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And, as he nearer drew, and listen'd
To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'd
Within his eye-lids, like the spray

From Eden's fountain, when it lies
On the blue flower, which-Bramins say-
Blooms nowhere but in Paradise!

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'Nymph of a fair, but erring line!"
Gently he said-" one hope is thine.

'Tis written in the Book of Fate,
The Peri yet may be forgiven
Who brings to this Eternal Gate

The Gift that is most dear to Heaven!

Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin ;

'Tis sweet to let the pardon'd in !"

Rapidly as comets run

To th' embraces of the sun ;-
Fleeter than the starry brands
Flung at night from angel hands,*
At those dark and daring sprites,
Who would climb th' empyreal heights,
Down the blue vault the Peri flies,

And, lighted earthward by a glance
That just then broke from morning's eyes,
Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse,

But whither shall the Spirit go

To find this gift for heav'n?—“ I know

* "The Mahometans suppose that falling stars are the firebrands wherewith the good angels drive away the bad, when they approach too near the empyreum, or verge of the heavens."-Fryer.

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In which unnumber'd rubies burn,
Beneath the pillars of Chilminar;*-

I know where the Isles of Perfume are,
Many a fathom down in the sea,
To the south of sun-bright Araby ;+-
I know, too, where the Genii hid

The jewell'd cup of their king Jamshid, ‡
With life's elixir sparkling high-

But gifts like these are not for the sky.
Where was there ever a gem that shone
Like the steps of Alla's wonderful Throne?
And the Drops of Life-oh! what would they be
In the boundless Deep of Eternity?"

While thus she mus'd, her pinions fann'd

The air of that sweet Indian land
Whose air is balm; whose ocean spreads
O'er coral rocks and amber beds;
Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam
Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem;
Whose rivulets are like rich brides,
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides;
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice
Might be a Peri's Paradise!

*The Forty Pillars; so the Persians call the ruins of Persepolis. It is imagined by them that this palace, and the edifices at Balbec, were built by Genii, for the purpose of hiding in their subterraneous caverns immense treasures, which still remain there.-D'Herbelot, Volney.

The Isles of Panchaia.

+ The cup of Jamshid, discovered, they say, when digging for the foundations of Persepolis."--Richardson.

But crimson now her rivers ran

With human blood-the smell of death
Came reeking from those spicy bowers,
And man, the sacrifice of man,

Mingled his taint with every breath
Upwafted from the innocent flowers!
Land of the Sun! what foot invades
Thy pagods and thy pillar'd shades-
Thy cavern shrines, and idol stones,

Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones?
'Tis he of Gazna *-fierce in wrath

He comes, and India's diadems
Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path,---

His bloodhounds he adorns with gems,
Torn from the violated necks

Of many a young and lov'd Sultana; †
Maidens, with their pure Zenana,
Priests in the very fane he slaughters,
And chokes up with the glittering wrecks
Of golden shrines the sacred waters!

Downward the Peri turns her gaze,
And, through the war-field's bloody haze
Beholds a youthful warrior stand,

Alone, beside his native river,—

* Mahmood of Gazna, or Ghizni, who conquered India in the beginning of the eleventh century.-Vide his History, in Dow and Sir J. Malcolm.

"It is reported that the hunting equipage of the Sultan Mahmoud was so magnificent, that he kept four hundred greyhounds and bloodhounds, each of which wore a collar set with jewels, and a covering edged with gold and pearls."- Universal History, vol. iii.

The red blade broken in his hand,


And the last arrow in his quiver.

Live," said the conqueror, "live to share
The trophies and the crowns I bear!"
Silent that youthful warrior stood—
Silent he pointed to the flood
All crimson with his country's blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For answer, to th' invader's heart.

False flew the shaft, though pointed well;
The tyrant liv'd, the hero fell!-

Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay,

And when the rush of war was past,

Swiftly descending on a ray

Of morning light, she caught the lastLast glorious drop his heart had shed, Before its free-born spirit fled!

"Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight,
"My welcome gift at the Gates of Light.
Though foul are the drops that oft distil

On the field of warfare, blood like this,
For Liberty shed, so holy is,

It would not stain the purest rill,

That sparkles among the bowers of bliss! Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere,

A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,

"Tis the last libation Liberty draws

From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!”


"Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave The gift into his radiant hand,

"Sweet is our welcome of the brave,

Who die thus for their native land.

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