THE morn hath risen clear and calm,

And o'er the Green Sea 288 palely shines,
Revealing BAHREIN's groves 289 of palm,
And lighting KISHMA'S 289 amber vines.
Fresh smell the shores of ARABY,
While breezes from the Indian sea
Blow round SELAMA'S 240 sainted cape,
And curl the shining flood beneath,-
Whose waves are rich with many a grape,
And cocoa-nut and flowery wreath,
Which pious seamen, as they pass'd,
Had tow'rd that holy headland cast-
Oblations to the Genii there
For gentle skies and breezes fair!
The nightingale now bends her flight 241
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 242
That ever youthful Sultan wore

On the first morning of his reign.

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, turned
To meet that eye where'er it burned?
When, from the banks of BENDEMEER
To the nut-groves of SAMARCAND,
Thy temples flamed o'er all the land?
Where are they? ask the shades of them
Who, on CADESSIA'S 248 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, unloved, unknown,
Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates, 244

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 beloved, 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 !

IS IRAN's pride then gone forever,

Quenched with the flame in MITHRA's caves? No she has sons, that never

never

Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves,

While heaven 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,245
Whose buds fly open with a sound
That shakes the pigmy forests round!

Yes, EMIR! he, who scaled that tower,

And, had he reached thy slumbering breast, Had taught thee, in a Gheber's power

How safe e'en tyrant heads may rest

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

E'en for one bleeding moment free,

And die in pangs of liberty!

Thou know'st them well-'t is some moons since

Thy turbaned troops and blood-red flags,

Thou satrap of a bigot Prince,

Have swarmed among these Green Sea crags;

Yet here, e'en 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;

Here

ere the winds half winged thee o'erRebellion braved thee from the shore.

Rebellion! foul, dishonoring word,
Whose wrongful blight so oft has stained
The holiest cause that tongue or sword
Of mortal ever lost or gained.
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 chilled at first,
If checked in soaring from the plain,
Darken to fogs and sink again;
But, if they once triumphant spread
Their wings above the mountain-head,
Become enthroned 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 246

The eyes of YEMEN's warriors wink? Who comes, embowered 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,
Among her snowy mountains threw
The last light of his worship too!

'Tis HAFED

name of fear, whose sound

Chills like the muttering of a charm! Shout but that awful name around,

And palsy shakes the manliest arm. 'Tis HAFED, most accursed and dire (So ranked by Moslem hate and ire) Of all the rebel Sons of Fire; Of whose malign, tremendous power The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour, Such tales of fearful wonder tell, That each affrighted sentinel Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes, Lest HAFED in the midst should rise! A man, they say, of monstrous birth, A mingled race of flame and earth, Sprung from those old, enchanted kings,247 Who in their fairy helms, of yore A feather from the mystic wings

Of the Simoorgh resistless wore; And gifted by the Fiends of Fire, Who groaned to see their shrines expire, With charms that, all in vain withstood, Would drown the Koran's light in blood!