Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates,*

Or on the snowy Mossian mountains,
Far from his beauteous land of dates,

Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains:
Yet happier so than if he trod

His own belov'd, but blighted, sod,
Beneath a despot stranger's nod! -
Oh, he would rather houseless roam
Where Freedom and his God may lead,
Than be the sleekest slave at home
That crouches to the conqueror's creed!

IS IRAN'S pride then gone for ever,

Quench'd with the flame in MITHRA's caves?No-she has sons, that never — never —

Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves,

While heaven has light or earth has graves;

Spirits of fire, that brood not long,

But flash resentment back for wrong;

And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds
Of vengeance ripen into deeds,

Till, in some treacherous hour of calm,

They burst, like ZEILAN's giant palm,†

* Derbend."Les Tures appellent cette ville Demir Capi, Porte de Fer; ce sont les Caspia Porta des anciens." -D'HERBELOT.

† The Talpot or Talipot tree. "This beautiful palm-tree, which grows in the heart of the forests, may be classed among the loftiest trees, and becomes still higher when on the point of bursting forth from its leafy summit. The sheath which then envelopes the flower is very large, and, when it bursts, makes an explosion like the report of a cannon."-THUNberg.

Whose buds fly open with a sound
That shakes the pigmy forests roun"!

Yes, EMIR! he, who scal'd that tower,
And, had he reach'd thy slumbering breast,
Had taught thee, in a Gheber's power

How safe ev'n tyrant heads may rest-
Is one of many, brave as he,

Who loathe thy haughty race and thee;
Who, though they know the strife is vain,
Who, though they know the riven chain
Snaps but to enter in the heart
Of him who rends its links apart,

Yet dare the issue, blest to be

Ev'n for one bleeding moment free,

And die in pangs of liberty!

Thou know'st them well- 'tis some moons since

Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags,

Thou satrap of a bigot Prince,

Have swarm'd among these Green Sea crags;

Yet here, ev'n here, a sacred band

Ay, in the portal of that land

Thou, Arab, dar'st to call thy own,

Their spears across thy path have thrown;

Rebellion! foul, dishonouring word,

Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd The holiest cause that tongue or sword

Of mortal ever lost or gain'd.

How many a spirit, born to bless,

Hath sunk beneath that withering name,
Whom but a day's, an hour's success

Had wafted to eternal fame!

As exhalations, when they burst

From the warm earth, if chill'd at first,
If check'd in soaring from the plain,
Darken to fogs and sink again;
But, if they once triumphant spread
Their wings above the mountain-head,
Become enthron'd in upper air,
And turn to sun-bright glories there!

And who is he, that wields the might

Of Freedom on the Green Sea brink,
Before whose sabre's dazzling light*

The eyes of YEMEN'S warriors wink?
Who comes, embower'd in the spears
Of KERMAN's hardy mountaineers?
Those mountaineers that truest, last,

Cling to their country's ancient rites,
As if that God, whose eyelids cast

Their closing gleam on IRAN's heights,
Among her snowy mountains threw
The last light of his worship too!

"When the bright cimitars make the eyes of our heroes wink."-The Moallakat, Poem of Amru.

Shout but that awful name around,

And palsy shakes the manliest arm.
'Tis HAFED, most accurs'd and dire
(So rank'd by Moslem hate and ire)
Of all the rebel Sons of Fire;
Of whose malign, tremendous power
The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour,
Such tales of fearful wonder tell,
That each affrighted sentinel
Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes,
Lest HAFED in the midst should rise!
A man, they say, of monstrous birth,
A mingled race of flame and earth,
Sprung from those old, enchanted kings,*
Who in their fairy helms, of yore
A feather from the mystic wings
Of the Simoorgh resistless wore;
And gifted by the fiends of Fire,
Who groan'd to see their shrines expire,
With charms that, all in vain withstood,
Would drown the Koran's light in blood!

Such were the tales that won belief,

And such the colouring Fancy gave

To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief,

One who, no more than mortal brave,

* Tahmuras, and other ancient Kings of Persia; whose adventures in Fairyland among the Peris and Dives may be found in Richardson's curious Dissertation. The griffin Simoorgh, they say, took some feathers from her breast for Tahmuras, with which he adorned his helmet, and transmitted them afterwards to his descendants.

Fought for the land his soul ador'd,
For happy homes and altars free, -
His only talisman, the sword,

His only spell-word, Liberty!

One of that ancient hero line,

Along whose glorious current shine
Names, that have sanctified their blood;
AS LEBANON's small mountain-flood
Is render'd holy by the ranks

Of sainted cedars on its banks.*

"Twas not for him to crouch the knee

Tamely to Moslem tyranny;

"Twas not for him, whose soul was cast
In the bright mould of ages past,

Whose melancholy spirit, fed

With all the glories of the dead,
Though fram'd for IRAN's happiest years,
Was born among her chains and tears!
'Twas not for him to swell the crowd
Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow'd
Before the Moslem, as he pass'd,

Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast

* This rivulet, says Dandini, is called the Holy River, from the "cedar-saints" among which it rises.

In the Lettres Edifiantes, there is a different cause assigned for its name of Holy. "In these are deep caverns, which formerly served as so many cells for a great number of recluses, who had chosen these retreats as the only witnesses upon earth of the severity of their penance. The tears of these pious penitents gave the river of which we have just treated the name of the Holy River." — CHATEAUBRIAND's Beauties of Christianity.