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No, blame him not, if Hope awhile
Dawn'd in his soul, and threw her smile
O'er hours to come - o'er days and nights
Wing'd with those precious, pure delights
Which she, who bends all beauteous there,
Was born to kindle and to share!

A tear or two, which, as he bow'd

To raise the suppliant, trembling stole, First warn'd him of this dangerous cloud Of softness passing o'er his soul. Starting, he brush'd the drops away, Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray;

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Like one who, on the morn of fight, Shakes from his sword the dews of night, That had but dimm'd, not stain'd its light.

Yet, though subdued th' unnerving thrill, Its warmth, its weakness linger'd still

So touching in each look and tone, That the fond, fearing, hoping maid Half counted on the flight she pray'd, Half thought the hero's soul was grown As soft, as yielding as her own,

And smil'd and bless'd him, while he said,

"Yes - if there be some happier sphere, "Where fadeless truth like ours is dear; "If there be any land of rest

“For those who love and ne'er forget,

"Oh! comfort thee for safe and blest "We'll meet in that calm region yet!"

Scarce had she time to ask her heart
If good or ill these words impart,
When the rous'd youth impatient flew
To the tower-wall, where, high in view,
A ponderous sea-horn hung, and blew
A signal, deep and dread as those
The storm-fiend at his rising blows. -
Full well his Chieftains, sworn and true
Through life and death, that signal knew ;
For 'twas th' appointed warning-blast,
Th' alarm, to tell when hope was past,
And the tremendous death-die cast!

7“ The shell called Siiankos, common to India, Africa, and the Mediterranean, and still used in many parts as a trumpet for blowing alarms or giving signals: it sends forth a deep and hollow sound."

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And there, upon the mouldering tower,
Hath hung this sea-horn many an hour,
Ready to sound o'er land and sea

That dirge-note of the brave and free.

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Came slowly round, and with them all-
Alas, how few! - the worn remains

Of those who late o'er KERMAN's plains
Went gaily prancing to the clash
Of Moorish zel and tymbalon,
Catching new hope from every flash
Of their long lances in the sun

And, as their coursers charg'd the wind,
And the white ox-tails stream'd behind,
Looking, as if the steeds they rode
Were wing'd, and every Chief a God!
How fall'n, how alter'd now! how wan
Each scarr'd and faded visage shone,

As round the burning shrine they came;
How deadly was the glare it cast,

8

8" The finest ornament for the horses is made of six large flying tassels of long white hair, taken out of the tails of wild oxen, that are to be found in some places of the Indies."

Thevenot.

As mute they paus'd before the flame

To light their torches as they pass'd! 'Twas silence all the youth had plann'd The duties of his soldier-band;

And each determin'd brow declares

His faithful Chieftains well know theirs.

But minutes speed

night gems the skies —

And oh how soon, ye blessed eyes,

That look from heaven, ye may behold

Sights that will turn your star-fires cold!
Breathless with awe, impatience, hope,

The maiden sees the veteran group
Her litter silently prepare,

And lay it at her trembling feet ;-
And now the youth, with gentle care,
Hath plac'd her in the shelter'd seat,

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And press'd her hand — that lingering press

Of hands, that for the last time sever;

Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness,

When that hold breaks, is dead for ever.

And yet to her this sad caress

Gives hope-so fondly hope can err !

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'Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess —

Their happy flight's dear harbinger;

'Twas warmth

assurance

tenderness

'Twas any thing but leaving her.

"Haste, haste!" she cried, "the clouds

grow dark,

"But still, ere night, we'll reach the bark; "And, by to-morrow's dawn- oh bliss!

"With thee upon the sunbright deep, "Far off, I'll but remember this,

"As some dark vanish'd dream of sleep! "And thou

" but ha! he answers not

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Good Heav'n! - and does she go alone?

She now has reach'd that dismal spot,

Where, some hours since, his voice's tone

Had come to soothe her fears and ills,

Sweet as the Angel ISRAFIL'S,"
When every leaf on Eden's tree

Is trembling to his minstrelsy

Yet now - oh now, he is not nigh

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"HAFED! my HAFED! - if it be

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9" The Angel Israfil, who has the most melodious voice of all God's creatures."

Sale.

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