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With silver bow, with belt

of broider'd crape, And fur-bound bonnet of

Bucharian shape,
So fiercely beautiful in

form and eye,
Like war's wild planet in

a summer sky, That youth to-day — a

proselyte worth

hordes Of cooler spirits and less

practised swords — Is come to join, all bravery and belief, The creed and standard of the heaven-sent Chief.

Though few his years, the west already knows Young Azim's fame; beyond thi Olympian snows, Ere manhood darken'd o'er his downy cheek, O'erwhelm'd in fight, and captive to the Greek,

He linger'd there, till peace dissolved his chains;
Oh! who could, e'en in bondage, tread the plains
Of glorious Greece, nor feel his spirit rise
Kindling within him ? who, with heart and eyes,
Could walk where Liberty had been, nor see
The shining footprints of her Deity,
Nor feel those god-like breathings in the air,
Which mutely told her spirit had been there?
Not he, that youthful warrior, — no, too well
For his soul's quiet work'd th' awakening spell !
And now, returning to his own dear land,
Full of those dreams of good that, vainly grand,
Haunt the young heart, proud views of human-

Of men to gods exalted and refined ;
False views, like that horizon's fair deceit,
Where earth and heaven but seem, alas ! to meet,
Soon as he heard an Arm Divine was raised
To right the nations, and beheld emblazed
On the white flag Mokanna's host unfurld,
Those words of sunshine, “ Freedom to the World,”
At once his faith, his sword, his soul, obey'd
Th’ inspiring summons; every chosen blade,
That fought beneath that banner's sacred text,
Seem'd doubly edged, for this world and the next;
And ne'er did Faith with her smooth bandage bind
Eyes more devoutly willing to be blind
In virtue's cause, never was soul inspired
With livelier trust in what it most desired,
Than his, th’ enthusiast there, who kneeling, pale
With pious awe, before that Silver Veil,

Believes the form to which he bends his knee,
Some pure, redeeming angel, sent to free
This fetter'd world from every bond and stain,
And bring its primal glories back again !

Low as young Azim knelt, that motley crowd
Of all earth's nations sunk the knee and bow'd,
With shouts of " Alla!" echoing long and loud ;
While high in air, above the Prophet's head,
Hundreds of banners, to the sunbeam spread,
Waved, like the wings of the white birds that fan
The flying throne of star-taught Soliman !
Then thus he spoke : “ Stranger, though new the frame
Thy soul inhabits now, I've tracked its flame
For many an age,


chance and change,
Of that existence through whose varied range
As through a torch-race, where, from hand to hand,
The flying youths transmit their shining brand -
From frame to frame th' unextinguish'd soul
Rapidly passes, till it reach the goal !

“ Nor think ’tis only the gross spirits, warm’d With duskier fire and for earth’s medium form’d, That run this course ; beings the most divine Thus deign through dark mortality to shine. Such was the essence that in Adam dwelt, To which all heaven, except the Proud One, knelt ; Such the refined intelligence that glow'd In Moussa's frame, and, thence descending, flow'd Through many a Prophet's breast, — in Issa shone, And in Mohammed burn'd, till, hastening on,

(As a bright river that, from fall to fall
In many a maze descending, bright through all,
Finds some fair region where, each labyrinth past,
In one full lake of light it rests at last !)
That Holy Spirit, settling calm and free
From lapse or shadow, centres all in me!”

Again throughout th' assembly, at these words, Thousands of voices rung; the warriors' swords Were pointed up to heaven; a sudden wind In th’ open banners play’d, and from behind Those Persian hangings, that but ill could screen The haram's loveliness, white hands were seen Waving embroider'd scarves, whose motion gave A perfume forth, like those the Houris wave, When beckoning to their bowers th’ Immortal Brave.

“But these,” pursued the Chief, are truths sublime, That claim a holier mood and calmer time Than earth allows us now; this sword must first The darkling prison-house of mankind burst, Ere peace can visit them, or truth let in Her wakening daylight on a world of sin ! But then, celestial warriors, then, when all Earth's shrines and thrones before our banner fall ; When the glad slave shall at these feet lay down His broken chain, the tyrant lord his crown, The priest his book, the conqueror his wreath, And from the lips of Truth one mighty breath Shall, like a whirlwind, scatter in its breeze That whole dark pile of human mockeries, --


Then shall the

reign of Mind commence on

earth, And starting

fresh, as from a second birth, Man, in the sunshine of the world's new spring, Shall walk

transparent, like some

holy thing!

Then, too, your Prophet from his angel brow Shall cast the Veil, that hides its splendours now, And gladden'd earth shall through her wide ex

panse Bask in the glories of this countenance !

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