When pitying Heav'n to roses turn'd

The death-flames that beneath him burn'd!

With watchfulness the maid attends

His rapid glance, where'er it bends --
Why shoot his eyes such awful beams?
What plans he now? what thinks or dreams?
Alas! why stands he musing here,
When every moment teems with fear?
"HAFED, my own beloved Lord,"
She kneeling cries" first, last ador'd!
If in that soul thou'st ever felt

"Half what thy lips impassion'd swore,
"Here, on my knees that never knelt
"To any but their God before,
"I pray thee, as thou lov'st me, fly –
ere yet their blades are nigh.

"Now, now

"East west

alas, I care not whither,

"So thou art safe, and I with thee!

6 The Ghebers say that when Abraham, their great Prophet, was thrown into the fire by order of Nimrod, the flame turned instantly into "a bed of roses, where the child sweetly reposed.” ― Tavernier.

"Go where we will, this hand in thine,

"Those eyes before me smiling thus, "Through good and ill, through storm and shine, "The world's a world of love for us!

“On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell,
"Where 'tis no crime to love too well;
"Where thus to worship tenderly

"An erring child of light like thee

"Will not be sin or, if it be,

"Where we may weep our

faults

away,

"Together kneeling, night and day,

"Thou, for my sake, at ALLA's shrine,

"And I

at any God's, for thine!"

Wildly these passionate words she spoke –

Then hung her head, and wept for shame; Sobbing, as if a heart-string broke

With every deep-heav'd sob that came. While he, young, warm oh! wonder not

If, for a moment, pride and fame,

No, blame him not, if Hope awhile Dawn'd in his soul, and threw her smile O'er hours to come - o'er days and nights Wing'd with those precious, pure delights Which she, who bends all beauteous there, Was born to kindle and to share!

A tear or two, which, as he bow'd

To raise the suppliant, trembling stole, First warn'd him of this dangerous cloud Of softness passing o'er his soul. Starting, he brush'd the drops away, Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray; Like one who, on the morn of fight, Shakes from his sword the dews of night, That had but dimm'd, not stain'd its light.

Yet, though subdued th' unnerving thrill, Its warmth, its weakness linger'd still

So touching in each look and tone, That the fond, fearing, hoping maid Half counted on the flight she pray'd, Half thought the hero's soul was grown As soft, as yielding as her own,

And smil'd and bless'd him, while he said,

"Where fadeless truth like ours is dear;

"If there be any land of rest

"For those who love and ne'er forget,

"Oh! comfort thee for safe and blest

"We'll meet in that calm region yet!"

Scarce had she time to ask her heart
If good or ill these words impart,
When the rous'd youth impatient flew
To the tower-wall, where, high in view,
A ponderous sea-horn hung, and blew
A signal, deep and dread as those
The storm-fiend at his rising blows. -
Full well his Chieftains, sworn and true
Through life and death, that signal knew ;
For 'twas th' appointed warning-blast,
Th' alarm, to tell when hope was past,
And the tremendous death-die cast!

7 "The shell called Siiankos, common to India, Africa, and the Mediterranean, and still used in many parts as a trumpet for blowing alarms or giving signals: it sends forth a deep and hollow sound."

And there, upon the mouldering tower,
Hath hung this sea-horn many an hour,
Ready to sound o'er land and sea
That dirge-note of the brave and free.

They came
his Chieftains at the call
Came slowly round, and with them all-
Alas, how few! - the worn remains
Of those who late o'er KERMAN's plains
Went gaily prancing to the clash
Of Moorish 'zel and tymbalon,
Catching new hope from every flash
Of their long lances in the sun

8

And, as their coursers charg'd the wind,
And the white ox-tails stream'd behind,
Looking, as if the steeds they rode
Were wing'd, and every Chief a God!
How fall'n, how alter'd now! how wan
. Each scarr'd and faded visage shone,
As round the burning shrine they came;
How deadly was the glare it cast,

8 "The finest ornament for the horses is made of six large flying tassels of long white hair, taken out of the tails of wild oxen, that are to be found in some places of the Indies.". Thevenot.