"Be this," she cried, as she winged her flight,
"My welcome gift at the Gates of Light.
Though foul are the drops that oft distil

On the field of warfare, blood like this,
For Liberty shed, so holy is,

It would not stain the purest rill

That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss!

Oh if there be, on this earthly sphere,

A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,

'Tis the last libation Liberty draws

From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause

"Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave
The gift into his radiant hand,
"Sweet is our welcome of the Brave
Who die thus for their native Land.-
But see-alas!-the crystal bar

Of Eden moves not-holier far

Than even this drop the boon must be

That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee !"

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,

Now among Afric's Lunar Mountains,

Far to the South, the Peri lighted;

And sleeked her plumage at the fountains
Of that Egyptian tide whose birth

Is hidden from the sons of earth
Deep in those solitary woods,

Where oft the Genii of the Floods
Dance round the cradle of their Nile,
And hail the new-born Giant's smile.*
Thence over Egypt's palmy groves,

Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings,
The exiled Spirit sighing roves;
And now hangs listening to the doves
In warm Rosetta's vale-now loves

To watch the moonlight on the wings
Of the white pelicans that break
The azure calm of Moris' Lake.

'Twas a fair scene-a Land more bright
Never did mortal eye behold!

Who could have thought, that saw this night
Those valleys and their fruits of gold
Basking in Heaven's serenest light ;-
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending
Languidly their leaf-crowned heads,

Like youthful maids, when sleep descending
Warns them to their silken beds ;-
Those virgin lilies, all the night
Bathing their beauties in the lake,

* "The Nile, which the Abyssinians know by the names of Abey and Alawy, or the Giant."—Asiat. Research, vol. i. p. 387.

That they may rise more fresh and bright,
When their beloved Sun's awake;-
Those ruined shrines and towers that seem
The relics of a splendid dream;

Amid whose fairy loneliness

Nought but the lapwing's cry is heard,
Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting
Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam,)
Some purple-winged Sultana* sitting

Upon a column, motionless

And glittering like an Idol bird—

Who could have thought, that there, even there,
Amid those scenes so still and fair,

The Demon of the Plague hath cast
From his hot wing a deadlier blast,
More mortal far than ever came
From the red Desert's sands of flame!
So quick, that every living thing
Of human shape, touched by his wing,
Like plants where the Simoon hath past,
At once falls black and withering!
The sun went down on many a brow
Which, full of bloom and freshness then,
Is rankling in the pest-house now,

And ne'er will feel that sun again.
And oh! to see the unburied heaps

On which the lonely moonlight sleeps-
The very vultures turn away,
And sicken at so foul a prey!
Only the fierce hyæna stalks

Throughout the city's desolate walks

At midnight, and his carnage plies :

Woe to the half-dead wretch who meets

The glaring of those large blue eyes
Amid the darkness of the streets!

"Poor race of men!" said the pitying Spirit,
"Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall-
Some flowerets of Eden ye still inherit,

But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!"
She wept the air grew pure and clear
Around her, as the bright drops ran;

For there's a magic in each tear

Such kindly Spirits weep for man!

Just then beneath some orange trees,

Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze

Were wantoning together, free,

"That beautiful bird, with plumage of the finest shining blue, with purple beak and legs, the natural and living ornament of the temples and palaces of the Greeks and Romans, which, from the stateliness of its port, as well as the brilliancy of its colours, has obtained the title of Sultana."-Sonnini.

!

H

Like age at play with infancy-
Beneath that fresh and springing bower,
Close by the Lake, she heard the moan
Of one who, at this silent hour,

Had thither stolen to die alone.
One who in life where'er he moved
Drew after him the hearts of many;
Yet now, as though he ne'er were loved,
Dies here unseen, unwept by any!
None to watch near him-none to slake
The fire that in his bosom lies,
With even a sprinkle from that lake

Which shines so cool before his eyes;
No voice, well known through many a day,
To speak the last, the parting word,
Which, when all other sounds decay,

Is still like distant music heard ;-
That tender farewell on the shore
Of this rude world, when all is o'er,
Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown Dark.

Deserted youth! one thought alone

Shed joy around his soul in death-
That she whom he for years had known,
And loved, and might have called his own,
Was safe from this foul midnight's breath,-
Safe in her father's princely halls,

Where the cool airs from fountain-falls,
Freshly perfumed by many a brand
Of the sweet wood from India's land,

Were pure as she whose brow they fanned.

But see who yonder comes by stealth,
This melancholy bower to seek,
Like a young envoy, sent by Health,
With rosy gifts upon her cheek?
'Tis she-far off, through moonlight dim,
He knew his own betrothed bride,
She, who would rather die with him,

Than live to gain the world beside !—
Her arms are round her lover now,

His livid cheek to hers she presses,
And dips, to bind his burning brow,

In the cool lake her loosened tresses.

Ah! once, how little did he think

An hour would come when he should shrink
With horror from that dear embrace,

Those gentle arms that were to him

Holy as is the cradling place

Of Eden's infant cherubim !
And now he yields-now turns away,
Shuddering as if the venom lay

All in those proffered lips alone-
Those lips that, then so fearless grown,
Never until that instant came

Near his unasked or without shame.
"Oh! let me only breathe the air,

The blessed air, that's breathed by thee, And, whether on its wings it bear

Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me! There-drink my tears, while yet they fallWould that my bosom's blood were balm, And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all, To give thy brow one minute's calm. Nay, turn not from me that dear faceAm I not thine-thy own loved brideThe one, the chosen one, whose place In life or death is by thy side? Think'st thou that she, whose only light, In this dim world, from thee hath shone, Could bear the long, the cheerless night, That must be hers when thou art gone? That I can live, and let thee go, Who art my life itself?-No, noWhen the stem dies, the leaf that grew Out of its heart must perish too! Then turn to me, my own love, turn, Before, like thee, I fade and burn; Cling to these yet cool lips, and share The last pure life that lingers there!" She fails-she sinks-as dies the lamp In charnel airs, or cavern-damp, So quickly do his baleful sighs Quench all the sweet light of her eyes. One struggle-and his pain is pastHer lover is no longer living! One kiss the maiden gives, one last

Long kiss, which she expires in giving! "Sleep," said the Peri, as softly she stole The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, As true as e'er warmed a woman's breastSleep on, in visions of odour rest, In balmier airs than ever yet stirred The enchanted pile of that lonely bird Who sings at the last his own death-lay, And in music and perfume dies away!'

Thus saying, from her lips she spread
Unearthly breathings through the place,
And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed
Such lustre o'er each paly face

That like two lovely saints they seemed,
Upon the eve of doomsday taken

From their dim graves, in odour sleeping;

While that benevolent Peri beamed
Like their good angel, calmly keeping

Watch o'er them till their souls would waken.

But morn is blushing in the sky;

Again the Peri soars above,

Bearing to Heaven that precious sigh

Of pure, self-sacrificing love.

High throbbed her heart, with hope elate,
The Elysian palm she soon shall win,
For the bright Spirit at the gate

Smiled as she gave that offering in;
And she already hears the trees

Of Eden, with their crystal bells
Ringing in that ambrosial breeze

That from the throne of Alla swells;
And she can see the starry bowls
That lie around that lucid lake
Upon whose banks admitted Souls

Their first sweet draught of glory take!*

But ah! even Peris' hopes are vain—
Again the Fates forbade, again

The immortal barrier closed—“Not yet,"
The Angel said, as, with regret,

He shut from her that glimpse of glory-
"True was the maiden, and her story,
Written in light o'er Alla's head,
By seraph eyes shall long be read.
But, Peri, see-the crystal bar

Of Eden moves not-holier far

Than even this sigh the boon must be

That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee."

Now, upon Syria's land of roses +
Softly the light of Eve reposes,
And, like a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted Lebanon;

Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,
And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flowers,
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

To one who looked from upper air

O'er all the enchanted regions there,

How beauteous must have been the glow,

The life, the sparkling from below!

* "On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thousand goblets, made of stars, out of which souls predestined to enjoy felicity drink the crystal wave."From Châteaubriand's Description of the Mahometan Paradise, in his Beauties of Christianity.

† Richardson thinks that Syria had its name from Suri, a beautiful and delicate species of rose, for which that country has been always famous ;-hence, Suristan, the Land of Roses.