The nightingale now bends her flight
From the high trees, where all the night

She sung so sweet, with none to listen;

And hides her from the morning star

Where thickets of pomegranate glisten

In the clear dawn,

bespangled o'er

With dew, whose night-drops would not stain

The best and brightest scimitar +

That ever youthful Sultan wore

On the first morning of his reign!

And see

the Sun himself! — on wings

Of glory up the East he springs.

Angel of Light! who from the time

Those heavens began their march sublime,

Hath first of all the starry choir

Trod in his Maker's steps of fire!

Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere,

When IRAN, like a sun-flower, turn'd

To meet that where'er it burn'd? —

eye

-

When, from the banks of BENDEMEER

"the

4. In speaking of the climate of Shiraz, Francklin says, dew is of such a pure nature, that, if the brightest scimitar should be exposed to it all night, it would not receive the least rust."

To the nut-groves of SAMARCAND

Thy temples flam'd o'er all the land?

Where are they? ask the shades of them
Who, on CADESSIA'S bloody plains,

Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem

From IRAN's broken diadem,

And bind her ancient faith in chains:

Ask the poor exile, cast alone

On foreign shores, unlov'd, unknown,
Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates,"

Or on the snowy Mossian mountains,

Far from his beauteous land of dates,

Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains!

Yet happier so than if he trod

His own belov'd but blighted sod,
Beneath a despot stranger's nod!
Oh! he would rather houseless roam

Where Freedom and his God may lead,

Than be the sleekest slave at home

That crouches to the conqueror's creed!

5 The place where the Persians were finally defeated by the Arabs, and their ancient monarchy destroyed.

6 Derbend.

"Les Turcs appellent cette ville Demir Capi, Porte de Fer; ce sont les Caspiæ Portæ des anciens."-D'Herbelot.

Is IRAN's pride then gone for ever,

Quench'd with the flame in MITHRA'S caves?

No she has sons that never

never

Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves,

While heav'n has light or earth has graves.
Spirits of fire, that brood not long,
But flash resentment back for wrong;

And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds
Of vengeance ripen into deeds,

Till, in some treacherous hour of calm,
They burst, like ZEILAN's giant palm,'
Whose buds fly open with a sound
That shakes the pigmy forests round!

Yes, EMIR! he, who scal'd that tower,

And, had he reach'd thy slumbering breast,

Had taught thee, in a Gheber's power
How safe ev'n tyrant heads may rest

7 The Talpot or Talipot tree. "This beautiful palm-tree, which grows in the heart of the forests, may be classed among the loftiest trees, and becomes still higher when on the point of bursting forth from its leafy summit. The sheath which then envelopes the flower is very large, and, when it bursts, makes an explosion like the report of a cannon." -Thunberg.

Is one of many, brave as he,

Who loathe thy haughty race and thee;
Who, though they know the strife is vain,
Who, though they know the riven chain
Snaps but to enter in the heart

Of him who rends its links apart,

Yet dare the issue, blest to be

Ev'n for one bleeding moment free,

And die in pangs of liberty!

Thou know'st them well-'tis some moons since

Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags,

Thou satrap of a bigot Prince!

Have swarm'd among these Green Sea crags;

Yet here, ev'n here, a sacred band,

Ay, in the portal of that land

Thou, Arab, dar'st to call thy own,

Their spears across thy path have thrown;

Rebellion! foul, dishonouring word,
Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd
The holiest cause that tongue or sword
Of mortal ever lost or gain'd.

How many a spirit, born to bless,

Hath sunk beneath that withering name,

Whom but a day's, an hour's success
Had wafted to eternal fame!

As exhalations, when they burst

From the warm earth, if chill'd at first,
If check'd in soaring from the plain,
Darken to fogs and sink again;-
But, if they once triumphant spread
Their wings above the mountain-head,
Become enthron'd in upper air,

And turn to sun-bright glories there!

And who is he, that wields the might

Of Freedom on the Green Sea brink,
Before whose sabre's dazzling light

The eyes of YEMEN's warriors wink?
Who comes embower'd in the spears
Of KERMAN's hardy mountaineers?—
Those mountaineers that truest, last,

Cling to their country's ancient rites,
As if that God, whose eyelids cast

Their closing gleam on IRAN's heights,