Oriental Scenes, Dramatic Sketches and Tales/The Rajah's Obsequies
THE RAJAH'S OBSEQUIES.
A fairer scene to spell-bound eyes
The smiling earth could scarce unfold—
There's not a cloud o'er those blue skies;
And from its founts of living gold
The sun pours down a flood of light
Upon the river's sparkling wave,
Where the swift current speeds its flight,
Or lingers wooingly to lave
Some bright pagoda's jutting walls,
Or ripples on in gentle falls,
Where all of shining granite wrought
Spreads the broad terrace of the ghaut.
And there majestic banians fling
Their green luxuriance beside
The lofty minarets that spring
With upward flight in towering pride;
As though to their bold spires 'twere given
To pierce the azure vaults of heaven.
The boast of India's sunny land
Mid fertile plains and waving woods,
In shining pomp sublimely grand,
Where Ganges spreads its sacred floods—
The holy city's temples glow
Reflected in the stream below.
A mass of cupolas and towers,
Arches, and pillared colonnades,
And flat-roofed palaces, where flowers
Are clust'ring round the balustrades.
And there from the Zenana's halls,
Stealing when eve reveals its stars,
The dark-eyed maids hold festivals,
And listen to the soft sitars,
Hymning those sweet and gentle themes
Which young hearts picture in their dreams.
Oh bright, Benares! are thy domes,
And beautiful thy sacred groves,
Where ring-doves make their blissful homes
And the white bull unfettered roves;
Where with his frugal meal content,
And hands of slaughter innocent,
Milk, and some vegetable root,
The golden dal, the silvery rice,
The plantain's, or the mango's fruit,
The Hindoo's simple wants suffice.
Oh! who that sees the meanest thing
Endued with life, the Bramin's care,
Can fancy human suffering,
And human sacrifices, where
'Twould be a crime to crush the snake
That sheds its venom o'er the brake?
Yet here the river's crystal flood
With living victims is prophaned,
And here with streams of human blood
The temple's reeking courts are stained,
While blackening o'er the fair blue skies
The smoke's polluted volumes rise,
From those impure, unhallowed fires,
Where by a living corse's side,
In fierce and torturing pangs expires,
Untimely doomed, the shrinking bride.
The ghurrees chime the evening hour,
O'er the red west the sun-beam glances,
And from each arch-way, gate, and tower,
In countless groups a croud advances.
While upon every pinnacle,
Or temple's roof, or pillared screen,
Each tower-embastioned citadel,
To gaze upon the passing scene
The people throng, like clust'ring bees
Swarming around the almond trees.
And all the baths and the bazars
With many coloured cloths are hung,
And flowers as bright as shooting stars
Are from the high verandahs flung;
While slowly through the crowding throng
Which from the streets and temples pour,
A stately pageant moves along,
And winds its way to Ganges' shore.
Their silver maces waving high,
The Chobedar band in front appear;
And all around with shout and cry,
Tulwar, and scimitar, and spear,
Peons and Chuprassies clear the way,
Swelling the pomp and the parade,
Where shining in their bright array,
In files a glittering cavalcade
Of mounted nobles lead the van,
The flower and boast of Hindoostan.
Their chargers' tails of scarlet dye,
Their silver housings ringing clear,
Flash on the gazer's dazzled eye,
And strike in music on his ear.
Behind them in more humble guise,
Proud only of the triple thread,
Gracing the Rajah's obsequies,
The Bramins pace with solemn tread.
And next in mournful pageantry
All guarded by a troop of horse,
Beneath a gilded canopy,
Appears the fast decaying corse.
And there the sultry air is stirred
With silver handled Chowries wrought
With the rich plume of some rare bird,
Or those more precious cow-tails brought
From glad Kathay's far distant wall,
Or the steep hills of the Nepaul.
Behind, a thick promiscuous troop
Of veiled and turbaned heads is seen,
And in the centre of the group,
Each in an open palanquin
The Rajah's wives are borne—a pair
Of brighter forms have never blest
The eye of man—both are so fair,
None can say which is loveliest—
She who so stately and so proud
With lofty mien and eyes of light,
Receives the homage of the croud
As though it were her beauty's right;
Or the sweet trembler by her side
Shrinking abashed with modest grace,
And striving all in vain to hide
The blush upon her unveiled face.
Their muslin robes are wrought with gold,
The Syah's hem beset with spangles,
And bright the Ornee's shining fold,
And richly gemmed the glittering Bangles.
Benares' far-famed webs have vied
With Persia's rarest, finest loom;
And for the last time each fair bride
Has gazed upon her beauty's bloom
In fitting pomp arrayed—too soon
Their fleet career of life must fly;
Ere they have reached their summer's noon,
This lovely pair are doomed to die—
Each soft chime from their anklets' bells
Is ringing out their funeral knells.
The air is musical with song,
And lotus wreaths are strewed around,
The deep toned dhole, and brazen gong,
With cittaras and with flutes resound.
Perfumes are burning all the while;
And they have reached the Ganges flood,
And heaped upon the funeral pile
Cedar, and rose, and sandal wood.
The last red kisses of the sun
Are blushing on the river's breast,
And from his amaranthine throne
The flaming orb sinks down to rest.
And all is now accomplished—save
The final and the dismal rite,
Which on the brink of that clear wave
Must be performed, ere the pink light
With all its rainbow coloured dyes
Has faded from the sapphire skies.
First from her maiden's circling arms
The youngest (and perchance the bride
Preferred for her retiring charms)
Has lightly sprung, and flung aside
Her ornaments—and those rich pearls,
The diamonds, and the ruby studs,
She showers among the weeping girls
Blithely, as when her garden's buds
She scattered in those blissful hours,
When life itself seemed made of flowers
The croud is hushed to silence—now
Her spirit soars on bird-like wings,
A slight flush lights her gentle brow,
And with a voice divine she sings.
I love, I love my native vales!
The sighing of their perfumed gales
To me is sweet, and sweeter still
The music of the bubbling rill.
Few are my years, but they have fled
In joy and sunshine o'er my head,
Happy my transient life has been,
And happier still life's closing scene.
Lord of my soul! I yield my breath
To snatch thee from the chains of death;
I claim the privilege divine,
Which makes thee more than ever mine!
Yes, to my thrice blessed hands 'tis given ⠀
To ope the saffron gates of heaven;
I bring beloved a boon to thee,
A pure and bright eternity.
Yon dazzling orb has golden courts,
And there the heaven-born loory sports,
And thou with spirits blessed shalt dwell
Mid fragrant fields of asphodel.
My soul shall pass to happy things,
With dainty plumes and glittering wings;
A Peri bird, I'll build my nest
On the chumayla's odorous breast.
And that sweet state of being o'er,
Beside the Ganges' much loved shore
I'll spread my shining fins, and glide
A spark of silver on the tide.
The second transmigration past,
I'll reach my brightest, and my last—
Shoot with my fire-fly lamp on high,
A star along the summer sky.
Then to the palace gleaming bright,
Turquoise, and pearl, and chrysolite,
My heavenly home ascend, and stray
For ever through the realms of day.
She ceased; and round the funeral pile
The seven-fold circuit she has made,
And with a sweet seraphic smile
She gently droops her radiant head
Beside the ghastly corse—so calm,
So saint-like are those placid eyes,
So softly breathes the lip's rich balm,
So faint and indistinct her sighs,
In some blest trance she seems to be,
Or day's delicious reverie.
Darting a scornful glance on all,
And flinging down with conscious pride
(As if her limbs disdained their thrall)
Her costly gems—the elder bride,
Like an offended goddess stands,
With glowing cheeks, and flashing eyes,
And clasping both her out-stretched hands,
Revolting at the sacrifice—
Her troubled spirit nearly wrought
To madness, finds relief in song,
And with her heart's deep anguish fraught
The lay indignant bursts along.
"Think not, accursed priests, that I will lend
"My sanction to these most unholy rites;
"And though yon funeral pile I may ascend,
"It is not that your stern command affrights
"My lofty soul—it is because these hands
"Are all too weak to break my sex's bands.
"I, from my earliest infancy, have bowed
"A helpless slave to lordly man's controul,
"No hope of liberty, no choice allowed,
"Unheeded all the struggles of my soul;
"Compelled by brutal force to link my fate
"With one who best deserved my scorn and hate.
"Oh! better far it is to mount yon pile,
"And stretch my shuddering form beside the dead,
"Than with a torturing effort strive to smile,
"And hide the bitter tears in silence shed—
"That state of loathed existence now is o'er,
"And I shall shrink from his embrace no more.
"The tyrant sleeps death's last and endless sleep,
"Yet does his power beyond the grave extend,
"And I this most unholy law must keep,
"And to the priest's unrighteous mandate bend,
"Or live an outcast—reft of queenly state—
"A beggar lost, despised, and desolate.
"Daughter and heiress of a princely line,
"From my proud birth-right I disdain to stoop;
"Better it is to die, than inly pine,
"And feel the soul, the towering spirit, droop
"Beneath the cruel toil, the years of pain,
"The lost, degraded widow must sustain.
"But could these weak arms wield a soldier's brand,
"Could these too fragile limbs sustain the fight,
"Even to the death, Mitala would withstand
"This cruel custom, and uphold the right
"Of woman to her share of gold and gems,
"Sceptres and sway, and regal diadems.
"Oh! is there none—not one amid the throng
"Pressing to view a deed by Heaven abhorred,
"Whose brave heart, burning to avenge the wrong,
"Will, at my adjuration draw the sword,
"And god-like in an injured woman's cause
"Crush at a blow foul superstition's laws?
"Silent and moveless all!—Oh craven race
"Not long shall this fair land endure your sway;
"Shame and defeat, and capture and disgrace
"Await the closing of a blood-stained day:
"I see, I see the thickly gathering bands
"Crouding in conquering ranks from distant lands!
"The Persian Satrap, and the Tartar Khan
"The temples of your gods shall overthrow,
"And all the hundred thrones of Hindostan
"Before the west's pale warriors shall bow,
"Crouching where'er the banners of the brave
"The silver crescent, and the red cross wave!"
Her song has ceased—but that bright eye
Still with prophetic frenzy glares,
And struggling with her agony
Dries with its fires the springing tears.
She waves away the Bramin band
And mounts the funeral pile alone;
And the Mussaul's enkindling brand
Is on the heaped-up fagots thrown—
One long wild shriek, amid the crash
Of gongs and drums and cymbals, drowned—
One burst of flame, a ruddy flash
Gilding the green hill's distant mound—
One smoky column, whose dark veil
Obscures the fast declining sun—
A cloud of ashes on the gale—
And these unhallowed rites are done!