# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1834/The Zenana - Conclusion

Days pass, yet still Zilara’s song  Beguiled the fair Sultana’s hours As the wind bears some bird along  Over the haunted orange bowers. ’Twas as till then she had not known How much her heart had for its own, And Murad’s image seemed more dear,  These higher chords of feeling strung; And love shone brighter for the shade  That others’ sorrows round it flung.
It was one sultry noon, yet sweet
The air which through the matted grass Came cool—its breezes had to meet  A hundred plumes, ere it could pass; The peacock’s shining feathers wave From many a young and graceful slave; Who silent kneel amid the gloom Of that dim and perfumed room.
Beyond, the radiant sunbeams rest On many a minaret’s glittering crest, And white the dazzling tombs below, Like masses sculptured of pure snow; While round stands many a giant tree, Like pillars of a sanctuary, Whose glossy foliage, dark and bright, Reflects, and yet excludes the light. Oh sun, how glad thy rays are shed; How canst thou glory o’er the dead?  Ah, folly this of human pride, What are the dead to one like thee,  Whose mirror is the mighty tide, Where time flows to eternity? A single race, a single age, What are they in thy pilgrimage? The tent, the palace, and the tomb Repeat the universal doom.
Man passes, but upon the plain Still the sweet seasons hold their reign, As if earth were their sole domain,
And man a toy and mockery thrown Upon the world he deems his own.
 All is so calm—the sunny air Has not a current nor a shade;  The vivid green the rice-fields wear Seems of one moveless emerald made; The Ganges’ quiet waves are rolled In one broad sheet of molten gold; And in the tufted brakes beside, The water-fowls and herons hide. And the still earth might also seem The strange creation of a dream. Actual, breathless—dead, yet bright— Unblest with life—yet mocked with light, It mocks our nature’s fate and power, When we look forth in such an hour,  And that repose in nature see, The fond desire of every heart;  But, oh! thou inner world, to thee, What th'outward world can e’er impart.
But turn we to that darkened hall, Where the cool fountain’s pleasant fall Wakens the odours yet unshed From the blue hyacinth’s drooping head; And on the crimson couch beside Reclines the young and royal bride; Not sleeping, though the water’s chime, The lulling flowers, the languid time, Might soothe her to the gentlest sleep, O’er which the genii watchings keep, And shed from their enchanted wings, All loveliest imaginings: No, there is murmuring in her ear, A voice than sleep’s more soft and dear; While that pale slave with drooping eye Speaks mournfully of days gone by; And every plaintive word is fraught With music which the heart has taught, A pleading and confiding tone, To those mute lips so long unknown.
Ah! all in vain that she had said To feeling, "slumber like the dead;" Had bade each pang that might convulse With fiery throb the beating pulse, Each faded hope, each early dream, Sleep as beneath a frozen stream; Such as her native mountains bear, The cold white hills around Jerdair;*Jerdair. Heights clad with that eternal snow, Which happier valleys never know. Some star in that ungenial sky, Might well shape such a destiny; But till within the dark calm grave, There yet will run an under-wave, Which human sympathy can still Excite and melt to tears at will; No magic any spell affords, Whose power is like a few kind words.
’Twas strange the contrast in the pair,  That leant by that cool fountain’s side; Both very young, both very fair,  By nature, not by fate allied: The one a darling and delight, A creature like the morning bright: Whose weeping is the sunny shower Half light upon an April hour; One who a long glad childhood past,  But left that happy home to ‘bide Where love a deeper shadow cast,  A hero’s proud and treasured bride: Who her light footstep more adored, Than all the triumphs of his sword; Whose kingdom at her feet the while, Had seemed too little for a smile.  But that pale slave was as the tomb Of her own youth, of her own bloom; Enough remained to show how fair, In other days those features were, Still lingered delicate and fine, The shadow of their pure outline;
* JERDAIR, - A HILL VILLAGE, - GURWALL.
* Artist: David Cox - Engraved by: T. Higham
* Jerdair is a small village situated amid the hills of Gurwall, within fifty miles of the Himalaya mountains. ​
The small curved lip, the glossy brow,  That melancholy beauty wore, Whose spell is in the silent past,  Which saith to love and hope, "No more:" No more, for hope hath long forsaken  Love, though at first its gentle guide, First lulled to sleep, then left to 'waken,  ’Mid tears and scorn, despair and pride, And only those who know can tell, What love is after hope’s farewell. And first she spoke of childhood’s time,  Little, what childhood ought to be, When tenderly the gentle child  Is cherished at its mother's knee, Who deems that ne’er before, from heaven So sweet a thing to earth was given. But she an orphan had no share In fond affection’s early care; She knew not love until it came Far other, though it bore that name.
"I felt," she said, "all things grow bright! Before the spirit’s inward light. Earth was more lovely, night and day, Conscious of some enchanted sway, That flung around an atmosphere I had not deemed could brighten here. And I have gazed on Moohreeb’s face, As exiles watch their native place; I knew his step before it stirred From its green nest the cautious bird. I woke, till eye and cheek grew dim, Then slept—it was to dream of him; I lived for days upon a word
Less watchful ear had never heard: And won from careless look or sign A happiness too dearly mine. He was my world—I wished to make My heart a temple for his sake. It matters not—such passionate love Has only life and hope above;
A wanderer from its home on high, Here it is sent to droop and die. He loved me not—or but a day, I was a flower upon his way: A moment near his heart enshrined, Then flung to perish on the wind."
 She hid her face within her hands—  Methinks the maiden well might weep; The heart it has a weary task
 Which unrequited love must keep; At once a treasure and a curse, The shadow on its universe. Alas, for young and wasted years, For long nights only spent in tears; For hopes, like lamps in some dim urn, That but for the departed burn. Alas for her whose drooping brow Scarce struggles with its sorrow now. At first Nadira wept to see That hopelessness of misery.  But, oh, she was too glad, too young, To dream of an eternal grief;  A thousand thoughts within her sprung, Of solace, promise, and relief. Slowly Zilara raised her head, Then, moved by some strong feeling, said, "A boon, kind Princess, there is one Which won by me, were heaven won; Not wealth, not freedom—wealth to me Is worthless, as all wealth must be, When there are none its gifts to share: For whom have I on earth to care? None from whose head its golden shrine May ward the ills that fell on mine. And freedom—’tis a worthless boon, To one who will be free so soon; And yet I have one prayer, so dear, I dare not hope—I only fear." "Speak, trembler, be your wish confest, And trust Nadira with the rest."
"Lady, look forth on yonder tower, There spend I morn and midnight's hour, Beneath that lonely peepul tree—* Well may its branches wave o’er me, For their dark wreaths are ever shed, The mournful tribute to the dead— There sit I, in fond wish to cheer A captive’s sad and lonely ear, And strive his drooping hopes to raise, With songs that breathe of happier days. Lady, methinks I scarce need tell The name that I have loved so well; ’Tis Moohreeb, captured by the sword Of him, thy own unconquered lord. Lady, one word—one look from thee, And Murad sets that captive free."
"And you will follow at his side?"
"Ah, no, he hath another bride; And if I pity, can’st thou bear To think upon her lone despair? No, break the mountain-chieftain’s chain, Give him to hope, home, love again."  Her cheek with former beauty blushed, The crimson to her forehead rushed, Her eyes rekindled, till their light Flashed from the lash’s summer night. So eager was her prayer, so strong The love that bore her soul along. Ah! many loves for many hearts;  But if mortality has known One which its native heaven imparts  To that fine soil where it has grown; ’Tis in that first and early feeling, Passion's most spiritual revealing; Half dream, all poetry—whose hope Colours life’s charmed horoscope With hues so beautiful, so pure— Whose nature is not to endure.
As well expect the tints to last, The rainbow on the storm hath cast. Of all young feelings, love first dies, Soon the world piles its obsequies; Yet there have been who still would keep That early vision dear and deep, The wretched they, but love requires Tears, tears to keep alive his fires: The happy will forget, but those To whom despair denies repose, From whom all future light is gone, The sad, the slighted, still love on.
The ghurrees* are chiming the morning hour,  The voice of the priest is heard from the tower,  The turrets of Delhi are white in the sun,  Alas! that another bright day has begun. Children of earth, ah! how can ye bear This constant awakening to toil and to care? Out upon morning, its hours recall, Earth to its trouble, man to his thrall; Out upon morning, it chases the night, With all the sweet dreams that on slumber alight; Out upon morning, which wakes us to life, With its toil, its repining, its sorrow and strife. And yet there were many in Delhi that day, Who watched the first light, and rejoiced in the ray; They wait their young monarch, who comes from the field With a wreath on his spear, and a dent on his shield. There’s a throng in the east, 'tis the king and his train: And first prance the horsemen, who scarce can restrain Their steeds† that are wild as the wind, and as bold As the riders who curb them with bridles of gold: The elephants follow, and o'er each proud head The chattah that glitters with gems is outspread, Whence the silver bells fall with their musical sound, While the howdah’s‡ red trappings float bright on the ground:
Behind stalk the camels, which, weary and worn, Seem to stretch their long necks, and repine at the morn: And wild on the air the fierce war-echoes come, The voice of the atabal, trumpet, and drum: Half lost in the shout that ascends from the crowd, Who delight in the young, and the brave, and the proud. Tis folly to talk of the right and the wrong, The triumph will carry the many along.
A dearer welcome far remains, Than that of Delhi’s crowded plains;* Ruins, S. side of Old Delhi. Soon Murad seeks the shadowy hall, Cool with the fountain's languid fall; His own, his best beloved to meet. Why kneels Nadira at his feet? With flushing cheek, and eager air, One word hath won her easy prayer; It is such happiness to grant, The slightest fancy that can haunt The loved one’s wish, earth hath no gem, And heaven no hope, too dear for them.
That night beheld a vessel glide, Over the Jumna's onward tide; One watched that vessel from the shore, Too conscious of the freight it bore, And wretched in her granted vow, Sees Moohreeb leaning by the prow, And knows that soon the winding river Will hide him from her view for ever.
Next morn they found that youthful slave Still kneeling by the sacred wave; Her head was leaning on the stone  Of an old ruined tomb beside, A fitting pillow cold and lone,  The dead had to the dead supplied:
* RUINS, SOUTH SIDE OF OLD DELHI.
* Artist: T. S. Boys - Engraved by: G. Hamilton
*Delhi.—"The remains of this once magnificent and populous city exhibit so desolate and melancholy a scene, that it has more the look of an assemblage of dilapidated mansions of the dead than the living; and it is at this time difficult to imagine it to have ever been any thing else than a vast and splendid cemetery."—Elliot. ​
The heart’s last string hath snapt in twain, Oh, earth, receive thine own again: The weary one at length has rest Within thy chill but quiet breast. Long did the young sultana keep  The memory of that maiden’s lute; And call to mind her songs, and weep,  Long after those charmed chords were mute. A small white tomb was raised, to show That human sorrow slept below; And solemn verse and sacred line Were graved on that funereal shrine. And by its side the cypress tree Stood, like unchanging memory. And even to this hour are thrown Green wreaths on that remembered stone; And songs remain, whose tunes are fraught With music which herself first taught. And, it is said, one lonely star Still brings a murmur sweet and far Upon the silent midnight air, As if Zilara wandered there. Oh! if her poet soul be blent With its aerial element, May its lone course be where the rill Goes singing at its own glad will; Where early flowers unclose and die; Where shells beside the ocean lie, Fill’d with strange tones; or where the breeze Sheds odours o’er the moonlit seas: There let her gentle spirit rove, Embalmed by poetry and love.
* ↑ * Bishop Heber mentions a picturesque custom prevalent in one of the Rajpoot tribes. The death of a warrior is only announced to his family by branches of the peepul-tree strewed before his door.
* ↑ * The Ghurrie is a sort of gong, on which the hour is struck when the brazen cup fills, and sinks down in the water of the vessel on which it floats. This primitive method of reckoning time is still retained in India.
* ↑ † One fashion I confess to having omitted: however, here it is in plain prose. The tails of the chargers are often dyed a bright scarlet, which, when at full gallop, has much the appearance of leaving a track of fire after them.
* ↑ ‡ The Howdah is the seat on the elephant's back; often formed of pure silver.
* ↑ This text has Ganges’, however this was corrected in later editions - Delhi is on the Jumna (or Yamuna) as stated earlier in the poem.