'Tis moonlight over OMAN'S SEA; 214

Her banks of pearl and palmy isles Bask in the night-beam beauteously,

And her blue waters sleep in smiles.
'Tis moonlight in HARMOZIA'S 215 walls,
And through her EMIR'S porphyry halls,
Where, some hours since, was heard the swell

Of trumpet and the clash of zel,216
Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell;-
The peaceful sun, whom better suits
The music of the bulbul's nest,

Or the light touch of lovers' lutes,

To sing him to his golden rest.

All hush'd-there's not a breeze in motion;

The shore is silent as the ocean.

If zephyrs come, so light they come,

Nor leaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven;

The wind-tower on the EMIR'S dome 217
Can hardly win a breath from heaven.

Even he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps
Calm, while a nation round him weeps;
While curses load the air he breathes,
And falchions from unnumbered sheaths

Are starting to avenge the shame

His race hath brought on IRAN'S 218 name.

Hard, heartless Chief, unmov'd alike

Mid eyes that weep, and swords that strike;—
One of that saintly, murderous brood,

To carnage and the Koran given,
Who think through unbelievers' blood
Lies their directest path to heaven;-
One, who will pause and kneel unshod
In the warm blood his hand hath pour'd,

To mutter o'er some text of God

Engraven on his reeking sword; 219-
Nay, who can coolly note the line,
The letter of those words divine,

To which his blade, with searching art,

Had sunk into its victim's heart!

Just ALLA! what must be thy look,

When such a wretch before thee stands

Unblushing, with thy Sacred Book,

Turning the leaves with blood-stain'd hands,

And wresting from its page sublime
His creed of lust, and hate, and crime ;-
Even as those bees of TREBIZOND,

Which, from the sunniest flowers that glad With their pure smile the gardens round, Draw venom forth that drives men mad.220

Never did fierce ARABIA send

A satrap forth more direly great; Never was IRAN doom'd to bend

Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight.

Her throne had fallen-her pride was crush'd-
Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush'd,
In their own land,-no more their own,-
To crouch beneath a stranger's throne.

Her towers, where MITHRA once had burn'd,
To Moslem shrines-oh shame!-were turn'd,
Where slaves, converted by the sword,
Their mean, apostate worship pour'd,