Swiftly descending on a ray

Of morning light, she caught the lastLast glorious drop his heart had shed, Before its free-born spirit fled !

"Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight,

My welcome gift at the Gates of Light.

Though foul are the drops that oft distil
"On the field of warfare, blood like this,
"For Liberty shed, so holy is,

"It would not stain the purest rill,

"That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss! "Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere,

"A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,

'Tis the last libation Liberty draws

"From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!'

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,

Now among AFRIC's Lunar Mountains,

Far to the South, the PERI lighted;

And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains
Of that Egyptian tide,-whose birth
Is hidden from the sons of earth,
Deep in those solitary woods,
Where oft the Genii of the Floods
Dance round the cradle of their Nile,
And hail the new-born Giant's smile!
Thence, over EGYPT'S palmy groves,

Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings
The exil'd Spirit sighing roves ;
And now hangs listening to the doves
In warm ROSETTA'S vale-now loves
To watch the moonlight on the wings
Of the white pelicans that break
The azure calm of Moris' Lake.
'Twas a fair scene-a Land more bright

Never did mortal eye behold!

Who could have thought, that saw this night
Those valleys and their fruits of gold

202

Basking

Basking in heav'n's serenest light ;—
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending
Languidly their leaf-crown'd heads,
Like youthful maids, when sleep descending
Warns them to their silken beds ;—
Those virgin lilies, all the night

Bathing their beauties in the lake,
That they may rise more fresh and bright,
When their beloved Sun's awake;
Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem
The relics of a splendid dream;

Amid whose fairy loneliness

Nought but the lap-wing's cry is heard,
Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting
Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam)
Some purple-wing'd Sultana sitting
Upon a column, motionless

And glittering, like an idol bird !—

Who could have thought, that there, ev'n there,
Amid those scenes so still and fair,
The Demon of the Plague hath cast
From his hot wing a deadlier blast,
More mortal far than ever came
From the red desert's sands of flame!
So quick, that every living thing
Of human shape, touch'd by his wing,
Like plants, where the Simoom hath past,
At once falls black and withering!

"Poor race of Men!" said the pitying Spirit, Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall

"Some flow'rets of Eden ye still inherit,

"But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!”’

She

She wept the air grew pure and clear Around her, as the bright drops ran; For there's a magic in each tear,

Such kindly Spirits weep for man!

Just then beneath some orange trees,
Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze
Were wantoning together, free,
Like age at play with infancy—

Beneath that fresh and springing bower,
Close by the Lake, she heard the moan
Of one who, at this silent hour,

Had thither stol'n to die alone.

One who in life, where'er he mov'd,

Drew after him the hearts of many;
Yet now, as though he ne'er were lov'd,
Dies here, unseen, unwept by any!
None to watch near him-none to slake
The fire that in his bosom lies,
With ev'n a sprinkle from that lake,

Which shines so cool before his eyes.
No voice, well-known through many a day,
To speak the last, the parting word,
Which, when all other sounds decay,
Is still like distant music heard.
That tender farewell on the shore
Of this rude world, when all is o'er,
Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown Dark.

Deserted youth! one thought alone

Shed joy around his soul in death-
That she, whom he for years had known,
And lov'd, and might have call'd his own,
Was safe from this foul midnight's breath;
Safe in her father's princely halls,
Where the cool airs from fountain falls,
Freshly perfum'd by many a brand
Of the sweet wood from India's land,
Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd.

But see, who yonder comes by stealth,
This melancholy bower to seek,

Like a young envoy, sent by Health,
With rosy gifts upon her check?

'Tis she-far off, through moonlight dim,
He knew his own betrothed bride,

She,

She, who would rather die with him,
Than live to gain the world beside !—
Her arms are round her lover now,
His livid cheek to hers she presses,
And dips, to bind his burning brow,

In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses.
Ah! once, how little did he think

An hour would come, when he should shrink
With horror from that dear embrace,

Those gentle arms, that were to him
Holy as is the cradling place

Of Eden's infant cherubim !
And now he yields-now turns away,
Shuddering as if the venom lay
All in those proffer'd lips alone-
Those lips that, then so fearless grown,
Never until that instant came

Near him unask'd or without shame.
"Oh! let me only breathe the air,
"The blessed air, that's breath'd by thee,
"And, whether on its wings it bear

"Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me !
"There,-drink my tears, while yet they fall,-
"Would that my bosom's blood were balın,
And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all,
"To give thy brow one minute's calm.
66 Nay, turn not from me that dear face-
"Am I not thine-thy own lov'd bride-
"The one, the chosen one, whose place
"In life or death is by thy side!

"Think'st thou that she, whose only light,

"In this dim world, from thee hath shone,
"Could bear the long, the cheerless night,
"That must be hers, when thou art gone?
"That I can live, and let thee go,
"Who art my life itself?-No, no-
"When the stem dies, the leaf that grew

"Out of its heart must perish too!
"Then turn to me, my own love, turn,
"Before like thee I fade and burn;

Cling to these yet cool lips, and share
"The last pure life that lingers there!"
She fails she sinks-as dies the lamp
In charnel airs or cavern-damp,
So quickly do his baleful sighs
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes!
One struggle-and his pain is past-

Her lover is no longer living!

One