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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 nearFly, fly-if yet thou lov'st me, flySoon 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 wood

Fly, 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-

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"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! Thou art betray'd-some wretch who knew That dreadful glen's mysterious clewNay, doubt not-by yon stars, 'tis trueHath 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?

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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, blessèd 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 spoke

Then 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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