ABSTRACT
‘Prior to the conquest of Hindoostan, by the invincible Lion of the Lord, Timoor, (on whom be the blessings of the Apostle of God,) the princes and great men of that idolatrous nation sought to foreknow the event of the war, by consulting their false oracles and images: whereupon our blessed Prophet (may the shadow of his true faith be extended) caused them to receive answers which filled the hearts of those people of evil disposition with the fire of confusion, and placed the dust of apprehension upon their (impiously) exalted heads.’ –
Translation of a Persian Manuscript on the Wars of Timoor.
Ganges is rolling by its mighty tide; Broad and majestic the great river lies, Catching the Indian sunset’s countless dies; A nation’s veneration, hope, and pride. Oh! ’tis a beautiful sight to behold: 5 Each little wave as it ripples by, Curl’d by the gentle west-wind’s sigh, Seems a sapphire set in gold, – For bright beyond yon palm trees high, Like an isle of light in a ruby sea, 10 The sun is sinking gloriously; And many a sparkling, broken beam Bursts through the palms, to kiss the stream, Whose dazzling azure well may vie With the cloudless blue of the evening sky. 15 Hark! – ’tis the hour of evening prayer! And see! beneath yon dusky shade, By the sad and thick-leaved mangoes made, Where the bats hang clustering, And hyenas have their homes, 20 Where the wild flowers never spring, Or sun-shine never comes, What countless torches glare; Fronting the pure and lovely beams, That melt and mingle in the west, 25 With flickering and dusky gleams, Like those which Ghouls love best, 242When, at the hour of twilight gloom, The dead are laid in the new made tomb. Beneath their hot and swarthy light, 30 Through the sad black shade of the mangoe grove, That hangs as heavy and dark above, As the sky of a starless night; A vast procession winds along With conch, and drum, and solemn song; 35 Glancing red in the torches’ glow, Like a stream of half-cool’d lava tide, Which rolls down Tabat’s heaving side To the fathomless deep below. Yes, ’tis the hour of evening prayer; 40 And the tone of yon solemn strain, That floats through the twilight air, And dies o’er the distant plain, Proclaims that the Brahmins are there. – They weave in their mystic song 45 The Idol’s praises, whose fane Stands in the depths of the wood, – A lone sad place of blood, – And echoes them back again; And still, as they move along, 50 “Kali! Kali!” they cry, To the idolatrous multitude; “Kali, of the terrible eye! Which burneth what it rests upon, And turns brave hearts to stone; 55 Kali! preserver of the world Goddess of Victory!” Then from the mighty crowd, Like the voice of the angry sea, Or the bursting of a thunder-cloud, 60 The name is upwards hurl’d, Drowning the Brahmin’s song With trump, and drum, and gong, While a wild and terrible shout, Of “Blood, for Kali,” shakes the frantic rout. 65 How strange, in a scene so enchanting as this; A Garden of Irem,5 a Valley of Bliss, Where, on earth and in air, all is silence and rest To the beast in the field, to the bird in her nest; Man alone mars the peace-giving hour, 70 With the blood-stained rites of a terrible power: For all, save where yon thousands, prone 243Before their swarthy Idol’s throne, With dreadful mockery of prayer, An awful sacrifice prepare; 75 All else is calm, and bright, and still As moonlight on a summer hill. Calmly the sun goes down to rest, In the tranquil glow of the blushing west; Not in his gorgeous cloud pavilion 80 Of sapphire, gold, and deep vermillion; Woven by spirits of the gale, Who rush from many a ravaged vale, Around the sinking orb to form The phalanx of the coming storm; 85 But softly, as a dying strain Of music on the midnight main, Which steals upon the ravish’d ear, Like holy sounds, from another sphere; – So faintly breathes the evening-gale 90 That it can scarcely move the light And plumy bamboo, or the bright Broad glossy leaf of the plantain-tree, Though thin as beauty’s silken veil, Amidst the jasmine, climbing free, 95 It breathes, but stirs not on their stem Tose starry flowers, so pure and pale, Gems for a fairy diadem. The baubul6 spreads its luscious balm Far through the evening’s dewy calm, 100 Like that the dark-hair’d Houri flings In Paradise, from glittering wings; When waving before a martyr’s eyes, As his soul soars from holy strife To an eternal bliss and life, 105 They pale the rainbow’s richest dies. Calm is the twilight-heaven above, And calmly down, as if in love, The gentle twilight-dew descends Upon each little flower that lends 110 Its perfume to the breath of even, An incense pure from earth to heaven; Ah! wherefore should it mingling rise With that of yon dark sacrifice! The chaunt is hush’d, the blood is shed, 115 The victim’s last deep sigh hath sped. Ah! little thought that guileless child, 244When first the morning sun-beams met His laughing eyes, as gay he play’d Beneath the tamarind’s cool shade, 120 And deck’d his brow with flowers, and smiled, That he upon that brow should bear The victim’s mystic coronet, Or that a day so glad and fair, In such a night should set. 125 And now the Brahmin chief alone May advance to the Idol’s throne; That throne bedeck’d with gems, as bright As the meteor-lights that startle night; And precious as the jewels are 130 In the golden vaults of Chehil-meenar,7 The magic treasures of Jemsheid, From all but Genii-vision hid: Beryl and amethyst mingle there, The chrysolite, with the orient pearl, 135 And the diamond flashing free and fair, Like the glance of a dark eyed girl; And the ruby – Hold! those gleams of red, That seem with burning hues to shine, Above the richest of the mine, 140 Are from no jewels shed. They are fearful stains, that the diamond’s pride, Or the emerald’s beauty, cannot hide. The Brahmin bent him to the ground, In an agony of prayer, 145 While, from the circling multitude, – The thousands gather’d there, – Arose no breath of sound; But so watchfully and mute they stood, That ye might hear the hooded snake 150 Glide through the grass, to his haunt in the brake; Or the flapping wings of the bat, that flew Over the silent crew. Why do they watch so silently? Or why doth such an eagle glance 155 Of expectation light each eye, As the flame that quivers round a lance, When the thunder-storm rolls by? They watch, that the oracle may reveal 245Their country’s future woe or weal. – 160 ’Tis come! – ’tis come! – Through the temple pass’d The rushing sound of a mighty blast; And on all above, around, below, For a momentary space, there came, Unlike the light of earthly flame, 165 A deep and lurid glow. Then came a low despairing moan, Filling the temple, like the sigh Of night-winds breathing mournfully Through woods, when the storm is nigh: 170 And then a loud and thrilling tone, As if the trump of Israfail8 In heaven had been blown. ’Twas mingled with the clang of mail, And the hoarse voice of that arrowy hail 175 Which sounds above the din of battle. – That ceased; and then there was the rattle, As of a countless army’s quivers, And a rush like that of swollen rivers, With the ceaseless tramp of steeds and men, 180 ’Till the solid temple shook again, As though an earthquake pass’d, While o’er the altar there was driven A dim array of warrior-forms, With banners streaming, 185 And sabres gleaming, Mingled, as, in a land of storms, Clouds sweep across the vault of heaven, Before the midnight-blast. As yet they pass’d there rose a low 190 And melancholy voice of woe; “ Woe, royal Hindoostan! to thee! The star of thy prosperity Is sinking fast, the dark cloud comes, That shall o’erwhelm it!” – Hark! again, 195 The trumpet’s martial strain, And the thundering roll of drums! Louder and louder round the altar floats That warlike din, whilst, mingling with its notes, There rose a chorus, wild and high, 200 As the stormy voice of Victory; And, sweeping like a hurricane along, Thus, viewless forms pour’d the prophetic song. 246“Star of the Faith! to whom is given Vengeance and power from offended heaven, 205 In whose red hand the Mogul scimitar Gleams like an ominous meteor from afar, Whilst nations, cowering at the awful sign, Dread the just punishment of wrath divine; After whose courser’s desolating tread 210 No grass e’er grew, no flower flourished; Whose track is devastation, and whose voice Bids the war-demons o’er red fields rejoice; While Famine, Death, and Terror ride the gale. Lion of God! resistless Timoor, hail! 215 Hark! to his cymbals clashing, Hark! to his trumpet’s roar, Like the surge on a sea-cliff dashing; While the peal of his royal double drums, Striking the world with wonder, 220 Proclaims aloud – He comes! he comes! The messenger of power, With his right arm robed in thunder! He who can check the rocks that fall From the wild crags of rude Napaul; 225 Or stop the snowy mounds which break From Dhawalagiri’s giant peak; Or breast the vast Brahm-pootra’s force, When, tempest-swoll’n, the awful tide Pours to the sea in stormy pride; 230 Let him arrest the victor’s course. See, from before the imperial car, Humanity in terror fly, While gentle pity, from afar, With bleeding heart and tearful eye, 235 Shuns the red gleam of that unconquer’d steel, And shudders o’er the woes she cannot heal. As the bolt, from heaven sent in wrath, Scatters the clouds in its terrible path; As the sea that bursts on a level shore, 240 When the storm is up, and wild waves roar, 247O’erwhelming all with omnipotent power, The peaceful cot, and the lordly tower, To bear in its fierce retiring sweep The treasures of earth to the caves of the deep; 245 So burst his bands o’er Asia’s plain; Where a thousand glorious cities stood: – City ne’er shall rise again. – They rear’d their golden domes on high, Bright as stars in a summer sky: – 250 They sank in their children’s blood. – And lovelier still each valley smiled, By heaven given, by man arrayed, Now, they are deserts, lone and wild, Without a sign that human hand 255 Had ever touch’d the blackened land, Except with fire and blade. All is ruin in thy path, Timoor – messenger of wrath. Better o’er the land had passed 260 The Sassir’s deadly blast.9 – They come! they come! Each Tartar Horde, With its banners waving high. Allah akbar! – God is great! Their onset-shout, and battle-cry, – 265 ‘The Koraun, or the sword!’ Who may resist his fate? Grimly Attila smiles from a dark cloud, As the tiger glares on his prey, And mighty Genghis,10 of his offspring proud, 270 Cheers him on conquest’s way. – Hark! to the Attabal and Zel,11 He comes! the Irresistible! The sun of war, whose glorious light Beams brightest through the storm of fight. 275 Hark! to his drum, and his battle-call: Beauty and wealth for those who live, And every joy that earth can give; – Heaven for those who fall!” The bold triumphant song was still, 280 The voices pass’d away, As the mist, at dawn of day, Rolls from the face of a hill. The sun had set – the moon was high, Sailing in the summer sky: 285 Silently she floated through Her starry ocean of deep blue, Like a bark of opal, pure and bright, Upon a sapphire sea. The throng that was beneath her light 290 Departed mournfully. On the stillness of the night There broke no sound – save the dull beat On the short sward, of countless feet: No hum of parting voices came 295 Upon the evening air. As men bent down by shame, Each on his dewy path hath gone, Desponding, and alone. The temple of Kali alone is there, 300 With its dome, and its white walls, shining bright In that solitary place, by the clear moon-light. –