A voice spoke near him -'twas the tone Of a lov'd friend, the only one Of all his warriors, left with life From that short night's tremendous strife. — "And must we then, my Chief, die here? — "Foes round us, and the Shrine so near!" These words have rous'd the last remains Of life within him "what! not yet "Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!"— The thought could make ev'n Death forget He springs, all bleeding, from the ground, Death gaining on each step he treads. Speed them, thou God, who heard'st their vow! They mount - they bleed oh save them now → The crags are red they've clamber'd o'er, The rock-weed's dripping with their gore → Thy blade too, HAFED, false at length, Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength Haste, haste the voices of the Foe One effort more thank Heav'n! 'tis past, They've gain'd the topmost steep at last. Now HAFED sees the Fire divine When, lo! - his weak, worn comrade falls Dead on the threshold of the Shrine. "Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled ! "And must I leave thee withering here, "The sport of every ruffian's tread, "The mark for every coward's spear? "No, by yon altar's sacred beams !" He cries, and, with a strength that seems Not of this world, uplifts the frame Of the fall'n Chief, and tow'rds the flame Bears him along; — with death-damp hand The corpse upon the pyre he lays, Then lights the consecrated brand, And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze Like lightning bursts o'er OMAN's Sea. "Now, Freedom's God! I come to Thee," The youth exclaims, and with a smile Of triumph vaulting on the pile, In that last effort, ere the fires Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires! What shriek was that on OMAN's tide? It came from yonder drifting bark, That just has caught upon her side It is the boat-ah, why delay'd?— That bears the wretched Moslem maid; Of a small veteran band, with whom But hop'd when HINDA, safe and free, Their pardon, full and prompt, would be The ransom of so dear a prize. Unconscious, thus, of HAFED's fate, And proud to guard their beauteous freight, Scarce had they clear'd the surfy waves That foam around those frightful caves, When the curst war-whoops, known so well, Came echoing from the distant dell — Sudden each oar, upheld and still, Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side, And, driving at the current's will, They rock'd along the whispering tide, While every eye, in mute dismay, Was tow'rd that fatal mountain turn'd, Where the dim altar's quivering ray As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd. Oh! 'tis not, HINDA, in the power As those who feel could paint too well, But none e'er felt and liv'd to tell! 'Twas not alone the dreary state Of a lorn spirit, crush'd by fate, When, though the inmate Hope be dead, Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart. No - pleasures, hopes, affections gone, To the keen, burning, harrowing pain, Now felt through all thy breast and brain- From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching Calm is the wave heav'n's brilliant lights Reflected dance beneath the prow; Time was when, on such lovely nights, She who is there, so desolate now, Could sit all cheerful, though alone, And ask no happier joy than seeing That star-light o'er the waters thrown No joy but that to make her blest, And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being That bounds in youth's yet careless breast, Itself a star, not borrowing light, But in its own glad essence bright. How different now! - but, hark, again |