That bower and its music I never forget;

But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, I think is the nightingale singing there yet?

Are the roses still bright by the calm BENDEMEER?

No, the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave,
But some blossoms were gather'd, while freshly they shone,
And a dew was distill'd from their flowers, that gave

All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it many a year;

Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes,

Is that bower on the banks of the calm BENDEMEER!



HOSE are the gilded tents that crowd the way,
Where all was waste and silent yesterday?
This City of War which, in a few short hours,

Hath sprung up here, as if the magic powers

Of Him who, in the twinkling of a star,
Built the high pillar'd halls of CHILMINAR,

Had conjured up, far as the eye can see,

This world of tents, and domes, and sun-bright armory

Princely pavilions, screen'd by many a fold

Of crimson cloth, and topp'd with balls of gold :-
Steeds, with their housings of rich silver spun,
Their chains and poitrels glitt'ring in the sun;
And camels, tufted o'er with Yemen's shells,
Shaking in every breeze their light-toned bells!

But yester-eve, so motionless around,

So mute was this wide plain, that not a sound
But the far torrent, or the locust bird
Hunting among the thickets, could be heard ;-
Yet hark! what discords now, of ev'ry kind,
Shouts, laughs, and screams are revelling in the wind ;
The neigh of cavalry;-the tinkling throngs
Of laden camels and their drivers' songs ;—
Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze
Of streamers from ten thousand canopies ;—
War-music, bursting out from time to time,
With gong and tymbalon's tremendous chime ;-
Or, in the pause, when harsher sounds are mute,
The mellow breathings of some horn or flute,
That far off, broken by the eagle note

Of the' Abyssinian trumpet, swell and float.

Who leads this mighty army?-ask ye "who?" And mark ye not those banners of dark hue, The Night and Shadow, over yonder tent ?— It is the CALIPH's glorious armament. Roused in his Palace by the dread alarms, That hourly came, of the false Prophet's arms, And of his host of infidels, who hurl'd Defiance fierce at Islam and the world,Though worn with Grecian warfare, and behind The veils of his bright Palace calm reclined,

Yet brook'd he not such blasphemy should stain,
Thus unrevenged, the evening of his reign;

But, having sworn upon the Holy Grave
To conquer or to perish, once more gave
His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze,
And with an army, nursed in victories,
Here stands to crush the rebels that o'er-run
His blest and beauteous Province of the Sun.

Ne'er did the march of MAHADI display Such pomp before ;-not ev'n when on his way TO MECCA'S Temple, when both land and sea Were spoil'd to feed the Pilgrim's luxury ; When round him, mid the burning sands, he saw Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw, And cool'd his thirsty lip, beneath the glow Of MECCA's sun, with urns of Persian snow :Nor e'er did armament more grand than that Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat. First, in the van, the People of the Rock, On their light mountain steeds, of royal stock : Then, chieftains of DAMASCUS, proud to see The flashing of their swords' rich marquetry ;Men, from the regions near the VOLGA's mouth, Mix'd with the rude, black archers of the South; And Indian lancers, in white-turban'd ranks, From the far SINDE, or ATTOCK's sacred banks, With dusky legions from the Land of Myrrh, And many a mace-arm'd Moor and Mid-sea islander.

Nor less in number, though more new and rude In warfare's school, was the vast multitude That, fired by zeal, or by oppression wrong'd, Round the white standard of the' impostor throng'd.

Beside his thousands of Believers-blind,
Burning and headlong as the Samiel wind-
Many who felt, and more who fear'd to feel
The bloody Islamite's converting steel,

Flock'd to his banner ;-Chiefs of the' UZBEK race,
Waving their heron crests with martial grace;
TURKOMANS, Countless as their flocks, led forth
From the' aromatic pastures of the North;
Wild warriors of the turquoise hills,-and those
Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows
Of HINDOO KOSH, in stormy freedom bred,
Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent's bed.
But none, of all who own'd the Chief's command,
Rush'd to that battle-field with bolder hand,
Or sterner hate, than IRAN's outlaw'd men,
Her Worshippers of Fire-all panting then
For vengeance on the' accursed Saracen ;
Vengeance at last for their dear country spurn'd,
Her throne usurp'd, and her bright shrines o'er-turn'd.
From YEZD's eternal Mansion of the Fire,

Where aged saints in dreams of Heav'n expire:
From BADKU, and those fountains of blue flame
That burn into the CASPIAN, fierce they came,
Careless for what or whom the blow was sped,
So vengeance triumph'd, and their tyrants bled.

Such was the wild and miscellaneous host, That high in air their motley banners tost Around the Prophet-Chief-all eyes still bent Upon that glittering Veil, where'er it went, That beacon through the battle's stormy flood,

That rainbow of the field, whose showers were blood!

Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set, And risen again, and found them grappling yet; While streams of carnage, in his noontide blaze, Smoke up to heav'n-hot as that crimson haze By which the prostrate Caravan is awed,

In the red Desert, when the wind's abroad.


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On, Swords of God!" the panting CALIPH calls,—

Thrones for the living-Heav'n for him who falls! "

'On, brave avengers, on," MOKANNA cries,

"And EBLIS blast the recreant slave that flies!"

Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day

They clash-they strive-the CALIPH's troops give way!
MOKANNA's self plucks the black Banner down,
And now the Orient World's Imperial crown

Is just within his grasp―when, hark, that shout!
Some hand hath check'd the flying Moslem's rout;
And now they turn, they rally—at their head
A warrior, (like those angel youths who led,
In glorious panoply of Heav'n's own mail,

The Champions of the Faith through BEDER'S vale.)

Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives,
Turns on the fierce pursuer's blades, and drives

At once the multitudinous torrent back-
While hope and courage kindle in his track;
And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes
Terrible vistas through which vict'ry breaks!
In vain MOKANNA, midst the general flight,
Stands, like the red moon, on some stormy night,
Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by,
Leave only her unshaken in the sky-
In vain he yells his desperate curses out,
Deals death promiscuously to all about,

To foes that charge and coward friends that fly,
And seems of all the Great Arch-enemy.

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