  THE THIRD BOOK.THALABA. Oneiza, look! the dead man has a ring,... Should it be buried with him? ONEIZA. Oh yes ... yes! A wicked man! all that he has must needs Be wicked too! THALABA. But see,... the sparkling stone! How it has caught the glory of the Sun, And streams it back again in lines of light! ONEIZA. Why do you take it from him Thalaba?... And look at it so near?... it may have charms To blind, or poison ... throw it in the grave!... I would not touch it! THALABA. And around its rim Strange letters,... ONEIZA. Bury it.... Oh! bury it! THALABA. It is not written as the Koran is; Some other tongue perchance ... the accursed man Said he had been a traveller. MOATH. coming from the tent. Thalaba, What hast thou there? THALABA. A ring the dead man wore, Perhaps my father, you can read its meaning. MOATH. No Boy,... the letters are not such as ours. Heap the sand over it! a wicked man Wears nothing holy. THALABA. Nay! not bury it! It may be that some traveller who shall enter Our tent, may read them: or if we approach Cities where strangers dwell and learned men, They may interpret. MOATH. It were better hid Under the desert sands. This wretched man, Whom God hath smitten in the very purpose And impulse of his unpermitted crime, Belike was some Magician, and these lines Are of the language that the Demons use. ONEIZA. Bury it! bury it ... dear Thalaba! MOATH. Such cursed men there are upon the earth, In league and treaty with the Evil powers, The covenanted enemies of God And of all good, dear purchase have they made Of rule, and riches, and their life-long sway, Masters, yet slaves of Hell. Beneath the Roots Of Ocean, the Domdaniel caverns lie: Their impious meeting; there they learn the words Unutterable by man who holds his hope Of Heaven, there brood the Pestilence, and let The Earthquake loose. THALABA. And he who would have killed me Was one of these? MOATH. I know not, but it may be That on the Table of Destiny, thy name Is written their Destroyer, and for this Thy life by yonder miserable man So sought; so saved by interfering Heaven. THALABA. His ring has some strange power then? MOATH. Every gem, So sages say, has virtue; but the science Of difficult attainment, some grow pale Conscious of poison, Of darkness, warn the wearer; same preserve From spells, or blunt the hostile weapon’s Some open rocks and mountains, and lay bare Their buried treasures; others make the sight Strong to perceive the presence of all Beings Thro’ whose pure substance the unaided eye Passes, like empty air ... and in yon stone I deem some such misterious quality. THALABA. My father, I will wear it. MOATH. Thalaba! THALABA. In God’s name, and the Prophet’s! be its power Good, let it serve the righteous: if for evil, God and my trust in him shall hallow it. So Thalaba drew on The written ring of gold. Then in the hollow grave They laid Abdaldar’s corpse, And levelled over him the desert dust. The Sun arose, ascending from beneath The horizon’s circling line. As Thalaba to his ablutions went, Lo! the grave open, and the corpse exposed! It was not that the winds of night Had swept away the sands that covered it, For heavy with the undried dew The desert dust was dark and close around; And the night air had been so moveless calm, It had not from the grove Shaken a ripe date down. Amazed to hear the tale Forth from the tent came Moath and his child. Awhile the thoughtful man surveyed the corpse Silent with downward eyes, Then turning spake to Thalaba and said, “I have heard that there are places by the abode “Of holy men, so holily possessed, “That if a corpse be buried there, the ground “With a convulsive effort shakes it out, “Impatient of pollution. Have the feet “Of Prophet or Apostle blest this place? “Ishmael, or Houd, or Saleh, or than all, “Mohammed, holier name? or is the man “So foul with magic and all blasphemy, “That Earth “Forsake the station. Let us strike our tent. “The place is tainted ... and behold “The Vulture “Chides us that we still we scare him from his banquet. “So let the accursed one “Find fitting sepulchre.” Then from the pollution of death With water they made themselves pure, And Thalaba drew up The fastening of the cords, And Moath furled the tent, And from the grove of palms Oneiza led The Camels, ready to receive their load. The dews had ceased to steam Towards the climbing Sun, When from the Isle of Palms they went their way. And when the Sun had reached his southern height, As back they turned their eyes, The distant Palms arose Like to the top-sails of some far-off fleet Distinctly seen, where else The Ocean bounds had blended with the sky. And when the eve came on The sight returning reached the grove no more. They planted the pole of their tent, And they laid them down to repose. At midnight Thalaba started up, For he felt that the ring on his finger was moved. He called on Allah aloud, And he called on the Prophet’s name. Moath arose in alarm, “What ails thee Thalaba?” he cried, “Is the Robber of night at hand?” “Dost thou not see,” the youth exclaimed, “A Spirit in the Tent?” Moath looked round and said, “The moon beam shines in the Tent, “I see thee stand in the light, “And thy shadow is black on the ground.” Thalaba answered not. “Spirit!” he cried, “what brings thee here? “In the name of the Prophet, speak, “In the name of Allah, obey!” He ceased, and there was silence in the Tent. “Dost thou not hear?” quoth Thalaba. The listening man replied, “I hear the wind, that flaps “The curtain of the Tent. “The Ring! the Ring!” the youth exclaimed. “For that the Spirit of Evil comes, “By that I see, by that I hear. “In the name of God, I ask thee “Who was he that slew my Father?” DEMON. Master of the powerful Ring! Okba, the wise Magician, did the deed. THALABA. Where does the Murderer dwell? DEMON. In the Domdaniel caverns Under the Roots of the Ocean. THALABA. Why were my Father and my brethren slain? DEMON. We knew from the race of Hodeirah The destined destroyer would come. THALABA. Bring me my father’s sword. DEMON. A fire surrounds the fated-sword, No Spirit or Magician’s hand Can pierce that guardian flame. THALABA. Bring me his bow and his arrows. Distinctly Moath heard his voice, and She Who thro’ the Veil of Separation, watched All sounds in listening terror, whose suspense Forbade the aid of prayer. They heard the voice of Thalaba; But when the Spirit spake, the motionless air Felt not the subtle sounds, Too fine for mortal sense. On a sudden the rattle of arrows was heard, And the quiver was laid at the feet of the youth, And in his hand they saw Hodeirah’s Bow. He eyed the Bow, he twanged the string, And his heart bounded to the joyous tone. Anon he raised his voice, and cried “Go thy way, and never more, “Evil Spirit, haunt our tent! “By the virtue of the Ring, “By Mohammed’s holier might, “By the holiest name of God, “Thee and all the Powers of Hell “I adjure and I command “Never more to trouble us!” Nor ever from that hour Did rebel Spirit on the Tent intrude, Such virtue had the Spell. And peacefully the vernal years Of Thalaba past on. Till now without an effort he could bend Hodeirah’s stubborn Bow. Black were his eyes and bright, The sunny hue of health Glowed on his tawny cheek, His lip was darkened by maturing life; Strong were his shapely limbs, his stature tall; He was a comely youth. Compassion for the child Had first old Moath’s kindly heart possessed, An orphan, wailing in the wilderness. But when he heard his tale, his wonderous tale, Told by the Boy with such eye-speaking truth, Now with sudden bursts of anger, Now in the agony of tears, And now in flashes of prophetic joy. What had been pity became reverence, And like a sacred trust from Heaven The old man cherished him. Now with a father’s love, Child of his choice, he loved the Boy, And like a father to the Boy was dear. Oneiza called him brother, and the youth, More fondly than a brother, loved the maid, The loveliest of Arabian maidens she. How happily the years Of Thalaba went by! It was the wisdom and the will of Heaven That in a lonely tent had cast The lot of Thalaba. There might his soul develope best Its strengthening energies; There might he from the world Keep his heart pure and uncontaminate, Till at the written hour he should be found Fit servant of the Lord, without a spot. Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled In that beloved solitude! Is the morn fair, and does the freshening breeze Flow with cool current o’er his cheek? Lo! underneath the broad-leaved sycamore With lids half closed he lies, Dreaming of days to come. His dog Now licks his listless hand, Now lifts an anxious and expectant eye Courting the wonted caress. Or comes the Father From his Caves in the uttermost West, Comes he in darkness and storms? When the blast is loud, When the waters fill The Travellers tread in the sands, When the pouring shower Streams adown the roof, When the door-curtain hangs in heavier folds, When the outstrained tent flags loosely, Comfort is within, The embers chearful glow, The sound of the familiar voice, The song that lightens toil. Under the common shelter on dry sand The quiet Camels ruminate their food; From Moath falls the lengthening cord, As patiently the old Man Intwines the strong palm-fibers; The Damsel shakes the coffee-grains, That with warm fragrance fill the tent; And while with dextrous fingers, Thalaba Shapes the green basket, Her favourite kidling gnaws the twig, Forgiven plunderer, for Oneiza’s sake! Or when the winter torrent rolls Down the deep-channelled rain-course, foamingly, Dark with its mountain spoils, With bare feet pressing the wet sand There wanders Thalaba, The rushing flow, the flowing roar, Filling his yielded faculties; A vague, a dizzy, a tumultuous joy. ... Or lingers it a vernal brook Gleaming o’er yellow sands? Beneath the lofty bank reclined, With idle eye he views its little waves, Quietly listening to the quiet flow; While in the breathings of the stirring gale The tall canes bend above, Floating like streamers on the wind Their lank uplifted leaves. Nor rich, Enough, and blest him with a mind content. No hoarded But ever round his station he beheld Camels that knew his voice, And home-birds, grouping at Oneiza’s call, And goats that, morn and eve, Came with full udders to the Damsel’s hand. Dear child! the Tent beneath whose shade they dwelt That was her work; and she had twined His girdle’s many-hues; And he had seen his robe Grow in Oneiza’s loom. How often with a memory-mingled joy That made her Mother live before his sight, He watched her nimble finders thread the woof! Or at the hand-mill Tost the thin cake on spreading palm, Or fixed it on the glowing oven’s side With bare ’Tis the cool evening hour: The Tamarind from the dew Sheaths Before their Tent the mat is spread, The old man’s aweful voice Intones What if beneath no lamp-illumined dome, Its marble walls Azure and gold adornment? sinks the Word With deeper influence from the Imam’s voice, Where in the day of congregation, crowds Perform the duty task? Their Father is their Priest, The Stars of Heaven their point And the blue Firmament The glorious Temple, where they feel The present Deity. Yet thro’ the purple glow of eve Shines dimly the white moon. The slackened bow, the quiver, the long lance, Rest on the pillar Knitting light palm-leaves The dark-eyed damsel sits; The Old Man tranquilly Up his curled pipe inhales The tranquillizing herb. So listen they the reed While his skilled fingers modulate The low, sweet, soothing, melancholy tones, Or if he strung the pearls Singing with agitated face And eloquent arms, and sobs that reach the heart, A tale Then, if the brightening Moon that lit his face In darkness favoured her’s, Oh! even with such a look, as, fables say, The mother Ostrich Till that intense affection Kindle its light of life, Even in such deep and breathless tenderness Oneiza’s soul is centered on the youth, So motionless with such an ardent gaze, Save when from her full eyes Quickly she wipes away the gushing tears That dim his image there. She called him brother: was it sister-love That made the silver rings Round her smooth ankles Shine daily brightened? for a brother’s eye Were her long fingers As when she trimmed the lamp, And thro’ the veins and delicate skin The light shone rosy? that the darkened lids Gave yet a softer lustre to her eye? That with such pride she tricked Her glossy tresses, and on holy day Wreathed the red flower-crown How happily the years Of Thalaba went by! Yet was the heart of Thalaba Impatient of repose; Restless he pondered still The task for him decreed, The mighty and mysterious work announced. Day by day with youthful ardour He the call of Heaven awaits, And oft in visions o’er the Murderer’s head He lifts the avenging arm, And oft in dreams he sees The Sword that is circled with fire. One morn as was their wont, in sportive mood The youth and damsel bent Hodeirah’s bow, For with no feeble hand nor erring aim Oneiza could let loose the obedient shaft. With head back-bending, Thalaba Shot up the aimless arrow high in air, Whose line in vain the aching sight pursued Lost in the depth of heaven. “When will the hour arrive,” exclaimed the youth, “That I shall aim these fated shafts “To vengeance long delayed? “Have I not strength, my father, for the deed? “Or can the will of Providence “Be mutable like man? “Shall I never be called to the task?” “Impatient boy!” quoth Moath, with a smile: “Impatient Thalaba!” Oneiza cried, And she too smiled, but in her smile A mild reproachful melancholy mixed. Then Moath pointed where a cloud Of Locusts, from the desolated fields Of Syria, winged their way. “Lo! how created things “Obey the written doom!” Onward they came, a dark continuous cloud Of congregated myriads numberless, The rushing of whose wings was as the sound Of a broad river, headlong in its course Plunged from a mountain summit, or the roar Of a wild ocean in the autumn storm, Shattering its billows on a shore of rocks. Onward they came, the winds impelled them on, Their work was done, their path of Their graves were ready in the wilderness. “Behold the mighty army!” Moath cried, “Blindly they move, impelled “By the blind Element. “And yonder Birds our welcome visitants, “Lo! where they soar above the embodied host, “Pursue their way, and hang upon their rear, “And thin their spreading flanks, “Rejoicing o’er their banquet! deemest thou “The scent of water, on the Syrian mosque “Placed with priest-mummery, and the jargon-rites “That fool the multitude, has led them here “From far Khorasan? “Yon tribe the plague and punishment of man, “These also hath he doomed to meet their way: “Both passive instruments “Of his all-acting will, “Sole mover he, and only spring of all.” While thus he spake, Oneiza’s eye looks up Where one towards her flew, Satiate, for so it seemed, with sport and food. The Bird flew over her, And as he past above, From his relaxing grasp a Locust fell.... It fell upon the Maiden’s robe, And feebly there it stood, recovering slow. The admiring girl surveyed His out-spread sails of green. His gauzy underwings, One closely to the grass green body furled, One ruffled in the fall, and half unclosed. She viewed his jet-orbed eyes His glossy gorget bright Green-glittering in the sun; His plumy pliant horns That, nearer as she gazed, Bent tremblingly before her breath. She viewed his yellow-circled front With lines mysterious veined; “And knowest thou what is written here, “My father?” said the Maid. “Look Thalaba! perchance these lines “Are in the letters of the Ring, “Nature’s own language written here.” The youth bent down, and suddenly He started, and his heart Sprung, and his cheek grew red, For the mysterious When the sun shall be darkened at noon, Son of Hodeirah, depart. And Moath looked, and read the lines aloud; The Locust shook his wings and fled, And they were silent all. Who then rejoiced but Thalaba? Who then was troubled but the Arabian Maid? And Moath sad of heart, Tho’ with a grief supprest, beheld the youth Sharpen his arrows now, And now new-plume their shafts, Now to beguile impatient hope Feel every sharpened point. “Why is that anxious look,” Oneiza cried, “Still upwards cast at noon? “Is Thalaba aweary of our tent?” “I would be gone,” the youth replied, “That I might do my task, “And full of glory to the tent return “Whence I should part no more.” But on the noontide sun, As anxious and as oft Oneiza’s eye Was upward glanced in fear. And now as Thalaba replied, her cheek Lost its fresh and lively hue, For in the Sun’s bright edge She saw, or thought she saw, a little speck. The sage Astronomer Who with the love of science full Trembled that day at every passing cloud, He had not seen it, ’twas a speck so small. Alas! Oneiza sees the spot increase! And lo! the ready Youth Over his shoulder the full quiver slings And grasps the slackened bow. It spreads, and spreads, and now Has shaddowed half the Sun, Whose crescent-pointed horns Now momently decrease. |
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