Once, at thy evening tales of blood
Unlistening and aloof she stood-
And oft, when thou hast pac'd along
Thy haram halls with furious heat,
Hast thou not curs'd her cheerful song,
That came across thee, calm and sweet,
Like lutes of angels, touch'd so near
Hell's confines, that the damn'd can hear!
Far other feelings Love hath brought-
Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness, She now has but the one dear thought,
And thinks that o'er, almost to madness! Oft doth her sinking heart recall
His words" For my sake weep for all;" And bitterly, as day on day
Of rebel carnage fast succeeds,
She weeps a lover snatch'd away
In every Gheber wretch that bleeds. There's not a sabre meets her
But with his life-blood seems to swim ;
There's not an arrow wings the sky,
But fancy turns its point to him.
No more she brings, with footstep light,
AL HASSAN'S falchion for the fight;
And had he look'd with clearer sight,
Had not the mists, that ever rise
From a foul spirit, dimm'd his eyes--
He would have mark'd her shuddering frame,
When from the field of blood he came,
The faltering speech-the look estrang'd—
Voice, step, and life, and beauty chang'd,
He would have mark'd all this, and known Such change is wrought by Love alone!
Ah! not the love, that should have bless'd
So young, so innocent a breast;
Not the pure, open, prosperous love,
That, pledg'd on earth, and seal'd above,
Grows in the world's approving eyes,
In friendship smile, and home's caress,
Collecting all the heart's sweet ties
Into one knot of happiness!
No, HINDA, no-thy fatal flame
Is nurs'd in silence, sorrow, shame;
A passion, without hope or pleasure,
In thy soul's darkness buried deep,
It lies, like some ill-gotten treasure,—
Some idol, without shrine or name,
O'er which its pale-eyed votaries keep
Unholy watch, while others sleep!
Seven nights have darken'd Oman's Sea,
Since last, beneath the moonlight ray,
She saw his light oar rapidly
Hurry her Gheber's bark away,-
And still she goes, at midnight hour,
To weep alone in that high bower,
And watch, and look along the deep
For him whose smiles first made her weep,—
But watching, weeping, all was vain,
She never saw his bark again.
The owlet's solitary cry,
The night-hawk, flitting darkly by,
And oft the hateful carrion-bird,
Heavily flapping his clogg'd wing,
Which reek'd with that day's banqueting-
Was all she saw, was all she heard.
'Tis the eighth morn-AL HASSAN's brow
Is brighten'd with unusual joy ;-
What mighty mischief glads him now,
Who never smiles but to destroy?
The sparkle upon Herkend's Sea,
When toss'd at midnight furiously,*
Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh,
More surely than that smiling eye!
Up, daughter, up--the kerna's + breath
Has blown a blast would waken death,
And yet thou sleep'st,-up, child, and see
This blessed day for Heaven and me,
A day more rich in Pagan blood
Than ever flash'd o'er Oman's flood.
Before another dawn shall shine,
His head-heart-limbs-will all be mine;
This very night, his blood shall steep
These hands all over ere I sleep!"--
"His blood!" she faintly scream'd—her mind
Still singling one from all mankind.--
"It is observed, with respect to the Sea of Herkend, that when it is tossed by tempestuous winds, it sparkles like fire."-Travels of Two Mohammedans.
A kind of trumpet ;-it "was that used by Tamerlane, the sound of which is described as uncommonly dreadful, and so loud as to be heard at the distance of several miles."-Richardson.
"Yes-spite of his ravines and towers,
HAFED, my child, this night is ours.
Thanks to all-conquering treachery,
Without whose aid the links accurst,
That bind these impious slaves, would be
Too strong for Alla's self to burst!
That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread
My path with piles of Moslem dead,
Whose baffling spells had almost driven
Back from their course the Swords of Heaven,
This night, with all his band, shall know
How deep an Arab's steel can go,
When God and vengeance speed the blow.
And, Prophet!-by that holy wreath
Thou wor❜st on Ohod's field of death,*
I swear, for every sob that parts
In anguish from these heathen hearts,
A gem from Persia's plunder'd mines
Shall glitter on thy Shrine of Shrines!
But, ha!-she sinks-that look so wild-
Those livid lips-my child, my child!
This life of blood befits not thee,
And thou must back to Araby.
Ne'er had I risk'd thy timid sex
In scenes that man himself might dread,
Had I not hop'd our every tread
Would be on prostrate Persian necks-
Curst race, they offer swords instead!
But cheer thee, maid,—the wind that now
Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow,
To-day shall waft thee from the shore;
And, ere a drop of this night's gore
Have time to chill in yonder towers,
Thou 'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers!"
* "Mohammed had two helmets, an interior and exterior one; the latter of which, called Al Mawashah, the fillet, wreath, or wreathed garland, he wore at the battle of Ohod."-Universal History.
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