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As 'twere the flag of destiny,

Hung out to mark where death would be!

Had her bewilder'd mind the power

Of thought in this terrific hour,

She well might marvel where or how

Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow;

Since ne'er had Arab heard or known

Of path but through the glen alone.-
But every thought was lost in fear,
When, as their bounding bark drew near
The craggy base, she felt the waves
Hurry them tow'rd those dismal caves,
That from the deep in windings pass
Beneath that mount's volcanic mass-
And loud a voice on deck commands

To lower the mast and light the brands !—
Instantly o'er the dashing tide

Within a cavern's mouth they glide,
Gloomy as that eternal porch,

Through which departed spirits go;--
Not ev❜n the flare of band and torch
Its flickering light could further throw
Than the thick flood that boil'd below.
Silent they floated-as if each
Sat breathless, and too awed for speech
In that dark chasm, where even sound
Seem'd dark, so sullenly around
The goblin echoes of the cave
Mutter'd it o'er the long black wave,
grave !

As 'twere some secret from the

But soft-they pause the current turns
Beneath them from its onward track ;-
Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns
The vexed tide, all foaming, back,
And scarce the oar's redoubled force
Can stem the eddy's whirling course;
When, hark!-some desperate foot has sprung
Among the rocks-the chain is flung-
The oars are up-the grapple clings,
And the toss'd bark in moorings swings.
Just then, a daybeam through the shade
Broke tremulous-but, ere the maid.
Can see from whence the brightness steals,
Upon her brow she shuddering feels
A viewless hand, that promptly ties
A bandage round her burning eyes;
While the rude litter where she lies,
Uplifted by the warrior throng,
O'er the steep rocks is borne along.

Blest power of sunshine! genial Day,
What balm, what life, is in thy ray!
To feel thee is such real bliss,
That had the world no joy but this,
To sit in sunshine calm and sweet,-
It were a world too exquisite
For man to leave it for the gloom,
The deep, cold shadow of the tomb!
Ev'n HINDA, though she saw not where

Or whither wound the perilous road,
Yet knew by that awakening air,

Which suddenly around her glow'd,


But soon this balmy freshness fled-
For now the steepy labyrinth led

Through damp and gloom-'mid crash of boughs,
And fall of loosen'd crags that rouse

The leopard from his hungry sleep,

Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey,
And long is heard from steep to steep,

Chasing them down their thundering way!
The jackal's cry-the distant moan
Of the hyæna, fierce and lone ;-
And that eternal, saddening sound

Of torrents in the glen beneath,
As 'twere the ever-dark profound
That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death!

All, all is fearful-ev'n to see,
To gaze on those terrific things
She now but blindly hears, would be
Relief to her imaginings!

Since never yet was shape so dread,
But Fancy, thus in darkness thrown,
And by such sounds of horror fed,

Could frame more dreadful of her own.

But does she dream? has fear again
Perplex'd the workings of her brain?
Or did a voice, all music, then

Come from the gloom, low whispering near-
"Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here?"
She does not dream-all sense, all ear,
She drinks the words, "Thy Gheber's here."
'Twas his own voice-she could not err-
Throughout the breathing world's extent
There was but one such voice for her,
So kind, so soft, so eloquent!
Oh! sooner shall the rose of May'

Mistake her own sweet nightingale,

And to some meaner minstrel's lay

Open her bosom's glowing veil,*
Than Love shall ever doubt a tone,

A breath of the beloved one!

Though blest, 'mid all her ills, to think
She has that one beloved near,

* A frequent image among the Oriental poets. "The nightingales warbled their enchanting notes, and rent the thin veils of the rosebud and the rose."—Jami.

Whose smile, though met on ruin's brink,
Hath power to make ev'n ruin dear,—
Yet soon this gleam of rapture, cross'd
By fears for him, is chill'd and lost.
How shall the ruthless HAFED brook
That one of Gheber blood should look,
With aught but curses in his eye,
On her a maid of Araby-
A Moslem maid-the child of him,
Whose bloody banner's dire success
Hath left their altars cold and dim,

And their fair land a wilderness!
And, worse than all, that night of blood
Which comes so fast-oh! who shall stay
The sword, that once hath tasted food
Of Persian hearts, or turn its way?
What arm shall then the victim cover,
Or from her father shield her lover?

"Save him, my God!" she inly cries"Save him this night-and if thine eyes Have ever welcom'd with delight

The sinner's tears, the sacrifice

Of sinners' hearts-guard him this night, And here, before thy throne, I swear

From my

heart's inmost core to tear

Love, hope, remembrance, though they be Link'd with each quivering life-string there, And give it bleeding all to Thee! Let him but live, the burning tear, The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear,

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