"Hold, hold thy words are death, The stranger cried, as wild he flung His mantle back, and show'd beneath 66 The Gheber belt that round him clung Here, maiden, look weep I blush to see Those Slaves of Fire, who, morn and even, Hail their Creator's dwelling-place Among the living lights of heaven! Yes I am of that outcast few, To Iran and to vengeance true, He who gave birth to those dear eyes With me is sacred as the spot From which our fires of worship rise! But know 'twas he I sought that night, When, from my watch-boat on the sea, I caught this turret's glimmering light, And up the rude rocks desperately Rush'd to my prey-thou know'st the rest I climb'd the gory vulture's nest, And found a trembling dove within Thine, thine the victory thine the sin If Love hath made one thought his own, That vengeance claims first last alone! Oh! had we never, never met, Or could this heart e'en now forget How link'd, how bless'd, we might have been, Had fate not frown'd so dark between! Hadst thou been born a Persian maid, In neighbouring valleys had we dwelt, Through the same fields in childhood play'd, At the same kindling altar knelt, While the wrong'd Spirit of our Land God! who could then this sword withstand? Its every flash were victory! But now estranged, divorced for ever, Far as the grasp of Fate can sever, Our only ties what love has wove, Faith, friends, and country, sunder'd wide; And then, then only, true to love, When false to all that's dear beside! When other eyes shall see, unmoved, Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, Thou'lt think how well one Gheber loved, And for his sake thou'lt weep for all! But look With sudden start he turn'd And pointed to the distant wave, Where lights, like charnel meteors, burn'd Bluely, as o'er some seaman's grave; And fiery darts, at intervals, Flew up all sparkling from the main, As if each star that nightly falls, Were shooting back to heaven again. "My signal lights! - I must away – Both, both are ruin'd, if I stay. Farewell - sweet life! thou cling'st in vain - Nor look'd - but from the lattice dropp'd While pale and mute young Hinda stood, A momentary plunge below Startled her from her trance of woe; Shrieking she to the lattice flew, Thou sleep'st to-night I'll sleep there too, In death's cold wedlock by thy side. Oh! I would ask no happier bed |