It seemed as if each thought that stained,
Each fear that chilled their loves was past,
And not one cloud of earth remained

Between him and her radiance cast;—
As if to charms, before so bright,

New grace from other worlds was given,
And his soul saw her by the light
Now breaking o'er itself from heaven!

A voice spoke near him-'twas the tone
Of a loved 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 roused the last remains
Of life within him-"What! not yet
Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!

The thought could make even Death forget His icy bondage-with a bound

He springs, all bleeding, from the ground,
And grasps his comrade's arm, now grown
Even 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 clambered 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 gained 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 sport of every ruffian's tread,

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 harmed 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 delayed?—
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 hoped when Hinda, safe and free,
Was rendered 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 cleared 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 rocked along the whispering tide ;
While every eye, in mute dismay,

Was tow'rd that fatal mountain turned,
Where the dim altar's quivering ray
As yet all lone and tranquil burned.

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, crushed 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 congealed 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, agonised 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 star-light 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 scattered death, Even 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.
What bodes its solitary glare?
In gasping silence tow'rd the Shrine
All eyes are turned-thine, Hinda, thine
Fix their last fading life-beams there.
'Twas but a moment-fierce and high
The death-pile blazed into the sky,
And far away, o'er rock and flood

Its melancholy radiance sent ;
While Hafed like a vision stood
Revealed before the burning pyre,
Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire
Shrined in its own grand element !
""Tis he!"-the shuddering maid exclaims,-
But, while she speaks, he's seen no more;