"Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled! And must I leave thee with'ring here, The sport of every ruffian's tread,

The mark for every coward's spear?
No, by yon altar's sacred beams!”
He cries, and, with a strength that seems
Not of this world, uplifts the frame
Of the fallen Chief, and tow'rds the flame
Bears him along;-with death-damp hand
corpse upon the pyre he lays,

The
Then lights the consecrated brand,
And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze
Like lightning bursts o'er Oman's Sea.—

Now, Freedom's God! I come to Thee," The youth exclaims, and with a smile. Of triumph vaulting on the pile, In that last effort, ere the fires

Have harmed one glorious limb, expires!

What shriek was that on Oman's tide?
It came from yonder drifting bark,
That just hath caught upon her side

The death-light-and again is dark.
It is the boat-ah! why delay'd?-
That bears the wretched Moslem maid
Confided to the watchful care

Of a small veteran band, with whom Their gen'rous Chieftain would not share The secret of his final doom,

But hoped when Hinda, safe and free,

Was rendered to her father's eyes,

Their pardon, full and prompt, would be

The ransom of so dear a prize.—
Unconscious, thus, of Hafed's fate,

And proud to guard their beauteous freight,
Scarce had they cleared the surfy waves
That foam around those frightful caves,
When the cursed war-whoops, known so well,
Came echoing from the distant dell—
Sudden each oar, upheld and still,

Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side,
And, driving at the current's will,

They rocked along the whisp'ring tide; While every eye, in mute dismay,

Was tow'rd that fatal mountain turned Where the dim altar's quiv'ring ray

As yet all lone and tranquil burned.

Oh! 'tis not, Hinda, in the power
Of Fancy's most terrific touch
To paint thy pangs in that dread hour—
Thy silent agony-'twas such

As those who feel could paint too well,
But none e'er felt and lived to tell!
'Twas not alone the dreary state
Of a lorn spirit, crushed by fate,
When, though no more remains to dread,
The panic chill will not depart ;—

When, though the inmate Hope be dead,

Her ghost still haunts the mouldʼring heart. No-pleasures, hopes, affections gone, The wretch may bear, and yet live on, Like things, within the cold rock found' Alive, when all's congealed around.

But there's a blank repose in this,

A calm stagnation, that were bliss
To the keen, burning, harrowing pain

Now felt through all thy breast and brain ;-
That spasm of terror, mute, intense,
That breathless, agonized suspense,

From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching,
The heart hath no relief but breaking!

Calm is the wave-heaven's brilliant lights Reflected dance beneath the prow; Time was when, on such lovely nights, She who is there, so desolate now, Could sit all cheerful, though alone,

And ask no happier joy than seeing That starlight o'er the waters thrownNo joy but that, to make her blest,

And the fresh, buoyant, sense of Being, Which bounds in youth's yet careless breast, Itself a star, not borrowing light, But in its own glad essence bright. How different now !—but, hark! again The yell of havoc rings-brave men! In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand On the bark's edge-in vain each hand Half draws the falchion from its sheath; All's o'er-in rust your blades may He, at whose word they've scattered death, this night, himself must die!

Ev'n now,

Well may ye look to yon dim tower,

lie:

And ask, and wondering guess what means

The battle-cry at this dead hour—

Ah! she could tell you-she, who leans Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast, With brow against the dew-cold mast; Too well she knows--her more than life, Her soul's first idol and its last,

Lies bleeding in that murd'rous strife.

But see what moves upon the height?
Some signal!-'tis a torch's light.
What bodes its solitary glare?
In gasping silence tow'rd the Shrine
All eyes are turned—thine, Hinda, thine
Fix their last fading life-beams there.
"Twas but a moment-fierce and high
The death-pile blazed into the sky,
And far away, o'er rock and flood

Its melancholy radiance sent;
While Hafed, like a vision, stood
Revealed before the burning pyre,
Till, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire
Shrined in its own grand element!

" "Tis he!"—the shudd’ring maid exclaims. But, while she speaks, he's seen no more; High burst in air the funeral flames,

And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er!

One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave;
Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze,
Where still she fixed her dying gaze,
And, gazing, sunk into the wave,——
Deep, deep,-where never care or pain
Shall reach her innocent heart again!

Farewell-farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!

(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea), No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water,

More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee.

Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,

How light was thy heart till Love's witchery came, Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing, And hushed all its music, and withered its frame !

But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands,

Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With naught but the sea-star to light up her tomb!

And still, when the merry date-season is burning,
And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old,
The happiest there, from their pastime returning
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.

The young village-maid, when with flowers she dresses
Her dark flowing hair for some festival-day,
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,
She mournfully turns from the mirror away.

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her Hero! forget thee—
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start,
Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee,
Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell-be it ours to embellish thy pillow

With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.