Relief to her imaginings!

Since never yet was shape so dread,

But fancy, thus in darkness thrown, And by such sounds of horror fed,

Could frame more dreadful of her own.

But does she dream? Has fear again
Perplex'd the workings of her brain,
Or did a voice, all music, then

Come from the gloom, low whispering near,
"Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here?"
She does not dream, - all sense, all ear,
She drinks the words, "Thy Gheber's here."
'Twas his own voice, she could not err,
Throughout the breathing world's extent
There was but one such voice for her,
So kind, so soft, so eloquent!
Oh! sooner shall the rose of May
Mistake her own sweet nightingale,
And to some meaner minstrel's lay
Open her bosom's glowing veil,
Than love shall ever doubt a tone,
A breath, of the beloved one!

Though blest, 'mid all her ills, to think
She has that one beloved near,
Whose smile, though met on ruin's brink,
Hath power to make e'en ruin dear,
Yet soon this gleam of rapture, cross'd
By fears for him, is chill'd and lost.
How shall the ruthless Hafed brook

That one of Gheber blood should look,
With aught but curses in his eye,

On her, a maid of Araby,

A Moslem maid,

- the child of him

Whose bloody banner's dire success Hath left their altars cold and dim,

And their fair land a wilderness!
And, worse than all, that night of blood
Which comes so fast oh! who shall stay

The sword that once hath tasted food
Of Persian hearts, or turn its way?
What arm shall then the victim cover,
Or from her father shield her lover?
"Save him, my God!" she inly cries,
"Save him this night; and if thine eyes
Have ever welcomed with delight

The sinner's tears, the sacrifice

-

Of sinners' hearts, guard him this night, And here, before thy throne, I swear From my heart's inmost core to tear

Love, hope, remembrance, though they be
Link'd with each quivering life-string there,
And give it bleeding all to Thee!
Let him but live, the burning tear,
The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear,

Which have been all too much his own,
Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone.
Youth pass'd in penitence, and age
In long and painful pilgrimage,
Shall leave no traces of the flame

That wastes me now,

nor shall his name

E'er bless my lips, but when I pray
For his dear spirit, that away

Casting from its angelic ray

Th' eclipse of earth, he too may shine
Redeem'd, all-glorious and all thine!
Think think what victory to win
One radiant soul like his from sin,
One wandering star of virtue back
To its own native, heavenward track!
Let him but live, and both are thine,
Together thine, for, bless'd or cross'd,
Living or dead, his doom is mine,

And if he perish, both are lost!"

THE next evening Lalla Rookh was entreated by her ladies to continue the relation of her wonderful dream; but the fearful interest that hung round the fate of Hinda and her lover had completely removed every trace of it from her mind; - much to the disappointment of a fair seer or two in her train, who prided themselves on their skill in interpreting visions, and who had already remarked, as an unlucky omen, that the Princess, on the very morning after the dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blossoms of the sorrowful tree, Nilica.

Fadladeen, whose wrath had more than once broken out during the recital of some parts of this most heterodox poem, seemed at length to have made up his mind to the infliction; and took his seat this evening with all the patience of a martyr, while

the Poet continued his profane and seditious story thus:

To tearless eyes and hearts at ease
The leafy shores and sun-bright seas,
That lay beneath the mountain's height,
Had been a fair, enchanting sight.
'Twas one of those ambrosial eves
A day of storm so often leaves

At its calm setting, — when the west
Opens her golden bowers of rest,
And a moist radiance from the skies
Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes
Of some meek penitent, whose last,
Bright hours atone for dark ones past,
And whose sweet tears, o'er wrong forgiven,
Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven!

'Twas stillness all, - the winds that late
Had rush'd through Kerman's almond groves,
And shaken from her bowers of date

That cooling feast the traveller loves,

Now, lull'd to languor, scarcely curl

The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam

Limpid, as if her mines of pearl

Were melted all to form the stream;

And her fair islets, small and bright,

With their green shores reflected there,

Look like those Peri isles of light,

That hang by spell-work in the air.

And saw those towers all desolate,

That o'er her head terrific frown'd,

As if defying e'en the smile