The sea-birds, with portentous screech,
Flew fast to land; - upon the beach
The pilot oft had paus'd, with glance
Turn'd upward to that wild expanse;
And all was boding, drear and dark
As her own soul, when HINDA's bark
Went slowly from the Persian shore —
No music tim'd her parting oar,'
Nor friends upon the lessening strand
Linger'd, to wave the unseen hand,
Or speak the farewel, heard no more ; —
But lone, unheeded, from the bay
The vessel takes its mournful way,
Like some ill-destin'd bark that steers
In silence through the Gate of Tears.2

And where was stern AL HASSAN then?
Could not that saintly scourge of men

I "The Easterns used to set out on their longer voyages with music."

Harmer.

2 "The Gate of Tears, the straits or passage into the Red Sea, commonly called Babelmandel. It received this name from the old Arabians, on account of the danger of the navigation, and the nùmber of shipwrecks by which it was distinguished; which induced them to consider as dead, and to wear mourning for all who had the boldness to hazard the passage through it into the Ethiopic ocean. - Richardson.

From blood-shed and devotion spare
One minute for a farewel there?

No-close within, in changeful fits
Of cursing and of prayer, he sits
In savage loneliness to brood

Upon the coming night of blood,

With that keen, second-scent of death, By which the vulture snuffs his food

3

In the still warm and living breath! While o'er the wave his weeping daughter Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter, As a young bird of BABYLON,+

Let loose to tell of victory won,

Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstain'd
By the red hands that held her chain'd.

And does the long-left home she seeks
Light up no gladness on her cheeks?
The flowers she nurs'd― the well-known
Where oft in dreams her spirit roves

groves,

3 "I have been told that whensoever an animal falls down dead, one or more vultures, unseen before, instantly appear.".

Pennant.

"They fasten some writing to the wings of a Bagdat, or BabyTravels of certain Englishmen.

lonian pigeon."

Once more to see her dear gazelles
Come bounding with their silver bells;
Her birds' new plumage to behold,

And the gay, gleaming fishes count,
She left, all filletted with gold,

Shooting around their jasper fount.' —
Her little garden mosque to see,
And once again, at evening hour,

To tell her ruby rosary

In her own sweet acacia bower.

Can these delights, that wait her now, no sunshine on her brow?

Call

up

And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave,
Looks, with a shudder, to those towers,
Where, in a few short awful hours,

5 "The Empress of Jehan-Guire used to divert herself with feeding tame fish in her canals, some of which were many years afterwards known by fillets of gold, which she caused to be put round them." Harris.

Blood, blood, in steaming tides shall run,
Foul incense for to-morrow's sun!

"Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou,

"So lov'd, so lost, where art thou now?

"Foe Gheber

infidel whate'er

"Th' unhallow'd name thou'rt doom'd to bear,

"Still glorious still to this fond heart

"Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art!

"Yes.

ALLA, dreadful ALLA! yes

"If there be wrong, be crime in this,

"Let the black waves, that round us roll, "Whelm me this instant, ere my soul,

"Before its earthly idol fall,

"Nor worship ev'n Thyself above him. —

"For oh! so wildly do I love him,

"Thy Paradise itself were dim

"And joyless, if not shar'd with him!"

Her hands were clasp'd — her eyes upturn'd,
Dropping their tears like moonlight rain;

And, though her lip, fond raver! burn'd
With words of passion, bold, profane,

Yet was there light around her brow,

A holiness in those dark eyes,

Which show'd though wandering earthward now,

Her spirit's home was in the skies.

Yes for a spirit, pure as hers,

Is always pure, ev'n while it errs;
As sunshine, broken in the rill,
Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still!

So wholly had her mind forgot
All thoughts but one, she heeded not
The rising storm the wave that cast
A moment's midnight, as it pass'd -
Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread
Of gathering tumult o'er her head —
Clash'd swords, and tongues that seem❜d to vie
With the rude riot of the sky. -

But hark! that war-whoop on the deck-
That crash, as if each engine there,
Mast, sails, and all, were gone to wreck,
Mid yells and stampings of despair!

Merciful heav'n! what can it be?
'Tis not the storm, though fearfully