What shriek was that on OMAN'S tide? It came from yonder drifting bark, That just has caught upon her side The death-light — and again is dark. It is the boat ah, why delay'd? – That bears the wretched Moslem maid; Of a small veteran band, with whom Their generous Chieftain would not share The secret of his final doom; But hop'd when HINDA, safe and free, Unconscious, thus, of HAFED's fate, And proud to guard their beauteous freight,~ When the curst war-whoops, known so well, Came echoing from the distant dell · Sudden each oar, upheld and still, Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side, And, driving at the current's will, They rock'd along the whispering tide, While every eye, in mute dismay, Was tow'rd that fatal mountain turn'd, Where the dim altar's quivering ray As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd. Oh! 'tis not, HINDA, in the power To paint thy pangs in that dread hour ---- As those who feel could paint too well, 'Twas not alone the dreary state Of a lorn spirit, crush'd by fate, When, though no more remains to dread, When, though the inmate Hope be dead, No pleasures, hopes, affections gone, The wretch may bear, and yet live on, A calm stagnation, that were bliss To the keen, burning, harrowing pain, Now felt through all thy breast and brain- From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching Calm is the wave -- heav'n's brilliant lights Time was when, on such lovely nights, And ask no happier joy than seeing And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being That bounds in youth's yet careless breast, Itself a star, not borrowing light, But in its own glad essence bright. How different now ! - but, hark, again The yell of havoc rings brave men! In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand On the bark's edge — in vain each hand Half draws the falchion from its sheath; All's o'er in rust your blades may lie; He, at whose word they've scatter'd death, Ev'n now, this night, himself must die! Well may ye look to yon dim tower, And ask, and wondering guess what means The battle-cry at this dead hour Ah! she could tell you she, who leans Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast, With brow against the dew-cold mast — Too well she knows her more than life, Her soul's first idol and its last, Lies bleeding in that murderous strife. Some signal! 'tis a torch's light. What bodes its solitary glare? In gasping silence tow'rd the shrine All eyes are turn'd thine, HINDA, thine、 Fix their last failing life-beams there. 'Twas but a moment fierce and high The death-pile blaz'd into the sky, And far away o'er rock and flood Its melancholy radiance sent; While HAFED, like a vision, stood Reveal'd before the burning pyre, Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire Shrin'd in its own grand element ! " "Tis he!" the shuddering maid exclaims, One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave And, gazing, sunk into the wave, — Deep, deep, where never care or pain Shall reach her innocent heart again! Farewelfarewel to thee, ARABY's daughter! (Thus warbled a PERI beneath the dark sea) No pearl ever lay, under OMAN's green water, More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee. |