Who would climb the empyreal heights, And, lighted earthward by a glance But whither shall the Spirit go To find this gift for Heaven? —' I know I know where the Isles of Perfume are, While thus she mused, her pinions fann'd The air of that sweet Indian land Lovely, with gold beneath their tides; But crimson now her rivers ran With human blood: the smell of death Came reeking from those spicy bowers, And man, the sacrifice of man, Mingled his taint with every breath Upwafted from the innocent flowers. Land of the Sun, what foot invades Thy Pagods and thy pillar'd shades, Thy cavern shrines, and Idol stones, Thy Monarchs and their thousand Thrones? 'Tis he of Gazna,- fierce in wrath He comes, and India's diadems Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path. His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, Torn from the violated necks Of many a young and loved Sultana; Priests in the very fane, he slaughters, Alone, beside his native river,— And the last arrow in his quiver. 'Live,' said the Conqueror, 'live to share The trophies and the crowns I bear!' All crimson with his country's blood,- False flew the shaft, though pointed well: And when the rush of war was past, Of morning light, she caught the last, Last glorious drop his heart had shed, Before its free-born spirit fled! Be this,' she cried, as she wing'd her flight, On the field of warfare, blood like this, It would not stain the purest rill That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss! Oh, if there be, on this earthly sphere, A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, 'Tis the last libation Liberty draws From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!' 'Sweet,' said the Angel, as she gave The gift into his radiant hand, 'Sweet is our welcome of the Brave Who die thus for their native Land. But see, alas! the crystal bar Of Eden moves not,- holier far Than even this drop the boon must be, Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings, To watch the moonlight on the wings Of the white pelicans that break The azure calm of Moris' Lake. this night, "T was a fair scene- - a land more bright Those groups of lovely date-trees bending Bathing their beauties in the lake, Amid whose fairy loneliness Nought but the lapwing's cry is heard, Nought seen but-when the shadows, flitting Fast from the moon, unsheathe its gleam Upon a column, motionless And glittering like an Idol bird! Who could have thought, that there, even there, Amid those scenes so still and fair, The Demon of the Plague hath cast The sun went down on many a brow Which, full of bloom and freshness then, |