Thus unrevenged, the evening of his reign,
But, having sworn upon the Holy Grave
To conquer or to perish, once more gave
His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze,
And with an army nursed in victories,

Here stands to crush the rebels that o'errun
His blest and beauteous province of the sun.

Ne'er did the march of Mahadi display

Such pomp before; - not e'en when on his way
To Mecca's temple, when both land and sea
Were spoil'd to feed the pilgrim's luxury;

When round him, 'mid the burning sands, he saw
Fruits of the north in icy freshness thaw,
And cool'd his thirsty lip, beneath the glow
Of Mecca's sun, with urns of Persian snow;
Nor e'er did armament more grand than that
Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat.
First, in the van, the People of the Rock,
On their light mountain steeds, of royal stock;
Then chieftains of Damascus, proud to see
The flashing of their swords' rich marquetry;
Men from the regions near the Volga's mouth,
Mix'd with the rude, black archers of the south;
And Indian lancers, in white-turban'd ranks
From the far Sinde, or Attock's sacred banks,
With dusky legions from the Land of Myrrh,
And many a mace-arm'd Moor and Mid-Sea islander.

Nor less in number, though more new and rude In warfare's school, was the vast multitude That, fired by zeal, or by oppression wrong'd, Round the white standard of th' impostor throng'd. Beside his thousands of believers, — blind, Burning and headlong as the Samiel wind, Many who felt, and more who fear'd to feel,

The bloody Islamite's converting steel,

Flock'd to his banner; — chiefs of th' Uzbek race,

Waving their heron crests with martial grace;

and those

Turkomans, countless as their flocks, led forth
From th' aromatic pastures of the north;
Wild warriors of the turquoise hills,
Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows
Of Hindoo Kosh, in stormy freedom bred,
Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent's bed.
But none, of all who own'd the Chief's command,
Rush'd to that battle-field with bolder hand

Or sterner hate than Iran's outlaw'd men,
Her Worshippers of Fire, all panting then
For vengeance on th' accursed Saracen ;
Vengeance at last for their dear country spurn'd,
Her throne usurp'd, and her bright shrines o'erturn'd.
From Yezd's eternal Mansion of the Fire,
Where aged saints in dreams of heaven expire ;
From Badku, and those fountains of blue flame
That burn into the Caspian, fierce they came;
Careless for what or whom the blow was sped,
So vengeance triumph'd, and their tyrants bled!

Such was the wild and miscellaneous host That high in air their motley banners toss'd Around the Prophet-Chief, — all eyes still bent Upon that glittering Veil, where'er it went, That beacon through the battle's stormy flood, That rainbow of the field, whose showers were blood!

Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set,
And ris'n again, and found them grappling yet;
While streams of carnage, in his noontide blaze,
Smoke up to heaven, - hot as that crimson haze,

In the red Desert, when the wind's abroad! "On, Swords of God!" the panting Caliph

"Thrones for the living, - heaven for him who falls!"

"On, brave avengers, on," Mokanna cries,

"And Eblis blast the recreant slave that flies!" Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day

They clash they strive-the Caliph's troops give

way!