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The pomp is at an end,—the crowds are gone-
Each ear and heart still haunted by the tone

Of that deep voice, which thrill'd like ALLA's own!
The young all dazzled by the plumes and lances,
The glittering throne, and Haram's half-caught glances;
The old deep pondering on the promis'd reign
Of peace and truth; and all the female train
Ready to risk their eyes, could they but gaze
A moment on that brow's miraculous blaze!

But there was one, among the chosen maids
Who blush'd behind the gallery's silken shades,
One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day
Has been like death;-you saw her pale dismay,
Ye wondering sisterhood, and heard the burst
Of exclamation from her lips, when first
She saw that youth, too well, too dearly known,
Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne.

Ah, ZELICA! there was a time, when bliss
Shone o'er thy heart from every look of his;
When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air
In which he dwelt, was thy soul's fondest prayer!
When round him hung such a perpetual spell,
Whate'er he did, none ever did so well.
Too happy days! when, if he touch'd a flower
Or gem of thine, 'twas sacred from that hour;
When thou didst study him, till every tone
And gesture and dear look became thy own,-
Thy voice like his, the changes of his face
In thine reflected with still lovelier grace,

Like echo, sending back sweet music, fraught
With twice th' aerial sweetness it had brought!
Yet now he comes-brighter than even he
E'er beam'd before,-but ah! not bright for thee;
No-dread, unlook'd for, like a visitant

From th' other world, he comes as if to haunt
Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight,
Long lost to all but memory's aching sight:-
Sad dreams! as when the Spirit of our Youth
Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth
And innocence once ours, and leads us back,
In mournful mockery, o'er the shining track
Of our young life, and points out every ray
Of hope and peace we've lost upon the way

Once happy pair!—in proud Bokhara's groves,
Who had not heard of their first youthful loves?
Born by that ancient flood, which from its spring
In the Dark Mountains swiftly wandering,
Enrich'd by every pilgrim brook that shines
With relics from Bucharia's ruby mines,
And, lending to the Caspian half its strength,
In the cold Lake of Eagles sinks at length;-
There, on the banks of that bright river born,
The flowers, that hung above its wave at morn,
Bless'd not the waters, as they murmur'd by,
With holier scent and lustre, than the sigh

And virgin glance of first affection cast

Upon their youth's smooth current, as it pass'd!

* The Amoo, which rises in the Belur Tag, or Dark Mountains, and running nearly from east to west, splits into two branches, one of which falls into the Caspian Sea, and the other into Aral Nahr, or the Lake of Eagles.

But war disturb'd this vision-far away
From her fond eyes, summon'd to join th' array
Of Persia's warriors on the hills of Thrace,
The youth exchang'd his sylvan dwelling-place
For the rude tent and war-field's deathful clash;
His ZELICA'S Sweet glances for the flash
Of Grecian wild-fire, and Love's gentle chains
For bleeding bondage on Byzantium's plains.

Month after month, in widowhood of soul Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll Their suns away-but, ah! how cold and dim Ev'n summer's suns, when not beheld with him! From time to time ill-omen'd rumours came, (Like spirit-tongues, muttering the sick man's name, Just ere he dies)—at length, those sounds of dread Fell withering on her soul, "AZIM is dead!" Oh grief, beyond all other griefs, when fate First leaves the young heart lone and desolate In the wide world, without that only tie For which it lov'd to live or fear'd to die ;Lorn as the hung-up lute, that ne'er hath spoken Since the sad day its master-chord was broken!

Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was such,
Ev'n reason sunk blighted beneath its touch;
And though, ere long, her sanguine spirit rose
Above the first dead pressure of its woes,
Though health and bloom return'd, the delicate chain
Of thought, once tangled, never clear'd again.

Warm, lively, soft, as in youth's happiest day,
The mind was still all there, but turn'd astray ;-

A wandering bark, upon whose pathway shone
All stars of heav'n, except the guiding one!
Again she smil'd, nay, much and brightly smil'd,
But 'twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild;

And when she sung to her lute's touching strain,
'Twas like the notes, half ecstasy, half pain,

The bulbul* utters, ere her soul depart,

When, vanquish'd by some minstrel's powerful art,

She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke her heart!

Such was the mood in which that mission found

Young ZELICA, that mission, which around

The Eastern world, in every region blest

With woman's smile, sought out its loveliest,

To grace that galaxy of lips and eyes,

Which the Veil'd Prophet destin'd for the skies!--
And such quick welcome as a spark receives
Dropp'd on a bed of autumn's wither'd leaves,
Did every tale of these enthusiasts find

In the wild maiden's sorrow-blighted mind.

All fire at once the madd'ning zeal she caught ;—
Elect of Paradise! blest, rapturous thought!
Predestin'd bride, in heaven's eternal dome,

Of some brave youth-ha! durst they say "of some?"
No-of the one, one only object trac'd

In her heart's core too deep to be effac'd;

The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twin'd

With every broken link of her lost mind;

Whose image lives, though Reason's self be wreck'd,

Safe 'mid the ruins of her intellect!

*The nightingale.

Alas, poor ZELICA! it needed all

The fantasy which held thy mind in thrall,
To see in that gay Haram's glowing maids
A sainted colony for Eden's shades;


Or dream that he,-of whose unholy flame Thou wert too soon the victim,-shining came From Paradise, to people its pure sphere

With souls like thine, which he hath ruin'd here!

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