What must the King of Bucharia feel, when, instead of the lively and
beautiful LALLA ROOKH, whom the poets of Delhi had described as more
perfect than the divinest images in the house of AZOR,[342] he should
receive a pale and inanimate victim, upon whose cheek neither health nor
pleasure bloomed, and from whose eyes Love had fled,--to hide himself in
her heart?
If any thing could have charmed away the melancholy of her spirits, it
would have been the fresh airs and enchanting scenery of that Valley,
which the Persians so justly called the Unequalled.[343] But neither the
coolness of its atmosphere, so luxurious after toiling up those bare and
burning mountains,--neither the splendor of the minarets and pagodas, that
shone put from the depth of its woods, nor the grottoes, hermitages, and
miraculous fountains,[344] which make every spot of that region holy
ground,--neither the countless waterfalls, that rush into the Valley from
all those high and romantic mountains that encircle it, nor the fair city
on the Lake, whose houses, roofed with flowers,[345] appeared at a
distance like one vast and variegated parterre;--not all these wonders and
glories of the most lovely country under the sun could steal her heart for
a minute from those sad thoughts which but darkened and grew bitterer
every step she advanced.
Pages:
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858