IT was the lovely twilight-time went down o’er Agra’s towers, | |
| And silent were her marble halls, and tranquil were her bowers; | |
| The crimson colors of the rose were melting on the air, | |
| And from the ivory minarets arose the evening prayer. | |
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| The snowy herons to the roofs were flocking for the night, | 5 |
| The columns and the cupolas were bathed in purple light; | |
| And the large lilies on the stream grew fairer in their hue, | |
| As they flung up each silver cup to catch the falling dew. | |
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| Filled with the sweet good-night of flowers that sigh themselves to sleep, | |
| Along the quiet river’s side, the shadowy gardens sweep; | 10 |
| While fair and pale, like some young girl who pines with early love, | |
| The young moon seems as if she feared to take her place above. | |
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| Is there no feasting in those halls? why is that palace mute? | |
| The silvery cadences unheard of the young dancer’s foot: | |
| How changed since that glad marriage eve when with the dance and song | 15 |
| Prince Dara led his cousin-bride those lighted halls along. | |
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| How changed since that imperial day, when at his father’s hand, | |
| The eldest-born sat down to share that father’s high command; | |
| And the proud nobles of the court drew forth the glittering sword, | |
| In token all were at his will, and waited but his word. | 20 |
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| An old man sits upon the walls that guard the eastern side; | |
| ’T is not to hear the wild wind wake the music of the tide: | |
| The rising of the evening star, the perfume from the bough, | |
| The last sweet singing of the doves,—all pass unheeded now. | |
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| The aged king sits on his tower, and strains his eyes afar, | 25 |
| And asks of every passer-by for tidings of the war; | |
| They come,—he sees the scattered flight of Dara’s broken bands; | |
| At last a fugitive himself, his son before him stands. | |
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| The monarch hid his face and wept, he heard his first-born say, | |
| “The crown you placed upon my brow this hour has passed away; | 30 |
| My brother is my enemy,—a traitor is my friend, | |
| And I must seek these ancient walls, to shelter and defend.” | |
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| “Not so,” the old king said, “my son; fly thou with spear and shield, | |
| For never walls could stand for those who stood not in the field.” | |
| He wept before his father’s face—then fled across the plain; | 35 |
| The desolate and the fugitive,—they never met again. | |
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| Time has passed on, and Dara’s doom is darkly drawing nigh; | |
| The vanquished prince has only left to yield, despair, and die; | |
| The faithful friend, the conquering foe have been around his path, | |
| And now a wild and desert home is all Prince Dara hath. | 40 |
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| The sands are bare, the wells are dry, and not a single tree | |
| Extends its shade o’er him who had a royal canopy; | |
| There is not even safety found amid those burning sands; | |
| The exile has a home to seek in far and foreign lands. | |
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| He lingers yet upon his way,—within his tents is death; | 45 |
| He cannot fly till he has caught Nadira’s latest breath. | |
| How can he bear to part with her,—she who, since first his bride, | |
| In woe and want his comforter, has never left his side! | |
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| He kissed the pale, unconscious cheek,—he flung him at her feet; | |
| He gazed how fondly on those eyes he nevermore might meet; | 50 |
| “’T is well,” he cried, “my latest friend is from my bosom flown; | |
| Go bear her to her father’s tomb, while I go forth alone.” | |
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| The traitor is upon his way, the royal prey is found, | |
| And by ignoble hands and chains the monarch’s son is bound; | |
| Garbed as a slave, they lead him forth the public ways along, | 55 |
| But on his noble brow is scorn, and on his lip a song. | |
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| ’T is midnight; but the midnight crime is darker than the night, | |
| And Aurungzebe with gloomy brow awaits the morning light; | |
| The morning light is dyed for him with an accusing red, | |
| They bring to the usurper’s feet his brother Dara’s head! | 60 |
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