False flew the shaft, though pointed well;
The tyrant lived, the hero fell!—
Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay,

And, when the rush of war was past, Swiftly descending on a ray

Of morning light, she caught the lastLast glorious drop his heart had shed, Before its free-born spirit fled!

Be this, she cried, as she wing'd her flight,
My welcome gift at the Gates of Light,
Though foul are the drops that oft distil
On the field of warfare, blood like this,
For Liberty shed, so holy is, (75)
It would not stain the purest rill,

That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss!
Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere,
A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,
"T is the last libation Liberty draws

From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!»

Sweet, said the Angel, as she gave
The gift into his radiant hand,
Sweet is our welcome of the brave,

Who die thus for their native land.-
But see-alas!--the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not-holier far
Than even this drop the boon must be,
That opes the gates of heaven for thee!

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,

Now among Afric's Lunar Mountains,' (76)
Far to the south, the Peri lighted;

And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains

Of that Egyptian tide, whose birth
Is hidden from the sons of earth,
Deep in those solitary woods,
Where oft the Genii of the Floods
Dance round the cradle of their Nile,
And hail the new-born Giant's smile!?
Thence, over Egypt's palmy groves,

Her grots and sepulchres of kings,3
The exiled Spirit sighing roves;
And now hangs listening to the doves
In warm Rosetta's vale4-now loves

To watch the moonlight on the wings

Of the white pelicans that break
The azure calm of Moris' Lake.S

"T was a fair scene-a land more bright
Never did mortal eye behold!

Who could have thought, that saw this night
Those valleys and their fruits of gold
Basking in heaven's serenest light;-
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending

Languidly their leaf-crown'd heads,

Like youthful maids, when sleep descending
Warns them to their silken beds;-6

The mountains of the Moon, or the Montes Lune of antiquity,

at the foot of which the Nile is supposed to arise.-Bauce.

Those virgin lilies, all the night

Bathing their beauties in the lake,
That they may rise more fresh and bright,
When their beloved sun 's awake;-
Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem
The relics of a splendid dream;

Amid whose fairy loneliness

Nought but the lapwing's cry is heard,

Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting
Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam)
Some purple-winged Sultana' sitting
Upon a column, motionless

And glittering, like an idol bird!—
Who could have thought that there, e'en there,
Amid those scenes so still and fair,

The Demon of the Plague hath cast
From his hot wing a deadlier blast,
More mortal far than ever came
From the red Desert's sands of flame!
So quick, that every living thing
Of human shape, touch'd by his wing,
Like plants where the Simoom hath past,
At once falls black and withering!

The sun went down on many a brow, Which, full of bloom and freshness then, Is rankling in the pest-house now,

And ne'er will feel that sun again! And oh! to see the unburied heaps On which the lonely moonlight sleepsThe very vultures turn away, And sicken at so foul a prey! Only the fierce hyæna stalks Throughout the city's desolate walks (77) At midnight, and his carnage pliesWoe to the half-dead wretch, who meets The glaring of those large blue eyes3 Amid the darkness of the streets!

stateliness of its port, as well as the brilliancy of its colours, has obtained the title of Sultana.-Sonnint.

JACKSON, speaking of the plague that occurred in West Barbary, when he was there, says, The birds of the air fled away from the abodes of men. The hyenas, on the contrary, visited the cemeteries, etc.

3 BRUCE.

One who in life, where'er he moved,

Drew after him the hearts of many;
Yet now, as though he ne'er were loved,
Dies here, unseen, unwept by any!
None to watch near him-none to slake
The fire that in his bosom lies,
With even a sprinkle from that lake

Which shines so cool before his eyes.
No voice, well-known through many a day,
To speak the last, the parting word,
Which, when all other sounds decay,
Is still like distant music heard:
That tender farewell on the shore
Of this rude world, when all is o'er,

Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown Dark.

But see,-who yonder comes (78) by stealth,
This melancholy bower to seek,
Like a young envoy, sent by Health,
With rosy gifts upon her cheek?

"T is she-far off, through moonlight dim,
He knew his own betrothed bride,
She, who would rather die with him,

Than live to gain the world beside!-
Her arms are round her lover now,

His livid cheek to hers she presses, And dips, to bind his burning brow,

In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses.

Ah! once, how little did he think

An hour would come when he should shrink
With horror from that dear embrace,
Those gentle arms, that were to him
Holy as is the cradling-place

grown,

Of Eden's infant cherubim!
And now he yields-now turns away,
Shuddering as if the venom lay
All in those proffer'd lips alone-
Those lips that, then so fearless
Never until that instant came
Near his unask'd or without shame.
Oh! let me only breathe the air,
The blessed air, that's breathed by thee,
And, whether on its wings it bear

Healing or death, 't is sweet to me!
There,-drink my tears, while yet they fall,—
Would that my bosom's blood were balm,
And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all,
To give thy brow one minute's calm.
Nay, turn not from me that dear face-
Am I not thine-thy own loved bride-
The one, the chosen one, whose place
In life or death is by thy side!
Think'st thou that she, whose only light

In this dim world, from thee hath shone,

Could bear the long, the cheerless night,
That must be hers when thou art gone?
That I can live, and let thee go,
Who art my life itself?—No, no-
When the stem dies, the leaf that grew
Out of its heart must perish too!
Then turn to me, my own love, turn,
Before like thee I fade and burn;
Cling to these yet cool lips, and share
The last pure life that lingers there!
She fails-she sinks-as dies the lamp
In charnel airs or cavern-damp,

So quickly do his baleful sighs
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes!
One struggle-and his pain is past-
Her lover is no longer living!
One kiss the maiden gives, one last,

Long kiss, which she expires in giving.

Sleep, said the Peri, as softly she stole

The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul,
As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast-
• Sleep on, in visions of odour rest,
In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd
The enchanted pile of that lonely bird,
Who sings at the last his own death lay,'
And in music and perfume dies away!"
Thus saying, from her lips she spread

Unearthly breathings through the place,
And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed
Such lustre o'er each paly face,

That like two lovely saints they seem'd

Upon the eve of dooms-day taken
From their dim graves, in odour sleeping;-
While that benevolent Peri beam'd

Like their good angel, calmly keeping

Watch o'er them till their souls would waken!

But morn is blushing in the sky;

Again the Peri soars above, Bearing to Heaven that precious sigh Of pure, self-sacrificing love. High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate, The Elysian palm she soon shall win, For the bright Spirit at the gate

Smiled as she gave that offering in; And she already hears the trees

Of Eden, with their crystal bells

Ringing in that ambrosial breeze

That from the Throne of Alla swells;

And she can see the starry bowls

That lie around that lucid lake,

Upon whose banks admitted souls

Their first sweet draught of glory take!*

But ah! even Peris' hopes are vainAgain the Fates forbade, again

In the East, they suppose the phoenix to have fifty orifices in his bill, which are continued to his tail; and that, after living one thousand years, he builds himself a funeral pile, sings a melodious air of different harmonies through his fifty organ pipes, flaps his wings with a velocity which sets fire to the wood, and consumes himself.-RICHARDSON.

On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thousand goblets, made of stars, out of which souls predestined to enjoy felicity drink the crystal wave.--From CHATEAUBRIAND'S Description of the Mabometan Paradise, in his Beauties of Christianity.

To one who look'd from upper air
O'er all the enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow!
The life, the sparkling from below!
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks
Of golden melons on their banks,
More golden where the sun-light falls;-
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls;-
Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright
As they were all alive with light;-2
And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks
Of pigeons, settling on the rocks,

With their rich restless wings, that gleam,
Variously in the crimson beam

Of the warm west-as if inlaid
With brilliants from the mine, or made
Of tearless rainbows, such as span
The unclouded skies of Peristan!
And then, the mingling sounds that come,
Of shepherd's ancient reed,3 with hum
Of the wild bees of Palestine, (79)

Banqueting through the flowery vales;— And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, And woods, so full of nightingales! (80)

But nought can charm the luckless Beri;
Her soul is sad-her wings are weary—
Joyless she sees the sun look down
On that great Temple, once his own,4
Whose lonely columns stand sublime,
Flinging their shadows from on high,
Like dials, which the wizard, Time,

Had raised to count his ages by!

Yet haply there may lie conceal'd, Beneath those Chambers of the Sun, Some amulet of gems, anneal'd

↑ RICHARDSON thinks that Syria bad its name from Sari, a beautiful and delicate species of rose for which that country has been always famous;-bence, Suristan, the Land of Roses.

The number of lizards I saw one day in the great court of the Temple of the Sun at Balbec amounted to many thousands; the ground, the walls, and stones of the ruined buildings, were covered with them.—BRUCE,

3. The Syrinx, or Pan's pipe, is still a pastoral instrument in Syria.-RUSSEL

4 The Temple of the Sun at Balbec.

In upper fires, some tablet seal'd

With the great name of Solomon, Which, spell'd by her illumined eyes, May teach her where, beneath the moon, In earth or ocean lies the boon, The charm that can restore so soon, An erring Spirit to the skies!

Cheer'd by this hope, she bends her thither;
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of Even
In the rich West begun to wither;-
When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild-flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel-flies,
That flutter'd round the jasmine stems,
Like winged flowers or flying gems:-
And, near the boy, who tired with play,
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount

From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount (81)
Impatient fling him down to drink.
Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd
To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd
Upon a brow more fierce than that,-
Sullenly fierce-a mixture dire,
Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire!
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;
The ruin'd maid-the shrine profaned-
Oaths broken-and the threshold stain'd
With blood of guests!—there written, all,
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing Angel's pen,
Ere mercy weeps them out again!

Yet tranquil now that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Soften'd his spirit) look'd and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play :-
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance

Met that unclouded joyous gaze,
As torches, that have burnt all night
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.

But hark! the vesper-call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,

From Syria's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed

of flowers, where he had laid his head, And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, (82) with his forehead to the south, Lisping the eternal name of God

From purity's own cherub mouth,

You behold there a considerable number of a remarkable species of beautiful insects, the elegance of whose appearance and their attire procured for them the name of Damsels.S0%x181,

And how felt he, the wretched man
Reclining there-while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace!
There was a time," he said, in mild
Heart-humbled tones- thou blessed child!
When, young and haply pure as thou,
I look'd and pray'd like thee-but now—»
He hung his head-each nobler aim

And hope and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood's hour, that instant came
Fresh o'er him and he wept-he wept!

TO

is poetry!

AND this, said the Great Chamberlain, this flimsy manufacture of the brain, which, in comparison with the lofty and durable monuments of genius, is as the gold fillagree-work of Zamara beside the eternal architecture of Egypt! After this gorgeous sentence, which with a few more of the same kind, Fadladeen kept by him for rare and important occasions, he proceeded to the anatomy of the short poem just recited. The lax and easy kind of metre in which it was written ought to be denounced, he said, as one of the leading causes of the alarming growth of poetry in our times. If some check were not given to this lawless facility, we should soon be overrun by a race of bards as numerous and as shallow as the hundred and twenty thousand streams of Basra.4 They who succeeded in this style deserved chastisement for their very success; -as warriors have been punished, even after gaining a victory, because they had taken the liberty of gaining it in an irregular or unestablished manner. What, then, was to be said to those who failed? to those who presumed, as in the present lamentable instance, to imitate the license and ease of the bolder sons of song, without any of that grace or vigour which gave a dignity even to negligence,-who, like them, flung the jereeds carelessly, but not, like them, to the mark; — and who, said he, raising his voice to excite a proper degree of wakefulness in his hearers, contrive to appear heavy and constrained in the midst of all the latitude they have allowed themselves, like one of those young pagans that dance before the Princess, who has the ingenuity to move as if her limbs were fettered, in

The Country of Delight,-the name of a province in the kingdom of Jinnistan, or Fairy Land, the capital of which is called the City of Jewels. Amberabad is another of the cities of Jinnistan.

The tree Tooba, that stands in Paradise, in the palace of Mabomet. See SALE'S Prelim. Disc.- Touba, says D HEABELOT, signifies beatitude, or eternal happiness."

Mahomet is described, in the 53d Chapter of the Koran, as having seen the angel Gabriel by the lote-tree, beyond which there is no passing near it is the Garden of Eternal Abode.This tree, say the Commentators, stands in the seventh Heaven, on the right band of the throne of God.

4. It is said that the rivers or streams of Basra were reckoned in the time of Belal ben Abi Bordeh, and amounted to the number of one hundred and twenty thousand streams.-ESN HAURAL.

The name of the javelin with which the Easterns ex.rcise.See CASTELLAN, Mours des Othomans, tom. iii, p. 161.