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'Tis he of Gazna-fierce in wrath
He comes, and India's diadems Lie scattered in his ruinous path.
His blood-hounds he adorns with gems, Torn from the violated necks
Of many a young and loved Sultana
Zenana, Priests in the very fane he slaughters, And choaks up with the glittering wrecks
Of golden shrines the sacred waters !
Downward the Peri turns her gaze ;
Alone, beside his native river,
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;
And when the rush of war was past,
Of morning light, she caught the lastLast 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 boivers of bliss! Oh! 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.
--alas the crystal bar
opes the gates of heaven for thee !
Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,
Now among Afric's Lunar mountains,
behold! Who could have thought that saw this night,
Those valleys and their fruits of gold
Basking in heaven's serenest light ;-
Languidly their leaf-crowned heads,
Warns them to their silken beds;
Bathing their beauties in the lake,
When their beloved sun's awake,
Amid whose fairy loneliness
Upon a column motionless,
Like plants, where the Simoom hath past,
The sun went down on many a brow,
Which full of bloom and freshness then,
And ne'er will feel that sun again!
Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets
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!