Who, though they know the strife is vain,
Who, though they know the riven chain
Snaps but to enter in the heart
Of him who rends its links apart,

Yet dare the issue, — blest to be

Even for one bleeding moment free,

And die in pangs of liberty!

Thou know'st them well, - 'tis some moons since

Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags,

Thou satrap of a bigot prince!

Have swarm'd among these Green Sea crags;

Yet here, even here, a sacred band,

Ay, in the portal of that land

Thou, Arab, dar'st to call thy own,

Their spears across thy path have thrown;

Here

ere the winds half wing'd thee o'erRebellion braved thee from the shore.

Rebellion! foul, dishonouring word,

Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd
The holiest cause that tongue or sword
Of mortal ever lost or gain'd!

How many a spirit, born to bless,

Hath sunk beneath that withering name, Whom but a day's, an hour's, success

Had wafted to eternal fame !

As exhalations, when they burst
From the warm earth, if chill'd at first,
If check'd in soaring from the plain,
Darken to fogs and sink again;
But, if they once triumphant spread

Their wings above the mountain-head,
Become enthroned in upper air,
And turn to sun-bright glories there!

And who is he that wields the might

Of freedom on the Green Sea brink, Before whose sabre's dazzling light

The eyes of Yemen's warriors wink! Who comes embower'd in the spears Of Kerman's hardy mountaineers, --Those mountaineers that truest, last

Cling to their country's ancient rites, As if that God, whose eyelids cast

Their closing gleams on Iran's heights, Among her snowy mountains threw The last light of his worship too!

'Tis Hafed, name of fear, whose sound Chills like the muttering of a charm ;

Shout but that awful name around,

And palsy shakes the manliest arm.
'Tis Hafed, most accurst and dire
(So rank'd by Moslem hate and ire)
Of all the rebel Sons of Fire!
Of whose malign, tremendous power
The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour,
Such tales of fearful wonder tell,
That each affrighted sentinel
Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes,
Lest Hafed in the midst should rise!
A man, they say, of monstrous birth,

A mingled race of flame and earth,
Sprung from those old, enchanted kings.
Who, in their fairy helms, of yore,
A feather from the mystic wings

Of the Simoorgh resistless wore;
And gifted by the Fiends of Fire,
Who groan'd to see their shrines expire,
With charms that, all in vain withstood,
Would drown the Koran's light in blood!

Such were the tales that won belief,
And such the colouring fancy gave
To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief, -
One who, no more than mortal brave,
Fought for the land his soul adored,
For happy homes, and altars free,
His only talisman, the sword;

His only spell-word, Liberty!
One of that ancient hero line,
Along whose glorious current shine.
Names that have sanctified their blood;
As Lebanon's small mountain flood

Is render'd holy by the ranks

Of sainted cedars on its banks !

'Twas not for him to crouch the knee Tamely to Moslem tyranny;

'Twas not for him, whose soul was cast In the bright mould of ages past, Whose melancholy spirit, fed

With all the glories of the dead,

Though framed for Iran's happiest years,
Was born among her chains and tears!
'Twas not for him to swell the crowd
Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow'd
Before the Moslem, as he pass'd,
Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast -
No far he fled, - indignant fled

The pageant of his country's shame; While every tear her children shed

Fell on his soul, like drops of flame; And, as a lover hails the dawn

Of a first smile, so welcomed he

The sparkle of the first sword drawn
For vengeance and for liberty!

But vain was valour,

vain the flower

Of Kerman, in that deathful hour,
Against Al Hassan's whelming power.
In vain they met him, helm to helm,
Upon the threshold of that realm
He came in bigot pomp to sway,
And with their corpses block'd his way, -
In vain - for every lance they raised,
Thousands around the conqueror blazed;
For every arm that lined their shore,
Myriads of slaves were wafted o'er,
A bloody, bold, and countless crowd,
Before whose swarm as fast they bow'd
As dates beneath the locust-cloud !

There stood — but one short league away
From old Harmozia's sultry bay –
A rocky mountain, o'er the Sea
Of Oman beetling awfully.

A last and solitary link

Of those stupendous chains that reach From the broad Caspian's reedy brink Down winding to the Green Sea beach. Around its base the bare rocks stood, Like naked giants, in the flood,

As if to guard the gulf across ; While, on its peak, that braved the sky,