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!
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!3
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,
"The Arabians call the mandrake the Devil's candle,' on account of its shining appearance in the night."- Richardson.
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,
-the shriek that broke
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 believed 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! The past the future all that Fate
Can bring of dark or desperate
Around such hours, but makes them cast
Intenser radiance while they last!
Each star of Hope that cheer'd him on
His glories lost his cause betray'd –
IRAN, his dear-lov'd country, made
A land of carcases and slaves,
One dreary waste of chains and graves !
Himself but lingering, dead at heart,
To see the last, long-struggling breath
Of Liberty's great soul depart,
Then lay him down, and share her deathEv'n he, so sunk in wretchedness,
With doom still darker gathering o'er him, Yet, in this moment's pure caress,
In the mild eyes that shone before him,
Beaming that blest assurance, worth
All other transports known on earth,
That he was lov'd—well, warmly lov'd —
Oh! in this precious hour he prov’d
How deep, how thorough-felt the glow
Of rapture, kindling out of woe; —
How exquisite one single drop
Of bliss, thus sparkling to the top
Of misery's cup-how keenly quaff'd,
Though death must follow on the draught!
She too, while gazing on those eyes
That sink into her soul so deep,
Forgets all fears, all miseries,
Or feels them like the wretch in sleep,
Whom fancy cheats into a smile,
Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while!
The mighty Ruins where they stood,
Upon the mount's high, rocky verge,
Lay open tow'rds the ocean flood,
Where lightly o'er th' illumin'd surge
Many a fair bark that, all the day,
Had lurk'd in sheltering creek or bay,
Now bounded on and gave their sails,
Yet dripping, to the evening gales;
Like eagles, when the storm is done,
Spreading their wet wings in the sun.
The beauteous clouds, though daylight's Star
Had sunk behind the hills of LAR,
Were still with lingering glories bright,
As if, to grace the gorgeous West,
The Spirit of departing Light
That eve had left his
Behind him, ere he wing'd his flight.
Never was scene so form'd for love!
Beneath them, waves of crystal move
In silent swell - heav'n glows above,
And their pure hearts, to transport given,
Swell like the wave, and glow like heav'n
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