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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,
And the blue Firmament
The present Deity.
Shines dimly the white moon.
Rest on the pillar of the Tent. Knitting light palm-leaves for her brother's brow,
The dark-eyed damsel sits;
The Old Man tranquilly
The tranquillising herb.
While his skill'd fingers modulate
Singing with agitated face
A tale of love and woe ; Then, if the bright'ning Moon that lit his face,
In darkness favour'd hers,
Oh! even with such a look, as fables say,
Till that intense affection
Kindle its light of life, Even in such deep and breathless tenderness
Oneiza's soul is centred on the youth,
Save when from her full eyes
That dim his image there.
(xxv.) She call'd him Brother; was it sister-love
For which the silver rings Round her smooth ankles and her tawny arms Shone daily brighten'd ? for a brother's eye
Were her long fingers tinged,
As when she trimm'd the lamp, And through the veins and delicate skin The light shone rosy? that the darken'd lids
Gave yet a softer lustre to her eye ?
That with such pride she trick'd
Their waves of glossy jet ?
How happily the days
Of Thalaba went by!
THE CURSE OF KEHAMA.
THE FUNERAL OF ARVALAN,
From Book I.
(1.) MIDNIGHT, and yet no eye Through all the Imperial City closed in sleep!
Behold her streets a-blaze With light that seems to kindle the red sky, Her myriads swarming through the crowded ways! Master and slave, old age and infancy,
All, all abroad to gaze;
House-top and balcony
With unimpeded and insatiate sight
As if the mournful rite
Your feeble beams ye shed,
Even the broad eye of day;
Pourest, O Moon, an ineffectual ray!
Upon the midnight air,
Blotting the lights of heaven
With one portentous glare.
And hangeth visible on high,
'Tis the dirge of death!
'Ten thousand voices then join in,
Pour their wild wailing.
Amid the deafening sound;
You hear no more the mourner's moan, Though the trumpet's breath, and the dirge of death, Swell with commingled force the funeral yell.
But rising over all in one acclaim
Call Arvalan! The overpowering sound,
From tower to tower rolls round.
The Bramins lead the way,
Chanting the funeral song.
All in accordant cry,
Would ye awake the dead ?
There Arvalan is seen.
It is the crimson canopy
He moves--he nods his head
As the body, borne aloft in state,
Close following his dead son Kehama came,
Nor joining in the ritual song,
Nor calling the dear name;
And arms enfolded on his breast,
The mighty Rajah's misery;
And taught the Master of Mankind to know Even he himself is man, and not exempt from woe.