung, 
 And o'er the waves a splendour flung, 
 More mild and lovely than the beam 
 The mid-day sun flings on the stream. 
 
 Twas on the eve the Hindoos lave, 
 Like sea-born Rhemba, in the wave ; 
 Their solemn rites, and spells prepare, 
 Invoking Beauty's goddess there, 
 
22 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 In many a wild and deep-toned dirge, 
 Resounding o'er the sacred surge. 
 There troops of girls, with tresses flowing, 
 In youth's first pride of beauty glowing, 
 Plunged in the tide, in youthful play, 
 Dashing around the river's spray ; 
 Their slender, polished limbs they lave, 
 Like Naiads on the liquid wave. 
 
 One, lower down the stream retired, 
 In richer, costlier garb attired, 
 Her lone devotions there to pay, 
 Lit by the moon's auspicious ray ; 
 Her flowing veil was thrown aside, 
 
 Unbound her dark and shining hair, 
 And, ere she touched the silvery tide, 
 
 She cast her votive offerings there. 
 Those who had seen her well might deem 
 She was the goddess of the stream, 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 
 
 When first she, from the foamy sea, 
 Rose Beauty's own bright Deity ! 
 One sole attendant, near the shore, 
 
 ,A dark-eyed youthful Hindoo slave, 
 Wrapped in her arms an infant bore, 
 
 To bathe in Ganga's holy wave ; 
 For in the health-bestowing stream, 
 
 Beauty's first germ was said to glow ; 
 For this, beneath the moon's pale beam, 
 
 She offered up her lonely vow ; 
 Yet, ere on that still, heavenly night, x 
 The votaress had performed each rite, 
 When gently, by the zephyr's breath, 
 Down the blue stream was borne a wreath 
 Twining around a vase, and there 
 Reposed a lovely babe, as fair 
 As she who owned that mother's care. 
 
 The couch was wafted by the wave 
 Where stood the matron and her slave ; 
 
24 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 It was as though, on that bright river, 
 
 Fair Maia's son, in all his pride, 
 With flower-bound bow and rosy quiver, 
 Triumphed once more upon that tide ; 
 And so that fair enthusiast deemed, 
 That one so young and lovely seemed 
 Sent there by some celestial power, 
 That she might shield it in her bower. 
 a Novara," cried the votaress, " see 
 A present from the Deity 
 Who haunts this sacred stream, and hides 
 The spar-wrought caves below the tides !" 
 The young slave to the grassy shore 
 Quickly the couch and infant bore ; 
 And gently at her feet she laid 
 On the green turf the sleeping maid 
 
 The matron pressed her own loved child, 
 Against her heart, then fondly smiled ; 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 25 
 
 And raised her dark and lucid eye 
 With rapture to the cloudless sky. 
 " Hear me, Novara, hear me now, 
 While thus I consecrate my vow : 
 Before yon starry host of heaven, 
 That she this night the waves have given 
 To me, shall ever be as dear, 
 As she who fondly nestles here ; 
 And may the Deity, whose power 
 We invocate this holy hour ; 
 May heavenly Rhemba hear my prayer, 
 Oh ! may these children be as fair, 
 As when she on her lotus' throne, 
 In dazzling majesty first shone !" 
 
 The matron o'er the infant hung, 
 While to her breast her own babe clung ; 
 Marking how sleep its eye-lids closed, 
 While it on fragrant flowers reposed. 
 D 
 
26 TALES OF THE HAREM, 
 
 Novara knelt her down to take 
 
 The babe from where it lay enshrined, 
 When from the vase a coiled snake 
 
 Darted its length, and quickly twined 
 Around the other cherub's breast, 
 Its deadly fangs the reptile prest 
 In its life's blood, the vital stream 
 Once sullied, the transparent beam 
 No more illumed its death-glazed eyes, 
 But the bent lily droops and dies. 
 One shriek, one dreadful shriek resounded 
 O'er the calm waves, their silence wounded. 
 So deep, heart-rending was the cry, 
 As though each sense of misery 
 With life and reason, all were fled, 
 And the last quivering pulse was dead ; 
 And never yet was seen a sight, 
 More sad than that on Rhemba's night ! 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 2? 
 
 The lonely Hindoo slave stood there, 
 
 Like one entranced in mute despair ; 
 
 Well might she doubt the fearful scene 
 
 Aught but a feverish dream had been ; 
 
 For she, who in her infant bower 
 
 That morn had bloomed the loveliest flower, 
 
 Was that pale lily, now that lay 
 
 To unrelenting death a prey, 
 
 While the wild matron's once quick eye, 
 
 Now listless gazed on vacancy. 
 
 In her was quenched the source of tears, 
 
 To her were dead, both hopes and fears. 
 
 She sat upon the grassy ground, 
 
 Her flowing tresses all unbound, 
 
 And all was lonely, sad, and wild, 
 
 Save in her couch that lovely child ; 
 
 And nought but her low, feeble cry, 
 
 Disturbed that hour of misery. 
 
28 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 The evening's solemn rites were o'er, 
 Those groups had left the Ganga's shore ; 
 The moon had ceased the waves to light, 
 The scene was changed to gloom and night ; 
 Yet hung the mournful Hindoo slave 
 O'er those her vows and prayers would save, 
 Yet vain she there her vigil kept, 
 Nature around in silence slept. 
 
 And was that lady all alone, 
 Of all her train was there not one ? 
 None but that lowly slave to share 
 In the enthusaist's wild despair ? 
 Yes, in that noble matron's hall 
 A hundred slaves obey her call, 
 She had not there been left ; but she 
 Had made a vow in secrecy 
 And lone devotion, thus to lave 
 With her loved infant in the wave ; 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 29 
 
 When on its stream pale Chandra's light, 
 First shone on Rhemba's festal night 
 For this she with one slave alone 
 Had to the river's margin gone, 
 Where the stern messenger of fate 
 Left her for ever desolate. 
 
 She still sat on the lonely shore, 
 Like one who in this world no more 
 Shall ever feel, or joy or sorrow, 
 Shall ever see a brighter morrow. 
 Yet all amid her gestures wild, 
 Her eye was fixed on her lost child, 
 As though there shone one fading beam, 
 A link in memory's frenzied dream. 
 
 And was that cherub left to die, 
 
 When her frail bark the shore had won ? 
 
 Would no one hear her plaintive cry, 
 
 Were all who might have soothed her gone ? 
 2 D 
 
30 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 No! there was one, who hovered near ; 
 Like pity, sent to chase the tear 
 From sorrow's eye and soon was prest 
 The wave-borne child, to her fond breast ! 
 
 The slave is roused, her trembling eye 
 Rests on the stranger mournfully ; 
 And in that hurried glance a ray 
 Of joy has chased her tears away. 
 " Zeneib ! Novara !" they exclaim, 
 Both hear a loved, a well-known name ; 
 And to a sister's bosom now 
 Novara prest her aching brow. 
 
 Touch but one link of memory's chain, 
 How soon the heart will beat again, 
 Bringing before the mental eye 
 The vivid tints of infancy ; 
 And hope once more her eye illumes, 
 While reason its firm sway resumes. 
 
THE WITCH OY HIMLAYA. 31 
 
 The harrowing tale is quickly told 
 How could she meet her lord's stern eye ? 
 
 Or to his ear the truth unfold 
 Of his loved infant's destiny. 
 
 Ah, who shall tell him she who ever 
 Met his fond gaze with pure delight 
 
 That reason's light shall never never 
 Illume again her soul's dark night ! 
 
 The babe has found a watery grave, 
 Under the river's silent wave. 
 They bear the lady to her dome, 
 
 Where morn had seen her young and fair, 
 Yet ere night's zenith was that home 
 
 A refuge for her mind's despair. 
 Her cheek is robbed of all its bloom, 
 Her eyes are sunk in rayless gloom ; 
 And never beam those dark eyes, save 
 They rest on her the Ganga's wave 
 On sea-born Rhemba's eve first gave. 
 
32 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 All all was hid of that sad night 
 
 Save the lost matron's early blight, 
 
 For none but those young slaves could tell, 
 
 How fate's dark withering mission fell. 
 
 On her lord's ear the maddening tale 
 
 Fell, like a pestilential gale ; 
 
 That a fierce serpent from the tide 
 
 Had darted in his gilded pride 
 
 Against his lady's beauteous form, 
 
 And thus produced her bosom's storm. 
 
 And many a wild and bitter tear 
 
 He shed for her he loved so dear ; 
 
 And little did his fancy deem 
 
 His own babe slept beneath the stream. 
 
 The one he cradled on his knee, 
 
 Was not the same that eve they bore, 
 In Rhemba's proud festivity, 
 
 In infant-beauty to the shore. 
 For no two stars had ever been 
 
 More like, than were those early flowers, 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 33 
 
 No twin-buds ere more like were seen, 
 Though plucked in the same fairy bowers. 
 The year's quick circle glided by 
 Unmarked by that sad mother's eye, 
 Till on the sacred river's tide 
 The echo of the same lay died ; 
 And glittered there the same pale beam, 
 Which once had lured her to the stream ; 
 She stole from her attendants' care, 
 Whose duty still had watched her there : 
 And wandering to the Ganga's side, 
 Where her own hapless infant died, 
 She there a lay so plaintive sang, 
 Till echo with the cadence rang. 
 She sat her down beside the tide, 
 
 It seem'd as though at the same hour 
 Her own lost infant there had died, 
 
 Reason again resumed its power, 
 And with it woke sad memory's dream, 
 Of her who perished near that stream : 
 
34 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 AH, heard ye the soft breeze of spring ! 
 
 On the bright zephyr waft its sigh, 
 While revelling on its balmy wing, 
 On the cool trembling waters die 
 
 'Twas on that trembling zephyr's sigh 
 Was borne my infant's lullaby ! 
 
 Ah, heard ye the sad pensive moan, 
 
 Of the fond ring-dove for her young ! 
 And in that mournful plaintive tone 
 Their lowly dirge that mother sung 
 
 And in the ring-dove's mournful cry 
 Was sung my baby's lullaby ! 
 
 Ah, hear ye the sad vulture's note, 
 And the dark owlet's flapping wing, 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 35 
 
 On the wild coming tempest float, 
 When earth and sky are darkening 
 'Tis in the vulture's hollow cry 
 Resounds my infant's lullaby ! 
 
 No sooner was the sad lay o'er, 
 Then plunging from the river's shore, 
 She quickly found a peaceful grave 
 With her lost darling in the wave. 
 
 Within the Rajah's princely dome, 
 
 Sorrow alone can find a home ; 
 
 For there no more shall pleasure smile, 
 
 Or music the sad hours beguile ; 
 
 Nor in its hospitable hall 
 
 Be spread the splendid festival. 
 
 No longer the cool sherbet floats 
 Amongst the guests in cups of gold, 
 
 Nor to the soft sitara's notes 
 The bard recounts the tales of old. 
 
36 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 The ruddy plum of fair Cashgar, 
 With the pomegranate of Tatah, 
 The luscious fruits of Samarcand, 
 The produce of each distant land ; 
 No longer shall together vie 
 In that high lord's festivity. 
 
 The almas' bounding steps no more 
 Spring o'er the tesselated floor ; 
 Nor do their beaming eyes illume, 
 Tresses which emulate the plume 
 Of the wild raven's jetty wing. 
 Nor are the gold bells tinkling 
 Around their ivory ancles bare 
 But all is gloom, and silence there. 
 
 The prince has left his stately towers, 
 And leads to war his vassal powers ; 
 Those plains, where once his lady's eye 
 Oft shone, heard not his bosom's sigh. 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 37 
 
 His home retains not now a spell, 
 The voice is mute he loved so well ; 
 He only hears her funeral dirge, 
 Ring wildly o'er the hallowed surge ; 
 Like the ravening, the vultures' cries, 
 
 In the parched desert o'er their prey ; 
 Or helpless traveller who dies 
 
 Struck by the simoom's scorching ray. 
 
 And soon the yellow scarf was waving; 
 The rajpoots' brave and warlike cry, 
 The battle's deadliest slaughter braving, 
 Leads on to death or victory ! 
 And many a year that Rajah staid, 
 Far from his lonely orphan maid. 
 Those slaves that in their lady's bower, 
 Had watched her in her frenzied hour, 
 Tending her footsteps, wayward, wild, 
 Were left to guard the lovely child. 
 
38 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 And one young boy, the Rajah's heir, 
 With her alone divide their care. 
 So beauteous was her infant brow, 
 
 It was as though the maniac's prayer, 
 When o'er the waves she made her vow, 
 
 Was doubled on that maiden fair. 
 / 
 
 Thus reared in solitude, alone, 
 Unmarked this tender lily shone ; 
 Save that her youthful couch beside, 
 A lofty form would sometimes glide, 
 like a nocturnal, fearful sprite, 
 In the deep shadowy hours of night. 
 For near the maniac's favorite room, 
 None ever ventured in the gloom 
 Of evening, for the slaves would tell, 
 How when its lengthened shadows fell, 
 Along the high-roofed corridor, 
 Or gleamed upon the marble floor, 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 39 
 
 Their lady's spirit wandered there, 
 Till it would melt in viewless air ! 
 Yet here, all desolate and wild, 
 Was reared the orphan wave-borne child ; 
 Yet in her hours of childhood's play, 
 One phantom ever crossed her way, 
 Whose flashing eye and towering form, 
 Gleamed like a meteor in the storm. 
 Who oft at eve her steps would lure 
 To some deep solitude, secure 
 From the approach of curious eyes ; 
 And there such thrilling melodies 
 And magic strains her ear would meet, 
 So sad, and yet so wildly sweet, 
 That the mysterious stranger still, 
 Guided her footsteps at her will. 
 Nor dread, nor fear her bosom felt, 
 But at that mourner's tears would melt, 
 And when she to her heaving breast, 
 With all a mother's fondness, prest 
 
40 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Her youthful form- that raptured eye, 
 
 Spoke a fond mother's extacy. 
 
 Yet Aza never knew her name, 
 
 Nor whence the wandering footsteps came 
 
 Of her, who with such magic skill 
 
 Taught her the lute to touch at will ; 
 
 So powerful was the sacred spell 
 
 That o'er her youthful fancy swayed, 
 That from her tongue no accent fell, 
 
 Their secret tie which e'er betrayed. 
 
 . 
 Sometimes the stranger in the gloom 
 
 And shadow of the midnight hour, 
 Would meet her in the garden's bloom, 
 
 Or in Novara's lonely bower ; 
 Who on her youthful mind imprest, 
 To hide the secret in her breast, 
 For should it e'en be known 'twould ever 
 Her fate from her loved minstrel sever. 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 41 
 
 But few of all that lord's proud train 
 
 In those deserted towers remain, 
 
 To guard the absent Rajah's halls, 
 Without the lone Zenana's walls ; 
 Or on his princely heir attend, 
 To teach his arm the bow to bend, 
 To wield the falchion, stem the tide, 
 Or curb the war-horse in his pride ; 
 And fit the youthful Zeiindah 
 For the fierce toils of sterner war. 
 Still would he, when the setting sun 
 
 Was glittering both on stream and flowers, 
 And all his manly sports were done, 
 
 Hasten to the Zenana's bowers ; 
 And from their sager counsels fly 
 To meet young Aza's laughing eye. 
 
 Childhood's sweet hours are like the spring, 
 Like the young bird upon the wing, 
 2 E 
 
42 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 As evanescent and as fair, 
 
 Its wild pursuits as varied are ; 
 
 Or the gay fly upon the stream, 
 
 Or the inconstant moonlight's beam. 
 
 Sometimes they through the garden's pride 
 
 Would pluck each garland in their way, 
 Or climbing the steep mountain's side, 
 
 Among its various pathways stray. 
 Thus the young pair together grew, 
 
 Their pleasures and their cares the same, 
 Their hours of childhood quickly flew ; 
 
 To them no voice of sorrow came. 
 But like the young birds ever gay, 
 Through the neglected garden play. 
 Still the fond boy would gently guide 
 Her footsteps, wandering by her side ; 
 Climbing with venturous foot the tree, 
 
 To reach the small bird's mossy nest, 
 Of its bright eggs a rosary, 
 
 To string about her youthful breast ; 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 43 
 
 Or fasten a small tinkling bell, 
 Around her slender swift gazelle, 
 That they might chase it o'er the lawn, 
 Ere that the rosy-footed dawn 
 Had brushed the morning dew away, 
 That glittered on each bending spray. 
 
 Such pure and happy hours as these, 
 So bright, were never made to last ; 
 
 When, drooping, fades the young heart's ease, 
 The first, fond, fairy vision's past ! 
 
 For he who formed her infant pride, 
 
 No longer wanders by her side ; 
 
 His sire has sent a lordly train, 
 
 That his fond heart may press again 
 
 One link of love's divided chain. 
 
 His nerveless arm must now prepare 
 
 To wield the massive sword, and share 
 
 In the fierce conflict of the brave, 
 
 His native towers and plains to save ; 
 
44 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 For War, with all its deadly train, 
 Will e'en the fairest Eden stain; 
 Soon may the Moslem trample there 
 The sacred shrines and temples fair : 
 And Aza, too, must quit the dome 
 That long had formed her childhood's home, 
 And soon in other plains must dwell, 
 And bid to these a long farewell ! 
 
 How lonesome is the young bird left, 
 Of it's first loved companion 'reft ! 
 Those groves where once it's carols light 
 Resounded through a summer's night, 
 Robbed of it's young and tender mate ? 
 Are to it's fond heart desolate. 
 
 Tis eve ; and Aza wandering roved, 
 Amongst the groves which once she loved ; 
 In vain resounds the tinkling bell 
 Of her own lively, young gazelle ; 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 45 
 
 In vain she tries her once -loved lute 
 
 It's charm is gone, it's thrill is mute ; 
 
 For he who once had praised the lay, 
 
 From those high towers is far away ; 
 
 And every shrub, and every tree, 
 
 Awakes some chord of memory. 
 
 Her dark eye still is fringed with tears, 
 
 When on the sighing breeze she hears 
 
 Those sad, mysterious notes, whose swell 
 
 Ever upon her charmed ear fell, 
 
 As though the strains from heaven descended, 
 
 And with her very fate were blended. 
 
 She hastens to the lonely cell, 
 
 Where she had oft the minstrel met, 
 When evening's darkened shadows fell, 
 
 And the sun's lingering beams were set. 
 
 The stranger stood before her now, 
 With paler cheek, and sadder brow ; 
 
46 TALES OF THE HAREM, 
 
 She gazed upon the lovely maid, 
 
 Her dark eye beamed a softer spell, 
 As she, in faltering accents, said, 
 
 " I come to bid a last farewell ! 
 Yet, nothing can the firm link sever,. 
 
 That binds me to your weal or woe ; 
 We part perchance 'twill be for ever 
 
 You now to other vales must go. 
 I read, in that inquiring eye, 
 1 What can unite the destiny 
 Of youth, with one whose wayward fate 
 Seems now so sad and desolate ? ' 
 Yet, a far happier day may come, 
 When she who meets you now in gloom, 
 May then the mystery dispel, 
 Which hangs now, like a wizard spell, 
 O'er her sad life. Farewell ! farewell I " 
 
TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 
 
 BENEATH Himlaya's snow-clad brow, 
 
 Where the dark forest's high tops frown, 
 And the loud mountain- torrents flow, 
 
 'Mid hills which form its emerald throne 
 Where the fierce eagle built its nest, 
 
 And scarce the elk had deigned to dwell 
 A wanderer chose a bower of rest, 
 
 And fixed her lonely moss-grown cell. 
 F 
 
50 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 So stern and wild it's aspect seemed, 
 
 That with the Spirits of the Air, 
 Those who e'er sought her dwelling deemed 
 
 She held nocturnal vigils there. 
 None knew from whence that stranger came, 
 Her clime, her faith, or e'en her name ; 
 And those who saw her lofty form 
 
 Climb the dread steep, or brave the flood, 
 Reckless of Winter's angriest storm, 
 
 Called her the Wild Witch of the Wood ; 
 For she on that stern height alone 
 Would e'er have fixed her mountain throne. 
 Yet, never did the traveller stray, 
 Benighted on his homeward way, 
 O'er the steep mountain's chilly height, 
 
 But still he found a shelter there, 
 Where he might pass the gloomy night, 
 
 Secure of rest and homely fare, 
 While the recluse from each strange eye 
 Concealed herself in mystery. 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 51 
 
 To her the young Cashmeerians came, 
 Drawn thither by that stranger's fame 
 For many a wild yet wondrous tale 
 Was of her told through Gashmeer's Vale ; 
 And her sweet voice possessed a power 
 To lure them to her lonely cell, 
 E'en at stern Midnight's dreary hour ; 
 For then 'twas deemed, by potent spell, 
 She would e'en Fate's dark secrets tell. 
 
 And would they some dire foe disarm, 
 They sought of her some secret charm, 
 Which e'en would in a firmer chain 
 Bind a lost lover's heart again. 
 
 Each maiden, ere the bridal hour, 
 Claimed at her cell a charmed flower, 
 Or sainted amulet, to bind 
 In Love's fond links the wandering mind. 
 
52 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 How powerful is the Mind's deep sway 
 O'er lowly nature her wild lay 
 And mystic strains, to them still brought 
 All that their simple wishes sought ; 
 She thus their youthful bosoms chained, 
 While in her mountain cave she reigned, 
 Which looked o'er Cashmeer's lovely vales, 
 
 Its bright cascades, its gushing fountains, 
 Its gardens, fanned by purest gales, 
 
 By zephyrs breathed from those high mountains. 
 And 'midst those cloud-capt hills of snow, 
 Young Spring now shone with varied glow, 
 Making that Valley like a gem 
 Placed in an Eastern diadem. 
 A thousand streams of glittering waters 
 
 Glide through enamelled plains of flowers, 
 Yet lovelier far its lovely daughters, 
 
 Concealed in those enchanting bowers ; 
 And there was one whose jet-black eye, 
 
 Pure as the chrystal murmuring stream, 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 53 
 
 Unconscious of Love's witchery, 
 
 And tender as his first fond dream. 
 Her sire, upon the Valley's side, 
 
 Had placed her lone zenana there, 
 Resolved in that retreat to hide 
 
 This lovely bud his pride, his care ; 
 And rear unseen young Aza's charms, 
 Far from the din of hostile arms. 
 
 Beyond Himlaya's proud ascent, 
 
 Where Ganga winds his sacred way, 
 O'er many a tower and battlement 
 
 The Rajah held a sovereign sway : 
 And though a mighty line had shed 
 
 O'er his high race their deeds of fire, 
 And his own name by Fame was spread, 
 
 And stern and ruthless was his ire ; 
 Yet, for that dear and lovely one 
 He seemed to live and breathe alone. 
 F 2 
 
54 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 In the young maid he oft would trace 
 His own lost maniac's pensive face 
 She who had sunk beneath the tide, 
 In the full power of beauty's pride ; 
 Though years had fled, from his seared heart 
 Her cherished image ne'er could part 
 Still was he plunged in hopeless gloom, 
 Save when he gazed on Aza's bloom. 
 
 Yet, well he loved his princely heir, 
 Now in Ambition's wild career, 
 An only son, his first fond boast, 
 The early pride of one long lost ; 
 But he has left the Valley's pride, 
 Nor longer roams by Aza's side : 
 For never was an Eden seen 
 
 That could with Cashmeer's Vale compare. 
 Amidst whose groves, for ever green, 
 
 How often had he wandered there ! 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 55 
 
 When the maid's voice could soothe his soul, 
 
 Which scarce had borne his sire's control ; 
 
 And never did her youthful eye 
 
 Beam with such gladness as when Fame 
 
 Brought to her ear some victory 
 
 Joined with her own Zelindah's name, 
 
 Which, as a meteor seen afar, 
 
 Seemed her own loved and guiding star 
 
 Yet thoughts of absence caused a sigh, 
 
 A shade of sadness in her eye 
 
 And when her sire her tears would chide, 
 
 Telling her she should be the bride 
 
 Of some young warrior, " Never, never/' 
 
 The maid would cry, "these heart-strings sever! 
 
 For who would love me half so well 
 
 As my dear sire ? Ah ! sure no other 
 My every care and fear dispel, 
 
 Unless it were my own loved brother ! " 
 
56 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Thus, in these fair and happy bowers, 
 She scarcely felt the flight of hours ; 
 And oft at eve would idly stray 
 
 On the green margin of the lake, 
 Watching the mild decline of day, 
 
 When echoes on her ear would break. 
 And on the passing zephyr swell, 
 So sweet and wild the sad notes fell, 
 That she still deemed some spirit there 
 Lurked in the wave, or hung in air 
 Yet never, save by her alone, 
 Was heard that sad, mysterious tone ; 
 It seemed the voice of years gone by, 
 The lovely hours of infancy ; 
 And sounded like a well-known strain 
 She feared she ne'er should hear again, 
 Of her whose wild lute's magic thrill 
 Had lured her senses at her will. 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 57 
 
 But long those cherished hours were fled 
 The Moslem had in vengeance led 
 The desolating sword and fire 
 Against the province of her sire ; 
 Yet, ere the foe had poured his rage, 
 
 Trampling on shrines and temples fair, 
 He sent the darling of his age 
 
 To seek a safe retreat e'en where 
 His summer bower was sheltered, far 
 From the fierce withering breath of war, 
 And in that lovely valley still 
 Secured her from each threatened ill ; 
 Yet she had ne'er that minstrel seen, 
 Since she in Cashmere's Vale had been, 
 Whose distant image oft would gleam 
 O'er her sad thoughts, as 'twere a dream. 
 Again she hears the mournful strain 
 Float on the breeze then pause again ; 
 So wildly sweet the measure stole, 
 It moved to tears her inmost soul. 
 
58 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 The sun was set, she lingered still, 
 Her gaze was fixed on that high hill 
 Beneath whose shade her summer bower 
 Hung like a wild neglected flower ; 
 For there the maid had ceased to stray, 
 Since that too well remembered day 
 Her brave Zelindah left again 
 Those towers, to head his warrior train. 
 It seemed as though her own soft lute, 
 So long forsaken, so long mute, 
 Were murmuring a melodious lay, 
 To hymn the sweet decline of day ; 
 That some pure spirit of the sky, 
 Had breathed the wondrous melody ; 
 And though eve's latest beams were fled, 
 Her youthful bosom felt no dread, 
 Resolved the secret spell to trace 
 Which ever dwelt round that wild place. 
 With eager haste the bower she sought, 
 So long forsaken, when she thought 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 59 
 
 She heard the thrilling notes once more : 
 Her trembling hand is on the door, 
 It wakes a chord to memory dear, 
 Perchance the spirit wanders near 
 Of her, whom time nor absence ever 
 Could from her youthful bosom sever 1 
 
 SONG. 
 
 OH ! seek ye my lone cell, 'tis on the steep 
 
 mountain, 
 Where the fierce eagle soars ah ! there is my 
 
 pillow ; 
 
 My food the wild berry, my drink the cool fountain, 
 And my sad dreams are lulled by the loud 
 dashing billow. 
 
 I heed not the peal of the cloud-rending thunder, 
 Nor winter's dread storm as it howls round my 
 dwelling ; 
 
60 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Though the lightnings flash cleave the tall oak 
 
 asunder, 
 
 To me 'tis more calm than my bosom's fierce 
 swelling. 
 
 For what to the bosom, borne down with deep 
 
 sorrow, 
 
 Is the elements crash, or the storms wildest rage? 
 Where not one ray of hope can e'er gild a bright 
 
 morrow, 
 Nor aught can the heart's bitter anguish assuage. 
 
 The maiden shrieked, and cried " 'Tis she, 
 
 The vision of my infancy !" 
 
 She rushed within the bower, and fell 
 
 At that mysterious stranger's feet, 
 Before whose form, remembered well, 
 
 Her heart almost forgot to beat : 
 Though years had fled, that vivid eye 
 Had not yet lost its brilliancy ; 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 61 
 
 Nor age her lofty form had bent, 
 Though time a silvery tint now lent 
 To blanch her locks, concealed beneath 
 Her flowing veil, and mountain wreath. 
 
 She raised young Aza to her breast, 
 And there with mad'ning fervor prest ; 
 " Think not," she cried, " though since we met, 
 Long years have flown, I could forget 
 The only links, which from thy birth 
 Could bind me to this hated earth. 
 For thee I've borne the heaviest doom. 
 Wandered in misery and gloom : 
 The rocks my pillow, and my head 
 Sheltered in some forsaken shed. 
 You gaze on this wild care-crazed form, 
 Ah ! it has borne the heaviest storm, 
 That e'er the tyrant hand of power 
 Could on unhappy woman shower. 
 G 
 
TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Yet I was once like thee as fair, 
 As young in hope as free from care ; 
 And there was one I dare not name, 
 As proud of heart as high in fame, 
 As e'en Zelindah : do not start ! 
 Think'st thou I have not read thy heart ? 
 Yes, I have wandered near thy bowers, 
 Watched round thy most unguarded hours ; 
 And when the hero still was nigh, 
 Have I not marked thy bosom's sigh ; 
 And seen the mantling bloom which fled, 
 When the brave youth to war had sped. 
 
 Oh ! had I known that love a crime, 
 I then had whispered in thine ear, 
 
 Beware of love, beware in time ! 
 For still thy guardian friend was near. 
 That youth, who with thee still has roved, 
 Whom thou from earliest childhood loved, 
 He does not own a brother's name, 
 But soon a dearer tie may, claim ; 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 63 
 
 By thy pure cheek's bright crimsoned glow, 
 I see the secret thou wouldest know : 
 Well then, the mad'ning tale once more, 
 Of years gone by, of hours long fled ; 
 Of days this bosom will deplore, 
 'Till every pulse of life be dead : 
 
 How oft at Cama's shrine I knelt, 
 How pure the gifts I offered there, 
 
 The barbed shafts how deep I felt, 
 I need not at this hour declare. 
 Have they not ting'd my lingering years 
 With haggard grief, with frantic tears ? 
 Too fleeting were the hours I spent, 
 Amidst my youth's first fond content ; 
 When to my heart a bud or flower, 
 Could spread a charm, a magic power, 
 Around my paths, for they were given, 
 By one who formed my young heart's heaven. 
 I loved, and was beloved again, 
 But iron-fate soon broke the chain: 
 
64 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 I dreamed not that a father's will, 
 Would all my fondest visions chill, 
 Or that ambition's stern decree 
 Could link the chains of misery. 
 Fair was the morning of my life, 
 
 'Till the sad hour a father sent, 
 A wretched and a loathing wife, 
 
 His once-loved child, to banishment ! 
 My doom was fixed from that sad hour, 
 Though high the rank, and proud the dower. 
 Sent by the prince henceforth to be 
 The ruler of my destiny. 
 In vain with flowers they wreathed my head, 
 
 Decked me with gems against my will, 
 In me, alas ! e'en hope was dead, 
 
 And memory's stings would rankle still. 
 To me the infant buds of spring, 
 No source of joy, or hope could bring ; 
 And the fresh dewy flower which spread 
 Around my path and fragrance shed, 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 65 
 
 Which once had filled my soul with gladness, 
 Served but to add a deeper sadness ; 
 But when the orb of day was gone, 
 
 And sunk into the western deep, 
 Then in deep solitude, alone, 
 
 I dared my wretched fate to weep. 
 I envied e'en the peasants' lot, 
 Her humble fare and rustic cot, 
 Where pure affection might entwine 
 A sympathetic heart with mine. 
 
 " Though round my nuptial couch a train, 
 
 Of humble slaves did still attend ; 
 Yet midst that group I sought in vain, 
 
 I could not hope to find a friend. 
 For they had thought my splendid lot, 
 Bright and unclouded ; and forgot 
 How oft each fair and glittering wreath 
 Conceals a broken heart beneath. 
 G 2 
 
66 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Yet, there was one young- slave who well 
 The sorrows of my heart could tell 
 With mine her fate, from childhood blended, 
 She on my hours of hope attended, 
 And knew that never could my eye, 
 Beam, save with cheerless misery 
 Tis past, those bitter days of sorrow, 
 Yet there ensued a sadder morrow. 
 Months passed unheeded, save by tears, 
 
 Dark and immutable the storm 
 Which hovered o'er my future years, 
 
 And blighted soon my youthful form. 
 I fondly hoped no sterner blow 
 
 Could fall on my devoted head ; 
 That sorrow's wounds were sure, though slow, 
 
 And soon would shrine me with the dead, 
 Where memory could not shed a beam, 
 To wake the agonizing dream 
 Of hopes long fled ; that on that pyre 
 My woes and wrongs would all expire. 
 
THE \VITCH OF HIMLA Sf A. 67 
 
 'Tis not the wretch that misery claims, 
 Or broken heart, on whom death aims 
 The unerring shaft, the proud, the brave, 
 Nought can the destined victims save, 
 For I, whom withering grief had chained, 
 For deeper sorrows still remained ; 
 While the high Lord to whom my sire 
 My fate had bound, I saw expire. 
 Soon his remains the Brahmins bore, 
 In triumph to the Ganga's shore ; 
 
 There raised the high funereal pile, 
 With perfumed woods the flame they fed, 
 
 Where I had hoped with joy to smile, 
 And lay me by the unconscious dead, 
 To still the auguish of despair ! 
 A self-devoted suttee there. 
 
 " It might not be, for still another 
 Grief must be mine ! to be a mother 
 
68 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Perhaps that e'en the helpless child, 
 
 Ere on its face my fond eyes smiled, 
 
 Might fall a victim to its fate, 
 
 Leaving me yet more desolate. 
 
 The peasant child is happier far, 
 
 Born safe beneath an humbler star, 
 
 Than those of that illustrious dome 
 
 For which I left my first fond home. 
 
 Whose haughty chiefs with pride could trace 
 
 Their high descent from Surya's race ; 
 
 Thinking their lineage too divine 
 
 With those of baser rank to join. 
 
 Thus was each hapless, helpless, daughter, 
 
 Soon as the vital air she drew, 
 Still doomed alike to instant slaughter ; 
 
 Lest the high stem from which she grew 
 Should view her, or ignobly wed, 
 Or that no nuptial torch should shed 
 Its genial influence o'er her head. 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 69 
 
 'Twas madness, that the only tie 
 By which I clung to earth must die. 
 Each deity with fervent prayer, 
 I knelt to, in my soul's despair ; 
 Had sought dread Seevah's holy shrine, 
 With solemn fasts, and gifts divine. 
 The youthful slave, who knew my fears, 
 Moved by my deep heart-rending tears, 
 Soothed my wild brain with vows to save 
 The infant from a cruel grave : 
 She thought the deity could ne'er 
 Propitious prove to man's despair ; 
 Or that so dread a sacrifice 
 Would e'er be grateful in his eyes. 
 A milder faith her heart had learned, 
 A brighter heaven her hopes discerned ; 
 Where prostrate woman's soul might dare, 
 With earth's proud lords an Eden share ! 
 
70 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Thus Zeneib, in my lonely hall, 
 
 Had by her manners gently kind, 
 Sought my lost reason to recall, 
 
 And tranquillize my frenzied mind ; 
 She hid the hour from every eye 
 
 Which gave a daughter to my sight, 
 And saved me from the tyranny 
 
 Of bigot pride, by instant flight; 
 For in those towers no pitying eye 
 Save her's had sought my tears to dry. 
 
 " My dower, the gems which nuptial pride 
 Had decked a hapless, wretched bride, 
 Of vast and countless wealth, alone 
 Were all I dared to call my own 
 And these must henceforth be the store 
 To shield me on a happier shore. 
 The form once decked with Eastern pride 
 I now in humblest weeds must hide, 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 71 
 
 And like the bird whose fluttering wing 
 The wintry tempest scarce has known, 
 
 Must bare me to its sharpest sting, 
 
 And brave its darkest, deadliest frown. 
 
 " The faithful Zeneib by my side, 
 My slave no more my friend and guide, 
 I soon resolved each storm to brave 
 That I my lovely child might save : 
 Sad fugitives! some den must shield 
 
 Its wretched inmates from their foes; 
 And the wild desert's self must yield 
 
 A refuge from far deeper woes 
 For the hyena had I then 
 
 Thought kinder, and a guest more mild, 
 Or the fierce tiger from his den, 
 
 Than those who would have slain my child ! 
 
 " Twas in the hour of stilly night 
 That we began our venturous flight ; 
 
TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 When every form save ours reposed, 
 When every eye save ours was closed. 
 With noiseless steps we bent our way 
 
 Through the zenana's silent gloom, 
 While Sleep held there his poppied sway, 
 
 Still as the inmates of the tomb ; 
 Scarcely was heard the midnight air, 
 As if the hand of Death were there : 
 All round was hushed save our light tread, 
 Vibrating on the heart with dread. 
 For in each tree and shrub, with awe, 
 Some lurking foe our fears still saw 
 Not then, as now this care-worn form 
 Has since been hardened by the storm. 
 
 Yet, once beyond the stately door, 
 I seemed to breathe a purer air ; 
 
 For in my arms I safely bore 
 My helpless babe, my only care. 
 Heedless of danger, death, or toil, 
 For her I sought the desert soil ! 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 73 
 
 How sad and wild I will not say, 
 
 I felt the long and weary way ; 
 
 Or when the tangled woods we dared, 
 
 How oft our steps the coiled snake scared ; 
 
 Where nought beside its gilded brood, 
 
 Haunted that lonely solitude. 
 
 We had not thought that man had there, 
 
 In plenitude of pomp and sway, 
 Unsullied by the hand of care, 
 
 Revelled the thoughtless hours away. 
 Or in those vales, now pathless found, 
 The war-horse once had pawed the ground ; 
 Where hung the dew-drops on the stems, 
 Had sparkled there far brighter gems. 
 And where the thorn now flung her spray, 
 Where the proud column prostrate lay, 
 The splendour of the eye had glanced, 
 And slender, graceful feet once danced ; 
 That in that waste, so wild and still, 
 The Syren's voice with magic thrill, 
 
 Had calmed the tyrant to her will ! 
 H 
 
TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 The ruin'd palace there had left, 
 All that was sad and desolate ; 
 Of all its grandeur now bereft, 
 
 And crushed by the stern hand of Fate, 
 Where were its thousand slaves to tell, 
 How its proud towers in ruins fell ? 
 Yet did it seem an Eden blest, 
 For there I found a place of rest ! 
 
 " From the poor peasants, Zeneib gained 
 The humble food our lives sustained ; 
 And soon my heart began to know, 
 How much we to the lowly owe. 
 That those who once had been my scorn, 
 As strong of arm and heart are born, 
 As the proud lord who thinks that he 
 Is nearer to the Deity. 
 
 " By Zeneib's care we found a guide, 
 Who might her anxious charge divide ; 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 75 
 
 Though strange in garb, and mountain bred, 
 
 Yet skilled in the rude life he led: 
 
 Each rugged pass and jungle wild, 
 
 To him familiar when a child, 
 
 Were traced with ease ; and when at night 
 
 The tigers filled our hearts with fright, 
 
 He kindled fires our foes to scare, 
 
 And watched our short repose with care ! 
 
 For love had in the desert drear 
 
 Conquered the rugged mountaineer, 
 
 Who had not 'scaped the witchery 
 
 Of Zeneib's dark and sparkling eye. 
 
 Oh ! gentle love, that has the power, 
 
 E'en of the desert wild, a bower 
 
 To form, and a soft couch to spread 
 
 Beneath a rude and roofless shed ! 
 
 " I see/' the stranger cried, " thine eye 
 Beams with thy bosom's sympathy, 
 
76 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 And had my sorrows ended here 
 I then had spared that sorrowing tear ; 
 But still a weary task remained, 
 Ere an abode of peace was gained. 
 We now had reached the Ganga's side ; 
 How might we cross the river's tide, 
 Whose wide and rapid torrent lay, 
 To check us in our toilsome way ? 
 Here had I sunk in sad despair, 
 Worn out with misery and care, 
 Had not my infant's feeble cry 
 Roused more than woman's energy ; 
 For near that hoped-for shore a dome 
 Was sheltered once, my fairy home, 
 And never was the wanderer's prayer 
 Or hope of refuge blighted there. 
 
 " But quickly had the peasant's skill 
 Taught us the tide to stem at will ; 
 
THE WITCH OF H1MLAYA. 
 
 I 
 
 Rude skins he sought, and these were bound 
 (Well filled with air) our forms around, 
 Whose buoyant force might bear us o'er 
 The dark blue stream, to gain the shore. 
 
 " 'Twas the same wave whose dashing spray 
 So oft had formed my youthful play, 
 With Hindoo maids, at Eve's sweet hour, 
 Our prize the lotus' rosy flower. 
 Yet, why recall joys fled for ever, 
 
 Except in Memory's soothing charm ? 
 Hope that is dead, ah! never, never, 
 
 Can it Despair's cold bosom ^warrn! 
 My faithful Zeneib hid her fears, 
 Checking the warm, unbidden tears, 
 To see me, like the lowliest slave, 
 Condemned to tempt the treacherous wave. 
 
 H 2 
 
TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 
 
 " In a broad vase our guide had made 
 A couch, in which my babe was laid. 
 While steering the light bark, an isle 
 Allured him there to rest awhile ; 
 Which up the stream, with verdure driven, 
 Had from its parent shore been riven, 
 And formed a bower so bright and fair, 
 
 That the young syrens of the deep, 
 'Midst clustering buds, might nestle there, 
 
 Beneath the noontide sun to sleep : 
 Yet, woe to those who tampt the guile 
 Of the sea nymphs' bewitching smile ! 
 For scarce the guide his charge had laid 
 Under the cocoa's feathery shade, 
 When from its root a serpent darted, 
 So lately from the green shore parted 
 Who can describe a mother's awe, 
 When I the venomed reptile saw 
 With coiled folds insidious glide 
 Where slept my babe ? the affrighted guide 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 79 
 
 Let go his hold I saw no more 
 My every pulse of life seemed dead 
 
 They bore me to the distant shore, 
 
 Like one whose last, long sigh had fled ! " 
 
 The stranger paused : her sad eye fell 
 
 On Aza's cheek, so deadly pale, 
 Like one who hears the passing knell 
 Of all most dear borne on the gale. 
 She seized the lute, whose dulcet thrill 
 Might the maid's trembling bosom still ; 
 As died in melting strains the lay 
 The glittering tear-drops passed away. 
 
80 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 . 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 AH ! there floated a Spirit the dark waves beneath, 
 Who guarded the couch where my cherub re- 
 clined ; 
 She had come from her spar-grot to seek a fair 
 
 wreath 
 Of bright lotus' buds, her fair tresses to bind. 
 
 II. 
 
 A trophy of flowers her soft hand divided, 
 
 Whose roseate tints with the white spray were 
 
 blended ; 
 And as down the clear stream it triumphantly 
 
 glided, 
 
 She around the frail bark their sweet buds 
 suspended. 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 81 
 
 III. 
 
 Even he, the young god of the flower-bound 
 
 quiver, 
 
 Had he seen thus usurped his own rosy throne, 
 So lovely the couch, as 'twas borne down the 
 
 river, 
 
 On his light rainbow wings to its rescue had 
 flown. 
 
 The lay was o'er, the minstrel gone, 
 And the young maiden left alone ! 
 She gazed upon the soft-toned lute 
 Her heart was cold it's strains were mute. 
 Who was that sad, mysterious one, 
 Whose every glance, whose every tone, 
 Sunk on her soul ? Ah ! what the tie 
 That seemed to link their destiny? 
 Where she had heard the harrowing tale 
 Which changed her bloom to deadliest pale, 
 
82 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 She still sat there in anxious thought, 
 When her young slaves her presence sought, 
 For what could now her footsteps stay 
 Beyond the soft decline of day ? 
 Why did she veil her dark black eye, 
 Or why was heard her bosom's sigh ? 
 She, who was lightest of the throng, 
 First in the dance, the tale, the song ? 
 The stranger had unveiled her eyes, 
 And other hopes and other ties 
 Pressed wildly on her trembling soul 
 She could not the quick throb control ; 
 And ne'er had Aza sought till now 
 
 In deep seclusion to conceal 
 Her conscious eye her cheek's deep glow 
 
 She dared not to herself reveal. 
 Then silently she sought the bower 
 
 Where she unheard, unseen might weep 
 For ne'er till then had aught the power 
 
 From her soft couch to banish sleep. 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 83 
 
 ?- 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 'TWAS eve; and sweetly o'er the Vale, 
 
 The lovely garden of Cashmeer, 
 The moon was shining bright and pale, 
 
 Reflected in its waters clear. 
 A thousand pure cascades were flowing, 
 And many a stream like diamonds glowing ; 
 Across the lake the light bark shot, 
 To seek some loved and favoured spot, 
 Where lingered the expectant maid, 
 And for her tardy lover staid ; 
 For well the youthful heart can tell 
 How pure and holy is the spell 
 Shed by the ray of the moonlight beam 
 On the bud, or the flower, or mountain stream ; 
 
84 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 And never summer shone more bright 
 Than on that pure and lovely night 
 Nor yet more fragrant breathed the gales, 
 Borne by the zephyrs o'er the vales 
 Nor did the pale moon ever throw 
 On the still lake a softer glow 
 Yet all unconscious of the scene 
 Strayed Aza on its margin green ; 
 She now must from her bosom tear 
 One who too long had lingered there. 
 Oh I why did that sad stranger tell, 
 Her young heart, like a withering spell 
 " He on whose arm thou oft hast leant, 
 Beneath whose gaze thy dark eyes bent, 
 Does not a brother's fondness claim, 
 But yet may own a dearer name ?" 
 
 - 
 
 Ah ! had she never known that he, 
 Her first, her fond idolatry, 
 
THE WITCH OF H1MLAYA. 85 
 
 No longer by that sacred tie 
 Was linked to her own destiny, 
 She ne'er had felt the deathlike chill 
 Creep through her veins, her bosom thrill 
 With hope destroyed, when the sad knell 
 On her young heart like lightning fell 
 And 'twas her sire who aimed the blow 
 To shade her future years with woe. 
 And must she be the hapless bride 
 
 Of one whom she has never known ? 
 From all she loves on earth divide, 
 
 Where her first cherished hopes had grown ? 
 Dearer to her fond bosom ever 
 Will be those scenes, which never never 
 Can be effaced from her sad heart, 
 Till life, and love, and memory part. 
 As easy to forbid the sea 
 
 Its wild, impetuous waves to fling, 
 As to blot out from Memory 
 
 Its tender first imagining. 
 
86 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 How dared she to her sire confess 
 The child his wishes still would bless, 
 She whom he clasped to his fond bosom, 
 All drooping like a broken blossom, 
 Though bright its tints when morn begun, 
 May fade before the setting sun. 
 
 . 
 
 Yet she had fondly hoped that he, 
 Companion of her infancy, 
 Ere the all-dreaded hour should come, 
 Might reach once more his parent home. 
 And e'en the minstrel's thrilling lute 
 To her expectant ear is mute ; 
 Did she not say, her watchful eye 
 In weal or woe should still be nigh ? 
 Yet now she seems by all forsaken, 
 Like the seared bough the wind has shaken ; 
 And never did her bosom deem 
 Till now, her hopes were all a dream. 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 87 
 
 Under Himlaya's beetling brow 
 
 A wild recluse was said to dwell, 
 And there young Aza seeks to know, 
 
 E'en at that steep and awful cell, 
 How might those ills averted be 
 Which now hung o'er her destiny ; 
 For often had she heard the tale, 
 How the young peasants of the Vale 
 Would climb the steep and rugged height, 
 To hear her plaintive notes at night ; 
 And never was her deep cave sought, 
 But thence some wondrous spell was brought, 
 Of mountain buds, whose magic power, 
 Plucked at the silent midnight hour, 
 If twined around the brows at night, 
 Would give such visions of delight, 
 That the bright spell-wrought charm would be 
 A dream of fond reality ! 
 
TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Young Aza has won the mystic wreath 
 
 With perfumes charged by the zephyr's breath, 
 
 And on her sleepless couch has laid, 
 
 The vivid hues of the midnight braid 
 
 And she has dreamed by its lovely spell 
 
 The visions her fancy loves so well. 
 
 Now the dhauk's loud notes are heard around, 
 And on the distant echoes sound ; 
 The feast is spread, and the guests invited, 
 , But the maiden's fondest hopes are blighted 
 She who now in her bower should be, 
 Amidst the toilet's mystery, 
 The finger's tapering ends to dye, 
 A deeper tint to lend her eye, 
 To deck with gems her glossy hair, 
 And the light nuptial veil prepare 
 'Tis needless ; for young Aza's eye 
 Is deeper than the raven's dye, 
 
THE WITCH OF HIMLAYA. 89 
 
 Nor can its lash of ebon hue 
 
 The lustre of that eye subdue ; 
 
 Like clustering- dates on palm-trees glowing, 
 
 Her tresses o'er her form are flowing 
 
 Nor gem, nor flower, those tresses braiding, 
 
 But a light veil her tall form shading. 
 
 Slaves are now through the garden seen- 
 They seek their lovely Bridal Queen: 
 They wait her in the nuptial bower 
 Her sire prepares the maiden's dower. 
 
 She now is in the splendid hall 
 On vacancy her glances fall; 
 The bridegroom there awaits his bride, 
 And he is by young Aza's side, 
 Has whispered softly in her ear 
 " Aza! thine own Zelindah's near!" 
 i 2 
 
90 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Who can the wild emotions tell 
 
 Which glided through her trembling frame ? 
 Her dark eye on the loved youth fell 
 
 When her ear caught the treasured name. 
 
 And near her sire the minstrel now 
 Stands with a brighter, happier brow 
 For in that mourner's altered form, 
 Crushed by the weight of Fate's fierce storm, 
 In her now care-worn, faded face 
 The Rajah doth a sister trace 
 Nor longer desolate and wild 
 
 In mystery she wanders there 
 She now has claimed her wave-borne child, 
 
 Sheltered beneath a brother's care. 
 And once more to her trembling breast 
 Her own pure, lovely blossom's prest ! 
 
 Nor has that sire a daughter lost 
 She still is his fond pride and boast; 
 
THE WITCH OF IIIMLAYA. 91 
 
 For is she not Zelindah's bride ? 
 And when she wanders by his side, 
 He still will bind her laughing brow 
 With buds which on the mountain grow ! 
 
THE HAREM. 
 
 Tis night once more, and from their bowers 
 The Harem's youthful inmates come, 
 
 Nor veil their charms but like night's flowers, 
 Shed a still brighter, lovelier bloom. 
 
 For while the sun shone on the stream, 
 And flowers all bent and fading lay, 
 
 Making their salaams to the beam 
 Of the eternal God of Day. 
 
 Each one within her latticed bower 
 
 Had slept away the sultry hour. 
 
 Now, like the floweret when the dew 
 
 Revives its drooping faded hue, 
 
94 THE HAREM. 
 
 Yet fairer seems each youthful brow, 
 Each cheek reflects a brighter glow. 
 And all around is soon in motion, 
 Light as the silvery spray of ocean. 
 While through each marble pillar'd hall 
 Mirth hails once more night's festival. 
 Yet neither can the perfumed spray, 
 Of the cool murmuring fountains' play, 
 Nor the light dance their steps invite 
 To linger there that lovely night. 
 
 But, fleet as the young wild gazelle 
 
 Flies bounding o'er the flowery heath. 
 They seek the kiosk's lonely spell, 
 
 Where ocean billows glide beneath. 
 And there once more the tale, the song, 
 Must cheer the night's still hours along 
 'Till the bright clustering Pleiads lave 
 Their lustre in the foamy wave. 
 
THE HAREM. 95 
 
 The moon once more upon the sea, 
 Glows with her wonted majesty ; 
 And with her mild, yet brilliant light, 
 Hails the approach of pensive night : 
 For when her beams o'er hill and plain 
 
 Shine through an Eastern summer sky, 
 Who would e'er sigh for day again, 
 
 When night can yield such witchery ? 
 And, where the mountain's shadow flings 
 
 O'er sea and shore its lovely gloom, 
 And the light zephyrs on their wings 
 
 Come laden with the gul's perfume, 
 While vivid fancy lends the rein 
 To link the soft enchanting chain, 
 Till all the distant landscape seems 
 Bright as e'er shone in Poet's dreams. 
 
 The young Cashmerian, whose wild lay 
 Last eve had lured night's hours away, 
 'Till the dawn's star proclaimed the day, 
 
96 THE HAREM. 
 
 The silence broke : " Look there," she cried, 
 " On the high mountain's shadowy side, 
 Amidst the gloom one well might deem 
 Some giant strides the mountain stream ; 
 See his tall form and turbaned brow 
 Wreathed with the wild crag's drifted snow." 
 
 
 
 " And his plume's shadow in the wave," 
 Gulzara said an Afghan slave. 
 " Perchance e'en now in those wild dells 
 The Fairies weave their flowery spells, 
 Dancing beneath the moon's pale ray, 
 'Till chased by the first star of day ; 
 And all our wandering shauger's tell, 
 
 That midst our wilds and deserts rude 
 The Spirits of the Waste still dwell, 
 
 Hid in each dreary solitude. 
 And ever in the coming storm, 
 Is seen a fierce gigantic form ; 
 
THE HAREM. 97 
 
 And if at midnight's gloomy hour 
 
 A hapless wanderer falls beneath 
 That wild Goule's dread malignant power, 
 
 On the lone dreary trackless heath, 
 He never shall behold the ray 
 Of morn illume his homeward way, 
 And as to-night my lute's rude strain 
 Must still your wandering fancies chain, 
 'Till the first paly star of dawn 
 Shall to our cells our footsteps warn ; 
 The lay I choose, 'though strange and wild, 
 I oft have heard when yet a child/' 
 Her fingers sweep the trembling notes 
 'Till on the breeze their echo floats. 
 
ii A 
 JsdT 
 .iG* . 
 
 . 
 
 ! 
 
 &dT 
 //fid dfto I 
 
 isH 
 
 
 
THE CAVE OF GULISTAN. 
 
O '4' 
 
THE CAVE OF GULISTAN. 
 
 THE TALE OF THE AFGHAN SLAVE. 
 
 THE night was dark, loud thunders roared, 
 
 Across a wild and trackless plain ; 
 The mountain streams in torrents poured, 
 As though they ne'er would rest again : 
 Nought could the horrid gloom dispel, 
 Save where the vivid lightning fell, 
 On a lone warrior and his steed, 
 Urging its flight with breathless speed. 
 And well might he its swiftness try, 
 To reach some sheltering sanctuary ; 
 
 K2 
 
102 TALES OF THE FAREM. 
 
 For the dread flash, one moment seemed 
 A living sheet of fire ; then gleamed 
 From helm to falchion, by his side, 
 Quelling with fear his horse's pride. 
 
 Though dauntless that young Knight might be, 
 
 The terrors of that hour of gloom 
 Had wakened dreams of fantasy, 
 
 Of the lone tenants of the tomb, 
 v Who on that blasted heath might stray, 
 To lure the traveller on his way. 
 And oft where glared the lightning's flash, 
 
 Amidst the howling of the storm, 
 And the deep thunder's echoing crash, 
 
 His fancy saw some hideous form ; 
 Nor could the firmness of his soul, 
 That wild delusive fear control ; 
 For of that trackless waste was told, 
 How the dark Spirit of the wold, 
 
THE CAVE OF GULISTAN. 103 
 
 Would lure the hapless wretch who fell, 
 Beneath its dread malignant spell ; 
 Through pathless wilds and ravines dire, 
 To swamps where lurked the treacherous fire, 
 Whose quivering, false, delusive beam, 
 There vanished, like a fleeting dream, 
 Or vice with evanescent joys, 
 Tempting the victim it destroys. 
 
 The Knight all shuddering felt 'his steed 
 Had slackened in his wonted speed ; 
 And though he urged both tightened rein 
 And barbed spur, 'twas all in vain : 
 " What now, my gallant Barb," he cried, 
 
 " Wouldst thou forsake me in my need ? 
 Where now has fled thy wonted pride, 
 
 Or is thy hapless fate decreed ?" 
 Then quickly vaulting from his seat, 
 His steed sank lifeless at his feet. 
 
104 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 " Ho ! my brave Barb, and must I now 
 Thy swiftness and thy aid forego ; 
 To leave thee in this desart place, 
 The noblest of thy vaunted race, 
 Thus lone, ingloriously to die, 
 Beneath this wild inclement sky ; 
 Had I but in the warlike fray, 
 
 Have seen thee yield thy gallant breath, 
 Not thus, the ravening vulture's prey, 
 
 On this inhospitable heath 
 Perchance thy lord himself must bow, 
 To the same shaft that lays thee low !" 
 
 He stifled in his breast the sigh, 
 
 And brushed the tear-drop from his eye : 
 
 Turning him from the piteous sight, 
 
 To tempt the horrors of the night ; 
 
 He wrapped his war -cloak round his form, 
 
 Nor heeded the wild pelting storm ; 
 
THE CAVE OF GULISTAN. 105 
 
 Which like a wearied infant's cry, 
 Seemed hushed with its own lullaby, 
 Yet with its murmuring sobs would still 
 Reverberate o'er plain and hill. 
 
 The scene is changed and now again 
 
 Her crescent light the moon displays ; 
 And many a star is in her train, 
 
 Lending their mild and gentle rays ; 
 That the brave chief almost might deem, 
 The past a false and feverish dream, 
 Did not his dripping war-plumes tell 
 How wild and fierce the torrent fell ; 
 And his poor steed who lifeless lay, 
 All powerless on the drifted way. 
 For on the breeze, a distant strain 
 Is borne amidst the wind's low plain, 
 And soon within his breast once more, 
 Fond Hope resumes her soothing power. 
 
106 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Onward he speeds, resolved to see 
 Whence came that thrilling minstrelsy, 
 For well he knew no mortal tongue 
 The wild melodious measure sung. 
 
 'Twas said that in that desart drear 
 
 There lay a deep and wondrous cave, 
 Impervious to the slaves of fear, 
 
 But ever open to the brave ; 
 And oft the Shauger's tale had told 
 Of woods, and lawns, and towers of gold, 
 And richest harmonies, whose swell 
 Upon the listening wanderer fell ; 
 And the wild legend said, that there 
 
 Was hidden a sword of wondrous power, 
 Beneath a fierce enchanter's care, 
 
 Till at stern midnight's solemn hour, 
 Some warrior knight, both pure and brave, 
 Should seek the windings of the cave ; 
 
THE CAVE OF GULISTAN. 107 
 
 That if with firm victorious hand, 
 He won the all-subduing brand, 
 Then by its power his foemen still 
 Must yield obedience to his will. 
 
 For this the Knight had left his home, 
 Through these long dreary wastes to roam : 
 And never chief of Afghan race 
 Had soul more firm his manly face 
 With toil embrowned bespoke how well 
 His nervous arm a foe could quell; 
 And never to a purer breast 
 Was sainted amulet e'er prest. 
 
 O'er the unbroken, slippery sod 
 Onward his weary footsteps trod ; 
 Stained was his war-cloak with the soil, 
 His strength almost o'ercome with toil, 
 When his dark eye with rapture fell 
 Where, in a deep and lonely dell, 
 
108 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 A distant light its radiance shed 
 
 On a low murmuring streamlet's bed ; 
 
 And never weary pilgrim found 
 
 The long-sought shrine on sainted ground 
 
 With joy more pure than that which now 
 
 Dispelled the gloom from Selim's brow, 
 
 For such a stream was said to lave 
 
 The margin of that mystic cave, 
 
 And such the meteor-light which threw 
 
 O'er the cool stream its silvery hue ! 
 
 . 
 
 Still guided by the flickering beam 
 He followed close beside the stream, 
 Which from the mountain's lofty height 
 Onward had urged its rapid flight, 
 To where the echoing bubbles died 
 
 Beneath the rugged mountain's side. 
 
 ' 
 
 There he the long-sought cavern found, 
 Whose deep and fearful entrance wound 
 
THE CAVE OF GU LIST AN. 109 
 
 Through the firm rock, where never day 
 Lent to its gloom one genial ray. 
 
 Selim was brave, and yet a thrill 
 Of horror gave a deadly chill 
 To his firm heart, till once again 
 He heard that soft and lovely strain 
 It was the same enchanting lay 
 That lured him on his cheerless way, 
 And, like the echoes of a lute, 
 
 Had floated on the wind's low sigh, 
 Till e'en the angry storm was mute, 
 
 Hushed by its plaintive melody ; 
 And now in accents sweet and clear 
 It fell upon his wondering ear. 
 
HO TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 
 
 SONG OF THE SPIRITS OF THE CAVE. 
 
 
 
 Now speed ye, Sir Knight, for none save the 
 
 brave 
 
 E'er pierced the deep windings of Gulistan's cave ; 
 And few are the bold, favoured mortals for whom 
 We dispel the deep horrors that lurk in its gloom. 
 Then onward with courage, for thou hast a charm 
 
 That hangs on thy bosom, each spell to disarm ! 
 
 * 
 
 II. 
 
 Then onward, Sir Knight, and pursue the pure 
 
 stream, 
 While its wave yet reflects the pale meteor's 
 
 beam, 
 
THE CAVE OF GULISTAN. Ill 
 
 Nor slacken thy speed, for, if once in gloom 
 
 Its ray should be quenched, oh! beware of thy 
 
 doom ! 
 
 Then onward with courage, for thou hast a charm 
 Which hangs on thy bosom, each spell to disarm ! 
 
 III. 
 
 And there glides a pure streamlet through Gulis- 
 
 tan's bowers, 
 Soft murmuring o'er vallies enamelled with 
 
 flowers, 
 
 Where the Syrens are waiting, thy steps to invite 
 To their bright coral caves but, beware them, 
 
 Sir Knight! 
 
 Then onward with courage, for thou hast a charm 
 That hangs on thy bosom each spell to disarm ! 
 
112 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And beware ye of trusting their blue eyes' soft 
 
 wile, 
 Or the soul-witching pleasure that beams in their 
 
 smile ; 
 Nor heed the sweet murmur which thrills in their 
 
 lay 
 
 Those accents of sweetness are meant to betray ! 
 Then onward with courage, for thou hast a charm 
 That hangs on thy bosom, each spell to disarm ! 
 
 The strain has ceased and now a ray 
 Of light illumes his onward way ; 
 Yet still beneath his plaited vest 
 The talisman he firmly prest, 
 For on it was engraved a spell 
 Whose import few on earth could tell, 
 
THE CAVE OF GULISTAN. 113 
 
 By whose mysterious, forceful aid 
 He now must w,in the warrior blade. 
 
 With hopes renewed, and toil forgot, 
 He threads the windings of the grot ; 
 Led by the guardian light along, 
 Or cheered once more by the Syren's song. 
 Beneath the high-arched roofs where hung 
 
 In many a wreath fair glittering spars, 
 Which all around their splendour flung, 
 
 Like heaven's bright canopy of stars. 
 Through many a winding path he sped 
 Regardless where those windings led, 
 Till from the rock a rushing stream 
 
 Of dark blue eddying waters flowed, 
 On whose wild foam the dazzling beam 
 
 With fast-increasing splendour glowed ; 
 And there upon the foamy spray 
 Was moored a bark, with flowerets gay 
 L 2 
 
114 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Wreathed round its helm, while floating there 
 
 Were seen the Spirits of the Stream ; 
 Nor ever had there aught more fair 
 
 Shone on a raptured poet's dream 
 For rosy health and beauty shone 
 Bright as the gems that decked each zone ; 
 Their floating hair was by a braid 
 
 Of wild sea- weeds and pearls confined, 
 'Midst which the wanton zephyrs played, 
 
 While round their snowy arms were twined 
 The clustering coral's ruby hue 
 Nor water-lilies were more blue 
 Than were those languid eyes that fell 
 On his charmed vision like a spell ; 
 Theirs was the soft and lovely lay 
 That first had lured him on his way ; 
 And as their lutes' soft chords they swept, 
 
 A thousand echoes there awoke, 
 Which long in those lone caves had slept, 
 
 For nought their slumbering dreams e'er broke, 
 
THE CAVE OF GULISTAN. 115 
 
 Save when a favoured mortal sought 
 The windings of that wondrous grot. 
 
 Soon in their bark the weary Knight 
 Is wafted o'er the sparkling tide; 
 
 Reflecting back each sparry light 
 That hung upon the cavern's side 
 
 While still the maidens sang the lay : 
 
 " On, on, Sir Knight! away ! away! 
 Soon you will reach the bowers of light, 
 Fairer than ever met thy sight ; 
 For what has aught the world to shew 
 Like those that in our vallies glow ? 
 Yet let not Beauty's glancing eyes 
 
 Allure thee towards their fairy bowers 
 Nor heed the Syrens' witcheries 
 
 To twine thee in their bonds of flowers ; 
 
116 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 For thou wouldst find them hard to break, 
 Firmer than adamantine chain. 
 
 Then up, Sir Knight ! awake ! awake ! 
 
 Wouldst thou the conquering sword obtain 
 
 And with the hidden magic blade 
 
 Win fair Gullee, thy dark-eyed maid ! " 
 
 " 
 
 Selim aroused him from his dream, 
 For the low murmuring of the stream 
 As the light current glided by, 
 
 Amidst a silence so profound, ^ 
 
 With their soft, plaintive melody, 
 
 Like infancy his senses bound ; 
 Yet from his bosom rushed the glow 
 That quickly tinged his manly brow, 
 When on his ear in music fell 
 The name of her he loved so well 
 For whom he left his princely home, 
 Through danger's wildest paths to roam. 
 
THE CAVE OF GULrSTAN. 117 
 
 What though that maiden's eye revealed 
 The truth her faltering tongue concealed 
 Still danger threatened to divide 
 The warrior from his blooming bride ? 
 For 'twas her royal sire's decree, 
 Each noble champion should be free 
 By arms to win this blooming flower, 
 And bear her from her virgin bower : 
 And many a rival chieftain strove 
 To gain the youthful Gullee's love : 
 Yet Selim's turtle-dove was prest 
 To her young heart, a welcome guest, 
 And fondly nestled on her breast : 
 And when she in his helm had seen 
 Her favoured hue, the forest green, 
 Twined with the snowy myrtle flowers 
 Which ever bloom in young Love's bowers, 
 Did not her conscious veiled eye 
 Receive his homage with a sigh ? 
 
118 TALES OF THE HAREM, 
 
 Now hid beneath her sire's high dome, 
 She pants for freedom, like the child 
 
 Restrained within its parent home 
 
 From wandering through the flowery wild, 
 
 Or trackless heath, to follow still 
 
 The wayward fancies of its will. 
 
 ' 
 
 On Selim's ear that one loved name 
 Was life and hope, a spur to' fame ; 
 It woke his every pulse to fly, 
 And urged him on to victory. 
 And now once more he to his breast 
 His sainted amulet has pressed 
 Feels hope renewed, for still the lay 
 Was, " On, Sir Knight ! away ! away ! 
 Then on ! for ere the dawn has shed 
 
 Her liquid fragrance o'er the plain, 
 Or night before her steps has fled, 
 
 Thou must bestride thy steed again." 
 
THE CAVE OF GU LIST AN. 119 
 
 They now the illumined cavern left, 
 And issuing from a low arched cleft, 
 Bright was the scene that met his eyes ; 
 
 The pure white streamlet sparkling 1 there, 
 'Midst vallies of a thousand dyes, 
 
 And turrets lost in dewy air. 
 And the light bark has won the shore 
 His lovely guides' soft lay is o'er, 
 With " On, Sir Knight ! our task is done, 
 Be true, and then the sword is won !" 
 
 Now Selim stands all lonely there, 
 While scarce a zephyr fans the air ; 
 The silent night-breeze steals along, 
 Wafting the bulbul's plaintive song ; 
 To his loved rose, whose balmy breath, 
 Perfumes the air from many a wreath ; 
 For night her dewy mantle still 
 Flings o'er the grove, the vale, the hill ; 
 
120 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 And still the moon with chastened beams, 
 On tower, on shrub, and streamlet gleams. 
 No time has Selim's eye to roam 
 On scene so fair, to that bright dome 
 Where lies the magic blade, he now 
 Must hasten ere the moon's pale glow 
 Has sunk behind the mountain's brow. 
 
 
 
 So witching was the scene, that well 
 He might have thought it some wild spell 
 One of those lovely legends told, 
 Of turrets and of domes of gold : 
 For such were those which rose in view, 
 
 Towering amidst fair diamond streams, 
 Reflecting rays of every hue, 
 
 Lit by the moon's pale flickering beams. 
 While groups of maidens dance around, 
 To the lute's soft enchanting sound ; 
 Whose wild and thrilling echoes die 
 On the light zephyr's passing sigh. 
 
THE CAVE OF GULISTAN. 121 
 
 Heedless of all, brave Selim trod, 
 
 With hasty steps the flowery sod ; 
 
 And now to meet him on his way, 
 
 A young and graceful wood-nymph flies, 
 
 With blushing cheek, and laughing eyes ; 
 
 She greets him with a gentle lay : 
 
 " Oh ! stay with me," the syren sung, 
 
 " Oh, stay^ Sir Knight !" her soft lay rung : 
 
 THE SYREN'S SONG. 
 
 COME ! fly with me to my fairy cell, 
 
 And with summer flowers I'll bind your brows ; 
 And shew you where the sea-spirits dwell, 
 
 And where the roseate coral glows; 
 All hidden beneath the ocean's waves, 
 In amber grots, and coral caves. 
 M 
 
122 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 And there you a fairer bride will find, 
 Than the dark-eyed maid you left behind, 
 For how can the daughters of earth compare, 
 With the matchless forms of the sea and 
 
 . 
 
 Then come with me to the wild sea shore, 
 I '11 bring you to where the ruby glows, 
 And where lies hidden the golden ore, 
 
 O'er which the murmuring streamlet flows ; 
 Then fly with me to our bowers of light, 
 Where the cheek is more fair, and the eye more 
 bright. 
 
 And there you a fairer bride will find 
 Than the dark-eyed maid you left behind, 
 For how can the daughters of earth compare, 
 With the matchless forms of the sea and 
 air! 
 
THE CAVE OF GULISTAN. 123 
 
 And well has that young warrior need 
 Of her soft blandishments to heed ; 
 For who might 'scape the witching spell, 
 Where that blue eye's soft lustre fell ! 
 And Selim had not borne its ray, 
 
 Such was that young enchantress' power ; 
 His heart had owned her forceful sway, 
 
 And followed to her fairy bower, 
 Had not a love as pure and true 
 As ever mortal bosom knew, 
 Shielded him from her dimpled smiles. 
 And saved him from her syren wiles. 
 In vain she twines him round with flowers, 
 Of every hue, from her fairy bowers. 
 He feels the danger of delay ; 
 With one wild struggle bursts away, 
 Breaking the flowery wreaths that round 
 His form that blue-eyed girl had wound. 
 
124 TALES OF THE HAREM, 
 
 And quickly rushing o'er the plain. 
 
 Nought can his eager haste restrain. 
 
 But like an arrow in its flight, 
 
 He soon has gained the tower of light. 
 
 And as the Knight the portal won, 
 
 Hoping his weary task was done, 
 
 O'er that bright lovely scene was spread. 
 
 A hovering, deep, portentous gloom, 
 While with loud shrieks the Syrens fled ; 
 
 As if Fate's universal doom 
 Had met them in their festive hour, 
 And crushed them with his ruthless power. 
 Pausing he stood, though dauntless, still 
 His bosom felt a secret chill ; 
 For as the vivid lightnings gleamed 
 Amidst the darkness, still there seemed 
 To lurk dread forms within the way 
 Through which his further footsteps lay, 
 And from each avenue around, 
 With wild and threatening gestures frowned. 
 
THE CAVE OF GULISTAN. 
 
 Yet onward still his way he gained, 
 
 Through halls where gloom and silence reigned ; 
 
 Till one more spacious met his sight, 
 
 And guarded by an armed knight. 
 
 Dark were the sable plumes which threw 
 
 O'er his fierce brow their ebon hue. 
 
 And his high towering form well told, 
 
 Of pondrous limbs of giant mould ; 
 
 And woe befall the luckless wight, 
 
 Who quails beneath that warrior's might. 
 
 For that dark brow and flushing eye, 
 
 Tell not of deeds of clemency. 
 
 Yet Selim's heart has nought to fear 
 No blue-eyed Syrens meet his eye ; 
 
 No soul subduing minstrels near, 
 To tempt him by their witchery. 
 
 For 'tis not danger's rugged ways, 
 
 Nor warrior's frown, the heart betrays, 
 
 M2 
 
126 TALES OF THE HAKEM. 
 
 Like the soft glance of woman's eye, 
 Or the low murmur of her sigh, 
 And he has every spell withstood, 
 And every lurking snare subdued ; 
 For as the withering gloom of night, 
 Is quickly chased by morning's light, 
 So did the issuing beam which fell 
 Upon his path each doubt dispel. 
 For more than mid-day splendour there, 
 
 The proud magnificence displayed ; 
 The fretted roofs, and portals fair, 
 
 With gold and precious gems inlaid- 
 While on a glittering altar shone, 
 The blade which he must call his own, 
 Before the morning's earliest ray 
 Shall warn him on his homeward way. 
 The thought has nerved his youthful arm, 
 Boldly to brave each magic charm ; 
 And rushing fiercely on the knight, 
 He dared him to the coming fight. 
 
THE CAVE OF GULISTAN. 127 
 
 The giant's frown defiance threw, 
 As from its sheath his falchion flew; 
 He aimed it at the watchful Knight, 
 
 To crush him with its pondrous weight : 
 Fierce as the simoom's withering blight, 
 
 Had fallen the sudden stroke of fate, 
 Had not within his mailed hand 
 Been clenched his firm and faithful brand. 
 
 On whose well-tempered shining blade, 
 Was not the Koran's verse displayed ? 
 No sooner its charmed radiance fell 
 
 On the proud warrior, than like one, 
 Struck by some dark malignant spell, 
 
 His sinewy arm seemed turned to stone ! 
 And his fierce eye and threatening brow, , 
 No longer frowned upon his foe. 
 
 Brave Selim to the altar flew, 
 
 From whose bright shrine the prize he drew ; 
 
128 , TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 But as he grasped the glittering blade. 
 The whole bright vision seemed to fade. 
 And night around his footsteps flung 
 Her ebon mantle, still there rung 
 Upon his ear the welcome lay : 
 " On, on Sir Knight ! away, away ! 
 On ; on, thy weary task is done : 
 Away ! the magic sword is won !" 
 
 When at the dawn the morn's faint grey, 
 
 Was mingled with the sun's first beam, 
 On that wild plain the warrior lay, 
 
 Till roused from a long weary dream ; 
 And near him stands his own true steed, 
 Accoutred for the warrior's need, 
 
 Not tired and weak, o'ercome with toil, 
 As midst the storm on that lone heath, 
 
 At night he sank upon the soil 
 With sunken eye and gasping breath : 
 
THE CAVE OF GULISTAN. 129 
 
 But snorting loudly at the side 
 Of his loved lord, with native pride. 
 Was it a dream, so clear and bright, 
 The vision of that wondrous night, 
 That on his waking fancy still 
 
 Seemed echoing to his listening ear, 
 The soft lay, with its dulcet thrill, 
 
 On that lone waste so wild and drear ? 
 
 No, still within his mailed hand 
 He firmly grasps the conquering brand, 
 Which soon shall quell his rival's pride, 
 And win Gullee, his blooming bride! 
 
_ 
 
 
THE HAREM. 
 
 THE crescent-moon has veiled her light? 
 And ocean's waves no longer bright ; 
 The sea-bird flaps his dusky wings, 
 
 Portentous of the coming storm ; 
 The mountain's lofty shadow flings 
 
 On the blue sea its giant form. 
 
 Tis night ; the sun's last beams are set 
 On the high beetling sea-girt towers, 
 
 The Harem's inmates all are met, 
 
 With tales to pass the night's soft hours. 
 
132 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Gulzara, the young Afghan slave, 
 While her eye rested on the wave 
 " Look ! dear Chiera, look !" she cried, 
 " Afar off, o'er the dark-blue sea, 
 Where the light bark still stems the tide, 
 And rides the waves in liberty, 
 At night's still hour the fisher seeks 
 The finny tribe the active Greeks 
 Still steer their skiffs, and ere the day 
 May safely anchor in the bay r 
 But, dear Chiera, why that sigh, 
 And the bright tear-drop in thine eye? 
 Have I awoke a chord whose thrill 
 Has slept within thy bosom still ? 
 But take thy lyre, and let its strain 
 Soothe thy torn heart to peace again." 
 
 The meek girl bowed it was indeed 
 
 A chord that made her young heart bleed. 
 
THE HAREM. 133 
 
 When her eye marked the mountain's brow, 
 
 And thought of all its flowery pride, 
 Of the clear, murmuring streamlet's flow, 
 
 The clustering village at its side, 
 Where her light, fairy footsteps ranged 
 Ere war her childhood's hopes had changed, 
 And brought her from her lowly home 
 To StamboFs high imperial dome. 
 She thought of Greece, and Greece's wrongs, 
 And all that to that land belongs : 
 While Fancy, in the hovering gloom, 
 Now sees again her hapless doom- 
 Her lover parents kindred slain 
 While she must wear the captive's chain, 
 And never never hope to see 
 Her own loved native mountains free 
 Then could her trembling voice be mute ? 
 She now has seized her pensive lute, 
 And as its chords her light hand sweeps, 
 Within her young heart sorrow sleeps. 
 
THE HET^ERIA. 
 

THE HET^ERIA. 
 
 THE TALE OF THE GREEK SLAVE. 
 
 
 
 THE moon had reached her zenith height, 
 Shedding a mild and silvery light 
 O'er marble dome and temple fair, 
 
 On olive groves and vineyards green : 
 Who that had haply wandered there, 
 
 And gazed on that enchanting scene, 
 Fair Athens ! had not sighed that thou 
 Shouldst to a foreign despot bow '( 
 
 N 2 
 
138 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 If still so lovely in thy chains, 
 
 So peerless in thy fall'n remains ; 
 
 What wert thou when thy conquering name 
 
 Was borne upon the wings of Fame ! 
 
 Twas at that hour when nought around 
 Could break the solemn stillness, save 
 The night bird's low and plaintive sound, 
 And murmuring of the Ilissus' wave, 
 As o'er its pebbly bed it flings 
 Its pure wave in its wanderings. 
 E'en at that lonely hour, alone, 
 O'er broken earth and rugged stone, 
 A care-worn matron bent her way, 
 To where a temple's ruins lay. 
 So wild and haggard was her form, 
 It seemed as if Time's direst storm 
 Had swept across her pallid brows, 
 And blanched her locks like Alpine snows, 
 
THE HET^LRIA. 139 
 
 Yet had not quenched her glancing eye, 
 Which told of brighter hours gone by. 
 
 One who at such an hour had sought 
 
 Those sacred haunts, in that fair clime, 
 And seen that spectral form ; had thought 
 
 A sybil of the olden time, 
 Had left her long and silent sleep, 
 O'er her lost country's wrecks to weep 
 The splendour of three thousand years 
 Sunk in the gulph of time : if tears, 
 Could have recalled the hour when free, 
 The sun of Greece shone gloriously ! 
 But no ; she like her country now 
 Must to the Moslem despots bow : 
 Yet had a spirit bold and free, 
 Taught her to scorn her destiny. 
 How could her aching bosom turn 
 To Greece's wrongs, nor inly burn, 
 
140 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 To hurl revenge on Moslem foes, 
 From whom had sprung her country 's woes. 
 Though she had passed long anxious years 
 Of mental gloom and withering tears, 
 Yet might she live its sons to see 
 Break their foul bonds again be free ; 
 She had not felt the galling chain, 
 Nor borne i\\e tyrant's rage in vain. 
 t 
 
 Born on the mountain's rugged soil, 
 
 Unshackled to a tyrant's will, 
 The steepest heights were climbed for spoil, 
 
 The eagle's nest midst winter's chill, 
 Or summer's heat ; unnurtured, wild, 
 Had grown this hardy mountain child. 
 And with each circling year which flew, 
 Her love of freedom stronger grew : 
 Yet as life's varying hours of joy, 
 
 With those of grief are mingled ever, 
 
THE HET^RIA. 141 
 
 So time will each bright flower destroy. 
 And nature's fondest bonds still sever. 
 
 Nought now remained of all the past, 
 Save fierce revenge the first, the last 
 Fond cherished vision of her breast ! 
 
 Which haunted still her nightly dreams, 
 Drove from her couch the balm of rest, 
 
 And tinged life's latest fleeting beams. 
 So often was her aged form, 
 Seen midst the howlings of the storm, 
 With fearless foot-steps wandering where 
 None e'er had trod, save fierce Despair ; 
 Who, reckless if the beetling height 
 Should plunge his steps in endless night ; 
 That weak credulity still thought 
 She there some dread communion sought. 
 Yet on her wild prophetic tongue, 
 The mind enslaved with rapture hung, 
 
142 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 'Till the fierce glancing of her eye, 
 Was deemed the power of witchery : 
 
 And to that form which age had bent, 
 And withered like a desart flower, 
 
 Or blighted oak, their fears soon lent 
 O'er the fierce elements a power : 
 Deeming the glances of that eye, 
 Could scan e'en dread Futurity. 
 
 Twas said that when the storm rode high, 
 She on the sea-girt shore would roam ; 
 While thunders echoed through the sky, 
 
 Skimming the ocean's billowy foam : 
 Or with loud incantations urge, 
 The sinking bark beneath the surge ! 
 And woe befall the fisher's skiff, 
 Who saw her on the beetling cliff 
 Wave her red scarf -he never more 
 Will safely reach the hoped-for shore. 
 
THE HETJERIA. 143 
 
 And still at midnight's solemn hour, 
 
 She oft was by the wanderer seen, 
 When every noxious weed hath power, 
 
 Plucking the night-shade's deadly green ; 
 Which culled beneath the dews of night, 
 Filled with the mildew's cankering blight, 
 Would form a spell, so deep and dread, 
 That from their silent sleep, the dead 
 Were summoned at her mighty call, 
 To share the impious festival ! 
 
 For this her wanderings ever led, 
 Near to the pure Ilissus' bed, 
 Where lay concealed a rocky cave, 
 Washed by its slow and murmuring wave ; 
 There, midst the vigils of the night, 
 
 Were heard strange voices like the yell, 
 Of hopeless spirits in their flight, 
 
 Which ever on the lone ear fell. 
 
144 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Such was at least the peasant's tale, 
 Who crossed her in that wizard vale : 
 And ever to that fatal night, 
 He traced his cattle's early blight ; 
 Or if his children fell beneath 
 The marshes' pestilential breath, 
 'Twas by her ban the vapour fell, 
 Made noxious by her potent spell ! 
 
 But most the Moslem shunned her path, 
 Like a fierce messenger of wrath : 
 As if the power of that wild eye, 
 Could seal his wayward destiny. 
 Ah, no 'twas there far other themes, 
 Than those which roused their idle dreams, 
 Which from her lonely home still led 
 The matron towards the Ilissus' bed 
 For in that dark and secret cave, 
 Where held the meetings of the brave ! 
 
THE HET^RIA. 145 
 
 Sons of a race, whom e'en the chain 
 
 Of Turkish thraldom could not quell : 
 Whose souls, still unsubdued, remain 
 Beneath oppression's withering spell. 
 And her's was not the only tongue 
 From whom the Moslem's scourge had wrung 
 Determined vengeance on the foe 
 A deadly judgment, sure though slow. 
 For round a massy unhewn stone, 
 Where many a votive falchion shone, 
 Stood a few chosen spirits, still 
 Unbroken to their despot's will. 
 And midst those few devoted brave, 
 Wrapped in the semblance of a slave, 
 Was one, whose gentler form might well 
 From each dark brow the frown dispel. 
 But no, that youthful warrior maid/ 
 Grasps in her hand the deadly blade, 
 And with them joins in Freedom's song, 
 Which the wild echoes bear along 
 o 
 
146 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 ARISE, ye sons of Greece ! arise ! 
 
 Shake off the slumbers of the grave ; 
 Lift thy proud banners to the skies ; 
 
 Descendants of the mighty brave ! 
 
 Answer, ye sons of heroes! tell, 
 Are all your laurels withered, gone, 
 
 Since the proud Grecian phalanx fell, 
 Conquering on glorious Marathon ? 
 
 Oh, Greece! resume thy native dower ! 
 Wipe out the deep, corroding stain! 
 
 Nor longer to thy tyrants cower ; 
 
 But break oh, break the galling chain ! 
 
THE HET^RIA. 147 
 
 Wave ye your ancient banners, then ; 
 
 Awake ye from your vile repose ! 
 Destroy the poppied wreath ! Be men ! 
 
 Once more with laurels bind your brows ! 
 
 Arise ! arise ! once more be free, 
 
 Oh, land still bathed by Thetis' waves ! 
 
 From Athos' mount to lo's sea, 
 
 Break break your chains ! -no more be slaves ! 
 
 Why should thy temples crumbling lie, 
 Nurse of the gods ! oh ! glorious land ! 
 
 Beneath its banners conquering die, 
 Or else be yours its proud command ! 
 
 Weep not, ye land of heroes ! now 
 
 No longer shall your echoes tell 
 Ye crouch to tyrant despots! Lo ! 
 
 Arise, and break the withering spell ! 
 
148 TALES OF THE HAREM, 
 
 And thou, fair harbinger of light ! 
 
 Shalt see our conquering banners fly ; 
 Bright Venus ! chase the gloom of night, 
 
 And lead us on to victory ! 
 
 The song is o'er; yet every eye 
 
 Rests on that slender, youthful maid, 
 Who swears to conquer, or to die, 
 
 Ere she will sheath the vengeful blade ; 
 Yet twenty summers had not spent 
 
 Their fervour on her youthful brow, 
 Ere every early tie was rent 
 
 Each gentler hope was withered now. 
 
 Fair Constance who had seen that face 
 Beaming with smiles, in childhood's bower, 
 
 Thou daughter of a mighty race ! 
 
 And seen thee in thy tyrant's power, 
 
THE HETJERIA. 149 
 
 Had they not wept that one so bright 
 Was doomed to share her country's blight ! 
 And well that country's wrongs she knew 
 
 Felt how corroding were its chains 
 Then to its rescue nobly flew, 
 
 To wipe away its hateful stains ! 
 And she has bled for that dear land, 
 
 And every sterner peril dared ; 
 Wielded alike the warlike brand, 
 
 The battle's fiercest tumult shared ! 
 And yet that slender, fragile form, 
 
 More like a weak, exotic flower, 
 Unused to bear the wintry storm, 
 
 Seems fitter for a gentler bower. 
 
 And now no more with Grecian maids 
 The dance she joins, at day's soft close, 
 
 Nor her long glossy ringlets braids 
 With chaplets of the summer's rose. 
 o2 
 
150 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 No more the panygiri wakes 
 
 Her slumbers with the echoing lute ; 
 
 But sounds of war her rough couch shakes, 
 And every softer strain is mute. 
 
 Now in that lonely, secret cave 
 She meets a few devoted brave : 
 And with that aged matron tells, 
 
 Deeds which their glorious sires had done ; 
 They need invoke no other spells, 
 
 Than those around that altar stone, 
 To make their maddening pulses beat, 
 To take revenge revenge how sweet 
 To the seared heart ; for none were there, 
 Who had not borne thy stings despair ! 
 
 And now they swear a deadly vow 
 While yet there breathes one Moslem foe, 
 
THE HETJERIA. 
 
 Or that one Greek still bears the chain, 
 Never to sheath the sword again ! 
 That all shall hail their country free, 
 Or share a new Thermopylae ! 
 
THE HAREM. 
 
 THE strain has ceased, the lay is o'er, 
 
 For night and storm have wrapped in gloom 
 The mountain's brow, the distant shore, 
 
 Dark as the mournful minstrel's doom. 
 The sea girt tower has lost its spell ; 
 Each maid within her latticed cell, 
 In slumbers light, and fairy dreams, 
 Lies hid till morning's early beams ; 
 Dreams yet unstained with early sorrows, 
 Visions which youth from hope still borrows ! 
 
l54 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 The night has fled, and morn again 
 Seems fairer for the storms of night ; 
 
 For tempests, threatening clouds, and rain, 
 Make sunshine ever seem more bright. 
 
 And yet it has not chased the dew, 
 
 Which glittering hangs on each light stem, 
 
 Like Eastern gems of every hue, 
 
 To form the dawn's bright diadem. 
 And ere the sun has on the streams 
 And flowers dispensed his fervid beams, 
 The Harem's lovely maidens glide 
 Amidst the garden's flowery pride ; 
 For in that blooming solitude 
 No wandering stranger dares intrude ; 
 Yet neither flowers nor perfumed gale 
 Can keep them from the promised tale. 
 And ere the sun's refulgent power 
 Shall shed his rays on hill and tower, 
 They seek a wild sequestered bower, 
 
THE HAREM. 155 
 
 v Where a cool murmuring fountain plays 
 O'er jasmine wreaths and woodbine sprays. 
 All lovely was the bower they chose ; 
 Close trellised round, the Syrian rose 
 Through the rich gilded fretwork hung, 
 And all around its fragrance flung, 
 Through the cool Kiosk's tender gloom, 
 Lending each cheek a richer bloom. 
 
 But where does the young minstrel stay, 
 Dark Zinda, whose wild native lay 
 Should charm noon's sultry hours away ? 
 " Hark ! the sitara's chords are sounding, 
 I hear her fairy footsteps bounding 
 O'er the light turf," young Leilah cried 
 The Indian girl is at her side ; 
 And quickly at Mehdalia's feet 
 The minstrel takes her lowly seat. 
 

 
 
 
THE INDIAN MAID. 
 
THE INDIAN MAID. 
 
 THE summer's sun was fast descending, 
 
 And hastening to his western bed ; 
 While Eve her azure tints was blending 
 
 With his last beams of gold and red. 
 The musk-rose lent its sweet perfume 
 
 To scent the gale, at that still hour ; 
 And many a bud with varied bloom, 
 
 Unveiled its charms to grove and bower. 
 The feathered tribe with rapture flew 
 To taste the bright bespangled dew, 
 And sing the soft decline of day 
 With warbling notes from spray to spray. 
 
160 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 So lovely was the scene so fair, 
 That e'en the fairy race might there 
 Have crouched beneath the cowslip's bells, 
 To weave their elfin frolic spells. 
 And Nature seemed all sweetly mute, 
 
 Save the soft melody of song, 
 Like the wild echoes of a lute, 
 
 By the light zephyr borne along ; 
 'Till near an oak by lightning blighted, 
 
 Once the proud monarch of the wood, 
 A stranger from his steed alighted, 
 
 And near that scathed ruin stood. 
 
 He seemed a warrior worn with toil, 
 Stained with the desart's sandy soil, 
 Who in that flowery Eden blest 
 Had hoped to find a place of rest : 
 For who had thought in that fair scene 
 The voice of sorrow e'er had been, 
 
THE INDIAN MAID, 161 
 
 Or that the tyrant in his power 
 
 Could make e'en drear that lovely bower. 
 
 For scarce the wanderer sat him down, 
 To hail the breeze from mountain blown, 
 E'er on that breeze there came a strain, 
 
 Drear as a distant funeral knell : 
 A sad sad moan, 'twas woman's plain, 
 
 And wild that plaintive measure fell. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 AH ! land of the sun ! how bright and how fair 
 Are thy groves and thy vallies ! ah ! why is it there 
 That the spirit of tyranny still should reign, 
 And shed o'er thy flowery bosom the stain 
 Of crime and revenge, and its deadliest train ? 
 p2 
 
162 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 That e'en where the Deity's hand has spread, 
 With prodigal love, both his fruits and flowers ; 
 
 Where the lofty palmyra lifts its proud head, 
 And the amrita's buds still adorn its fair bowers ; 
 
 And where nought should resound save the spirit 
 of gladness, 
 
 E'en there should be heard the deep echo of sadness. 
 
 Ah, heard ye the wail, the wild voice of despair ! 
 How the maidens are weeping and tearing their 
 
 hair, 
 As they draw near the fountain with accents of 
 
 sorrow, 
 For Hadana's rose must be wed on the morrow ! 
 
 Dark and fierce is the chief who the fair maid is 
 
 wooing, 
 And he comes not in kindness, like a fond lover 
 
 suing ; 
 
THE INDIAN MAID. 163 
 
 Tis her Sire's wide land, which he claims as her 
 
 dower, 
 And o'er Hadana waves his proud standard of 
 
 power. 
 
 Sad and drear was their wail, and loud was their 
 
 cry, 
 
 While Hadana's rose sat alone in her bower : 
 She was weeping her fate that no hero was nigh, 
 To combat her cause with the strong arm of 
 power. 
 
 Ah, where was the warrior who ought to have 
 
 wielded 
 
 His falchion, to conquer her father's fierce foe 
 The betrothed of her young heart, whose arm should 
 
 have shielded 
 The rose of the valley from sorrow and woe ? 
 
164 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Then each filled her vase with the pure liquid 
 
 stream, 
 As she sang the wild lay with low accents of 
 
 sorrow ; 
 
 And cast her last glance at the sun's parting beam, 
 For Hadana's rose must be wed on the morrow ! 
 
 The stranger started from his dream, 
 
 With the last echo of their strain ; 
 He marked the sun's departing beam, 
 
 As slowly rose the mourning train. 
 44 Stop !" cried the chief, with glance of fire, 
 " Where is the hapless maiden's sire ? 
 Has age unnerved the warrior's arm 
 That his fierce foe can work his harm ? 
 But if the hand of withering time, 
 
 Has bound him to the usurper's power, 
 The avenger from another clime, 
 
 Shall shield from blight his lovely flower !" 
 
THE INDIAN MAID. 165 
 
 Then from that mournful group stood one, 
 With downcast eye and trembling tone ; 
 Around her form she drew her veil, 
 And thus began her sorrowing tale : 
 
 SONG. 
 
 PROUD and bold were the warriors in Hadana's 
 
 towers, 
 And loudly its bards sang the deeds of their 
 
 fame ; 
 
 Its maidens were lovely and safe in their bowers, 
 While unconquered its walls, and unsullied its 
 name ! 
 
 Till there came on the whirlwind the siroe's fierce 
 
 rage, 
 And o'er its chief showered its withering blight, 
 
166 , TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 That the spirit of madness has seized on his age, 
 And left in its fury the mind's darkest night. 
 
 Now the bright star of Hadana sheds lustre no 
 
 more, 
 For sunk is its glory, and quenched its bright 
 
 beam ; 
 
 And nought now remains but its fate to deplore, 
 While on memory alone shall survive the fond 
 theme ! 
 
 She paused, then turned her to depart, 
 
 Nor longer the sad measure flows, 
 Which told of many an aching heart, 
 
 A sire's decay, a daughter's woes. 
 
 But ere the young and mournful train 
 Had homeward bent their steps again ; 
 
THE INDIAN MAID. 167 
 
 When from his dream the stranger woke, 
 
 And on them turned his flashing' eye ; 
 Whose glance a wild emotion spoke, 
 
 V 
 
 Then raised it to the darkening sky. 
 " Great Bramah ! hear " He bent his knee, 
 " To-morrow's sun shall see her free ; 
 Or in one bright and circling flame, 
 Ends Alia's woes her lover's fame," 
 
 Quick as the radiant beams of light, 
 Can clear the noxious mists of night ; 
 So hope can lend a beam to chase 
 The gloom of woe from beauty 's face : 
 And that sad group soon felt the glow, 
 Of joy light up each youthful brow. 
 And they have borne the soothing spell, 
 The name of one long loved so well ; 
 Have whispered in the mourner's ear, 
 That he, that loved one, even he 
 
168 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 From her so long estranged was near, 
 
 Had sworn to set his Alia free ; 
 To save her from the bridal hour, 
 And shield her from the usurper's power ! 
 
 'Tis morn, the sun his golden beams 
 
 Has shed on towers, on vale, OR streams ; 
 
 Yet still on Hadana's turrets fly, 
 
 The rebel standard vauntingly ; 
 
 Sad Alia sits within her bower, 
 
 All trembling at the coming hour, 
 
 And though her whispering hopes still tell 
 
 Of him, who sent the midnight spell, 
 
 Chasing the gloom that dimmed her brow, 
 
 And lending to her heart a glow ; 
 
 For well that loved and cherished name, 
 
 On her fond ear like music came : 
 
 Life's treasured vision, love's bright theme, 
 
 Her morning hope, her midnight dream ; 
 
THE INDIAN MAID. 169 
 
 Yet in the coming fray may fall 
 Her every hope her love her all, 
 And o'er her life be shed a gloom, 
 More withering than the silent tomb. 
 
 The feast is spread in Hadana's hall, 
 Now shines the nuptial festival, 
 While Caroo-gully's tyrant lord 
 In triumph heads the festive board ; 
 Yet now no more that hall along 
 Resounds the all-enlivening song, 
 For never may the bard's wild lays 
 Be heard in an usurper's praise ; 
 While every guest with darker brows 
 Deems all around are secret foes. 
 
 But where is Alia, the young bride, 
 Who now should triumph at the side 
 Of the fierce chief? she lonely still 
 Feels round her heart the sickening chill 
 Q 
 
170 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Of hope delayed like the frail flower. 
 Withering beneath the mid-day's power, 
 
 
 
 In vain they deck the trembling maid, 
 
 And her long glossy ringlets braid ; 
 
 Those waving tresses, whose deep dye, 
 
 Is rivalled by her darker eye ; 
 
 And. round them twine the fragrant wreath 
 
 Of the bright Champac's golden flower, 
 Her bright and flowing veil beneath, 
 
 To fit her for the bridal hour. 
 
 While o'er her slender form they throw 
 
 A rich vest of the saffron's glow ; 
 Yet in the foldings of that vest, 
 A dagger to her heart is prest : 
 For sooner will the tiger lay, 
 With the young lamb in frolic play, 
 E'er she in bridal bonds may twine 
 With Caroo-gully's recreant line. 
 
THE INDIAN MAID. 171 
 
 Around the stately hall now stand 
 The conquered vassals of the land, 
 Who on fierce Caroo-gully wait, 
 To grace his triumph ; yet stern hate 
 And proud defiance lurk beneath 
 Each splendid vest and flowery wreath. 
 
 And now the portal opens wide, 
 
 To hail his lovely, trembling bride ! 
 
 But 'tis not a young timid maid, 
 
 E'en of blood's crimson tint afraid ; 
 
 For other guests are they that now 
 
 Through Hadana's stately portals flow : 
 
 'Tis armed warriors that rush in, 
 
 While the ghong's loud and threatening din 
 
 Whose wild sounds like an angry flood, 
 
 Or mountain torrent in its fall, 
 Summon its vassals on to blood, 
 
 With echoes through the vaulted hall ; 
 
172 TALES OF THE HAREM, 
 
 And blades and glittering spears illume 
 Each shadowed depth, each pillared gloom. 
 
 Well may the shrinking revellers quail, 
 Beneath those bands in armed mail ; 
 
 For Caroo-gully's chieftain now 
 
 Encounters with a deadlier foe ; 
 
 And he a fiercer war must wage, 
 
 Than woman's tears or blighted age. 
 
 For midst those warriors one proud form 
 Still seeks him in the deadly fray, 
 
 Braving the conflict's fiercest storm, 
 Stands forward in the bold array. 
 
 Like one who fights for fame for life, 
 
 His blade is keenest in the strife ; 
 
 And Caroo-gully's chieftain now, 
 
 Must to the conquering warrior bow. 
 
THE INDIAN MAID. 173 
 
 The day is won ! the doubtful fray, 
 Like a wild meteor passed away. 
 And now in Hadana's spacious hall 
 Is spread the bridal festival ; 
 The bard the heroic tale resumes, 
 And beauty's eye the feast illumes. 
 And o'er young Alia's lute again 
 Her fingers wake a well known strain ; 
 While one is there whose rais'd eyes tell 
 How true his bosom feels the spell 
 An aged chieftain, on whose brow, 
 Sorrow and time have shed their snow ; 
 But now no longer wayward, wild, 
 But meek and gentle as a child, 
 And reason on his lingering hours 
 Of life one ray of sunshine pours. 
 And Sanga triumphs at the side 
 Of Alia his young blooming bride ! 
 
NOTES 
 
 TO THE 
 
 TALES OF THE HAREM. 
 
 Note 1. Page 10. 
 
 Those which wreathed Camadeva's quiver, 
 Culled near her own pure sacred river. 
 
 Camadeva, or the God of Love, has a variety of epithets, 
 all very significant of the . unbounded sway which he pos- 
 sesses over the hearts of men ; he is armed with a bow and 
 five arrows, denoting the five senses, each of which weapon 
 is baited with a different kind of poison. 
 
 Forster's Sketches on India. 
 
 Note 2, p. 11. 
 
 As oft, beneath the banian, dance 
 The fire-flies at the close of day. 
 
 The lampyris, or fire-fly. The nocturnal splendour of 
 these insects, in the torrid zone, is not to be conceived ; 
 
176 NOTES. 
 
 they will illumine the dark side of a grove of banians, where 
 thousands of them flit among their branches, with a bril- 
 liancy of which the faint light of our glow-worm can give 
 but little idea : they are like flying emeralds. 
 
 Forbes's Oriental Memoirs. 
 
 Note 3, p. 13. 
 
 The Arab sought those flowers like gems 
 From the mimosa's pendent stems. 
 
 The mimosa produces splendid flowers of a beautiful red 
 colour, with which the Arabians crown their heads, on their 
 festival days. 
 
 Niebuhr. 
 
 Note 4, p. 15. 
 
 With the champaca sweet, 
 To braid our dark hair. 
 
 The elegant appearance of the gold-coloured champaca 
 in the dark hair of the Indian women, have supplied the 
 Hindoo poets with many elegant allusions. 
 
 Sir William Jones. 
 
 Note 5, p. 20. 
 
 Perchance the sweet sitara's chords 
 Were struck by one who felt the pain. 
 The sitara, or guitar. The great variety of sounds pro- 
 duced from this instrument are all extremely soft and melo* 
 
NOTES. 177 
 
 clious : in the hands of a skilful musician, it is said to be 
 capable of tranquillizing the most boisterous disposition, to 
 which purpose it has often been applied, as well as to soothe 
 distress and affliction. 
 
 % From Tolvin's Costumes of India. 
 
 Note 6, p. 21. 
 
 The banian's hospitable shade, 
 By re-productive branches made. 
 
 The banian tree, ficus Indica, the most beautiful of Na- 
 ture's productions. A banian tree forms the most beautiful 
 walks, vistas, and cool recesses that can be imagined ; the 
 fruit is a small fig, when ripe, of a bright scarlet, affording 
 sustenance to squirrels, peacocks, and birds of various kinds, 
 which dwell among its branches. The Hindoos are pecu- 
 liarly fond of this tree, considering its long duration, its 
 outstretching arms, and overshadowing beneficence, as em- 
 blems of the Deity, and almost pay it divine honour. 
 
 Forbes's Oriental Memoirs. 
 
 Note 7, p. 21. 
 
 'Twas on the eve the Hindoos lave, 
 Like sea-born Rhemba in the wave. 
 
 Rhemba, the sea-born goddess of Beauty, the Indian 
 Venus. She was the mother of Camadeva, by Krishna. 
 The Hindoo women, in her honour, bathe with particular 
 ceremonies on certain days. Such ceremonies, piously 
 
178 NOTES- 
 
 performed on the third of the light half of moon Jaish'ta, 
 (which day is called Rhemba-tritiya), are peculiarly auspi- 
 cious to female beauty. Rhemba bathed on that day. 
 
 Moor's Pantheon. 
 
 Note 8, p. 23. 
 
 Wrapped in her arms an infant bore 
 To bathe in Ganga's holy wave. 
 
 Poetical name for the Ganges. The Hindoos worship 
 the Ganges, and there is a peculiar sanctity annexed to its 
 stream. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 Note 9, p. 24. 
 
 It was as though, on that bright river, 
 Fair Maia's son in all his pride. 
 
 Maia, another name of the Indian Venus. Camadeva 
 was, by the Indian bards, said to have been first seen 
 floating down the Ganges on a lotus wreath. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 Note 10, p. 25. 
 
 As whe she on her lotus throne, 
 In dazzling majesty first shone. 
 
 She is thus described inhabiting the lotus, clothed in 
 superlative beauty, in the first bloom of youth, covered with 
 ornaments, and bearing every auspicious sign. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Note 11, p. 29. 
 
 When on its stream pale Chandra's light 
 First shone on Rhemba's festal night. 
 
 Chandra, the Indian name for the Moon. 
 
 179 
 
 Note 12, p. 35. 
 
 Nor to the soft sitara's notes 
 
 The bard recounts the tales of old. 
 
 Bart Baut Batt, is a curious approximation of the 
 name of the western Bard ; and their offices are nearly 
 similar. No Hindoo Rajah is without his Bards. 
 
 Wilks's South of India. 
 
 Note 13, p. 36. 
 
 The almas' bounding steps no more, 
 Spring o'er the tesselated floor. 
 
 The almas, or dancing girls. Many of them are extremely 
 beautiful and delicate in their persons, regular in their fea - 
 tures, with a form of perfect symmetry ; their dances require 
 great attention, from the dancer's feet being hung with 
 small bells, which act in concert with the music ; two girls 
 usually perform at the same time : their steps are not so mazy 
 as ours, but much more interesting, as the song, the music, 
 and the motions of the dance, express love, hope, jealousy, 
 and despair. 
 
 Forbes* 's Oriental Memoirs. 
 
180 NOTES. 
 
 Note 14, p. 37. 
 
 And now the yellow scarf was waving, 
 The raj pools' brave and warlike cry. 
 
 Hindustanee Kuswar. A beautiful yellow dye is made 
 from this colour. To use it on the day of battle is among 
 the Hindoos deemed a sacred pledge to die or conquer. 
 Volunteers are often invited to wear the yellow scarf, which 
 implies desperation in any undertaking. 
 
 Sir John Malcolm's Central India. 
 
 Note 15, p. 49. 
 
 Beneath Himlaya's snow-clad brow, 
 Where the dark forests high tops frown. 
 
 Himlaya, or the Mansion of Snow, is the name given by 
 the Hindoos to those vast chains of mountains, which limit 
 India on the north. The hills are held sacred by the Hin- 
 doos, who suppose them to be the terrestrial haunt of the 
 god Iswara. 
 
 Sir William Jones. 
 
 Note 16, p. 51. 
 
 For many a wild yet wondrous tale 
 Was of her told through Cashmere's vale. 
 
 Cashmeer, a valley surrounded by lofty mountains, their 
 summits covered with perpetual snow, while their acclivities, 
 according to their aspects, are either adorned with the trees 
 of Europe, or decked with the perennial plants of Asia, and 
 
NOTES. 181 
 
 sometimes presenting a delightful assemblage of both. Im- 
 mense rocks, rich groves, and murmur ing cascades, produce 
 a sublime and b eautiful effect. These waters, either in roaring 
 cataracts or gentle streams, flow to the lakes or rivulets 
 which fertilize the plain, and there uniting, form the cele- 
 brated Indus, one of the great rivers of India. 
 
 Forbes's Oriental Memoirs. 
 
 Note 17, p. 53. 
 
 Her sire upon the valley's side 
 Had placed her lone zenana there. 
 
 The apartments set apart by the Hindoos for the women. 
 
 Note 18, p. 54. 
 
 For never was an Eden seen, - 
 
 That could with Cashmeer's vale compare. 
 
 This happy valley, this Paradise of Hindostan, is sur- 
 rounded by mountains of vast height and rude aspect, co- 
 vered with snow, or encased with glaciers, in which this 
 enchanting jewel is firmly set. The roofs of the houses are 
 planted with tulips, which in the spring produces a won- 
 derful effect. Roses, and numberless flowers, ornament this 
 happy clime ; most of the Emperors of Hindostan have 
 visited it, and forgot the cares of government during their 
 residence in the Happy Valley. 
 
 Pennant's Western Hindostan. 
 R 
 
182 NOTES. 
 
 Note 19, p. 67. 
 
 Soon his remains the Brahmins bore 
 In triumph to the Ganga's shore. 
 
 Most of the Hindoos burn their dead. The funeral piles 
 of the rich are mingled with sandal-wood, and fed with 
 aromatic oils. 
 
 Forbes's Oriental Memoirs. 
 
 Note 20, p. 67, 
 
 To still the anguish of despair 
 A self-devoted suttee there. 
 
 On the decease of the husband, if the widow resolves to 
 attend him to the world of spirits, a funeral pile is erected, 
 covered with an arbour of dry boughs, where the dead body is 
 placed; the living victim follows, dressed in her bridal jewels, 
 surrounded by her relations, priests, and musicians ; she 
 ascends the funeral pile, enters the awful bower, and placing 
 herself near the body of her husband, with her own hand 
 generally sets fire to the pile, which being constantly sup- 
 plied with aromatic oils, the mortal remains are soon con- 
 sumed. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 Note 21, p. 68. 
 
 Whose haughty chiefs with pride could trace, 
 Their high descent from Surya's race. 
 
 Two of the ancient dynasties of Hindostan are called 
 
NOTES. 183 
 
 Souraya Buns, or the Children of the Sun, the other, Chan- 
 dra Buns, or the Children of the Moon. 
 
 Sketches in India. 
 
 Note 22, p. 68. 
 
 Thus was each hapless, helpless, daughter, 
 
 Soon as the vital air she drew, 
 
 Still doomed alike to instant slaughter. 
 
 Infanticide is not known among the lower classes ; this 
 shocking custom appears limited to some Rajpoot Chiefs of 
 high rank, who from despair of obtaining a suitable marriage 
 for their daughters, are led by an infatuated pride to become 
 the destroyers of their own offspring. The petty Thakoor, 
 or lord of Cherawul, married a daughter to the Rawal of 
 Banswara thirty-four years ago j the pride of the Thakoor 
 family was so excited by this, that it was resolved that 
 no female should make an inferior match, and the despair of 
 such good fortune again, has led to every female child being 
 killed. 
 
 Sir John Malcolm's Central India. 
 
 Until lately the horrid, unnatural practice of infanticide 
 in India, was supposed to have been confined to the tribes 
 of Rajkuinar and Rajvansa, who inhabit districts in the 
 neighbourhood of Benares ; but our recent acquisition of 
 territory and influence in the fine province of Guzerat, 
 have disclosed the practice among several tribes in that 
 extensive country ; in Guzerat, female infanticide prevails 
 among the tribes Jarejah, of which are the principal chief- 
 tains of the Peninsula. 
 
 Moor's Pantheon. 
 
184 NOTES. 
 
 Note 23, p. 76. 
 
 But quickly had the peasant's skill, 
 Taught us the tide to stem at will. 
 
 If the Indians have to pass a river, both men and women, 
 they fill the skin of a goat with wind and tie it round their 
 waist, and by this means swim over ; their children they 
 put in an earthen pot, which they drive before them. A 
 countryman and his wife, passing a river in the manner 
 I am speaking of, had put their child, about two years old, 
 into one of these pots ; being about the middle of the river 
 they found a little sand bank, on which there was a high 
 tree, which the water had drawn away from the main land ; 
 the father drove the pot which contained the child on this 
 place that he might rest a little : as he approached the foot 
 of the tree, whose trunk was a little above the water, a 
 monstrous serpent darted from its roots, and slided into 
 the pot in which the child was ; the father and mother 
 frightened at the accident, and having lost their presence of 
 mind, suffered the pot to be borne away by the river, and 
 they themselves remained half dead at the foot of the tree. 
 About two leagues down the river, a Banian and his wife 
 and child washing themselves in the river, saw at a dis- 
 tance the earthen pot with the child's head out of the 
 top, the Banian thinking himself in duty bound to assist the 
 child, drew it toward the shore, the wife followed by her 
 child came up to take the infant from the pot, and the 
 serpent who had done no harm to the first child, twined 
 itself round the other which was by its mother, and stang 
 it, which caused its immediate death. Such an extraor- 
 dinary adventure did not trouble the poor people, who 
 thought it had happened by the peculiar will of the 
 
NOTES. 185 
 
 Deity, who had taken away from them one child and given 
 them another, and were immediately consoled. 
 
 Char din. 
 
 Note 24, p. 77. 
 
 With Hindoo maids, at eve's sweet hour, 
 Our prize the lotus rosy flower. 
 
 The nymphcea nelumbo. The blue lotus grows in 
 Cashmeer and Persia, but in Bengal we see only red and 
 white ; and hence, occasion is taken to feign that the lotus 
 of Hindostan was dyed red with the blood of Siva. 
 
 Sir W. Jones. 
 
 Note 25, p. 88. 
 
 The dhauk's loud notes are heard around, 
 And on the distant echoes sound. 
 
 Dhauk, an instrument used at marriages and festivals. 
 
 Solvin. 
 
 Note 26, p. 88. 
 
 The finger's tapering ends to dye 
 A deeper tint to lend the eye. 
 
 When a girl is betrothed, her nails are died red with 
 a preparation of the mendey, or henna shrub : they make a 
 R 2 
 
186 NOTES, 
 
 black circle round their eyes with the powder of antimony, 
 which adds much to their beauty. 
 
 Forbes's Oriental Memoirs. 
 
 Note 27, p. 96. 
 
 And all our wandering shaugers tell, 
 That midst our wilds and deserts rude. 
 
 Shauger ; a sort of minstrel between the poet and the 
 ballad singer. 
 
 Elphinstone' s Caubul. 
 
 Note 28, p. 96. 
 
 The spirits of the waste still dwell, 
 Hid in each dreary solitude. 
 
 The Afghan's believe each of the numerous solitudes^ in 
 the mountains and desarts of their country, to be inhabited 
 by a lonely demon, whom they call Ghoolee Beeabaun, 
 (the Goule, or Spirit of the Waste); they represent him as a 
 gigantic and frightful spectre, who devours any passengers 
 whom chance may bring within his haunts. It is to this spirit 
 they ascribe the illusions by which travellers are often led to 
 believe they see sheets of waters in the midst of the desart, 
 and they figure him watching near to seize the unhappy 
 wanderer, who may be misled by his artifice, and tear him 
 to pieces. 
 
 Elphinstone's Caubul. 
 
KOTES. 187 
 
 Note 29, p. 106. 
 
 Twas said that in that desert drear 
 There lay a deep and wondrous cave. 
 
 Near Candahar is a cave called the Cave of Jumsheed, to 
 the end of which it is impossible to penetrate, on account of 
 a torrent which obstructs its passage : but the Afghans re- 
 late, that after advancing a certain distance, one hears the 
 roar of winds and gushing of waters, and that all progress is 
 soon stopped by a wheel armed with swords, which is 
 whirled round with such force and velocity, as to threaten 
 to annihilate every thing which approaches it. Some bold 
 adventurers, however, have overcome these obstacles, and 
 reached a most enchanting garden in the bowels of the 
 earth. They describe the verdure of this delicious region, 
 its bowers, woods, and lawns, and its flowers of a thousand 
 brilliant hues, as far surpassing any scene that the human 
 imagination can figure while the exquisite fruits, the per- 
 fumed breezes, and the ravishing music that for ever re- 
 spunds, are equal to the wannest pictures of the Maho- 
 metan Paradise. 
 
 Elphinstone' s CaubuL 
 
 Note 30, p. 111. 
 
 And there glides a pure streamlet through Gulistan's 
 
 bowers, 
 Soft murmuring o'er vallies enamelled with flowers. 
 
 Gulistan, or Valley of Roses. The Persians give this 
 name to all those places which they wish to describe as ex- 
 traordinarily pleasant. 
 
 Ambassador's Travels. 
 
188 NOTES. 
 
 Note 31, p. 127. 
 
 Fierce as the simoom's withering blight, 
 Had fallen the sudden stroke of Fate. 
 
 The effects of the simoom is instant suffocation to every 
 living creature that happens to be within the sphere of its 
 activity, and immediate putrefaction of the carcases of the 
 dead. The Arabs discern its approach by the unusual red- 
 ness of the air j and they say, they feel a smell of sulphur 
 as it passes. The only means by which any person can pre- 
 serve himself from suffering from these noxious blasts is, by 
 throwing himself down with his face on the earth. 
 
 Neibuhr. 
 
 Note 32, p. 137. 
 The HeUeria. 
 
 The word means " society." When the Hetaeria was first 
 formed, the women of Greece took an active part in gaining 
 proselytes ; nor was it unusual for ladies to be at the heads 
 of Heta?ria. 
 
 Blaquiere. 
 
 Note 33, p. 138. 
 
 Fair Athens had not sighed that thou 
 Should'st to a foreign despot bow. 
 
 The solitary grandeur of these marble ruins is, perhaps, 
 more striking than the appearance presented by any other 
 
NOTES. 
 
 '189 
 
 object at Athens : the Turks themselves seem to regard 
 them with an eye of respect and admiration. 
 
 Hobhouse. 
 
 Note 34, p,- 143. 
 
 For this her wanderings ever led 
 Near to the pure Ilissus' bed; 
 Where lay concealed a rocky cave, 
 Washed by its slow and murmuring wave. 
 
 Following the channel of the Ilissus, about a furlong 
 higher up, you reach the site of the marble stadium of 
 Aticus Herodes. Not far from the top of the stadium, in 
 the slope of a circular range of seats, is a cavern. On visit- 
 ing this cavern, your recollections of past times would, for 
 a time, give way to reflections caused by the sight of some 
 present objects. The first day I visited the place, I ob- 
 served a flat stone on the side of the rock, strewed with 
 several bits of coloured rag, broken glass, and honey, and a 
 handful or two of dried peas. As I was going to examine 
 them, a Greek in company exclaimed, " Don't touch them, 
 Affendi j they are the devil's goods they are magical!" 
 On inquiring, he assured me that some old women of 
 Athens, well known to be witches, came to this cavern at 
 the dead of night, and there performed their incantations, 
 leaving these remnants as offerings to the evil spirit. 
 Another person most seriously assured me, that this was not 
 all ;>for that Jhese same enchantresses had been often seen, 
 during a midnight storm, skimming off' the foam of the sea, 
 wheqe it rolls; against the long pebbly beach, near the 
 ancient port of Phalerus. These witches (a decrepid 
 
190 NOTES. 
 
 creature was pointed out to me as one of them), are hated 
 and feared by the Greeks and Turks ; and make use of 
 their supposed art to extort charity from the credulous and 
 terrified females of both nations. 
 
 Hobhouse. 
 
 Note 35, p. 148. 
 
 Fair Constance who had seen that face, 
 Beaming with smiles in childhood's bower, 
 Thou daughter of a mighty race, 
 And seen thee in thy tyrant's power. 
 
 Costanza Zacari, the heroine of Mistras. Zacari of 
 Mistras, the father of Costanza, was one of the most for- 
 midable of those chiefs known under the name of Klepthai, 
 with whom the Turkish tyrants of the Morea had ever to 
 contend : his intrepidity and stratagem had, in fact, become 
 proverbial ; it enabled him to be, for many years, the terror 
 of Cheli Bey and other Pachas, He was put to death by 
 the Governor of the Morea. 
 
 Blaquiere's Second Visit to Greece. 
 
 Note 36, p. 164. 
 For Hadana's rose must be wed on the morrow. 
 
 During the period that the dominion of the Rajahs of 
 Vijeyanuggur extended over the greatest portion of the 
 south of India, two young men of the tribe of Yedava, named 
 Vijeya and Krishna, departed from that court, in search of 
 
NOTES. 191 
 
 a better establishment, to the south. Their travels carried 
 them to the little fort of Hadana, a few miles from the 
 present situation of the town of Mysore ; and having 
 alighted, as is usual, near the borders of a tank, they over- 
 heard some women, who had come for water, bewailing the 
 fate of a young maiden of their tribe, who was about to be 
 married to a person of inferior quality. The brotkers in- 
 quired into the circumstances of the case; desired the 
 women to be comforted, and offered their services in the de- 
 fence of the damsel. She was the only daughter of the 
 Wadeyar (or lord of thirty-three villages), who was afflicted 
 with mental derangement ; and in this desolate and un- 
 protected state, the Chief of Caroo-gully, a person of 
 mean caste, proposed to the family the alternative of im- 
 mediate war, or the peaceable possession of Hadana, by 
 his marriage with the daughter. The offers of the strangers 
 were made known, and they were admitted to examine the 
 means which the family possessed of averting the impend- 
 ing danger. In conformity with their advice, no change was 
 made in the preparations for the marriage feast, and while 
 the Chiefs of Caroo-gully were seated at the banquet in 
 one apartment, and the men in another, the men of Ha- 
 dana, who had been secreted for the purpose, headed by 
 the two brothers, sprang forth upon their guests and slew 
 them, then marched instantly to Caroo-gully, which they 
 surprised, and returned in triumph to Hadana : the damsel 
 full of gratitude became the willing bride of Vizeya. 
 
 Wilkes's Smith of India. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Bradbury fy Co., Printers, Bolt Court, Fleet Street. 
 
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