Читать книгу Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 58, No. 359, September 1845 - Various - Страница 2

Hail to the morn that reigneth

Where Kaff,5 since time began

Allah's eternal sentinel,

Keeps watch upon the Sun;

And through the realms of heaven,

From his cold dwelling-place,

Beholds the bright Archangel

For ever face to face!

Kaff smiles – the loosen'd morning

On Asia is unfurl'd!

Sind6 flashes free, and rolls a sea

Of amber down the world!

Lo! how the purple thickets

And arbours of Cashmere

Beneath the kindling lustre

A rosier radiance wear!

Hail to the mighty Morning

That, odorously cool,

Comes down the nutmeg-gardens

And plum-groves of Cabool!

Cold 'mid the dawn, o'er Ghazna,

The rivall'd moon retires;

As on the city spread below,

Far through the sky's transparent glow,

A hundred gold-roof'd temples throw

Their crescents' sparkling fires.

The Imam's cry in Ghazna

Has died upon the air,

And day's great life begins to throng

Each stately street and square.

The loose-robed turban'd merchants —

The fur-clad mountaineers —

The chiefs' brocaded elephants —

The Kurdmans' group of spears —

Grave men beneath the awning

Of every gay bazar

Ranging their costly merchandise,

Shawl, gem, and glittering jar —

The outworn files arriving

Of some vast Caravan,

With dusky men and camels tall,

Before the crowded khan; —

All that fills kingly cities

With traffic, wealth, and din,

Resounds, imperial Ghazna,

This morn thy walls within.

All praise to the First Sultan,

Mahmood the Ghaznavide!

His fame be like the firmament,

As moveless and as wide!

Mahmood, who saw before him

Pagoda'd Bramah fall —

Twelve times he swept the orient earth

From Bagdad to Bengal;

Twelve times amid their Steppes of ice

He smote each Golden Horde7—

Round the South's sultry isles twelve times

His ships resistless pour'd;

Mahmood – his tomb in Ghazna

For many an age shall show

The mighty mace with which he laid

Du's hideous idol low.

True soldier of the Prophet!

From Somnauth's gorgeous shrine

He tore the gates of sandal-wood,

The carven gates divine;

He hung them vow'd, in Ghazna,

To Allah's blest renown —

Trophies of endless sway they tower,

For unto earth's remotest hour

What boastful man may hope the power

Again to take them down?

All praise to the First Sultan,

Mahmood the Ghaznavide!

His wars are o'er, but not the more

His sovereign cares subside:

From morn to noontide daily

In his superb Divan

He sits dispensing justice

Alike to man and man.

What though earth heaves beneath him

With ingot, gem, and urn,

Though in his halls a thousand thrones

Of vanquish'd monarchs burn;

Though at his footstool ever

Four hundred princes stay;

Though in his jasper vestibules

Four hundred bloodhounds bay —

Each prince's sabre hafted

With the carbuncle's gem,

Each bloodhound's collar fashion'd

From a rajah's diadem? —

Though none may live beholding

The anger of his brow,

Yet his justice ever shineth

To the lofty and the low;

O'er his many-nation'd empire

Shines his justice far and wide —

All praise to the First Sultan,

Mahmood the Ghaznavide!

The morn to noon is melting

On Ghazna's golden domes;

From the Divan the suppliant crowd,

The poor, the potent, and the proud,

Who sought its grace with faces bow'd,

Have parted for their homes.

Already Sultan Mahmood

Has risen from his throne,

When at the Hall's far portal

Stands a Stranger all alone, —

A man in humble vesture,

But with a haughty eye;

And he calls aloud, with the steadfast voice

Of one prepared to die —

"Sultan! the Wrong'd and Trampled

Lacks time to worship thee,

Stand forth, and answer to my charge,

Son of Sebactagi!

Stand forth!" —

The brief amazement

Which shook that hall has fled —

Next moment fifty falchions

Flash round the madman's head,

And fifty slaves are waiting

Their sovereign's glance to slay;

But dread Mahmood, with hand upraised,

Has waved their swords away.

Once more stands free the Stranger,

Once more resounds his call —

"Ho! forth, Mahmood! and hear me,

Then slay me in thy hall.

From Oxus to the Ocean

Thy standards are unfurl'd

Thy treasury-bolts are bursting

With the plunder of the world —

The maids of soft Hindostan,

The vines by Yemen's Sea,

But bloom to nurse the passions

Of thy savage soldiery.

Yet not for them sufficeth

The Captive or the Vine,

If in thy peaceful subjects' homes

They cannot play the swine.

Since on my native Ghazna

Thy smile of favour fell,

How its blood, and toil, and treasure

Have been thine, thou knowest well!

Its Fiercest swell thine armies,

Its Fairest serve thy throne,

But in return hast thou not sworn

Our hearths should be our own?

That each man's private dwelling,

And each man's spouse and child,

Should from thy mightiest Satrap

Be safe and undefiled?

Just Allah! – hear how Mahmood

His kingly oath maintains! —

Amid the suburbs far away

I deemed secure my dwelling lay,

Yet now two nights my lone Serai

A villain's step profanes.

My bride is cursed with beauty,

He comes at midnight hour,

A giant form for rapine made,

In harness of thy guards array'd,

And, with main dint of blow and blade,

He drives me from her bow'r,

And bars and holds my dwelling

Until the dawning gray —

Then, ere the light his face can smite,

The felon slinks away.

Such is the household safety

We owe to thine and thee: —

Thou'st heard me first, do now thy worst,

Son of Sebactagi!"

What tongue may tell the terror

That thrill'd that chamber wide,

While thus the Dust beneath his feet

Reviled the Ghaznavide!

The listeners' breath suspended,

They wait but for a word,

To sweep away the worm that frets

The pathway of their Lord.

But Mahmood makes no signal;

Surprise at first subdued,

Then shame and anger seem'd by turns

To root him where he stood.

But as the tale proceeded,

Some deadlier passion's hue,

Now flushing dark, now fading wan,

Across his forehead flew.

And when those daring accents

Had died upon his ear,

He sat him down in reverie

Upon the musnud near,

And in his robe he shrouded

For a space his dreadful brow;

Then strongly, sternly, rose and spoke

To the Stranger far below —

"At once, depart! – in silence: —

And at the moment when

The Spoiler seeks thy dwelling next,

Be with Us here again."

Three days the domes of Ghazna

Have gilded Autumn's sky —

Three moonless nights of Autumn

Have slowly glided by.

And now the fourth deep midnight

Is black upon the town,

When from the palace-portals, led

By that grim Stranger at their head,

A troop, all silent as the dead,

With spears, and torches flashing red,

Wind towards the suburbs down.

On foot they march, and midmost

Mahmood the Ghaznavide

Is marching there, his kingly air

Alone not laid aside.

In his fez no ruby blazeth,

No diamonds clasp his vest;

But a light as red is in his eye,

As restless in his breast.

And none who last beheld him

In his superb Divan

Would deem three days could cause his cheek

To look so sunk and wan.

The gates are pass'd in silence,

They march with noiseless stride,

'Till before a lampless dwelling

Stopp'd their grim and sullen guide.

In a little grove of cypress,

From the city-walls remote,

It darkling stood: – He faced Mahmood,

And pointed to the spot.

The Sultan paused one moment

To ease his kaftan's band,

That on his breast too tightly prest,

Then motion'd with his hand: —

"My mace! – put out the torches —

Watch well that none may flee:

Now, force the door, and shut me in,

And leave the rest to me."

He spoke, 'twas done; the wicket

Swung wide – then closed again:

Within stand Mahmood, night, and Lust —

Without, his watching men.

Their watch was short – a struggle —

A sullen sound – a groan —

A breathless interval – and forth

The Sultan comes alone.

None through the pitchy darkness

Might look upon his face,

But they felt the storm that shook him

As he lean'd upon that mace.

Back from his brow the turboosh

He push'd – then calmly said,

"Re-light the torches, enter there,

And bring me forth the dead."

They light the torches, enter,

And bring him forth the dead —

A man of stalwart breadth and bone,

A war-cloak round him spread.

Full on the face the torches

Flash out – a sudden cry

(And those who heard it ne'er will lose

Its echo till they die,)

A sudden cry escapeth

Mahmood's unguarded lips,

A cry as of a suffering soul

Redeemed from Hell's eclipse.

"Oh, Allah! gracious Allah!

Thy servant badly won

This blessing to a father's heart,

'Tis not – 'tis NOT my son!

Fly! – tell my joy in Ghazna; —

Before the night is done

Let lighted shrine and blazing street

Proclaim 'tis not my son!

'Tis not Massoud, the wayward,

Who thus the Law defied,

Yet I deem'd that none but my only son

Dared set my oath aside:

Though my frame grew faint from fasting,

Though my soul with grief grew wild,

Upon this spot I would have wrought stern justice on my child.

I wrought the deed in darkness,

For fear a single ray

Should light his face, and from this heart

Plead the Poor Man's cause away.

Great Allah sees uprightly

I strive my course to run,

And thus rewards his servant —

This dead is not my son!"

Thus, through his reign of glory,

Shone his JUSTICE far and wide;

All praise to the First Sultan,

Mahmood the Ghaznavide