Thy Cavern shrines, and Idol stones,
Thy Monarchs and their thousand Thrones ?
'Tis He of Gazna-fierce in wrath
He comes, and India's diadems Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path.
His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, Torn from the violated necks
Of many a young and lov'd Sultana; Maidens, within their pure 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,
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 th' Invader's heart.
False flew the shaft, though pointed well;
The Tyrant liv'd, the Hero fell!—
Yet mark'd 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 wing'd 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!
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.--
But see-alas !-the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not-holier far
Than ev'n this drop the boon must be,
That opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee!"
Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,
Now among Afric's lunar Mountains,
Far to the South, the Peri lighted ;
And sleek'd 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 exil'd 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 Moris' 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 Heav'n's serenest light ;—
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending
Languidly their leaf-crown'd 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 beloved Sun's awake;-
These ruin'd 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 morn, unsheath its gleam,
Some purple wing'd Sultana sitting
Upon a column, motionless
And glittering, like an Idol bird !—
Who could have thought, that there, ev'n 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, touch'd 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, oh! to see th' unburied heaps
On which the lonely moonlight sleeps-
The very vultures turn away,
And sicken at so foul a prey!
Only the fierce hyæna 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 flow'rets 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, 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 stol'n to die alone.
One who in life where'er he mov'd,
Drew after him the hearts of many;
Yet now, as though he ne'er were lov'd,
Dies here unseen, unwept by any!
None to watch near him--none to slake
The fire that in his bosom lies,
With ev'n 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 lov'd, and might have call'd 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 perfum'd by many a brand
Of the sweet wood from India's land,
Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd.
But see who yonder comes by stealth,
This melancholy bower to seek,
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