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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 agonis'd suspense,
From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching,
The heart hath no relief but breaking!

Calm is the wave - heav'n'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

blades may

- in rust your

lie:

look to yon Well may ye

He, at whose word they've scatter'd death,
Ev'n now, this night, himself must die!

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! — 't is a torch's light.

What bodes its solitary glare?
In gasping silence tow'rd the Shrine
All eyes are turn'd — thine, HINDA, thine

Fix their last fading life-beams there.
"T was but a moment fierce and high
The death-pile blaz'd into the sky,
And far away, o'er rock and flood

Its melancholy radiance sent;
While HAFED, like a vision stood
Reveal'd before the burning pyre,
Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire

Shrin'd in its own grand element! « 'Tis he" - the shuddering maid exclaims, –

But, while she speaks, he's seen no more; High burst in air the funeral flames,

And IRAN's hopes and hers are o'er!

One wild, heart-broken shriek she

gave;
Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze,
Where still she fix'd her dying gaze,
And gazing, sunk into the wave, –

Deep, deep, — where never care or pain
Shall reach her innocent heart again!

Farewell -- farewell to thee, ARABY's daughter!

(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,) No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water,

More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee.

Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,

How light was thy heart till Love's witchery came, Like the wind' of the south * o'er a summer lute blowing,

And hush'd all its music, and wither'd its frame!

But long upon ARABY's green sunny highlands,

Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands,

With nought but the sea-star f to light up her tomb.

*“This wind (the Samoor) so softens the strings of lutes, that they can never be tuned while it lasts." — STEPHEN'S Persia.

| “One of the greatest curiosities found in the Persian Gulf is a fish which the English call Star-fish. It is circular, and at night very luminous, resembling the full moon surrounded by rays.” — MIRZA ABU TALEB

And still, when thy merry date-season is burning, *

And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, The happiest there, from their pastime returning

At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.

The young village-maid, when with flowers she dresses

Her dark flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,

She mournfully turns from the mirror away.

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her Hero! forget thee.

Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee,

Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell - be it ours to embellish thy pillow

With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow

Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber

That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept; +
With many as shell, in whose hollow wreath'd chamber

We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept.

* For a description of the merriment of the date-time, of their work, their dan ces, and their return home from the palm-groves at the end of autumn with the fruits, see Kampfer, Amænitat. Ecnt.

† Some naturalists have imagined that amber is a concretion of the tears of birds. See Trevoux, Chambers.

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,

And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian * are sparkling,

And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

Farewell — farewell — until Pity's sweet fountain

Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain,

They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.

*"The bay Kieselarke, which is otherwise called the Golden Bay, the sand whereof shines as fire.” — STRUY.

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