# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1823/Bayadere

Literary Gazette 30th August 1823, Page 556
ORIGINAL POETRY. I.—THE BAYADERE. An Indian Tale.
There were seventy pillars around the hall, Of wreathed gold was each capital, And the roof was fretted with amber and gems, Such as light kingly diadems; The floor was marble, white as the snow Ere its pureness is stained by its fall below: In the midst played a fountain, whose starry showers Fell like beams on the radiant flowers, Whose colours were gleaming, as every one Burnt with the kisses just caught from the sun; And vases sent forth their silvery clouds, Like those which the face of the young moon shrouds, But sweet as the breath of the twilight hour When the dew awakens the rose's power. At the end of the hall was a sunbright throne, Rich with every glorious stone; And the purple canopy over head Was like the shade o'er the day-fall shed; And the couch beneath was of buds half blown, Hued with the blooms of the rainbow's zone; And round, like festoons, a vine was rolled, Whose leaf was of emerald, whose fruit was of gold. But, though graced as for a festival, There was something sad in that stately hall: There floated the breath of the harp and flute,— But the sweetest of every music is mute; There are flowers of light and spiced perfume,— But there wants the sweetest of breath and of bloom: And the hall is lone, and the hall is drear, For the smiling of woman shineth not here. With urns of odour o'er him weeping, Upon the couch a youth is sleeping: His radiant hair is bound with stars,  Such as shine on the brow of night, Filling the dome with diamond rays,  Only than his own curls less bright.
And such a brow and such an eye As fit a young divinity; A brow like twilight's darkening line, An eye like morning's first sunshine, Now glancing thro' the veil of dreams As sudden light at day-break streams, And richer than the mingled shade By gem, and gold, and purple made; His orient wings closed o'er his head,  Like that bird's, bright with every dye, Whose home, as Persian bards have said,  Is fix'd in scented Araby. Some dreams is passing o'er him now— A sudden flush is on his brow; And from his lip came murmur'd words, Low, but sweet as the light lute chords When o'er its strings the night winds glide To woo the roses by its side. He, the fair boy god, whose nest Is in the water-lily's breast; He of the many-arrowed bow, Of the joys that come and go Like the leaves, and of the sighs Like the winds of summer skies, Blushes like the birds of spring, Soon seen and soon vanishing; He of hopes, and he of fears, He of smiles, and he of tears— Young Camdeo, he has brought A sweet dream of coloured thought, One of love and woman's power, To Mandalla's sleeping hour.  Joyless and dark was his jewelled throne When Mandalla awakened and found him alone. He drank the perfume that around him swept, 'Twas not sweet as the sigh he drank as he slept; There was music, but where was the voice, at whose thrill Every pulse in his veins was throbbing still? Dim was the home at his native star While the light of woman and love was afar; And lips of the rosebud, and violet eyes Are the sunniest flowers in Paradise. He veiled the light of his glorious race In a mortal's form and a mortal's face, And 'mid earth's loveliest sought for one Who might dwell in his hall and share in his throne.
Literary Gazette 6th September 1823, Page 571
ORIGINAL POETRY. THE BAYADERE.—PART II.
The loorie brought to his cinnamon nest The bee from the midst of its honey quest, And open the leaves of the lotus lay To welcome the noon of the summer day. It was glory and light and beauty all, When Mandalla closed his wing in Bengal; He stood in the midst of a stately square, As the waves of the sea rolled the thousands there; Their gathering was round the gorgeous car Where sat in his triumph the Subadar, For his sabre was red with the blood of the slain, And his proudest foes were slaves in his chain; And the sound of the trumpet, the sound of his name, Rose in shouts from the crowd as onwards he came. With gems and gold on each ataghan, A thousand warriors led the van, Mounted on steeds black as the night, But with foam and with stirrup gleaming in light; And another thousand came in their rear, On white horses, armed with bow and spear, With quivers of gold on each shoulder laid, And with crimson belts for the crooked blade. Then followed the foot ranks,—their turbans showed Like flashes of light from a mountain cloud, For white were the turbans as winter snow, And death-black the foreheads that darkened below; Scarlet and white was each soldier's vest, And each bore a lion of gold on his breast, For this was the chosen band that bore The lion standard,—it floated o'er Their ranks like morning; at every wave Of that purple banner, the trumpets gave A martial salute to the radiant fold That bore the lion-king wrought in gold.
And last the elephant came, whose tower Held the Lord of this pomp and power: And round that chariot of his pride,  Like chains of white sea-pearls, Of braids enwove of summer flowers,  Glided fair dancing girls; And as the rose-leaves fall to earth,  Their light feet touched the ground,— But for the zone of silver bells  You had not heard a sound, As, scattering flowers o'er the way, Danced round the beautiful array. But there was one who 'mid them shone, A planet lovely and alone, A rose, one flower amid many, But still the loveliest of any: Though fair her arm as the moonlight, Others might raise an arm as white; Though light her feet as music's fall, Others might be as musical: But where were such dark eyes as hers?  So tender, yet withal so bright, As the dark orbs had in their smile  Mingled the light of day and night.
And where was the wild grace which shed A loveliness o'er every tread, A beauty shining through the whole, Something which spoke of heart and soul. The Almas had pass'd lightly on, The armed ranks, the crowd, were gone, Yet gazed Mandalla on the square As she he sought still glided there,— Oh that fond look, whose eyeballs strain, And will not know its look is vain! At length he turned,—his silent mood Sought that impassioned solitude, The Eden of young hearts, when first Love in its loneliness is nurst. He sat him by a little fount;  A tulip tree grew by its side, A lily with its silver towers  Floated in silence on the tide; And far round a banana tree Extended its green sanctuary; And the long grass, which was his seat, With every movement grew more sweet, Yielding a more voluptuous scent At every blade his pressure bent. And there he lingered, till the sky Lost somewhat of its brilliancy, And crimson shadows rolled on the west, And raised the moon her diamond crest, And came a freshness on the trees, Harbinger of the evening breeze, When a sweet far sound of song, Borne by the breath of flowers along, A mingling of the voice and lute,  Such as the wind-harp, when it makes Its pleasant music to the gale  Which kisses first the chords it breaks. He followed where the echo led,  Till in a cypress grove he found A funeral train, that round a grave  Poured forth their sorrows' wailing sound
And by the tomb a choir of girls,  With measured steps and mournful notes, And snow-white robes, while on the air,  Unbound their wreaths, each dark curl floats, Paced round and sang to her who slept Calm, while their young eyes o'er her wept. And she, that loveliest one, is here, The morning's radiant Bayadere: A darker light in her dark eyes,—  For tears are there,—a paler brow Change but to charm the morning's smile,  Less sparkling, but more touching now. And first her sweet lip prest the flute,  A nightingale waked by the rose, And when that honey breath was mute,  Her low and plaintive song arose. Wailing for the young blossom's fall, The last, the most beloved of all. As died in gushing tears the lay, The band of mourners pass'd away: They left their wreaths upon the tomb, As fading leaves and long perfume Were emblems of her; and unbound Many a cage's gilded round And set the prisoners free, as none Were left to love now she was gone. And azure wings spread on the air,  And songs, rejoicing songs were heard; But, pining as forgotten now,  Lingered one solitary bird: A beautiful and pearl-white dove, Alone in its remembering love. It was a strange and lovely thing To mark the drooping of its wing, And how into the grave it prest Till soiled the dark earth-stain its breast; And darker as the night-shades grew, Sadder became its wailing coo, As if it missed the hand that bore,
As the cool twilight came, its store Of seeds and flowers.—There was one, Who like that dove, was lingering lone,— The Bayadere: her part had been  Only the hired mourner's part; But she had given what none might buy,—  The precious sorrow of the heart. She wooed the white dove to her breast, It sought at once its place of rest: Round it she threw her raven hair, It seemed to love the gentle snare, And its soft beak was raised to sip The honey-dew of her red lip. Her dark eyes filled with tears, to feel The gentle creature closer steal Into her heart with soft caress, As it would thank her tenderness; To her 't was strange and sweet to be Beloved in such fond purity, And sighed Mandalla to think that sin Could dwell so fair a shrine within. Oh grief to think that she was one Who like the breeze was wooed and won: Yet sure it were a task for love To come like dew of the night from above Upon her heart, and wash away, Like dust from the flowers, its stain of clay, And win her back in her tears to heaven, Pure, loved, and humble, and forgiven; Yes! freed from the soil of her earthly thrall, Her smile shall light up my starry hall!—L. E. L.
Literary Gazette 13th September 1823, Page 585
ORIGINAL POETRY. THE BAYADERE.—PART III.
The moonlight is on a little bower, With wall and with roof of leaf and of flower, Built of that green and holy tree Which heeds not how rude the storm may be. Like a bridal canopy over head The jasmines their slender wreathings spread, One with stars as ivory white, The other with clusters of amber light; Rose-trees four grew by the wall, Beautiful each, but different all: One with that pure but crimson flush That marks the maiden's first love blush; By its side grew another one, Pale as the snow of the funeral stone; The next was rich with the damask dye Of a monarch's purple drapery; And the last had leaves like those leaves of gold Worked on that drapery's royal fold. Three or four vases, with blossoms filled, Like censers of incense, their fragrance distilled; Lilies, heaped like the pearls of the sea, Peeped from their large leaves' security; Hyacinths with their graceful bells, Where the spirit of odour dwells Like the spirit of music in ocean shells; And tulips, with every colour that shines In the radiant gems of Serendib's mines: One tulip was found in every wreath, That one most scorched by the summer's breath, Whose passionate leaves with their ruby glow Hide the heart that lies burning and black below. And there, beneath the flowered shade By a pink acacia made, Mandalla lay, and by his side, With eye and breath and blush that vied With the star and with the flower In their own and loveliest hour, Was that fair Bayadere, the dove  Yet nestling in her long black hair: She has now more than that to love,  And the loved one sat by her there.
And by the sweet acacia porch  They drank the softness of the breeze,— Oh more than lovely are love's dreams,  'Mid lights and blooms and airs like these! And sometimes she would leave his side, And like a spirit round him glide: A light shawl wreathed now round her brow, Now waving from her hand of snow, Now zoned around her graceful waist, And now like fetters round her placed; And then, flung suddenly aside, Her many curls, instead, unbound, Waved in fantastic braids, till loosed, Her long dark tresses swept the ground; Then, changing from the soft slow step,  Her white feet bounded on the wind Like gleaming silver, and her hair  Like a dark banner swept behind; Or with her sweet voice, sweet like a bird's  When it pours forth its first song in spring, The one like an echo to the other,  She answered the sigh of her soft lute-string, And with eyes that darkened in gentlest tears,  Like the dewy light in the dark-eyed dove, Would she sing those sorrowing songs that breathe  Some history of unhappy love. Yes, thou art mine! Mandalla said,—  I have lighted up love in thy youthful heart; I taught thee its tenderness, now I must teach  Its faith, its grief, and its gloomier part; And then, from thy earth-stains purified, In my star and my hall shalt thou reign my bride.
- - - It was an evening soft and fair, As surely those in Eden are, When, bearing spoils of leaf and a flower, Entered the Bayadere her bower; Her love lay sleeping, as she thought, And playfully a bunch she caught Of azure hyacinth bells, and o'er  His face she let the blossoms fall: "Why I am jealous of thy dreams,  Awaken at thy Aza's call." No answer came from him whose tone Had been the echo of her own. She spoke again,—no words came forth;  She clasped his hand,—she raised his head,— One wild loud scream, she sank beside,  As pale, as cold, almost as dead! - - - By the Ganges raised, for the morning sun To shed his earliest beams upon, Is a funeral pile,—around it stand Priests and the hired mourners' band. But who is she that so wildly prays To share the couch and light the blaze? Mandalla's love, while scornful eye And chilling jeers mock her agony: An Alma girl! oh shame, deep shame, To Brahma's race and Brahma's name! Unmarked, unpitied, she turned aside, For a moment her bursting tears to hide. None thought of the Bayadere, till the fire Blazed redly and fiercely the funeral pyre, Then like a thought she darted by, And sprang on the burning pile to die! - - - - - - Now thou art mine! away, away To my own bright star, to my home of day, A dear voice sighed, as he bore her along Gently as spring breezes bear the song, Thy love and thy faith have won for thee The breath of immortality. Maid of earth, Mandalla is free to call Aza the queen of his heart and hall!—L. E. L.
* ↑ This poem appears in its entirety in The Improvisatrice and Other Poems (1824)
* ↑ the text here shows 'guest' but this was corrected in later appearances of this poem
* ↑ eyeballs' (apostrophe) in the Improvisatrice version
* ↑ In the Improvisatrice version, this and the next seven lines are enclosed in speech marks, as coming from Mandalla
* ↑ again, here, and in the closing passages, speech marks were inserted in the Improvisatrice version