Yet, one relief this glance of former years

Brought, mingled with its pain,-tears, floods of tears.
Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills
Let loose in spring-time from the snowy hills,
And gushing warm, after a sleep of frost,
Through valleys where their flow had long been lost.

Sad and subdued, for the first time her frame
Trembled with horror when the summons came
(A summons proud and rare, which all but she,
And she till now, had heard with ecstasy)
To meet Mokanna at his place of prayer,
A garden oratory, cool and fair,

By the stream's side, where still at close of day
The Prophet of the Veil retired to pray;
Sometimes alone-but, oftener far, with one,
One chosen nymph to share his orison.

Of late none found such favour in his sight
As the young Priestess; and though, since that night
When the death-caverns echoed every tone
Of the dire oath that made her all his own,
The Impostor, sure of his infatuate prize,

Had, more than once, thrown off his soul's disguise,
And uttered such unheavenly, monstrous things,

As even across the desperate wanderings

Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out,
Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt ;—
Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow,

The thought, still haunting her, of that bright brow,
Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye concealed,
Would soon, proud triumph! be to her revealed,
To her alone; and then the hope, most dear,
Most wild of all, that her transgression here
Was but a passage through earth's grosser fire,
From which the spirit would at last aspire,
Even purer than before, -as perfumes rise

Through flame and smoke, most welcome to the skies-
And that when Azim's fond, divine embrace
Should circle her in heaven, no darkening trace
Would on that bosom he once loved remain,
But all be bright, be pure, be his again !—
These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit
Had chained her soul beneath the tempter's feet,
And made her think even damning falsehood sweet.
But now that Shape which had appalled her view,
That Semblance-oh how terrible, if true!
Which came across her frenzy's full career
With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe,
As when, in northern seas, at midnight dark,
An isle of ice encounters some swift bark,
And, startling all its wretches from their sleep,
By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep ;-

So came that shock not frenzy's self could bear,
And waking up each long-lulled image there,
But checked her headlong soul, to sink it in despair!

Wan and dejected, through the evening dusk,
She now went slowly to that small kiosk,
Where, pondering alone his impious schemes,
Mokanna waited her-too wrapt in dreams
Of the fair ripening future's rich success
To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless,
That sat upon his victim's downcast brow,
Or mark how slow her step, how altered now
From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound
Came like a spirit's o'er the unechoing ground,-
From that wild Zelica whose every glance
Was thrilling fire, whose every thought a trance!

Upon his couch the Veiled Mokanna lay,
While lamps around-not such as lend their ray,
Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray
In holy Koom,* or Mecca's dim arcades,—
But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids
Look loveliest in, shed their luxurious glow
Upon his mystic Veil's white glittering flow.
Beside him, 'stead of beads and books of prayer,
Which the world fondly thought he mused on there,
Stood Vases filled with Kishmee'st golden wine,
And the red weepings of the Shiraz vine;
Of which his curtained lips full many a draught
Took zealously, as if each drop they quaffed,
Like Zemzem's Spring of Holiness, ‡ had power
To freshen the soul's virtues into flower!
And still he drank and pondered-nor could see
The approaching maid, so deep his reverie;

At length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke
From Eblis at the Fall of Man, he spoke

:

"Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusement given,

Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with heaven;
God's images, forsooth !-such gods as he
Whom India serves, the monkey deity ;-
Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay,
To whom, if Lucifer, as grandams say,
Refused, though at the forfeit of heaven's light,
To bend in worship, Lucifer was right !—
Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck
Of your foul race, and without fear or check,
Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame,

My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man's name !—

The cities of Com (or Koom) and Cashan are full of mosques, mausoleums, and sepulchres of the descendants of Ali, the Saints of Persia.- Chardin.

† An island in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for its white wine. The miraculous well at Mecca; so called, says Sale, from the murmuring of its waters.

Soon at the head of myriads, blind and fierce
As hooded falcons, through the universe

I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way,
Weak man my instrument, curst man my prey!

*

"Ye wise, ye learn'd, who grope your dull way on
By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone,
Like superstitious thieves, who think the light
From dead men's marrow guides them best at night *
Ye shall have honours-wealth-yes, Sages, yes—
I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothingness;
Undazzled it can track yon starry sphere,
But a gilt stick, a bauble, blinds it here.
How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along,
In lying speech, and still more lying song,

By these learn'd slaves, the meanest of the throng:
Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk so small,
A sceptre's puny point can wield it all!

"Ye too, believers of incredible creeds,

Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it breeds;
Who, bolder even than Nemrod, think to rise,
By nonsense heaped on nonsense, to the skies;
Ye shall have miracles, ay, sound ones too,
Seen, heard, attested, everything—but true.
Your preaching zealots, too inspired to seek
One grace of meaning for the things they speak;
Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood,
For truths too heavenly to be understood;
And your State Priests, sole vendors of the lore
That works salvation ;-as, on Ava's shore,
Where none but priests are privileged to trade
In that best marble of which Gods are made; †
They shall have mysteries-ay, precious stuff
For knaves to thrive by-mysteries enough;
Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave,
Which simple votaries shall on trust receive,
While craftier feign belief, till they believe.
A Heaven too ye must have, ye lords of dust,-
A splendid Paradise,-pure souls, ye must:
That Prophet ill sustains his holy call
Who finds not heavens to suit the tastes of all;
Houris for boys, omniscience for sages,
And wings and glories for all ranks and ages.
Vain things!-as lust or vanity inspires,

The heaven of each is but what each desires,

* A kind of lantern formerly used by robbers, called the Hand of Glory, the candle for which was made of the fat of a dead malefactor. This, however, was rather a western than an eastern superstition.

The material of which images of Gaudma (the Birman Deity) are made, is held sacred. "Birmans may not purchase the marble in mass, but are suffered, and indeed encouraged, to buy figures of the Deity ready made."Syme's Ava, vol. ii. p. 376,

And, soul or sense, whate'er the object be,
Man would be man to all eternity!

So let him-Eblis!-grant this crowning curse,
But keep him what he is, no Hell were worse.'

"Oh my lost soul!" exclaimed the shuddering maid, Whose ears had drunk like poison all he said.Mokanna started—not abashed, afraid,—

He knew no more of fear than one who dwells
Beneath the tropics knows of icicles!

But, in those dismal words that reached his ear,
"Oh my lost soul !" there was a sound so drear,
So like that voice, among the sinful dead,

In which the legend o'er Hell's Gate is read,

That, new as 'twas from her, whom nought could dim Or sink till now, it startled even him.

"Ha, my fair Priestess !"—thus, with ready wile, The Impostor turned to greet her "thou whose smile Hath inspiration in its rosy beam

Beyond the Enthusiast's hope or Prophet's dream;
Light of the Faith! who twinest religion's zeal

So close with love's, men know not which they feel.
Nor which to sigh for, in their trance of heart,
The heaven thou preachest or the heaven thou art !
What should I be without thee? without thee
How dull were power, how joyless victory!
Though borne by angels, if that smile of thine
Blessed not my banner, 'twere but half divine.
But-why so mournful, child? those eyes, that shone
All life last night-what!-is their glory gone?
Come, come-this morn's fatigue hath made them pale,
They want rekindling-suns themselves would fail
Did not their comets bring, as I to thee,
From light's own fount supplies of brilliancy.
Thou seest this cup-no juice of earth is here,
But the pure waters of that upper sphere
Whose rills o'er ruby beds and topaz flow,
Catching the gem's bright colour, as they go.
Nightly my Genii come and fill these urns-
Nay, drink-in every drop life's essence burns;
'Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all light-
Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to-night:
There is a youth-why start?-thou sawest him then ;
Looked he not nobly? such the godlike men
Thou'lt have to woo thee in the bowers above ;-
Though he, I fear, hath thoughts too stern for love,
Too ruled by that cold enemy of bliss

The world calls virtue-we must conquer this.
Nay, shrink not, pretty sage! 'tis not for thee
To scan the mazes of Heaven's mystery :

The steel must pass through fire, ere it can yield
Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield.

B

This very night I mean to try the art
Of powerful beauty on that warrior's heart.
All that my Haram boasts of bloom and wit,
Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite,
Shall tempt the boy ;-young Mirzala's blue eyes,
Whose sleepy lid like snow on violets lies;
Arouya's cheeks, warm as a spring-day sun,
And lips that, like the seal of Solomon,
Have magic in their pressure; Zeba's lute,
And Lilla's dancing feet, that gleam and shoot
Rapid and white as sea-birds o'er the deep-
All shall combine their witching powers to steep
My convert's spirit in that softening trance
From which to heaven is but the next advance ;--
That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast,
On which Religion stamps her image best.

But hear me, Priestess !-though each nymph of these
Hath some peculiar, practised power to please,
Some glance or step which, at the mirror tried,
First charms herself, then all the world beside;
There still wants one, to make the victory sure,
One who in every look joins every lure;
Through whom all beauty's beams concentred pass,
Dazzling and warm, as through love's burning-glass ;
Whose gentle lips persuade without a word,
Whose words, even when unmeaning, are adored,
Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine,
Which our faith takes for granted are divine!
Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and light,
To crown the rich temptations of to-night;
Such the refined enchantress that must be
This hero's vanquisher,—and thou art she!".

With her hands clasped, her lips apart and pale,
The maid had stood, gazing upon the Veil

From which these words, like south winds through a fence
Of Kerzrah flowers, came filled with pestilence;

So boldly uttered too! as if all dread

Of frowns from her, of virtuous frowns, were fled,
And the wretch felt assured that, once plunged in,
Her woman's soul would know no pause in sin!

At first, though mute she listened, like a dream

Seemed all he said: nor could her mind, whose beam
As yet was weak, penetrate half his scheme.

But when, at length, he uttered "Thou art she!"

All flashed at once, and shrieking piteously,

"Oh not for worlds!" she cried Great God! to whom

I once knelt innocent, is this my doom?

"It is commonly said in Persia, that if a man breathe in the hot south wind, which in June or July passes over that flower (the Kerzereh) it will kill him."-Thevenot.