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"Tis moonlight over OMAN'S SEA; 214

Her banks of pearl and balmy isles Bask in the night-beam beauteously,

And her blue waters sleep in smiles. 'Tis moonlight in HARMOZIA'S 215 walls, And through her EMIR'S porphyry halls, Where, some hours since, was heard the swell Of trumpet and the clash of zel, 216 Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell;The peaceful sun, whom better suits The music of the bulbul's nest, Or the light touch of lovers' lutes,

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To sing him to his golden rest.

All hush'd there's not a breeze in motion;
The shore is silent as the ocean.

If zephyrs come, so light they come,

Nor leaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven ;The wind-tower on the EMIR'S dome 217 Can hardly win a breath from heaven.

Even he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps
Calm, while a nation round him weeps;
While curses load the air he breathes,
And falchions from unnumber'd sheaths
Are starting to avenge the shame

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His race hath brought on IRAN'S name.

Hard, heartless Chief, unmov'd alike
Mid eyes that weep, and swords that strike ;-
One of that saintly, murderous brood,

To carnage and the Koran given,
Who think through unbeliever's blood
Lies their directest path to heaven;-
One, who will pause and kneel unshod
In the warm blood his hand hath pour'd,
To mutter o'er some text of God

Engraven on his reeking sword; 219
Nay, who can coolly note the line,

The letter of those words divine,

To which his blade, with searching art,
Had sunk into its victim's heart!

Just ALLA! what must be thy look,

When such a wretch before thee stands

Unblushing, with thy Sacred Book,

Turning the leaves with blood-stain'd hands, And wresting from its page sublime

His creed of lust, and hate, and crime e;
Even as those bees of TREBIZOND,

Which, from the sunniest flowers that glad
With their pure smile the gardens round,
Draw venom forth that drives men mad. 220

Never did fierce ARABIA send

A satrap forth more direly great ;
Never was IRAN doom'd to bend
Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight.

Her throne had fallen-her pride was crush'd--
Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush'd,
In their own land, no more their own,—
To crouch beneath a stranger's throne.
Her towers, where MITHRA once had burn'd,
To Moslem shrines-oh shame !—were turn'd,
Where slaves, converted by the sword,
Their mean, apostate worship pour'd,
And curs'd the faith their sires ador'd.
Yet has she hearts, mid all this ill,
O'er all this wreck high, buoyant still

With hope and vengeance ;-hearts that yet—
Like gems, in darkness, issuing rays

They've treasur'd from the sun that's set,-
Beam all the light of long-lost days!
And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow
To second all such hearts can dare;
As he shall know, well dearly know,
Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there,
Tranquil as if his spirit lay

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