One cry to Mahomet for aid,
One prayer to Alla all he made :
He knew and cross'd me in the fray-
I gazed upon him where he lay,
And watch'd his spirit ebb away:
Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel
He felt not half that now I feel.

I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find
The workings of the wounded mind;
Each feature of that sullen corse
Betray'd his rage, but no remorse.
Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace
Despair upon his dying face!
The late repentance of that hour,
When Penitence hath lost her power
To tear one terror from the grave,
And will not soothe, and cannot save.

'The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name; But mine was like the lava flood,

That boils in Etna's breast of flame. I cannot prate in puling strain Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain: If changing cheek, and scorching vein, Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, And daring deed, and vengeful steel, And all that I have felt and feel, Betoken love-that love was mine, And shown by many a bitter sign. 'Tis true, could not whine nor sigh,

I knew but to obtain or die.

I die-but first, I have possess'd,

And come what may, I have been bless'd.
Shall I the doom I sought upbraid?
No-reft of all, yet undismay'd,
But for the thought of Leila slain,
Give me the pleasure with the pain,
So would I live and love again.
I grieve-but not, my holy guide!
For him who dies, but her who died:
She sleeps beneath the wandering wave-
Ah! had she but an earthly grave,
This breaking heart and throbbing head
Should seek and share her narrow bed.
She was a form of life and light,
That, seen, became a part of sight,
And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye,
The Morning-star of Memory!

'Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire With angels shared, by Alla given

To lift from earth our low desire. Devotion wafts the mind above, But Heaven itself descends in love; A feeling from the Godhead caught, To wean from self each sordid thought; A Ray of Him who form'd the whole; A Glory circling round the soul ! I grant my love imperfect, all That mortals by the name miscall;

Then deem it evil, what thou wilt;
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt!
She was my life's unerring light: [night?
That quench'd, what beam shall break my
Oh! would it shone to lead me still,
Although to death or deadliest ill!
Why marvel ye, if they who lose

This present joy, this future hope,
No more with sorrow meekly cope;
In frenzy then their fate accuse;
In madness do those fearful deeds

That seem to add but guilt to woe?
Alas! the breast that inly bleeds

Hath nought to dread from outward blow: Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss. Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now

To thee, old man, my deeds appear:
I read abhorrence on thy brow,

And this too was I born to bear!
'Tis true, that, like that bird of prey,
With havoc have I mark'd my way:
But this was taught me by the dove,
To die-and know no second love.
This lesson yet hath man to learn,
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn:
The bird that sings within the brake,
The swan that swims upon the lake,
One mate, and one alone, will take.
And let the fool still prone to range,
And sneer on all who cannot change,
Partake his jest with boasting boys;
I envy not his varied joys,
But deem such feeble, heartless man,
Less than yon solitary swan;
Far, far beneath the shallow maid
He left believing and betray'd.
Such shame at least was never mine-
Leila! each thought was only thine!
My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe,
My hope on high-my all below.
Earth holds no other like to thee,
Or, if it doth, in vain for me:
For worlds I dare not view the dame
Resembling thee, yet not the same.
The very crimes that mar my youth,
This bed of death-attest my truth!
'Tis all too late-thou wert, thou art
The cherish'd madness of my heart!

'And she was lost-and yet I breathed.
But not the breath of human life;
A serpent round my heart was wreathed,
And stung my every thought to strife.
Alike all time, abhorr'd all place,
Shuddering, I shrank from Nature's face,
Where every hue that charm'd before,
The blackness of my bosom wore.
The rest thou dost already know,
And all my sins, and half my woe.
But talk no more of penitence;
Thou seest I soon shall part from hence
And if thy holy tale were true,
The deed that's done, canst thou undo?

Think me not thankless-but this grief Looks not to priesthood for relief.* My soul's estate in secret guess : But wouldst thou pity more, say less. When thou canst bid my Leila live, Then will I sue thee to forgive; Then plead my cause in that high place Where purchased masses proffer grace. Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung From forest-cave her shrieking young, And calm the lonely lioness: But soothe not-mock not my distress!

In earlier days, and calmer hours,
When heart with heart delights to blend,
Where bloom my native valley's bowers,

I had-ah! have I now?-a friend!
To him this pledge I charge thee send,
Memorial of a youthful vow:

would remind him of my end; Though souls absorb'd like mine allow Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, Yet dear to him my blighted name. 'Tis strange-he prophesied my doom,

And I have smiled-I then could smileWhen Prudence would his voice assume, And warn-I reck'd not what-the while: But now remembrance whispers o'er Those accents scarcely mark'd before. Say-that his bodings came to pass,

And he will start to hear their truth,
And wish his words had not been sooth:
Tell him, unheeding as I was,
Through many a busy bitter scene
Of all our golden youth had been,
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried
To bless his memory ere I died;

But Heaven in wrath would turn away,
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray.
I do not ask him not to blame,
Too gentle he to wound my name;
And what have I to do with fame?
I do not ask him not to mourn,

Such cold request might sound like scorn;
And what than friendship's manly tear
May better grace a brother's bier?
But bear this ring, his own of old,
And tell him-what thou dost behold!
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind,
The wrack by passion left behind,
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief!

'Tell me no more of fancy's gleam; No, father, no, 'twas not a dream: Alas! the dreamer first must sleep, I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep,

The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had so arte effect upon the patient, that it could have no hopes from le reader. It may be sufficient to say, that it was of a cusmary length (as may be perceived from the interruptions sad teasiness of the patient), and was delivered in the usual hame of all orthodox preachers.

But could not, for my burning brow Throbb'd to the very brain as now : I wish'd but for a single tear,

As something welcome, new, and dear:
I wish'd it then, I wish it still ;
Despair is stronger than my will.
Waste not thine orison, despair
Is mightier than thy pious prayer:
I would not, if I might, be blest;
I want no paradise, but rest.
'Twas then, I tell thee, father! then
I saw her; yes, she lived again ;
And shining in her white symar,
As through yon pale grey cloud the star
Which now I gaze on, as on her,
Who look'd, and looks far lovelier;
Dimly I view its trembling spark;
To-morrow's night shall be more dark;
And I, before its rays appear,
That lifeless thing the living fear.
I wander, father! for my soul
Is fleeting towards the final goal.
I saw her, friar! and I rose
Forgetful of our former woes;
And rushing from my couch, I dart,
And clasp her to my desperate heart;
I clasp-what is it that I clasp?
No breathing form within my grasp,
No heart that beats reply to nine-
Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine!
And art thou, dearest, changed so much,
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch?
Ah! were thy beauties e'er so cold,
I care not; so iny arms enfold
The all they ever wish'd to hold.
Alas! around a shadow prest,
They shrink upon my lonely breast;
Yet still 'tis there! In silence stands,
And beckons with beseeching hands!
With braided hair, and bright-black eye-
I knew 'twas false-she could not die!
But he is dead! within the dell

I saw him buried where he fell;
He comes not, for he cannot break
From earth; why then art thou awake?
They told me wild waves roll'd above
The face I view, the form I love!
They told me-'twas a hideous tale! —
I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail :
If true, and from thine ocean-cave
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave,
Oh, pass thy dewy fingers o'er
This brow, that then will burn no more;
Or place them on my hopeless heart:
But, shape or shade! whate'er thou art,
In mercy ne'er again depart!
Or farther with thee bear my soul
Than winds can waft or waters roll!

Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell, Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

II.

Begirt with many a gallant slave,
Apparell'd as becomes the brave,
Awaiting each his lord's behest,
To guide his steps, or guard his rest,
Old Giaffir sate in his divan:

Deep thought was in his aged eye;
And though the face of Mussulman
Not oft betrays to standers by
The mind within, well skill'd to hide
All but unconquerable pride,

His pensive cheek and pondering brow Did more than he was wont avow.

III.

'Let the chamber be clear'd.'-The train disappear'd

'Now call me the chief of the Haram guard.' With Giaffir is none but his only son,

And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award.
'Haroun when all the crowd that wait
Are pass'd beyond the outer gate,
(Woe to the head whose eye beheld
My child Zuleika's face unveil'd!)
Hence, lead my daughter from her tower;
Her fate is fix'd this very hour:
Yet not to her repeat my thought;
By me alone be duty taught!'

'Pacha! to hear is to obey.'

No more must slave to despot say-
Then to the tower had ta'en his way.
But here young Selim silence brake,

First lowly rendering reverence meet;
And downcast look'd, and gently spake,
Still standing at the Pacha's feet:
For son of Moslem must expire,
Ere dare to sit before his sire!

'Father! for fear that thou shouldst chide
My sister, or her sable guide,
Know-for the fault, if fault there be,
Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me-
So lovelily the morning shone,

That-let the old and weary sleep-
I could not; and to view alone

The fairest scenes of land and deep, 、
With none to listen and reply

To thoughts with which my heart beat high,
Were irksome; for whate'er my mood,
In sooth I love not solitude:

I on Zuleika's slumber broke,

And, as thou knowest that for me Soon turns the Haram's grating key, Before the guardian slaves awoke, We to the cypress groves had flown, And made earth, main, and heaven our own! There linger'd we, beguiled too long With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song;

Moun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the East. the moral poet of Persia.

Vain were a father's hope to see

Aught that beseems a man in thee.

Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow,
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed,
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed,
Must pore where babbling waters flow,
And watch unfolding roses blow.
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow
Thy listless eyes so much admire,
Would lend thee something of his fire!
Thou, who wouldst see this battlement
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent;
Nay, tamely view old Stamboul's wall
Before the dogs of Moscow fall,

Nor strike one stroke for life and death
Against the curs of Nazareth!

Go-let thy less than woman's hand
Assume the distaff-not the brand.
But Haroun ! to my daughter speed!
And hark-of thine own head take heed-
If thus Zuleika oft takes wing-
Thou seest yon bow-it hath a string!'

V.

No sound from Selim's lips was heard,
At least that met old Giaffir's ear;
But every frown and every word
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword.
'Son of a slave ! '-reproach'd with fear!
Those gibes had cost another dear.
'Son of a slave !-and who my sire?'
Thus held his thoughts their dark career;
And glances ev'n of more than ire

Flash forth, then faintly disappear
Old Giaffir gazed upon his son,

And started; for within his eye
He read how much his wrath had done;
He saw rebellion there begun :

'Come hither, boy-what! no reply?
I mark thee-and I know thee too;
But there be deeds thou dar'st not do:
But if thy beard had manlier length,
And if thy hand had skill and strength,
I'd joy to see thee break a lance,
Albeit against my own perchance.'

As sneeringly these accents fell,
On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed;

That eye return'd him glance for glance,
And proudly to his sire's was raised,

Tambour,' Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, noon and twilight.