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Whose air is balm; whose ocean spreads
O'er coral rocks, and amber beds;
Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam
Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem;
Whose rivulets are like rich brides,
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides;
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice
Might be a Peri's Paradise!

But crimson now her rivers ran

With human blood-the smell of death Came reeking from those spicy bowers, And man, the sacrifice of man,

Mingled his taint with every breath Upwafted from the innocent flowers.

Land of the Sun! what foot invades
Thy Pagods and thy pillared shades-
Thy cavern shrines, and Idol stones,
Thy Monarchs and their thousand Thrones?
'Tis He of Gazna-fierce in wrath

He comes, and India's diadems
Lie scattered in his ruinous path.—

His bloodhounds he adorns with gems Torn from the violated necks

Of many a young and loved Sultana ; Maidens, within their pure Zenana, Priests in the very fane he slaughters, And chokes up with the glittering wrecks

Of golden shrines the sacred waters!

Downward the Peri turns her gaze,
And, through the war-field's bloody haze

Beholds a youthful warrior stand,

Alone beside his native river,—
The red blade broken in his hand,
And the last arrow in his quiver.
'Live,” said the Conq'ror, “live to share
The trophies and the crowns I bear!"
Silent that youthful warrior stood-
Silent he pointed to the flood

All crimson with his country's blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For answer, to th' Invader's heart.

False flew the shaft, though pointed well;
The Tyrant lived, the Hero fell!-

Yet marked the Peri where he lay,

And, when the rush of war was past, Swiftly descending on a ray

Of morning light, she caught the last-Last glorious drop his heart had shed, Before its free-born spirit fled!

"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 ev'n 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 list'ning 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,
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

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

Upon a column, motionless

And glitt'ring like an Idol bird :


Who could have thought, that there, ev'n 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 ev'ry living thing
Of human shape, touched by his wing,

Like plants, where the Simoon hath passed,

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 th' unburied heaps

On which the lonely moonlight sleeps―

The very vultures turn away,

And sicken at so foul a prey!

Only the fierce hyena 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 flow'rets 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,

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 stol'n 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 anv

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