THE next evening LLALLA ROOKH was entreated by her ladies to continue the relation of her wonderful dream; but the fearful interest that hung round the fate of HINDA and her lover had completely removed every trace of it from her mind:much to the disappointment of a fair seer or two in her train, who prided themselves on their skill in interpreting visions, and who had already remarked, as an unlucky omen, that the princess, on the very morning after the dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blossoms of the sorrowful tree, Nilica.

FADLADEEN, whose wrath had more than once broken out during the recital of some parts of this most heterodox poem, seemed at length to have made up his mind to the infliction, and took his seat for the evening with all the patience of a martyr, while the poet continued his profane and seditious story thus:

To tearless eyes and hearts at ease
The leafy shores and sun-bright seas,
That lay beneath that mountain's height,
Had been a fair, enchanting sight.
'Twas one of those ambrosial eves
A day of storm so often leaves
At its calm setting-when the West
Opens her golden bowers of rest,
And a moist radiance from the skies
Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes
Of some meek penitent, whose last,
Bright hours atone for dark ones past,
And whose sweet tears, o'er wrong forgiven,
Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven!

'Twas stillness all-the winds that late

Had rush'd through KERMAN's almond groves And shaken from her bowers of date That cooling feast the traveller loves,* 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 those glories burst

*"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 Haukel.

On HINDA's dazzled eyes, when first
The bandage from her brow was taken,
And pale and aw'd as those who waken
In their dark tombs-when, scowling near,
The Searchers of the Grave* 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 ev'n 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 ear-
Strange, 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!
He comes-the rock resounds his tread-
How shall she dare to lift her head,
Or meet those eyes, whose scorching glare
Not YEMEN's boldest sons can bear?
In whose red beam the Moslem tells,
Such rank and deadly lustre dwells,
As in those hellish fires that light
The mandrake's charnel leaves at night!f

The two terrible angels, Monkir and Nakir, who are called "the Searchers of the Grave"in the "Creed of the orthodox Mahometans" given by Oakley, vol. ii.

"The Arabians call the mandrake 'the Devil's candle, on account of its shining appearance in the night."-Richardson.

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 eyes,
To hide them on her Gheber's breast!
'Tis he, 'tis he-the man of blood,
The fellest of the fire-fiends brood,
HAFED, the demon of the fight,

Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight..
Is her own lov'd Gheber, mild

And glorious as when first he smil'd
In her lone tower, and left such beams
Of his pure eye to light her dreams,
That she believ'd her bower had given
Rest to some wanderer from heaven!
Moments there are, and this was one,

Snatch'd like a minute's gleam of sun
Amid the black Simoom's eclipse-

Or like those verdant spots that bloom
Around the crater's burning lips,
Sweetening the very edge of doom!
The past-the future-all that Fate
Can bring of dark or desperate
Around such hours, but makes them cast
Intenser radiance while they last!

Ev'n he, this youth-though dimm'd and gone
Each star of Hope that cheer'd him on-
His glories lost-his cause betray'd—
IRAN, his dear-lov'd country, made
A land of carcasses and slaves,

One dreary waste of chains and graves!
Himself but lingering, dead at heart,
To see the last long-struggling breath
Of liberty's great soul depart,

Then lay him down, and share her deathEv'n 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 lov'd-well, warmly lov'd—
Oh! in this precious hour he prov'd
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!