Читать книгу Ismael; an oriental tale. With other poems - Edward Bulwer Lytton Baron Lytton - Страница 11

Sees’t thou yon crescent gleaming from afar,

Like half-hid influence of some meteor star?40

It glows on Ismael’s tent; the sentry there,

With cautious step, keeps more than common care.

But say, why (lord of all this num’rous band,

The sword of conquest flaming in his hand)

He, he alone, of all his armies yield,

Is absent now from Caymyr’s tented field;

When mark’d by royal jealousy’s keen eye,

The Sage of Ardevil[6] was doom’d to die; He, whose high soul e’er soar’d on sacred wings, Above the toils of kingdoms and of kings.50 Three sons he left; and two their danger knew, Of age to see them, and to fly them too. The third, young Ismael, then of infant age, His father’s friends convey’d from Rustam’s rage. And flying hence, to Pyrchilim the Brave, His sire’s illustrious friend, the child they gave: And there he grew, and every virtuous grace Enrich’d the noblest of Shich-Eidar’s race; Talent and honour all his soul possest, In form of scarcely human beauty drest.60

In earliest youth, ere yet the toils of man,

Ambitious fire, and war’s alarms, began,

He lov’d a maid, the flow’r of Ava’s race;

No rose, no lily match’d that maiden’s face.

He sigh’d his love, and Selyma return’d

The chasten’d flame with which his bosom burn’d.

Oh! mid the beauties of those heav’nly shores,

Where all her charms, luxuriant Nature pours;

Not such cold charms, as, in the frozen North,

Few, and half ripe, her niggard hand puts forth;70

But such, as on Love’s warmest, brightest shrine

She strews around, all glowing, all divine.

Oh, it were sweet to mark those lovers’ bliss—

Bliss far too great for such a world as this.

And they would sit beneath some spreading palm,

When mellowing eve put forth her fragrant balm,

And watch the setting sun’s last dazzling sheen,

Sink slow, as loth to quit so soft, so fair a scene.

And he would cull fresh flowrets’ varied glow, To form a wreath to deck her lovely brow,80 And twine his fingers in her locks of night, As down her breast they stray’d, as envious of its white;— And, as they lay, their breathing lips would meet, And hearts, that love first taught th’ ecstatic beat. And oh, to part at night, the ling’ring pain, And oh, the happiness to meet again. Yes, love like their’s so rapturous, yet so pure, Alas! could never, never long endure!