PART THE FIRST.

WHERE YEMEN, or Arabia the happy, borders on Arabia the deſert^*, among the BEDOWEENS, or paſtoral Arabs, Ahmed Kais was a diſtinguiſhed Schieck. His nu⯑merous [2] tents were ſtretched through many a green valley, while his innumerous herds told their maſter was now old, and in peace with the world. Ahmed in youth had been the moſt enterpriſing and predatory adventurer; Want had conducted him to Opulence, and Valour to Power: but in his Opulence there was no avarice, and in his Power there was no tyranny. His former life had conſiſted but of two kinds of days, the days of council and the days of combat; the hoſpitable man now found no other than feſtal days. Unknown to fame during his erratic youth, when his virtues became ſta⯑tionary, his magnanimous ſoul diffuſed itſelf in the domeſtic enchantments of peace; nor with the penurious feeling of age, was he negligent of that creative benevolence, that prodigality of mind, which is felt by the next generation. Old as he was, he ſtill planted young trees; and, full of glory, he ſtill ſought for ſolitary ſpots to open new foun⯑tains. [3] He was deſcribed by the poets to be bountiful as the rains of ſpring, warm as the ſun, and cheerful as the moon; the heart of Ahmed (they ſaid) has eſpouſed the whole Earth, and when he dies ſhe will wail in wi⯑dowhood.

Ahmed, without offspring, ſighed to per⯑petuate himſelf in his deſcendants; and mourned to think that the populous felicity his princely and ſolitary hand had created, ſhould be diſperſed with his laſt breath. At length he had a ſon, the ſolitary hope of his tribe. To this cheriſhed child he ſought to give all that inſtruction can communicate, and all that humanity can feel. He invited the ingenious and the learned to his tent. Shewing his boy to his people, he would exclaim, Enter, ye ſages, and bring your inſtruction; it is the only tribute we claim from ſages; or tell me where the prince can diſcover a ſage, and majeſty ſhall proſtrate itſelf before wiſdom!

[4] The revered name of the Effendi Lebid, the Perſian ſtudent, reached the ear of the Arabian chief. Lebid had choſen the tran⯑quillity of retirement; and when his name became every where celebrated, his perſon was unknown. He might have been ſeated with indolent glory in the chair of the royal Medraſſeh^* at Iſpahan, but he preferred to interrogate Nature in a ſublime Solitude. In the plains of Shinaar he had accurately meaſured a degree of the great circle of the earth; on the ſhores of the Boſphorus he had taught the deſpiſed inhabitants the arts of an invaluable fiſhery, and the voice of population broke along thoſe ſolitary ſkies. In benighted deſerts he diſcovered a path for the caravan, by the guidance of a friendly ſtar; and the ſame eye that traced the courſe of a ſtar, watched the growth of a flower. He gave to chemiſtry the alembic [5] which ſtill retains its Arabian extraction in its name. He had compoſed one of the Moallakat, or poems ſuſpended in the tem⯑ple of Mecca, and Arabia was delighted by the novelty of his diction, which was a fine uniſon of picture and of melody; it flowed with the confluent richneſs of the various tribes of Arabia; and ſelecting from every dialect its felicitous expreſſions, he poured an enchantment over every period. He en⯑riched the copiouſneſs of the Arabic, by the delicacy of the Perſian, and the fire of the Turkiſh muſe; and received the ſecret graces and the fine conceptions of his favourite poets, as iron often, attracted by the load⯑ſtone, catches ſome particles of the magnetic influence; and in touching the magnet be⯑comes itſelf a magnet.

Such was the Effendi Lebid, to whoſe Perſian academy reſorted thoſe young Ara⯑bians who were ambitious of acquiring Per⯑ſian literature, and habituating themſelves [6] to Perſian urbanity. Kais, the ſon of Ah⯑med, proved a pupil worthy of the precep⯑tor. About the ſame time, and nearly of the ſame age, was there placed the lovely Leila, the only daughter of an Emir^*.

The Effendi diſcovered in theſe early aſ⯑ſociated children that facility of diſpoſition which at once characteriſes genius, and a tender heart. Soon, without rivals in the academy, each was attracted to the other by a mutual admiration. Leila inſtructed her⯑ſelf by fondly repeating the leſſons of Kais, and Kais taught himſelf to retain whatever charmed Leila. With eaſy grace the ſtu⯑dious youth diſcloſed the moſt ſolemn truths, while the more touching and deli⯑cate ideas were diſcriminated by the quick ſuſceptibility of Leila. They loved to min⯑gle in the ſame taſks, and in the arts of imagination their gentle ſpirits perpetuated [7] their fineſt emotions. The verſe of Kais treaſured their moſt delicious ſenſations; from the wild intonations of Leila he often caught the air he compoſed; and when they united to paint the ſame picture, it ſeemed as if the ſame eye had directed the ſame hand.

They ſaw each other every day, and were only ſenſible to this pleaſure. Their mu⯑tual ſtudies became ſo many interchanges of tenderneſs. Every day was contracted to a point of time; months rolled away on months, and their paſſage was without a trace; a year cloſed, and they knew it but by its date. Already the firſt ſpark of love opened the heart of Kais; already he ſighed near the intendering form of Leila; already he liſtened for her voice when ſhe ceaſed to ſpeak, while her ſoft hand, paſſing over his own, vibrated through his ſhivering nerves.

Endearment was his occupation. He loved to conſider himſelf as her ſlave, and [8] playfully intreated to be chided by her charming voice. In the winter, as ſhe ſat beſide him, he burned the coſtly wood of aloes, and hung around perfumed tapers. The nails of her fingers he tinted with the ſofteſt bluſh of the roſe, and drew the dark line of the brilliant ſurmeh^* under her lids; which gave her eyes a ſhining and tremu⯑lous languor. He ſprinkled the ottar-gul^†, more precious than fluid gold, on her tiſ⯑ſued caftan^‡. He pounded rubies to mingle with her rich confection^§, and infuſed in [9] her repaſt the ſeed of the poppy, that ſhe might enjoy light ſlumbers, and awake with eyes luminous with pleaſure, and a glowing cheek that bore the ſoft veſtige of a ſoft dream.

In ſummer he blended the Turkiſh mag⯑nificence with the Perſian amenity. In his garden he had raiſed a fountain paved with the verdurous jaſper, and adorned with pillars of the red porphyry, and lead⯑ing up the waters over maſſes of white marble, they lightly tumbled along, fling⯑ing their ſpray in a ſoft caſcade. Near its cooling murmurs he built a pleaſant KIOSQUE^*. The water from the fountain was conveyed into conchs, fixed in the gilded fret-work of the ceiling, and now melodiouſly chimed along, and now fell daſhing from ſhell to ſhell. The columns were embelliſhed with moral ſentences from the Koran; while through the green trel⯑liſes he had ſo thickly woven a living ta⯑peſtry [10] of vines, of woodbines, of paſſion-flowers, and the triple-coloured roſes of Perſia, that the tender obſcurity of its chaſtiſed light threw over the garden-pav⯑lion ſomething like enchantment. Often our lovers felt there the charm of a deli⯑cious reverie, amidſt the flowers, the wa⯑ters, and the ſhades.

In this retreat he preſented her with ſher⯑bets covered with ſnows, and flavoured with the diſtilled dews of roſes; and ſpread before her thoſe pomegranates whoſe impalpable kernels diſſolved at the touch in a refreſh⯑ing and dulcet water^*. His garden ex⯑hauſted the ſplendid year of the Perſian Flora, and through the umbrageous wil⯑derneſs of flowers the eye could not find a paſſage to eſcape. Arbours, fountains, grottos, fruit-trees, and a labyrinth of walks, were all thrown together in a play⯑ful confuſion. The Zephyrs there waſted [11] a cloud of odours and a ſnow of bloſſoms. Beautiful ſpot! where, while the mind was occupied with meditating on ſome flowers and fruits, other flowers and fruits roſe to the eye, alternating the pleaſant thoughts. Beautiful ſpot! where no other regret was known than the thought of quitting thee!

Seated in the KIOSQUE, they would read the Perſian Tales. The tender eyes of Leila were ſometimes for a moment fixed on Kais, while a warm modeſt ſuffuſion coloured his ingenuous cheek. What taſte thou haſt diſplayed, Kais, (would Leila ſay) in the compoſition of this delicious ſcene; and how thou charmeſt me with thy tales! Thou makeſt my hours ſo pleaſant! Ah! what were life without romances and with⯑out a garden! Indeed, Leila, (would Kais reply) I have done little more than borrow thoſe hints from Nature, which to thoſe who ſtudy Nature ſhe indicates. The earth has been at once my canvaſs and my co⯑lours; and I have made it my PICTURE. [12] Where I found an amiable ſcenery, I opened the ſoliciting luxuriance; where, an em⯑bowering ſhade, I placed a ſeat; and where Nature wantoned with irregular fancies, I was careful not to baulk the charming ca⯑price: I have drawn no ſtraight lines, no formal ſquares, no ſmooth inſipidities. The heart, Leila, claims one ſpot in this univerſe for its attachment; and let it be an embel⯑liſhed garden, and rich fields of cotton and rice ſhall never cauſe me a ſigh.—Thou art right, Kais; in a garden it's labours are concealed by its pleaſures, and Art, which has touched every thing, never points its viſible finger. The ſenſes feel nothing but enjoyment. And I do think that gardens are favourable to lovers; for thou mayeſt ob⯑ſerve how, in thy tales, it is ever in a gar⯑den that lovers converſe with extreme ten⯑derneſs.—True, replied Kais; CASHMERE, the land of love, is one wondrous garden. It is haunted by the delicate forms of the PEIRI, ‘"gay creatures of the elements,"’ [13] whoſe pure natures are created of odorous ſubſtances; who veſt themſelves in the lu⯑cidity of light; adorn their heads with rainbow hues; bathe in the dews of the morning; and touch nothing more groſs than the vapour of fragrance. It is ſaid, that ſhould a lovely Peiri ſuffer one drop of her ambroſial ſaliva to fall on the earth, no human ſenſe could live in the poignancy of its perfume^*.—I have heard much (ſaid Leila) of Caſhmere; doſt thou be⯑lieve that the place exiſts?—Aſſuredly it does; but who equals Leila? I have never ſeen a Peiri! Thou knoweſt it is difficult [14] to gain admittance there; a happy man, who once did, gave me this deſcription of the Paradiſe of Love.

The Effendi was not inſenſible to the progreſs of a paſſion of which the lovers were too young to conceal the ſentiment, [26] and too innocent to fear the indulgence. Age had not chilled the gentle ſoul of Lebid, he renewed a delicious remembrance of the pleaſures of his youth in thoſe of our lovers; and enjoying their happineſs, fre⯑quently for the remuneration of Kais, he decreed a kiſs from the lips of Leila. He recited to them the tendereſt tales, where the divine paſſion of love prevailed over the ſenſe of death.

He thus narrated the tender ſtory of MES⯑RI and DELILAH. Meſri, that affectionate youth, was betrothed to the lovely Delilah. They were the GRACE of the claſſic SCHI⯑RAUZ; and the tender choir of SCHIRAUZ only ſang of them. Already the rich PAVI⯑LION flames; the BOWER is feſtooned, and the HYMENIAL AIR has preluded, to ſhame the protraction of the half-reluctant maid. On their nuptial day they were ſailing on the ſea. The crimſon veil of marriage co⯑vered the face of the maiden; the crimſon [27] veil at once tells THE HOUR OF JOY and THE BLUSH OF LOVE^*. Their friends, their parents, ruſh to the ſhore: their choral voices reſound hymns of love; and the lute, and the cymbal, and the harp, melt in varieties of harmony. The dancers, toil⯑ing to the timbrel, bound along the ſhore. How the wave laughs joyous to the fan⯑ning gale! How the painted bark glides continuous on the water! Never was the ſea ſo ſmooth, never was the ſun ſo bright! Ah! the ſongs, the dances ceaſe!—A WHIRLPOOL IS IN THE SEA!—Wheel⯑ing the flaſhing waves, the light bark darts round and round, and drops! THE LOVERS ARE IN THE SEA!—A friend toils to ſtretch the ſaviour hand to Meſri.—Alas! the beauty floats on the diſtant waves! and THE SAVIOUR HAND IS STRETCHED! But MESRI TURNS FROM LAND! He points to his beloved; he cries ‘"Learn not the tale [28] of love from the wretch who flies his miſ⯑treſs in the hour of danger. LEAVE ME, AND SAVE MY MAID!"’ He meets her in the midſt of the ſea; his arms embrace her on the deep; one farewell gleam played on her opening eyelids. THEY DRINK ONE WAVE ON THEIR BRIDAL BED! The whole world admires the ſpeech of Meſri.

With ſuch tales he nouriſhed their youth⯑ful hearts, and taught them the enthuſiaſm of paſſion. With the aged Effendi beſide them, they would ſtroll to gather THE FIRST ROSE OF SPRING, and watch its virgin and glowing bud, and gaze in fondneſs on its maturer bloom, and ſigh with the laſt breath of its departing ſweetneſs.^* With [29] roſes they wreathed the hoary head of the Effendi, and his dimmed eyes would then ſparkle with a lambent radiance like that of youth. He preſſed the young lovers to his heart, and exclaimed, looking on Leila, ‘"Ah, to whom will the ſmiling roſebuds of thy lips give delight! Oh ſweet branch of a tender plant, for whoſe uſe doſt thou grow^*?"’ Are they not mine? would Kais quickly reply, while his young eyes beamed with joy. Yes, they are mine! are they not, Leila?—Yes, the bluſhing maid re⯑plied; thine and the Effendi's.—As Leila ſtood near Kais, frequently the bloom of her complexion was fluſhed with a vermil glow, and the Effendi would compare the fair cheek of Leila, as ſhe ſtood near her lover, to the lily, that, placed too near the roſe, is crimſoned by its warm reflection.

[30] The mother of Leila obſerved that when ſhe quitted the academy of the Effendi, ſhe paced penſively, with reluctant feet; but on the day of her return, ſhe was ſeen tripping as ſhe went, with opening ſmiles, and light ſteps. Leila (ſhe ſaid) will become a cele⯑brated ſtudent; to me ſhe brings only a ſilent form embelliſhed by new graces; in the academy ſhe leaves her whole ſoul. At length the beauteous Leila ſeemed to mourn in the tents of her father, and, to concen⯑trate her thoughts, ſought a ſolitude of palm trees. The cautious mother com⯑manded the ſlaves, who accompanied her, to be vigilant over their miſtreſs, even to her eyes. Ah! the diſcovery was too eaſy! All was too faithfully reported to the pa⯑rents of Leila. They were told how the eyes of Kais were only occupied by the face of Leila, and how Leila never wan⯑dered from his ſide; and that in a magni⯑ficent Kioſque they paſſed their evenings reciting Romances.

[31] The father of Leila was a haughty Emir. The green turban which he wore as the deſcendant of Fatima, was inceſſantly before his eyes, and rendered his heart obdurate. He heard with indignation of the affection of our lovers, and conſidered that the vulgarity of the blood of Ahmed was not yet purified through an age of nobility. Poetry he conceived was a diabolical magic, of which though his ſanctity and his igno⯑rance preſerved him from the influence, he had heard was potent over the feeble heart of a woman. He recalled Leila; ſeverely repri⯑manded the ſufferer for cheriſhing an ignoble paſſion for a poet without a green turban; and aſſerting that no woman ſhould aſpire to be poetical: he added that terrible Perſian proverb uſed on theſe occaſions, ‘"When the hen crows like the cock, we muſt cut its throat^*."’ He hired a Derviſe to admo⯑niſh [32] her of the fate of an imprudent paſſion, and to remind her of her father's green turban; but the pompous admonition was unfelt by the enamoured beauty. The learned doctor was more ſkilled in genealogy than in eloquence; he received no other reply than the warmeſt tears, which he per⯑ſiſted to ſay were no arguments.

Kais, who adored his miſtreſs till her preſence had become a portion of his exiſt⯑ence, and whoſe ſoul beat with the pecu⯑liar vehemence of genius, had not been long ſeparated from Leila, when he found him⯑ſelf incapacitated to purſue his ſtudies. He who, at the feet of his maſter, had ſtood with his hands folded on his breaſt, to liſten with reverence to his dictates, now voluntarily rejected the ſtudious glories of the Medraſſeh. He wandered at times in his mind, and remembered nothing of the college but the affection he felt for the re⯑gent. He neglected his food; his whole frame was debilitated, and at times his [33] actions were extravagant: as if awakening from a long reverie, he ſeemed deſirous of eſcaping from his mental irritation by the efforts of his corporeal powers. The Ef⯑fendi ſaw, not without alarm, the energy of his paſſion; his pulſe was accelerated, his nights were ſleepleſs, and his whole frame was ſhaken by chilly fits or glowing heats, in the variation of his paſſions. To mention even the name of Leila was dan⯑gerous. He ſent Kais to his father, and warned him of his paſſion for Leila, but Ahmed ſolemnly forbid the alliance. The green-turbaned Emir was haughty for his deſcent; but Ahmed was haughty be⯑cauſe he was glorious without nobility, and derived his renown, not from men extinct in their graves, but from the living men around him.

In vain Ahmed forbid the paſſion of Kais; his nights only yielded dreams of love, and his voice only repeated amatory verſes. [34] Every day he compoſed ſome intendering poem, which was ſoon treaſured in the memories of his admiring Bedoweens. As he wandered among his tents, he liſtened to the recitation of his own verſes; the world ſeemed occupied by his paſſion. The name of Leila was echoed through a wide extent of country, and the poliſhed poetry of Kais then promiſed the immortality it has ſince obtained. His eminence as a poet was known to diſtant tribes; and in her paternal impriſonment Leila liſtened with complacency to verſes painting her beauties and reſounding her virtues; the immortal rhimes waſted his eternal ſighs, and as they were carolled by the traveller, to her the whole world ſeemed to be the witneſſes of his affection.

One of his ſmaller poems, compoſed about this time, was the following one, in which the Nightingale perſonifies the Poet:

[38] At a ſolemn banquet held in the tents of Ahmed, to celebrate the riſing geniuſes of his tribe, and at which the Effendi aſſiſted, the Chief preſided. Although a military man, he patronized theſe exerciſes of genius and intellectual combats, in which Arabia gloried. He ſat on an elevated ſeat, under an umbra⯑geous [39] geous platane, ſurrounded by the judges. On each ſide were four copious vaſes filled with gold and ſilver; and as he was pleaſed, and they approved, he put his hands into the vaſes and diſtributed his rewards in propor⯑tion to the merit of each candidate. To ſome he conveyed a handful of ſilver for their encouragement; to others he meaſured his gold, to excite their emulation; while ſometimes he would riſe from his ſeat, and empty, in the rapture of pleaſure, an over⯑flowing vaſe^*. But when the public ſhouts diſtinguiſhed Kais among his peers, Ahmed ſlowly raiſed his venerable form, a tear glim⯑mered in the old warrior's eye, he ſtroked his beard, and ſpoke;—Alas, my friends! why do ye celebrate the glory of my ſon? Ill is the divinity of poetry obtained, if its inſpired poſſeſſor is miſerable in proportion to his glory. Ye, too cheriſhed ſenſibilities, [40] whoſe fine point is agony! ye dwell not with peace! Kais is indeed a nightingale, and Leila his Roſe; but ye have ſeen the minſtrel of Spring inhaling to ebriety its fragrant ſoul; the more mellifluous his pa⯑thetic ſong, the more his boſom leant on the piercing thorns: ah! he ſings but to bleed, he leans but to faint; he

Believe me, my friends, the poet, the tender poet, is like the rich perfume, which, the more it is cruſhed, the more deliciouſly yields its odours. Is Kais a ſuperior genius? Envy will darken the path of his glory. Is it not the tree luxuriant in fruit at which we throw ſtones?—Ahmed, replied the Ef⯑fendi, the glory of Yemen is Kais. Behold him! a herald of fame ariſes to immortaliſe your tribe. Already inſcribed in characters of gold, his poems are ſuſpended on the Caaba; and who, having read them, ſhall dare to place his own rhymes on the ſame [41] column? The people echoed, Happy, thrice happy Ahmed! the verſes of Kais give grace to thy name!—But Ahmed felt as a father, and dropt another tear at the glory of his ſon.

The acclamations of the people covered the declining face of Kais with one bluſh, but the pulſe of his heart throbbed with a tumultuous ſenſation. That night the ſenſi⯑bilities of love and fame gave to his bed a diſturbed repoſe, a thouſand dreams. Deep in his ear yet reſounded the echoes of the multitude, when the glare of the ſun diſ⯑perſed the grateful darkneſs, and with the darkneſs his thouſand dreams.

The exanimate frame of Kais had waſted in ſilence. He could no longer ſuffer ſepa⯑ration from Leila, and projected means by which he could be admitted into her tent. Leila, he well knew, loved to be her own almoner, and when her hand relieved, her voice conſoled. Miſery had ſufficiently diſ⯑guiſed his features, and Melancholy had [42] ſhaded his face with a religious ſemblance; he dreſſed himſelf in the humble garb of a Mevleheh derviſe, whoſe practices he had learnt^*, and approached the tent of Leila. To attract the attention of her ſlaves, he whirled himſelf with great velocity on one foot, and held a red hot iron between his teeth; and ſometimes with the Neh, or tra⯑verſe flute, ſo muſically warbled his wild and enthuſiaſtic notes, that the ſlaves ſoon approached him. They pitied his piety and admired his muſic; till exhauſted by pain and fatigue, he fell on the earth, and ſeemed to faint. They raiſed the proſtrate derviſe; and although they well remembered the blooming Kais, they knew not the deſpond⯑ing lover. The derviſe ſaid, he was more faint with his toiling march than his pious [43] rite.—Our miſtreſs (ſaid one of the ſlaves) has commanded us to make her abode the tent of thoſe who have no tent.—Who is thy miſtreſs?—Haſt thou not heard of Leila, the beloved of Kais, the ſon of Ahmed? His verſes have reſounded in thine ear, or thou haſt no ear for verſes.—Tell thy miſ⯑treſs I heard one ſinging the name of Leila in the deſert as I paſſed.—Oh! as for that, they are ſung every where; every one who has a heart, ſoon finds a memory for the verſes of Kais.

The ſlaves returned with Leila, who in one hand held ſome pillau in a wooden platter, with hot cakes taken from the living embers, and in the other a bardak^* of fair and gelid water. Preſenting the alms to the pilgrim, the derviſe turned aſide, utter⯑ing a profound ſigh. Leila looked in his face; ſhe knew her lover, and tears burſt from her eyes.—How thou art miſerable, oh [44] derviſe! ſhe exclaimed, while turning aſide ſhe whiſpered, Beloved Kais! how are thy features altered! thine eye without a beam of beauty, thy cheek without a ſhade of colour!—I was periſhing for one look from thee (he re⯑replied); couldſt thou but feel my fluttering heart, how faithful its pulſe! Do I not find thee conſtant? Speak, ſpeak! calm me with thy aſſurance.—We are watched (Leila an⯑ſwered):—how terrible is thy ſuſpicion! O Kais! I have heard all thy verſes, and thou haſt all my ſighs. Proceed thy journey, holy derviſe (ſhe raiſed her voice); give a virgin thy prayers, and I will think of thee; 'tis believed the chaſte thoughts of virgins are acceptable to Heaven as the prayers of holy men.—In turning away, ſhe preſented her hand from behind her; he impreſſed it with a fervent kiſs, and departed, ſaying, Leila, we ſhall ſoon meet again.

This ſtolen interview reſtored Kais to himſelf, and he renewed his invention in another diſguiſe, by which he conceived [45] he might again converſe with his miſtreſs. There was, not diſtant from her tent, a green valley, where the traveller would reſt after bathing in its dark grove, where the ſhining ſtreamlet rolled between banks of oleanders and juniper ſhrubs. Kais ob⯑ſerved at that ſpot, under the ſhade of an umbrageous plane-tree, at mid-day, the de⯑vout Muſſulman, after his ablutions, iſſue from the grove, ſpread his carpet, proſtrate himſelf, and, in ‘"the ſtill ſmall voice"’ of piety, repeat his prayers. Here, under the luxuriant canopy of the tree, he raiſed a temporary ſhed, placed a ſmall ſtove, and dealt out his coffee to refreſh the paſſenger. He ſpread on his table the largeſt melons and the moſt juicy pumpkins. All day our coffee-dealer tinkled a tambourine and touched a ſantoor or pſaltery, ſinging Ara⯑bian ſongs or recounting Perſian tales. Never yet had the keeper of a coffee-ſhed obtained ſuch celebrity; certainly no one was a finer muſician. Every one reſorted there to drink [46] coffee, to liſten to his verſes and to his tam⯑bourine, and to expreſs their ſurpriſe, how ſuch a genius ſhould be content to boil cof⯑fee. Alas! every one came but Leila! She, Kais at length diſcovered, was a captive, and not permitted to wander from the confines of her father's tents. As ſoon as he knew this, he inſtantly left his ſhed ſtanding, with the coffee-ſtove and the muſical inſtruments, affixing on it an inſcription, purporting, that they were left for that perſon who, though he might not acquire the glory of a muſi⯑cian, was willing to become uſeful in boiling good coffee.

Nothing remained but the perilous expe⯑dient of penetrating into the very tent of Leila. Since his laſt interview there was a gaiety in his diſpoſitions, which now induced him to aſſume the character of a perfumer and confectioner. He filled his baſket with thoſe delicacies which might ſerve as bribes for the ſlaves of Leila. He appeared at the tent. His baſket was nicely arranged with [47] perfumed waſh-balls, ſweet-ſcented flowers, candied citrons, and cryſtal phials of ottar⯑gul. The firſt ſlave he met he preſented with a perfumed waſh-ball.—And how many aſpers, ſaid ſhe, doſt thou charge for this ball?—It is thine for thy black eyes! Kais replied, and paſſed on.—What a handſome perfumer this, cried the ſlave as ſhe kept her eye on the waſh-ball. He met a ſecond, whoſe taſte was attracted by his fruit.—I never ſaw (ſhe exclaimed) citrons ſo enor⯑mouſly beautiful and ſo deliciouſly candied; ah! they are not for a ſlave's tooth!—Take them (ſaid Kais); I give them to thee that thou mayeſt introduce me to the chief ſlave. I have ſilks to offer; the Bazár of Cairo has none ſuch.—I am afraid (ſhe replied) thou art more handſome than generous; but I thank thee for thy citrons: I ſuppoſe thou meaneſt to gain a great deal by thy ſilks? The old ſlave appeared; ſhe had a ponder⯑ous form and a hoarſe voice; eyeing the lovely Kais, abruptly ſhe cried, What ſmil⯑ing [48] evil bringeſt thou? Thy handſome face, thy odoriferous eſſences, and thy candied citrons, are to bewilder the hearts of young ſlaves, but me thou ſhalt not paſs. My miſ⯑treſs is not of thoſe who want thy pernicious luxuries. She was proceeding, when Kais held to her a phial of Schirauz glaſs filled with the ottar-gul. The eye of the old ſlave gliſtened at the coſtly eſſence.—That is not the true eſſence, ſhe cried. He cruſhed the precious phial, and the liquid odour flowed about her dreſs.—Unlucky boy! ſhe ſoftly murmured, ſighing as the full and fragrant incenſe crept over her ſenſes; her bulky body ſunk gently to the earth, half-cloſing her ſwimming eyes, her quivering lips yield the feeble cry of a fainting voluptuary. Kais glides into the tent^*.

[49] Entering he beholds Leila; ſhe is recit⯑ing aloud one of his poems, whoſe volume, embelliſhed with ſome fanciful arabeſques painted by her own hand, lies unrolled be⯑fore her. A fine tremor runs through his frame in gazing on her, and it is ſome mo⯑ments before he can find a voice, to continue the verſe ſhe begins. She ſtarts, ſhe turns, [50] ſhe views her Kais! He tells her all, inter⯑rupting his narrative by many an enamour⯑ing kiſs. The eyes of Kais are brilliant with love; but Leila trembled with ſad forebod⯑ings, and ſhe lamented how the ardour of genius had, in this inſtance, prevailed over its ſagacity.

Beloved Kais, ſhe cried, thy gay magnifi⯑cence betrays thy humble concealment; and thou haſt been more generous, than inge⯑nious.—But Kais in the preſence of his miſ⯑treſs forgets all danger, and Leila, as her eyes dwelt on the long-abſent face of Kais, talked of the peril, till her words, in a ſoft confuſion, murmured without meaning.

In the mean while the ſlaves aſſemble round their half-fainting chief, who ſcarcely retains her ſenſes in a reverie of odour. This laſt mu⯑nificence explained the myſterious liberali⯑ties of the unknown perfumer; they now re⯑collect his features, and the alarm is ſpread.

The green-turbaned Emir ruſhes into the tent. He views the amiable Kais ſupport⯑ing [51] Leila; one glance attaches their eyes. The poem, Leila had been reading, lies aban⯑doned with the baſket of perfumery. A harſh thunder breaks over the lovers, ab⯑ſorbed in paſſion; it was the Emir's voice. They awake into conſciouſneſs; ſcarcely has the delicious phantom of happineſs taken a form, ere it periſhes! Leila ſhrieks; her ſlender arms tremble round the neck of Kais, and her face conceals itſelf in his boſom, while Kais raiſes a humble, yet firm regard, on the Emir. The green-turbaned deſpot at firſt could only indicate his paſſion by ferocious geſtures, and with eyes red with rage, and lips quivering without articula⯑tion, his foot violently ſpurned at the baſket of perfumery that lay at the feet of Leila; while his hand graſping the immortal poem, tore the roll, powdered with gold duſt, and ſcattered the perfumed and painted manu⯑ſcript in the air^*.

[52] At length his foaming lips found a voice. Is it then with perfumes that the magnifi⯑cent Kais bribes? Is it with a ſong that he deludes a ſimple virgin? And thou haſt dared to ſteal into the tent of an Emir? Shall the plunderer of caravans pollute, with his impious embraces, the deſcendant of Fatima? Spirit of Mahomet, wilt thou that our glory end in a fooliſh maiden, a ſoul-leſs being, who has yielded her heart becauſe her ear is muſical?

Leila had fallen to the ground; ſhe co⯑vered her face with her hands, and her lips touched the ſandals of her father. Impelled by ſympathy, Kais inconſciouſly proſtrated himſelf; but with an air of dignity, and in [53] a tone not accordant with his ſoftening words, the ſuppliant lover ſpoke:—

Noble Emir! deem not that the paſſion of thy daughter has been obtained by the incantation of words. Ere I yet knew to give cadence to a verſe, our ſighs reſponded; believe me, we are none of thoſe who have ſpoken of love, ere we loved. Our paſſion was not kindled by the lightning of a glance, nor maddened by a ſet of features; it was a pure pleaſure, that we firſt caught from the perfection of mind. Our thoughts mingled, and our hopes roſe, ere we felt the diſtinc⯑tion of ſex; and Leila was as my ſiſter, ere I loved her as my miſtreſs. Is there a paſſion ſo invincible as that of love, formed almoſt in childhood? Nature then adds to our in⯑clinations her own ſweet habitudes; and it becomes, as it were, a double paſſion. And ſhall a father tear his daughter from an em⯑brace that Nature has made holy?—De⯑ſcendant of Fatima! Is humility held to be [54] a vice in thy race? Come not the nobleſt race from the humbleſt origin? The lovely fountain of Juvencia hides not its head among flowers and ſunſhine, but amidſt ruſhes and darkneſs. The great Prophet, like myſelf, was of an obſcure birth; and arrogance never marked the camel-driver. Noble Emir! thy father was a ſon of peace, my father is a ſon of war; Honour wreathed thy cradle, Opulence pillowed the bed of my infancy: Thou wert born illuſtrious, I to become illuſtrious; the glory of thy race devolved to thee, the glory of mine proceeds from me.—Is the difference eſſential? Smile but on the ſon of Ahmed, and behold we are both illuſtrious.

The haughty Emir diſdainfully glanced on the pleading lover, and marking his per⯑fumer's dreſs, replied,—Deceiver of the eye! thou canſt only triumph over a woman: nor honour nor diſhonour proceed from the ſex, who are born only to dreſs, to prattle, [55] and to procreate. Robber of the deſert! return, for ever return to thy father, and tell him that I have ſuffered thee to exiſt.

While the proud father ſpoke, Kais had gradually changed his ſupplicatory poſture, and when his invective cloſed, ſtood before him erect in dignity. He replied but by a ſilent glance ſo fraught with a conſcious ſu⯑periority, that the appalled deſpot ſhrunk with receding ſteps into the midſt of his people. There he ordered to ſecure Leila. She lay on the ground abandoned to grief, and uttered a loud ſhriek. Kais turning towards her, they exchanged glances. De⯑ſpair writhed the ſoft features of Leila; her eyes were haggard, and her arms ſtretched to her lover; paſſion, pity, and indignation, ſtruggled in the breaſt of Kais. He graſped her hand; once more he felt it on his lips. Torn from his contending arms, their eyes parted not, till at the extremity of the tent he ſaw her diſappear, and in ſilent agony [56] he for ſome time fixed his eyes on that ex⯑tremity, watching the wavy motions of the tent, and catching every dancing ſhadow, every undulation of light. His fixed glance was terrible; and one might perceive by its ardour, and the emotions of his geſtures, that he ſtill thought he was converſing with the departed Leila.

At length a ſlow and deep ſigh heaved his breaſt. He ſtruck with his clenched hands his burning temples, that throbbed as he preſſed them; he paced vehemently around the tent, and then pauſing as if a ſudden paſſion had changed his emotions, he flung himſelf on the ground; and there more mild, more ſubdued, more tender, he poured copious tears; and all-conſcious of the paſt ſcene, he again proſtrated himſelf, and again ſtretched his ſuppliant hands. He ſhuddered, as the horrid ſilence only re⯑turned his melancholy voice: he raiſed his eyes, and beheld himſelf in ſolitude!

[57] Already through the tents of the Emir the fate of our lovers was known. The fame of Kais accompanied him wherever he went, and wherever the poet wandered he found in his admirers, ſympathiſing companions. Scarcely was the event known, than the public anxiety turned entirely on their che⯑riſhed bard. They aſſembled in haſte, and were divided into little knots of people. Among them was an hoary traveller, who was diſtinguiſhed by a tuft of plaited hair, which, when it hung looſe, trailed on the ground, and he wore it wrapt about his head inſtead of a turban. What was re⯑markable, it was not his own hair, but formed of the relics of his friends, from every one of whom he had affectionately collected a handful of hair, which he had interwoven with his own. It was in this manner the traveller had memoriſed their affections^*.

[58] Whenever this old man ſpoke every one was ſilent; and now being obſerved to have riſen, the little knots of people immediately melted into one crowd, and aſſembled around him. He waved his hand, and ſtilled their generous confuſion. He ſpoke.—Let us weep for Leila all our days; for what hope awaits the daughter of a mercileſs ſire? But for Kais we muſt do ſomething more than weep; for he is ſo much the unhap⯑pier, that he is at liberty to wander. Ah! where will Kais wander? He will lie down in the ſtony deſert, till ‘"he forgets himſelf to ſtone."’ But he has all the vehemence of genius: Ah, then, he may grow wild! Kind Heaven preſerve the poet from mad⯑neſs!—A hundred voices exclaimed, ‘"Let us haſten to Kais!"’—Friends (continued the venerable man), if ye crowd around the en⯑thuſiaſt, ye will ſeem to intrude on his grief; he will gaze on ye as if ye came in mockery; ye will make wildneſs more wild. Such is the tremulous boſom of genius! when once [59] its generous feelings are injured, it becomes ſuſpicious and miſanthropical. Truſt me, I was once the companion of a Poet, and I have learnt to reverence the ſorrows of divine men. Solitude alone ſoothes their ſublime ſouls. Would ye heal his hurted ſpirit? indulge it. Would ye ſoften his melan⯑choly? let a friend participate it. Would ye conſole the wretchedneſs of the ſenſitive being? let him feel that there is one who has made that wretchedneſs his own. I am old, but the nerves of my heart are tender as infancy when it firſt receives the ambient air that wounds it. I too have been a poet; I too have had my griefs. Let me conduct the wanderer to the tents of his father: he will not quit me, though my ſteps are feeble and the journey long. No, he will not quit me; for he ſhall take no perception of time, while over the toiling path of the enthuſiaſt my tongue ſhall ſpread its innocent deceit in diſcourſing of Leila and of Nature, the inſpirers of his verſe!

[60] The hoary ſage enters the tent. He views Kais on the ground, his hands covering his face, his arms reſting on one knee, while the other was violently writhed behind him; tor⯑ture and deſpair were in his attitude. The old man crept along in ſilence, and ſtood be⯑fore him; Kais raiſed his eyes on the reverend form. He ſpoke not; the old man was ſilent. Kais again covered his face with his hands, and the old man ſighed. Kais looked in his face, there were tears in the wrinkles of his cheek. Kais ſtretched his hand to the old man, and their hands were joined.—Is not Age ſpared in theſe ruthleſs tents? ſaid Kais. I have grief enough to make Youth grow old in a day. But what grief is thine, venerable man! that can give to thy pithleſs age the ſcalding tear of youth?

The venerable man replied,—Kais, divine youth! I am a lover of thy verſes; often have thy emotions made my breaſt more capacious. And now I ſee thee, how muſt I weep for thee! Thou knoweſt the eyes [61] of age diſtil not artificial tears; whom has an old man to flatter? We have nothing more to hope: but, Alla be praiſed! I have not outlived my humanity. It is for Kais I ſigh.

Good old man, I thank thee: never till now have I found pleaſure in the ſigh of an old man. Doſt thou know where they have hurried Leila?—The eyes of Kais turned wildly to the extremity of the tent.

Kais, wilt thou accept the conſolation of a fraternal heart? Who knows not Leila? Who remembers not thy verſes? And much have I to talk of the blooming maid. But reſt not in theſe tents; thy father mourns thy abſence.

Thou haſt ſpoken well, ſaid Kais: already had I forgotten my father and my friends! A mild, ſubdued tone of ſorrow expreſſ⯑ed his gratitude.—Thou haſt ſpoken well; it befits me not to reſt here a helpleſs ſuf⯑ferer.—Waving his hand, he roſe ſlowly, his eye kindled, and pauſing as he ſtept along, [60] [...] [61] [...] [62] he cried,—I will haſten to my tents; I will call three thouſand faithful Bedoweens; their ſabres will fly from their ſheaths. Sabres! Ah! what have I ſaid? Leila would never pardon the murderer of her father! The father of Leila may ſpurn at the degraded Kais; for while he treats me as he treats Leila, ſhall I murmur? Love has made me like the ſandal tree, which ſheds ſweetneſs on the axe that wounds it. I thank thee, old man; I will not return to my father: I will ſit here, contemned and abandoned.

Indulging the rapid changes of his diſor⯑dered mind, the old man at length lured him from the tent of the haughty Emir. He talked as he journeyed of Leila and his verſes; and through the ſolaced ear of Kais awoke the fineſt vibrations of his harmoni⯑ous heart. Love and glory ſeemed to ac⯑company the ſteps of the enamoured poet. The old man one day pulled down his lengthened hair, and telling him at times, as he pointed at the intermingled treſſes, of [63] the many hiſtories it remembered him, he entreated a handful from the locks of Kais, that he might ſtill add another relic to the ten⯑der memorial of friendſhip.—I have choſen (he ſaid) a pilgrim's path in life, becauſe it is pleaſantly diverſified; and I did not chooſe that the ſtream of my life ſhould be a ſtag⯑nant pool, but a river wandering in ſunſhine and in ſhade. The occupation of my life has been to acquire the friendſhip of great and of good men: with every one I found ſome new talent of the mind, or virtue of the heart; and my intelligence was enlarged, and my emotions became more pure. I have repeated my exiſtence in that of my friend; and I have preferred the paſſion of friendſhip to that of love; for Friendſhip can be participated, but Love has but one object. Friendſhip is a torch, which will light other torches without waſting itſelf; but Love, like a ſepulchral lamp, is extin⯑guiſhed in the ſolitary tomb.—Kais ſighed, [64] and, after a pauſe of thought, replied:—I had a HEART, and I could not help loving the moſt lovely. She was as AMBER, and I but as STRAW; ſhe TOUCHED me, and I ſhall ever CLING to her^*. Thou canſt not blame my affection for Leila. She took my young heart in her hand, and breathed over it; her mind created my mind; and to render me worthy of herſelf, ſhe firſt taught me the love of glory. I was once in the bath, and they gave me a piece of ſcented clay^†. It was more than fragrant. And I aſked of it,—Art thou pure muſk, or ambergris? for thy ſcent delights my ſoul. It anſwered,—I was but COMMON EARTH till I lived in the company of my ROSE; then every day I be⯑came ſweeter, till all her aromatic ſpirit was [65] infuſed into mine. Oh! had I not lived WITH MY ROSE, I ſhould ſtill have been but A LUMP OF EARTH!

They reach the tents of Ahmed, and the rejoicing Bedoweens crowd around their returning lord, while the old man haſtens to the venerable chief to relate the afflictions of Kais. The eyes of the mother of Kais are filled with maternal tears. Ahmed frowned at the ignoble artifice of his ſon; he ſtarts at the contumely he ſuffered, and impatiently draws his ſabre; but his aged arm trembles with feebleneſs and anger, and the ſabre drops. He calls his ſon:—Kais! Kais! Haſt thou loſt the glory of our tribe for a woman? Avenge me on an inſulting enemy; take the ſabre my childiſh arm can no more wield.

Kais ſighed,—I cannot ſtrike at the father of Leila!

Degenerate youth! in the balance of life thou weigheſt beauty againſt honour! Thou haſt become a METIM^*. Mahomet! haſt [66] thou given me a ſon to cruſh thy ſervant to his grave? What ablution have I neglected? what ramazan have I broken, when I have trod a parched ſoil with parched lips? I made myſelf a race, and lo! a ſon has come like the peſtilence of Cairo! I will ſtrike my tents! Diſperſe, ye happy Bedoweens! ſeek other vales! for here your lord was born, and here firſt ye have known diſhonour!

Diſtraction was in the ſoul of Kais. The reproaches of his father, and the inalterable affection for Leila, raged with a force equal and oppoſed. He ſunk before him; he em⯑braced his knees: the voice of Ahmed was ſtifled by his emotions: he raiſed his hand to repulſe his fainting ſon, but in touching his face, it trembled, and it dwelt there. The mother of Kais bent on one knee to ſupport her ſon, while one hand was locked in the hand of her venerable hero. The [67] crowded tent was moved. The low hollow murmurs of the ſympathiſing Bedoweens were heard: it was an electrified ſilence. They gently ſeparate the ſon from the father and the mother; themſelves clung to each other without motion, like a ſculptured groupe.

Retired, the ſenſibilities of Kais aſſumed all their energy, and the paſſions divided his ſoul. Love, with ſeducing blandiſhment; Honour, with a more ſolemn, but feebler power; and Glory obſcurely breaking in a diſtant age. But Memory, affectionate me⯑mory, awoke that domeſtic tenderneſs which is the rival of Love itſelf. As he thought of his parents, he pauſed in the tumult of his heart.—Have ye not adored my infancy! (he cried) Have ye not reared me to glory! Was I not the treaſured hope of your age? Yes; I was that futurity to ye which can render every paſſing day even precious to old age. I was the pride of a brave father, the exiſtence of a tender mother; and now [68] ſhall one paſſion eradicate all paſſions?—He recoils from the terrible thought; he haſtens to throw himſelf on the paternal boſom. Leila riſes in his reverie, imaged in ſoftneſs, conſtant in affection, and celeſ⯑tial in her virgin beauty. He groans, he weeps, and throws himſelf on the earth.

He ſat motionleſs, and mute, and ab⯑ſtracted. His companions glided into his tent, each ſtudious to win him from de⯑jection; but with various men he was ſtill the ſame man. There was no life in his fixed and glazed eye, ſave at times a lin⯑gering tear, that, hermit-like, ſtole ſoli⯑tary from its cell. His mother ſat beſide him in ſilence; her eye followed his eye. Sometimes he ſat in the vertical ſun, inſen⯑ſible of the unmitigated day, till his mo⯑ther with his favourite gazel followed him; while often, unobſerved by Kais, above his head ſhe twined the adorning tamarind, that waved its ſhade before his tent, with the luxuriant boughs of the In⯑dian [69] fig-tree. The gazel would frequently lift her tender eyes on him; but her looks were unnoticed: ſhe would lick his hand till ſhe awakened him from his reverie; for a moment he fixed his eyes on her, waved his head, and gently turned her away. At times he chaunted incoherent verſes, ram⯑bling from thought to thought with a wild and pathetic ſweetneſs. Ever he deſcanted on the eternity of Love, while the ſad return of his lay ſtill repeated the ruthleſs nature of fathers. His melancholy was yet mild, and while his heart bled, it ſeemed patient.

Another change ſucceeded. From a total ſtupor to the paſſing ſcene, he awoke to its minuteſt perception. He not only ſaw what was before him, but through the vividneſs of imagination he ſaw more; of every one ſuſpicious, but moſt of his ſuffering mother, ever beſide him. He remembers ſyllables, he meditates on geſtures; ſometimes a ſenſe of his diſhonour ſtole acroſs his mind; he felt how Love had defrauded him of Glory. [70] Every paſſion however was tranſient, but that paſſion; every object failed to impreſs his mind, but the image of Leila; to his viſionary eye that form was brilliant in the light of the ſun, and that form moved among the waving ſhadows of the moon.

He could no longer ſupport the eye of the world. In his tortured ſenſations, his language was inhuman. He called his mo⯑ther the wife of his father, but no relative of her child; and he ſurlily diſmiſſed his friends, one by one, for capricious, but in⯑veterate diſlikes. Sometimes his anger was loquacious, his taunt bitter, his repartee cauſtic, while at times he was obſtinately mute; but his ſilence concealed not the diſ⯑order of his intellect, for then the vacillations of his countenance, and the gliſtening and rapid movements of his eye, expreſſed his phrenzy.

Reſtleſs even to agony, melancholy even to fondneſs, romantic even to delirium, the world weighed heavy on his heart; that [71] world he ſhook off lightly, and, in a quiet deſpair, ſtole away from all humanity.

The full moon hung over the tent of Kais in a flood of light. He ſtole from his tent, liſtening to his own footſteps. He gazed; nothing moved but the gliding ſha⯑dows. In the vaſt ſilence Heaven and Earth repoſed. The moonlight ſcenery touched his melancholy heart. In its ſemi-day he views the tall tents, part froſted over by its white beams, part illumined by a yellower light.—Bleſſed MOON! (cried Kais) in thy repoſing light every thing is perceptible, while I am unperceived! Sweet and tem⯑pered LIGHT! how thou penetrateſt my heart! how thou draweſt the tears from mine eyes!

He ſtarts; he hears approaching ſounds.—'Tis (exclaimed the melancholy and fanciful Kais) but the Zephyr kiſſing the reverend head of that tall palm-tree that nods, while each ſolitary leaf finds a voice in ſuch a ſilence!

[72] Still ſome footſteps diſturb the viſionary.—They have tracked me! he cried. He turned round, he beholds his favourite gazel, that had followed him. He kiſſes her beautiful eyes, he gazes on the ſenſi⯑bility of her phyſiognomy, he fancies ſhe ſighs, and he weeps over her neck.

Tender companion! (he cries) return to the abandoned tent of thy maſter! O! thou who haſt the eyes of Leila, pierce not my ſoul with thy intendering look; entice me not to return. Domeſtic beauty! dwell in the hollow and green boſom of the valley: Ah! let not thy form of delicate elegance, thy ſlender ſilver feet, thy dark brilliant eyes, lively and timid as thou art, follow an exile; for, truſt me, Beauty will periſh with Deſpair for its fellow-wanderer.—Again he embraces his mute friend: a big tear rolled down the brown forehead of the antelope.—Thou weepeſt! Who weeps for Kais but his gazel? Let us part. Fly me! Thou wert created to live the day of pleaſure: mine [73] has cloſed! The antelope perſiſted in fol⯑lowing the footſteps of his delirious maſter; and they eſcape from the paſtoral ſcenes of the happy Arabia, and wander in the ſtony ſoil of the deſert.

Scarcely had the ſun riſen ere the wakeful mother of Kais haſtened, as of late accuſ⯑tomed, to her ſon's tent. She enters, and ſhe ſhrieks. They fly to her from the near tents, and the venerable Ahmed was not among the laſt.

Miſerable being! (cried the mother to Ahmed) behold thy ſon flown from thy ruthleſs auſterity! Haſt thou murdered my child? Yet, yet be kind, and ſend thy ſabre to my boſom. A mother ſhould not ſurvive the loſs of her adored child. Alas! all has paſt for me! I bear no other children in my womb. Hot are the tears that ſcorch the cheeks of a mother left without offspring; but I weep not. Oh, Ahmed! thou haſt given me the grief, that is not relieved by tears.

[74] Fond, deſpairing woman! feebly exclaimed the old chief, ſobbing convulſively, as the ideas of his own auſterity, and his ſon's de⯑ſpair, fell on his mind like repeated concuſ⯑ſions. He turned aſide to pray to the pro⯑phet, but his geſtures only were his oriſons. Tears welled on his pale cheeks; and all that he was heard to ſay was, Alla! thou art great! it is now a month I have not ſeen my ſon!

And I have watched my ſon hour by hour! exclaimed the diſtracted mother.—Yeſterday, as I marked the moving vacancy of his eye, ſuddenly he uttered a ſcream of laughter, (my heart died within me;) and he turned to me with a bitter ſmile. My ſon! I cried, and he turned from me: he turned from me! Kais is delirious! my ſon is loſt! Cruel fathers! ye have not the hearts of mothers: ye have not known what it was to kiſs the infant being that formed a part of your exiſtence, that lived on your own boſom. Where wanders my child? Give [75] me my child! Lead me to Kais! Let me periſh, but let my child live!

They convey the diſtracted mother to her tent; while Ahmed inſtantly ſent a meſſen⯑ger to the retreat of the Effendi. Before he could give orders to his faithful Bedoweens to ſeek after Kais, their zeal had already diſ⯑perſed them in every direction. Ahmed now withdrew to his tent, to preſerve rigid faſts and uninterrupted prayer, that he might win, with the gentle violence of de⯑votion, the prophet, who ſeemed to have forſaken him.

Scarcely had the Effendi liſtened to the meſſenger of Ahmed, than, claſping his hands, he would not ſuffer him to conclude the recital of his meſſage.—I underſtand (he cried) more than thou canſt relate: pre⯑pare thy dromedary! He was ſilent during the journey; and although the dromedary went on with its painful gallop, ſeveral times he complained of the ſluggiſhneſs of the animal.

[76] He arrives; he falls at the feet of Ahmed. He looks in his face, and gently waves his head. The venerable Chief underſtood him. Raiſing him, he exclaimed,—Virtuous ſage! ſpeak, enlighten, but do not ſilently re⯑proach.—Alas! I only can feel for thee.—Such a ſon! the flower and the ſabre of my tribe Lebid! Is the fault mine, that the green-turbaned Emir is no father? Could I mitigate the immitigable? I have lived a life of honour; could I ſuffer a day of ob⯑loquy? As for myſelf, my days are but few; yet, if the cold blood that heavily creeps round my heart, could ſatiate the imperious Emir, I would ſpill it at his feet, would he but write the contract of my ſon's nuptials with the blood of the father.

The aged Effendi graſped the hand of the veteran Chief.—We are (ſaid he) both old men, but we will both die for Kais. My heart is feeble now, my head is white, and my eye weeps: but this is not ſtrange; [77] it is the falling of the ſnow on the hills, that makes the ſtreams flow^*.

PART THE SECOND.

LET us track the wanderings of the deli⯑rious and poetic Kais, with his conſtant gazel, following, and never preceding him. He converſed with it untired; his feeling heart ever wanted ſomething to be kind to; and if he had not found an antelope in the deſert, he would have felt an affection for a ſheltering tree.

Poor gazel! (cried Kais, affectionately ſtroking its fallow back, and ſmoothing its ſilvery down) thou loveſt to courſe with me a toiling road; and thy ſlender feet can creep along in the ſlow ſteps of a man unbleſt. I pray thee, look not ſo penſively tender with the ſweet ſeriouſneſs of thy black eyes; my heart is ſo full of ſorrow, that thy gentle [79] glance, in ruffling it, makes it overflow. Straining his eye-balls, he turns towards home: he cries,—Cheriſhed Valley! I quit thee; I hurry from thee; I have madly left thee! yet, thou haſt my tears. I cannot any more ſee thee, but I weep over thee. Oh! there I had friends, there I was loved, and there—No! there I could love no one. Oh! Leila, Leila! ſoul of my body! I nei⯑ther fly from thee, nor to thee, but I am toſſed in diſtraction. Sweet native ſoil! how my heart outjourneys my eye, and how it lingers about thee, while every ſtep removes me ſtill farther and farther into a deſert!

To elude his purſuers, he had left the open deſert and climbed among the rocks, making himſelf paths where eagles reſted. As yet, mild in his volitions, and yet not inſenſible to the pointed flint; to the ſultry thirſt of his parched lips; to the rage of hunger; and to the exhauſtion of travel in the grey and briny ſands. But every day [80] his withering frame became leſs penetrable to the terrible elements: his feet acquired the ſtonineſs of the rocks he trod, and he leaped careleſs, from abyſs to abyſs, while the torrid ſun burnt on his naked head, and his tongue, often hanging from his mouth, felt no thirſt. Senſation in him had reached that exquiſite degree of pain, in which pain ceaſes to be felt. Deliriouſly he ſat on the pyramid of ſome rock, where he ſeemed to inhabit the ſolitude of Heaven, viewing no⯑thing but the deſert of air.

Yet on earth, the deſert frequently was not a ſolitude. There ſometimes he imagined he heard at diſtance human voices, laughing and mocking at him; and often he raged indignant at their cruelty; nor ſeemed to know that theſe were the howlings and ſhrill cries of aſſembled jackals, who during the night yielded their moſt diſtreſsful and con⯑tinued tones^*. At times he viewed, wing⯑ing [81] the air with a ruſhing ſound, the eagles darting from the crags, that ſoared and ſcreeched above him; he liſtened to the ravens hoarſely croaking, while ſometimes the clangor of a flock of cranes, cloſely wedged, was heard ſailing in the air. When all was quiet, and his exhauſted heart itſelf repoſed, his eye would follow the changeful cameleon, that, ſenſible of its ſecurity, ſlowly changed its natural colour, while, if Kais approached, it eſcaped with agility, varying its agitated body with rapid and tremulous hues^*. Over the plain, bounded on all ſides [82] by the horizon, he found no intervening object to reſt on, and his eye ached as it paſſed over a level and ſhining waſte of grey ſand and ſcorched brambles. In the uniform deadneſs of the dreary landſcape, there was no veſtige of animation; no bird flew in the empty air; no animal trod; no lizard crawled on the earth; and he felt himſelf alone in the univerſe. Yet ſome⯑times was this ſultry ſilence broken, as he liſtened to a troop of camels, with the tink⯑ling chimes of their bells mingled with the heavy hum of the drowſy ſongs of the drivers, and ſwelling in the ſtillneſs of the breeze; while ſometimes (an object pleaſ⯑ingly pictureſque) a caravan took new forms as it wound its ſlow length along the rocks; at times the whole body diſappeared, and then gradually emerged, and then was partly concealed; till the camels, the wag⯑gon, and the travellers, alike melted away in the aerial diſtances.

His nerves are ſhaken; his ideas, through [83] inanition and fatigue, are confuſed and be⯑wildered; a fever waſtes his aduſt frame. He grazed on the pale brown herbage of the deſert, with his gazel; recited verſes at intervals, which marked his unſettled emo⯑tions; every where he ſemed to ſeek de⯑ſtruction, and could find it no where. At his lucid intervals he examined his form and ſhuddered; reflecting on the paſt, he ſeemed to have performed impoſſible things; and often he relapſed into delirium, while he reflected he had been delirious.

Meanwhile the Bedoweens returned from the deſert in oppoſite directions; and ſome aſſured that they had at times tracked the path of Kais, for they had perceived the ſmall ſteps of the gazel's ſlender feet, inter⯑mixed with thoſe of its maſter; but theſe again they had as ſuddenly loſt. The mo⯑ther of Kais was wild in her ſorrow; Ahmed could not ſupport the preſence of his be⯑loved mourner; and he reſolved himſelf to wander with a band of faithful followers [84] till they had diſcovered the retreat of Kais. Embracing the Effendi, he ſaid,—Thou art not a man of deſpair, and thou ſhalt be buried in a valley; for wretches like me, a deſert has a charm, for it promiſes death.—The Effendi preſſed his hand, and, without replying, accompanied the unhappy father.

One moon had elapſed, and hitherto the old Ahmed had been only conſoled by re⯑citing paſſages from the Koran, and liſtening as he journeyed, to the verſes of Lebid.

But age, grief, and fatigue, exhauſted the frame of the venerable chief. They had now been travelling on the briny fands, and had not ſeen a tree or a ſhrub for many days; while, more than once, they had obſerved the carcaſe of a camel, and parched adders, ſtiff⯑ened in death. Nothing was heard but their own voices; nothing had life but themſelves.—How dead is this earth! (exclaimed Ah⯑med.) Ah! if I could ſee but one living tree ^*.

[85] The air was red and fiery, and the ſky ſparkled, and the hot ſands flew about them. They were now the victims of the moſt parching thirſt. At night they ſtretch their tunics on the earth, that they might be imbued by the night-dews; and which, in the morning, they preſſed to moiſten their lips. Still to exalt their ſufferings in a long ſeries of thirſt, their agitated and torturing imaginations recalled to them the ideas of burſting ſprings and running brooks, till, in their feveriſh emotions, they called out to each other in agony. At length they heard waters trickling among ſome whiſpering bul⯑ruſhes. Delicious ſound! Some throw them⯑ſelves on the earth, and ſome creep along on bended knees among the reeds, and, with difficulty, collect a little water in a large [86] vaſe. They bring the cooling wave to ſlake their old maſter's parched mouth; his eager hand trembles as it holds the precious draught; he bends his hoary head, and daſhes it to the earth: the acrid water hung in bitterneſs on his baffled lips. Both the old men were fainting in the hot blaſts, and they adminiſtered to them garlic and dried grapes to revive them^*.

More formidable terrors awoke; the co⯑loſſal horrors of the deſert. Columns of ſand, which Nature animated, ſometimes ſtalked with a ſublime grandeur, and ſome⯑times appeared to purſue them with celerity. With hearts coiled by fear, and eyes half⯑curious and diſmayed, they watched theſe ſeparate whirlwinds. At times they met, they broke, and inſtantly the convulſed mountains, whoſe heads were buried in the clouds, diſperſed, darkening the heavens, [87] while, at times, the ſun ſeemed a globe of fire in the crimſon atmoſphere. The little caravan quailed. At length they rejoiced to have reached a new deſolation: it was a body of hanging rocks; of which ſome were broken and ſpread in vaſt ruins, while the rude arches ſhewed only one horrific night. To have entered them might have chilled the heart of a hermit; but they bleſſed the central darkneſs which offered them a retreat from the deſert-whirlwinds; and ſome lighting their torches, cautiouſly en⯑tered.

Let me reſt here! (exclaimed the feeble⯑toned Ahmed as he graſped the hand of Lebid.) Let the wild lion meet us here, I will grapple with him! Hope is extinct with the ſpirit of my life. My wife I ſhall no more embrace; my ſon I ſhall never be⯑hold. Lebid, my ſkin is dry, my pulſe is weak, and my heart is torpid; a cold thirſt has ſeized on my vitals; I have bled in the field, but, with open wounds, never have I [88] felt a thirſt like this. Lebid, I am deſperate with miſery! the light of the day is hateful to my eyes! I ſee nothing in this vaſt ſpace but an immenſe ſepulchre!

Venerable Chief! (replied the Effendi) thy heroic ſpirit is cruſhed not by the ele⯑ments, but by thy paſſions: thy ſoul is more deſolate than the deſert: it is the father who unnerves the warrior.

They had now retreated within theſe tre⯑mendous maſſes of rock, and had paſſed ſeveral hours in theſe unhewed temples of Nature, when a Bedoween diſcovered on a height a kind of bridge formed by the trunk of a tree, ſo lightly flung acroſs the ſcarce⯑viſible points of two projecting precipices, that it ſeemed to hang in the air. Pointing it out to the Effendi, his aged eyes could not perceive it.—Reverend Effendi, (ſaid the Bedoween) you may obſerve it if you will look on the ſky; the bridge is next to the ſky.—I ſee it; it is a fearful height. A bridge there! Deſpair only could have been [89] its architect! What man is he who wants a paſſage on that dizzy point?—Be ſure (ſaid the Bedoween) it is not of mortal con⯑trivance: I will arm, and watch it.

The pallid moon tinged with a diſco⯑loured and uncertain gleam, the vaſt ſoli⯑tude on the acclivities of the rocks, when the watchful Bedoween heard above him the ſound of pacing ſteps. At length a human voice broke out, chaunting in fantaſtic mea⯑ſures, while, at times, it liquified the heart with many a pathetic tone. On the narrow bridge, hanging next the ſky, a naked ſpec⯑tre-form flitted along; ſo wan, ſo woe-be⯑gone, ſo ſhadowy, it ſeemed an unbleſſed ſpi⯑rit. A gazel followed the fading apparition.

The trembling and pale Bedoween haſt⯑ened to his lord, and deſcribed the viſion.—I have ſeen (he cried) a MEJNOUN^*!

[90] Thou lookeſt as if thyſelf wert bewildered, ſaid Ahmed.

Perhaps, my Lord, I am. I am not long⯑lived, be ſure, for I have ſeen a ſpirit. 'Twas on the bridge next to the ſky! 'Twas a form ſo tranſparent the moon-beams pierced it. The tones were not of earth; they were aerial, as the voice of Gabriel to the prophet. A gazel followed. Wondrous! the ſpirit of a gazel!

Thine eyes are credulous; thou ſaidſt at firſt he was but a Mejnoun.

True, true, my Lord; he is but a Mej⯑noun! How came I to think of a ſpirit? Yet, my Lord, my eyes are not credulous; my ears were witneſſes to my eyes. I heard verſes from the Mejnoun; and the moon ſhone ſo ſweetly I could not help weeping.

[91] Be calm and conciſe.—What verſes didſt thou hear? inquired the Effendi.

Fine and diſtracted verſes, changing their meaſures, always beginning, but never finiſh⯑ing. He ſpoke to the moon, and I looked up at the moon; and my ear drank every ſound with ſuch ecſtaſy that I only remember one verſe, which deſcribes the Mejnoun him⯑ſelf:—

Alla is great! (exclaimed the Effendi.) Thy ſon lives, Ahmed; and the Mejnoun is Kais! Well I remember that verſe. It was but an image of fiction! And now, dear youth! thy genuine tears fall over thy fictitious ſorrows, enthuſiaſt of Nature! And haſt thou become a Mejnoun? Has thy ſub⯑tile ſpirit preyed on itſelf; and have thy paſ⯑ſions, ſo vehement and vaſt, flamed into de⯑lirium?

The ſudden diſcovery oppreſſed Ahmed; his lips quivered, the colour left his blanched cheeks, and the word Mejnoun faltered in [92] his throat. He fainted in the arms of an attendant.

The affectionate band aſſemble at the foot of the rocks which Kais haunted, watching his return in a breathleſs anxiety. He came ſtalking over the narrow plank, followed by the gazel with ſteps as ſolemn. The moon ſhone againſt him, illumining his form, while at his back was a dark ſky: he ſeemed a being not earthly and material.

God of my fathers! (exclaimed Ahmed) it is my ſon! Aid me, my friends! Let me reach him; let me die at his feet. Shall I ſee this, and ſhall I ſuffer exiſtence?

Let me! (replied the old Effendi, feebly reſtraining the feeble old Chief) let me liſten to him! If he replies not to my voice, and if he knows not this deſert, he is delirious: if he knows my voice, and de⯑ſcends not, he is inſane^*.

[93] Ahmed, abruptly interrupting the Effendi, cried,—Follow me, faithful Bedoweens! or I will go alone! I feel I can perform im⯑poſſible things; what the timid cannot con⯑ceive. I will climb, I will periſh! His mother ſhall not again reproach me with leaving her childleſs!

The gliding ſhade of Kais, or THE MEJ⯑NOUN, as we ſhall now call him, ſtood lower among the rocks. He looked down on the valley, unconſcious of its objects. His father ſtarted, calling on him affectionately. Kais replied not; but, turning to his gazel, patted its downy back, and they both ſat down. The Mejnoun broke out into the following ſoliloquy:

[94] Why were the blue heavens rolled out, and the earth made green, and man an un⯑happy wanderer? The ſtorm ſleeps in the blue heaven, the peſtilence ſweeps the green earth! Why is not the human fugitive like the fruit-tree; maturing in its cradle, dif⯑fuſing its bloſſoms in its native air, and dropping its treaſures on the earth that nou⯑riſhes it. Lo! the tree lives, its planter pro⯑tects it, his hand will medicate it, his eye will weep over it. But who hath planted thee, MAN, thou tree of evil growth? Are not the FRUITS thou beareſt even poiſonous to the roots of thy being? and do not thy PASSIONS circulate in thy veins till they conſume that exiſtence to which they gave birth? Fooliſh man! thou thinkeſt this world made for THEE, when all around thee bears the image of thy fleeting exiſt⯑ence! Canſt thou diſſimulate this idea? Lo! in the PLEASURE thou graſpeſt thou feeleſt the beginnings of PAIN! Eternal mockery of PLEASURE! repoſe in the ver⯑dant [95] SHADE, and wake with the circling ADDER. Over THE MIDNIGHT BOWER, as they laugh, and drink ‘"unprofaned wine,"’ lo! the inviſible PESTILENCE creeps in one little hour, and rages in their noſtrils, breath⯑ing odours, and hangs on their lips, tinged with the liquid purple! And the morning comes, and the ſun ſhines, and THE CITY IS DESOLATE! Oh! heaven and earth! was this creation made in ſport? Who art thou, the CREATOR?

He ceaſed this delirious rhapſody, and Lebid replied:

This HEAVEN, with its ſoftened beauty be⯑fore thee, and thou aſkeſt where is thy God? This glowing EARTH, rejoicing with painted forms, and thou canſt not trace HIM! At one touch was this web of being woven! I look around, and KNOW MY GOD; as when I examine the traces left on the ſands, I perceive whether a man or an animal has paſſed. Behold the ETERNAL'S road! Is it not one path of prodigies? Thine eye [96] can view THE VESTIGES OF THE DIVI⯑NITY!

Meditate on all around thee, and queſtion thy ſoul? Is it not touched by THE HAR⯑MONIES OF NATURE? But the great Artiſt conceals himſelf, and is only viewed in his work. Art thou, then, not ſatisfied with the mild glory, ſo ſuited and ſo proportioned to thine eye? Wouldſt thou penetrate into the deſigns of the Divinity? Let MAN, then, ride within the whirlwind, let his HANDS pour out the ſunſhine, and let his FEET ſtamp on the unſteady ocean.

Ingenious only in creating thine own in⯑felicity, it is thy reaſon which renders thee unreaſonable, and thy intelligence, unin⯑telligent; or rather, it is thy PRIDE that tells thee, thy reaſon MUST be the reaſon of God, and thy capacity, HIS power. Thou haſt concluded, that THOU art on the height of this vaſt chain of creation; thou, who knoweſt not why the tides ebb and flow, how a blade of graſs becomes perfect, and [97] why the dead ſeed thou throweſt in the earth becomes an animated being. Truſt me, the Spirit of God is too ſubtile for the ſpirit of man.

There was one day a ſage who ſought to diſcover the ESSENCE OF THE GODHEAD. He began at morn, and in the evening he ſtill leant, not undelighted by the charm of thought. His friend approached him, and ſoftly ſtealing him from the dream of me⯑ditation, exclaimed,—How long thou haſt loitered in the garden of thy mind! what lovely flowers haſt thou collected?—The ſage replied,—My ſoul has been flying to⯑wards HEAVEN, and for you and my friends I filled my folded robe with celeſtial flowers, but as I graſped them (for at times I thought I graſped them) I fainted over the too ex⯑quiſite odours, and my folded robe fell from my relaxing hands, and my collected flow⯑ers are for ever diſperſed!—It is thus we loſe ourſelves in reſearches after THE SE⯑CRETS OF GOD. The moſt curious are not [98] the moſt knowing. Scarcely do the Sages perceive the Divinity, but Death cloſes their lips. Yes, believe me, the paths of HEA⯑VEN are only penetrated by the wings of a SERAPH^*.

The Mejnoun liſtened and pauſed, and [99] ſtill recurring in his mind to his own ſitua⯑tion, gave his thought in verſe:

Lebid ſought in his mind for ſome image to ſoothe the deſpairing mourner, and re⯑plied:

[100] The Mejnoun liſtened till, in his intenſe attention, he ceaſed almoſt to breathe: it ſeemed the voice and the verſe of Lebid. In an awful pauſe he appeared collecting his returning ideas. The verſes were con⯑ſolatory, and the voice was cheriſhed. The tendereſt aſſociations of thought melted to⯑gether at the memory of Lebid: for yet the hermit's heart was not dead to the emotions of friendſhip; the latent fires of his ſoul were but covered, and wanted but the lighteſt air to be awakened.

Surely (he exclaimed) that voice is the voice of Lebid!—A ſoft ſhower of tears covered his face. He leant from the rock: in the ſtill and unwavering light of the moon, ſhone palely the venerable form of his friend and his maſter. He ruſhed down the rock, murmuring and exclaiming, in ſweet and tender tones, as he went: he reaches the plain, and throws himſelf at the feet of Lebid.

Lebid ſtood alone; a little removed behind [101] him was the ſilent band. The aſſembly was touched; and a low, tremulous murmur of ſympathy juſt broke the ſtilneſs. They ſighed at the view of the wan and deſolated figure; it was ſcarcely that of humanity! Of his veſtments but a few looſe remnants remained, that fluttered as they clung to his ſkeleton body; his copious treſſes, that ſtill covered his ſhoulders, were matted and clot⯑ted; his nails had grown hard, ſharp, and long, and with them he had armed himſelf to tear the birds and the ſmaller prey, which he hunted and fed on by a natural impulſe. His once fine phyſiognomy was ſtained with a copper hue, and his expreſſive dark eyes looked now haggard, and ſparkled with an inceſſant motion.

At the feet of Lebid the Mejnoun firſt ſpoke:—Art thou like myſelf, unbleſt, A SCATTERLING^*, dropped off from the race [102] of man, to howl along the deſert, to ſleep on dizzy precipices, and to be invulnerable to the thouſand deaths around? Alas! the miſerable never die! I once thought Grief had its gangrene, it would ſpread and kill! In parting from the world let us unite. Thou canſt curſe an unfeeling world, canſt thou not? I will ſit beſide thee, and I will bleſs thee. Oh! it is long that I have loved a curſer! And I will tell thee all that has paſſed between Leila and myſelf; thou know⯑eſt not all! Heaven only knows all! It is a wondrous tale, old man, that will melt thy wintery eyes, and make thy heart, while it ſits amidſt deſolation, beat with a human pulſe.

Leila lives! (replied the Effendi, ſtrain⯑ing the Mejnoun to his breaſt:) She lives to blame thee for deſerting the tents of thy father. Yes, Leila lives! continued the Ef⯑fendi, as he thought the Mejnoun pauſed, as if doubtful of it.

[103] The Mejnoun ſtill pauſed; then, with a deep ſigh, he exclaimed in the ſweeteſt tone, Ah! Leila, Leila!

The Effendi continued,—and thy father lives!

The Mejnoun ſtarting, raved in voluble paſſion, and rapidly ſaid:—The tents of fathers are not any more the tents for their children! Nature is weary with repeating ſimple affections, affections old as this antique world; now ſhe loves to create monſters, to people the world with a hide⯑ous race of men, and teaches fathers to be the only enemies of their children!

The old Ahmed, hitherto reſtrained by his attendants, ſtruggled to get to his ſon, but his ſteps trembled, and he fell at his feet. He clung to his knees, and looking on him, as if his heart were breaking, he cried,—My ſon, behold thy poor father! thy poor father! My ſon, doſt thou not know thy poor father?

Mejnoun gazing on him with a vacant eye, [104] ſlowly crept away, ſhuddering; and turning to Lebid, in a low whiſper, Who is here? Who is he who talks of my father? It was a cruel mockery to emind me of my father!—Lebid! is my father coming?—be ſecret! I know to creep to the pinnacle of yon rock; and if my father ſhould come, I would laugh at him on the point of the precipice.—He was retreating among the rocks, when Lebid arreſted him, and exclaimed—Mejnoun! thy father calls thee! Scarcely is he thy father, ſo waſted and ſo wretched!

If my father is here (replied Mejnoun with a ſolemn accent), tell him I forgive him! We muſt never meet. Brings he perſecution even in the deſert? It will be ſhort! I will ſay a laſt prayer to the prophet, and ſteal away to a glorious abyſs! I have kept it for a laſt refuge; I have at times felt happy when I thought me of that abyſs; it is hap⯑pineſs to know how eaſily we can elude our perſecutor: often has my eye meaſured the tremendous chaſm; it is fathomleſs, and I [105] deſpair!—His whole frame was now agi⯑tated; a liquid fire glowed in his quick and vivid eyes; and a terrible energy was in his geſtures. He continued:—Thou ſeeſt I am calm! ſometimes I think I am mad! Leila! Leila! muſt I ſee every one but thee!—His teeth chattered; he howled; he ſtamped on the earth; he tore a handful of hair from his head. He haſtened up the rocks, and was ſeized by the Bedoweens.

They placed him on a camel; his father and the Effendi followed. During the jour⯑ney, the complete delirium of Mejnoun ſeemed to hinder him from any voluntary exertion of ideas or of actions: he did not appear to perceive that he was ſurrounded by people, or that he was carried on a camel; ſtretched for hours in reverie, he would at times hold a ſelf-dialogue, ſeeming to reply to what he imagined ſome one converſed with him; ſometimes he carolled wild, ten⯑der verſes; and now he ſhrieked, and now [106] he laughed. Sometimes he attempted to riſe and wander; but feeling himſelf confined by ſome ſuperior power, he groaned and ſunk down, without diſcerning the violence of⯑fered to him.

Thy ſon is not inſane, (obſerved the Ef⯑fendi to Ahmed), he is only delirious. His ſoul is ſo penetrated with his unhappy paſ⯑ſion, that it only exiſts to that ſolitary con⯑ception, and his ideas are conſiſtent, as they relate to that ſole object. Were he a ma⯑niac, he would recogniſe us, and would diſ⯑tinguiſh the camel on which he is laid; and all his voluntary actions would proceed from erroneous ideas; an hallucination of the mind, in which he would miſtake his vivid imaginations for exiſting realities. Then he would not, as he does now, publicly diſcloſe the inmoſt emotions of his ſoul; but, on the contrary, he would be ſuſpicious of thoſe who were near him, in his actions wary, in his deſigns cunning. At this moment we be⯑hold [107] him inſenſible of the actual ſcene, and the ſole object of Leila concentrating all his faculties and all his ſenſations.

The old Ahmed waved his majeſtic head, and without replying, looked in the face of Lebid; as if he meant to ſay, To me what imports to know whether my ſon be deli⯑rious or maniacal?

The learned Effendi underſtood him, and continued:—It is the immortal Darwini, the nightingale of Schirauz, who, in his Nega⯑riſtan^*, or gallery of pictures, with many a tender period, diſcourſes of the erotic paſ⯑ſion. Since now we have diſcovered the mental hallucination of Mejnoun, it follows, [108] oh, Ahmed! that his diſorder is irremedia⯑ble while his ſenſations are thoſe of deſpair; but his malady is not incurable, if his ſenſa⯑tions ſhall be thoſe of hope. Mejnoun muſt be united to Leila.

The venerable Chief claſped his hands, and raiſing them to Heaven, on his murmur⯑ing lips, died, an oriſon to the prophet.

PART THE THIRD.

IN the abſence of her lord, and ſince the flight of her ſon, the mother of Mejnoun was accuſtomed to watch in his tent. Her ſoul was attached to that abode, for it found a ſolemn and ſweet pleaſure amidſt a ſcene full of her paſſion. Even his empty ſopha was not approached by her without trepida⯑tion; his ſuſpended robe her imagination would embody with his perſon; and when ſhe touched his inſtruments of muſic, and they yielded ſounds ſhe once dwelt on with ſuch fond pleaſure, a warm moiſture filled her eyes, and ſhe ſighed intenſely at the local recollections around.

She was one day watching at its entrance; afar ſhe deſcries a cloud of duſt her heart [110] bounded againſt her breaſt; ſhe calls to her attendants; ſhe ſtrains her eye to diſcern ſome object; ſhe views nothing but a mov⯑ing cloud. Gradually the cloud ſeems to open; ſhe diſtinguiſhes lances gleaming in the glancing ſun-beams. She diſcerns ca⯑mels. She inquires of all around, Does my lord return? Her fond impatience exceeded the faculty of viſion. It was impoſſible to know whether it were their own Bedoweens, or a caravan of travellers. Some whoſe eye only paſſed over the ſurface of a vaſt indiſ⯑tinct body, to pleaſe their deſolated miſtreſs, deemed it was their own party. The troop keep directing their way to the tents in their valley. At length a precurſor is viewed; and the breathleſs Bedoween ruſhes into the tent, exclaiming—Kais returns! and ſunk at the feet of his miſtreſs.

He returns; but to the mother of Kais the return of her ſon was painful as his abſence. She views that cheriſhed ſon led in without conſciouſneſs, and hardly with ſenſation. His [111] drooping head reſted on his boſom, while his haggard looks aſſured her he was no more ſenſible to his exiſtence; even at his voice, his beloved voice, ſhe ſhuddered, as it hoarſely repeated, at intervals, the name of Leila. The old Ahmed approached his de⯑ſponding wife; he kiſſed her in ſilence, while his tears fell with his kiſſes on her cheek. She looked on him in agony, and turned to her ſon, and raiſed her hands to Heaven, and ſunk, fainting, into the arms of her lord.

Mejnoun is laid on a couch of Indian ſilk, placed on a carpet of Perſia. His mother ſuffers no one to attend him; her own hands ſcatter the roſe-water over his disfigured body, diſentangle his matted hair, perfume and curl his wavy treſſes, veſt him with a tunic of the gold-cloth of Cairo, and fill his goblet with the wine of Schirauz. As ſhe knew he was delighted by Perſian ele⯑gance, the ſcene was Perſian. His tent is hung with the tapeſtry which the needle painted, ſuſpended by cords of purple ſilk [112] running through rings of ſilver and gold, while muſk, ambergris, and the wood of aloes breathe in a cloud from the cenſers. As he was uſed to be delighted by beautiful plants, ſhe placed around his couch, in vaſes, ſome of the moſt curious and moſt fragrant ſhrubs ſhe could obtain; and on the ground, on which his eyes were continually fixed, ſhe ſtrewed freſh flowers and ſweet-ſcented ve⯑getables, that it might bear ſome ſlight re⯑ſemblance to the earth itſelf in the ſpring ſeaſon. She fanned him with branches of odorous herbs; and while the air refreſhed him, he would ſometimes yield a long-drawn reſpiration.

Mejnoun at firſt ſmiled not, nor ſeemed conſcious of the devoted tenderneſs of his mother. When a temporary pauſe of reaſon takes place, he conſiders the exiſting ſcenery as a dream, while his own lengthened dreams he conſiders as an exiſting ſcene. He ſcarcely yet believes he has returned to his tent; he touches his mother with curioſity rather than [113] with affection; and ſlowly paces, at times, around his tent, with an inquiring eye, that ſeems uneaſy at an illuſion. Again he re⯑lapſes into a mild delirium.

It is the philoſophic friend, the venerable Effendi, who effects what has baffled the anxiety of maternal inquietude. Seizing all the vacillations of his unſteady heart, and confirming his dubious ideas, he gradually reſtores him. Mejnoun one day made a ſilent motion to open his tent. Not without alarm the anxious mother underſtood him, and trem⯑bled, as ſhe imagined it indicated his deſire of again eſcaping from home. Cautiouſly ſhe opened it a little.—A little more! (exclaimed the recovering maniac in a tender tone) a little more! 'tis Paradiſe opening, and ſcat⯑tering its balmy airs. How vivid the ver⯑dure! how cheering the blue ſky! And he gazed intenſely on the face of the country, and often ſighed.—Rejoice! (ſaid the Effendi to the anxious mother) thy ſon will ſoon be reſtored! The tones of his voice have re⯑turned [114] to their natural pitch, and the firſt deſire of his heart is the aſpect of Nature. Truſt me, he who loves the view of Nature, will not forget his mother!

One day Mejnoun fell on the neck of the Effendi, and wept over the venerable man. A deep reſpiration laboured in his breaſt. He preſſed the hand of Lebid, and in that preſſure told he was conſcious of the preſent ſcene, and half-remembered the paſt. He firſt called for his mother: he ſunk at her feet. His father embraced him, and a father's tears filled his eyes. Beloved ſon! (he ex⯑claimed) return not without an affectionate heart to thy mercileſs father: thy mother loved thee, and I too loved thee, yet have we acted differently! Conſole me for the perſecution thou haſt ſuffered; teach me to pardon myſelf! Thy father's heart was once a ſoldier's; 'tis now timid as the heart of a frightened child. Look mildly on an old man, who was once thy father: deſpiſe not Ahmed in his old age. If Love has cauſed [115] thee all thy ſufferings, Love may remunerate thee with all thy joys. My ſon, ſmile but on me, and let me die in peace.

Mejnoun, in kneeling to his father, often by tender geſtures interrupted the humili⯑ating language of affection. At length he ſaid:—My father, it is not poſſible! I am only reſtored to reaſon, to know all my wretchedneſs. Leila can never be mine. The pride of nobility has hardened the heart of the Emir. Let me quit a world in which I have ceaſed to be uſeful: truſt me, I am fitted for a hermitage! I care not for the honour of my friends, and am placable to the inſult of an enemy. What is a man, alike incapable of friendſhip or of enmity?—O, thou deſert! thou unſhadowy waſte! to me pleaſant is the abode of thy unrelent⯑ing rocks; there I view nothing of huma⯑nity, but the far-heard caravan, that ſome⯑times paſſes on, like ſome low cloud, hang⯑ing heavily over the earth. Yes, my father, [116] I will live without Leila, but I muſt live in a deſert!

Such was the reſolve of Mejnoun when recovered from his delirium; but allured by the hope of poſſeſſing Leila, while every day confirmed the conſtancy of her heart, the deſert receded from his imagination, as the world opened more proſperouſly. At firſt his father attempted to amuſe his mind by continued feſtivals, by the verſatility of plea⯑ſure; and ſought to diſſipate his paſſion by procuring the moſt beautiful dancing wo⯑men. Every day he renewed his promiſe to apply in perſon to the father of Leila, while he ſlowly prepared valuable gifts to win the obduracy of the Emir. Hope for the intem⯑perate Mejnoun opens another fountain of his feelings; from a delirious deſpair, he breaks into a delirious joy; he riots in fu⯑turity; his days are vowed to the feſtivities of pleaſure, and his nights to the viſions of imagination.

[117] He was now no more ſurnamed MEJNOUN, but was called by his companions SERGUER⯑DASI, which in the Perſian idiom means a Saunterer; or literally, one who does nothing but turn his head, now on one ſide, and now on another. His eye was now intenſely fixed on the pouting lip and the circling cup, and his ear wandered in the ſhrill joy of the pipe and the tenderneſs of the lute; but while his cheek glowed with animation, and the blood beat more vitally round his heart, at times his pulſe was irregular, and a fever breathed its unnatural heat in his veins. At theſe moments he compoſed Anacreontics, like the following one:

At length Mejnoun murmurs at the pro⯑tracted happineſs, and ſuſpects the ſtill-re⯑peated promiſe. They obſerved a new change in this variable and too-ſenſitive being. Sud⯑denly he quits his gay ſociety, his face is ſuf⯑fuſed with faint bluſhes, and his voice faul⯑ters: his eyes are again caſt to the earth, his boſom palpitates, he refuſes his meals, and, in a few weeks, a wan countenance betrays his nightly fevers. His mother, alarmed at [121] the menaced change of his paſſions, prompts her venerable lord to the humiliation of per⯑ſonal intreaty; and now, with a reluctance concealed in his own breaſt, the old hero haſtens to the tents of the green-turbaned Emir.

He enters and addreſſes him:—Deſcend⯑ant of Fatima! deign to unite thy en⯑chanting daughter with my unhappy ſon: already haſt thou heard of the long de⯑lirium of the wanderer. Ah! who ever loved like Mejnoun? Behold him reſtor⯑ed to glory! Pleaſure lights his ſplendid cheek; his immortal voice renews the verſes Arabia remembers; and all our youth call for the union of thy roſe with my nightin⯑gale. Thou knoweſt the prophet has made me a fortunate man; the trees I have planted live, the fountains I have opened were never dry. To Leila I will give a hundred virgins; they are the roſes of our valley. A thouſand armed Bedoweens, each mounted on a white courſer; and five hundred camels; and two [122] thouſand ſhepherds; theſe ſhall ſurround her tent. My ſoul is now meditating to depart, and in the flying hour of Fate, little to me it imports whether I die on a throne or periſh in the duſt; but parental affection lives beyond the grave; and thou who art a father, wilt not be inſenſible to the prayer of a father.

Such was the humble ſolicitation of the magnificent veteran. But the Emir, whoſe cheek was ſcorched, and whoſe blood was acrid with envy, as he liſtened to the opu⯑lence of Ahmed, and whoſe obdurate heart was puffed up by the pomp of birth, receiv⯑ed him with a fierce diſdain; tauntingly re⯑proached the ſpiritleſs father with the deli⯑rium of his ſon, and with the bittereſt mock⯑ery an Arabian gives, he added—Imbecile Bedoween, ſeeſt thou not that the wrong ſide of thy turban is out^*!

[123] A deep groan broke from the old Ahmed; twice he ſtroked his beard, and half unſheath⯑ed his ſcymitar; but the thought of ſtill fur⯑ther diſtreſſing his ſon, by the death of Lei⯑la's father, thwarted his juſt vengeance. He quietly ſheathed his ſcymitar, exclaiming,—‘"What ſort of a man art thou that canſt be ignorant of love?"’ Thou, oh Prophet! haſt witneſſed all! In this accurſed tent I and my ſon alike have received eternal ignominy. The paſſion of glory has died away in the boſom of my ſon. O, Love! thou jealous paſſion! that wilt not ſuffer another to abide with thee!

He returned home humiliated; but, ſtu⯑dious to conceal his feelings from his ſon, this unhappy father entered his tent with a feeble ſmile on his aged countenance. But the perſpicacity of Mejnoun perceived the reception he had ſuffered; and it pierced [124] his ſoul when he reflected, that the intem⯑perance of his paſſion had given diſhonour to a venerable heroiſm, and for ever diſturbed the ſlumbers of an old father's eyes. His ſoul pined: he for ever abandoned the gaieties of his convivial day, and amid the lonelieſt ſpots, compoſed the moſt touching gazels^*. He now talked of returning to the deſert.

For the laſt act of piety and deſpair, his father propoſed a pilgrimage to Mecca. It was a long journey for one of his age, but he would not perform the awful function by proxy; and in the holy houſe of the patri⯑arch Abraham, he half-hoped to liſten to the celeſtial whiſperings of piteous ſeraphs, or at the tomb of the prophet to behold ſome mi⯑racle, operating on the intellect of his ſon.—I go (ſaid the aged Ahmed) like the good pa⯑triarch with his ſon Iſaac: may I be the ſacri⯑fice to propitiate Heaven, that has deſerted us!

[125] They arrive at the ſanctuary: they repeat the numerous prayers, and perform the nu⯑merous ablutions, and preſent the numerous offerings: they kiſs the black, gold-embroi⯑dered ſilk, on the top of the ſacred caaba; reverently they touch the golden gutters, and drink of the gelid water of the well Zem⯑zem, which in the arid ſoil ſuddenly opened for Hagar when in ſearch of water for Iſmael. They pace, with the enthuſiaſm of piety, along the numerous arcades, formed by thoſe vaſt columns, which ſuſpend a thouſand ſil⯑ver lamps, for ever illumined, dimming the eye through the dread ſtilneſs with a reli⯑gious light. They ſpread their carpets, and tremblingly proſtrate themſelves before the black ſtone which the angel Gabriel hewed from the rocks of the Cauther, whoſe ſtream rolls in heaven over beryl beds, and whoſe ſhores are gold.

One day Mejnoun entered the temple alone. He approached the black ſtone, and hears from its oppoſite ſide the voice of his [126] father fervently ſupplicating Heaven, and offering his vows, that his ſon might forget Leila.

Mejnoun heard, and the ſullenneſs of anger, with the ferocity of deſpair, glared in his diſtracted eyes. With a horrid impati⯑ence he ſtrikes his temples with his clenched hands, while his uncertain feet ſcarcely en⯑able him to fly. He crawls to a remote aiſle, and flings himſelf on the marble floor.—And have we come here (he cries) to form vows! Thoſe are not mine! How hateful is the voice of fathers! No, Leila! they ſhall not ſeduce me! We will deſpair, but we will laugh at fathers. Thou ſuffereſt: mayſt thou not ſuffer like me! Here, in this holy tem⯑ple; here, where I ſeem to feel the Divinity about me; here, I ſwear, we are united! I was thine; I am doubly thine!—Can Sympathy, at this moment, tell thee of this our ſad nuptial? It is the marriage of De⯑ſpair! and Heaven is here, at once, our prieſt, our witneſs, and our perſeeutor!

[127] At the cloſe of the day he ſteals from the temple, and eſcapes from Mecca. He gains the deſert, neighbouring the tents of Leila; a wanderer in the ſame paths, and in the ſame delirium! More exanimate than for⯑merly, he cannot climb the precipitous rocks; but crawls and gaſps along the hot briny ſands. Sometimes he lies ſtretched, and fan⯑cies he ſhall never again riſe. His torn veſt⯑ments he faſtens by thorns; his caſual food he picks from the earth, feeding often on a ſolitary lizard, and graſping the fainting ad⯑der, curſes, and rejects it.

But Nature, too friendly to deſpairing men, ceaſes the violence of ſufferance, when its operations tend to annihilation. Mejnoun becomes more mild, for he compoſes verſes: his tender ſoul attaches itſelf to whatever ſurrounds it, and to all that has LIFE the SOLITARY SIGHS. His bewildered ſpirit ad⯑dreſſed itſelf to a raven in verſes which the lovers of this day ſtill repeat, which ſtill give beautiful tears to the beautiful faces of the [128] ſeraglio, and convey an idea of paſſion even to the imperial heart of the Sophi. One day he approached a TREE to enjoy its ſhade: it ſaluted him, by lowly bending its inoffen⯑ſive branches; he ſtarted, he touched the foliage, and every leaf trembled with ani⯑mation. At this ſilent hoſpitality, this viſi⯑ble ſympathy, this endearment of ſenſibility, the melancholy ſoul of Mejnoun was touched, and he wept beneath that TREE; but as he perceived that while he continued under it, the branches drooped more and more, he roſe from the grateful ſhade, leſt, in the hoſ⯑pitality it offered, it ſhould entirely conſume its generous virtues.—Ah! others may come as wretched as myſelf! (cried Mejnoun) and I would not deprive them of the conſolation of A SENSITIVE TREE^*!

Urged by the poignancy of hunger, he ſought one day for food, and his hand only [129] graſped the tawny and withered herb. He diſcovered a hunter with a fawn. He pur⯑ſues the hunter, who, ſtartled by the man⯑ſpectre, flies; but the feet of Mejnoun were winged by deſpair, and the ſteps of the timid hunter relaxed as they flew. He crouches, and ſupplicates for life; but Mejnoun kneel⯑ed to the kneeling man.—I intreat thee, man, (replied Mejnoun) to give me thy fawn, for I periſh. The hunter, recovering from his terrors at the mild imbecility of the Mej⯑noun; claimed for the purchaſe the diamond on his finger. Mejnoun preſented it to him.—To the inhabitant of a deſert (ſaid he) a fawn is well purchaſed by a diamond. Take it, and be proud; let the vanity glitter among the vain! If thou reacheſt Leila, the daugh⯑ter of the Emir Amri, aſk her who gave thee this ring?—Art thou Kais? inquired the hunter.—I was Kais (replied Mejnoun in a ſolemn tone). The awed hunter proſtrated himſelf:—Heaven (ſaid he) has touched thy lips with celeſtial fire, and thy brain glows [130] with the delirium of holineſs. Thy ring is a ſainted relic; in adverſity I will kiſs it; all that a Mejnoun wears, they ſay, is holy. My way is remote; canſt thou tell me, inhabit⯑ant of the deſert, the hour of the day?—I do not count my hours (replied Mejnoun), often, indeed, I look up to the heavens to ſee where the ſun is; but what ſignifies to me in what part of heaven he ſhines, ſince pleaſure flies me at whatever point he touches. The hunter intreated the bleſſing of the amo⯑rous maniac, who penſively departed with ſlow ſteps, looking on, and leading the fawn.

He had obtained the fawn to ſatiate the violence of appetite; but his lifted hand hav⯑ing rudely touched its budding horns, their exquiſite ſenſibility prompted the beautiful animal to yield a tender inſantine cry, which ſpoke to the heart of the melancholy man. Its ſlender tongue licked his raiſed hand, and it fixed its full eyes on its perſecutor: the view of the fawn revived the memory of his conſtant gazel. He ſat down and wept over [131] it, and thus, with a romantic ſenſibility, ad⯑dreſſed it:

Beauty of ſolitude! thou whoſe mild aſ⯑pect and delicate elegance can give even to a deſert the ſenſation of peace, thy innocent blood paſſion never yet inflamed; Shall it diſtain my hand, my hand which only knows to careſs thee? I will court thee by affectionate familiarities: when thou ſhalt know that I love thee, thou ſhalt lead me if thou wilt; for peace is in thy inoffenſive ſteps. Live, and conſole my hermit-path! Mine ſhall be the delightful employment to guard thy branchy horns from the entangling thicket; to gaze on thee till thou under⯑ſtandeſt me; to repeat the name of Leila till thou ſhalt remember it. Sweet fawn! what ſhade is moſt grateful to thy brilliant eyes? Where loves thy ſlender elegance to repoſe? The tall pine-tree, from whence thou ſtrip⯑peſt the bark? or the wild cheſnut on the mountain, to ſport with its provoking and poliſhed ſhell? or the manna-tree, in ſum⯑mer [132] mornings dropping its yellow liquid? or the almond, with ſilvery or roſaceous bloſ⯑ſoms, when its mature fruit, with gentle vio⯑lence, opens its own ſhield? or the white⯑leaved poppies, whoſe narcotic diffuſes in the air if not culled ere the ſun ſtrikes the flowers, and taints the livid face of the ga⯑therer, trembling with the potent opiates he breathes? Truſt me, if thou loveſt the ſweet poppies thou ſhalt have them. Wilt thou lay thy ſoft length along in the cotton field? Be⯑ware, dear fawn, of the fatal gulbad ſamour, whoſe flowers poiſon the wind; and let me folicitouſly deter thy innocence from the kerzehré, that hypocrite of the foreſt, whoſe boughs are covered with roſes, but whoſe de⯑leterious dews, while they ſparkle on, blaſts the earth that receives them^*.

[133] Thus converſed the fanciful Mejnoun with his fawn. Society not wanting in his ſoli⯑tude, it renewed his gentleſt emotions, and a fawn could tame the deſperate man. To refreſh his fawn, he often eluded the brazen ſky and the thirſty ſands, and ſtole to the green borders of Perſia, ſtretching himſelf on the flowers that richly clothe that vernal ſoil, while the fawn gamboled among the beds of tulips, anemones, and jonquils^*.

In this ſecond flight to the deſert his re⯑treat had been undiſcovered till he met the hunter, who, haſtening to Leila (for the pro⯑miſe [134] given to a Mejnoun he conſidered as a point of religion), acquainted her with his abode. The diſconſolate maiden could not reſiſt the deſire of viſiting her lover and her maniac, and, with a confidential ſlave, con⯑trived to eſcape, for a ſhort time, on horſes procured in haſte.

Arrived in the deſert, they ſoon became faint in the hot blaſts. As they paſſed by murky and projecting rocks, piled in awful maſſes, the ſkies were frequently hid from their eyes, till the landſcape ſuddenly opened on all ſides its immenſe horizon. In the ever⯑ſhifting ſands their track was frequently loſt, and then they were only guided by a number of pillars erected acroſs the plain in ſight of each other^*. The ſand reverberated the beams of the ſun; no breeze refreſhed, no ſhade ſheltered, while in the vaſt glare of light that dazzled their aching eyes, they held a fan of painted feathers before their [135] faces; but their horſes ſlowly proceeded, as the briny ſand ſcorched their hoofs^*. At length they diſcovered an arch hewed in a rock, from whoſe cleft jutted out a young laurel tree. Here they ſat ſome time, till the ſlave ſuddenly exclaimed, Behold! and point⯑ing to one ſide of the rock, which had been poliſhed into ſmoothneſs, Leila viewed her portrait. He lives here! ſhe cried. Perhaps not (replied the ſlave), perhaps thy portrait is engraven on every rock.

Three hours had elapſed, and Mejnoun appeared not. The ſlave wailed, often re⯑peating aloud, Unhappy Leila! A fawn ap⯑peared as ſhe pronounced the name. They wondered, as they heard a ſhrill, hoarſe voice vociferating, Leila, Leila! The fawn diſap⯑peared. The perſon who had called was in the narrow paths among the precipices, and was heard to ſay, What induced thee, [136] my beloved, to quit me ſo ſuddenly this even⯑ing?—'Tis Mejnoun! exclaimed the agitated Leila: ſupport me, I pray thee, I am ſick at heart. She ſunk into the arms of the ſlave. The wan form of Mejnoun approached; he perceives two females; he recogniſes Leila; he loſes his voice; a quick ſuffuſion fluſhed and died away on his pallid countenance; a faint light gliſtened in his eyes; he bends on tottering knees; he would embrace Leila, but falls before her in extreme debility.

He creeps to her tremulouſly; he graſps her knees; he riſes, he preſſes her in his arms. He reſts his eyes on her face till the recovering beauty returns his glances; inar⯑ticulate ſounds murmur on their lips; and they touch and tremble.

Viſion of the earth! (exclaimed the deli⯑rious Mejnoun) canſt thou deceive me with ſubſtantial forms? I live on deliriouſly! my life is but a protracted dream. Breathing form! haſt thou not a voice? Tell me, quickly tell me, art thou indeed Leila?

[137] I am thy Leila, oh Mejnoun! thus to meet thee. I ſteal from my father's tents to tell thee how I love thee; to win thee from thy ſolitude; and to hear thoſe ſongs thou haſt compoſed on myſelf reſounding through Arabia. Ah! beneath my hand how thy heart palpitates! Sweet Love! look not ſo wildly on me! thou art ſo woe-be-gone! O! thou who art called Mejnoun, it is for me that ſad, that ſweet, that ſainted name is thine! She broke into a full guſh of tears.

She ceaſed, yet Mejnoun ſeemed ſtill liſ⯑tening to her voice.—'Tis ſurely the voice of Leila! (he ſaid in a ſolemn tone.) We meet not as heretofore! but never ſounded thy accents ſweeter than in this deſert. Formerly we trod on a ſilent carpet, and ſat in a plea⯑ſant kioſque, while the jeſſamines and roſes prodigally waſted their aromatic ſouls in the air we breathed. All then, my love, waſted about us; and above all, Leila, we waſted our hours. O! had we then forgotten we had fathers! we might have lived in this [138] deſert, and we ſhould have lived happy! No: I will not think of happineſs, it will make me mad! For me, then, haſt thou trodden on the ſcorching ſands, and felt the brazen ſkies of a deſert! Romantic maid, I thank thee. Likeſt thou this perilous aſ⯑ſignation? Be cautious, girl; there is te⯑merity in thy attempt. I have ſeen the eye of the wild lion glare as he paſſed on; yet fear not, here are no fathers. Ah! if thou wouldſt become the tenant of this deſert, then would the briers be ſweet as the wild eglantine, and the hot ſands ſmooth as the ſilken carpet!

The bewildered air and the unſteady thoughts of Mejnoun alarmed Leila, and ſhe turned ſilently to the ſlave. They had brought ſome proviſions in a pannier.—Will my lord (cried the ſlave) repoſe, and taſte our refreſhments? Anxiety and fa⯑tigue have been more ſultry to us than the deſert; nor has my miſtreſs opened but one pomegranate ſince ſunriſe.—Dear Mejnoun! [139] (ſaid Leila with her faſcinating ſmile) our hour is ſhort; ſhare in theſe meats and theſe fruits; reſtore thyſelf, my love!—His hand was folded in her own, and ſhe gave it the tendereſt preſſure. That long-loſt ſenſation returning to his ſoul, his ſympathetic nerves repeated emotions that memory had almoſt forgotten: he ſighed; tears ſtarted in his eyes; he kiſſed her hand, he ſmiled, and ſaid,—Leila, behold me what I once was, behold thy Kais!

They ſat down; the ſlave ſpread the va⯑rious refection; conſiſting of pomegranates, and water-melons, and piſtachio nuts, and various-coloured grapes, with plates of rice and the fleſh of goats. She had alſo brought the cooling tamarinds, to expreſs in their be⯑verage; but the bardaks of water ſhe had broken in her haſte, and ſhe loudly lamented the want of a ſherbet.—Thou art the firſt, luxurious girl! (cried Mejnoun) who ever mourned for a ſherbet in a deſert: thou art but young in miſery!—Eagerly graſping a [140] handful of freſh flowers which ſhe had alſo brought, and ſighing as the odours reached him, he ſaid,—The ſcent of flowers from the hand of one we love, Leila, how delicious to the hermit in a deſert, who has almoſt forgotten how flowers ſmell when they are given to us by a friend!—Leila dropt a tear, and Mej⯑noun caught the living pearl on a roſe, and kiſſed it off the leaf.

In their rambling converſation they made more queſtions than they could form an⯑ſwers, and the laſt hour of this romantic viſit was to cloſe. The moon ſhone in its mid path, and the cryſtal light warned the ſlave to commence their ſhadowy journey. The lovers, reminded of the time, were alike unwilling to ſeparate. They ſat retired, and every time the ſlave came to them, ſhe was remanded back; every time ſhe ſaw the long⯑languiſhing looks their eyes mingled; but in the eyes of Leila the tears ſuffuſed their bril⯑liancy, and they ſhone like moonlight in the water. At length ſhe cried,—My miſtreſs will [141] periſh in the blaze of the ſun; conſider, my lord, we came but on horſes, and I am ſure they will die in the ſandy waſte, and drop us in the deſert: my lord, my lord! we maid⯑ens cannot live like hermits!

Rouſed by the clamours of the ſlave, Mej⯑noun ſuſtained Leila, he looked on the moon and ſaw it declining in its blue path.—How ſhall I live after this! (he cried:) yet let us haſte; I will conduct thee to the borders of the deſert. Perfection of beauty, Peri of my ſoul! when we again meet, I ſhall open for thee the ſilver gate of Paradiſe!

They proceeded ſlowly on their journey, till the ſlave again exclaimed,—Ah! look, my lord! ſhe pointed to the moon; it was almoſt extinguiſhed, and glided away on the verge of the ſky. Mejnoun reluctantly hur⯑ried on; and now they reached the borders of the deſert, and ſtopped to take a laſt fare⯑well. The dawn already peered above the horizon with its argent whiteneſs, and the ſun now threw an amber-ſtreak, and was on [142] the point of colouring the heaven with its vermilion; part of the mountains before them had the purple hue of the half-illu⯑mined night-ſhadows. They gaze on the beamleſs ſun; they kneel before the ſoul of the univerſe; and, claſping their hands, vow an eternal paſſion. Leila ſupplicates for his return to his father's tents.—No (replied Mej⯑noun), I will not live where our fathers live!—Voiceleſs they embrace, ſlowly they part, quickly they return: now afar, they wave their hands, and Mejnoun gazed on Leila till her figure melted in the air, and ſeemed a ſpeck to his eye.

Alone, after this interview, for the firſt time he perceived the horrors of the deſert. Habit had ſoftened the aſpect of the ſur⯑rounding terrors; deſpair had even endcared them; but the fatal preſence of the object in which all his paſſions centered, again convulſed the volcano of his heart. At times he thought to purſue her, to detain her, to plunge into one abyſs, and to find [143] together an eternal reſt. His frame betrays the rapid volitions of his heart; flaſhes of heat are ſucceeded by chilly fits; thoughts offuſcate thoughts; he returns to the ſpot whence Leila departed. He runs along the ſands; his voice howls and ſhrieks; he tears up the trees by their roots, and flings them in the air; he purſues the wild animals, and ſatiates the anger of his ſoul in their mur⯑ders; he rejoices to make the deſert more deſert. He tears away the young laurel that jutted from his grottoed rock; once he had taught it to grow there with a little pride; it remembered him of glory. At length he ſwoons. It was only on the ſucceeding night that the miſerable maniac awoke from his delirium; then faint, he tranquilly gazed on the tranquil moon, and careſſed his fawn that laid its head on his knees.—Surely (he cried) it was but in a dream that I have ſeen Leila! and thus he addreſſed the ſawn:—Sleep by the light of the moon, fair fawn! the moonbeams will not hurt thy dark bril⯑liant [144] eyes. Shall I rhyme thee to ſleep. Laſt night I ſlept, and I dreamed—. Dear ani⯑mal! thou too dreameſt of the green valley thou haſt left, of the flowers thou haſt ſmelt. Ah! happineſs is not baniſhed from the cell of the hermit if he has but A DREAM OF LOVE!

He now addreſſed an ode to the MOON, which related

[149]Every day his verſes became more wild, but certainly not leſs poetical. The rock he haunted was well known to the hunters; and the gentleneſs of the Mejnoun had prompted them to repay the ſweetneſs of his romantic ſongs by leaving proviſions in his rocky vault: they alſo frequently placed there the ſilk paper and the ſplendid ink of Perſia, with Egyp⯑tian reeds. One piouſly came to ſupplicate his bleſſing; another, with purer taſte, to intreat for copies of his verſes; and each in return promiſed to be the meſſenger of his love, and ſecretly to convey to his miſtreſs the ENVOI he deigned to confide to them. He ſuffered their preſence with patient be⯑nevolence, and ſometimes ſoothed his agi⯑tated mind with the ſelf-ſupported love of fame; and imaged in his reveries the ſym⯑pathies and the applauſes poſterity has given to him.

PART THE FOURTH.

NOUFEL, the Iman of Sana, was equally renowned for a paſſion for poetry and for hunting. Wandering one day near the rock of Mejnoun, this prince liſtened to his voice; he was touched by its melodious melancholy; and while the poetry indicated the unſteady heart of the poet, the united delirium of his art, his love, and his exile, was more inte⯑reſting than the regular and courtly meaſures that fatigued his ear in his palace.

Noufel ſilently enters into the twilight gloom of the vaulted rock. In its ſubdued light he views Mejnoun in a recumbent poſ⯑ture: the affectionate fawn was ſtretched before him, and a manuſcript was placed on its ſoft-breathing body. Mejnoun was in [151] the act of compoſition: a warm radiance ſparkled at times in his hollowed eyes, that often fixed on an oppoſite portrait of Leila. His extended hand held a reed; he repeated verſes till they found cadence; he gave utter⯑ance to ideas and to images that perplexed by their variety; his geſtures accompanied the paſſions he deſcribed:—ſuch were the deliria of reverie! Often he cloſed his pe⯑riods with the tendereſt ſigh, and with the ſoft part of the reed often relieved his eye from the tear that clouded.

The ſenſibility of the prince never ſlum⯑bered: he feared to ruſh too abruptly in the preſence of a man whoſe tremulous nerves ſuffered ſuch a fine irritability. He ſtole away, gliding on tiptoe, from the vault. Reaching its entrance, he inquired of his hunters, if they knew who was the Mejnoun who haunted this ſpot?—It is the lover of Leila.—And is the fineſt poet of Arabia left to periſh in ſolitude! (cried Noufel.) Men [152] of genius! it is thus ye are admired and never conſoled!

He bid a hunter blow his horn; but to blow it with a ſound ſo mellow that it ſhould fall, like a remote harmony, on the ear of Mejnoun. He blew, and the tones played lightly among the circling echoes. Mej⯑noun appeared. Noufel approached him, and taking his hand, ſmiling, ſaid:—En⯑chanting poet, eternal lover! behold Nou⯑fel! Me, perhaps, thou knoweſt not, for I am but a prince; but thou art known to me, for thou art a poet. My ſubjects cheriſh me, but of thee the world is enamoured. Wilt thou deign to accept my protection? Leila ſhall be thine; I ſwear by Alborak, on which the prophet rode to heaven! Is the Emir avaricious? I will offer him treaſures. Ambitious? I will give thee dignities. In⯑ſenſible to kindneſs? My troops have taught deſpots to feel. Yes, thou ſhalt have Leila; and all that I implore of thee is to embelliſh [153] my court with thy glory. Delight us with the graces of thy ſplendid verſe; inſtruct us by the wiſdom of thy ſolemn precept.

Mejnoun ſearched, with an inquiring eye, the face of the Iman; his phyſiognomy had every waving tender line of ſenſibility; and as their eyes met, they underſtood each other. The hope of poſſeſſing Leila exhilarated his aſtoniſhed ſoul, and he replied:—Thy offer is pure; who but the gentleſt of men would court a hermit? Thy amiable ſoul opens it⯑ſelf to love and poetry. Thou giveſt me HOPE; it is a ſweet aliment to a wounded ſpirit. Yet HOPE was once my paraſite, and flattered, and revelled, and ruined! Yet HOPE is ſtill dear; it is ſo ſtrange to my feelings; it is a ſenſation ſo long forgotten, that ſcarcely my feeble heart knows how to receive it.

The enthuſiaſt, now at the court of Nou⯑fel, received from the ſenſitive prince new honours every day. He ordered that a me⯑dalla, or large paraſol, ſhould be ever carried [154] before him; the diſtinction of independent nobility. He prepares an embaſſy for the Emir, and compoſes the letter himſelf, in which he invited his conſent by the muni⯑ficence of his offers, and menaced his refuſal by the terror of his arms.

The haughty Emir tore the letter before the face of the ambaſſador, violently ſtamped on the fragments, and ſarcaſtically congratu⯑lated him on the wiſdom of his prince, who propoſed creating a diſtracted lover his chief miniſter. The Emir ſummons his tribe; Nouſel collects his bands. At length they meet, and, pauſing ere they combat, watch the motions of each other.

Mejnoun, two days preceding the battle, diſpatched a truſty page to the camp of the Emir. He has orders to enter ſecretly the tent of Leila, and to prevail on her to fly with him, that a battle might be ſpared. The page purſues his way with the devoted zeal of a meſſenger of love. He travels by moonlight, through unbeaten paths: when [155] he meets a ſtream, he ſwims acroſs it; a precipice, he leaps over it; a hill, he runs up it; and along the ſmooth valley he trips ſo lightly, that at morning his ſandals are ſcarcely wet, and faintly ſilvered over by the night-dews. He approaches the camp of the enemy, and obſerved the armed Arabs ſleep⯑ing in the moonlight. He dexterouſly ſhuns the centinels, by creeping under hedges, and often hiding his little body among the tall graſs and fringed fern, he reaches the tent of Leila. Gliding in, he views at the far⯑end, the beauty by a ſolitary lamp, and the holy koran lying before her, on which ſome⯑times ſhe directed her unquiet eyes. The little page is at a loſs how to diſcover him⯑ſelf. He folds his hands on his breaſt, and kneels; Leila fancies, in the delirium of pi⯑ety, that the beautiful boy is ſome winged genii, of whom ſhe had read in the Perſian tales. She recovers her underſtanding in liſ⯑tening to the meſſage. The little page tells her, how he had ſwam acroſs ſtreams, leaped [156] over precipices, run up hills, and crept un⯑ſeen in the tall graſs.—I cannot do all this (ſaid Leila): it is only a little boy like thy⯑ſelf who can be ſo ſecret a traveller. Surely thy beloved lord is ſtill a Mejnoun!

At length, after a week had elapſed in ex⯑treme wearineſs, and they had watched in⯑ceſſantly the motions of each other, the combat commenced. The army of Noufel amounted to a thouſand horſemen, that of the Emir was inferior; and they joined with equal valour, but unequal force. They ſtruck ſabres againſt ſabres; couched their long lances, and pointed them at, without touch⯑ing each other's breaſts; they wheeled about each other with equal celerity; they uttered loud and ſhrill vociferations; ſtood with menacing geſtures, and tried each other's ſagacity by artful feints: ſometimes they mingled with an apparent rage, now purſu⯑ing and now flying, as the vigour of their arm prevailed. Clouds of duſt were rolled above and around. They combated in this [157] manner for twelve hours, till the troops of the Emir left on the field of battle ſeven of their companions, who lay motionleſs, bruiſed by the fall from their horſes. The route then became general; a panic was caught by the Emir's ſoldiery; and the army of Nouſel proved victorious by out-wearying their ene⯑mies^*.

The tent of the Emir was ſurrounded; and Mejnoun yielding the honour of firſt entering it to his patron, the prince took pri⯑ſoner the Emir and his daughter. Touched by the beauty of the virgin, he gazes in ſilent admiration, and thinks that even Mejnoun had not ſufficiently inſpired his imagination [158] with ſuch a model of beauty. The haughty father ſtood beſide her, nor relinquiſhed the hand of his daughter till the prince, in gently ſeparating them, claimed the right of con⯑queſt. Fear, modeſty, and grief, were ex⯑preſſed in the variable face of Leila, in tears, in bluſhes, and in tremors. At the view of ſo much beauty (more beautiful in its diſ⯑order) the feeling ſoul of Noufel inſpired his firſt action with magnanimity.—Lovely maiden! (he cried) fear not a conqueror who conquers but to reſtore thee to freedom, to love, and to Mejnoun. For thee, obdurate Emir! in thy misfortune we forget thy pride. Return to thy tents.—The friends of the Emir kneeled to Noufel. The imperious Emir himſelf was no more proud; his hereditary ſpirit melted away in tenderneſs, as his humid eyes reſted on his daughter. They embraced and wept; and as he quitted her arms with a paternal ſigh, Leila looked on Mejnoun with anger and with grief. Her lover felt the ſilent indignation, nor ventured [159] to approach her: the victor ſtood half-mourn⯑ing his victory.

The character of Noufel was that of a quick ſuſceptibility, and the impulſion of his feelings was inſtantaneous; but he was vain and volatile, and ever touching the extreme of paſſion. His heroiſm was but a tempo⯑rary ebullition; and that ſuſceptibility which produced his virtues, at times, taking an op⯑poſite direction, hurried him into impetuous crimes; crimes which he could at once abhor and cheriſh: in a word, his heart was more ardent than intrepid. His natural feel⯑ings were pure, but they were at variance with the acquired habits of a court; and he was rather a lover of virtue, than virtuous.

The emotions with which Leila affected him, were too powerful for a ſoul whoſe ex⯑treme ſoftneſs is only the more dangerous when it tends to a gradual corruption. At firſt he faintly wreſtled with his deſires; but as the mind of Leila calmed, every day ſhe became leſs reſiſtible; and he gazed while [160] his whole frame trembled at the novel graces every day ſhot forth to his eye; at the har⯑mony of her features, the bloom of her com⯑plexion, and the enchantment diffuſed over her whole perſon. The tender friendſhip ſhe felt for the patron of her lover, but the more provoked his ardour; his ſoul was in⯑flamed by her graceful ſmile, and diſſolved by her intendering tones; and while he liſ⯑tened, abſorbed in the melody of her tongue, if he looked up to her eyes, he forgot her voice in their brilliancy. Unhappy Noufel! he felt himſelf at length ſo much attached to her, that he now conſidered that her lover intruded on his claims, and at the affection⯑ate careſſes of Mejnoun, he writhed in the agony of jealouſy. How often ſuddenly he quitted them, ſickening at their happineſs, while they, with grateful eyes, thanked him for that hour of delicious ſolitude which is ſo neceſſary for the exiſtence of lovers.—What! (cried the miſerable prince,) ſhall I be the ſlave of Mejnoun? Shall I yield the only [161] happineſs I have ever found to the ſolitary hand of a diſtracted man? Yes; friendſhip, juſtice, and hoſpitality, tell me this. And what are ye all, ye ſoft-heated VIRTUES, be⯑fore the energy of POWER? Shall Noufel be the moſt wretched in his court? ſhall he make madmen happy, by rendering himſelf moſt unhappy? If this be virtue, it is alſo folly. A word annihilates Mejnoun; a word for ever unites me to Leila. What! they will call me an impious bread and ſalt trai⯑tor^*! I ſhall violate the rights of hoſpita⯑lity; the holy rights an Arabian reveres. Ah! what are rights to me—a lover and a prince! Noufel was not inſenſible to his own unwor⯑thineſs, and the pang of guilt was redoubled as he felt the inſamy of guilt. Sometimes he reſolves to have Mejnoun aſſaſſinated, but the diminution of his fame reſtrained him; [162] and he watches with perpetual ſolicitude, if he could diſcover ſome action in Mejnoun that might prove the diſorder of his mind, and the neceſſity of confinement; but the intellect of Mejnoun was never injured but when he was torn away from Leila. At length Mejnoun complained in gentleneſs, to Noufel, of his protracted happineſs.

Noufel fixes on the day of his marriage. He announces to the court, that Mejnoun on that day becomes his chief miniſter; and to give publicity to his honours, he com⯑mands a nightly illumination in the city of Sana, to precede the ſplendid banquet which is to ſolemniſe the happineſs of Mejnoun and Leila.

The public feſtivities commenced. Mej⯑noun compoſed his epithalamiums, and theſe were ſoon retained by the people, who quit⯑ted all their occupations, and for a whole week only ſtudied to get by heart his verſes. At the corners of the ſtreets were little knots of jugglers, tumblers, dancers, and muſi⯑cians; [163] while before the ſhops were placed on tables, ſpread with aromatic flowers, py⯑ramids of refreſhments, with large jars of ſorbet, and pomegranate wine. The various crafts were the whole day wandering in pro⯑ceſſions; carrying before them ſtreamers, dazzling the eye with a thouſand colours, and exhibiting the implements of their pro⯑feſſions in maſſy gold; while attended by their muſicians, with kettle-drums, fifes, and clarions, they ſtopped under the balcony of Mejnoun and Leila, and ſang hymeneal ver⯑ſes, toſſing handfuls of flowers in the air. At night the illumination was general, and the darkeſt nook of the city ſeemed to be lighted up by a midnight ſun. Every minareh was wreathed with variegated lights; in the vaſt concaves of their domes ſhone a thouſand lamps of coloured glaſs; and cords were thrown acroſs, from minareh to minareh, on which the lamps were arranged into letters, forming verſes of the koran; and on that night ſo general was the fanciful illumina⯑tion, [164] that every houſe having choſen a dif⯑ferent verſe, much of the ſacred volume might have been read throughout the city in characters of flame^*.

The ſucceeding day the banquet is pre⯑pared. Leila comes forth in her bridal veſt⯑ments, and ere the ſolemn rite is performed, they partake of the ſplendid refection. The artificial Noufel has entruſted to his confi⯑dential page the infuſion of a ſubtile poiſon in the wine of Mejnoun. Noufel drinks to the health of the lovers, while the page pre⯑ſents a foaming goblet to Mejnoun. Noufel keeps his eye on him who thinks himſelf a bridegroom; and in tranſport he beholds [165] Mejnoun empty, without taking the goblet from his lips. To conceal the ſecret plea⯑ſure of his heart, his tongue is voluble; his eye, at times, ſeems convulſed with rap⯑ture; an agony of delight writhes his fea⯑tures. The courtiers around (the wretched mimics of their prince) catch the gay extra⯑vagance of their maſter. The pavilion ſounds with one undiſtinguiſhed claſh of voices. It was a delight that had terror in it. The prince laughs till his voice ſhrieks; he moves on his ſopha till every limb trembles; each courtier imitates the contortions of his rap⯑ture. What he ſpeaks is no more heard in the clamour of their joys. At length they behold him fall from his ſopha, lifeleſs, on the ground. All is the ſilence of terror.

Mejnoun flies to his friend and his prince: he holds him in his arms. The face of Nou⯑fel is blanched and livid; his heavy lids are cloſed in death; and his feeble accents, fleet⯑ing on his quivering lips, painfully tell,—Mejnoun, yield me no pity! the poiſoned [166] cup, meant for thee, has reached my own lips. I loved Leila, and my love was terri⯑ble, impious! I prepared poiſon for my gueſt! Yes, thy prince was thy traitor. He ſunk into his arms, and expired in the ſlow agonies of a convulſion.

An event ſo unexpected and terrific in⯑terrupted the nuptials. The Iman, who on that very day ſucceeded Noufel, had none of the ſenſibility of that miſerable victim of paſ⯑ſion. He had no attachment to poetry and to love, but a great ſagacity in politics; and lamenting that a war ſhould ever have been occaſioned for a poſſeſſion ſo little valuable as that of a woman, ſent Leila back to the Emir, with an aſſurance of his veneration for one who wore a green turban.

Unhappy lovers! what now but a hope⯑leſs futurity opens to your exiſtence? Think⯑ing of all ye were to be, how bitter the me⯑ditation of what ye are; while the remem⯑brance of perjured and of periſhed friend⯑ſhip wounds beyond the grave of the traitor! [167] —My ſoul (cried Mejnoun) yeſterday rejoic⯑ed in poſſeſſion, and to day is deſolated in ruin! My happineſs will not laſt out a ſoli⯑tary ſun. FORTUNE effaces TO DAY what YESTERDAY ſhe had written on her whiteſt page!

Leila returned to the tents of her father, and Mejnoun relapſed into his former deli⯑rious feeling, but with a more deadly hatred of man; and without a friend, he regards himſelf as a naked ſword without a ſheath^*. Again he flies into the deſert, and no one can diſcover his retreat.

It was ſome time after the return of his daughter that the Emir received a propoſal of marriage from another Emir for his ſon Ebnſelan. The paſſion of Leila was indeed univerſally known; but ſince this laſt fatal event, and the death of Mejnoun, as it was reported, it was imagined that the beautiful [168] virgin would not reſiſt the paſſion of a youth who came recommended by the graces of his perſon and the ſplendor of his train. Such was the judgment of the two aged Emirs, while the fervors of the gentle Ebnſelan, whoſe paſſion had been inſpired by the verſes of his rival, prompted the hope of ſtill win⯑ning the affections of one ſo capable of af⯑fection.

But when Leila was acquainted with the reſolves of her father, ſhe ſhrieked, ſhe tore the rich calpuc from her hair, and beating her boſom, accuſed her parents of cruelty, and Heaven of injuſtice. By gentle inſinu⯑ations, and by mild reproaches, they eſſayed all the avenues of her ſuſceptible heart. She was aſſured that Mejnoun had ceaſed to exiſt; and was ſhe not ſolicited by the moſt amiable youth in Yemen? and was the ſo⯑lemn oath of her venerable father to be lightly regarded? Had he not ſworn, that if ſhe ac⯑cepted not the hand of Ebnſelan, no hope remaining to perpetuate his family honours, [169] he would refuſe nouriſhment, and cloſe his days by a voluntary death?—Thou haſt diſ⯑graced us! (he cried:) a childleſs woman is in our race. Virginity is the glory of the girl, but the ſhame of the woman. Thou haſt turned into a deſert the fertile ſoil, and dried up the fountain of our race.

Long inexorable, the ſufferer offered her life, but refuſed her hand. Day ſucceeded day, and no meſſenger from Mejnoun ar⯑rived. Her father perſiſted in his reſolution, and ceaſeleſs tears were on the face of her mother. One day they ſat near Leila in a mournful ſilence; the eyes of her mother were fixed on her eyes; Leila could not ſupport the full affection they beamed on her; the inviſible atoms of ſympathy en⯑tered her whole frame; ſhe became what her mother was, and the ardour of her mother's eyes ſhot to the ſanctuary of her pure ſoul. The tears of her mother often lingered amidſt her wrinkled cheeks, and once ſhe ſighed heavily: inſtantly Leila ſighed convulſively; [170] ſhe ſunk on her mother's lap, and ſtretched her hand to her old father in ſilence and in deſpair; ſhe ſtretched her hand, and turning aſide her face, ſhe wept aloud.

The nuptial day arrives. The virgin, pre⯑ceded by a ſplendid retinue, and followed by her mother, her female relatives, and the damſels of her tribe, iſſues from the tent of her father. It was a rivalry of Arabian mag⯑nificence. The moſt precious gums fumed from ſilver cenſers. The bride appeared under a ſplendid canopy, ſupported by four men; ſhe was veiled from head to foot; the crimſon veil concealing her face was ſo ſprin⯑kled with diamonds that the tears which ſpar⯑kled on her veil were not diſtinguiſhable. Her flowing hair, waving on her ſhoulders, was dreſſed with embroidered ribbons, and the long taſſels of ſilk, wrought with gold and ſilver, reached to her feet; a heron's feather, among tufts of ſmaller plumes, was fixed on her head, and ſometimes gracefully flowed backwards; while the quills of the feathers [171] were ſet in ſockets of gold, and blazed with gems. On either ſide they flung around ſcented waters; ſome waved their ſilken fly⯑flaps; ſome played on their tambourines; and many paſſed on, performing agile feats, and dancing in various attitudes. The wo⯑men then followed with ſolemn and proceſ⯑ſional ſteps. At length a body of muſicians appeared, and as the muſic played, guns at intervals were fired^*; and as they ceaſed, the ſilver voices of the women reſponded with the joyous cry of, Lu! lu! lu! Then ſucceeded two camels loaded with her dowry, in furniture, and followed by the herds. The proceſſion went on in a ſlow march, and often pauſed to receive the ſalutations of the people.

They approach the tents of the expectant bridegroom. The father and the ſon haſten to meet them with no inferior pomp. In their retinue are five hundred horſemen, [172] mounted on thoſe fire-eyed courſers^*, whoſe nobility of deſcent and purity of blood, from the ſtud of Solomon, is proved by a genea⯑logy of two thouſand years. His gifts were ambitiouſly arranged on five camels. The two proceſſions hailing each other, mingled into one.

They enter the ornamented tent of Ebn⯑ſelan; the contract is ratified before the cadi, who performs the nuptial ceremony. The two families felicitate each other, and the feſtival ſpreads along the neighbouring val⯑ley. They prodigally ſcattered their aſpers and their ſweetmeats among the eager mul⯑titude, who ſhouted as they caught the ſhowery gifts in their extended robe^†. [173] Every Arab crowned his head with the ſplendid red flowers of the mimoſa, whoſe delicacy and brilliancy are reſerved for the nuptial day. The ſun, at length, ſet to the deſiring eye of the glowing bridegroom, who now was permitted to conduct the beauty to his own tent, and to liſt the veil from her ſecret charms.

Ebnſelan approached Leila, and trem⯑blingly raiſed the veil from the face of the virgin. Smiles and bluſhes were not in that face; tears are on her cheeks and frowns on her brow. His ſoul ſhudders, and he drops the veil. Again he returns to Leila, and with tender reproaches in his eyes, would preſs her to his boſom.—Stay thy hand! (exclaimed the virgin, in a tone more reſo⯑lute and awful than ever virgin ſpoke,) au⯑dacious youth! thy hand would ſteal the fruit that has long matured for another. [174] Well thou knoweſt that Leila is Mejnoun's Leila, and can be the Leila of no other. Thinkeſt thou that oaths are mockeries? Oaths! are they not regiſtered in Heaven? and are there not MARRIAGES recorded there, which on earth are unconſummated? Wilt thou be a ſerpent in the garden? Thou mayeſt wind round the tree, poiſoning the fruit thou canſt not gather. I may fear thee, but we do not love the thing we fear. The injuſtice of a father has made his daughter a criminal; and I am guilty becauſe I am obedient. Were there not an imbecility in our ſex, I had died!—Yet thou mayeſt ſtill be kind: I am thy bride, come then in kindneſs to thy bride; come Ebnſelan! ſhall I not bleſs thy name on our nuptial night? Avert thy face, recoil not, and ſtrike thy ſcymitar at my virgin breaſt. Point it here, I will kiſs the point.

Ebnſelan covered his face with his hands.

I ſee (continued Leila) thou haſt a gentle heart: approach me not, then, and I will [175] live: I will forgive thee that thou art my huſband.

Her tones were ſweeter, for her heart melted as ſhe looked on the gentle Ebnſe⯑lan. They reſtored his ſpirits; and ſtill hoping, by acts of tenderneſs, to ſteal on her affections, he claſped her hand, and gazed on her with eyes diſſolved in fondneſs and in beauty.

Approach me not (again exclaimed the alarmed Leila), raſh youth! the roſe thou wouldſt pluck will raiſe its viewleſs thorns againſt thee. I am the ſlave of a man for⯑lorn; one who is now perhaps the night⯑companion of the hyaena, and who gaſps with thirſt where there are no waters. There is nothing but deſpair about us: my vowed ſoul is in the deſert with Mejnoun; my dreams are reſtleſs with his image. Ebnſe⯑lan, how can I be thine? my king lives in my boſom: ſhould I turn to thee, thou wouldſt claſp a polluted woman. No; I cannot love thee and be chaſte. Ah! do [176] we love twice, when our firſt paſſion is that of DESPAIR?

Ebnſelan was the mild inmate of a mild climate. He had merited Leila, had Leila to chooſe a lover. He wept ſilently, and at length aſſured her, that he would reſpect the paſſion of Mejnoun.—Thou mayeſt ſee (he ſaid) how I love thee; for I conſent to feel the grief of a widower on the bridal night; and mine eyes, while they perceive thy beau⯑ties, ſhall only weep for thy misfortunes. He quieted the convulſed emotions of Leila by a promiſe to conceal the event of that night. Such was the amiable forbearance of the tender Ebnſelan; and often the grate⯑ful Leila met him in tears, and would at⯑tempt to ſmile on him, while the ſufferer, as he ſmiled on her, would weep.

Mejnoun, after a long reſidence in the ruins, among which he had concealed him⯑ſelf, would ſometimes ſtroll into the open deſert, and met the traveller. The news of the marriage reached him. The pilgrim [177] told him of it; the voyaging merchant con⯑firmed it; and a hunter, who had been pre⯑ſent at the ceremony, minutely deſcribed its pomp. All cenſured the capricious maiden, and all mourned the inconſtancy of the vola⯑tile ſex. At firſt, the incredulous Mejnoun conceived the tale to be an artifice to with⯑draw him from his retreat, and often deemed it was a wild notion of his own diſordered imagination. Day followed day, and the circumſtantial narrative, in all its terrible minuteneſs, ſtill afflicted his memory. Jea⯑louſy and indignation exalted his delirium. He knows nothing of the trials of Leila; of that reſiſtleſs perſecution, when a ſilent pa⯑rent periſhes before the eye of filial piety; and ſtill leſs of her inviolate affection, and the not inferior ſufferings of Ebnſelan. He is alive only to the idea of her union, and in the anger of phrenzy he pictures them happy, and himſelf ſcorned. Thoſe who had informed him of their union, well knew the long perſecutions ſhe had ſuffered; but [178] theſe were as nothing in their mind, while they had the pleaſure of forming another ſplendid accuſation of the infidelity of the ſex, and could conſole themſelves for diſap⯑pointments, themſelves had received and had merited. Every one added to his account, inconſciouſly, ſome little provoking circum⯑ſtance, ſuch as they themſelves had experi⯑enced, and ſuch as, they imagined, every perjured woman practiſed.

All theſe had been lovers, but not lovers like Mejnoun. Circumſtances which excited their laughter jarred on, and were moſt touching to his ſoul; an incident, uncon⯑nected in their minds, was aſſociated with former emotions by the enthuſiaſt; and an event, which they conceived as common, ſeemed to him, for a long time, as impoſſi⯑ble. He formed the terrible project of diſ⯑guiſing himſelf in the habit of a pilgrim, and concealing a poignard, to enter her tent, and periſh with her at the ſame moment and with the ſame inſtrument. He com⯑poſed [179] the following poetical epiſtle, and ſent it by a hunter:

This epiſtle gave to Mejnoun the emo⯑tions of deſponding conſtancy. In the deli⯑rium of paſſion each period received a tear and ſometimes a kiſs, and graſping the letter till every ſyllable was effaced, he held the fragments to his eyes while his memory ſup⯑plied the paſſages he could no more diſtin⯑guiſh.

Often the tender maniac addreſſed the echo, and often aſked, who was the moſt [190] unfortunate, himſelf or his miſtreſs? while often he hated the voice of the echo, becauſe it was his own voice.—Deceitful ſympathy! (he cried,) thou replieſt to my ſighs, thou repeateſt my words, and what art thou but air? Hollow is thy heart, and mockery is in thy voice; and yet to the ſolitary how conſoling even the ſhadow of the human voice! The ſenſe of Leila's ſufferings ſeemed to tranquillize his own, and he pauſed in the violence of his own emotions while he re⯑membered thoſe of his miſtreſs. Softened into a ſtill melancholy, he flew into an ob⯑ſcure nook; pale and haggard, there ſitting whole days immovable, he would have ſeem⯑ed a ſtatue, had he not ſighed.

His abode was now not unknown, and many a meſſenger had come from his father, imploring his return. But Mejnoun was in⯑exorable. The old Chief, amidſt his tents, felt himſelf as deſolated as his hermit ſon; the fond hope of poſterity, that ſolitary hope of age, was extinct; another victim to theſe [191] unhappy loves, his noble and paternal heart was broken. In the chill of approaching death, the ſolitary idea which occupied his cloſing hours was the deſire of once more embracing his miſerable ſon. Who but Lebid could prevail with Mejnoun? yet the journey might be fatal to the venerable man. The dying Chief ſoftly graſped the hand of his friend, and looked in his face, and was ſilent; he ſuſpired the name of Mejnoun in a ſigh half ſuppreſſed. Lebid that day or⯑dered a camel, and departed for the hermit.

He diſcovered his dark cavern. He lay there ſtretched without motion, and in the twilight gloom, the Effendi imagines he views his corpſe. He raiſed a loud cry; as Mejnoun roſe he embraced him.

Thou liveſt yet! (cried the old tremulous man;) thy father periſhes! His ſoul ſtrug⯑gles to live a day, that he may yet once more view thee. Is the tendereſt paſſion to diſ⯑nature thy breaſt? Myſterious Heaven! per⯑mitteſt thou two human beings to love like [192] theſe?—Mejnoun! my friend, my child, ſpeak! Thy father, thou knoweſt not he has been a father to thee; truſt me, thou knoweſt not all. Haſten, and be the viſion of his death-bed! Miſerable man! I only invite thee to the ſcene of death! Come, thy cheriſhed hand may yet cloſe his heavy eyes in ſweetneſs.

Mejnoun gazed on Lebid with leaden and ſpiritleſs eyes; he fondly liſtened to him, and quietly followed him. Tears and em⯑braces they exchanged, but words they could not utter.

They journeyed on, till the exhauſted Ef⯑fendi could not proceed. He hung his ſhri⯑velled arms around the neck of Mejnoun; his feeble tones died in murmurs on his lips.—Proceed! thy father has not many hours to live! Lay me under this plane-tree: I ſhall be found; fear not! It is better for me to die under that plane-tree, than be carried home lifeleſs. It will ſpare our friends ſome ſorrows; the death of a friend [193] is ſoon forgotten, but the view of his corpſe long ſtartles the memory. Go, my child, remember thou haſt a mother ſtill, when thy father dies.

The diſtracted Mejnoun in vain offers to quit the camel, and to haſten on foot to his tents: but this would have prolonged his journey many days. The old Effendi was now ſpeechleſs; the camel would not go without its driver; the moments preſſed on him.—Shall I leave a dying father here, to haſten to a father who is perhaps dead? exclaimed the miſerable man. But he thought of his mother; he remembered the Effendi's words; and ſtretching the old man under the plane-tree, he placed beſide him a bardak of water, and he journeyed, wail⯑ing, along the deſert.

He reaches his tents: he flies to that of his father: he yet lives! His eyes, half⯑cloſed in the ſleep of death, yet open; on his icy lips his voice yet trembles; in the [194] arms of his ſon a new warmth ſtays his fleet⯑ing exiſtence.

They look on each other a thouſand ſilent things. Mejnoun, as he was turned to his dying father, ſupported his head; his mo⯑ther, ſeated on the couch, laid her face on the back of her ſon, and moaned.—My fa⯑ther! cried Mejnoun, and could ſay no more.—My ſon! (hollowly replied the father,) let me touch thee, I have ceaſed to ſee!

I had much to ſay to thee; (continued, with difficulty, the dying man; the hectic of death faintly gleamed on his face—it came, it paſt!) I have not ſeen thee two years, and thou haſt come a day too late: thy mother knows what I would ſay. Mejnoun turned to his mother; her face was raiſed to him covered with tears, and ſcarcely knowing what he did, he paſſed his hand over her face and wiped away her tears.—May Alla preſerve (continued the dying man, in tones ſtill fee⯑bler) from diſaſtrous love the virtuous and [195] the valiant! O, my ſon! behold us alike its victims! He laid his head on the arm of his ſon, and expired.

Mejnoun turns to his lifeleſs parent, and ſtill tries to recal the voice he can hear no more. He lifts his arm, and it is ſtiffened; he feels his hand, and no pulſes tremble there; he touches his blue lips, and they are as ice; his whole body remained in heavi⯑neſs, cold in his embrace.

When his parent ceaſed to exiſt, he heard of all the proofs and ſufferings of his affec⯑tions; but his heart was wrung with that ſevereſt of all agonies; that, which the moſt affectionate ſon feels when he has broken the heart of the tendereſt parent: even Leila was baniſhed from his thoughts.—And why (cried Mejnoun) is the goodneſs of man known only when it avails not to be known? I ceaſed to be a ſon, becauſe I knew not I had a father. Heaven! how myſterious are thy decrees!

Alas! (replied his mother) thou didſt [196] ceaſe to be every thing when thou wert only a lover!

He diſpatched two meſſengers; one to ſearch for Lebid, the other to bring news from Leila.

The Effendi had been aſſiſted by the cha⯑rity of a hermit derviſe, who in vain intreated him to retire within his cave, and ſhare his meal and his oriſons. No (replied the old man), I will not quit this plane-tree; thoſe that left me here, will one day return to find me: I have friends, holy man, who will not forget me. The derviſe who had never known ſuch friends, imagined that the feeble old man was crazed with ſorrow; and every day as he brought him refreſhments, and ſtill found him there, ſmiled and ſaid—Truſt me, no one remembers a friend in a deſert.—If that be true (replied the Effendi), it were beſt that I ſhould die under this plane-tree. Every day the old Effendi watched, and the meſſenger found him waiting his coming under the plane-tree.

[197] To the wiſdom of Lebid Mejnoun con⯑fided the care of his mother and his tribe. His mind had now become aſſociated to the deſert; his delirium found repoſe amid fa⯑miliar horrors; and he once more returns to his ſecluſion, where he appointed an in⯑terview with the friend he had ſent to the tents of Leila.

Day after day elapſed, and ſtill no meſſen⯑ger from Leila arrived. He ſat upon the point of a rock that he might diſcover the expect⯑ed friend before he reached him. At length he deſcries one approaching; he ran down the rock and met him on the plain. It was his friend, who when he perceived Mejnoun, approached him with ſlow ſteps and heavy looks. The heart of Mejnoun was chilled at the aſpect of ſo melancholy a meſſenger, and, with a bewildered air, he inquires the fate of Leila? His friend replied but by a profound ſigh.—Thy ſilence well becomes thy tale (ſaid Mejnoun); why is not all for me an eternal ſilence! Here I have waited, [198] day after day, but to hear of the death of Leila. Could that heart, that tender heart, love as ſhe loved, and live? A thouſand times already have I mourned her death; and when the world told me ſhe yet lived, often I was incredulous.

Alas! (replied the friend, rejoicing to ob⯑ſerve the calmneſs with which the Mejnoun ſpoke) a fixed grief preyed on her ſoul, and—

Talk not, talk not! (quickly the Mejnoun replied, with eyes that emitted ſparks of paſ⯑ſion, while his hand rudely repulſed his friend;) did I not commend thy ſilence? Away! it is dangerous to commend a fool's ſilence; he will ſpeak at laſt, were it but to give a fool's thanks. Away! I am ſick of all foolery: away to thy world! to thy world, fool!

He pauſed: his troubled heart was buſied with gloomy imaginations; his rapid lips muttered low and inarticulate accents; his eyes were fixed on the earth; he ſighed and [199] ſaid:—It is completed! it was born, and it has died! The flower is gathered; let the leaves, the lovely ſtem ſupported, fall and rot on the earth!—He muſed; terrible thoughts were in his mind, and the blood ſorſook his face.

He ſhrieks, he rolls himſelf on the burn⯑ing ſands; his friend approaches and would embrace him; but he hurls him to the earth: he flies up the perpendicular rock. He howls, and the echo multiplies his ter⯑rific voice. Some hunters join his friend. Three days they patiently watch at the foot of the rock. On the ſecond day the voice of Mejnoun was only heard at intervals: on the third night, in the gleam of the moon, they perceived the ſpectre-man deſcending. The dying form paced, ſlowly, with tottering ſteps; every ſtep was audible in the vaſt ſilence. Their hearts ſhuddered. The Mej⯑noun looked not of this earth, and they dared not approach him. He reached a hillock of ſand, and ſtretched himſelf in ſilence. They [200] haſten to the Mejnoun: on his murmuring lips they liſtened to the name of Leila; and ſlowly, and hollowly, they heard one vaſt and feeble ſigh, and it ceaſed to reſpire. His friend placed his hand on the boſom of the Mejnoun, and his heart no more palpitated.

The laſt ſolemn office of friendſhip was paid by the hands of his unhappy friend and the grieving hunters. Returning to the tents of Ebnſelan, he ſummons the tribe, and tells a tale, often interrupted by his moaning auditors. Even the obdurate Emir, in whoſe ſubdued breaſt no human paſſion now beat but that of pity, vows a long, ſad pilgrimage to Mecca, and thanks the prophet that he is old and will ſoon die. The gentle Ebnſelan roſe, and wept, and ſpoke:—Sad meſſenger of diſaſtrous love! Another, and a final duty, ſtill remains. Thou knoweſt not that the dying Leila predicted the death of Mej⯑noun. He lives, ſhe ſaid, but becauſe I live; and he will die becauſe I ſhall have died. It was her laſt prayer, that their aſhes ſhould [201] be united. Lead us to his grave: they ſhall meet, though they meet in death; and over their extinct aſhes let me pour my living tears.

The tribe of Mejnoun unite with the tribe of Leila. At the foot of the rock, which the Mejnoun haunted in his delirium, they raiſe a tomb to the memory of the lovers, and there depoſiting the bodies, they plant around many a gloomy cypreſs tree. Lebid lived to compoſe the verſes, which were emboſſed with golden characters on the black marble. Lebid lived to lament his own foſtering of their loves, Ahmed's auſterity, and the Emir's haughtineſs.

For many ſucceſſive years the damſels of the two tribes, in ſympathiſing groupes, an⯑nually aſſembled at the cemetery, and plant⯑ed in marble vaſes, around the tomb, aro⯑matic flowers and herbs. One night in every year, each bearing a taper, they wailed till the morning the fate of the lovers, and, in parting, prayed their PARENTS to be [202] MERCIFUL IN LOVE. The caravans of Syria and Egypt, which traverſe the deſert in their way to Mecca, once ſtopped near the conſe⯑crated ſpot; the tender pilgrim once leant over their tomb, and read and wept. The ſpot is now only known by tradition. The monument has left no veſtige, and the trees no more wave their melancholy boughs; nothing remains but THE HISTORY OF THE LOVERS^*.[203]

PART THE FIRST.

IN a valley of Arcadia Amaryllis was a ſhepherdeſs; on the rocks above, Lycidas was a goatherd. Their ſituation approached that of primaeval ſolitude; never had they obſerved other human forms than their old fathers and mothers, whom they viſited at the full moon, when their flocks were guarded by the ſilence of ſleep.

In the luxuriant valley Amaryllis conducted her ſheep, while Lycidas purſued his capri⯑cious [252] goats on the rocky clifts. Amaryllis found her companions like herſelf, timid and docile; they rather followed her, than ſhe them. Often had ſhe meaſured her height with the old ewes, and diſcovered how ſhe increaſed in ſtature.

Lycidas was vigorous as the goats he chaced; he flew fearleſsly along the points of clifts, and ſtood on one foot, at the edge of a precipice, to ſnatch the wild goat hang⯑ing at the perilous extremity. Amaryllis fre⯑quently obſerved him above her with a tre⯑mulous delight; and imitating his voice, found that her tones could not, like his, fill the hollow hills. Ah! there, ſhe thought, is one like myſelf, whoſe ſtrong feet outleap a goat! Lycidas looked down ſometimes on Amaryllis, and thought, there is one like myſelf, whoſe ſoft look is more tender than the eye of a lamb!

One day the ſhepherdeſs, at the brink of a river, was bathing a lamb; while Lycidas, leaning from a rock above, watched the tranſ⯑parent [253] water-drops trickling on its ſnowy coat, and hanging her fingers with pearls. The lamb fell into the river; Amaryllis ſhrieked. Behold Lycidas in the ſtream! He brings the breathleſs animal; he dries its velvet ſkin; he warms it in his breaſt; its little ſides palpitate once more.—It is born again! (he exclaims) preſenting it to Ama⯑ryllis.—Ah! (ſaid the paſtoral virgin, look⯑ing her gratitude) I thought, till now, that a goatherd cared not for the ſorrows of a ſhepherdeſs.—Oh, Amaryllis! (replied Ly⯑cidas) I often think of thee.—How ſingular is this, oh Lycidas! I, too, often think of thee—When I view thee kiſſing a lamb, I would give ten of my goats to be that lamb.—Lycidas, thou ſhalt have my kiſſes when thou wilt; come from the mountains when thou wouldſt have me kiſs thee!

After this interview Lycidas was continu⯑ally deſcending from the rocks to receive the careſſes of Amaryllis. But ſweet kiſſes in⯑ſpired ſweet words: it became neceſſary to [254] unite the goats of Lycidas with the ſheep of Amaryllis; and the mountaineers gradu⯑ally abated their wildneſs among the mild inmates of the valley: yet, though influ⯑enced by the local ſoftneſs, and loſing their reſtleſs deſire of climbing by continually treading on a level earth, they ſtill retained their untamed ſpirit; and, never mingling with the timorous, ever preceded and con⯑ducted the feebler domeſtics.

Obſerve (ſaid Amaryllis to Lycidas) how thy goats diſdain the ſociety of my ſheep! How is it, oh Lycidas! that thou admitteſt me to thy arms, as if I were thy equal?

I have heard my father ſay (replied the youth), that man is an animal more noble than a goat; that his face looks up towards the gods. And yet this ſeems an error; for my face only looks ſtraight forwards; were I to look up to the gods, I ſhould ſtumble.

Couldſt thou ever underſtand (enquired Amaryllis) what the goats think of man?

Oh, yes! aſſuredly they deem themſelves [255] ſuperior. They climb, with their hollow foot, on ridges narrow as thy ſlender finger. I have viewed them ſleep on the point of a precipice, where my eye only could touch them: I have waked them by my voice; but they only raiſed their heads and ſhook their beards, and again laid themſelves to ſleep. I have watched at the foot of the rock, in patient helpleſſneſs. Such is MAN!

I have often thought (replied Amaryllis) that man is a kind of goat; for our fathers have beards, but the faces of our mothers are ſmooth as mine and my ſheep. Thou too wilt have a beard, no doubt, (ſhe paſſed her hand playfully over his chin) already I perceive a fine brown ſhade gliſten around thy face. How ſoft! I touch it, but cannot feel it. Be ſure all human beings are only a kind of goats and ſheep. Thine eye ſeems to command Nature, thy ſtrong ſtep echoes on the earth; but I timidly follow thee, and all my glory is my ſubmiſſion.

In converſations thus ſimple and innocent, [256] they ſometimes interchanged their thoughts; but they ſported more than they talked. At the margent of a lucid fountain, or under an umbrage, dropping roſes, they divided their milk and their fruits; the velvet turf ſprang under their flying feet; the echo multiplied their ſilver voices. Mimicking a butting goat, Lycidas would run at Amaryllis; but Amaryllis moſt loved to lie down like a ſheep, and, in ſhort pantings, breathe on her be⯑loved Lycidas. Amaryllis would conceal herſelf behind a woodbine hedge, or lie in the covering fern; and then Lycidas would call on her, ſeek her through all her hiding ſpots, and murmur at, yet half-enjoy, the feigned abſence. Seldom could he track her through her inventive and myſterious paths, till the playful maid betrayed herſelf by a loud laugh; or attempted to fly, while her inviting eyes accuſed the purſuer's tardy em⯑brace. Sometimes when he returned home ſhe would lie down, feigning to ſleep, while her eyes were half open, to ſee if Lycidas [257] would immediately haſten to her; the youth kneeled, and ſighed, and kiſſed her eyes, till ſhe laughed.

Sometimes he would diſorder her wavy treſ⯑ſes, while ſhe murmured with a ſmile; and then would adorn them to his fancy, ſtud⯑ding them with roſes, or braiding them with jeſſamine. But if he often loved to diſorder her fine treſſes, he was careful, in paſſing her favourite flowers, to ſupport their bended ſtalks, and to weave more cloſely her fa⯑vourite ſhades. The tender reminiſcence of her lover's attention often mingled with the delicious perfumes of the flower, and the bowery verdure of the tree. He would com⯑poſe what he called ſerpents of flowers, and fancifully wind them about her long treſſes, praying the gods that no other ſer⯑pents might ever approach her.

One evening, beneath a lofty myrtle-tree, the beauteous Amaryllis was lamenting the death of a nightingale. She ſaid, Sweeteſt tears have fallen with the touching cloſe of [258] its delicious tones: I felt the muſic creep along my nerves, and the fine vibrations play through my heart. I weep now, Lycidas, when I think ſuch a charming ſadneſs may never again give delightful tears.

Ah! that I could recal thy nightingale into exiſtence, as I did thy drowned lamb! exclaimed the amiable youth.

Thou never canſt, dear companion! it breathed a long and dying fall, like the gen⯑tle airs, moving the tops of the hollow reeds, making a moaning melody.

Studious to charm his beloved with the voice of the nightingale, the thoughts of Lycidas produced a ſleepleſs night: the next day he gave Amaryllis the care of his goats, and promiſed an early return. The ſun de⯑clined, and Lycidas returned not. Amaryllis ſighed at its farewell beam. She ſat, her head reclining on her arm. Suddenly aerial notes floated in ſoft remote ſounds. The ſtartled Amaryllis exclaimed—The air ſings in the clouds! The notes ſeemed approach⯑ing [259] to her. She looked up at the myrtle⯑tree. They warbled more muſically clear. She perceived Lycidas: he held ſomething in his hands to his lips.—Haſt thou found another nightingale? (Lycidas replied but by the accents of his harmonious mouth.) What miracle is this! Canſt thou give a vocal ſoul to a hollow reed?—Yes, (replied Lycidas,) it was thou who didſt inſtruct me: Thou didſt reſemble the voice of the night⯑ingale to the light AIRS breathing on the hollow REEDS. All day I wandered for a nightingale, and I found none: I took a reed, and made little entrances for my breath: I ſaid, Oh, gentle reed! I can give thee AIR, if thou canſt yield me the VOICE of the nightingale: I BREATHED, and it was MUSIC!

This firſt of flutes was their moſt valued acquiſition, for it beſtowed a new pleaſure; and in the ſolitude of lovers, pleaſure is their only avarice. Lycidas, gradually modulating his reed by his ear, perceived the ſucceſſive [260] ſounds of MELODY, and, at length, the con⯑cords of HARMONY; but often, weary with trying muſical ſounds, the eyes of Amaryllis fired his ſoul, and the rapt enthuſiaſt, tender or gay at ſuch moments, made his lively in⯑flections, and variety of accent imitate their ſenſations and echo their paſſions^*. Such was the progreſs of INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC!

As they wept or laughed, they marvelled how the air, through a hollow reed, could ſpeak more perſuaſively to their hearts, than their own voices; they knew not that the imitations of Art pleaſe more than Na⯑ture herſelf. When Lycidas played, Ama⯑ryllis could not ſit ſtill, and her geſtures cor⯑reſponded with the paſſions he inſpired. Was Amaryllis capricious? Lycidas breathed a long diſſolving ſtrain; ſounds aſſociated in her mind with ideas of tenderneſs; her ear [261] arreſted her ſteps, and ſilenced her tongue; while the ſweetneſs of her phyſiognomy melted in the dew of her eye, and expreſſed itſelf in many a paſſionate attitude. Was A⯑maryllis plunged in the ſofteſt melancholy? Aerial tones, rapid and voluble, vibrated around; till, ſtealing the ſenſe of thought from the penſive beauty, they broke into gay melodies; while, reſponſive to their cheer⯑ful influence, her light footſteps gave what Lycidas termed, the muſic to the eye: and ſuch was the origin of THEATRIC DANCE!

Their enjoyments were only interrupted by his frequent abſences: whole days were ſometimes paſſed in ſearch of a wanton goat. How terrible is the abſence of him in whoſe preſence alone the heart feels the ſenſe of exiſtence! She thought this, one night in a cave where Lycidas was ſleeping, while the wakeful beauty hung enamoured over each intereſting feature: a SUSPENDED LAMP was placed near.—Ah! (ſhe continued) even this pleaſing light, this ſoft moon of my [262] chamber, is the thought of his genius^*. It was from THE PENDENT LIGHT OF THE GLOW-WORM, in the illumined hedge, that he ſtole the hint; it is thus that, borrowing every happy conception from Nature, he diſcovers around him the ſources of enjoy⯑ment.

The lamp threw its light on the even wall, and the ſolitary flame ſtrongly reflected the ſhadow of his face.—Ye gods! (exclaimed the fond maid) behold two Lycidaſes! Ye ſpeaking features, can ye not for ever dwell on that wall? then would Lycidas not en⯑tirely quit me in his abſence. How conſol⯑ing even the ſhadow of what we love! Ly⯑cidas! thy ſhade would to me prove a tender companion. Fugitive and cheriſhed ſhadow! live here when Lycidas roves in the circling mountains!

She took up her ſheephook, and affection⯑ately [263] tracing the ſhadow of her lover, its ſharp iron graved it on the wall. Lycidas turned, and the lines remained unmoved.—He is for ever there! (exclaimed the enrap⯑tured Amaryllis.) Lycidas awoke.—Who is here? Amaryllis!—THYSELF, THYSELF! (ſhe cried, in embracing him.) Theſe eyes ſhall worſhip thee when thou art on the clifts: whole ſuns from me, the light ſhall give me thy preſence in the mimic wonder. Behold thy half-cloſed eye, thy half-opened lips, for ever ſmiling on that wall! Lycidas looked on the wall and on Amaryllis, and they embraced. Such was the origin of DESIGN^*!

Amaryllis, in the abſence of Lycidas, paſſed many hours in contemplating this FIRST PORTRAIT of Love. But the fami⯑liarity [264] of enjoyment diſcovered its imperfec⯑tions.—Diſmal ſhadow! (ſhe cried) thou pleaſeſt me, becauſe thou reſembleſt Lyci⯑das; but Lycidas would not charm me, did he reſemble thee! Where is the ſoft muta⯑bility of his cheek? Melancholy reſemblance of a form of gaiety! Only when Lycidas is dead, will he reſemble thee!

She held in her lap a treaſury of flowers, which ſhe was aſſorting to weave into a wreath for Lycidas. She took a ROSE, and continued:—This breathing ROSE is the hue of his cheek: O, Shade! I will place it on thy cheek! This white LILY is like the ſnow of his forehead: that its ſplendid white⯑neſs could for ever ſpread on thine! Theſe blue VIOLETS are the purple of his veins; and ſhe delicately laid them along the neck. And this dark eye of the TULIP is black as his brilliant eye: and ſhe fixed it there!

Entranced, ſhe gazed on the illuſive ſha⯑dow: for a moment it was her Lycidas! his beautiful colours lived to her eye. Such [265] was the firſt eſſay of COLOURING! The tinted impreſſions which ſome of the flow⯑ers left behind, gave them afterwards a hint to expreſs, from various plants and minerals, that variety of colours which gave birth to the more perfect parts of PAINTING^*!

Seated, in the ſultry ſilence of ſummer, at the entrance of a grove, they viewed their ſlocks retired beneath the umbrageous hedges.—Dear Lycidas (ſaid the ſmiling maid), how amiable the dewy mornings, and the clear moons of ſummer! I love at noon-tide to lay myſelf beſide ſome rippling water, and liſten to its cooling murmurs mingling with the airy murmurs of a bee: oft as they blend, they lull my ſpirits with ONE rocking ſound, [266] and I catch ſome half-dream. It is in winter I feel unhappy: the cave our fathers hewed is ſo round, or ſo ſquare, one ſees the termi⯑nation of every thing; nothing is left to the imagination. It is not thus in Nature; ſhe never impriſons the eye; all her lines are waved, and varied, and enchanted. How often I ſigh when I view nothing of liſe and motion before me, but the ſolitary flame trembling on the oppoſite wall!

Lycidas replied:—Had I been idle laſt winter, as thou wert, I too ſhould have been melancholy in the cave. Then I made reeds for ſummer ſongs, I added another aperture to my flutes, and I produced a new muſic. How many haſt thou broken in thy firſt leſ⯑ſons? Do not mind them, Amaryllis; I am pleaſed when thou breakeſt them; for to me it is delightful to amend thy reeds, and to paſs my fingers over the places thine have touched.

She kiſſed Lycidas, and ſaid:—Oh, that our days may be blended, as the AIR we [267] played this morning; two ſymphonious in⯑ſtruments yielding but one modulation. The other evening, waiting thy return beſide the RIVULET, I thought it were happineſs for us to reſemble it: when it receives a new ſtream, the two ſtreams can never be ſeparated; THEY TOUCH, and are FOR EVER UNITED!

And I wiſh (continued Amaryllis) that we could live in ſuch a grove through the happy circle of the year.

Thou doſt nothing but wiſh, ſaid Lycidas.

Had I ſuch a grove in winter, the aſpect of Nature would conſole me in thy abſence. Obſerve how finely arched is the grove above us by the interwoven boughs; as if placed in a regular order, view the ſtraight trunks of the palm-trees; mark the little openings around, delighting the eye with various views; and here, as we ſit, this ſeems the only entrance of the grove. On the hollow curves of theſe trees my foot has reſted, when I climbed, till I was ſeated at their ſummit. One day I aſcended, and de⯑ſcried [268] thee on the great rock, directing thy goats. I ſaw thee urging the vagrants home, and often kiſſing thy hand as thou didſt ſtretch it towards our valley; approaching, thou didſt ſound thy reed; then my heart bounded with the tender thought, that thou didſt remember me when thou thoughteſt that I could not ſee thee!

While the voluble beauty was deſcribing the grove, the eye of Lycidas had intenſely followed the objects of her fancy. And now he was loſt in reverie. The bunch of grapes he held in his hand remained unplucked; when ſhe ceaſed, he ſpoke not; he wandered from thought to thought; he ſat in motion⯑leſs abſtraction.

Art thou diſordered, my ſweet Lycidas? Not one ſmile dimples thy cheek; the hea⯑vineſs of ſleep preſſes thy lids. Ah! thou lookeſt on the earth, and not on Amaryllis!

Lycidas, ſtarting from his trance, flung the grapes from his hand in rapture. The crea⯑tive ſmile of Enthuſiaſm lighted up every [269] feature; his eye ſwam in a liquid fire; a tremor of ſenſibility vibrated through his frame. Looking on Amaryllis with com⯑placency, he ſaid—I was only thinking.

And why doſt thou think, dear Lycidas? to think is to toil. With thee I never think, I only feel; it is in thine abſence I think and ſuffer. In the enjoyment of thy preſence, when I lay my hand on thy beating heart; when I ſeal my trembling lips on thy ſoft lips; when I blend my breath with thy breath, it is then I am all ſenſation. Ah! then ſhould a ſingle thought intervene, I ſhould feel it an interruption of my exiſt⯑ence.

Lycidas replied, ſmiling,—Doſt thou not perceive that thou thyſelf art thinking, while thou prattleſt againſt the labour of thought?

To think with thee, Lycidas, ſeems no pain; my thoughts embrace thy thoughts, as my arms wind around thy arms. In thine abſence only thinking tortures; for ſince I have known thee, I abhor all that is ſolitary.

[270] After this converſation Lycidas was con⯑ſtantly abſent from Amaryllis. He had ever ſome prompt excuſe. A goat was miſſing; ſhe counted the herd, and the number was juſt. He fell down the rock, and was lamed; ſhe examined his foot, and it was unmarked by a bruiſe. He was in purſuit of a night⯑ingale, but he never brought one home. He had liſtened hours near a bed of reeds, that his ear might diſcover a new muſic; but he ſtill could only play on one kind of reed. The autumn was cloſing, and his excuſes of ab⯑ſence became every day more unſatisfactory.

Amaryllis ſat deſerted, and her whole ſoul dreamed of Lycidas. Her melancholy dif⯑fuſed itſelf over every ſurrounding object. How Nature has ſuddenly changed! ex⯑claimed the ſolitary virgin. She murmured with the murmurs of the rivulet; ſhe ſighed with the evening zephyr; ſhe flew to the portrait, and on the face of the ſhadowy Lycidas, rolled living tears.

The evening return of Lycidas came un⯑marked [271] by fondneſs; penſive, weary, and ſilent; a cold careſs, a rapid meal, and a deep ſlumber. It was now that firſt ſhe per⯑ceived how, in the preſence of unſocial man, one may find a terrible ſolitude.

Sometimes ſhe thought of tracking his concealed retreat; yet it was long ere ſhe could perſuade herſelf to abandon, for one day, the flock and the herd. Once ſhe fol⯑lowed him; in agony ſhe preſſed his rapid footſteps on the morning dews; ſhe came to a high rock from whence Lycidas preci⯑pitated himſelf with eaſe to another, and diſ⯑appeared! She returned to the valley to think and to mourn.

At length the habitual reverie of melan⯑choly thought and deſponding curioſity pre⯑ſented a monſtrous imagination to her diſ⯑ordered ſenſes; the terrific chimaera that breeds in the delirium of love. She ſtruck her lovely forehead; the pulſes of her tem⯑ples roſe, burning, to her touch; her ſoul [272] ſickened, her frame ſhivered. She felt the pang of JEALOUSY!

She thinks Lycidas may have diſcovered another Amaryllis: he flies to kiſs other cheeks! There are, doubtleſs, beings like ourſelves on this earth: other vallies, other rocks, and other ſhepherdeſſes! Ah! if every valley ſhould have its Amaryllis, then is Lycidas for ever loſt to me; for all will adore Lycidas, though Lycidas may adore none. Ah, ingrate! capricious as thy goats! were there as many Lycidaſes, thou wouldſt be to me the only Lycidas; for I feel I have but one heart, and one heart can love but once.

Every evening Lycidas found his Ama⯑ryllis in tears. He ſaid, Why doſt thou weep?

Lycidas, canſt thou aſk why I weep? When thou ſhakeſt the flower, doſt thou inquire why the trembling dews are ſcat⯑tered?

[273] Lovelier than the flowers at thy ſeat in the grove, has thy Lycidas ever rudely touched thy ſoftneſs?

Lycidas, thoſe flowers thy hands reared, are faded. Once, in gazing on them, me⯑thought they had a voice; I heard, or ſeemed to hear, thou wert then kiſſing another Ama⯑ryllis. I turned, in horror, from thoſe flow⯑ers. How one can cheriſh and abhor the ſame object!

Another Amaryllis! (exclaimed Lycidas) Is there another on this earth? I have ſeen the ſame plants, and the ſame animals, reproduce themſelves; but never have I ſeen an infant Amaryllis. I conſider thee as A SOLITARY BEAUTY in Nature; there is but one ſun, one moon, and one Amaryllis!

Enamouring embraces gave to the virgin's ſoul a new ſenſation of felicity; that which, in one day, reſtores the loſt happineſs of years^*. Drops of tears rolled on the fine [274] carnation of her cheek.—Still thou weepeſt! cried Lycidas, kiſſing them one by one.—Lycidas, theſe are not like the tears I wept.—Are there, then, two kinds of tears?—What know I, but this, oh, Lycidas! that I could wiſh for ever to feel the ſtrange delight of theſe ſweet tears.

When Lycidas awoke the ſucceeding morn⯑ing, he quitted not Amaryllis as of late. An unanxious ſleep reſtored the ſerenity of plea⯑ſure; his ſoul moved in the calm of the paſ⯑ſions; his eye and his hand alike careſſed; and his voice had the melody of rapture, for he anticipated a new enjoyment.

He ſpoke.—Feeleſt thou not the hoary morning with its froſty breath? ſoon will it come with a naked head ſpread with un⯑genial ſnow: the old year creeps on with the imperfect day. Is not the old year like our old fathers? Thou muſt quit thy grove.

Alas! if thou forſakeſt me this winter, the cave will be my ſepulchre. Thou muſt bury me in it, as we buried the father of my father.

[275] Amaryllis! thou ſhalt no more live in a cave; thou ſhalt reſide in a grove; but it is a grove without leaves. It was for this I quitted thee inceſſantly. I toiled, till my limbs could ſcarcely conduct me home; I thought, till even in thy preſence my thoughts felt weary.

A ſmile played on the penſive features of Amaryllis; an indiſtinct idea ruſhed acroſs her mind.—Say, what novel miracle has Ly⯑cidas invented?

Come with me! cried the youth, riſing with rapture.

I cannot (ſaid Amaryllis). I once followed thee till I reached the great rock, from whence thou fleweſt like the eagle that builds its aerie there.

For thee a ſmoother paſſage is formed: thou ſhalt walk over the waters!

What ſayeſt thou! Can the foot repeat its ſteps on aught but the ſolid earth?

Lycidas returned to his ſeat, and ſaid:— [276] I muſt firſt inform thee of another diſcovery. One day, returning to the grove without leaves, I found the rock had diſparted. I ſought to enter by the lower part; the broad ſtream oppoſed. I ſwam acroſs; but thou canſt not ſwim!

Alas! exclaimed Amaryllis.

I ſat dejected on the banks. As my eye reached the grove without leaves, I ſighed. A long-tailed BIRD now flew acroſs the ſtream. It floated in air by the undulations of its tail. Till then I had never obſerved the manner of its flight: but we find every thing, when we are deeply intereſted in its diſcovery; and Nature—.

Proceed, proceed! (cried the impatient Amaryllis) thou art too fond of reflections.

I then perceived a large FISH. I obſerved the ſharp fins cutting the wave; its head ſteadily firm; its tail moving gently from ſide to ſide. Suddenly I cried out, I will make a fiſh! I took planks; I hollowed the [277] trunk of a tree to bear us within, as if we were the entrails of the fiſh. I conſtructed the head ^*, and the tail ^†, and I made two fins ^‡: but then I found I could not direct the motion againſt the winds; yet the BIRD ſteered againſt the winds. I placed two pieces of my veſt erect in the fiſh of wood; and theſe were the wings ^§. And now, A⯑maryllis, we can ſwim like a fiſh, and fly like a bird. The river wanders but for thee; and thou ſhalt walk on the ſurface of the waters ^‖![278]

PART THE SECOND.

LYCIDAS now conducted Amaryllis to the banks of the river. She raiſed her hands in wonder at the view of the wooden fiſh. Tremblingly ſhe entered. Lycidas unfurled the ſail; he puſhed off the little bark; and now they glide on the ſtream!

Be it thine, dear partner of my inventions! (ſaid the firſt navigator) to conduct the tail of the fiſh.—How proudly it elevates its head! I will give motion to the fins. In mute aſto⯑niſhment Amaryllis turned the helm. She looked around, and then exclaimed,—Ly⯑cidas! lo, the mountains and the valleys move! the earth itſelf wondering at thy happy audacity, riſes to purſue us, fugitives from our native ſoil!

Thou ever yieldeſt to thy fancy, Amaryl⯑lis! [280] The earth moves not, but we move.—Ah, Lycidas! if, in returning to our che⯑riſhed home, I find all departed from us! where ſhall I look for our ſheep and our goats, if the mountains can leap into the river? Art thou certain the earth moves not? Surely what mimics motion ſo well, has motion!

Like thee I thought, Amaryllis, when I firſt quitted the ſhore: like thee, aſtoniſhed, I beheld the mountains tremble, and the val⯑lies glide! My heart coiled within me. Im⯑patiently I gained the ſhore; I graſped it in eager joy; I kiſſed it, I wept over it: Che⯑riſhed earth! (I cried) on which my Ama⯑ryllis treads, never ſhall my feet again wan⯑der. But ſoon I found it had never moved.

Amaryllis now, watching the motion of the oars, was again rapt in wonder. The light water-drops, falling from the raiſed oars, excited her firſt attention. She deſired to examine them.—I thought (ſhe ſaid) thy fins had white feathers; they glittered like [281] the looſe plumage of the dove, ſcattered by the winds.—How thou fancieſt all thou vieweſt! they are but the ſhining drops of water falling in the ſunbeam, and glittering as they fall^*.

And now ſhe wondered at the oars in the water. Leaning on one ſide, the little bark overſet, and the two firſt navigators fell into the ſtream. Lycidas with one arm embraces the fainting Amaryllis, and with the other ſteers along the waves; he ſuſtains her droop⯑ing head; and toiling in the river, exhauſt⯑ed, gains the oppoſite bank. The touch of the ſolid earth reſtores him; he ſtretches the recovering beauty on the velvet turf; he awakens life by the warmth of his kiſſes; and when her relumed eyes open, the firſt object they reſted on were the eyes of Ly⯑cidas. His tender embraces quell her fugi⯑tive terrors. The boat floated ſlowly to⯑wards them.

[282] See, Amaryllis! the wooden fiſh follows us: it was thy error in truſting all thy weight on one ſide: did I not tell thee we were as the entrails of the fiſh? I viewed thy deep atten⯑tion; thou didſt look ſo beautiful with the fullneſs and ſoftneſs of thine eyes, that in gazing on thee, I forgot the danger.

Lycidas, well might I gaze; I viewed an⯑other wonder in the ſtream. The two fins which thou didſt lift in the air were ſtraight, but moving in the water, they were bent and doubled.

Thou erreſt, Amaryllis; behold them!—He plunged them into the ſtream; and the oar, ſtraight in the air, was bent in the wa⯑ter! He drew them out and examined them; then looked on the oars, and then on Ama⯑ryllis. Her eye was full of fearful wonder.—Theſe are things (ſaid Lycidas, recovering from his alarm) which the gods only under⯑ſtand!

Amaryllis, by the tender ſolicitude of Ly⯑cidas, had received no other ill than the alarm [283] of the ſudden plunge into the ſtream. He wrung the water from her fine treſſes, he kiſſed the drops hanging on her lids, and ſhook the wet from their dreſs. The ſun darted along an azure heaven; they gave no thought to the paſt, but proceeded, pur⯑ſuing each other in ſport.

They reached a deep and luxuriant val⯑ley; emboſomed among the circling hills, it ſeemed, even in Arcadia, as if Nature had ſought to conceal the ſpot ſhe fondly em⯑belliſhed. In the centre, another miracle arreſted the rapid ſteps of Amaryllis; ſhe felt the ſame ſenſation the poliſhed European even now feels at the view of a pyramid. It was indeed but a rude edifice. THE FIRST HOUSE! the origin of ARCHITECTURE!

They entered. Amaryllis walked around, aſcended, returned, and reaſcended. She ſpoke only with the interjections of ſur⯑priſe and admiration. Lycidas explained the ſcene.

What thou vieweſt, Amaryllis, is for thy [284] winter reſidence. The cavern confined the fancy of thine eye; I therefore raiſed this abode on the boſom of the earth itſelf, that thus thou mayſt queſtion Nature from hour to hour, and face to face. Thy converſation in the grove inſpired the invention. This abode is but a grove deſpoiled of its foliage. Behold the ſtraight trunks of the palm trees^*! view the vaulted arch the grove formed with its intermingled boughs^†. I have hewed the reſting places thy foot found on the trunks of trees, and the apertures around, which ſo⯑laced thine eye^‡. Thou didſt obſerve the grove had but one proper entrance, behold it! thou canſt find no admittance but between theſe OPEN PILES^§. And all this I call a grove without leaves ^‖.

[285] This is but the firſt rude pile my hands have reared, like the firſt ſhade thou didſt trace of my features: when thou didſt diſ⯑cover the colouring, thou wert ſenſible of the imperfection. I foretel new improvements; ſublime ideas inflame my ſoul; and this imi⯑tation of Nature ſhall ſtill be enriched by ornaments, which ſhall endear this rude edi⯑fice, and make it, THE HOUSE OF THE HEART!

[286] That day they delightfully wandered in this firſt houſe. Returning to the boat, Amaryllis promiſed to give no other motion to the fiſh of wood, than the quiet action of the tail, or rudder. While ſhe graſped it in her ſlender hand, ſhe kept her eyes on the full-orbed moon, and ſometimes ſtole a trem⯑bling glance on Lycidas. Smiling, he ſaid, Amaryllis, thou mayeſt move thine eyes; and if thou ſmileſt on me, the oars will play more freely.—May I move my eyes, Lycidas? Ah! how ſweetly is thy face ſilvered over by the moon! how its beams break along the glit⯑tering waves! When the ſurface of the wa⯑ters is but lightly touched, the moon looks as if it were ſwimming through the river; when unruffled, its ſilvery body ſeems to ſleep along its liquid bed. How muſically ſoft the ſound of thy cadenced oars dropping in the ſtream! How wondrous and how ſweet is all! Oh, Lycidas! till now I never found a path in the ſtream; ſurely the ſilence on the waters is more awful than the ſilence on the earth!

[287] Returned to their valley, they found they had been miſſed. The bleating ſheep, from all parts, uttered their ſmall voices of com⯑plaint. It was the firſt day their tender paſ⯑toreſs had deſerted. To want her affection, was to them to ſuffer a revolution in nature. Some had ſtraggled to the borders of the val⯑ley, and trembled in the foreign path; ſome lie panting, and extenuate; while ſome ſat alone, deſolated, knowing not where to go, ſince now there was no one to follow. Not thus with the goats: they fiercely butted at each other; now ran in circles, now wildly wandered up their native rocks; every where the ſpirit of revolt prevailed, exulting in a dangerous liberty.

That night, and the ſucceeding day, Ly⯑cidas conſumed in the chace of his rebels; and Amaryllis, in a thouſand tender offices, to her ſoft-hearted family. This was the firſt trouble their happy occupations had known, and they reflected.

[288] In ſeeking for NEW ARTS, dear Lycidas, we neglect thoſe of daily uſe.

Ah! (replied the inventive goatherd, with the ardency of genius) I wiſh I had not the care of goats! Soft Indolence, thou nurſe of thought! thou ſhouldſt be my choice: ſtretched in ſome waving ſhade, or by ſome genial blaze, I would meditate on NATURE; I would arrange the thouſand pictures ſhe has painted on my brain, till from them I ſtole a thouſand HINTS to form a thouſand ARTS!

My dear Lycidas, much I fear that thy thinking will to thee prove a ſource of great trouble: the fever of Curioſity ſcorches thy heart, and thy cheeks loſe their vermil ful⯑neſs. I remember, when I preſſed my finger on thy cheek, how it ſunk in the firm fleſh. No more thou doſt taſte our ſimple happi⯑neſs; no more thou ſporteſt on the fern heath. Often thou ſtealeſt to ſolitude, and often my kiſs awakens thee from a day⯑dream.

[289] They were now deſirous of reſiding in THE HOUSE. Amaryllis, in quitting the cavern, lamented that ſhe left behind her favourite objects, the portrait of Lycidas, and ſome beautiful plants which grew at the entrance of the grove.—Care not for my ſhadow (cried Lycidas to the ſorrowing maid), thou canſt trace another on the wall of the houſe; thou knoweſt my ſhadow always accompa⯑nies me.—True! but here thou ſmileſt ſo enchantingly; every feature ſo felicitouſly plays in thy intendering phyſiognomy. Surely when I drew thee thus aſleep, thou wert dreaming one of the dreams of genius; the invention of a new art ſeems painted on thy face.

In vain Lycidas aſſured her his features would remain the ſame in all places: to con⯑vince her, he laid himſelf down beſide the wall, but eſſayed in vain to expreſs the ſame phyſiognomy. Amaryllis ſtill mourned to leave the ſhadow of her lover.

This portrait of Lycidas, by having been [290] inceſſantly traced by the ſharp hook of the paſſionate ſhepherdeſs, had gradually become an alto relievo; it ſtood prominent on the wall. At that moment Lycidas was employed in forming clay to fill up cavities in the boat: half vexed that Amaryllis conſumed the hour in idle regrets, he violently ſtruck the ductile earth, in ſportive anger, againſt the protuberant image. Behold another miracle! The argillaceous matter received the full im⯑preſſion, and faithfully preſerved the phyſiog⯑nomy and the atlitude.

Thou haſt it now! (exclaimed Lycidas) Now will my ſhadow wander with thee wherever thou roveſt! And this was the firſt effort of SCULPTURE!

Behold ANOTHER ART! (cried Amaryllis.) Now I feel but one regret—to abandon the cheriſhed plants that live where the grove opens.

Beautiful inſpirer of my inventions! in vain my talent toils to reach thy fancy. Thou meriteſt that I ſhould bid the flowers ſtart [291] into birth beneath thy foot, colouring thy ſteps. But man cannot create, he can only imitate.

The firſt HOUSE was the ſource of their winter's happineſs. It formed the inceſſant object of Lycidas's meditation; it abſorbed his faculties; it was the paſſion of his ima⯑gination. Every day ſome new want prompted the invention of ſome new tool, and at length he diſcovered marble. Gradual embelliſh⯑ments became viſible; and the new orna⯑ments, which had been inſenſibly formed, one day ſtruck, with their united graces, the thoughtful eye of Amaryllis. It had ceaſed to be the ſame HOUSE, it might have been called a PALACE.

Lycidas (ſaid Amaryllis), I have marked thy conſtant occupations, and I would not diſturb thy happy labours by my com⯑plaints. The invention of new ARTS coſts me the loſs of many kiſſes; but my ſoul, nou⯑riſhing a ſpark of thy divine flame, knows how to ſuffer thy abſence even when thou art preſent. What a ſcene of enchantment [292] has ariſen? Pillars of wood are changed to columns of marble; the foot that ſunk in the damp turf, now glides on the ſmooth pavement: here, elegant beauty riſes in a ſlender form; there, a maſſy grandeur re⯑poſes, looking its immovability; a certain diſpoſition arranging all, repeating on one ſide what charms on the other, yet, blending all the parts into one, an uniform variety! But how ſhall I name that SECRET SOME⯑THING diffuſed through the whole; the ſoul animating this edifice like the LIGHT, which, itſelf imperceivable, makes all things per⯑ceived? When our language yields not the fullneſs of expreſſion, we call one thing by another; and this SOMETHING diffuſed throughout this edifice, is like muſic, A SILENT MUSIC; it is harmonious to the eye. My ſenſations obſcure themſelves in language: tell me, what is this thou haſt raiſed with the myſterious magic of thy hand?

It is a new art! (replied Lycidas.) The FORMS thou vieweſt around I found in Na⯑ture; [293] I diſcovered them in our own forms; and this ART is a memorial of human AF⯑FECTION!

Explain thyſelf! ſaid Amaryllis, with fond⯑neſs and curioſity.

Obſerve that column oppoſite.

It is delicacy and lightneſs!

It is THYSELF!

Lycidas ſmiled, while the wondering A⯑maryllis leant over him, contemplating the column with the tremor of delight.

Yes, it is thyſelf! Raiſed to thy memory, I gave it the delicacy of the feminine charac⯑ter ^*. It has all thy gracility; it is a model [294] of a woman with her ornaments. The vo⯑lutes at its head, twining in ſpiral lines, re⯑preſent thy locks curling beneath thine ear: the deep indented flutings that run down the trunk, imitate the folds of thy flowing dreſs: the baſe, which winds like twiſted cords, re⯑ſembles thy ſandals ^*.—But the columns oppoſite are richer than mine. What means that beautiful ornament, which looks like a rich foliage, branching from the top^†?

It is deſigned for what it ſeems. One day, near the cave, thou didſt leave a panicr on a [295] young acanthus; the panier was covered by a tile, and the rich foliage of the plant grew around it; and we admired how thy baſket, covered by a tile, had, as it were, become a part of the acanthus itſelf, forming a new and beautiful object. Examine it; it is but a copy.

Wonderful, Lycidas! but thyſelf, where art thou?

There (replied the firſt architect, pointing to a pillar of the Doric order, which is form⯑ed with the proportions and ſtrength of the body of a man; a naked ſimplicity rather than a finiſhed elegance^*), mark that plain unadorned column; it was the firſt I raiſed^†; [296] it has a rude and primitive ſimplicity, for one never knows how to ornament a firſt produc⯑tion. The origin of the firſt column was the trunk of a tree; my great difficulty, at firſt, was to know how high I ſhould make it; the height of the tree was too great, ſo I proportioned it to my own height. Thoſe long arcades were imagined from a row of trees; and this dome above us, but imitates the vault of heaven.

Divine Artiſt! thou haſt not explained that ſecret ſomething, that ſilent muſic, which ſo touches and ſo ſatisfies the ſoul!

What thou fancifully calleſt a ſilent muſic, is the effect of a ſymmetrical proportion. In ART, no inharmonious object is agreeable; all muſt be balanced. The height muſt be [297] proportioned to the breadth; the relative parts of a work are meaſured by the whole, and the whole muſt be conſonant to the parts. Such, Amaryllis, are the concords even in marble!

This I learnt from Nature, for it is exhi⯑bited in the human form; there we trace an affinity between the ſoot, the hand, the fin⯑ger, and all its parts: in every perfect work each individual member ſhould enable us to judge of the magnitude of the work itſelf. It is thy tapering arms, winding like tendrils round my neck; thy two ſoul-diſſolving eyes; and the regular graces of thy well-propor⯑tioned form, that enchant. From NATURE and from THEE, I learnt the gradual charm of UNITY in PROPORTION, and UNIFORM⯑ITY in VARIETY.

Such was the origin of THE ORDERS OF ARCHITECTURE!

It was now ſpring; the earth was mantled by a verdure, that veſted her rather with beauty than with warmth. The echo, ſel⯑dom [298] awakened in the cold ſeaſon, returned to delight the ear of Amaryllis.

Lycidas had united to the modulation of inſtrumental, the charm of vocal muſic. But hitherto they were ſpontaneous and caſual expreſſions of paſſion, without meaſure or deſign; and, like the origin of human lan⯑guage, little more than natural ejaculations of the heart. Of late they had taken a new form, ſomething they had of ART, and they became POETRY. He perceived that Ama⯑ryllis felt an ecſtaſy of pleaſure, when in the ſnowy ſeaſon, reclined by the ſocial blaze, he brought to her recollection the ſcenery of ſummer. The ideas of the ſun, the ſhades, and the waters, delighted her in the winter; it was the cheriſhed picture of Nature in her abſence; and ſhe felt the ſame pleaſure in the vivid deſcription, as when ſhe contem⯑plated the portrait of Lycidas on their ſepa⯑ration. She called theſe deſcriptions painting in thought. Lycidas gradually diſcovered that his chaunt was ſuſceptible of order, and that [299] it communicated a pleaſurable ſenſation when it ſolicited the ear by certain pauſes and cadences; this produced metre, or BLANK⯑VERSE. They were exquiſitely gratified when they found the art of deſcribing one object by another, as Amaryllis termed it; and this opened an eternal ſource of meta⯑phors and images. Yet to this rude, though not unpleaſing poetry, was ſtill wanting a pecu⯑liar charm; that artifice which at once com⯑bines the pleaſing returns of UNIFORMITY with the diverſifications of VARIETY.

This appeared when Amaryllis one day, liſtening to the ECHO, inquired of Lycidas,—What is this myſterious flight that my voice takes? What is ECHO?—It is (ſaid Lycidas) the mirror of the voice!—Then it is not (ſhe continued) the voice itſelf? The liquid glaſs that reflects our forms is not a part of our forms!—Be not over-curious, Amaryllis; for thee it is ſufficient to ſport with the mimic ſound. I cannot invent an echo; the gods preſerve their own ſecrets.

[300] The playful echo ever dclights me (ſaid Amaryllis); but when I call on thee, and thou heareſt me not, then, in cruel mockery, when I ſay Lycidas, Lycidas! it only replies, das, das! Thou ſeeſt the echo is irrational; for it never anſwers but by the laſt ſyllable.

Ye gods! (exclaimed the enthuſiaſtic Ly⯑cidas) thou loveſt the repeating accent of the echo. I can invent an echo! I will cloſe my verſes with a reverberating ſound. Every line was now anſwered by an echoing line. Such was the origin of RHIME^*!

It was in the luxuriance of ſummer that Amaryllis perceived her abode had ſtill ſome wants. This ſpot, ſelected by Lycidas for its amenity and the foreſt trees, was not ſtored with rural luxuries. Lycidas paſſed many hours in returning to their ancient cavern for its neighbouring fruits. Every day he toiled [301] beneath a panier filled with the Arcadian food; but whenever he neglected to bring a copious lap of the freſheſt flowers, Ama⯑ryllis tenderly chided him: and oft with a ſigh complained to Lycidas, that their trees were without fruit, and their ſoil without flowers.

She had lamented ſo frequently that he never brought ſufficient roſes and hyacinths, that one day, having found a roſe-tree whoſe roots had been looſened in the ſoil, he eaſily extracted it, and threw it at the feet of Ama⯑ryllis. She exclaimed:—Beauteous family of flowers, ye will all periſh at once! For your violated and tender ſociety, ſevered from your natal ſpots, pine in a foreign air; while ye yield your ſoothing odours, no ma⯑ternal earth will ſupply you with new ſources of exiſtence; every breath of air ye fill with ſweetneſs, and in every breath ye are dying: prodigal of your cheriſhed exiſtence, a tender regret diſturbs us in the moment of pleaſure. Lycidas, I will bury them in the ſod that covers the lamb we buried laſt week.

[302] She made a cavity in the earth, in which ſhe depoſited the roſe-tree. The tranſplanted roſes ſtruck their roots in the ſoil; the buſh flouriſhed to their wondering eye, and graced their habitation with its ſolitary beauty. An⯑other diſcovery! more roſes and more hya⯑cinths! Every pleaſing plant they met in their walks became domiciliated; they paſſed hours in herbaliſing; and in the ſucceeding ſummer the foreſt air was ſweetened with new odours, and a FLOWER-GARDEN em⯑belliſhed their ſolitude^*.

But to have thus accidentally diſcovered the arts of planting and tranſplanting, was not ſufficient for the propagation of their trees. [303] Their horticulture was ſtill imperfect. They perceived, with equal diſappointment and ſur⯑priſe, that the vines moſt luxuriant in leaves, were barren; while others, of thinner foliage, were prodigal of fruit. Amaryllis wondered, and Lycidas reflected. He obſerved that the vine, yielding the moſt abundant fruit, was one which a favourite goat was allowed to browze. He obſerved; he meditated; he ſtole the hint. He lopped the branches of the vines. And it was the GOAT who firſt ſhewed to MAN the ART OF PRUNING.

The procuring of wild honey from the cavities of old trees and the clefts of rocks, was often an uncertain purſuit and an inſuf⯑ficient reſource. Another inquietude, an⯑other want, another invention!

They watched a little populace of ſoraging bees buſy on their ambroſial repaſt, ſpoiling the farina of flowers or preſſing the tops of the ſtamina, and thus anticipating the cau⯑tious oeconomy of Nature. The amuſing ſound! when they plunge their little velvet [304] heads in the calix of a flower, and pierce through the reſiſting petal, while the ſudden ſilence expreſſes the ardent pillage. Did they track the vagrants to their waxen tower? There, a new idea of SOCIETY gave a ſub⯑lime emotion to our two ſolitaries. They traced order in a multitude; they viewed a city and its inhabitants; and, with a deli⯑cious joy, Amaryllis diſcovered the queen⯑bee. She exclaimed, in contemplating their ſymmetrical, ſolid, and convenient cells; thoſe finely planned edifices for thouſands of the living,—Lycidas, thou muſt acknowledge the architecture of the little bees is more wonder⯑ful than thine.—It is more perfect (replied Lycidas); for theſe fabrics are juſt adapted to their inmates, while in our palace there are a hundred things to add and to amend.

They inſtructed themſelves in the HUMAN PASSIONS (of which they were ſtrangers to many) in meditating on this ſociety. Innu⯑merable offices of affection penetrated their hearts with the ſenſibility of humanity.

[305] Lycidas having obſerved that the bees were ever ſettling on aromatic plants, on the thyme, the roſemary, the ſage, and reſted long on the flowers of the lime, he planted, on the ſouthern ſteep of his valley, nume⯑rous beds of balmy flowers, and odoriferous herbs.—Want (ſaid Lycidas), and not caprice, urges their reſtleſs flight; they are not vola⯑tile, but diligent. I can afford the wanderers a reſting ſpot; perhaps they may make it a home; and we will interchange our mutual induſtry.

What he imagined, ſucceeded. The ex⯑plorers of ſweets ſoon diſcovered the new world; the aromatic land inſpired a thou⯑ſand adventurers, who, conſtant to pleaſure, knew no other native ſpot, than where plea⯑ſure was found. The queen followed the co⯑lony; they then built their cells, and peopled, with dark cluſters, the pendent boughs. The voice of the bee was muſical beneath the ſolitary heaven of our lovers. Such was [306] the origin of an APIARY, or BEE GAR⯑DEN^*!

They had now much advanced in the art of painting; but as they only employed their pencils from a ſpirit of gaiety, and a paſſion for decoration, the ſublime inventions of the art were not yet conceived; the ideal was unknown, but the exacteſt imitation was practiſed. They knew well to copy the purple bloom of the fruit as it hung on the tree, and the brilliant tint of the flower, as it caught the ſunbeam on its native ſtalk. They had mutually attempted to paint their own portraits; but the progreſs of ſuch an elaborate piece had ever been interrupted by the tedious labour of the unſkilled artiſt and the reſtleſſneſs of the lively model. With more ſucceſs they copied animals and inſects. [307] But LOVE had inſpired Lycidas to adorn the corner of the apartment occupied by Ama⯑ryllis. There he continually ſketched the thouſand capricious images dancing in his brain. The curious wall was gradually cover⯑ed with fantaſtic forms, and exhibited a con⯑ſtant ſpectacle of fancy. Now the bower of Amaryllis was there elegantly feſtooned, and the tendrils of vines were happily flouriſhed by a ſtroke of the pencil; now, as his hu⯑mour prompted, the fibres of the leaves were tranſparently laboured, while, on a delicate ſtem, hung the finiſhed petal of an unfiniſhed flower: ſometimes he copied a ſilken white fillet, with which Amaryllis circled her head⯑dreſs, binding it with ſcarlet flowers, glowing in the midſt of their green leaves; ſometimes he laboriouſly finiſhed chimerical figures, which partly reſembled human forms, but frequently terminated in that of ſome ani⯑mal, or wore ſome ridiculous diſproportion, provoking laughter; and ſometimes the face of the volatile Amaryllis ending with the [308] plumage of a bird, or the mottled wings of a butterfly. It was now a torrent foaming on rocks, and now a rivulet ſhaded with elms, whoſe ſilvery line was poured through the tranſparent umbrage. Every object they admired in their walks, on his return was ſketched or finiſhed on the wall. 'Twas now a tree, a proſpect, or the clouds! But the Loves and the Graces often guided his deliriums of imagination, and the wall re⯑corded the ſhort annals of their lives, and pictured the epochas of his various inven⯑tions. There, were ſeen the firſt overſetting of the fiſh of wood; there himſelf breathing his firſt flute, and Amaryllis ſketching his firſt ſhade. The fantaſtic ſcenery, airy or ſolemn, ſketched or elaborate, inſpired mirth, fancy, and love. Such was the origin of the playful ARABESQUES, Or GROTESQUE PAINTINGS^*.

[309] Around their houſe was an ornamented ſcenery; but as they ſometimes bewildered themſelves in the neighbouring valleys, or were deſirous of indicating ſome particular ſpot, they invented LOCAL NAMES, which were derived from ſome circumſtance. One place was diſtinguiſhed by the Kiſs; and an⯑other, where Amaryllis, in eluding Lycidas, as he chaced the laughing fugitive, tumbled down the hill, was called the Fall; a fine walk near the lake, through hedges of the arbutus, was known by the name of the Strawberry Walk; and a valley, luxuriant in [310] flowers, by the title of the Summer Seat. There was a favourite ſpot called the Ruins of May. One morning in that month Ama⯑ryllis lay there aſleep; Lycidas paſſed, and obſerved the indolent maid. He haſtened to the hedges, which were then in full flower, and deſpoiled them; and having gathered a panier full of May bloſſoms, he quietly co⯑vered the ſleeping beauty with their fragrant ſnows. She awoke in a cloud of ſteaming odours, while her pleaſure-twinkling eye wondered at the flowery veſt that covered her. Chiding her playful lover for this waſte of the young year, the fact was re⯑corded in the name given to the place, thence called "The Ruins of May." A ſimilar origin is that of moſt LOCAL NAMES.

What now remained to perfect the felicity of our two ſolitaries? Their earth was tinted with brilliant flowers; their trees bowed their branches with delicious fruit; their air was muſical with the volant bee; they glided on the river with a happy audacity; the melo⯑dies [311] of the nightingale were in their flutes; the conſolation of abſence was found in the pictured form, and the gaiety of a playful pencil embodied their fantaſtic imaginations; the charm of an artificial echo reſounded in their verſes, while they traced in their palace the columns which memoriſed their affec⯑tions. The enchanting miraclcs of ART long faſcinated their eye, vibrating in their hearts the tranquil emotions of beauty; while the innocent voluptuouſneſs which Nature threw around them, ſolicited their enjoyment. Often they now turned from the productions of Nature and of Art, to gaze on each other: an interior ſenſation, an unknown deſire, a querulous anxiety, exiſted in their hearts, and every day their felicity was diminiſhed.

One day, as they ſat beſide an expanſive lake, they beheld TWO SWANS ſailing on the ſtream; images of majeſty, of grace, and of peace! Our lovers reclined, admiring each form of elegance, and the luminous white⯑neſs of their plumage, and all the variety [312] and freedom of their animated attitudes. The male was intent to attract the admira⯑tion of the female; anxious to diſcover the concealed graces of his beauty, yet anxious with pride. He arranges his ſplendid plu⯑mage; he throws the trailing water from his beak along his ſhining back and over his freſhened wings with the fond ſolicitude of that being who knows the pleaſure of being loved. All his figure reſpires voluptuouſ⯑neſs. He approaches her; he flaps his pi⯑nions, and the feathery ſnow ſparkles. With a preluding careſs, they wind their ſinuous necks around each other; their wings yield a confuſed ſound, and ſome white feathers fall on the diſturbed lake. A continued em⯑brace unites them. They purſue each inter⯑change of delight; they feel all the ſhades of ſenſibility, and faint in the ebriety of the ſenſes. At length the male is no more ma⯑jeſtic; he is only tender, and lies indolently along the trembling waters. Again the fe⯑male returns to her lover; again inflames [313] him; again incites his laſt ardours; and only quits him, reluctantly, but to plunge into the ſtream, and to extinguiſh the fires that ſtill glow in her agitated form^*.

When the LOVERS had gazed on the af⯑fectionate SWANS, they turned to each other, and ſighed. Lycidas ſnatched ſome feathers of the ſwans as they floated by them, and kiſſed them.—How they know (he cries) to love, and to render their love the ſource of their felicity! O, Amaryllis! why is not the ſenſe of our exiſtence the ſenſe of our happineſs! Shall we become old without having known enjoyment?

Children of Nature! the univerſal parent prepares for ye the maturity of happineſs! ſhe gives ye the ſoft pains ye now ſuffer, to render the fine pleaſures ſhe will beſtow on ye, more exquiſite and pure. It is only in a [314] corrupt ſociety curioſity anticipates paſſion; the energy of paſſion irritates your ſenſes, but ye do not irritate your ſenſes to obtain the energy of paſſion. SOULS OF CHASTITY! when YE meet ye know yourſelves WORTHY OF EACH OTHER; your FIRST EMBRACE is the prelude of ETERNAL CONFIDENCE, and your VOLUPTUOUSNESS is in proportion to your VIRTUE!