The ship has shuddered as she rode
O'er mountain-waves-" Forgive me, God!
Forgive me "-shrieked 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 breathed nor stirred-
When, hark!—a second crash-a third-

And now, as if a bolt of thunder

Had riven the labouring planks asunder,
The deck falls in-what horrors then!

Blood, waves, and tackle, swords and men
Come mixed 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 turned away
The perils of the infuriate fray,

And snatched 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 scorchèd flower,
Beneath the red volcano's shower.
But oh! the sights and sounds of dread
That shocked 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 dashed with gore,
Fluttered like bloody flags-the clash
Of sabres, and the lightning's flash
Upon their blades, high tossed 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 ruined deck she caught
A glimpse of that unearthly form,
That glory of her soul,- even 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 beamed on those who rest

"The brilliant Canopus, unseen in European climates."-Brown.

G

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 rushed through Kerman's almond groves
And shaken from her bowers of date

That cooling feast the traveller loves,*
Now, lulled 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 turned to read her fate

In the fierce eyes that flashed around;
And saw those towers all desolate,

That o'er her head terrific frowned,
As if defying even the smile
Of that soft heaven to gild their pile.
In vain, with mingled hope and fear,
She looks for him whose voice so dear
Had come, like music, to her ear-
Strange, mocking dream! again 'tis fled.
And oh the shoots, the pangs of dread
That through her inmost bosom run,

When voices from without proclaim
"Hafed, the Chief"-and, one by one,

The warriors shout that fearful name!

In parts of Kerman, whatever dates are shaken from the trees by the wind, they do not touch, but leave them for those who have not any, or for travellers."-Ebn Haukal.

The two terrible angels, Monkir and Nakir, who are called "the Searchers of the Grave" in the "Creed of the orthodox Mahometans" given by Ockley, vol. ii.

He comes the rock resounds his tread-
How shall she dare to lift her head,
Or meet those eyes whose scorching glare
Not Yemen's boldest sons can bear?
In whose red beam, the Moslem tells,
Such rank and deadly lustre dwells
As in those hellish fires that light
The mandrake's charnel leaves at night.*
How shall she bear that voice's tone,
At whose loud battle-cry alone
Whole squadrons oft in panic ran,
Scattered like some vast caravan,
When, stretched at evening round the well,
They hear the thirsting tiger's yell.
Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down,
Shrinking beneath the fiery frown
Which, fancy tells her, from that brow
Is flashing o'er her fiercely now:
And shuddering as she hears the tread
Of his retiring warrior band.-
Never was pause so full of dread;

Till Hafed with a trembling hand
Took hers, and, leaning o'er her, said,
"Hinda ;"-that word was all he spoke,
And 'twas enough-the shriek that broke
From her full bosom told the rest.—
Panting with terror, joy, surprise,
The maid but lifts her wondering eyes,

To hide them on her Gheber's breast!

'Tis he, 'tis he--the man of blood,
The fellest of the Fire-fiend's brood,
Hafed, the demon of the fight,

Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,-
Is her own lovèd Gheber, mild

And glorious as when first he smiled
In her lone tower, and left such beams
Of his pure eye to light her dreams
That she believed her bower had given
Rest to some wanderer from heaven!

Moments there are, and this was one,
Snatched like a minute's gleam of sun
Amid the black Simoom's eclipse-

Or like those verdant spots that bloom
Around the crater's burning lips,
Sweetening the very edge of doom!
The past-the future-all that Fate

Can bring of dark or desperate

Around such hours, but makes them cast

* "The Arabians call the mandrake 'the Devil's candle,' or account of its shining appearance in the night."-Richardson.

n

Intenser radiance while they last!

Even he, this youth-though dimmed and gone
Each star of Hope that cheered him on-
His glories lost-his cause betrayed-
Iran, his dear-loved country, made
A land of carcases and slaves,

One dreary waste of chains and graves !—
Himself but lingering, dead at heart,

To see the last, long struggling breath
Of Liberty's great soul depart,

Then lay him down and share her deathEven he, so sunk in wretchedness,

With doom still darker gathering o'er him,
Yet, in this moment's pure caress,

In the mild eyes that shone before him,
Beaming that blest assurance, worth
All other transports known on earth,
That he was loved-well, warmly loved-
Oh! in this precious hour he proved
How deep, how thorough-felt the glow
Of rapture kindling out of woe;-
How exquisite one single drop
Of bliss, thus sparkling to the top
Of misery's cup-how keenly quaffed,

Though death must follow on the draught!

She, too, while gazing on those eyes
That sink into her soul so deep,
Forgets all fears, all miseries,

Or feels them like the wretch in sleep,
Whom fancy cheats into a smile,

Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while!
The mighty Ruins where they stood,
Upon the mount's high, rocky verge,
Lay open tow'rds the ocean flood,

Where lightly o'er the illumined surge
Many a fair bark that, all the day,
Had lurked in sheltering creek or bay,
Now bounded on, and gave their sails,
Yet dripping, to the evening gales;
Like eagles, when the storm is done,
Spreading their wet wings in the sun.
The beauteous clouds, though daylight's Star
Had sunk behind the hills of Lar,

Were still with lingering glories bright,—
As if, to grace the gorgeous West,
The Spirit of departing Light
That eve had left his sunny vest
Behind him, ere he winged his flight.
Never was scene so formed for love!
Beneath them waves of crystal move
In silent swell-Heaven glows above,