Is one of many, brave as he, Who loathe thy haughty race and thee; Of him who rends its links apart, Yet dare the issue, blest to be Ev'n for one bleeding moment free, And die in pangs of liberty! Thou know'st them well-'tis some moons since Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags, Thou satrap of a bigot Prince! Have swarm'd among these Green Sea crags; Yet here, ev'n here, a sacred band, Ay, in the portal of that land Thou, Arab, dar'st to call thy own, Their spears across thy path have thrown; Here ere the winds half wing'd thee o'er - Rebellion! foul, dishonouring word, Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd The holiest cause that tongue or sword Of mortal ever lost or gain'd. How many a spirit, born to bless, Hath sunk beneath that withering name, Whom but a day's, an hour's success Had wafted to eternal fame! As exhalations, when they burst From the warm earth, if chill'd at first, And turn to sun-bright glories there! And who is he, that wields the might Of Freedom on the Green Sea brink, The eyes of YEMEN's warriors wink? Cling to their country's ancient rites, Their closing gleam on IRAN's heights, Among her snowy mountains threw 'Tis HAFED name of fear, whose sound Chills like the muttering of a charm; Shout but that awful name around, And palsy shakes the manliest arm. Of whose malign, tremendous power Such tales of fearful wonder tell, That each affrighted sentinel Lest HAFED in the midst should rise! A man, they say, of monstrous birth, Who in their fairy helms, of yore, 8 8 Tahmuras, and other ancient Kings of Persia ; whose adventures in Fairy-Land among the Peris and Dives may be found in Richardson's curious Dissertation. The griffin Simoorgh, they say, took some feathers from her breast for Tahmuras, with which he adorned his helmet, and transmitted them afterwards to his descendants. A feather from the mystic wings Of the Simoorgh resistless wore; Such were the tales, that won belief, His only talisman, the sword, His only spell-word, Liberty! One of that ancient hero line, Along whose glorious current shine Names, that have sanctified their blood; AS LEBANON's small mountain-flood Is render'd holy by the ranks Of sainted cedars on its banks !9 ́ 9 This rivulet, says Dandini, is called the Holy River from the 66 cedar-saints" among which it rises. 'Twas not for him to crouch the knee Tamely to Moslem tyranny; — 'Twas not for him, whose soul was cast In the bright mould of ages past, With all the glories of the dead, Though fram'd for IRAN's happiest years, Was born among her chains and tears! 'Twas not for him to swell the crowd Of slavish heads, that shrinking bowed Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast The pageant of his country's shame; While every tear her children shed Fell on his soul, like drops of flame; And, as a lover hails the dawn Of a first smile, so welcom'd he The sparkle of the first sword drawn But vain was valour - vain the flower Of KERMAN, in that deathful hour, Against AL HASSAN's whelming power. |