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
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,

* "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 Haukal.

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

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 even 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.*

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

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

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-fiend's brood,

HAFED, the demon of the fight,

Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,

Is her own loved 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!