In friendship's smile and home's caress,
Collecting all the heart's sweet ties
Into one knot of happiness!
No, Hinda, no-thy fatal flame
Is nursed in silence, sorrow, shame.--
A passion, without hope or pleasure,
In thy soul's darkness buried deep,

It lies, like some ill-gotten treasure,—
Some idol, without shrine or name,
O'er which its pale-eyed votaries keep
Unholy watch, while others sleep!
Seven nights have darken'd Oman's sea,
Since last, beneath the moonlight ray,
She saw his light oar rapidly

Hurry her Gheber's bark away,—
And still she goes, at midnight hour,
To weep alone in that high bower,
And watch, and look along the deep
For him whose smiles first made her weep.
But watching, weeping, all was vain,
She never saw his bark again.
The owlet's solitary cry,
The night-hawk, flitting darkly by,

And oft the hateful carrion bird, Heavily flapping his clogged wing, Which reek'd with that day's banqueting, Was all she saw, was all she heard. 'Tis the eighth morn-Al Hassan's brow Is brighten'd with unusual joyWhat mighty mischief glads him now,

Who never smiles but to destroy? The sparkle upon Herkend's sea, When tost at midnight furiously, Tells not a wreck and ruin nigh

More surely than that smiling eye!

Up, daughter up-the Kerna's breath
Has blown a blast would waken death,
And yet thou sleep'st-up, child, and see
This blessed day for heaven and me,
A day more rich in Pagan blood
Than ever flash'd o'er Oman's flood.
Before another dawn shall shine,

His head, heart, limbs-will all be mine,
This very night his blood shall steep
These hands all over ere I sleep!"

"His blood!" she faintly scream'd-her mind

Still singling one from all mankind—

Yes-spite of his ravines and towers,

Hafed, my child, this night is ours.
Thanks to all-conquering treachery,

Without whose aid the links accurst,
That bind these impious slaves, would be
Too strong for Alla's self to burst!
That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread
My path with piles of Moslem dead,
Whose baffling spells had almost driven
Back from their course the swords of heaven,
This night, with all his band shall know
How deep an Arab's steel can go,
When God and vengeance speed the blow,
And-Prophet!-by that holy wreath
Thou wor'st on Ohod's field of death,
I swear, for every sob that parts
In anguish from these heathen hearts,

A gem from Persia's plunder'd mines
Shall glitter on thy shrine of shrines.
But ha!-she sinks-that look so wild-
Those livid lips-my child, my child,
This life of blood befits not thee,
And thou must back to Araby.

Ne'er had I risk'd thy timid sex
In scenes that man himself might dread,
Had I not hoped our every tread

Would be on prostrate Persian necks—
Curst race, they offer swords instead!
But cheer thee, maid-the wind that now
Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow,
To-day shall waft thee from the shore;
And, ere a drop of this night's gore
Have time to chill in yonder towers,
Thou 'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers!"

His bloody boast was all too true—
There lurk'd one wretch among the few
Whom Hafed's eagle eye could count
Around him on that fiery mount.
One miscreant, who for gold betray'd
The pathway through the valley's shade,
To those high towers where freedom stood
In her last hold of flame and blood.
Left on the field last dreadful night,
When, sallying from their sacred height,
The Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight,
He lay-but died not with the brave;
That sun, which should have gilt his grave,
Saw him a traitor and a slave ;-
And, while the few, who thence return'd
To their high rocky fortress, mourn'd
For him among the matchless dead
They left behind on glory's bed,
He lived, and, in the face of morn,
Laugh'd them and faith and heaven to scorn!

Oh for a tongue to curse the slave,

Whose treason, like a deadly blight,
Comes o'er the councils of the brave,

And blasts them in their hour of might!
May life's unblessed cup, for him,
Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim-
With hopes, that but allure to fly,

With joys that vanish while he sips,
Like Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye,

But turn to ashes on the lips!
His country's curse, his children's shame,
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame,
May he, at last, with lips of flame
On the parch'd desert thirsting die,-
While lakes that shone in mockery nigh
Are fading off, untouch'd, untasted
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted!
And, when from earth his spirit flies,

Just Prophet, let the damn'd one dwell
Full in the sight of Paradise,

Beholding heaven and feeling hell!

LALLA ROOKн had had a dream the night before, which, in spite of the impending fate of poor Hafed, made her heart more than usually cheerful during the morning, and gave her cheeks all the freshened animation of a flower that the Bidmusk has just passed over. She fancied that she was sailing on the Eastern Ocean,

where the sea-gipsies who live for ever on the water, enjoy a perpetual summer in wandering from isle to isle, when she saw a small gilded bark approaching her. It was like one of those boats which the Maldivian islanders annually send adrift, at the mercy of winds and waves, loaded with perfumes, flowers, and odoriferous wood, as an offering to the Spirit whom they call King of the Sea. At first, this little bark appeared to be empty, but on coming nearer

She had proceeded thus far in relating the dream to her ladies, when Feramorz appeared at the door of the pavilion. In his presence, of course, every thing else was forgotten, and the continuance of the story was instantly requested by all. Fresh wood of aloes was set to burn in the cassolets;-the violet sherbets were hastily handed round, and, after a short prelude on his lute, in the pathetic measure of Nava, which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers, the poet thus continued:

THE day is lowering-stilly black Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack, Dispersed and wild, 'twixt earth and sky Hangs like a shatter'd canopy! There's not a cloud in that blue plain,

But tells of storm to come or past;— Here, flying loosely as the mane

Of a young war-horse in the blast ;There, roll'd in masses dark and swelling, As proud to be the thunder's dwelling! While some, already burst and riven, Seem melting down the verge of heaven; As though the infant storm had rent

The mighty womb that gave him birth, And, having swept the firmament,

Was now in fierce career for earth.
On earth, 't was yet all calm around,
A pulseless silence, dread, profound,
More awful than the tempest's sound.
The diver steer'd for Ormus' bowers,
And moor'd his skiff till calmer hours;
The sea-birds, with portentous screech,
Flew fast to land:-upon the beach
The pilot oft had paused, with glance
Turn'd upward to that wild expanse ;
And all was boding, drear and dark
As her own soul, when Hinda's bark
Went slowly from the Persian shore.-
No music timed her parting oar,
Nor friends, upon the lessening strand
Linger'd, to wave the unseen hand,
Or speak the farewell, heard no more.
But lone, unheeded, from the bay
The vessel takes its mournful way,
Like some ill-destined bark that steers
In silence through the Gate of Tears.

And where was stern Al Hassan then?
Could not that saintly scourge of men
From bloodshed and devotion spare
One minute for a farewell there?
No-close within, in changeful fits
Of cursing and of prayer, he sits
In savage loneliness to brood
Upon the coming night of blood,
With that keen, second-scent of death,
By which the vulture snuffs his food

In the still warm and living breath!

While o'er the wave his weeping daughter,
Is wafted from the scenes of slaughter,
As a young bird of Babylon,
Let loose to tell of victory won,
Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstain'd
By the red hands that held her chain'd.
And does the long-left home she seeks
Light up no gladness on her cheeks?
The flowers she nursed-the well-known groves,
Where oft in dreams her spirit roves―
Once more to see her dear gazelles
Come bounding with their silver bells;
Her birds' new plumage to behold,

And the gay, gleaming fishes count,
She left, all filletted with gold,

Shooting around their jasper fount.Her little garden mosque to see,

And once again, at evening hour,
To tell her ruby rosary

In her own sweet acacia bower,
Can these delights, that wait her now,
Call up no sunshine on her brow?
No-silent, from her train apart,—
As if e'en now she felt at heart
The chill of her approaching doom,—
She sits, all lovely in her gloom,
As a pale angel of the grave;
And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave,
Looks, with a shudder, to those towers,
Where, in a few short awful hours,
Blood, blood, in steaming tides shall run,
Foul incense for to-morrow's sun!
"Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou,
So loved, so lost, where art thou now?
Foe-Gheber-infidel-whate'er

The unhallow'd name thou 'rt doom'd to bear,
Still glorious-still to this fond heart
Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art!
Yes-Alla, dreadful Alla! yes-
If there be wrong, be crime in this,
Let the black waves that round us roll,
Whelm me this instant, ere my soul,
Forgetting faith, home, father, all-
Before its earthly idol fall,
Nor worship e'en thyself above him-
For oh! so wildly do I love him,
Thy paradise itself were dim
And joyless, if not shared with him!"
Her hands were clasp'd-her eyes upturn'd,
Dropping their tears like moonlight rain;
And, though her lip, fond raver! burn'd

[now,

With words of passion, bold, profane,
Yet was there light around her brow,
A holiness in those dark eyes,
Which show'd-though wandering earthward
Her spirit's home was in the skies.
Yes-for a spirit, pure as hers,
Is always pure, e'en while it errs;
As sunshine, broken in the rill,
Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still!

So wholly had her mind forgot
All thoughts but one, she heeded not
The rising storm-the wave that cast
A moment's midnight, as it pass'd;

Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread
Of gathering tumult o'er her head-
Clash'd swords, and tongues that seem'd to vie
With the rude riot of the sky.

But hark!-that war-whoop on the deck-
That crash, as if each engine there,
Mast, sails, and all, were gone to wreck,

Mid yells and stampings of despair!
Merciful heav'n! what can it be?
"T is not the storm, though fearfully
The ship has shudder'd as she rode
O'er mountain waves- Forgive me, God!
Forgive me"-shriek'd the maid and knelt,
Trembling all over-for she felt,

As if her judgment hour was near;
While crouching round, half dead with fear,
Her handmaids clung, nor breath'd, nor stirr'd-
When, hark!-a second crash-a third-
And now, as if a bolt of thunder
Had riv'n the labouring planks asunder,
The deck falls in-what horrors then!
Blood, waves, and tackle, swords and men
Come mix'd together through the chasm ;-
Some wretches in their dying spasm
Still fighting on-and some that call
"For God and Iran !" as they fall!

Whose was the hand that turn'd away
The perils of the infuriate fray,
And snatch'd her, breathless, from beneath
This wilderment of wreck and death?
She knew not-for a faintness came
Chill o'er her, and her sinking frame,
Amid the ruins of that hour,
Lay, like a pale and scorched flower,
Beneath the red volcano's shower!
But oh the sights and sounds of dread
That shock'd her, ere her senses fled!
The yawning deck-the crowd that strove
Upon the tottering planks above--
The sail, whose fragments, shivering o'er
The strugglers' heads, all dash'd with gore,
Flutter'd like bloody flags-the clash
Of sabres, and the lightning's flash
Upon their blades, high toss'd about
Like meteor brands—as if throughout
The elements one fury ran,
One general rage, that left a doubt
Which was the fiercer, heaven or man!
Once too-but no-it could not be-
'Twas fancy all-yet once she thought,
While yet her fading eyes could see,

High on the ruin'd deck she caught
A glimpse of that unearthly form,

That glory of her soul-e'en then,
Amid the whirl of wreck and storm,

Shining above his fellow men,
As, on some black and troublous night,
The Star of Egypt, whose proud light,
Never hath beam'd on those who rest
In the White Islands of the West,
Burns through the storm with looks of flame
That put heaven's cloudier eyes to shame!
But no-'t was but the minute's dream-
A fantasy-and ere the scream

Had halfway pass'd her pallid lips,
A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse
Of soul and sense its darkness spread
Around her, and she sunk, as dead!
How calm, how beautiful comes on
The stilly hour, when storms are gone;
When warring winds have died away,
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,
Melt off, and leave the land and sea
Sleeping in bright tranquillity,-
Fresh as if day again were born,
Again upon the lap of morn!
When the light blossoms, rudely torn
And scatter'd at the whirlwind's will,
Hang floating in the pure air still,
Filling it all with precious balm,
In gratitude for this sweet calm;
And every drop the thunder-showers
Have left upon the grass and flowers
Sparkles, as 't were that lightning-gem
Whose liquid flame is born of them!

When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze,
There blow a thousand gentle airs,
And each a different perfume bears,-

As if the loveliest plants and trees
Had vassal breezes of their own
To watch and wait on them alone,
And waft no other breath than theirs!
When the blue waters rise and fall,
In sleepy sunshine mantling all;
And e'en that swell the tempest leaves
Is like the full and silent heaves
Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest,
Too newly to be quite at rest!

Such was the golden hour that broke
Upon the world when Hinda woke
From her long trance, and heard around
No motion but the water's sound
Rippling against the vessel's side,
As slow it mounted o'er the tide.-
But where is she?-her eyes are dark,
Are wilder'd still-is this the bark,
The same, that from Harmozia's bay
Bore her at morn-whose bloody way
The sea-dog track'd ?-no-strange and new
Is all that meets her wondering view.
Upon a galliot's deck she lies,

Beneath no rich pavilion's shade,
No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes,
Nor jasmine on her pillow laid.
But the rude litter, roughly spread
With war-cloaks, is her homely bed,
And shawl and sash, on javelins hung,
For awning o'er her head are flung,
Shuddering she look'd around-there lay
A group of warriors in the sun,
Resting their limbs, as for that day
Their ministry of death were done.
Some gazing on the drowsy sea,
Lost in unconscious reverie;

And some, who seem'd but ill to brook
That sluggish calm, with many a look,
To the slack sail impatient cast,
As loose it flagg'd around the mast.

Blest Alla! who shall save her now?
There's not in all that warrior-band
One Arab sword, one turban'd brow
From her own faithful Moslem land.
Their garb―the leathern belt that wraps
Each yellow vest-that rebel hue-
The Tartar fleece upon their caps-

Yes-yes-her fears are all too true,
And Heaven hath, in this dreadful hour,
Abandon'd her to Hafed's power;—
Hafed, the Gheber!-at the thought

Her very heart's blood chills within;
He, whom her soul was hourly taught
To loathe, as some foul fiend of sin,
Some minister, whom hell had sent
To spread its blast, where'er he went,
And fling, as o'er our earth he trod,
His shadow betwixt man and God!
And she is now his captive-thrown
In his fierce hands, alive, alone;
His the infuriate band she sees,
All infidels-all enemies!

What was the daring hope that then
Cross'd her like lightning, as again,
With boldness that despair had lent,
She darted through that armed crowd
A look so searching, so intent,

That e'en the sternest warrior bow'd,
Abash'd, when he her glances caught,
As if he guess'd whose form they sought,
But no-she sees him not-'t is gone,-
The vision, that before her shone
Through all the maze of blood and storm,
Is fled 't was but a phantom form—
One of those passing, rainbow dreams,
Half-light, half-shade, which fancy's beams,
Paint on the fleeting mists that roll
In trance or slumber round the soul!

But now the bark, with livelier bound,
Scales the blue wave-the crew's in motion-
The oars are out, and with light sound

Break the bright mirror of the ocean,
Scattering its brilliant fragments round.
And now she sees-with horror sees,

Their course is toward that mountain hold,Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze, Where Mecca's godless enemies

Lie, like beleaguer'd scorpions, roll'd
In their last deadly, venomous fold!

Amid the illumined land and flood,
Sunless that mighty mountain stood;
Save where, above its awful head,
There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red,
As 't were the flag of destiny

Hung out to mark where death would be!
Had her bewilder'd mind the power
Of thought in this terrific hour,
She well might marvel where or how

Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow,
Since ne'er had Arab heard or known
Of path but through the glen alone,
But every thought was lost in fear,
When, as their bounding bark drew near

The craggy base, she felt the waves,
Hurry them toward those dismal caves
That from the deep in windings pass,
Beneath the mount's volcanic mass:
And loud a voice on deck commands
To lower the mast and light the brands!—
Instantly o'er the dashing tide
Within a cavern's mouth they glide,
Gloomy as that eternal porch,

Through which departed spirits go;-
Not e'en the flare of brand and torch

Its flickering light could further throw,
Than the thick flood that boil'd below.
Silent they floated-as if each

Sat breathless, and too awed for speech
In that dark chasm, where even sound
Seem'd dark, so sullenly around,
The goblin echoes of the cave
Mutter'd it o'er the long black wave,
As 't were some secret of the grave!
But soft-they pause-the current turns
Beneath them from its onward track ;—
Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns

The vexed tide, all foaming, back,
And scarce the oar's redoubled force
Can stem the eddy's whirling course;
When, hark!-some desperate foot has sprung
Among the rocks-the chain is flung-
The oars are up-the grapple clings,
And the toss'd bark in moorings swings.

Just then a day-beam, through the shade,
Broke tremulous-but, ere the maid
Can see from whence the brightness steals,
Upon her brow she shuddering feels
A viewless hand, that promptly ties
A bandage round her burning eyes;
While the rude litter where she lies,
Uplifted by the warrior throng,
O'er the steep rocks is borne along.
Blest power of sunshine! genial day,
What balm, what life is in thy ray!
To feel thee is such real bliss,
That had the world no joy but this,
To sit in sunshine calm and sweet,-
It were a world too exquisite
For man to leave it for the gloom,
The deep, cold shadow of the tomb!
E'en Hinda, though she saw not where
Or whither wound the perilous road,
Yet knew by that awakening air,

Which suddenly around her glow'd,
That they had risen from darkness then,
And breathed the sunny world again!

But soon this balmy freshness fled :
For now the steepy labyrinth led

Through damp and gloom-mid crash of boughs,
And fall of loosen'd crags that rouse
The leopard from his hungry sleep,

Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey,
And long is heard from steep to steep,
Chasing them down their thundering way.
The jackal's cry-the distant moan
Of the hyena, fierce and lone ;—
And that eternal, saddening sound

Of torrents in the glen beneath, As 't were the ever-dark profound

That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death! All, all is fearful-e'en to see,

To gaze on those terrific things
She now but blindly hears, would be
Relief to her imaginings!
Since never yet was shape so dread,

But fancy, thus in darkness thrown,
And by such sounds of horror fed,

Could frame more dreadful of her own. But does she dream? has fear again Perplex'd the workings of her brain, Or did a voice, all music, then Come from the gloom, low whispering nearTremble not, love, thy Gheber's here!" She does not dream-all sense-all ear, She drinks the words, "Thy Gheber's here." "T was his own voice-she could not err

Throughout the breathing world's extent
There was but one such voice for her,
So kind, so soft, so eloquent!
Oh! sooner shall the rose of May
Mistake her own sweet nightingale,
And to some meaner minstrel's lay

Open her bosom's glowing veil,
Than love shall ever doubt a tone,
A breath of the beloved one!
Though blest, mid all her ills, to think

She has that one beloved near,
Whose smile, though met on ruin's brink,
Hath power to make e'en ruin dear,-
Yet soon this gleam of rapture, crost
By fears for him, is chill'd and lost.
How shall the ruthless Hafed brook
That one of Gheber blood should look,
With aught but curses in his eye,
On her a maid of Araby-
A Moslem maid-the child of him,
Whose bloody banner's dire success
Hath left their altars cold and dim,

And their fair land a wilderness!
And, worse than all, that night of blood
Which comes so fast-oh! who shall stay
The sword, that once hath tasted food

Of Persian hearts, or turn its way? What arm shall then the victim cover, Or from her father shield her lover?

"Save him, my God!" she inly cries-
"Save him this night-and if thine eyes
Have ever welcomed with delight
The sinner's tears, the sacrifice

Of sinners' hearts-guard him this night,
And here, before thy throne, I swear
From my heart's inmost core to tear
Love, hope, remembrance, though they ne
Link'd with each quivering life-string there,
And give it bleeding all to Thee!
Let him but live, the burning tear,
The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear,

Which have been all too much his own,
Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone.
Youth pass'd in penitence, and age
In long and painful pilgrimage,

Shall leave no traces of the flame
That wastes me now-nor shall his name
E'er bless my lips, but when I pray
For his dear spirit, that away
Casting from its angelic ray

The eclipse of earth, he too may shine
Redeem'd, all glorious and all Thine!
Think-think what victory to win
One radiant soul like his from sin;-
One wandering star of virtue back
To its own native, heaven-ward track!
Let him but live, and both are Thine,
Together Thine-for, blest or crost,
Living or dead, his doom is mine;

And if he perish, both are lost!"

THE next evening Lalla Rookh was entreated by her ladies to continue the relation of her wonderful dream; but the fearful interest that hung round the fate of Hinda and her lover had completely removed every trace of it from her mind;-much to the disappointment of a fair seer or two in her train, who prided themselves on their skill in interpreting visions, and who had already remarked, as an unlucky omen, that the princess, on the very morning after the dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blossoms of the sorrowful tree, Nilica.

Fadladeen, whose wrath had more than once broken out during the recital of some parts of this most heterodox poem, seemed at length to have made up his mind to the infliction; and took his seat for the evening with all the patience of a martyr, while the poet continued his profane and seditious story thus:

To tearless eyes and hearts at ease,
The leafy shores and sun-bright seas,
That lay beneath that mountain's height,
Had been a fair, enchanting sight.
'Twas one of those ambrosial eves,
A day of storm so often leaves
At its calm setting-when the west
Opens her golden bowers of rest,
And a moist radiance from the skies
Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes
Of some meek penitent, whose last,
Bright hours atone for dark ones past,
And whose sweet tears o'er wrong forgiven,
Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven!

'Twas stillness all-the winds that late
Had rush'd through Kerman's almond groves,
And shaken from her bowers of date,

That cooling feast the traveller loves,
Now, lull'd to languor, scarcely curl
The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam
Limpid, as if her mines of pearl

Were melted all to form the stream.
And her fair islets, small and bright,
With their green shores reflected there,
Look like those Peri isles of light,

That hang by spell-work in the air.
But vainly did those glories burst
On Hinda's dazzled eyes, when first
The bandage from her brow was taken,
And pale and awed as those who waken
In their dark tombs-when, scowling near,
The Searchers of the Grave appear,―
She shuddering turn'd to read her fute