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Would on that bosom he once lov'd remain,
Wan and dejected, through the evening dusk,
his victim's downçast brow,
Upon his couch the Veiled MOKANNA lay, While lamps around—not such as lend their ray, Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray, In holy Koom*, or Mecca's dim arcades,But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids Look loveliest in, shed their luxurious glow Upon bis mystic Veil's white glittering flow. Beside him, 'stead of beads, and books of prayer, Which the world fondly thought he mused on there, Stood vases, filled with KISHMEE’st golden wine, And the red weepings of the SAIRAZ vine; Of which his curtain'd lips full many a draught Took zealously, as if each drop they quaffd, Like ZEMZEM's Spring of Holinessf, had power To freshen the soul's virtues into flower! And still he drank and ponder'd-nor could see Th' approaching maid, so deep his reverie; At length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke From Ellis at the Fall of Man, he spoke:“ Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusement given, - Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with heaven;
The cities of Com (or Koom) and Cashan are full of mosques, mausoleums and sepulchres of the descendants of Ali, the Saints of Persia.-Chardin.
† An island in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for its' white wine.
* The miraculous well at Mecca; so called, says Sale, from the mnrmuring of its waters.
“ God's images, forsooth!-such gods as he “Whom India serves, the monkey deity;*“ Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay, " To whom if LUCIFER, as grandams say, “ Refus'd, though at the forfeit of heaven's light, “ To bend in worship, LUCIFER was right! “ Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck “Of your foul race, and without fear or check, “ Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame, “ My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man's name! “ Soon, at the head of myriads, blind and fierce “ As hooded falcons, through the universe “ I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way, “ Weak man my instrument, curst man my prey!
Ye wise, ye learn'd, who grope your
dull “ By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone, “Like superstitious thieves, who think the light “ From dead men's marrow guides them best at nightt66 Ye shall have honours-wealth,-yes, Sages, yes “ I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothingness; “ Undazzled it can track yon starry sphere, “ But a gilt stick, a bauble blinds it here.
* The god Hannaman.
† A kind of lantern formerly used by robbers, called the Hand of Glory, the candle for which was made of the fat of a dead malefactor. This, however, was rather a western than an eastern superstition.
“How I shall laugh, when trumpetted along, “ In lying speech, and still more lying song, “ By these learn'd slaves, the meanest of the throng; “ Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk so small '" A secptre's puny point can wield it all!
“ Ye too, believers of incredible oreeds, • Whose faith inshrines the monsters which it breeds, “ Who, bolder ev’n than NEMROD, think to rise, “By nonsense heap'd on ponsense, to the skies; “ Ye shall have miracles, aye, sound ones too,
Seen, heard, attested, every thing—but true. “ Your preaching zealots, too inspir’d to seek “One grace of meaning for the things they speak; “ Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood, “For truths too heavenly to be understood; “ And your State Priests, sole venders of the lore, “ That works salvation; -as on Ava's shore, “Where none but priests are privileg’d to trade " In that best marble of which Gods are made;* “ They shall have mysteries—aye, precious stuff " For knaves to thrive by-mysteries enough; “ Dark, tangled doctrines; dark as fraud can weaves,
Which simple votaries shall on trust receive, “While craftier feign belief, till they believe. “ A Heav'n too ye must have, ye lords of dust,“A splendid Paradise,-pure souls, ye must:
Symes's Ava, vol. ii. p. 376.
" That Prophet ill sustains his holy call,
“ Ob my lost soul!” exclaim'd the shuddering maid, Whose ears had drunk like poison all he said;MOKANNA started—not abash'd, afraid; He knew no more of fear than one who dwells Beneath the tropics knows of icicles! But, in those dismal words that reach'd his ear, “Oh my lost soul!” there was a sound so drear, So like that voice, among the sinful dead, In which the legend o'er Hell's Gate is read, That, new as 'twas from her, whom nought could dim Or sink till now, it startled even him.
“Ha, my fair Priestess!”-thus, with ready wile, Th’impostor turn’d to greet her-“thou, whose smile “ Hath inspiration in its rosy beam
Beyond th’ Enthusiast's hope or Prophet's dream! “ Light of the Faith! who twin'st religion's zeal “ So close with love's, men know not which they feel,