No-pleasures, hopes, affections gone, A calm stagnation, that were bliss From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching, Calm is the wave- heav'n's brilliant lights Time was when, on such lovely nights, 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. All's o'er in rust your blades lie: Ev'n now, He, at whose word they've scatter'd death, 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! 't is a torch's light. The death-pile blaz'd into the sky, Its melancholy radiance sent; ""T is 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; Deep, deep, where never care or pain 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 *"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, * At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. The young village-maid, when with flowers she dresses 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 * 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 Kæmpfer, Amanitat. Exet. † 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. |