The' accursed race, whose ruthless chain Hath left on IRAN's neck a stain Blood, blood alone can cleanse again Such are the swelling thoughts that now On the red wreath, for martyrs twin'd, That pile, which through the gloom behind, Half lighted by the altar's fire, Glimmers, his destin'd funeral pyre! Heap'd by his own, his comrades' hands, The few, to whom that couch of flame, Is sweet and welcome as the bed For their own infant Prophet spread, 5 Jesus. When pitying Heav'n to roses turn'd The death-flames that beneath him burn'd!" With watchfulness the maid attends His rapid glance, where'er it bends - What plans he now? what thinks or dreams? "HAFED, my own beloved Lord," She kneeling cries-"first, last ador'd! "If in that soul thou'st ever felt "Half what thy lips impassion'd swore, “Here, on my knees that never knelt "Now, now ere yet their blades are nigh. "Oh haste the bark that bore me hither "Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea "East west alas, I care not whither, "So thou art safe, and I with thee! 6 The Ghebers say that when Abraham, their great Prophet, was thrown into the fire by order of Nimrod, the flame turned instantly into "a bed of roses, where the child sweetly reposed." Tavernier. MA "Go where we will, this hand in thine, 66 "Those eyes before me smiling thus, Through good and ill, through storm and shine, "The world's a world of love for us! "On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell, "Where 'tis no crime to love too well; "Where thus to worship tenderly "An erring child of light like thee "Will not be sin or, if it be, "Where we may weep our faults away, 66 Together kneeling, night and day, "Thou, for my sake, at ALLA's shrine, "And I at any God's, for thine!” Wildly these passionate words she spoke — With every deep-heav'd sob that came. If, for a moment, pride and fame, His oath his cause that shrine of flame, And IRAN's self are all forgot For her whom at his feet he sees, Kneeling in speechless agonies. No, blame him not, if Hope awhile Dawn'd in his soul, and threw her smile O'er hours to come - o'er days and nights Wing'd with those precious, pure delights Which she, who bends all beauteous there, Was born to kindle and to share! A tear or two, which, as he bow'd To raise the suppliant, trembling stole, First warn'd him of this dangerous cloud Of softness passing o'er his soul. Starting, he brush'd the drops away, Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray; Like one who, on the morn of fight, Shakes from his sword the dews of night, That had but dimm'd, not stain'd its light. Yet, though subdued th' unnerving thrill, Its warmth, its weakness linger'd still So touching in each look and tone, That the fond, fearing, hoping maid Half counted on the flight she pray'd, Half thought the hero's soul was grown As soft, as yielding as her own, And smil'd and bless'd him, while he said, "Where fadeless truth like ours is dear; "If there be any land of rest "For those who love and ne'er forget, "Oh! comfort thee for safe and blest "We'll meet in that calm region yet!" Scarce had she time to ask her heart 7 The storm-fiend at his rising blows. — 7 "The shell called Siiankos, common to India, Africa, and the Mediterranean, and still used in many parts as a trumpet for blowing alarms or giving signals: it sends forth a deep and hollow sound." Pennant. |