And now the Orient World's imperial crown
Is just within his grasp when, hark, that shout!
Some hand hath check'd the flying Moslem's rout
And now they turn they rally at their head
A warrior (like those angel youths, who led,
In glorious panoply of heaven's own mail,
The Champions of the Faith through Beder's vale),
Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives,
Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and drives

At once the multitudinous torrent back,

While hope and courage kindle in his track,
And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes
Terrible vistas through which victory breaks!
In vain Mokanna, 'midst the general flight,
Stands, like the red moon, on some stormy night,
Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by,
Leave only her unshaken in the sky!-
In vain he yells his desperate curses out,
Deals death promiscuously to all about,
To foes that charge and coward friends that fly,
And seems of all the great Arch-enemy !
The panic spreads "a miracle!" throughout
The Moslem ranks, "a miracle!" they shout,
All gazing on that youth, whose coming seems
A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams;
And every sword, true as o'er billows dim
The needle tracks the loadstar, following him!

Right tow'rds Mokanna now he cleaves his path, Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath He bears from heaven withheld its awful burst

From weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst,
To break o'er him, the mightiest and the worst!
But vain his speed- though, in that hour of blood,
Had all God's seraphs round Mokanna stood,
With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall,
Mokanna's soul would have defied them all;
Yet now the rush of fugitives, too strong
For human force, hurries even him along;
In vain he struggles 'mid the wedged array
Of flying thousands, he is borne away;
And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows
In this forced flight is murdering as he goes!
As a grim tiger, whom the torrent's might
Surprises in some parch'd ravine at night,
Turns, even in drowning, on the wretched flocks
Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks,
And, to the last, devouring on his way,
Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay!

"Alla illa Alla!" the glad shout renew "Alla Akbar!" the Caliph's in Merou. Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets, And light your shrines and chant your ziraleets; The Swords of God have triumph'd, on his throne

Your Caliph sits, and the Veil'd Chief hath flown.
Who does not envy that young warrior now,
To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow,
In all the graceful gratitude of power,
For his throne's safety in that perilous hour?
Who doth not wonder, when, amidst th' acclaim
Of thousands, heralding to heaven his name, —

'Mid all those holier harmonies of fame,
Which sound along the path of virtuous souls,
Like music round a planet as it rolls!
He turns away, coldly, as if some gloom
Hung o'er his heart no triumphs can illume,
Some sightless grief, upon whose blasted gaze
Though glory's light may play, in vain it plays!
Yes, wretched Azim! thine is such a grief,
Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief;

A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break,
Or warm, or brighten, like that Syrian lake

Upon whose surface morn and summer shed
Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead!

Hearts there have been, o'er which this weight of woe
Came, by long use of suffering, tame and slow;
But thine, lost youth! was sudden, over thee
It broke at once, when all seem'd ecstasy;
When Hope look'd up, and saw the gloomy past
Melt into splendour, and Bliss dawn at last,
'Twas then, even then, o'er joys so freshly blown,
This mortal blight of misery came down ;

Even then the full, warm gushings of thy heart

Were check'd, like fount-drops, frozen as they start! And there, like them, cold, sunless relics hang,

Each fix'd and chill'd into a lasting pang!

One sole desire, one passion now remains, To keep life's fever still within his veins, Vengeance!

dire vengeance on the wretch who cast O'er him and all he loved that ruinous blast.

For this, when rumours reach'd him in his flight

Of the Veil'd Chief,- for this he wing'd him back,
Fleet as the vulture speeds to flags unfurl'd,
And, when all hope seem'd desperate, wildly hurl'd
Himself into the scale, and saved a world !
For this he still lives on, careless of all
The wreaths that glory on his path lets fall;
For this alone exists, like lightning fire
To speed one bolt of vengeance, and expire !

But safe as yet that Spirit of Evil lives; With a small band of desperate fugitives, The last sole stubborn fragment left unriven Of the proud host that late stood fronting heaven, He gain'd Merou, breathed a short curse of blood O'er his lost throne, - then pass'd the Jihon's flood, And gathering all whose madness of belief Still saw a saviour in their down-fallen Chief, Raised the white banner within Neksheb's gates, And there, untamed, th' approaching conqueror waits.

Of all his haram, all that busy hive, With music and with sweets sparkling alive, He took but one, the partner of his flight, One, not for love, not for her beauty's lightNo, Zelica stood withering 'midst the gay, Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday From th' Alma tree and dies, while overhead To-day's young flower is springing in its stead! Oh, not for love, the deepest damn'd must be Touch'd with heaven's glory, ere such fiends as he Can feel one glimpse of love's divinity!