Brave, suffering souls! they little knew How many a tear their injuries drew From one meek maid, one gentle foe, Whom Love first touch'd with
Whose life, as free from thought
Slept like a
lake, till
Love threw
His talisman,
and woke
the tide, And spread its trembling
circles wide.
Once, Emir,
thy unheed
ing child,
'Mid all this
Tranquil as on some battle-plain
The Persian lily shines and towers,
Before the combat's reddening stain
Hath fall'n upon her golden flowers.
Light-hearted maid, unawed, unmoved,
While heaven but spared the sire she loved, Once at thy evening tales of blood Unlistening and aloof she stood; And oft, when thou hast paced along Thy haram halls with furious heat, Hast thou not cursed her cheerful song,
That came across thee, calm and sweet, Like lutes of angels, touch'd so near Hell's confines, that the damn'd can hear?
Far other feelings love hath brought, —
Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness, She now has but the one dear thought,
And thinks that o'er, almost to madness! Oft doth her sinking heart recall
"for my sake weep for all;"
And bitterly, as day on day
Of revel carnage fast succeeds,
She weeps a lover snatch'd away
In every Gheber wretch that bleeds. There's not a sabre meets her eye
But with his life-blood seems to swim; There's not an arrow wings the sky
But fancy turns its point to him. No more she brings with footstep light Al Hassan's falchion for the fight; And, had he look'd with clearer sight, Had not the mists that ever rise From a foul spirit dimm'd his eyes,
He would have mark'd her shuddering frame, When from the field of blood he came,
The faltering speech, the look estranged, — Voice, step, and life, and beauty changed, He would have mark'd all this, and known Such change is wrought by love alone! Ah! not the love that should have bless'd So young, so innocent a breast; Not the pure, open, prosperous love, That, pledged on earth, and seal'd above, Grows in the world's approving eyes,
In friendship's smile and home's caress, Collecting all the heart's sweet ties Into one knot of happiness! No, Hinda, no; — thy fatal flame Is nursed in silence, sorrow, shame,- A passion, without hope or pleasure, In thy soul's darkness buried deep,
It lies like some ill-gotten treasure, Some idol, without shrine or name, O'er which its pale-eyed votaries keep Unholy watch, while others sleep! Seven nights have darken'd Oman's Sea, Since last, beneath the moonlight ray, She saw his light oar rapidly
Hurry her Gheber's bark away; And still she goes, at midnight hour, To weep alone in that high bower, And watch, and look along the deep
For him whose smiles first made her weep,
But watching, weeping, all was vain,
She never saw his bark again.
The owlet's solitary cry;
The night-hawk, flitting darkly by ; And oft the hateful carrion bird, Heavily flapping his clogg'd wing, Which reek'd with that day's banqueting, Was all she saw, was all she heard.
'Tis the eighth morn Al Hassan's brow Is brighten'd with unusual joy,
What mighty mischief glads him now, Who never smiles but to destroy? The sparkle upon Herkend's Sea, When toss'd at midnight furiously, Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh More surely than that smiling eye! "Up, daughter, up, - the kerna's breath Has blown a blast would waken death,
This blessed day for heaven and me,
A day more rich in Pagan blood
Than ever flash'd o'er Oman's flood.
Before another dawn shall shine,
His head heart limbs will all be mine;
This very night his blood shall steep
These hands all over ere I sleep!
"His blood!" she faintly scream'd, her mind
Still singling one from all mankind.
"Yes; - spite of his ravines and towers,
Hafed, my child, this night is ours. Thanks to all-conquering treachery,
Without whose aid the links accursed,
That bind these impious slaves, would be
Too strong for Alla's self to burst! That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread My path with piles of Moslem dead, Whose baffling spells had almost driven
Back from their course the Swords of Heaven, This night, with all his band, shall know How deep an Arab's steel can go, When God and vengeance speed the blow. And, Prophet! by that holy wreath Thou wor'st on Ohod's field of death, I swear, for every sob that parts In anguish from these heathen hearts, A gem from Persia's plunder'd mines Shall glitter on thy shrine of shrines.
But ha! she sinks that look so wild. Those livid lips my child, my child, This life of blood befits not thee, And thou must back to Araby, Ne'er had I risk'd thy timid sex
In scenes that man himself might dread, Had I not hoped our every tread Would be on prostrate Persians' necks Cursed race, they offer swords instead! But cheer thee, maid, the wind that now
Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow, To-day shall waft thee from the shore; And, ere a drop of this night's gore Have time to chill in yonder towers, Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers!" His bloody boast was all too true: There lurk'd one wretch among the few
« ForrigeFortsæt » |