Book II

Not in the desertSon of HodeirahWert thou abandoned!The coexistent fire,That in the Dens of Darkness burnt for thee,Burns yet, and yet shall burn.

In the Domdaniel cavernsUnder the Roots of the Ocean,Met the Masters of the Spell.Before them in the vault,Blazing unfuelled from the floor of rock,Ten magic flames arose."Burn mystic fires!" Abdaldar cried,"Burn whilst Hodeirah's dreaded race exist."This is the appointed hour,"The hour that shall secure these dens of night."

"Dim they burn," exclaimed Lobaba,"Dim they burn, and now they waver!"Okba lifts the arm of death,"They waver,... they go out!

"Curse on his hasty hand!"Khawla exclaimed in wrath,The woman-fiend exclaimed,"Curse on his hasty hand, the fool hath failed!"Eight only are gone out."

A Teraph stood against the cavern side,A new-born infant's head,That Khawla at his hour of birth had seizedAnd from the shoulders wrung.It stood upon a plate of gold,An unclean Spirit's name inscribed beneath.The cheeks were deathy dark,Dark the dead skin upon the hairless skull;The lips were bluey pale;Only the eyes had life,They gleamed with demon light.

"Tell me!" quoth Khawla, "is the Fire gone out"That threats the Masters of the Spell?"The dead lips moved and spake,"The Fire still burns that threats"The Masters of the Spell."

"Curse on thee, Okba!" Khawla cried,As to the den the Sorcerer came,He bore the dagger in his handHot from the murder of Hodeirah's race."Behold those unextinguished flames!"The fire still burns that threats"The Masters of the Spell!"Okba, wert thou weak of heart?"Okba, wert thou blind of eye?"Thy fate and ours were on the lot,"And we believed the lying stars"That said thy hand might seize the auspicious hour!"Thou hast let slip the reins of Destiny,..."Curse thee, curse thee, Okba!"

The Murderer answering said,"O versed in all enchanted lore,"Thou better knowest Okba's soul."Eight blows I struck, eight home-driven blows,"Needed no second stroke"From this envenomed blade."Ye frown at me as if the will had failed,"As if ye did not know"My double danger from Hodeirah's race,"The deeper hate I feel,"The stronger motive that inspired my arm!"Ye frown as if my hasty fault,"My ill-directed blow"Had spared the enemy,"And not the stars that would not give,"And not your feeble spells"That could not force, the sign"Which of the whole was he!"Did ye not bid me strike them all?"Said ye not root and branch should be destroyed?"I heard Hodeirah's dying groan,"I heard his Children's shriek of death,"And sought to consummate the work,"But o'er the two remaining lives"A cloud unpierceable had risen,"A cloud that mocked my searching eyes."I would have probed it with the dagger-point,"The dagger was repelled,"A Voice came forth and cried"Son of Perdition, cease! thou canst not change"What in the Book of Destiny is written."

Khawla to the Teraph turned,"Tell me where the Prophet's hand"Hides our destined enemy?"The dead lips spake again,"I view the seas, I view the land,"I search the ocean and the earth!"Not on Ocean is the Boy,"Not on Earth his steps are seen."

"A mightier power than we," Lobaba cried,"Protects our destined foe!"Look! look! one fire burns dim!"It quivers! it goes out!"

It quivered, it was quenched.One flame alone was left,A pale blue flame that trembled on the earth,A hovering light upon whose shrinking edgeThe darkness seemed to press.Stronger it grew, and spreadIts lucid swell around,Extending now where all the ten had stood,With lustre more than all.At that protentous sight,The children of Evil trembledAnd Terror smote their souls.Over the den the fireIts fearful splendour cast,The broad base rolling up in wavy streams,Bright as the summer lightning when it spreadsIts glory o'er the midnight heaven.The Teraphs eyes were dimmed,That like two twinkling starsShone in the darkness late.The Sorcerers on each other gazed,And every face all pale with fear,And ghastly in that light was seenLike a dead man's by the sepulchral lamp.

Even Khawla fiercest of the enchanter broodNot without effort drewHer fear suspended breath.Anon a deeper rageInflamed her reddening eye."Mighty is thy power, Mohammed!"Loud in blasphemy she cried,"But Eblis would not stoop to man"When Man fair statured as the stately palm,"From his Creator's hand"Was undefiled and pure."Thou art mighty, O Son of Abdallah!"But who is he of woman born"That shall vie with the might of Eblis?"That shall rival the Prince of the Morning?"

She said, and raised her skinny handAs in defiance to high Heaven,And stretched her long lean finger forthAnd spake aloud the words of power.The Spirits heard her call,And lo! before her standsHer Demon Minister."Spirit!" the Enchantress cried,"Where lives the Boy coeval with whose life"Yon magic fire must burn?"Mistress of the mighty Spell,Not on Ocean, not on Earth.Only eyes that viewAllah's glory throne,See his hiding-place.From some believing Spirit, ask and learn.

"Bring the dead Hodeirah here,"Khawla cried, "and he shall tell."The Demon heard her bidding, and was gone.A moment passed, and at her feetHodeirah's corpse was laid.His hand still held the sword he grasped in death,The blood not yet had clotted on his wound.

The Sorceress looked and with a smileThat kindled to more fiendishnessHer hideous features, cried,"Where Hodeirah is thy soul?"Is it in the Zemzem well?"Is it in the Eden groves?"Waits it for the judgement-blast"In the trump of Israfil?"Is it plumed with silver wings"Underneath the throne of God?"Even if beneath his throne"Hodeirah, thou shalt hear,"Thou shalt obey my voice!"

She said, and muttered charms that Hell in fearAnd Heaven in horror heard.Soon the stiff eye-balls rolled,The muscles with convulsive motion shook,The white lips quivered. Khawla saw, her soulExulted, and she cried,"Prophet! behold my power!"Not even death secures"Thy slaves from Khawla's Spell!"Where Hodeirah is thy child?"

Hodeirah groaned and closed his eyes,As if in the night and the blindness of deathHe would have hid himself.

"Speak to my question!" she exclaimed,"Or in that mangled body thou shall live"Ages of torture! answer me!"Where can we find the Boy?"

"God! God! Hodeirah cried,"Release me from this life,"From this intolerable agony!"

"Speak!" cried the Sorceress; and she snatchedA Viper from the floor,And with the living reptile lashed his neck.Wreathed, round him with the blow,The Reptile tighter drew her foldsAnd raised her wrathful head,And fixed into his faceHer deadly teeth, and shedPoison in every wound.In vain! for Allah heard Hodeirah's prayer,And Khawla on a corpseHad wrecked her baffled rage.The fated fire moved onAnd round the Body wrapt its funeral flames.The flesh and bones in that portentous pileConsumed; the Sword alone,Circled with fire was left.

Where is the Boy for whose hand it is destined?Where the Destroyer who one day shall wieldThe Sword that is circled with fire?Race accursed, try your charms!Masters of the mighty Spell,Mutter o'er your words of power!Ye can shatter the dwellings of man,Ye can open the womb of the rock,Ye can shake the foundations of earth,But not the Word of God:But not one letter can ye changeOf what his Will hath written!

Who shall seek thro' ArabyHodeirah's dreaded son?They mingle the Arrows of ChanceThe lot of Abdaldar is drawn.Thirteen moons must wax and waneEre the Sorcerer quit his quest.He must visit every tribeThat roam the desert wilderness,Or dwell beside perennial streams;Nor leave a solitary tent unsearchedTill he has found the Boy,The hated Boy whose blood aloneCan quench that dreaded fire.

A crystal ring Abdaldar bore,The powerful gem condensedPrimeval dews that upon CaucasusFelt the first winter's frost.Ripening there it lay beneathRock above rock, and mountain ice up-piledOn mountain, till the incumbent mass assumed,So huge its bulk, the Ocean's azure hue.

With this he sought the inner denWhere burnt the eternal flame.Like waters gushing from some channelled rockFull thro' a narrow opening, from a chasmThe eternal flame streamed up.No eye beheld the fountOf that up-flowing flame,That blazed self-nurtured, and for ever, there.It was no mortal element: the AbyssSupplied it, from the fountains at the firstPrepared. In the heart of earth it lives and glowsHer vital heat, till at the day decreed,The voice of God shall let its billows loose,To deluge o'er with no abating floodThe consummated World;That thenceforth thro' the air must roll,The penal Orb of Fire.

Unturbaned and unsandalled there,Abdaldar stood before the flame,And held the Ring beside, and spakeThe language that the Elements obey.The obedient flame detatched a portion forth,That, in the crystal entering, was condensed,Gem of the gem, its living Eye of fire.When the hand that wears the spellShall touch the destined Boy,Then shall that Eye be quenched,And the freed ElementFly to its sacred and remembered Spring.

Now go thy way Abdaldar!Servant of Eblis,Over ArabiaSeek the Destroyer!Over the sands of the scorching Tchama,Over the waterless mountains of Naid,In Arud pursue him; and Yemen the happy,And Hejaz, the country beloved by believers.Over ArabiaServant of Eblis,Seek the Destroyer.

From tribe to tribe, from town to town,From tent to tent, Abdaldar past.Him every morn the all-beholding EyeSaw from his couch, unhallowed by a prayer,Rise to the scent of blood,And every night lie down.That rankling hope within him, that by dayGoaded his steps, still stinging him in sleep,And startling him with vain accomplishmentFrom visions still the same.Many a time his wary handTo many a youth applied the Ring,And still the dagger in his mantle hidWas ready for the deed.

At length to the cords of a tentThat were stretched by an Island of PalmsIn the desolate sea of the sands,The weary traveller came.Under a shapely palm,Herself as shapely, there a Damsel stood.She held her ready robeAnd looked towards a Boy,Who from the tree aboveWith one hand clinging to its trunk,Cast with the other down the clustered dates.

The Wizard approached the Tree,He leaned on his staff, like a way-faring man,And the sweat of his travel was seen on his brow.He asks for food, and lo!The Damsel proffers him her lap of dates.And the Stripling descends, and runs into the tentAnd brings him forth water, the draught of delight.

Anon the Master of the tent,The Father of the familyCame forth, a man in years, of aspect mild.To the stranger approaching he gaveThe friendly saluting of peace,And bade the skin be spread.Before the tent they spread the skin,Under a Tamarind's shade,That bending forward, stretchedIts boughs of beauty far.They brought the Traveller rice,With no false colours tinged to tempt the eye,But white as the new-fallen snow,When never yet the sullying SunHath seen its purity,Nor the warm Zephyr touched and tainted it.The dates of the grove before their guestThey laid, and the luscious fig,And water from the well.The Damsel from the Tamarind treeHad plucked its acid fruitAnd steeped it in water long;And whoso drank of the cooling draughtHe would not wish for wine.This to the guest the Damsel brought,And a modest pleasure kindled her cheek,When raising from the cup his moistened lipsThe Stranger smiled, and praised, and drank again.

Whither is gone the Boy?He had pierced the Melon's pulpAnd closed with wax the wound,And he had duly gone at mornAnd watched its ripening rind,And now all joyfully he bringsThe treasure now matured.His dark eyes sparkle with a boy's delight.As he pours out its liquid lusciousnessAnd proffers to the guest.

Abdaldar ate, and he was satisfied:And now his tongue discoursedOf regions far remote,As one whose busy feet had travelled long.The Father of the family,With a calm eye and quiet smile,Sate pleased to hearken him.The Damsel who removed the meal,She loitered on the wayAnd listened with full handsA moment motionless.All eagerly the BoyWatches the Traveller's lips,And still the wily manWith seemly kindness to the eager BoyDirects his winning tale.Ah, cursed man! if this be he,If thou hast found the object of thy search,Thy hate, thy bloody aim,Into what deep damnation wilt thou plungeThy miserable soul!Look! how his eye delighted watches thine!Look! how his open lipsGasp at the winning tale!And nearer now he comesTo lose no word of that delightful talk.Then, as in familiar mood,Upon the Stripling's armThe Sorcerer laid his hand,And the fire of the Crystal fled.

Whilst the sudden shoot of joyMade pale Abdaldar's cheek,The Master's voice was heard:"It is the hour of prayer,..."My children, let us purify ourselves"And praise the Lord our God!"The Boy the water brought,After the law they purified themselves,And bent their faces to the earth in prayer.

All, save Abdaldar; over ThalabaHe stands, and lifts the dagger to destroy.Before his lifted arm receivedIts impulse to descend,The Blast of the Desert came.Prostrate in prayer, the pious familyFelt not the Simoom pass.They rose, and lo! the Sorcerer lying dead,Holding the dagger in his blasted hand.