To tearless eyes and hearts at ease A day of storm so often leaves At its calm setting — when the West Opens her golden bowers of rest, And a moist radiance from the skies 'Twas stillness all the winds that late Had rush'd through KERMAN's almond groves, And shaken from her bowers of date That cooling feast the traveller loves, "In parts of Kerman, whatever dates are shaken from the trees by the wind they do not touch, but leave them for those who have not any, or for travellers." - Ebn Haukel. Now, lull'd to languor, scarcely curl The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam Limpid, as if her mines of pearl Were melted all to form the stream. And her fair islets, small and bright, With their green shores reflected there, Look like those Peri isles of light, But vainly did those glories burst That o'er her head terrific frown'd, As if defying ev'n the smile Of that soft heaven to gild their pile. - 2 The two terrible angels, Monkir and Nakir; who are called "the Searchers of the Grave" in the "Creed of the orthodox Mahometans" given by Ockley, vol. ii. In vain, with mingled hope and fear, When voices from without proclaim The warriors shout that fearful name! He comes the rock resounds his tread How shall she dare to lift her head, Or meet those eyes, whose scorching glare Not YEMEN's boldest sons can bear? In whose red beam, the Moslem tells, As in those hellish fires that light The mandrake's charnel leaves at night! How shall she bear that voice's tone, At whose loud battle-cry alone Whole squadrons oft in panic ran, 3 Scatter'd, like some vast caravan, 3 The Arabians call the mandrake the Devil's candle,' on account of its shining appearance in the night." - Richardson. When, stretch'd at evening round the well, They hear the thirsting tiger's yell! Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down, Till HAFED with a trembling hand “HINDA !” — that word was all he spoke, And 'twas enough-the shriek that broke From her full bosom told the rest Panting with terror, joy, surprise, To hide them on her Gheber's breast! 'Tis he, 'tis he - the man of blood, The fellest of the Fire-fiend's brood, HAFED, the demon of the fight, Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight, Is her own loved Gheber, mild And glorious as when first he smil'd In her lone tower, and left such beams Moments there are, and this was one, Or like those verdant spots that bloom Around the crater's burning lips, Sweetening the very edge of doom! The past the future all that Fate Can bring of dark or desperate Around such hours, but makes them cast Intenser radiance while they last! Ev'n he, this youth-though dimm❜d and gone Each star of Hope that cheer'd him on — His glories lost his cause betray'd – IRAN, his dear-lov'd country, made A land of carcases and slaves, One dreary waste of chains and graves ! — To see the last, long-struggling breath |