A voice spoke near him-'twas the tone
Of a lov'd friend, the only one

Of all his warriors, left with life

From that short night's tremendous strife.-
"And must we then, my Chief, die here?
"Foes round us, and the Shrine so near!"
These words have rous'd the last remains
Of life within him-"What! not yet

3 Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!
The thought could make e'en Death forget
His icy bondage-with a bound

He springs, all bleeding, from the ground,
And
grasps
his comrade's arm, now grown
E'en feebler, heavier than his own,

And up the painful pathway leads,

Death gaining on each step he treads.

Speed them, thou God, who heard'st their vow!
They mount-they bleed-oh, save them now!-
The crags are red they've clamber'd o'er,
The rock-weed's dripping with their gore ;—

Thy blade too, HAFED, false at length,
Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength!
Haste, haste the voices of the Foe
Come near and nearer from below-
One effort more-thank Heaven! 'tis past,
They've gain'd the topmost steep at last.
And now they touch the temple's walls,
Now HAFED sees the Fire divine-
When, lo!—his weak, worn comrade falls
Dead on the threshold of the Shrine.
"Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled!

"And must I leave thee withering here,

"The mark for every coward's spear?

No, by yon altar's sacred beams!"

He cries, and, with a strength that seems Not of this world, uplifts the frame

Of the fallen Chief, and tow'rds the flame

Bears him along ;-with death-damp hand
The corpse upon the pyre he lays,
Then lights the consecrated brand,

And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze
Like lightning bursts o'er OMAN'S Sea.-
"Now, Freedom's God! I come to Thee,"
The youth exclaims, and with a smile.
Of triumph vaulting on the pile
In that last effort, ere the fires

Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires!

What shriek was that on OMAN'S tide?
It came from yonder drifting bark,
That just hath caught upon her side.

The death-light-and again is dark.
It is the boat-ah, why delay'd?—
That bears the wretched Moslem maid;
Confided to the watchful care

Of a small veteran band, with whom Their generous Chieftain would not share The secret of his final doom,

But hop'd when HINDA, safe and free,
Was render'd to her father's eyes,
Their pardon, full and prompt, would be
The ransom of so dear a prize.—
Unconscious, thus, of HAFED's fate,
And proud to guard their beauteous freight,
Scarce had they clear'd the surfy waves
That foam around those frightful caves,
When the curst war-whoops, known so well,
Came echoing from the distant dell—
Sudden each oar, upheld and still,

Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side, And, driving at the current's will,

They rock'd along the whispering tide; While every eye, in mute dismay,

Was tow'rd that fatal mountain turn'd, Where the dim altar's quivering ray

As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd.

Oh! 'tis not, HINDA, in the power
Of Fancy's most terrific touch
To paint thy pangs in that dread hour-
Thy silent agony 'twas such

As those who feel could paint too well,
But none e'er felt and lived to tell!
'Twas not alone the dreary state
Of a lorn spirit crush'd by fate,

When, though no more remains to dread,
The panic chill will not depart ;-

When, though the inmate Hope be dead,

Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart. No-pleasures, hopes, affections gone, The wretch may bear, and yet live on, Like things, within the cold rock found Alive, when all's congeal'd around. But there's a blank repose in this,

A calm stagnation, that were bliss

To the keen, burning, harrowing pain,

Now felt through all thy breast and brain ;

That spasm of terror, mute, intense,

That breathless, agoniz'd suspense,

From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching,

The heart hath no relief but breaking!

Calm is the wave-heaven's brilliant lights
Reflected dance beneath the prow ;-
Time was when, on such lovely nights,

She who is there, so desolate now,
Could sit all cheerful, though alone,
And ask no happier joy than seeing
That starlight o'er the waters thrown-
No joy but that, to make her blest,

And the fresh, buoyant sense of being,
Which bounds in youth's yet careless breast,-
Itself a star, not borrowing light,

But in its own glad essence bright.
How different now !-but, hark, again
The yell of havoc rings-brave men!
In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand.
On the bark's edge-in vain each hand
Half draws the falchion from its sheath;

All's o'er-in rust your blades may lie :-
He, at whose word they've scatter'd death,
E'en now, this night, himself must die!
Well may ye look to yon dim tower,

And ask, and wondering guess what means

The battle-cry at this dead hour

Ah! she could tell you-she, who leans
Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast,
With brow against the dew-cold mast;
Too well she knows-her more than life,
Her soul's first idol and its last,

Lies bleeding in that murderous strife.

But see what moves upon the height?
Some signal!-'tis a torch's light.