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Have ever welcomed with delight The sinner's tears, the sacrifice

Of sinners' hearts-guard him this night,
And here, before thy throne, I swear
From my heart's inmost core to tear,

Love, hope, remembrance, though they be
Link'd with each quivering life-string there,
And give it bleeding all to Thee!
Let him but live, the burning tear,
The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear,
Which have been all too much his own,
Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone.
Youth pass'd in penitence, and age
In long and painful pilgrimage,
Shall leave no traces of the flame
That wastes me now-nor shall his name
E'er bless my lips, but when I pray
For his dear spirit, that away
Casting from its angelic ray
Th' eclipse of earth, he too may shine
Redeem'd, all glorious, and all thine!
Think-think what victory to win
One radiant soul like his from sin ;-
One wandering star of virtue back
To its own native, heaven-ward track!
Let him but live, and both are thine,
Together thine-for, bless'd or cross'd,
Living or dead, his doom is mine,
And if he perish, both are lost!"

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
The leafy shores and sun-bright seas,
That lay beneath that mountain's height,
Had been a fair, enchanting sight.
'Twas one of those ambrosial eves
A day of storm so often leaves
At its calm setting-when the west
Opens her golden bowers of rest,
And a moist radiance from the skies
Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes
Of some meek penitent, whose last
Bright hours atone for dark ones past,
And whose sweet tears, o'er wrong forgiven,
Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven!

'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
On Hinda's dazzled eyes, when first
The bandage from her brow was taken,
And pale and awed as those who waken
In their dark tombs-when, scowling near,
The Searchers of the Grave appear,
She shuddering turn'd to read her fate

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
Is flashing o'er her fiercely now;
And shuddering, as she hears the tread
Of his retiring warrior band.—
Never was pause so full of dread;

Till Hafed with a trembling hand
Took hers, and, leaning o'er her, said,
"Hinda !"—that word was all he spoke,
And 'twas enough-the shriek that broke
From her full bosom told the rest-
Panting with terror, joy, surprise,
The maid but lifts her wondering eyes,

To hide them on her Gheber's breast!
'Tis he, 'tis he-the man of blood,
The fellest of the Fire-fiend's brood,
Hafed, the demon of the fight,
Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,—
Is her own lovèd Gheber, mild
And glorious as when first he smiled
In her lone tower, and left such beams
Of his pure eye to light her dreams,
That she believed her bower had given
Rest to some wanderer from heaven!

Moments there are, and this was one,
Snatch'd like a minute's glean of sun
Amid the black simoom's eclipse-

Or like those verdant spots that bloom
Around the crater's burning lips,

Sweetening the very edge of doom!
The past-the future-all that fate
Can bring of dark or desperate
Around such hours, but makes them cast
Intenser radiance while they last.

E'en he, this youth-though dimm'd and gone
Each star of hope that cheer'd him on-
His glories lost-his cause betray'd-
Iran, his dear-loved country, made

A land of carcases and slaves,

One dreary waste of chains and graves !—
Himself but lingering, dead at heart,
To see the last, long-struggling
Of Liberty's great soul depart,


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
That sink into her soul so deep,
Forgets all fears, all miseries,

Or feels them like the wretch in sleep,
Whom fancy cheats into a smile,
Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while!
The mighty ruins where they stood,

Upon the mount's high, rocky verge,
Lay open towards the ocean flood,

Where lightly o'er th' illumined serge
Many a fair bark that, all the day,
Had lurk'd in sheltering creek or bay,
Now bounded on and gave their sails,
Yet dripping, to the evening gales;
Like eagles when the storm is done,
Spreading their wet wings in the sun.

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