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 froz'n his blood,

So maz'd and motionless was he; Like one whom sudden spells enchant, Or some mute, marble habitant

Of the still Halls of ISHMONIE! 4.

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,

4 For an account of Ishmonie, the petrified city in Upper Egypt, where it is said there are many statues of men, women, &c. to be seen to this day, v. Perry's View of the Levant.

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 the' 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

The' 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

5

On the red wreath, for martyrs twin'd, More proudly than the youth surveys

That pile, which through the gloom behind, Half lighted by the altar's fire,

Glimmers, his destin'd 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,

5 Jesus.

When pitying Heav'n 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?
Alas! why stands he musing here,
When every moment teems with fear?
HAFED, my own beloved Lord,"

She kneeling cries-"first, last ador'd!
"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!

6 The Ghebers say that when Abraham, their great Prophet, was thrown into the fire by order of Nimrod, the flame turned instantly into "a bed of roses, where the child sweetly reposed."

Tavernier.

"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, blessed shore we'll dwell,
"Where 'tis no crime to love too well;
"Where thus to worship tenderly
"An erring child of light like thee

66

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-heav'd 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.