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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
Blood, blood alone can cleanse again!
Such are the swelling thoughts that now
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,
Ready to fold in radiant death
The few still left of those who swore
To perish there, when hope was o'er-
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
For their own infant Prophet spread,
When pitying Heaven to roses turn'd
The death-tlames that beneath him burn'd!2 (116)
With watchfulness the maid attends
His rapid glance, where'er it bends-
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,
Here, on my knees, that never knelt
To any but their God before,
I pray thee, as thou lovest me, fly,
Now now--ere yet their blades are nigh.
Oh haste--the bark that bore me hither
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,
The world's a world of love for us!
On some calm, blessed shore we 'll dwell,
Where 't is no crime to love too well ; -
Where thus to worship tenderly
An erring child of light like thee
Will not be sin-or, if it be,
Where we may weep our faults away,
Together kneeling, night and day,
Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine,
And I-at any God's, for thine!.
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,
Of softness passing o'er his soul.
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 lay it at her trembling feet;-
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.
Yet though subdued the unnerving thrill,
So touching in each look and tone,
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,
With thee upon the sun-bright deep,
As some dark vanish'd dream of sleep' And thou--, but, ha!-he answers not
Good heaven!-and does she go alone?
Where, some hours since, his voice's tone
Hafed' my Hafed !-if it be
Let me but stay to die with thee,
They came-his chieftains at the call
Oh! let our lips, our cheeks be laid
Oh! stay-one moment is not much,
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 !
Live in the awe-struck minds of men,
Tell of the Gheber's bloody glen.
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,
The glimmer of those burning brands,
By the cold moon have just consign'd
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
pass, the scanty band
They come-that plunge into the water
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,
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,
Resign'd, as if life's task were o'er,
And Iran's self could claim no more.
His heart's pure planet, shining yet
When all life's other lights were set,
Each fear that chill'd their loves was past, And not one cloud of earth remain'd
Between him and her glory cast;-
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,
What hope was left for you? for you,
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
Long battles wish the o’erwhelming tide,
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 life within him- . what! not yet
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,
Now Hafed sees the Fire divine-
Dead on the threshold of the Shrine.
And must I leave thee withering here,
The mark for every coward's spear?
"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.
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
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?
The death-light, and again is dark.
The secret of his final doom;
Was render'd to her father's eyes,
The ransom of so dear a prize.-
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.
But see—what moves upon the height?
What bodes its solitary glare?
Fix their last failing life-beams there.
Its melancholy radiance sent;
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
Thy silent agony-'t was such
The panic chill will not depart;-
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,