have much pleasure in being allowed to relate to the Princess. It was impossible for LALLA ROOKH to refuse;—he had never before looked half so animated, and when he spoke of the Holy Valley, his eyes had sparkled, she thought, like the talismanic characters on the scimitar of Solomon. Her consent was therefore most readily granted; and while FADLADEEN sat in unspeakable dismay, expecting treason and abomination in every line, the poet thus began his story:

'TIS moonlight over Oman's Sea ;*

Her banks of pearl and palmy isles
Bask in the night-beam beauteously,

And her blue waters sleep in smiles.

*The Persian Gulf, sometimes so called, which separates the shores of Persia and Arabia.

'Tis moonlight in Harmozia's* walls,
And through her Emir's porphyry halls,
Where, some hours since, was heard the swell

Of trumpet and the clash of zel,+

Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell ;—
The peaceful sun, whom better suits
The music of the bulbul's nest,
Or the light touch of lovers' lutes,
To sing him to his golden rest!
All hush'd-there's not a breeze in motion;
The shore is silent as the ocean.

If zephyrs come, so light they come,

Nor leaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven ;-
The wind-tower on the Emir's domet
Can hardly win a breath from heaven.

Ev'n he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps
Calm, while a nation round him weeps;
While curses load the air he breathes,
And falchions from unnumber'd sheaths

Are starting to avenge the shame

His race hath brought on Iran's § name.
Hard, heartless Chief, unmov'd alike,

'Mid eyes that weep and swords that strike;-
One of that saintly, murderous brood,
To carnage and the Koran given,
Who think through unbelievers' blood
Lies their directest path to heaven;

* The present Gombaroon, a town on the Persian side of the Gulf.

+ A Moorish instrument of music.

+ "At Gombaroon and other places in Persia, they have towers for the purpose of

catching the wind, and cooling the houses." -Le Bruyn.

§ "Iran is the true general name for the empire of Persia."-Asiat. Res., Disc. 5.

One, who will pause and kneel unshod
In the warm blood his hand hath pour'd,
To mutter o'er some text of God

Engraven on his reeking sword; *—
Nay, who can coolly note the line,
The letter of those words divine,

To which his blade, with searching art,

Had sunk into its victim's heart!

Just Alla! what must be thy look,

When such a wretch before thee stands

Unblushing, with thy Sacred Book,—

Turning the leaves with blood-stain❜d hands,

And wresting from its page sublime

His creed of lust and hate and crime?

Ev'n as those bees of Trebizond,

Which from the sunniest flowers that glad
With their pure smile the gardens round,
Draw venom forth that drives men mad! †

Never did fierce Arabia send

A satrap forth more direly great;
Never was Iran doom'd to bend

Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight.

Her throne had fall'n-her pride was crush'd-
Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush'd,
In their own land-no more their own-

To crouch beneath a stranger's throne.

* "On the blades of their scimitars some verse from the Koran is usually inscribed." Russel.

"There is a kind of Rhododendros about Trebizond, whose flowers the bee feeds upon, and the honey thence drives people mad."-Tournefort.

Her towers, where Mithra once had burn'd,
To Moslem shrines-oh shame!- —were turn'd,
Where slaves, converted by the sword,
Their mean, apostate worship pour'd,
And curs'd the faith their sires ador'd.
Yet has she hearts, 'mid all this ill,
O'er all this wreck, high buoyant still
With hope and vengeance ;-hearts that yet,—
Like gems, in darkness issuing rays
They've treasur'd from the sun that's set,-
Beam all the light of long-lost days!

And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow
To second all such hearts can dare;
As he shall know, well, dearly know,

Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there,
Tranquil, as if his spirit lay

Becalm'd in Heaven's approving ray!
Sleep on-for purer eyes than thine

Those waves are hush'd, those planets shine.

Sleep on, and be thy rest unmov'd

By the white moonbeam's dazzling power;

None but the loving and the lov'd

Should be awake at this sweet hour.

And see-where, high above those rocks
That o'er the deep their shadows fling,
Yon turret stands ;-where ebon locks,

As glossy as a heron's wing

Upon the turban of a king,*

"Their kings wear plumes of black herons' feathers upon the right side, as a

badge of sovereignty."-Hanway.