When all life's other lights were set. And never to his mind before Her image such enchantment wore. It seem'd as if each thought that stain'd, Each fear that chill'd their loves was past, And not one cloud of earth remain'd Between him and her radiance cast; As if to charms, before so bright, New grace from other worlds was given, And his soul saw her by the light Now breaking o'er itself from heaven! A voice spoke near him-'twas the tone Of all his warriors, left with life From that short night's tremendous strife."And must we then, my chief, die here? "Foes round us, and the Shrine so near!" These words have rous'd the last remains Of life within him-"what! not yet 'Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!" The thought could make ev'n Death forget His icy bondage-with a bound He springs, all bleeding, from the ground, And up the painful pathway leads, Speed them, thou God, who heard'st their vow! Thy blade too, HAFED, false at length, Come near and nearer from below One effort more -thank Heav'n! 'tis past, They've gain'd the topmost steep at last. Now HAFED sees the Fire divine When, lo!-his weak, worn comrade falls "Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled! "And must I leave thee withering here, "The sport of every ruffian's tread, "The mark for every coward's spear? "No, by yon altar's sacred beams!” Of the fall'n Chief, and tow'rds the flame And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires! What shriek was that on OMAN's tide? The death-light—and again is dark. Of a small veteran band, with whom Their generous Chieftain would not share The secret of his final doom, But hop'd when HINDA, safe and free, Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side, They rock'd along the whispering tide; While every eye, in mute dismay, Was tow'rd that fatal mountain turn'd, Where the dim altar's quivering ray As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd. Oh! 'tis not, HINDA, in the power To paint thy pangs in that dread hour— As those who feel could paint too well, 'Twas not alone the dreary state Of a lorn spirit, crush'd by fate, Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart; No-pleasures, hopes, affections gone, The wretch may bear, and yet live on, A calm stagnation, that were bliss To the keen, burning, harrowing pain, Now felt through all thy breast and brain ; That spasm of terror, mute, intense, That breathless, agonis'd suspense, From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching, The heart hath no relief but breaking! |