But the rude litter, roughly spread With war-cloaks, is her homely bed, And shawl and sash, on javelins hung, For awning o'er her head are flung. Shuddering she look'd around-there lay

A group of warriors in the sun Resting their limbs, as for that day Their ministry of death were done. Some gazing on the drowsy sea, Lost in unconscious reverie; And some, who seem'd but ill to brook That sluggish calm, with many a look To the slack sail impatient cast, As loose it flagg'd around the mast.

Blest Alla! who shall save her now? There's not in all that warrior-band One Arab sword, one turban'd brow From her own faithful Moslem land. Their garb―the leathern belt1 that wraps

But no-she sees him not-'tis gone,The vision, that before her shone Through all the maze of blood and storm,

Is fled 'twas but a phantom formOne of those passing, rainbow dreams, Half light, half shade, which fancy's beams

Paint on the fleeting mists that roll In trance or slumber round the soul !

But now the bark, with livelier bound, Scales the blue wave-the crew's in motion

The oars are out, and with light sound

Break the bright mirror of the ocean, Scattering its brilliant fragments round. And now she sees-with horror seesTheir course is toward that mountain hold,Those towers; that make her life-blood freeze,

3

Yes-yes-her fears are all too true, And Heaven hath, in this dreadful hour, Abandon'd her to Hafed's power;Hafed, the Gheber !-at the thought Her very heart's blood chills within; He, whom her soul was hourly taught To loathe, as some foul fiend of sin, Some minister, whom Hell had sent To spread its blast, where'er he went, And fling, as o'er our earth he trod, His shadow betwixt man and God! And she is now his captive,-thrown In his fierce hands, alive, alone; His the infuriate band she sees, All infidels-all enemies! What was the daring hope that then Cross'd her like lightning, as again, With boldness that despair had lent, She darted through that armed crowd A look so searching, so intent,

That e'en the sternest warrior bow'd Abash'd, when he her glances caught, As if he guessed whose form they sought.

1 D'Herbelot, art. Agduani.

2The Guebres are known by a dark yellow colour, which the men affect in their clothes.'Thevenot.

In their last deadly, venomous fold!
Amid th' illumined land and flood
Sunless that mighty mountain stood;
Save where, above its awful head,
There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red,
As 'twere the flag of destiny
Hung out to mark where death would
be!

Had her bewilder'd mind the power
Of thought in this terrific hour,
She well might marvel where or how
Man's foot could scale that mountain's
brow;

Since ne'er had Arab heard or known
Of path but through the glen alone.-
But every thought was lost in fear,
When, as their bounding bark drew near
The craggy base, she felt the waves
Hurry them toward those dismal caves
That from the deep in windings pass
Beneath that mount's volcanic mass-
And loud a voice on deck commands
To lower the mast and light the
brands!-

3The Kolah, or cap, worn by the Persians, is made of the skin of the sheep of Tartary.'Waring.

Instantly o'er the dashing tide Within a cavern's mouth they glide, Gloomy as that eternal porch,

-

Through which departed spirits go;Not e'en the flare of brand and torch Its flickering light could further throw Than the thick flood that boil'd below. Silent they floated-as if each Sat breathless, and too awed for speech In that dark chasm, where ven sound Seem'd dark,-so sullenly around The goblin echoes of the cave Mutter'd it o'er the long black wave, As 'twere some secret of the grave! But soft-they pause-the current turns Beneath them from its onward track; Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns

The vexed tide, all foaming, back, And scarce the oar's redoubled force Can stem the eddy's whirling course; When, hark!-some desperate foot has

sprung

Among the rocks—the chain is flung-
The oars are up-the grapple clings,
And the toss'd bark in moorings swings.
Just then, a day beam through the shade
Broke tremulous-but ere the maid
Can see from whence the brightness
steals,

Upon her brow she shuddering feels
A viewless hand, that promptly ties
A bandage round her burning eyes;
While the rude litter where she lies,
Uplifted by the warrior throng,
O'er the steep rocks is borne along.

Blest power of sunshine! genial Day,
What balm, what life, is in thy ray!
To feel thee is such real bliss,
That had the world no joy but this,
To sit in sunshine calm and sweet,-
It were a world too exquisite
For man to leave it for the gloom,
The deep, cold shadow of the tomb!
E'en Hinda, though she saw not where
Or whither wound the perilous road,
Yet knew by that awakening air,

Which suddenly around her glow'd, That they had risen from darkness then, And breathed the sunny world again?

A frequent image among the Oriental poets. 'The nightingales warbled their enchanting

But soon this balmy freshness fledFor now the steepy labyrinth led Through damp and gloom-'mid crash of boughs

And fall of loosen'd crags that rouse The leopard from his hungry sleep, Who, starting, thinks each crag a

prey,

And long is heard from steep to steep, Chasing them down their thundering way!

The jackal's cry-the distant moa
Of the hyena, fierce and lone;
And that eternal, saddening sound
Of torrents in the glen beneath,
As 'twere the ever-dark profound
That rolls beneath the Bridge of
Death!

All, all is fearful-e'en to see,

To gaze on those terrific things She now but blindly hears, would be Relief to her imaginings!

Since never yet was shape so dread, But fancy, thus in darkness thrown, And by such sounds of horror fed, Could frame more dreadful of her own.

But does she dream? has fear again
Perplex'd the workings of her brain,
Or did a voice, all music, then
Come from the gloom, low whispering

near

'Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here?' She does not dream-all sense, all ear, She drinks the words, 'Thy Gheber's here.'

'Twas his own voice-she could not errThroughout the breathing world's

extent

There was but one such voice for her,

So kind, so soft, so eloquent! Oh! sooner shall the rose of May

Mistake her own sweet nightingale, And to some meaner minstrel's lay

Open her bosom's glowing veil, Than love shall ever doubt a tone, A breath of the beloved one! Though blest, 'mid all her ills, to think She has that one beloved near,

notes, and rent the thin veils of the rosebud and the rose,'-Jami.

given,

Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven!

"Twas stillness all--the winds that late Hadrush'd through Kerman's almond

groves,

And shaken from her bowers of date That cooling feast the traveller loves,1 Now, lull'd to languor, scarcely curl The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam

Limpid, as if her mines of pearl

Were melted all to form the stream; And her fair islets, small and bright, With their green shores reflected there,

Look like those Peri isles of light,

That hang by spell-work in the air. But vainly did these glories burst On Hinda's dazzled eyes, when first The bandage from her brow was taken, And pale and awed as those who waken In their dark tombs-when, scowling

near,

The Searchers of the grave2 appear,
She shuddering turn'd to read her fate
In the fierce eyes that flash'd around;
And saw those towers all desolate,

That o'er her head terrific frown'd, As if defying e'en the smile

Of that soft heaven to gild their pile. In vain, with mingled hope and fear, She looks for him whose voice so dear Had come, like music, to her earStrange, mocking dream! again 'tis fled, And oh! the shoots, the pangs of dread That through her inmost bosom run,

When voices from without proclaim 'Hafed, the Chief '-and one by one,

The warriors shout that fearful name! Hecomes-the rock resounds his treadHow shall she dare to lift her head, Or meet those eyes, whose scorching glare

Not Yemen's boldest sons can bear?

'In parts of Kerman, whatever dates are shaken from the trees by the wind they do not touch, but leave them for those who have not any, or for travellers.'-Ebn Haukal.

The two terrible angels, Monkir and Nakir, who are called 'the Searchers of the Grave' in

Such rank and deadly lustre dwells,
As in those hellish fires that light
The mandrake's charnel leaves at night!3
How shall she bear that voice's tone,
At whose loud battle-cry alone
Whole squadrons oft in panic ran,
Scatter'd, like some vast caravan,
When, stretch'd at evening round the
well,

They hear the thirsting tiger's yell

Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down,

Shrinking beneath the fiery frown,
Which, fancy tells her, from that brow
Is flashing o'er her fiercely now;
And shuddering, as she hears the tread
Of his retiring warrior band.-
Never was pause so full of dread;

Till Hafed with a trembling hand Took hers, and, leaning o'er her, said, Hinda !'-that word was all he spoke, And 'twas enough-the shriek that broke

From her full bosom told the rest-
Panting with terror, joy, surprise,
The maid but lifts her wondering

E'en he, so sunk in wretchedness, With doom still darker gathering o'er him,

Yet in this moment's pure caress, In the mild eyes that shone before him,

Beaming that blest assurance, worth
All other transports known on earth,
That he was loved-well, warmly
loved-

Oh! in this precious hour he proved
How deep, how thorough-felt the glow
Of rapture, kindling out of woe ;-
How exquisite one single drop
Of bliss, thus sparkling to the top
Of misery's cup-how keenly quaff'd,
Though death must follow on the
draught!

She too, while gazing on those eyes
That sink into her soul so deep,
Forgets all fears, all miseries,

Or feels them like the wretch in sleep,
Whom fancy cheats into a smile,
Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while!
The mighty ruins where they stood,

Upon the mount's high, rocky verge, Lay open towards the ocean flood,

Where lightly o'er th' illumined surge Many a fair bark that, all the day, Had lurk'd in sheltering creek or bay,

Now bounded on and gave their sails, Yet dripping, to the evening gales; Like eagles, when the storm is done, Spreading their wet wings in the sun. The beauteous clouds, though daylight's star

Had sunk behind the hills of Lar, Were still with lingering glories bright,

As if, to grace the gorgeous west,
The Spirit of departing Light
That eve had left his sunny vest

Behind him, ere he wing'd his flight. Never was scene so form'd for love! Beneath them, waves of crystal move In silent swell-heaven glows above, And their pure hearts, to transport Swell like the wave, and glow like given,

heaven!

But, ah! too soon that dream is past—

Again, again her fear returns ;Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast, More faintly the horizon burns, And every rosy tint that lay On the smooth sea hath died away. Hastily to the darkening skies

A glance she casts-then wildly cries, At night, he said--and, look, 'tis

near-

Fly, fly-if yet thou lov'st me, flySoon will his murderous band be here, And I shall see thee bleed and die.

Hush !-heard'st thou not the tramp of

men

Sounding from yonder fearful glen !— Perhaps e'en now they climb the wood

Fly, fly-though still the west is bright,

He'll come-oh! yes-he wants thy blood

I know him-he'll not wait for night!

In terrors e'en to agony

She clings around the wondering
Chief;-

Alas, poor wilder'd maid! to me Thou ow'st this raving trance of grief.

Lost as I am, nought ever grew
Beneath my shade but perish'd too—