Fear nothing, thou-myself, to-night,

And swear them on those lone remains And each o'erlooking star that dwells

Of their lost country's ancient fanes, Near God, will be thy sentinels ;

Never-while breath of life shall live And, ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow,

Within them-never to forgive Back to thy sire

The accursed race, whose ruthless chain • To-morrow!-no-,

Hath left on Iran's neck a stain
The maiden scream'd--thou 'lt never see

Blood, blood alone can cleanse again!
To-morrow's sun-death, death will be
The night-cry through each reeking tower,

Such are the swelling thoughts that now
Unless we fly, ay, Lly this hour!

Enthrone themselves on Hafed's brow; Thou art betray'd-some wretch who knew

And ne'er did saint of Issa gazel That dreadful glen's mysterious clew

On the red wreath, for martyrs twined, Nay, doubt not-by yon stars, 't is true

More proudly than the youth surveys Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire;

That pile, which through the gloom behind, This morning, with that smile so dire

Half lighted by the altar's fire, He wears in joy, he told me all,

Glimmers,- his destined funeral pyre! And stamp'd in triumph through our hall,

Heap'd by his own, his comrades' hands, As though thy heart already beat

Of every wood of odorous breath, Its last life-throb beneath his feet!

There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands,
Good Heaven, how little dream'd I then

Ready to fold in radiant death
His victim was my own loved youth!

The few still left of those who swore
Fly-send-let some one watch the glen-

To perish there, when hope was o'er-
By all my hopes of Heaven 't is truth!-,

The few, to whom that couch of flame,

Which rescues them from bonds and shame, Oh! colder than the wind that freezes

Is sweet and welcome as the bed
Founts, that but now in supshine play'd,

For their own infant Prophet spread,
Is that congcaling pang which seizes

When pitying Heaven to roses turn'd
The trusting bosom, when betray'd.

The death-tlames that beneath him burn'd!2 (116)
He felt it-deeply felt-I stood,
As if the tale had frozen mis blood,

With watchfulness the maid attends
So mazed and motionless was he;-

His rapid glance, where'er it bends-
Like one whom sudden spells enchant,

Why shoot his eyes such awful beams? Or some mute, marble habitant

What plans he now? what thinks or dreams ? Of the still Halls of Ishmonie!

Alas! why stands he musing here,

When every moment teems with fear? But soon the painful chill was o'er,

• Hafed, my own beloved lord,» And his great soul, herself once more,

She kneeling cries-- « first, last adored! Look'd from his brow in all the


If in that soul thou 'st ever felt Of her best, happiest, grandest days!

Half what thy lips impassion'd swore,
Never, in moment most elate,

Here, on my knees, that never knelt
Did that high spirit Etier rise;-

To any but their God before,
While bright, serene, determinate,

I pray thee, as thou lovest me, fly,
His looks are lifted to the skies,

Now now--ere yet their blades are nigh.
As if the signal-lights of Fate

Oh haste--the bark that bore me hither
Were shining in those awful eyes!

Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea "T is come-his hour of martyrdom

East-west-alas, I care not wbither, In Iran's sacred cause is come;

So thou art safe, and I with thee! And, though his life has pass'd away

Go where we will, this hand in thine, Like lightning on a stormy day,

Thosc eyes before me smiling thus, Yet shall his death-hour leave a track

Through good and ill, through storm and shine,
Of glory permanent and bright,

The world's a world of love for us!
To which the brave of after-times,

On some calm, blessed shore we 'll dwell,
The suffering brave shall long look back

Where 't is no crime to love too well ; -
With proud regret,—and by its light

Where thus to worship tenderly
Watch through the hours of slavery's night

An erring child of light like thee
For vengeance on the oppressor's crimes !

Will not be sin-or, if it be,
This rock, his monument aloft,

Where we may weep our faults away,
Shall speak the tale to many an age;

Together kneeling, night and day,
And hither bards and heroes oft

Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine,
Shall come in secret pilgrimage,

And I-at any God's, for thine!.
And bring their warrior sons, and tell
The wondering boys where Hafed fell,

Jesus. ' For an account of Ishmonie, the petrified eity in Upper Egypt, ? The Ghebers say that when Abrabam, their great prophet, was where it is said there are many statues of men, women, etc. to be thrown into the fire by order of Nimrod, the flame turned instantly seen to this day, see Puurr's Vieto of the Levant.

into « a bed of roses, where the child sweetly reposad. --Tavernier. ". The finest ornament for the horses is made of six large flying • The shell called siiankos, common to India, Africa, and the tassels of long wbite bair, taken out of the tails of wild osen, that Mediterranean, and still used in many parts as a trumpet for blow- are to be found in some places of the ladies.--TREVENOT. ing alarms or giving signals: it sends forth a deep and bollow sound.. :. The Angel Israfil, who has the most melodious voice of all PEXXAXT.

Wildly these passionate words she spoke

Then hung her head, and wept for shame; Sobbing, as if a heart-string broke

With every deep-heaved sob that came. While he, young, warm-oh! wonder not

If, for a moment, pride and fame,

His oath-his cause-that shrine of flame, And Iran's self are all forgot For her whom at his feet he sees, Kneeling in speechless agonies, No, blame him not, if Hope awhile Dawn'd in his soul, and threw her smile O'er hours to come-o'er days and nights Wing'd with those precious, pure delights Which she, who bends all beauteous there, Was born to kindle and to share! A tear or two, which, as he bow'd

To raise the suppliant, trembling stole,
First warn'd him of this dangerous cloud

Of softness passing o'er his soul.
Starting, he brushi'd the drops away,
Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray ;--
Like one who, on the morn of fight,
Shakes from his sword che dews of night,
That had but dimrn'd, not stain'd its light.

Went gaily prancing to the clash

Of Moorish zel and tymbalon, Catching new hope from every flash

Of their long lances in the sunAnd, as their coursers charged the wind, And the white ox-tails stream'd behind, Looking, as if the steeds they rode Were wing'd, and every chief a God! How fallen, how alter'd now! how wan Each scarr'd and faded visage shone, As round the burning shrine they came;

How deadly was the glare it cast, As mute they paused before the flame

To light their torches as they pass'd! 'T was silence all the youth had plann'd The duties of his soldier-band; And each determined brow declares His faithful chieftains well know theirs.

But minutes speed-night gems the skies-
And oh how soon, ye blessed eyes,
That look from heaven, ye may behold
Sights that will turn your star-fires cold!
Breathless with awe, impatience, hope,
The maiden sees the veteran group
Her litter silently prepare,

And lay it at her trembling feet;-
And now the youth, with gentle care,

Hath placed her in the shelter'd seat, And press'd her hand--that lingering press

Of hands, that for the last time sever; Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness,

When that hold breaks, is dead for ever; And yet to her this sad caress

Gives hope—so fondly hope can err! 'T was joy, she thought, joy's mute excess

Their happy flight's dear harbinger; ’T was warmth-assurance-tenderness

'T was any thing but leaving her.

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Yet though subdued the unnerving thrill,
Its warmth, its weakness linger'd still,

So touching in each look and tone,
That the fond, fearing, hoping maid
Half counted on the flight she pray'd,

Half thought the hero's soul was grown

As soft, as yielding as her own, And smiled and bless'd him, while he said, • Yes—if there be some happier sphere, Where fadeless truth like ours is dearIf there be any land of rest

For those who love and ne'er forget, Oh! comfort thee--for safe and blest

We'll meet in that calm region yet!, Scarce had she time to ask her heart If good or ill these words impart, When the roused youth impatient flew To the tower-wall, where, high in view, A ponderous sea-horn, hung, and blew A sigi deep and dread as those The storm-fiend at his rising blows.Full well his chieftains, sworn and true Through life and death, that signal knew; For 't was the appointed warning-blast, The alarm, to tell when hope was past, And the tremendous death-die cast! And there, upon the mouldering tower, Hath hung this sea-horn many an hour, Ready to sound o'er land and sea That dirge-note of the brave and free.

Haste, haste !, she cried, the clouds grow dark,
But still, ere night, we 'll reach the bark;
And, by to-morrow's dawn-oh bliss ! -

With thee upon the sun-bright deep,
Far off, I 'll but remember this,

As some dark vanish'd dream of sleep' And thou--, but, ha!-he answers not

Good heaven!-and does she go alone?
She now has reach'd that dismal spot,

Where, some hours since, his voice's tone
Had come to soothe her fears and ills,
Sweet as the Angel Israfil's, a
When every leaf on Eden's tree
Is trembling to his minstrelsy-
Yet now-oh now, he is not nigh-

Hafed' my Hafed !-if it be
Thy will, thy doom this night to die,

Let me but stay to die with thee,
And I will bless thy loved name,
Till the last life-breath leave this frame.

They came-his chieftains at the call
Came slowly round, and with them all
Alas, how few !-the worn remains
Of those who late o'er Kerman's plains

God's creatures..--SALE.

Oh! let our lips, our cheeks be laid
But near each other while they fade;
Let us but mix our parting breaths,
And I can die ten thousand deaths!
You too, who hurry me away
So cruelly, one moment stay-

Oh! stay-one moment is not much,
He yet may come-for him I pray-
Hafed! dear Hafed !-- all the way

In wild lamentings, that would touch A heart of stone, she shriek'd his name To the dark woods-no Hafed cameNo-hapless pair-you 've looked your last;

Your hearts should both have broken then: The dream is o'er-your doom is cast

You 'll never meet on earth again!

No-God of Iran's burning skies !
Thou scorn'st the inglorious sacrifice.
No-though of all earth's hope bereft,
Life, swords, and vengeance still are left.
We'll make yon valley's reeking caves

Live in the awe-struck minds of men,
Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves

Tell of the Gheber's bloody glen.
Follow, brave hearts ! — this pile remains
Our refuge still from life and chains;
But his the best, the holiest bed,
Who sinks entomb'd in Moslem dead!.
Down the precipitous rocks they sprung,
While vigour, more than human, strung
Each arm and heart. The exulting foe
Still through the dark defiles below,
Track'd by his torches' lurid fire,

Wound slow, as through Golconda's vale The mighty serpent, in his ire,

Glides on with glittering deadly trail. No torch the Ghebers need-so well They know each mystery of the dell, So oft have, in their wanderings, Cross'd the wild race that round them dwell,

The very tigers from their delves Look out, and let them pass, as things

Untamed and fearless like themselves!

Alas for him, who hears her cries !

Still half-way down the steep he stands,
Watching with fix'd and feverish eyes

The glimmer of those burning brands,
That down the rocks, with mournful ray,
Light all he loves on earth away!
Hopeless as they who, far at sea,

By the cold moon have just consign'd
The corse of one, loved tenderly,

To the bleak flood they leave behind; And on the deck still lingering stay, And long look back, with sad delay, To watch the moonlight on the wave, That ripples o'er that cheerless grave. But see-he starts-what heard he then? That dreadful shout!-across the glen From the land side it comes, and loud Rings through the chasm; as if the crowd Of fearful things, that haunt that dell, Its Gholes and Dives and shapes of hell Had all in one dread howl broke out, So loud, so terrible that shout! • They come--the Moslems come!,-he cries, His proud soul mounting to his eyes,• Now, Spirits of the Brave, who roam Enfranchised through yon starry dome, Rejoice--for souls of kindred fire Are on the wing to join your choir !, He said-and, light as bridegrooms bound

To their young loves, reclimb'd the sleep And gain'd the shrine-his chiefs stood round

Their swords, as with instinctive leap, Together, at that cry accurst, Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst. And hark!-again-again it rings; Near and more near its echoings Peal through the chasm-oh! who that then Had seen those listening warrior-men, With their swords grasp'd, their eyes of flame Turn'd on their Chief-could doubt the shame, The indignant shame with which they thrill To hear those shouts and yet stand still?

There was a deep ravine, that lay
Yet darkling in the Moslem's way;
Fit spot to make invaders rue
The many fallen before the few.
The torrents from that morning's sky
Had fill'd the narrow chasm breast-high,
And, on each side, aloft and wild,
Huge cliffs and toppling crags were piled,
The guards, with which young Freedom lines
The pathways to her mountain shrines.
Here, at this

pass, the scanty band
Of Iran's last avengers stand-
Here wait, in silence like the dead,
And listen for the Moslem's tread
So anxiously, the carrion-bird
Above them flaps his wing unheard!

They come-that plunge into the water
Gives signal for the work of slaughter.
Now, Ghebers, now-if e'er your blades

Had point or prowess, prove them nowWoe to the file that foremost wades!

They come-a falchion greets each brow, And, as they tumble, trunk on trunk, Beneath the gory waters sunk, Still o'er their drowning bodies press New victims quick and numberless; Till scarce an arm in Hafed's band,

So fierce their toil, hath power to stir, But listless from each crimson hand

The sword hangs, clogu'd with massacre. Never was horde of tyrants met With bloodier welcome-never yet To patriot vengeance hath the sword More terrible libations pour'd!

He read their thoughts--they were his own- What! while our arms can wield these blades, Shall we die tamely? die alone?

Without one victim to our shades, One Moslem heart where, buried deep, The sabre from its toil may sleep?

'Seo Hoole upon the story of Sinbad.

Of ravening vultures, -while the dell Re-echoes with each horrible yell.

All up the dreary, long ravine,
By the red murky glimmer seen
Of half-quench'd brands that o'er the flood
Lie scatter'd round and burn in blood,
What ruin glares! what carnage swims!
Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs,
Lost swords that, dropp'd from many a hand,
In that thick pool of slaughter stand, -
Wretches who wading, half on fire

From the toss'd brands that round them fly, "Twixt flood and flame in shricks expire;

And some who, grasp'd by those that die, Sink woundless with them, smother'd o'er In their dead brethren's gushing gore!

Those sounds the last, to vengeance dear,
That e'er shall ring in Hafed's ear,-
Now reich'd him, as aloft, alone,
Upon the steep way breathless thrown,
He lay beside his reeking blade,

Resign'd, as if life's task were o'er,
Its last blood-offering amply paid,

And Iran's self could claim no more.
One only thought, one lingering beam
Now broke across his dizzy dream
Of pain and weariness—'ı was she

His heart's pure planet, shining yet
Above the waste of memory,

When all life's other lights were set,
And never to his mind before
Her image such enchantment wore.
It seem'd as if cach thought that stain'd,

Each fear that chill'd their loves was past, And not one cloud of earth remain'd

Between him and her glory cast;-
As if to charms, before so bright,

from other worlds was given, And luis soul saw her by the light

Now breaking o'er itself from heaven!

But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed,
Still hundreds, thousands more succeed ;-
Countless as towards some flame at night
The North's dark insects wing their flight,
And quench or perish in its light,
To this terrific spot they pour-
Till, bridged with Moslem bodies o'er,
It bears aloft their slippery tread,
And o'er the dying and the dead,
Tremendous causeway! on they pass.-
Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas,

What hope was left for you? for you,
Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice
Is smoking in their vengeful eyes —

Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew,

And burn with shame to find how few. Crush'd down by that vast multitude, Some found their graves where first they stood; While some with hardier struggle died, And still fought on by llafed's side, Who, fronting to the foe, trod back Towards the high towers his

gory track; And, as a lion, swept away

By sudden swell of Jordan's pride
From the wild covert where he lay,

Long battles wish the o’erwhelming tide,
So fought he back with fierce delay,
And kept both foes and fate at bay.

But whither now? their track is lost,

Their prey escaped-guide, torches goneBy torrent-beds and labyrinths crost,

The scatter'd crowd rush blindly on• Curse on those tardy lights that wind, They panting cry, - so far behind Ob for a blood-hound's precious scent, To track the way the Gbeber went!, Vain wish-confusedly along They rush, more desperate as more wrong: Till, wilder'd by the far-off lights, Yet glittering up those gloomy heights, Their footing, mazed and lost, they miss, And down the darkling precipice Are dash'd into the deep abyss ;Or midway hang impaled on rocks, A banquet, yet alive, for flocks

A voice spoke near him—'t was the tone
Of a loved friend, the only one
Of all his warriors left with life
From that short night's tremendous strife.-
* And must we then, my Chicf, die here-
Foes round us, and the Shrine so near!,
These words have roused the last remains

Of life within him- . what! not yet
Beyond the reach of Moslem chains?:-

The thought could make even Death forget His icy bondage-with a bound He springs, all bleeding, from the ground, And grasps his comrade's arm, now grown Even feebler, heavier than his own, And

mp the painful pathway leads,
Death gaining on each step he treads.
Speed them, thou God, who heardst their vow!
They mount- they bleed ---oh save them now-
The crags are red they 've clamber'd o'er,
The rock-wced 's dripping with their gore-
Thy blade too, Hafed, false at length-
Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength-
Haste, haste- the voices of the foe
Come near and nearer from below-
One effort more-thank Heaven! 't is past
They've gain'd the topmost stecp at last.
And now they touch the temple's walls,

Now Hafed sees the Fire divine-
When, lo!- his weak worn comrade falls

Dead on the threshold of the Shrine.
Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled!

And must I leave thee withering here,
The sport of every ruffian's tread,

The mark for every coward's spear?
No, by yon altar's sacred beams!,
lle cries, and, with a strength that seems
Not of this world, uplifts the frame
Of the fallen chief, and towards the flame

"Jo this thicket, upon the banks of the Jordan, several sorts of wild beasts are woot to barbour th:mselves, whos being washed out of the covert hy the overflowings of the river gave occasion to that allusion of Jeremiah, he shall come up like a liou from the swelling of Jordan, - MAENDRELL'8 Aleppo.

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Calm is the wave-Heaven's brilliant lights

Reflected dance beneath the prow;Time was when, on such lovely nights,

She who is there, so desolate now, Could sit all cheerful, though alone,

And ask no happier joy than seeing That star-light o'er the waters thrownNo joy but that to make her blest,

And the fresh buoyant sense of Being That bounds in youth's yet careless brcast, – Itself a star, not borrowing light, But in its own glad essence bright. How different now! --but, hark, again The yell of havoc rings-brave men in vain, with beating hearts, ye stand On the bark's edge-in vain each hand Half draws the falchion from its sheath;

All's o'er-in rust your blades may lie; He, at whose word they ’ve scatter'd death,

this night, himself must die! Well may ye look to yon dim tower,

And ask, and wondering guess what means The battle-cry at this dead hour

Ab! she could tell you-she, who leans
Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast,
With brow against the dew-cold mast-

Too well she knows—her more than life, Her soul's first idol and its last,

Lies bleeding in that murderous strife.

What shriek was that on Oman's tide?
It came from yonder drifting bark,
That just has caught upon her side

The death-light, and again is dark.
It is the boal-ah, why delay'd ?-
That bears the wretched Moslem majd;
Confided to the watchful care
Of a small veteran band, with whom
Their generous Chieftain would not share

The secret of his final doom;
But hoped when Hinda, safe and free,

Was render'd to her father's eyes,
Their pardon, full and prompt, would be

The ransom of so dear a prize.-
Unconscious, thus, of Hafed's fate,
And proud to guard their beauteous freight,
Scarce had they clear'd the surfy waves
That foam around those frightful caves,
When the curst war-whoops, known so well,
Came echoing from the distant dell-
Sudden each oar, upheld and still,

Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side, And, driving at the current's will,

They rock'd along the whispering tide, While every eye, in mute dismay,

Was toward that fatal mountain turn'd, Where the dim altar's quivering ray

As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd.

Even now,

But see—what moves upon the height?
Some signal!- 't is a torch's light.

What bodes its solitary glare?
In gasping silence toward the shrine
All eyes are turn'd-thine, Hinda, thinc

Fix their last failing life-beams there.
'T was but a moment fierce and high
The death-pile blazed into the sky,
And far away o'er rock and flood

Its melancholy radiance sent;
While Hafed, like a vision, stood
Reveal'd before the burning pyre,
Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire

Shrined in its own grand element! . "T is he!,--the shuddering maid exclaims,

But, while she speaks, he's seen no more; High burst in air the funeral flames,

And Iran's hopes and hers are o’er!

Oh! 't is not, Hinda, in the power

Of Fancy's most terrific touch
To paint thy pangs in that dread hour-

Thy silent agony-'t was such
As those who feel could paint too well,
But none e'er felt and lived to tell!
'T was not alone the dreary state
Of a lorn spirit, crush'd by fate,
When, though no more remains to dread,

The panic chill will not depart;-
When, though the inmatc Hope be dead,

Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart. No-pleasure, hopes, affections gone, The wretch may bear, and yet live on, Like things within the cold rock found Alive, when all's congeald around. But there's a blank repose in this, A calm stagnation, that were bliss To the keen, burning, harrowing pain, Now felt through all thy breast and brainThat spasm of terror, mute, intense, That breathless, agonised suspense, From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching The heart hath no relief but breaking!

One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave

Then sprung, as if to reach the blaze, Where still she fix'd her dying gaze,

And, gazing, sunk into the wave,Deep, deep,—where never care or pain Shall reach her innocent heart again!

Farewell -- farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!

(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea) No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water,

More purc in its shell than thy spirit in thee.

Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to the growing,
How light was thy heart till Love's witchery came,

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