And calm and smooth it seem'd to win

Its moonlight way before the wind,

As it bore all peace within,

Nor left one breaking heart behind!

THE Princess, whose heart was sad enough already, could have wished that Feramorz had chosen a less melancholy story; as it is only to the happy that tears are a luxury. Her ladies, however, were by no means sorry that love was once more the poet's theme; for when he spoke of love, they said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree which grows over the tomb of the musician TanSein.

Their road all the morning had lain through a very dreary country, -through valleys, covered with a low bushy jungle, where, in more than one place, the awful signal of the bamboo staff, with the white flag at its top, reminded the traveller that in that very spot the tiger had made some human creature his victim. It was therefore with much pleasure that they arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen, and encamped under one of those holy trees whose smooth columns and spreading roofs seem to destine them for natural temples of Religion. Beneath the shade, some pious hands had erected pillars ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain, which now supplied the use of mirrors to the young ladies, as they adjusted their hair in descending from the palankeens. Here, while, as usual, the Princess sat listening anxiously, with Fadladeen in one of his loftiest moods of criticism by her

For gentle skies and breezes fair!
The nightingale now bends her flight
From the high trees, where all the night

She sung so sweet, with none to listen;
And hides her from the morning star
Where thickets of pomegranate glisten
In the clear dawn, - bespangled o'er

With dew, whose night-drops would not stain The best and brightest cimeter

That ever youthful Sultan wore

On the first morning of his reign!

Of glory up the east he springs.

Angel of light! who from the time.

Those heavens began their march sublime,
Hath first of all the starry choir

Trod in his Maker's steps of fire!

Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere,

When Iran, like a sunflower turn'd

To meet that eye, where'er it burn'd?
When, from the banks of Bendemeer

To the nut-groves of Samarcand,
Thy temples flamed o'er all the land?
Where are they? ask the shades of them
Who on Cadessia's bloody plains.
Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem
From Iran's broken diadem,

And bind her ancient faith in chains; —

Ask the poor exile, cast alone

On foreign shores, unloved, unknown,

Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates,

Or on the snowy Mossian mountains, Far from his beauteous land of dates,

Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains! Yet happier so than if he trod

His own beloved but blighted sod,
Beneath a despot stranger's nod !—
Oh! he would rather houseless roam
Where freedom and his God may lead,
Than be the sleekest slave at home

That crouches to the conqueror's creed !
Is Iran's pride then gone for ever,

Quench'd with the flame in Mithra's caves? No: she has sons that never

never

Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves,

While heaven has light or earth has graves. Spirits of fire, that brood not long,

But flash resentment back for wrong;

And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds

Of vengeance ripen into deeds,

Till, in some treacherous hour of calm,
They burst, like Zeilan's giant palm,
Whose buds fly open with a sound
That shakes the pigmy forests round!

Yes, Emir! he who scaled that tower,

And, had he reach'd thy slumbering breast,

Had taught thee, in a Gheber's power

How safe even tyrant heads may rest

Is one of many, brave as he,

Who loathe thy haughty race and thee;