THALABA.

But Moath is not there; and wouldst thou dwell In a Stranger's tent? thy father then might seek In long and fruitless wandering for his child.

ONEIZA.

Take me then to Mecca! 7 There let me dwell a servant of the Temple. Bind thou thyself my veil,-to human eye It never shall be lifted. There, whilst thou Shalt go upon thine enterprise, my prayers, Dear Thalaba! shall rise to succour thee, And I shall live,-if not in happiness, Surely in hope.

THALABA.

Oh think of better things!

The will of Heaven is plain: by wonderous ways It led us here, and soon the common voice Will tell what we have done, and how we dwell

Under the Shadow of the Sultan's wing;
So shall thy father hear the fame, and find us
What he hath wish'd us ever-Still in tears!
Still that unwilling eye! nay-nay-Oneiza-
I dare not leave thee other than my own,—
My wedded wife. Honour and gratitude
'As yet preserve the Sultan from all thoughts
That sin against thee; but so sure as Ileaven
Hath gifted thee above all other maids

With loveliness, so surely would those thoughts
Of wrong arise within the heart of Power.
If thou art mine, Oneiza, we are safe,
But else, there is no sanctuary could save.

With song,

ONEIZA.

Thalaba! Thalaba!

XXVI.

with music, and with dance,
The bridal pomp proceeds.
Following on the veiled Bride
Fifty female slaves attend
In costly robes, that gleam
With interwoven gold,
And sparkle far with gems.

An hundred slaves behind them bear
Vessels of silver and vessels of gold,
And many a gorgeous garment gay,
The presents that the Sultan gave.

On either hand the pages go With torches flaring through the gloom, And trump and timbrel merriment Accompanies their way; And multitudes with loud acclaim Shout blessings on the Bride. And now they reach the palace pile,

The palace home of Thalaba, And now the marriage feast is spread, And from the finish'd banquet now The wedding guests are gone.

XXVII.

Who comes from the bridal chamber?It is Azrael, the Angel of Death.

BOOK VIII.

Quas potius decuit nostro te inferre sepulchro
Petronilla, tibi spargimus has lacrimas,
Spargimus has lacrimas mosti monumenta parentis, —
Et tibi pro thalamo sternimus bune tumulum.
Sperabam genitor tædas præferre jugales,
Et titulo patris jungere nomen avi;

Heu! gener est Orcas; quique O dulcissima! per te
Se sperabat avum, desinit esse pater.
JOACR. BELLAIUS.

I. WOMAN.

Go not among the Tombs, Old Man!

There is a madman there.

OLD MAN.

Will he harm me if I go?

WOMAN.

Not he, poor miserable man!
But 't is a wretched sight to see

His utter wretchedness.

For all day long he lies on a grave,
And never is he seen to weep,
And never is he heard to groan;
Nor ever at the hour of prayer
Bends his knee nor moves his lips.
I have taken him food for charity,

And never a word he spake;
But yet so ghastly he look'd,
That I have awaken'd at night
With the dream of his ghastly eyes.

Now, go not among the Tombs, Old Man!

OLD MAN.

Wherefore has the wrath of God So sorely stricken him?

WOMAN.

He came a stranger to the land, And did good service to the Sultan, And well his service was rewarded. The Sultan nam'd him next himself, And gave a palace for his dwelling, And dower'd his bride with rich domains. But on his wedding night There came the Angel of Death. Since that hour, a man distracted Among the sepulchres he wanders. The Sultan, when he heard the tale, Said, that for some untold crime Judgment thus had stricken him, And, asking Heaven forgiveness That he had shown him favour, Abandon'd him to want.

II.

Then to the Sepulchre
The woman pointed out,
Old Moath bent his way.

By the tomb lay Thalaba,

In the light of the setting eve;

The sun, and the wind, and the rain,
Had rusted his raven locks;

His cheeks were fallen in,
His face-bones prominent;
By the tomb he lay along,
And his lean fingers play'd,
Unwitting, with the grass that grew beside.

III.

The Old Man knew him not,
And drawing near him, cried,
« Countryman, peace be with thee!»>
The sound of his dear native tongue
Awaken'd Thalaba;

He raised his countenance,
And saw the good Old Man,
And he arose and fell upon his neck,

And groan'd in bitterness.

Then Moath knew the youth,

And feared that he was childless; and he turn'd

His eyes, and pointed to the tomb.

« Old Man!» cried Thalaba,

Thy search is ended there!»>

The Cryer from the Minaret
Proclaim'd the midnight hour:
«Now, now!» cried Thalaba;
And o'er the chamber of the tomb
There spread a lurid gleam,
Like the reflection of a sulphur fire;
And in that hideous light

Oneiza stood before them. It was She,..
Her very lineaments,.. and such as death

Ilad changed them, livid cheeks, and lips of blue;
But in her eyes there dwelt
Brightness more terrible

Than all the loathsomeness of death.

<< Still art thou living, wretch ?»>
In hollow tones she cried to Thalaba;
« And must I nightly leave my grave
To tell thee, still in vain,
God hath abandon'd thee !»>

X.

<< This is not she!» the Old Man exclaim'd;
« A Fiend; a manifest Fiend !»
And to the youth he held his lance,
« Strike and deliver thyself!»

« Strike HER!» cried Thalaba,

And, palsied of all powers,

Gaz'd fixedly upon the dreadful form.
«Yea, strike her!» cried a voice, whose tones
Flow'd with such sudden healing through his soul,
As when the desert shower
From death deliver'd him;

But, unobedient to that well-known voice,
His eye was secking it,
When Moath, firm of heart,

Perform'd the bidding: through the vampire corpse
He thrust his lance: it fell,
And, howling with the wound,
Its demon tenant fled.

A sapphire light fell on them,

And, garmented with glory, in their sight
Oneiza's Spirit stood.

XI.

«O Thalaba!» she cried,
« Abandon not thyself!

Wouldst thou for ever lose me?.. go, fulfil
Thy quest, that in the Bowers of Paradise
In vain I may not wait thee, O my Husband '»

To Moath then the Spirit Turn'd the dark lustre of her Angel eyes;

«Short is thy destin'd path,

O my dear Father! to the abode of bliss.
Return to Araby,

There with the thought of death
Comfort thy lonely age,

And Azrael, the Deliverer, soon

Shall visit thee in peace.»

XII.

They stood with earnest eyes,
And arms out-reaching, when again
The darkness clos'd around them.

The soul of Thalaba reviv'd;
He from the floor the quiver took,
And, as he bent the bow, exclaim'd,
« Was it the over-ruling Providence
That in the hour of frenzy led my hands
Instinctively to this?

To-morrow, and the sun shall brace anew
The slacken'd cord, that now sounds loose and damp;
To-morrow, and its livelier tone will sing,

In tort vibration, to the arrow's flight.
I.. but I also, with recovered health

Of heart, shall do my duty.

My Father! here I leave thee then!» he cried,
« And not to meet again,

Till at the gate of Paradise

The eternal union of our joys commence.
We parted last in darkness !»... and the youth
Thought with what other hopes;
But now his heart was calm,
For on his soul a heavenly hope had dawn'd.

XIII.

The Old Man answered nothing, but he held
His garment, and to the door

Of the Tomb Chamber followed him.
The rain had ceased, the sky was wild,
Its black clouds broken by the storm.
And, lo! it chanced, that in the chasm
Of Heaven between, a star,
Leaving along its path continuous light,
Shot eastward. « See my guide!» quoth Thalaba;
And turning, he receiv'd

Old Moath's last embrace,

And the last blessing of the good Old Man.

XIV.

Evening was drawing nigh,

When an old Dervise, sitting in the sun
At his cell door, invited for the night
The traveller; in the sun

He spread the plain repast,

Rice and fresh grapes, and at their feet there flow'd The brook of which they drank,

XV.

So as they sate at meal,

With song, with music, and with dance,
A wedding train went by;

The veiled bride, the female slaves,
The torches of festivity,
And trump and timbrel merriment
Accompanied their way.

The good old Dervise gave

A blessing as they past; But Thalaba look'd on,

And breath'd a low deep groan, and hid his face.
The Dervise had known sorrow, and he felt
Compassion; and his words
Of pity and of piety

Open'd the young man's heart,
And he told all his tale.

XVI.

Repine not, O my Son!» the Old Man replied,

« That Heaven hath chasten'd thee. Behold this vine, 5 I found it a wild tree, whose wanton strength Had swoln into irregular twigs

And bold excrescences,

And spent itself in leaves and little rings,
So in the flourish of its outwardness
Wasting the sap and strength
That should have given forth fruit;
But when I prun'd the Tree,
Then it grew temperate in its vain expense
Of useless leaves, and knotted, as thou seest,
Into these full, clear clusters, to repay
The hand that wisely wounded it.
Repine not, O my Son!

In wisdom and in mercy Heaven inflicts,
Like a wise Leech, its painful remedies.»>

Cold! cold! his blood flows languidly,
His hands are red, his lips are blue,
His feet are sore with the frost.
Cheer thee! cheer thee! Thalaba!
A little yet bear up!

XX.

All waste! no sign of life

But the track of the wolf and the bear! No sound but the wild, wild wind, And the snow crunching under his feet! Night is come; no moon, no stars, Only the light of the snow!

But behold a fire in the cave of the hill,
A heart-reviving fire;

And thither with strength renew'd
Thalaba presses on.

XXI.

He found a Woman in the cave,
A solitary Woman,

Who by the fire was spinning,

And singing as she spun.

The pine boughs they blazed cheerfully,
And her face was bright with the flame;
Her face was as a Damsel's face;
And yet her hair was grey.
She bade him welcome with a smile,
And still continued spinning,
And singing as she spun.
The thread the Woman drew
Was finer than the silkworm's,
Was finer than the gossamer;
song she sung was low and sweet,
And Thalaba knew not the words.

The

XXII.

He laid his bow before the hearth,
For the string was frozen stiff;
He took the quiver from his neck,
For the arrow plumes were iced.

Then as the cheerful fire
Revived his languid limbs,
The adventurer ask'd for food.
The Woman answered him,
And still her speech was song:
« The She Bear she dwells near to me,
And she hath cubs, one, two, and three;
She hunts the deer, and brings him here,
And then with her I make good cheer,
And she to the chase is gone,
And she will be here anon.>>

XXIII.

She ceased her spinning while she spake,
And when she had answered him,
Again her fingers twirl'd the thread,
And again the Woman began,
In low, sweet tones to sing
The unintelligible song.

XXIV.

The thread she spun it gleam'd like gold
In the light of the torous fire,
Yet was it so wonderously thin,
That, save when it shone in the light,

And up she rais'd her bright blue eyes,

And fiercely she smil'd on him,

« I thank thee, I thank thee, Hodeirah's son!
I thank thee for doing what can't be undone,
For binding thyself in the chain I have spun!»>
Then from his head she wrench'd
A lock of his raven hair,
And cast it in the fire,
And cried aloud as it burnt,

« Sister! Sister! hear my voice!
Sister! Sister! come and rejoice!
The web is spun,

The prize is won,

The work is done,

For I have made captive Hodeirah's Son.>>

XXVIII.

Borne in her magic car

The Sister Sorceress came,
Khawla, the fiercest of the Sorcerer brood.
She gaz'd upon the youth,

She bade him break the slender thread,
She laugh'd aloud for scorn,
She clapt her hands for joy.

XXIX.

The She Bear from the chase came in, She bore the prey in her bloody mouth, She laid it at Maimuna's feet,