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"Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled !
He cries, and, with a strength that seems
And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze
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,
The ransom of so dear a prize.—
Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side,
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
As those who feel could paint too well,
Her ghost still haunts the mould'ring heart.
But there's a blank repose in this,
A calm stagnation, that were bliss
Calm is the wave-heaven's brilliant lights
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 lie :— He, at whose word they've scattered death, Ev'n now, this night, himself must die! Well may ye look to yon dim tower,
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
Fix their last fading life-beams there.
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;
Farewell-farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!
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
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.