Alas, poor ZELICA! it needed all The fantasy, which held thy mind in thrall, To see in that gay Haram’s glowing maids A sainted colony for Eden’s shades; Or dream that he,—of whose unholy flame Thou wert too soon the victim,—shining came From Paradise, to people its pure sphere With souls like thine, which he hath ruin’d here! No—had not Reason’s light totally set, And left thee dark, thou hadst an amulet In the lov’d image, graven on thy heart, Which would have sav’d thee from the tempter’s art, And kept alive, in all its bloom of breath, That purity, whose fading is love’s death!— But lost, inflamed,—a restless zeal took place Of the mild virgin’s still and feminine grace; First of the Prophet’s favourites, proudly first In zeal and charms,—too well the’ Impostor nurs’d Her soul’s delirium, in whose active flame, Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant frame, He saw more potent sorceries to bind To his dark yoke the spirits of mankind, More subtle chains than hell itself e’er twin’d. No art was spar’d, no witchery;—all the skill His demons taught him was employ’d to fill Her mind with gloom and ecstasy by turns— That gloom, through which Frenzy but fiercer burns; That ecstasy, which from the depth of sadness Glares like the maniac’s moon, whose light is madness. ’Twas from a brilliant banquet, where the sound Of poesy and music breath’d around, Together picturing to her mind and ear The glories of that heaven, her destin’d sphere, Where all was pure, where every stain that lay Upon the spirit’s light should pass away, And, realizing more than youthful love E’er wish’d or dream’d, she should for ever rove Through fields of fragrance by her AZIM’S side, His own bless’d, purified, eternal bride!— ’Twas from a scene, a witching trance like this, He hurried her away, yet breathing bliss, To the dim charnel-house;—through all its steams Of damp and death, led only by those gleams Which foul Corruption lights, as with design To show the gay and proud _she_ too can shine!— And, passing on through upright ranks of Dead, Which to the maiden, doubly craz’d by dread, Seem’d, through the bluish death-light round them cast, To move their lips in mutterings as she pass’d— There, in that awful place, when each had quaff’d And pledg’d in silence such a fearful draught, Such—oh! the look and taste of that red bowl Will haunt her till she dies—he bound her soul By a dark oath, in hell’s own language fram’d, Never, while earth his mystic presence claim’d, While the blue arch of day hung o’er them both, Never, by that all-imprecating oath, In joy or sorrow from his side to sever.— She swore, and the wide charnel echoed, “Never, never!”