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Left on the field last dreadful night,
When, sallying from their sacred height,
The Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight,
He lay-but died not with the brave;
That sun, which should have gilt his grave,
Saw him a traitor and a slave ;-

And, while the few, who thence return'd
To their high rocky fortress mourn'd
For him among the matchless dead
They left behind on glory's bed,
He lived, and, in the face of morn,
Laugh'd them and Faith and Heaven to scorn!

Oh, for a tongue to curse the slave,

Whose treason, like a deadly blight, Comes o'er the councils of the brave,

And blasts them in their hour of might!
May life's unblessed cup for him
Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim,—
With hopes, that but allure to fly,

With joys, that vanish while he sips,
Like Dead-Sea fruits, that tempt the eye,
But turn to ashes on the lips!
His country's curse, his children's shame,
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame,
May he, at last, with lips of flame
On the parch'd desert thirsting die,—
While lakes that shone in mockery nigh
Are fading off, untouch'd, untasted,
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted!
And, when from earth his spirit flies,

Just Prophet, let the damn'd-one dwell
Full in the sight of Paradise,
Beholding heaven, and feeling hell!

LALLA ROOKн had had a dream the night before, which, in spite of the impending fate of poor Hafed,

made her heart more than usually cheerful during the morning, and gave her cheeks all the freshened animation of a flower that the Bid-musk has just_passed over. She fancied that she was sailing on that Eastern ocean, where the sea-gipsies, who live for ever on the water, enjoy a perpetual summer in wandering from isle to isle, when she saw a small gilded bark approaching her. It was like one of those boats which the Maldivian islanders annually send adrift, at the mercy of winds and waves, loaded with perfumes, flowers, and odoriferous wood, as an offering to the Spirit whom they call King of the Sea. At first, this little bark appeared to be empty, but, on coming


She had proceeded thus far in relating the dream to her ladies, when Feramorz appeared at the door of the pavilion. In his presence, of course, everything else was forgotten, and the continuance of the story was instantly requested by all. Fresh wood of aloes was set to burn in the cassolets; the violet sherbets were hastily handed round, and, after a short prelude on his lute, in the pathetic measure of Nava, which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers, the Poet thus continued ::

THE day is lowering-stilly black
Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack,
Dispersed and wild, 'twixt earth and sky
Hangs like a shatter'd canopy!
There's not a cloud in that blue plain

But tells of storm to come or past ;—
Here, flying loosely as the mane

Of a young war-horse in the blast; There, roll'd in masses dark and swelling, As proud to be the thunder's dwelling! While some, already burst and riven, Seem melting down the verge of heaven;

As though the infant storm had rent
The mighty womb that gave him birth,
And, having swept the firmament,

Was now in fierce career for earth.
On earth 'twas yet all calm around,
A pulseless silence, dread, profound,
More awful than the tempest's sound.
The diver steer'd for Ormus' bowers,
And moor'd his skiff till calmer hours;
The sea-birds, with portentous screech,
Flew fast to land ;-upon the beech
The pilot oft had paused, with glance
Turn'd upward to that wild expanse ;
And all was boding, drear and dark
As her own soul, when Hinda's bark
Went slowly from the Persian shore—
No music timed her parting oar,
Nor friends upon the lessening strand
Linger'd, to wave the unseen hand,
Or speak the farewell, heard no more ;—
But lone, unheeded, from the bay
The vessel takes its mournful way,
Like some ill-destined bark that steers
In silence through the Gate of Tears.

And where was stern Al Hassan then?
Could not that saintly scourge of men
From bloodshed and devotion spare
One minute for a farewell there?
No-close within, in changeful fits
Of cursing and of prayer, he sits
In savage loneliness to brood
Upon the coming night of blood,

With that keen, second-scent of death, By which the vulture snuffs his food

In the still warm and living breath! While o'er the wave his weeping daughter Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter,―

As a young bird of Babylon,
Let loose to tell of victory won,
Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstain'd
By the red hands that held her chain'd.

And does the long-left home she seeks
Light up no gladness on her cheeks?
The flowers she nursed-the well-known groves,
Where oft in dreams her spirit roves―
Once more to see her dear gazelles
Come bounding with their silver bells;
Her birds' new plumage to behold,

And the gay, gleaming fishes count,
She left, all filleted with gold,

Shooting around their jasper fount. Her little garden mosque to see,

And once again, at evening hour, To tell her ruby rosary

In her own sweet acacia bower.—
Can these delights, that wait her now,
Call up no sunshine on her brow?
No-silent, from her train apart,-
As if even now she felt at heart
The chill of her approaching doom,—
She sits, all lovely in her gloom
As a pale angel of the grave;
And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave,
Looks, with a shudder, to those towers,
Where in a few short awful hours,
Blood, blood, in steaming tides shall run,
Foul incense for to-morrow's sun!
"Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou,
So loved, so lost, where art thou now?

Th' unhallow'd name thou'rt doom'd to bear,
Still glorious-still to this fond heart
Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art!

Welcome, terrific glen!" he said, "Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread, Is heaven to him who flies from chains!" O'er a dark, narrow bridgeway, known To him and to his chiefs alone, They cross'd the chasm and gain'd the

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towers :

"This home," he cried, "at least is ours—
Here we may bleed, unmock'd by hymns
Of Moslem triumph o'er our head;
Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs
To quiver to the Moslem's tread.
Stretch'd on this rock, while vultures' beaks
Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks,
Here,-happy that no tyrant's eye
Gloats on our torments-we may die!"
'Twas night when to those towers they came,
And gloomily the fitful flame,

That from the ruin'd altar broke,
Glared on his features, as he spoke
"Tis o'er-what men could do, we've done—
If Iran will look tamely on,

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And see her priests, her warriors, driven
Before a sensual bigot's nod,

A wretch, who takes his lusts to heaven,
And makes a pander of his God!
If her proud sons, her high-born souls,
Men, in whose veins-O last disgrace!
The blood of Zal and Rustam rolls,-

If they will court this upstart race,
And turn from Mithra's ancient ray,
To kneel at shrines of yesterday!-
If they will crouch to Iran's foes,

Why, let them-till the land's despair
Cries out to heaven, and bondage grows
Too vile for e'en the vile to bear!
Till shame at last, long hidden, burns
Their inmost core, and conscience turns

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