Shone o'er its thousand altars, and exhaled
The precious incense of each odorous pyre,
Heap'd with the richest balms of spicy vales,
And aromatic woods that scent the Arabian gales.

XXII.

Yet not with Saba's fragrant wealth alone,

Balsam and myrrh, the votive pile was strewed;
For the dark children of the burning zone

Drew frenzy from thy fervors, and bedew'd

With their own blood thy shrine; while that wild scene, Haply with pitying eye, thine angel view'd,

And, though with glory mantled, and serene

In his own fulness of beatitude,

Yet mourn'd for those whose spirits from thy ray
Caught not one transient spark of intellectual day.

XXIII.

But earth had deeper stains: ethereal powers!
Benignant seraphs! wont to leave the skies,
And hold high converse, 'midst his native bowers,
With the once-glorious son of Paradise,

Looked ye from heaven in sadness? were your strains
Of choral praise suspended in dismay,

When the polluted shrine of Syria's plains,

With clouds of incense dimm'd the blaze of day?

Or did ye veil indignantly your eyes,

While demons hail'd the pomp of human sacrifice?

XXIV.

And well the powers of evil might rejoice,

When rose from Tophet's vale the exulting cry,
And, deaf to Nature's supplicating voice,
The frantic mother bore her child to die!
Around her vainly clung his feeble hands
With sacred instinct: love hath lost its sway,
While ruthless zeal the sacrifice demands,
And the fires blaze, impatient for their prey.
Let not his shrieks reveal the dreadful tale!

Well may the drum's loud peal o'erpower an infant's wail!

XXV.

A voice of sorrow! not from thence it rose;

'Twas not the childless mother-Syrian maids,

Where with red wave the mountain streamlet flows,

Keep tearful vigil in their native shades.

With dirge and plaint the cedar-groves resound,

Each rock's deep echo for Adonis mourns:

Weep for the dead!-away! the lost is found,
To life and love the buried god returns!

Then wakes the timbrel-then the forests ring,

And shouts of frenzied joy are on each breeze's wing!

XXVI.

But fill'd with holier joy the Persian stood,
In silent reverence on the mountain's brow
At early dayspring, while the expanding flood
Of radiance burst around above, below-
Bright, boundless as eternity: he gazed
Till his full soul, imbibing heaven, o'erflow'd
In worship of th' Invisible, and praised
In thee, O Sun! the symbol and abode

Of life, and power, and excellence; the throne
Where dwelt the Unapproach'd, resplendently alone.*

XXVII.

What if his thoughts, with erring fondness, gave
Mysterious sanctity to things which wear
Th' Eternal's impress ?-if the living wave,
The circling heavens, the free and boundless air-
If the pure founts of everlasting flame,

Deep in his country's hallow'd vales enshrined,
And the bright stars maintain'd a silent claim
To love and homage from his awestruck mind?
Still with his spirit dwelt a lofty dream

Of uncreated Power, far, far o'er these supreme.

XXVIII.

And with that faith was conquest. He whose name
To Judah's harp of prophecy had rung;
He, of whose yet unborn and distant fame
The mighty voice of Inspiration sung,

He came, the victor Cyrus!-as he pass'd,

Thrones to his footstep rock'd, and monarch's lay
Suppliant and clothed with dust; while nations cast
Their ancient idols down before his way,

Who, in majestic march, from shore to shore,

The quenchless flame revered by Persia's children bore

**

*

*

*

* At an earlier stage in the composition of this poem, the following stanza was here inserted :—

Nor rose the Magian's hymn, sublimely swelling
In full-toned homage to the source of flame,

From fabric rear'd by man-the gorgeous dwelling
Of such bright idol-forms as art could frame;

He rear'd no temple, bade no walls contain
The breath of incense, or the voice of prayer ·
But made the boundless universe his fane,

The rocks his altar-stone, adoring there
The Being whose Omnipotence pervades

All deserts and all depths, and hallows loneliest shades.

THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS

CALL it not loneliness, to dwell
In woodland shade or hermit dell,
Or the deep forest to explore,
Or wander Alpine regions o'er ;
For Nature there all joyous reigns,
And fills with life her wild domains:
A bird's light wing may break the air,
A wave, a leaf, may murmur there ;
A bee the mountain flowers may seek,
A chamois bound from peak to peak ;
An eagle, rushing to the sky,

Wake the deep echoes with his cry;
And still some sound, thy heart to cheer,
Some voice, though not of man is near.
But he, whose weary step hath traced
Mysterious Afric's awful waste-
Whose eye Arabia's wilds hath view'd,
Can tell thee what is solitude!
It is, to traverse lifeless plains,
Where everlasting stillness reigns,
And billowy sands and dazzling sky,
Seem boundless as infinity!
It is to sink, with speechless dread,
In scenes unmeet for mortal tread,
Sever'd from earthly being's trace,
Alone, amidst eternal space!
'Tis noon-and fearfully profound,
Silence is on the desert round;
Alone she reigns, above, beneath
With all the attributes of death!
No bird the blazing heaven may dare,
No insect bide the scorching air:
The ostrich, though of sun-born race,
Seeks a more shelter'd dwelling-place
The lion slumbers in his lair,

The serpent shuns the noontide glare;
But slowly wind the patient train
Of camels o'er the blasted plain,
Where they and man may brave alone
The terrors of the burning zone.

Faint not, O pilgrims! though on high,
As a volcano, flame the sky;

Shrink not, though as a furnace glow
The dark-red seas of sand below;
Though not a shadow save your own,
Across the dread expanse is thrown;
Mark! where your feverish lips to lave,
Wide spreads the fresh transparent wave,
Urge your tired camels on, and take
Your rest beside yon glistening lake:
Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring,
And fan your brows with lighter wing.
Lo! nearer now, its glassy tide,
Reflects the date-tree on its side-
Speed on! pure draughts and genial air,
And verdant shade, await you there.
Oh glimpse of Heaven! to him unknown,
That hath not trod the burning zone !
Forward they press-they gaze dismay'd-
The waters of the desert fade!
Melting to vapors that elude

The eye, the lip, they vainly woo'd.*
What meteor comes?-a purple haze
Hath half obscured the noontide rays: †
Onward it moves in swift career,
A blush upon the atmosphere;

Haste, haste! avert th' impending doom,
Fall prostrate! 'tis the dread Simoom!
Bow down your faces-till the blast
On its red wing of flame hath pass'd,
Far bearing o'er the sandy wave,
The viewless Angel of the Grave.

It came 'tis vanish'd-but hath left
The wanderers e'en of hope bereft;
The ardent heart, the vigorous frame,
Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame
Faint with despondence, worn with toil,
They sink upon the burning soil,
Resign'd, amist those realms of gloom,
To find their death-bed and their tomb.‡

But onward still!--yon distant spot
Of verdure can deceive you not;
Yon palms, which tremulously seem'd
Reflected as the waters gleam'd,

* The inirage, or vapor assuming the appearance of water.

† See the description of the Simoom in Bruce's Travels.

The extreme languor and despondence produced by the Simoom, even when its effects are not fatal, have been described by many travellers

Along the horizon's verge display'd,
Still rear their slender colonnade-
A landmark, guiding o'er the plain
The Caravan's exhausted train.
Fair is that little Isle of Bliss
The desert's emerald oasis!
A rainbow on the torrent's wave,
A gem embosom'd in the grave,
A sunbeam on a stormy day
Its beauty's image might convey!
Beauty, in horror's lap that sleeps,
While silence round her vigil keeps.'
-Rest, weary pilgrims! calmly laid
To slumber in the acacia shade :

Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise,
Their aromatic breath diffuse
;
Where softer light the sunbeams pour
Through the tall palm and sycamore;
And the rich date luxuriant spreads
Its pendant clusters o'er your heads.
Nature once more, to scal your eyes,
Murmurs her sweetest lullabies;
Again each heart the music hails
Of rustling leaves and sighing gales,
And oh to Afric's child how dear
The voice of fountains gushing near!
Sweet be your slumbers! and your dreams
Of waving groves and rippling streams!
Far be the serpent's venom'd coil
From the brief respite won by toil
Far be the awful shades of those
Who deep beneath the sands repose-
The hosts, to whom the desert's breath
Bore swift and stern the call of death.
Sleep! nor may scorching blast invade
The freshness of the acacia shade,
But gales of heaven your spirits bless,
With life's best balm-Forgetfulness!
Till night from many an urn diffuse
The treasures of her world of dews.

The day hath closed-the moon on high Walks in her cloudless majesty. A thousand stars to Afric's heaven Serene magnificence have given; Sure beacon's of the sky, whose flame Phines forth eternally the same. Blest be their beams, whose holy light Shall guide the camel's footsteps right, And lead, as with a track divine, The pilgrim to his prophet's shrine!