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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 conqueror, “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 the 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.
O, 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 Mæris' 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 belovéd 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, unsheathe 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 Simoom 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, O! 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 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 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,

1 A bird of brilliant plumage.

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 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 betrothéd 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.
O, let me only breathe the air,

The blesséd 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 fall,

Would 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 face

Am I not thine, - thy own loved bride, The 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 lise itself?— No, no -
When 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

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