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Wild warriors of the turquoise hills,*--and those
Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows

Of Hindoo Kosh, † in stormy freedom bred,
Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent's bed.
But none, of all who own'd the Chief's command,
Rush'd to that battle-field with bolder hand
Or sterner hate than Iran's outlaw'd men,
Her worshippers of Fire -all panting then
For vengeance on th' accursed Saracen ;-
Vengeance at last for their dear country spurn'd,
Her throne usurp'd, and her bright shrines o'erturn'd.
From Yezd's § eternal Mansion of the Fire,
Where aged saints in dreams of heaven expire;
From Badku, and those fountains of blue flame
That burn into the Caspian,|| fierce they came,
Careless for what or whom the blow was sped,
So vengeance triumph'd, and their tyrants bled!

Such was the wild and miscellaneous host,
That high in air their motley banners toss'd

* In the mountains of Nishapour and Tous (in Khorassan) they find turquoises.— Ebn Haukal.

For a description of these stupendous ranges of mountains, vide Elphinstone's Caubul.

The Ghebers, or Guebres, those original natives of Persia who adhered to their ancient faith, the religion of Zoroaster, and who, after the conquest of their country by the Arabs, were either persecuted at home, or forced to become wanderers abroad.

§ Yezd, the chief residence of those ancient natives who worship the Sun and the Fire, which latter they have carefully kept lighted, without being once extinguished for a moment, above 3000 years, on a mountain near Yezd, called Ater Quedah, signifying, the House or Mansion of the Fire. He is reckoned very unfortunate who dies off that mountain."-Stephen's Persia.

"When the weather is hazy, the springs of naptha (on an island near Baku) boil up the higher, and the naptha often takes fire on the surface of the earth, and runs in a flame into the sea to a distance almost incredible."-Hanway on the Everlasting Fire at Baku.

Around the Prophet-Chief-all eyes still bent
Upon that glittering Veil, where'er it went,
That beacon through the battle's stormy flood,
That rainbow of the field, whose showers were blood!

Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set,
And ris'n again, and found them grappling yet;
While steams of carnage, in his noon-tide blaze,

Smoke up to heaven-hot as that crimson haze,
By which the prostrate caravan is aw’d,

In the red desert, when the wind's abroad!


On, Swords of God!" the panting Caliph calls,

"Thrones for the living-heaven for him who falls!"


On, brave avengers, on!" MOKANNA cries,

"And Eblis blast the recreant slave that flies!"

Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day-
They clash-they strive-the Caliph's troops give way!
MOKANNA's self plucks the black banner down,
And now the Orient World's imperial crown
Is just within his grasp when, hark, that shout!
Some hand hath check'd the flying Moslems' rout,
And now they turn-they rally-at their head
A warrior (like those angel youths, who led,

In glorious panoply of heaven's own mail,

The Champions of the Faith through Beder's vale,) *
Bold, as if gifted with ten thousand lives,

Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and drives

At once the multitudinous torrent back,

While hope and courage kindle in his track,

* In the great victory gained by Mahomed at Beder, he was assisted, say the Mussulmans, by three thousand angels, led by Gabriel, mounted on his horse Hiazum. -The Koran and its Commentators.

And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes
Terrible vistas through which victory breaks!
In vain MOKANNA, 'midst the general flight,
Stands, like the red moon, on some stormy night,
Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by,
Leave only her unshaken in the sky!--
In vain he yells his desperate curses out,
Deals death promiscuously to all about,
To foes that charge and coward friends that fly,
And seems of all the great Arch-enemy!
The panic spreads- "A miracle!" throughout
The Moslem ranks, "A miracle!" they shout,
All gazing on that youth, whose coming seems
A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams;
And every sword, true as o'er billows dim
The needle tracks the load-star, following him!

Right tow'rds MOKANNA now he cleaves his path— Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath He bears from heaven withheld its awful burst From weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst, To break o'er him, the mightiest and the worst! But vain his speed-though, in that hour of blood, Had all God's seraphs round MOKANNA stood, With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall, MOKANNA'S Soul would have defied them all ;---Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong For human force, hurries ev'n him along; In vain he struggles 'mid the wedg'd array Of flying thousands, he is borne away; And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows In this forc'd flight is murdering, as he goes!

As a grim tiger, whom the torrent's might
Surprises in some parch'd ravine at night,
Turns, ev'n in drowning, on the wretched flocks
Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks,
And, to the last, devouring on his way,
Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay!

“Alla illa Alla !"—the glad shout renew-
"Alla Akbar!"*-the Caliph's in Merou.
Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets,
And light your shrines, and chaunt your ziraleets; †
The Swords of God have triumph'd—on his throne
Your Caliph sits, and the Veil'd Chief hath flown.
Who does not envy that young warrior now,
To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow,
In all the graceful gratitude of power,
For his throne's safety in that perilous hour?
Who doth not wonder, when, amidst th' acclaim
Of thousands, heralding to heaven his name-
'Mid all those holier harmonies of fame,
Which sound along the path of virtuous souls,
Like music round a planet as it rolls,—
He turns away coldly, as if some gloom
Hung o'er his heart, no triumphs can illume-
Some sightless grief, upon whose blasted gaze
Though glory's light may play, in vain it plays!
Yes, wretched AZIM! thine is such a grief,
Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief;

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The ziraleet is a kind of chorus, which the women of the East sing upon joyful occasions.-Russel.

A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break,
Or warm, or brighten,-like that Syrian lake,*
Upon whose surface morn and summer shed
Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead!

Hearts there have been, o'er which this weight of woe
Came by long use of suffering, tame and slow;
But thine, lost youth! was sudden—over thee
It broke at once, when all seem'd ecstasy;
When Hope look'd up, and saw the gloomy Past
Melt into splendour, and Bliss dawn at last—
'Twas then, ev'n then, o'er joys so freshly blown,
This mortal blight of misery came down;
Ev'n then, the full, warm gushings of thy heart
Were check'd-like fount-drops, frozen as they start;
And there, like them, cold, sunless relics hang,
Each fix'd and chill'd into a lasting pang!

One sole desire, one passion now remains,

To keep life's fever still within his veins,—
Vengeance!-dire vengeance on the wretch who cast
O'er him and all he lov'd that ruinous blast.

For this, when rumours reach'd him in his flight
Far, far away, after that fatal night,-

Rumours of armies, thronging to th' attack

Of the Veil'd Chief,—for this he wing'd him back,
Fleet as the vulture speeds to flags unfurl'd,
And came when all seem'd lost, and wildly hurl'd

Himself into the scale, and sav'd a world!

For this he still lives on, careless of all

The wreaths that glory on his path lets fall;

*The Dead Sea, which contains neither animal nor vegetable life.

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