Maidens within their pure Zenana, Alone beside his native river, - All crimson with his country's blood, False flew the shaft, though pointed well; 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, 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 Of Eden moves not. Holier far Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, Her grots, and sepulchres of kings, To watch the moonlight on the wings 'Twas a fair scene: a land more bright 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 Those virgin lilies, all the night Bathing their beauties in the lake, That they may rise more fresh and bright 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 And glittering like an idol bird! Who could have thought, that there, even there, The Demon of the Plague hath cast And ne'er will feel that sun again. Throughout the city's desolate walks "Poor race of men!" said the pitying Spirit, "Dearly ye pay for your primal FallSome 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, 1 A bird of brilliant plumage. Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze Like age at play with infancy- Had thither stolen to die alone. 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 heardThat 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 deathThat 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. She, who would rather die with him, An hour would come, when he should shrink Those gentle arms, that were to him Of Eden's infant cherubim! Near his unasked or without shame. "O, let me only breathe the air, The blessed 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, - Am I not thine, -thy own loved bride, In life or death is by thy side? In this dim world, from thee hath shone, - |