Down mid the pointed crags beneath,
As if he fled from love to death.

While pale and mute young HINDA stood,
Nor mov'd, till in the silent flood

A momentary plunge below

Startled her from her trance of woe;-
Shrieking she to the lattice flew,

"I come-I come-if in that tide "Thou sleep'st to-night-I'll sleep there too, "In death's cold wedlock, by thy side. "Oh! I would ask no happier bed

"Than the chill wave my love lies under;"Sweeter to rest together dead,

"Far sweeter, than to live asunder!"
But no-their hour is not yet come-
Again she sees his pinnace fly,
Wafting him fleetly to his home,

Where'er that ill-starr'd home may lie;
And calm and smooth it seem'd to win
Its moonlight way before the wind,
As if it bore all peace within,

Nor left one breaking heart behind!

THE Princess, whose heart was sad enough already, could have wished that FERAMORZ had chosen a less melancholy story; as it is only to the happy that tears are a luxury. Her Ladies, however, were by no means sorry that love was once more the Poet's theme; for, whenever he spoke of love, they said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree, which grows over the tomb of the musician, Tan-Sein.

Their road all the morning had lain through a very dreary country;-through valleys, covered with a low bushy jungle, where, in more than one place, the awful signal of the bamboo staff, with the white flag at its top, reminded the traveller that, in that very spot, the tiger had made some human creature his victim. It was, therefore, with much pleasure that they arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen, and encamped under one of those holy trees, whose smooth columns and spreading roofs seem to destine them for natural temples of religion. Beneath this spacious shade, some pious hands had erected a row of pillars ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain, which now supplied the use of mirrors to the young maidens as they adjusted their hair in descending from the palankeens. Here, while, as usual, the Princess sat listening anxiously, with FADLADEEN in one of his loftiest moods of criticism by her side, the young Poet, leaning against a branch of the tree, thus continued his story:

THE morn hath risen clear and calm,
And o'er the Green Sea* palely shines,
Revealing BAHREIN'st groves of palm,
And lighting KISHMA'st amber vines,
Fresh smell the shores of ARABY,
While breezes from the Indian sea
Blow round SELAMA'S sainted cape,
And curl the shining flood beneath,-
Whose waves are rich with many a grape,
And cocoa-nut and flowery wreath,
Which pious seamen as they pass'd,
Have tow'rd that holy headland cast-
Oblations to the Genii there

For gentle skies and breezes fair!
The nightingale now bends her flight
From the high trees, where all the night.
She sung so sweet, with none to listen;
And hides her from the morning star
Where thickets of pomegranate glisten
In the clear dawn,-bespangled o'er

With dew, whose night-drops would not stain The best and brightest scimitarş

That ever youthful Sultan wore

On the first morning of his reign!

The Persian Gulf.-"To dive for pearls in the Green Sea, or Persian Gulf."-Sir W. Jones.

+Islands in the Gulf.

Or Selemeh, the genuine name of the headland at the entrance of the Gulf, commonly called Cape Musseldom. "The Indians, when they pass the promontory, throw cocoa-nuts, fruits, or flowers, into the sea, to secure a propitious voyage."-Morier.

§ In speaking of the climate of Shiraz, Francklin says, "the dew is of such a pure nature, that, if the brightest scimitar should be exposed to it all night, it would not receive the least rust."

And see-the Sun himself!-on wings
Of glory up the East he springs.
Angel of Light! who from the time
Those heavens began their march sublime,
Has first of all the starry choir

Trod in his Maker's steps of fire!

Where are the days, thou wonderous sphere,
When IRAN, like a sun-flower turn'd
To meet that eye where'er it burn'd?—
When, from the banks of BENDEMEER
To the nut-groves of SAMARCAND,
Thy temples flam'd o'er all the land ?
Where are they? ask the shades of them
Who, on CADESSIA'S bloody plains,
Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem
From IRAN's broken diadem,

And bind her ancient faith in chains:-
Ask the poor exile, cast alone

On foreign shores, unlov'd, unknown,
Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates, t

Or on the snowy Mossian mountains,
Far from his beauteous land of dates,
Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains!
Yet happier so than if he trod

His own belov'd but blighted sod,
Beneath a despot stranger's nod!-
Oh! he would rather houseless roam
Where Freedom and his God may lead,
Than be the sleekest slave at home
That crouches to the conqueror's creed!

Is IRAN's pride then gone for ever,

Quench'd with the flame in MITHRA's caves ?No-she has sons that never-never

The place where the Persians were finally defeated by the Arabs, and their ancient monarchy destroyed.

+ Derbend.-"Les Tures appellent cette ville Demir Capi, Porte de Fer; ce sont les Caspia Porte des anciens." -D'Herbelot.

Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves, While heaven has light or earth has graves; Spirits of fire, that brood not long,

But flash resentment back for wrong;

And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds
Of vengeance ripen into deeds,

Till, in some treacherous hour of calm,
They burst, like ZEILAN's giant palm,*
Whose buds fly open with a sound
That shakes the pigmy forests round!

Yes, EMIR! he, who scal'd that tower,
And, could he reach thy slumbering breast,
Would teach thee, in a Gheber's power
How safe ev'n tyrant heads may rest-
's one of many, brave as he,

Who loathe thy haughty race and thee:
Who, though they know the strife is vain,
Who, though they know the riven chain
Snaps but to enter in the heart
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;

The Talpot or Talipot tree. "This beautiful palmtree, which grows in the heart of the forests, may be class ed among the loftiest trees, and becomes still higher when on the point of bursting forth from its leafy summit. The sheath which then envelopes the flower is very large, and, when it bursts, makes an explosion like the report of a cannon."-Thanberg.