While the wrong'd Spirit of our Land

Lived, look'd, and spoke her wrongs through

thee,

God! who could then this sword withstand

Its very flash were victory!

But now-estranged, divorced for ever

Far as the grasp of fate can sever;

Our only ties what love has wove,

Faith, friends, and country, sunder'd wide ;

And then, then only, true to love,

When false to all that's dear beside !
Thy father Iran's deadliest foe-
Thyself, perhaps, e'en now-but no-
Hate never look'd so lovely yet!
No-sacred to thy soul will be
The land of him who could forget

All but that bleeding land for thee!
When other eyes shall see, unmoved,

Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, Thou'lt think how well one Gheber loved, And for his sake thou'lt weep for all! But look

With sudden start he turn'd

And pointed to the distant wave,
Where lights, like charnel meteors, burn'd
Bluely, as o'er some seaman's grave;
And fiery darts, at intervals,

Flew up all sparkling from the main,

As if each star that nightly falls,

Were shooting back to heaven again.

"My signal-lights !-I must away—
Both, both are ruined if I stay.
Farewell-sweet life! thou cling'st in vain-
Now Vengeance !-I am thine again."
Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp'd,
Nor look'd-but from the lattice dropp'd

Down mid the pointed crags beneath,
As if he fled from love to death.
While pale and mute young Hinda stood,
Nor moved, till in the silent flood
A momentary plunge below

Startled her from her trance of woe ;-
Shrieking she to the lattice flew,

"I come-I come-if in that tide
Thou sleep'st to-night-I'll sleep there too,
In death's cold wedlock by thy side.
Oh! I would ask no happier bed

Than the chill wave my love lies under ;—
Sweeter to rest together, dead,

Far sweeter, than to live asunder!"
But no-their hour is not yet come―
Again she sees his pinnace fly,
Wafting him fleetly to his home,

Where'er that ill-starr'd home may lie;
And calm and smooth it seem'd to win
Its moonlight way before the wind,
As if it bore all peace within,

Nor left one breaking heart behind!

The Princess, whose heart was sad enough already, could have wished that Feramorz had chosen a less melancholy story, as it is only to the happy that tears are a luxury. Her ladies, however, were by no means sorry that love was once more the Poet's theme; for when he spoke of love, they said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree, which grows over the tomb of

the musician, Tan-Sein.

Their road all the morning had lain through a very dreary country; through valleys covered with a low bushy jungle, where, in more than one place, the awful signal of the bamboo staff, with the white flag at its top, reminded the traveller that in that very spot the tiger had made some human creature his

victim. It was therefore with much pleasure that they arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen, and encamped under one of those holy trees, whose smooth columns and spreading roofs seem to destine them for natural temples of religion. Beneath the shade some pious hands had erected pillars ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain, which now supplied the use of mirrors to the young maidens, as they adjusted their hair in descending from the palankeens. Here, while, as usual, the Princess sat listening anxiously, with Fadladeen in one of his loftiest moods of criticism by her side, the young poet, leaning against the branch of the tree, thus continued his story :

The morn hath risen clear and calm,
And o'er the Green Sea palely shines,
Revealing Bahrein's groves of palm,

And lighting Kishma's amber vines.
Fresh smell the shores of Araby,
While breezes from the Indian Sea
Blow round Selama's sainted cape,

And curl the shining flood beneath,
Whose waves are rich with many a grape,
And cocoa-nut and flowery wreath,
Which pious seamen, as they pass'd,
Had toward that holy headland cast-
Oblations to the Genii there
For gentle skies and breezes fair!
The nightingale now bends her flight
From the high trees, where all the night
She sung so sweet, with none to listen;
And hides her from the morning star
Where thickets of pomegranate glisten
In the clear dawn, bespangled o'er

With dew, whose night-drops would not stain
The best and brightest scimitar

That ever youthful Sultan wore

On the first morning of his reign!

And see the San himself!-on wings
Of glory up the east he springs.
Angel of light! who from the time
Those heavens began their march sublime,
Hath first of all the starry cheir

Trod in his Maker's steps of fire!

Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere, When Iran, like a sun-dower, turn'd To meet that eye, where'er it burn'd? When, from the banks of Bendemeer To the nut-groves of Samarcand Thy temples flamed o'er all the land? Where are they? ask the shades of them Who, on Cadessia's bloody plains, Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem From Iran's broken diadem,

And bind her ancient faith in chains:
Ask the poor exile, cast alone

On foreign shores, unloved, unknown,
Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates,

Or on the snowy Mossian mountains,
Far from his beauteous land of dates,
Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains!
Yet happier so than if he trod

His own beloved but blighted sod,
Beneath a despot stranger's nod !
Oh! he would rather houseless roam
Where freedom and his God may lead,
Than be the sleekest slave at home

That crouches to the conqueror's creed !
Is Iran's pride then gone for ever,

Quench'd with the flame in Mithra's caves ?
No! she has sons that never-never-
Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves,
While heaven has light or earth has graves.

Spirits of fire, that brood not long,
But flash resentment back for wrong;

And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds
Of vengeance ripen into deeds,

Till, in some treacherous hour of calm,
They burst, like Zeilan's giant palm,
Whose buds fly open with a sound
That shakes the pigmy forests round!

Yes, Emir! he who scaled that tower,
And, had he reach'd thy slumbering breast,
Had taught thee, in a Gheber's power

How safe even tyrant heads may rest-
Is one of many, brave as he,

Who loathe thy haughty race and thee;
Who, though they know the strife is vain,
Who, though they know the riven chain
Snaps but to enter in the heart

Of him who rends its links apart,
Yet dare the issue,-blest to be
Even for one bleeding moment free,

And die in pangs of liberty!

Thou know'st them well-'tis some moons since

Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags,

Thou satrap of a bigot prince!

Have swarm'd among these Green Sea crags:

Yet here, even here, a sacred band,

Ay, in the portal of that land

Thou, Arab, dar'st to call thy own,

Their spears across thy path have thrown ;
Here, ere the winds half wing'd thee o'er,
Rebellion braved thee from the shore.

Rebellion! foul, dishonouring word,
Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd
The holiest cause that tongue or sword
Of mortal ever lost or gain'd.

How many a spirit, born to bless,

Hath sunk beneath that withering name
Whom but a day's-an hour's success
Had wafted to eternal fame!