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,
Th' Imposter, sure of his infatuate prize,

Had, more than once, thrown off his soul's disguise,
And utter'd such unheav'nly, monstrous things,
As ev'n 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 conceal'd,
Would soon, proud triumph! be to her reveal'd,
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,
Ev'n 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 Heav'n, no darkening trace
Would on that bosom he once lov'd remain,

But all be bright, be pure, be his again!—

These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit
Had chain'd her soul beneath the Tempter's feet,
And made her think ev'n damning falsehood sweet.
But now that shape, which had appall'd 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-lull'd image there,
But check'd 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.

"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 trumpetted 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!

66

Ye too, believers of incredible creeds,

Whose faith inshrines the monsters which it breed;
Who, bolder ev'n than Nemrod, think to rise,
By nonsense heaped on nonsense to the skies;
Ye shall have miracles, aye, sound ones too,
Seen, heard, attested, every thing-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-aye, 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 Heav'n 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 Heav'ns 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 Heav'n of each is but what each desires,
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.'

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.

"Oh my lost soul!" exclaim'd the shuddering maid. Whose ears had drunk like poison all he said,Mokanna started-not abash'd, afraid,

He knew no more of fear than one who dwells

Beneath the tropics knows of icicles!

But, in those dismal words that reach'd 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, Th' Impostor turn'd to greet her-" thou, whose smile Hath inspiration in its rosy beam

Beyond th' Enthusiast's hope or Prophet's dream'
Light of the Faith! who twin'st 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 Heav'n thou preachest or the Heav'n 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
Bless'd 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 bright -
Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to-night:
There is a youth-why start ?-thou saw'st him then;
Look'd he not nobly? such the god-like men
Thou'lt have to woo thee in the bowers above;--
Though he, I fear, hath thoughts too stern for love,
Too rul'd 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 Heav'n's mystery.

The steel must pass through fire, ere it can yield

朗

Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield.
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 violet 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 Heav'n 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 concenter'd pass,
Dazzling and rich, as through love's burning-glass;
Whose gentle lips persuade without a word,
Whose words, ev'n when unmeaning, are ador'd,
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 refin'd enchantress that must be
This hero's vanquisher, and thou art she!"

With her hands clasp'd, 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 flow'rs, came filled with pestilence:*

So boldly utter'd too! as if all dread

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

At first, tho' mute she listen'd, like a dream
Seem'd all he said; nor could her mind, whose beam

"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."