"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? The 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? The death-light-and again is dark. 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.— And proud to guard their beauteous freight, 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, 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 Now felt through all thy breast and brain ;- From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching, 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? Its melancholy radiance sent; " "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! (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, The young village-maid, when with flowers she dresses Nor shall Iran, beloved of her Hero! forget thee— 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. |