Oh, still remember Love and I
Beneath its shadow trembling lie!
One victory o'er those Slaves of Fire,
Those impious Ghebers, whom my sire
Abhors-

"Hold, hold-thy words are death!"

The stranger cried, as wild he flung

His mantle back, and show'd beneath

The Gheber belt that round him clung.*-
"Here, maiden, look-weep-blush to see
All that thy sire abhors in me!
Yes-I am of that impious race,

Those Slaves of Fire who, morn and even,

Hail their Creator's dwelling-place

Among the living lights of heaven !+
Yes-I am of that outcast few,
To Iran and to vengeance true,
Who curse the hour your Arabs came
To desolate our shrines of flame,
And swear, before God's burning eye,
To break our country's chains, or die!
Thy bigot sire-nay, tremble not—

He, who gave birth to those dear eyes,
With me is sacred as the spot

From which our fires of worship rise!

*

"They (the Ghebers) lay so much stress on their cushee, or girdle, as not to dare to be an instant without it."-Grose's Voyage. "Le jeune homme nia d'abord la chose; mais, ayant été dépouillé de sa robe, et la large ceinture qu'il portoit comme Ghebr," &c. &c.-D'Herbelot, art. Agduani.

"They suppose the Throne of the Almighty is seated in the sun, and hence their worship of that luminary."-Hanway.

But know-'twas him I sought that night,
When, from my watch-boat on the sea,

I caught this turret's glimmering light,

And up the rude rocks desperately

Rush'd to my prey-thou know'st the rest-
I climb'd the gory vulture's nest,
And found a trembling dove within;---
Thine, thine the victory-thine the sin-
If Love hath made one thought his own,
That vengeance claims first-last-alone!
Oh! had we never, never met,

Or could this heart ev'n now forget

How link'd, how bless'd, we might have been,
Had Fate not frown'd so dark between !
Hadst thou been born a Persian maid,

In neighbouring valleys had we dwelt,
Through the same fields in childhood play'd,
At the same kindling altar knelt,--
Then, then, while all those nameless ties
In which the charm of country lies,
Had round our hearts been hourly spun,
Till Iran's cause and thine were one ;-
While in thy lute's awakening sigh
I heard the voice of days gone by,
And saw in every smile of thine
Returning hours of glory shine!—

While the wrong'd Spirit of our Land

Liv'd, look'd, and spoke her wrongs through thee,

God! who could then this sword withstand?

Its very flash were victory!

But now-estrang'd, divorc'd for ever,

Far as the grasp of Fate can sever;

Our only ties what love has wove,—

Faith, friends, and country, sunder'd wide ;

And then, then only, true to love,

When false to all that's dear beside!

*

Thy father Iran's deadliest foe-
Thyself, perhaps, ev'n now-but no—
Hate never look'd so lovely yet!

No-sacred to thy soul will be
The land of him who could forget
All but that bleeding land for thee!
When other eyes shall see, unmov'd,

Her widows mourn, her warriors fall,
Thou'lt think how well one Gheber lov'd,
And for his sake thou'lt weep for all!
But look-______99

With sudden start he turn'd,

And pointed to the distant wave,
Where lights, like charnel meteors, burn'd
Bluely, as o'er some seaman's grave;
And fiery darts, at intervals,*

Flew up all sparkling from the main,
As if each star that nightly falls,

Were shooting back to heaven again.

My signal-lights!--I must away—
Both, both are ruin'd, if I stay.

Farewell-sweet life! thou cling'st in vain-
Now, Vengeance!--I am thine again!"
Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp'd,
Nor look'd-but from the lattice dropp'd
Down 'mid the pointed crags beneath,
As if he fled from love to death.

"The Mameluks that were in the other boat, when it was dark, used to shoot up a sort of fiery arrows into the air, which in some measure resembled lightning or falling stars."-Baumgarten.

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 comeAgain 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!