"I know him—he'll not wait for night!"

In terrors ev'n to agony

66

She clings around the wondering Chief ;wilder'd maid! to me

Alas, poor

"Thou ow'st this raving trance of grief. "Lost as I am, nought ever grew

"Beneath my shade but perish'd too

"My doom is like the Dead Sea air,

"And nothing lives that enters there!

66

"Why were our barks together driven
"Beneath this morning's furious heaven?

66

'Why, when I saw the prize that chance

"Had thrown into my desperate arms, "When, casting but a single glance

"Upon thy pale and prostrate charms, 'I vow'd (though watching viewless o'er "Thy safety through that hour's alarms) "To meet the unmanning sight no more "Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow?

'Why weakly, madly met thee now?

"Start not that noise is but the shock

"Of torrents through yon valley hurl'd "Dread nothing here upon this rock "We stand above the jarring world, "Alike beyond its hope its dread

"In gloomy safety, like the Dead!

"Or, could ev'n earth and hell unite

"In league to storm this Sacred Height, "Fear nothing thou myself, to-night,

"And each o'erlooking star that dwells
"Near God will be thy sentinels; -
"And, ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow,

"The night-cry through each reeking tower, "Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour!

"Thou art betray'd · some wretch who knew
"That dreadful glen's mysterious clew-
"Nay, doubt not-by yon stars, 'tis true
"Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire;
"This morning, with that smile so dire,
"He wears in joy, he told me all,

"And stamp'd in triumph through our hall,
"As though thy heart already beat
"Its last life-throb beneath his feet!

"Good Heav'n, how little dream'd I then

"His victim was my own lov'd youth! "Fly-send let some one watch the glen

66

By all my hopes of heaven 'tis truth!”

Oh! colder than the wind that freezes
Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd,
Is that congealing pang which seizes
The trusting bosom, when betray'd.
He felt it deeply felt and stood,
As if the tale had froz'n his blood,

Like one whom sudden spells enchant,
Or some mute, marble habitant

Of the still Halls of ISHмONIE!

But soon the painful chill was o'er,
And his great soul, herself once more,
Look'd from his brow in all the rays
Of her best, happiest, grandest days.
Never, in moment most elate,

Did that high spirit loftier rise;-
While bright, serene, determinate,
His looks are lifted to the skies,
As if the signal lights of Fate

Were shining in those awful eyes!
'Tis come his hour of martyrdom
In IRAN's sacred cause is come;
And, though his life hath pass'd away
Like lightning on a stormy day,

Yet shall his death-hour leave a track
Of glory, permanent and bright,
To which the brave of after-times,
The suffering brave, shall long look back

With proud regret, and by its light

Watch through the hours of slavery's night
For vengeance on the' oppressor's crimes.

This rock, his monument aloft,

Shall speak the tale to many an age;

For an account of Ishmonie, the petrified city in Upper Egypt, where it is said there are many statues of men, women, &c. to be seen to this day, see Perry's View of the Levant.

And hither bards and heroes oft

Shall come in secret pilgrimage,
And bring their warrior sons, and tell
The wondering boys where HAFED fell;
And swear them on those lone remains
Of their lost country's ancient fanes,
Never - while breath of life shall live

The' accursed race, whose ruthless chain
Hath left on IRAN's neck a stain

Blood, blood alone can cleanse again!

Such are the swelling thoughts that now
Enthrone themselves on HAFED's brow;
And ne'er did Saint of Issa* gaze

On the red wreath, for martyrs twin'd,
More proudly than the youth surveys

That pile, which through the gloom behind, Half lighted by the altar's fire,

Glimmers - his destin'd funeral pyre!

Heap'd by his own, his comrades' hands,
Of every wood of odorous breath,
There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands,
Ready to fold in radiant death

The few still left of those who swore
To perish there, when hope was o'er-

The few, to whom that couch of flame,
Which rescues them from bonds and shame,

* Jesus.

Is sweet and welcome as the bed

For their own infant Prophet spread,
When pitying Heav'n to roses turn'd
The death-flames that beneath him burn'd! *

With watchfulness the maid attends

His rapid glance, where'er it bends —
Why shoot his eyes such awful beams?
What plans he now? what thinks or dreams?
Alas! why stands he musing here,
When every moment teams with fear?
"HAFED, my own beloved Lord,"
She kneeling cries-"first, last ador'd!
"If in that soul thou'st ever felt

66

"Half what thy lips impassion'd swore,
Here, on my knees that never knelt
"To any but their God before,

"I pray thee, as thou lov'st me, fly –

66 Now, now

"Oh haste

ere yet their blades are nigh.

the bark that bore me hither

"Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea
"Eastwest-alas, I care not whither,

"So thou art safe, and I with thee!

* The Ghebers say that when Abraham, their great Prophet, was thrown into the fire by order of Nimrod, the flame turned instantly into "a bed of roses, where the child sweetly reposed."— Tavernier.

Of their other Prophet, Zoroaster, there is a story told in Dion Prusæus, Orat. 36, that the love of wisdom and virtue leading him to a solitary life upon a mountain, he found it one day all in a flame, shining with celestial fire, out of which he came without any harm, and instituted certain sacrifices to God, who, he declared, then appeared to him. See Patrick on Exodus, iii 2.