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Have ever welcomed with delight The sinner's tears, the sacrifice
Of sinners' hearts-guard him this night,
Love, hope, remembrance, though they be
THE next evening Lalla Rookh was entreated by her ladies to continue the relation of her wonderful dream; but the fearful interest that hung round the fate of Hinda and her lover had completely removed every trace of it from her mind,-much to the disappointment of a fair seer or two in her train, who prided themselves on their skill in interpreting visions, and
who had already remarked, as an unlucky omen, that the Princess, on the very morning after the dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blossoms of the sorrowful tree, Nilica.
Fadladeen, whose wrath had more than once broken out during the recital of some parts of this most heterodox poem, seemed at length to have made up his mind to the infliction; and took his seat this evening with all the patience of a martyr, while the Poet continued his profane and seditious story thus :
To tearless eyes and hearts at ease
'Twas stillness all-the winds that late
Had rush'd through Kerman's almond groves, And shaken from her bowers of date
That cooling feast the traveller loves, Now, lull'd to languor, scarcely curl
The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam Limpid, as if her mines of pearl
Were melted all to form the stream; And her fair islets, small and bright, With their green shores reflected there, Look like those Peri isles of light,
That hang by spell-work in the air,
But vainly did those glories burst
In the fierce eyes that flash'd around; And saw those towers all desolate,
That o'er her head terrific frown'd, As if defying e'en the smile Of that soft heaven to gild their pile. In vain, with mingled hope and fear, She looks for him whose voice so dear Had come, like music, to her earStrange, mocking dream! again 'tis fled. And oh! the shoots, the pangs of dread That through her inmost bosom run,
When voices from without proclaim "Hafed, the Chief "-and, one by one,
The warriors shout that fearful name! He comes the rock resounds his treadHow shall she dare to lift her head, Or meet those eyes, whose scorching glare Not Yemen's boldest sons can bear? In whose red beam, the Moslem tells, Such rank and deadly lustre dwells, As in those hellish fires that light The mandrake's charnel leaves at night! How shall she bear that voice's tone, At whose loud battle-cry alone Whole squadrons oft in panic ran, Scatter'd, like some vast caravan, When, stretch'd at evening round the well, They hear the thirsting tiger's yell!
Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down, Shrinking beneath the fiery frown,
Which, fancy tells her, from that brow
Till Hafed with a trembling hand
To hide them on her Gheber's breast!
Moments there are, and this was one,
Or like those verdant spots that bloom
Sweetening the very edge of doom!
E'en he, this youth-though dimm'd and gone
A land of carcases and slaves,
One dreary waste of chains and graves !—
Then lay him down, and share her death— E'en he, so sunk in wretchedness,
With doom still darker gathering o'er him, Yet, in this moment's pure caress,
In the mild eyes that shone before him, Beaming that blest assurance, worth All other transports known on earth, That he was loved-well, warmly lovedOh! in this precious hour he proved How deep, how thorough-felt the glow Or rapture, kindling out of woe ;— How exquisite one single drop Of bliss, thus sparkling to the top Of misery's cup-how keenly quaff'd, Though death must follow on the draught!
She too, while gazing on those eyes
Or feels them like the wretch in sleep,
Upon the mount's high, rocky verge,
Where lightly o'er th' illumined serge