As hooded falcons, through the universe
I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way,
Weak man my instrument, curst man my prey!

“ Ye wise, ye learn'd, who grope your dull way on By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone, Like superstitious thieves, who think the light From dead men's marrow guides them best at

night 1 Ye shall have honors - wealth, — yes, sages, yes — I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothingness; Undazzled it can track yon starry sphere, But a gilt stick, a bauble, blinds it here. How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along, In lying speech, and still more lying song, By these learn’d slaves, the meanest of the throng; Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk so small, A sceptre's puny point can wield it all!

“ Ye too, believers of incredible creeds, Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it breeds; Who, bolder even than Nemrod, think to rise, By nonsense heap'd on nonsense to the skies Ye shall have miracles, aye, sound ones too, Seen, heard, attested, everything — but true.

1 A kind of lantern formerly used by robbers, called the Hand of Glory, the candle for which was made of the fat of a dead malefactor. This, however, was rather a western than an eastern superstition.

Your preaching zealots, too inspired to seek
One grace of meaning for the things they speak;
Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood,
For truths too heavenly to be understood;
And your state priests, sole vendors of the lore,
That works salvation; - as on Ava's shore,
Where none but priests are privileged to trade
In that best marble of which Gods are made; 1
They shall have mysteries - aye, precious stuff,
For knaves to thrive by — mysteries enough;
Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave,
Which simple votaries shall on trust receive,
While craftier feign belief, till they believe.
A heaven too ye must have, ye lords of dust,
A splendid paradise — pure souls, ye must:
That Prophet ill sustains his holy call,
Who finds not heavens to suit the tastes of all;
Houris for boys, omniscience for sages,
And wings and glories for all ranks and ages.
Vain things ! - as lust or vanity inspires,
The heaven of each is but what each desires,
And, soul or sense, whate'er the object be,
Man would be man to all eternity!
So let him – Eblis ! grant this crowning curse,
But keep him what he is, no hell were worse.".

1 The material of which images of Gaudma (the Birman deity) is made is held sacred. “Birmans may not purchase the marble in mass, but are suffered, and indeed encouraged, to buy figures of the deity ready-made." - Symes's Ava, vol. ii. p. 376.

“O, my lost soul !” exclaim'd the shuddering maid Whose ears had drunk like poison all he said ; Mokanna started — not abash'd, afraid, He knew no more of fear than one who dwells Beneath the tropics knows of icicles ! But, in those dismal words that reach'd his ear, “O my lost soul!” there was a sound so drear, So like that voice, among the sinful dead, In which the legend o'er hell's gate is read, That, new as 'twas from her, whom naught could dim Or sink till now, it startled even him.

,

“Ha, my fair Priestess !” — thus, with ready wile, Th’impostor turn'd to greet her — “thou, whose

smile Hath inspiration in its rosy beam Beyond the enthusiast's hope or prophet's dream! Light of the Faith! who twin'st religion's zeal So close with love's, men know not which they feel, Nor which to sigh for, in their trance of heart, The heaven thou preachest or the heaven thou art! What should I be without thee? without thee How dull were power, how joyless victory! Though borne by angels, if that smile of thine Bless'd not my banner, 'twere but half divine. But why so mournful, child? those eyes, that

shone All life last night — what! — is their glory gone? Come, come — this morn's fatigue hath made them

pale, They want rekindling - suns themselves would fail,

Did not their comets bring, as I to thee,
From Light's own fount supplies of brilliancy!
Thou seest this cup - no juice of earth is here,

-
But the pure waters of that upper sphere,
Whose rills o'er ruby beds and topaz flow,
Catching the gem's bright color, as they go.
Nightly my Genii come and fill these urns —
Nay, drink — in every drop life's essence burns;
'Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all light -
Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to-night:
There is a youth — why start? — thou saw'st him

then; Look'd he not nobly? such the godlike men Thou'lt have to woo thee in the bowers above; Though he, I fear, hath thoughts too stern for love, Too ruled by that cold enemy of bliss The world calls virtue — we must conquer this; — Nay, shrink not, pretty sage; 'tis not for thee To scan the maze of heaven's mystery. The steel must pass through fire, ere it can yield Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield. This very night I mean to try the art Of powerful beauty on that warrior's heart. All that my haram boasts of bloom and wit, Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite, Shall tempt the boy ; young Mirzala's blue eyes, Whose sleepy lid like snow on violet lies; Arouya's cheeks, warm as a spring-day sun, And lips that, like the seal of Solomon, Have magic in their pressure ; Zeba's lute, And Lilla's dancing feet, that gleam and shoot

Rapid and white as sea-birds o'er the deep! -
All shall combine their witching powers to steep
My convert's spirit in that softening trance,
From which to heaven is but the next advance
That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast,
On which Religion stamps her image best.
But hear me, Priestess!—though each nymph of these
Hath some peculiar, practised power to please,
Some glance or step, which, at the mirror tried,
First charms herself, then all the world beside ;
There still wants one to make the victory sure,
One who in every look joins every lure ;
Through whom all beauty's beams concentred pass,
Dazzling and warm, as through love's burning-glass,
Whose gentle lips persuade without a word,
Whose words, even when unmeaning, are adored,
Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine,
Which our faith takes for granted are divine!
Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and light,
To crown the rich temptations of to-night;
Such the refined enchantress that must be
This hero's vanquisher, - and thou art she!”

With her hands clasp'd, her lips apart and pale, The maid had stood, gazing upon the Veil From which these words, like south winds through

a fence Of Kerzrah flowers, came fill’d with pestilence: 1

1" It is commonly said in Persia, that if a man breathe in the hot south wind, which in June or July passes over that flower (the Kerzereh), it will kill him.” — Thevenot.