What if beneath no lamp-illumined dome, Its marble walls, bedeck'd with flourish'd truth, 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 of prayer, The glorious Temple, where they feel (xxIII.) Yet through the purple glow of eve The slacken'd bow, the quiver, the long lance, Knitting light palm-leaves for her brother's brow, The tranquillising herb. So listen they the reed of Thalaba, (XXIV.) Or if he strung the pearls of Poesy, And eloquent arms, and sobs that reach the heart, Then, if the bright'ning Moon that lit his face, In darkness favour'd hers, b* Oh! even with such a look, as fables say, Even in such deep and breathless tenderness (xxv.) She call'd him Brother; was it sister-love Round her smooth ankles and her tawny arms How happily the days Of Thalaba went by! Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled ! THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 1809-10. ROBERT SOUTHEY. I. THE FUNERAL OF ARVALAN. From Book I. (1.) MIDNIGHT, and yet no eye Through all the Imperial City closed in sleep! With light that seems to kindle the red sky, House-top and balcony Clustered with women, who throw back their veils To view the funeral pomp which passes by, Were but to them a scene of joyance and delight. (11.) Vainly, ye blessed twinklers of the night, Quench'd in the unnatural light which might out-stare And thou from thy celestial way Blotting the lights of heaven With one portentous glare. Behold the fragrant smoke in many a fold A dark and waving canopy. (III.) Hark! 'tis the funeral trumpet's breath! At once ten thousand drums begin, The song of praise is drown'd Amid the deafening sound; You hear no more the trumpet's tone, Is heard the echoed and the re-echoed name, Ten times ten thousand voices in one shout (IV.) The death-procession moves along ; The Bramins lead the way, With quick rebound of sound, Arvalan! Arvalan! The universal multitude reply. A glow is on his face-a lively red; Which o'er his cheek a reddening shade hath shed; But the motion comes from the bearers' tread, Sways with the impulse of its own dead weight. (v.) Close following his dead son Kehama came, Nor calling the dear name; With head deprest and funeral vest, And arms enfolded on his breast, Silent and lost in thought he moves along. King of the World, his slaves unenvying now Behold their wretched Lord; rejoiced they see The mighty Rajah's misery; That Nature in his pride hath dealt the blow, And taught the Master of Mankind to know Even he himself is man, and not exempt from woe. |