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 load-star, 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 wedg'd array Of flying thousands-he is borne away; And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows, In this forc'd 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.

66

Alla illa Alla!"-the glad shout renew-
"Alla Akbar: "122-the Caliph's in MEROU.
Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets,
And light your shrines and chaunt your ziraleets. 123
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 the' 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, 124
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

1

Came by long use of suffering, tame and slow;
But thine, lost youth! was sudden-over thee
It broke at once, when all seemed ecstacy;
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 lov'd that ruinous blast.

For this, when rumours reach'd him in his flight
Far, far away, after that fatal night,—

Rumours of armies, thronging to the' attack

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 sav'd a world.

For this he still lives on, careless of all

The wreaths that Glory on his path lets fall;

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-breath'd a short curse of blood