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, when 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 the shade, some pious hands had erected 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 Persian gulf.-" To dive for pearls in the Green Sea, or Persian Gulf." Sir W. Jones.

Revealing Bahrein's groves of palm,

And lighting Kishma's* 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,
Had 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 scimitar ‡

That ever youthful Sultan wore

On the first morning of his reign!

And see

-the Sun himself!-on wings Of glory up the east he springs.

+ 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."

Angel of light! who, from the time
Those heavens began their march sublime,
Hath first of all the starry choir,

Trod in his Maker's steps of fire!

Where are the days, thou wondrous 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, †

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!

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

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

Is Iran's pride then gone for ever,

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

Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves,
While heav'n 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, had he reach'd thy slumbering breast,

Had taught thee, in a Gheber's power

How safe ev'n tyrant heads may rest—

Is 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!

*The Talpot or Talipot tree. "This beautiful palm-tree, which grows in the heart of the forests, may be classed 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."-Thunberg.