Time was when, on such lovely nights
She who is there, so desolate now,
Could sit all cheerful, though alone,

And ask no happier joy than seeing
That star-light o'er the waters thrown→→→
No joy but that to make her blest,

And the fresh, buoyant sense of being
That bounds in youth's yet careless breast.
tself a star not borrowing light,
But in its own glad essence bright.
How different now!-but, hark, again
The yell of havoc rings-brave men!
In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand-
Half draw the falchion from its sheath;
All's o'er-in rust your blades may lie ;-
He, at whose word they've scatter'd death,
Ev'n now,
this night, himself must die!
Well may ye look to yon dim tower,
And ask, and wondering guess what means
The battle cry at this dead hour-

Ah! she could tell you-she, who leans
Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast,
With brow against the dew cold mast—
Too well she knows-her more than life,
Her soul's first idol and its last,

Lies bleeding in that murderous strife.
But see what moves upon the height?
Some signal!-'tis a torch's light.
What bodes its solitary glare?
In gasping silence tow'rd the shrine
́All eyes are turn'd-thine, HINDA, thine
Fixt their last failing life-beam there.
'Twas but a moment-fierce and high

The death-pile blaz'd into the sky,
And far away o'er rock and flood
Its melancholy radiance sent;
While HAFED, like a vision, stood
Reveal'd before the burning pyre,
Tall, shadowy, like a spirit of fire
Shrin'd in its own grand element!
"'Tis he!"-the shuddering maid exclaims,-
But, while she speaks, he's seen no more;
High burst in air the funeral flames,
And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er!

One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave-
Then sprung, as if to reach the blaze,
Where still she fix'd her dying gaze,
And, gazing, sunk into the wave,-
Deep, deep,-where never care or pain
Shall reach her innocent heart again!

Farewell-farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea).
No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water,
More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.

Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to the growing, How light was thy heart till love's witchery

came,

Like the wind of the south* o'er a summer lute

blowing,

And hush'd all its music and wither'd its frame!

"This wind [the Samoor] so oftens the strings of lutes, that they can never be tuned while it lasts."Stephen's Persia.

But long, upon ARABY's green sunny highlands,

Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With nought but the sea star* to light up her tomb. And still, when the merry date-season is burning, And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old,t

The happiest there, from their pastime returning At sun-set, will weep when thy story is told.

The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses

Her dark flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away.

Nor shall IRAN, belov'd of her Hero! forget thee,

Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee, Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell-be it ours to embellish thy pillow
With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep;
Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.

"One of the greatest curiosities found in the Persian Gulf is a fish which the English call Star-fish. It is circular, and at night very luminous, resembling the full moon surrounded by rays."-Mirza Abu Taleb.

For a description of the merriment of the datetime, of their work, their dances, and their return home from the palm-groves at the end of autumn with the fruits, v. Kempfer, Amanitat, Exot.

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber

That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept;* With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber,

We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept.

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head;
We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian tare
sparkling,

And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.
Farewell-farewell-until Pity's sweet fountain
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,
They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that
mountain,

They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this

wave.

* Some naturalists have imagined that amber is a concretion of the tears of birds.--Trevoux, Chambers.

"The bay of Kieselarke, which is otherwise called the Golden Bay, the sand whereof shines as fire."-Struy

THE singular placidity with which FADLADEEN had listened, during the latter part of this obnoxious story, surprised the Princess and FERAMORZ exceedingly; and even inclined towards him the hearts of these unsuspicious young persons, who little knew the source of complacency so marvellous. The truth was, he had been organizing, for the last few days, a most notable plan of persecution against the poet, in consequence of some passages that had fallen from him on the second evening of recital, which appeared to this worthy Chamberlain to contain language and principles, for which nothing short of the summary criticism of the Chabuk* would be advisable. It was his intention, therefore, immediately on their arrival at Cashmere, to give information to the king of Bucharia of the very dangerous sentiments of his minstrel; and if, unfortunately, that monarch did not act with suitable vigour on the occasion, (that is, if he did not give the Chabuk to FERAMORZ, and a place to FADLADEEN,) there would be an end, he feared, of all legitimate government in Bucharia. He could not help, however, auguring better for himself and the cause of potentates in general; and it was the pleasure arising from these mingled anticipations that diffused such unusual satisfaction through his features, and made his eyes shine out like poppies of the desert, over the wide and lifeless wilderness of that countenance.

Having decided upon the Poet's chastisement in this manner, he thought it but humanity to spare him the minor tortures of criticism. Accordingly, when they assembled next evening in the pavilion, and LLALLA ROOKн expected to see all the beauties of her bard melt away, one by one, in the acidity of criticism, like pearls in the cup of the Egyptian

"The application of whips or rods."--Dubois,