Calm is the wave-heav'n's brilliant lights
Reflected dance beneath the prow ;-

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, Which bounds in youth's yet careless breast, Itself 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
On the bark's edge-in vain each hand
Half draws 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
Fix their last fading life-beams 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 that 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 thee 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!

But long, upon ARABY's green sunny highlands, Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom

*This wind (the Samoor) so softens the strings of lutes, that they can never be tuned while it lasts."-Stephen's Persia.

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,

The happiest there, from their pastime returning
At sunset, 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, beloved of her Hero! forget thee— Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start,

* "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 date-time, of their work, their dances, and their return home from the palmgroves at the end of autumn with the fruits, see Kempfer, Amanitat. Exot.

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.

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 Caspiant are
sparkling,

And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

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

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