The beauteous clouds, though daylight's star Had sunk behind the hills of Lar,
Where still with lingering glories bright,― As if, to grace the gorgeous west, The Spirit of departing Light That eve had left his sunny vest Behind him, ere he wing'd his flight. Never was scene so form'd for love! Beneath them, waves of crystal move In silent swell-heaven glows above, And their pure hearts, to transport given, Swell like the wave, and glow like heav'n! But, ah! too soon that dream is past- Again, again her fear returns ;- Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast, More faintly the horizon burns, And every rosy tint that lay
On the smooth sea hath died away. Hastily to the darkening skies
A glance she casts-then wildly cries, "At night, he said-and, look, 'tis near- Fly, fly-if yet thou lov'st me, fly— Soon will his murderous band be here,
And I shall see thee bleed and die.Hush!-heard'st thou not the tramp of men Sounding from yonder fearful glen ?— Perhaps e'en now they climb the woodFly, fly-though still the west is bright, He'll come-oh! yes-he wants thy bloodI know him-he'll not wait for night!"
In terrors e'en to agony
She clings around the wondering chief ;"Alas, poor wilder'd maid! to me
Thou ow'st this raving trance of grief.
Lost as I am, nought ever grew
Beneath my shade but perish'd too
My doom is like the Dead-Sea air, And nothing lives that enters there! Why were our barks together driven Beneath this morning's furious heaven? Why, when I saw the prize that chance Had thrown into my desperate arms,— When, casting but a single glance
Upon thy pale and prostrate charms, I vow'd (though watching viewless o'er Thy safety through that hour's alarms) To meet th' unmanning sight no more— Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow? Why weakly, madly, met thee now? Start not-that noise is but the shock
Of torrents through yon valley hurl'd; Dread nothing here-upon this rock We stand above the jarring world, Alike beyond its hope-its dread- In gloomy safety, like the dead! Or, could e'en earth and hell unite In league to storm this sacred height, Fear nothing now-myself to-night, And each o'erlooking star that dwells Near God will be thy sentinels;
And, ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow, Back to thy sire-
"To-morrow!-no-" The maiden scream'd-" thou❜lt never see To-morrow's sun-death, death will be The night-cry through each reeking tower, Unless we fly, aye, fly this hour!
-some wretch who knew That dreadful glen's mysterious clew- Nay, doubt not-by yon stars, 'tis true- Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire; This morning, with that smile so dire He wears in joy, he told me all,
And stamp'd in triumph through our hall,
As though thy heart already beat Its last life-throb beneath his feet! Good Heaven, how little dream'd I then His victim was my own loved youth! Fly-send-let some one watch the glen― By all my hopes of heaven 'tis truth!" Oh! colder than the wind that freezes Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd Is that congealing pang which seizes The trusting bosom when betray'd. He felt it deeply felt-and stood, As if the tale had frozen his blood,
So mazed and motionless was he ;- Like one whom sudden spells enchant, Or some mute, marble habitant
Of the still Halls of Ishmonie !
But soon the painful chill was o'er, And his great soul, herself once more, Look'd from his brow in all the rays Of her best, happiest, grandest days! Never, in moment most elate,
Did that high spirit loftier rise; While bright, serene, determinate, His looks are lifted to the skies, As if the signal-lights of fate
Were shining in those awful eyes! 'Tis come-his hour of martyrdom In Iran's sacred cause is come; And though his life hath pass'd away Like lightning on a stormy day, Yet shall his death-hour leave a track Of glory, permanent and bright, To which the brave of after-times, The suffering brave, shall long look back With proud regret,—and by its light Watch through the hours of slavery's night For vengeance on th' oppressor's crimes !
This rock, his monument aloft, Shall speak the tale to many an age; And hither bards and heroes oft
Shall come in secret pilgrimage, And bring their warrior sons, and tell The wondering boys where Hafed fell, And swear them on those lone remains Of their lost country's ancient fanes, Never-while breath of life shall live Within them-never to forgive
Th' accursed race, whose ruthless chain Hath left on Iran's neck a stain, Blood, blood alone can cleanse again! Such are the swelling thoughts that now Enthrone themselves on Hafed's brow; And ne'er did saint of Issa gaze
On the red wreath, for martyrs twined, More proudly than the youth surveys
That pile, which through the gloom behind, Half lighted by the altar's fire,
Glimmers, his destined funeral pyre! Heap'd by his own, his comrades' hands, Of every wood of odorous breath, There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands, Ready to fold in radiant death
The few still left of those who swore To perish there, when hope was o'er- The few, to whom that couch of flame, Which rescues them from bonds and shame, Is sweet and welcome as the bed For their own infant Prophet spread, When pitying Heaven to roses turn'd The death-flames that beneath him burn'd!
With watchfulness the maid attends His rapid glance, where'er it bends-- Why shoot his eyes such awful beams? What plans he now? what thinks or dreams?
Alas! why stands he musing here, When every moment teems with fear? "Hafed, my own beloved lord," She kneeling cries-"first, last adored! If in that soul thou'st ever felt
Half what thy lips impassion'd swore, Here, on my knees that never knelt To any but their God before, I pray thee, as thou lov'st me, fly Now, now-ere yet their blades are nigh. Oh, haste-the bark that bore me hither Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea East-west-alas, I care not whither So thou art safe, and I with thee! Go where we will, this hand in thine, Those eyes before me smiling thus, Through good and ill, through storm and shine, The world's a world of love for us! On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell, Where 'tis no crime to love too well ;- Where thus to worship tenderly
An erring child of light like thee Will not be sin-or, if it be,
Where we may weep our faults away, Together kneeling, night and day, Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine, And I at any God's, for thine ?"
Wildly these passionate words she spokeThen hung her head, and wept for shame; Sobbing, as if a heart-string broke
With every deep-heaved sob that came. While he, young, warm-oh! wonder not If, for a moment, pride and fame,
His oath-his cause-that shrine of flame, And Iran's self are all forgot
For her whom at his feet he sees
Kneeling in speechless agonies.
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