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When the death-caverns echo'd every tone
Of the dire oath that made her all his own,
Th' impostor, sure of his infatuate prize,

Had, more than once, thrown off his soul's disguise,
And utter'd such unheavenly, monstrous things,
As e'en across the desperate wanderings

Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out,
Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt,
Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow,

The thought, still haunting her, of that bright brow
Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye conceal'd,
Would soon, proud triumph! be to her reveal'd,
To her alone; and then the hope, most dear,
Most wild of all, that her transgression here
Was but a passage through earth's grosser fire,
From which the spirit would at last aspire,
Even purer than before, as perfumes rise

Through flame and smoke, most welcome to the skies,—
And that when Azim's fond, divine embrace
Should circle her in heaven, no darkening trace
Would on that bosom he once loved remain,
But all be bright, be pure, be his again!

Wan and dejected, through the evening dusk,
She now went slowly to that small kiosk,
Where, pondering alone his impious schemes,
Mokanna waited her, too wrapt in dreams
Of the fair-ripening future's rich success,
To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless,
That sat upon his victim's downcast brow,
Or mark how slow her step, how alter'd now

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From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound
Came like a spirit's o'er th' unechoing ground,
From that wild Zelica, whose every glance
Was thrilling fire, whose every thought a trance!

Upon his couch the Veil'd Mokanna lay, While lamps around not such as lend their ray, Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray In holy Koom, or Mecca's dim arcades,

But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids

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shed their luxurious glow

Upon his mystic Veil's white glittering flow.

Beside him, 'stead of beads and books of prayer,
Which the world fondly thought he mused on there,
Stood vases, filled with Kishmee's golden wine,
And the red weepings of the Shiraz vine;
Of which his curtain'd lips full many a draught
Took zealously, as if each drop they quaff'd,
Like Zemzem's Spring of Holiness, had power
To freshen the soul's virtues into flower!
And still he drank and ponder'd, nor could see
Th' approaching maid, so deep his reverie;
At length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke
From Eblis at the Fall of Man, he spoke :

"Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusement given, Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with Heaven; God's images, forsooth! such gods as he

Whom India serves, the monkey deity;

Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay,
To whom if Lucifer, as grandams say,
Refused, though at the forfeit of Heaven's light,
To bend in worship, Lucifer was right! —
Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck
Of your foul race, and without fear or check,
Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame,

My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man's name!
Soon, at the head of myriads, blind and fierce
As hooded falcons, through the universe
I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way,

Weak man my instrument, curst man my prey!

"Ye wise, ye learn'd, who grope your dull way on By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone, Like superstitious thieves, who think the light From dead men's marrow guides them best at night, Ye shall have honours, wealth, - yes, sages, yes, I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothingness; Undazzled it can track yon starry sphere, But a gilt stick, a bawble, blinds it here. How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along, In lying speech and still more lying song,

By these learn'd slaves, the meanest of the throng; Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk so small A sceptre's puny point can wield it all!

"Ye, too, believers of incredible creeds,

Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it breeds;
Who, bolder even than Nemrod, think to rise,
By nonsense heap'd on nonsense to the skies,
Ye shall have the miracles, aye, sound ones too,
Seen, heard, attested, everything but true.
Your preaching zealots, too inspired to seek
One grace of meaning for the things they speak ;
Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood,
For truths too heavenly to be understood;
And your state priests, sole venders of the lore
That works salvation, as on Ava's shore,
Where none but priests are privileged to trade
In that best marble of which gods are made;
They shall have mysteries, aye, precious stuff
For knaves to thrive by, - mysteries enough;
Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave,

Which simple votaries shall on trust receive,
While craftier feign belief, till they believe.
A heaven, too, ye must have, ye lords of dust,
A splendid paradise, pure souls, ye must:

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That Prophet ill sustains his holy call,

Who finds not heavens to suit the tastes of all;
Houris for boys, omniscience for sages,

And wings and glories for all ranks and ages.

Vain things! as lust or vanity inspires,

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The heaven of each is but what each desires,

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